Simon Callow`s sparkling biography explores the central importance of the theatre to the life of the greatest storyteller in the English language. From his early. Simon Callow. SIMON CALLOW, CBE, is an English actor, musician, writer, and theatre director. Current books of the author. London's Great Theatres. Finden Sie perfekte Stock-Fotos zum Thema Simon Callow sowie redaktionelle Newsbilder von Getty Images. Wählen Sie aus erstklassigen Inhalten zum.
Simon Callow Bestseller
Simon Callow, CBE ist ein britischer Schauspieler und Autor. Simon Callow, CBE (* Juni in London, Großbritannien) ist ein britischer Schauspieler und Autor. Inhaltsverzeichnis. 1 Leben und Werk; 2 Filmografie. In One-Man Band, the third volume in his epic survey of Orson Welles' life and work, Simon Callow again probes in comprehensive and penetrating detail into. Simon Callow`s sparkling biography explores the central importance of the theatre to the life of the greatest storyteller in the English language. From his early. Entdecke alle Serien und Filme von Simon Callow. Von den Anfängen seiner Karriere bis zu geplanten Projekten. Simon Callow (* Juni in London, England, UK) ist ein britischer Schauspieler. In der. Finden Sie perfekte Stock-Fotos zum Thema Simon Callow sowie redaktionelle Newsbilder von Getty Images. Wählen Sie aus erstklassigen Inhalten zum.
simon callow harry potter. Simon Callow, CBE ist ein britischer Schauspieler und Autor. Simon Callow. SIMON CALLOW, CBE, is an English actor, musician, writer, and theatre director. Current books of the author. London's Great Theatres. Simon Callow's candid and moving Sturm Der Liebe Larissa of his passionate friendship with legendary literary agent Peggy Ramsay. Wie werden Bewertungen berechnet? A companion volume to Being An Actor, Shooting Lukas Laim Actor is a funny and disastrous account of a film made in the former Yugoslavia, together with new essays on film and film acting including Callow's work in Amadeus and Four Weddings and a Funeral. Like many actors, Dickens felt the need to be completed Ninja Turtles 2 Stream contact with his audience. Jefferson in Paris. There are hilarious pieces. Hörprobe anhören. Zurück zum Seitenanfang.
Simon Callow Contribute to This Page VideoA Christmas Carol 1971 ~ Animated ~ Alastair Sim ~ Full Length ORIGINAL POST
Edit Simon Callow. Showing all 31 items. He was awarded C. Started acting after Sir Laurence Olivier 's insistence that if he wanted to act, he should take a job at the box office of the Old Vic Theatre in London.
Played the role of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in the stage version of "Amadeus" before appearing in the film version, in which he played "Emmanuel Schikaneder", who appeared in the first performance of Mozart's "The Magic Flute" and wrote the opera's libretto.
In the Independent on Sunday Pink List - a list of the most influential gay men and women - he came no. Callow is the author of numerous books, including a biography of Charles Laughton , a book on acting and, most recently, a multi-volume biography of Orson Welles.
His scene was ultimately cut from the episode, although his name remains listed in the closing credits. Has said in interviews, he has not had a television set for a number of decades.
His father was of English descent, while his mother was of Danish, French, German, and English ancestry. July 11 - August 3. Down 63 this week.
He has been married to Sebastian Fox since June Filmography by Job Trailers and Videos. November's Top Streaming Picks.
Share this page:. Projects In Development Brokers. American 11 United Favorite Funeral. Some favourites.
Gay Best Friends. Awesome Voices. Do you have a demo reel? Add it to your IMDbPage. How Much Have You Seen? How much of Simon Callow's work have you seen?
Known For. Shakespeare in Love Tilney - Master of the Revels. The Phantom of the Opera Andre. Sir Bobblysock voice. Larry South. Show all 9 episodes.
Wellow - The Curse of the Ninth Vernon De Harthog. Duke of Sandringham. John - The Thotch Reunion Bennet St. Edwin the Magnificent. Edwin the Magnificent uncredited.
Lutz - The Labours of Hercules Charles Dickens. Prime Minister. Fader Henry. George Griffen. Tree Blathereen voice. Vernon Oxe.
He married Sebastian Fox in June I'm not really an activist, although I am aware that there are some political acts one can do that actually make a difference and I think my coming out as a gay man was probably one of the most valuable things I've done in my life.
I don't think any actor had done so voluntarily and I think it helped to change the culture. In August , Callow was one of public figures who were signatories to a letter to The Guardian opposing Scottish independence in the run-up to September's referendum on that issue.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. English actor, writer, and theatre director. This article's lead section does not adequately summarize key points of its contents.
Please consider expanding the lead to provide an accessible overview of all important aspects of the article. July Streatham , London , England. Sebastian Fox.
The Independent. Retrieved 1 September Star News. Wilmington, North Carolina. Saint Martins emerges blinking in bright new home.
But is it art? The Guardian. Accessed August Jonathan Fryer. The Times. The Observer. Opera , January , Vol. Jasper Conran. Archived from the original on 20 March Opera , December , Vol.
Opera , October , Vol. Opera , September , pp. For this production the dialogue was prepared by Callow from the original Ancelot play.
Review of Carmen Jones at the Old Vic. Opera, June , Vol. The Wedding of River Song". Radio Times. BBC Magazines.
Stratford Festival. Archived from the original on 25 January Retrieved 5 February Retrieved 18 September Retrieved 27 May The Scotsman.
Retrieved 26 April British Comedy Guide. Retrieved 5 May The Times Interview.There is no question that Wilde had a deep empathy for women. Then all the fixed points of her universe — God, the Church, me — lost all reality for her. His They Live moved from the most intimate details Simon Callow his experiments…to speculation about the universe and life, delivered in a style and with a richness of language that nobody else could match. Inspector Nackt Schule Theodore Kemp 2 Episodes He was astonishingly well read. The book is a duller thing when Jane is not in it. Archived from the original on Bank Job Film August July Idris Elba James Bond To be making jokes at all in the circumstances reveals an almost inconceivable sangfroid. I loved the book read. Simon Callow. Amazon Author Central besuchen. Later, he charms his way into a job at the National Theatre box office courtesy of his hero, Laurence Olivier - and thus consummated a lifetime's love affair with theatre. Ripley und die Kunst Filmmuseum Frankfurt Tötens. Good Father - Die Liebe eine Vaters. The creative community here has its say on Brexit. Yvonne : Je ne peux pas. Spitzenrezensionen Neueste zuerst Spitzenrezensionen. James und der Riesenpfirsich. This book, with its fresh Krampus The Reckoning and out-of-the-way sources, is the harvest of [Callow's] dedication [to impersonating Dickens on stage] Next page. Sind Sie ein Autor?
Gay Best Friends. Awesome Voices. Do you have a demo reel? Add it to your IMDbPage. How Much Have You Seen? How much of Simon Callow's work have you seen?
Known For. Shakespeare in Love Tilney - Master of the Revels. The Phantom of the Opera Andre. Sir Bobblysock voice. Larry South. Show all 9 episodes.
Wellow - The Curse of the Ninth Vernon De Harthog. Duke of Sandringham. John - The Thotch Reunion Bennet St.
Edwin the Magnificent. Edwin the Magnificent uncredited. Lutz - The Labours of Hercules Charles Dickens.
Prime Minister. Fader Henry. George Griffen. Tree Blathereen voice. Vernon Oxe. Narrator UK voice. Show all 6 episodes.
John aka The Saint. Publius Servilius. Colonel Melchett. Wolfgang the Wolf voice. Show all 12 episodes. Prior Walter Ancestor 2 uncredited.
Rupert Halliday. Lancelot Dollybutt. Hugo Trenchfoot voice. Meneptah voice. Major Owens. Edward Feathers. Vicar Ronnie. Nathanial Quass. John Mortimer.
Bridge Dr. Alex Sauer. Theodore Kemp. Wilkins Micawber. Show all 7 episodes. Tom Chance. Show all 18 episodes. Hugo Silver.
Rudolf Rau as Owen Windhoek. I watched him take a deep breath. He breathed out. And breathed in no more. I rushed towards him. I will love you, give you the knowledge that whatever happens to you, whatever you do I will love you and give you the security of a relationship as long as you and I need it.
I hope that is forever, but only time will tell, and we must not love for tomorrow, but for now, for today.
It makes no claim to be an exhaustive account. A former drama critic, he is fascinated by the mystery of great acting. All in all to make it speak as it never has before, to sound him from his lowest note to the top of his compass.
Even his influences are contradictory, both roundhead and cavalier: on the one hand, the Marlowe Society at Cambridge, where he imbibed the principles of rigorous textual fidelity and deep moral purpose; on the other Laurence Olivier, living embodiment of the theatrical.
Both are great prose actors, resistant to lyricism and displays of personal emotion; both need to root everything in observed reality; both have a deep instinct for theatrical gesture.
They had opposite journeys: Olivier a beetle-browed, gap-toothed boy with huge eyes and thin lips, physically slight, a whippet who turned himself into a panther; McKellen, built like a carthorse, who, to begin with, when he was concealing his sexuality, hid his underlying power under a carapace of assumed prettiness, which made him seem rather camp.
When he came out as gay, which coincided with middle-age, he stripped himself of all that and revealed his earthiness, his masculinity.
Coming out, as McKellen has tirelessly insisted, is a wonderful thing: one is finally relieved of whatever mask one has been wearing and is able to acknowledge not just who one wants to sleep with but who and what one really is.
And — supreme bonus — it makes for better acting. There is paradox here, though, even on the physical plane: his sizable feet are rarely still, tracing elaborate dainty patterns across the boards.
His physical transformations have been extraordinary, none more so than his semi-paralysed, proto-Mosley Richard III: utterly, chillingly credible, a real threat.
Olivier created mythic figures, McKellen full-length portraits. So it was with his King Lear: characterised not by mental befuddlement but by a terrifying clarity of each individual thought, thoughts unconnected but each one perfectly coherent, Nietzschean aphorisms spoken in the glare of a lightning flash.
A remote father and a caring but not especially close mother who died early? His deep amorous commitments — and there appear to have been few of them — seem to have followed a similar pattern: his first long and stable relationship became stiflingly domestic, so he left; his second, more turbulent relationship, with Mathias, was too unsettling.
But that left him too vulnerable; it would have stopped him from doing what he wanted to do with his life, so it too ended.
He briefly flirted with directing, he has been a formidable spokesman for LGBT rights, he has been close to power. But acting is what his life has been all about, and he has done it in an astonishing multiplicity of ways, on stages large and small, metropolitan and regional, in the great companies and in the commercial theatre, at the centre of a large cast and on his own.
Like Maggie Smith, he is, in the end, the great actor he is because it matters so much to him. Not the event or even the play but the fact that he is more fully alive, more fully himself on stage than anywhere else.
It is his real life. Crucial to his art is that the audience is in it with him. And in life, when he is not on the stage, he is in the wings — always ready, as actors are in the wings, to share a joke or to become fascinated by some fresh thought, while all the while waiting and ready for the heightened life under the once they step into the light.
His audiences have loved him for it, though few of the characters he has played have been lovable. It is another McKellenish paradox that relatively late in his career, and on film, he should at last have found himself playing a character who has been universally loved, in a semi-Christian fantasy filled with elaborate pseudo-profundities of the sort that would normally be anathema to him.
To say that Marlon Brando is one of the greatest screen actors is uncontroversial. What can safely be said is that he was one of the most original actors ever to come before a camera, and one of the most creative.
When it is present, the screen becomes a truly great art form. Most of the many books that have been written about Brando take his work as a starting point.
His story is far more interesting, valuable and relevant that way. This approach has its advantages. He uses a wide range of sources, including, perhaps most illuminatingly, the transcripts of the many hours of interviews conducted by the journalist Robert Lindsey in preparation for Songs My Mother Taught Me , the autobiography finally released in , which, though long, omitted a great deal of remarkably candid material.
Most fascinating is his membership, after 3 years of on-off small-time success in the theatre, of the American League for a Free Palestine, performing agit-prop plays by night, giving impassioned lectures by day on the rights of the Jewish people to a homeland of their own.
Sometimes he leaves something and never returns to it, but the weaving is remarkably deftly done. So different, especially, from his mother. He had needed to get away from her.
He had needed to find a world where women were not fragile, blue-eyed blondes, liable to shatter when he held them too hard. The young Brando — Bud, as he was known — took her part against his father, who regarded him as stupid, lazy and worthless.
He was sent to military academy, where he failed and from which he was finally dismissed. While there he discovered his sexual attractiveness to his fellow students; sex with both men and women would always be a way of numbing his rage and sense of powerlessness.
His teachers and fellow students were astounded: he had found a way of engaging his imagination at the deepest possible level, giving himself over completely to the inner life of the character.
How we all wish that it were. He fought fiercely and constantly to take his work beyond the competent, the intelligent, the attractive. He approached acting as an artist, striving to create images of human destiny, unforgettable visons of character.
I play the role; now he exists. He is my creation. And it cost him dear. Easier to dismiss it as silly than to wage the unrelenting war with oneself which takes acting to the plane of art.
But about the central activity in his life, it is fundamentally wrong. So yet another book on Brando is still to be written.
Atria Books. Here, as there, he fleshes out characters and events often very lightly sketched in the original. His most startling and creative conception is the title character.
The language employed by that disquisition is so archaic as to be very nearly Anglo-Frisian, and the logic wielded in its coils would mystify a scholar of the Talmud.
The numbers sing to him, and he listens with an open heart. I have seen him become 10 different men before 10 different people.
Scrooge immediately vows to do just that. But that love is not, of course, to be. Scrooge chains himself ever more firmly to his desk in his quest to cleanse the firm of its taint.
It is Marley — corrupt, murderous and ultimately diseased Marley — who becomes human, kind and loving. When Orson Welles went into self-imposed exile in Europe, he first found stardom with The Third Man and then immersed himself in challenging films, television, theatre and bullfighting.
I hear the sharpening of knives among our present day self-appointed Committee of Public Safety, every bit as ardent as their French Revolutionary forbears; click click go the knitting needles of the grim-faced tricoteuses as they call for the head of Johannson, who has already been issued with a caution.
Johannson is certainly in good company. Earlier this year, a disabled actor complained bitterly that the great, glorious but able-bodied Bryan Cranston had been cast as a disabled character in the film The Upside.
There are many disabled actors, the argument went, who need the work, and who would have given a much more authentic performance than Cranston.
The distinguished journalist Melanie Reid, who is herself confined to a wheelchair, briskly dealt with the issues:. Firstly, Cranston is a star and the film would not have been made without him or someone of equal box office heft.
Secondly, he is a very good actor, capable of showing in as powerful a way as possible the complexities of the character and his relationship to his own disability.
All inarguable, and forcefully put. However, as everyone quickly understood, this local confrontation raises other, bigger issues.
From time immemorial, disabled people have been horribly misrepresented, mocked, pilloried and demonised — not least by the theatrical profession.
But those days are long gone. Day Lewis, needless to say, does not suffer from cerebral palsy. Instead, he is bestowed with imagination, keen powers of observation and extraordinary physical discipline.
He also has a passion for telling the truth. In other words he is an actor. What is acting? As actors, we give ourselves over to other lives.
We stop being ourselves and start to think the thoughts of other human beings. It takes skill and practice to do this sensitively. Even personality actors show us how one kind of human behaves in a thousand fascinating ways - while character actors like myself morph from one person to another.
That calls for serious observation. And imagination. He was an actor, someone who converts their observations and experiences into a credible and — most importantly — memorable human being.
It is the connection between the actor and the character that excites an audience. Using his or her gifts of distillation, concentration and verbal brilliance, an actor manages to create something that lodges itself in your brain.
The same thing happens to painters when they create a masterpiece. They take what they have observed and, using their own language of paint, reinvent and re-order it into something both true and reimagined.
That magic zone is a place of limitless freedom and infinite discipline; in it actors paint with their bodies, their faces and their voices. Actors represent the human race.
Nobody who has talent should be kept out of the acting profession. And nobody, even including white, middle-class males, should be prevented from playing any part.
Seeing women play Shakespearean soldiers has been a revelation; seeing black actors playing preening dandies in Restoration comedies has helped rediscover the wit of the 17th century.
And seeing disabled actors playing dictators and lovers has been illuminating and often full of unexpected poetry. Short, tall, beautiful? In every sphere, the world as we know it or think we know it is in uproar.
From politics to culture, everything is being questioned, stood on its head, taken apart. In my own little world - the world of the theatre, of movies, of opera - the earth shakes beneath our feet on a daily basis.
Ours is a profession that exists to reflect the chaos of life. Throughout history, dramatists have always been at the forefront of change. We need to rethink our profession, too.
And, frankly: I feel cheated that I have been prevented from seeing Miss Johannson's transgendered gangster.
Bring it on, I say. George Walton L and Reg Mickisch R , who werer together from until their deaths in , on the beach in Italy in the mid s.
Photograph: William Heinemann. The two couples are a fortysomething Parker and his somewhat younger lover Peredur, and Reg and George, respectively 79 and 89 years old.
Yet they were together long enough to go from being outlawed by the state to being married by one of its officials. It is nature that provides the metaphorical underpinning.
He details his grim childhood, at first alleviated and then blighted by his discovery of the bodies of other boys; his getting drawn along with other lads into a paedophile ring; his growing body dysmorphia, seeing his physical self as somehow different from his inner self; his headlong flight from anyone who expressed too much enthusiasm for him.
In one remarkable photo, wearing the most exiguous of posing pouches, George brandishes his bicycle over his head. In his 20s, he had begun to identify Wales as the place where he might finally find peace.
Only up to a point. When he was a boy tormented by what he was told were shameful impulses, he experienced, for a brief period, intense religious feelings; they soon passed, but he still feels at core a need to connect with something beyond words, beyond mere human emotion.
This strong vein of melancholy is never far away: there is an unresolved quality about his self-portrait in the chapter that bears his name, as if, despite his profoundly satisfying relationship with Preds, he is still the man he was, in the grip of a neurotic promiscuity, a feeling of self-repulsion, a searing resentment of what society has done to him.
This turbulent energy stirs the book out of any nostalgic pastoralism in which it might have luxuriated. His re-creation of the lives of Reg and George, ultimately crowned in happiness and fulfilment despite the constrictions imposed on them by society, is exemplary gay social history, of a kind we deeply need.
It is personal and particular, and immensely enlivened by photographs of George, whose body was his temple, in various stages of undress, wiry, muscled and hairless, like a fakir.
In one remarkable snap, wearing the most exiguous of posing pouches, he brandishes his bicycle over his head. It is a touching, Blakeian scene, though owing perhaps more to Peter than to William Blake.
The sense of quotidian drama is a little excluding, like listening to someone on acid — and indeed, he is a little partial, he tells us, to the odd magic mushroom.
So this climactic chapter is ultimately somewhat impersonal. Peredur, like Reg and George, is elevated but also slightly reduced to an archetype.
It is a haunting ending to a book that is deep in riches and profoundly uncomfortable at heart. The pieces in it are generally shorter, some barely more than fragments, but this is not a mere Sacks smorgasbord: it has a distinct identity of its own and covers a remarkably wide range of topics, none of them unknown to his regular readers, but unified by a particular tone.
We were all water babies, my brothers and I. Our father, who was a swimming champ he won the fifteen-mile race off the Isle of Wight three years in succession and loved swimming more than anything else, introduced each of us to the water when we were scarcely a week old….
We see the infant Sacks already at one with the natural world. Swimming gives me a sort of joy, a sense of well-being so extreme that it becomes at times a sort of ecstasy….
The mind can float free, become spellbound, in a state like a trance. I have never known anything so powerfully, so healthily euphoriant—and I am addicted to it, fretful when I cannot swim.
Sacks mentions, almost casually, something I have never read before: during his adolescence he succumbed to a skin condition that specialists could neither define nor cure.
Looking, or at least feeling, like a leper, I dared not strip at a beach or pool, and could only occasionally, if I was lucky, find a remote lake or tarn.
The condition passed when he went to Oxford, and then for the rest of his life he was a water baby again.
I hope I can follow him, and swim till I die. The museum, lightless, was a place of delirium, and I was not wholly sorry when morning came.
It grows out of its past but never outgrows it, any more than we outgrow our childhoods. For him, it must always be personal: he had to engage with people, whether dead or alive.
After graduating from Oxford, he applied himself to research, and it was a disaster. He found it impossible to work in the abstract; only when he went to work in a hospital as a neurologist, interacting with patients, did he begin to fulfill his potential.
His natural shyness disappeared in the face of the problem to be solved—the human problem, the difficulty or the damage inflicted on the individual by his or her condition.
But he was equally fascinated by the brain itself. By involving the patient as much as possible in his own insatiable inquisitiveness about its extraordinary ways, he took some of the doom, the curse, out of the condition.
He behaves as if he were still running it, until one day by chance he picks up his own chart. In the same hospital a former janitor is admitted; he too is convinced that he is still working there.
It was through stories like these that Sacks became a best-selling author: they made science—particularly neurology—human. But from the beginning, quite apart from his keen grasp of the clinical aspects of his work, he was a remarkable wordsmith.
I had to be active, learn for myself. In a happier age, the young book-hungry Sacks sought out the library whenever he was free; there he read poetry, novels, plays, history.
Olivecrona, here, seems almost like Virgil, guiding his poet-patient through the circles and landscapes of his brain. At Oxford he was thrilled to be able to handle the incunabula, the earliest books ever printed.
His obsession with words vies with his passion for science—reading them, but also writing them. He almost never read the journals; they were sketchpads he used to work out his themes, to find his form, to articulate his story.
For Sacks, language and science were inextricably intertwined. His lectures moved from the most intimate details of his experiments…to speculation about the universe and life, delivered in a style and with a richness of language that nobody else could match.
This intense interest in the entire lives of his patients made him…a marvellous storyteller. Telling, of course, is what Sacks does: he tells patients what ails them and tells the world about them.
Indeed, his whole enterprise might reasonably be described as telling some startling, not always comfortable truths about our lives. But even when he is sober, there is an underlying compulsiveness teetering on the brink of mania in almost any activity he pursues.
When he enters a long-distance swimming competition, the judges have to plead with him to stop after he has swum five hundred lengths—six miles.
He engages in equally excessive cross-continental motorcycling marathons; as a body-builder, he makes his already large frame monumental.
When he goes into the kitchen, he eats his way through a whole refrigerator of food, and when he asks his sister-in-law if he can use her typewriter to make a few notes, he is still there three days later, having written most of a book.
Perhaps it was his driven nature that led him to write with such tenderness about mental asylums, as they were originally conceived: institutions where disturbed people could find sanctuary, protected against the menaces of their fellow citizens and relieved of the burden of having to pretend to be normal.
Originally, says Sacks, these were calm and beautiful places, clean and light, with gardens and agricultural lands, and the inmates were given useful and productive work to do, which grounded them and enhanced their self-respect.
Eventually these institutions became overcrowded and descended into brutality and relentless discipline. This is a rare sunbeam in a book that, while rejoicing in a life lived with quite extraordinary richness, is filled with foreboding for the future.
Somerset Maugham, William Carlos Williams. Those trapped in this virtual world are never alone, never able to concentrate and appreciate in their own way, silently.
What we are seeing—and bringing on ourselves—resembles a neurological catastrophe on a gigantic scale. What hope is there?
As I face my own impending departure from the world, I have to believe in this—that mankind and our planet will survive, that life will continue, and that this will not be our final hour.
But for this reader it was the image of Samuel Pickwick that came irresistibly to mind. Dickens seems to have anticipated Oliver Sacks by a century:.
A casual observer might possibly have remarked nothing extraordinary in the bald head, and circular spectacles…to those who knew that the gigantic brain of Pickwick was working beneath that forehead, and that the beaming eyes of Pickwick were twinkling behind those glasses, the sight was indeed an interesting one.
There sat the man who had traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved as the deep waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen of the other in the inmost recesses of an earthen jar.
Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed happiness, of which, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our transitory existence here.
There are dark shadows on the earth but its lights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have better eyes for the darkness than for the light; we, who have no such optical powers, are better pleased to take our last parting look at the visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of the world is blazing full upon them.
I adored him. Shakespeare is up for grabs again. Bardolatory, an exasperated George Bernard Shaw dubbed it.
But neither of them had the space that Stott has to reconstruct this bizarre but highly significant event in all its lunacy.
In the garden of his elegant home in rural Richmond, there stood a statue of the great writer, and Garrick commissioned a painting of himself gazing wonderingly at it.
The Stratfordians duly invited the Bard-struck actor to celebrate the installation of a fine new bust of his idol in the empty niche of the Town Hall; flattered, he started to plan a huge, extended three-day gala in its honour.
He has an uncommon gift for reporting on the past as if had happened yesterday, and to him personally. There were pageants and parties and balls and serenades and fireworks, or would have been had the rain not drenched them all, as it flooded the floor of the ballroom and even caused the horses to race deep in inches of water.
The actor, whose enthusiasm for acting had been in steep decline, suddenly found his form again, and stirred the entire sodden company into tearful raptures.
The event, all in all, was felt by most who attended, to have been only fitfully successful; Garrick was darkly accused of cupidity. Perhaps we need a new Jubilee, or at any rate, a new Garrick.
Meanwhile, Stott has brought this odd and oddly resonant event to enchanting and illuminating life. The uproar was not confined to Britain: his fellow-countrymen were equally outraged, as, in many cases, were his co-religionists by what seemed to them to be a needless and counter-productive provocation.
Hecht, as one of the first people in America to take the rumours of the Holocaust seriously — indeed, to have predicted it, even before it happened — had spoken on behalf of many people who felt that the US government, in particular, needed to be goaded into action.
Why was Hecht behaving like this? By then, Hecht was already a star in the firmament of young American writing. Having dropped out of college after exactly three days, he had hopped a train to Chicago and within a week found himself working for a major daily newspaper.
While he wrote for the mainstream press, he hob-nobbed with the avant-gardists of his day — with Sandburg and Sherwood Anderson and Wyndham Lewis and Ezra Pound.
The irony, as his clear-eyed biographer tells us, is that his screenwriting was vastly better than his fiction. Naturally, he sent it back; they returned it to him.
In the end he kept it, seeing its potential as a doorstop. He was soon earning staggering sums of money. He galvanised his friends and colleagues into raising awareness by means of huge shows like We Will Never Die, playing to 40, people.
It was then he converted to Zionism, becoming a man possessed, with the results we have seen. He carried on writing for Hollywood, but mostly uncredited and for half what he had earned before.
Her examination of his Jewishness is nothing short a of a revelation, and horribly timely in this epoch in which ancient grudges resurface every day.
To review certain books seems like an impertinence. This is one of them. It speaks for itself with such clarity, certainty and wisdom that only one thing needs to be said: read it.
And then read it again. Even the latter has, at the heart of all the violence, a dreamy, wide-eyed quality which seems to be quintessential Altan.
His arrest was no surprise to him. He was in the frontline. Knowing how exposed his position was, he habitually carried a gun.
To be making jokes at all in the circumstances reveals an almost inconceivable sangfroid. He knew that there was no chance whatever of a fair trial; the sentence was a foregone conclusion.
Never again would I be able to kiss the woman I love, embrace my kids, meet with my friends, walk the streets…I would not be able to eat eggs with sausage or drink a glass of wine or go to a restaurant and order fish.
I would not be able to watch the sunrise. In the car which took him to prison, the guard offered him a cigarette. He had, he said, no idea where the words came from.
But they changed his life. Once you refuse to play this assigned role, instead doing and saying the unexpected, reality itself is taken aback; it hits against the rebellious jetties of your mind and breaks into pieces.
He saw that this capacity was an extension of his trade as a novelist: creating an alternative reality. I Will Never See the World Again is as much about writing as it is about prison, but above all it is about freedom, a freedom epitomised by the exercise of the imagination.
It was as if a tributary of the river of time had hit a dam and formed a lake. We sat at the bottom of that motionless pool. The judges are out of Kafka, but as in Kafka, not savage or brutal, but erratic, bewildering, surreal.
He begins to realise as he waits that he is living out the very scene that he wrote years earlier in his novel Like a Sword Wound, where a character also waits for a verdict.
The verdict is handed down: Life, without parole. I am descending to Hades. I walk into the darkness like a god who write his own destiny.
My hero and I disappear into the darkness together. I will know defeat and victory, my adventure will end only in death…a ship stands in the middle of the cell; its timbers are creaking.
On its deck is a conflicted Odysseus. I reach for a pen with a hand that is white in the ghostly light. I can write even in the dark.
I take the ship cracking in the storm in the palm of my hands and begin writing: The prison door shut behind me. Put together from papers found among notes Altan gave to his lawyers, and translated — superbly — into English by his friend Yasemin Congar, I Will Never See the World Again is deeply satisfying in form.
In a sense, it eclipses all these. It is a radiant celebration of the inner resources of human beings, above all those triggered by the imagination.
Its account of the creative process is sublime, among the most perfectly expressed analyses of that perpetually elusive phenomenon.
And it is a triumph of the spirit. He is still in prison. We must move heaven and earth to spring him. Some things you remember as if they were yesterday.
One day in , I was in way in an aeroplane to Manchester for the launch of my production of My Fair Lady. I showed it to my producer: Four Weddings and a Funeral, it was called.
I emerged at the end of our brief flight a bit shaken, and not just because I was, indeed, the funeral. Thirdly, the structure, so accurately expressed in its title, was masterful, as the gang of friends went forth in search of commitment.
Apart from that final detail, this is positively Shakespearean. In the case of Four Weddings, there was a funeral slap bang in the middle of the film — mine.
But it proved to be healing rather than divisive. But that in itself was remarkable, yet another reason for my grateful amazement at the quality of the script.
Because Gareth was gay, openly, happily, exuberantly gay, a great big burly bearded man, his wrists far from limp, his esses unsibilant, his hips stable, and he was living in a very committed relationship with a gorgeous young man.
He was excessive, but not excessively gay: he conformed to no stereotype, nor did his relationship with Matthew. They were individuals, attracted to each other physically and emotionally, who happened to be two men.
It was a new type of relationship on film or on stage, for that matter , and very like most of the relationships I myself had had, or the relationships of gay couples I knew.
When Gareth died, it was shocking and awful, but there was no sense in which he was being punished for his sexual orientation: if anything, it was a Government Health Warning against the dangers of Scottish dancing.
This was very striking, because was a very sombre year for gay people. AIDS was scything its way through our lives; the ravaged corpses of healthy, vigorous young men — our friends, our contemporaries — were piling up, and film and television and the theatre were beginning to take that into account, which was only right and proper.
But the ancient association of homosexuality with disease was being given new currency, surrounding us with a depressing sense of doom.
In fact, the whole gorgeous screenplay existed in the shadow of AIDS insofar as it was driven by the compulsion of the characters to find life partners — nobody knew yet whether the condition was confined to homosexuals and drug users, and a new enthusiasm for monogamy was in the air.
Everyone has known a Gareth. I knew him absolutely, I saw him, I could almost smell him. A deal was done, a pretty niggardly one: it was an ambitious independent film, and there was no expectation of attaching any stars.
I would have cheerfully paid them to play Gareth; as it was, they threw in what seemed like a nugatory percentage point or two of any possible profit.
It was a British Independent movie, so that meant zilch. This can mean almost anything or nothing, but from long and bitter experience one naturally assumes the worst, and indeed, in this case, it seemed all options were off.
I went into mourning for Gareth, not so much cut off in his prime as still-born, and got on with my life, moodily.
I have always believed that the week we spent round that table was the making of the film. You have to fight your corner. No one felt in the least inhibited about saying what they had to say, whether it was obscure, inspired, obvious or just plain wrong.
Once we started filming, our agreeably rowdy table sessions were exchanged for the grind of the schedule. Despite the relatively poverty of the budget and the attendant hardships — four or five of us to a car, the first being picked up at 4.
In the event, I started smoking twenty-five of the irresistible little cigarillos a day. Anyway, after filming the Brigadoon line, on to another orgy of Scottish dancing.
I suppose too, I must admit that the character of Gareth is very close to an aspect of me, the life-and-death of the party side of me, which is not quite as large a component of my nature as people seem to think though I have been Gareth for whole weeks at a stretch in my own life.
Once again, I was despatched to Hollywood, and once again, I padded round the sanctified halls of the studios, meeting alarmingly young vice-Presidents, all of whom greeted me with the reverence due to someone who has been associated with a Huge Hit, and an unpredicted one at that.
They spoke to me with deep deference, and when they adverted to Hugh, or Richard, or Mike, their voices hushed. Like alchemists of yore, they were trying to figure out this deep puzzle, to identify the transforming element that had turned a mere script into pure gold.
Hugh had made it into a hit. Massive relief ensued, and they proceeded to hurl large sums of money at him, setting him up with his own company, offering him anything he liked.
They were looking for the sequel to Gareth: Gareth II. But they never found it. World famous author Sir Hugo Latymer is growing old, rude and haughty.
In the private suite of a lakeside hotel where he lives, he is attended to by his long-suffering wife and former secretary, Hilde, and Felix, a handsome young waiter.
Here he nervously awaits the arrival of an old flame, actress Carlotta Gray, with whom he enjoyed a two year love affair more than forty years ago.
What can she possibly want now? Revenge for his uncharitable characterisation of her in his recent autobiography? Money, to compensate for a second-rate acting career in the States?
But it turns out Carlotta is writing her own memoir, and wants something much more significant than cash…. I spoke once to a distinguished dramatist who was hesitating about writing his first novel.
Clearly Literary Landscapes will not be for him. The collection is divided into four chronological sections, from the 19th century romantics to the modernist period, from post-war panoramas to contemporary geographies.
To say nothing of Rabelais. But its range is nonetheless remarkable, considering that it deals largely with fiction and avoids travel writing altogether, however distinguished its literary pedigree.
The contributions are written by some 45 different essayists — academics, reviewers, journalists, poets, translators, novelists, none of them household names.
Nor are they likely to become household names since, oddly, they are not identified in the text, not even by initials: to find out who wrote what, you need to go to the alphabetical list of contributors at the back of the book and puzzle it out.
The picture thus adds a harmonic to the novel, which is where the book really comes into its own. This is the Foreword I wrote to a book sculptures by the great theatre designer, who died last week, aged It is one of the abiding regrets of my career in the theatre that I never got to work with Ralph Koltai, either as actor or as director.
I so very nearly did, which only makes it worse: some twenty years ago, an eccentric American would-be impresario had assembled a team of all the talents to put The Great Gatsby on stage as a musical.
I would preside over this brilliant gang as director. But it was not to be. After our first and only meeting, the madcap producer systematically dismantled the team.
The work had electrified me from the moment I first clapped eyes on it as a teenaged theatre buff and opera lover. It scarcely seemed possible that the As You Like It at the National Theatre two years later was the work of the same designer: light, airy, playful.
It was hip and timeless all at once, a dream-world where all the varieties of love could thrive, effecting an absolute congruity between the modern world of and that of the first Elizabeth.
And he would do it in a form, in a visual and a physical language, which was of our world, now, today — not a recreation: a creation.
Well, we shall never know what he might have created. We still might work together, he and I — at the age of 90 he is still designing for the theatre; three productions in a row this year alone.
But he spends a great deal of his time nowadays making the sculptures which this book are all about. And perhaps you, like me, will be struck by how theatrically suggestive they are, these sculptures.
I could stage productions on almost any of them. And it occurs to me that the opposite is true: his designs could all be sculptures. And that is what Ralph Koltai has brought to the theatre — a masterful shaping of his raw materials into significant form.
Koltai the sculptor and Koltai the designer possess an extraordinary sense of what lies behind the surface which makes him one of the supreme exponents, on the stage or in the studio, of the theatre of the soul.
Like James Barrie, Grahame was a Scot; his vivacious mother died when he was five and his father, a helpless alcoholic, thereupon absented himself from his family, escaping to France, when Grahame and his siblings fell into the hands of their very severe grandma, who transferred them down south to the rural idyll of Cookham Dean, in Berkshire.
There they lived in a splendid rambling house called The Mount, filled with bolt-holes into which young Kenneth could escape — like father, like son — from unattractive reality.
Even more enticing was the river, offering limitless opportunities for personal fantasy. Their heroes and heroines were a family of parentless children, embattled by absurd, capricious and stupid adults.
Eventually, these pieces and others were gathered into collections with expressive titles — Pagan Papers, The Golden Age, Dream Days — which became immensely popular, on both sides of the Atlantic, including the future US president Theodore Roosevelt, with whom Grahame became a regular correspondent.
He shared living quarters with various men of his own age, waited on by a housekeeper; they generally peeled off in due course to get married.
He fell in with the magnificently flamboyant Frederick Furnivall, philosopher, lexicographer, oarsman, actor and director, and became part of the New Shakespeare Society.
He remained a member of the Society, on the Board, but off the boards. Such minor upheavals aside, he seemed perfectly content, feeding off his own inner life, occasionally putting his private Eden into words.
But he was a fine figure of a man, and eminently marriageable, so despite the absence of the slightest manifestation of sexual curiosity on his part, various women made a tilt at him, receiving, on the whole short shrift.
Their endlessly protracted courtship, violently opposed by their families on both sides, excruciating to read about since they communicated in a sort of Cockney baby-talk, ended with them getting rather glumly spliced in Cornwall; she decided not even to wear the wedding dress she had bought at great expense, instead showing up in an old muslin day dress with a daisy chain round her neck.
What little sex there was between them resulted in a child, Alistair, born prematurely and traumatically for Elspeth.
He was blind in one eye; the other was part-sighted. His parents chose to endow him with extraordinary qualities of brilliance and charm; in truth he was a bully and a prig, beating up small girls when he met them and taunting the servants.
For all their doting on him, they farmed him out to various schools, where he did appallingly, dismissed from both Rugby and Eton.
They, meanwhile, went on long foreign holidays. I am at present staying in a little island known as England, of which you may have heard.
One night he took himself off to the railway lines near the Port Meadow and lay down on them; he was instantly decapitated.
He has his monument, though. It was to Alistair, or Mouse, as he was known from infancy, that Grahame told the stories that became The Wind in the Willows.
Having been let go by the Bank some five years after the startling incident in which he was shot at three times — the robber missed each time — Grahame swapped the bank for the riverbank, embarking on a new venture, in which he invokes an animal world in a pocket Odyssey.
Mostly they stayed in Rome, wandering, wraith-like, from monument to monument, gallery to gallery, till they knew them all by heart.
Back in England, they lived the life of the gentry; he edited some books of poetry, but mostly his focus was on his inner life, and his wine cellar.
He died suddenly in bed, a quarter of a century after he wrote his masterpiece. Dennison, in his finely written book with its bedizened vocabulary when did you last encounter the words carmilla or tracaserries?
As such it embodies the odd, half-life lived by its author, so elegantly and penetratingly described by Dennison, perhaps the most haunting of whose revelations is that the figure of Toad was inspired by little Alistair, the lost child of lost parents.
Following critically acclaimed, sold-out theatre seasons in , and again in , Simon returns to wow audiences with this tour de force performance, reimagined especially for cinema.
A Christmas must see for one night only! Simon will be reading poetry at a concert with some fabulously gifted young musicians as part of the Highgate International Chamber Music Festival.
Obsession, madness, murder, and redemption are portrayed in the richly Romantic music—performed on period instruments—of Berlioz. Moreover, his epistolary partner, the publisher James Laughlin, was, in his very different way, also a titan—an unusually quiet one, to be sure, but unquestionably one of the central figures of American letters of the last century.
Next to William Shakespeare, Richard Wagner is one of the most written about figures in human history. His enigmatic qualities coupled with his unquestionable genius make him someone who fascinates as much as he bewilders and antagonizes.
Volumes have been written about the composer from virtually every conceivable angle, whether it be his family, his adventures, his psychology, his philosophy, his art, etc.
And yet in recent months, yet another work was added to the massive and growing oeuvre surrounding the German master.
It narrates his story from an amusing perspective, keeping the reader engaged through entertaining and ironic tone that never wavers.
OperaWire recently spoke to Simon about his interest in writing the biography and the unique insights he acquired from the gargantuan task.
Imprisoned in Reading Gaol and forbidden from writing works of fiction, Wilde was permitted to write — though not to send — the bitter and terrible diatribe that is also a love letter which was eventually published as De Profundis.
Peggy Ramsay was the foremost play agent of her time. Her list of clients including Alan Ayckbourn, Robert Bolt, Caryl Churchill, Joe Orton, Howard Brenton and many more, shows her to have been at the centre of British playwriting for several generations from the late s on.
Her force of personality made her well-nigh irresistible. The letters she wrote to her writers and to producers are extraordinary documents, filled with all these qualities, and indiscreet, blasphemous and saucy to boot.
All three are well known for their love of Charles Dickens and the work they have done on behalf of the Charles Dickens Museum.
Acclaimed stage and screen actors Simon Callow and Alan Cumming, together with writer and scholar Katherine Bucknell, enliven the emotional correspondence of the two men, who shared their love through letters while daring to be openly gay in conservative mid-century Hollywood.
David Hockney's portrait of the pair—which Callow and Cumming recreate—provides the inspiration for this loving tribute to two extraordinary men.
When I was growing up in Britain in the s and s, Paul Robeson was much in evidence, on records, on the radio, on television. His name was haloed with the sort of respect accorded to few performers.
The astonishing voice that, like the Mississippi in the most famous number in his repertory, just kept rolling along, seemed to carry within it an inherent sense of truth.
There was no artifice; there were no vocal tricks; nothing came between the listener and the song. It commanded effortless attention; perfectly focused, it came from a very deep place, not just in the larynx, but in the experience of what it is to be human.
In this, Robeson resembled the English contralto Kathleen Ferrier: both seemed less trained musicians than natural phenomena. The spirituals Robeson had been instrumental in discovering for a wider audience were not simply communal songs of love and life and death but the urgent cries of a captive people yearning for a better, a juster life.
These songs, rooted in the past, expressed a present reality in the lives of twentieth-century American black people, citizens of the most powerful nation on earth but oppressed and routinely humiliated on a daily basis.
And in the Britain in which I grew up, he was deeply admired for it. At some point in the s, he faded from our view.
Meanwhile, a new generation of black militants, fierce demagogues, had become prominent, and suddenly Robeson seemed very old-fashioned.
When news of his death came in , there was surprise that he was still alive.Entdecken Sie alle Hörbücher von Simon Callow auf corelliproject.eu: ✓ 1 Hörbuch Ihrer Wahl pro Monat ✓ Der erste Monat geht auf uns. Hier findest du alles zu Simon Callow. von Jürgen Uter (als Leech) in Charles Dickens: Der Mann, der Weihnachten erfand (); von Axel Lutter (als Simon Callow) in Mindhorn (); von Aart. Simon Callow. SIMON CALLOW, CBE, is an English actor, musician, writer, and theatre director. Current books of the author. London's Great Theatres. simon callow harry potter.