Words • In Spite Of Myself
Someone just "liked" a short book review (read: knee jerk response) I posted on goodreads way back in 2009. It was for Christopher Plummer's memoir, In Spite Of Myself.
Here's what I wrote:
It's just after midnight here in Chicago. The deep cold outside is seeping in at the windows of my room here at the Hotel Blake. I've just turned the last page of In Spite of Myself: A Memoir by Christopher Plummer. Most of this I read in my dressing room over the last four weeks. I read it during the quiet time before half hour is called, in the fifteen minutes between half and fight call, and during intermissions in Cincinnati, South Bend, Peoria, and Chicago at the Auditorium. And I haven't enjoyed it much at all, except for the last 100 pages which I read tonight.
I think the fact that reading this made me so irritated — angry, even — says more about me than about Mr. Plummer. He's not an actor who writes about the work, but rather one who brags about the life. And that seems to push a large button with me. And also sends me a warning.
Richard Chamberlain's book encouraged me.
So, here I am. Warned and encouraged. I wonder what I'll do with that.
I'd forgotten I'd written that. But it sounds exactly like me, so I'll stand by it.
When I wrote it I was out on the road with Monty Python's Spamalot. Richard Chamberlain had just joined our tour as the king. (In South Bend. Glamorous, right?) Anyway, that's why I had just read Chamberlain's book. (He's Richard to me now and he is exactly the man he paints himself in Shattered Love: A Memoir.)
I read Plummer's book because, well, I love theatre biographies, auto— and otherwise. I can't for the life of me remember what it was about the last one hundred pages that I enjoyed. I'll have to go back and reread it.