This book was a bit of a disappointment. Written by Basil Rathbone, who is best known for the movies he did with Errol Flynn and of course, for his long run as Sherlock Holmes on film and stage, this autobiography actually concentrates mostly on Rathbone's theater career, social and married life, and philosophy about acting, as well as his frustrated desire to be both a musical conductor and a writer. It is the work of a highly intelligent, sophisticated, thoughtful English gentleman and its qualities are very similar in some ways to the works of Siegfried Sassoon, another English gentleman who was sometimes too gentlemanly to write with the kind of passion that turns pages. It is a very highly personal work, an expression of his love of his art and of life generally, and full of brilliant observations and many, many witty and touching anecdotes. But it is also a slog. I hate to say that because Rathbone's memory is very dear to me, but he was an honest man about his failures as well as his successes, and so too will I be.
Rathbone's early life was marked by tragedy and violence. His family were English folk living in South Africa during the Boer War, and had to flee a step ahead of vengeful Boers, ending up in England. His mother died young, leaving his father heartbroken for life, and Basil's beloved brother John was killed in action in WWI, an event which in the book is told so touchingly it almost brought me to tears. Rathbone himself was an infantry officer in that war and was awarded the Military Cross for heroism, and while he expresses no remorse for those he killed in battle he makes it clear he hates war with a passionate kind of loathing. He turned to acting after the war, worked in the theater, and spent many years trodding the boards and learning his craft before he reluctantly sidled into motion pictures. I say "reluctantly" because it is clear that like so many British actors who start in the theater, they regard all other mediums with suspicion and in some cases, contempt and disgust. Rathbone rather liked movie-making, or came to like it, but he was a harsh critic mindless entertainment, even his own. Eventually Rathbone became quite famous in his own right as Sherlock Holmes, who he played in no less than fourteen feature films, but Rathbone came to despise the role and this dislike reflected the deep conflict he felt between his desire to do serious projects and his need to make money -- in other words, the conflict between art and commercialism, which devils every artist. After WW2, he struggled with the sudden rise of television (he was already frustrated with radio) and found himself unsure of where the future of acting lay -- what kind of art could be produced in a medium that ravenously devoured talent and shat out mediocrity instead. His personal answer was a very successful one-man, two-act show that allowed him to introduce his favorite playwrights to the people in the format he most adored: the theater.
As I said, IN AND OUT OF CHARACTER concentrates very heavily on Rathbone's theater career, which is interesting to a degree but depends on the reader sharing his love of theater and also his knowledge of it -- by which I mean that he is speaking of theater legends of the 20s, 30s, 40s, etc. who have faded out of memory. It exhaustively examines his marriage to his beloved Ouida, and there is even most of a chapter on his (almost) equally beloved dog. It features several creative asides, some poetry, and lengthy (and often fascinating) stories about people like Errol Flynn (all too briefly), Greta Garbo, John Barrymore, Marlene Dietrich, etc., etc. Love of music, and of Shakespeare, drip from every page. His observations about television, then a still-burgeoning medium, are very deep and hold true even today. But there is a tediousness to the second half of the book which is undeniable. He barely touches on his time as Sherlock Holmes, except to denounce it; he has almost nothing to say about classic films like ROBIN HOOD or CAPTAIN BLOOD and for so chatty a book there is very little scandal or gossip, which frankly would have livened it up. In fact, he seldom discusses much of anything directly related to his movie career (70 films). The passion that he has for theater, music, etc. keeps dragging the focus away from that which made him wealthy and famous, and -- most likely, for who living is likely to have seen him perform onstage? -- from the interest of those who only know him for his movie work. His long asides can be a little confusing, and he has a penchant for name-dropping which reveal that he wasn't as immune from the shallower aspects of Hollywood as he himself surely believed.
For all that, I did enjoy a lot of this book and found it immensely quotable and full of wisdom and many splendid anectdotes -- some funny, some tragic. Rathbone was a born raconteur and a very, very intelligent man with a tremendous passion for his craft and for the human condition generally: indeed, for life itself. He may have been a touch too cool, too thoughtful, too gentlemanly to write a really good memoir, but as the song says, "He remains an Englishman."