Gawd, I'm glad that's over.
I picked up this book because I was directing a production of I Hate Hamlet, in which the ghost of John Barrymore plays a prominent role. I started this book about halfway through the rehearsal process--mid February, maybe? I finished it yesterday, 3/18/2020. So what took me so long? For starters, the typeface is small and each page is very dense. I had to squint a lot. As a result, no matter how hard I tried, the book put me to sleep on numerous attempts. Second, in addition to being dense in appearance, the language itself is very dense. John Kebler has an extraordinary vocabulary, so I had to keep a dictionary by my side while I read. The subject of Kebler's book, and a good many of his associates, also had superb vocabularies, so the direct quotations offered little respite. Finally, and this goes straight to the heart of the matter...comparatively little of the book is actually about John Barrymore. It covers the entire Barrymore brood, from his progenitors up until his death, and I got a little frustrated trying to learn more about the man.
The man himself emerges as tragic. I am not qualified enough to judge whether or not he had a death wish, but he certainly behaved as a man indifferent to fate. Among his other shortcomings, he had a fatally short attention span. He brought unmatched talent and unparalleled eloquence to nearly every role he played in his younger years...but he would get bored with the roles and move on to other endeavors, many of which offered little call for his abundant talent. Further, it must be said, his unwavering alcoholism surely killed both him and his career. As the character in I Hate Hamlet says, Barrymore's alcoholism-induced blackouts caused his memory to fail him when he made the switch from stage to screen. Despite the draw of his name, producers and directors grew reluctant to employ him because of how much time and money he cost them while production was delayed due to his scramble to recall his lines. His devotion to the bottle hampered his career, his finances, his emotions, and of course his marriages, four in total, each of which ended in fiery turmoil. His final marriage, to an insignificant wannabe starlet named Elaine Jacobs, may have brought about his end even more prematurely.
This biography of Barrymore delivers its story effectively; it's just that its story is not always the story of John himself. I learned about his grandparents, his parents, his brother and his sister, his daughter (scant mention is made of his son), but relatively little about John Barrymore himself. His career ended with a stage performance of a toilet paper quality script called My Dear Children. The performances sold out on a regular basis, not because of Barrymore's transcendent skills, but because of how far he wandered from the script in an effort to make a parody of himself. People were not laughing with him. To those who cared about him, and there were quite a few people who genuinely cared, watching his downfall must have been excruciating.
Before I picked up this book, I was curious if I would want to know more about Barrymore when I was finished. It was so damn depressing that I think I've had enough.