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John Ford: A Biography
The definitive biography of the legendary filmmaker. With complete filmography and index. 36 pages of black & white photographs.
305 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1979
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About the author
Andrew Sinclair
185 books32 followersAndrew Sinclair was born in Oxford in 1935 and was educated at Eton and Trinity College, Cambridge. After earning a Ph.D. in American History from Cambridge, he pursued an academic career in the United States and England. His first two novels, written while he was still at Cambridge, were both published in 1959: The Breaking of Bumbo (based on his own experience in the Coldstream Guards, and later adapted for a 1970 film written and directed by Sinclair) and My Friend Judas. Other early novels included The Project (1960), The Hallelujah Bum (1963), and The Raker (1964). The latter, also available from Valancourt, is a clever mix of Gothic fantasy and macabre comedy and was inspired by Sinclair’s relationship with Derek Lindsay, the pseudonymous author of the acclaimed novel The Rack (1958). Sinclair’s best-known novel, Gog (1967), a highly imaginative, picaresque account of the adventures of a seven-foot-tall man who washes ashore on the Scottish coast, naked and suffering from amnesia, has been named one of the top 100 modern fantasy novels. As the first in the ‘Albion Triptych’, it was followed by Magog (1972) and King Ludd (1988).
Sinclair’s varied and prolific career has also included work in film and a large output of nonfiction. As a director, he is best known for Under Milk Wood (1972), adapted from a Dylan Thomas play and starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Sinclair’s nonfiction includes works on American history (including The Better Half: The Emancipation of the American Woman, which won the 1967 Somerset Maugham Award), books on Dylan Thomas, Jack London, Che Guevara, and Francis Bacon, and, more recently, works on the Knights Templar and the Freemasons.
Sinclair was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1972. He lives in London.
Sinclair’s varied and prolific career has also included work in film and a large output of nonfiction. As a director, he is best known for Under Milk Wood (1972), adapted from a Dylan Thomas play and starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Sinclair’s nonfiction includes works on American history (including The Better Half: The Emancipation of the American Woman, which won the 1967 Somerset Maugham Award), books on Dylan Thomas, Jack London, Che Guevara, and Francis Bacon, and, more recently, works on the Knights Templar and the Freemasons.
Sinclair was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1972. He lives in London.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
April 24, 2019
As an avid movie fan, especially of older ones from the Silver Screen era, I’ve been struck by the fact that there were several highly successful, one eyed directors. Raoul Walsh, Andre De Toth, cartoonist Tex Avery, and Fritz Lang all made do with just one peeper and they were some of the most accomplished film makers in the history of American (and world) cinema. Perhaps the fact that they only had one eye made them all the more discerning in what they chose to put on film. It does seem remarkable and it’s a tribute to these directors that they did so much with the little fate left them.
Another trend among directors, not at all an admirable one, is that some appear to have been pretty much complete sons of bitches, miserable, domineering tyrants who delighted in making cast and crew’s lives utter hell. Fritz Lang was notoriously controlling on the set. Another famous jerk was Sam Peckinpah, perhaps one of the greatest Western directors along with Ford and others, but also an out of control substance abuser with a marked proclivity for hurting those in his personal and professional life. Howard Hawks was a control freak who had Lauren Bacall live with him and his wife so they could groom and brainwash her into Hawks’s conception of a movie star. The best thing that can be said for such behavior (and it’s a defense that’s often been made) is that making a film, especially a big, complicated one, is very similar to a military mission such as an expeditionary force (with the film analogy being an on location shoot). The director, the person in charge, has to be in command. Cast and crew have to be driven hard so the film can meet budget and time requirements. The easy counter to this is that many other directors have achieved similar results without having to resort to such high pressure tactics.
Then there is the director who combines both these features, both nearly blind and relentlessly miserable. One example of this, probably the most prominent, is John Ford, the subject of Andrew Sinclair’s 1979 biography. I read this book with great interest. Westerns are pretty much my favorite film genre. John Ford is probably the greatest director of Western films that ever lived (a pretty safe statement to make since the genre is basically dead). More than that, I consider him to be one of the greatest directors whose work I’ve seen. Ford had a painter’s eye for framing scenes. Many of his best works consist of successive images, all beautifully composed, that delight and move the viewer in the same fashion as a series of marvelous paintings in a museum would. The paradox behind it all being that, to achieve these wonderful results, Ford continually and repeatedly engaged in coarse abuse and the meanest sort of practical jokes, always punching down. Cast and crew members who stood the abuse became part of his stock company and received Ford’s loyalty in decades to come with steady work and behind the scenes assistance. Those who refused to cooperate in their own humiliation were quickly dropped.
Sinclair does a workmanlike job in this biography. He describes Ford’s background, brought up in turn of the century Portland, Maine, as part of a large, clannish Irish family from Galway; his early infatuation with the sea and the old ways of his Irish ancestors; how he went to Hollywood originally to work for his brother, Frank, and soon surpassed him; and provides good, succinct descriptions of the many, many films that Ford made during almost fifty years in the business. Sinclair also shows Ford’s hidden depths, the various facets of his personality that made him too complex to just be dismissed as an ogre director: his lack of racial prejudice in an era where such beliefs were commonplace, the decades of unpaid, potentially dangerous intelligence work that he did for the US Navy, and his efforts to help those with disabilities as a result of the horrible things he’d seen in WW II. Ford had a secretive, private nature in many ways. One of the things he seemed to want to hide most from the world was the fact that he really was a sensitive, highly perceptive artist with amazing technical abilities and, what’s more important, very strong insight into the human condition. He kept this concealed through foul language, indifference to his appearance (he was a notorious slob), and regularly engaging in such stereotypical he-man activities as drunken card games and long sea voyages.
The author did a great deal of research on this book. There are extensive quotations from some of Ford’s closest collaborators to include John Wayne, his biggest star, Ford’s wife and family, and numerous members of his crew. My only caveat is that I wish the book could have dwelt a bit longer on Ford’s artistry, his uncanny ability to catch just the right moment on film, his finely attuned knowledge of men engaged in dangerous trades like soldiers and seaman, how he could take what would be the schmaltziest dreck in anyone else’s hands and make it perfectly charming. (I have The Quiet Man foremost in mind with respect to this last point, a film I love despite being silly and sexist and a constant reminder of just about every Irish stereotype there is.)
Despite this last nit, I recommend this book. This is an excellent source for general film buffs, Western fans or folks who really like Old Hollywood (I fall into all three camps.)
Another trend among directors, not at all an admirable one, is that some appear to have been pretty much complete sons of bitches, miserable, domineering tyrants who delighted in making cast and crew’s lives utter hell. Fritz Lang was notoriously controlling on the set. Another famous jerk was Sam Peckinpah, perhaps one of the greatest Western directors along with Ford and others, but also an out of control substance abuser with a marked proclivity for hurting those in his personal and professional life. Howard Hawks was a control freak who had Lauren Bacall live with him and his wife so they could groom and brainwash her into Hawks’s conception of a movie star. The best thing that can be said for such behavior (and it’s a defense that’s often been made) is that making a film, especially a big, complicated one, is very similar to a military mission such as an expeditionary force (with the film analogy being an on location shoot). The director, the person in charge, has to be in command. Cast and crew have to be driven hard so the film can meet budget and time requirements. The easy counter to this is that many other directors have achieved similar results without having to resort to such high pressure tactics.
Then there is the director who combines both these features, both nearly blind and relentlessly miserable. One example of this, probably the most prominent, is John Ford, the subject of Andrew Sinclair’s 1979 biography. I read this book with great interest. Westerns are pretty much my favorite film genre. John Ford is probably the greatest director of Western films that ever lived (a pretty safe statement to make since the genre is basically dead). More than that, I consider him to be one of the greatest directors whose work I’ve seen. Ford had a painter’s eye for framing scenes. Many of his best works consist of successive images, all beautifully composed, that delight and move the viewer in the same fashion as a series of marvelous paintings in a museum would. The paradox behind it all being that, to achieve these wonderful results, Ford continually and repeatedly engaged in coarse abuse and the meanest sort of practical jokes, always punching down. Cast and crew members who stood the abuse became part of his stock company and received Ford’s loyalty in decades to come with steady work and behind the scenes assistance. Those who refused to cooperate in their own humiliation were quickly dropped.
Sinclair does a workmanlike job in this biography. He describes Ford’s background, brought up in turn of the century Portland, Maine, as part of a large, clannish Irish family from Galway; his early infatuation with the sea and the old ways of his Irish ancestors; how he went to Hollywood originally to work for his brother, Frank, and soon surpassed him; and provides good, succinct descriptions of the many, many films that Ford made during almost fifty years in the business. Sinclair also shows Ford’s hidden depths, the various facets of his personality that made him too complex to just be dismissed as an ogre director: his lack of racial prejudice in an era where such beliefs were commonplace, the decades of unpaid, potentially dangerous intelligence work that he did for the US Navy, and his efforts to help those with disabilities as a result of the horrible things he’d seen in WW II. Ford had a secretive, private nature in many ways. One of the things he seemed to want to hide most from the world was the fact that he really was a sensitive, highly perceptive artist with amazing technical abilities and, what’s more important, very strong insight into the human condition. He kept this concealed through foul language, indifference to his appearance (he was a notorious slob), and regularly engaging in such stereotypical he-man activities as drunken card games and long sea voyages.
The author did a great deal of research on this book. There are extensive quotations from some of Ford’s closest collaborators to include John Wayne, his biggest star, Ford’s wife and family, and numerous members of his crew. My only caveat is that I wish the book could have dwelt a bit longer on Ford’s artistry, his uncanny ability to catch just the right moment on film, his finely attuned knowledge of men engaged in dangerous trades like soldiers and seaman, how he could take what would be the schmaltziest dreck in anyone else’s hands and make it perfectly charming. (I have The Quiet Man foremost in mind with respect to this last point, a film I love despite being silly and sexist and a constant reminder of just about every Irish stereotype there is.)
Despite this last nit, I recommend this book. This is an excellent source for general film buffs, Western fans or folks who really like Old Hollywood (I fall into all three camps.)
May 9, 2023
There are probably better books about film icon John Ford than Andrew Sinclair's "John Ford: A Biography" because, well, there just have to be. But this is the one I finally got around to reading after nabbing it from a discount bin years ago. It's not unreasonable to argue that Ford is the most notable American movie director ... ever. I mean, he won a record four directing Oscars over a career that began when Woodrow Wilson was president and ended when the Beatles were in their heyday. Ford also produced two Oscar-winning documentaries during World War II -- after being wounded filming the Battle of Midway. Plus, there were all those classic westerns, including one that launched the career of one of Hollywood's biggest stars, John Wayne. Finally, he was one crusty SOB. So, yeah, a fascinating life. But Sinclair's account is doggedly dry, especially when prattling on about film theory, themes, symbolism and style. Even the anecdotes are fairly dull. There are a few scattershot photos and at 217 pages (not including the 62-page filmography!) it is blessedly short. It just isn't a very interesting example of printing the legend.
July 11, 2020
This 1979 biographer of the great film director doesn't delve very deeply into his personality, but it does lay out the chronology of his life pretty well. Filled with anecdotes and sharp analysis of most of Ford's important flicks, it is a breezy enough overview of a subject I only knew in snippets. There is a lot more that could be said on the subjects of race, gender, and war, but Sinclair at least allows for complexity in each of these areas. Ultimately, though, Sinclair is most interested in elevating Ford's reputation. Stagecoach, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, The Quiet Man - the reputation, even through problematic prisms, stands.
March 7, 2016
The career of John Ford parallels a lot of the developments in the Motion Picture Industry. Andrew Sinclair manages to not only show how Ford developed within the Industry, but he provides a unique glimpse into how Ford planned and executed his productions. This is all framed against the backdrop of his family, and their early struggles. It give a good glimpse into how Ford's unique sensibilities and characterizations were developed in his films. On the surface, Ford seemed to be a man of a simpler world, but Sinclair also lets us now he was also , like many of us more complex that originally thought. He put forth a sense of loyalty to his cast and crew, that as tough as he tended to treat them, they always expressed a great sense of loyalty to him. A man with unique vision and a true cinematic eye, we are given a wonderful view of the maser at work. This bio has a very nice flow, doesn't bog down in over-sentimentality, much like the subject himself.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews