This would have been completely fabulous if I were more interested in Hollywood. I had some reservations for a while, thinking I preferred it when I knew less about Richard E. Grant and had the image of him as Withnail-but-sober, but by the end I was completely won over by his wonderful blend of OTT campness, anxiety and moments of witty bitching tempered by his self-awareness and fundamental human decency. He made me interested in material I wouldn't otherwise have cared for. Straight afterwards starting a similarly structured diary-memoir by Belle & Sebastian frontman Stuart Murdoch - in style pretty dull and earnest, and seems unlikely to change - really showed me what entertaining and likeable company Grant is. (Writing about the UK music scene in a style like Grant's, now that would get 6 stars from me.)
Regardless, there is too much about Steve Martin. He's a good friend of Grant's; it's just that I find anything to do with Steve Martin terminally boring, with the exception of three films.* (This review replaces a less complimentary one I wrote during a Steve Martin chapter.)
I've had copies of With Nails kicking about since university, but only started reading at the start of last year to hear more about Bruce Robinson. Then after about p.100 I ignored it for ages because of, you guessed it, Steve Martin. There were more snippets about Robinson afterwards, it turned out.
Other than Withnail & I, the films I most liked hearing about were ridiculous fantasy adventure Warlock, which I hadn't heard of before and now want to see, Henry & June, one of those things I've always meant to watch but never quite got round to, and camp comedy Hudson Hawk (chapter also includes high-octane diva madness from Sandra Bernhard, Sharon Stone and a couple of shouty minor actors). Even if you aren't one of the select few who regard Hudson Hawk as a hugely fun cult film, and not a turkey, this chapter contains so much ridiculousness, it's a great read.
The weirdest thing, though, was reading that Grant was the first choice to play the Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin Hood: Price of Thieves. R.E.G. is every bit as good a scene-stealer as Alan Rickman, so objectively it would have been interesting. But that film was out in the cinema when I was just the right age for things to imprint on me strongly, and even more strongly because it's not like I would have talked to anyone about something so weird and confusing as finding aspects of a villain sexy ... different casting and it might not have imprinted and bits of my lovelife would have been different. A surreal reminder of how, generally, little decisions in the entertainment world can have such an effect on audience members, especially the early-teen/pre-teen. (Grant narrates a wonderful account of a humungous boyhood crush on Barbra Streisand, and his later experience of being introduced to her at a Hollywood party, gabbling ridiculously at her.)
Most of the people gossipped about in With Nails are 80s & 90s Hollywood staples. (There's also an interesting scene at home with Madonna. Unfortunately the bit about Spiceworld mentioned in the blurb for some editions is missing from my copy.) I had high hopes for the chapter on Prêt-à-Porter when he reeled off a list of fellow cast-members I was much more interested in, including Lauren Bacall (whom he also met at a dinner in an earlier chapter, and who sounds ace whenever she's mentioned), Sophia Loren, Anouk Aimee and Marcello Mastroianni - but there was very little about them, and in any case this was 30+ years later than their heyday.
In the end this was definitely worth it for the writing, and for Grant's rare mixture of diva-ness and genuine congeniality.
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How have I managed to exist in this country for the last 15 years without knowing that R.E.G. starred in a BBC adaptation of The Scarlet Pimpernel?! (my favourite book for a while when I was younger.) It's on Netflix (US); will have to watch that soon.
* As far as I'm concerned, Steve Martin has made nothing good since the 80s. I love Planes Trains and Automobiles, The Man With Two Brains and Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid. (I'd seen Dead Men three times before I watched any film noir proper; as a result I find it difficult to view even many classics of the genre as anything but self-parodic, and laugh at inappropriate moments.)