In his lifetime Sir Dirk Bogarde was an actor, artist, memoirist and novelist. He was an Englishman, but lived for many years in France.
He was a gay man who spent the first half of his film career as a handsome romantic leading man. Not so much a man of contradictions as someone who pretended to be someone he wasn’t. Pretending is at the heart of this pleasant, amusing but undemanding novel; pretending and guarding secrets.
The story focusses on identity, the one you have and the one you might create. It is about acquiring a mask to protect yourself from discovery, to escape your past or your heritage.
There’s the handsome lad who escapes his dysfunctional home where his parents entertain delusions about their theatrical talent. Moving to the big city his work is to pretend to be figures of enticement in saucy photos. His German girlfriend is the biggest pretender of all, denying her heritage, her lofty station in life, almost her country, in an effort to deny her aristocracy and upbringing. This is an effort that ultimately proves too much for her to maintain.
This pair is pampered by an elderly English couple who represent displacement. One of them has at least two secrets, which seriously affects their behaviour. These expatriates are long-time resident in the south of France, but remain resolutely English. Their villa provides the stage for most of the goings on, the most hilarious of which centre on a vacuous, voluptuous and voracious film star of limited English and less brain and an Italian film director with an oversized yacht, who is more Benito Mussolini than Federico Fellini. I wondered who he might be based on, but I hope he is just an amalgam of the worst characteristics of directors Bogarde knew.
Quite diverting in an old fashioned way.