An uneven collection of Peter Cushing's autobiographical writings, this is one of the most purely enjoyable, but also disappointing books I've read in a long time.
I'm not foolish enough to think ANY autobiography is truly honest. They're generally an exercise in entertainment, myth-making and self-promotion. Cushing's might be exactly that. But I don't especially care because the bulk of this volume - 1987's 'An Autobiography' is so incredibly enjoyable to read.
Cushing's England is so delightfully nice and friendly and good and kind that it seems like he conjured it out of his imagination. But he comes across as such a decent, honest man that it feels like he simply must be telling the truth. And he probably is for the most part.
It's just that the England he grew up in and became an early television star in, just doesn't really exist anymore, for both good and bad. His England is one of kind, considerate strangers and wonderful, theatrical friends (OK, you can still find all of that stuff, you might just need to look a bit harder for them).
His stories are bright and gleeful and always positive. From the little black boy whose job it was to follow Oliver Hardy around with a trolley groaning with doughnuts to being the butt of a theatrical prank that saw him convinced he needed to carry a huge iron key around his neck day and night, he tells great little anecdotes about lovely, humorous people.
He writes movingly, and lovingly about his wife Helen. The book's final chapter - on her death is genuinely painful reading but it's a fitting and necessary end to a life story that's a joy to read.
True, the book is disappointingly light on the one thing most people will likely know him best from - his Hammer film career - but that's covered in the second part of this book, 'Past Forgetting: A Memoir of the Hammer Years' (written in 1988) isn't it?
No. Not really. Barely at all. Instead, it's a rambling, poorly edited collection of stories that are individually just as lovely as some of those in the first volume but taken together, feel more like a jumbled mass of material that didn't make the cut first time around.
Cushing is still amusing, self-deprecating, kind and gentlemanly, but it's still a real, and at times, hugely frustrating disappointment. Thirdly, there's a short, previously unreleased essay written in the mid-1950s detailing his life to that point that he obviously used as the basis, over thirty years later, for 'An Autobiography'.
Cushing's 'Complete Memoirs' closes with a fairly comprehensive chronology of his work on stage, television, film and radio and an index littered with publicity photos. And the photographic inserts are all well-chosen and usually meaningful.
Overall, this is (those weaknesses of 'Past Forgetting' aside) almost a blueprint for any celebrity autobiography. Assuming of course, you can find a celebrity as lovable as Peter Cushing.
Good luck with that one.