The Last Edwardian
D. R. Thorpe’s Supermac: The Life of Harold Macmillan offers a sweeping account of one of Britain’s most distinctive and complicated twentieth-century prime ministers. The book charts Macmillan’s early life, his formative experiences as a soldier in the First World War, and his rise through the Conservative Party during the turbulent interwar years. Thorpe covers Macmillan’s difficult and morally fraught role in the Second World War, including the Cossack repatriation episode, a decision that has since cast a long shadow over his otherwise principled reputation. Supermac: The Life of Harold Macmillan then follows him into the post-war era, where he helped steer Britain from the harsh years of national austerity towards unprecedented consumer prosperity, culminating in the famous declaration that Britons had ‘never had it so good.’ As prime minister, he presided over the managed retreat from empire, accelerating decolonisation and attempting to reshape Britain’s global influence even as its power visibly waned.
Thorpe’s biography excels at capturing the breadth of Macmillan’s world: the intellectual Tory who read widely, the war veteran haunted by loss, the statesman who navigated Cold War diplomacy, and the deeply private man whose personal life was marked by strain and quiet endurance. A key component of Supermac: The Life of Harold Macmillan is the combination of immense scholarship with surprisingly fluid readability; the contextual detail enriches the narrative rather than overwhelming it. Thorpe is also at his best when demonstrating the contradictions that defined Macmillan, for example that he was moralistic yet pragmatic, genteel yet ruthless when necessary, nostalgic yet forward-looking. However, the biography occasionally errs on the side of sympathy, treating certain controversies with more delicacy than some readers might expect. At times, the narrative drifts into extended background explanations that pull focus away from Macmillan himself, and on several moral questions, particularly regarding wartime decisions, Thorpe’s touch can feel too soft.
Macmillan’s lasting legacy is a blend of achievement and decline, and Thorpe’s account helps clarify why. His domestic reforms, including the introduction of Premium Bonds and his earlier championing of mass housebuilding, reflected a belief in a modern, paternalistic conservatism that sought to soften inequality without fundamentally reshaping the system. Internationally, his decision to hasten decolonisation—walking away from the empire with a mixture of realism and regret—set the stage for Britain’s reinvention but also underscored the nation’s diminishing global stature. His premiership coincided with the high-water mark of post-war growth, yet it also masked structural weaknesses that would later come to define Britain’s decline. I feel that in this sense, Macmillan was a decent prime minister who governed competently and often imaginatively but presided, unavoidably, over a period when Britain’s power, confidence, and cohesion were already ebbing.
Thorpe’s biography ultimately leaves the impression of a leader whose legacy is complex but important: a man who believed in duty, steadiness, and national prestige, yet found himself guiding a country that was slowly slipping from the world stage. Macmillan is often seen as an aristocrat, he wasn’t but he married into the aristocracy. He was seen as a high Tory, but he wasn’t. Some even considered him not to be one at all. However, one thing is clear from Supermac: The Life of Harold Macmillan, he that he was a patriot who wanted to serve his country. Macmillan’s life was full of achievement, contradiction, and melancholy. This all emerges from Thorpe’s study which looks at both the limits and the dignity of political leadership.