I never thought much of Richard Burton, except as husband (twice) to Elizabeth Taylor. Who knew, for instance, that he was this voracious, avaricious reader of books, a Shakespearean actor, and a voice that could curl your toes when reading poetry! Unfortunately, he was also a drunk and a perennial skirt chaser, something he shares with Peter Finch, whose biography I read before Burton's, which I can now glaringly compare as mediocre, never having anyone close to an ET in his life. And it isn't really until she sashays into the pages, ignites a passion and havoc in both their lives, that this book gets really interesting. For this is when Burton starts writing into his Notebooks (now there's a guy who could have done wonders with a blog!), discerning and profound, sometimes almost scholarly, what at first are snippets of life with ET, Hollywood and theater gossip, his problems with acne and boils (!), the constant grapple with drink, and hers too, along with countless illnesses (did she have a severe case of hemorrhoids?), and then it gets more personal, delving into his guilts, concern for family (his and hers), dreams for a future. Reading his Notebooks makes you conclude that this tormented, resilient Welshman from the mines, who blames his kin's blood for the alcoholism, must have spent half his life in a daze, and it is amazing he lived into his late fifties. But really, it is the Notebooks that make this book worth reading, and which makes it an autobiography of sorts.
Random thoughts while reading this:
- he looks like Russell Crowe, but that's just me
- he and ET plus their brood of children, dogs, a cat, a parakeet and their entourage (a chauffeur named Gaston, of course) reminded me of Brad Pitt and Angelina and their brood