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When Christopher Plummer died on February 5, the world mourned him.
And for critics, the 91-year-old was a fallen redwood.
But there was yet another string to Plummers bow: world-class dish.
But Plummers autobiography emphasizes the way he also felt out of joint with his time.
Lucky for us, he wrote about it.
But having read the 656-page book this week, I can assure you, thewhole thingis highlights.
An erotic educationWe begin in Senneville, near Montreal, in a scene of dwindling grandeur.
He seems to have lived in a pulp novel, or at least the cover of one.
Still young, he yearns to be one of these beautiful derelicts, so he ripens and rots.
When hes 19, hes already debauched too blind drunk to go on stage as Oedipus.
(It turns out youcanmake him drink.)
But perhaps such things really happen.
Anyway, they should.
It did not necessarily help that he had arrived at the first read-through in a chauffeured Rolls Royce.
Calcutta!,an inferior sexical performed by numerous unknowns in the altogether) wins the point.
He does, though, seem thrilled to head to Greece to play the lead in a filmed-on-locationOedipus Rex.
(Orson Welles played Tiresias, and a stunned looking Donald Sutherland was the Chorus Leader.)
This film is alsoon YouTube, but its not exactly wonderful.
Its unfair: the acting triumphs were written on water, while embarrassments were fixed on magnetic tape.
Thats because the memoir is really a telescope, its focus sharpest when looking far away.
But he does write beautifully about things that vanish, particularly live performance.
But he doesnt need to.
He was a man who listened deeply and could explain what he heard.
To all his many roles, he adds a few more critic, witness, recording angel.
