Book of the Week
Walking with Ghosts
By Gabriel Byrne
Do all of the Irish write like poets? Probably not. But if actor Gabriel Byrne had no gift for the dramatic arts (which he clearly does), then he could’ve made his living with a pen. Like his first book, Pictures in My Head (1995), his new autobiography shimmers with musical language. The 70-year-old actor conjures finely-observed memories of his childhood on the outskirts of Dublin, where his working-class family of eight was stuffed into a modest home, and young Gabriel found refuge in the wild fields and farmlands around him – or in the dark cinemas where Hollywood dreams unspooled.
But the stories that made the deepest impression on me are his portraits of the actor as a young man. He writes of his days on the London stage when he was badly roughed up by drunken English soldiers newly returned from policing the Irish Troubles, the sun-blanched afternoons around swimming pools in the Los Angeles wasteland (livened up once by an earthquake), and how he fled in shell-shock from the publicity barrage of the carnal Cannes premiere of The Usual Suspects. One of his most memorable tales is from Venice, where he was given a role as a spear-carrier in a 1983 TV miniseries starring his idols Olivier, Burton, Gielgud and Richardson.
Richard Burton proved, as advertised, to be a wonderful drinking partner and sympathetic mentor. But Laurence Olivier seemed to be a tougher nut. When Byrne stumbled upon the great man rehearsing his lines by himself one day, all the tongue-tied young actor could do was ask for the time.
“Are they paying you for this thing?” Olivier barked. Byrne stammered that they were.
“Then you should buy yourself a watch.”
Byrne has a gift for the self-effacing anecdote. He lashed himself with Irish guilt for days afterward. But you also had to think badly of Olivier – what an arrogant old curmudgeon! But the story has a lovely ending.
As production halted and the cast prepared to leave the splendor of Venice, Byrne found a small envelope in his dressing room. In it was a handwritten note from Olivier.
“Apologies old chap if I appeared rather brusque when we met. I was attempting to knock my lines into my stupid old head.
“I’ve thought about your question regarding the time. It’s something I think about a great deal these days. And in reply please allow a greater mind than I to answer.”
Oliver then quoted Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 60,” underlining the following lines:
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end…
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
Affectionately
Larry
You can (should) buy Byrne’s beautiful memoir at your local independent bookstore – or online at Bookshop.org, the indie consortium.
