“My grave will be called ‘Mount Cleese,’” says the actor, comedian and screenwriter, whose new book is “Creativity.”
What’s the last great book you read?
Iain McGilchrist’s “The Master and His Emissary.” The author taught English at Oxford, decided one should not try to explain poems, qualified as a doctor, then as a psychiatrist, and then worked at Johns Hopkins neuroimaging the brain. Starting with the fact that our two hemispheres are asymmetrical, he explores how this affects our minds in every way, and how the balance between our two hemispheres has been lost.
This book has, more than any others, explained things I have been puzzled by for decades, in particular the shortcomings of pure intellectualism.
Describe your ideal reading experience (when, where, what, how).
My ideal reading scenario is an armchair in a cool room. Outside, sunshine and a pool; inside, a herd of cats and an endless flow of elderberry cordial; and opposite me on the sofa, my wife, Fish, so that I can look at her now and again.
What kind of reader were you as a child? Which childhood books and authors stick with you most?
As a child I read mainly about animals and cricket. I’ve always had an intense, soppy relationship with furry creatures, so I consumed the Doctor Doolittle books, and Elleston Trevor’s “Deep Wood” and “Badger’s Moon,” and Kenneth Grahame’s “The Wind in the Willows” and Percy FitzPatrick’s “Jock of the Bushveld.”
Then in my teens I read adventure novels, probably to compensate for my lack of boldness. I loved Conan Doyle’s books about Brigadier Gerard, the Horatio Hornblower stories, Alexandre Dumas’s swashbucklers, Rafael Sabatini’s pirate romps, and John Buchan’s “The Thirty-Nine Steps” and “Greenmantle” and “The Three Hostages,” where muscular ex-public schoolboys could effortlessly disguise themselves as skinny Lascar carpet salesmen without any of the locals noticing anything “a bit rum.”
Finally, at about 16, Sherlock Holmes, Father Brown, Agatha Christie and, suddenly, books about humanism!
You’ve narrated audiobook versions of everything from Dante to Dr. Seuss. Does performing a work aloud change your perception of it?
I started in radio, and I have always loved the medium. I think it’s the minimality of the technology. Just the microphone and a non-squeaky chair. It’s all down to the scripts and the performance, with nobody coming to adjust the radio mic in your tie-knot, or picking lint off your own collar every other take. This makes it the most intimate medium, both for the listener and for the performer.
So, recording a book is the next best thing. The trouble is, I make it difficult for myself, because I believe (on no particularly good grounds) that I should not sound as though I’m reading! I should sound as though I’m telling a story to a friend.
This is much more demanding, because I need a greater familiarity with the words if I am to achieve real fluency.
So, I’m slow! The only time I achieved a quicker speed was reading my autobiography, because I’d written it myself, which nowadays is seldom the case with autobiographies — a fact I was told by people who should know.
The only disappointing thing about recording “So, Anyway…” was that everyone thought it was much funnier than the book. I guess my timing is better than the average reader is. And, certainly, than most British book critics. (The Daily Mail condemned my autobiography as self-absorbed, so I shall write the next volume about someone else.)
Which writers — novelists, playwrights, critics, journalists, poets — working today do you admire most?
When I started to list my favorite writers, I was surprised to discover they were all primarily playwrights. Michael Frayn for “Copenhagen,” “Noises Off,” “Alphabetical Order,” “Make and Break,” “Donkeys’ Years,” the movie “Clockwise” (!) and the novel “Towards the End of the Morning.” Alan Bennett, first for “Beyond the Fringe” (the funniest show I ever saw), “The History Boys,” “Habeas Corpus,” “The Habit of Art,” “Single Spies,” and on TV “On the Margin” and “Talking Heads.” And finally, Alan Ayckbourn for more than 70 fine comedies, especially “The Norman Conquests,” “Bedroom Farce,” “A Chorus of Disapproval” and “Absurd Person Singular.”
Why all playwrights? Perhaps because in my generation they were all much funnier than the novelists.
Who is your favorite fictional hero or heroine? Your favorite antihero or villain?
My favorite hero and villainess come from the same book, “Lucky Jim,” Kingsley Amis’s first novel. It’s the only truly funny book I’ve read, apart from “Three Men in a Boat,” which my father’s generation revered (unless they were from the upper middle class, who considered the book vulgar for producing such immoderate laughter).
Jim Dixon, a minor academic, is trapped by a pointless existence in a minor English “red-brick” university. He has to play by the rules, but his hatred of his existence and of the self-important, role-playing dummies who surround him is hilarious and touching, because Jim’s attitudes are absolutely justified, so we revel in his constant brick dropping, and his fine array of private nasty faces.
Jim is in a chaste, undefinable relationship with the dreadful Margaret Peel. She is the most infuriatingly manipulative woman in Western literature. Clingy, condescending, faux-sympathetic. Just as you want to strangle her, you hold back just in case you’re being unfair. Her weakness is her strength and she uses it ruthlessly.
How do you organize your books?
I don’t. I have books scattered all over the planet, like my ex-wives. When I die, I shall have all the unread ones buried with me. My grave will be called “Mount Cleese.”
Of all the characters you’ve played across different media, which role felt to you the richest — the most novelistic?
Which of my characters was most novelistic? “None” is probably the true answer. Most of the characters people know me for I wrote myself, so I can happily admit they were all essentially shallow. I’ve always tried to make audiences laugh as much as possible, so farce is my favorite genre, and there’s not much room psychological complexity there. Comedy requires clarity, so ambiguity, though fascinating, just doesn’t get boffos.
Archie in “A Fish Called Wanda” is the nearest I’ve got to psychological depth. At the first read-through all the parts worked except mine, because I was trying too hard to be funny. Kevin and Jamie and Michael all told me “Make it more truthful”! And my speech to Jamie, when I started “Wanda, do you have any idea what it’s like being English…” came from the heart. And it worked. Kevin and Michael were both much funnier, but Jamie and I anchored the film emotionally.
What book would you most like to see turned into a movie or TV show that hasn’t already been adapted?
The book I would most like to see adapted for film is “Flashman in the Great Game.” I know Kevin Kline would have made a superb Flashman, so I approached George MacDonald Fraser to see if he would let me have a go at it. But, understandably, he wanted to write it himself, and I didn’t want to be a producer.
Do you count any books as comfort reads? Or guilty pleasures?
My comfort reads are Simenon, Alan Furst, Kingsley Amis, James Thurber, Stephen Leacock, Sue Grafton, “Assholes,” by Aaron James, Steve Martin, Raymond Chandler and P. D. James.
You’re organizing a literary dinner party. Which three writers, dead or alive, do you invite?
For dinner, I would invite David Hume, George Eliot and Mark Twain. Hume not just for his astonishing insights, but because he was an utterly splendid human being. I’d love to hear how he faced death so gracefully. And we could play billiards. I’d invite Mary Ann Evans because her writings seem to arise from an astonishing intelligence, which I find quite daunting. I’ve often had this reaction to writers of nonfiction, but never before to a novelist. Also, she could tell me whether Herbert Spencer was “hot.” And Twain, because he said “Wagner’s music is much better than it sounds,” which I think is the greatest joke ever made. Twain is never witty in a fastidious way; there’s always something gutsy about him, unlike Oscar.
What’s the most interesting thing you learned from a book recently?
“The Righteous Mind,” by Jonathan Haidt, is the most important book I’ve come across about the ever-advancing polarization of all aspects of our world. Its clarity is stunning. The first 100 pages would make a great first-year psychology course.
However, it’s sobering to have to accept the preponderant influence of emotion over what passes for our powers of reasoning.
You’re taking the red pill when you open this marvelous book.
A comparable red pill book is “Real Magic,” by Dean Radin, chief scientist at the Institute of Noetic Sciences. If you are skeptical of psi phenomena, start with Pages 95 and 96. They will knock your socks off, and a much more interesting world will open up.
Disappointing, overrated, just not good: What book did you feel as if you were supposed to like, and didn’t? Do you remember the last book you put down without finishing?
Most annoying book: Terry Eagleton’s “Humour.” This is a compendium of all the worst facets of the critical mind: a pointless contradictory list of definitions of humor by other critics, serving only to show that Eagleton has read a lot. He should have watched some comedians instead, but apparently they can safely be ignored by a literary critic.
Most overrated book: Steven Pinker’s “The Blank Slate.” When I read, I love surprises. So I adore everything Nassim Nicholas Taleb writes. In contrast, “The Blank Slate” taught me nothing.
What book might people be surprised to find on your shelves?
The books that might surprise people fall into two categories. First, the philosophy and history of science. But not science itself, and certainly not technology (which Thoreau described as “an improved means to an unimproved end”).
Second, religion — but not organized religion, only the mystical variety. The seeking out of an experience of the divine. Such experiences are disapproved of by churches, as they can’t control them.
In a nutshell, I believe most organized religion is simply crowd control.
What’s the best book you’ve ever received as a gift?
A wrap present Kevin Kline gave me: “The Drunkard’s Walk,” by Leonard Mlodinow. A wildly entertaining book about probability, which left me ultimately deflated by my complete ignorance of chance, or luck, and what an astonishing huge part that plays in our lives. Why was I not taught probability?
What do you plan to read next?
The next book I intend to read is Dominic Cavendish’s “You, Too, Can Become a Comedy Critic.”
No comments:
Post a Comment