Humble Reflections

Blessings in Disguise

By Alec Guinness

Alfred A. Knopf

225 pages

ALEC GUINNESS MADE a career of bringing dignity to mediocrity. Although a contemporary and a rightful companion of the great British actors of this century, no one ever seems to mention Sir Alec in their company. Certainly he doesn't lack exposure-Guinness made more films than any of them with the exception of Lord Lawrence Olivier, who these days will take any part that doesn't require him to move much--but his unique talents by their very nature doom him to relative obscurity.

All of his great roles were bit players shoved center stage, who without power or grace had to make do with the peculiar strengths of the insignificant. The confused inventor in The Man in the White Suit, the "fubsy" robber in The Lavender Hill Mob, and most especially Col. Nicholson in The Bridge on the River Kwai, are all men who have greatness thrust upon them. Olivier would have made Col. Nicholson a hero; Guinness kept him a man. It is fitting, somehow, that after a great and varied career--one which won him an Oscar and knighthood--most movie-goers remember him only as Obi-wan-Kenobi.

Guinness begins his memoirs with a reminder to himself and his readers that in taking on the role of Alec Guinness it would not be in character to talk about himself: "He is not at all proud of himself or his achievements and is equally attracted and repelled by the limelight, and is never quite sure how to present himself, or who he is or what he would really like to be." A compromise is reached between the writer and the subject. Guinness will only discuss Guinness when he is relevant to the general narrative.

One might argue that the subject of a biography is always relevant to the biography, but never has there been a biography of any kind blessed with such humility. In fact, this is the only important problem with the book: in his own memoirs Guinness does not talk enough about himself. The book is loosely arranged in chapters dealing with a theme or a person; one on his childhood, one on Edith Sitwell, one on Tony Guthrie, etc. Chronology is left to necessity, so an instant after Guinness meets Ernest Milton he is attending his funeral. Some things are left completely in the dark; after 225 pages of reminiscence we still don't know how he met his wife, or what he even sees in her.

BUT SUCH self-effacement is also quite refreshing. Someone like Dick Cavett illustrates his memoirs with photos of himself acting, himself bathing, himself traipsing about with the elite--"Here I am in Elaine's with Woody Allen." Guinness provides 30 pictures of his friends, of whom he is justly proud.

Sir Alec was a participant in the great age of British theater, when it was populated by giants who held the stage without apparent effort. While Brando was sweating or mumbling to himself for two hours before each performance, Olivier could slap on a putty nose and blow the house away. The people Guinness describes are not quite larger than life but simply more grand than you and I are used to. John Gielgud really is as acerbic and sophisticated as he is on screen, and Ernie Kovacs was indeed the funniest person Guinness ever met. During the making of Our Man in Havana, Guinness saw Kovacs sitting typing in his dressing room with the door wide open--and surrounded by half-a-dozen naked girls. "Shall I close the door?" asked Guinness. "No! For heaven's sakes!" cried Kovacs. "What would people think?"

Many of the characters populating the life of Alec Guinness you probably never have heard of; some, like Bernard Shaw or Ernest Hemingway, you probably know too much about already. The strengths of this very pleasant book lie in its private perspective on the lives of the men and women we know only as images in films. It is fascinating to know, for example, that Ralph Richardson was obsessed with being mistaken for John Gielgud, and that he once without warning socked Guinness in the jaw. "Who can one hit," he shouted, "if not one's friends?"

For real Guinness aficionados, this book will be a disappointment. He spends only a frustratingly short chapter discussing a film career which has lasted 40 years, and there are only a few paragraphs strewn throughout the book addressing the craft of his acting. If you really want to spend an evening with Sir Alec, you are better off renting The Lady Killers and Kind Hearts and Coronets for your VCR.

But do read the book eventually; though not quite as good as the films, it reveals that endearingly confused and noble visage as a confused and noble man. He never punched a photographer and he never ran for President; he just humbly played the roles he was suited to do. "Deep in his heart he hankers to be an artist of some sort," writes Alec Guinness of himself, "but he is only an actor."