While we're on the literary tip, I will just give a final mention to Rupert Everett's autobiog. There's a good chance it'll be hitting the remainder shops fairly soon, as I've heard it didn't sell nearly enough copies to justify Rupert's million quid advance. If you see it, do grab a copy. You won't regret it. He really is wasted on the screen. He should be permanently slaving over a hot word-processor, churning out more gems like Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins. Don't believe me? Here he is on 1976: "Punk in the heatwave was the trailer to a new England. They were the advancing rabble, wobbling in the shimmering desert smog towards the World's End, and the end of the world as we knew it. Their Boudicca, unbeknown to them, was another peach blonde with a lot of egg white in her beehive: Margaret Thatcher. She would be the Main Attraction; they were the razorblades on the wheels of her chariot. They both wanted to get their hands on the past and slash it to pieces. Punk wanted to fight on the high streets and shatter the windows of the greengrocers. Maggie the grocer's daughter was going to close those grocers down and put up Tesco's. They wanted anarchy and so did she."
Unlike most celeb autobiogs, this one doesn't pull any punches. Sexual indiscretions are related in minute detail. Names are named; Susan Sarandon and Sir Ian McKellen, for example. Here he is on meeting with Sharon Stone, with whom he reportedly shared more than screen time: "...(the) story took place in New York, London, Beirut and Moscow, and faking them was going to be difficult. All of this, however, paled into insignificance when, at dinner with Sharon early in the rehearsal period, I realised something that had hitherto escaped me. She was utterly unhinged." His stories about Orson welles are worth the cover price alone.
Just in case you're thinking this blog is morphing into some sort of fogeyish writers salon, relax. Rupert does have a musical connection. I was blissfully unaware of this before reading the book, but he was actually being groomed for pop success in the middle of the eighties, to the extent that Simon Napier-Bell was managing him, and he actually cut two singles to widespread public indifference. Despite a thorough search of the murkier corners of the internet, I haven't been able to find an MP3 of Rupert's assault on the charts. I anyone can point me in the direction of either of his singles, I'd be very grateful. In the meantime, read his book.
Buy Red Carpets And Other Banana Skins
4 comments:
the quote from "red carpets and other banana skins" (what a GREAT title!) is brilliant irk. you're right. rupert everett should be a full time writer with talent like that. i saw him on the saturday morning cooking programme, "saturday cooks!" and he seemed like a really decent bloke; down to earth and not up his own arse...the more i venture back into the adult world after raising three children, the more depressed i get with people in the media who are up their own arse. it actually, physically, makes me depressed.
> at dinner with Sharon early in the rehearsal period, I realised something that had hitherto escaped me. She was utterly unhinged
a great quote. maybe when i'm as established as rupert i should put my turn of the 80s music scene articles into a non-fiction book, but without any whitewash jobs, and expose the minority who didn't turn out to be good people for the petty minded, spiteful, vindictive and cowardly people they became, instead of pretending they're really "nice wholesome guys". sheesh.
> maybe when i'm as established as rupert
of course, when i talk about people in the media being up their own arse, i'm obviously not talking about myself.
>>>people in the media who are up their own arse...
From what I can gather from the book, he spends much of his time up other people's! However, while I always thought that he was an avowed Friend of Dorothy, it seems he has had more than a few heterosexual affairs, including a long one with Beatrice Dalle that seemed particularly torrid. Mind you, I can't imagine any sort of contact with Beatrice Dalle being less than torrid. She doesn't seem like the type for a "quiet night in".
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