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by Hershman, Gabriel;




  For my late father

  Nathan Hershman

  First published in 2017

  The History Press

  The Mill, Brimscombe Port

  Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

  www.thehistorypress.co.uk

  This ebook edition first published in 2017

  All rights reserved

  © Gabriel Hershman, 2017

  The right of Gabriel Hershman to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  EPUB 978 0 7509 8187 3

  Original typesetting by The History Press

  eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1 Finding his Voice

  2 The Young Great White Hope

  3 Seizing the Moment

  4 Arthur

  5 Life Choices

  6 Tomfoolery

  7 Slow Motion

  8 Audrey

  9 Charlie

  10 Anouk

  11 Hell in Sloane Square

  12 Classics in Concrete

  13 Hall of Doubt

  14 Losing his Head

  15 Back in the Gym

  16 Stop that Train!

  17 Soused in Mexico

  18 Baring Biko

  19 Orphans

  20 Finney in a Pinny

  21 Digging Deep

  22 A Walk on the Wilde Side

  23 Having a Feeld Day

  24 Art and Marriage

  25 An Attractive Attorney

  26 A Churchillian Triumph

  27 Slowing Down

  28 Reflections

  Bibliography

  Notes

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ‘Is the Albert Hall named after Albert Finney?’ asked my young son, David, one day as I showed him a pop-up book of London’s attractions. Such a question, which came during a period of intensive foraging for Finney films and features, reminds an author that writing a book can be an isolating, even obsessional, undertaking. So it’s as well to salute one’s family for their patience and understanding. Thanks for your Finneybearance.

  Albert Finney has always been publicity shy. When another biographer approached him in 1992, Finney replied that his past had a ‘hard top on it’ and that he had no wish to ‘drill it up to go over it all again’. I was therefore not surprised when Finney’s lawyer, Nigel Bennett, informed me that his client’s attitude had not changed. Indeed, Finney has apparently resisted many offers to co-operate on an authorised biography or write an autobiography.

  Perhaps, I hope, Finney would have co-operated if he had known that my primary purpose was to pay him tribute. Those like me, who were fortunate enough to have seen his outstanding stage performances in The Biko Inquest, Orphans, Another Time and Art, will never forget them. (And this, naturally, excludes Finney’s triumphs in productions that predate me considerably.) These were also important theatrical events that demand to be commemorated, likewise his great screen work spanning more than five decades.

  I am therefore particularly grateful to the following individuals for their assistance: Karen Allen, Peter Allis, Michael Attenborough, Graham Benson, Jon Blair, Nan Cibula-Jenkins, Jeannine Dominy, Mike Figgis, Julia Goodman, Bernard Hepton, Agnieszka Holland, Lyle Kessler, Suri Krishnamma, Annabel Leventon, Maureen Lipman, Peter Medak, Priscilla Morgan, John Quested, Kevin Rigdon, Ellen Ross, Robert Sallin, Carolyn Seymour, Jill Townsend and Amanda Waring as well as certain other people who preferred to remain anonymous.

  I have also quoted from various newspaper articles and books that are cited in the text.

  And, to answer your question, young David – of course it is!

  INTRODUCTION

  In the early sixties, Finney was the original ‘angry young man’, mentioned in dispatches alongside actors Richard Harris and Peter O’Toole and playwright John Osborne.

  It all began with Arthur Seaton. His bitter, brawling, boozy factory worker from Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was seen as the anti-hero of the ‘new wave’. So convincing was Finney as Arthur, with his beefy build and scowling good looks, that he could have carved out a lucrative career playing rebels. Yet he baulked at the association, resented pigeonholing and trod his own path.

  By the nineties, Finney was playing, in quick succession, and equally convincingly, an ineffectual schoolteacher and a repressed gay virgin. The transformations came easily to a performer more deserving of the label ‘natural-born actor’ than most. Yet they also reveal how Finney perceives his craft. He was always a character man, a versatile dramatic actor who considered the stage his real home. Hence he rejected a golden handcuffs movie contract that would have tied him down.

  Finney didn’t want to be a conventional movie star or a ‘symbol’ of any kind. His role in Tom Jones bored him, he later said. But the film made him a dollar millionaire at 27 and gave him freedom to choose challenging roles. ‘Life is more important than art,’ he’d say, hence long sabbaticals, enabling self-appraisal and, yes, a bloody good time. He never felt guilty about having fun.

  Yet Finney always worked hard when the mood took him, undertaking gruelling titanic parts at the National Theatre in the seventies – Hamlet, Tamburlaine and Macbeth – to sometimes grudging reviews. Some felt that classical verse was not his forte. Finney, however, brought a dynamism and masculine authority to these roles. He even played Shakespeare with a northern accent. In so doing, he paved the way for other regional actors to go to drama school and stand tall.

  Finney could have succeeded Olivier as director of the National. Yet he wanted to be a strolling player. Hence he also spurned the popcorn-type movies, ones that would have given him even fatter pay cheques, for gritty character roles.

  In the eighties, he gave several outstanding performances in Under the Volcano, Miller’s Crossing and, especially, The Dresser. And Lyle Kessler’s Orphans gave Finney his greatest stage performance – indeed one of the finest seen in the West End in recent years.

  Finney received four Oscar nominations for leading actor in films: Tom Jones, Murder on the Orient Express, The Dresser and Under the Volcano. Capping these successes was a wonderful turn as a careworn, cynical lawyer opposite Julia Roberts in Erin Brockovich – and another Oscar nomination for best supporting actor. Yet Finney never cared much for awards. He has also declined a CBE and a knighthood, something that has endeared him to fans even more.

  Finney, rather like Daniel Feeld in Karaoke screaming ‘no biography!’ on his deathbed, might not have wanted this book written. Yet Finney’s story is a salutary lesson for today’s ‘stars’ in how to keep balanced amid insane temptations. He has proved that it’s possible to control your own destiny, preserve your integrity, resist typecasting and have a good time without veering into self-destruction. He’s also a role model in terms of his behaviour on and off the set and his healthy disregard for others’ opinions: ‘You should never believe what people say about you – good, bad or indifferent.’

  Finney might not have made it, as once seemed likely, into the list of Britain’s most bankable stars. But he has created a gallery of unforgettable eccentrics: the psychotic writer in Shoot the Moon, t
he desperate drunk of Under the Volcano, the demented policeman of The Playboys, the bumptious tyrant of A Rather English Marriage, the likeable lush of My Uncle Silas and – crowning it all – his endearingly human portrayal of Churchill.

  In writing Finney’s biography, I was determined to analyse all his major performances. This, it seems to me, is a serious omission from other actors’ biographies. They seldom address acting. It was especially necessary for a performer like Finney, who has tackled so many demanding transformational parts. I believe that the biographer’s task is to analyse the work as well as the man. I have also tried to gauge the success, or otherwise, of the productions themselves. I hope that what follows does not read like some esoteric study of acting. This was far from my aim. But I do believe that biographies of serious artists must analyse art. And with such a relentlessly private individual as Finney – one whose life away from acting is guarded so jealously – my wish is that in some way the work illuminates the man. If this book reminds readers of some great classic productions and performances, featuring Finney and others, then that is a bonus.

  The internet has opened up information to the public that was previously inaccessible. It’s not my intention here to retread too many known facts but rather to delve beneath them. If, for example, you want to know the population of Salford in the fifties you can find that out fairly easily and I have skimmed over some information that would be readily available elsewhere. Also I have dwelt longer over great plays and films than I have over the mediocre or even dire.

  I have been surprised – if only because I was unaware of it beforehand – by Finney’s extraordinary personal popularity. Everyone speaks of Finney’s warmth, charm, generosity, joie de vivre and genuine interest in people. On set, he’d always be early and dead letter perfect. He’d learn the names of all the crew and small-part players. Everyone – cleaners, drivers, bar staff, waitresses and extras – adored him. Indeed, so loved is Finney in the business that an authorised biography would likely have triggered a queue of colleagues seeking to pay tribute. It was clear from everything I have read, and from interviewees’ comments, that the respect and affection for Finney is genuine. Merely for the sake of balance, and to avoid this becoming a hagiography that reads as though ‘our Albert’ is on the dais taking the salute from passing crowds, I have included the acerbic comments of the occasional critic, such as one-time collaborator Lindsay Anderson.

  Finney’s life is not only the story of a homework-hating bookie’s son from Salford who became an international star. It is also about a versatile actor who played the game strictly on his own terms and managed to live as he chose. It is a story and a career that deserves to be reviewed.

  Don’t let the bastards grind you down!

  PROLOGUE

  Summer 1965, Chichester. Finney is appearing in several National Theatre productions, including Much Ado about Nothing, Black Comedy and Anderson’s Last Goodnight. Canadian actor William B. Davis, now most famous as ‘The Smoking Man’, a regular fixture on the TV series The X-Files, is also in the company.

  One night Finney invited Davis and his wife to dinner at Finney’s rented house near Chichester. Davis tells the story:

  Rather than give us directions he suggested we follow his car in ours. His car was a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce – his insurance would not allow him to drive himself, not that he was a bad driver, he was too valuable an asset – while our car was a 13-year-old Aston Martin DB2 that might or might not last the short trip. When we had arrived the four of us had drinks in the living room – he had his current lady friend with him – before moving to the dining room table which was set for six. Before I could make a fool of myself by asking if there were more guests coming, the four of us were joined at the table by the chauffeur and the cook. The son of a bookie, Albert had not let his money betray his class.1

  Spring 1986, London. Albert Finney, it is well known, likes to have dinner. Oh yes! It’s the night after the enormously successful premiere of Lyle Kessler’s new play Orphans in which Finney is playing the lead. Sixty people, actors, technicians, cleaners, box office cashiers and marketing assistants – indeed all the employees at London’s Hampstead Theatre – pile into a nearby Greek restaurant. The demand is so great that any extra hands are welcome. In the background, a red-faced figure, drenched in sweat and wearing an apron, is bringing plates in from the kitchen and helping to serve the diners. It’s our four-time Oscar nominee making sure that everything runs smoothly. This is no act from one of the finest practitioners in the business. Neither is it Finney picking up some tips in preparation for a role. It was behaviour that ran through his whole life. It’s just Albert being Albert. In the words of Hampstead Theatre’s (then) artistic director, Michael Attenborough, ‘He democratised every space he went into.’2

  The Hampstead Theatre, nestled inconspicuously by Swiss Cottage underground station, was a portable, even quaint, cubbyhole. In those days you went in, arriving straight into the reception and bar, and a few steps took you to an intimate little auditorium that accommodated fewer than 200 bottoms. The foyer housed memorabilia and souvenirs from past productions. A scattering of famous names apart, it was hardly the place you’d expect to find an international star, someone once billed as the successor to Olivier.

  I walked up from Regent’s Park, excited at the prospect of seeing one of my favourite actors so close to home. As I reached the theatre there was more activity than usual. The box office looked besieged. Suddenly a posh-looking car pulled up outside. A burly middle-aged man, clad in a suit, staggered out and started to stride or, rather, totter, up the pathway towards the back of the building. He clearly knew where he was going but he seemed so pissed I wondered if he would make it. I looked at the man more closely. Oh my God! It’s Finney!! And he’s drunk before a performance. Repeat – drunk. Triple exclamation mark.

  I enter the theatre with trepidation. Orphans opens with Finney – as gangster/kidnap victim Harold – drunkenly recounting stories from his childhood. It was just as well that Finney was playing a drunk, I thought. So no one will notice that he really is out of it! I swear I could almost smell the booze on him from where I sat near the front row. It wasn’t that his speech was slurred as such. It was more the look of wide-eyed hysteria on his face as he told the kids about his time in the orphanage.

  The next scene … it’s morning in the house in Philadelphia. Finney is gagged. He convinces Kevin Anderson, playing Phillip, to remove it. Suddenly Harold – alias Finney – is obviously, totally, completely sober. How is this possible? The man I had seen just a few minutes earlier, both outside the theatre and even in the early scenes, was paralytic. How could he sober up? Suddenly it all fell into place. I’d just been taken in by one of the greatest actors in the world … and something of a prankster.

  1

  FINDING HIS VOICE

  I thought people from my background didn’t become actors. I thought actors were bred in special places – a stud farm in Mayfair.

  Albert Finney.

  When Finney celebrated his 9th birthday, his home city of Salford, within the metropolitan borough of Manchester, was ablaze with bonfires and fireworks. The festivities were not to commemorate his birthday. Even Finney was not so precocious as to be feted at the age of 9 – although given his subsequent achievements nothing would surprise me! It was, of course, to mark VE Day, the end of the Second World War, 8 May 1945, which fell the day before his birthday.

  Finney recalled:

  I’ve always found light magical and still find fireworks magical because it seems to me that in many ways they’re a bit like lives, about existence because the energy takes it somewhere and then it’s gone. I think in some ways our lives are like that. There’s hopefully a burst of something or an ascent in some way and, then, it’s over. That had a big effect on my life.

  Such a major event would have had a major impact on a young boy. And of course, so would the image of Churchill – whom Finney would portray so memorably more tha
n half a century later – giving the crowds in London a victory salute. For Finney, the war years in Salford were sometimes scary and bleak and the blaze of colour that day proved unforgettable.

  Yet Finney, unlike many other stars from the provinces, never lamented those days. He has said he always viewed his childhood in Salford with great affection. And Finney is very much a Salford lad, not a Mancunian, a distinction he and other Salfordians are always keen to stress.

  Perhaps the most famous Old Salfordian was the painter L.S. Lowry (1887–1976), who lived and worked in Pendlebury for over forty years. Others include playwright Shelagh Delaney1 who wrote A Taste of Honey and the screenplay for Finney’s later film Charlie Bubbles. Actors Ben Kingsley and Robert Powell2 were also born in the area, as was music hall star Pat Kirkwood (1921–2007).

  Seven decades have passed since Finney’s childhood. But he still counts several of his schoolmates – including artist Harold Riley and Derek Jackson – among his friends today. And he always loves going back. ‘It’s just part of you. It’s in the blood really,’ he’d say. Speaking in 1977, on one of his many visits home, he said his bond with Salford was still strong:

  I didn’t feel a sense that I wanted to get away from Salford at all. And I’ve never felt that I’ve got away. I’ve never got waylaid in my profession or lost in it because I’ve felt very connected to the area … there’s something very practical and realistic about living in the area which is of great value.

  The only reason he didn’t live in Salford at that time, said Finney, was that his work dictated that he spent more time in London.

  Albert Finney was born on 9 May 1936, the son of Albert and Alice Finney (née Hobson). His two elder sisters, Marie and Rose, were ten and five years older than him, respectively. The family home was at 53 Romney Street, Pendleton, a two-up, two-down red-bricked terraced house in an insalubrious, highly industrialised area about 2 miles from Manchester city centre.

 

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