John Gielgud

From Philosopedia

Gielgud, John [Sir] (14 Apr 1904 - 21 May 2000)

A consummate actor who excelled in plays as diverse as those by Chekhov, Pinter, Shakespeare, Shaw, and Wilde, Gielgud thrilled audiences for more than seventy years - he purposely avoided performing in plays by Samuel Beckett.

Also a director, producer, and author, he said, “Acting is half shame, half glory. Shame at exhibiting yourself, glory when you can forget yourself.” And “Acting has rid me of my frustrations and satisfied many of my ambitions. It is more than an occupation or a profession; for me it has been a life.”

Gielgud, whose father was of Lithuanian-Polish descent and whose mother was a Terry, one of England’s great theatrical families, had a walk-on part when he was seventeen in a production of Henry V at the Old Vic in London, but delivery of his sole line - “Here is the number of the slaughter’d French” - made such a bad impression that he was given no lines in later walk-ons.

At the age of nineteen, he played the part of Romeo, and the following year he understudied Sir Noël Coward, later taking over the part when the author left the cast.

In his autobiography, Early Stages, Gielgud observed that for several years he was on “the fringe of real success” while in danger of being typecast as a neurotic, rather hysterical young man. When he joined the Old Vic, it was in Richard II that he “began to feel at last that I was finding my feet in Shakespeare.” At the age of twenty-five, he played Hamlet, leading English critic James Agate to say that his performance was “the high water mark of English Shakespearean acting in our time.” In 1938 he played Hamlet on Broadway, with Jessica Tandy as his Ophelia. In his first film, the silent Who is the Man? (1925), he played a drug addict, a role originally performed onstage by Sarah Bernhardt and one he later said was “the most ridiculous part I played on screen.” He played Disraeli in The Prime Minister (1940) and was in Arthur (1970, receiving an Oscar), and Prospero’s Books (1991).

In 1953 he was knighted, and in 1985 he received a special Laurence Olivier Award for his services to the theatre. He wrote An Actor in His Time (1979), Backward Glances (1989), and Notes from the Gods (1994).

In addition, he performed in modern plays, some by Edward Albee and David Storey, and he was featured in such films as Chariots of Fire, Gandhi, Shining Through, and Power of One. In 1994 the London Globe Theatre was renamed after him.

Early on, to develop his voice, Gielgud (who did not listen to those who said he should change his often misspelled and unpronounceable name) spoke before a mirror. Alec Guiness described the voice he developed as “a silver trumpet muffled in silk.” John Steinbeck called it “great music” by “a great musician.” Not all critiques were positive. His first drama teacher, Constance Benson, burst out laughing in the middle of a rehearsal, saying Gielgud walked “like a cat with rickets.” Ivor Brown said, “He has the most meaningless legs imaginable.” After seeing Gielgud in a one-man show, Ages of Man, Kenneth Tynan offered the backhanded compliment that he was “the finest actor on earth from the neck up,” leaving other anatomical claims to Lord Olivier. Some disliked the vulgar dialogue he spoke in Arthur.

Sir John was known for his faux pas. While directing Richard Burton in Hamlet, he went backstage after the performance and said, “We’ll go to dinner when you’re better” (instead of ready). Once, while lunching with playwright Edward Knoblock, he pointed to a person coming in, saying, “He’s the biggest bore in London - second only to Edward Knoblock.” Then, realizing who was seated next to him, he added, “Not you, of course. I mean the other Edward Knoblock.”

Gielgud’s first joint household was with John Perry in Oxfordshire, but Perry was stolen from him by Binkie Beaumont, who had helped make Gielgud a West End matinee idol. The public knew little about Gielgud’s homosexuality until in 1953 a person elicited a pass in a public lavatory, leading to sex charges and a small fine for “importuning.” The tabloids turned the event into a scandal, and although those in the theatre rallied to his defense (Dame Sybil Thorndike embraced him, saying, “Oh John, you have been a silly bugger!”) United States officials later denied Gielgud an entrance visa, citing the scandal.

With his second companion, Martin Hensler, he lived in Buckinghamshire in a 17th-century house that once belonged to Sir Arthur Bryant, the historian.

Asked by interviewer David Frost in 1992 if he had ever wanted to be a father, the eighty-eight-year-old replied, “I never wanted to have children. I’d be terrified they’d inherit all my worst qualities.” Asked what he was like as a child, the son of a stockbroker replied, “Very conceited, very effeminate, much too fond of my voice.” And asked if he believed in God or a hereafter, Sir John graciously replied, “No, I’m afraid not.”

When he witnessed the circus-like memorial held for Laurence Olivier, Gielgud stipulated that there be no memorial service whatsoever for him. Drama critic John Simon, known more for his acerbic comments than his praise, remarked in a favorable review of Jonathan Croall’s Gielgud, A Theatrical Life, that “At the height of his success, he was still seeking to learn, worked tirelessly and self-critically, and was much less hard on others than on himself.”

{CA; CE; E; Mel Gussow, The New York Times, 23 May 2000; John Simon, The New York Times Book Review, 12 Aug 2001}