I wonder if I’ll get through this review without mentioning that Michael Whitehall is the father of comedian and actor Jack Whitehall (star of Bad Education, Fresh Meat and the BBC chat show Backchat, the latter of which co-starred his father, Michael Whitehall)?
Oh… Damn it!
As far as the ‘Shark Infested Waters’ goes, he – that is Jack – only gets a mention in the dedication: “To Hilary, Jack, Molly and Barney”. Which is only fair and proper – in my book – as it’s his book and not Jack Whitehall’s book.
But no! Don’t mention Jack Whitehall! I mentioned Jack Whitehall again, but I think I got away with it.
Let’s concentrate on Michael. He was, for many years, a very successful actors’ agent – counting amongst his clients were such names as Kenneth Moore, Nigel Havers, John Le Mesurier, Colin Firth, Edward Fox, Daniel Day Lewis and Judi Dench – and, whatever you might think of theatrical agents, at least he didn’t ‘star’ in ‘The Bad Education Movie’.
Not, at least, as far as IMBD is aware.
And I enjoyed this book, it has to be said. 288 pages passed very pleasantly. Whitehall Senior’s prose is chatty, charming and anecdotal. The early chapters on Whitehall’s childhood are particularly readable. He grew up surrounded in a sea of eccentricity, which probably aided him in his future profession. His parents, while not without their quirks, were oases of sanity compared to the rest of their families. The wider clan were either moneyed, mad or both.
If I had to pick a personal favourite of his dysfunctional dynasty then it was his maternal grandfather, Arthur. He was, by his grandson’s account, a self-aggrandising and dipsomaniacal cross-dresser with a violent temper who made his wife’s life a nightmare. He would regularly smash her fine china with a riding crop while in his cups and then spend money that the family could easily afford replacing the crockery with exact duplicates out of remorse.
In the book Whitehall remembers visited Arthur at his cottage, in his dotage, and was greeted at the threshold by the old man wearing a feathered hat and printed frock, tottering on high heeled shoes and smoking a pipe.
The later sections of the book, once he’s firmly established as an actors’ agent of repute – descend into a sea of amusing but ultimately interchangeable anecdotes, but then when you have anecdotes involving – for example – a nuit mémorable chaperoning actor Kenneth Moore, Davie Bowie and the director David Hemmings into the depths of a low-end Berlin bordello for their own protection, then you would, wouldn’t you?
But the thing that shines out in the book is his fondness for actors. In most cases, I can’t imagine that he and Richard E grant are exchanging Christmas cards. And maintaining fondness for the acting profession when you’re an actor’s agent can’t be the easiest. Actors tend to instinctively begrudge their representatives their 10% commission, despite the fact that if forced to negotiate their own contracts it’d end up about as well as that time Jack’s mother sent him out to market to sell their cow, only without the consolation of a Beanstalk.
When Michael Whitehall married his second wife Hilary (mother to Jack, you may have heard of him) the guest list was a who’s who of British acting royalty. And they weren’t there out of politeness or sense of duty. Whitehall had gone to the trouble to go to their houses and get to know their families. He was Godfather to many of their children and had been Best Man at many of their weddings. And they were there to share his joy.
Well, alright, James Fox was there to ask Whitehall if he’d “heard back from Rose about that Spanish film” but I expect he’d have turned up anyway.
Phoning Whitehall on his wedding night for an update was a bit much though. Actors, eh?
Twitter: @Epistler
