- ‹ previous
- 26 of 14333
- next ›
Recent Posts
Michael Caine, "The Elephant To Hollywood"
Michael Caine, "The Elephant To Hollywood"
As one of the most respected actors of the modern age, you know Michael Caine’s going to have some good stories. They’re all told in The Elephant To Hollywood, his 2010 autobiography, chronicling his upbringing in the slums of pre-war London to rubbing shoulders with the modern-day Batman and Joker. Befitting Caine, the tales are told with humility and honesty, plus a good dash of dry (and quintessentially British) humor thrown in.
Not being as familiar with Caine’s extensive filmography as I should be, some parts of the book were a revelation - how much he struggled as an actor in his early days, for one. His height, Cockney accent and heavy eyelids, future trademarks and part of his iconic image, worked against him in an era of dapper and dashing male leads. Some of the stories in The Elephant To Hollywood are well-known, like how Maurice Micklewhite became Michael Caine (or very nearly, Michael One Hundred And One Dalmations). Others, such as how close Caine was to missing out on his big break in movies (1964’s Zulu) because he couldn’t ride a horse, wore his helmet too low on his head, or, in the words of Paramount’s London office, didn’t know what to do with his hands, came as a revelation.
Acting must be a funny business.
Caine must be one of the hardest-working actors in cinema today, having appeared in over one hundred films. Alas, not all of them are remembered well. For The Italian Job (1969), there is The Swarm (1978), where Caine compares the bees’ defecating on the actors to the critical reaction to the film (that said, it helped pay for his new home in Los Angeles). For Alfie (1966), there is 1979’s Ashanti (“No, you won’t have heard of it and I hope you never see it”).
Caine is refreshingly honest (and understandably brief) about his less-than-spectacular films, saving the words for his more respected work. When he writes about The Ipcress File (1965), critically regarded as one of the best British films of all time, we’re told how he and James Bond producer Harry Salzman came up with “Harry Palmer”, the name for the nameless protagonist in Len Deighton’s novel (“Harry’s a dull name,” offered Caine). Caine relates how he couldn’t break eggs with his bare hands, so Deighton himself did it for the actual shoot (only for Hollywood to cable their objection to the idea of a man doing the cooking - “admittedly risky stuff in Britain in 1964”, writes Caine). The highest praise for the project came from Caine’s chauffeur, who, upon discovering that his passenger was the star of the film, commented that the book was “the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever read.”
Everyone’s a critic.
One set of details I could have done without is Caine’s extensive dive into Hollywood life: the parties; the houses; the celebrity social circles and the cliques; the parties again; more houses. It’s hard to begrudge the man his sense of accomplishment, considering his beginnings; poverty, his father dying when Caine was only 23, and his childhood interrupted by the London blitz. For Caine to have come as far has he has done is remarkable (exchanging jokes with, and later being knighted by, Queen Elizabeth II, is a highlight). But did we really need chapters devoted to the houses Caine has purchased and refurbished? Or the who’s who of Hollywood? Maybe it’s because I’m not enamored with celebrities or the gossip that surrounds them, but I often found myself skipping those chapters. Caine assures us that he’s still the same humble Maurice Micklewhite from the Elephant and Castle slums, and that his favorite part of Christmas is spending the day with his grandchildren - after a “high-octane celebrity party”. Ah, the curse of fame.
It’s not all glamor and glory, and some of the book’s most poignant moments are when Caine writes about the deaths of his peers and friends over the years, succumbing to old age, cancer or substance abuse. He doesn’t pull any punches when he talks about his first dalliances with alcohol, losing his virginity, and how difficult it was for him to stop smoking.
The mood is naturally lightened when he speaks of Shakira, his wife of 37 years, and the comic circumstances of their courting; and his pride flows off the page when he talks about his daughter Natasha and her family. Glimpses into Caine’s life, beyond his workaholic schedule (now reduced) and the shoulders he’s rubbed, give what would otherwise be a simple rags-to-multiple houses story the grounding and warmth it needs to be accessible.
As with all Caine’s performances, The Elephant to Hollywood is an engaging, deep and fascinating story. It will obviously speak loudest to his fans and those who have followed his career through the decades; but its welcoming and humble tone, and lessons on what makes an actor, will also appeal to a younger generation who may know him best from The Dark Knight and Inception, as opposed to Hannah and her Sisters and Educating Rita. Regardless of your era, Caine’s story is full of insight and surprises into a world of make-believe and illusion, to warm the heart and bring back memories of the house lights dimming, the audience hushing, and imagining that we were part of the magic on the screen in front of us.