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God, he was gorgeous
I am trying to figure out how to write about Peter O'Toole. I saw the news on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
greygirlbeast's LJ. I responded with immense eloquence, "FUCK."
I can't even remember what I saw him in first. He was one of my earliest favorite living actors, which meant a lot when most of my favorites had died before I was born or aware of them. I remember Lawrence of Arabia (1962): it was at the Brattle Theatre, I was in high school, I knew nothing except that it had to be seen on a big screen and it took my breath away. My father might have shown me Becket (1964) before then. My mother might have shown me My Favorite Year (1982). I cannot remember not knowing Alan Swann or Henry II (Anouilh's version—Goldman's came later), but his dual turn in The Ruling Class (1972) was exactly the corrosive jolt it was meant to be. I can cheerfully ignore the film of John Fowles' The Magus, because Eli Cross in The Stunt Man (1980) is all the godgame I need. I'd watch any movie that turned up with his name in it on TCM.
This was occasionally a mistake. O'Toole made some terrible films. I don't need to watch his entire back catalogue in his honor, because I'm not sure how honored anybody is going to feel by High Spirits (1988), and I hope the Somerville Theatre doesn't feel the need to screen Supergirl (1984) at this year's 'Thon. But I was always happy to see him in a role, even a cameo like the old Lord of Stormhold in Stardust (2007), and I was happy when that small role could steal the heart of a story, like Anton Ego with Ratatouille (2007), and then he would come out with something like Venus (2006) where an Oscar wouldn't have been a lifetime achievement, for Maurice whose life ghosted O'Toole's own it would have been plainly deserved. His Conan Doyle in FairyTale: A True Story (1997) is very good, more dangerous in his kindly, supportive belief in the fairy photographs than the prying reporter who wants to debunk them: Houdini the trickster leaves the girls their illusion, but Conan Doyle only wants the truth, and so he steals the story away. I still maintain it was unconscionable he was cast, as a non-singer, in the film of Man of La Mancha (1972), because for a straight version I can't think of a better tilter at windmills: a knight-errant steadfast and astray.
He was beautiful. He was so beautiful. The second time I saw Lawrence of Arabia, I couldn't stop writing about him: off-key, unearthly, whimsical, doomed. (Washed-up Alan Swann's eyes were still that haunted, salt-burning blue.) His characters never seemed to have enough between themselves and the world, not clothes, drink, words, or skin. When I wanted to praise Tom Hiddleston's Loki, I likened him to O'Toole. Something drops out of the world when that kind of fever is no longer in it.
greygirlbeast's LJ. I responded with immense eloquence, "FUCK."I can't even remember what I saw him in first. He was one of my earliest favorite living actors, which meant a lot when most of my favorites had died before I was born or aware of them. I remember Lawrence of Arabia (1962): it was at the Brattle Theatre, I was in high school, I knew nothing except that it had to be seen on a big screen and it took my breath away. My father might have shown me Becket (1964) before then. My mother might have shown me My Favorite Year (1982). I cannot remember not knowing Alan Swann or Henry II (Anouilh's version—Goldman's came later), but his dual turn in The Ruling Class (1972) was exactly the corrosive jolt it was meant to be. I can cheerfully ignore the film of John Fowles' The Magus, because Eli Cross in The Stunt Man (1980) is all the godgame I need. I'd watch any movie that turned up with his name in it on TCM.
This was occasionally a mistake. O'Toole made some terrible films. I don't need to watch his entire back catalogue in his honor, because I'm not sure how honored anybody is going to feel by High Spirits (1988), and I hope the Somerville Theatre doesn't feel the need to screen Supergirl (1984) at this year's 'Thon. But I was always happy to see him in a role, even a cameo like the old Lord of Stormhold in Stardust (2007), and I was happy when that small role could steal the heart of a story, like Anton Ego with Ratatouille (2007), and then he would come out with something like Venus (2006) where an Oscar wouldn't have been a lifetime achievement, for Maurice whose life ghosted O'Toole's own it would have been plainly deserved. His Conan Doyle in FairyTale: A True Story (1997) is very good, more dangerous in his kindly, supportive belief in the fairy photographs than the prying reporter who wants to debunk them: Houdini the trickster leaves the girls their illusion, but Conan Doyle only wants the truth, and so he steals the story away. I still maintain it was unconscionable he was cast, as a non-singer, in the film of Man of La Mancha (1972), because for a straight version I can't think of a better tilter at windmills: a knight-errant steadfast and astray.
He was beautiful. He was so beautiful. The second time I saw Lawrence of Arabia, I couldn't stop writing about him: off-key, unearthly, whimsical, doomed. (Washed-up Alan Swann's eyes were still that haunted, salt-burning blue.) His characters never seemed to have enough between themselves and the world, not clothes, drink, words, or skin. When I wanted to praise Tom Hiddleston's Loki, I likened him to O'Toole. Something drops out of the world when that kind of fever is no longer in it.
no subject
I had assumed I wasn't familiar with him (because of how few movies I watch), but then I caught the mention of Lawrence of Arabia, and I looked up the link and realized I have seen Lion in Winter as well; I remember how it stunned me silent when we were shown it in Western Civ.