Customer Reviews

Try to Tell the Story: A Memoir

5 star:		(1)
4 star:		(2)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

David Thomson's book should be read by anyone who cares for film because he has encyclopedic knowledge of the medium, based on the lifetime passion he describes so eloquently. It is a fitting companion to his 'Biographical Dictionary of Film,' which is also a vital compendium of information about actors (with a few singular omissions that, to me, remain inexplicable).
Thomson traces his childhood life in London's Streatham district during WWII and goes on to explain how his passion for sports, theatre and film arose. His anecdotal material is fascinating, for example in describing what it was like to go as a child to Chelsea soccer games with immense crowds of adults, and his views of Orson Welles and his time in London in 1955, but there are so many rich and revealing references that the reader will have to make these lovely discoveries for himself or herself.
The only singular error I found in his wartime descriptions was his inability to distinguish between the V1 'Buzz Bomb,' or 'Doodlebug,' a winged, unmanned device sent across the channel by the thousands whose burping motor cut out before it glided down to attack indiscriminately, and the V2 rocket, also an indiscriminate terror weapon, which arrived unannounced--yes, I, too was there at the time and saw these horrors close up (the V2's designer, Werner Von Braun, came to the US after WWII and headed the rocket systems essential to the space program).
The inner charm of the book is his surprising fictional character, his 'sister' Sally, who speaks 'her' mind candidly and doesn't give an inch to her actual, real-life brother David. With Thomson's skills and contacts, he should write her into a screenplay and get it produced so that we could all enjoy her. She's a keeper, potty mouth and all.
The singular omission from the book, which reduces my five-star rating to four stars, is the lack of an index that would have permitted the reader to find and follow up on the people he describes.

Lordy, I think I grow more ignorant by the day or is it by the book. I had no idea who Mr. Thomson was when I read this memoir and, unlike the other reviewers here, could care less if his history is not pin point accurate or if any of the other mud balls thrown at him would stick should I somehow get to know the gentleman. And, to bring Christopher Hitchens into the fray along with a bit of British bashing seems to be beyond the pale in critiquing a simple memoir.
Maybe I say all that because I am somewhat of a simple memoir writer myself. Besides giving us a unique glimpse of the times, I found the subtle and painful relationship between the narrator, his father and his mother superbly rendered. Perhaps the subtly eluded those looking to tar the writer for some sin he may be guilty of. The family trips to the soccer games reminded me so much of outings with my family at that age (even though his was stuffy British middle class and mine was American Hillbilly once removed) that I nearly cringed at times.
So, I don't suppose that the difference between one kind of bomb or rocket is too terribly significant in the face of one's hopes and dreams dying a slow death.

Michael D. Edwards, Author of the recently released "Royal Ryukian Blues" a memoir of Okinawa.

I love personal essays and this book falls into that genre. My own life's experience is very similar so I can really and truly understand the author's story. Well written.

Early on, David Thomson discovered, as did Christopher Hitchens, that Americans are suckers for English accents (and the seductive power of the strategic stammer). This poseur has found a niche in the writing racket by peddling acid and attitude to those who think effete phrase-making and dishy put-downs doth a critic make. In the UK, such a hustle would be a commonplace, but in Anglophile America, Thomson has made it into a lucrative career.

Another reviewer has remarked about Thomson's "singular ommissions". He also notes Thomson's confusion of V-1 and V-2. (This is not quibbling, as anyone who grew up, even in post-war London, can attest.) These solecisms bely the fundamental phoniness that is Thomson. The true scholar, Thomson's pose, is characterized by comprehensiveness and rigor. Thomson, being a pseudo-scholar, replaces comprehensiveness and rigor with clever turns of phrase designed not to edify but to sell.

In this vanity piece, Thomson uses the podium provided by formerly discriminating publisher Knopf to talk about his favorite star, himself. Why anyone should be interested in Thomson's dreary life in dreary post-war London, and the non-story of an absent father, can be explained by the fact that he does enjoy an enthusiastic audience of cinema's equivalent of opera queens -- David Thomson wannabes who self-publish on Wikipedia.