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Good Stuff: A Reminiscence of My Father, Cary Grant Hardcover – Deckle Edge, May 3, 2011
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Good Stuff is an enchanting portrait of the profound and loving relationship between a daughter and her father, who just happens to be one of America’s most iconic male movie stars.
Cary Grant’s own personal childhood archives were burned in World War I, and he took painstaking care to ensure that his daughter would have an accurate record of her early life. In Good Stuff, Jennifer Grant writes of their life together through her high school and college years until Grant’s death at the age of eighty-two.
Cary Grant had a happy way of living, and he gave that to his daughter. He invented the phrase “good stuff” to mean happiness. For the last twenty years of his life, his daughter experienced the full vital passion of her father’s heart, and she now—delightfully—gives us a taste of it.
She writes of the lessons he taught her; of the love he showed her; of his childhood as well as her own . . . Here are letters, notes, and funny cards written from father to daughter and those written from her to him . . . as well as bits of conversation between them (Cary Grant kept a tape recorder going for most of their time together).
She writes of their life at 9966 Beverly Grove Drive, living in a farmhouse in the midst of Beverly Hills, playing, laughing, dining, and dancing through the thick and thin of Jennifer's growing up; the years of his work, his travels, his friendships with “old Hollywood royalty” (the Sinatras, the Pecks, the Poitiers, et al.) and with just plain-old royalty (the Rainiers) . . .
We see Grant the playful dad; Grant the clown, sharing his gifts of laughter through his warm spirit; Grant teaching his daughter about life, about love, about boys, about manners and money, about acting and living.
Cary Grant was given the indefinable incandescence of charm. He was a pip . . .
Good Stuff captures his special quality. It gives us the magic of a father’s devotion (and goofball-ness) as it reveals a daughter’s special odyssey and education of loving, and being loved, by a dad who was Cary Grant.
- Print length192 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherKnopf
- Publication dateMay 3, 2011
- Dimensions6.53 x 0.9 x 8.66 inches
- ISBN-100307267105
- ISBN-13978-0307267108
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Review
—Molly Creeden, Vogue.com
“A convincingly sunny tribute to a father, but the grown-up child’s longing for a departed parents haunts almost every page.”
—Malcolm Jones, Newsweek
“As a father of five, I hope my daughters will remember me as beautifully as Jennifer has remembered her father.”
—Bill Cosby
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Just after my father's death, I graduated from Stanford. My
senior year I had worked as an intern at an advocacy firm in San Francisco. My plan was to take a job with this same firm and later move on to law school. When Dad died I shifted gears in ten seconds flat. I felt pulled, in an almost subterranean way, home to Los Angeles. Why? If Dad came home, that's where he'd be. Have I been waiting for Dad to come home all these years?
At some level it's still hard for me to admit that my father died. I can talk about it and around it, but those two words. "He died." What can that possibly mean? That I won't get to hear his voice again? That's not true; I have movies, I have all his taped conversations with me, I have pictures, I have slides. . . . I even have one of his sweaters in my closet. If I remember well enough, he will come back. He'll appear, out of thin air, at my door or in my living room, and we'll laugh and we'll hug and we'll talk and we'll hold hands, and maybe he can hold the baby while I make lunch for him. After all, he's a grandfather now. There's so much playing to be done. Watch out, baby Cary may pull your hair, Dad. And my dog, Oliver, is named after our mutual nickname, Ollie. In a Cockney accent we could greet each other with, " 'ello Ollie! 'ow ya' doin', Ollie?" Oliver and baby Cary will look at us sideways, and then my father will never leave again.
To write this book is to fully admit, more than twenty years later, that he died. To move on with my life. The tribute to my father is more than mildly overdue. Dad has been deservedly honored by everyone and their mother. The U.S. government even turned my father into a stamp. For many years I've stayed silent. Other tributes to Dad stem from the perspective of show business, where the intimate side of his life is somehow vaguely analyzed, but never revealed. I am my father's only child. The world knows a two-dimensional Cary Grant. As charming a star and as remarkable a gentleman as he was, he was still a more thoughtful and loving father.
Madame Sylvia Wu, the marvelous restaurateur, was close to Dad for more than forty years. When I called Auntie Sylvia to discuss the book, she sweetly chided, "It's about time!" Sadly, several of Dad's closest pals, among them Frank Sinatra, Charlie Rich, and Gregory Peck, are no longer alive to share their memories of him.
Privacy was a gift our family worked hard to maintain. Selfishly, I have guarded my memories of Dad, clutching them to preserve that part of him that I alone knew.
Why didn't Dad write his own book? One archived audio cassette recorded in 1962 is a self-hypnosis session made for Dad. He was being instructed to exercise, gently, daily, and to write his autobiography. Presumably these are activities he wished to pursue, and he'd hired someone to help him with autosuggestion. The woman soothingly advised that he complete his autobiography with tremendous compassion for his subjects and not to worry, not to criticize the work, just to do it. Also, to exercise a bit each day. This was four years prior to my birth. Was Dad examining his life before having a child? Why didn't Dad finish his book? Did he consider revealing his history, his childhood, to the world? He never spoke of the endeavor, but he saved the tape for me. What turned him around? With so much misinformation out there, did he want to address and correct it? Is this why he stayed up at night? Was he too distressed about involving others' lives? Of course, his was the definitive voice. His parents were already gone. Any writing would have served Dad and Dad alone. Dad's parents weren't famous, he was. He knew his story. Anyone reading his story would have done so to learn about him. His motives were therefore the central theme. My guess is he came to terms with his past, and with anyone who wished to write about it. Let them examine their own motives. In my case, ultimately it's the same matter. Dad is gone; I write about him for me.
My hopeful guess on his attempted autobiography is that Dad was done with his homework. He came to terms with who he was and who his parents were. Let others play their guessing games. He trusted that those who knew him, knew him. Those who didn't, never really would. To make a case for himself would therefore be a fruitless, energy-wasting endeavor. He'd forgiven who he needed to forgive, let go of what he needed to, and accepted himself as he was. Archibald Alexander Leach, Cary Grant, and all.
It's important to understand the commodity of celebrity. In revealing my life, Dad's life, and including his friends, what is being "cashed in"? Privacy? Dad's name? There are certainly less all-consuming ways to make a profit. My conscience pulls, the way Dad's did. The only reason to write is to share the beauty of his life behind the curtain. I never knew Archibald Leach. I never really knew Cary Grant as the world thought of Cary Grant. I knew Dad.
Dad had two somewhat conflicting beliefs. He would remind me to never pay attention to what other people were thinking about me, because, he said, they were too busy thinking about themselves to really think about me. Funny. The polar opposite belief he espoused was "All you have is your reputation." The latter, I'm guessing, was learned through the business of "show" business. Dad has, and had, a deservedly glowing reputation. However, this belief in "reputation first" seems to have given rise to his fears of what might be rumored after his death. Then, there are interesting misconceptions about Dad. My choice is to leave these misconceptions to themselves. My hope is that we are wise enough with our own weak spots to allow great men theirs.
The grief of losing my father has come in waves over the years, as it does with most people. His love and devotion as a father provided my closest, most intimate relationship. Dad, and our time together, is in my bones. While reflecting on him, the memories themselves seem to boil down into certain "essences of Dad." My words, by their nature, are finite. Dad, now, is infinite. Still, perhaps these words can sniff around the essence of Dad's soul, to further elucidate the world's knowledge. Perhaps the old saying about the bird holds true: "If you love something set it free."
Many people long for a father's love. I had it. I have it still. Perhaps by writing this book I can transfer some of the love I feel for him. Perhaps Dad will inspire a daughter, son, mother, or father. If so, good stuff. I can hear my father's tone now, a little grumble with a Cheshire cat sparkle in the mix, "gooooood stuff."
Product details
- Publisher : Knopf; First Edition (May 3, 2011)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 192 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0307267105
- ISBN-13 : 978-0307267108
- Item Weight : 3 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.53 x 0.9 x 8.66 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #299,055 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #484 in Parenting Girls
- #2,798 in Actor & Entertainer Biographies
- #9,552 in Memoirs (Books)
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Cary Grant was a prototypical self-made man. From a disadvantaged provincial background in WWI England where his accent determined his fate, see My Fair Lady, he made himself into a very rich and independent American businessman. All it took was a stint as an acrobat, catching the eye of the steamy Mae West, scrupulous fitness into late middle-age, frugality, savvy, and a really good tan. Selling himself to cockney-deaf Peoria - the heavy-duty sales business of Hollywood - was the means to an up-by-the-bootstraps American dream.
Rumors that Cary Grant was homosexual are addressed here. She treats the issue at a high-minded philosophical level, seeming to think that the facts speak for themselves. After all, this book is by his daughter. We know of the Rock Hudsons of the era with brief, or long, estranged marriages. Archie Leach with his five intense marriages and countless affairs does not fit the bill, since homosexuality is immutable. Jennifer Grant doesn't argue the case, instead highlighting the concept of an androgynous mind.
By the time Jennifer Grant's personal recollections begin, Cary Grant is nearing 70 and lives a sedate life. It might be fair to say he was a womanizer in his younger days, since he ditched wife Betsy Drake for Sofia Loren, but give the guy a break. He was a rock star before rock stars existed. He seems to have been a serial monogamist, since he kept marrying.
Why the failed marriages? Jennifer Grant is completely devoted to her father, but some facts cut against the grain. He was an only child himself. He was old-fashioned in musical tastes. He was meticulous. He liked things his way. It would take a certain kind of woman to match well with him - but some like it hot.
Bertie Wooster, paradigmatic English upper class: "I say, Archie Grant kept marrying American actresses, what? Rather the chorus girls of the mid-20th, and from a foreign country no less. The old bean had a right good eye for beauty, give him that. He had trouble with his first four chorus gi- er, wives, but how did they do in matrimony without him? They had loads more trouble, what? Loads more. His last wife was with him until the end. English woman. Reserved yet naughty. Beautiful. English."
Jennifer Grant tells us he was a prince. A shining knight of shining knights. Who are we to disagree? She should know. Isn't it a good thing when a hero who we can watch on TCM in "His Girl Friday," "The Grass Is Greener" or "North By Northwest" actually is a hero, in a less spectacular but more meaningful way?
Jennifer Grant is astonishing. She is obviously a sweet heart who is handicapped little from being an only child with supremely devoted parents. Insights into the human condition roll off her pen. It is doubtful that Cary Grant had all of her insights without any of her advantages, but she has them. We can read them.
She reminds me of a woman who I dated all too briefly in the late 1990s, who had an impressive father. As Jennifer Grant says, to every little girl her father is Cary Grant. It is much more so when her father actually is impressive. Well, to my disadvantage she and I disagreed about "Bringing Up Baby" and "Arsenic and Old Lace". I consider them poorly directed, over-the-top films in an otherwise impressive repertoire, although very funny in spots. She thought I was not up to high standards and good riddance to bad rubbish. Who can blame her? I'm no Cary Grant. There was only one.
Her experience in the lovely bubble of the Grant family has not limited her worldview, except perhaps in one way, i.e., in regard to the relationship fans have with celebrities (she explores celebrity from many different angles). In case she reads this, will provide some feedback on this subject.
For human beings to see compellingly fascinating people from afar (whether on an ancient outdoor stage, or in digital images) is a trick on nature. We instinctively want to know them, as we would such a person in our immediate environment. But we can't, and all but the seriously mentally ill know that. But nature prevails when such a visage suddenly appears in the flesh at say a restaurant or a ballgame, or their usual location is revealed on a "Stars' Homes Map." Then people act pretty much as they do with special people in ordinary life, which is to say, weird or worse. I think it's very human what "fans" do, and therefore it runs the gamut of human expression. If one presents one's extraordinary persona to literally millions or billions of people, it is inevitable that a certain percentage will not behave well. I don't think it's about respecting privacy. I think it's about reality, and how people actually work.
But certainly that reality could be managed better for all celebrities so that the feeling of entitlement that many fans and photographers have could be minimized, along with what translates into a sort of punishment.
Also, I think it is possible for viewers of movies, television shows, etc., to have healthy attachments to actors. Though there was always great love between us, the strongest of the few likes my late son and I shared across a generation gap was Cary Grant. It was one of those things that helped identify where we stood .. say, Chevy or Ford? to the nth power. He would have been pleased indeed to learn that Mr. Grant was who he seemed to be and who we necessarily hoped he was in real life.
But if it had turned out that CG was really an unsavory person, it is simply not possible to think that would not negatively influence those watching his performances. Again, it's only human.
So, thank you Jennifer, for sharing your Father's character, depth, compassion, wisdom and happiness with us. I didn't get to spend "An Evening with Cary Grant," but I feel as though I spent the Father's Day weekend with the inspiration of his life. Am thinking of the lyrics to the Nat 'King' Cole hit, "Nature Boy." Here are a few lines ...
"The greatest thing
you'll ever learn
is just to love
And be loved
In return"
He certainly learned it, and he passed it along. Bravo!
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Cary was a down-to-earth person who, it becomes clear, had no illusions about his fame and fortune. The children of many such famous people have crashed and burned, through realizing that they cannot escape from the parent's fame. They struggle with accusations that everything they achieve is actually just handed to them in a silver plate, and that they are in consequence never taken seriously.
Through Cary's diligent care for Jennifer, she survived after his death largely intact. She inherited a huge estate, including a ranch and a bank-full of money, which smoothed the way somewhat, and she acknowledges that. Indeed, she hits head-on every criticism leveled at people like her and, rather than merely offer up stock responses, or ask us to pity her, gives us an altogether more coherent response to what it means to be the child of a man like Cary Grant.
Her grandmother, Clara Friesen, said to her: 'If you've got three friends it's a lot.' I know exactly what that means. I don't even have two friends because friendship takes time and intimacy. We all have loads of acquaintances, maybe even intimate acquaintances, but very few of us have three or more close friends. When I lost my soulmate in December 1987, I had no friends whom I could turn to for support. I would have to wait another seven years before that support kicked into place.
The child of his old age, Grant indulged her and made sure she suffered none of his childhood deprivations. He comes over as a nice guy, given to Readers Digest type written advice.
The writing is very much a gush, but she loved her father, and what's wrong with that. For a more interesting view, read one of the biographies.
