One reason to write a new biography of a person already amply documented is that new information has become accessible. Another is to clear up misconceptions or brush away the veil of falsehoods that obscure the true face. Armed with those reasons, no less than two writers have produced just-published biographies of one of cinema’s brightest, enduring stars. I haven’t seen Scott Eyman’s Cary Grant: A Brilliant Disguise but I have read Mark Glancy’s Cary Grant: The Making of a Hollywood Legend, which neatly summarizes its subject from childhood in Bristol, England through the scattering of his ashes in the Pacific near his final home.
By his account, Glancy, a film historian at London’s Queen Mary University, was the first biographer to make extensive use of the Cary Grant Papers at Beverly Hills’ Margaret Herrick Library. Grant assembled that collection of letters, memorabilia, press clippings and other documentation from every period of his life. One of Glancy’s conclusions—not endorsed wholeheartedly by Eyman—is that, whispers dating from the 1930s to the contrary, Grant wasn’t gay. The range of the star’s sexuality may never be firmly established, but Glancy demolishes several oft-told tales and makes a strong case that his interests were, predominantly, directed toward women.
Why this is important has to do with exposing the lack of diligence shown by many biographers who repeat stories without trying to verify them. By contrast with some of his predecessors, Glancy does a superb job of shining light on as much of Grant’s life as can be understood without bogging down in unnecessary detail.
Glancy emphasizes Grant’s early stage experience, which didn’t occur in serious theater but in the vaudevillian spectacle of the British music hall. “This training would serve him well… he became a master not only of comic timing but also using the smallest gestures and expression to the greatest effect,” Glancy writes. Paramount Studios gave Grant his name (Archie Leach, his given name, wouldn’t do) and he cultivated the image of unpretentious sophistication, a man who knew his way around good clothes and beautiful women. His charming ebullience seldom faltered even when cast in mediocre pictures (which happened often at the beginning and end of his career).
Grant became a canny businessman, practiced at the art of studio politics, and cemented his reputation as a leading man from the late 1930s through the early 1960s. He strove to work with some of the era’s best directors, including Howard Hawks and Alfred Hitchcock. Charade (1963) opposite the much younger Audrey Hepburn was his last great film and he was wise enough to quit at the top of his game. He retired from acting after Walk Don’t Run (1966) and lived another 20 years, not in seclusion but averting the spotlight. He wanted to be remembered as people saw him in North by Northwest, lithe and carrying himself with grace, even when ducking a dive-bombing crop duster in a cornfield.
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