The Peter Principle

By his own account Peter O'Toole had an extremely happy childIt makes a change. Autobiographies tend to wallow in family trauma, awful schools run by sadistic masters, and general deprivation until it becomes time to flee the nest. This volume, Loitering with Intent: The Child (Hyperion), though, is almost a celebration of O'Toole's youth. He lurches forward in time for a few pages here and there, but mostly the book takes us up to the time when O'Toole won a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Fortunately, there are other autobiographies in the pipeline, and they should take us up to the present time. However idyllic the early years may have been, I wanted him to press on to his film and theater days and the approach of stardom. But to begin at the beginning.

O'Toole chose his parents well. His father, who called himself "Captain Pat," was an itinerant Irish bookmaker and gambler and was obviously a delightful rogue. His mother, Constance, also Irish, exudes kindness from these pages. As a boy O'Toole was frequently taken to the races, and his love for that has never left him. He writes very well about the buzz it gave him. The atmosphere and the characters, mostly scoundrels, he met on the turf then have captivated him for his 60 years.

Yet what obsessed the small boy, who was very conscious of the war, was the idea of the horrifying and evil Adolf Hitler. This is a theme he returns to time and again. It is a fixation he still has. How fitting then that one of his favorite film roles was that of Hitler's would-be assassin, scripted from Geoffrey Household's novel Rogue Male. The story bore out O'Toole's childhood conviction that had Hitler been killed in 1938 all would have been well. He is slightly over the top wondering repeatedly about the monster Adolf, and I wanted him to get on with his life, but the man can write, as well as act, brilliantly.

There may be no knowing what he can't do. Of course, he was briefly a reporter on his local paper in Yorkshire, but he is better here than he could have been back then as a journalistic drudge. It is odd to see a photograph of him at age five, a cherub, and to know him now. I have to declare an interest here. I first met him in 1960 when he was on the threshold of fame. He was the up-andcoming star, and I was a stagehand. How marvelous then that he should have portrayed me in Keith Waterhouse's play Jeffrey Bernard Is Unwell. I suppose that is why I wanted Loitering with Intent to gallop along to the present day. But it is a fascinating study of a childhood. What a very perceptive little boy he must have been, and he seems to have total recall. But then, you wouldn't want to forget such happy days, even with the ogre Adolf Hitler looming on the horizon.

I look forward immensely to reading about the nitty-gritty of the years to come.

JEFFREY BERNARD