My 4 star review of
Madly, Deeply: The Diaries of Alan Rickman, by A.R.
Spoiler:
I won't be writing much about this reading experience. I don't have the guts to do so. Something ethereal passed by me when I read it. That something is the sophistication, dry wit, and bravado of Alan Rickman alone with his thoughts. The entries are very honest, and they are private too. Devastatingly so.
I have not read more than a couple of memoirs so far in my life. That is by the way something to rectify. The other memoir (so technically this is a diary) I read had more average rating than 'Madly, Deeply'. So do the books of Tom Felton, Matthew Perry (I know!), Richard E. Grant (the guy who quoted Shakespeare's 'To be or not to be' in a rap music video). All of these books outrank Alan Rickman's diaries. How?
Due to the low scores, I nearly refrained from downloading the e-book. But I should have trusted the little things about this book that ultimately made me read it. Rickman's choice of movies, his theatre background, his sparse but voluble interviews, his decision not to go under the surgeon's knife for cosmetic purposes, his intermittent silences, his very persona, all of them urged me to go read his posthumous book.
At first I was enjoying it effortlessly. But then I got irked by the pacing of the stuff in it. It made for choppy reading. After that phase, I settled down and finished the book with much vindication and admiration for it. I am glad to report that though I recognise less than half of the names thrown around by A.R., I had accumulated enough knowledge to recognise some of the friends and acquaintances of his. I also got to get some pretty random knowledge, such as the fact that Ken Follett, a writer of popular literature, has enough money to live it really large.
The book has been edited, but that fact didn't destroy the flavour of Alan Rickman's personality. His words were hard hitting. When he was diagnosed with his last illness, he didn't kick up a fuss. I think he had been quietly preparing for the shuffling of his own mortality. This is how I want to go too. I want to die old enough to outlive my parents, but not old enough to see all my contemporaries dead. I would see my body fail me rather than carry me through my 70s only to fall apart as it almost always must.
Rickman's work in Die Hard made of me a devotee. He is the best villain in cinema for me. What acting chops, what allure. An unfamiliar face, yet a face animated by the hammer of years of theatre work. By the way before reading this diary, I had no idea that Rickman was still doing theatre work, once partnering Helen Mirren in Antony and Cleopatra. He looks happy in the company of friends.
He was cultivated. He knew when to be petty, but his humanity shone through this pettiness. He was fussy and high maintenance, and he was kind, and generous, and humble, and gifted. I have planned to reread his diary next year too. Alan Rickman has not taught me much about life, but he has schooled me about the human condition. It is a pity that not every section of the reading community will take up this book. It is also a blessing that this book is as understated, if not underrated as its author. A man who lived once, who now is no more. Yet we can see him onscreen. His shadow is here. His talent is untouched. The things that made him special are for everyone to sample. I still admire his talent on the page, never mind on the big screen. Yeah? Harry Potter movies suck though.