Finding a father, losing a son
John Bowen
RICHARD AND PHILIP: THE BURTONS by Philip Burton Peter Owen, f16.50, pp. 184 This memoir may be the last of the Burton books. Richard Burton died in 1984 and had done no work of real consequence for many years before that. Most of the public these days will remember him for a number of indifferent films, for his record- ing of Under Milk Wood, for his reputation as a drinker and for the long on-again- off-again relationship with Elizabeth Taylor. Those of my own age will remem- ber and cherish the memory of his Prince Hal at Stratford in 1951, and his Coriolanus and Iago at the Old Vic in 1954 and 1955. He was an actor of great power, considerable intelligence (for which Philip Burton may and does claim some credit) and a restricted range; he could not play any character too far from himself. No other actor of his generation matched Bur- ton in power. Even glowering from a cos- tume of pink quilting as Ferdinand in The Tempest, he was the actor the audience watched.
The beginning of the story is well known, and Philip Burton's version is not new since most of it has already been printed in Melvyn Bragg's biography, Rich. In 1941 Richard Jenkins, 16 years old, motherless and living with his sister and her husband, short for his age, much afflicted with boils and with a thick Welsh accent, had dropped , ed out of grammar school to earn a living behind the drapery counter at the "--'0-op. A local teacher, Meredith Jones, believed that the boy had the potential to make something of himself; it was not yet clear what. He persuaded the school gover- nors to re-admit Jenkins, and asked Philip Burton, Head of English, a bachelor in his late thirties, who also ran the ATC Squadron and produced the school play, to keep an eye on him.
Richard joined the ATC and did a fire- watching duty with Philip. Up on the school roof late at night, he spoke of his ambition to become a professional actor. There would be much work to do. He would have to lose his accent and improve the quality of his voice. This work could not be done at home. In March, 1943, he left his sister and came to live with Philip in Mrs Smith's boarding-house: they had a bedroom each, and shared a living-room. Philip kept him and, when he was 18 and about to join the RAF, arranged through the ATC for him to be admitted to Exeter College, Oxford.
Philip Burton, discreet as a pair of button boots, says that it was the ATC's Commanding Officer for Wales who suggested that he should adopt Richard as his son to get over the 'ambiguity' of their relationship. Richard agreed readily. Legal adoption was not possible because Philip was just too young, but he became Philip's legal ward and took his name. He was a man with two fathers.
He had wanted this, but he was Welsh; he also needed to be close to his family and his roots. The division was fatal, and ran through his life. He wanted to be a great actor, but accepted work that he despised. He wanted to be rich and famous, but spent money as he got it and most of the fame was only gossip. He wanted a loving family and the respect of chapel-going people, but also freedom and a succession of beautiful women. He wanted to be a scholar and a writer but also wanted to get /lac-44(MA* drunk with friends at the pub and talk about rugby football. He destroyed first his talent, then himself. Probably the Shake- spearian character which he was most tem- peramentally suited to play was Mark Antony. Instead he played Antony in a film by Joseph Mankiewicz.
Buttoned up Philip survived. He is still alive, nearly 90, a lay-preacher at an episcopal church in Florida. Very soon he becomes the hero of this short memoir and Richard a character often offstage. At first Philip continues to direct and advise. It is he who persuades Richard that Coriolanus is a part worth playing, and his view of Hamlet as a Revenge Tragedy which Richard adopts. But increasingly Richard is taken over by Hollywood. Philip moves to New York. He directs O'Casey off- Broadway and Shakespeare at various festivals. He lectures and gives readings. He writes a string of novels, not all of them published, and screenplays, none of which is produced. He helps to found the Ameri- can Musical and Dramatic Academy and becomes its director; it seems never to have been out of financial difficulties. He finds new pupils who respect and admire him; instead of becoming great actors they drift into Roman Catholicism. He has a moment of glory, taking over the direction of Camelot before it opens on Broadway, but nobody notices. He suffers from angina; Richard and Elizabeth pay for the hospital. Sometimes he walks Richard's daughters in Central Park; sometimes he and Richard meet and have 'good talks'; sometimes (to his distress) Richard presses a $50 note into his hand.
Many teachers become surrogate parents as children discover that their own parents cannot teach them all they wish to know. Perhaps the Welsh, who respect education as a means to preferment, are particularly drawn to such teachers. Perhaps actors are. But Richard Jenkins went further than most sons, and Philip Burton further than most teachers. What was the magic? The memoir doesn't tell us. They worked together at improving Richard's vocal range, on clarity of diction, on a mid- Atlantic accent. They discussed the charac- ters of Shakespeare's plays. We may imagine a mixture of Elsie Fogerty and Harley Granville-Barker.
Such teaching is one-to-one as parent- hood is. It works with any child, but best when one with genuine talent and strong ambition meets a teacher who can recog- nise the possibility of excellence and has a need to create — what? — a better actor, writer, musician, scholar than he or she could ever be. The teacher becomes a sur- rogate parent, the pupil becomes the teach- er's surrogate self.
Somewhere in Britain today a black child with talent and ambition may be searching for such a teacher. It could be a long search. Excellence these days is politically incorrect. It is too easily identified with elitism.
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