7 MAY 1983, Page 25

Inside story

Brian Masters

To be a Redgrave Deirdre Redgrave (Robson Books £7.95)

Iis an awesome reflection on the vision 1. of some publishers that the author of this book was apparently pursued for years in an attempt to persuade her to tell the 'inside story' of her marriage to Corin Redgrave. Why? Who on earth did they suppose would be interested? Mr Redgrave is not a very remarkable man, and Mrs Redgrave is certainly no writer. The only possible ex- cuse is the promise of a sensational spilling of beans, for the Redgraves are a distinguished theatrical family and two of their number, Corin and Vanessa, are addi- tionally known as members of the Workers' Revolutionary Party, an oppressive group given to making noisy speeches and extract- ing money from the gullible. But we have to wait until almost the end of the book to discover what it is like to be harangued by the WRP when one is trying to make cauliflower cheese in one's own kitchen, and what goes before is a simple tale of unremitting banality.

Our Deirdre was a pretty, middle-class girl, religious and chaste, whose education prepared her adequately for arranging flowers. She was also, she tells us, with a beguiling knack of finding new expressions for old ideas, 'a hopeless romantic'. No wonder, then, that she tumbled as soon as she clapped eyes on handsome Corin, with his lovely blue eyes and his double First from Cambridge, 'a man of exalted intellec- tual power'. Happily, they shared the same ideas, for 'what Corin learned from Marx, I learned from rock and roll: a revolutionary way of living.' This must have been reassur- ing for both of them. He seduced her, they lived together, they eventually married and had two children.

It did not take Deirdre long to realise that she was being absorbed into a family of brilliant but dotty folk who had become so accustomed to adopting roles that they switched character from one day to the next, leaving the newcomer with a feeling of uselessness and bewilderment. Sir Michael was kind and thoughtful, then aloof and unapproachable. Vanessa was giggly over a bottle of chilled champagne (her reward after a hard slog on a protest march), then so dismissive she forgets what her sister-in- law does. As for Corin, he could be gallant, chummy, morose and mocking all in the same day. It must have been very trying. But amor vincit almost otnnia.

The only Redgraves who come out well from these pages are the mother, Rachel Kempson, a sane and sensible woman (though even she waited three years before telling Deirdre to drop the 'Lady Redgrave'; I wonder what Vanessa and Corin made of that), and little Lynn, who wisely packed her bags and has little to do with any of them. It must be said that Deirdre was slow to adapt. She came over all queer when Vivien Leigh telephoned, which would not go down very well, and it looks as though she was suspiciously prone to sulking. However, one's sympathies are wholly with her.

While love lasts, Mrs Redgrave has to pack out her narrative with inanities. We are invited to share a jolly holiday in Malta, to be fascinated by what it feels like to have a second baby, to be astonished and amus- ed that Vidal Sassoon's hair looks wet when he is in the swimming-pool. But clouds gather when Corin is sucked into the evil of the Black Power movement. Of course, they know all about the oppression of black people in New York because they once spent an afternoon driving through Haarlem in a taxi, and were shocked. Nevertheless, Deirdre is taken aback when her best friend's wife is buried alive by the Malcolm X crowd (she gives the incident a couple of paragraphs — earth was found in her intestines), and the crunch comes over a political argument with her husband ('I was furious. How dare he tell me what to think?') When Corin is finally committed to the WRP, we hope he might discover what the organisation thinks, and why. But we are disappointed. Apart from the usual clichés, we learn little more than the discomfort of having one's flat overrun by scruffy, il- literate louts.

Corin Redgrave is quoted as saying that `humour is the last bastion of the bourgeoisie'. Perhaps he's right. Without it, one could hardly endure the penance of reading this profoundly boring confession.

Danae Brook has helped with the writing, so one does not know whom to blame for felicities such as a 'quick and incisive' brain, and 'the eloquence of unvarnished truth'. The book was printed in Hungary, where I hope the typesetters were paid a de- cent wage for their labours.