Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * *
For many, indeed arguably millions, Stephen Fry has that modern disturbing invisible, perhaps slightly jingoistic moniker attached to his name that implies monetary wealth, rather than the importance he brings to the species as a whole and yet National Treasure he is and will be hopefully until the sad lamenting day when Q.I. has an empty host chair in sad rememberance.
It might have been this way though, all the enjoyment he has bought to the world, the insight, the touch of the common man wrapped in a pair of Lundorf Ivano gloves and dry wonderful wit might have all been lost, as his latest autobiography, More Fool Me, keeps alluding throughout its delightful, if at times heady pages.
Stephen Fry is undoubtedly a very intelligent man, a crowd pleaser, an actor and writer of seemingly limitless prowess and yet what the reader gleans from his latest book is that, not only do the demons haunt him, as they do with so many, the depression and black thoughts that go hand in hand with humanity’s bleakest moments, but that all that talent, all that joy he has bought to millions could have all but destroyed him completely in a habit sought and gained.
It is the brief segment towards the back, the diary entries to a world that perhaps might not have needed to see them, however in one of life’s great reveals, it is astoundingly clear that his frankness of his Cocaine habit should be read with both psychological interest and passionate warnings to anyone ever tempted to go down the same route; that makes the most interesting of reading.
The small droplets of information, the glee Mr. Fry receives at meeting new people and perhaps some of the most unexpected dinner party bed fellows appeals perhaps to even the strongest of wills who shy away from “court” gossip and who did what conversation; that is what you may come to expect from an autobiography! It’s the small details though that come hurtling out of the pages like an excited greyhound thinking he is chasing after a mange ridden pseudo rabbit, only to be confronted with an oversized elephant stomping towards it, it is that elephant in the room, as well as on the greyhound circuit, that Mr. Fry is willing to talk about that makes you admire the man but also worry for someone who makes life bearable for others.
The most illuminating point is where it ceases to be talked of in volumes of being perhaps an enjoyable way to get through burning the proverbial candle and instead becomes single solitary moments, such as “Did a couple of lines”, almost as if he is back in school and receiving punishment for handing his Latin vocabulary essay back in anything less than perfect.
There are drug habits and then there are those that start to take you down a path in which the frivolous gesture is the last refuse of the blossoming scoundrel.
The last 20 years could have been so different, people that love him might have been robbed of such a glittering personality, a personality which by reading the latest volume of works, is more than addictive enough to all who come into contact with him.
An eye-opening reveal, the normal “Court” gossip sets a standard, the further openness takes getting used to; all subjects are open to discussion it seems.
Ian D. Hall