My rating: 4 of 5 stars
When I first laid eyes on A Way
of Life, Like Any Other, by Darcy O'Brien, the book was in the fifth
position of a “five Hollywood lives” list compiled by author Susanna Moore for the
Wall Street Journal. I was surprised to see only two familiar titles on said
list in a nonfiction genre that I’m as familiar with as the back of my hand. Well!
I would have to see just what this was about. Turns out, the semi-fictionalized
memoir of O’Brien’s Hollywood adolescence is just a treat from first page to
last—that rare combination of a subject I wanted to read about written by
someone with a singular position to have witnessed and a singular talent for describing
*just* that. Some of the raunchier passages aside, I was dazzled by O’Brien’s
ear for dialogue and admired the dry, deadpan wit of his observations of life in
the movie colony as his actor parents’ respective stars began to fade and then
blink out altogether.
O’Brien’s parents were George O’Brien
and Marguerite Churchill, two silent movie stars who, to put it kindly, had
limited success in the talkie era. By the time the book opens, sometime in the early
fifties’, the two former celebrities are navigating a messy divorce and a
transition to civilian life, neither able to accomplish this pivot with any
particular degree of grace. Our narrator, grade-school aged, finds himself
caught in between helping his mother plan boozy dinner parties and picking her
up from her occasional suicide attempts, while his father is mostly exiled from
his life by his mother’s resentment over the divorce. This material, in less
capable hands, would be the stuff of a Jerry-Wald-produced soap opera style
tearjerker, à la I’ll Cry Tomorrow. Instead, O’Brien makes the occasionally
lurid episode seem oddly mundane with his detached, trenchant insights into his
mother’s behavior. Her overfrank discussions with her son about her sex life,
her problems with her ex-husband, and her own disappointments in life feel as
inappropriate as they do real. After Churchill’s second marriage, to a Russian
sculptor, falls apart spectacularly in Rome, O’Brien is sent home to California
to live with his father, whose Gary Cooper-isms and sincere good-naturedness are a sea change
from the constant hysteria of the first several chapters of the book with his
mother. George O’Brien, too, is a broken character—listlessly existing from week
to week in an “after the parade’s gone by” state of nostalgia for his career in
westerns and burying himself in volunteer work at the local Catholic church for
lack of other obligations. However, O’Brien’s father seems like a much calmer
broken character, and you develop an odd affection for him and his aw shucks
manners, compared to the mild antagonism I felt towards Churchill for just how
little she seemed to care about anyone besides herself.
Later, O’Brien goes to live with
a schoolmate’s family at their palatial Beverly Hills estate, and sees
first-hand the behind the scenes life of Sam Caliban, a B-picture mogul who
seems to be an amalgam of several old Hollywood directors/producers. Caliban
balances gambling debts, production overages, his son and wife, and a starlet
girlfriend with a juggler’s grace, and his brief dominance of the middle third
of the book makes you wish he had his own spin-off. There’s a liberated, sexy
love interest in the form of Linda, O’Brien’s would-be girlfriend whose
contradictory endorsement of the free love movement and the looming presence of
her actual steady boyfriend keep the two at arms-length. In spite of these
focus shifts and a few cameos, including a well-read if monocular John Ford,
the two real stars of the book are O’Brien’s parents, who feel as flawed and
realistic as if they were sitting in front of you. George O’Brien’s
occasionally cowboyish dialogue in particular (“I want you to know there’s
always a bunk for you here and all the chow you can eat”, he tells his son at
one point) reads half-humorous, yet wholly earnest—you get a feel in some of
the less folksy, more formal aspects of pater O’Brien’s speech for a
lost time, of someone born at the turn of the century. A scene between father
and son over a small inheritance in the book’s last scene is as strangely
moving and mildly disturbing an observation of character as anything you’d read
in a classic novel, it really took my breath away.
If you’re looking for a
star-studded tell-all, this is definitely not the right book for you—but as a terrifically
unique, brilliantly well-written period piece, A Way of Life, Like Any Other 's sense of time and place is transportive and just really a lot of mordant fun
to read. O’Brien wrote several other fiction and nonfiction titles before his
premature death in 1998 from cancer, and I’m so excited to discover more from
this highly original voice in literature.
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