My Wicked, Wicked Ways - Classic Novel by Errol Flynn | Autobiography & Hollywood Memoir | Perfect for Book Clubs & Classic Literature Lovers

In his own autobiography, IN AND OUT OF CHARACTER, Basil Rathbone wrote of Errol Flynn:"He was one of the most beautiful male animals I've ever seen...but I think his greatest handicap was that he was incapable of taking anything or anyone else seriously. I don't think he had any ambition beyond 'living up' every moment of his life to the maximum of his physical capacity, and making money. He had talent, but how much we shall never know; there were flashes of talent in the three pictures we made together. He was monstrously lazy and self-indulgent, relying on a magnificent body to keep him going, and he had an insidious flair for making trouble, mostly for himself. I believe him to have been quite fearless, and subconsciously possessed of his own self-destruction. I would say that he was fond of me, for what reasons I will never know. It was always 'Dear old Bazzz,' and he would flash that smile that was both defiant and cruel, but for me always had a tinge of affection in it. We only crossed swords, never words."The extent to which Rathbone, who worked closely with Flynn on CAPTAIN BLOOD, ROBIN HOOD and DAWN PATROL, understood and did not understand the paradoxical, enigmatic, what-you-saw-is-not-necessarily-what-you-got Errol Flynn will be revealed to anyone who spends the money and takes the time to read his surprisingly thick, surprisingly deep, often amusing and occasionally appalling autobiography, MY WICKED, WICKED WAYS.Now I freely confess I am one of those fiends who folds back the edges of book pages I consider to contain important quotations. I also confess I bought this book expecting that Flynn would have little to say aside from endless recounts of alcoholic and sexual debacheries and perhaps some amusing gossip from the Golden Age of Hollywood; in other words, I expected to be entertained, but I did not anticipate folding many pages. As to the former, my expectations were met. As to the latter, I confess I was dead wrong. Errol Flynn was indeed a degenerate, libertine, almost completely amoral man, one who lived his entire life either teetering on the edge of, or completely beyond, both the rules of civilized behavior and occasionally, of civilization itself. The smile that Rathbone described as "defiant and cruel" was just that, for Flynn was defiant by nature -- defiant of everything -- and his pleasures often took an exploitative form that bore no regard for the feelings or dignity of others. He lived for those pleasures, and adventure, and laughed (literally) at the idea of consequences. He seems to have scarcely understood the idea of guilt, conscience or remorse, and he did not take himself any more seriously than he took the women he seduced, the husbands he humiliated, or the many people of all races he ruthlessly conned out of their money and their dignity. On the other hand, he was far more than the sum of his sins: Flynn was highly intelligent, extremely resourceful, deeply curious about life and human existence, and in his later years, a surprisingly self-critical and philosophical man who came to regret many of his choices. If he was ruthless, he was also without self-pity.Flynn takes us from his improbable childhood -- he was the son of a famous Australian scientist who rather doted on him, and an unloving mother with whom he remained at war his entire life -- to an even more improbable adolescence. Born in Tasmania, he took on the characteristics of that island's most famous animal. He was a curious, wild, nearly fearless child, always up to mischief, and even at a very young age obsessed with the female of the species. Gifted with extreme good looks, he collected sexual experiences (and veneral diseases) early, and his teens and twenties were spent on a series of adventures. At different points before he was accidentally discovered by Hollywood, Flynn sailed the South Seas, tried his hand at running various kinds of plantations, dabbled in the slave trade, panned for gold in New Guinea -- the most dangerous place on earth at that time -- and eventually learned to live as a vagabond con man. While guiding a documentary crew up the deadly Sepik River in New Guinea, he was noted for his looks and charisma and cast in a movie called THE WAKE OF THE BOUNTY, which opened him up to the film world but did not deliver him from poverty or give him purpose. Indeed, Flynn is 179 pages into his memoirs before he ceases his life of wandering, hanging out with street thugs in Australia, running cons from Hong Kong to the Phillippines, and sailing around the Pacific with a fellow con man named Koets, and joins the Northampton Repertory Company in England. This act set the course for the rest of his life, for it was here he learned how to act, and more than that, became interested in acting as a craft. Indeed, in his later years he remarked that the happiest times of his life were the two years he spent "trodding the boards" with this theater company. And therein lies one of the book's many moments of tragedy. Flynn's talents as an actor, which were not inconsiderable, eventually became overlooked because of his physical appearance; his handsomeness and devil-may-care smile are what got him to New York and eventually, Los Angeles, and the genuine passion and deep-soul satisfaction that a life of theater acting might have engendered in him were traded, before he even really understood what happened, for a life as a movie star: a life that fed into all of his surface passions and animal lusts, but did not ultimately leave him fulfilled, satisified, or even in possession of his self-respect.Flynn's Hollywood career started with a bang with CAPTAIN BLOOD in 1935. He rapidly became one of "the" leading men in the motion picture industry and pictures like THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER, ROBIN HOOD, THE SEA HAWK, and SANTA FE TRAIL cemented his status as a "swashbuckler" -- the 30s-40s equivalent of an action star. His fame and money allowed him to indulge in all of his favorite pastimes, and gave him a reputation as a womanzer nonpariel, but his marital choices cost him dearly in divorce court and plagued him for the rest of his life. Indeed, it could be said that Flynn spent much of that life working in films he cared nothing about simply to feed the alimony demands of his first wife. He could not enter military service during WW2 because of malaria, tuberculosis and veneral disease picked up in his "adventures," and he unfairly suffered reputation damage by being associated with a taste for Fascism (an absurdity when you consider Flynn's centralmost desire in life was for personal freedom). His taste for hijinks and low farce hamstrung his efforts to land meatier acting parts, which fed a growing disillusion with acting generally. However, it was his trial for rape in 1943 which he regarded as the most significant moment of his life. Indeed, he qualifies the incident by stating his life can be divided into "before" and "after" the trial. What happened, in extreme brief and according to Flynn, was this: Flynn's reputation as a ladykiller with a taste for young flesh made him the subject of a number of extortion attempts, one of which led to a highly dubious rape prosecution in Los Angeles which deeply humiliated him and seems to have left him permanently traumatized. Indeed, he devotes an entire act of the book to the trial (which he believed was a frame-up) and its aftermath, which badly damaged his career and both public and self-image. Acting no longer meant anything to him, and neither did money or even sex. He speaks freely about contemplating suicide on many occasions, and writes with palpable anguish about the decline in his fortunes: "All my life the one thing I feared was mediocrity -- and my whole living effort was pitched to oppose ever becoming a mediocrity. I did not wish to live in a mediocre way, nor to be regarded artistically as a mediocrity. This to me was the cardinal sin: to be middling was to be nothing."I must pause here to say that MY WICKED, WICKED WAYS, despite its salacious fascinations, dry wit, and often appalling amoralism, comes dangerously close to becoming tedious at a certain point about 3/4 of the way through. This is not due to any deficiency in Flynn's writing style: he is actually quite a cracking good writer, and it's easy to see why Hemingway disliked him so much, and for other reasons than that Flynn shared more than one woman with him: Flynn led a life that in some ways eclipsed Hemingway's, and had he doggedly pursued mastering the craft-and-art of writing in the same way he did young women, he might have produced some fiction to put the literary world on notice. No, it is simply that Flynn's penchant for sleeping with other men's wives, his taste for sophomoric pranks and humor, his love of the con, the tinge of cruelty and complete lack of remorse he had for all the damage he caused...it all becomes tiresome after a time. Tiresome and a little disgusting. Yet just at the moment I was beginning to get sick of all these tales of seductions, pranks, parties, debaucheries, fights, disastrous vacations, sailing expeditions, financial problems and irresponsible shennanigans, Flynn abruptly changes course. No longer content with listing his victories and defeats, he spends the last 100-odd pages in a deeply philosophical quest to discover where his life went wrong, what he has learned from his mistakes, why he made the choices he did and how he came to be so disgusted with surface attractions that he refused to look in the mirror. He contemplates life and makes powerful observations about himself, some of which may have startled his friend "Dear Old Bazzz":"I know I am a contradiction inside a contradiction...you can love every instant of living and still want to be dead.""I have a zest for living yet twice an urge to die.""If I have a genius it is a genius for living. And yet I turn many things into ----.""I hate the legend of myself as a phallic representation, yet I work to keep it alive. I portray myself as wicked, yet I hope not to be truly regarded as wicked.""Praise Mama. Damn her too."At the time he wrote the book, he was acutely aware that his looks were going, his health was slipping, his bank account was void and his career was in chaos; he had become somewhat acclaimed as an actor again, but only for smoothly recherche portrayals of characters who were very much like him in that moment of his life: aged-out Romeos engaged in losing struggles with the bottle. Yet his incapacity for self-pity makes his self-explorations truly interesting and slightly tragic and even sympathetic. In the end, Flynn, who seemed to be missing the capacity to grasp the collateral and sometimes deliberate damage he had inflicted on others, is unsparing in looking at the wreck he made of his own life. To his credit, he does not blame a rapacious ex-wife, controlling studio mogul Jack Warner, his mean-minded mother, or any other person or set of circumstances for his dark night of the soul. He knows he has led an extraordinary life, and he knows it was not the life he should have led, that he might have been much more than an actor known for standing "with a sword in one hand and a garter in the other."In the end, MY WICKED, WICKED WAYS is a much subtler and deeper book than I was expecting. Many readers will be put off by his amoralism, sexual rapacity and taste for all things facetious, sophomoric and irresponsible. Others will regard his life as Rathbone did, as a rather self-indulgent waste of talent. Neither would be wr. But I think even his bitterest critics would agree that in the end, there was much more to Flynn than his wicked, wicked ways.