Probably the first time I encountered Alan Cumming was in Circle of Friends. I was immediately captivated by his snarky, rat-faced character; his job was to make your skin crawl, and that he did very well.
I think I saw him next in the bizarrely anachronistic rendition of Shakespeare’s Titus, along with Anthony Hopkins. Once again, Alan stole the show. And my heart. He’s pretty high on my list of celebrities I’d most like to have dinner with. Or anything else for that matter.
So you can imagine how I felt about his memoir, Not My Father’s Son. Alan Cumming, reading to me about his fabulous and exciting life! What could be better?
Well, let me tell you, if you’re looking for butterflies and light, you chose the wrong book, my brother. Alan’s young life was horrifying, veering between poverty, cold, and nightmarish abuse from a brutish father who reminded me of old man Morel in D. H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers. I mean, he almost scalped him, for God’s sake.
It’s an old trope that out of immense childhood pain arise the most creative and artistic impulses. But damn. How do some people survive such experiences, not only with their sanity intact, but with enough drive and ambition to make something of themselves?
Of course, one of the best parts of the book (apart from getting the scoop on all his fascinating theatrical projects and his romantic adventures as a bisexual man) was the mystery surrounding his paternity. Apparently, his mother had an affair, and there was a high chance that Alan was not, in fact, the son of the monster who terrorised him most of his life. The suspense will make you chew on your cuticles as you wait for the DNA test, his mother’s confession, and all the drama. Was he his father’s son? Get the book, cause I’m not gonna tell ya.
What I can tell you is, if you’re a fan of Alan’s, you’d be doing yourself a disservice by not getting this book. It’s a masterpiece.
That’s my two cents. What’s yours? Please leave a comment.
