Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins: The Autobiography

I was quite sad to finish this wonderful book! When I bought it I worried that it might be a pretentious, name dropping bore but it was utterly delightful and I read much of it with a smile. Rupert Everett writes beautifully, eloquently and with such a lovely, self-deprecating humour that he remains irresistible. I kept the book beside my bed and looked forward to reading until I couldn't stay awake any longer, then picked it up first thing in the morning to continue. He has a beautiful turn of phrase and I enjoyed every bit! I only hope he writes a second volume...

Just coming off reading Martin Amis's latest, House of Meetings, I was in need of something a bit less soul-destroying, when who should happen to catch my eye but Rupert Everett peeking from the cover of his new autobio, Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins. Good choice, as it turns out. Anyone looking for a bitchy tell-all will be sorely disappointed. He has hardly a bad word to say about anyone, and when he does, he usually tempers it with an exculpatory tale in the next breath. He's wonderful at description: "Miami International has always been one of my favorite airports. ...As the doors of the plane open the wet scented Florida air rushes into the cabin. It smells of sun cream, air-conditioning and tropical drinks. A light glow breaks out on the brows of the passengers like a golden shower from heaven, an instant feeling of health, and that glorious bucket and spade anticipation of a seaside holiday. Inside the terminal, the smell of damp carpet is the eau de toilette that will follow you around Florida. Rivers of delicious-smelling green fitted carpet guide the traveler past gates to destinations that have only been dreamt of or read about in the pages of Graham Greene or Ian Fleming. Port-au-Prince. Port-of-Spain. Caracas. Montevideo. Sao Paulo. Miami International is a traveler's sweet shop, and seeing the names of all these places made my heart miss a beat." On living in Russia while filming And Quiet Flows the Don: "That night I took Mo (his dog) for a walk. It was warm as we threaded through the muddy labyrinth of high-rises around the hotel. Everything was falling to pieces. A porch hung precariously over a front door. Windowpanes were held together by tape and newspaper. Uner the trees in the little parks, broken people sat on broken benches, and children screamed on ancient climbing frames that looked like strange installations. Pollen floated in the air, which had a metallic taste. Old men twisted by arthritis and alcohol sat hunched over chessboards wearing army hats from the Second World War, while sturdy women in shabby mackintoshes walked dogs." There are wonderful stories about celebrities, but there's also a great little chapter about a trip down the Rio Negro with his 83-year-old father, and a touching paean to his dog Mo, with whom you fall in love during the course of the book, so that I, at any rate, cried when he had to be put down at the age of eleven. And the opening chapter - about growing up in a wealthy, horsey household in Norfolk - is wonderful, as is the bit about boarding school. If you want some light reading in between doorstops, give Rupie a go.

I first clapped eyes on Rupert Everett when he exploded on the London scene in the late Seventies. I was vegetating at a smart sit down dinner for Andy Warhol in the newly refurbished Casserole restaurant on Kings Road. It used to be a nice ordinary restaurant, populated mainly by drugged out members of the British aristocracy, where you could sit at wooden tables and fall happily into your soup. Then, Nicki Haslam, the social interior decorator put white billowing tents on the ceiling, transforming the restaurant into a pretentious Bedouin styled scenario. 'The restaurant was packed. There was nowhere to sit but I was about to fall down, so I squeezed on to the edge of a banquette and had a quick nap. A few minutes later I opened my eyes to find three extra-ordinary faces looking at me with amusement. Lady Diana Cooper wore a hat like a medium's lampshade with long white tassels. Next to her sat Andy Warhol under a weird peroxide wig, plonked the wrong way round on his head, and Bianca Jagger was sleek and glowing beside me with delicious smelling pomade in her hair. We introduced ourselves and I apologised with half-open eyes for the intrusion,' is a quote from "Red Carpets and other banana skins", Rupert Everett's recently published autobiography. My memory has it that Rupert stormed into the restaurant and brazenly plonked himself down next to Bianca and stole the show. All eyes were on him as this handsome looking intruder chatted her up like there was no tomorrow. But, "Red Carpets and other banana skins" is Rupert's autobiography not mine. Rupert Everett is a gifted actor, whose role as Guy Bennett in "Another Country" in 1984 blasted him to international stardom. Since then, he has worked periodically on the stage, specifically for Glasgow Citizens, and appeared in countless 'A' list movies including "Dance With A Stranger", "The madness of King George III" and wowed Hollywood for his work on "My Best Friend's Wedding", in which he portrayed Julia Robert's gay best friend. In 2007, he will be seen in Matthew Vaughn's new film, "Stardust", in which he co-stars with Robert de Niro and Michelle Pfeiffer, and "Shrek III", in which his distinctive voice again provides the Prince Charming role. Rupert ('Roopie Poopie' to his friends) is unlike the majority of modern day celebrities who hire ghostwriters to script their life stories. Unlike the Jordans of this world, he has physically written his autobiography, titled "Red Carpets and other banana skins", and has done a very good job too. He's primarily an actor but his life story is so well written, he could easily cross over into becoming a professional writer if his parts dry up. But, as he is a character actor as well as a leading man, that concept seems highly unlikely. I gobbled up Rupert Everett's exhilarating, celebrity stuffed life story. I couldn't put it down. For me, I thought the early chapters about his formative years were the most interesting. One really gets to know the aut

Yes, his novels are very funny, and well written. This, what one hoped would be the third gut buster novel, is a nice work, highs and lows, not as funny as the novels, but when is life? With his life work behind him, perhaps Mr. Everett will re-write that third novel he talkes about in this book. Cheers.

After reading this book I became convinced that CNN should have a camera crew prowling every city Rupert Everett visits. Political correspondents should be called `Rupert Chasers', and old retirees longing for a well-earned rest should be prepared to high-tail it at once whenever Mr. Everett is rumored to be near. Life, in all its queasy uncertainty indeed, seems to respond to his presence. The red carpet is just one of many banana skins Rupert slips on here. One might say he's slipped through a life that would have broken a weaker man - or at least pointedly ignored a less handsome man. The ringside seat he's been offered, however, isn't free for any Adonis to occupy. I imagine a highly discerning sensibility must have informed the decisions he took from the options life presented: a sensibility that comes through in the prose, and is clearly a deep part of both the man today, as well as the boy who watched `Mary Poppins.'