An actor’s notebook

It is delightful to be writing for a magazine I’ve read, man and boy, since I was 15. Such is my affection for The Spectator that I felt a particular puff of pride when my name appeared on the cover a few weeks ago. The fact that the words in question were ‘Simon Callow’s Wagnerian disaster’ barely dented my pleasure. It advertised a quite collectibly horrible review of a short biography of Wagner I had written. The reviewer was Michael Tanner, a great explicator of philosophers, and indeed of Wagner himself. The review, dripping with scorn, had a certain personal edge to it. After having for my work as either actor, writer or director held up for scrutiny for over 40 years now, I became aware at a certain point that, as Orson Welles ruefully observed of himself, they don’t review my work any more; they review me.

My most indelible review was from James Fenton, then theatre critic of the Sunday Times: ‘Mr Callow’s stomach is a dreadful warning to us all,’ he said.