Intermediate Name Dropping: David Niven's The Moon's A Balloon (1971)

A memoir's a tricky thing: how much do you leave in, how much do you leave out? Do you spend time telling the audience what they don't know, or do you save space to elaborate on what they already know but are interested in? (And, of course, how much do you simply lie?)

Young audiences may not know David Niven, the popular dapper British actor and raconteur, despite his Academy Award and long list of screen credits. His 1946 romantic fantasy A Matter of Life and Death (U.S. title Stairway to Heaven) is perhaps the best of the best, but is now relatively little-watched (on IMDB it currently has 27,000 ratings, compared to, say, Notorious with 113,000). In the 1970s I mainly knew David Niven as a talk show guest, and for appearances in the murder mystery Death on the Nile, and the spoof of murder mysteries Murder by Death.

Another claim to immortality: he published his autobiography in 1971, and it was a massive bestseller, spawning multiple editions, various translations, and a sequel. I expected greatness, but I was disappointed, because he talked about Hollywood and his various brushes with greatness both too little and too much.

Too little: on page 154 of a 305 page book he finally gets a job in the movies as an extra. Now, I don't know about you (how could I?) but I assume that you, like me, don't particularly care about the upbringing, adolescence, and young adulthood of our memoirists, not to that extent. As pleasant a storyteller as Niven is, he's no literary genius where we would follow him anywhere: I want to get to the good stuff. What was it like on the set of such-and-such? Is so-and-so really as demanding a director as I've heard? Was someone-or-other as darling in real life as they seem on screen? But no, it's boarding schools and soldiering for more than half of the book.

If you happen to be a famous artist reading this and planning your memoir, here's my tip. Chapter One: your entire childhood. Chapter Two: path to glory. Chapter Three onwards, all the interesting stuff. If you absolutely have to (in order to illuminate some later occurrence) feel free to employ flashback, or simply mention something from your past. But please, God, don't waste half the book on the part of your life we don't care about.

And then the too much happens. Once in the beau monde, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, it rather goes to his head, and the book nearly becomes an appendix. And not only does he know everyone, but he's their best friend. He Forrest Gumps his way through the world. Pre-Hollywood, as a bachelor in London, he befriends the famed "Poor Little Rich Girl" Barbara Hutton (the Woolworth heiress), who invites him to New York to stay in her family's suite at the Pierre. Elsa Maxwell takes an interest in his career. In Hollywood, Errol Flynn becomes his roommate. During WWII, he hangs out with Churchill, inspiring his speeches. He's friends with Liz Taylor and Mike Todd, flying in Todd's private plane the day before it crashes and kills him.

It's relentless. Garbo swims naked in his swimming pool, regularly. He visits San Simeon, the Hearst Castle, constantly. When in trouble at work, Fred Astaire smooths things over for him with the Studio execs. His best friend is Lady Astor's niece. Close enough to Bogie and Bacall that Betty herself called with the news when her husband died. I'm not even scratching the surface. Noel Coward, Gary Cooper, Gloria Swanson, Rex Harrison, dozens and dozens more, all his good friends or best Judies.

This is the sort of book that confused the heck out of me as a young impressionable person. It seemed like around every corner lurked an heiress, a future prime minister, a movie star, a producer, or at least their son, aunt, friend, or lover. I used to ride my bicycle around Richmond singing loudly, in case any musical theatre producers might hear and think to themselves "What a golden voice that young male child has, perfect for our new remake of Oliver," for instance. Nobody discovered me. What was I doing wrong? By the time I'd graduated high school, my closest brush to greatness was sharing a waiting area with the Irish Rovers' wives and children? How did David Niven get it so good?

As time went by, I racked up a few more encounters. I helped Helen Hunt with clothes shopping when I worked at Le Chateau (she was lovely). I chatted with Aidan Quinn for ages in the world's longest bar lineup at the Edge. I walked with The Nanny's Charles Shaughnessy and his family when they were slightly lost in Vancouver. Once, opera legend Maureen Forrester waited in a car below my apartment while she and a friend tried to decide if they had time to pop in (they didn't, so I never met her). Other minor encounters like that with other celebrities. And yet to this day, Helen Hunt and I are no closer than when we first met, and she likely doesn't remember me one tiny bit.

Rumour has it that Niven embroidered. Perhaps Garbo swam nude in his pool only once, or in someone else’s pool, or perhaps it wasn't Garbo at all. From my vantage point, it’s hard to say. I’m simply left surprised that the memoir was the sensation it was—though perhaps 1971 readers were merely scandalized to find so much 'fucking' coming from someone so suave.

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A Matter of Life and Death - renowned Powell/Pressburger film

The Moon's A Balloon - bestselling memoir