Red Carpets And Other Banana Skins

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Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins: The Autobiography by Rupert Everett. Revealing himself to be a consummate storyteller, stage and screen star Everett "My Best Friend's Wedding" pens a delightfully witty memoir in which he reveals his life experiences as an up-and-coming actor, detailing everything from the eccentricities of the British upper class to the madness of Hollywood.

Hardcover , pages. Published August 1st by Warner Books first published September 18th To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. Is there any difference between the release of and ? Lists with This Book. Oct 31, Emily rated it really liked it. I wouldn't have pegged myself to read an autobiography by Rupert Everett, but I had heard that this was an unexpectedly great read. Everett has really been through a lot in life, from a surprisingly posh upbringing to the awakening of London's gay culture in the 70s, to the south of France in the 80s and Miami chez Versace to be exact and Hollywood in the 90s.

He's had run-ins with Warhol and other illustrious names, and although some of friendship mentions come close to eye-roll inducing name I wouldn't have pegged myself to read an autobiography by Rupert Everett, but I had heard that this was an unexpectedly great read. He's had run-ins with Warhol and other illustrious names, and although some of friendship mentions come close to eye-roll inducing name dropping "My friend Jann Wenner It's interesting to read about an actor's rocky road to fame and it gave me a new appreciation for his films, causing me to revisit a few old favorites Shakespeare in Love and discover new ones Another Country, his first film, in which he is heartbreakingly handsome.

I actually read this when I was in university, 10 years ago. I don't know where my copy is anymore and what happened to it but what I do remember is that I actually enjoyed it quite a lot and it was a fun read.

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Furthermore, I remember I had the feeling that everything Everett was writing about was true, not like normal memoires that can be a bit romanticized at times, it seemed to me that what I was reading was plausible. I remembered about this read yesterday, after seeing at the movies The Hap I actually read this when I was in university, 10 years ago.

I remembered about this read yesterday, after seeing at the movies The Happy Prince, first movie with Rupert as the director, it narrates the end of the life of Oscar Wilde. And honestly i do think that a bit of the melancholy that we find in this movie can be found in Rupert Everett's life, a star that was put in a corner by hollywood because he had the courage to live like he wanted to live. I think he deserves more than what life has given him and I hope the movie will be seen. I highly recommend it, its not the best movie in the world but very enjoyable and Rupert is a great actor.

An honestish account of an out gay man's lot in Hollywood with odd juicy tidbits about the likes of Julia Roberts, Madonna, and Catherine Deneuve and some fading Hollywood stars and locations. Although patchily written both in style and narrative it is pretty entertaining both in language and stories revealed. Some of the stories smack of Chinese whispered Hollywood fables, but most are revealing of real Hollywood I imagine and his honesty about his talent and at times, lack thereof , love lif An honestish account of an out gay man's lot in Hollywood with odd juicy tidbits about the likes of Julia Roberts, Madonna, and Catherine Deneuve and some fading Hollywood stars and locations.

Some of the stories smack of Chinese whispered Hollywood fables, but most are revealing of real Hollywood I imagine and his honesty about his talent and at times, lack thereof , love life and drug habits is quite touching. Still not sure and can't be bothered to re-read. I waivered between two and three stars but plumped for three due to laughing out loud a few times at lines like his reaction to an overindulgent starry "method" story from Sharon Stone about her being demonically possessed by her Casino character, " 'God! This was turning into one of those conversations one had with a homeless person.

The surprising thing about this book is that it inverts one's expectations.

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The traditionally boring bit - the pre-fame bit - is wonderfully enjoyable and witty - all things Poppins especially. The fame bit, dusted in coke, and trailing on the coat-tails of Madonna, is suprisingly unengaging. Perhaps that's as it should be. Vainity, in a mad self-indulgent dance with itself, has never truly been a satisfying spectator sport. Not even the cruel sythe of aids, nor the horror of the Twin Towers, succe The surprising thing about this book is that it inverts one's expectations.

Not even the cruel sythe of aids, nor the horror of the Twin Towers, succeed in lending the remainder of the book any edge. It falls to a death of a dog, Mo, famous for leaving "stains" on Madonna's tights, to pull the narrative together toward the end.

Throughout Everett's unguarded lack of concern for future employment allows a great deal of catty fun at the expense of his more talented colleagues. Catty but never bitchy I still have my fair share of points to raise. The point is th I loved this. There are some fleeting glances of him, how he grew up and found himself venturing into the bitchy, catty and seemingly unaccepting world of the arts, and theatre in particular a shallow fact that seems very strange indeed and to continue in agreement with the countless included words of glorious praise: It seems an absolute gaudy pleasure to be on this insightful ride with him.

The writing is excellent, descriptive and alomost poetic in parts. The sights, sounds and smells he describes are like nothing else I have ever read, I just want to give more of himself away. Now, obviously, saying Rupert Everett is not in this book is a little short of exaggeration. He briefly sojourns into explanation before heading back into the gossip. Insightful observation, my arse. In the middle of the book, the time frames get really confusing. After following a rather random slump through his first years, he not only hot-foots it effervescently through the Eighties with a jaded depression, but he then takes the abtract route of taking us through three chapters set in , and then back to , consecutively.

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There are many touching scenes with Mo, his dog, especially when it comes to the point where he eventually relents and calls for his owner to sadly put him down, which ends up being the most tender relationship Rupert wishes to expose in this book after not divulging much at all about his own love life. He tells of the Producer vs.

In fact, the whole relationship with Madonna is one of the most wholly interesting things about this book. Her prescence is evident but respectfully either dismissed or avoided, a truly inspired piece of spin or an old queen just waiting to spill the beans further. I'd go for the latter. Feb 10, Alison Cubitt rated it it was amazing Shelves: Rupert Everett's international film career was launched with Another Country, back in , when he was both young and beautiful.

Although never able to make the grade as a romantic lead — Hollywood was notoriously conservative back then and couldn't risk the wrath of a potential right wing backlash if they cast an openly gay actor. Nevertheless he went on to have his fifteen minutes of fame in Hollywood, where he briefly held court in Camelot. Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins describes in de Rupert Everett's international film career was launched with Another Country, back in , when he was both young and beautiful.

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So far, so celebrity memoir, you would think. Whatever you think of Rupert's acting abilities and he is endearingly self-deprecating on that topic , this man can surely write. On his privileged upbringing: Luckily for me I was both. Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins manages to be both witty and sad, sweet and endearing as well as achingly funny.

It doesn't sound like his younger, self-absorbed self would have been much fun to hang around with but all that changed when his beloved Mo, a black Labrador, came into his life. As he so rightly states, once you have another being to care for, it turns you into a better, less selfish person. Although it's fascinating to read about his early Hollywood career, hanging out with legends of another era, like Orson Welles, I just loved, that in that crazy mixed up world in La La Land, a black Labrador a signifier of a British rural upbringing — if ever there was one , got to fly on Concorde and hang out in A Listers' pools.

I read this book while away on holiday, so unfortunately I don't have it right next to me while I review. Excellent opening chapters with very evocative writing about life as upper class school boy. Rupert appears to be really honest about his own character failings - he doesn't seem quite so self aware that some of these foibles light fingered, bitchy may have cost him as many roles as his homosexuality.

I know he has done another memoir so he may have picked up these details then. But Rupert does write well - there is no mention of a ghostwriter. Sep 09, Marianne rated it did not like it Shelves: He is, instead, a rather tawdry and sick man deserving of both pity and contempt. The Heroin Diaries by Nikki Sixx immediately springs to mind… May 05, Gayle rated it liked it. I had been meaning to read this book when it first came out but somehow I never got around to it and then recently my husband announced he was planning to read it so we have a copy at home so finally I have read it.

He especially liked lounging upon the monks' burial ground, imagining, as he masturbated, the "shrivelled hands locked together in prayer clutching their rotting rosary beads". Not wanting to bother with exams, Everett did a bunk and became a wastrel in London and Paris. He had a knack of finding the pubs and clubs where Scottish barmen wore sequin dresses, bondage trousers or dirty kilts. The next night he's sniffing poppers with Hardy Amies or playing the violin in the Oliver Messel suite at the Dorchester with Julie Andrews. Everett mixed with rakes and junkies, enjoying the hellfire existence of the Marquis of Bristol, who fed his dogs dead cats.

In the Bois de Boulogne, he explored the "secret bowers of dripping rhododendrons" frequented by businessmen looking for a spanking. He describes an existence of non-stop laughing, drinking, smoking and knocking back pills — but what makes this autobiography a novelistic masterpiece is the way he is acutely aware of the melancholia and pain that are the other side of hedonism's coin. Many of his acquaintances "jumped, overdosed, got sick or were murdered" — for example, a Vietnamese transsexual called Lychee who was found "in a ditch inside the walls of the great park of Versailles".

As Wordsworth was drawn to daffodils, doomed people and places transfix Everett. Paula Yates, "sexy and fatal", is magnificently eulogised, as is Richard Harris, "a stone jouster knight that had slipped off his tomb". Everett is always seeking out Miami's forlorn Art Deco apartment buildings or crumbling hotels in Hollywood, the haunt of forgotten stars from the silent era. Bought a house in Chelsea by his absent and invisible parents, Everett went to the Central School of Drama, but couldn't really be bothered. He drifted around the world, from Bratislava to Brisbane, hustling successfully for free hotel rooms, meals and flights on private jets.

Without much trouble, he was cast as the lead in Another Country and The Vortex, but long West End runs were irksome and he preferred to appear in straight-to-video swordand-sorcery romps shot in Dubrovnik and Italian blockbusters so bad they were never released. Such is Everett's weird cocktail of vanity and self-deprecation, he never once discusses his finer achievements — the Wilde adaptations, the Alan Bennett or Pinter scripts, his handsome Oberon opposite Michelle Pfeiffer's Titania.

He affects not to notice that his languid dramatic flair is actually not casual and indifferent, but studied and artful. You don't recline on a chaise longue and light a cigarette as he does without serious prior contemplation and dedication. You have to be conscientious to be that listless.

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He was christened Rupi. Sometimes he nibbled our ears, which was sweet. At other times he had a lovely long pee down our backs. And if you were lucky he made a dirty protest. He slept for a few hours and then pottered and then slept again. If so, it would be hard to move him. He would come into the trailer and collapse into the make-up chair, like a wild animal that had been shot with a tranquilliser. He had beautiful hands, twenty years younger than the rest of his body. He never said a bad word about anyone. Actually he never said a word. When he came to do a concert as part of the film, Dylan was too drunk and had to be led onto the stage.

When Rupert came on to sing he got an erection. I just stood there as roadies beat them to a pulp at my feet and dragged them off. I was nearing orgasm. I never saw Bob again. He went to live in France and later spent some time in Russia, where he made another of his disastrous films, a version of the novel And Quiet Flows the Don:.

There had been five deaths and four weddings during the making of the film, and quite a few girls had become lesbians. The man who operated the wind machine, an old aeroplane propeller, was decapitated by it one morning outside Moscow. We watched his head fly across the sky and land in the snow, which turned crimson around it.

The footage ended up in a bank vault in Naples. It was during this shoot, as he bitched about another actor, that the wisest and most true thing that has ever been said to Rupert Everett was uttered to him by Betty Bacall: In the script he had three lines. Then he got some more. They made him do a test. Then they asked for another. His agent had to convince them he was the guy for the part. And then, suddenly, after such disaster: Sometimes on a Friday night at the end of work, she would give me a ride back to New York on the Sony jet. Then I witnessed the whole machine grind into action, the grandeur of Hollywood in transporting its livestock from A to B.

With a cocktail in a cut glass, wearing a towelling robe, she would hop barefoot with wet hair from the trailer to the car. The only baggage was the key to her apartment and her newly acquired gay confidant.

The Mistresses of the Universe often end up with their trainers, and Julia was going out with hers, a man called Patrick. I was fascinated by these powerful women. Instead of being the escorts of presidents, they ended up marrying their hairdressers. They were the fairy princesses trapped inside ivory towers. They only met co-stars and staff. Like Madonna, Julia smelt vaguely of sweat, which I thought was very sexy. There is a male quality to the female superstar.

There has to be. She must learn to fuck them before they fuck her if she is to survive, so she becomes a kind of she-man, a beautiful woman with invisible balls. In her personal relationships, after sex with a man, she quite possibly fights the desire to eat him. Then there was a movie with Madonna called The Next Best Thing , about which one of the reviews said: In his attempts to lobby politicians about Aids, he met an aide to Senator John McCain, indifferent to the issue he had come to raise.

Despite his general sweetness and his social conscience, Rupert remains lovable to the end of this book. When Sharon Stone suggested him for the male lead in the sequel to Basic Instinct , MGM said that the American people would never accept a homosexual as anything other than a pervert, and thus neither would MGM.

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