When, nearly 30 years ago, I was commissioned to write a biography of Albert Finney, he politely declined to be involved, explaining that the road he had travelled had “a hard top on it” and he wasn’t interested in “drilling it up to go over it all again”. And besides, he added, it would be “a waste of trees”.
In the event I pressed on regardless and found myself overwhelmed by the legion of writers, directors, producers and co-stars who wanted to contribute celebratorily, even sometimes critically, to a life so far – he was still only 55 at the time of its publication – despite the “unauthorised” nature of my enterprise.
What became clear was that he lived entirely on his own terms, deeming playtime as equally important as the play (or film).
