magiadoreal

Not so long ago, giants bestrode the British boards. In that theatrically golden 20th century, the stage could boast those wonderful knights, Sirs John Gielgud, Laurence Olivier, Michael Redgrave and Ralph Richardson. Close on their heels were Alec Guinness, John Mills, Paul Scofield, Trevor Howard and Peter O’Toole, among others. And all along there was that chameleon of genius, Noël Coward. Still, the star that probably shone brightest in that constellation, the only one who was raised to baron, was Laurence Olivier (1907-89): matinee idol, movie star, gifted director and producer, in the end even a hologram, easily attaining posthumous immortality. Since boyhood he had wanted to be “the greatest actor in the world ,” and damned if he did not achieve it, with some help from Shakespeare and the movies. Not only was he the most dashing of actors, he was also the most seductive of human beings, tantrums notwithstanding. That fine actress Rosemary Harris remarked: “I