Which of us could write two hundred pages of lucid, affectionate and occasionally exasperated prose on the subject of our father and not have it descend into banality or, worse, sentimentality? Being a Redgrave possibly helps - all that fame, all those politics, all that family - but still, Corin Redgrave has done a magnificent job. Much of it, of course, is devoted to the retelling of theatre lore, "luvvy" or otherwise; but then there's the business of Michael Redgrave's bisexuality and, ultimately, of his deterioration and death from Parkinson's disease, faced courageously and with a generous helping of dignity and humour by both father and son. Whatever the reality of daily life or family politics may have been chez Redgrave - and it seems unlikely it was as calm and idyllic as it is painted here there's no doubt about it, this is the sort of book we would all want our children to write about us.
