Fond memories of a several movies from the end of the last century (A Room with a View, Howard's End and especially Maurice) prompted my interest in these memoirs (my cover pluralizes the word more accurately). Ivory published a lot of the more interesting material elsewhere and seems to have written originally--and tediously--here only about his childhood and young adulthood with a distasteful emphasis on the penises of his male friends. Sure, a keen interest in his experiences as a homosexual movie director made me eager to read his book, but he offers little self reflection in that regard and doesn't even address his long-term relationship with Ismail Merchant (I truly had no idea they were lovers) until the end. His description of how the Oscars have increased in importance made we wish he hadn't won his for adapting Call Me By Your Name, although his score settling with Luca Guadagnino is by far the tastiest new dish in the book that also includes stale impressions of Raquel Welch (!), Vanessa Redgrave and Susan Sontag. If Ivory had had his way, Shia LaBeouf would have been cast as Timothée Chalamet's lover not the reputed cannibal who played the part. As for the rest, yawn. The man is as pretentious as his worst movies and has absolutely no clue about narrative.
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