Life with Father

Having long been a fan of the 1947 movie of the same name, reading this book was long, long overdue for me. While reading along I couldn’t help but imagine the cherished William Powell and Irene Dunne having at each other. It does make me wonder how the story would have struck me without the pretext of the movie to look back on with such strong visuals.

The Clarence Sr. of the movie is tempestuous and cantankerous of nature but fundamentally one is left with a positive impression. The viewer never really doubts that he is a good man at heart but one cannot avoid the conclusion that he would be a royal pain to live with. Perhaps in part this is Powell shining through in the role but no matter how many times Father storms about the house show more at the end of it all you do still rather like him.

Father of the book is just as blustery and just as much of a tempest in a teacup but it costs one quite a bit more effort to like him. The author himself (Clarence Jr) goes to small and periodic effort to endear the reader to his father but the attempts ring rather hollow like a man whose protagonist is watching over his shoulder as he writes. There seems just an edge of boyhood resentment that is very carefully scraped off in the movie’s portrayal of Father.

It is also of note that while the cinematic version is relatively connected and sequential the book takes no such formalities. It seems to jump rather randomly from episode to episode and one is left asking periodically in what decade the particular tidbit is taking place. As such it makes for a very light read but one that requires the reader to throw away any notion of cause and effect.

The thread that I came away with most solidly from this bit of literature was less about the book and more about the movie which came after. Powell’s Clarence is eerily like the Clarence of the text almost as if the role was made for him specifically. The romantic and nostalgic side of me wants to believe that this is because movies in the 40s were a craft and that viewers would notice and object strongly if their beloved characters of fiction are tinkered with even in the slightest. The fact that the plot itself, if you call a disconnected episodic assortment of remembrances a plot, was only remotely similar seems of little import. In these not-entirely-to-be-believed halcyon days of yore it was character that was important to the viewing public. Today all we want is more and bloodier gun battles between larger and more foul-mouthed devotees of thuggery.

If I allow myself to wax realistic for a moment I admit that doubtless my palate has been so repeatedly whitewashed by the movie version of Clarence that I’m not longer intellectually capable of seeing a Clarence Day Sr without seeing William Powell. Psychology of repetition and ordinality aside, Day’s 1920 novel is high on my recommended reading list. show less

Having long been a fan of the 1947 movie of the same name, reading this book was long, long overdue for me. While reading along I couldn’t help but imagine the cherished William Powell and Irene Dunne having at each other. It does make me wonder how the story would have struck me without the pretext of the movie to look back on with such strong visuals.

The Clarence Sr. of the movie is tempestuous and cantankerous of nature but fundamentally one is left with a positive impression. The viewer never really doubts that he is a good man at heart but one cannot avoid the conclusion that he would be a royal pain to live with. Perhaps in part this is Powell shining through in the role but no matter how many times Father storms about the house show more at the end of it all you do still rather like him.

Father of the book is just as blustery and just as much of a tempest in a teacup but it costs one quite a bit more effort to like him. The author himself (Clarence Jr) goes to small and periodic effort to endear the reader to his father but the attempts ring rather hollow like a man whose protagonist is watching over his shoulder as he writes. There seems just an edge of boyhood resentment that is very carefully scraped off in the movie’s portrayal of Father.

It is also of note that while the cinematic version is relatively connected and sequential the book takes no such formalities. It seems to jump rather randomly from episode to episode and one is left asking periodically in what decade the particular tidbit is taking place. As such it makes for a very light read but one that requires the reader to throw away any notion of cause and effect.

The thread that I came away with most solidly from this bit of literature was less about the book and more about the movie which came after. Powell’s Clarence is eerily like the Clarence of the text almost as if the role was made for him specifically. The romantic and nostalgic side of me wants to believe that this is because movies in the 40s were a craft and that viewers would notice and object strongly if their beloved characters of fiction are tinkered with even in the slightest. The fact that the plot itself, if you call a disconnected episodic assortment of remembrances a plot, was only remotely similar seems of little import. In these not-entirely-to-be-believed halcyon days of yore it was character that was important to the viewing public. Today all we want is more and bloodier gun battles between larger and more foul-mouthed devotees of thuggery.

If I allow myself to wax realistic for a moment I admit that doubtless my palate has been so repeatedly whitewashed by the movie version of Clarence that I’m not longer intellectually capable of seeing a Clarence Day Sr without seeing William Powell. Psychology of repetition and ordinality aside, Day’s 1920 novel is high on my recommended reading list. show less

Humour, no matter how understated, often has a tendency to age poorly. Life with Father is a good case in point, in that the stubborn but lovable central character no longer seems quite so lovable 75 years later, and the humorous anecdotes now seem more like living under the tyrannical decrees of a spoiled and petulant man-child.

There were still flashes of humour and it remains an (albeit exaggerated) window into a bygone age, no doubt, but even the normally sublime and sedated New Yorker style can not stop the march of time and changing mores.

This memoir of the author’s father is supposedly famous for its gentle humor, but I didn’t find anything at all funny about the bigoted, sexist, selfish ass.

Clarence Day’s memoirs are some of my favorite books. A loving if tumultuous family dynamic and hilarious stories of their clashes.

Clarence Day's Life with Mother and Life with Father are sets of charming stories, detailing some elements of Day's life with his unique parents. The descriptions of the people who appear through the tales are vivid and engaging and the stories flowed well, making them easy to read. I was pleasantly surprised to find myself avidly wishing for more once I finished both of the volumes.

(This review refers to an edition including both 'Life with Father' and 'Life with Mother'.)

Something about the tone didn't click with me. . . I have a feeling it could be funnier if it did. All in all, I liked the characters but always felt like I was missing an "in" joke.

One thing that did get through to me: his dad certainly had two favorite expletives. PG rating, probably.