On the credit page of a 1983 biography of Peter O'Toole, the reference information reads, "1. O'Toole, Peter, 1932 -," and "2. Actors - Great." While one wonders what category lesser thespian achievers are relegated to (mere? hopeless?), one cannot argue about where O'Toole belongs.
In 1962 his first major film role, as the eponymous "Lawrence of Arabia," proved his greatness. He played Henry II in the 1964 "Becket" and later in the 1968 "The Lion in Winter," a charming insurance agent in the 1966 "How to Steal a Million," a manipulative movie director in the 1980 "The Stunt Man," and an aging screen idol in the 1982 "My Favorite Year."He is an amateur historian who can rattle off obscure literary facts about G.B. Shaw's views on his love life and the use of the colon, and Adolf Hitler's family tree.
O'Toole began his first career after leaving school at age 13 to work for the Yorkshire Evening News, where he developed his journalistic credo, "Look, hesitate, leap," a philosophy that also has served him in other realms of endeavor.
And now he is a writer. Not just an egomaniacal actor who, having reached a certain age, has gone all self-reflective and covetous of large publishing advances. He may well be an egomaniac, but he has a genuine gift for writing that betrays generosity of spirit rather than self-absorption.
"Loitering With Intent, The Child" (Hyperion, $21.95, 198 pages) is the first volume of a planned three-part project. The book is a boisterous, galloping and intelligent memoir that dwells on how he adored his high-living father and despised the arch villain of his childhood, Hitler. The only drawback of the book is that many of his fans may be more interested in the course his life took after he studied at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London. He ends this book just as he is about to learn his craft.
O'Toole has been a public figure for so long that he is understandably weary of the privacy-invading publicity routine. In San Francisco at the end of a weeklong national book tour, he confessed that he was not operating at full throttle.
"I hardly know where I am," he said, pressing an unfiltered cigarette into a holder and sitting down to a cup of coffee.
But he knows who he is.
O'Toole's beginnings were hardly patrician. He describes himself as coming "straight from the criminal classes." His father was a devil-may-care bookie. Asked how someone of that colorful background learned the gestures and demeanor of a peer of the realm, he shrugs. "Have I?"
Ever his father's son, he is a natty dresser, wearing an ivory linen jacket with a reddish foulard in the breast pocket, a widely striped red and white shirt, a salmon necktie, ivory deck shoes and green socks. He always wears green socks.
O'Toole, once a gloriously pretty man with a proud jaw, bowed eyebrows, wide expanses of teeth and sapphire eyes, is now somewhat more subdued in appearance.
At 61, he is still tall and wispy, with finely boned hands and graceful bearing, but his face, the dusty color of unglazed porcelain flecked with dainty bits of pink, has taken on a fragile look. The smile is still dazzling - pure joy radiates out of the corners of his grin - but at rest, his face bears a touch of sorrow.
O'Toole has acted onstage in London over the past few years and appeared in several films that were not released in the United States, including "Rebecca's Daughter," "Wings of Fame" and Lina Wertmuller's "Up to Date," but recently he has devoted his time to making sense of his past and putting it into words.
Comparing writing with the social hooplah of acting, which requires interaction with fellow actors, a director and crew, he observes that before he convenes with his collaborators, he must apply himself, alone, to the text.
"The preparation for acting is very solitary. A lot of undisturbed private study," he says. "It's very lonely. I find it very similar to writing.
"When you're studying for a part, you inhale the author. So, it's kind of like exhaling to write. I don't know where the words come from, but I can do it when I have the pictures in my mind. I visualize it first. Then I can write."
Flamboyance - a collection of mannerisms O'Toole became known for early in his career - is less evident in his recent work. He stole each of his scenes in "The Last Emperor," but he did it like a cat burglar, almost unnoticeably.
As a younger actor, O'Toole found he was offered roles for men of action and ambition, men who were well spoken and passionate, but not about women.
It's been reported that when he announced he would play a man who was irresistible to women in the chaotic farce "What's New, Pussycat," he remarked that he was thrilled to be in a film with "hundreds of pretty girls. Usually in a movie, I'm in love with the Truth, or Richard Burton or a camel."
In life he was in love with, and married, Sian Phillips, a Welsh actress and mother of his two daughters. They divorced after 20 years, in 1979. More recently he was involved with an American woman, Karen Somerville. They separated in 1983. He gained joint custody of their 10-year-old son, Lorcan, in 1988.
Smoking seems to be O'Toole's one remaining indulgence. How is his health? "Excellent," pause, "and yours?"
For many years, O'Toole suffered from mysterious stomach ailments, culminating in surgery for something vaguely described as some kind of "malignancy" some time during the mid- to late 1970s. This was around the same time his wife was leaving him for a younger man, his father was dying and his doctors were telling him he had to give up drinking or seriously downscale his life expectancy.
During a book-signing here, O'Toole puffed away while signing almost all of the 350 copies of his book the store had for sale. A crowd of more than 800 people applauded when he entered.
O'Toole has no film projects planned now. He is writing full time and the second volume is going well. "It's rolling along," he says. "Staggering along? Anyway, I hope to break the back of it by the end of the year."
The book signing looked threateningly taxing for a man known to doze on the job. But he soldiered on. He was polite to all, and perked up to flirt with small children and one attractive woman on whom he pressed a friendly kiss.
An old friend?
"New," he corrected again. He waggled his weary signing paw in the air to stimulate blood flow and regain agility, and set himself to the labor at hand.