Some Alan memories by some of his children

Alan

To begin at the beginning, his mother Isabella was one of 13 children and had noticed his father Ernest, because he had charismatic way of walking with a cane. This must have singled him out in Sunderland.

He was the last of four boys, Ernie, Eric, Leslie and his older sister Joyce. At the time you could be beaten at school for asking questions, but he never stopped asking or demanding that something happen. He experienced being evacuated but hated it. He was at home in a community.

As an adolescent he went out to the library swathed in scarves, looking mysterious - he hoped, but in fact this was to hide spots. So he did care about his appearance and all his life he was always handsome and striking.

Alan was the first in his family, and his street, to go to university and Oxford at that. The war helped and he arrived mistaken as a Welshman at Jesus College, in a home made blueish suit that was seen as hilarious, but made him life long friends. There his writing began to be published.

Each marriage was the best.

His first wife, Pamela, was not a Geordie nor an Oxford graduate, but a Home Counties hairdresser who blew smoke-rings and loved him. His second wife, Nancy, was an American; clever, adventurous and at the same time practical. She could fly a plane and once dived into the Thames at Cliveden to rescue a weekend guest's child. In 1952, she accompanied Gershwin's Porgy and Bess to Moscow and later in life, made obscure Medieval woodwind instruments for fun. His third wife, Jill, was a fellow writer, an evacuee and a soul mate who could rely on Alan for a complete lack of candour or worship and helped when she was depressed. Wife number four, Jane, a writer and art historian, can find marvels in skips, is passionate and irreverent and taught him about plants, landscapes, sculpture and all the arts. Their travels and adventures took them from a honeymoon in the Seychelles, to a silent retreat in the hills of Sri Lanka. For fourteen years, Jane and Alan clocked up hours at top speed on the motorway to visit stately homes and rugged countryside up and down England. Without Jane his life could easily have fizzled out.

Alan, as you know, had a huge appetite.. for life, love and all its sensual pleasures, none too small to be written about. At the same time he didn’t tell you what he felt or how he felt about you - he accepted that you as his child, wife, friend, carer or grandchild were generally OK.

As a child, if you finished your pudding in a restaurant he ordered you another, telling us that we could have the best bit first - he didn’t defer things in case there was no second chance. At the same time he left things to last minute, didn’t plan, had no carefully put together pension plan, no savings and very few possessions, apart from books.

His taste was a mystery, as he seemed to like whatever we liked. He liked the elements, fire, water and even snow - though he sent off for some snowshoes, in the winter of 1962, which dragged his feet into drifts - he was not defeated or dumped by mistakes.

Alan didn’t complain about his health or make us feel guilty. He could be infuriating and selfish, but also immensely optimistic and politically committed.

Alan hated people or animals being exploited and stood up once to complain at kangaroos with boxing gloves being made to fight each other at a circus.

He told all sorts of stories, and could speak Shakespearean or Biblically and knew who all the actors were in films, ancient and modern. If he was moved, he cried; sometimes dramatically in the theatre and as a critic he would sit in the fourth row in an aisle seat, so he could dash to the phone box before his rivals and send in a review, with all the grammatical instructions, open para....capital letter.

He was attractive to women, and even recently, he would come to life and smile hugely at his granddaughter or at the young physiotherapist trying to get him to walk again. He impressed those doing a six monthly mini-mental state exam, by telling them how the florid illusions he had were ‘free cinema’ and managing to remember the name of the mental health nurse, it was Brian.

His pain threshold was high, both emotionally and physically but he didn’t hit out or retaliate. He was strong and very protective too.

Alan, we will miss you.

Times Obituary - May 26, 2008

Alan Brien
Prolific journalist, critic and distinguished commentator with a taste for whimsy, women and liquor

Read a New Statesman article by Alan Brien

Read a review of Alan Brien's novel Lenin

Alan Brien listed “procrastination” as a recreation in Who’s Who. But as one of the most versatile, fluent and prolific journalists of the postwar generation — in the tradition of Belloc, Chesterton and Agate — he was driven by deadlines for more than 50 years, producing highly opinionated film and theatre criticism, book reviews, comment columns and weekly diaries for the New Statesman, The Spectator, The Sunday Telegraph, The Sunday Times and Punch — invariably at the last minute, in true hack style.

Even his rare dreams would be full of newspapers and stacks of typed copy, he once wrote. If he tried to read what was written on the tantalising dreampages, it would say, “Turn to page 96 . . . take in Reuters . . . end of part one . . . is there much more of this?”

Alan Brien was born in Sunderland in 1925, the fifth and last child of an inspector of tramways: a working-class family which encouraged wide reading and educational aspiration with much lively humour. From the local Bede Grammar, he went on to read English at Jesus College, Oxford, where he was a contemporary of Kenneth Tynan. He had joined the RAF in 1943, but he was no good as a pilot — he never subsequently learnt to drive a car — but as an air gunner he took part in many raids, and would have been involved in the Dresden raid had he not been grounded by flu. Like many of his Oxford coterie, he aspired to become a foreign correspondent and to write a great novel in the Hemingway tradition. He even stayed on for an extra term in order to be editor of Isis. But while still at Oxford in 1947 he had married a fellow undergraduate, the first of his four wives, and quickly became a father of three daughters, including twins. So he settled in 1950 for a variegated journalistic career.

Having found jobs on two longdefunct magazines, Mini-Kinema and Truth, by the mid-1950s he was The Observer’s television reviewer, later its film critic. He transferred to the Evening Standard, which sent him to New York. But his chief ambition now was to write about the theatre, a role he took first at The Spectator (doubling as features editor), from 1958 to 1961, a vibrant period of modern drama. He deployed a critical viewpoint every bit as astute as that of his undergraduate rival, Tynan: thoughtful, detailed, observant, intellectual, expanding the review formula into sparkling essays on contemporary culture, perceptively diagnosing the future development of new playwrights such as Pinter, Wesker, Osborne, N. F. Simpson, Peter Nichols and John Mortimer.

While writing on politics for the Sunday Pictorial, he became the first drama critic of the newly fledged Sunday Telegraph, created in 1961, and was twice awarded the title of Critic of the Year. Brien’s output, which included a pseudonymous column as “John Jolley” for the Daily Mail, and frequent television appearances on the current affairs chat-show Three After Six, reflected a magnificent confidence and stamina. He was a contributor to Topic, a shortlived attempt in the early 1960s to create a British Newsweek. Columns rolled out, in The Spectator (1963-65) and the New Statesman (1966-72). In 1967 he went to hear the new editor of The Sunday Times, Harold Evans, speaking in Highgate. Evans told him flatteringly: “You can pluck more interesting fluff out of your navel than most people can from a week out on the road,” and recruited him for The Sunday Times, sending him to Moscow and Saigon.

He also reviewed television and eventually films, but he made his mark with Alan Brien’s Week, from 1967 to 1975, adorning the back page, captivating and enraging readers by turns, exactly as he wished. (The column inspired Private Eye’s parodic Auberon Waugh Diaries in the 1970s, with Waugh’s mugshot embellished with a painted-on Brien beard, above wild and reckless opinion-mongering.) Provocative in discourse, relishing argument, endowed with a rare memory for unstoppable racontage, he could dominate even the famous Punch table and was never averse to taking a bet, even when wrong. He remained an uncompromising socialist; which coloured his vision of society to the end.

In a typically inventive New Statesman column (1969), he made play with the names of London’s great department stores. These reminded him of an old-fashioned nanny addressing her charge: “Don’t be selfridge, Master Fortnum! Eat up all your harrods, and then you can have a gorringe. You’ll do yourself a gamage, mark my words, if you don’t have a C and A every morning on the derry & tom. Ponting is rude. I knew a child once died of the whiteleys after too many burberrys.” Shop names also reminded him of what one’s mother might say when meeting an old school-friend: “I’m having tea with Lilian Skinner today.” In 1978 he announced that he was embarking on a book about his home town, Sunderland, but somehow ended up producing a photo-essay about women’s breasts, a subject on which he seemed to be something of an expert. His then wife, the feminist writer Jill Tweedie, had, he said, breasts in the shape of Roman helmets. As Tina Brown asked in her review, what was “the best descriptive writer of our day doing, publishing a pornographic picture book?” Domes of Fortune came out in the same month as Tweedie’s book In the Name of Love, which dissected the subject of marriage in terms of feminism — her thesis being that real love had only become possible since the women’s liberation movement, as women had formerly been enslaved.

Tweedie described Brien memorably thus: “My third husband has none of the attributes of a mythic lover. He is not chivalrous, he is not even very polite. He cannot dance, he is tone-deaf and colour-blind, he has no moods, he does not day-dream . . . He brings home no flowers, he remembers no birthdays, he does not try a little tenderness. He has no god, he worships no one, loyalty is not a word he recognises. He does not know the meaning of romance, nor care to know . . . He reminds me of an old warthog I once saw in an African twilight.”

This warthog had butted its way through all the other animals at a drinking-hole, intent on getting to the water. Brien, said Tweedie, was similarly engaged in his journalistic forays. “He shunts and butts through the verbiage . . . ignoring the startled, sometimes angry, sometimes timorous people around him, intent on only one thing. The truth, such as it is.”

He was a gregarious man and an expansive host. In one of his countryman episodes, he took a cottage near Cliveden (his second wife, Nancy, having Astor connections) where weekends featured sausage-and-mash lunches, and once a Thames boat trip when everyone fell in the river after too many gins. In the 1980s he became determined to be the oldest first novelist on the literary scene, and published Lenin the Novel in 1987, when he was 62. It was not a success, but he now styled himself “novelist”.

His next novel would be set in Ancient Rome, and he started on an autobiography, All Right for Some, neither of which was published.

He listed “empyromancy” as a hobby — a passion, shared with the Rev Sydney Smith, for blazing fires — and fulfilled it at his last home, the most ancient cottage in Highgate Village, which he shared with his fourth wife, the writer Jane Hill. As a retired man of letters, he kept up with old friends and with contemporary cinema, read poetry, and walked his dog, Solly, on Hampstead Heath. During his final decline with Lewy body disease, when he was cared for at Denville Hall, an expression of sceptical, cynical amusement never left his face, which, thanks to a fine nose and Slavic eyes and cheekbones, retained its striking profile.

He is survived by his wife, Jane, and by five children and three stepchildren.

Alan Brien, journalist and critic, was born on March 12, 1925. He died on May 23, 2008, aged 83

Guardian Obituary - May 26 2008

Alan Brien
Original, omnivorous journalist on papers ranging from the Daily Mail to the Observer

Of all the young circus lions who livened up Oxford University after the second world war, the journalist Alan Brien, who has died at the age of 83, was the most exemplary. He came from a humble background or, as he put it, carried his working-class passport. He had flown with Bomber Command, was already married, and would most likely never have been able to afford any university but for the grants that were readily available to ex-servicemen.

At Jesus College, he read English literature and shone in university journalism; he went on to do the same in the outside world - as a foreign correspondent, drama critic and columnist. At the same time, he contracted a trace of the malaise which Cyril Connolly had identified 20 years earlier in his book Enemies of Promise, and had blamed particularly on languid seats of learning and the lure of instant earnings. These twin distractions, he argued, sidetracked too many writers from achieving the major works of which they were capable.

Brien published one considerable work of fiction - or faction - Lenin: The Novel (1987): as a journalist, however, his eminence is unchallengeable. When the founding of Britain's first new newspaper after the war, the Sunday Telegraph, was being planned in 1960-61, the first appointment to be made by the editor-designate, Donald McLachlan, was that of Brien as theatre critic. "On this we can build," McLachlan was supposed to have said. Brien's wit, authority and vivid prose duly won him and the paper the Hannen Swaffer (later IPC) critic of the year award two years running. As a columnist he held court in publications as diverse as the Daily Mail and the Sunday Times, Punch and the New Statesman.

Brien was born in Sunderland. His father drove a city tram, he claimed, though some friends suspected that he was actually an inspector. From Bede grammar school, he went into the RAF (1943-46), trained as an airgunner and flew on a number of operations in the closing months of the war, including a raid on Hitler's mountain retreat of Berchtesgaden. In 1947 he married his home-town girlfriend Pamela Jones. They had twin daughters, Alyson and Joanna, and then a third daughter, Rebecca.

His first job in journalism was not exactly the honeyed seduction Connolly had in mind. He was half the editorial staff of Mini-Kinema (1950-52), a publication for film-makers using 16mm or 9mm cameras, mainly hobbyists. He moved on to a metropolitan magazine called Courier, and from there to a dizzy succession of posts, occasionally in parallel - reviewing films for the Evening Standard, television for the Observer and theatre for the Spectator, as well as acting as its features editor.

He wrote about politics for the Sunday Pictorial (precursor of the Sunday Mirror) and about things in general, under the pseudonym of John Jelley, for the Sunday Dispatch (later reborn as the Mail on Sunday). For the Sunday Times, in the early 1970s, he was their man in Moscow and Saigon, then a diarist who chronicled his daily doings on the back page of the paper.
Though he was a great talker on any subject, he was never really taken up by radio or television. His only regular appearances were on an early ITV chat show, Three After Six, and as chairman of the BBC literary quiz game Take It or Leave It. He was always good company, loved games and outings and food and wine, as long as the last was free from snobbery. "Was thirteen-and-six a good year?" he would enquire (in pre-decimal times) when presented with the wine list by a supercilious sommelier.

Brien was married four times. His marriage to Pamela ended in divorce, and in 1961 he married Nancy Newbold Ryan, a vivacious New Yorker he had met when reporting from that city for the Evening Standard. They had a son, Adam, and a daughter, Jane. By the 1970s this marriage was failing, and on a press trip abroad, Brien met the Guardian writer Jill Tweedie. They were wed in 1973. She died of motor neurone disease in 1993. Three years later he married Jane Hill, a writer and museum curator. They set up home in north Northamptonshire at first, where he and Jill had had a weekend retreat, but at the turn of the century moved back to Highgate, north London.

Brien continued to review for the London Review of Books and the Literary Review until he was slowed down by a rare form of dementia, Lewy Body disease. He was, I suppose, the last literary-journalistic giant in the tradition of GK Chesterton, Hilaire Belloc and James Agate: original, omnivorous and lucid in his writings, a generous host and good companion.
He is survived by Jane, his five children, a stepson, Luke, from his third marriage, and seven grandchildren.

Alan Brien, journalist and writer, born March 12 1925; died May 23 2008

Philip Purser