This book is a disgrace to publishing. I enjoyed every moment. . .
Ken Russell is rightly a national treasure, mainly, I think, because there is no artifice about him, no protective skin of sophisticated irony, and certainly no excess of scholarly reserve. He is refreshing and straightforward.
For what it's worth, I don't think he really "caught" Elgar in either of his two splendid films, and perhaps he doesn't think so either, for the first half of this book is devoted to saying out loud all the things about Elgar and his women friends that were either glossed over or merely hinted at on screen.
Unless and until a really full biography of Elgar appears, we won't know the truth about Elgar, and probably not even then. As far as I know, and the leading authority Michael Kennedy states, there is no conclusive evidence that Elgar had a string of mistresses before, during and after his marriage, but Ken doesn't let that stand in his way. And who knows, he may be right?
For the real enigma about Elgar is that his often wonderful music was produced by, frankly, an awful man with an even more awful wife. He was paranoid, a raving snob and social climber, convinced of his own worth and bitter that not everyone else was, a cutter-dead of his friends, and unpleasant to just about everyone. To the extent that those things come through in Ken Russell's narrative, his work is done.
Ken, it is true, can't write to save his life. His dialogue is hopeless -- anachronistic, embarrassing and wooden -- there are spelling mistakes everywhere, and you can see the joins where he strings together the few known facts he does employ. And yet . . . and yet, this is a good read!
The second section, about Frederick Delius, is less feverish, but one senses a real affection for the subject. It's no better as literature, but one hates to quibble. . .