I disagree with those reviewers who found this book worthy but dull; personally, I found it fascinating. It's a thorough and absorbing account of Wodehouse's life and one of the most enjoyable biographies of any author I've read since Peter Ackroyd's "Dickens".
McCrum is clearly a Wodehouse fan with an encyclopedic knowledge of the Master's work but he avoids the mistakes that have bedevilled other biographers of Wodehouse, in that: (a) he doesn't try to write like PGW and (b) he maintains his objectivity when appraising Wodehouse's books. The problem he faces is that - the notorious wartime broadcasts apart - Wodehouse really didn't do very much with his life apart from travel (in the early years) and write. The world he created - the world of Jeeves and Wooster, Blandings Castle, Mr Mulliner and Uncle Fred - was the one in which he felt most at home and the one in which he evidently spent most of his time. His "real" world contained no scandals (the broadcasts apart), no politics, no messy family life; he was simply an amiable if slightly remote man and a ferociously hard-working writer.
But it is this second point that I find so interesting. The care, dedication and attention to detail that Wodehouse put into the creation of all those seemingly effortless, lighter-than-air confections is astonishing. Luckily, like many of his generation, he was a daily letter writer and left behind a mountain of correspondence which allows McCrum to detail the painstaking way in which he mapped out his plots, outlined his characters, drafted early scenarios and gritted his teeth through endless re-writes until the whole thing rose as magically as a souffle. This is the sort of stuff I want to read about in a biography of an author and this is where McCrum delivers the goods.
He strikes a sympathetic, if exasperated, tone about the Berlin broadcasts, which is probably about right. As McCrum acknowledges, there were plenty of Americans making regular broadcasts from Berlin in 1941 to the (still neutral) USA and Wodehouse had, of course, lived so much of his adult like in the States that he regarded himself as much an American as he was an Englishman. If Wodehouse acted like a fool in misjudging British public reaction to his talks, McCrum makes the case that the capital of Nazi Germany in the middle of World War Two was hardly the time or place in which an elderly gentleman of Wodehouse's essentially trusting and naive nature was likely to come up smelling of roses.
McCrum is also very good on the nuts and bolts of Wodehouse's life; his domestic arrangements, his compulsive travel, his friendships and, above all, his endless battles with the taxman on both sides of the Atlantic - not a subject, on the face of it, that is rich in anecdotal material but the story of the British tax official quietly dropping a case against Wodehouse after discovering that they'd played rugby against each other as schoolboys is priceless.
So if you're a Wodehouse fan, I'd recommend you to get a copy of this book. It is rich in detail, warm-hearted without losing its objectivity and written by an author who knows his subject inside out. It gives what is probably the best window we're likely to get on a man who lived a mostly interior life.