A good many books are interesting, but far fewer are charming. That, however, is what Wear and Tear is. Tracy Tynan is the only child of the celebrated British drama critic Kenneth Tynan, the wittiest 20th-century critic in any genre, and his American wife Elaine Dundy, author of the novel The Dud Avocado and a biography of the actor Peter Finch. The children of celebrities tend to have a hard time of it, especially if one parent (in this case both) acquired fame through literature. As a Harvard student, I befriended Vincent Cronin, son of the popular novelist A. J. Cronin, and John Russell, son of the philosopher Bertrand Russell. Both were bright and amiable, but neither made history. Neither trying to emulate nor straining not to prevents an apple from falling far from the tree.
Little Tracy Tynan had the onus not only of famous but famously embattled parents, who fought almost constantly, their favored weapons being hurled furniture. (Luckily, they were either expert dodgers or had rotten aim.) Their daughter had every opportunity to grow up a mess or failure, but Tracy overcame both handicaps, becoming instead a successful costume designer in Hollywood, working on many movies, often for major stars—some more, some less, tractable. Her childhood years were fraught not only by parental combat, but also by frequent uprooting and repeated separations from closest chums. As a daughter of the Tynans, egregious celebrity hounds, she got to know numerous stellar figures in show business and the arts. This left its mark—as did, later on, education at Sarah Lawrence, probably the most art- and showbiz-oriented academic institution in the land.
Early on, she tells us that as girlfriend and later wife to director Jim McBride, and costume designer on his film Breathless (1983), she discovered her destiny by way of her fascination with clothes. “I realized that costume design enabled me to combine many of my interests,” she writes. “I was part artist, part historian, part shrink, part nanny, and part accountant. I learned how to read a script, break it down, and imagine the world in which the characters lived. . . . But it all started out with my childhood obsession with clothing.”
This may have stemmed from her father’s being a clotheshorse, addicted to the most glaringly bizarre getups. Not for nothing was Kenneth Tynan the illegitimate son of a man named Peacock, suiting him (in both senses of the word) to perfection. On the other hand, how hurtful it was to tell his teenage daughter that “it doesn’t matter if you’re not beautiful.” This was meant as backhanded encouragement, but as Tracy observes, it was also proof that “despite his facility with words, he seemed unable to find the right ones to inspire confidence.”
Still, Tracy became fascinated with clothing as well: First, with the garments imposed on her as a child; then as an enthusiastic shopper, with clothes she would track down for herself; and finally, what she designed or purchased for herself, her friends, kinfolk, and, above all, actors, not a few of them famous stars. This is what makes Wear and Tear‘s 36 short chapters fetching: Each centers on an item of clothing, among them her mother’s fur coat, which she would crawl into when parental warfare became too frightening. And we learn a good deal about clothes, about famous designers Tracy worked for and learned from, and about stimulating teachers such as the filmmaker Shirley Clarke (a maternal aunt), as well as friends and outfitted celebrities, including her mother and her stepmother, Kathleen.
But Tynan writes evocatively about much else. Especially moving are passages involving her father, now living in California, where the milder climate was beneficial to his emphysema. Even when eventually hospitalized, Kenneth Tynan cannot stop smoking because, as he insists, he could not write without cigarettes. She writes, “as my father said goodbye, he lit up a cigarette and coughed violently. ‘Don’t tell . . .’ he spluttered. I nodded. I knew the drill. As I waved goodbye, I caught a glimpse . . . of my top blowing in the breeze, the floppy hat half covering my face. I looked sad. I felt sad.” And on a hospital visit:
Tynan was 53 when he died.
Tracy Tynan seems to have total recall, even of dialogue, and especially heartwarming is her account of her long, up-and-down premarital relationship with her husband, who, having gone through two previous marriages, was resolved to avoid a third one. To Kenneth’s question—”What are your intentions toward my daughter?”—he answered, “I’m not going to marry her, if that’s what you mean.” Tracy remembers: “I looked down at the floor, flooded with humiliation, angry at my father for asking the question, at Jim for answering the way he had. I wanted to take Jim’s brown fedora and cram it over his face.”
Even in anger, clothing comes first.
John Simon is an author and critic in New York.
