The Stratford-born actor of Hungarian-Jewish descent who played Ashley Wilkes and Henry Higgins and Philip Carey and Alan Squier, and who died at fifty when a civilian flight from Lisbon to London was shot down over the Bay of Biscay — possibly because German intelligence believed Winston Churchill was aboard. The war that produced his best wartime films claimed him before they did.
Portrait · Leslie Howard
Born Leslie Howard Steiner on April 3, 1893, in London — the son of a Hungarian-Jewish father who had come to England from Budapest and an English mother. He was educated at Dulwich College, worked as a bank clerk, and took up acting after a nervous breakdown following the Battle of Ypres in 1917, for which he had been invalided out of the army. He made his London stage debut in 1917 and his Broadway debut in 1920, and was established as one of the English-speaking theatre's finest actors by the mid-1920s.
Hollywood found him elegant, poetic, and somewhat English in a way that American audiences in the 1930s found irresistible. John Cromwell's Of Human Bondage (1934) — Howard as Philip Carey, the clubfooted medical student destroyed by his obsession with Bette Davis's Mildred Rogers — gave him the role that most completely demonstrated the specific quality of his suffering: the intelligent man who sees his own destruction with complete clarity and proceeds toward it anyway. Archie Mayo's The Petrified Forest (1936) — Howard as the disillusioned wandering intellectual Alan Squier — gave Humphrey Bogart his career-making role, and Howard's quietly desperate romanticism gave Bogart's violence its full meaning.
Anthony Asquith and Gabriel Pascal's Pygmalion (1938) — Howard as Henry Higgins, which he co-directed — won him a shared Oscar nomination for Best Actor and established the film as the template for the Shavian film adaptation. He reluctantly accepted the role of Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind (1939), finding the character weak and the film commercially obligatory, and played him with the specific quality of a good actor doing work he doesn't respect: the performance is impeccable and the impatience with it is invisible.
After the declaration of war, he returned to Britain, refused Hollywood offers, and made propaganda films of genuine artistic distinction — The First of the Few (1942), in which he played the Spitfire designer R.J. Mitchell, which he also directed. On June 1, 1943, the civilian BOAC flight on which he was returning from a lecture tour in Portugal was intercepted by Luftwaffe Junkers Ju 88s over the Bay of Biscay and shot down. All seventeen aboard were killed. German intelligence may have believed Churchill was on the flight; Churchill was not. Howard was fifty years old.
Higgins's quality — the brilliant man who is constitutionally incapable of recognising other people as fully human — is played by Howard with the intellectual authority the role requires and the comic self-satisfaction that prevents it from becoming merely cruel. His Higgins is not cruel because he cannot imagine cruelty; the failure of imagination is the character's tragedy and Howard plays it as a form of innocence that is also a form of damage.
Philip's suffering is not operatic but precise — the suffering of a man who knows what is happening to him, can articulate it, and cannot stop it. Davis received the more celebrated reviews — her Mildred is the film's most spectacular performance — but Howard's Philip is the film's moral and psychological argument, and without his quality the film would simply be the story of a man abused by a bad woman, which is not what Maugham wrote.
Alan Squier's specific quality — the man who has decided that his own life has no further value and is looking for a meaningful use of it — is played by Howard with the controlled romanticism that the 1930s allowed and that his particular combination of refinement and exhaustion made entirely credible. He insisted Bogart play Duke Mantee when the studio wanted someone more famous; Bogart sent Howard a silver cigarette case inscribed "To Leslie Howard, with appreciation" and kept it until he died.
Ashley's problem — the man who knows what is right and lacks the force to do it, who loves correctly and helplessly, whose decency is a form of inadequacy — is the role the film required to give Scarlett's desire its tragic dimension. Howard hated the role, hurried back to Britain when production ended, and within months was making Pygmalion and preparing wartime propaganda films that he considered genuinely important. Ashley was the price he paid for the freedom to do the other work.
I am not sufficiently in love with the role. Ashley is too much of a dream figure. I prefer flesh and blood characters.
Leslie Howard's legacy is Philip Carey's face as he watches himself be destroyed — the intelligence and the helplessness in the same expression, the clarity that cannot prevent what it sees. Two Oscar nominations, Shaw's personal approval of Pygmalion, Bogart's silver cigarette case, and the wartime films that he was still making when the Luftwaffe intercepted his aircraft: the career was complete by any measure except its own potential.
He was fifty years old and working. The German intelligence that may have targeted his aircraft because it carried Churchill was wrong about the passenger and right about the principle: Howard was doing for Britain's cultural self-understanding in 1943 what Churchill was doing for its political will, and both were worth destroying from a German strategic perspective.