In a casual fancy, S. J. Perelman once concocted an actor of surpassing ego. "I see a fresh new concept of drama knocking at the door," he said. "A theatre without plays . . . devoid of scenery and untrammeled by actors."
"And what would be left?"
"Just me. Face factsthe day I donned greasepaint, a whole profession became obsolete."
Perelman named his actor Basil Woolwine. He could just as well have called him Anthony Newley. In the latest case of lifelessness imitating artlessness, Newley continues his long love affair with Newley. Can Heironymus...