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Then came The Bridge on the River Kwai (TIME, Dec. 23). At one stroke, Actor Guinness was transformed from an interesting foreign name into a big Hollywood star. With one film he more than doubled his movie audience in the U.S.—Kwai will probably be seen by at least 50 million Americans, and stands to make more than $20 million. By his intricate, strongly moving portrayal of a British colonel at once stupid and heroic. Guinness repealed the casual popular impression that he is merely a sort of Stan Laurel for the intellectuals, and revealed himself as a dramatic actor of imposing skill and large imagination. U.S. moviemakers were so impressed that last month the Motion Picture Academy named Alec Guinness the best movie actor of 1957.
One-Man Tibet. Last week, at a Variety Club luncheon in London's Savoy Hotel, Cinemactor Guinness at last got his hands on the object that signifies supreme success in his profession. It was a moment that most actors would give their profiles to experience, a scene that almost any imaginable entertainer would play to the echo. Alec showed up 25 minutes late. The hotel doorman was somewhat upset at the sight of the filthy old tramp with the messy whiskers, paint-smeared jacket, soiled green flannel shirt and cracked shoes, but Guinness was able to establish his identity and the fact that he had just stepped out of a scene in his new picture, a version of Joyce Gary's novel, called Straight from the Horse's Mouth.
An actor is rarely presented with such an opportunity for the grand entrance. The other guests, deep in talk and Escalope de Veau Viennoise, were setups for a shrewd performance. But Guinness somehow managed to get through a crowd of 500 people without being particularly noticed. After dinner he shyly accepted the club's award as the Best Film Actor of 1957, and then a Columbia executive produced the Oscar. Applause. Alec fidgeted, looked bashfully pleased, mumbled a few words about the "many people in show business who helped me," sat down.
The incident was characteristic. Alec Guinness is a public recluse in the grand theatrical tradition of Maude Adams, Greta Garbo and Paul Muni. And shut up in the passionate reserve is one of the most difficult, complex and enigmatic Englishmen who ever reached for the rouge. "A dark horse," says Sir Laurence Olivier, "a deep one." Director David (Kwai) Lean adds: "Alec is one of the most fantastically knotted-up men I know." And all agree with the actor who called him "the best-kept secret of modern times, a sort of one-man Tibet."
Anonymity. At first glance, Guinness at 44 looks remarkably like nothing much. He is rather short and shapeless, with milk-bottle shoulders, chubby hands and a prosperous waistline. He is balding, jug-eared, and his pale phiz is blotched with pale freckles and pale blue eyes. His usual expression is an unemphatic blank. Critic Kenneth Tynan once mused that "the number of false arrests following the circulation of his description would break all records."