Judi Dench's New Memoir: 'Don't Call Me a National Treasure'

At 23, Judi Dench was told by a major Hollywood producer that she would never make a movie. His diagnosis was blunt: "Very nice to meet you but you'll never make a movie because you have every single thing wrong with your face." She was 23 and about to make her professional debut as Ophelia in Hamlet at the Old Vic. She left his office, breathed a sigh of relief, and resolved to concentrate on theatre.

The anecdote opens Is It Too Late to Make a Run for It?, Dench's new memoir, and it sets the tone. The book is built around her conversations with Brendan O'Hea, an actor and theatre director who is also a friend and collaborator; the pair previously worked together on 2023's Shakespeare: The Man Who Pays the Rent. Dench's reflections on her working life form the backbone of the new volume.

What does the memoir actually tell us?

The Guardian's review, published on 28 October, confirms much of what is already known about Dench. She is impishly funny. She swears, in the reviewer's phrase, like a sailor. And despite that producer's unkind comments, she has no lingering insecurities about her appearance.

Dench puts it plainly: "no hang-ups about what I look like on camera … Acting for me is not about looking glamorous. It's whatever's needed for the story."

The numbers tell their own story. Though she dabbled in film and TV early on, she did not become a bona fide movie star until the 1990s, when she played M in the Bond films and won an Oscar for her portrayal of Elizabeth I in Shakespeare in Love.

Where does Dench feel at home?

Not on a film set, it turns out. For all the awards, she keeps her priorities in order. "Being onstage is where I feel safest," she says. "Yes, I've appeared in films, but I'd never consider myself a film actor."

That is a striking verdict from an Oscar winner. Most actors would trade a decade of theatre for one Bond credit. Dench would apparently trade the Bond credits back.

The title of the book — and the review's pointed subtitle, "whatever you do, don't call her a 'national treasure'" — signals her irritation at being treated as a dusty old relic. At 91, she clearly prefers mischief to reverence.

What about the pranks?

The memoir offers evidence. While playing Brecht's Mother Courage at the Barbican in London, Dench couldn't resist tampering with the props. She replaced the drinks her character serves to two soldiers with cider vinegar.

Her account is gleeful: "It was a joy watching them knock it back, made even more glorious by the fact they had to ask for a top-up."

The soldiers asked for seconds. Of vinegar. That is commitment to a bit, and it tells you more about Dench than any awards list.

For readers, the book promises the actor as she actually is: funny, profane and allergic to sentimentality. The theatre, she suggests, was never a consolation prize after Hollywood's rejection. It was the plan all along — and, at 91, it still is.