The Tasmanian who came to Hollywood by way of the New Guinea goldfields, the Spanish Civil War, and a ship he named for himself — then became the greatest swashbuckler the screen has ever produced and proceeded to live a life of such extravagant chaos that it eventually became the thing everyone talked about instead of the films.
Portrait · Errol Flynn
Born Errol Leslie Thomson Flynn on June 20, 1909, in Hobart, Tasmania — the son of a marine biologist. He was expelled from multiple schools, worked the New Guinea goldfields, tried tobacco farming, sailed a yacht to New Guinea, and arrived in England in the early 1930s having done more living than most actors manage in a career. He appeared on the London stage, was spotted by a Warner Bros. talent scout, and arrived in Hollywood in 1935 with a physical presence and an ease of movement that the camera registered as something approaching miracle.
Warner Bros. cast him as the lead in Captain Blood (1935) when Robert Donat withdrew — his first major film, a pirate adventure that made him a star overnight. The partnership with director Michael Curtiz and co-star Olivia de Havilland produced a run of films — The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), The Charge of the Light Brigade (1936), The Sea Hawk (1940) — that constitutes the greatest body of swashbuckling cinema ever made.
The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) is his masterwork and cinema's — shot in three-strip Technicolor by Michael Curtiz and William Keighley, it remains the definitive screen adaptation of the legend and the film against which all subsequent versions are measured. Flynn's Robin is not performed but inhabited: the physical joy of the role is entirely visible, the swordfight with Basil Rathbone's Guy of Gisbourne is among cinema's finest action sequences, and the easy charm that makes Robin's leadership credible is Flynn himself rather than a character he was playing.
His off-screen life — the drinking, the womanising, the litigation, the autobiography, the yacht named Zaca on which he spent the last years — eventually overwhelmed the films in the public memory. He died in Vancouver on October 14, 1959, aged fifty, his body aged far beyond its years. The phrase "in like Flynn" had entered the language; the films that justified it are considerably finer than the phrase suggests.
Flynn's Robin does not perform the role — he inhabits it so completely that the pleasure is entirely visible, which is precisely what the character requires. A Robin Hood who seems to be making an effort is already wrong. The swordfight with Basil Rathbone's Guy of Gisbourne — choreographed over weeks, performed with total commitment — is the finest action sequence of the studio era.
Captain Blood requires Flynn to carry two hours of adventure on the strength of his physical presence and charm alone — there is no character to speak of, only a man to embody — and he does it with the ease of someone for whom inhabiting heroic space is the most natural thing in the world. The film essentially invented the template his next decade would follow.
Corbett is Flynn with the myth removed — a man who needs to earn his heroism rather than wear it by nature, whose charm is defensive rather than inherent. The performance shows what a director with patience and an actor willing to work beneath the surface could produce. It is the film that proves Flynn was more than his image.
The Sea Hawk benefits from a moral seriousness the earlier adventure films sometimes lack — Thorpe is fighting for something larger than himself, and Flynn's natural heroism acquires a weight it hadn't always carried. The galley sequence, shot with genuine physical hardship, is the film's finest and most physically honest achievement.
My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits with my net income.
Errol Flynn's legacy is The Adventures of Robin Hood and the question it raises — why has nobody made a better one in eighty-five years? The answer is that the film requires an actor of Flynn's specific combination of physical grace, natural charm, and evident joy in the role, and this combination has not reappeared in quite the same proportions. The film is not a tribute to what Hollywood could manufacture; it is a document of what Flynn actually was.
His death at fifty — the body finished before the talent — is Hollywood's most persistent might-have-been. Gentleman Jim showed what a mature Flynn, working with the right director and the right material, could produce. The question of what he might have done between fifty and sixty, had he survived, is one that nobody has been able to answer, because nobody with his specific gifts has emerged to demonstrate the possibilities.