Frank Skeffington, the politician-hero of Columbia’s film version of The Last Hurrah, Edwin O’Connor’s best-seller, is about four degrees removed from reality. Everyone in Boston knew the real Frank Skeffington. The shamrock shutters of his neo-Georgian house, built for him long ago by a grateful contractor, are one of my childhood recollections. In later years I have sat and listened to the somewhat fruity voice in the Edwardian-baroque of his drawing room—though I don’t suppose he called the room that. He once gave me a record album of his speeches.
His autobiography of a few years back was written by a friend of mine, and I happen to know what didn’t go into it. The autobiography is twice removed from reality, once by Skeffington, and again (necessarily) by my friend.
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