Alan Rickman

by Maureen Paton

  How many, indeed? Rickman has fought against typecasting all his life; and it would seem that he had reinvented himself just a little too successfully all those years ago at Latymer Upper. With a background like his, this was the ultimate paradox.

  But with so many film offers coming his way, he didn’t have time to brood for long about making a proper return to the stage. Invariably he opted for character roles in indie movies, in which he wouldn’t be dictated to by a major studio and where his name – that real-life Robin Hood tendency again – could help to raise the finance for struggling film-makers. In a transformation that recalled Michael Douglas’s turn as a bespectacled ordinary Joe in Falling Down, Rickman was almost unrecognisable in menacing horn-rimmed glasses and pinstripes for the role of a burnt-out, but still fully fanged, executive in the corporate comedy The Search For John Gissing, which co-starred Juliet Stevenson and which won the Critics’ Choice Award for Best Feature at the 2002 Sarasota Film Festival. Actor/director Mike Binder played an American businessman who arrived in London with his wife, played by Janeane Garofalo, to take over final negotiations for a big merger with a German firm. He was replacing chief negotiator John Gissing, played by Rickman with all the venom and passive aggression of one passed over for the job and determined to sabotage his successor at every stage of the game. It was the kind of satire on the corporate ethic, or lack of ethic, that American film-makers do particularly well.

  He followed it with Blow Dry, which, according to the end credits, was curiously only ‘based on’ a screenplay by the acclaimed writer of The Full Monty, Simon Beaufoy. Rickman played an equally burnt-out, but by no means extinct, hairdresser. The Yorkshire accent was deployed again, with Rickman getting top billing in this uneasy and uneven tragi-comedy about a crimping contest. It was the second time Alan had played a cuckold, here losing his wife Natasha Richardson to an over-the-top Rachel Griffiths in one of the least convincing lesbian relationships portrayed on film. Talk about subverting stereotypes: the hairdresser was the straight guy for a change. Even for a Yorkshireman in a backstreet barber’s shop who charges £2 extra ‘if it wants washing’, Rickman seemed unusually dour in the role and, though he acquitted himself with panache in the final scissor-sharpening moments, the film was not his finest hour. All one can say with conviction is that at least he had the hair for it. Rickman defended the film to the Irish Times, revealing that he had wanted to work with the director Paddy Breathnach after watching his sublimely funny gangster film I Went Down. Paddy was a loquacious Kevin Smith, only funnier – except, unfortunately, in Blow Dry.

  Funniest of all was Alan’s voiceover for a power-crazed pilot fish in the animated feature Help! I’m A Fish, which Rickman imbued with his insinuating brand of cartoon menace. Rickman’s pilot fish drank a potion that gave him a human voice and an overweening desire to rule the ocean, which is how he managed to upstage the great white shark in his territorial ambitions. It is left to three child heroes, who have been turned into fish by the same magic potion, to defeat him and save the day. More than one reviewer remarked on how the pilot fish’s newly acquired vocals resembled the sinister tones of Rickman’s Sheriff of Nottingham, who had been something of a cartoon character himself in human shape; here Rickman was really letting rip and enjoying himself in an animated feature whose sophisticated visuals, as The Times observed, paid tribute to Busby Berkeley, Fritz Lang’s Metropolis and even the Beatles’ psychedelic period. But there was no doubt who was the star: as the Guardian pointed out, Help! I’m A Fish ‘flags a bit when Rickman’s superbly wicked character isn’t on.’

  Strangest of all was the part of Man in the twenty-minute Play, that reunited Rickman with Anthony Minghella, the writer-director of Truly Madly Deeply, for one of Channel 4’s most ambitious commissions: all nineteen of Beckett’s plays to be screened between 2001 and 2002.

  The sight of a landscape populated entirely by despairing talking heads in pots, with the camera focusing on the front row of pots, could have been designed by Hieronymus Bosch in one of his visions of an adulterers’ hell. Trapped in an eternal triangle, Rickman, Juliet Stevenson and the lovely Kristin Scott-Thomas were buried up to their necks in gigantic urns with mud-caked faces as grey as the vessels they had been poured into. There was to be no sitting or slouching and slacking in these pots, as Beckett’s religiously followed stage directions make absolutely clear. Despite a fleeting resemblance to the unfortunate, mud-covered Mesmer after he had been tipped from his coach, Rickman was oddly compelling and hypnotic as he and his women chanted the tale of their ménage à trois from their earthenware prisons in just fifteen bleak minutes. John Hurt had already made an acclaimed West End comeback in Krapp’s Last Tape before filming it for the Channel 4 season; getting Alan Rickman to stand upright in a pot with a face smothered in muck was an equal coup.

  Yet there was a perception in some quarters that Antony and Cleopatra had, for a short time, created a blip, a bit of a career-falter; and the media abhors a vacuum, longing to fill it. Somehow the rumour spread that Rickman, long since tired of playing the villains that kept resurfacing in endless television reruns of Die Hard and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, might want to play the would-be good guy in real life and put his money where his socialist mouth was by following a political career instead.

  Neither would the edge that Alan Rickman brought to everything disqualify him. When the spin doctor Peter Mandelson was asked who he would like to portray him in a film of his life, he famously replied, ‘Alan Rickman – because he is not afraid to play the hard guy.’ Being a Labour politician didn’t necessarily mean being a softie, as Mandelson, that alarming charmer credited with turning the Labour Party into a ruthless, election-winning machine, had proved only too conclusively.

  Because he is a political animal with strong views and a good grasp of policy debate, some of Alan’s friends had long speculated about whether he would enter politics. Others pooh-poohed the idea. ‘Rima is a very substantial intelligence, but I think there are too many lies and too much dissembling that has to go on in politics for Alan to enter it himself,’ Peter James told me back in 1995. Maybe Rickman is just not diplomatic enough.

  But an opportunity for the rumour-mongers suddenly presented itself when Michael Portillo was mooted as one of the candidates for the safest Tory seat in the country, Kensington and Chelsea, after the sudden death of Nicholas Scott’s successor Alan Clark. With the blow-waved Portillo still giving all the Tory ladies a thrill even after (or, some mischief-makers suggested, because of) revelations in The Times about his homosexual experimentation at university, it was reasonable to speculate that Labour needed an equally glamorous ‘star’ – or at least one with just as much hair. Speculation about Rickman turned into a story in the Sunday Times, followed by a furious rebuttal from Rima Horton on the front page of the local Kensington And Chelsea News in September 1999. ‘Why on earth,’ a sarcastic Rima was quoted as saying, ‘would Alan give up his highly paid and extremely highly respected career as an actor for the unglamorous and frankly hopeless job as a candidate?’ Well, if she must put it that way – quite. ‘At first Alan was bemused and then perturbed by the sudden interest in this,’ she added, ‘but he now treats the whole affair as something of a joke.’

  The Sunday Times had pointed the finger of suspicion at Margaret McDonagh, then the General Secretary of the Labour Party, for wanting to sprinkle some show business stardust at the Party conference that year. The story claimed that discussions were believed to have been held at the highest levels in the party between McDonagh and Alastair Campbell, though the paper acknowledged that Alan had already proved somewhat off-message as a ‘renegade’ Labour supporter by joining Tam Dalyell, to protest against Government action on Iraq, and Vanessa Redgrave in sending messages of support to the newly formed Emergency Committee on Iraq.

  But it still seemed a long leap to make from the undeniable facts: that Alan’s partner had parliamentary ambitions and that Rickman had been a guest at a Number 10
Downing Street party held by the chancellor Gordon Brown shortly after the election, along with Rickman’s old mates Bob Hoskins and Richard Wilson and the actress Helena Bonham-Carter. He was also a guest at the election night party held at the Chalk Farm home of the QC Helena Kennedy to celebrate Labour’s 1997 landslide victory, but so what? That didn’t necessarily make him MP material; it just meant that Helena Kennedy knew a lot of actors. Despite Rima’s emphatic denial that the story had any substance, some people remained convinced that there had been loose talk at Labour’s Millbank HQ. In August 2002, I phoned Margaret McDonagh at home to ask her to put on record for the first time the truth about her alleged involvement in wanting Rickman to run for Parliament. The story was, she told me, absolutely not true, and she remains as puzzled as anyone over how the rumour started. ‘I had no discussions whatsoever with Alastair [Campbell] about the Chelsea by-election,’ McDonagh told me. ‘I’ve never known Alan to articulate that he wanted to be an MP. Besides,’ she added, ‘unless there’s some problem, it’s up to the local party to choose its candidate.’

  Two years after the story had first run and had been rubbished by Rima, Alan finally denied it formally in an interview with Tim Sebastian of BBC News 24. ‘I think they tried it on,’ he said, not naming names, ‘because somebody in a press office somewhere thought they’re not going to let Portillo have all the publicity without any challenge. I have no political ambitions in that way anyway, so it was complete nonsense.’

  Yet his social conscience had not been allowed to rust; it simply manifested itself in other ways. In September 2000, he agreed to do his pastoral bit for his profession by holding a Masterclass, a well-established annual event at London’s Theatre Royal Haymarket in which prominent playwrights, actors and directors share the secrets of their trade for free with an audience of drama students and schoolchildren. Rickman remains one of the biggest names ever to commit to Masterclass. Although, unlike some of the other Masters, he refused to allow his contribution to be filmed for television, he honoured his commitment despite still being fogbound from a dose of flu caught while filming the first Harry Potter film, The Philosopher’s Stone, in Durham Cathedral. Dressed down in his trademark black for the Masterclass, Alan perched on a Dave Allen chair on stage (later one irreverent student was to characterise the afternoon in almost Beckettian terms as ‘a man on an uncomfortable chair’) and established an immediate rapport with the front stalls for what he saw as a conversation rather than a Masterclass, unhindered by ego. Once again, he had stepped out on stage without visible nerves, though he was to admit that the problem of stage fright gets worse, rather than better, with age.

  Later that year there was also a further development from the Burma UK benefit in June. That had made public the mutual admiration society between Alan Rickman and Victoria Wood; and Wood, who likes to use actors in funny roles rather than comedians in order to shake up our expectations, asked him to be a guest star in a costume-drama spoof alongside Michael Gambon, Richard E. Grant and Robert Lindsay in her BBC1 Christmas Day comedy Victoria Wood with all the Trimmings.

  So much for Rickman not doing any television these days; he certainly does parachute in for the odd guest appearance. But for an actor at a certain level in his career, film and theatre remain the most prestigious art-forms; in Hollywood, there’s a snobbery about television which means that A-listers rarely do more than the odd guest spot, such as Brad Pitt dropping in on an episode of Friends to have a screen spat with his real-life wife Jennifer Aniston.

  And Alan wanted to go back to the theatre, where, despite his fear of that nightly ordeal, he could prove himself as an actor more than in any other arena. Once a play opens, the show belongs to the actors to improve or impair it. Film is a director’s medium in which the actors are pawns to be spliced and sliced in the editing suite, as Rickman discovered on Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and even on Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

  Plans were brewing among West End producers for the perfect project for Rickman’s theatrical comeback: an RSC Class of 85 reunion – of Rickman, his Les Liaisons co-star and old friend Lindsay Duncan and their director Howard Davies. Yet they were taking risks with the Antony and Cleopatra jinx, by using the same designer, Tim Hatley. The plan was for a revival of Noël Coward’s Private Lives, which would, like Les Liaisons, rely upon the sexual chemistry between the two leads – with rather less fatal results. And Alan himself was suffering from cold feet about even being in a Coward, as he was later to admit on American TV in The Charlie Rose Show: he might be a mannered actor in some people’s eyes, but he wasn’t that mannered.

  In the event, Hatley’s perspective-defying sets were as imaginative and daring as the production and the performances proved to be; everything came together. It opened at London’s Albery Theatre on 4 October 2001 to ecstatic reviews. An immensely confident and radical reading of the play it rescued Coward from the usual stylised archness and dwelt very specifically on the excitement of sexual violence between two sparring partners; Alan’s early years of work with Peter Barnes, in tapping into those dangerous but undeniable undercurrents in the chaos of human behaviour, had not been wasted. Rickman and Duncan told the New York Times that Davies – who made a point of saying he had never read Private Lives until he got the job of directing it – wanted them to say the lines ‘without any of the usual stuff that comes with Noël Coward, to make these people real’.

  As a result, the smack Rickman gave a hysterical Duncan was only too audible, the passion behind it only too believable as they fought each other on the sofa, unable to live with or without each other. Rickman’s Elyot, after all, is the man who declares at one point, ‘Women should be struck regularly like gongs’, a line greeted with a collective intake of breath from the audience at the matinée I attended. Rickman delivered it scornfully, implying that it shouldn’t be taken seriously, that this was just Elyot’s bullshittery in the battle of wills with an imperious dominatrix, but he certainly followed the threat up in the struggle with Duncan. They were evenly matched and she gave as good as she got, but Rickman also had the wit to capture the needy uncertainty, the neurotic vulnerability and, most importantly, the self-awareness that gave his Elyot unexpected depth.

  There were those – Peter Barnes among them – who thought Rickman was robbed when he lost out as Best Actor in the Tony Awards (to Alan Bates for his role as Zuzovkin in the Turgenev play Fortune’s Fool) after Private Lives had transferred triumphantly to Broadway in April 2002, though the production itself won a Tony and Lindsay Duncan was named Best Actress. ‘She was sexy, but so was he – and funny as well,’ argues Peter. Nevertheless the critics went mad for both of them, with Clive Barnes writing in the New York Post of ‘a surprising, electric Private Lives done jungle-style; this Elyot and Amanda have the heady scent of an entire zoo of predators . . . Rickman feral and unsatiated’. As with the Vicomte de Valmont, he was the wild animal in the boudoir, the man who put the kick into Coward, defying expectations and playing against type once again.

  His old friend Peter Barnes had been pretty creative himself, this time on the family front by becoming a first-time father at the age of 69 – his daughter Leela was born in the year 2000. ‘I did things back-to-front,’ admits a sheepish Peter, who then found two years later that his wife Christie was expecting triplets in November 2002 – the same month that the second Harry Potter film was released. ‘My friends can’t imagine me being a father, they just think of me as a writing machine. A producer friend of mine went to see Alan in Private Lives on Broadway in the summer of 2002. I told him to tell Alan about the triplets but, when he arrived backstage and said he was bearing the latest news from Peter Barnes, Alan said to him, “Don’t tell me, I already know,” and started roaring with laughter. His reaction was very similar to lots of people’s, and you could almost hear his shrieks of laughter across the Atlantic. I don’t know who told him, but he knows everybody, he’s so gregarious; sometimes I wonder how he gets the time to do it, but h
e always has been like that.’

  Far from belonging to the W.C. Fields school of thought – that would like to see little people lightly fried – Rickman, despite his sometimes daunting presence, is a child-friendly man.

  Barnes was particularly impressed that Rickman made time to come along to his little girl’s second birthday party in May 2002. ‘Alan is tall and that can be a little intimidating for tiny tots, so Leela was slightly intimidated by him at first. But actors usually get on with kids because they can express fantasy. He brought her a present of an animal alphabet, which she has over her cot; she loves it. It’s a big silkworm with lots of pockets containing a letter of the alphabet and an animal.’

  Stephen Davis, who has often had Alan’s nieces Claire and Amy to stay at his home in the Cotswolds, regards Rickman as a ‘virtual godfather to my children Natalie and Zoë. Over the years we raised them in company with Alan and Rima; Ruby Wax and her husband Ed have raised their three children in his company, too. The reason he’s not an official godfather is that Rima told us we needed Roman Catholics as godparents because my wife Jane is Roman Catholic. But I’ve always been sorry,’ adds Stephen, ‘that I didn’t go against the Pope on that one. Alan would have made a great dad; I suspect the reason he and Rima don’t have children themselves is that they came late to the idea of parenthood because of career reasons.’

  To those who know Rickman well, it came as no surprise that he agreed to do the Harry Potter movies – which meant filming one a year – after having read the books first. Being a ‘virtual’ godfather is one thing, but the childless Alan Rickman was to discover another way of enjoying those childhood pleasures vicariously by joining an all-star cast for the big-screen realisation of the most successful children’s stories ever written.