I'm Only Too Happy to Comment

I see from this article in the Independent (stumbled upon via Gallagher's blog) that Ian Richardson's ashes are to be cemented beneath the front row of the new RSC theatre in Stratford.

I was lucky enough to work with him once (dear Lord, yes, this is to be one of 'those' posts). He acted as a host for a film about Shakespeare that a friend of mine was producing on behalf of the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust. You know the sort of thing, lots of wafting lift music and pictures of swans while a voice over (in this case Dame Judi Dench, oh yes, definitely one of 'those' posts) recites a sonnet.

It was good stuff actually and I had a fun job: I was to provide all the "character" voices in the soundtrack. Whenever Ian would say "according to X, Shakespeare was…" I would then give the quote but in the character of whoever was being quoted. So, yes, lots of silly voices. It was only an hour or so in studio followed by the most lovely meal courtesy of Ian and his wife Maroussia.

It was nerve-wracking, not least because I managed to get terribly drunk very quickly and ended up giving a better acting performance (as "honestly not a drunk tit") than I probably did while in front of the microphone.

They were the most wonderful hosts and achieved that rare but glorious social phenomenon: I left their home feeling as if I was parting from old friends rather than briefly met (and likely not encountered again) acquaintances. To the extent that when I heard about Ian's death I felt profoundly sad, even though in truth he was a man I barely knew and had only skimmed the public face of.

Likewise I read this now and feel absurdly warmed. I dare say he had his faults but I know none of them, I know only a fine-humoured and gracious dinner companion that would most-certainly have raised a glass to the suggestion of this, his resting place.