3 hours ago
7
The tenth anniversary of Alan Rickman’s death stirred a memory of when we were both jobbing actors in rep, performing in a schools’ matinee (‘I fell in love with him on the spot’: Alan Rickman remembered, 10 years after his death, 14 January).
The play was Gunslinger by Richard Crane, written in 1976 to celebrate the US bicentennial, and Alan had been cast as Sitting Bull. Dressed in full Native American attire, complete with sumptuously feathered headdress, his was the concluding speech of the play. It was a moving and sombre piece delivered beautifully in that rich and sonorous voice.
Unfortunately, a group of kids in the stalls were making a noise, talking and laughing throughout, which clearly angered Alan. As the rest of the company entered to take our call, Alan jumped off the stage and marched into the auditorium to confront the culprits, who shrank at the terrifying sight of him looming over them.
He remonstrated with them, but seemed a little perplexed afterwards. Their response to his tongue-lashing had deflated his ire: “We never knew you could hear us, we’ve never been to the theatre before – we thought it was like the telly.” A lesson was learned on both sides of the footlights.
David Joss Buckley
London
On what might have been the evening of my first day at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, we were all in the pub. Somebody called Rima introduced herself to me and told me that she was Alan’s partner and that he was going to be great. Okeydokey, I thought, that puts me in my place. Fast forward through classes, and then to our first attempts at performances in the potted Greeks in the Little Theatre. I do my bit in Oedipus and then we all went to watch the other half of our cohort doing The Bacchae.
I remember a blackout and this voice coming out of it: “I AM DIONYSUS, SON OF ZEUS. MY MOTHER WAS SEMELE…”
Then some light came up, and, standing on a chair, wearing tasteful eyeshadow, there he was and ever will be in my memory.
Nicholas Woodeson
London
All those wonderful memories of Alan Rickman in your article reminded me of the time I was in New York for work, but also to see his production of My Name is Rachel Corrie. I had somehow managed to leave my wallet at home in England, arriving with neither cash nor credit cards. As it was at the weekend, the banks were all shut.
Alan rescued me with bemused laughter, fistfuls of cash and his always-generous hospitality. Another time I dropped in on him at home in London, having tea with his secondary school drama teacher. Loyal, funny, incisive, he was a model of friendship and care.
Margaret Heffernan
Farrington Gurney, Somerset
Thank you so much for the tributes to the much-missed Alan Rickman. I saw him on stage only once, but a friend and I had a running joke: “The problem with this play is it’s impossible to believe the heroine could fancy that man.” “Unless you cast Alan Rickman.” “Well, of course, Alan Rickman.”
Ten years ago, I dreamed I was in a theatre and had a problem with my seat, so I asked the couple in front if they’d mind my climbing into a seat next to them.
They were very welcoming, and I suddenly realised the man was Alan Rickman. On waking, I heard he had just died; I often sleep with the radio on, and must have absorbed his name while semi-conscious. But he was every bit as lovely in the dream as in the tributes you published, so I treasure that unexpected imaginary farewell.
Harriet Monkhouse
Manchester
