All hail the REAL stars of the show
No actor who worked with the inimitable Richard Griffiths, who died last month aged 65, will have been surprised to learn that the lights of Shaftesbury Avenue in the heart of London’s Theatreland were dimmed for a full two minutes in his memory.
This elegant theatrical tradition is accorded only to those the profession holds most dear. And although he was best known for his many appearances on TV and in films (from Uncle Monty in the cult film Withnail And I, through five series of the BBC comedy drama Pie In The Sky to the Harry Potter movies), Griffiths had also carved an equally celebrated reputation on the stage, his performance as the eccentric teacher Hector in Alan Bennett’s The History Boys providing him with perhaps his finest ever role.
Roy Kinnear
A performer to his bootstraps (as well as a raconteur of rare genius), Griffiths represented the very best example of what is often referred to as the character actor. Their faces are all too familiar, the names on the tip of our tongue, yet it’s often a struggle to bring to mind their actual name; which is perhaps why the genre is also known as ‘Oh it’s him again’, mirroring the phrase most often uttered in sitting rooms throughout the country whenever they appear on our screens.
In David Quinlan’s Illustrated Directory Of Film Character Actors, the author describes the breed as the ‘hardrock foundation of the acting profession, the players without whom so many projects would not have quite the same class and flavour’.
It’s as good a description as any. When I was growing up in the 1960s and 70s, I inherited my dad’s love of character actors, so much so that when I decided to have a tilt at the business myself it was they, rather than clean-cut leading men, whose career path I hoped to emulate – individuals such as Richard Wattis, who specialised in snobby diplomats, or the portly Roy Kinnear, all wispy hair and orid winks, specialising in anxious jobsworths; or my own favourite, James Robertson Justice.
An actor of formidable size and peppery temperament, he invariably elevated any film in which he appeared, however briefly. He was also the central figure in my favourite comic exchange from any film, when, as the lowering medical consultant Sir Lancelot Spratt in the 1954 film Doctor In The House, he explains to a group of hapless medical graduates the dangers of surgical intervention, and in particular the crucial period between incision and clotting, known as the bleeding time.
Dandy Nichols in Till Death Us Do Part
‘You!’ he barks at an inattentive Dirk Bogarde. ‘What’s the bleeding time?’
‘About ten past ten,’ replies Bogarde, glancing at his watch. Bliss.
Dennis Price, Nigel Green and Fulton Mackay – their names now read like some theatrical version of Flanders and Swann’s Slow Train. And there were some great character actresses, too. Dandy Nichols, whose deadpan artistry provided such a perfect counterpoint for Alf Garnett’s bigoted ranting in Till Death Us Do Part; or Patricia Hayes; or Thora Hird, whose heartbreaking performance in Bennett’s TV monologue, A Cream Cracker Under The Settee, garnered her the Best Actress award at that year’s Baftas. They may not have graced the front covers of glossy film magazines, but theirs was a rare talent.
During my own time in the business, I’ve occasionally met one of my heroes in person. Once at a theatrical party I found myself next to Frank Windsor, known to a generation as DS Watt in Z Cars. Such was his place in my affections that when he asked me mildly if I’d like a slice of gateau from the sweet trolley I replied that I’d prefer to be taken down to the station for questioning.
As with Griffiths, a chosen few transcend their usual place below the billing and become ‘character superstars’. Arthur Lowe and John le Mesurier both managed it via Dad’s Army, as did Leonard Rossiter through Rising Damp; while more recently Nigel Hawthorne, into whose capacious shoes I stepped as Sir Humphrey in the West End stage production of Yes, Prime Minister last year, also joined that select band who could fill a theatre by their presence alone.
James Robertson
Which brings us back to Richard Griffiths, whose loss will be felt throughout the industry. Indeed, it’s been a bad week for those of us who admire such artistry as his, for it has also seen the death of the wonderful Milo O’Shea, another leading exponent of the art of the character actor.
Well, they may be gone, but I suspect their performances will remain with us long after we’ve forgotten the names of the square-jawed hunks who get the girl in the final reel.
To each and every one, I salute you – even if I can’t always recollect your name.
Richard-Griffiths played alongside Daniel Radcliff in the Harry Potter films For many he will forever be Uncle Monty, the bibulous queen, cheeks blushed with rouge, who tries to have his wicked way with Paul McGann in the unforgettable cult film Withnail And I – ‘I adore you. Tell him if you must, I no longer care. I mean to have you even if it must be burglary.’
For others, he is Hector in Alan Bennett’s The History Boys, or perhaps Harry Potter’s wicked Uncle Vernon. But Richard Griffiths was always a hugely welcome presence – like a visit from a favourite relative.
Despite having the girth of a lifelong bon viveur, he had what he described as a ‘Dickensian’ childhood. In fact, it was a childhood course of radiation treatment on his pituitary gland – rather than a tendency to overeat – that made him balloon in weight.
His parents were profoundly deaf and poor – and violence was never far from home. ‘There was lots of noise, but no language,’ he said later.
But he avoided following his fistfighting father into the steel industry, and studied drama at Manchester Polytechnic. Small parts in big films, such as Gandhi and Chariots Of Fire followed, but it was his turn in Withnail And I that ensured he would never be far from stage, screen – or the nation’s affections.
He could be cantankerous, but was always private, modest – and never forgot where he came from. One fond letter to The Guardian after his death said it all: ‘Richard Griffiths left school at 15 and went to work at the Stockton branch of Littlewoods at the fruit and vegetable counter. When, in 1998, he was awarded an honorary DLitt by the University of Durham, the ceremony took place at its Stockton campus. As the procession moved at its stately pace down the High Street, he gave the shop a distant and affectionate nod. A little further on, we passed two ladies sitting on a bench conversing in sign language. ‘I know what they are saying,’ he whispered. ‘“Seen that chap in the red robes before somewhere, but can’t remember his name.”’
This elegant theatrical tradition is accorded only to those the profession holds most dear. And although he was best known for his many appearances on TV and in films (from Uncle Monty in the cult film Withnail And I, through five series of the BBC comedy drama Pie In The Sky to the Harry Potter movies), Griffiths had also carved an equally celebrated reputation on the stage, his performance as the eccentric teacher Hector in Alan Bennett’s The History Boys providing him with perhaps his finest ever role.
Roy Kinnear A performer to his bootstraps (as well as a raconteur of rare genius), Griffiths represented the very best example of what is often referred to as the character actor. Their faces are all too familiar, the names on the tip of our tongue, yet it’s often a struggle to bring to mind their actual name; which is perhaps why the genre is also known as ‘Oh it’s him again’, mirroring the phrase most often uttered in sitting rooms throughout the country whenever they appear on our screens.
In David Quinlan’s Illustrated Directory Of Film Character Actors, the author describes the breed as the ‘hardrock foundation of the acting profession, the players without whom so many projects would not have quite the same class and flavour’.
An actor of formidable size and peppery temperament, he invariably elevated any film in which he appeared, however briefly. He was also the central figure in my favourite comic exchange from any film, when, as the lowering medical consultant Sir Lancelot Spratt in the 1954 film Doctor In The House, he explains to a group of hapless medical graduates the dangers of surgical intervention, and in particular the crucial period between incision and clotting, known as the bleeding time.
Dandy Nichols in Till Death Us Do Part ‘You!’ he barks at an inattentive Dirk Bogarde. ‘What’s the bleeding time?’
‘About ten past ten,’ replies Bogarde, glancing at his watch. Bliss.
Dennis Price, Nigel Green and Fulton Mackay – their names now read like some theatrical version of Flanders and Swann’s Slow Train. And there were some great character actresses, too. Dandy Nichols, whose deadpan artistry provided such a perfect counterpoint for Alf Garnett’s bigoted ranting in Till Death Us Do Part; or Patricia Hayes; or Thora Hird, whose heartbreaking performance in Bennett’s TV monologue, A Cream Cracker Under The Settee, garnered her the Best Actress award at that year’s Baftas. They may not have graced the front covers of glossy film magazines, but theirs was a rare talent.
As with Griffiths, a chosen few transcend their usual place below the billing and become ‘character superstars’. Arthur Lowe and John le Mesurier both managed it via Dad’s Army, as did Leonard Rossiter through Rising Damp; while more recently Nigel Hawthorne, into whose capacious shoes I stepped as Sir Humphrey in the West End stage production of Yes, Prime Minister last year, also joined that select band who could fill a theatre by their presence alone.
James Robertson Which brings us back to Richard Griffiths, whose loss will be felt throughout the industry. Indeed, it’s been a bad week for those of us who admire such artistry as his, for it has also seen the death of the wonderful Milo O’Shea, another leading exponent of the art of the character actor.
Well, they may be gone, but I suspect their performances will remain with us long after we’ve forgotten the names of the square-jawed hunks who get the girl in the final reel.
To each and every one, I salute you – even if I can’t always recollect your name.
Richard Griffiths remembered
Richard-Griffiths played alongside Daniel Radcliff in the Harry Potter films For many he will forever be Uncle Monty, the bibulous queen, cheeks blushed with rouge, who tries to have his wicked way with Paul McGann in the unforgettable cult film Withnail And I – ‘I adore you. Tell him if you must, I no longer care. I mean to have you even if it must be burglary.’ For others, he is Hector in Alan Bennett’s The History Boys, or perhaps Harry Potter’s wicked Uncle Vernon. But Richard Griffiths was always a hugely welcome presence – like a visit from a favourite relative.
Despite having the girth of a lifelong bon viveur, he had what he described as a ‘Dickensian’ childhood. In fact, it was a childhood course of radiation treatment on his pituitary gland – rather than a tendency to overeat – that made him balloon in weight.
His parents were profoundly deaf and poor – and violence was never far from home. ‘There was lots of noise, but no language,’ he said later.
But he avoided following his fistfighting father into the steel industry, and studied drama at Manchester Polytechnic. Small parts in big films, such as Gandhi and Chariots Of Fire followed, but it was his turn in Withnail And I that ensured he would never be far from stage, screen – or the nation’s affections.
He could be cantankerous, but was always private, modest – and never forgot where he came from. One fond letter to The Guardian after his death said it all: ‘Richard Griffiths left school at 15 and went to work at the Stockton branch of Littlewoods at the fruit and vegetable counter. When, in 1998, he was awarded an honorary DLitt by the University of Durham, the ceremony took place at its Stockton campus. As the procession moved at its stately pace down the High Street, he gave the shop a distant and affectionate nod. A little further on, we passed two ladies sitting on a bench conversing in sign language. ‘I know what they are saying,’ he whispered. ‘“Seen that chap in the red robes before somewhere, but can’t remember his name.”’