"If I had my way, all actors over 55 would be issued a 3-lb. wet salmon with which to slap the face of every young, beautiful, successful upstart. 'That's for being so lucky, you bastard!' I would shout. And then, hit them again, if you can."
Great words from Richard Griffiths who sadly passed after complications in heart surgery. It was difficult to find an article that didn't begin with 'Harry Potter star...' but Paul Gent's words do the man great justice. "He was a supersized man with a supersized talent. He will be much missed."
His portrayal of WH Auden in Alan Bennet's "The History of Art" was both heart warming and heart breaking, I only wish I could have had the privilege to sit in his audience again.
Great words from Richard Griffiths who sadly passed after complications in heart surgery. It was difficult to find an article that didn't begin with 'Harry Potter star...' but Paul Gent's words do the man great justice. "He was a supersized man with a supersized talent. He will be much missed."
His portrayal of WH Auden in Alan Bennet's "The History of Art" was both heart warming and heart breaking, I only wish I could have had the privilege to sit in his audience again.
funeral blues
W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.