Hommages émus à Michael Gambon, qui vient de disparaitre

My first encounter with Gambon was seeing him in an Alan Ayckbourn play, Man of the Moment – it was in the West End and my parents took the 15-year-old me as a treat. I was entranced with it, and especially him. He was so gloriously detailed and funny. Properly, deftly hilarious. There was an actual swimming pool on stage into which Michael fell at the end. Bliss.
There’s a magnificent painting of Mike by Stuart Pearson Wright. He’s sitting down, half Falstaff, half him, in his dressing room at the National. He sat for it during the run of those shows, and I love it because I see him in it. Or maybe just the bits I want to see, the bits I recognise. Swirling depths, something uneasy, something tender, great heart and rage and wit. An actor to the tips of those long elegant fingers.
I adored him. They say you ought not to meet your heroes but I did, and I’m so glad and so grateful.