...And The Winner Is...

A lot of coverage in the rags about the grandes dames of British cinema in this year’s nominations for the Oscars. And, to be sure, they don’t come much grander than Peter O’Toole. This is his eighth nomination, and although awarded a consolation prize Honorary Award in 2003, he has never had the Oscar for Best Actor. Essentially, the Academy has stabbed the greatest film actor of them all, in the back, seven times.

I met Peter O’Toole once. In the spring of 1991, I was despatched to the Booksellers Association annual conference, in Glasgow, with clear instructions from my employer to schmooze a lot [at his expense, too!] and generally to give a high-visibility impression of an influential manager in a successful company. So there I was in the cocktail bar of the conference venue, schmoozing with Eddie Shah [whatever happened to him?] and William Boyd, when in walks Peter O’Toole.

At the BA conference to promote the first volume of his autobiography, he did not look a well man. He was still recovering from long-term pancreatitis, an affliction that will make most doctors wince, and the resulting diabetes. Although recognisably tall, he was pallid, shuffled a little, and someone else carried his bags. We all fell silent and turned to look; I felt brave enough to go over when the bagman momentarily moved away.

I coughed slightly, held out my hand, and looked up at him. “Beg your pardon, Mr O’Toole”, I said. He turned slowly, raised an eyebrow, and looked down. “I thought I might just say ‘Hello’, shake your hand, and say how much I love all your films.”

His eyes met mine; he smiled, took my hand, and shook it firmly and deliberately. “Why, my dear boy, thank you so very much”, he replied, with warmth that suggested I was the first person ever to have complimented him. A broad smile grew upwards over his face. Almost immediately his minder re-appeared, and indicated with his own cough that my audience was over. I returned to my new, impressed, chums.

You will hear it said that, on meeting the great statesmen or artists, you can feel their charisma, their dignity, their holiness. I have to tell you that in the moment Peter O’Toole met my gaze with his, I immediately felt from his powerfully pale blue eyes a profound sense of mischief. As if, had I passed him directions to a little known shebeen, he would have shown up, with Harris and Burton in tow, for a craic. I stood silently at the bar, and looked down at my hand for a long time.

A few handshakes like that in Hollywood, and this time the Oscar should be his.

Andrew Mishmash