I remember the fierce intelligence, the unquenchable curiosity. What lay behind those restless eyes? Fiercely listening, then a dreamy drifting off to somewhere beyond. The heart of a child-man in which scorpions and bluebirds nested. To escape being branded, having his identity fashioned by strangers who’d tell him: “Be a good boy, we will tell you who you are.” To find pleasure in the pathless woods, rapture in the lonely shore, as Byron said. Like Shelley, he craved distant fields and mighty rivers. Photograph: Courtesy: Gabriel Byrneīut that was not what Julian wanted. As he reversed the Rolls Royce beautifully for another take he said: “How long before they’d notice if we fucked off in this motor?” He knew about wine of course he did.Īnd finally, we made a film in London. We made another film in Spain, and there he was again, to my delight, linen-suited and gleefully reporting unrepeatable stories about Grace Jones. Julian was like the boy in class who made you laugh, with inky fingers and mischief, with spiders in matchboxes and fart noises in maths class.
The film didn’t receive good notices but it remains one of my fondest memories. Then he bear-hugged me with those powerful arms. “For fack’s sake,” said Ken, “stop acting the bollocks, Julian, and kiss him on the facking lips.” “Don’t you dare,” I said, but he did anyway. Julian was desperately trying to turn corpsing laughter into mournful, howling grief. Shelley was meant to be bereft with sorrow. Julian held my pretend dead body in his arms, Pieta-like. Ken gave us champagne before a day of particularly gruesome bedroom scenes, his face puce with eczema and ill-humour. Photograph: Virgin Vision/Kobal/Shutterstock Wild music in his head … Sands and Byrne in Gothic.
0 kommentar(er)
