I am glad to say that I enjoyed the privilege of counting the distinguished actor, John Hurt, among my friends and acquaintances. With the exception of my beloved wife Mary Stokes and that of my late father E. Charles Palm, he is with out doubt the finest conversationalist that I have ever known.

This is not to say that the discussions we shared have been the deepest or most heartfelt I’ve ever experienced, but rather that John Hurt was just so incredibly good at conversation that it was genuinely exhilarating to be in his company. The alluring combination of his richly textured voice, soul-piercing eyes and effortless familiarity with language had an almost irresistibly hypnotic effect. More than once, I caught myself quietly absorbing the expertly crafted tone of his voice, only to become suddenly aware that a reply to what he’d been saying was expected.

I found John Hurt to be not only frighteningly intelligent, but also disarmingly warm and humorous. He was infinitely interesting and entertaining. John was such a skilled listener that he instantly knew when he’d lost you; by maintaining deep, unwavering eye contact, he generously and patiently brought you back.

Although he was truly fascinating, constant vigilance was required when he was speaking to prevent becoming intellectually adrift; he was not one to waste words on the desert air. I have seen his withering look crumble an obnoxious person unfortunate enough to interrupt him, and I have been privy to private moments when our eyes locked, and he smiled silently in pleasure at a shared idea, feeling or observation.

John Hurt and Mary Stokes were very fond of one another, sharing the complex understanding of what it is to be in the spotlight on centre stage with no one to hide behind. To hear the music of their voices together in conversation was a rare treat.

John moved away from Ireland “because the only thing anyone talks about here now is the price of real estate”.
I remember the occasion we shared a bottle of champagne, in celebration of his buying a large Georgian country house that morning in County Wicklow. We were on a break during our gig in Bruxelles Bar and we were invited to join John, his then-girlfriend Sarah Owens, “vampire slayer” David Boreanaz and a few other American TV actors at his table outside. John was in excellent form; he looked tanned and effortlessly at ease, exuding “sprezzatura” as we sat quaffing bubbly together in the sunshine.

He was, however, already openly bored and unimpressed with congratulations concerning his new acquisition. “I honestly don’t see what all the fuss is about. I didn’t actually build the house with my own two hands, you know,” he said to us quietly.

We discussed Dublin and Ireland’s social state, local and international politics, food, drink, art, music, and the nature of the creative process. Eventually the talk turned to acting and John was asked what role he thought was his best. “Oh, I don’t think that it’s for me to say,” he replied evenly, “surely it is up to you to each person to decide for himself.”

Immediately the table erupted in animated debate. Everyone talked at once, shouting out their personal favourites of his many characterizations using terms such as “definitive”, “sublime”” and “extraordinary”. His portrayal of Bird O’Donnell from “The Field” was deemed his best. He fixed his eyes directly on me and just smiled as if we shared a private joke. Various opinions and observations about the masterful portrayal of “Bird” were expressed and excitedly argued over, as the champagne flowed.

Choosing my moment to speak, I posed the question whether playing “Billy” from Cimino’s infamous masterpiece Heaven’s Gate had been a challenge, as Billy’s character was deeply flawed and cowardly, yet ultimately likeable and tragic. I found myself saying: “He was portrayed with such insight, emotion and tenderness that although despicable, and on the wrong side, he somehow managed to evoke sympathy. There was no satisfaction in watching him die”.

I became aware that the table full of people had fallen silent and were looking at us. John Hurt smiled at me and said nothing.

Something told me to leave it at that, but instead I added that although the film was a flop, and it destroyed Paramount Pictures, I appreciated the movie’s unpopular honesty and integrity all the more, as it was based on actual true events.

John Hurt all but exploded with indignation. “True?!” he bellowed with Shakespearian intensity while sitting bolt upright. “True?! Don’t talk to me about the truth! Who is to say what is and what is not true!? Just because some person or book or movie or newspaper claims that they represent the truth, don’t expect me to accept their word for it! What is truth to one person is absolute rubbish to another. Truth indeed! Truth my arse!”

Quickly recovering my composure, I was greatly relieved to catch a fleeting twinkle in his eye. In an instant he expertly scanned his horrified audience with imperceptible peripheral vision, all the while maintaining intense eye contact with me. The slightest trace of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, and he immediately stifled it. Realising that I had happened upon a favourite subject, I felt encouraged to feed his performance.

“Well, factual documents exist which prove that a range war did indeed take place in Wyoming in 1890, that there genuinely was a death list, and that the people whose names were on it were killed by The Cattle Grower’s Association simply for being immigrants.”

“Factual documents!? Factual? Have you not heard a word I’ve said? Who’s facts? Documented by whom? When and where and for what purpose? To what end?! Are you really so gullible?” His face was deadpan beneath his angry mask, and his cultured voice rose and trembled with feigned fury.

“But John, surely there are death certificates and names carved on headstones which prove…”

“Which prove nothing! Absolutely nothing! Certified by whom? Carved by whom? Were you there? The only truth we can depend on is that which we carry inside.”

At this point Sarah Owens intervened and politely reminded John that they had previous plans to go “antique-ing” for their new home. It would be unfair of me to describe the subtle transformation of his features as we sat looking at each other knowingly, the spell of the performance well and truly broken.

John Hurt turned to Mary Stokes and took her by the hand, begging her indulgence as he requested her to sing an Irish song for him before he left, and we went back on stage. Mary obliged and began a heart-rending version “Fil A Rún Ó”, a lament from the penal times sung in the Irish language. John held her hand firmly as she sang, his eyes closed in concentration. Towards the end of the song, he clearly had shed a few tears.

Only when Mary had finished singing did he open his eyes and profusely thank and compliment her. Turning to me, he gently laid his hand on my shoulder and whispered “Now, that’s the truth.”