Just as Alec Guinness resented being seen as Obi-Wan Kenobi for the rest of his life, Ian Richardson might have resented Francis Urquhart, the Machiavelli of Michael Dobbs’ House of Cards trilogy, whose catchphrase gives this book its title.
Just as Alec Guinness resented being seen as Obi-Wan Kenobi for the rest of his life, Ian Richardson might have resented Francis Urquhart, the Machiavelli of Michael Dobbs’ House of Cards trilogy, whose catchphrase gives this book its title. Urquhart was a much better part to be identified with, of course; but it is a pity that an actor of such versatility and presence should be remembered only as a ruthless political operator.
In his RSC days, he had a high reputation for comedy, typified by his Ford in The Merry Wives — an unpromising role, in which he stole the show as an incompetent avenger. He had a fine singing voice and made several memorable appearances in musicals, notably as Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady, and as Tom Wrench in Trelawny — in which part he stole my teenage heart. A notably physical actor, he spent many hours in a tin bath as Marat in the Marat/Sade, the first actor to show his bare behind on Broadway; apparently the clicking sound as opera glasses hit spectacles was clearly audible. Above all, there was his amazing voice, capable of almost infinite shading and inflection, brilliantly described by John Sessions as ‘a viper gliding through velvet’.
Richardson had a remarkably fortunate life. Even his Scots Presbyterian father, though at first alarmed by his son’s determination to act, rapidly came to support him; from college he went straight into rep, and from there to the RSC; and he was blessed with the happiest of marriages and two sons. In turn, he was a generous man, free with help and encouragement for the young. He was utterly professional, researching everything from Dr Joseph Bell to the movements of an owl (which, as the mad Lord Groan in Gormenghast, he was obliged to imitate).
Sharon Mail has given us not a biography but a memoir, including contributions from actors, directors and writers who worked with Richardson — whose colleagues, in a career of more than 50 years, included most of the distinguished names of British theatre, film and television. The effect is somewhat like attending a memorial service at which the starriest possible cast gives recollections. The method results in a certain amount of repetition (many contributors describe the voice) but on the other hand the first-person anecdotes bring the man vividly to life. Dame Judi Dench, for example, recalls the bar set up inside a large tree on the set of Midsummer Night’s Dream by Oberon and Puck (Richardson and Michael Williams) to refresh themselves during their long absences from the action.
Richardson died quietly in 2007; he had worked to the last and had more projects on hand. The writer Stephen Gallagher describes him as ‘an actor of astonishing power and magisterial presence on stage and screen; away from it a humble, engaging and truly likeable person.’ It is to be hoped that one day a full biography will do him justice. For the present, we have this charming book — and the pictures are splendid.
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