From Riverside Studios to Broadway, Glasgow Union theatre to Hollywood, Shakespeare to slapstick, Die Hard to Jane Austen and every conceivable point in between, Alan Rickman was a truly great performer.
No one ever played tongue-in-cheek villains with greater tingling joy, lovers with deeper tenderness, heroes with bolder vivacity. Few could match his huge acting presence on stage or screen, and his abilities as a film and theatre director were outstanding, though too little used.
His socialist convictions were rooted and reasoning. He was, he said, “born a card-carrying member of the Labour party”, and he and his beloved partner, Rima Horton, unfailingly showed on issues great and global, local and small, that they had an irrepressible commitment to economic, social and civil justice.
Above all, Alan was a lovely man. His unaffected modesty, limitless sense of fun and endless kindness made him great company and a staunch comrade. I have a picture of him perched in the garden, earnestly and lengthily discussing the essence of Snape with my then seven-year-old, Harry Potter-fixated, grandson Joe. It was typical of the generosity he showed with his time and interest, and leaves an image of loving charm that supersedes even his most enthralling roles as indelible proof of his magnetism and quality as a human being.
