by Gabriel Byrne
© Copyright: Magill (September 1997)

Some weeks ago I was invited by Gianni Versace to be his guest in Paris, the occasion was the unveiling of his much anticipated 1997 collection. Never having attended a fashion show I decided to go along more out of curiosity than interest. It was a glamorous occasion. Red carpets, limousines, champagne, beautiful models, Demi Moore, Naomi Campbell - dancing in the Ritz ballroom 'til dawn. By those in the know of such things, the show itself was declared a triumph.

Gianni, who I had met briefly on a few previous occasions, has me placed next to him and Demi at the sumptuous post show dinner. He seemed tried, drained. He said he always felt like this after the stress of a major show and was looking forward to returning to his house in Miami for a vacation.

Did I know the city, he asked. "Vaguely," I replied. Then I told him of a friend of mine, an actor from Dublin call Chris O'Neill who had died there, just some weeks before.

I told him some of the stories and images that come instantly to mind when I think of my friend Chris.

The first time I saw him he was standing with his back to the counter of the Sword Pub in Camden Street. Cassius in a river of light. The curly mop of hair, the lean smiling face, the moustache of Guinness and the elegantly disheveled clothes. His legs apart, hands in pockets, head to one side, unconsciously mimicking an early photograph of Joyce.

In 1978 I had just been cast in The Riordans, largely because of Chris, with whom I had worked in the Project Theatre. He became my agent and my friend. He was generous, loving, sometimes unreachable in every sense of the word, (he was here a second ago) he was raconteur, svengali, manipulator, a wheeler dealer, a rogue, a rascal, hail fellow well met. The soul of kindness, the enemy of convention. An actor who truly loved acting, friend, father and sometimes foe. But once met never forgotten.

The misshapen pockets filled to overflowing with keys, paper, biros, pound notes, newspaper cuttings, betting slips, keys, cigarettes and forgotten sandwiches.

One day in Baggot Street we began to argue fiercely, he had been my agent for some time and I demanded, in a bout of diligence, to see the receipt of a cheque I should have received from RTE. "It's in your file," he informed me, and called me a Doubting Thomas, a man of no principle, a bad friend. And I in return asked if he was putting my money on a horse or what. We stared white-faced at each other outside Searson's. "Right," he said finally, "come with me" and we walk in a furious cold silence to his office, he pulls open a drawer and with great theatricality flings a file with my name hand-written on it before me. I tell him I am sorry, I should never have doubted him. I open the cover and the sole contents slip out: a single smiling photograph of the actor Jim Reid. I chase Chris around the desk, down the stairs and into the street and at last I catch up with him, and breathless we stare at each other and then we begin to laugh and laugh.

Later I left for London to seek my fortune, my rather haughty new agent asked me who handled my affairs in Dublin and I gave her his office number. Her eyebrow raised as she was told that Chris should be back in a few minutes, his pint is still on the counter and he is probably over in the bookies. I really had come to believe that The Sword was his office.

One day at cast rehearsals for the Riordans, he thrust a copy of a well known provincial newspaper before me. At the top of the page ran the legend "Showbusiness Awards 1978". We had been nominated along with our fellow cast members as the showbiz personalities of that year.

"Do you think Frank Sinatra will show up?" said Tom Hickey: "you never know", said Chris. I scanned the categories again; best singer 1978 nominations: Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Mick Jagger, Tom Jones, and Big Tom. That is going to be a closely contested category, says Chris.

Best Group of the Year are The Beatles, The Beach Boys, The Rolling Stones, Jerry Silicone and the Shoeshiners. "Actors?" said Hickey - Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro, Dustin Hoffman, Robert Duvall and the cast of the Riordans. "I'd say we're in with a chance," said Chris.

And so it was that myself and Tom Hickey and Chris found ourselves wending our way to the awards ceremony. We came to a small sleepy village and enquired of a youth eating chips by a wall whether we were headed in the right direction. He peered into our car, his face beaming with recognition. "Jaysys, it's the Riordans." We asked again whether we are on the right road. "Jaysus I don't know, I don't know where it is," he finally admitted, "de yis know yourselves" he asked.

At last we reached our destination and are directed to the hotel, an unctuous man with the look of a slieveen, wearing a pioneer pin, greets us in a precious voice. He is the Big Man, organizer of the whole scam. "Any chance of a sandwich?" Chris asks. "Oh you'll be looked after lads, never fear." Em, where are the other nominees?" Chris asks. "Well so far you're the only ones, but we're expecting Jerry Silicone any minute. Margo got a puncture in Mulhuddard."

"So you're not expecting Frank Sinatra any time soon then," said Tom Hickey. "Well begob lad you'll never know, I'll get ye them sandwiches."

We sat looking at each other, Chris in his usual state of attractive dishevelment, Tom smart as a whip and scarily calm and myself in a white suit looking like 'Our man in Havana'. When we had repaired to a nearby bar, and were suitably fortified, Tom Hickey spoke. "Look lads, if this is a flap of the tent job, we'll give it an hour and then we're out." "What does that mean?" I asked. "It refers," explains Tom, "to a celebrity engagement outside the confines of the city, usually in a marquee, where the only recourse in a situation above and beyond the call of duty is to crawl through a flap in the tent and to make good your escape, hence flap of the tent." In other words, exploitation of the guairle by the gombeen.

There was only one entrance to the hall which was packed to capacity with punters who had paid in to witness the glittering awards ceremony. A small fat woman sat hunched over a turnstile, dressed in a white coat with Maor inscribed in red. She was the sliveen's mother. "That'll be 6 pounds," she said without looking up, "6 pounds!" Chris said incredulously, "but we're the nominees."

We forked out the money, the pioneer pin motioned us toward centre stage. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he intoned into the microphone, "put your hands together and give a rousing welcome to some very special guests. You have seen them on the screen and now you see them live here on this stage, the nominees for show business personality of 1978 are ..." there was silence. A drum roll - "Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro, Dustin Hoffman, who fortunately cannot be here to night, and ladies and gentlemen the winners are Michael, Pat and Tom from the Riordans." Thunderous applause.

Having seen off all competition from England, America and the rest of the world, we stand the disputed victors with our plastic trophies, smiling, bowing, starving and dying of the drought, as Tom Hickey in a fierce whisper keeps repeating "Flap of the Tent, Flap of the Tent."

At two o'clock in the morning we wait in a line at the chip van in the town square. We are told by a swaying drunk to get up the yard, that there's a smell of shite off us and we should go back to the Leestown where we came.

"Fame," says Tom Hickey, shaking his head, fame."

"I hope," said Gianni, smiling when I had finished, "that your friend would not call this a flap of the tent job," and he waved his arm around the beautiful room. "I doubt," I said, "he would."

It was a still beautiful day in Los Angeles, when I heard of Chris' death. I had been reading in the garden, and I dosed off and did not hear the phone. Later when I played back the message and heard her voice, my whole body weakened in shock. It was Aisling, his daughter. Her voice was calm, almost matter of fact, Daddy passed away she said - he looked at me and smiled and closed his eyes and then he died, she was saying. In Miami, I thought to myself, of all places.

Two days after the Paris show, Gianni was dead too, murdered by a madman. Donatella his sister said he died like an emperor, facing the sky, his hands thrown out behind him. I like to think they've met somewhere, these men who died in the same town within weeks of each other. I know they'd get on.

By the way, I still have the award and the slieveen went on to greater things in national politics. Chris, I miss you, you gave it the lash. I'll see you on the other side of the tent...