The Dublin Film Festival, 1992. Oliver Stone’s epic film about JFK is getting its Irish premiere, and the man himself is in Dublin’s fair city for a Q&A. I’m a young whippersnapper, in a boring Civil Service job, itching for cinematic escape and a career in the biz. One ticket please. The Q&A is in the Abbey Theatre. I attend eagerly, having watched JFK the day before, and I’m mostly up-to-date with Oliver Stone’s filmography. Ireland’s leading film critic at the time, Michael Dwyer (RIP), is the Q&A host. It’s as you would expect, a fascinating and candid interview about making JFK, and Oliver Stone’s career. Towards the end, Michael Dwyer asks the audience: any questions?
I’m first to shoot up my hand. I don’t know why. I’m young. I’m keen. I feel I HAVE AN IMPORTANT QUESTION. The mic gets duly handed over. I stand up, making an eloquent enquiry about a certain storytelling style I observed in Talk Radio, and how if Mr Stone has deliberately chosen it as an ongoing technique in his films. At least, that’s how it came across in my head.
In reality, I get a rush of nerves. I stammer through the question. Doubling back on myself, over explaining. And quickly wind up. Oliver Stone stares blankly at me for WHAT FEELS LIKE FOREVER, then turns to Michael Dwyer and asks: what did he say? Mr Dwyer gets me to repeat the question. OH GOD MICHAEL DON’T - but I stand again, repeating the same guff, desperately stammering to make sense. Oliver Stone’s expression remains blank: I don’t understand what he’s saying, he remarks to Dwyer. I actually make a joke in return: It’s my accent!
Some of the audience, if they’re not cringing for me, laugh to make me feel better. Or laugh at me, not sure. Michael Dwyer comes to my rescue, and poses the question back to Olly (we’re friends now) in a coherent fashion, although I’m not sure it’s the question I asked. I sit down, my brain roasting with embarrassment and shame. I hear nothing of Oliver Stone’s reply. At the end, there’s an opportunity to say hello to Michael Dwyer. But I leave quickly.
Fast forward to 1996. I’m in Australia, taking a year out after my risky but rewarding move to London, where I’m beginning to find my way in life. In Oz, I’ve travelled to Cairns in Queensland, specifically Port Douglas, which is a quieter base to enjoy tropical paradise and visit the Great Barrier Reef. I was meant to be there for a couple of weeks but have decided to stick around for a few months, such is the beauty and relaxing vibe of the place. I get a job in a local restaurant as a cold larder chef, another story in itself. Terrence Malick’s in the area, filming The Thin Red Line, and a host of Hollywood stars give the tiny stretch of town some added buzz. (One night, I hang out with Ben Chaplin, Nick Stahl and Dash Mihok. I quiz them constantly about acting and filming, and they regard me suspiciously, thinking I’m a journalist).
One day at the restaurant, I take out a fishing rod to enjoy a break (as you do), and position myself right by the jetty of the restaurant. To my astonishment, I actually catch a fish, and reel it in. Behind me, there’s applause from one of the diners. I turn to hold the fish up proudly, and to be my extra astonishment, it’s Oliver Stone who’s clapping me (he must be in town as a guest or a consultant). I laugh, as he obviously doesn’t remember our previous encounter in Dublin, and I dare say I would make even less sense if I tried to explain to him that we’ve already met. Maybe I’ll save that for when I meet him a third time, properly for the first time…
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