Donald Clarkeremembers a friend and colleague
Over the past week, this newspaper has, quite rightly, published a great deal about Michael Dwyer’s many singular accomplishments. We have read about his championing of young talent, his rigorous documentation of cinematic lore, and his achievement in creating the Dublin Film Festival (twice).
Those who dealt with him closely will, however, miss any examination of the incomparable art form that was the Michael Dwyer Phone Call.
Every few days, often late at night, my telephone would ring (the home phone, that is – Michael abhorred mobiles). A lively voice would deliver unhappy news. "Can you cover a real cinematic delight tomorrow?" he would say. " My Little Walrus IIat the Savoy. Shouldn't be too taxing on the brain." It was then time to make a cup of tea, prop my feet up on the coffee table and enjoy 40 minutes or so of colourful, Tralee- flavoured cultural commentary.
If, through some accident of government surveillance, we could arrange a CD boxed-set of Michael’s phone calls, they would, I suspect, rapidly gather the same class of cult that attached itself to the diaries of Alan Clark and Joe Orton. The libel suits might, of course, bring ruin to the publisher, but it would be a risk worth taking.
At this time of year, after both acknowledging that the Oscars were a farce, we would devote 20 minutes to a debate on developments in the race for those awards. If Cannes were looming, he’d offer a few anecdotes about his experiences on the Croisette.
Nothing delighted him more than the discovery that we disagreed on a film. Our debates about Apocalypto(DC for, MD against) or Dreamgirls(DC against, MD for) ate up many, very pleasurable hours.
The meat of the calls, however, tended to be an endlessly witty exploration of recent outrages by industry professionals, Lars von Trier, rival journalists, Lars von Trier, conservative politicians, travel agents, Lars von Trier, and people who used his street as a turning zone.
It was, in just this one sense, a shame that Michael was such a nice man. Had he transformed the full power of his telephonic invective into newspaper copy, he might have become one of those journalists we love to hate. As it was, he had to settle for just being loved.
While savouring one of his calls, I might, perhaps, have pondered – with no little trepidation – how Michael might react to a genuinely grave crisis. If he got this much amusing mileage out of three-point-turning motorists, he would, surely, go into aggrieved hyper-drive if, say, he fell seriously ill.
Well, people surprise you. Anybody who talked to Michael over the past six months will confirm that he uttered barely a word of complaint about his terrible, terrible illness. Up until a few weeks ago, he seemed genuinely convinced that he would return to work in the middle of January.
It was not to be. The phone calls are over. I’ll just have to guess the Oscars wrong on my own. dclarke@irishtimes.com
