Post by gaz on Aug 6, 2013 6:27:46 GMT -5
Richard Burton, CBE died this day exactly 30 years ago.
Upon hearing this news Mr. Ian Anthony Malcolm (stage name: MALCOLM XERXES™) and Mr. RTW (actor/Welshman, who will no doubt call me on my choice of headliner title there) began a tradition of meeting for what, at best, can be described as a two person pub crawl mission and which, having heard many of the tales from sorties past, I put in the category of BARMAGEDDON.
Each year Burton day beheld different happenings, often hastily made Plan B’s in an attempt to repeat the events of previous years, and each nearly all earmarking the occasion like an episode of a cable TV series done in the style of the movie AFTER HOURS.
Following Malcolm's passing in 2005, RTW attempted to soldier on and this occurred for at least one year as a solo act, risking life and limb in downtown Toronto on a night falling either before, during, or after Caribana (or whatever ubiquitous nomenclature they've been forced to adopt now).
A couple of years after Malcontent’s own passing I joined RTW, who was gracious in allowing me to walk in the shadow of the now missing man. For those few hours I felt like the alternate reality me, a theatrical actor, a drinker, a part whose suit I badly fit, but as each year passed it became something to both dread and look forward to. And despite my historic dislike for requiems, drinking, and commemorations of death it was, from my perspective the street performance version of the 2nd act from MY FAVORITE YEAR.
For RTW it was a melancholic remembrance of both a simpler time; past battles in a life long war some mistook as a friendship, but which was in many ways stronger; and, if the Robin Williams film THINGS MAY COME has any insight, a way to give both Burton and Malcolm a moment to walk again upon this Earth in the pursuit of luxuries they both loved.
The last few years I’ve been pushing RTW to broaden the occasion, to, if you’ll pardon the term, breath new life into it. This has meant forcing the ill-fitting mantle of ‘date night’ on it. It resulted in a hardcore kneecapping of the traditions behind Burton day with spouses, for indeed when the goal is to get blind staggeringly drunk while both forgetting and remembering the dead in the back alleys of the largest urban center in Canada, the least conducive thing to such a crucible is bringing your wife along.
RTW was very gracious both years, but last year, as the night wore on, and the wee hours tempted public mischief charges in the grand dame of hogtown’s hotels, as the witching hour struck, there was, in his eyes, the ghost of Burton day’s past. The sorrowful regret that these adventures of youthful men had been forced into the suits of civilization but that, given a vine rope, and a monkey, the beast of Edgar Rice Burrough’s TARZAN still wished to yell, swing and fight Crocodiles in the jungles. And should be allowed to.
So while I concede I was most probably projecting my own feelings onto him at that point, it felt as though there was an unspoken desire this be the last time the veneer of society was put on the Great Ape of Burton day and I knew then that ‘we’ would not be joining him for 2013.
And while the calendar and my job are not always kind toward such pursuits, never mind the protests of both my liver and recovery system, as the date approached and I didn’t hear from RTW I felt like it was a silent, passive plea by him to avoid being put in the position of compromise, for indeed Burton day cannot truly honour the spirit of war’s departed while leashed to a different master.
So much as I wish now that I had booked tomorrow off. Much as I wish I’d pursued this gathering – even without the ball and chains of respectable, married men – instead I sit here, still early by Burton Day reckoning, and hope the best of nights for RTW.
May it be dreary, weary, and miserable. May it be haunted, humbling and hopeless. And may the spirits of both men, giants in their own rights, walk with you, guide you and keep you safe.
And in days to come, may you bask in the foggy remembrance of a Burton day done as it should be – full heathen ahead!
-30-
RICHARD BURTON (10 November 1925 – 5 August 1984) was a Welsh actor. He was nominated seven times for an Academy Award – for My Cousin Rachel (1952), The Robe (1953), Becket (1964), The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1965), Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966), Anne of the Thousand Days (1969) and Equus (1977) – six of which were for Best Actor in a Leading Role, without ever winning. He was a recipient of BAFTA, Golden Globe and Tony Awards for Best Actor. Although never trained as an actor, Burton was at one time the highest-paid actor in Hollywood.
Burton remains closely associated in the public consciousness with his second wife, actress Elizabeth Taylor. The couple's turbulent relationship was rarely out of the news.
Upon hearing this news Mr. Ian Anthony Malcolm (stage name: MALCOLM XERXES™) and Mr. RTW (actor/Welshman, who will no doubt call me on my choice of headliner title there) began a tradition of meeting for what, at best, can be described as a two person pub crawl mission and which, having heard many of the tales from sorties past, I put in the category of BARMAGEDDON.
Each year Burton day beheld different happenings, often hastily made Plan B’s in an attempt to repeat the events of previous years, and each nearly all earmarking the occasion like an episode of a cable TV series done in the style of the movie AFTER HOURS.
Following Malcolm's passing in 2005, RTW attempted to soldier on and this occurred for at least one year as a solo act, risking life and limb in downtown Toronto on a night falling either before, during, or after Caribana (or whatever ubiquitous nomenclature they've been forced to adopt now).
A couple of years after Malcontent’s own passing I joined RTW, who was gracious in allowing me to walk in the shadow of the now missing man. For those few hours I felt like the alternate reality me, a theatrical actor, a drinker, a part whose suit I badly fit, but as each year passed it became something to both dread and look forward to. And despite my historic dislike for requiems, drinking, and commemorations of death it was, from my perspective the street performance version of the 2nd act from MY FAVORITE YEAR.
For RTW it was a melancholic remembrance of both a simpler time; past battles in a life long war some mistook as a friendship, but which was in many ways stronger; and, if the Robin Williams film THINGS MAY COME has any insight, a way to give both Burton and Malcolm a moment to walk again upon this Earth in the pursuit of luxuries they both loved.
The last few years I’ve been pushing RTW to broaden the occasion, to, if you’ll pardon the term, breath new life into it. This has meant forcing the ill-fitting mantle of ‘date night’ on it. It resulted in a hardcore kneecapping of the traditions behind Burton day with spouses, for indeed when the goal is to get blind staggeringly drunk while both forgetting and remembering the dead in the back alleys of the largest urban center in Canada, the least conducive thing to such a crucible is bringing your wife along.
RTW was very gracious both years, but last year, as the night wore on, and the wee hours tempted public mischief charges in the grand dame of hogtown’s hotels, as the witching hour struck, there was, in his eyes, the ghost of Burton day’s past. The sorrowful regret that these adventures of youthful men had been forced into the suits of civilization but that, given a vine rope, and a monkey, the beast of Edgar Rice Burrough’s TARZAN still wished to yell, swing and fight Crocodiles in the jungles. And should be allowed to.
So while I concede I was most probably projecting my own feelings onto him at that point, it felt as though there was an unspoken desire this be the last time the veneer of society was put on the Great Ape of Burton day and I knew then that ‘we’ would not be joining him for 2013.
And while the calendar and my job are not always kind toward such pursuits, never mind the protests of both my liver and recovery system, as the date approached and I didn’t hear from RTW I felt like it was a silent, passive plea by him to avoid being put in the position of compromise, for indeed Burton day cannot truly honour the spirit of war’s departed while leashed to a different master.
So much as I wish now that I had booked tomorrow off. Much as I wish I’d pursued this gathering – even without the ball and chains of respectable, married men – instead I sit here, still early by Burton Day reckoning, and hope the best of nights for RTW.
May it be dreary, weary, and miserable. May it be haunted, humbling and hopeless. And may the spirits of both men, giants in their own rights, walk with you, guide you and keep you safe.
And in days to come, may you bask in the foggy remembrance of a Burton day done as it should be – full heathen ahead!
-30-
RICHARD BURTON (10 November 1925 – 5 August 1984) was a Welsh actor. He was nominated seven times for an Academy Award – for My Cousin Rachel (1952), The Robe (1953), Becket (1964), The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1965), Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966), Anne of the Thousand Days (1969) and Equus (1977) – six of which were for Best Actor in a Leading Role, without ever winning. He was a recipient of BAFTA, Golden Globe and Tony Awards for Best Actor. Although never trained as an actor, Burton was at one time the highest-paid actor in Hollywood.
Burton remains closely associated in the public consciousness with his second wife, actress Elizabeth Taylor. The couple's turbulent relationship was rarely out of the news.