I rewatched "Truly Madly Deeply" only a few months ago, on an old VHS appropriately enough. And, once again, skiving off work to hang with Rickman's prickly ghost seemed a far more beautiful fate than having to move on to Michael Maloney and his hopping sack of quirks. "Wait," I thought on this latest rewatching "Is this subconsciously why I found grief so attractive? Because of Maloney with his sleeves stuffed with doves, trying too hard? Because of this film and Bach and Barrington Pheloung? Because of Juliet Stevenson? Because Alan Rickman made self-indulgence look so dashing?" Might this also have been why I spent so much of my twenties keeping my coat on indoors?
Probably. It's still there, under my skin, if I think about it. Look up: his influence can be seen even in the banner of this blog. Let's not mince words, for anyone of my generation acting as they entered adulthood Alan Rickman's performances really - really - broadened our options. The key supporting player in a lot of late adolescences, I can't think what it would have been like without him.
The Goblin King gone. Now Gruber. It hasn't really sunk in yet. After the count of three.