Alan Rickman (39 page)

Casting director Susie Figgis had already worked with Rickman on
An Awfully Big Adventure
and was later to cast him as Severus Snape in the
Harry Potter
films. ‘The indisputable thing about Alan Rickman is that he has strength. You notice him if he walks into a room: that's what makes him a leading actor,' she says.

‘I cast him in
Michael Collins
because we needed someone who had real weight, an intelligent political figure. He has to still a
crowd of 2,000 people: Alan was the man to do it, without shouting.

‘He's a big fish in a rather pathetic little British film pond. I can remember him in
Les Liaisons
; he's one of only five and a half people or so in this country who can get a film on the road to finance . . . They are what's known as The Money.

‘Alan's certainly not the lavender thespian type. He went through a stage of not wanting to be a smooth villain, anyway. He brings intelligence to the role.

‘As de Valera, he was concerned to make the man multidimensional with a point of view. He's very astute that the character should be brought forward. The first script was rather underwritten. He is the villain of the piece, but Alan would be anxious to play him not as a villain but as de Valera would have seen himself. With his own passionate beliefs and delusions.

‘His height helped too: de Valera was six foot two in real life. He was the really Big Fella of the two. Although he and Collins were originally brothers-in-arms, the main theory is that de Valera shafted him.'

In 1922, during the Irish Civil War, Collins was ambushed by waiting gunmen on a country road eighteen miles outside Cork. Some think the British ordered the killing; but the finger of suspicion still points at de Valera. With his ascetic, bony face and aquiline nose, Rickman even looked like the man.

As for the role of Rasputin that followed, what took such an ideal candidate for the Siberian Holy Devil so long? A delay by America's Home Box Office in getting the wherewithal together. Yet from Mesmer to Rasputin was an obvious progression: both were highly charismatic, much demonised and much misunderstood characters who exercised an extraordinary power over women. By November 1995, Rickman was knee-deep in snow on location in St Petersburg. Greta Scacchi took the role of the Tsarina Alexandra, whose fanatical beliefs in Rasputin's mystical powers contributed to the fall of Russia's Imperial family. Ian McKellen was rather astutely cast as the ill-starred last Tsar, with Uli Edel of Tyson fame directing a production bolstered up by fine British character actors.

The role of Rasputin was just the sort of part Rickman had been avoiding for years, but there are times when it is necessary to give in gracefully to one's destiny. It was too good to miss.

Most people's hazy notion of the Mad Monk is of a long-haired, heavily-bearded orgiast with the most sinister powers of persuasion
– in short, the Charles Manson of his day. Photographs show an altogether more sensitive-looking individual garbed in the robes of a wandering holy man, of the dubious kind that were two-a-penny in Imperialist Russia.

Rasputin had become a member of the Khlisti, a strange, sex-based religious sect whose name means ‘whippers' or ‘flagellants' in Russian. Their leader kept a harem of thirteen women, whom he liked to pleasure
en masse
. As there are so many Greek words in the Russian vocabulary, it is possible that the Khlisti were also millenarians who believed Jesus Christ would return to earth and reign for a thousand years in the midst of his saints. Whatever, Rasputin certainly had a Christ-complex, strongly reflected in Peter Pruce's screenplay and Alan Rickman's impassioned performance.

Obscurantism reigned at all levels in the benighted society of turn-of-the-century Russia, particularly among the ruling Romanovs who were in-bred and not very intelligent. There was every opportunity to make a glorious career out of charlatanism.

The monk Rasputin was a self-styled mystic whose influence was based on his personal magnetism and alleged power as a healer; he had alleviated the sufferings of the haemophiliac Tsarevitch, the Crown Prince Alexei, hence the royal favour. Shades of Mesmer, indeed. Rasputin's drunkenness, debauchery – said by their enemies to have involved the Tsarina herself – and shameless nepotism in promoting friends to high office produced more than the usual crop of foes. Some even convinced themselves that he and the Tsarina acted as secret agents for the Germans in the First World War, such were the hysterical stories surrounding him.

Rickman approached the role with his usual analytical zeal, very much concerned to be more than just a pair of mad staring eyes and a matted beard. Rasputin is too complex, too controversial, indeed too poignant an historical figure to be played – in the style of the Sheriff of Nottingham – as a manic cartoon. Tempting though it must be. The murder of Grigori Efimovich Rasputin in peculiarly horrible circumstances by a group of noblemen was taken as a fatal omen, since he himself had made the prophecy: ‘If I die, the Emperor will soon after lose his Crown.' And so it proved. Moreover, Rasputin's legend was considerably enhanced by the fact that it took him an inordinately long time to die. He survived a large dose of cyanide before being buggered, then shot and slashed to death. Since his curse came true with the
subsequent assassination of the royal family in a cellar, Rasputin could be said to have possessed an almost vampire-like vitality. Alan Rickman is one of the few actors who can suggest that kind of power from beyond the grave without resorting to the risible excesses of Hammer Horror. Rickman's performance as Rasputin makes one long for his eagerly-awaited Aleister Crowley – if writer Snoo Wilson can ever get the go-ahead to make the film. And Rasputin also won him three Best Actor awards: an Emmy in 1996 and a Golden Globe and a SAG Award in 1997.

The film opens in a Siberian forest in 1991, where the bones of the Romanovs are being disinterred. The Crown Prince Alexei is the narrator, apparently speaking from the tomb. ‘He was my saviour, my wizard. Father Grigori was magic,' pipes the boy.

Pruce's script concentrates on the mystical side of Rasputin's story, more or less ignoring the complexities of the political dimension. Rickman responds with an old-fashioned star performance that keeps Rasputin's mystique intact. There is no fashionable deconstruction here to strip away the myths, just Rickman hypnotising the camera, and most of the cast, with his strange, kohl-rimmed, Siamese-cat eyes.

He is first glimpsed on the snowy steppes of the Siberian lowlands, pulling a cart as if he were Bertolt Brecht's Mother Courage – as ambiguous a figure as Rasputin in her way.

Rickman looks authentically Asiatic. He is whipped by jeering horsemen who say that he has lost his soothsaying gift, but he doesn't crouch down like a beaten dog for long.

For Rasputin has attitude. Hearing a heavenly sound, he raises his arms to the skies in a self-consciously messianic way. The ‘felonious monk', as
Variety
magazine wittily called him, has the striking, silvery pallor of a consumptive, or an elegantly wasted rock star with too much Gothic makeup. With his mossy brown beard and moustache, Rickman lurks under more facial hair than a hobbit, but those burning orbs and hawkish nose make him instantly recognisable.

As usual, he refused to wear a wig; his blond mop was darkened and bobbed in a shorter, scruffier style than the Yogi-like Rasputin of history. In truth, Rickman's Rasputin looked rather like a hot-headed revolutionary on a bad-hair day – an effect heightened by the Maoist-style collarless jackets of Russian tradition. It was an inspired image for the religious and political ferment of the period.

In her book about her father, Maria Rasputin wrote of Grigori's ‘potent animal magnetism . . . an almost aphrodisiac aura'. Edel's film shows remarkable restraint in the sex-scenes; instead, it's the man's alluring personality that Rickman projects. He begins by spiritually seducing Peter Jeffrey's Bishop, who falls down and worships this tatterdemalion scarecrow from nowhere.

All the great risk-taking actors can give florid performances that verge on the vulgar. Sometimes Rickman's thick Russian accent is comic, particularly when Rasputin is ingratiating himself with the ailing Alexei. The man is part mountebank, part mystic; and not quite in control of his gift. The oily richness of his voice luxuriates in such lush lines as ‘her voice blooms like a kiss in my ear'. He's talking of the Virgin Mary at the time, but it could, of course, be any woman. He has an hypnotic effect upon Greta Scacchi's Tsarina at their very first meeting. It is a soft-focus, discreet attraction that provides a marked contrast to the gross peasant appetites he displays elsewhere. If Rasputin really did entice the Tsarina into ways of wickedness, the director and screenwriter are certainly not going to tell us about them.

Rickman's Rasputin is no common lecher; there is a strangely playful, childlike innocence about his greedy sensuality. The character feels helplessly dominated by his senses, something with which the highly sexed Rickman strongly identified and which attracted him to the role in the first place. ‘God blast desire! The lust of my flesh has tormented me,' shouts a drunken Rasputin as he goes wenching late at night. It's as if he is possessed by a demon of lust. But he can't resist a dangerous flirtation with the royal princesses, asking them: ‘What do you know about love?' as they walk in the grounds of the palace.

There is a naïvety as well as a native cunning in this holy devil. ‘The soul may belong to God, the flesh belongs to us,' he announces to the Romanovs over dinner.

He slurps his soup, handles the potatoes and starts to tell such a dirty-schoolboy story about two homosexual monks that he is expelled from the table by Ian McKellen's shocked Tsar, who appears to have led a very sheltered life of monogamous marital bliss. For if Rasputin is depicted as the innocent victim of destiny, so too are the Romanovs.

‘I didn't choose to be a holy papa . . . it frightens me too,' explains Rasputin as if he were a guileless child visited by God, an
unworthy vessel into which is poured a divine power. It is his sheer force of will that appears to send Alexei's illness into remission, though David Warner's royal doctor explains in utter exasperation that the rogue is simply slowing down the flow of blood by hypnotising the boy.

We have been kept waiting a long time for evidence of Rasputin's notorious orgiastic endeavours, which begin halfway through the film when he is treated as a marriage-guidance counsellor by a comely woman whose husband is failing in his marital duty. Rasputin woos her with honeyed words, but one never feels that the man is cynically faking his ardour. Rickman's performance has the fervour of one who genuinely wishes to make a convert to the doctrine of free love.

‘The greatest gift in the world is love . . . only then can we enter the gates of heaven. The greatest sin of pride is chastity. Before we repent, we have to sin,' he tells her throatily, his voice thick with desire.

He takes her in his arms and demands she kisses him, then indulges in an orgy of china-smashing to show off his passionate Russian temperament. ‘I would cut these wrists if it would give you a single moment of happiness. Think of God, my angel . . . he gave us this pleasure.'

He lifts up her long skirts and whispers to her. Moments later, he's kissing her neck on the bed. ‘God is love.' He fumbles at his lower clothing and two prurient gentlemen in the building opposite raise their binoculars to catch sight of her legs wrapped round Rasputin's neck. The next scene shows him besieged in his apartment by respectable ladies who all want to ‘come' closer to God . . . the rest is left to our imagination. As ever, Rickman is flirting most of all with the camera . . . a gloriously old-fashioned seducer who understands the art of dalliance and knows how to take his time. No wonder so many women are intrigued by him.

He goes further in a restaurant scene, where he is dancing wildly in a red shirt like a revolutionary who has unexpectedly won the election. Rasputin is as drunk as a skunk; yet Rickman skips lightly and deftly in his black boots, Fred Astaire at last.

Here is the latent exhibitionism that is integral to the passive-aggressive syndrome. He sees the sex-starved woman whom he serviced so expertly and kisses her violently in front of her astounded husband. Rasputin is asked to leave (without the patronage of the Romanovs, he would have been challenged to a
duel) and he roars, ‘The Empress kisses my hand . . . I'm her saviour and angel.'

The Tsarina's handsome young nephew Prince Feliks Feliksovich Yussupov rises angrily to his feet in the restaurant. Rasputin puts his face close to his and says provocatively, ‘Very pretty . . . but I prefer women.' Maria Rasputin's highly coloured account of her father's rise and fall portrays the married Feliks as an aggressive homosexual who is mortified by Rasputin's rejection of his advances. There is no such suggestion here in this sanitised account, but Feliks is to prove Rasputin's Nemesis none the less.

‘I'm a great man,' shouts Rasputin, climbing on a table and exposing himself in order to prove it. Not that we actually see the Rickman genitals – the camera cuts away just as Rickman is loosening his trouser-band.

Rickman is hypnotising the viewer all the time with Rasputin's wild mood-swings. He hurls furniture around, rips at his clothes in a frenzy as if tormented by what orthodox Jews call a dybbuk.

‘We will all drown in blood . . . oceans of tears . . . death is behind me,' he shouts at Ian McKellen's decent, mild-mannered, permanently perplexed Tsar. ‘Why was I chosen? I don't know, but I am Russia. I have your pain.' He's a cross between a manic-depressive Jesus Christ and that wild New Testament drop-out, John the Baptist. Rivetting. And yet more momentous forces are at work; the heir to the Austrian Empire is assassinated by a Serb at Sarajevo, and one wonders just how much Rasputin is involved in the gunning down of the Russian Prime Minister Stolypin at the opera (apart from that, how did you enjoy the show, Mrs Stolypin?) ‘Death was behind him, just as Father Grigori said,' relates Crown Prince Alexei with grisly relish.