Donal McCann's premature death cruelly ends one of the greatest careers in modern Irish theatre. A blazing light has been extinguished and a unique voice silenced. It is not fanciful to claim that he was among a handful of truly great Irish actors of the century. It is almost impossible to believe that he will not grow old among us. There was much left to achieve; so many roles to make his own.
What made Donal so special was how much of himself he brought to each performance. His greatness lay in his ability to reflect his own complicated personality in every character he played. He had a real courage to show us the depths of his own insecurities or joys to help us understand the author's intentions. He never flinched from the darker side of the characters he played. While he had a genius for comic timing second to none, it was in the challenging, emotionally draining roles that he will be most remembered.
After a short stint as a journalist with the Irish Press, he started his acting career at the Abbey in the early 1960s. He was incredibly handsome and with a voice that sounded like the cream he later used it to promote, he stood out as a special young actor.
His arrival on the international scene came with Hugh Hunt's delightful production of Dion Boucicault's The Shaughraun, which The Abbey took to London in 1968. His sensational notices ensured him many offers, and a television series, The Pallisers, followed.
It was a measure of both the seriousness of the man and the integrity of the artist that McCann never allowed this kind of fame and celebrity to overwhelm him or to impress him. He wrestled with many demons, and he was only at ease with himself towards the end of his life. However, he always had a profound sense of who he was as an artist. He knew how good he was and did not need the acclaim of critics or the phony celebration of stardom to confirm it.
Working with him as a director was both a joy and a challenge. The intensity he brought to the work made him hard on himself and demanding of all around him. The joy came in watching that extraordinary intelligence wrestling with a character. I often marvelled at how instinctively he knew how to deliver each speech. Every line sounded new-minted, as though nobody had ever said it before or would again.
He was never at ease in a role unless he respected the text and the writer and could find his own voice within the character. When that happened, as it did on so many occasions, his work touched genius and gave audiences a profound experience.
For me, forever, Donal will be Frank Hardy, the faith healer of Brian Friel's masterpiece. It was a performance which transcended acting as performer and character became one. Working on that play with him over many years, it was fascinating to watch him grow into the role so completely.
The last performance of it in London's Royal Court Theatre stands out in my memory. As Frank Hardy made his way downstage for the final moment of epiphany, delicately removing an imaginary piece of fluff from his coat, certain that he was going to his death, the focus of the entire audience was on his every tiny gesture.
In that moment, I understood the nature of theatrical greatness. His complete concentration on the character, his ability to hold our attention and the magic he had within him to communicate his thoughts and feelings, made it a moment to hold onto forever.
He found the same level of greatness in many roles. Sebastian Barry's superb The Steward of Christendom provided him with his last great stage role, and again he demonstrated a real bravery and naked truth that will long be remembered by those fortunate enough to have seen him.
He was never seduced by the world of film. He certainly made some good movies but, somehow, he never quite found an easy facility with the medium. He was immensely proud of his role in John Huston's last movie, The Dead.
Donal was a quintessential Dubliner and he had a real sense of his pedigree. He loved the fact that his father, John McCann, had been Lord Mayor of Dublin.
All who knew him feel a profound sense of loss and a gratitude that we had a chance to know a uniquely talented man. "Good night, sweet prince, and may the hosts of angels sing thee to thy rest."