It was inevitable that the RTÉ docu-drama Fallout would be accused of scaremongering, says Denis Tuohy
It was equally inevitable that the programme's as-for-real portrayal of a nuclear accident at Sellafield - in which I was cast as the television news anchor - would recall Orson Welles's notorious 1938 New York radio production of War of the Worlds.
So convincingly did it match the style of a news broadcast that at least two million Americans, according to subsequent research, were panicked into believing that Martians had landed in New Jersey. For me, to have been involved in Fallout and to hear people make comparisons with that Welles-inspired event has a particular relevance. It rekindles the memory of a Belfast theatre long ago where, in a quite different context, I briefly trod the same stage as the panic-making maestro himself.
I was an unemployed actor when the chance arose of earning £10 as an extra for a week's work at the Opera House. For this particular job, however, I would have begged, borrowed or stolen a tenner and paid it myself for the privilege of taking part. The production was the world première of Chimes at Midnight, a compilation of scenes from the various Shakespeare plays featuring Sir John Falstaff, and starring Orson Welles as the unruly knight.
The director was Hilton Edwards, who, with his partner Micheál MacLiammóir, had hired Welles as a teenage actor in Dublin long before he achieved international renown through theatre and radio work in New York and his astonishing screen debut with Citizen Kane. In the hours before the dress rehearsal, locals like myself paraded in front of Hilton, hoping to be chosen as spear carriers and anonymous boozers for the tavern scenes. Those of us who got the nod were dispatched to wardrobe, fitted out in tunics and tights and sent back to the auditorium to wait. Our duties would be explained in the course of the rehearsal.
When the appointed hour came round all the characters, bar one, were gathered together. Prince Hal, Hotspur, Mistress Quickly, assorted lords and ladies, bishops, justices and low life such as myself and the other local recruits. Where's the big man?, we wondered, but not for long. We became aware of a deep rumbling backstage, growing louder and nearer, as though some mighty creature was approaching through jungle. Soon there was another sound, halfway between a throat being cleared and a roar. Then the maker of the noises emerged from the wings. Orson Welles had come among us.
It was a magnificent entrance. At that period of his life - it was 1960 and he was 44 - Welles, without costume or make-up, was a huge man, carrying a lot of surplus weight. Not enough, though, he had obviously decided, for the part of Shakespeare's corpulent knight. So much midriff padding had been built into his costume that the figure standing before us could as easily have been the Michelin Man as Falstaff. But the look he gave us was that slightly mocking, quizzical half-smile immortalised by Harry Lime in The Third Man. "Good evening, fellow players."
As for his own playing that week, there was much to treasure, as I had confidently hoped, ranging from boisterous good humour to pathos. Most of all, perhaps, the line that includes the title. Sir John and Justice Shallow have been reminiscing about loose women, late nights and mischief in general. Sir John sums up what they have shared:
"We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow."
Spoken by Welles, the last syllable of Shallow's name was a masterpiece of vocal technique. As the bleary-eyed old rascal stared into the distance, the "o" sound, first uttered in his naturally deep bass, slowly faded to a wheezy whisper. There was a life story in that fading.
During the dress rehearsal we did see something of Welles the tyrant - suddenly stopping, for instance, in mid-speech to ridicule someone else's costume, or publicly denouncing poor Hilton Edwards for the direction of a scene which didn't even involve him. Oh, he was hands on, all right. But these outbursts, intimidating though they were, did not dispel the buoyant enthusiasm which he sought to generate among all of us, the sense that we were in this thing together, for a shared purpose.
At the end of the first-night performance, as the audience applauded enthusiastically, and the curtain rose and fell, he told us in a loud aside that he was sorry, but we would have to endure an on-stage visit from the governor of Northern Ireland before we could get a drink. Sure enough, on came His Excellency accompanied by one of his aides, and Welles was presented.
"You may be interested to know," said the aide, "that you and the governor have an interest in common."
Welles raised a dangerous eyebrow. "Really?"
"Oh yes, His Excellency is a very keen stills photographer."
"Is that so? Well, I've never known the first damn thing about stills photography! Would you like to meet the cast?"
Silently, his fellow players cheered. A genius, yes, but a genius who could also be one of us.