Albert Finney was an actor’s actor.
I’m sure many obituaries are saying the same thing, because it’s true. He wasn’t a recognizable name (let alone, face) to the majority of “civilians” out there, but to actors and anybody in show business he was a legend. He was one of those true acting talents that remained pure no matter what he did, who elevated the final product no matter what it was. He had no interest in publicity or the Hollywood game. He made odd career choices, choosing characters decades older and playing against type when he could have easily been a leading man. He “disappeared” for years, and then would show up in a completely different type of film and wow you all over again with his craft and presence.
The first time I saw him on screen as a kid was in Scrooge, a musical version of A Christmas Carol. I loved it. It is still my favorite version of that classic story. But I had no idea who he was as a name actor. How could I? Here he was in his mid-30’s, playing the stingy, crotchety old title character with grotesque relish and a bald cap, and no doubt driving his agents crazy.
Then a few years later, an even greater favorite of mine, Murder On The Orient Express. He was absolutely brilliant as the eccentric Hercule Poirot – nobody has ever matched him, certainly not Kenneth Branagh in his execrable remake – but again, I had no clue it was the Scrooge guy, or how he had TWICE made himself utterly unrecognizable to play the part. The perverse joy of hiding in a character like that clearly thrilled him in a way that playing, say, a Michael Caine-type part of a spy or womanizer didn’t. He didn’t want to be pinned down with a persona, idolized, or really even known at all. That wasn’t the job. That wasn’t the fun. He just wanted to show up, slip into the costume and surprise you.
He may have been making movies, but his work ethic and philosophy were still tied to the theatre. It wasn’t about image, it was just about ACTING.
You see this in his unusual choice of Annie and The Dresser as well.
Of course, eventually all that integrity and not playing the Hollywood game ends up putting a pinch on your wallet, so in the early 80’s he did what all great British actors do and took a few movies just for the money – little B-movies like Wolfen and Looker. But he still emerged with dignity intact. He was unsinkable, no matter what the material. You could never catch him phoning it in.
Then in 1982, he gave what I consider to be his finest performance on film, Shoot The Moon – a somber but exhilarating look at divorce with Diane Keaton, written by Bo Goldman and directed by Alan Parker. It is a film I am constantly having to introduce people to, totally overlooked and forgotten, but it gave him a chance to play a low-key, much more naturalistic slice-of-life and he showed a whole new side of his talent. No longer “hiding” in a bigger-than-life character, he stood still and let his character, George Dunlap, be exposed in all his mid-life frailty.
The ending, which is truly wild and could easily have stretched credulity, pivots entirely on Finney’s ability to show us both George’s polite outer-calm and his repressed fury, and he makes it utterly believable and so poignant.
In a way, it serves as a kind of bookend to his breakout role as the prototypical Angry Young Man in the 1960 British film, Saturday Night And Sunday Morning. I strongly recommend you find and watch that movie as well. Shot in crisp black-and-white, Finney plays a hard-drinking factory worker torn between cynicism about his dead-end life and a young woman who offers him simple happiness. He transforms what could be an unlikable cad into a flawed hero we actually care about. It is easy to see why it made Finney a star.
I would round out his best screen work with Miller’s Crossing, Erin Brockovich, and Big Fish. Even his tiny cameo in Skyfall was a joy.
As with all great actors, you always want more.
But in the end he did it his way.
The “civilians” might have only a vague awareness of the man, but the roles he played are indelible and forever – they do all the talking for him.
Each one of them a bloody marvel.