I occasionally think of people whom I have met in my 50+ years of life. Some of them are hard to ignore because they are famous. Now I am a shameless name-dropper but I have not spoken to these people for decades nor have I had any hand in their fame so an attempt to namecheck them would be would be pathetic.
Some of these people are not famous and so, in an idle moment, I may google them. They might come up on LinkedIn or Facebook or a local baking club newsletter or a bio page of their employer or any number of places. And they generally seem happy. Of course, appearances can be deceiving. But the general message is “move along folks, nothing to see here”.
Last week, a person surfaced in my memory. I wasn’t really sure where from. By way of backstory. At university, I had dabbled in theatre. I wasn’t very good. But I encountered people who were. There was one person that I never actually worked with but I auditioned for on a number of occasions. It got to the point where we would acknowledge each other: “Ah Matt, you’re here again...” I think he was mildly entertained by whatever tomfoolery I did, but never enough to cast me in anything. I still went to see his shows - which were by turns grounded then dreamlike then disturbing. The first one I saw was a production of The Pitchfork Disney where he played Presley. Then there were number of devised shows of his own that I think contained a mix of scripted and workshopped content. I vaguely remember the names - For those in peril on the sea??? River Phoenix dead on the sidewalk??? He was obviously talented and would have some kind of future in the arts-entertainment industrial complex.
Like I say, for some reason his name bubbled up in my mind. So I googled him. There is a wikipedia page devoted to him. Right then, he is wiki-famous. He has been dubbed "British theatre's greatest maverick talent" - a compliment with both a forehand and a backhand. It reminds me of being labelled “the world’s tallest dwarf”. He has led an ensemble named after himself. He has won awards at the Edinburgh Festival and written and directed plays at some of the UK’s best known theatres. So far so good. Perhaps a bit more than: “move along folks, nothing to see here”. Then:
It was revealed that he used his professional status to abuse and disguise his abuse of young men
Oh.
[He] died by suicide June 2021. He had been arrested in May for possession of indecent images of children.
Bloody hell.
The world wide web in 2025 is a weird place. It’s been around for over 30 years. For many of us, significant chunks of our lives are in bits and pieces online. For some us, it’s a steady procession on nothing much. But sometimes it’s not. Sometimes you get to see someone’s rise and fall.
He started to get favourable reviews in The Guardian around about 2000. He had a prodigious work rate - putting out 2-3 shows a year for over 20 years. He blogged from 2006 to around 2014 (back when blogging was a thing). His plays were published. He wrote a book. By all accounts, his work was daring and lyrical and complex. His blog writing displayed charm and insight and erudition. Whilst he was not a household name, he was a known figure in the world of British theatre - teaching on lots of drama courses. His company even had a critic-in-residence who had her own blog.
And then there’s a pause.
And then there’s news stories about his death. And then, about a year later, it all comes out in a series of posts and articles. About the sexual demands that he made on young performers (esp. men). About the bullying. And about the cache of child porn that his husband discovered. A series of posts and articles from those who were impacted by his behaviour to those who had tried to raise the alarm to those industry stalwarts asking how this could have happened.
Meanwhile his blog has been deleted (although it still lives in The Wayback Machine) and his publications are no longer available to buy direct (although second hand copies seem to be floating round eBay and Amazon).
If I had kept up with his career then this would have played out over 25 years. Instead it’s like binging a Netflix true crime series (in the wrong order). Everything happens all at once. Things written over a decade ago - a description of a piece of theatre involving children, an obsession with nudity, the frequent use of suicide as a plot point - foreshadow things known today. Chekov’s blog post.
It is flippant to say this but the narrative of an abusive man who struggles with his desires and then commits suicide understood in a non-linear way could be one of his own plays. Some people are nothing like the work they produce. Their art is something separate from themselves. Whereas for some artists, their work is a destination to escape to. Their self as becoming is their art. And then some get fatally lost in a region in between - or somewhere else.
This is not entertainment. People have been hurt.
It is sad. It is unnerving. I really, really want there to be “move along folks, nothing to see here” when I google someone.
Tragic. For everyone involved.
Eeesh. Tough read for you.