Kenneth Griffith

In 1982, just out of university, I was asked by a new magazine to interview the actor, author and documentarymaker Kenneth Griffith.

When I arrived at his large home in Islington, the fiery Welshman opened the door wearing nothing but a dressing gown. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said in a loud Pembrokeshire accent, ‘I’m a notorious heterosexual.’

He was. Married and divorced three times, involved in numerous relationships, the father of five children, he certainly did everything with a flamboyant passion.

We got on well and became good friends, but I was never an intimate, unlike the great Peter O’Toole. They were like brothers, and would refer to each other by their surnames even when together. I’d sometimes listen to long, intense phone conversations with Ken sitting next to me and O’Toole’s voice booming from the speaker.

He’d been close to Peter Sellers too, but always said that one of Sellers’s partners had made him end the friendship. I suppose I can see how having Peter Sellers and Griffith in the same room would leave very little space for anyone else.

He appeared in more than 80 films between the 1940s and ’80s, but his genuine talents were frequently obscured by the roles he was given –occasionally splendid but too often virtual caricatures. Frankly, he resented it. He always used the word ‘player’ to describe his profession and thought –and I agreed – that he was as good as most, better than many.

He also bridled at the censorship he faced over some of his documentaries. He adopted causes, which were various, controversial and even contradictory: the Boer War and the cause of the Afrikaners; Israel and Zionism; India; and Irish republicanism. He once told me that the only politician he viscerally hated was loyalist firebrand Ian Paisley.

It was Ireland, and a documentary about Irish political and military leader Michael Collins, that led to a ban from ATV in 1973. It would take another 20 years for the BBC to air it. He’d show people an enormous cigar in a glass box above the stairs and tell them, ‘It’s the only bloody thing that Lew Grade ever gave me!’

But he could be foolishly provocative too. ‘I kept describing her as a good wife,’ he told me of a young actress with whom he’d worked, emphasising the word ‘good.’ The woman was evidently not happy. Then he’d lament how roles became increasingly scarce as he entered his 70s.

We once strolled in St James’s Park together and he suddenly said, ‘You’re honoured, mate. For years I couldn’t come here, because it’s where I’d once go when I was rejected for acting roles. I’d sit on a bench and fall into depression.’

He enjoyed nothing more than holding court, arguing his position and delivering fierce monologues in character – I’ve seen him be Napoleon, Nehru and Ben-Gurion in the middle of crowded parties. Thing is, everybody was glued to the performance.

I’m not sure why he liked my company, but when in 1986 I told him that I’d met a woman in Canada and was going out there to marry, he hugged me, kissed me on both cheeks and said, ‘Be happy, you bastard, be happy.’ When he broke the hug I saw that there were tears in his eyes.’ I still miss him.

Reverend Michael Coren