Fionnuala Ward: So long autographs, selfies are taking over

Autographs may be on the way out.

When it comes to providing proof that a celebrity has been encountered, selfies are the only show in town. They’re incontrovertible for a start. Hey, look that’s me with so-and-so! They bring the celebrity and non-celebrity together in a moment of equilibrium. Hey look, for one moment, we exist at the same time in the same universe! And they’re fun. For the non-celeb at any rate.

But autographs are less intrusive. They’re less needy and they have far more gravitas. And the two that I treasure most are both more than 30 years old.

I lived in London for a couple of years in the 1980s and at one stage my two buddies and I went to see Daniel Day-Lewis, or DDL as we took to calling him, at the National Theatre where he was playing Hamlet.

Blood brothers – Frank McNally on the deaths of two young men, one Irish, in the Korean War

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Hard Border – Frank McNally on a visit to the Korean Demilitarised Zone

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Transmigration of Seoul – Frank McNally on a long-awaited trip to South Korea

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Son of the soil – Colm Keena on the occasional delights of getting our hands dirty

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Once the play ended I rummaged around for my coat, only to look up and witness buddy number one announce that we were going backstage.

None of us had gone backstage before. What did going backstage even mean? Was it allowed? Was it legal?

Ten minutes later, all three of us found ourselves outside a perfectly ordinary door, our courage beginning to wane.

DDL duly appeared and graciously stopped to sign our programmes. Recognising our accents he informed us that his father came from Laois. We were in no way prepared for this. We had only anticipated some perfunctory scribbles and a quick exit all round. But the man was making an effort at conversation.

In an odd, unrehearsed moment we muttered a communal round of, “Ah, right, right”.

He stood there, open and friendly and entirely prepared to engage with us further but at that moment an American woman, around our age, arrived on the scene. Brimming with transatlantic confidence, she asked if he would sign her friend’s cast, in a nearby car.

Absolutely, he said, just as soon as he was finished here. A muttered chorus of, “That’s fine, grand, thanks”, promptly ensued and we shuffled away.

The following day I decided the situation needed to be rectified and so put pen to paper and wrote a short note of thanks, addressing it to Daniel at the National Theatre.

And that was that.

A week or so later, we heard that the opening of My Left Foot was happening in Mayfair. DDL was in the starring role and we made it our business to get there on time, positioning ourselves in front of the barricades.

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We didn’t have tickets but happened upon Michael Dwyer, the much-missed former film critic for this paper. We had never met him but my friend was bold enough to ask if there was a party afterwards. There was, he informed us, but it was invitation only.

A gauntlet had been as good as thrown down and a pact was quickly made to return to our respective residences to don some semblance of a party frock and meet back outside the cinema in double quick time.

Once the doors opened, we slipped in among the cinema-goers, not talking, barely breathing, and followed them down a quiet street. Moments later we were in an upstairs restaurant.

DDL wanted to thank me for getting in touch and said it was always good to meet people who ‘enjoyed the work’

A waiter appeared with a tray of drinks. Would we like some Champagne? We would indeed.

As it turned out, DDL wasn’t there. He was dating the French actor Isabelle Adjani at the time and had returned to France. We heard this because Michael Dwyer told us so. He spotted us perched on a sofa and approached, grinning and I like to think a little impressed.

A couple of days later, I received a note in the post. It had the National Theatre logo in the corner and a French postmark.

DDL wanted to thank me for getting in touch and said it was always good to meet people who “enjoyed the work”.

And we did, Daniel. We really did.

My second autograph, attained around the same time, was that of Jack Lemmon. Lemmon came to prominence in the golden era of Hollywood but was never leading man material. Instead, he specialised in light comedic performances. He was also in a play in London around the same time and flushed from our success with DDL, I persuaded another friend to try the backstage trick once more.

Lemmon was polite and professional when informed that there were autograph hunters outside. “It has to be done,” he opined while pulling down a half-door to act as a table. I could think of nothing to say when presenting my programme but my buddy spoke enthusiastically about his performance in Some Like it Hot.

“Hardest work I did,” Lemmon muttered as he signed Eamon’s programme.

A picture can paint a thousand words but a few scribbled words can do likewise. They too have stories to tell. Stories that can last for three decades and counting.