Why My Oscar Acceptance Speech Will Take Half the Nite

Article #2

“It’s my privilege, thank you.”

I can only imagine what Brenda Fricker whispered to Joe Pesci as they disappeared stage right.

As Oscar acceptance speeches go, you’d have to go a long way to beat it for brevity. And you know as well as I do, Oscar acceptance speeches aren’t known for brevity.

Maybe Pesci was having the last laugh. For a man famous for playing characters who are never stuck for words, he left a mildly stunned audience wanting more.

An army

Everyone loves a finished product. I do, you do, we all do. And the shinier, the better. And they don’t come much shinier than the Oscars on Sunday nite. Sure, it’s lost some of its allure over the years. Alas, in an age of an abundance of an abundance, any allure isn’t what it used to be.

On Oscar nite, every film, every actor looks the epitome of a completed work. A shiny sculpture, resplendent in all its glory. I mean, even Will Smith’s slap looked pretty polished.

Orson Welles once said: “A writer needs a pen, an artist needs a brush, but a filmmaker needs an army.” When Austin Butler accepted his BAFTA for Best Actor in London last month, in the first 30 seconds of his speech, he thanked 11 people.

For every actor that goes up the steps on Sunday nite to receive that sleeky statuette, I’d love to know the man-hours and people-hours involved in getting them there. Even for a young buck like Paul Mescal, there would be countless faces and thousands of hours.

Standing room only

If I was to line up all the people who’ve got me this far, there’d be standing room only in McDaid’s, off Grafton Street. There were teachers, hurling and football coaches, as well as some teammates I was lucky enough to soldier with. Not to mention my family and friends.

Since jumping lane a decade ago, a nuanced network of people have sprung up to smooth over the cracks.

I’ll give you an example.

A lot of TV and films use what they call “local hire”. So, say a film is shooting in Dublin. The producers know a lot of Irish actors are based in London. Rather than pay for flights and a bed, small and medium-sized roles are hired as “local talent”. Meaning you take the hit for the travel and bed yourself.

And I totally get it. Not every production company is Marvel Studios. So as an actor, you take the hit. Same as doing an MBA I suppose - without the sense of entitlement.

If I was to try and repay my friends in Dublin for the overnight stays, it would run into the thousands. And that could be the difference between me giving up this craic or not.

And that's just one city, one example. We could be here all day.

A lot of the time, someone not “making it” as an actor has zero to do with talent. It’s economics. They can’t financially stay in the ring long enough – practical things, like rent and bills or childcare, mean the towel gets thrown in.

Payback

I found myself asking “How do I repay all these people?”

The truth is I can’t.

Firstly, because it’s impossible. Secondly, because this tribe aren’t asking me to pay it back. But I can pay it forward. I can be of service to the tribe.

A part of me likes to think people have lent their support because they want the underdog to win. And, let’s face it, the odds of a performer or actor “making it” are pretty slim. They’re taking a punt on a stock that might or might not be the next Wayflyer. Maybe I could become the storyteller they can’t or couldn’t. Maybe they harboured an ambition that remains buried deep - maybe not, but in a way, my journey is their journey too. And if I get a bit of luck along the way, I can tell stories for a living.

And when we’ve built the highest buildings and even colonized far-off planets, what we all come back to is story. It’s how we put order on the chaos outside the door and inside our minds. In the words of the novelist George Eliot: “Art is our way of extending our contact with our fellowmen beyond the bounds of our personal lot.”

Muintir na Gaillimhe

Where I come from, there’s one speech that people still talk about. Eleven years before Joe Pesci uttered his famous five words, Joe Connolly uttered a famous few of his own.

When I watch that speech now, I see a tribesman who composed himself when everyone around him was overcome with emotion. A young man looking into the crowd below, but beyond it too. A young man on the mountain top, seeing past the shoreline and across continents.

He thanked a few, but not too many, not as many as Austin Butler anyway. That’s because his speech wasn’t for the few, it was for the many. Those who had gone before, those fortunate enough to be there and those yet to come.

So, for all of you that I am forever indebted to, I’ll get the apologies out of the way now. It’s unlikely you’ll get a mention on Oscars nite - but that doesn’t mean I’m not eternally grateful for you helping me up those steps.

And when I start singing The West’s Awake, maybe you could join in wherever you are. And before I’m hauled off by the men in black, for the briefest of moments, we’ll have stood together, shoulder to shoulder, on the mountain top.