CHARLES WOOLEY

Crikey! Hollywood immortalises Steve Irwin with a star on the walk of fame, bringing back many fond memories of the Crocodile Hunter

R ecently Steve Irwin posthumously received one of Hollywood’s greatest honours, a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. He was famous in the US long before we knew about him here.

In the early ’90s, before we all became suspected terrorists, I arrived at LA airport at least half a dozen times a year. The security people were relaxed, friendly and enjoyed a chat, especially with Australians. In the wake of Paul Hogan’s Crocodile Dundee movies, Australia had become the flavour of the month and all Americans wanted to engage with us.

Did we know Paul Hogan? Of course we did. “Then welcome to America, gentlemen. Have a nice day.”

Over time our friends at LAX started to ask us about another famous Aussie, whose name we didn’t know and couldn’t use to bluff our way. “Hey do you guys know Steve Irwin?” “Who?” “You know, The Crocodile Hunter. You must know him.” “No, we’ve never heard of him.” “Shit, sure you guys ain’t from Austria?” He was a sensation in the US, but why it took years for Steve to make it big back in his homeland I don’t really know. Some dour Australian TV programmer perhaps had watched an ebullient Australian wildlife enthusiast leaping on the back of crocodiles and thought that it was unseemly and dangerous and could only end badly. In which case, he was right. It did end badly, not with a crocodile but a stingray.

Thankfully the Croc Hunter was eventually loved in his own land and we got to enjoy many wonderful years with Steve.

A day filming with Steve Irwin was like a week with anyone else. He gushed usable material. His rapid delivery and garrulous enthusiasm could deliver a half-hour program in 15 minutes of recording.

An interview with the other crocodile bloke, Paul Hogan, could be like pulling teeth. Hogan had a reticence and a self-protective distrust that you often find in professional funny men. It’s as if you’ve challenged them by daring them to be funny. “OK Mr Hogan, now make us laugh.”

Comic actors, even the best of them (and Hogan certainly was), require a script, but with Steve Irwin the whole of the natural world was his libretto. He had absorbed it as a kid on his parent’s Queensland Reptile and Fauna Park and

now it just rolled off his tongue in an unstoppable stream of consciousness.

“Mate, just look at this beauty. Do you want to hold him? Watch his fangs. See the groove in that tooth, it runs down from the poison sac. Keep ya hand just here because one bite and you’re dead in minutes. I can’t save ya. He’s Australia’s most venomous snake, but isn’t he pretty? And he is a ‘he’. Do you want to go down the back end and I’ll show you how to tell?”

At the end of my first long day with Steve I realised that this wasn’t an act. No actor could maintain such passionate intensity for so long.

“You know, Charlie, I hate going to bed at night because sleeping is time I can’t be spending with all these wonderful creatures. Every day I’m so excited! Fair dinkum! I’m just bursting out of my skin because the world is full of such exciting stuff and I’ve got to tell everyone about it before it’s too late. If we’re going to save the planet there’s no time to waste.

Crikey mate, there’s so much to show you! Let’s go and get up close with the biggest crocodile you’ve ever seen. You’ll be sweet. Just stay right behind me. If I jump back I promise you will too, just before you hear the snap. If you don’t hear the snap we’ll need another reporter to finish the story.”

Steve didn’t need a reporter any more than he needed a script. He was a ‘wildlife warrior’ who loved all creatures great and small with extraordinary and infectious passion. Across 130 countries, 500 million people were captivated.

In the words of the great David Attenborough: “Steve taught them how wonderful and exciting it was, he was a born communicator.”

Back in 2006, Steve Irwin had no greater fan than my youngest son, James. Aged four, Jimmy couldn’t get enough of Steve, and was devastated by his death.

For days, a pall of gloom hung over the house. I remember the relief I felt when he finally broke his silence.

There was an old Bob Marley song on the radio and unaccountably Jim had a fondness for that great ‘70s reggae singer who had died way back in 1981.

When the song finished he asked, “Dad, do you think I will ever get to see Bob Marley?” “No son, I’m afraid not. He’s dead.” “Well, what a terrible week,” Jim lamented. “First Steve Irwin and now Bob Marley.”

Steve would have liked that.