Actor and comedian John Sessions dies
Ronni Ancona remembers her friend John Sessions, the Rada-trained maverick who died earlier this week
John Sessions, the actor and comedian, has died aged 67 after suffering from a heart condition. He was best known for his appearances on the TV show Whose Line Is It Anyway? and for his work on Stella Street, Spitting Image and QI. His acting credits included the TV dramas Porterhouse Blue and Victoria, and Kenneth Branagh’s 1989 film of Henry V. Showbusiness friends called him one of the most talented performers of his generation.
Darling, maverick, brilliant, tortured, sublimely funny, inspired, genius. John Sessions has left us far too soon. The loss will be immeasurable.
I first came to know Johnny, although I had always been a huge fan, when I was asked to be in the Stella Street film adaptation of the cult series conceived by Peter Richardson, Phil Cornwell and Johnny.
Rada-trained, he was, without doubt, the most talented performer I had ever met. I was awestruck. He played the truth of all the characters he performed so profoundly, from the brilliant comic creation of Mrs Huggett – the cleaning lady to the stars who lived in Stella Street – to his Al Pacino impression, to serious roles in dramas or Shakespeare. He approached them all with the same respect and method. That’s what made them so unique. The real exasperation and genuine fury etched on Huggett’s face at the indignity of picking up Michael Caine’s undies will forever be seared in my memory. Johnny was that rare commodity, a towering intellect who was able to translate his vast intelligence into highly accessible, unadulterated comedy. Who else could do a monologue combining Coronation Street with the Bloomsbury Set? His take on Virginia Woolf pulling pints at the Rovers Return is the stuff of legend.
His flights of fancy could make me laugh in a mad, visceral, forbidden back-of-the-classroom way. And his improvisational skills were breathtaking. He could spin his surreal stream of consciousness into an intricate web of pure comedic gold. He was a master of using juxtaposition for comic effect and he had a huge influence on me. Impressionism is often regarded as the pariah of the comedy world, and I wanted to be taken “seriously”. But he made me realise the satirical power and joy that mimicry, in the right context, can wield.
Later we were to perform together, usually as strange couples, in a deeply flawed TV sketch show. However, whatever the mixed response, the positive I took from the experience was that I got to work with Johnny.
Having both hailed from Scotland – he lived “up the road” from me – we shared the same slightly dour, camp and odd comic sensibility. We went on to write several shows together. Some sketches hit, others missed by a comedic mile, but that was part of the joy of Johnny. They literally don’t make comic mavericks like him any more. He was a one-off.
As I watch the endless circle of comedy guests on panel shows – clever, reliable and watchable, but, more often than not, safe, predictable and interchangeable – I’m reminded how Johnny was their antithesis: delightfully capricious and exciting. His performances were like watching a high-wire act without a net; the equivalent of chomping into a dangerous Japanese fish.
I had the added privilege of experiencing his comic wizardry in the flesh. I have joyous memories of him doing his Dustin Hoffman impression while dressed as a sheep (don’t ask) to cheer me up; as well as him suited and booted at my wedding, and on his 60th birthday with some of his best friends – Stephen Fry, Ruby Wax, Ken Branagh, Kathy Lette. We laughed so much we forgot to eat.
There were sadder times too, of course. Like a comedic version of Richard Burton or Peter O’ Toole, he could be unpredictable, gloomy, dangerous (although he was vulnerable and adorable with it). Johnny was plagued with dark insecurities that almost devoured him. It manifested itself in demons, some in liquid form – thankfully he conquered those in the end. The last few times I spoke to him, I could hear the palpable relief that he had found sobriety.
There was nothing he couldn’t do. A true maestro, he could play any instrument required and used all the paints on his creative palette to colour his amazing canvasses.
In an industry that notoriously loves to “box” and label performers, he found joy in all genres. This gentle, kind clever man defied category.
Johnny was mischievous and surprising, damaged and beautiful. He will be greatly missed.
His take on Virginia Woolf pulling pints at the Rovers Return is legendary