I’ll never forget it. After the Kill Bill 2 premiere at Leicester Square, and the friend I was with had aftershow party tickets to some place in Green Lanes. I don’t recall the name, but it was an impressive gothic venue opposite the park with black cauldrons of fire hanging like baskets of flowers would outside a pub.
We walked in to the cascading gloom and set about hunting for free booze. The film itself had been a tremulous affair, what with the burial scene and vibrant myriad Kung-Fu deaths and we were keen to catch our breath before catching a glimpse of the stars. I physically weakened when I saw Uma Thurman, her surname sounding more suited to that of a vintage sportscar with a hyper V8 under the bonnet than a movie star, yet her very presence inspired more awe than I felt at the Taj Mahal. Pathetic, perhaps.
Minutes later and David Carradine was walking towards me, his face etched with handsome lines with partner in tow. I remember her being taller than him, giving him the appearance of a man in need of esteem and power. I wanted to say something, anything, but all I did was stare directly into his eyes. My fat, ill-defined features placidly falling onto his determined and edgy face and shattering as they landed. I never said a word. It was like looking into the eyes of a cowboy, an outlaw – a man with everything and nothing to live for.
And now he is dead, reportedly by suicide, in a hotel in the same Thai city where my wife currently is. Goodbye, David. I hope you find in death what you could not in life.