Walking the tightrope of self-parody for as long as we can remember (which is probably longer than he can remember), yet with a decent enough sense of humour about himself and his work to stave off a Burton/Reed-style meltdown. Great Oscar-missing turns are legion in his folio: we’d single out his magisterially unsteady Not Errol Flynn in My Favourite Year, and his dilettantishly psychotic Not Jesus Christ in The Ruling Class…
FINEST HOUR: … but when all the cosmic hay’s been gathered, we’re sure his maniacal, airborne director-sadist in the absurdly underrated The Stunt Man will eventually be shoved up on the great big shiny pedestal it richly deserves.
