Malcolm McDowell

The first time I met Albert, he shook my hand and said: “You have a very interesting face,” in that famous Northern lilt of his. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. It was in 1968, on the set of Lindsay Anderson’s If…, which Albert produced and which was my breakthrough. I didn’t tell him then but he was my hero: when I saw him in Saturday Night, Sunday Morning, as a young man in Liverpool, it made me realise that I could could be an actor, too.

During that period British films were mainly bourgeois middle-class, middle-of-the-road comedies where you sat on the sofa with a cup of tea. Albert was the most influential actor of his generation because he made it possible for actors from the provinces to make it – indeed, he made it good to be working class.

There had been no leading man before like him: he epitomised what John Osborne was writing about in Look Back in Anger: this “fuck you” attitude to the establishment – which we loved and needed. If you came from the provinces at that time, it was very intimidating to try and make it in London. In music, the path had been softened by the Beatles, but in film and theatre it was still very hard. Albert made it possible – along with his contemporaries, like Tom Courtenay and Alan Bates.

But for me at least, he was the great shining light. He had this mix of boyish northern charm and, just below the surface, a wild, unpredictable danger – devilment, even – which audiences really responded to. You never quite knew what he was going to do next.

He wasn’t really like that in person. He loved his great food and great wines. I remember a four-hour boozy lunch with him in Soho with my dear sister, Gloria, and his then-girlfriend, Pene. It was wonderful. And then he would go off to a fat farm to get ready for the next movie.

A lot of the best stories about Albert are not repeatable. He was irresistible to beautiful women – which he loved. And he was mischievous. It’s not a very politically-correct story, but I remember him telling me about the time the director Stanley Donen introduced him to Audrey Hepburn. They were to star together in this Hollywood romance, Two For the Road, and had dinner in a bistro in Chelsea. And Albert played it completely limp-wristed, lisping and gay. Audrey was absolutely horrified. When Albert excused himself at the end of the meal, she turned to Stanley and said: “What are you doing? This has to be a great love affair!” and he went: “Oh, he’s just joking.” Then Albert came back with that great big grin on his face and Audrey said: “You bastard!” That was Albert.

He was also a very private man – he never courted the press. He wasn’t egotistical: I remember going to see him at the National when he played Don Pedro in Much Ado About Nothing. He didn’t always need to take the leading role – though, of course, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. He was an authentic, great talent. That’s important – and rare.

I hope in some sense he passed a baton to me, with If… and then with O Lucky Man!, just as Gary Oldman once told me it was seeing those films which made him want to be an actor. I feel very indebted and close to Albert still. I’ll miss him very much.

• As told to Catherine Shoard

Mike Figgis

It was day one on the shoot of The Browning Version in 1994. Albert was sitting with the script, using a thick black marker pen to cross out sections of text. I asked him if he was making dialogue changes. “No, I’m just crossing out all those directions that say, ‘He looks up sadly’, or ‘He holds back the emotion.’ I’ll make those decisions myself when I do the scene.”

In the film, Albert’s character has to deal with a series of humiliations – we were filming one such scene. In my script (by the great writer Ronald Harwood) it did suggest a tearful face. We’d done a couple of takes and Albert’s face was noticeably dry. I asked if we should perhaps do one with moisture. Albert was never rude or high-handed. He just opened his script and pointed out that 10 pages later comes the big scene where he finally breaks down. I apologised and we quickly moved on to the next scene.

I met Albert when I was trying to raise money for my first film, Stormy Monday. He’d always been my favourite British actor and I was in awe of him. Charlie Bubbles and Under the Volcano demonstrated his great acting skills as well as a sense that he was one of the most interesting artists on the British scene, not just an actor but a style-maker.

We went for lunch somewhere trendy. I remember it was just a few days after the Chernobyl disaster. Michael Douglas was at a nearby table. Our food arrived, the talk was fascinating and I was in heaven. Albert leaned forward confidentially: “Don’t make it obvious but can you tell me if Michael Douglas is eating potatoes?” I looked: his plate was minimal, just a steak and some greens. Albert nodded: “I thought so. He still takes his clothes off in movies.”

When we wrapped The Browning Version, Albert told me he’d enjoyed the process and hoped we might do it again, but that he never watched his films or went to festivals. During the shoot, he’d taken every member of the cast and crew out to dinner in groups of about five or six. At the wrap party, he gave everyone a bottle of wine – a fine wine, not some cheap plonk. Such a generous guy.

The film was selected for competition at Cannes and the festival director, Gilles Jacob, buttonholed me on the Croisette, urging me to persuade Albert to attend, as he was a dead cert to win the best actor award. Albert was hard to track down as he’d decided not to bother with an agent. Finally we spoke: “Tell Gilles Jacob I’m having a baby,” he said. Albert loved the gee-gees and one of his lady horses was foaling on a stud farm in Ireland. Jacob was not amused: “Zen he does not win ze prize.” (I often ponder on the implied politics.)

We remained friends after the film. I was prepping Leaving Las Vegas and Nic Cage was dead-set on doing the film drunk. I asked Albert’s advice over lunch, as I regard his performance in John Huston’s Under the Volcano as definitive. “To play drunk, never overact,” he said. “A drunk puts a glass down with such care and delicacy, the movements become mannered, not exaggerated. If you want the sense of alcohol, keep a small glass of scotch on hand and before each take dip your finger in it and wet your lips.’” I passed the advice on to Nic verbatim. Some of it stuck.

Albert was our finest actor, a man of discreet wisdom, compassion and incredible ability. His voice was as beautiful as his face – and his heart. He left a great legacy and his death is a great loss.