erek Malcolm was a God. Oh sure, when pottering into Mr Youngs in Soho, he may have appeared like a mere mortal, but at film festivals in Cannes, Venice and Berlin cineastes (young and old) had to be restrained from kissing his feet.
This wasn’t just his deep film knowledge and extraordinary way with words whether he was praising or skewering the latest releases. It was also because, among many other things, he could see talent where others missed it. Take, for example, Satyajit Ray. Malcolm instantly saw the worth of Ray’s Pather Panchali (one of the greatest movies ever made) and his support helped bring it to a wider audience. In the beginning, was the word, and Malcolm’s words were on the money.
Becoming the Guardian’s film critic in the Seventies cemented his reputation as one of our finest reviewers, but I got to know him much later, in the Noughties, when he’d moved to the Evening Standard. And what a treat that was. If his reviews were illuminating and thrilling, his company was even more so.
Like Elizabeth Taylor, Malcolm was salty with a smile. He f-bombed with gusto and his wittiest comments never made it into print (he was naturally libellous; I’ve been dining off his anecdotes for years).
If the Observer’s Philip French was a head boy type, Malcolm enjoyed playing the class clown. He would pretend to fall asleep in screening rooms. He’d roll his eyes at well-connected bullshitters. Although he was tiny (he once worked as a jockey) he could be fierce.
He was also really kind to journalists starting out in the business in general. Some people don’t suffer fools gladly. Malcolm’s philosophy: we all have it in us to be foolish, so give twits a break!
Shaking things up made him very happy. He and I were judges for the Evening Standard’s film awards. In 2007, we decided to give the Best Actor award to Daniel Craig, for Casino Royale. Malcolm, to put it mildly, was not big on blockbusters. But he’d loved Craig’s work on The Mother and thought (rightly) that he gave a brilliant performance as Bond. During the tense bit before the judges plumped for their choices, he whispered in my ear, “Craig’s bloody good, isn’t he?!” Before adding, with a cackle, “And it’ll ruffle a few feathers, won’t it?”
Malcolm was a mensch. He’ll be sorely missed.