The first time I met Stephen Hawking, I was struck by his extraordinary power and his vulnerability. The determined look in his eyes coupled with the immobile body was familiar to me from my research—I had recently been engaged to play the role of Stephen in The Theory of Everything and had spent several months studying his work and the nature of his disability, attempting to understand how to use my body to express the passage of motor neurone disease over time.
And yet when I finally met Stephen, the icon, this scientist of phenomenal talent, whose main communication was through a computerised voice along with a pair of exceptionally expressive eyebrows, I was floored. I tend to get nervous in silences and talk too much whereas Stephen absolutely understood the power of silence, the power of feeling like you are being scrutinised. Flustered, I chose to talk to him about how our birthdays were only days apart, putting us in the same zodiacal sign. After a few minutes Stephen replied, “I’m an astronomer. Not an astrologer.” He also insisted that I call him Stephen and stop referring to him as Professor. I had been told…
The opportunity to portray Stephen was an extraordinary one. I was drawn to the role because of the duality of Stephen’s external triumph in his scientific work and the internal battle against motor neurone disease starting in his early twenties. His was a unique, complex, rich story of human endeavour, family life, huge academic achievement and sheer defiance in the face of all obstacles. While we wanted to portray the inspiration, we also wanted to show the grit and courage involved in Stephen’s life, displayed both by him and by those who cared for him.
But it was equally important to portray that side of Stephen which was pure showman. In my trailer I ended up having three images that I referred to. One was Einstein with his tongue out, because there’s that similar playful wit with Hawking. Another was the Joker in a pack of cards who’s a puppeteer, because I feel Stephen always had people in the palm of his hand. And the third was James Dean. And that was what I gained from seeing him—the glint and the humour.
The greatest pressure in playing a living person is that you will have to account for your performance to the person you have portrayed. In Stephen’s case, the accounting was also to his family, who had been so generous to me during my preparation for the film. Before Stephen went into the screening, he said to me, “I will tell you what I think. Good. Or otherwise.” I replied that if it was “otherwise” perhaps he could just say “otherwise” and spare me the excoriating details. Generously, Stephen said he had enjoyed the film. He was moved by it, but famously he also stated that he thought there should have been more physics and fewer feelings. This is impossible to argue with.
Since The Theory of Everything, I have stayed in contact with the Hawking family. I was touched to be asked to give a reading at Stephen’s funeral. It was an incredibly sad but brilliant day, full of love and joyful memories and reflections on this most courageous of men, who had led the world in his science and in his quest to have disabled people recognised and given proper opportunities to thrive.
We have lost a truly beautiful mind, an astonishing scientist and the funniest man I have ever had the pleasure to meet. But as his family said at the time of Stephen’s death, his work and legacy will live on and so it is with sadness but also great pleasure that I introduce you to this collection of Stephen’s writings on diverse and fascinating topics. I hope you enjoy his writings and, to quote Barack Obama, I hope Stephen is having fun up there among the stars.
Love
Eddie