In 2007 I was working nights at the Arclight in Hollywood. Besides the Chinese Theatre, the Arclight and its Cinerama Dome were among the only places in town where movies still had real premieres — and it was one of the first cinemas anywhere that let you pick your seat. This was 2007. It was also known as the place filmmakers came to watch each other's work.
I was lucky. I'd just moved across the country to be an actor and a writer, and I'd found the one day job that didn't feel like work. I rubbed shoulders with celebrities who just wanted to talk, patrons who wanted to nerd out about the business, and people who simply wanted popcorn and two hours of nothing. The best perk — besides the sausages, which were genuinely fantastic — was watching that week's new releases while the projectionist tested the print. This was 2007. Everything still ran on film, every print struck and checked by hand.
That was my film school. Watching movies completely blind — no trailer, no reviews, no idea what I was about to see — and walking out stunned. One of those was about a broken-hearted busker who fixes hoovers for a living, and a Czech woman who, together, make music. The film was Once. I didn't know it yet, but it was about to become one of the most important films of my life.
A few days later, the film had its premiere. Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova were ushered in while I was getting ready to introduce it. The Arclight had staff verbally introduce films to the audience — the film's own hype person — and I loved that job. I hadn't known they were coming, so I had to rewrite my script on the spot. What should've been a thirty-second speech ballooned to three times that length, because I was too excited to shut up about it.
Before I went on, Glen and Marketa made small talk with me. He had his guitar — the one from the film, or one just like it; I'd later learn he owned more than one — and I was a blushing ball of goo. They had no idea how hard this film had already hit me, and now I was about to introduce it to a room with them standing in it.
I stumbled through the script I'd basically improvised. The crowd erupted anyway. Glen and Marketa even sang what would go on to become their Oscar-winning song. The house lights went down, my shift ended, and I thought that was the end of the night.
It wasn't the end of Glen and me.
For anyone who doesn't know him beyond that film: Glen had a full career before Once, including years fronting the Frames. But this film pushed both him and Marketa into an entirely different stratosphere. They won the Oscar. Once became a Broadway musical — I caught a preview, and Cristin Milioti was a phenomenal Girl. There were documentaries, tours, another album or two, and eventually Glen went solo, somewhere between "major artist" and "independent," in a way that never quite mattered, because he could sell out any room and make it glow.
I ended up seeing Glen Hansard more than any other artist in my life. Over almost twenty years, I've caught him at least ten times, in five different countries. If you've ever been to one of his shows, heard him tell a story between songs, felt like he was talking directly to you — you already know why that number doesn't sound crazy at all.
The last time I saw him was in England, a few months ago. I went alone, made a friend in line, had a great night. On my way out I saw his tour bus and decided to wait — not for a photo, not for an autograph. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to say:
Glen, it's so good to see you again. It's been nearly twenty years since Once*, and you've given me more than movies or albums or concerts. You sharpened the way I see other people, and the way I see myself. I've watched you keep pushing yourself even when your work was already good, and stay consistent while never being afraid to change. I've watched your influences shift and grow. I know you've buried a parent, watched relationships end and begin again, and become a father. I connected to all of it, parasocial or not. So thank you. Thank you for staying that open with your audience. Thank you for staying that open with me. And next year, I want to bring you, John Carney, and Marketa together to mark twenty years of* Once*, and I want you standing in the room for it.*
I never got the chance to say any of that. I had an early drive home and had to leave before he came out. I know Glen would've let me ramble — he did it once already, all those years ago, standing next to me before a show that changed my life.
I'm writing this because I just found out that Glen Hansard died in a crash. He was fifty-six. He leaves behind a partner and a young son. His bandmates will remember him. His peers will remember him. Every fan and every room he ever built will remember him.
I don't know what to do with this yet. I know that if he were here, he'd tell me — more poetically than I can manage right now — that feeling like this just means I'm human. That I care. That I've got blood moving through me. I can hear him saying it, even now, even though I never got the words out to him first.
Glen. I'll miss you. I love you. Thank you for everything. I'll be thinking about you, and celebrating you, for a long time.
I ended up seeing Glen Hansard more than any other artist in my life.