Colin Sheridan: Harris, Day-Lewis, Farrell? Make way for Mescal's moment

What distinguishes Paul Mescal from all the other great Irish actors?

Paul Mescal takes a selfie with a fan on the red carpet ahead of the Irish premiere of Gladiator 2 in the Light House Cinema, Smithfield. Picture: Leah Farrell/RollingNews.ie

Paul Mescal seems like a likeable chap. Doesn't take himself too seriously. Good at his craft without being too precious. 

Unlikely to remain in character so long that he’d chew you out as an extra if you were to call him "Paul" instead of Lucius Verus as you wait in line for the meatball special on the Gladiator II set. 

Articulate, athletic, academic, Irish. If you could input data into a 3D printer and ask it to spit out a modern-day movie star, Mescal would be the prototype. 

Women want to be with him, many men too, I’d imagine, and even if he’s seemingly condemned to forever wear sheer t-shirts that are four sizes too small for him, he is GQ’s dream cover star. 

Not too tall, nor too short, nor too Cillian Murphy-beautiful. He is just right.

Heretofore, our Hollywood stars have always had an asterisk above their name, a qualifier that tempered their relatability. 

Actor Daniel Day-Lewis accepts the Oscar for best actor for his work in "There Will Be Blood" at the 80th Academy Awards in 2008.

When Daniel Day-Lewis was winning Oscars for fun you could hardly blame us for claiming him, despite him being born in Kensington to an actor mother and a father — Cecil — who was the poet laureate of the United Kingdom. 

His sister is an esteemed food critic for the love of God. He is about as Irish as Tony Cascarino, but, because he loves us and chose to make Wicklow his home, we allowed and endorsed it. A happy marriage that lasts to this day. 

Conversely, Richard Harris was as Irish as a bag of Taytos. Born on the Ennis Road in Limerick, educated at Cresent College, he played for Garryowen and — even when he treaded the hallowed boards of the Old Vic theatre in London — Harris wore his Irishness like a tattoo on his face. Arguably, what set him apart was not his fondness of the fire water, but his talent.

 Peter O'Toole appears backstage without his Oscar after receiving the Academy Award's Honorary Award during the 75th annual Academy Awards in Los Angeles in 2013.

His running mates Peter O’Toole and Oliver Reed reside — posthumously of course — in more dubious territory. O’ Toole was never exactly sure where he was born (consistent with his chaos), but the paper trail suggests Leeds. 

His Irishness, like many before and since, was assumed and amplified to great effect, elevating his mercurial status in films as an enigmatic leading man prone to (alcohol-inspired) disappearance. In a modern day workplace this would be viewed as incompetence, but in the Hollywood of the 1960s, it was essential

In that context, you’d have to feel sorry for Colin Farrell who chose to study with great diligence at the school of Harris, O’Toole, Reed, and others. 

Colin Farrell during filming of The Graham Norton Show.

The Castleknock man's career has been remarkable for its bouncebackability given his well-earned reputation for life's finer things. Unusually for a creative person, his best performances have come with sobriety. What separates Farrell from Mescal is — at the peak of his stardom — there was little chance of him walking down Jervis Street unbothered. His was an existence of Paps and starlets. Mescal — for now at least — still retains the everyman-ness to have a quiet pint in The Roost in Maynooth without being the cause of the inevitable traffic jam in his hometown.

Which brings us to the class of ‘76/’77. Cillian Murphy's credentials as an actor extraordinaire have long been undisputed. So too, his avoidance of fame and all its trappings. 

Murphy would never do Saturday Night Live (thank God), for example, and you feel that — while courtesy is paramount in his dealings with the press and public — he lacks Mescal's desire to please. A sign of self-confidence, I guess, and maturity. 

He’s also too beautiful a man to be considered normal. Having locked eyes with him in Tigh Neachtain's one night in Galway many years ago, I can confirm an entire day passed before I regained the use of my legs. I’m sure the stolen glance affected him just as profoundly

Brooding and brilliant: Michael Fassbender.

Then there’s Michael Fassbender, whose only disqualifying trait is his Germanic name. When the movie gets made of my life, I wish the Kerry man to play me. Not because of the uncanny resemblance, but I feel he best exemplifies all that is best about Irishmen born in the pre-internet age. 

He is brooding and brilliant and — as his turn in the Kneecap movie shows — very, very funny. Put an Aran sweater on that fella and put him on a Galway hooker and he will undoubtedly return home with fish to fry. The same evening, he would jam with Lankum in the corner of a pub. Guaranteed he’d show up for a junior B match the following day, too. (For the record, my kids think Brendan Gleeson should play me in the movie).

There are many others, of course. Liam Neeson (too tall). Colin Meaney (too normal). Liam Cunningham (too honest). James Nesbitt (too, too). Andrew Scott (too Shakespearean). Barry Keoghan (too risqué).

It’s Mescal’s moment. Last weekend he took a bite from the toxic Saturday Night Live apple, and — bad and all as it was — he survived. That — it seems — is his greatest ability. His ordinariness forgives him the odd misstep. His charm redeems. He is the ultimate relatable movie star. The type of lad you’d sit beside at a wedding, and having never met him before, plan to open a coffee shop together in Rialto (called the Honey Badger). Then, you’d never call him.

That’s Paul Mescal. And he’s more than enough. As Irish mothers have want to say, I hope it lasts for him.