Ryan’s Walking set Joseph Gilland on his journey to animation. © National Film Board of Canada. All rights reserved.

We were also both hypersensitive artists, with easily pushed buttons. The wicked ways of the world shocked and baffled us, and we were both prone to seeking refuge in various forms of highly imaginative escapism. Unfortunately, the escape mechanisms of alcohol and drugs were all too accessible, and it was a bit of a problem from the get go. I had been warned that Ryan had a propensity to get into his drinking a little early in the day, but I didn’t really mind too much. I came from a world filled with people who liked drinking early in the day, and I wasn’t exempt from the temptation myself, although I was being a little more cautious than Ryan at the time. I became a sort of a babysitter for dear Ryan.

His common law wife, Jean, with whom he was living at the time, would tell me before leaving for work in the morning, not to get him any beer, what ever I do. But early in the afternoon, Ryan would broach the subject, and inevitably I would be sent to the corner store to pick up some beer. I would sip cautiously, feeling guilty and like there was too much at stake, but Ryan would get pretty buzzed, and frequently break into his angry rants about business and money, very similar to his outburst in the film that Chris Landreth would create some 25 years later. He had a frightening idea that the world was out to get him, and the drink fueled it badly, and I could see that he was trapped on a merry-go-round that wouldn’t let him get off.

It all came to a strange ending, when Potterton called me one Monday morning before I left for Ryan’s house, and asked me to come in and see him. The artists who had created the original story it seemed, had decided not to allow the owners of Heavy Metal magazine (National Lampoon) to use their precious graphic novel for the film. And sadly, Gerry added, Ryan was not going to be kept on to work on the movie at all. He asked me to stay on board and continue working. In retrospect, I think I was just too young to know how to go about addressing the situation to Ryan. I felt awkward, extremely disappointed and confused. My hero, my teacher, my master, was being cast aside, and I was being handed a golden opportunity.

I spoke with Ryan frequently afterwards, but more often than not, he was angry and full of venom. All his worst fears had been realized; “they” were out to get him. “They” didn’t appreciate or understand him. He became increasingly manic in our conversations, and slowly we drifted apart. I soldiered on in my career, but I had lost something and someone very dear to me. Just as it had taken my older brother, the demon illusion of addiction had taken my artistic master away, seemingly for good.

Two decades in the animation business passed quickly. I did well, always working somehow, although the ‘80s were brutal. I battled my own demons as well, particularly in the ‘80s, but they hung on to me into the ‘90s as well and in 1996, while working at Walt Disney Feature Animation, and doing incredibly well with my career, I found my self in a drug and alcohol treatment center, courtesy of the mouse!

Ryan stands in front of his work in this early, undated photo. © National Film Board of Canada. All rights reserved.

That is a story worth telling, but some other time and place I think. Let it suffice to say that as I sit here writing this, it has been more than 10 years since a drop of alcohol, or any drug stronger than coffee has passed my lips.

Through those two decades, I would always hear from Ryan occasionally. He would track me down through the small animation community of Montreal and call me out of the blue, once even calling me in Ireland. He was usually trying to dig himself out, and get back on his feet, but always the insanity would speak louder than the genius. But his heart was always beautiful to behold, his soul somehow shone through, and I could always relate to him, and feel him, and care about him. I even heard a rumor once that he had died, and I searched frantically until I found out that he had just had some bizarre accident, but was alive and well, sort of.

In Annecy 2004, the film Ryan is screened. It floors me. For those of you who haven’t seen it, see it. It is a beautiful masterpiece, directed by an animation visionary. Not everyone agrees, but that is the beauty of true art, it gets us talking, and it got me talking to Landreth, and I told him about my experience through the years with Ryan, and the profound impact his film had on my psyche, addressing as it did, so much of the undercurrents of emotional pain running through Ryan’s life. The same sort of pain that had fueled my addictions, only by some bizarre twist of fate, or act of God, I had been spared living on the street and begging for a living.