When I was a stage-struck kid I was lucky enough to see the three great British theatrical knights of the mid-20th century on stage: John Gielgud, Laurence Olivier, Ralph Richardson.

I waited at the stage door to simply say thank you and gush after seeing Gielgud and Richardson in Home. Gielgud came out alone, shook my hand, was all charm and grace as I thanked him, and embarrassed myself by adding, that, I too was an actor, even though my resumé was nothing more than my name and aspiration. He wished me good luck in my career and stepped out alone, no entourage, into the night.

When I moved back to England permanently in 1985, having worked out the stagestruckedness enough to just be writing about the theatre rather than trying to earn a living as an actor, I was lucky enough to see the “generation next” trio of great British actors arrive on stage: Mark Rylance, Ralph Fiennes and Daniel Day-Lewis. Now those three are down to two. It seems a shame. Each possesses a singular genius. Watching them it always seemed D D-L’s talent was more heavily reliant on his demon than either Rylance or Fiennes. And he was more beautiful. Stupendously, breathtakingly beautiful.

Artistic genius is not a gift I would wish on anyone. But if you are touched, then you must bear the curse with grace. Those who fight it always lose. Marlon Brando was also cursed with this terrible gift. He ruined his beauty and his talent and, eventually, his family. Nevertheless I feel it must be said: a gift like Daniel Day-Lewis’s comes with a great responsibility to fully realise it and not walk away as he is doing, announcing his retirement at the tender age of 60.

I saw D D-L’s Hamlet at Britain’s National Theatre in 1989. It was much derided by British critics, as reported by the New York Times.

The critics were wrong. It was utterly thrilling. One memory burns. In the nunnery scene, Day-Lewis took a long walk across the National’s Olivier stage after speaking the line:

“If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go. Farewell.”

He stalked away from Ophelia  –  but if you know the text you know the speech isn’t over . For a moment I thought the text had been cut but as the seconds ticked by you could see a hurricane brewing up inside the actor as he took five, ten, fifteen paces away from the actress. Suddenly Day-Lewis/Hamlet turned and rushed toward Stella Gonet/Ophelia in a way that made the audience feel murder was imminent:

“Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell.”

When Ophelia calls out “Heavenly powers, restore him” you felt you had seen madness and the actress was calling for the men in white coats … or for the police to protect her from an imminent beating.

A few nights later, by chance, I was back at the National for another opening and saw Day-Lewis heading to the stage door for the evening’s performance. I thought, did it with Gielgud, I’ll do it with him. I stepped over and said, thank you for your work. Went on to say the critics were wrong, they know nothing about nothing. D D-L pulled back, skittish as a yearling thoroughbred. He just didn’t want to be seen, which is odd for an actor.

I have been an actor, interviewed many (including Mark Rylance) and am friendly with some very successful ones. They may not like being stopped in the street or bothered while eating at a restaurant, so they develop facets of their personality to deal with the fame. But they all want people to pay attention. That’s why they perform, they want their work to be seen. Daniel Day-Lewis, hadn’t developed the fame facade, but more, I felt he didn’t really want to be seen at all.

A few night’s later he walked off in the middle of a performance  –  claiming he had actually seen the ghost of his father, poet Cecil Day-Lewis. He never appeared on stage again.

Now, when on my couch I lie, clicking around TV, I come across The Last of the Mohicans on one of the movie channels. I call my wife over and make time to watch whatever is left in the film. When we saw it for the first time at the cinema, I can still remember her sharp intake of breath as Day-Lewis raced through the forest, long gun in hand, in the opening sequence; his hair flying behind him and his buckskin shirt falling open revealing a lean, perfectly muscled torso, an ideal form of male beauty, grace and power. She wasn’t the only female at the Odeon Holloway Road who made that sound. Twenty-five years on, Michael Mann’s film holds up and when I look at Daniel Day-Lewis then, I miss all that might have been.

And all that still could be.

Michael Goldfarb hosts the FRDH podcast (www.goldfarbpod.com)