Steve Braunias farewells Max Cryer, 1935 (or 1936)-2021

Max Cryer. Photo / Stephen Parker

Max Cryer was a rare and remarkable fellow, in possession of more charm than anyone else in public life in New Zealand. He was so gracious. As his long-time friend David Hartnell said, "He had class." He spoke with the precise accent of an upper-class toff from England and yet he didn't sound entirely English, there was something else in his voice, and certainly in his manner. I don't mean a New Zealandness. He was the least Kiwi male in Kiwi history. He was like a visitor from another continent and another century; he was like one of the many refined antiques from the Old World that surrounded him in his small, tasteful apartment in the Ranfurly retirement village in Mt Roskill, Auckland.

I went there for afternoon tea one day in 2019, and asked, "How old are you, Max?"

He said, "I'm not telling you. Next question!"

The newspapers gave his death last week as 86. That may not be accurate. He was a household name in New Zealand throughout the 1960s and 70s as a light entertainer forever on TV, hosting talk shows and quiz shows, as well as performing on stage (Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady, the King of Siam in The King and I), and recording about a dozen LPs of show tunes with a children's choir - but his biography remained vague, elusive. The only evidence he existed before he became famous is a photograph held at the Howick Historical Village. The date, inevitably, is inexact; c1945 is as far as it goes, and shows Max between two boys at Howick District High School. Max is wearing a tightly buttoned New Zealand Cadet Forces uniform and is already a giant: fair-haired and chubby, he towers above his friends. He said that day over tea, "I'm six feet six and have been as long as I remember."

"Max always made a point of telling me that we were in the same class," said Bob Narev. Curiously, he has no actual memory of being at school with him. I recently interviewed Bob about his experiences as a survivor of the Holocaust and Max's name came up during our conversation; it was only a few days before he died. Bob had got to know him in adult life. I asked him to describe Max, and he said, "He was delightful. Very intelligent, very interested in many things, especially linguistics. I would ring him to confer on the origin of words." Max was the author of numerous books on etymology. His research was first-rate and his enthusiasm was vast and sincere.

Bob also mentioned that Max had an interest in Judaism. He attended Jewish Passover for about 60 years at the home of his friend Sally Tetro, who said, "No, Max actually wasn't Jewish. He did have a Jewish grandfather along the line. As far as he was concerned, he decided he was Jewish, even though he knew he technically wasn't. But that's what he wanted."

She said he was the first friend she and her husband made together. "We met him when he was making headgear for a wedding where my husband was best man."

I asked, "Was Max a milliner?"

She said, "No, it was just one of his hobbies, and he was quite good at it."

I asked her to describe Max, and she said, "He was like nobody else on this planet. He was warm, he was fun, we had a lot of laughs. He had the most amazing mind of anyone I'd ever struck. If there was something anyone in the family wanted to know, we'd just phone up Max. He always knew."

The author C.K. Stead met Max at the University of Auckland, and they remained friends. "He was a lovely fellow," Karl said. "Charming and likeable. He was very conscious of his appearance and his presence - and it was such a striking presence."

His wife Kay had picked up the phone when I called. She said, "He was a friend of Barry's," meaning their mutual friend, the great entertainer Barry Humphries. "Together they were quite terrific." While I imagined the fabulously unlikely triumvirate of Max Cryer, Barry Humphries and C.K. Stead in the same room, Kay added, "Max was very sweet and nice. He got a new bathroom put in his house in Onehunga, and the bathroom was dedicated by Kiri Te Kanawa. He put a plaque in it."

That was in the grand old home Max used to own in Mays Rd, Onehunga, with a gold harp and a gold piano, and fig and avocado trees on the property. David Hartnell was present at the satirical opening ceremony of Max's bathroom. He said, "We all gathered around, Handel's Water Music was playing and Dame Kiri gave the first flush of the toilet. It was lovely."

Hartnell had known him since the 1960s and was the makeup artist on his talk show in the 1970s. They talked every day by phone. He called him the night before he died. "The thing I will miss about him is his loyal friendship," he said. "If you told Max something in confidence, it stayed in confidence. And that's been one of my golden rules as well."

There was a certain cadence in his voice when he made that remark. Not long after we spoke, a member of Cryer's family phoned. It was an unpleasant conversation. A threat of libel was made. Hartnell had passed on that I was asking personal questions. No details, I was instructed, were to be made available about his life, or his death.

Max Cryer was a man of many interests but also very private. Photo / Supplied

It's hardly a burden to respect Max's wishes. We stayed in touch after my visit. He became a kind and thoughtful friend. I admired his wit and his intelligence and he was a good writer, too – his review of a biography of TV presenter Angela D'Audney, in the August 2002 issue of New Zealand Books, was arch and pointed: "She was exotic, yes, though often less of an orchid, more of a snapdragon. And colleagues well knew her 'volatility' (for which read, strident self-confidence) ... She was familiar with seven different languages. Acquaintances will mutter that, in spite of this, three words she never learnt were 'please' and 'thank you'."

He was exotic, too, like a prince from some obscure European principality. I wished I had visited him again; in his emails inviting me for lunch these past few years, he said it would give him pleasure to prepare borscht with sour cream.