I’m going to begin this by saying I’m quite sure Sam Neill wouldn’t have remembered me from a bar of soap.
But I’d like to tell you a story.
I shared it earlier today with the BBC, because when someone like Sam Neill passes away, it’s often the smallest moments that reveal the greatest truths about the person they were.
About ten years ago, I was living in Glebe Point in Sydney. I was walking down the road for a coffee when I spotted Sam.
Like many people, I could have asked for a selfie.
I could have asked for an autograph.
Instead, we started talking about birds.
I told him my apartment balcony had become home to an ever-growing population of parakeets. I followed that with what could only be described as a lengthy complaint about the amount cockatoos leave behind—and my frustration that my apartment balcony didn’t have a hose connection. Use your imagination.
Sam listened.
Not politely.
Genuinely.
We stood there talking for quite some time about birds, city life and the curious personalities of creatures that somehow become part of our own lives.
By the end of the conversation, I had somehow decided the parakeets would probably enjoy tomato sauce, and I was heading to Bunnings to buy a bucket and some sugar soap to deal with the cockatoos.
For the record, I never did feed the cockatoos crackers.
I did, however, name them all Polly—for my own amusement.
There were so many of them that none would ever know which Polly I was talking to.
That was Sam.
He had every reason to hurry on.
He was one of New Zealand’s most recognised actors, admired around the world for performances in Jurassic Park, The Piano, Hunt for the Wilderpeople, The Hunt for Red October, Peaky Blinders and more than 150 film and television productions spanning five decades.
But he wasn’t interested in being treated like a celebrity.
He was interested in conversation.
In people.
In birds.
That quiet humility became one of the defining characteristics of a career that made him one of New Zealand’s greatest cultural ambassadors.
Born in Northern Ireland and raised in New Zealand, Sam never lost the understated humour, curiosity and authenticity that so many of us recognise as quintessentially Kiwi. His performances captivated audiences across the world, but those who knew him—or, like me, simply crossed paths with him—remember someone whose greatest role may well have been simply being himself.
His family announced that Sam died suddenly and unexpectedly in Sydney, surrounded by those he loved. There is some comfort in knowing he remained cancer-free after his courageous battle with lymphoma, a journey he shared with remarkable honesty and grace.
There will be countless tributes celebrating the actor.
And rightly so.
But I suspect Sam would have preferred we remembered the conversations.
The ordinary moments.
The chance encounters.
The stories about birds.
To Sam’s children, grandchildren and wider whānau, we extend our deepest aroha.
To everyone at Two Paddocks, where Sam built not just an acclaimed vineyard but another expression of his love for the land, we mourn with you.
A quintessential human being passed this way.
He happened to come from our whenua.
He carried Aotearoa with him wherever he travelled.
And when the land mourns, it does so not simply because a famous actor has gone.
It mourns because someone walked across it with kindness, curiosity and humility—and, without ever trying to, taught us something about ourselves.
Thank you, Sam.
May you rest gently.
And somewhere, I hope the birds are keeping you company.
