Bracknell and beyond....
Southwark Playhouse seems to have a very different atmosphere. With its domed ceilings and ever constant rumble of sounds from passing trains above it sheds a new light on the show. It’s not what I expected and that’s what makes it so exciting. How will the actors use this ‘space’ (it seems more that than a theatre) and how will the audiences interpretation differ from previous runs? These are all questions that will be answered this week and I can’t wait.
Bracknell was hugely enjoyable and I was lucky to witness the plays transformation from an outdoor show which was easy to watch and which explained everything to an indoor, dark and definitely tenser piece of theatre. The midnight run definitely helped and allowed this process to take place. It was very much the gateway into what Alastair wanted for the Southwark performances. Under the orange moon that hung ominously over South Hill Park , Alastair, Gemma and myself hid in shadows and lay in prickly bushes as the four boys emerged from the woods, torches in hand (very famous five!) and commenced the play but this time for no-one and with nothing set in stone- ‘ Anything Goes’ were Alastair’s final gentle words of advice as the boys tightened their school ties and greased their hair. From that moment on, I was transfixed and as they went through the motions of the play, a rawness and a belief emerged- I became hypnotised watching these four young public school lads become Juliet, Romeo, the nurse, or Friar Lawrence. The kisses and intimate, almost inaudible conversations provided moments of pure beauty for us to see but these were cut into by danger and extreme violence that was very real. It was a night that will never leave my mind and never cease to amaze and at the same time scare me a little.
Sunday 20 July 2008
Wednesday 16 July 2008
Cambridge and Hawkedon
Tuesday 25th June,
Day off, Cambridge
After over two weeks without a day off, Tuesday had been anticipated with great relish. In recent years I had found an eager tendency over Wimbledon week to stay cosied up watching the tennis and not a lot else. However this year I was determined that fun would be had something achieved. So after a degree of badgering some of the company, we left in a van and a car to the heady intellectualism of Cambridge.
The forward party travelling in the luxury of the car, arrived in splendid time and acquainted themselves with some lunch. The vanguard of Hogben, Donnelly and van were left driving around the town centre looking for parking, eventually abandoning Cambridge's well proportioned streets for the safety and higher height limit of the rail station car park. Meanwhile Hackney, Gilbert and Wilks hit the joke shop, after a good deal of school boy sniggering at the comedy breasts, Hackney stumbled on a very utopia in the shape of 'a dirty old man's walking stick' which featured a niftily placed mirror to enable to holder to peer up the skirts of trousers of the unsuspecting public. Superficially it was then brought under the auspices of it being a present for a beleaguered Donnelly, we of course the knew its true owner and it was duly 'tested' on the streets of Cambridge to Hackney's mischievous mirth and sneaky inane grin
Donnelly arrived with Hogben in tow and was presented by a begrudging Hackney with said stick, Donnelly showed some delight and promised to use it on tour. Hogben was presented with a quintet of Elizabethan plays smapled by Hackney and myself in the chairty shop-to his great delight. So with the the team reunited, we mooched in bohemian fashion down to the punting station and observed the splashing sensation of a water-fish-man who had decided to take a cooling dip in the river Camb and then share the sodden experience with the tourists in their punts. We laughed contentedly safe on the river side as he splashed the japanese man and his camera, the ladies who lunch, the drunken students and foreign tourists without prejudice and without restraint. His inhibition and fish like mannerisms were simply fascintaing to behold. So it was with fear and trepidation that we set about boarding our punt.
It was a delicate fit, so I gracefully volunteered to man the oar and steer us with skill and dexterity down the river, aside from a few teething troubles, a few walls and exaggerated squeals emanating from Hackney as a faint bit of water landed delicately on his waxy head- my time at the oar was marked by its steady line and graceful cutting through the river's undulating water. However such concentration took its toll and the oar was passed to an eager Donnelly, his curly hair prickling with anticipation. Sadly his time at the helm thrust our unfortunate boat intro a dangerous succession of crashes, smashes and screams from passing punts that experienced the brunt of Donnelly’s oarsman ship. Matters were not improved by the advent of Hackney at the helm, steering us with an equal ineptitude. Time soon turned against us, and our hour on the boat was nearing its end, a race against time followed that set all of the boat desperately working together against the setting sun and ticking clock. Some solid pushing off the various walls by Hogben, some splendid oaring from myself and some good paddling and screeching from assorted others gave us the edge to avoid the penalty overtime changes and thanking collective and assorted deities, foreign farm yard and woodland creatures we arrived back at the mooring in the nick of time. The river had been tamed, Donnelly's hair had not.
A BBQ awaited us on our return, and so on full and in some cases bubbling stomachs we retired bed bound to dreams of the river bank.
Wednesday 26th June
The Queen’s Head, Hawkedon
One of the original and abiding aims of the company has always been to take our shows to as wide and broad a range of theatre spaces, both traditional and unconventional. To this end we have performed all over the UK in schools, gardens, stately homes, band stands, shopping villages and pubs… one of these includes one of our favorite venues- The Queen’s Head in the middle of Suffolk’s rolling countryside. For the past three years we have performed here to a growing and expanding audience base, remote as it is, the pub serves a bastion for everything a local community pub should be. A public house since the 16th century, it is steeped in history and its age sits well on its timbered joints, the plaster, the beams and the daub blend seamlessly with the meadows the sit behind it, the village green and the church just down the lane and the windy road that runs betweens the towns of Sudbury and Bury St Edmunds. Thirsty travelers have thus for centuries used the Queen’s Head as a place for refreshment and invigoration. I like to think it even played host to one of the Elizabethan travelling company of players, although there is no evidence yet found to support it. The ale is locally sourced and the food simple, honest and all home cooked. As I said a bastion against the wave of soulless chain pubs littering the country. Character, charm and good company are a staple diet of those who drink here, and now a yearly theatre event is provided in the courtyard by a motley touring troupe of 21st century players with 16th century emulations.
The company arrived to sun and wind and set about the get-in with gusto. We perform on a concrete plinth enclosed on two sides by the rear walls of the pub , a meadow on the left and the garden in front where our audience assemble. It is picturesque, remote and barring the poor acoustics a perfect outdoor performance space… except if you have to fall on it, which Donnelly does with increasing commmitment and seeming relish. He is henceforth nicknamed 'dangerous', for he is a bit.
We reworked the first Nurse’s scene, which Donnelly had been struggling with, it is a complex scene held together with a long unwieldy comic speech filled with Elizabethan innuendo. We got Gilbert and Hackney on their feet giving Donnelly something to work with and react to, and put in some comic ‘business’ which had us in stitches at the time. It was certainly better but it remained a source of worry. Its clearly been included by Joe (the adapter) for a reason, but I’m still groping with how to clarify the relationship between Donnelly’s student character ‘Neville’ and that of the Nurse and how this scene furthers it. I’m sure it will come out in time.
The evening’s show was marked by an enthusiastic audience who grew with the actors into the piece as it progressed, the second half in particular held them rapt, moreover we were plagued by the ancient electric system in the pub which kept shorting at odd intervals. On such an occasion that the power went, our lights failed, the sound went and Gemma and I had to await patiently for the electricity supply to resume, when it did come back we had a further nerve jangling wait before the sound system rebooted. Miraculously we never missed a cue as the Theatre Gods smiled on us from the cloudy skies, the audience never knew, but again my back stage experience is still far from sedate. I am still finding the adjustment to this outdoor stage difficult for the play, without lighting the beginning seems shoddy and lacking in focus. It is not the fault of the actors, not even dare I suggest it my direction, perhaps the thought dawned on me that this play was not suited to the outdoor stage. The subtle nuance is lost in favour of a bolder presentation which loses the bulk of the students relationship. Thus what we are currently is more like a quirky retelling of Romeo and Juliet as opposed to it being a play distinct in its own right. I think we all crave the opportunity to get lights and intimacy back, but we have 10 performances left, and I still hold true that the play can be made to work. But I fear more compromises will have to be made to enhance the basic story telling.
A long get out with poor Hogben camped in the van piling the furniture in to ensure the necessary snug fit is followed by a welcome round of the pubs best ale. The discussion inevitably falls onto the play, the performances, the road ahead. It’s the best bit this, not the bows, not the adulation, but the quiet shared reflection that can only be understood by those in the footlights, and although the director and stage manager sit outside this inner sanctum unable to share first hand the missed cues, bungled lines and comedy falls, the bouquets and the brickbats-we remain a tightly formed team and we I think everyone enjoys the satisfaction of a drink and ponitification of a job well done. Still the ale is good and the conversation gentle and thanks to Hackney…coarse and unpredictable.
Day off, Cambridge
After over two weeks without a day off, Tuesday had been anticipated with great relish. In recent years I had found an eager tendency over Wimbledon week to stay cosied up watching the tennis and not a lot else. However this year I was determined that fun would be had something achieved. So after a degree of badgering some of the company, we left in a van and a car to the heady intellectualism of Cambridge.
The forward party travelling in the luxury of the car, arrived in splendid time and acquainted themselves with some lunch. The vanguard of Hogben, Donnelly and van were left driving around the town centre looking for parking, eventually abandoning Cambridge's well proportioned streets for the safety and higher height limit of the rail station car park. Meanwhile Hackney, Gilbert and Wilks hit the joke shop, after a good deal of school boy sniggering at the comedy breasts, Hackney stumbled on a very utopia in the shape of 'a dirty old man's walking stick' which featured a niftily placed mirror to enable to holder to peer up the skirts of trousers of the unsuspecting public. Superficially it was then brought under the auspices of it being a present for a beleaguered Donnelly, we of course the knew its true owner and it was duly 'tested' on the streets of Cambridge to Hackney's mischievous mirth and sneaky inane grin
Donnelly arrived with Hogben in tow and was presented by a begrudging Hackney with said stick, Donnelly showed some delight and promised to use it on tour. Hogben was presented with a quintet of Elizabethan plays smapled by Hackney and myself in the chairty shop-to his great delight. So with the the team reunited, we mooched in bohemian fashion down to the punting station and observed the splashing sensation of a water-fish-man who had decided to take a cooling dip in the river Camb and then share the sodden experience with the tourists in their punts. We laughed contentedly safe on the river side as he splashed the japanese man and his camera, the ladies who lunch, the drunken students and foreign tourists without prejudice and without restraint. His inhibition and fish like mannerisms were simply fascintaing to behold. So it was with fear and trepidation that we set about boarding our punt.
It was a delicate fit, so I gracefully volunteered to man the oar and steer us with skill and dexterity down the river, aside from a few teething troubles, a few walls and exaggerated squeals emanating from Hackney as a faint bit of water landed delicately on his waxy head- my time at the oar was marked by its steady line and graceful cutting through the river's undulating water. However such concentration took its toll and the oar was passed to an eager Donnelly, his curly hair prickling with anticipation. Sadly his time at the helm thrust our unfortunate boat intro a dangerous succession of crashes, smashes and screams from passing punts that experienced the brunt of Donnelly’s oarsman ship. Matters were not improved by the advent of Hackney at the helm, steering us with an equal ineptitude. Time soon turned against us, and our hour on the boat was nearing its end, a race against time followed that set all of the boat desperately working together against the setting sun and ticking clock. Some solid pushing off the various walls by Hogben, some splendid oaring from myself and some good paddling and screeching from assorted others gave us the edge to avoid the penalty overtime changes and thanking collective and assorted deities, foreign farm yard and woodland creatures we arrived back at the mooring in the nick of time. The river had been tamed, Donnelly's hair had not.
A BBQ awaited us on our return, and so on full and in some cases bubbling stomachs we retired bed bound to dreams of the river bank.
Wednesday 26th June
The Queen’s Head, Hawkedon
One of the original and abiding aims of the company has always been to take our shows to as wide and broad a range of theatre spaces, both traditional and unconventional. To this end we have performed all over the UK in schools, gardens, stately homes, band stands, shopping villages and pubs… one of these includes one of our favorite venues- The Queen’s Head in the middle of Suffolk’s rolling countryside. For the past three years we have performed here to a growing and expanding audience base, remote as it is, the pub serves a bastion for everything a local community pub should be. A public house since the 16th century, it is steeped in history and its age sits well on its timbered joints, the plaster, the beams and the daub blend seamlessly with the meadows the sit behind it, the village green and the church just down the lane and the windy road that runs betweens the towns of Sudbury and Bury St Edmunds. Thirsty travelers have thus for centuries used the Queen’s Head as a place for refreshment and invigoration. I like to think it even played host to one of the Elizabethan travelling company of players, although there is no evidence yet found to support it. The ale is locally sourced and the food simple, honest and all home cooked. As I said a bastion against the wave of soulless chain pubs littering the country. Character, charm and good company are a staple diet of those who drink here, and now a yearly theatre event is provided in the courtyard by a motley touring troupe of 21st century players with 16th century emulations.
The company arrived to sun and wind and set about the get-in with gusto. We perform on a concrete plinth enclosed on two sides by the rear walls of the pub , a meadow on the left and the garden in front where our audience assemble. It is picturesque, remote and barring the poor acoustics a perfect outdoor performance space… except if you have to fall on it, which Donnelly does with increasing commmitment and seeming relish. He is henceforth nicknamed 'dangerous', for he is a bit.
We reworked the first Nurse’s scene, which Donnelly had been struggling with, it is a complex scene held together with a long unwieldy comic speech filled with Elizabethan innuendo. We got Gilbert and Hackney on their feet giving Donnelly something to work with and react to, and put in some comic ‘business’ which had us in stitches at the time. It was certainly better but it remained a source of worry. Its clearly been included by Joe (the adapter) for a reason, but I’m still groping with how to clarify the relationship between Donnelly’s student character ‘Neville’ and that of the Nurse and how this scene furthers it. I’m sure it will come out in time.
The evening’s show was marked by an enthusiastic audience who grew with the actors into the piece as it progressed, the second half in particular held them rapt, moreover we were plagued by the ancient electric system in the pub which kept shorting at odd intervals. On such an occasion that the power went, our lights failed, the sound went and Gemma and I had to await patiently for the electricity supply to resume, when it did come back we had a further nerve jangling wait before the sound system rebooted. Miraculously we never missed a cue as the Theatre Gods smiled on us from the cloudy skies, the audience never knew, but again my back stage experience is still far from sedate. I am still finding the adjustment to this outdoor stage difficult for the play, without lighting the beginning seems shoddy and lacking in focus. It is not the fault of the actors, not even dare I suggest it my direction, perhaps the thought dawned on me that this play was not suited to the outdoor stage. The subtle nuance is lost in favour of a bolder presentation which loses the bulk of the students relationship. Thus what we are currently is more like a quirky retelling of Romeo and Juliet as opposed to it being a play distinct in its own right. I think we all crave the opportunity to get lights and intimacy back, but we have 10 performances left, and I still hold true that the play can be made to work. But I fear more compromises will have to be made to enhance the basic story telling.
A long get out with poor Hogben camped in the van piling the furniture in to ensure the necessary snug fit is followed by a welcome round of the pubs best ale. The discussion inevitably falls onto the play, the performances, the road ahead. It’s the best bit this, not the bows, not the adulation, but the quiet shared reflection that can only be understood by those in the footlights, and although the director and stage manager sit outside this inner sanctum unable to share first hand the missed cues, bungled lines and comedy falls, the bouquets and the brickbats-we remain a tightly formed team and we I think everyone enjoys the satisfaction of a drink and ponitification of a job well done. Still the ale is good and the conversation gentle and thanks to Hackney…coarse and unpredictable.
Thursday 10 July 2008
Alastair Whatley: 23th-24th June
23rd-30th July
Bury St Edmunds/Suffolk/Essex
We all gathered back at Hilary's the next morning to the obligatory and laughing sunshine that taunted us all as we enjoyed one last dalliance on the sparkling tennis court. Fond but brief farewells were given as the detritus of the evenings performance were cleared away by a large conglomerate of helpers, the end for them, but still the beginning of this journey for us.
We piled into the car and van and headed off full steam up the M3 and then onto the M25. Disney pouring its dulcet tunes into the car of which I was helming, interuppted by an ominous ring from my phone which emanated percusively throughout the speeding car. It soon transpired that someone had neglected to pick up our sound computer which remained stoically enjoying the lasts of Hilary's fine hospitality sat latently in her kitchen. A quick call through to Hogben and Gemma suggested that no buck passing was in order and so in foul spirit our car jetted back the 1hr and 30 minutes to Overton. This time was passed in a haze of dark thoughts of Middleton-esque revenge on the culprits who to my jaded mind were sat laughing their way to lunch in the van- in the opposite direction!
Finally we arrived back at Hilary's and picked up the computer stuffed it in the boot of the car and jubilantly set back off up the M3, nearing the M25 for the second time my mood had almost returned to normal when the phone rang again...the assorted passengers groaned dangerously, it was Grace Foot, she told us how much she loved the show, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. She then told us that a large silver laptop was sitting lonely in one of the guest bedrooms and had one of us (e.g. me) left it there. A cold shiver ran up my self righteous vertebrae as a quick check of the latpopless car confirmed the situation. To the sound of Hackney's wailing beaver impression we again turned around and did another 45 minutes back to Overton, picked up the dastardly laptop, thanked our kind hosts and jetted back off for the third time that day. My dark thoughts now suitably embarrassed, turned red and then a sunny yellow colour that matched the ripening rape fields that mark the Suffolk borders.
So a 120 minute journey ended up taking nigh on 300 minutes, but we arrived in Suffolk in good spirits. We took in a local gym before arriving back chez Whatley for an evening at leisure. For the last four years we have always taken actors back to my parents who have the great fortune of living in a delightful manor house just outside Bury St Edmunds, it is where I grew up, and every fibre of the house, every blade of grass and every brick holds a memory woven into its age old mortar. Thus it is also a little odd inviting back our actors to share in the house from a more foreign perspective. It has also always proved a little difficult for actors to acclimatise to the change in pace that presents itself immediately upon arrival.
I show the team up to their assorted bed rooms and begin cooking the evening meal, or rather reheating the food that my mum had so kindly made up for us all in her temporary absence, the boys I garnered were feeling far from at ease. They pottered round, Hogben finding solace on the Piano, Hackney on the computer, Donnelly with the TV and Gilbert...well Gilbert just slept wearing off a late night on the wine with Hilary oblivious anything! However, past experience showed that this initial unease was only temporary as the cast and crew got their bearings, a trip across the wheat fields to the village pub under the clear night sky was a fine way to shake off any skeletons and we arrived back in much more lively spirits fired with the local ale, made some mess in the kitchen and headed for bed.
The Green Man
24th June, Dunmow, Essex
The Green Man is a restaurant, a very nice restaurant in a very nice part of the country. Just outside Dunmow surrounded by thatched houses sits the restaurant with an expansive garden lined with trees and solar lighting. It is owned by a wonderfully eccentric and debonair businessman called Martin, who had been a pillar of support to the company in its formative years, Midsummer Night's Dream had played to great success the year before, the experience only marred by an interval that lasted well over an hour as the kitchen tried to serve 100 desserts in a very short time- ...and failed
This year however the sun was pouring through the heavens as we tipped up just after lunch time. A quick run around the performance space which was to be played with the actors facing the rear of the restaurant, and follwoed by a languid get in followed by a rehearsal to look at the beginning of the show.
Joe’s adaptation opens with a montage of school routine, the boys are seen saying prayers, going to lessons and then going to bed, in a stylized and very fast paced introduction. The problem with this opening, magnified ten times when you are without lighting, is that it needs to be precise to the smallest physical twitch. Each step, look, word, everything needs to be done like military drill. The world of the boys must be seen in this segment of time as one of discipline, manners, repression and uniformity. Yet surrounded by the lush greenery the audience was in the first few shows seemingly struggling to focus in on the action and I felt like this crucial beginning was being lost. So we took another look at the scene, re-blocked a few bits with the boys praying in front of the pews not behind them, put the boys falling asleep standing on the pews not lying on them, and generally re looked at the scene with our audiences attention span ingrained more clearly in our collective consciousness. It was looking much clearer and in a short amount of time, was beginning to look tighter. Mid way through this rehearsal an unusually quiet Hackney let forth a sudden out burst of disquiet in the rapid reblocking of such a key scene so soon before a performance; and in some respects he had a point. We were changing the dynamic of a scene and reworking substantial bits of its choreography. Yet from my own perspective, I think that a production should never be set in stone, never be so comfortable that it becomes routine. I heard a story about one famous director who secretly ran round the dressing rooms just before the first night of a show, instructing all his actors to do something totally different- before proceeding to refrain from telling anyone what these changes were. The result by all accounts was an electric night of theatre with actors flying by the seat of their pants, unsure of what was coming next. As upsetting and as scary as this may be for an actor, such danger does serve to bring out the essential ‘live’ element of theatre. It should always be unpredictable and like I previously mentioned no two shows should ever be the same. I remain stoical that this production will never slip into routine, never become formulaic; each actor finding ways of keeping the show fresh not only for the audience and his fellow actors but also himself.
Having a director on the road is certainly a blessing but also I imagine a curse, only last night was an actor requesting a slow down in the number of note sessions. And certainly when the show hits the road, I imagine that this will invariably become the case. But all to often you see shows that without a prying eye after an extended run become shadows of their former self- and not always in a good way. A scene that began as a piece of subtle comedy can rapidly descend into crude humour that, although no doubt appreciated by its audience is totally out of synch with the remainder of the play. The result of this being, a play that loses its rhythm, pace and focus. I imagine my challenge as the tour progresses is to tread that fine balance between keeping the show and the cast on their toes pushing them on to challenge themselves nightly, whilst not plaguing them night after night with unnecessary notes and criticism. It is a very thin line indeed.
The performance itself was for the actors- one of their best, and for the director one of his worst. The boys piled in the energy and pace cutting the running time dramatically and the first few rows of the audience seemed engrossed. The problem I had was with some of the remaining audience. I think this problem stemmed from the fact that most had all come on a dinner and show ticket, and so were plied with good food and wine in advance of taking their seats- nothing wrong with that you may say; but what was wrong was that many were clearly expecting a piece of fripparous comedy, a farce maybe, certainly not a romantic tragedy played out by 4 schoolboys.
The show had been well advertised and was well attended, but failed to hold the audiences attention. Those that had come to watch and participate in a night of theatre had a blast, I think those who came more for the dinner than the theatre got bored and soon retired noisily to the bar. In fact one group from a local business group failed to leave the restaurant at all and spent the night being as loud and rude as they could manage ruining the show for many and causing the poor restaurant manager no end of headaches.
It was the ever increasing problem, of an audience who were not regular theatre-goers, expecting an easy night out, wanting pure entertainment. Try as I might to offer accessible theatre, trying as hard as I can to engage new audiences to our shows and in turn other shows, it is clear that this adaptation requires at least a little concentration, it is Shakespeare after all, and a tragedy and further more framed by the story of 4 young lads whose own story coinides with that of Romeo and Juliet. Not entirely straightforward, and those who watched and more importantly, those who listened all left enraptured, caught up in the action and left reeling at the emotional climax. As much as I told myself that no show can always please all of its audience all of the time, I was disappointed by the lack of interest shown by many that night. It marked a slight knock to the theatrical evangelist in me, I had dreamed of creating a piece that spoke across these boundaries that extended bridges and caught the imagination of all that saw it. Sadly this utopian show, that combines commercial appeal with strong artistic ideals rarely if ever comes along, and ours was after all at heart a Shakespearean tragedy. The mountain I had set myself and the cast was steep, and, like it or not the performance at the Green Man represented a brief stumbling. However there was still much to celebrate, those that had watched had enjoyed, and that remained the most crucial thing.
We stumbled out of the Green Man just after Midnight and after a rather rambling journey back home we finally arrived at half one, and we all, man, woman and dog collapsed shattered into bed and didn’t rise until late the next morning.
Alastair Whatley
Bury St Edmunds/Suffolk/Essex
We all gathered back at Hilary's the next morning to the obligatory and laughing sunshine that taunted us all as we enjoyed one last dalliance on the sparkling tennis court. Fond but brief farewells were given as the detritus of the evenings performance were cleared away by a large conglomerate of helpers, the end for them, but still the beginning of this journey for us.
We piled into the car and van and headed off full steam up the M3 and then onto the M25. Disney pouring its dulcet tunes into the car of which I was helming, interuppted by an ominous ring from my phone which emanated percusively throughout the speeding car. It soon transpired that someone had neglected to pick up our sound computer which remained stoically enjoying the lasts of Hilary's fine hospitality sat latently in her kitchen. A quick call through to Hogben and Gemma suggested that no buck passing was in order and so in foul spirit our car jetted back the 1hr and 30 minutes to Overton. This time was passed in a haze of dark thoughts of Middleton-esque revenge on the culprits who to my jaded mind were sat laughing their way to lunch in the van- in the opposite direction!
Finally we arrived back at Hilary's and picked up the computer stuffed it in the boot of the car and jubilantly set back off up the M3, nearing the M25 for the second time my mood had almost returned to normal when the phone rang again...the assorted passengers groaned dangerously, it was Grace Foot, she told us how much she loved the show, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. She then told us that a large silver laptop was sitting lonely in one of the guest bedrooms and had one of us (e.g. me) left it there. A cold shiver ran up my self righteous vertebrae as a quick check of the latpopless car confirmed the situation. To the sound of Hackney's wailing beaver impression we again turned around and did another 45 minutes back to Overton, picked up the dastardly laptop, thanked our kind hosts and jetted back off for the third time that day. My dark thoughts now suitably embarrassed, turned red and then a sunny yellow colour that matched the ripening rape fields that mark the Suffolk borders.
So a 120 minute journey ended up taking nigh on 300 minutes, but we arrived in Suffolk in good spirits. We took in a local gym before arriving back chez Whatley for an evening at leisure. For the last four years we have always taken actors back to my parents who have the great fortune of living in a delightful manor house just outside Bury St Edmunds, it is where I grew up, and every fibre of the house, every blade of grass and every brick holds a memory woven into its age old mortar. Thus it is also a little odd inviting back our actors to share in the house from a more foreign perspective. It has also always proved a little difficult for actors to acclimatise to the change in pace that presents itself immediately upon arrival.
I show the team up to their assorted bed rooms and begin cooking the evening meal, or rather reheating the food that my mum had so kindly made up for us all in her temporary absence, the boys I garnered were feeling far from at ease. They pottered round, Hogben finding solace on the Piano, Hackney on the computer, Donnelly with the TV and Gilbert...well Gilbert just slept wearing off a late night on the wine with Hilary oblivious anything! However, past experience showed that this initial unease was only temporary as the cast and crew got their bearings, a trip across the wheat fields to the village pub under the clear night sky was a fine way to shake off any skeletons and we arrived back in much more lively spirits fired with the local ale, made some mess in the kitchen and headed for bed.
The Green Man
24th June, Dunmow, Essex
The Green Man is a restaurant, a very nice restaurant in a very nice part of the country. Just outside Dunmow surrounded by thatched houses sits the restaurant with an expansive garden lined with trees and solar lighting. It is owned by a wonderfully eccentric and debonair businessman called Martin, who had been a pillar of support to the company in its formative years, Midsummer Night's Dream had played to great success the year before, the experience only marred by an interval that lasted well over an hour as the kitchen tried to serve 100 desserts in a very short time- ...and failed
This year however the sun was pouring through the heavens as we tipped up just after lunch time. A quick run around the performance space which was to be played with the actors facing the rear of the restaurant, and follwoed by a languid get in followed by a rehearsal to look at the beginning of the show.
Joe’s adaptation opens with a montage of school routine, the boys are seen saying prayers, going to lessons and then going to bed, in a stylized and very fast paced introduction. The problem with this opening, magnified ten times when you are without lighting, is that it needs to be precise to the smallest physical twitch. Each step, look, word, everything needs to be done like military drill. The world of the boys must be seen in this segment of time as one of discipline, manners, repression and uniformity. Yet surrounded by the lush greenery the audience was in the first few shows seemingly struggling to focus in on the action and I felt like this crucial beginning was being lost. So we took another look at the scene, re-blocked a few bits with the boys praying in front of the pews not behind them, put the boys falling asleep standing on the pews not lying on them, and generally re looked at the scene with our audiences attention span ingrained more clearly in our collective consciousness. It was looking much clearer and in a short amount of time, was beginning to look tighter. Mid way through this rehearsal an unusually quiet Hackney let forth a sudden out burst of disquiet in the rapid reblocking of such a key scene so soon before a performance; and in some respects he had a point. We were changing the dynamic of a scene and reworking substantial bits of its choreography. Yet from my own perspective, I think that a production should never be set in stone, never be so comfortable that it becomes routine. I heard a story about one famous director who secretly ran round the dressing rooms just before the first night of a show, instructing all his actors to do something totally different- before proceeding to refrain from telling anyone what these changes were. The result by all accounts was an electric night of theatre with actors flying by the seat of their pants, unsure of what was coming next. As upsetting and as scary as this may be for an actor, such danger does serve to bring out the essential ‘live’ element of theatre. It should always be unpredictable and like I previously mentioned no two shows should ever be the same. I remain stoical that this production will never slip into routine, never become formulaic; each actor finding ways of keeping the show fresh not only for the audience and his fellow actors but also himself.
Having a director on the road is certainly a blessing but also I imagine a curse, only last night was an actor requesting a slow down in the number of note sessions. And certainly when the show hits the road, I imagine that this will invariably become the case. But all to often you see shows that without a prying eye after an extended run become shadows of their former self- and not always in a good way. A scene that began as a piece of subtle comedy can rapidly descend into crude humour that, although no doubt appreciated by its audience is totally out of synch with the remainder of the play. The result of this being, a play that loses its rhythm, pace and focus. I imagine my challenge as the tour progresses is to tread that fine balance between keeping the show and the cast on their toes pushing them on to challenge themselves nightly, whilst not plaguing them night after night with unnecessary notes and criticism. It is a very thin line indeed.
The performance itself was for the actors- one of their best, and for the director one of his worst. The boys piled in the energy and pace cutting the running time dramatically and the first few rows of the audience seemed engrossed. The problem I had was with some of the remaining audience. I think this problem stemmed from the fact that most had all come on a dinner and show ticket, and so were plied with good food and wine in advance of taking their seats- nothing wrong with that you may say; but what was wrong was that many were clearly expecting a piece of fripparous comedy, a farce maybe, certainly not a romantic tragedy played out by 4 schoolboys.
The show had been well advertised and was well attended, but failed to hold the audiences attention. Those that had come to watch and participate in a night of theatre had a blast, I think those who came more for the dinner than the theatre got bored and soon retired noisily to the bar. In fact one group from a local business group failed to leave the restaurant at all and spent the night being as loud and rude as they could manage ruining the show for many and causing the poor restaurant manager no end of headaches.
It was the ever increasing problem, of an audience who were not regular theatre-goers, expecting an easy night out, wanting pure entertainment. Try as I might to offer accessible theatre, trying as hard as I can to engage new audiences to our shows and in turn other shows, it is clear that this adaptation requires at least a little concentration, it is Shakespeare after all, and a tragedy and further more framed by the story of 4 young lads whose own story coinides with that of Romeo and Juliet. Not entirely straightforward, and those who watched and more importantly, those who listened all left enraptured, caught up in the action and left reeling at the emotional climax. As much as I told myself that no show can always please all of its audience all of the time, I was disappointed by the lack of interest shown by many that night. It marked a slight knock to the theatrical evangelist in me, I had dreamed of creating a piece that spoke across these boundaries that extended bridges and caught the imagination of all that saw it. Sadly this utopian show, that combines commercial appeal with strong artistic ideals rarely if ever comes along, and ours was after all at heart a Shakespearean tragedy. The mountain I had set myself and the cast was steep, and, like it or not the performance at the Green Man represented a brief stumbling. However there was still much to celebrate, those that had watched had enjoyed, and that remained the most crucial thing.
We stumbled out of the Green Man just after Midnight and after a rather rambling journey back home we finally arrived at half one, and we all, man, woman and dog collapsed shattered into bed and didn’t rise until late the next morning.
Alastair Whatley
Chris Hogben: Romeo bits and bobs
So...yesterday at Merton Abbey Mills I feel I went to a new level with my character. On our week off, I went gone back to the original, unabridged Shakespeare. I knew Calarco had needed to heavily cut from it, and I wanted to pick up clues I felt were missing.
I went through it and noted down everything Romeo says about himself, everything Romeo says about other people, and everything other people say about Romeo, I uncovered a few useful things that kept repeating themselves.
1) A state of mind that I'll call 'Romeo's Centrelessness'
Romeo really is a lost soul, out of control. A wanderer, with no home (despite his famous family - but he 'doffs' them anyway), no cause (Baz Luhrman called him 'the original Rebel Without a Cause) and no brakes. When he falls in love with Juliet, she becomes almost MORE than the centre of his world (the star to ev'ry wandering bark) - he seems to pour his life INTO her, as if she is an iron lung machine that he lives through. Very odd. But no wonder that, when he hears she is dead, the only logical conclusion is (perhaps quite calmly reached) that he must die too. This is no normal love, by any stretch of the imagination.
2) Romeo's sense of 'boundness' at the beginning:
All this happens in the short scenes prior to meeting Juliet and if a character says that much about what could amount to a physical description, I felt I should put it into Romeo's physicality.
There's a difference between the way old people and young people move. My movement teacher taught me that it is about 'free energy' and 'bound energy'. When young people move or dance, it is fresh, vital, it seems to explode beyond their bodies, they freely inhabit the space around them and it seems to come out of their pores. When young people get older, whether they like it or not, their energy is not as able to freely penetrate the air around them. It's not about the difference between fully extending or not fully extending a movement - but the vital, affecting energy goes. Even old rockers, like Rod Stewart or Mick Jagger, are not able to recapture that electric physical force they once had on stage. It has changed into a more profound, more inward-looking quality.
Anyway, to transfer this into Armstrong/Romeo, I wanted to start the play trying to grasp this quality. Instead of straining to feel miserable, using convulsive jerks, or thrashing motions, touching other characters or using force to reason or convince, I feel that Romeo should be much more resigned, much more devoid of energy, with prematurely old bound energy. As if his youthful testosterone vibrance has been utterly stamped on my Rosaline's rejection of him - there is a suggestion of this in: 'from love's WEAK, CHILDISH bow she lives uncharm'd' as if his youthful exuberance (hinted at in the Friar scene and in the Romeo/Mercutio wit battle in Act 2 Scene 4) has been CALLED weak and childish - and that comment has killed it, and made him old, without energy and powerless to move.
So I tried to work both of these in, and found a much greater NEED to be with Juliet, found that she mattered much more to me, found that finding her was more than being in love - it was being freed of this boundness, it was being accepted for who he is, it was finding a reason to live. I found that news of her death was much more crippling, with a fear of returning to my former wandering life and found that the through-line of my character's journey was much stronger.
In future performances, I'm going to try and outwork this a bit more, and also play with other theories I'm piecing together to do with Romeo's wit/senses getting in the way of reality, about a sense of Romeo's low self-opinion and feeling he is cursed, about Romeo's primary sense being what he sees with his eyes, about Romeo and masculinity, Romeo and his family and what they expect of him, and a theory I have about Romeo's emotional naivety - what if he was really strait-laced before, really studious and conservative, not wild at all - and the Rosaline affair has absolutely rocked his world and changed his personality - how else can we explain his absolute inexperience and immaturity when it comes to his own feelings?
I went through it and noted down everything Romeo says about himself, everything Romeo says about other people, and everything other people say about Romeo, I uncovered a few useful things that kept repeating themselves.
1) A state of mind that I'll call 'Romeo's Centrelessness'
- 'Tut, I have lost myself, I am not here. This is not Romeo, he's some other where.'
- 'Can I go forward when my heart is there? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out'
- 'But he that hath the steerage of my course, direct my sail!'
- 'How is't, my soul?' (Juliet)
- 'It is my soul that calls upon my name!' (Juliet)
- 'Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the rocks thy seasick weary bark.'
Romeo really is a lost soul, out of control. A wanderer, with no home (despite his famous family - but he 'doffs' them anyway), no cause (Baz Luhrman called him 'the original Rebel Without a Cause) and no brakes. When he falls in love with Juliet, she becomes almost MORE than the centre of his world (the star to ev'ry wandering bark) - he seems to pour his life INTO her, as if she is an iron lung machine that he lives through. Very odd. But no wonder that, when he hears she is dead, the only logical conclusion is (perhaps quite calmly reached) that he must die too. This is no normal love, by any stretch of the imagination.
2) Romeo's sense of 'boundness' at the beginning:
- I have a soul of lead so stakes (or fixes) me to the ground I cannot move.
- I am...so bound I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.
- Under loves heavy burden do I sink.
- Being but heavy, I will bear the light.
- Not mad, but bound more than a madman is - Shut up in prison, kept without my food, whipped and tormented.
- Heavy lightness, feather of lead, bright smoke, still waking sleep.
All this happens in the short scenes prior to meeting Juliet and if a character says that much about what could amount to a physical description, I felt I should put it into Romeo's physicality.
There's a difference between the way old people and young people move. My movement teacher taught me that it is about 'free energy' and 'bound energy'. When young people move or dance, it is fresh, vital, it seems to explode beyond their bodies, they freely inhabit the space around them and it seems to come out of their pores. When young people get older, whether they like it or not, their energy is not as able to freely penetrate the air around them. It's not about the difference between fully extending or not fully extending a movement - but the vital, affecting energy goes. Even old rockers, like Rod Stewart or Mick Jagger, are not able to recapture that electric physical force they once had on stage. It has changed into a more profound, more inward-looking quality.
Anyway, to transfer this into Armstrong/Romeo, I wanted to start the play trying to grasp this quality. Instead of straining to feel miserable, using convulsive jerks, or thrashing motions, touching other characters or using force to reason or convince, I feel that Romeo should be much more resigned, much more devoid of energy, with prematurely old bound energy. As if his youthful testosterone vibrance has been utterly stamped on my Rosaline's rejection of him - there is a suggestion of this in: 'from love's WEAK, CHILDISH bow she lives uncharm'd' as if his youthful exuberance (hinted at in the Friar scene and in the Romeo/Mercutio wit battle in Act 2 Scene 4) has been CALLED weak and childish - and that comment has killed it, and made him old, without energy and powerless to move.
So I tried to work both of these in, and found a much greater NEED to be with Juliet, found that she mattered much more to me, found that finding her was more than being in love - it was being freed of this boundness, it was being accepted for who he is, it was finding a reason to live. I found that news of her death was much more crippling, with a fear of returning to my former wandering life and found that the through-line of my character's journey was much stronger.
In future performances, I'm going to try and outwork this a bit more, and also play with other theories I'm piecing together to do with Romeo's wit/senses getting in the way of reality, about a sense of Romeo's low self-opinion and feeling he is cursed, about Romeo's primary sense being what he sees with his eyes, about Romeo and masculinity, Romeo and his family and what they expect of him, and a theory I have about Romeo's emotional naivety - what if he was really strait-laced before, really studious and conservative, not wild at all - and the Rosaline affair has absolutely rocked his world and changed his personality - how else can we explain his absolute inexperience and immaturity when it comes to his own feelings?
Wednesday 9 July 2008
Hubert Mainwaring-B, 7th-8th July
My first few days with the Original Theatre Compnay are over and it has been an enthralling start to my time with them. However wet I may have got or however painful my blisters were it has definitely been worth it just to see this play and witness a completely different kind of energy stir from it each time the actors perform it. A definite highlight has to be the tremendous fights that break out as the four boys slowly become immersed in the characters they are playing. The anger that is etched into their faces and the thumps and cracks that are heard as the actors fall to the floor in 'pain' convince me that this is for real and that they have actually hurt themselves- thank god they haven't! This is Shakespeare as I have never seen it before and I cannot wait to get to Southwark. My job has been to assist the stage manager in setting up and taking down set and electrics. Merton Abbey Mills has been interesting, wet, unbearably tiring at times but incredibly enjoyable. Everyone works as a team here and this was apparent from the minute I arrived and joined the company. I have learnt how to avoid creating hazards while setting up, how to, at least, 'try' and sell tickets and how to avoid a tents collapse due to gallons of rain water collecting on top of it- a skill that wil be vital for me in the future! What a week it has been for me.
Tuesday 8 July 2008
Alastair Whatley: June 5th -June 22nd
June 17th
Dress Run
Bracknell
After three consequetive years solely concerned with outdoor theatre, the company this year has set its sights on combining its outdoor tour in June with a 3 month indoor tour running until November. And so on the 5th June, The company returned to its creative base in the gorgeous surrounds of South Hill Park Arts Centre for the first day of rehearsals, this would be the first 2 rehearsal weeks of a total of 5 scattered into three sections. 2 weeks in June to get the show up on its feet, followed by another one in early June to re rehearse the show for The Southwark Playhouse and then finally another 2 weeks in late August preparing the show for its Autumn tour. So we would all become very well acquainted with the old Georgian mansion and its assorted rooms and theatres.
The Park is a total surprise, Bracknell is filled with many large corporate businesses who share their headquarters with a town centre contructed entirely of concrete, all in all, I think I'm not going out on a limb by desribing Bracknell as being a little beastly. However, just a mile outside of the town centre lies the art centre in positive cornocopary of greenery. A georgian mansion that springs out of this concrete oasis is a wonderful surprise for new visitors to Bracknell, opened as the first UK arts Centre in the 70's, it is filled with fantastic natural light and a pool of fantastic creative people who assemble themselves in a various office spaces all over the building.
The problem, and the unique selling point of the arts centre is its location, a problem for us because getting actors and audience to come from London is always a headache, but a wonderful selling point in the service that this arts centre provides to the local community. The place is always buzzing with events, theatre, exhibitions, classes and music events and is a centre that is both used and appreciated by the local community in Bracknell and surrounding areas. By housing the actors in digs locally we saved on the 2hr commute, and were able to convert that time into rehearsals. It is a fantastic resource, and one that gave our show a great foundation.
Two weeks whizzed by in a flurry of activity and before we could blink we staged our dress run
to assembled production staff (and our lovely landlady Hilary over), our rather jaded cast and crew managed to achieve the rather splendid feat of fitting all our set and costume (which includes squeezing a large heavy altar, five antique pews, an organ, large windows and all the technical gear) into our rather small transit van.
So at about midnight, with Fiona our valiant Costume Designer left manically sowing up the last of the costumes ready for our morning departure, we left a very exciting rehearsal period behind us and prepared for our first night and journey down to Plymouth. I love this time in a productions life, I could just walk around the house and ground of The Arts Centre and every where, there would be someone like Fiona battling against the clock to get the show out in the best possible shape. All these people, working with so much passion and dedication- creating a piece of theatre. From Victoria, our set designer making last minute changes to the set in the scene dock, or the cast warming up in the gardens to Matt, our behatted sound engineer, putting the last edit together, his gazebo office literally coming down around his ears, leaving him and his computer alone in the darkness. All these disparate elements coming together always generates a bigger buzz than any review ever could manage, its why we do it, and when done with love and care it all makes it worthwhile.
‘Exciting’ is a word perhaps used too freely in the theatrical world, everything from your doublet and hose Shakespeare to one man fringe show with dog has the word attached to it. So I am always wary of using it, but in this case I think describing our rehearsal period as exciting is for once justified. I won’t speak for the rest of the cast, but as the director, it is rare to find a cast who bond quickly and are able to work with great ferocity without it descending into increasingly acrimonious disputes. It is a dangerous and scary time for an actor, at their most vulnerable, without the assurance of lines being learnt, or indeed the assurance of whether they themselves, their colleagues or the whole production will be any good, it is naturally a time when emotions run high both on and off stage. The danger is that this emotion gets channelled in the wrong way and the bulk of rehearsal time is spent on soothing egos and placating people rather than focussing on the play in hand. Not so the case with these guys.
We only had two weeks to get the show on, which combined with ‘school outings’ to a school in Dorset, a day of ‘paintballing’ in the woods outside Basingstoke it all added up to a frenetic few days that could have gone horribly wrong. Fortunately the cast clicked, the play tripped of our tongues and by the 17th June, we managed a perfectly passable dress run that had our co-producers at South Hill Park ‘excited’ and our cast and crew ready to take on the first few weeks.
18th -19th June,
Plymouth
This was our fourth consecutive year visiting and performing at Kitley House Hotel just outside Plymouth. Owned once by the wonderfully titled ‘Bastard’ family, it has a suitably austere frontage and is reached by a long and bumpy road taking you right out into what feels like the middle of nowhere. We arrived this year in the rain, the clouds louring above our heads and the prospect of a very wet and miserable opening in their picturesque fountain garden. Yet to our relief the decision had already been made to stage the show in the library within the house. Which meant we didn’t get wet, audience stayed dry...and...the set wouldn’t fit in the room... it was a space that was at least half the size we had ever rehearsed, thus needing dramatic changes to our blocking and the need to light the show...with outdoor floodlights...as the van arrived a further problem emanated in the fact that Gemma our Stage Manager was having severe trouble in getting the sound computer to work. So all in all not the ideal opening. However, I was pleased that the cast and crew just got on with it, I had tried to prepare them for the need to be flexible with the show, especially in its outdoor incarnation, and to their credit we soon cut down our set to the barest minimum, reworked the fights, gemma fixed the sound (it transpired that she had plugged a wire into itself...!) and promptly set to with the lighting; so by the time we sat down to our first meal at 5pm everything was on schedule, and everyone happy. Apart from me- who had arrived to be given a lovely suite on the ground floor, which was absolutely delightful- until everyone else realised that the door from my bathroom led directly onto the evening’s stage in the library- making it the perfect dressing room! So lovely suite soon became lovely green room. Ah well.
The show goes up on time and marring a total blackout mid way through the Tybalt/Romeo fight scene it all goes off without a hitch, a few elements clearly not working at this stage and characters and story not as strong as they need to be, but generally the show is in fine shape for an opening night under difficult conditions and the cast relish the intimate playing space which bodes well for our run in Southwark in July. We retire to the bar for drinks, and more drinks and Tommy the bar man stays with us stoically until the early hours when one of the cast members who shall remain nameless... (Hackney) excels himself by chewing the ear of Sharon one of stage crew, dancing manically on anyone he can find before promptly retiring having first orally expelled all he just consumed, we joke that this is the Mr Hyde that will unleash itself on us as the tour progresses- the cast member concerned had taken a vow of abstinence for the duration of the rehearsal process, which whilst not always strictly adhered had certainly kept his Mr Hyde at bay! The remainder celebrate slightly more quietly, drinking local ales and ciders and mulling over the events of the past few weeks. A good night and a job well done.
The next day we head off to the Dorset coast just 20 minutes from our hotel, a madcap game of beach rounder’s is played before a few of the more daring among us plunge into the sea for a swim. Hogben heads off to a quiet space to contemplate his poetry book- his inner Romeo never far from the surface these days, Donnelly braves the sea in his boxer shorts and then nearly exposes himself to all and sundry, Gilbert and Hackney take a turn around the sea front and watch as Gemma, Donnelly and I swim like loons in the choppy, icy cold sea. But the sea air is a tonic, and as we play and frolic, the stresses and strains of the past few weeks fade to distant memories.
The evening performance is not brilliant, classic second night syndrome with lots of little errors creeping in. All this is not helped by a particularly unfortunate ‘corpse’ by Mr Donnelly. Corpsing can be wonderful, a moment when actor and audience alike get to share a moment of illicit naughty school boy sniggering- it is highly contagious and can be caused by the smallest trifle, and when contained and at the place can create a dangerous and electric atmosphere. Sadly the ‘pronging’ noise made by Gilbert as he jumped through the pew catching one of our metal clips made him look akin to a telly tubby and aided by the comic sound effect soon had poor Donnelly in stitches. The problem was that this was at the climax of the first half, and at a crucial moment for audience and actors alike and a corpse here just proved very distracting. This is not to blame Donnelly in the least (well thats not strictly true...) its something that is very hard to contain, but caught up in the moment and annoyed by all the mistakes that had crept in I promptly marched round to the dressing room in the interval and perhaps unfairly reminded them of everything they already knew, and poor Donnelly’s sorrowful face as I castigated him for his illicit laughing will long stay with me. I was soon jettisoned out by Stage Management and left the rue my actions in the bar. Fortunately the cast picked up the momentum and the second half was much better. But I made a mental note to stay away from the dressing room in the interval unless I had something good and useful to say.
It can be hard being a director, sitting at the back powerless but totally responsible for all that is happening on the stage can be a beastly experience. When the audience are in stitches or hanging on every word it is wonderful, when they are sat in stony silence as a scene of high comedy falls around its ears it is unbearable. As the run went on I took to plonking myself as far back as possible, it means my note taking can be done at a distant not disturbing either the actors or audience and that I am removed from the experience. I know of some directors who can never watch the show in front of an audience, they leave at curtain up and return as the curtain falls and leave it at that. But from my point of view- hard as it can be, it is surely absolutely necessary? It is only with an audience that you gauge the success of a scene or indeed the production. We have 6 months ahead of us and a long way to go, theatre is not film, where once finished a cut can stay static on celluloid for eternity. What makes the theatre experience so special is its constantly mutating landscape; no night is ever the same. Each audience behaves in an entirely different manner. One night the show is biggest hit in town and the next a big disappointment, and yet it is the same show, same actors observed by a different audience. But already we are all finding new ideas and different intentions for scenes and characters, new lines emerge in front of audience, and the actors all truly come to life when they have an audience laughing with them and crying with them. It is a unique shared experience, never again replicated and personally for me holds a certain magic. So as much as it hurts and bruises me to watch an audience watching my show, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
20th-21st June
Overton, nr Basingstoke
Way back in January I had a meeting with Hilary and her committee who form up an area committee of a great Children’s charity called The Children’s Society. The ladies are such characters and the lunch could have been made into a wonderful Ayckbourn sketch. Over coronation chicken they squabbled and argued with wonderful wit and charm and by the time the cream cakes arrived for dessert we were on board and a date set for Midsummer Day, when the rain would surely stay away.
Naturally I couldn’t have been more wrong! We arrived on the Friday night to dark skies, and these were to continue until just after the show came down! We were all put into digs with committee members very near to Hilary’s marvellous house where the show was being held the following day to a sold out audience, already jealous of Craig and the Stage Management team who had the luxury of Hilary’s house complete with snooker room, I was delighted and relieved to be staying with the Foot family ...with Hackney. I knew the Foot’s through Charlie their son who I taught briefly when I worked at Sherborne School, Charlie had played Sir Toby Belch in a belting production of Twelfth Night which is how we were put in contact with the Children’s society in the first place. So we arrived, and to our delight found a delightful farmhouse complete with swimming pool and tennis court. Despite the cold we jumped in and thrashed around for a bit before walking through the woods into the village for a meal in the local gastro pub.
The meal was a delight, paying and splitting the bill a 40 minute nightmare, but the walk back was absolutely petrifying. Hackney, Charlie Foot and I on saying goodbye to Donnelly who had the fortunate excuse of living on a road replete with street lighting, leavbing the three of us to plunge into absolute blackness and navigate our way through a very creepy and dark wood. Without the luxury of light- natural or artificial -Hackney and I resorted to some Shakespearean recitations. So as poor Charlie led the way he was forced to contend with the entire length of the Chorus’ part from Henry V performed in tandem by two theatricals slightly the worse for wear. As the chorus reported the treaty of Troyes we ourselves found a treat in the form of the flickering lights of Charlie’s farmhouse which welcomed us with open arms, sleep came swiftly to us all.
Sport played a key role in the early part of our rehearsals, with excursions to play badminton, table tennis, running with the local running team, rounders etc. The aim was to build up a group identity and forge bonds outside the rehearsal room walls. And I think on the whole it worked well, obviously with only two weeks and 12 hour days the time and will to play a football match verges on the non existence. Often the boys would be exhausted after a day on their feet, but I would be straining on the leash to get into the swimming pool or onto the tennis courts. Matters weren’t helped by the arrival of ‘the claw’.
‘The Claw’ was the unfortunate name given to my left hand by Hogben after it was put in a cast mid way through rehearsals. The actual accident happened a good few weeks before this whilst we were paintballing. Now Paintballing fell into the ‘team bonding’ category of rehearsal, but it also broke the director, which was unfortunate. The incident that caused ‘The Claw’ was on about our third game which involved the holding and taking of a bridge. Nominated for my speedy running and fuelled with the adrenaline of youth I dashed full pelt at the bridge gun held aloft in a flurry of testosterone. And whilst it lasted it was good, the problem was it lasted for all of the few seconds it took me to reach the bridge, upon arrival of the bridge my trainers took an instant dislike to its flooring and decided to let me experience it for myself, and so I slipped at full pace and crashed downwards at quite some speed whilst the rest of the team including Donnelly and Hogben included shot past laughing. I hasten to say their smugness was short lived as I shot Hogben in the back and Donnelly was soon put of action as well. This will be a surprise to them as I have yet to own up to this piece of treachery, but the pain was sizeable and a weight of shame stood heavy on my aching shoulders.
I was later informed that ‘The Claw’ was caused by the snapping of a tendon with such force that the shattered tendon smashed into one of the bones on my left hand causing a bit of the bone to fracture. Yet I carried on regardless the adrenaline still pumping and was only finally put out of action when the crazy girl on the opposing team shot me in a very unfortunate place in front of all the world, leaving me to crawl back to the base in agony. A week later the hand was in plaster, and not just the hand but the bulk of my entire arm. Deciding, maybe slightly foolishly in retrospect, that the claw was not deserving of so much plaster it was soon cut off in the kitchen of my landlord much to his distress especially when he noted the state of his kitchen knifes the next morning.
Which in a round about sort of way leads me to waking up in the farmhouse in Overton, a tennis racket thrust into my hands and blinking like a baby mole in headlights was soon weaning my way onto the tennis court to play a game of tennis with Mr Foot and his three male companions whose names all escape me, although there was a Rod I believe. Now I am a fine sportsman, but Tennis might not be one of my greatest strengths, the warm up soon proved that I was well out of my depth as I managed to knock ball after ball out of the court into the long grass. Things went from bad to worse as we started the match itself. I was noticeably so much worse than my compatriots in racquets that they soon started exchanging looks, which upon witnessing my dolly drop serve changed to the exchanging of words which much to my relief soon changed again into the making of jokes at my expense. This to me was a good sign as it suggested that they had come to the conclusion that I had successfully ruined their tennis match and that they had come to terms with this and could accept me and my dolly drops in good heart. I successfully allowed my partner to lose the game in straight sets and I retired with Hackney to Hilary’s house to take stock of the clouds which were already spitting delicate spits of rain as far as the eye could see.
Now the show was for charity, but the set had to keep until November...and the rain was looking increasingly ominous, fortunately enough Hilary is not a lady one would like to cross , a modern day Mrs Rafi she encouraged us to forge ahead and so in the rain we set up camp and promptly took refuge in the snooker room.
The ladies on the committee had organised a lovely early supper for us served by Hilary’s delightful housekeeper who was determined that we had everything we need. The coronation chicken was wolfed down with much appreciation, although pudding was to be kept until after. This posed a problem to the food obsessive Hackney who could feel his belly rumbling for dessert and so sneaked round to confront the benign dear old lady who was serving us. However this soon proved beyond him and he soon reappeared from the kitchen having got cold feet, Hackney is incidentally one of the politest young men we have had work for us, he is also one of the most eccentric, fortunately the pudding miraculously appeared. Hackney’s stomach breathed a sigh of relief as it was stuffed with a deluge of cream and fruit and cake and as the rain began to beat down and the audience set up their picnics the actors prepared for a rather cold evening under the grey skies of Overton.
The rain held out for precisely the amount of time it took for us to get to the first line of the play, and so the umbrellas and macs soon made their first appearance of the evening. The English do picnics in the rain very well and all the audience had come fulsomely prepared for the rain and from the technical gazebo Gemma and I looked down upon a sea of multicoloured umbrellas sprawling down to the lake behnd us. With our largest audience of the tour so far at just over 250, and without a rake on either the stage or seating, it naurally meant sightlines for those at the back were less than satisfactory and further more audibility amidst the pounding rain became a problem. However the actors strode ahead and as the show veered into tragedy the weather came into its own and really helped set the scene for the unfolding drama, we were encouraged that the interval had not seen the customary exodus to escape the weather but rather the intrepid bunch had returned en masse to see the play out to its heartbreaking climax.
The only hiccup came midway through the final balcony scene as Romeo and Juliet leave each other for the very last time, a huge ‘cracking’ noise emanated from the gazebo drawing everyone’s attention dramatically away from the action on stage towards the ungainly sight of the director legs akimbo amidst the ruins of the box on which he had been sitting, smiling inanely and quite uselessly in a futile attempt to pretend that nothing untoward had happened. After the fuss made about Donnelly’s corpsing it wasn’t necessarily the best thing I could have done to help the evening, but at least I feel I made a contribution.
The audience cheered and rapidly departed leaving the assembled cast and crew including Hubert our work experience lad who would be joining us later in July for a 3 week run, to do the get out amidst the continued rain. Finally at just before midnight we stumbled quite exhausted back into Hilary’s kitchen for wine and cheese followed by a hasty retreat to bed.
Dress Run
Bracknell
After three consequetive years solely concerned with outdoor theatre, the company this year has set its sights on combining its outdoor tour in June with a 3 month indoor tour running until November. And so on the 5th June, The company returned to its creative base in the gorgeous surrounds of South Hill Park Arts Centre for the first day of rehearsals, this would be the first 2 rehearsal weeks of a total of 5 scattered into three sections. 2 weeks in June to get the show up on its feet, followed by another one in early June to re rehearse the show for The Southwark Playhouse and then finally another 2 weeks in late August preparing the show for its Autumn tour. So we would all become very well acquainted with the old Georgian mansion and its assorted rooms and theatres.
The Park is a total surprise, Bracknell is filled with many large corporate businesses who share their headquarters with a town centre contructed entirely of concrete, all in all, I think I'm not going out on a limb by desribing Bracknell as being a little beastly. However, just a mile outside of the town centre lies the art centre in positive cornocopary of greenery. A georgian mansion that springs out of this concrete oasis is a wonderful surprise for new visitors to Bracknell, opened as the first UK arts Centre in the 70's, it is filled with fantastic natural light and a pool of fantastic creative people who assemble themselves in a various office spaces all over the building.
The problem, and the unique selling point of the arts centre is its location, a problem for us because getting actors and audience to come from London is always a headache, but a wonderful selling point in the service that this arts centre provides to the local community. The place is always buzzing with events, theatre, exhibitions, classes and music events and is a centre that is both used and appreciated by the local community in Bracknell and surrounding areas. By housing the actors in digs locally we saved on the 2hr commute, and were able to convert that time into rehearsals. It is a fantastic resource, and one that gave our show a great foundation.
Two weeks whizzed by in a flurry of activity and before we could blink we staged our dress run
to assembled production staff (and our lovely landlady Hilary over), our rather jaded cast and crew managed to achieve the rather splendid feat of fitting all our set and costume (which includes squeezing a large heavy altar, five antique pews, an organ, large windows and all the technical gear) into our rather small transit van.
So at about midnight, with Fiona our valiant Costume Designer left manically sowing up the last of the costumes ready for our morning departure, we left a very exciting rehearsal period behind us and prepared for our first night and journey down to Plymouth. I love this time in a productions life, I could just walk around the house and ground of The Arts Centre and every where, there would be someone like Fiona battling against the clock to get the show out in the best possible shape. All these people, working with so much passion and dedication- creating a piece of theatre. From Victoria, our set designer making last minute changes to the set in the scene dock, or the cast warming up in the gardens to Matt, our behatted sound engineer, putting the last edit together, his gazebo office literally coming down around his ears, leaving him and his computer alone in the darkness. All these disparate elements coming together always generates a bigger buzz than any review ever could manage, its why we do it, and when done with love and care it all makes it worthwhile.
‘Exciting’ is a word perhaps used too freely in the theatrical world, everything from your doublet and hose Shakespeare to one man fringe show with dog has the word attached to it. So I am always wary of using it, but in this case I think describing our rehearsal period as exciting is for once justified. I won’t speak for the rest of the cast, but as the director, it is rare to find a cast who bond quickly and are able to work with great ferocity without it descending into increasingly acrimonious disputes. It is a dangerous and scary time for an actor, at their most vulnerable, without the assurance of lines being learnt, or indeed the assurance of whether they themselves, their colleagues or the whole production will be any good, it is naturally a time when emotions run high both on and off stage. The danger is that this emotion gets channelled in the wrong way and the bulk of rehearsal time is spent on soothing egos and placating people rather than focussing on the play in hand. Not so the case with these guys.
We only had two weeks to get the show on, which combined with ‘school outings’ to a school in Dorset, a day of ‘paintballing’ in the woods outside Basingstoke it all added up to a frenetic few days that could have gone horribly wrong. Fortunately the cast clicked, the play tripped of our tongues and by the 17th June, we managed a perfectly passable dress run that had our co-producers at South Hill Park ‘excited’ and our cast and crew ready to take on the first few weeks.
18th -19th June,
Plymouth
This was our fourth consecutive year visiting and performing at Kitley House Hotel just outside Plymouth. Owned once by the wonderfully titled ‘Bastard’ family, it has a suitably austere frontage and is reached by a long and bumpy road taking you right out into what feels like the middle of nowhere. We arrived this year in the rain, the clouds louring above our heads and the prospect of a very wet and miserable opening in their picturesque fountain garden. Yet to our relief the decision had already been made to stage the show in the library within the house. Which meant we didn’t get wet, audience stayed dry...and...the set wouldn’t fit in the room... it was a space that was at least half the size we had ever rehearsed, thus needing dramatic changes to our blocking and the need to light the show...with outdoor floodlights...as the van arrived a further problem emanated in the fact that Gemma our Stage Manager was having severe trouble in getting the sound computer to work. So all in all not the ideal opening. However, I was pleased that the cast and crew just got on with it, I had tried to prepare them for the need to be flexible with the show, especially in its outdoor incarnation, and to their credit we soon cut down our set to the barest minimum, reworked the fights, gemma fixed the sound (it transpired that she had plugged a wire into itself...!) and promptly set to with the lighting; so by the time we sat down to our first meal at 5pm everything was on schedule, and everyone happy. Apart from me- who had arrived to be given a lovely suite on the ground floor, which was absolutely delightful- until everyone else realised that the door from my bathroom led directly onto the evening’s stage in the library- making it the perfect dressing room! So lovely suite soon became lovely green room. Ah well.
The show goes up on time and marring a total blackout mid way through the Tybalt/Romeo fight scene it all goes off without a hitch, a few elements clearly not working at this stage and characters and story not as strong as they need to be, but generally the show is in fine shape for an opening night under difficult conditions and the cast relish the intimate playing space which bodes well for our run in Southwark in July. We retire to the bar for drinks, and more drinks and Tommy the bar man stays with us stoically until the early hours when one of the cast members who shall remain nameless... (Hackney) excels himself by chewing the ear of Sharon one of stage crew, dancing manically on anyone he can find before promptly retiring having first orally expelled all he just consumed, we joke that this is the Mr Hyde that will unleash itself on us as the tour progresses- the cast member concerned had taken a vow of abstinence for the duration of the rehearsal process, which whilst not always strictly adhered had certainly kept his Mr Hyde at bay! The remainder celebrate slightly more quietly, drinking local ales and ciders and mulling over the events of the past few weeks. A good night and a job well done.
The next day we head off to the Dorset coast just 20 minutes from our hotel, a madcap game of beach rounder’s is played before a few of the more daring among us plunge into the sea for a swim. Hogben heads off to a quiet space to contemplate his poetry book- his inner Romeo never far from the surface these days, Donnelly braves the sea in his boxer shorts and then nearly exposes himself to all and sundry, Gilbert and Hackney take a turn around the sea front and watch as Gemma, Donnelly and I swim like loons in the choppy, icy cold sea. But the sea air is a tonic, and as we play and frolic, the stresses and strains of the past few weeks fade to distant memories.
The evening performance is not brilliant, classic second night syndrome with lots of little errors creeping in. All this is not helped by a particularly unfortunate ‘corpse’ by Mr Donnelly. Corpsing can be wonderful, a moment when actor and audience alike get to share a moment of illicit naughty school boy sniggering- it is highly contagious and can be caused by the smallest trifle, and when contained and at the place can create a dangerous and electric atmosphere. Sadly the ‘pronging’ noise made by Gilbert as he jumped through the pew catching one of our metal clips made him look akin to a telly tubby and aided by the comic sound effect soon had poor Donnelly in stitches. The problem was that this was at the climax of the first half, and at a crucial moment for audience and actors alike and a corpse here just proved very distracting. This is not to blame Donnelly in the least (well thats not strictly true...) its something that is very hard to contain, but caught up in the moment and annoyed by all the mistakes that had crept in I promptly marched round to the dressing room in the interval and perhaps unfairly reminded them of everything they already knew, and poor Donnelly’s sorrowful face as I castigated him for his illicit laughing will long stay with me. I was soon jettisoned out by Stage Management and left the rue my actions in the bar. Fortunately the cast picked up the momentum and the second half was much better. But I made a mental note to stay away from the dressing room in the interval unless I had something good and useful to say.
It can be hard being a director, sitting at the back powerless but totally responsible for all that is happening on the stage can be a beastly experience. When the audience are in stitches or hanging on every word it is wonderful, when they are sat in stony silence as a scene of high comedy falls around its ears it is unbearable. As the run went on I took to plonking myself as far back as possible, it means my note taking can be done at a distant not disturbing either the actors or audience and that I am removed from the experience. I know of some directors who can never watch the show in front of an audience, they leave at curtain up and return as the curtain falls and leave it at that. But from my point of view- hard as it can be, it is surely absolutely necessary? It is only with an audience that you gauge the success of a scene or indeed the production. We have 6 months ahead of us and a long way to go, theatre is not film, where once finished a cut can stay static on celluloid for eternity. What makes the theatre experience so special is its constantly mutating landscape; no night is ever the same. Each audience behaves in an entirely different manner. One night the show is biggest hit in town and the next a big disappointment, and yet it is the same show, same actors observed by a different audience. But already we are all finding new ideas and different intentions for scenes and characters, new lines emerge in front of audience, and the actors all truly come to life when they have an audience laughing with them and crying with them. It is a unique shared experience, never again replicated and personally for me holds a certain magic. So as much as it hurts and bruises me to watch an audience watching my show, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
20th-21st June
Overton, nr Basingstoke
Way back in January I had a meeting with Hilary and her committee who form up an area committee of a great Children’s charity called The Children’s Society. The ladies are such characters and the lunch could have been made into a wonderful Ayckbourn sketch. Over coronation chicken they squabbled and argued with wonderful wit and charm and by the time the cream cakes arrived for dessert we were on board and a date set for Midsummer Day, when the rain would surely stay away.
Naturally I couldn’t have been more wrong! We arrived on the Friday night to dark skies, and these were to continue until just after the show came down! We were all put into digs with committee members very near to Hilary’s marvellous house where the show was being held the following day to a sold out audience, already jealous of Craig and the Stage Management team who had the luxury of Hilary’s house complete with snooker room, I was delighted and relieved to be staying with the Foot family ...with Hackney. I knew the Foot’s through Charlie their son who I taught briefly when I worked at Sherborne School, Charlie had played Sir Toby Belch in a belting production of Twelfth Night which is how we were put in contact with the Children’s society in the first place. So we arrived, and to our delight found a delightful farmhouse complete with swimming pool and tennis court. Despite the cold we jumped in and thrashed around for a bit before walking through the woods into the village for a meal in the local gastro pub.
The meal was a delight, paying and splitting the bill a 40 minute nightmare, but the walk back was absolutely petrifying. Hackney, Charlie Foot and I on saying goodbye to Donnelly who had the fortunate excuse of living on a road replete with street lighting, leavbing the three of us to plunge into absolute blackness and navigate our way through a very creepy and dark wood. Without the luxury of light- natural or artificial -Hackney and I resorted to some Shakespearean recitations. So as poor Charlie led the way he was forced to contend with the entire length of the Chorus’ part from Henry V performed in tandem by two theatricals slightly the worse for wear. As the chorus reported the treaty of Troyes we ourselves found a treat in the form of the flickering lights of Charlie’s farmhouse which welcomed us with open arms, sleep came swiftly to us all.
Sport played a key role in the early part of our rehearsals, with excursions to play badminton, table tennis, running with the local running team, rounders etc. The aim was to build up a group identity and forge bonds outside the rehearsal room walls. And I think on the whole it worked well, obviously with only two weeks and 12 hour days the time and will to play a football match verges on the non existence. Often the boys would be exhausted after a day on their feet, but I would be straining on the leash to get into the swimming pool or onto the tennis courts. Matters weren’t helped by the arrival of ‘the claw’.
‘The Claw’ was the unfortunate name given to my left hand by Hogben after it was put in a cast mid way through rehearsals. The actual accident happened a good few weeks before this whilst we were paintballing. Now Paintballing fell into the ‘team bonding’ category of rehearsal, but it also broke the director, which was unfortunate. The incident that caused ‘The Claw’ was on about our third game which involved the holding and taking of a bridge. Nominated for my speedy running and fuelled with the adrenaline of youth I dashed full pelt at the bridge gun held aloft in a flurry of testosterone. And whilst it lasted it was good, the problem was it lasted for all of the few seconds it took me to reach the bridge, upon arrival of the bridge my trainers took an instant dislike to its flooring and decided to let me experience it for myself, and so I slipped at full pace and crashed downwards at quite some speed whilst the rest of the team including Donnelly and Hogben included shot past laughing. I hasten to say their smugness was short lived as I shot Hogben in the back and Donnelly was soon put of action as well. This will be a surprise to them as I have yet to own up to this piece of treachery, but the pain was sizeable and a weight of shame stood heavy on my aching shoulders.
I was later informed that ‘The Claw’ was caused by the snapping of a tendon with such force that the shattered tendon smashed into one of the bones on my left hand causing a bit of the bone to fracture. Yet I carried on regardless the adrenaline still pumping and was only finally put out of action when the crazy girl on the opposing team shot me in a very unfortunate place in front of all the world, leaving me to crawl back to the base in agony. A week later the hand was in plaster, and not just the hand but the bulk of my entire arm. Deciding, maybe slightly foolishly in retrospect, that the claw was not deserving of so much plaster it was soon cut off in the kitchen of my landlord much to his distress especially when he noted the state of his kitchen knifes the next morning.
Which in a round about sort of way leads me to waking up in the farmhouse in Overton, a tennis racket thrust into my hands and blinking like a baby mole in headlights was soon weaning my way onto the tennis court to play a game of tennis with Mr Foot and his three male companions whose names all escape me, although there was a Rod I believe. Now I am a fine sportsman, but Tennis might not be one of my greatest strengths, the warm up soon proved that I was well out of my depth as I managed to knock ball after ball out of the court into the long grass. Things went from bad to worse as we started the match itself. I was noticeably so much worse than my compatriots in racquets that they soon started exchanging looks, which upon witnessing my dolly drop serve changed to the exchanging of words which much to my relief soon changed again into the making of jokes at my expense. This to me was a good sign as it suggested that they had come to the conclusion that I had successfully ruined their tennis match and that they had come to terms with this and could accept me and my dolly drops in good heart. I successfully allowed my partner to lose the game in straight sets and I retired with Hackney to Hilary’s house to take stock of the clouds which were already spitting delicate spits of rain as far as the eye could see.
Now the show was for charity, but the set had to keep until November...and the rain was looking increasingly ominous, fortunately enough Hilary is not a lady one would like to cross , a modern day Mrs Rafi she encouraged us to forge ahead and so in the rain we set up camp and promptly took refuge in the snooker room.
The ladies on the committee had organised a lovely early supper for us served by Hilary’s delightful housekeeper who was determined that we had everything we need. The coronation chicken was wolfed down with much appreciation, although pudding was to be kept until after. This posed a problem to the food obsessive Hackney who could feel his belly rumbling for dessert and so sneaked round to confront the benign dear old lady who was serving us. However this soon proved beyond him and he soon reappeared from the kitchen having got cold feet, Hackney is incidentally one of the politest young men we have had work for us, he is also one of the most eccentric, fortunately the pudding miraculously appeared. Hackney’s stomach breathed a sigh of relief as it was stuffed with a deluge of cream and fruit and cake and as the rain began to beat down and the audience set up their picnics the actors prepared for a rather cold evening under the grey skies of Overton.
The rain held out for precisely the amount of time it took for us to get to the first line of the play, and so the umbrellas and macs soon made their first appearance of the evening. The English do picnics in the rain very well and all the audience had come fulsomely prepared for the rain and from the technical gazebo Gemma and I looked down upon a sea of multicoloured umbrellas sprawling down to the lake behnd us. With our largest audience of the tour so far at just over 250, and without a rake on either the stage or seating, it naurally meant sightlines for those at the back were less than satisfactory and further more audibility amidst the pounding rain became a problem. However the actors strode ahead and as the show veered into tragedy the weather came into its own and really helped set the scene for the unfolding drama, we were encouraged that the interval had not seen the customary exodus to escape the weather but rather the intrepid bunch had returned en masse to see the play out to its heartbreaking climax.
The only hiccup came midway through the final balcony scene as Romeo and Juliet leave each other for the very last time, a huge ‘cracking’ noise emanated from the gazebo drawing everyone’s attention dramatically away from the action on stage towards the ungainly sight of the director legs akimbo amidst the ruins of the box on which he had been sitting, smiling inanely and quite uselessly in a futile attempt to pretend that nothing untoward had happened. After the fuss made about Donnelly’s corpsing it wasn’t necessarily the best thing I could have done to help the evening, but at least I feel I made a contribution.
The audience cheered and rapidly departed leaving the assembled cast and crew including Hubert our work experience lad who would be joining us later in July for a 3 week run, to do the get out amidst the continued rain. Finally at just before midnight we stumbled quite exhausted back into Hilary’s kitchen for wine and cheese followed by a hasty retreat to bed.
Welcome
Hello and welcome to The Original Theatre Company's touring diary. The aim of this blog is to allow the cast, the crew and our audience to follow the journey of both the show and the people who make it happen as it travels and tours the UK from June to November. This blog contains the actor and directors thoughts or ideas about the part and the play as they go through the rehearsal and performance process – they are simply his own interpretations and frequently change as the process progresses.
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