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