So, what is there not to like about amphibians? Well, I must say from the outset that my problem is more with frogs and toads, than newts. Newts are just about ok. I can remember holding a newt once and thinking it was quite sweet. But frogs and toads I do not find sweet. Ever since I was young, and there had been a number of times that they had jumped out at me (no doubt plotting against me), I just could not cope with them. Some of the times that they had leapt out at me included: as a child, colouring whilst in the garden and lying on my front and a giant toad leaping onto my colouring book right by my face; searching for a tennis ball in the garden and putting my hand on a frog instead of the ball; and poking around in a pond (admittedly, I may have been asking for it with this one) and a frog leaping onto my foot.
The ranidaphobia (fear of frogs) and bufonophobia (fear of toads) had got to epic proportions by the time I reached my late teens. If I saw one, I would start hyperventilating and then I would burst into tears. I don’t know what it is, but I just have issues with them. And it’s fine to mock – I do see that it is totally ridiculous, although someone I know has a proper phobia of balloons and surely that is more stupid? In fact, a very popular phobia is bananaphobia and yes, that is a phobia of bananas.
One summer, I was performing in the ensemble of an outdoor production of Madama Butterfly. At the beginning of Act Three comes The Humming Chorus – a very beautiful and famous piece of music. In this particular production, the director had the idea that as we were singing this, we would crawl up from the ground level and some of us up onto the stage, as if we were wolves. And yes, I did feel a little silly doing this. We practised this, and come the performances, off we went, crawling around the place – some of us, including me, in full Geisha costumes (white kimonos, massive wigs – perfect outfits for crawling. I don’t know why the army doesn’t start using them). I had been stationed by the ramp which led up to the stage, but I was at ground level, and it was during a performance as I hummed away, as lupine-like as I could, that I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. Whilst trying to still see the conductor, and hum a rather high note, I turned my head to see if I could see what is was. It was, in fact, a giant Natterjack toad, which was walking – not hopping – frogs hop, toads walk – towards me and my face was level to the ground. It was horrifying. I was about to have a panic attack. Pure fear was gripping me over a creature that was probably far more frightened of me than I was of him. But you cannot rationalise a phobia. The song seemed to go on and on and on. My professional instincts told me I would have to stay put, but my body was telling me to move as soon as possible. The moment came where we all swept away from the stage. I legged it like an Olympic athlete, and promptly burst into tears in the dressing room. The girls all came around to comfort me – it was a very emotional moment of the show, and it was no wonder that I had let my feelings about Butterfly’s plight overcome me. When I explained that it was in fact due to the fact that there was a bloody great amphibian edging itself towards me, their sympathy waned somewhat. I think one of them might have even been heard to laugh - unsympathetic cows.
I did speak to the Company Manager and requested that maybe somebody could look under the stage and remove the resident toad. But I was informed that this would not be possible, as the park in which we were performing was involved in a breeding programme of this endangered species, and in fact, there were probably hundreds of them dotted about the place. Not quite what I would call a winning result for an amphibiphobe.
Wednesday 30 September 2009
Wednesday 20 May 2009
Viva La Diva
“Darling, they've absolutely ruined your perfectly dreadful play.” (Tallulah Bankhead)
The theatrical industry seems to be able to attract the most bizarre – and potentially difficult people, and often – certainly true of myself at the start of my being in the industry – people with an over-whelming desire to be liked, who are full of personal insecurities. Why on earth we then decide to go into an industry where you face constant scrutiny and criticism, I do not know. I am reminded of one opera company I auditioned for, where I was being seen for ensemble and to cover the role of Tosca. To be honest, the role was way too big for me at that age, but I dutifully went along. Unbeknownst to me before I began singing, was that the woman who would be playing Tosca was one of the people on the panel. I performed Vissi D’arte and another Puccini piece as well, I think. I thought I had sung quite well. The panel then asked me over to have a chat with them, whereupon Tosca began to give me one of the most frightening interrogations of my life, a small segment of which went as follows.
“I see here you have done musicals,” she growled.
“Well, yes,” I replied.
“You can’t do musicals and opera.”
“Ah, well,” I said, trying to remain perky and chipper, “I must disagree there. I think at the stage I am in my career, it is possible to do both. I get a lot of enjoyment out of both.”
“You’re wrong. And you’re far too young to play Tosca.”
That fact was undoubtedly true, but hang on a minute, they had called me for the role. They had wanted to see me and they chose to have me sing for cover Tosca – why was this now my fault? She was so aggressive and angry with me, and I really was not quite sure why or what I had done that had upset her quite so much. Out of nowhere, the rehearsal pianist ended up interrupting my grilling to say that it was possible to do both musicals and opera, and at my age, perhaps it was sensible to still be doing both. I wanted to leap up and give him a big hug! I think that had to be a case of ego getting in the way – she did not want any to understudy her, and she was going to make it difficult for whoever got that job – which was not me.
How thankful I was for that lovely pianist, sticking up for me in my time of need.
But sometimes the performer can only blame themselves. There is a famous story (urban myth?) of the person who went to audition for a musical theatre course at a drama school, who decided to sing the song Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off by Gershwin. Now, this anecdote concerns pronunciation, which obviously may be a little tricky to demonstrate in writing, but I shall try to write phonetically. So, the song is supposed to be:
"You say poTAYto, I say poTARto.
You say toMAYto, I say toMARto (et cetera, et cetera).”
The person in question sang, quite seriously:
"You say poTAYto, I say poTAYto.
You say toMARto, I say toMARto.
PoTAYto, poTAYto, toMARto, toMARto,
Let's call the whole thing off."
Anyway, back to divas. One of the most famous divas of this era is probably Diana Ross. She was over in the UK performing in the Royal Variety Performance, having everybody run around after her, attempting multiple costume changes within one song and generally getting everybody running around after her. The musical theatre star Michael Ball decided to watch her in rehearsal at the back of the auditorium, whilst enjoying a cheeky cigarette. Suddenly, Ross stopped her performance and was heard to yell:
“Who is smoking that cigarette?!”
Ball did what any self-respecting person would do in that situation: threw away the fag and denied all knowledge.
I have come across some excellent diva behaviour in my time. Some of my favourites being: the soprano who decided she wouldn’t speak to anybody who was in the chorus and who refused to hang up her costumes after any performance as, “the dressers should do it.” The trouble was it was a pro-am production in a remote village in the East Midlands. And there were no dressers.
Another favourite mini-diva, was the young leading lady who I worked with on a musical. She got on my very bad side when she saw a picture of my husband (then partner) and asked me who it was. When I explained that it was my other half, she exclaimed:
“Really? Well, haven’t you managed to do well?”
Thank you so much, dearie.
She was perfectly talented and had a very impressive CV, but not a conversation went by where she did not have to mention at least one of the previous productions – particularly the famous ones – that she had been in, and how wonderful they had all been and how great it was for her to be the lead at such a young age. She also constantly informed everybody how she never had a performance off. There had not been one single show that she had missed. In fact, according to her, she was renowned across the entire of the industry for being the woman who never, ever went off. Nobody needed to point out the irony when she slipped and sprained her ankle, and her very talented understudy had the opportunity to go on for a week.
Divas are not just female either. I was cast in a London fringe show about politics. When I got to the first read-through, I got rather a sinking feeling that this might not be the greatest show ever. As we did the script read-through, I either did not understand the political slant, or it was not very well written. I was also beginning to worry about the impressions I was supposed to be doing: the Queen (ok), Cilla Black (passable), Delia Smith (erm…), Harriet Harman (no chance). The director was sensing that the script was not working either, and made a throw-away comment to the cast about having to rework some bits, whereupon, the writer stood up, threw his script and coffee on the floor and stormed out with the line:
“You can all go and f*** yourselves, you bastards.”
Were we to presume that he was not happy?!
There are also many, many stories of the late, great Olly Reed’s diva-ish behaviour. He had ongoing feuds with practically everybody, including Richard Harris, of whom he said:
“Even though people say Richard Harris and I have been having a great feud, it’s not true. After all, how could we be feuding for years? I’d never heard of him until two weeks ago.”
There is a bit of the diva in all of us and it is, of course, these sorts of characters who make the theatrical industry so diverse, and have such a reputation, one supposes. They are just a bloody nightmare to work with. I have not had the opportunity to get to full diva stage yet, which is unfortunate, as I think I could be really very objectionable indeed. But when one does get a little big for one’s boots, there should always be something to put you back in your place.
Although not to do with my theatrical pursuits, this does explain the point in hand. I was driving to a friend’s house along the A4 in London and the traffic was very slow moving in two lanes. I heard a car tooting its horn and looked in my mirror to see a group of young lads waving furiously at me:
“You wish boys,” I said to myself smugly. “Still got it,” I thought. “You’ve still got it.”
The beeping continued and eventually the boys’ car drew up level to mine and they were waving and gesturing for me to wind down my window. I decided to humour them and wound down the window, giving them a look as to say: boys, boys, boys, you don’t have a chance. Then they said:
“Oi, love! Your skirt’s stuck in the door!”
Still, it could have been worse; at least I am a nobody. Once, when Pierce Brosnan arrived at a newsstand in his brand new Porsche, several tourists nearby seemed utterly convinced that he actually was James Bond. The clamoured around him and his beautiful cool, uber-Bond car. But then, the inevitable humiliation occurred as he recalls:
“I’m trying to be cool and start the bloody car and I stall it!”
He, like many other performers, does not appear to have a single trace of diva in him. There is a lovely story about Bing Crosby, which may be fact or fiction, but I hope it is true. A young composer had sent Bing a copy of the lyrics to a song that he had written. Time passed and he heard nothing, and eventually enough time passed to indicate that Bing was not going to respond. Then one day, a long time after the initial contact, a carefully packaged parcel arrived with a small disk inside. On the disk was a fully orchestrated version of the man’s lyrics performed by Bing and a full orchestra. It is stories such as these that gives one a grain of hope that the industry is not totally full of lunatics.
Britain’s greatest actors show – or showed - great magnanimity at all times. Some of Laurence Olivier’s quotes include:
“I was a twerp, if ever there was one.”
And, when talking about his disagreements with Wuthering Heights director William Wyler:
“He was right – I was a fool, a stupid, conceited pompous little bastard.”
And when Judi Dench was asked to play Cleopatra by Royal Shakespeare Company director Peter Hall, she refused. Her explanation being that she did not feel that Cleopatra should be played by, “a menopausal dwarf.”
And the wonderful Patrick Stewart recalled a time he was watching television alone in a hotel room and stumbled upon an episode of Star Trek: Next Generation which he barely remembered having filmed.
"I had forgotten that I'd ordered room service," he says. "The man arrived with my order. He looked at the television and looked at me with such pity."
The final anecdotes of a chapter on divas should go to the one and only Barbra Streisand, both of the following anecdotes are alleged to be absolutely true.
Shortly before a dinner party in Malibu one day, Barbra Streisand broke one of her fingernails. Her response was to visit her favourite nail salon which was in Beverly Hills. The total cost of the emergency repairs and the chartered helicopter which flew her there was $900.
During the television premiere of her film The Prince of Tides in February 1995, Barbra Streisand was upset by the high decibel level of the ads that were shown. But rather than adjust the volume on her set, she called NBC - and ordered an engineer to lower the volume for the entire network.
The theatrical industry seems to be able to attract the most bizarre – and potentially difficult people, and often – certainly true of myself at the start of my being in the industry – people with an over-whelming desire to be liked, who are full of personal insecurities. Why on earth we then decide to go into an industry where you face constant scrutiny and criticism, I do not know. I am reminded of one opera company I auditioned for, where I was being seen for ensemble and to cover the role of Tosca. To be honest, the role was way too big for me at that age, but I dutifully went along. Unbeknownst to me before I began singing, was that the woman who would be playing Tosca was one of the people on the panel. I performed Vissi D’arte and another Puccini piece as well, I think. I thought I had sung quite well. The panel then asked me over to have a chat with them, whereupon Tosca began to give me one of the most frightening interrogations of my life, a small segment of which went as follows.
“I see here you have done musicals,” she growled.
“Well, yes,” I replied.
“You can’t do musicals and opera.”
“Ah, well,” I said, trying to remain perky and chipper, “I must disagree there. I think at the stage I am in my career, it is possible to do both. I get a lot of enjoyment out of both.”
“You’re wrong. And you’re far too young to play Tosca.”
That fact was undoubtedly true, but hang on a minute, they had called me for the role. They had wanted to see me and they chose to have me sing for cover Tosca – why was this now my fault? She was so aggressive and angry with me, and I really was not quite sure why or what I had done that had upset her quite so much. Out of nowhere, the rehearsal pianist ended up interrupting my grilling to say that it was possible to do both musicals and opera, and at my age, perhaps it was sensible to still be doing both. I wanted to leap up and give him a big hug! I think that had to be a case of ego getting in the way – she did not want any to understudy her, and she was going to make it difficult for whoever got that job – which was not me.
How thankful I was for that lovely pianist, sticking up for me in my time of need.
But sometimes the performer can only blame themselves. There is a famous story (urban myth?) of the person who went to audition for a musical theatre course at a drama school, who decided to sing the song Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off by Gershwin. Now, this anecdote concerns pronunciation, which obviously may be a little tricky to demonstrate in writing, but I shall try to write phonetically. So, the song is supposed to be:
"You say poTAYto, I say poTARto.
You say toMAYto, I say toMARto (et cetera, et cetera).”
The person in question sang, quite seriously:
"You say poTAYto, I say poTAYto.
You say toMARto, I say toMARto.
PoTAYto, poTAYto, toMARto, toMARto,
Let's call the whole thing off."
Anyway, back to divas. One of the most famous divas of this era is probably Diana Ross. She was over in the UK performing in the Royal Variety Performance, having everybody run around after her, attempting multiple costume changes within one song and generally getting everybody running around after her. The musical theatre star Michael Ball decided to watch her in rehearsal at the back of the auditorium, whilst enjoying a cheeky cigarette. Suddenly, Ross stopped her performance and was heard to yell:
“Who is smoking that cigarette?!”
Ball did what any self-respecting person would do in that situation: threw away the fag and denied all knowledge.
I have come across some excellent diva behaviour in my time. Some of my favourites being: the soprano who decided she wouldn’t speak to anybody who was in the chorus and who refused to hang up her costumes after any performance as, “the dressers should do it.” The trouble was it was a pro-am production in a remote village in the East Midlands. And there were no dressers.
Another favourite mini-diva, was the young leading lady who I worked with on a musical. She got on my very bad side when she saw a picture of my husband (then partner) and asked me who it was. When I explained that it was my other half, she exclaimed:
“Really? Well, haven’t you managed to do well?”
Thank you so much, dearie.
She was perfectly talented and had a very impressive CV, but not a conversation went by where she did not have to mention at least one of the previous productions – particularly the famous ones – that she had been in, and how wonderful they had all been and how great it was for her to be the lead at such a young age. She also constantly informed everybody how she never had a performance off. There had not been one single show that she had missed. In fact, according to her, she was renowned across the entire of the industry for being the woman who never, ever went off. Nobody needed to point out the irony when she slipped and sprained her ankle, and her very talented understudy had the opportunity to go on for a week.
Divas are not just female either. I was cast in a London fringe show about politics. When I got to the first read-through, I got rather a sinking feeling that this might not be the greatest show ever. As we did the script read-through, I either did not understand the political slant, or it was not very well written. I was also beginning to worry about the impressions I was supposed to be doing: the Queen (ok), Cilla Black (passable), Delia Smith (erm…), Harriet Harman (no chance). The director was sensing that the script was not working either, and made a throw-away comment to the cast about having to rework some bits, whereupon, the writer stood up, threw his script and coffee on the floor and stormed out with the line:
“You can all go and f*** yourselves, you bastards.”
Were we to presume that he was not happy?!
There are also many, many stories of the late, great Olly Reed’s diva-ish behaviour. He had ongoing feuds with practically everybody, including Richard Harris, of whom he said:
“Even though people say Richard Harris and I have been having a great feud, it’s not true. After all, how could we be feuding for years? I’d never heard of him until two weeks ago.”
There is a bit of the diva in all of us and it is, of course, these sorts of characters who make the theatrical industry so diverse, and have such a reputation, one supposes. They are just a bloody nightmare to work with. I have not had the opportunity to get to full diva stage yet, which is unfortunate, as I think I could be really very objectionable indeed. But when one does get a little big for one’s boots, there should always be something to put you back in your place.
Although not to do with my theatrical pursuits, this does explain the point in hand. I was driving to a friend’s house along the A4 in London and the traffic was very slow moving in two lanes. I heard a car tooting its horn and looked in my mirror to see a group of young lads waving furiously at me:
“You wish boys,” I said to myself smugly. “Still got it,” I thought. “You’ve still got it.”
The beeping continued and eventually the boys’ car drew up level to mine and they were waving and gesturing for me to wind down my window. I decided to humour them and wound down the window, giving them a look as to say: boys, boys, boys, you don’t have a chance. Then they said:
“Oi, love! Your skirt’s stuck in the door!”
Still, it could have been worse; at least I am a nobody. Once, when Pierce Brosnan arrived at a newsstand in his brand new Porsche, several tourists nearby seemed utterly convinced that he actually was James Bond. The clamoured around him and his beautiful cool, uber-Bond car. But then, the inevitable humiliation occurred as he recalls:
“I’m trying to be cool and start the bloody car and I stall it!”
He, like many other performers, does not appear to have a single trace of diva in him. There is a lovely story about Bing Crosby, which may be fact or fiction, but I hope it is true. A young composer had sent Bing a copy of the lyrics to a song that he had written. Time passed and he heard nothing, and eventually enough time passed to indicate that Bing was not going to respond. Then one day, a long time after the initial contact, a carefully packaged parcel arrived with a small disk inside. On the disk was a fully orchestrated version of the man’s lyrics performed by Bing and a full orchestra. It is stories such as these that gives one a grain of hope that the industry is not totally full of lunatics.
Britain’s greatest actors show – or showed - great magnanimity at all times. Some of Laurence Olivier’s quotes include:
“I was a twerp, if ever there was one.”
And, when talking about his disagreements with Wuthering Heights director William Wyler:
“He was right – I was a fool, a stupid, conceited pompous little bastard.”
And when Judi Dench was asked to play Cleopatra by Royal Shakespeare Company director Peter Hall, she refused. Her explanation being that she did not feel that Cleopatra should be played by, “a menopausal dwarf.”
And the wonderful Patrick Stewart recalled a time he was watching television alone in a hotel room and stumbled upon an episode of Star Trek: Next Generation which he barely remembered having filmed.
"I had forgotten that I'd ordered room service," he says. "The man arrived with my order. He looked at the television and looked at me with such pity."
The final anecdotes of a chapter on divas should go to the one and only Barbra Streisand, both of the following anecdotes are alleged to be absolutely true.
Shortly before a dinner party in Malibu one day, Barbra Streisand broke one of her fingernails. Her response was to visit her favourite nail salon which was in Beverly Hills. The total cost of the emergency repairs and the chartered helicopter which flew her there was $900.
During the television premiere of her film The Prince of Tides in February 1995, Barbra Streisand was upset by the high decibel level of the ads that were shown. But rather than adjust the volume on her set, she called NBC - and ordered an engineer to lower the volume for the entire network.
Wednesday 11 March 2009
Norwegian Pirates
One of my least favourite auditions of all time happened quite recently, whilst auditioning for an operetta. Things had gone reasonably well at my first audition and I had been asked to attend the recall, which would involve a ‘movement’ class. Sometimes, ‘movement’ classes mean just that – a brief, relatively simple routine, just to see how you can move – and it is an accepted truth that a lot of classical singers struggle with doing even movement, let alone a full blown dance routine. Unfortunately, the routine for this recall was neither brief, nor simple. And I was about to look like a prize idiot. I probably would have got the routine if I’d had a little time to get it in my head, but the choreographer was not going to make it easy for us. With half the room definitely dancers, and the other half singers, with maybe one or two who could manage both at the same time, a lot of people were struggling, and those who were not struggling, weren’t singing. Then, the choreographer muttered the immortal words that I was waiting for:
“Am I going too fast for anyone?”
There were quite a few relieved looks and a few mutterings in the affirmative.
“Oh well,” he carried on, “tough. I’m a c***.”
Why on earth I decided not to just walk out at this stage is beyond me. But I carried on to hear him tell us that what these women of the Nineteenth century really wanted was to be f*****. The suppressed feminist in me was beginning to unfurl. It was misogynistic and offensive. Imagine if you were at an interview to be a teacher or an accountant and your potential employer came out with, “Sorry I’m f***ing late, but that’s tough s***, I’m a c***. No, this man’s behaviour was really not on and something had to be said about it. It was - when I was eliminated after the movement class, and ranted all the way back to Baker Street about it, at two other girls who had also not made the cut.
The theatrical industry is full of people who swear a lot. It is sort of accepted that once you are in rehearsals, anything goes, but I do draw the line at being sworn at during an audition. This anecdote from Nicholas Hytner, artistic director of the National Theatre – another gem about Sir Michael Gambon, proves my point. Once in rehearsals, it’s all fair game:
“Gambon is a young spear-carrier in the newly founded National Theatre at the Old Vic, terrified (as are they all) of Olivier. He’s having breakfast one morning early in the canteen, all alone. Enter Sir Laurence. Gambon quakes. Sir Laurence realises he has to sit with Gambon, fraternise with the junior, do his bit as company leader. So he takes his coffee and sits at Gambon’s table, says good morning. Gambon quakes some more.
Desperate for something to talk about, Gambon sees that Sir Laurence is carrying an impressive leather document case, embossed in gold with the letters NORGE.
“Norge,” says Gambon.
“What?” says Sir Laurence.
“Norge, Sir Laurence,” says Gambon
“What the f*** are you talking about?” says Sir Laurence.
“On your case, Sir Laurence, it says Norge, Sir Laurence. That’s very interesting. Norge – it’s Norwegian for Norway, isn’t it. Did they give you that in Elsinore, Sir Laurence? For playing Hamlet?”
“Elsinore is in Denmark,” says Sir Laurence, gathering up his coffee. “And Hamlet was Danish. And you are a c***.”
Exit Sir Laurence.”
“Am I going too fast for anyone?”
There were quite a few relieved looks and a few mutterings in the affirmative.
“Oh well,” he carried on, “tough. I’m a c***.”
Why on earth I decided not to just walk out at this stage is beyond me. But I carried on to hear him tell us that what these women of the Nineteenth century really wanted was to be f*****. The suppressed feminist in me was beginning to unfurl. It was misogynistic and offensive. Imagine if you were at an interview to be a teacher or an accountant and your potential employer came out with, “Sorry I’m f***ing late, but that’s tough s***, I’m a c***. No, this man’s behaviour was really not on and something had to be said about it. It was - when I was eliminated after the movement class, and ranted all the way back to Baker Street about it, at two other girls who had also not made the cut.
The theatrical industry is full of people who swear a lot. It is sort of accepted that once you are in rehearsals, anything goes, but I do draw the line at being sworn at during an audition. This anecdote from Nicholas Hytner, artistic director of the National Theatre – another gem about Sir Michael Gambon, proves my point. Once in rehearsals, it’s all fair game:
“Gambon is a young spear-carrier in the newly founded National Theatre at the Old Vic, terrified (as are they all) of Olivier. He’s having breakfast one morning early in the canteen, all alone. Enter Sir Laurence. Gambon quakes. Sir Laurence realises he has to sit with Gambon, fraternise with the junior, do his bit as company leader. So he takes his coffee and sits at Gambon’s table, says good morning. Gambon quakes some more.
Desperate for something to talk about, Gambon sees that Sir Laurence is carrying an impressive leather document case, embossed in gold with the letters NORGE.
“Norge,” says Gambon.
“What?” says Sir Laurence.
“Norge, Sir Laurence,” says Gambon
“What the f*** are you talking about?” says Sir Laurence.
“On your case, Sir Laurence, it says Norge, Sir Laurence. That’s very interesting. Norge – it’s Norwegian for Norway, isn’t it. Did they give you that in Elsinore, Sir Laurence? For playing Hamlet?”
“Elsinore is in Denmark,” says Sir Laurence, gathering up his coffee. “And Hamlet was Danish. And you are a c***.”
Exit Sir Laurence.”
Thursday 8 January 2009
Little Women, Big Egos...
“It was only one of those plays in which the actors, unfortunately, enunciated very clearly.” (Robert Benchley)
There have been many times over the last eight years that I have wondered why on earth I bother – with the acting thing, that is, not life in general. I don’t seem to like ‘the industry’ and what it represents. I don’t appear to have the killer instinct that is deemed necessary to make it, as I never seem to have the guts to really stand up for myself, or make a big enough noise to be noticed, and at many times, I think it would be much easier to have a small menagerie of children, live in a nice farmhouse somewhere and make greeting cards. It may be totally nauseating for some, but I love being a wife. I love looking after my husband and I think I would love looking after children too. Although having children probably makes auditioning for musicals seem like a walk in the park. But my current primary concern is that clearly, I am beginning to not care enough. I desperately want the audition, and then as soon as I get it, I begin to think of all the hassle there would be if I did get it; how it would ruin my nice evenings in front of the TV with my other half and I’d have to do some horrible commute into London every day. Then I don’t get the job, feel utterly useless and vow to assassinate all involved in the decision process.
Auditions are mostly shocking things to attend, due to the sheer volume of ego that exists in the waiting area, which is usually far too small an area to contain such vast self-importance. Rather too many people are doing their very best to bluster up to full pretension level, and talking FAR TOO LOUDLY about ALL THE WORK THEY’VE BEEN DOING. Excruciating – and frankly bloody annoying – who wants to listen to someone else doing well at anything? Famous joke:
“How many actors does it take to change a light bulb?
One hundred - one to change it, and ninety-nine to say, ‘I could have done it better’.”
But then, you do exactly the same when you spot somebody that you know, which makes you an equally offensive human being. Often when you go in, there will be a couple of people who say, “Good luck,” through clenched teeth, and maybe one or two who tell you how wonderful you were when you come out, whilst thinking – “Ha! You’re not going to get that job – it’s mine - all mine (insert evil laughter here).”
But sometimes, you have to blame the company for the way that an audition is structured. Once, a new musical of Little Women was advertised in The Stage – the industry’s newspaper, instructing people to send in their CVs.
I should at this point explain briefly about different auditions. A closed audition is when you – or more likely your agent - will usually have sent in your CV and photograph, and the casting people or director will request to see you to sing at a specific time. An open audition – usually for big shows and often dancers are found through this process – means that anyone essentially can turn up off the street and have a go. The queues for an open audition can be hours long and if it is for a West End show, you normally get to sing sixteen bars of music (about one page of a song).
So, back to Little Women and its advert: I sent my CV and photograph in (this was when I was sans-agent) and was e-mailed to say that I would be seen for an audition at 8.55am at the infamous Pineapple Studios (a dance studio near Covent Garden, where, as a singer, you were going to be humiliated anyway by the fact that there would always be a younger, thinner and more attractive girl bending her leg around her neck as you walked in). Good, I thought. The musical sounded like a good idea (although most musicals that sound like a good idea, probably are not. For example, the musical Fields of Ambrosia might have sounded like a good idea, but it was not – it was about a travelling executioner; similarly Out of the Blue - The Hiroshima Musical must have sounded like a good idea...) . I arrived full of beans to get ready to sing my song, when I saw quite a large queue of people outside. Oh dear, I thought. Those poor sods are obviously queuing for an open. I went to reception:
“Hello, I have a private audition,” I said smugly.
“For Little Women?” replied the receptionist.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Join the queue outside please”
What had happened was that this company in their wisdom had decided not to tell people that they were in fact attending an open. Everyone had been given the specific time of 8.55am.
Two hours later, we were then trooped in, in groups of about twenty, to sing in front of everyone else and they said there and then whether they wanted to recall you. When I sang, they asked me to come back for the recall. One would have thought that a newly-starting out, struggling performer would have been very pleased to be asked to be recalled. And then, for some reason, I said triumphantly that I was not prepared to hang around any longer, and I would not be attending the recall. The organisers shrugged and said fine. I left feeling pleased with my decision, and then about half way down the stairs, felt like a total prat – now I definitely wasn’t going to get the job.
I was slightly heartened though, to see that as I left, the queue had reached epic proportions, and there appeared to be some sort of riot going on with other auditionees berating the audition organisers for misleading us all. There were shouts of, “Disgrace!’ and “Equity (actor’s union) will hear about this!” Quite right, I thought, and made a hasty exit to the pub to drown my sorrows.
There have been many times over the last eight years that I have wondered why on earth I bother – with the acting thing, that is, not life in general. I don’t seem to like ‘the industry’ and what it represents. I don’t appear to have the killer instinct that is deemed necessary to make it, as I never seem to have the guts to really stand up for myself, or make a big enough noise to be noticed, and at many times, I think it would be much easier to have a small menagerie of children, live in a nice farmhouse somewhere and make greeting cards. It may be totally nauseating for some, but I love being a wife. I love looking after my husband and I think I would love looking after children too. Although having children probably makes auditioning for musicals seem like a walk in the park. But my current primary concern is that clearly, I am beginning to not care enough. I desperately want the audition, and then as soon as I get it, I begin to think of all the hassle there would be if I did get it; how it would ruin my nice evenings in front of the TV with my other half and I’d have to do some horrible commute into London every day. Then I don’t get the job, feel utterly useless and vow to assassinate all involved in the decision process.
Auditions are mostly shocking things to attend, due to the sheer volume of ego that exists in the waiting area, which is usually far too small an area to contain such vast self-importance. Rather too many people are doing their very best to bluster up to full pretension level, and talking FAR TOO LOUDLY about ALL THE WORK THEY’VE BEEN DOING. Excruciating – and frankly bloody annoying – who wants to listen to someone else doing well at anything? Famous joke:
“How many actors does it take to change a light bulb?
One hundred - one to change it, and ninety-nine to say, ‘I could have done it better’.”
But then, you do exactly the same when you spot somebody that you know, which makes you an equally offensive human being. Often when you go in, there will be a couple of people who say, “Good luck,” through clenched teeth, and maybe one or two who tell you how wonderful you were when you come out, whilst thinking – “Ha! You’re not going to get that job – it’s mine - all mine (insert evil laughter here).”
But sometimes, you have to blame the company for the way that an audition is structured. Once, a new musical of Little Women was advertised in The Stage – the industry’s newspaper, instructing people to send in their CVs.
I should at this point explain briefly about different auditions. A closed audition is when you – or more likely your agent - will usually have sent in your CV and photograph, and the casting people or director will request to see you to sing at a specific time. An open audition – usually for big shows and often dancers are found through this process – means that anyone essentially can turn up off the street and have a go. The queues for an open audition can be hours long and if it is for a West End show, you normally get to sing sixteen bars of music (about one page of a song).
So, back to Little Women and its advert: I sent my CV and photograph in (this was when I was sans-agent) and was e-mailed to say that I would be seen for an audition at 8.55am at the infamous Pineapple Studios (a dance studio near Covent Garden, where, as a singer, you were going to be humiliated anyway by the fact that there would always be a younger, thinner and more attractive girl bending her leg around her neck as you walked in). Good, I thought. The musical sounded like a good idea (although most musicals that sound like a good idea, probably are not. For example, the musical Fields of Ambrosia might have sounded like a good idea, but it was not – it was about a travelling executioner; similarly Out of the Blue - The Hiroshima Musical must have sounded like a good idea...) . I arrived full of beans to get ready to sing my song, when I saw quite a large queue of people outside. Oh dear, I thought. Those poor sods are obviously queuing for an open. I went to reception:
“Hello, I have a private audition,” I said smugly.
“For Little Women?” replied the receptionist.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Join the queue outside please”
What had happened was that this company in their wisdom had decided not to tell people that they were in fact attending an open. Everyone had been given the specific time of 8.55am.
Two hours later, we were then trooped in, in groups of about twenty, to sing in front of everyone else and they said there and then whether they wanted to recall you. When I sang, they asked me to come back for the recall. One would have thought that a newly-starting out, struggling performer would have been very pleased to be asked to be recalled. And then, for some reason, I said triumphantly that I was not prepared to hang around any longer, and I would not be attending the recall. The organisers shrugged and said fine. I left feeling pleased with my decision, and then about half way down the stairs, felt like a total prat – now I definitely wasn’t going to get the job.
I was slightly heartened though, to see that as I left, the queue had reached epic proportions, and there appeared to be some sort of riot going on with other auditionees berating the audition organisers for misleading us all. There were shouts of, “Disgrace!’ and “Equity (actor’s union) will hear about this!” Quite right, I thought, and made a hasty exit to the pub to drown my sorrows.
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