“There’s nothing worse than actors who give the impression they’ve taken on the priesthood. Acting is really about lying and, in my case, drinking coffee.” Johnny Depp
My great-uncle, David King-Wood, was an actor before the war, specialising in Shakespeare. He had a very successful stage career and appeared in a number of films also including The Quatermass Experiment, Men of Sherwood Forest and Jamboree, before the war scuppered his career, as he was needed as an interpreter, being fluent in five languages – one of which was Japanese. In the early 1950s, he moved to New York, where he became a teacher at the boys’ preparatory school, St Bernard’s, which he adored, retiring at the age of 87, before passing away in 2003 at the age of 89.
Uncle David would come over every couple of years or so to stay with us when I was a child. I absolutely adored his visits. He was great fun for my sister and I as youngsters, and as we got older, we began to appreciate his vast intellect and great story-telling. Getting him to tell stories of his days as an actor, however, was like getting blood out of a stone.
He was extremely particular about language and spoke with a very gentle, beautifully English voice. Indeed, his speaking voice gained him a great deal of his work. After he died, a lady kindly sent us a recording she had booked David to do of him reading some poetry, which you could do in those days. And it was very lovely. Sam Butler, a trustee of St Bernard’s summed up Uncle David’s view of the English language when talking at his memorial service:
“David possessed a very English certainty about language which I believe was of great use to him in the classroom. Thirteen year olds specialise in being imprecise, sometimes from laziness and sometimes from a malicious joy in frustrating those who would lead us into better habits. I know in my day we frequently peppered our papers and classroom answers with such ill-chosen phrases as, "kind of," "sort of," and the truly dreadful, "like." Whenever we did so David would pounce, and ask, not always gently, "kind of what, dear boy?", "sort of like what, if I may be so bold?"; and go on to tell us that if we wanted to be thought of as possessing even moderate intelligence we must excise all such vagueness from our minds. As you can see, this lesson has remained with me for the last thirty years, which is why I'm talking about it now; and has led me to some fairly draconian prejudices. For example, I once caught Updike describing something in one of his lesser novels as "kind of." I haven't been able to read him since.”
Of all the times that David came to visit us, I can only remember him telling us two stories of his acting, and they both involved animals. The first was that when he was filming Men of Sherwood Forest, his character Guy of Gisborne, was supposed to have two fearsome Irish wolf-hounds, who eventually, when Gisbourne met his demise, falling out of a tree, would savage him. Unfortunately, the dogs were as soft as could be. So, instead of looking vicious, would go over and start to lick David. David remarked that his backside was black and blue by the end of that day as he had had to repeat falling out of a tree so many times in order to get the dogs to look anything like the savage beasts they were supposed to be.
His second story involved him playing Benedick in a run of Much Ado About Nothing at Regent’s Park. He mentioned that he had played this role when I was studying the play at A-level. When I asked him to tell me all about his production, he simply replied:
“My dear, I cannot remember a damned thing about that production except the trumpeting of those blasted elephants from the zoo next door.”
In the late 1980s through to the 1990s, my family lived in a house in Jordans in Buckinghamshire, a very picturesque Quaker village near to Beaconsfield. In Buckinghamshire dwell a little known creature – the edible dormouse (Latin name: glis-glis). I am not making this up. They are specific to a few areas in the United Kingdom and they basically move into a house and start to eat their way through whatever they can get their little paws on. They are, however, an endangered species, and not that we would ever have killed them, you did have to get a special cage from the council in order to capture them and then release them into the wild.
They look like small squirrels, mouse-like in face, but with a long bushy tail. Really very adorable little things, but incredibly noisy. They had somehow got into our roof, eaves and airing cupboard and would regularly go charging up and down the length of the house, thundering about as though they were having a party. Although, I was reliably informed once by a very droll man from the Council that Glis did not, in fact, have parties. Thanks for that – I didn’t actually think they had mini party hats on and were about to get done for having an illegal rave.
Anyway, Uncle David had heard about the Glis from my mother’s letters to him and he was beside himself with excitement at the prospect of meeting one when he came over in the summer. Capturing one was always quite momentous as we would hear the little thing in the cage, and no matter what time of day it was, my mother would inform my father that it was time to release the Glis. Whereupon, they would go to the other side of the M40 (in case they homed) and mother would get out, nightie flapping in the breeze, and the Glis would be released to the tune of Born Free by Matt Munro (well, not quite). In total, we caught over forty, so you can begin to see that this was quite a project.
By the time Uncle David came over that Summer, we were all quite dab-hands at knowing where the Glis would be. But mum and I were still slightly nervous of them because they were, after all, rodents and they jumped like a squirrel rather than running like mice and you didn’t really want one in your face, or on your head as had once happened to dad. Over the past months, the Glis had taken up residence in the airing cupboard and often you could open the door and see this little grey furry face poking out at you curled up in a little ball on a freshly ironed, warm towel, surrounded by little Glis droppings all over the clean laundry. So, having discovered that one was there, we told David that the moment had arrived for him to meet the Glis-Glis. He was utterly beside himself with glee. He was a very keen twitcher and animal lover, often going to intrepid cruises to Africa and South America to see wildlife. The Glis of Jordans were going to be just as wondrous.
Mum, David and I went to the airing cupboard and slowly opened the door. There, was a little grey furry head blinking down at us. David crept further in to get a really good look at the little creature. The Glis stayed motionless. Then, David spun around and with an enormously theatrical gesture of the hands, exclaimed,
“Well, my dears, isn’t that splendid!”
But, he had barely got the first half of the sentence out when the Glis became startled by David’s over-effusive hand gesture. The creature leapt up and started to spring towards David whose back was turned. Mum and I screamed and then did what any self-respecting person should do when an octogenarian is about to be attacked by a flying rodent. We ran for cover and left David to fend for himself. A couple of days later, David seemed to be taking great delight in sitting outside reading his book, with a large Glis sitting in a cage next to him. The smile on David’s face seemed to say ‘justice’. Who knows what went on between man and mouse in that airing cupboard. Just as he never told of his theatrical escapades, he maintained a dignified silence over his Glis experience also.
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
Monday, 26 July 2010
When You Wish Upon A Large Vodka and Tonic...
I was involved in a very camp, bizarre Christmas show. It was in the wilds of Norfolk and you performed two three-hour shows a day. You lived on cottages in the surrounding villages, and aside from the fact that by the beginning of December, you were altogether Christmassed-out, I thought it was a wonderful job. It must be said though, that at that stage of my life, I was indulging far too heavily in the joys of alcohol. I certainly enjoyed a few glasses of the old Vino Blanco. I shared the viewpoint of Julie Walters:
“I have a rare intolerance to herbs which means I can only drink fermented liquids, such as gin.” (Julie Walters)
There was a pub a few miles from where we performed and myself, and a few other hard-core alcoholics from the cast, would regularly be found after hours, enjoying the pub’s nightly lock-in. Of course, what comes with a night of heavy drinking is of course, the inevitable morning-after and one of the reasons I have now pretty much given up drinking (the other reason being that I was a very annoying drunk) was that I was finding it harder and harder to deal with the hangovers. They were monstrous, and gave me a banging headache, extreme dizziness and great waves of nausea. How on earth I thought I could perform with these symptoms, I do not know. After one particularly heavy night, I was all set for the afternoon performance. I had made it through the first half – no doubt probably still slightly drunk – and was getting ready for the first song after the interval, which involved us all coming on in lovely evening dresses, with some fabulously bling evening jewellery and singing When You Wish Upon A Star – and the organiser said it wasn’t camp. I got to wear a rather classy black evening dress with an array of diamante jewellery, including a thick diamante choker. Just before the start of the Act Two opening number, I began to feel rather sick. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to make a dash for the bathroom. The music was beginning and I was running out of time. I quickly made myself sick, but the force of the convulsions caused my choker to fly off right into the lavatory bowl where I had just thrown up. There was nothing for it. The necklace would have to be retrieved, and rinsed off. I could hear our cue approaching. My dance partner was hopping, wondering where the hell I was. There are certain actions that are degrading to do, and there are certain actions where you bring that degradation all on yourself. I think that walking on that stage wearing this beautiful evening dress, wearing a diamante necklace freshly washed from being thrown up on, with lavatory water trickling down into my décolletage defines that level of self-degradation quite well. Why on earth they didn't hire me again, I really couldn't say. It is at memories such as that, when I think thank God I don’t bother drinking anymore. I wouldn’t want to turn into Olly Reed:
“It was alleged that during a stag weekend prior to his second marriage, Reed downed an unhealthy 104 pints of beer. However, Reed was quick to dispel this rumour: ‘The event that was reported actually took place during an arm-wrestling competition in Guernsey about 15 years ago.’”
It was also during that same production that I was coming back to the stage door for the evening performance, when I received my harshest criticism to date. During the Christmas show, you would do a matinee and then dash back to your lovely Norfolk cottage for supper before the evening show. I was making my way back, and as it was winter, I was kitted out in a tartan mini skirt, thick black tights, snow boots and a long green parka jacket. As I rounded the corner to go to through the stage door, a woman turned to her husband in absolute shock, pointed to me and exclaimed:
“Look Stan! That man’s wearing a skirt!”
I obviously need to work on my feminine charms.
“I have a rare intolerance to herbs which means I can only drink fermented liquids, such as gin.” (Julie Walters)
There was a pub a few miles from where we performed and myself, and a few other hard-core alcoholics from the cast, would regularly be found after hours, enjoying the pub’s nightly lock-in. Of course, what comes with a night of heavy drinking is of course, the inevitable morning-after and one of the reasons I have now pretty much given up drinking (the other reason being that I was a very annoying drunk) was that I was finding it harder and harder to deal with the hangovers. They were monstrous, and gave me a banging headache, extreme dizziness and great waves of nausea. How on earth I thought I could perform with these symptoms, I do not know. After one particularly heavy night, I was all set for the afternoon performance. I had made it through the first half – no doubt probably still slightly drunk – and was getting ready for the first song after the interval, which involved us all coming on in lovely evening dresses, with some fabulously bling evening jewellery and singing When You Wish Upon A Star – and the organiser said it wasn’t camp. I got to wear a rather classy black evening dress with an array of diamante jewellery, including a thick diamante choker. Just before the start of the Act Two opening number, I began to feel rather sick. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to make a dash for the bathroom. The music was beginning and I was running out of time. I quickly made myself sick, but the force of the convulsions caused my choker to fly off right into the lavatory bowl where I had just thrown up. There was nothing for it. The necklace would have to be retrieved, and rinsed off. I could hear our cue approaching. My dance partner was hopping, wondering where the hell I was. There are certain actions that are degrading to do, and there are certain actions where you bring that degradation all on yourself. I think that walking on that stage wearing this beautiful evening dress, wearing a diamante necklace freshly washed from being thrown up on, with lavatory water trickling down into my décolletage defines that level of self-degradation quite well. Why on earth they didn't hire me again, I really couldn't say. It is at memories such as that, when I think thank God I don’t bother drinking anymore. I wouldn’t want to turn into Olly Reed:
“It was alleged that during a stag weekend prior to his second marriage, Reed downed an unhealthy 104 pints of beer. However, Reed was quick to dispel this rumour: ‘The event that was reported actually took place during an arm-wrestling competition in Guernsey about 15 years ago.’”
It was also during that same production that I was coming back to the stage door for the evening performance, when I received my harshest criticism to date. During the Christmas show, you would do a matinee and then dash back to your lovely Norfolk cottage for supper before the evening show. I was making my way back, and as it was winter, I was kitted out in a tartan mini skirt, thick black tights, snow boots and a long green parka jacket. As I rounded the corner to go to through the stage door, a woman turned to her husband in absolute shock, pointed to me and exclaimed:
“Look Stan! That man’s wearing a skirt!”
I obviously need to work on my feminine charms.
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
You say Villari, I say Volare
“I know two kinds of audience only - one coughing and one not coughing.”
~ Artur Schnabel
Ever since I began singing in a rather famous shop in London, I have received more and more requests to go and sing at people’s private functions. And more often than not, this seems to involve standing in the corner of their house, blaring out opera whilst a dozen or so people try to enjoy their Sunday roast. Now, I am never one to complain about having work – although I am about to - and I am quite happy to go and sing wherever someone is prepared to employ me, but I can never quite understand the appeal of having someone sing opera in quite such close proximity, because it is loud and some people don’t like it.
Recently, I was booked for one such event - a 60th Birthday party near Watford. The Birthday Boy – Melvyn – has booked me directly with only a week’s notice. But my increasingly empty diary was able to accommodate him. He said he was happy to leave the song choices to me. I asked him to go and look at my website and make sure he was happy with my style, which he said he was, so I confirmed the booking and said I would phone him a couple of days before the event to confirm everything. As Melvyn rang off, he asked me if I could sing “Villari”. Fine, fine, I said blithely. Then rang off and thought, “What the bloody hell is Villari?”
I went home and asked my husband what Villari was, thinking it might be some style of Italian Bel Canto singing that I was not familiar with, but Michael looked blank.
The following day I had another call from Melvyn,
“I really would like Villari,” he said.
“Right, Melvyn,” I said, “The thing is, I don’t think I know it.”
“What?” he exclaimed, “You must do.”
Then he proceeded to warble something which didn’t sound familiar to me at all.
“And it’s from an opera?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s an Italian aria.”
“Well,” I said, “I can only think it’s a male aria that I don’t know.”
Melvyn was disappointed, but much as I wracked my brains, I just couldn’t think what it was. I went back to Michael and asked again, and tried to re-enact Melvyn’s performance. There was a pause and Michael said:
“Oh. He means Volare by Dean Martin.”
“What?” I said.
“You know, Volare, who-oh, Volare, who-oh.”
“But that’s not an aria…”
The next day, another phone call from Melvyn.
“Hello Melvyn,” I said, in a slightly weary tone.
“Jessica,” he said, “I am afraid I am quite concerned about Saturday.”
“Oh dear,” I said, “Why is that?”
“You don’t know the song Villari.”
“Melvyn. Do you mean Volare by Dean Martin?”
“YES!” he exclaimed, “That’s it! You do know it!”
“Yes,” I said, “I do. But it isn’t from an opera.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, Melvyn. I can assure you it is not.”
“It’s in Italian. Therefore, it is from an opera.”
Give me strength.
I should have known that the gig was not going to be a resounding success from the build up. Melvyn had decided that it was going to be a surprise for all his guests, including his wife. I was booked to do an hour’s set, which involved two sets of about seven songs per set.
I started my first set and all was going fine. Then after three songs, one of Melvyn’s daughters came into the room with her son – Melvyn’s grandson.
“Can I just stop you?” she barked.
Er…I think you just have.
“Zachary would like to sing now.”
Zachary was about seven and, much as I love children, looked like a precocious little brat if ever I saw one.
Now, to be fair to Melvyn, he said that Zachary would have to wait his turn. I said he was welcome to sing, but Melvyn stood firm and said no.
“Thanks a lot, Dad,” said the daughter, “Great way to ruin the boy’s confidence.”
I really did not feel that the boy’s confidence was something that we needed to be overly concerned about at that moment in time.
I proceeded on to my fourth song, and the daughter proceeded to glower at me for the entire duration. After that, I decided Zachary should just get on with it otherwise I was going to get evils for the next twenty minutes. So I invited him to do his performance.
It was a little more than I was expecting – a full rendition of Greased Lightning complete with partial striptease.
The video cameras were out, flashes going off and great rounds of applause. Perhaps I was jealous, but the whole episode was making me question whether I actually wanted children anymore. When Zachary had finished, Melvyn’s wife came up and ejected my CD from the player and shoved it at me which told me that that set was definitely over. I spend the rest of the afternoon hovering in the kitchen with the caterers, hearing snippets of a mounting domestic between Melvyn, his wife and the mother of Zachary. At the earliest opportunity, I took the money and ran.
~ Artur Schnabel
Ever since I began singing in a rather famous shop in London, I have received more and more requests to go and sing at people’s private functions. And more often than not, this seems to involve standing in the corner of their house, blaring out opera whilst a dozen or so people try to enjoy their Sunday roast. Now, I am never one to complain about having work – although I am about to - and I am quite happy to go and sing wherever someone is prepared to employ me, but I can never quite understand the appeal of having someone sing opera in quite such close proximity, because it is loud and some people don’t like it.
Recently, I was booked for one such event - a 60th Birthday party near Watford. The Birthday Boy – Melvyn – has booked me directly with only a week’s notice. But my increasingly empty diary was able to accommodate him. He said he was happy to leave the song choices to me. I asked him to go and look at my website and make sure he was happy with my style, which he said he was, so I confirmed the booking and said I would phone him a couple of days before the event to confirm everything. As Melvyn rang off, he asked me if I could sing “Villari”. Fine, fine, I said blithely. Then rang off and thought, “What the bloody hell is Villari?”
I went home and asked my husband what Villari was, thinking it might be some style of Italian Bel Canto singing that I was not familiar with, but Michael looked blank.
The following day I had another call from Melvyn,
“I really would like Villari,” he said.
“Right, Melvyn,” I said, “The thing is, I don’t think I know it.”
“What?” he exclaimed, “You must do.”
Then he proceeded to warble something which didn’t sound familiar to me at all.
“And it’s from an opera?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s an Italian aria.”
“Well,” I said, “I can only think it’s a male aria that I don’t know.”
Melvyn was disappointed, but much as I wracked my brains, I just couldn’t think what it was. I went back to Michael and asked again, and tried to re-enact Melvyn’s performance. There was a pause and Michael said:
“Oh. He means Volare by Dean Martin.”
“What?” I said.
“You know, Volare, who-oh, Volare, who-oh.”
“But that’s not an aria…”
The next day, another phone call from Melvyn.
“Hello Melvyn,” I said, in a slightly weary tone.
“Jessica,” he said, “I am afraid I am quite concerned about Saturday.”
“Oh dear,” I said, “Why is that?”
“You don’t know the song Villari.”
“Melvyn. Do you mean Volare by Dean Martin?”
“YES!” he exclaimed, “That’s it! You do know it!”
“Yes,” I said, “I do. But it isn’t from an opera.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, Melvyn. I can assure you it is not.”
“It’s in Italian. Therefore, it is from an opera.”
Give me strength.
I should have known that the gig was not going to be a resounding success from the build up. Melvyn had decided that it was going to be a surprise for all his guests, including his wife. I was booked to do an hour’s set, which involved two sets of about seven songs per set.
I started my first set and all was going fine. Then after three songs, one of Melvyn’s daughters came into the room with her son – Melvyn’s grandson.
“Can I just stop you?” she barked.
Er…I think you just have.
“Zachary would like to sing now.”
Zachary was about seven and, much as I love children, looked like a precocious little brat if ever I saw one.
Now, to be fair to Melvyn, he said that Zachary would have to wait his turn. I said he was welcome to sing, but Melvyn stood firm and said no.
“Thanks a lot, Dad,” said the daughter, “Great way to ruin the boy’s confidence.”
I really did not feel that the boy’s confidence was something that we needed to be overly concerned about at that moment in time.
I proceeded on to my fourth song, and the daughter proceeded to glower at me for the entire duration. After that, I decided Zachary should just get on with it otherwise I was going to get evils for the next twenty minutes. So I invited him to do his performance.
It was a little more than I was expecting – a full rendition of Greased Lightning complete with partial striptease.
The video cameras were out, flashes going off and great rounds of applause. Perhaps I was jealous, but the whole episode was making me question whether I actually wanted children anymore. When Zachary had finished, Melvyn’s wife came up and ejected my CD from the player and shoved it at me which told me that that set was definitely over. I spend the rest of the afternoon hovering in the kitchen with the caterers, hearing snippets of a mounting domestic between Melvyn, his wife and the mother of Zachary. At the earliest opportunity, I took the money and ran.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Amphibiphobia
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.
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, 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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