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.”