Sunday 28 August 2011

I was adored once too - Week 5



Arthur: Call that a bike?
            Yep, It's here, Twelfth Night rehearsals have begun alongside our evening performances of See how they Run and the real work begins. Having just come from Guildford where I had been doing much the same thing with Merchant of Venice and Much Ado About Nothing, I'd like to think that I'm already in the right mindset to carry on where I left off with the long days, but of course that would be underestimating my body's staggeringly high laziness levels. That, and the fact that it genuinely is a pretty tall order for anyone juggling two plays in a single day. The general day structure is set to begin at 10:00am and finish when the evening's performance ends at around 9:45pm. We're not necessarily going to be called in - all day, every day - but, any spare time will be spent, desperately trying to get our lines down.
The tech team, Jess and Garreth
            Time is of the essence.
            Monday morning, I was summoned for the first scene to give my 'Curio'. Curio is a nice little part normally. He is a functional character that although is not particularly memorable, is an important cog in the piece. Our Curio however has had his lines transferred over to the other of Orsino's attendants, Valentine. This is because one of my Sir Andrew scenes falls directly before one of Curio's and would have been near impossible to do the quick change required (though I've had my fair share of practice in that department...). So, Curio, in our play has ONE shared line. I asked Al why this was the case, instead of just eliminating the part and handing all the lines to Valentine. His reason - "you're already credited as him in the program."
            Ah.

            After lunch I returned for the first of my Sir Andrew scenes and don't mind telling you that I was rather excited. It's a part that I've had in my mind for a long time now and is also the first Shakespearean role that I've played where people will come expecting a great deal. It's one of those roles that anyone who knows the play, has a preconceived idea of what they want Aguecheek to be like. I'll be judged on it and the pressure to deliver will be high, but pressure I've always found is a good thing. It demands us to raise the stakes and the quality of the things we do. No fear, balls out.
            Take the risk, feel the rush.
            So, Lucy, Seb and I started work. We cracked straight on, wasting as little time as possible, blocking the scene and discussing the characters and their relationships as we went.

            In my mind, Andrew is a terrifically tragic figure. He is milked dry of his fortunes, ridiculed by everyone, abandoned by his 'friend' Sir Toby and rebuffed by Olivia. He is an outsider from the opening till the end.
            He idolises Toby. He sees in him a father figure; a guide who leads him into a life of greed and excess whilst simultaneously using his wallet like a charmer with a snake. This does not shift the blame totally onto Sir T - Andrew is too stupid and quick to anger to be without fault - but he is certainly not helped.
            He may be bipolar. He is either ecstatically happy or suicidally depressed. His mood fluctuates quicker than a dizzy piranha. (That's right, Piranhas suffer from depression... Didn't you know?)
             I already love and pity him, whilst detesting him completely.
            I woke early on Tuesday with an irritating pain in my shoulder. I decided to use the unplanned extra time to get a few more lines under my belt.
            When I got to the rehearsal room, Seb and I began work with Alastair on the infamous 'catch' scene of the play. The two characters enter into Maria's Kitchen and squabble about life. They are very soon joined by Feste who sings for them. It is a beautiful moment of the play, when we see the lyrics of the song touch the two Knights and send them into a pool of melancholy. Toby notices what is happening and springs them both out of their depression, by suggesting that they sing a 'catch'.
            Our dance choreographer, Lucy, joined us to help block a piece of movement to accompany the song. Pots and pans are bashed together, Andrew scrapes a washboard and does his best to cartwheel over Toby as he unwittingly falls at the feet of a thoroughly unimpressed Maria. Lucy worked with amazing efficiency, using every second of the little time we had to make sure she left us in a happy place.
            Just before we finished work on the scene, Al said to me, "good scene, that. It has to be very good indeed."
            Thanks Cuckoo, note taken.

Pay attention 007
            After lunch, Lucy continued her work, this time with the entire cast on a short dance piece that follows the first exit of Toby and Andrew. As Andrew capers off, up stage centre, the rest of the company swarm in with an 'Ooooo, Oky Oky Kokie'! They then proceed to strut the stage, jumping, swinging and leaping together in a jubilant scene of chaos.
            The guys carried on working into the late afternoon, but I was released for the day so Pete kindly took some time out of his busy schedule to try to identify what was wrong with my shoulder. The verdict after what was a brilliant massage - tension. It's quite a common problem with actors, as we very often have to assume certain compromising postures etc to help form a believable and rounded character. Over time, this can build up and without regular attention problems can build up. I think I'll invest in a couple of sessions with a professional over the next couple of weeks, especially taking into consideration how physical both shows are. In the meantime - Pete and his magic hands are a brilliant foundation.

            Our show in the evening was press night. It was a little unnerving seeings as we hadn't performed the show on the Monday night, but despite that, all went well. There were no major cock ups and the audience absolutely adored it. What was also very reassuring was that we were playing to a near full house - over £4,000 worth of tickets having been sold in just two days.
            It's always nice to be able to play to people sitting in 'The Gods'.
            After the show, we were invited to join the 'friends' of the Devonshire Park for post-show drinks and a general wind down. What is lovely about those kind of experiences, is realising just how much people appreciate being able to meet the cast (very humbling) and how thankful they are for a piece of decent theatre. There were a few familiar faces there too, that I recognised from my previous visits - especially the general manager of the theatre, Harry, who as always welcomed us to the theatre with a lovely speech. Photos were taken, programs signed and everyone went away - hopefully - happy.
            A woman that was in reviewing the show, having previously critiqued Madness of George and Journey’s End, accosted me for a chat. She didn't like either of the previous performances. She reviewed us as such. She was wrong. I smiled and nodded. "I feel so terrible!" she said - swaying from all the free booze. "Journey's End should just be forgotten as a play, it's so dated."
            Dated...
            The stand-alone torch of WW1 literature and you think it's dated?
            Actually, now I think about it that war really has dated badly hasn't it?
            BS.
            "My dog auditioned for this too and didn't get it..."
            Shame.

            Wednesday and the first of the reviews were out - and I am pleased to say that it seems we've passed with flying colours.  Of the two that have been released, they both loved it.
            Rehearsals were limited because of the matinee show. The ladies were called (ha ha) and the rest of us simply arrived for the afternoon performance, which had again increased in bookings due to the spread of word of mouth. Lovely.
            After the show, on leaving the theatre, I was accosted by a familiar fraggle. It was one of the particularly rude ones that seems to have sacrificed manners and tact for his almost militant pursuit of autographs. I opened the stage door and promptly had a leaflet thrust toward my face. "You."
            "Yes?" I responded.           
            "Are you in this?"
            "Have you seen the show?" I asked.
            "No."
            "Are you going to see the show?"
            "No."
            "Then no, I am not in the show."

            The evening show was quiet but perhaps one of the best we've had so far. Everyone was on the ball, the pace was up and all those that were in seemed thoroughly thankful for it.
            Afterwards, a few of us went to the pub and I brought up the Fraggle that had earlier pissed me off. Arthur recanted a few tales of various conventions he had been to where similar things had happened and Craig (our assistant Director and Sebastian in Twelfth Night) told us of a comic book convention that he had once attended...
            "You haven't lived until you've seen a 50 year old man, dressed as Wolverine, re-tie his big yellow boot laces."
            Thursday was a big day of rehearsals for me and I was in, working throughout the entire day. From my experience of being a 'resting' actor, I always make sure not to moan too much (as actors are prone to do) when one has a really long day as you never know when you'll next be looking at the green and yellow signage of the jobcentre.
            We had a very productive day. As with all productive days though - it was at times frustrating. When we got to the 'letter scene' - one which every theatre goer knows - ideas were popping about all over the place. As lovely as it is, knowing that you are in the company of incredibly creative people, there does come a point of too many cooks spoiling the broth. And, I can honestly say that at one point, Heston, Marco and Gordon all appeared at once. It made me ponder the director's role. The director is a fairly modern position. Nowadays it is perhaps the most notable position in a production, but once upon a time, the function simply didn't exist. Some actors harp on constantly at the grandiose of the modern director and how, "In the old days, it was the actors who - " yes, sure it was. But that was the past and this is the present. You wouldn't want to go back to the days before anaesthetic would you? (Maybe a tad dramatic, but it serves my point)

            No, in my mind, the Director is a vital role; one that acts as a beady bystander; the Helmsman at the foot of the barge watching the horizon, waters and engine room to keep things on their rightful course. And such an example of that popped up when the ideas of the scene battered the walls and clogged our time. In the end, it fell to the director - in this case Al - to restore order and make the decisions.
            The other spot of irritation came when finishing off the 'plan' scene that we had left yesterday, having run out of time. Again, it was totally productive and we went away leaving the scene in a very solid place, but there were frustrations. I say ‘frustrations’; maybe it would be more accurate to say, 'frustration', i.e. my frustration. So, we got to the end of the scene, all should be easy, it's just Andrew and Toby left and then... The line arrives.
            We are talking about the Sir Andrew line. The line that every actor has an opinion on, the line that studies have been made on at the front of Ardens and the line that makes me shit myself every time I think about it.
            For those of you that don't know, (presumably because you have a life) the line that I am referring to is perhaps Sir Andrews most enlightening and revealing line of the entire play, "I was adored once too." It flicks from the end of Toby proclaiming Maria's adoration of him and is left, hanging in the air without response or comment. It is his "To be or not to be", his "Once more into the breach" and every time that I go to say it, I imagine an audience full of people sat looking demurely as I hash my way through it. Before long, everyone started giving me line-readings, ideas, help (which was valuable) and guidance, but after 5 minutes, I had well and truly reached the end of my tether. I took my frustrations out on a very undeserving Cuckoo;
            "Look," I said, "Everything you're saying, I know. I should just be saying the line exactly as I would do to you now, but, for the foreseeable future, I need to get every shit reading out of my system and try to forget that it's 'that line'.
            Al understood.
            The evening show went fairly well. We had the Stage in reviewing. It was a small crowd, but they made up for their numbers in enthusiasm. Hopefully it reflects.
            Monsoon season hit Eastbourne on Friday morning. The rain plopped down in great swathes and turned the town to dingy grey. On the up side, I made a discovery; my coat isn't waterproof. It is however very good at retaining water. So, every cloud and all that...

            When I got in, Pete 'the magic man' Donno, was there ready for us all with a towel in hand to get us dry.

            Seb and I were working with Chris on Sir T's and Sir A's relationship. We determined Sir A, is similar to a brand new Mercedes, shiny, spangly and fitted with all the latest mod-cons, but he's been filled with diesel instead of unleaded; impressive, but doomed. Toby, is exactly the same - just an older model. The unfortunate thing it seems, is that Toby sees in Andrew, himself, and both loves watching his youth once again spring to life, but also detests that he also sees the same young man walking the badly lit back-streets that he himself did so many years ago. They are one and the same, they need one another - but with that, comes the car crash.
            Andrew, I figured, is the human equivalent of a weathervane. He is totally affected by his surrounding forces. His psyche acts in a similar way to being stuck at the top of a flowchart.  He is a man, unable to move from the first question. He would just as easily say 'yes' as he would 'no'. It is those surrounding forces that prompt him to answer life's obstacles in the way he does.
            After the evening show, Al's voice came over the intercom into the dressing rooms. "Hello everyone, this is the management speaking. Why not come for a drink now, in the Buccaneer. On the Company. What what?"
            Cue, a large collective cheer.
            One of the toughest things to get right in heading a team of people is keeping track of moral. Gratefully, Al managed to have his finger on the company pulse and spotted that we were all feeling knackered after a week of 12-hour days. A piss up is what was needed and a piss up is what we got.
            On Saturday we rehearsed briefly in the morning before the Afternoon performance. After that, we met up on the beach for the second instalment of the 'Matinee Club'.  The Matinee Club is a group of the cast that go for a quick dip in the sea in between shows. There's a mist that can form on the brain before an evening show and nothing seems to lift it like cold water and a breeze. And, as we'll only be in Eastbourne for another week, it would be silly not to make the most of it.

This is how we say Goodbye
 The evening show was nothing short of hilarious; we all got a little giddy and suddenly found ourselves enjoying every single second. We walked about the backstage area with Cheshire cat grins. 2 hours later, 4 rounds of applause passed, and a barrel full of naughty corpsing sloshed all over the place, the show came down to our best response yet.
Find your light darling.
            The devil was within us and after going to the pub, Siobhan, Al, Craig (Happy Birthday mate) and myself ventured out to experience the grotty grotesqueness that is the Eastbourne Nightlife scene.

 We found our way to a place called Maxims, which had all the charm of my big toenail and charged £3 each for the experience. After enough booze though, anywhere is tolerable. We made friends with a couple of locals - who later had a barny and left - danced our problems away (odd how an empty space appeared around us) and staggered off in blissful merriment.
            But that wasn't enough.
            Oh no.
            Night-swimming it was to be.
            We clambered our way down to the sea, tugged off our clothes and wobbled our way out, into the bracing brine. Cuckoo was squealing, Shiv was pissing herself, Craig was in silent shivers and I dived into the deep.
            I surfaced, cleared the salty water from my eyes and gasped at the incredible sight around me.
            We had fallen into a pit of ink, enveloped by a blanket of stars. There, piercing through the blackness came tiny, twinkling orbs of light; tens and twenties and hundreds and thousands of them. I stood, stock-still, unable to move in the beauty of it. I wanted to get lost in it. Forever. Now, writing this, I want to be there, lost in it. In my entire life, I have never experienced anything so magical. I lay, floating in the tide, accompanied by the sounds of breaking water and ripples of laughter and thanked my lucky stars to be alive...
Cuckoo cutting some shapes

            The return to the beach was not quite as poetic. Four, milky white bodies, clumsily scuttling their way back to the comfort of clothes. Over I went.
            Oops, and again.
             On top of that, I dropped my towel into a pool of water before using it. Idiot.
            I also seem to have misplaced my boxer shorts. Anyone on Eastbourne beach today, if you see them, please would you return them to the Devonshire Park Theatre stage door. Thank you.
            Either that or the sea has them, in which case...
           
            In other news, it seems that readers of this blog now cross the oceans. Aoife, in Australia, thanks for following and Siobhan sends her big fat love.

            Oh, and if you see a pair of black Pringles floating in Sydney harbour, do us a favour?


                                                                 And finally (for the cast)...


            

Sunday 21 August 2011

It was a yoke - Week Four


I'll apologise in advance for the beginning of this weeks blog if I sound a little muddled, but I was rudely awoken this morning (I'll explain later) and therefore, didn't manage to sleep off the skin-full that I had last night so write this still a tad drunk.

            We started off the week in busy form; Lucy was up at the crack of dawn to appear on 'The Wright Stuff', plugging the show and revealing her husband's preening routines while the rest of us arrived at the theatre, on set to begin orienting ourselves. The set is quite simply terrific. As always, Victoria (the designer) has excelled herself - particularly on what is known as the dressing. i.e. the little bits and bobs that turn a good set into a believable set.  Pictures, magazines, home-embroidered cushions, stuffed dogs (you get it). And, it's not only the dressing, but the attention to detail that raises the bar too. Distressed wallpaper and grubby, ruddy-coloured couch covers all add to crank up the realism of the environment that we are trying to create.

            After the delight of seeing our set I was knocked down to earth by our dressing room allocations. It came to pass that I would be sharing with Alastair. This is bad. It's week four of the blog now and can no longer refrain from calling our director and producer by the name that I know him best; Cuckoo. 

My doodle of Al
It was a delightful surprise actually when I first started calling him by a birds name to find that his parents - Gill and Mole - have called him the same thing since childhood! Henceforth, Al shall be referred to as Cuckoo. Back to the point, sharing a dressing room with the Cuckoo is a bad thing. As I have previously said, Al is a dear friend of mine. One of my best friends in fact. However, this does not detract from the fact that he can be a colossal pain in the arse. Whereas I am a fairly tidy person, Al is not. His life spills into a room and occupies every single nook and cranny. Papers with audience numbers cower in the corners, costume and clothing litter the floors. It is a never-ending battle against the Emperor of Mess. A battle that I am sure to lose. Painfully. 

Guess where I sit?
In fact, traipsing around the back stage dressing room area is a bit like walking the length of a jumbo jet. Starting off in the economy seats with Myself and Al, passing Hazel the dog in business class and ending at the front of the plane with Bostrom and Speed. Lucy has flowers and cards, laden in abundance and Arthur jokes that his foot spa hasn't arrived yet. Thankfully they're both welcoming hosts and encourage the rest of us to take advantage of the extra room for chit chat time. Unfortunately one always has to return to ones seats for landing...

            In the evening, Sebastian had his first pint in a week (he says he's trying to shift a bit of weight) and sunk half of it in the first swallow. He said that he then went for a curry... If you're going to fall off the wagon, better to tumble off hey?


            We came back to the house and had a bottle of wine whilst watching a documentary about urban sports including Parkour. David and I were encouraged to try our hand at it too. So we did. I'm thinking of a career change.

            On Tuesday, it was all hands on deck. We were joined by a friend of Chris', Ed, who was helping out Pam with the ever-changing costume requirements. Jo was also back with us, trimming us all up with new hair-dos and instructing the girls on how to replicate her funicular creations. 
            After this, we began the technical rehearsal. I hesitate at calling it a technical rehearsal as I have never experienced one like it. We began at 6:00pm and finished before 9:00pm. Less than 3 hours. To put this into perspective, most techs bridge a couple of days. At the extreme, a mate of mine, James Loye (Frodo in the Lord of the Rings Musical) has regaled me of their 6 week tech period. 3 hours, therefore was nothing short of spectacular. And, it was all thanks to our technical team who spent the beginning part of the day walking the show and plotting the cues. Our tech was therefore, a near-dress rehearsal.
            Wednesday saw the return of the rat-tache. Chris had asked me (after much protestation on my part) to grow the caterpillar for the show. I reluctantly obliged and sported the lip-warmer for the day, only to be told, in the evening, that I could shave it off. I could have kissed Chris. I was so happy that I climbed over the pub table to hug him. He then told me that it had all been an elaborate joke.
            I was less amused.
            I reached for a fork to exact my pound of flesh.
            I am again clean-shaven.
            I am happy.
Jess, busy at work
            Before our first dress rehearsal, Allison returned for the final time to cement the fight choreography and leave us happy. I however, got increasingly frustrated. We repeated and repeated the fights and I, just seemed to get worse and worse. No matter how much encouragement Allison gave me, my stress levels went through the roof. By the end of my time with her I looked like a wet, red balloon. Her hard work has paid off though and we are left with a set of very secure routines, so, thank you Allison!
            We began Thursday with Notes, followed by our second dress rehearsal, which was - from what I remember - free from drama.  After our break, Lucy was encountered by our first Fraggle (autograph hunter) who gave her 5 books of self-penned poetry...
            The thing about the average Fraggle is that they do not come to watch the shows. They tend to be rather rude and on top of that, secrete mucous from every visible orifice. They are a people, best avoided. Though that is easier said than done.

            Fraggle gone, all that was left was the first show. The rain began to fall, audience numbers rose to the 500 mark and the excitement built. We wished one another luck. We crossed fingers, prayed to whichever Gods would listen and stood in the wings for the beginners call.

            The show was incredible. It may have been - as Chris later said - a little full of sound and fury, but it was far from insignificant. The aisles rolled with laughter and the air was charred with gasps of merriment, and, If heaven exists, then I am confident that it closely resembles a theatre full of squealing sounds of uproar. It was magical.
            After the show, the entire company went for a meal and celebrated in style. Wine flowed and smiles flourished. We were also lucky enough to be joined by Arthurs friend, the lovely Kim Hartman, along with a couple of friends of mine, Jamie Hinde and Ian Marr who both toured with the Original Theatre Company on the Madness of George III.
            After the waiters kicked us out, Rachel and I walked Lucy back to her hotel and caught a glimpse of her room - the most confusing suite that I've ever seen. The curtains - made of teddy bear fur, partnered marvelously with glittery wallpaper.  In fact, I find myself sat here still trying to work out what was going through the hotel manager's mind when concocting the room's design... I'm sure that Lucy is there now, thinking exactly the same thing.
Chris' 'unique' style of direction
            We arrived at the theatre on Friday for afternoon notes, followed by the evening show. Our general instruction had been to control the play again instead of having the foot flat down on the pedal all the way through. I think we achieved that. We listened and had (a very non-traditional) good second night.
            Lucy's husband, Spencer joined us after the show for a couple of drinks, as did Emily, Chris' girlfriend. Two terrific people. In fact, we prefer them. Lucy - you can go, we'll keep Spencer (he fits into your dresses right?), Chris - same goes.
            Saturday we had - dare I say it - an enjoyable matinee...? Yes, I think it was. Contrary to all the rules we actors must adhere to(hating matinee's being the unwritten golden goose), I enjoyed doing the matinee show.
            Do I lose my Equity card now?

Where's Wally?
            Emily, Spencer and Lucy's folks were in for the evening show which again was very enjoyable. I think that it's going to be one of those shows that won't get boring. There's just so much going on, it's impossible to get bored.
            After the pub we all went to Arthur's gaff for a night cap.
            And another.
            And...
            An...ther...o.

            I was woken this morning by the nearby church bells being rung. They're not very good. Despite the annoyance of being woken early - they do need the practice. It sounds like a couple of pewter tankards are being knocked together. Over and over.
            Norwich just lost the lead in the 90th minute to Stoke.
            The week has subsequently been awful.
           
            

Sunday 14 August 2011

See how the Run, Ran - Week Three



After what seemed like the briefest of blips on the radar, the weekend was over and Monday began. That being said, I managed a recent personal best on Sunday - managing to cram in an epic 4 films into a single sitting... And people think I'm lazy? Sundays are there for rest and it must be said that I am something of a connoisseur in that particular department.

            So, fully refreshed (though my owl eyes are telling a different story) we began our third week of rehearsals in fifth gear, ready and raring to bolt straight on with the remainder of the play. We returned to the 'game and play' style of script reading for the majority - after a couple of days, last week - of wet-cementing the blocking of the first act. As it was the final act of the play in question, I was, enjoyably, used for the large proportion of the day and thrown straight in at the deep end, trying to control a very wily Siobhan as Penelope, with a plastic revolver. 

Our objective: to hide from Arthur's Bishop of Lax and (welcoming him back after a week off) the marvellous Sebastian's Sergeant Major from detecting that anything untoward was afoot. What I was struck with was the unexpected difficulty controlling someone with a firearm. Yes, I was in control and felt it, but at the same time, I felt oddly vulnerable and unsure - ushering Siobhan around the room. It struck me that she was... (and I say this very tentatively) In as powerful a position as I was. The reason for this was that I realised how finite a gun is. There is no grey area. If it is used, someone dies. If it is used, there is the loudest of sounds (drawing attention to those being avoided). If it is used, there is no return. No delete button. No 'undo'. And, I think that Siobhan, as Penelope, knew that too.

Al and Siobhan relax after a scene
            After that - to help me with the isolation that the various characters might have been feeling - Chris got us into a circle and had two people in the middle. This exercise was invented by Anton Chekhov and is quite widely recognised in the theatrical world, but for those of you unfamiliar with his work (in my snobbiest voice), I'll explain;
            The people forming the circle are 'the trees'. If touched by one of the inner members, they have to say, 'trees, trees, trees'. In the centre, one person acts as 'the bat' (blindfolded) and the other, 'the moth'. The bat, can say, 'bat' and, if he does, the moth must respond saying, 'moth'. The bat's objective is to catch the moth. After this exercise, we replaced the standard words, with the words of the play. I'd attempt to explain how we did this, but would confuse myself in doing so.
            In the afternoon, we dealt with the scene in which the Sergeant is trying to determine which 'vicar' is the real vicar. Using a collection of chairs, we had to stand on them to communicate our level of urgency and self-perceived importance to the scene. We then used a 'madness chart' tracking the character's sanity. Before delivering a line, one would have to give a number between 1 and 10, (1 being completely sedate, 10 being totally potty) and deliver said line. Before long, we'd abandoned the parameters of normality and descended into 75's and 80's of lunacy.

David takes control as Clive
            In the evening, David, Rachel and I tested one another on lines. They're pretty much faultless already.
            Tuesday was an early start for me, to walk on and off of a scene. I wasn't needed again till four in the afternoon. Imagine my grumpiness: perhaps a number from our scale?
            When I did return, the team was in a very peculiar mood. Everyone was talking about the London riots and were discussing the prospect of the problems radiating outward toward other towns and cities. I must admit my own concerns over friends that are still in the capital as well as my sister, but, I never cease to be amazed how the theatrical universe continues to turn, sparkle, pulsate and whirl no matter what. I have certainly been in situations before when the immortal phrase, 'The Show must go on' is trumped by reality barging in, but - by and large, it is a staggering achievement of both actors and the audience to continue to offer and enjoy a part of life that is indispensable. 

Theatre can provide, inspire, hide, provoke and shelter. It can give us love, laughter, tears and nursing. At times, it is what makes life worth living. It is the completely useless scrap of paper at the back of a shoebox, offering nothing but the memory of a time gone by - a first date at the cinema, a bill from an unforgettable evening with the family, a drawing from a child - which is, completely useless, but, unequivocally priceless. Precious. Beauty.
            So, we hoisted our proverbial moods and did what we do. We ran the second act and I must say that I was gobsmacked at the insatiable talent that I was surrounded by. With a week to go until opening night, I am very happy with where we are.
            Wednesday is a blur to me. I can neither remember what I did, or what happened in the rehearsal room. Even consulting my notes, Wednesday is not even written down. I have therefore concluded that Wednesday did not happen this week.
            Thursday, I do remember. We delved into act 3 and began to let our 'wet cement' blocking, harden into, well, cement.

           We ironed out the creases that we had previously found and addressed the problems that we didn't have time to sort earlier on. I flailed around my plastic prop revolver and everyone else did their best to look terrified of the strange, gurning, weaselly man before them. Luckily for me, I happen to be working with some of the finest actors about, so they make up for my faults! Unluckily for me, the photographer was in for the day, getting some further shots for the programme (I am un-photogenic at the best of times). In the end, we wrestled our way through the act a further two times and wound up the day feeling thoroughly chuffed with our work.
            After we left rehearsals we (predictably) went to the pub and enjoyed a wind-down drink. Midway through conversation, we spied from the window, the pup-idol hopefuls making their way into the studio. One by one, they went in and gave their best audition. I am pleased to announce that our scurrilous panel have come to an agreement and now HAVE our first four-legged friend of the tour. I'll get a picture to promote the pooch in next week's tech where she'll be put through her paces with the cast. But in the meantime, a huge congratulations to Martha and 'Hazel', from us all and we look forward to having you with us.
            On another 'shout-out', I've promised to mention our very own Rachel Donovan's beautiful mother, who has been following the blog since it began and "can't wait" to see the shows. We look forward to having you with us, Lorraine and get to see your amazing daughter in action!

'Coffee Break'
            Thursday was another tough day with lots of productivity on display. We went back to Act 2 and rechecked our work previously done and continued in the same vain with Act 3. Alison, our fight director was with us too, adding to her brilliant choreography and analysing the moves that she'd given us on her last visit. The 'Private Lives' fight was a highlight, as we all watched David and Siobhan thrash it out with real panache. After the day's rehearsal, we went out for an impromptu meal, making the most of an evening with Lucy (looking great with her new Miss. Skillon hair do I might add) who chose to cancel her normal commute, for a knees-up with the team. Good decision Miss. Speed and we're preparing ourselves for Sid...
            Saturday was a day of reckoning - our first run of the play. We braced ourselves as the technical team arrived. We tightened the cogs of timing that make a farce a farce. 


We began. We came. We saw. We conquered. There were moments of hilarity (intended and not), on one occasion, the phone's receiver was torn accidently from the dock and thrown across the room, but on the whole we were enormously pleased with our joint achievement. We leave the third week in a very good place, with work still to go, but moral very high indeed. After the run, Chris congratulated us all and reiterated his continuous thanks for the hard work done by the entire team. He then implored us to take it easy. "We've got a big week ahead of us. And, as much as I'm sure you all want to go get 'larruped', please REST."...
            Well we didn't get larruped, but did enjoy a bevvy or too. And a curry. And match of the day.
            Norwich drew.
            Another reason to be happy. 

Sunday 7 August 2011

Week Two - See how they Hobble

            Well, the above title will become clear as you progress through this week’s blog – but until then… 
            Monday started rather calmly for me. The benefit of being a character that enters rather late into the play means that I have the luxury of a bit of extra ‘research/homework’ time to needle out all the things that everyone else wishes they had the time to do, but don’t. Ha. I started by reading a book that Chris had bought for me pre-rehearsals and suggested that it may help me with my character. ‘The Man’, as I said in my previous blog, is an escaped German POW who finds himself – inadvertently – in the middle of a right royally British farce. See how they Run must be an exception to the rule of plays written around WW2, in that, it doesn’t portray our particular German friend as a Swastika-clad, gun-toting, malicious-murderer, but as a real person. He is a man, who is, fighting the same battle that we British were, but for the other side. And that is something that ‘Forgotten Voices’ highlights superbly. 
            I recommend it highly to anyone that is interested in WW2 and more broadly, I implore you to read it as a young man who feels that we must remember and hopefully learn from the lessons of the past (he says, glancing an eye at a picture on the front of the Guardian, of the current scenes in Libya). It brought me to tears on more than one occasion and made me laugh as well:

Excerpt;
Private John Stanleigh
21 Independent Parachute Company
-       We didn’t really think that we’d have to retreat. We felt we’d done well on our particular front, so it came as quite a surprise. As we got away, we marched down to the river. I was marching next to a bloke who was wearing a German helmet. ‘Why are you taking that home?’ I asked. ‘Vass?’ he seemed to reply. I looked at him and the penny dropped. ‘Are you German?’, ‘Yes.’ ‘What are you doing in this column?’, ‘I’ve had enough of this war, thank you. I want to be a prisoner now.’ So he got evacuated on the boat, along with the rest of us.

Monday was also the launch of our eagerly anticipated ‘Pup Idol’ – your chance to have your four-legged friend appear, on stage, with us! Yes indeed, we will be trawling the surrounding area at each and every leg of the tour looking for the perfect pooch to tread the boards with yours truly and the rest of the cast. We will be holding the first auditions for our ‘Eastbourne Eddy’ (Frasier reference… No? Ok, moving on) next week on the stage with a panel of discerning actors, directors and perhaps a certain Simon Cowell… For legal regal reasons I must make clear that Mr. Cowell will almost certainly not be appearing at said auditions nor does he approve/disapprove of Pup Idol, Pup Watch, Pooper-Scoop Productions or any of its affiliates. Though he does like dogs doesn’t he…? 

Sausages?

The cunning canine will be required to chase our own David Partridge (see menacing picture) across the stage to rapturous applause, completely stealing the show, that, we promise, not to envy.
At all.
In the slightest.
In any way shape or form.
Dylan - The Cat/Dog
The owner of the fabulous Fido will also need to be present, backstage for the duration of the performances, getting exclusive access to the show’s stars and a special glimpse into the secrets of backstage life at the theatre! If you, anyone you know, or don’t know is interested then please get in touch with us via the Devonshire Park theatre on 01323 412000 or email us direct at info@originaltheatre.com for more details (those of you interested in applying for later dates of the tour, please keep an eye out). The Original Theatre website is also constantly updating with helpful information under the; ‘news’ tab, so keep on checking there as well as here, by clicking ‘follow’ at the top of the page. Good luck!

My own Mum was quite excited about the news asking, “Does that mean if Dilly (our dog) is chosen, that he’ll be famous?”… Yes Mum… Yes it does. 

I should at this time point out to all hopeful applicants not to be daunted by a cast-member’s Dog being a potential contender. In fact, I could almost categorically claim that Dylan will not even get into the audition room. For you see, Dylan is a special Dog. And by special, I mean not special. And by not special, I mean Backwards. He is a dog that is more akin to a Cat, than a Dog. A Dog, that has the temper of a disgruntled Napoleon and an expression on his face of constant confusion. He is our Dog, and we love him. But the fear of him mauling a cast-member’s face leaves him out of this particular race.
There's no 'I' in team
On Tuesday, a picture (compliments of our Wardrobe Mistress, Pam) came my way of Leo (our Reverend Humphrey and Feste) – taken of him more than 25 years ago. It’s relevance in this week’s Blog is completely arbitrary, but I find it funny so, enjoy. 

It was also my first day getting ‘up on my feet’ and rehearsing a scene with the rest of the cast. I came in early to watch a couple of other scenes and see how the play was progressing, of which it was. Greatly. 
In fact, I was laughing so much at Lucy’s Bambi-legged Miss.Skillon that I had to leave the rehearsal room for fear of distraction. When I had suitably composed myself, I returned to the studio and began work with Chris and Alastair on my first appearance in the play; the Man enters and hits Lionel (Al) over the head with an iron poker. Hmm. Iron poker hey? 

No expense spared
Once the hilarity had subsided we continued with the intentionally loose blocking of the scene. Chris has a great, playful style of directing which means – this week at least – we have centered around importantly not setting the scenes in stone, but playing games - with the text and without - in order to find the different levels and beats of the play. In doing this, our understanding of the script (just like last week) has increased two-fold and the play is far more a part of us (as actors) and not just a series of movements around a set. In fact, the next day, one particular game involved me chasing Arthur (The Bishop of Lax) around the rehearsal room, with ‘the rod’ whilst only able to speak Gobbledigook. It is difficult to express the benefit of this particular exercise without seeing the play – but trust me – it does work. Another example of this game-play is demonstrated in this video of Rachel (Ida) desperately trying to get a message across to Siobhan (Penelope) using only hot water bottles. 




Afterwards, I caught a shot of Siobhan in the hands of Jo, our Hair and Make-up designer testing out a possible hair do for the show. I’m sure she’ll appreciate me including this... 

On Thursday, we continued work on the play. In between scenes, I headed into the nearby Winter Gardens, whose rear entrance backs on to our studio. Now, I must make it clear that I like Eastbourne. In fact, I would go as far as to say that I’m very fond of Eastbourne. Being a seaside boy myself, it reminds me a lot of home. However, it would not be unfair to point out that the town has, on average, a rather sizeable elderly community. Ipso facto, if I were a gerontologist, I would seriously consider Eastbourne as a destination for my field study research. Imagine my surprise then, when entering the Winter Gardens to use the toilets, I passed a door to one of the bars and saw this piece of signage.




 I think I’ll return at the weekend. Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of a hoard of OAPs knocking back the sweet stuff. I’ve already told my Grandparents. They’re on their way.
In the evenings, I’ve been heading down the beach, to catch up on my  diary and have some valuable ‘me’ time. On Thursday evening I was however detained, neither by the pub or miscellaneous bar, but by my FIRST EVER PROFESSIONAL RADIO INTERVIEW.
Get me.
Rachel and I were asked to do the interview and, along with Pete Donno (our terrific Company Manger) who helped us through the details, prepped us for the questioning. It may seem like a stupid thing to be excited about, but for a young actor, first experiences are all exhilarating. I only found out later, that it was to publicise, Pup Idol.
            Pup Idol.
            Upstaged by a dog.
Already.
            Still, an interview is an interview and one that will nicely catalogue itself into the little folder in my brain entitled, ‘Rhys’ life experiences’. And, aside from thanking the presenter as ‘Hazel’ (her dog’s name) I think it went pretty well. So, Martha – if you’re reading this – thank you and I’m sorry.
            In celebration of our achievement, Rachel and I went out for a slap up meal to toast our success. After the meal, we walked home, as the cast tends to, along the beach, getting a chance to enjoy the sand and waves when the tide is out. Picture the scene: two actors, a bottle of wine already down the hatch, eager to get back to our digs to revel with our show mates and – I slice the sole of my foot open on a submersed rock. At the time, Dr. Alcohol was doing his job impeccably and, besides from an irksome pain, I had no idea that the cut was as bad as it was. In fact, I was so unaware that I decided to dive straight into the blue for a little night swimming.  It was only back at the digs, that I realised that it was a little more serious than I imagined. As I pulled back my sand-encrusted sock, it was the expression on the faces of my housemates that told the real story. However, insisting it would be fine, I showered, washed, went to bed and thought nothing of it. Yet, in the morning when I woke, unable to walk properly and – with Chris understandably ordering me – I reluctantly went to A&E to get it checked out.
The team hard at work

            At the hospital, I was greeted by a lovely lady called Diane, who sent me through to the waiting room (area) to realise my fate. The prospect of potentially needing stitches or - horror of horrors - an injection, played havoc with my mind. I started continuously yawning (my bodies response to nerves) and inevitably began getting dizzy as I continued to hyperventilate. Pathetic, yes. Smooth criminal, no.
            After an hour or so, a new doctor, who checked out the wound, called me into one of the consultation rooms. I took a deep breath. She scrunched her face. I scrunched mine. She tilted her head. I shook mine. "This is fine. No stitches."
            No stitches! I could have kissed her! The wonderful woman said no stitches! Joy of joys!
            "It's a superficial wound. Super-duper."
            My smile faded. I frowned. Scowled even. SUPERFICIAL?! Super-duper?! I'm waddling around like a peg-legged penguin and you're telling me that it's superficial??! Super-f*&%$@g-duper?! Anyway - I hid my disgust and smiled politely as she handed me over to the nurse.
            The Nurse came into the room with a granite face. She showed neither anger nor happiness, just a fixed contempt at the idiot actor that was laid out in front of her with a nasty boo boo on his foot.    
            She asked, with a hint of suspicion why I was in Eastbourne and explained that I was an actor and touring. Contempt.
            "I'm going to be running around a lot in the next few days." Contempt.
            "What's the play?" she asked.
            "See how they Run" I replied.
            "I see." Contempt.
            "It's a farce - very funny." I offered.
            "I'd hope." She retorted.
            We sat in silence as I mulled over her sarcasm and she, wiped at my cut with all the ferocity she could muster. She dressed the wound.
            "Change the dressing every day. And come back next week so that we can check for infection."
            "No problem. Thanks for all your help."
            She got up and headed out of the room. And, in a moment of reality that could never be scripted - nor believed till the day I die, she stopped, turned toward me, a smile broke on her face that closely resembled Alan Rickman's Sherriff of Nottingham and gently said, “Break a leg." She laughed and left.
            Better than 'Christmas is cancelled', I thought. 
Myself, enjoying the beach
            On Saturday, we were lucky enough to be joined by Alison, our incredible fight director, who, (along with Lucy) braved the horrendously congested M25 to teach us our various pieces of stage combat. I spent most of my time hitting Alastair over the head with the poker and carrying him around the room in a fireman's carry. The great news is that because of Alison's terrific direction, we can now use a real poker in the play as opposed to a lightweight imitation. After she was finished with us, Alison spent the majority of her time with Siobhan and David piecing together the 'Private Lives' fight (which is recollected in the play) of which she choreographed originally for the West End to critical acclaim. Exciting.
            When we weren't being used by Alison, Chris made good use of us, rehearsing scenes and blocking any moments that had been a lot looser earlier on in the week.
            In the evening, we all went to the pub for a well deserved end of week drink and toasted another incredibly productive 6 days.  I inherited a new nickname - Zippy. Apparently I sound like him. Nice. Oh well, at least it means that I can retaliate with some equally horrible nickname's for the others of my own. Bostrom, Donovan, Partridge, be afraid. Be very afraid.
            Today is Sunday. I've just watched Baz Luhrmann's 'Strictly Ballroom'. It was brilliant. I am tired.
            David is going to cook for the house later on which we're all looking forward to, but in the meantime, I look forward to doing as little as possible. Peace out.

- Peg leg