Saturday 24 September 2011

When in Rome... - Week 9


I left Lee and Joanne on Sunday, boarded OM2 and headed for Windsor. Cuckoo wanted to stop at a fancy pants cafe just outside of Bracknell and as I was relying on his own goodwill to get me to my destination, I - as per usual - had zero clout.  Needless to say the cafe was filled with snobby sorts all ordering diccy dacca frappa chinos and bird seed omelettes made of egg whites. Al was in heaven; I was not.

            Thankfully the service was dreadful too, which meant that Cuckoo eventually got fed up. My mood perked.
            After the disappointment of Cuckoo's brunch we made our way to Staines to watch 'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy'. Staines is quite pretty. The people were repulsive.
            If there are any parents of the teenagers/20 year olds of Staines reading this, please listen to me:
            IT IS NOT RIGHT THAT ANYONE MY AGE OR UNDER SHOULD DRIVE A CAR THAT COSTS AS MUCH AS A HOUSE!!!
            Are you mad?! I had a banged up Renault Clio for my first car and it did me just fine. In fact, as we clambered out of OM2, I was nearly mowed down by a spotty, skinhead jackass cruising with his 'bitches' in a WHITE RANGE ROVER. Do you really think that he knows or will ever appreciate the value of money? Do you?! Do you???

            Breath.

            Back in the room.

            Tinker Tailor was (aside from lacking that Agatha Christie 'something') terrific. Great Acting, good script and beautifully shot. To top it off, Al hated it, which made me enjoy the afternoon all the more.
            We drove the short distance to Windsor and found Al's digs which came with some odd rules (don't wash up) and not the nicest furnishings to say the least.
            What wasn't so great is that his landlady had said that my digs don't really compete...
            Jesus.
            She was wrong though. My digs are lovely and Mrs. Emery, our vivacious landlady is a cracking old girl with tons of wit and love.

            I oriented myself with the house and then the surrounding area and met up with Cuckoo for a meal. I hadn't anticipated (foolishly) just how many tourists there would be in the town. As I passed a bunch of Americans, busy studying a building, one of their party said, "It's gotta be the most overly surveillanced city in the world."
            A passing local then retorted, "Welcome to England".
            Ha.
            At the restaurant, things were just as touristy; everyone was eating either fish and chips or a Sunday Roast. I think (including the waiters) myself and Al must have been the only Brits in there.
            After the meal we went to Al's and watched the first of the new series of Downton Abbey. The last time we saw the show was during Madness of George - a whole year ago - which just doesn't seem possible.
            I woke late on Tuesday. I had had the best night's sleep in a long while, after which I felt totally nourished. 'Dawn comes early with rosy fingers'; funny, I didn't notice them.
            I popped over to the nearby co-op and got myself a loaf of bread and some soup for lunch (how glamorous the actor's life is) and took it back to the house to prepare. Vee, (our landlady) kept me entertained the whole time with anecdotes about her incredible life - the girl has done everything!
The 'leaning cafe'... I'm holding it up. Funny.
            Food down the gullet, I went clothes shopping. After Bracknell, it's just nice being somewhere that has shops, so I took full advantage of them. I needed some new socks and wanted to chuck some of the shirts that I'm currently lugging round the country. I have a philosophy with clothing; that as soon as you stop enjoying wearing something, to get rid of it and replace it with something you do. Those that I trained with at GSA only knew me to wear jeans and black shirts, but since then, I've branched out and - I hesitate to say - embraced fashions a little bit...? Well, maybe not fashions, but certainly things other than black shirts...

            Shopping is an experience in Windsor. The town centre is remarkably small, which means that there are an awful lot of people in a very small area. The other thing that makes it a bit different is just how beautiful it is. Unfortunately, one still sees the serialisation of high street shops that are copied and pasted across the country, but the saving grace here, is that above every W.H.Smith, or Boots, there is a picturesque period building, suspended in its own time.            

            When I got to the theatre in the evening - which is also very pretty - things were really up to the wire. Our tech team had only two in-house technicians to help them with the get-in and focussing operations before the evening show and it just wasn't enough. They managed it, but we were only allowed on stage half an hour before the half.
            The show itself was great. I think that we were all a little nervous; it was a near full house of 500 people, which always tightens the screws a bit. I for one felt my third eye watching me; I was aware of acting instead of just acting. Sounds stupid, but it's quite a common niggle with actors. What was so peculiar was how close the front row was to the front of the stage. It felt like having a shower with the curtains open. Totally exposed.
            Anyway, despite a few initial shakes, the audience gushed with laughter and, when we went through to the theatre bar for some welcome-drinks, the remaining audience expressed their thanks for a hilarious night out.
            Guy and Bridget were on duty, having brought the hopeful first Original Theatre friends. What was so lovely to hear is that some of them were genuinely interested and above all, impressed with the company for getting to where it is now without any subsidised help.
            No small feat and a real testament to old Al.

            After drinks, a few of us were still in the mood for a nightcap and walked the backstreets of Windsor, with the Cuckoo as our guide to try and find a bar. Note to self - never trust a Cuckoo with directions. Ever.
            We got back to the digs (past 11:00pm), and were amazed to see our landlady still up. I was even more surprised to see her then go through her entire orienting chat with Rachel.
            I watched the first in a series about young officers in training at Sandhurst. It was incredible.
            A lot of parallels have been found between actors and those in the armed services, i.e. Actors jumping ship to become soldiers and vice versa. I can only speculate as to the reason for that, but would assume that both are careers that are based on the rush of adrenalin and that in order to be a decent soldier you have to be able to work long, unsociable hours and be able to take intense, immediate direction, whilst still maintaining ones own integrity. That being said, I'm not sure how I'd fare on a battleground...
            'We make war, so that we may make peace' - Aristotle
            I think I'd like the poetry and philosophy a lot more!
            Again, I woke late on the Tuesday and after a leisurely lunch; I met up with Ducky and watched her shop. Unfortunately for my wallet, my eyes started to stray towards the rails and found myself spending another wad of cash on a new suit jacket (because I don't have enough??) and a shirt.
            To make up for the impromptu spend session, the Duck bought me a hot chocolate at Carluccio’s and we stocked up on weekly provisions at Waitrose.

            Waitrose, to save a bit of money you see...?
            We met later in the evening for a meal at Wagamama's.
            I need help.
            Oh well, I've been quite well behaved so far - considering my track record - a bit of a blow out is probably deserved.
            The evening's show was tricky. The audience was smaller than the previous evening and they responded to the show far differently than we have had any other night. At some moments that are normally certain laughter spots we got nothing and at other points where we normally anticipate silence, we had cacophonies of laughter. It was very strange.
            After the show I met up with my agents, Howard and Pam (who were in, watching the show) for a quick drink before they headed back to the capital. They loved the show - which is always nice - and complimented the entire cast for their timing and performances. It's an old adage that the hardest thing to find in an agent, is implicit trust and the ability to get on well together. It sounds so ridiculously obvious, but so many actors struggle terribly to find that balance. I can happily say that I don't have that problem. We caught up, talked about the 'biz', talked about anything but the 'biz', had a laugh and said our goodbyes. I rejoined the platoon in a quaint little pub around the corner from the theatre.

            Touring life is made up of little gem places. One has to suffer concrete jungles etc to really appreciate the nuggets of grace that turn up every now and then.  The Horse and Groom is one of them.
             I walked through the old black lacquered door and was hit by a wall of warmth. A fire burned gently toward the back of the room and the ruddy, smiling faces of my mates beckoned me in by my side.
            Shiv was particularly happy - apparently the Guinness was the best that she's ever had in England.
            Content Irish girl: Tick.
            I read my sister's blog when I got back to the digs, who is charting her life travelling over the next 10 months.
            I got melancholic.
            Bad.
            And then, happy for her.
            Good.
            I find nostalgia endlessly interesting. According to 'Madmen's' Don Draper, the word derives from ancient Greek and literally translates as, 'the pain from an old wound'. Now, pain is pain, is pain. But, pain has an origin. It has a start and an end. It also tells a story. And, at an undefined time, it leaves us. The only way we know that it has ever been is by the scar that remains.
            For me now, the pain of my sister's departure is still strong, but, in a month, two months, half a year, it will fade - not totally - but it will fade. And, when she returns home to us, what was once an open gash will be little more than a faint white line; telling a story of her entire time away.

            Wednesday was Windsor Castle day. The town itself is little more than the castle - it takes up such an amazing amount of space. Speedy, Ducky and myself met in the afternoon for the excursion, donned our tourist hats and took a trip back to the decadence of a time when the Monarch was ruler; a ruler that answered to nobody.
            Our £16 entry fee instantly paid for itself when we entered the castle chapel to be hit by a wall of sound in the form of the royal philharmonic orchestra in rehearsal with an opera singer that made my heart ache at his talent.
            I stood, dumbfounded for 10 minutes or so, while Speedy and Ducks looked on at me in the distance chuckling as my jaw dropped lower and lower.             The rest of the journey around the grounds and halls were incredible. Almost too incredible; a bit like walking the lake district - in the end one becomes blind to the beauty of it all.
            I saw more priceless artefacts in that one afternoon than I probably will for the rest of my life. The girls were particularly enamoured with Queen Mary's childhood doll's house, which was nearly the size of a small bed-sit - as for myself (being a Great Yarmouth boy), I was blown away by seeing the bullet that killed Admiral Lord Nelson - incredible.


            I can't quite get my head around what an experience seeing such things must be for the Americans that were there in abundance, having such a short - in comparison - history to that of ours. It's a good reminder seeing the awe on other's faces that we should be far more appreciative of our remarkable history, whether it be in buildings, the arts or mere trinkets - the past has directly affected us all, for better or for worse and it is worth reflecting on such a fact.

            The show in the evening was tight - I shut my finger in one of the doors - but aside from that it was a polished performance all round.
            A few of the guys had friends in watching the show, so afterwards we all went to the pub that we'd found the previous evening and let our hair down.
That night I dreamt that we were also touring the production of Merchant of Venice that I had finished before starting the tour. Everyone was angry with me for not remembering the script and the blocking. Classic actor's nightmare. I then dreamt that Pete (our company manager) and Garreth (DSM) called a company meeting and expressed their displeasure with one of the actors:
            "We just wanted to voice something that we've been unhappy with for some time now; namely, Rhys King's attitude."
            Bastards.
            I woke and did little with the morning other than writing and chatting to Vee.
            When I got in to the theatre, I sat on the stage waiting for our fight call while Shiv did her vocal warm-up. I must admit that I'm not someone that partakes in pre-show warm-ups. I do the occasional (what the Cuckoo calls...)'weasel noise' which I must credit to the AC/DC singer Brian Johnson which resembles something between a yodel and the scream a fox makes when it's having sex, but, other than that I shy away from the practice preferring to relax with music instead. That being said, it doesn't mean that I don't enjoy the hilarity of watching others with their preshow rituals. 


Maybe that's a priceless article that Windsor Castle will never have?
            The matinee performance was wonderful. The audience were alive with cackles and squwarks and we had a ball.

            It was another one of those moments, watching the show on the prompt corner monitor that I wondered whether - when good - there is anything better than the sound of impulsive, eruptive laughter.
              My spending spree continued in between shows, this time Shiv took Al and me to get some new shoes (my Dad's favourite thing in the world - aside from his fish...) and am very pleased with the goods. It's strange having others help you buy clothing etc as they tend to see what would look good on you and what suits you rather than what you may like.
            You can't look at yourself un-objectively.
            Anyway, I have new shoes. Bingo.
            The evening performance was tough - only because of the contrast in audience size in comparison with the packed house of the afternoon. Though, come the bows, they whooped with all the encouragement they had. It's one of the most valuable lessons that I've learnt since doing the play, during the show; one can only hear the laughs, the smiles are silent. But, it's those smiles that they take away like a little present at the end of the night.
            We had drinks at Browns in the evening (I prefer the horse and groom..) and talked. Just, talked; one of my favourite things in the world; unobstructed, thoughtful talking.
            On Friday morning I had a long, deep bath and read. Love in the Time of Cholera is still teaching me - a new lesson with every page.
            When I finished bathing, I came across something online that I have to share with you.
            (No, not like that...)

'Her hair was up in a pony tail,
Her favorite dress tied with a bow.
Today was Daddy's Day at school,
And she couldn't wait to go.
But her mommy tried to tell her,
That she probably should stay home.
Why the kids might not understand,
If she went to school alone.
But she was not afraid;
She knew just what to say.
What to tell her classmates
Of why he wasn't there today.
But still her mother worried,
For her to face this day alone.
And that was why once again,
She tried to keep her daughter home.
But the little girl went to school
Eager to tell them all.
About a dad she never sees
A dad who never calls.
There were daddies along the wall in back,
For everyone to meet.
Children squirming impatiently,
Anxious in their seats
One by one the teacher called
A student from the class.
To introduce their daddy,
As seconds slowly passed.
At last the teacher called her name,
Every child turned to stare.
Each of them was searching,
A man who wasn't there.
'Where's her daddy at?'
She heard a boy call out.
'She probably doesn't have one,'
Another student dared to shout.
And from somewhere near the back,
She heard a daddy say,
'Looks like another deadbeat dad,
Too busy to waste his day.'
The words did not offend her,
As she smiled up at her Mom.
And looked back at her teacher,
Who told her to go on.
And with hands behind her back,
Slowly she began to speak.
And out from the mouth of a child,
Came words incredibly unique.
'My Daddy couldn't be here,
Because he lives so far away.
But I know he wishes he could be,
Since this is such a special day.
And though you cannot meet him,
I wanted you to know.
All about my daddy,
And how much he loves me so.
He loved to tell me stories
He taught me to ride my bike.
He surprised me with pink roses,
And taught me to fly a kite.
We used to share fudge sundaes,
And ice cream in a cone.
And though you cannot see him.
I'm not standing here alone.
'Cause my daddy's al ways with me,
Even though we are apart
I know because he told me,
He'll forever be in my heart'
With that, her little hand reached up,
And lay across her chest.
Feeling her own heartbeat,
Beneath her favorite dress.
And from somewhere here in the crowd of dads,
Her mother stood in tears.
Proudly watching her daughter,
Who was wise beyond her years.
For she stood up for the love
Of a man not in her life.
Doing what was best for her,
Doing what was right.
And when she dropped her hand back down,
Staring straight into the crowd.
She finished with a voice so soft,
But its message clear and loud.
'I love my daddy very much,
he's my shining star.
And if he could, he'd be here,
But heaven's just too far.
You see he is a British soldier
And died just this past year
When a roadside bomb hit his convoy
And taught Britons to fear.
But sometimes when I close my eyes,
it's like he never went away.'
And then she closed her eyes,
And saw him there that day.
And to her mothers amazement,
She witnessed with surprise.
A room full of daddies and children,
All starting to close their eyes.
Who knows what they saw before them,
Who knows what they felt inside.
Perhaps for merely a second,
They saw him at her side.
'I know you're with me Daddy,'
To the silence she called out.
And what happened next made believers,
Of those once filled with doubt.
Not one in that room could explain it,
For each of their eyes had been closed.
But there on the desk beside her,
Was a fragrant long-stemmed rose.
And a child was blessed, if only for a moment,
By the love of her shining star.
And given the gift of believing,
That heaven is never too far.'           

           
            I've been thinking a lot about the armed services recently. It must have something to do with being in a military town. Vee,  told me the other day that she has lived here most of her life, but still stops in respect for the changing of the guards. She says that she still sheds a tear.
            "They've seen things that we could never imagine. They serve their country to give us the freedom that we so take for granted. And for that, I love them. Each and every one of them."

            They say that we never stop learning. I feel, for a reason I'm still unsure of, that I'm learning an awful lot at the moment. As my main man, Bob Dylan puts it, "I feel a change coming on."
            So, in keeping with that, I think that I should say my own, personal thank you, to every man and woman serving. You alone maintain my freedom and I could never convey in words my gratitude. Perhaps, if you ever have the time, on some rainy day evening, when you're back on British soil, enjoying the comfort of home and those that love you, Google my name and see if I'm in a show. If I am, then get in touch - there's a comp with your name on it. And, if you do come, you'll see, on that three walled, grease painted, spot lit stage, what I've done with the freedom you've given me; that, and my imperishable thanks.
            I'll be the one looking weaselish.
            And probably gurning.
            I do a lot of that.
            And over-acting.
            Still, that night I'll be doing it for you.

David didn't finish his chips.
            A group of us met at GBK for a spot of dinner before the show. It was nice. Burgers are good.
            We had a company meeting before the show to talk about the next leg of the tour I.e. performing both shows in the same week and the size of the Chipping Norton backstage area in relation to that of Bracknell's.
            'We're gonna need a bigger boat.'
            The show in the evening was terrific - the audience were terrific more to the point and over the tannoy could hear them screaming with laughter.
            As it was Jess' birthday, after the show we went to a local bar (far busier and smellier than our lovely horse and groom) for drinks. By the sounds of things - and seeing her the next day - she certainly had a good night but may have regretted her 5:00am finishing time with two shows and a get out the following day...

            Ducky and I went to visit Eton that morning after skyping my parents (hi Mum, hi Dad!). There were loads of lovely little art galleries along the way and it made me think of how (ironically) penniless I would be if I ever came into any money having spent it all on paintings.

            Paintings and food.
            Paintings and food and drink.
            Paintings and food and drink and clothes.
            Paintings and food and drink and clothes and trinkets.
            Paintings...
            It was a strange experience, walking the little streets of the college town, seeing the faces of the young lads that in twenty years time will no doubt be running the country, who, at the minute, are nothing more than children.
            Odd.

Apparently it's tradition...
            Not only that, but seeing a part of the public school system that I can only ever observe and never understand. Stories can be passed around and opinions shed, but at the end of the day, only those that are lucky enough to go (subjective) will know what it's really like. The rest of us are onlookers; scrutinising a privilege that they had no say in. I feel both sympathy and contempt for them. Admiration and irritation. But what one must always remember is that they are people just like anyone else. They're made up of the same blood, flesh and bone that makes up everyone from the Queen to Bob the Butcher. In fact, I count myself very lucky to be friends with many public school graduates and would speak of them all with nothing but the upmost respect and fondness. A certain Guy and Garrett come to mind.
            I suppose it's just important not to judge a book...
            The matinee show was a packed house and didn't disappoint. We had buster the wonder-dog back with us too, to give our final two shows in Windsor that extra bit of clout.
            We had very little time in between shows (4:30pm matinee) so there wasn't much to do in the allocated time other than eat - and eat quick.
            I read an article about a boy-hood hero of mine, Rowan Atkinson. It was a fascinating interview; apparently he cries all the time (sound familiar?) and attributes it to some neglected issue that he's never unearthed.
            Let's not go there...

            He also was quoted in saying that the art of creating and performing comedy to be a "painful, serious and lonely craft."
            Well, if anyone is experienced enough to make a statement about it - it's him.
            Our final show in Windsor was a great one to close on. We enjoyed a pretty respectable audience count and went out on a real bang.
            Following the show, everyone made their way back to London/their various places of residence.
            Cuckoo and I went for something to eat at a suitably expensive curry house to top off a wholly pricy week.
            It's been a lovely stay in Windsor, full of experiences that I'll take away with me in my little memory bank called life; but now comes the real test; everyone, on the road, touring the shows.
            Mansfield, here we come.



Sunday 18 September 2011

'And we'll strive to please you everyday' - Week 8


copyright. Sheila Burnett

      
             Sunday was a glorious blur. I woke at a perfectly respectable and greatly enjoyed 11:00am, walked out of my room and was accosted at the top of the stairs:
            "Rhys," Joanne said, "would you and Rachel like a fry-up?"
            I could have kissed her.
            I knocked on Ducky's door, opened it a jar and she quacked at me as we tend to do. "Guess what?' I said.
            "Has Christmas come?" She asked and squealed when she smelt the intoxicating waff of butter braised sausages and grilled-top tomatoes.
            We were a happy pair.

            We went from Breakfast to Lunch almost immediately. Arthur, Cuckoo, Garreth and the two of us had made plans to go for a meal in a nearby - Michelin  recommended - pub, for lunch. It didn't disappoint.
            Not a lot else happened in the evening. I made a 'master plan' list for the show of entrances/exits/prop moves/scene changes that will hopefully help me come show time.
            It only dawned on me, typing the last sentence, that the show would be up and running in the space of a day.
            Take a breath, King.
            Monday came, the day of the first show.
            We met early in the green room for notes of the first half of the show from the Saturday's dress rehearsal.
            One of my particular favourites was discussing the logistics of placing my (Sir Andrew's) hand on Lucy (Maria's...) boob. This comes in the first Andrew, Toby and Maria scene where she demonstrates her complete intellectual superiority by taking Andrew's hand to the 'buttery bar'. I think that I now conclusively know how to grope Lucy's tit.
            After notes we revisited the first half of the play, completing the same cue to cue exercise that we did with the second half at the end of Saturday's rehearsal.

The stage in waiting
            Following that, we did a speed run of Act V - as it is probably the least worked scene of the play.
            Interesting fact; is there a missing act? Fifth acts would always have more than one scene or not exist at all; the fact that Twelfth Night has a fifth act consisting of only one scene has plagued analysts and critics for years.
            I'd love to offer a theory or answer, but...
            Can't.
            In the afternoon, we did our second and final dress rehearsal.
            It wasn't the smoothest that I've ever had, but we did get through it and re-salvaged the new pieces of blocking etc that we've begun to find of late.
            Afterward, we all went our separate ways to prepare for the evening show.
            I turned to a passage that I've often found comfort in:

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

An 'Actor's eye-view' of the Wilde Theatre

            No prizes for guessing the play.
            So...
            The audience entered, we gulped, gasped and gawked at the eventuality that we would actually have to perform the show.
            The adrenalin started pumping, the nerves shivered and shook and, looking back, a bit like a starched shirt, I think that it was the only thing that kept me stiff and standing. I was ready and we were ready.
            We weren't ready, but we were ready.
            Or were we...?

copyright. Sheila Burnett

            I could talk about that first show infinitely, but when all's done, all that needs to be said is that we put on a fucking good show. We managed it by the skin of our teeth, but by God we did it. I still can't believe it.
            They loved it too. We had two schools in who were remarkably responsive. The laughs came, as did the cries.
            The first half came and went in a sweaty blur.
            As did the second.            

copyright. Sheila Burnett
            When we got to the final scene and entered for the last montage while Leo, as Feste sang, I must admit to shedding a little tear. We've been on one hell of a roller coaster for Twelfth Night and have experienced real highs and lows as a cast and company. We've been under tremendous stress, time restraints and tribulations, but, together, we have made it through. We can now look to the near future and the enjoyment that we are going to have in touring the country with two terrific productions.
            I reflected, as I heard the lines, on the aptness of the song, both to us, in the context of the play and the trials that actors put themselves through for the enjoyment and scrutiny of others. Deep down, I suppose, (and I'm generalising here) we're all just looking for acceptance; the stage or screen, maybe being the most economical way of doing it?
            Feste puts it best:

            When that I was and a little tiny boy,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
    For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man’s estate,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
‘Gainst knaves and thieves men shut the gate,
    For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
    For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
    For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done,
    And we’ll strive to please you every day.

copyright. Sheila Burnett
            I slept in until midday on Tuesday. I suppose that my body needed the time to recuperate from the previous day and judging by the way that I felt, it had done the job.
            I casually made my way in to the theatre before we were scheduled to meet and read to pass the time.
            Later on, everyone arrived for the work of the day. We began with notes that lasted about an hour. What was so lovely to see was how relaxed we all were. It was as if an enormous weight had been instantaneously lifted from our should           My interesting note of the session was to take out all of the asides/motions to the audience, that Sir Andrew has. 
copyright. Sheila Burnett

            "Let's make him internal to the play," Al said, "let's make his world the play and there be nothing else for him." What this will do for me is make him totally dependant on the characters around him. It will take away the comfort that he finds in taking solace with the crowd before him. He is isolated and, yet again, even more alone.
            Following notes, we worked on a few scenes that Al wanted to look at and hone.
            Everyone was upbeat. We glided through the work, pleased with the progress that we were making in finding more and more layers to the scenes. The characters are becoming fuller, more rounded and complete by the day. It's a joy to watch and be a part of. The scenes are enhancing and going from good, to very good.
            "At the moment" Shiv said, "I feel like flour and water. I'm only now becoming the cake."
            I don't think that I can summarize how I also feel better than that.

copyright. Sheila Burnett
             Our performance in the evening was a typical second nighter. In the theatrical world there are certain religiously observed myths; one is that a bad dress makes for a good first night - in our case, true - the other, that the second night of a performance will always be shit - again, in our part...
            That's probably unfair to the show, though. It could have certainly been better, but we had tightened it in many ways from the previous night. It was also a good test of our resolve. The audience was slim on the ground and - especially doing the comic moments - was tough when expecting and hoping for a reaction that didn't come.
            But, it must be said, the audience that where there, got the same show that a packed house would have got. One always has to remember, that no matter how many are in, those that are in, have paid to be there, and therefore deserve the best performance that we have to give.
            I hope they felt that we appreciated their attendance, because we really did.
            I took refuge in the green room on the Wednesday before we began work. I did a little admin (sigh) and some writing. One thing that I've learnt from my previous tours is that it's so important to keep active during the days before the evening performances. It's so easy to slip into a pattern of waking up late and relying on digs and TV to pass the time, but the mind has to be kept active and, if you are so inclined; creative.
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            My creativity was however shortened by the need to find some digs for Mansfield and Chipping Norton. Now, I am a self-confessed USELESS digs-hunter, but I am proud to say that I have broken the habit of a lifetime and found two sets of digs. Ducky couldn't believe it and Alastair simply denies it.
            Understandable given my track record.
            I must say, that having called through the lists, I think that I have deprived myself years of quality entertainment. It must take a particularly warm, liberal and arty type to welcome complete strangers into their own homes; case and point, the lovely lady that we'll be staying with in Mansfield, made a point of saying to me, "Now if either of you smoke, I would ask you not to do so in the house," understandable, "and also if the bathroom door bursts open, it's not my husband or I coming to molest you," - hang about - "it's just our little dog who likes to go in there..."
            Wow.
            Digs hunting, done, we started the afternoon's work. Sir Topaz was the first port of call and Lucy, Seb, Leo and Arthur worked long and hard in making the scene even better than it already is. Accompanied by Alan's superb lighting and Dom's terrifying sound design, the scene is now, probably my favourite.
copyright. Sheila Burnett
            We then ran and rehearsed the final act and tweaked a few parts that were still proving problematic. 
            I must now nod to a friend of mine, who has recently moved with his beautiful family, to Canada, who played Sir Andrew at Regent's Park a few years ago. He gave me the idea to offer Olivia a flower on Sir Andrew's final exit and I am proud to say that we have included it in our show. The audience in the evening loved it too. They began laughing and ended, sympathetically.
            James, your departure from the Acting profession is a crime and I credit your brilliance totally with my final Aguecheek moments.

copyright. Sheila Burnett
            Mid-way through the show - which was, like the night before, very quiet - I caught a glimpse into the mindset of a stand-up comic. Actors and comedians aren't all that dissimilar to begin with. Both are more comfortable in front of a crowd of people and both are looking for some kind of confirmation of their talents in applause.
            I could use the term, 'acceptance' again.
            One major difference though, is the laughter scale. If you're a comedian, getting a laugh is pretty much a must. If it were not, I'd think of a change of profession... For an actor, however, unless performing a comedy piece, the lack of laughs is all but unnoticed. There may be the odd line here and there that prompts and expects a chuckle, but by and large, the focus is on the drama of the piece; telling a story. What I have noticed, in playing Sir Andrew, is the overwhelming sense of anxiety that I hold throughout the play. So many of his lines are funny (unwittingly) that if a laugh doesn't come (regardless of our small audiences) I find myself retreating to the wings as a failure. I'm steadily morphing into a laughter-whore and if I don't get my fix...
            I exaggerate, but I really do have a newfound respect for those who seek peels of praise from others in order to make a living.
            Respect and incredulity!
            We had a matinee on Thursday afternoon. Not only a matinee, but a 1:30pm matinee. Not only a 1:30pm matinee, but a 1:30pm matinee to an audience of school children.
            Now, my previous experiences of performing to School audiences have not been good; I remember, on one such occasion, performing Journey's End in Reading; I had just finished Hibbert's big emotional breakdown and began to walk offstage when a slow murmur of laughs started to ripple, with one delightful chap calling out, "Poof."
            His friends laughed.
            The smart-arsed little shit.

copyright. Sheila Burnett
            This audience however went a long way in restoring my faith in the UK's teenagers.  They were attentive, generous in their responses and emotionally engaged right through to the end. If any of you that attended on that matinee get a chance to read this, please know and tell your mates that you made our afternoon.
            In between shows (and with no sea to swim in...) the 'Matinee Swim Club' became the Matinee 'Sleep' Club. It was as if the entire green room had been pumped full of anaesthetic. At one point I was in a fit of giggles, when Seb sat down beside me, still in the full gusto of conversation, stopped speaking and within 20 seconds, was purring like a cat.

'Garfield'
            The evening show was VIP night and we enjoyed performing the show to a packed house. It's amazing how much colour, light and shade has been added to the show since we opened at the beginning of the week. New moments are constantly being found and added upon with every performance and the audience experienced the benefit of a week of trials and errors.
            In the theatre bar afterwards, I saw Gill (Alastair's lovely Mum), Rat (his brother) and Maddy (Rat's girlfriend). I haven't seen them for almost a year, when I stayed at the Whatley household during a week of Madness of George III. It was so good to catch up with them and I look for ward to seeing Gill and Mole (Alastair's Dad) when we venture to Bury St Edmunds later in the tour (I promise to excel at 'log duty'!) . Till then, I hope that you continue to enjoy the blog and follow our progress along the way.
            On Friday, I went to the theatre early to do some washing and met with Guy and Alastair as they discussed the plan of action for the first night in Windsor. Guy has been working flat-out, trying to recruit the first 'Original Theatre Friends’, which will be coming to see the show on that first night.            
            We left Guy, to join Chris and the team for a line run of See How They Run, in preparation of Saturday's performances.
            We sat in the grounds of South Hill Park, on the very spot that the Original Theatre Company's first production of Twelfth Night took place...


            We, quite remarkably, remembered everything, with only occasional prodding towards the correct line.

            That evening, we performed our final Twelfth Night show of our time in Bracknell. It was probably the best that we've done so far and we ended the show all saying the same thing, "I'm not ready to leave it yet."

copyright. Sheila Burnett
            I'm so proud of our shows.
            I'm proud that (in my humble opinion) we've achieved something very unique and special. We have two incredibly different shows, both wonderful in their own rights being performed by a frankly brilliant cast who have achieved a minor miracle in creating such detailed and well-studied work.
            I doth my cap to you all.
            And, with that, we leave Shakespeare until we arrive in Chipping Norton in a couple of weeks.
            So, anyone fancy a little but of farce?
            When I arrived at the theatre on Saturday, the tech team had done a stellar job in erecting the SHTR set in place of TN. They had worked into the wee small hours of the morning, fitting the show and focussing the lights in preparation for the switch over.
            It's such a treat as an actor to tour with two shows.

copyright. Sheila Burnett

copyright. Sheila Burnett
            Having had my fair share of touring experience, I wouldn't be out of order to point out that doing the same show for 4 months can become rather tedious... At least this way, both shows are kept as fresh as possible.

            What I did not anticipate was just how strange it would feel. It's been 2 weeks since we last performed SHTR and a lot has happened since then - we've opened a whole other show for one thing; a different show that we've been performing for the entire week!
            Before the show, we rehearsed a few predictable problem moments and checked out our new dog, Buster's credentials. Verdict; the dog is better than us.
            We had a fight call and prepared for the show.            
            God, it was bizarre. Like the previous day, we remembered 99.9% of it, but what was so peculiar was how dreamlike it felt. It was like one had been roughly awoken from a deep sleep, dragged out of bed and asked to do some advanced trigonometry whilst juggling a cat, a dog and a potato.

            Al said, and I concur, "My body seems to know what to do more than my brain does." Deeply disconcerting...
            In between shows Chris gave us notes, which he kindly moderated in relation to our 2 week SHTR absence.

            Later on, I read.
            I'm still devouring 'Love in the time of Cholera'. A magical, painful tale of a man who never gives up his pursuit of the one he covets.
            "The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love."
            Beautiful. Perfect. Inspired.
            Norwich won their first Premier league game of the season. 2-1 against Bolton. Sublime.
            The evening show reverted back to the comfortableness that we knew at Eastbourne. The audience were hanging on every word and we enjoyed a fabulous last performance at South Hill.
            Being back in Bracknell has been every bit the adventure that I thought it would. It's been tough at times and exhilarating at others. One thing that I certainly don't doubt is that it's all been worth it. Both shows are now up and running and spirits are higher than ever.
            Windsor, we're ready for you and we're taking no prisoners.