tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17905222157140991972024-03-14T01:06:00.681+00:00Les Planches d'Outre-MancheUnder construction - if I can get the timberBelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-37391315933650648692010-02-06T02:09:00.003+00:002010-02-06T02:58:13.938+00:00When they’re good, they’re brilliant<span style="font-size:85%;">I’ve been in love with the British theatre for so long that I’ve almost forgotten how good French actors can be.<br /><br />Earlier today, I found these two small gems featuring one of my favourite French actors – Robert Hirsch. Between 1948 and 1974, he was the star of the Comédie-Française. He played all the great classical parts, as well as modern roles. He was superb in absolutely <i>everything</i>. He had oodles of charm. His timing was matchless. He could be scary and moving, and hilariously funny.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />I saw him in numerous films, but only a few times on stage, unfortunately. I so wish I’d seen his Nero in <em>Britannicus</em>. Still, I got to see him in <em>Richard III</em>, directed by Terry Hands, and that was amazing.<br /><br />Anyway, if you don’t speak French, here's a bit of background info about these clips.<br /><br />The first one is a short parody of Victor Hugo’s romantic drama <em>Ruy Blas</em>. Watch Robert Hirsch becoming more and more childishly petulant as a ‘sociétaire de la Comédie-Française’ (i.e. an associate member of the illustrious theatrical company, which, of course, he was at the time) who feels he cannot give his all because of two other actors who are not up to it and a set that refuses to cooperate. By his side, trying to calm him down, is Jacques Charon, who was his partner on stage and in real life.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><center><span style="font-size:85%;"> <object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fLUe5bUq0Kk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fLUe5bUq0Kk&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object> </span></center><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Every year, the Union des Artistes du Spectacle used to organise a charity event (on behalf of old artistes who didn’t have a pension), in which famous actors, singers, etc. used to perform something unusual – for them; most of the time a circus act. Here are Robert Hirsch and Jacques Charon in <em>Swan Lake</em>. They are introduced by Jacques Chancel – a very famous talk show host – and the wonderful choreographer Maurice Béjart.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><center><span style="font-size:85%;"> <object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DU-giYm4brg&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DU-giYm4brg&hl=en_GB&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object> </span></center>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-56306269762388047972009-12-28T18:22:00.004+00:002010-02-13T19:48:24.815+00:00To be or not to be…in Shakespeare<span style="font-size:85%;">After you’ve watched the wonderful documentary mentioned below, you can stay with 4oD and watch </span><a href="http://www.channel4.com/programmes/to-be-or-not-to-be-in-shakespeare" target="_blank"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">this one</span></strong></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> about acting in Shakespeare It’s funny, illuminating and touching, and you can catch an amazing glimpse of Donald Sutherland as Fortinbras. But hurry: you only have 14 days left to see this little gem.<br /><br />A few random thoughts:<br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;">1) I was reminded of how monotonous Ian McKellen’s voice is and of how much I dislike him – most of the time. (Sorry, Sir Ian, but, yes, you are right, for the first 30 years of your career, you <i>were</i> rubbish. And later too, actually…)<br /><br />2) When an actor says he learned his craft by watching Tim Pigott-Smith, Greg Hicks and Sam West instead of Ian Richardson, David Warner, Robert Stephens, Derek Jacobi, Alan Howard <em>et al</em>, you know <i>he</i> doesn’t have such a good ear for language and <i>you</i> are old (see below for confirmation).<br /><br />3) Although once described by someone who <i>knew</i> as <i>the</i> most boring actor in the world, Patrick Stewart is also one of the most endearing (and I’ve long forgiven him for nearly killing me – see my <i>Slap of the Day</i> post </span><a href="http://slapoftheday.blogspot.com/2008/08/drat-i-could-have-made-killing.html" target="_blank"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">here</span></strong></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> for the story).<br /><br />4) I did see Eileen Atkins as Rosalind at Stratford, in 1973: it didn’t make me want to become an actress, nor – as in the case of Gregory Doran (don’t you just love his hair!) – a theatre director: it was one of the worst productions of the play I was going to see in my long theatregoing career. I loved the late lamented Buzz Goodbody, but she was misguided there: it seemed obvious to me (and to others) that having Rosalind wear trousers from the start wouldn’t work when the plot required for her to put on male attire.<br /><br />5) I want to know what Imogen Stubbs uses on her face to remain looking so youthful: she’s hardly changed since I first saw her at the RSC over 20 years ago. I can testify she <i>does</i> look young: I saw her the other day in my local TK Maxx. Spooky.<br /></span></blockquote>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-81612984259075922952009-12-25T19:14:00.007+00:002010-03-02T03:22:14.618+00:00In the nick of time<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_J6GzMaMT7RG3kth3sjRvCzqMrS9x5Wr0Q-lFAwFWuG4MRN77PFLvJ7e3nkkJO0Epi-OAIBhudqw96VQ94mazvWDHqcrlwipobdI4_5RS-Pe5uVLVK0J9nuWeg6bZfl9tTR7EPrQS2_U/s1600-h/warhorse1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 278px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419261930894072882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_J6GzMaMT7RG3kth3sjRvCzqMrS9x5Wr0Q-lFAwFWuG4MRN77PFLvJ7e3nkkJO0Epi-OAIBhudqw96VQ94mazvWDHqcrlwipobdI4_5RS-Pe5uVLVK0J9nuWeg6bZfl9tTR7EPrQS2_U/s400/warhorse1.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Forget about Keira Knightley in a bad modern adaptation of a French masterpiece, the theatrical star of the West End is a horse. Not even a real, flesh-and-blood horse – a life-size puppet. Actually, several puppet horses.<br /><br />Watch <a href="http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/53171/interactive/making-war-horse-dvd.html" target="_blank"><strong>this</strong></a> and you’ll understand. There is also a wonderful video diary (in six parts) by one of the puppeteers on YouTube.<br /><br />Steven Spielberg has bought the film rights of <em>War Horse</em>, but, whatever he does with it – and no doubt it will be brilliant, it won’t be as heartrending and spectacular as the stage production.<br /><br />If you haven’t seen it yet, go go go… what are you waiting for? </span>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-64319309771854697792008-11-05T13:15:00.013+00:002009-10-25T15:37:08.890+00:00Henry V at the Odéon<span style="font-size:85%;">I haven’t got time just now to write a blah blah for these pictures (I will, a bit later), but I don’t want to deprive you of them one moment longer.<br /><br />They were taken backstage (actually ‘under’ the stage) during a performance of <em>Henry V</em> at the Odéon Theatre in Paris, in May 1976. And at the First Night party. I was working as a dresser cum interpreter.<br /><br />There are some distinguished actors in these pics, but one of them is <i>very</i> famous. Can you see who it is?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUeE5swEnJn3EXX9JpAawBGdq0pfxqDbKRXsfh3B3zrb7R5_ey6DepNDmCoW5dpv10nvpfEeHiz8fr25eob-6fzNtwP8tIGdOUZ7rwOQD8wFvdaTZIHCfxUqKZ20Kjg9aVT1Jmw3bGFc/s1600-h/23.05.76+-1+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 204px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265167525936448130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUeE5swEnJn3EXX9JpAawBGdq0pfxqDbKRXsfh3B3zrb7R5_ey6DepNDmCoW5dpv10nvpfEeHiz8fr25eob-6fzNtwP8tIGdOUZ7rwOQD8wFvdaTZIHCfxUqKZ20Kjg9aVT1Jmw3bGFc/s320/23.05.76+-1+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenYHzyJqnsGoGIFjQ04CoAv4FrI0Ozt89C1YBxZpLS_eDGYv1Yes6lZgbuLG76J4jtdswAhsbeiXeN1QyaCQg0CenbtPeW9GgNaJ39rxAxjhNM5pyYRvT1b8GvK1wLU2rY0doQs11TJQ/s1600-h/23.05.76+-2+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265167756723199890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenYHzyJqnsGoGIFjQ04CoAv4FrI0Ozt89C1YBxZpLS_eDGYv1Yes6lZgbuLG76J4jtdswAhsbeiXeN1QyaCQg0CenbtPeW9GgNaJ39rxAxjhNM5pyYRvT1b8GvK1wLU2rY0doQs11TJQ/s320/23.05.76+-2+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvDMkrt_uRwL3zl3dSfkLLbsbbD3_48-8X6md4EURIIMhZqd9HGUKr_s6cx4FrMVmUhvLPnvJ5X8weGHVBJjltv8Di9zKI61k6clNgVK8diJYzco6gmwE2wthXxZ72hZ0qYF4YdDC3Z4/s1600-h/23.05.76+-3+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 206px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265168734964520082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvDMkrt_uRwL3zl3dSfkLLbsbbD3_48-8X6md4EURIIMhZqd9HGUKr_s6cx4FrMVmUhvLPnvJ5X8weGHVBJjltv8Di9zKI61k6clNgVK8diJYzco6gmwE2wthXxZ72hZ0qYF4YdDC3Z4/s320/23.05.76+-3+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzExpnGOpVpFscmbhp1LriH4Afmujvs0gJ7-mpaqUne78DeJEpi2zbwU7p-9fd9EVfIZvST-wlZkhtPaAil5lxJrFiDWblFdiFnA4nz9NapB5XS9Z-LNbkScjb_8GQ2NySt9ogyBJdeFs/s1600-h/23.05.76+-4+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 203px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265168944649536690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzExpnGOpVpFscmbhp1LriH4Afmujvs0gJ7-mpaqUne78DeJEpi2zbwU7p-9fd9EVfIZvST-wlZkhtPaAil5lxJrFiDWblFdiFnA4nz9NapB5XS9Z-LNbkScjb_8GQ2NySt9ogyBJdeFs/s320/23.05.76+-4+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaM99zqyOaP3V-2dvhr67PAO_ezz9biB65K7yUBCnuYehgOXCZ3NoCq7tGWZq5DsoQ7gG6nia1y7V89B6XmUM1TBx7qLLBd-wuNC-OwfcTBUriuHoH7X-RCjQkdC6yCKA4mizzyoWCNHs/s1600-h/23.05.76+-5+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265169169473069074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaM99zqyOaP3V-2dvhr67PAO_ezz9biB65K7yUBCnuYehgOXCZ3NoCq7tGWZq5DsoQ7gG6nia1y7V89B6XmUM1TBx7qLLBd-wuNC-OwfcTBUriuHoH7X-RCjQkdC6yCKA4mizzyoWCNHs/s320/23.05.76+-5+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG9O4jEh9WHqZLiYpFO9utZClr_9MHQgRmvlknbF9eFNi2BTBEvqL0UyLH0B-35F7x9NWzIL_iAWiKmgljh6TLCQHMJnIMP2C55lk5sMEpkH5sRi3zG3YCHwp-Hf-3TTppreVpej1T2co/s1600-h/26.05.76+-1+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 193px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265169407125077842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG9O4jEh9WHqZLiYpFO9utZClr_9MHQgRmvlknbF9eFNi2BTBEvqL0UyLH0B-35F7x9NWzIL_iAWiKmgljh6TLCQHMJnIMP2C55lk5sMEpkH5sRi3zG3YCHwp-Hf-3TTppreVpej1T2co/s320/26.05.76+-1+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrd5x9UnHXnI-6RK3wCiznUgceicnXADhmHKCYATvO8x89xRUG7V5PjRWMi8k_KvMUf3OncNUrhBxc_vUUrgwGtqi9D7_UFQXgjORC_iyUwnP5tWDmR317ykY6sOKINxe7iNPVlFAGbgs/s1600-h/26.05.76+-2+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 206px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265169610563012690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrd5x9UnHXnI-6RK3wCiznUgceicnXADhmHKCYATvO8x89xRUG7V5PjRWMi8k_KvMUf3OncNUrhBxc_vUUrgwGtqi9D7_UFQXgjORC_iyUwnP5tWDmR317ykY6sOKINxe7iNPVlFAGbgs/s320/26.05.76+-2+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSg6LuJRej3bFoRoahC_OovgAW4imDX9CVeax2PT-YZL56pIG-sdXmeO-eucJZao7gF3ya0MNqazX3EBXyCq4St7NzDDHQxa0dI-m0D7WSypaQsk1H9ntjlJCiHioKGryYnePFvhmUs6w/s1600-h/26.05.76+-3+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265169810166820130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSg6LuJRej3bFoRoahC_OovgAW4imDX9CVeax2PT-YZL56pIG-sdXmeO-eucJZao7gF3ya0MNqazX3EBXyCq4St7NzDDHQxa0dI-m0D7WSypaQsk1H9ntjlJCiHioKGryYnePFvhmUs6w/s320/26.05.76+-3+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZnY5CcnNtoJNN21GYzFI99mnd78LKpiDJ0-Tk162htIL4oF5dv8eFsEzJBUFxVOoV060yxHanNW5OhtQhd5iCrWYLwW-7TNNzRrcteIGaUQNeRzEMt_VhhPZbKMGYLIH0rxpu0iXe5s/s1600-h/26.05.76+-4+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 205px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265170055032233378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZnY5CcnNtoJNN21GYzFI99mnd78LKpiDJ0-Tk162htIL4oF5dv8eFsEzJBUFxVOoV060yxHanNW5OhtQhd5iCrWYLwW-7TNNzRrcteIGaUQNeRzEMt_VhhPZbKMGYLIH0rxpu0iXe5s/s320/26.05.76+-4+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396559519606825890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPfbpglv24tzknWdoguAUjua0puJgq_75nm-q3AkpTlLRCV0cdjqKUgYCWp-GZhyphenhyphenS8pcb6zEhCMS6rwRpbOq4o3Vo3W3QKzJnkJrsL113sK30r4gEcU8DuO1HaspuXLCqYeMEo_T2S9EQ/s320/Henry+V+26.05.76+(11).jpg" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtL2in7H4xIW71GxgdV3bv52f3G9YSdY-mQEPlwU18gNzdpYD-KZmFHooD8HZu3Z0PLXYqZJ5Z9iPi26lRt6EDkrw42XACCm2xuuCmernWeWv9Dnz19nikrZytRxKyoDjkSe-b7AdPuw/s1600-h/26.05.76+-5+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 210px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265170233157607938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtL2in7H4xIW71GxgdV3bv52f3G9YSdY-mQEPlwU18gNzdpYD-KZmFHooD8HZu3Z0PLXYqZJ5Z9iPi26lRt6EDkrw42XACCm2xuuCmernWeWv9Dnz19nikrZytRxKyoDjkSe-b7AdPuw/s320/26.05.76+-5+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7kgBFFdnNWuVS2KTVjQj4pte9mMvHg_bBGyYsI9vZ73FBm89E_GwEb_q-MfFgd21qdC255KvOVrAIqhVI9W3okEEMOHMZWfo8pnIa0T5J-QNtVeFekgCuTnI9LU9BPre8vMDhuyEZz4/s1600-h/27.05.76+-1+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 202px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265170496224086930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7kgBFFdnNWuVS2KTVjQj4pte9mMvHg_bBGyYsI9vZ73FBm89E_GwEb_q-MfFgd21qdC255KvOVrAIqhVI9W3okEEMOHMZWfo8pnIa0T5J-QNtVeFekgCuTnI9LU9BPre8vMDhuyEZz4/s320/27.05.76+-1+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLA9qUxUloBJdRS1NwIiJmuymbpiO8tsCTPQyooEvip2KUjzwBxH3_OAtDM7zffvBpsZVJW5mPY0p8ckS4C9eJQzOyiHiER_lYallYmnchMDBYSWqM1A6pPmkwRi6I0NluKaf1h4Z4x8/s1600-h/27.05.76+-2+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 202px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265170719357789490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlLA9qUxUloBJdRS1NwIiJmuymbpiO8tsCTPQyooEvip2KUjzwBxH3_OAtDM7zffvBpsZVJW5mPY0p8ckS4C9eJQzOyiHiER_lYallYmnchMDBYSWqM1A6pPmkwRi6I0NluKaf1h4Z4x8/s320/27.05.76+-2+-+Copy.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLEtWmPzcwssy0teiWWS6m4cyCQo2E4mtXJdssaDET2sjcy7n3Cz_WszdOVbDC629u8CyPQ66A6oIQlMgYnFPrfbri0XT8bDe-w5ghqgIriWo3V_LtoBNeoGUqIDiUybGUGEHAZdfUsg/s1600-h/27.05.76+-3+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 207px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265170926157716162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLEtWmPzcwssy0teiWWS6m4cyCQo2E4mtXJdssaDET2sjcy7n3Cz_WszdOVbDC629u8CyPQ66A6oIQlMgYnFPrfbri0XT8bDe-w5ghqgIriWo3V_LtoBNeoGUqIDiUybGUGEHAZdfUsg/s320/27.05.76+-3+-+Copy.jpg" /></a>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-44216516815821138642008-10-17T00:53:00.000+01:002008-10-21T13:19:07.435+01:00As long as he loves his mother…<span style="font-size:85%;"><em><span style="color:#663366;"></span></em></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><span style="color:#663366;">Since I can’t possibly be objective about the production, I have asked <strong>Lulu</strong> (who said she was going to the Press Night) to be my first Guest Reviewer.<br /></span></em><br /><em>Oedipus</em> is a play that we always find is somehow about us. And I’d always thought, the more stylised the presentation – masks, formal movement, ululation – the easier it is to latch on to the universality. I like my Greek tragedy really, really Greek.<br /><br />So it is disconcerting at first as, on to a beaten copper domed stage, through a huge bronze door, appears a shirt-clad Ralph Fiennes looking anything but kingly, followed by a down-to-earth chorus of short, middle-aged businessmen in black suits, seating themselves on wooden benches at a refectory table that looks like something from a Maida Vale canalside pub. And what of Clare Higgins’ matronly but undeniably seaside-landlady-like Jocasta, in a too-tight black dress and clippy heels?<br /><br />But then Fiennes launches, with typical vocal power, into his opening speech…and then one by one the chorus start to speak, then to sing…and the spell begins to be woven, blending the ancient and modern elements so that the eruption on to the stage of Alan Howard’s Teirisias as an Irish dunk, in a crumpled cream linen safari suit, seems to strike just the right note, lending unexpected credibility to his seemingly rambling riddles and even more to the irritable impatience of the questioning king and his anxious listeners.<br /><br />Ralph Fiennes is a cool, cerebral actor, and I wasn’t expecting to be moved by him, but in his interpretation the intellectual ability and emotional restraint of Oedipus the man is foregrounded, throwing the escalating flashes of anger and despair into relief, and controlling the mounting horror as effectively as any Hollywood thriller. Even Jocasta’s uptight hairdo responds to the unstoppable downward tumult, disintegrating into hanks of fallen curls just ready for Oedipus to clutch in disgust and drag her to her knees as understanding dawns and he sees her in the harsh light of truth.<br /><br />It’s an uneven production. The low points: being distracted by Jocasta’s shoes coming dangerously close to wide gaps in the flooring. An audience that took 20 minutes to settle down. A misguided attempt by the National Theatre to do a ‘Greek-themed’ evening by playing 1930s <em>rembetika</em> in the foyer beforehand, the bouzouki creating the wrong mood entirely. And a pacey, fluent new translation by Frank McGuinness that had just a few too many colloquialisms not to grate (‘I rule the roost here!’)<br /><br />And the high spots? A chorus worthy of any Eisteddfod, with a lead singer you could listen to all night. Teirisias gloriously reimagined but still the outsider always, cursed by understanding. A heart-wrenching final scene with the ruined king and his children, little Antigone already fierce and loyal against her own interests, daddy’s little girl no matter what wrongs he’s committed, no matter how terrible he appears with the blood weeping from his pierced and sightless eyes. A perfect stage that looks like the roof of a church and at the same time an antique map of the world, revolving so slowly you hardly notice, in the 90-minute span bringing itself, and the audience, full circle, beginning and ending with itself, with ourselves.</span>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-57022490686573772022008-10-10T04:06:00.002+01:002009-10-23T16:38:29.752+01:00Oedipus Techs<span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-size:85%;">If you were to ask me where I feel most at peace, I would answer, ‘in an empty theatre, watching a technical rehearsal’. Technicals mean endless repetitions, long waiting periods when nothing seems to be happening, and a disjointed view of the production, but I love them. I know, I’m mad. That’s what Ian, the DSM (Deputy Stage Manager – hey, you’re going to have to find out for yourselves what these abbreviations stand for; I can’t keep telling you every time) on <i>Oedipus</i>, said to me the other day as he was leading me through the labyrinthine corridors of the National Theatre.<br /><br />Oh, didn’t I say: I spent practically the whole of Monday and Tuesday sitting quietly in one of the side aisles of the Olivier Theatre (a replica of the amphitheatre at Epidaurus, so the ideal setting for a Greek tragedy), watching the technical rehearsals of Jonathan Kent’s production of Sophocles’ play, in a new adaptation by Frank McGuinness.<br /><br />How did I manage that? Simple, I asked. Well, it probably helped that I knew Jonathan Kent at Stratford-upon-Avon, 34 years ago: he was a young actor with the RSC and I was a young French girl trying to get an interesting job with the company by mooching around the place, talking to everybody and attending every single performance of every show that was on – either sitting in the front row (when the house wasn’t very full) or standing at the back of the stalls. Jonathan and I chatted quite often in the Dirty Duck (the pub where all the actors used to gather before and after the performance). The ‘interesting’ job never really materialized (I’ve touched on the subject on my main blog), but I did work as an usherette (for only two nights because we weren’t allowed to see the p lays); in the catering department because they were allocated two comps every day and no one else ever wanted them; and also as a dresser at the Aldwych for a while. Jonathan played Aumerle in John Barton’s production of <i>Richard II</i> (with Ian Richardson and Richard Pasco alternating in the title role); I was dressing Northumberland (played by Clem McCallin – the tallest person in the company, of course, since I’m short) and they both shared a dressing room.<br /><br />Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, as part of a kind of arts festival called Open Rehearsal, the NT advertised that the public would be able to watch the evening ‘reset’ of <i>War Horse</i> at the Olivier. As the name indicates, during the reset, everything – the set, props, lighting, sound, etc. – is put back the way it needs to be before the next performance of a show. There had already been a matinee of <i>War Horse</i> that day and the reset is more ‘eventful’ if the evening play is different from the matinee’s, but it’s still fascinating if you’ve never seen it before. To cut a very long story short, my partner and I ended up watching it on our own, with just the Scheduling Manager, whom, as it turned out, I had been on tour with in Paris, in 1986 (he was a young electrician then). But I digress. On my way to the auditorium, I had dropped a letter for Jonathan at the Stage Door, asking to be allowed to attend a technical of <i>Oedipus</i> ‘en souvenir du bon vieux temps’, as it were. He said yes, and that is how, on Monday afternoon, I found myself sitting in a very familiar seat (I’ve sat in it so many times), watching the production slowly – <i>very</i> slowly – take shape.<br /><br />A typical technical rehearsal goes like this: the electricians go through the lighting plot and fiddle with the lamps so the lighting changes constantly in a seemingly erratic way; the stagehands adjust parts of the set and crawl on the stage in an attempt, say, to find out what on earth is making the revolve squeak; the actors chat or take their bearings on the stage while they wait for their cue (most of them say their lines without emotion, saving it all for ‘the real thing’); the women (it’s mostly women) from the wardrobe department come to see whether anything needs to be done to the costumes; the director stops and starts the play and watches it from different parts of the auditorium, checking sightlines; he/she is in constant dialogue with the Stage Manager, who writes down every move, every lighting and sound cue in ‘The Book’. People talk in small groups and attend quietly and efficiently to the tasks that have been assigned to them. There is activity <i>everywhere</i>, yet the atmosphere is that of quiet concentration. No raised voices; no ‘tempers’; just endless patience and attention to detail. Anything that goes wrong can – and will – be put right. All is well with the world. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">And as far as I was concerned, I was unreachable – it was an escape from the world, hence the sense of peace I experienced. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="color:#333333;">This is what the auditorium looked like on Tuesday evening, after the dress rehearsal.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITKgQMcMwTrYVv3qiyCe33FsEs79O3A_8yd4IfjblDtZ5T9OYQuwDhA64bdxvy4LpsXLWu6SLKHA8GxA-jqy95NnRqIM7lEv5BaaS5lSGvSy1trmWoJZcDt0G35Femkp5eZbpxzsLH-o/s1600-h/Oedipus+1.JPG"><span style="color:#333333;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255342085904276706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITKgQMcMwTrYVv3qiyCe33FsEs79O3A_8yd4IfjblDtZ5T9OYQuwDhA64bdxvy4LpsXLWu6SLKHA8GxA-jqy95NnRqIM7lEv5BaaS5lSGvSy1trmWoJZcDt0G35Femkp5eZbpxzsLH-o/s400/Oedipus+1.JPG" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#333333;"><br />This is not the first <i>Oedipus</i> I’ve been very close to: the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, brought their production of that harrowing play to the Edinburgh Festival in 1974. It was directed by the legendary Michael Cacoyannis (yes, the guy who did <i>Zorba the Greek</i>). He was intending to supervise the transfer to the Royal Lyceum stage, but he had fly back to Greece in a hurry the day before the first performance: he was a Greek Cypriot, and Turkey had just invaded a part of the island. He still had family there. <p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOsZMCp_vHvoddPNfZ7twOCxr5He83QI_SOrjS6qmxJ4nAN7cnwDS8HiO64htkFgW8Z1cYYHH7AhrK8LCoP4QhPIFlWJ-ayqea89aBLfQZ-Lzq7Lp52jqQIM3HywCfHKH52FJSWDr7dg/s1600-h/Poster.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256654440264764978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOsZMCp_vHvoddPNfZ7twOCxr5He83QI_SOrjS6qmxJ4nAN7cnwDS8HiO64htkFgW8Z1cYYHH7AhrK8LCoP4QhPIFlWJ-ayqea89aBLfQZ-Lzq7Lp52jqQIM3HywCfHKH52FJSWDr7dg/s400/Poster.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />I was dressing the boys from the Chorus <i>and</i> the lead actor Des Cave, in just one scene, which took place backstage. Oedipus was blinding himself (you do know the story, don’t you?) so his next entrance would have to be different – to say the least. It was a very quick change: I had to put Des into his ‘bloody’ costume (and press all the poppers on his back), while the make-up girl did his face and he howled. He was very good at howling, but there was a limit to how long that cry of anguish could be, so we only had about 60 seconds. It was nerve-racking, but rather hilarious too.<br /><br />I never saw the whole production since I was busy, but this is what the staging looked like then.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6XalXQ0ZFM9Br2BJNXgYk0oaWgbp4rd121W_7nC3r15mX3E6WUHiIzAQBwO6OJKFAetcYF4Q0157bh_M1emzKXsh1CK4tjuSt9TKVYsm-kDnGtbX9TRuftJZU-gDcwAgi-U1WjmtJlQ/s1600-h/Oedipus+74.jpg"><span style="color:#333333;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255342960080222066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6XalXQ0ZFM9Br2BJNXgYk0oaWgbp4rd121W_7nC3r15mX3E6WUHiIzAQBwO6OJKFAetcYF4Q0157bh_M1emzKXsh1CK4tjuSt9TKVYsm-kDnGtbX9TRuftJZU-gDcwAgi-U1WjmtJlQ/s400/Oedipus+74.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#333333;"><br />And here are three of my ‘boys’ in their dressing room. They were lovely guys: the one looking at himself in the mirror was called David Turner. He was an actor and dancer. We became great friends: on the last day, he borrowed a pound from me and bought me a small spray of Je Reviens with it (he’d previously asked what perfume I wore). Wasn’t that nice of him? I’m afraid I can’t remember the name of the contortionist.</span></p><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7Tv4AlSb7PrcfHOGl7sjgQEEfm_qboTu0VT41ye2zGpcdr3IuyYoX2SkA5yZIuvia9uhG4xVygkhpzftziq9njW6hpkqEpdKc7c82RQJZzzqmAYyxyiqO2bKeQ6U1hsh-vVvzzRwDZ4/s1600-h/Oedipus+74-2.jpg"><span style="color:#333333;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255343556205723778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN7Tv4AlSb7PrcfHOGl7sjgQEEfm_qboTu0VT41ye2zGpcdr3IuyYoX2SkA5yZIuvia9uhG4xVygkhpzftziq9njW6hpkqEpdKc7c82RQJZzzqmAYyxyiqO2bKeQ6U1hsh-vVvzzRwDZ4/s400/Oedipus+74-2.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#333333;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0xhn74ZgenLutTrbE9cJhmKhtNQnicew4XLVocKMC8PRyYAgJDbMeMOF6J2paW8ig4IQ2JnQGGAIeKwFxtpmPqhS9TdbmAw_Zld6hgqUgryUXbP84fIXLl_RMVUv64yLrDv3oYgyUSo/s1600-h/Oedipus+74-3.jpg"><span style="color:#333333;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255343823495003666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0xhn74ZgenLutTrbE9cJhmKhtNQnicew4XLVocKMC8PRyYAgJDbMeMOF6J2paW8ig4IQ2JnQGGAIeKwFxtpmPqhS9TdbmAw_Zld6hgqUgryUXbP84fIXLl_RMVUv64yLrDv3oYgyUSo/s400/Oedipus+74-3.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="color:#333333;"><br />The first preview of Jonathan’s production was on Wednesday night; there haven’t been any reviews yet since the Press Night is next week, so I cannot reveal anything about the staging – not one thing – nor can I tell you what Ralph Fiennes, who plays Oedipus, is like in it. All I can say is that, after seeing it twice from beginning to end – a run-through and the dress rehearsal – and seeing lots of scenes several times, I was enthralled. But then I’ve always got very attached to any production I’ve worked on or got to know very well. One of my oldest and best friends (David Shaw-Parker) is in it; I toured in Paris and Brussels with two of the other actors (Alan Howard and Malcolm Storry); I’ve even chatted to the lead once at a Christmas party, so you won’t get an objective opinion from me. I am going to the Press Night and to the party afterwards. What do you bet <em>someone</em> – who didn’t notice me in the course of those two days – will ask in what capacity I’m there?</span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#333333;"><strong><em>Update (11/10/08):</em></strong> There is now a lovely trailer for the production on the NT’s website, <a href="http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/oedipus">here</a> </span></span></p>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-69916485609311302892008-10-09T01:25:00.000+01:002008-10-15T01:33:08.875+01:00Théâtre à l’anglaise<span style="font-size:85%;">Planification subtile ou coïncidence curieuse, la saison 1979/80 de la Royal Shakespeare Company s’est ouverte le soir de la Première de <em>Coriolan</em> de l’Odéon représenté par cette même RSC dans une mise en scène de Terry Hands. Tandis qu’Alan Howard, vedette incontestée de la troupe depuis plusieurs années, incarnait le héros antique sur la scène parisienne, la vaste salle du Royal Shakespeare Theatre de Stratford-upon-Avon retentissait des rires du public aux malheurs de Falstaff dans <em>Les Joyeuses Commères de Windsor</em>, mis en scène par Trevor Nunn (le directeur artistique de la compagnie) dans des décors de John Napier. Suivra le 17 avril <em>Cymbeline</em>, conte de fées-mélodrame dont le héros est un « villain » dans la grande tradition des Richard III et des Iago.<br /><br />Le ténébreux Ben Kingsley sera le traître maléfique et Judi Dench sa victime, petit chaperon rouge perdu dans les bois de la vie. <em>La Nuit des Rois</em> dans une mise en scène de Terry Hands aura sa Première le 12 juin, avec dans l’un des rôles principaux John McEnery (le superbe Mercutio du<em> Roméo et Juliette</em> de Zeffirelli). La saison se poursuivra avec en août Othello incarné par Donald Sinden et mis en scène par Ronald Eyre, dont le dernier travail à Stratford date de 191. <em>Jules César</em> clôturera la saison au mois de septembre. Monté par Barry Kyle dans des décors de Christopher Morley, ce spectacle verra les débuts shakespeariens d’un tout jeune acteur, David Threlfall – lauréat d’un prix de la critique cet hiver – dans le rôle de Marc Antoine.<br /><br />Revenu entre-temps de la tournée européenne de Coriolan, Alan Howard jouera ce même personnage vieilli et au terme de sa vie dans l’<em>Antoine et Cléopâtre</em> de Peter Brook, à l’Aldwych Theatre de Londres, aux côtés de Glenda Jackson.</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Article publié dans <em>Les Nouvelles Littéraires</em>, le 5 avril 1979.</span></strong>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-60507243661903040042008-10-07T18:37:00.000+01:002008-10-15T01:30:28.509+01:00La Royal Shakespeare Company<span style="font-size:85%;">TÉMOIGNAGE<br /><br />Depuis 1875, de nombreux comédiens illustres se sont produits à Stratford-upon-Avon, au cours du Festival annuel, Mais ce n’est qu’en 1960 que Peter Hall, prenant la direction du théâtre, qui s’appelait alors Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, décida, en collaboration avec Peter Brook et Michel Saint-Denis, la création de la Royal Shakespeare Company : une troupe qui se renouvelle partiellement chaque année autour d’un petit groupe d’Artistes Associés – comédiens, metteurs en scène, décorateurs — sous contrat à long terme. L’actuel directeur artistique, Trevor Nunn, a succédé à Peter Hall en 1968 et poursuit essentiellement la politique de son prédécesseur. Nous publions ici le témoignage d’une Française, J. C. (1), passionnée par la R.S.C.<br /><br />Le Stratford-upon-Avon des dépliants touristiques, celui des Americains épuisés – caméra sur le ventre – qui se pressent à la queue leu leu dans la maison natale de Shakespeare, celui des écoliers que l’on traîne de force d’expositions en musées, celui des vendeurs de cendriers à l’effigie du « Grand Will », ce Stratford-là n’est qu’une illusion, le reflet déformé de «l’autre Stratford », du « village dans le village » qu’est le Royal Shakespeare Theatre. Cette grande bâtisse de brique rouge qui, jusqu’à la construction du Hilton local, était considérée comme le bâtiment le plus laid à dix lieues à la ronde, n’est pas un mausolée, un sanctuaire voué au culte de « saint Shakespeare » — bien que certains, mal informés continuent de l’appeler Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, perpétuant ainsi cette idée dans l’esprit du public. Dans le hall d’entrée du théâtre les affiches portent des noms qui ne sont pas étrangers au public de la Comédie-Française : Terry Hands, Farrah, Guy Woolfenden. Des cygnes glissent nonchalamment sur l’Avon, le cou tendu et l’œil avide; sur la berge les saules n’en finissent pas de pleurer. Et puis il y a d’autres noms « exotiques » sur ces affiches : Trevor Nunn, metteur en scène et directeur artistique de la Royal Shakespeare Company (R.S.C. pour les initiés); on lui doit, l’année dernière, une Comédie des erreurs musicale et rétro dans une Grèce de pacotille. Il déclare tristement dans sa barbe: « Après tout, notre choix d’œuvres à monter est restreint. Shakespeare n’a écrit que trente-sept pièces ! » Et comme la Charte Royale fait une obligation à la R.S.C. de jouer Shakespeare dans sa ville natale...<br /><br />Autre Artiste Associé qui a droit à une mention sous son nom (comme les Comédiens français) : John Barton, ancien professeur de Cambridge, devenu l’un des metteurs en scène les plus connus et critiqués de la compagnie ; il « améliore », dit-on, Shakespeare par des vers de son cru, et les érudits, toujours aux aguets et armés de leurs brochures, n’y voient en général que du feu... A part Farrah, qui travaille presque exclusivement avec Terry Hands, les décorateurs se nomment Chris Dyer, ou John Napier (la Nuit des Rois à l’Odéon...). En 1976 ils ont ensemble transformé complètement l’aspect de la salle et de la scène du R.S.T. en faisant construire deux galeries supplémentaires, surplombant le plateau, ce qui donnait aux spectateurs assis là l’impression de se trouver dans un théâtre élisabéthain, et l’illusion ineffable de faire partie du spectacle : la direction leur faisait d’ailleurs distribuer une petite note leur enjoignant de se tenir tranquilles pour ne pas distraire l’attention des autres spectateurs ! On ne sait pas encore si les deux balcons, construits en bois de récupération, seront utilisés cette année par Terry Hands dans sa mise en scène de Henry VI ou Alan Howard (que les Parisiens connaissent bien pour l’avoir vu dans le Songe d’une nuit d’été de Peter Brook, et l’année dernière dans Henry V à l’Odéon) tiendra trois fois le rôle principal du roi. Qui aura-t-il à ses côtés ? Des vétérans, comme Donald Sinden, Judi Dench, ou Tony Church qui font partie de la R.S.C. depuis des années, ou de jeunes recrues comme Mike Gwilym, Michael Pennington, Francesca Annis (la Lady Macbeth de Polanski) ou Ian McKellen, l’idole de la jeunesse ? Il y aura certainement aussi une actrice plus âgée pour jouer les nourrices et les sorcières, comme en ce moment Marie Kean (la mère de Barry Lyndon, dans le film de Kubrick). D’autres encore, choisis parmi les acteurs les plus doués de leur génération, la plupart ayant déjà derrière eux une carrière importante, et s’étant produits à la télévision et au cinéma. Tous arrivent à Stratford avec l’espoir de se perfectionner dans leur art, grâce aux cours de diction de Cicely Berry, qui leur réapprend surtout à se servir de leur corps et à utiliser au maximum leur voix, et aux leçons de poésie de John Barton, qui dissèque avec eux les Sonnets de Shakespeare et leur en découvre le sens caché. A ce programme déjà chargé viennent s’ajouter les cours de danse d’une ancienne étoile de Covent Garden, Gillian Lynne, responsable aussi de la chorégraphie des spectacles. Avant l’ouverture de la saison, début avril, lorsque les comédiens ont signé leur contrat, les répétitions commencent à Londres, dans un studio proche de Covent Garden, non loin du deuxième foyer de la R.S.C. ; l’Aldwych Theatre, qui pose des problèmes insolubles aux metteurs en scène quand ils doivent adapter des spectacles conçus pour les vastes étendues du plateau de Stratford aux dimensions réduites de cette scène londonienne. Heureusement, la R.S.C. va bientôt déserter l’Aldwych pour sa nouvelle résidence du Barbican, vaste complexe moderne en cours de construction. L’Aldwych permet cependant à la R.S.C. de monter des auteurs contemporains comme Gorky, Wedekind, Genet; là, les comédiens peuvent enfin s’évader de Shakespeare et mettre au service de ces oeuvres modernes leur technique classique. La deuxième étape du travail d’élaboration des spectacles se passe dans le « Conference Hall» du Royal Shakespeare Theatre, dans ce qui reste du théâtre primitif, construit en 1875 et qui brûla en 1926. C’est une immense salle ovale, haute de plafond, qui jouxte les ateliers des perruquiers et des coiffeurs, et d’où s’échappent à toute heure du jour, des cliquetis d’armes, des cris, des chansons, de la musique. De là, le spectacle passe sur le plateau pour les dernières mises au point techniques, et répétitions en costumes (tous fabriques dans les ateliers, en face du théâtre). Lorsque la saison est plus avancée, et qu’il y a plusieurs spectacles en répétition, le « Conference Hall » ne suffit plus et la R.S.C. se sert d’une autre salle, ce qu’on appelle « The Other Place ». Situé à environ deux cents mètres du R.S.T., c’est une sorte de hangar de tôle ondulée, qui servait il y a encore quelques années d’entrepôt pour les costumes. C’est aujourd’hui un studio expérimental qui permet aux membres de la compagnie de présenter un répertoire d’avant-garde, souvent critiqué, toujours stimulant pour l’esprit, ainsi que des oeuvres de Shakespeare, dépouillées, presque sans décors ni costumes, qui parfois sont ensuite montées dans le « Grand Théâtre », et pour lesquelles les gens sont prêts à faire la queue des heures entières, bien que le plus souvent ces spectacles se jouent à bureaux fermés dès la première semaine de représentations. Ce minuscule théâtre, avec ses cent quarante places, son aire de jeu nue et sèche, devait, dans l’esprit de Buzz Goodbody, son animatrice, être consacré à monter Shakespeare pour les lycéens passant leur examen de fin d’études, mais le succès a dépassé toutes les espérances, et « The Other Place » est devenu un théâtre à part entière et un tremplin pour de jeunes metteurs en scène comme Barry Kyle, Howard Davies ou Ron Daniels. Celle dont le dynamisme est à l’origine de ce succès, est morte à vingt-huit ans en 1975; un petit arbuste, dans les jardins du R..S.T., rappelle aux flâneurs son souvenir : elle était la seule femme metteur en scène de la compagnie, et n’a pas été remplacée depuis. « The Other Place » a cependant gardé sa diversité : en été il est un lieu de rencontre, le samedi matin, entre les spectateurs et les membres de la R.S.C., qui prennent part à des débats passionnés sur les différentes mises en scène de la saison. Là se tiennent également des « ateliers » diriges par Cicely Berry ou Barry Kyle, qui dévoilent alors le travail auquel sont soumis les acteurs au cours des répétitions. Le mois d’août n’est pas seulement celui des évanouissement qui déciment les rangs des spectateurs du promenoir du R.S.T., c’est aussi celui qui voit revenir des quatre coins du monde (bien que la France paraisse un coin assez désert...) les membres érudits du Cours d’Eté organisé par l’Université de Birmingham en étroite collaboration avec le Royal Shakespeare Theatre, qui délègue acteurs, metteurs en scène et décorateurs pour parler de leur métier devant un auditoire fasciné, qui depuis bientôt vingt-neuf ans entend les mêmes anecdotes de théâtre; mais il faut bien se détendre après les conférences des « experts ».<br /><br />Août : Le mois où Joe Cocks, le photographe officiel de la R.S.C. voit son chiffre d’affaires tripler ; le mois où les comédiens qui se dorent au soleil sur la terrasse de la Green Room (leur cantine - salle de repos) sont obligés de remettre sur le droit chemin les pauvres touristes égarés parmi eux, en quête d’une « bonne tasse de thé ». Les comédiens sont traités à la dure dans ce théâtre en forme de caserne : ici point de moquette, d’éclairage discret, d’ambiance feutrée, de réceptionniste au sourire avenant, mais un dédale de corridors déserts où les pas résonnent, où il règne une odeur de poussière, d’humidité, une odeur très spéciale qui vous prend aux narines; été comme hiver, des loges glaciales, encombrées d’énormes porte-manteaux ployant sous le poids des opulents costumes de scène, des loges inconfortables d’où partent à tout moment les bruits confus, retransmis par haut-parleurs, de ce qui se passe sur le plateau. Vers le soir, lorsque les ampoules multicolores s’allument dans les marronniers sur l’esplanade du théâtre, les comédiens se préparent à entrer en scène, sous l’œil vigilant de leur habilleuse - souffre-douleur - confidente, munie du traditionnel petit carnet où sont inscrits tous les changements de costumes à effectuer pendant le spectacle. L’habilleuse - ou l’habilleur – qui n’est pas chargée de l’entretien des costumes est donc employée à mi-temps, et c’est souvent une jeune fille de la région qui désire « se faire un peu d’argent de poche », ou un étranger qui souhaitait travailler dans le théâtre, mais n’a pu entrer dans une « drama-school » pour faire son apprentissage technique. Il y a encore quelques années, on pouvait devenir régisseur en apprenant son métier «sur le tas» dans un théâtre de province, Le tout-puissant syndicat du spectacle « Equity », auquel tous doivent adhérer, s’y oppose désormais et exige une formation professionnelle pour tous les techniciens. Les jeunes enthousiastes et amoureux du théâtre en sont donc réduits à des activités subalternes. Après le spectacle, lorsque les applaudissements se sont tus, le dernier projecteur éteint, la dernière chaussette ramassée et fourrée dans le sac à linge, acteurs, techniciens, habilleuses, personnel du théâtre, distribuent généreusement leurs signatures aux chasseurs d’autographes massés à la «Stage Door» (Entrée des Artistes) et qui n’osent pas affronter le cerbère de service, et se retrouvent de l’autre côté de la rue, à l’hôtel Arden, dont le bar est une annexe de la Green Room, pour prendre un verre et raconter la dernière anecdote ou l’incident de la soirée... les épées qu’on ne retrouve pas dans le désordre des coulisses, les comédiens qui ratent leur entrée, enfin, le quotidien...<br /><br />Au «Mesdames et Messieurs, on ferme », tous s’en vont en grommelant, car il n’est que vingt-deux heures, et finissent la soirée à quelques mètres de là, au Dirty Duck, ce pub célèbre dans le monde entier et qui reste ouvert « après l’heure » pour les gens du théâtre, avec la bénédiction de la police locale.<br /><br />L’heure des confidences est venue, de la dépression aussi, parfois : les jeunes comédiens, qui ont déjà fait leurs preuves dans d’autres théâtres, et qui se voyaient déjà Hamlet sur la scène du R.S.T. se retrouvent pour la plupart hallebardiers au cours de la première année (bien que «The Other Place» leur permette de montrer ce dont ils sont capables). Séparés de leur famille (la compagnie ne peut pas toujours loger les conjoints dans les propriétés qu’elle possède dans Stratford), loin de leurs amis, ils se sentent un peu exilés et en butte à l’hostilité des habitants de Stratford, qui voient toujours d’un mauvais œil cette « bande » de jeunes gens bohèmes envahir chaque année leur petite ville prospère (ils oublient qu’elle le serait beaucoup moins sans eux). Cependant, ce moment de découragement passe, tous reconnaissent que « ça fait quand même quelque chose de savoir qu’il est enterre là, à deux pas, dans la petite église au bord de la rivière ». Il est vrai néanmoins que, malgré la réception officielle qui a lieu chaque année à l’Hôtel de Ville en l’honneur de la Royal Shakespeare Company, en présence du maire de Stratford, et où des déclarations de bonne volonté sont échangées de part et d’autre, les rapports entre Stratford et son théâtre restent assez tendus, allant de l’agressivité déclarée de certaines logeuses qui refusent de louer à « ces gens-là », à une indifférence blasée qui frise l’ingratitude. Témoin ce Stratfordien à qui l’on demandait s’il lui arrivait d’aller au Royal Shakespeare et qui répondit : « Oui, chercher du lait! » Nul n’est prophète en son pays.<br /><br />(1) Angliciste de formation, atteinte d’une vocation tardive pour le théâtre, j’ai eu le coup de foudre pour Stratford et Shakespeare un soir magique d’automne. Plus tard, j’ai failli devenir l’assistante de l’un des metteurs en scène de la R.S.C. Ouvreuse, puis secrétaire, je suis enfin passée de l’autre côté du miroir en accédant à la fonction suprême d’habilleuse ! J. C.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Article publié dans <i>Revue de la Comédie-Française</i>, numéro de mai-juin 1977.</strong> </span>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-54689743304695704282008-10-07T01:07:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:27:13.697+01:00Shakespeare, comme il vous plaira<span style="font-size: 85%;"><b>La nouvelle saison shakespearienne à Stratford-upon-Avon</b><br /><br />Stratford-upon-Avon est une ville-carte-postale. L’hiver en noir et blanc, la maison natale de Shakespeare reçoit la visite de quelques égarés dans le brouillard anglais, et le Royal Shakespeare Theatre, grand navire ancré sur les bords de l’Avon, ressemble à un vaisseau fantôme. Mais avec les jonquilles les couleurs reviennent et du monde entier affluent vers le théâtre, pour le grand sacrifice, tous les amoureux de Shakespeare, mais aussi des cars de touristes, pour qui la représentation du soir fait partie du circuit organisé.<br /><br />Cette année, comme tous les ans, l’anniversaire de la naissance de Shakespeare (23 avril) sera célébré avec fastes, respect et amour, par la Royal Shakespeare Company. Comme tous les ans ? Pas tout à fait. Cette année, le R.S.T. fête ses cent ans. C’est en effet en 1975 que fut inauguré ce haut lieu du culte shakespearien, qui portait alors le nom évocateur de Shakespeare Memorial Theatre.<br /><br />Le menu du centenaire est composé de pièces à la gloire de l’Angleterre et de son passé historique. Pièces bien faites pour remonter le moral des Anglais. La Saison débute le 8 avril avec <i>Henry V</i>, dont le morceau de bravoure est la fameuse exhortation d’Henry à ses soldats avant le combat : tout patriote anglais sent son cœur se gonfler d’orgueil. Les relations avec la France y sont aussi abordées, sur le mode tragique, mais surtout comique. La « rencontre au sommet » entre le Roi d’Angleterre et la Princesse française qui doit devenir sa femme, donne lieu à un « dialogue de sourds » qui n’est pas sans rappeler certains débats politiques.<br /><br />Au mépris de toute chronologie, Henry V redeviendra le Prince Hal dans la seconde pièce au programme <i>Henry IV</i> (première partie), qui ouvrira le 24 avril. Pour connaître la suite du feuilleton et la fin du règne d’Henry IV, il faudra attendre le 24 juin. Henry IV est une pièce d’actualité : un usurpateur devenu roi, aux prises avec ses remords, se heurte à la difficulté d’être un chef d’état et le père d’un garçon turbulent et débauché. Elizabeth I, négligeant l’histoire morale et politique, fut surtout séduite par l’un des personnages les « importants » de la pièce : Sir John Falstaff, le principal héros des <i>Joyeuses Commères de Windsor</i>.<br /><br />Vers la fin de l’été, la R.S.C. donnera donc une reprise des <i>Joyeuses Commères de Windsor</i>, dans une mise en scène de Terry Hands, datant de 1968. L’orchestration de la Saison 75 toute entière appartient d’ailleurs à Terry Hands, le plus jeune des metteurs en scène associés de la R.S.C.<br /><br />Quant aux vedettes, ce sont toutes des « gloires maison » : tous ont, en effet, participé à plusieurs de ces « grandes machines » de la R.S.C. Alan Howard joue le Prince Hal, puis Henry V – c’est un comédien plein de fougue, un très bel Hamlet 1970. Son compagnon de beuveries, le bedonnant Falstaff, c’est Brewster Mason, dont la corpulence et la voix de basse prédestinaient, comme Orson Welles, à incarner Othello, en 1971. Son Iago d’alors était l’acteur gallois Emrys James qui tiendra cette année le rôle d’Henry IV, après une série de « villains » et un éblouissant et pathétique Roi Jean en 1974.<br /><br />Malgré des rumeurs de « grand chambardement » au sein de la R.S.C., le Royal Shakespeare Theatre est un centenaire prestigieux qui se porte bien.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 78%;"><b>Article publié dans<i> Les Nouvelles Littéraires</i>, le 21 avril 1975.</b></span>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-67977388165983782462008-10-06T00:22:00.000+01:002008-10-15T01:31:18.018+01:00Le Festival de Stratford upon Avon<span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>Le « Grand Will » réincarné</strong><br /><br />Sous le regard indifférent des cygnes, à l’ombre des saules pleureurs, vous faites la queue pour obtenir des billets de théâtre. Il est dix heures ; le guichet de location vient d’ouvrir ; les hippies qui ont dormi sur les marches du Royal Shakespeare Theatre seront les premiers servis.<br /><br /><strong>Notre contemporain</strong><br /><br />Si, après des heures d’attente au bord de la rivière, vous arrivez à décrocher, à l’arraché, mais dans la dignité, un billet, alors préparez-vous à recevoir un choc. Comme l’a dit, ici même, Matthieu Galey, « Shakespeare n’est plus tabou ». En voyant les représentations de la R.S.C. à Stratford on se demande s’il l’a jamais été. Il y a longtemps que Peter Brook et Terry Hands traitent Shakespeare comme leur contemporain. Mais ils ne sont pas les seuls. Les metteurs en scène de la R.S.C. sont sept comme les Merveilles du Monde, ou les nains de Blanche-Neige. Tous des hommes. Serait-on misogyne dans la « Maison de Shakespeare » ? Il y a une femme pourtant, elle s’appelle Buzz Goodbody, elle a vingt-six ans et n’est encore qu’assistante. Cette année, cependant, elle monte seule <em>Comme il vous plaira</em>, fin juin. Signe particulier de Buzz : elle est marxiste et le fait savoir.<br /><br />Autre personnage : l’érudit, l’ancien prof de Cambridge : John Barton, gentil, barbu comme un faune, les yeux bleus un peu fous. Il se prend d’ailleurs pour Shakespeare, il « fait » du Shakespeare et il trompe les savants avec ses vers. Sa dernière trouvaille : faire jouer Richard II et Bolingbroke par deux acteurs qui se relaient dans les deux rôles – sur le thème du jeu théâtral <em>Richard II</em> prend tout à coup une autre dimension. Les protagonistes : Ian Richardson (Marat dans <em>Marat/Sade</em>) et Richard Pasco prennent tant de plaisir à ce jeu de masques qu’ils veulent tente la même expérience avec Claudius et Hamlet.<br /><br />Tout se passe démocratiquement dans cette maison, le directeur, Trevor Nunn, n’étant là que pour harmoniser les discussions toujours longues et mouvementées. Ce rôle pacificateur lui va bien : il a l’air d’un sage oriental, longs cheveux, barbe noire et yeux légèrement bridés. Cette année, il ne dirigera pas, il se repose sur ses lauriers de l’année dernière, et se remet de sa surprise : le succès de l’<em>Orgie Romaine</em> qu’il a montée en 72. Les quatre tragédies romaines de Shakespeare sont très mal cotées au Box Office en général, peut-être parce qu’on ne les avait jamais jouées ensemble.<br /><br />Terry Hands, lui, ne chôme pas, stimulé par son triomphe en France et en Angleterre avec la Comédie-Française, il a mis en scène – toujours pieds nus, pour être fidèle à son image – <em>Roméo et Juliette</em>. Gageons qu’il y a des hochements de tête désapprobateurs dans le public, parmi la vieille garde, mais les jeunes sont enthousiasmés de ne plus avoir à ingurgiter Shakespeare comme une potion.<br /><br /><strong>Stratford-sur-kitsch<br /></strong><br />On ne peut encore rien dire de la quatrième pièce de la saison, on sait seulement que ce sera La mégère apprivoisée mise en scène par Clifford Williams (rappelez-vous le scandale causé par <em>Le Vicaire</em> et <em>Oh ! Calcutta</em>, il en est responsable), avec en vedette Alan Bates, pour la première fois sur la scène de Stratford, s’en s’être fait trop prier. La plupart des acteurs anglais rêvent de faire un petit tour sur les planches du R.S.T... Il n’y a plus de troupe permanente : la compagnie était fière de son homogénéité mais elle se sclérosait. Les contrats à long terme enchaînaient les acteurs qui se sauvaient à la première occasion. Il y a toujours des Artistes Associés, ils ont droit, comme les Comédiens Français à une mention sous leur nom, et on peut en voir la liste sur les programmes de la R.S.C., mais combien d’entre eux n’ont pas joué à Stratford depuis des années ! On renouvelle partiellement la troupe tous les deux ans. Shakespeare a besoin de sang neuf. Mais il y a des fidèles, des acteurs comme Ian Richardson qui sont restés plus de dix ans avec la R.S.C., se sont évadés momentanément de « l’Usine de Confitures » (comme on appelle le R.S.T.) et sont revenus <em>« pleins d’usage et raison... »</em><br /><br />Est-il besoin de parler de Peter Brook, le globe-trotter, l’enfant terrible de la R.S.C., l’insaisissable, qui terrifie les acteurs et les fait sortir d’eux-mêmes ? Ceux qui ont vu <em>Marat/Sade</em> et, cet hiver à Paris, <em>Le Songe d’une nuit d’été</em>, sauront à quels dons de magicien je fais allusion. Si l’année prochaine vous avez le courage de faire la queue à Stratford-sur-Kitsch, vous pourrez peut-être voir un de ses spectacles. A moins qu’il ne soit alors en Alaska ou à la Terre de Feu. Mais les six autres apprentis sorciers et adorateurs du Barde, seront, eux, fidèles au poste, unis dans le même amour de Shakespeare. Mais un amour iconoclaste. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">Article publié dans <em>Les Nouvelles Littéraires</em>, le 11 juin 1973. C'est cet article, qu’un des acteurs épingla à l’Entrée des Artistes du RST, qui me permit de faire connaissance avec Terry Hands.</span></strong>Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-7221173862054532112008-08-09T03:46:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:22:09.511+01:00Drat, I could have made a killing!<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A few months ago, I bought two pairs of tickets for Leonard Cohen at the O2 on 17 July (see why </span><a href="http://slapoftheday.blogspot.com/2008/04/nuff-said-2.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">here</span></b></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">). A couple of weeks before the show, I managed to sell </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">the extra pair on eBay for a few pounds (no, really, only a few pounds) more than its face value. Before the man announced he was coming back on 13 November, and now also the following night (if that concert is sold out too, he will have filled 60,000 seats in London – not bad for an old guy of 74, is it?), my tickets were something very precious and some people did buy seats for hundreds of pounds on eBay. But I’m not a ticket tout, I wasn’t trying to make a profit, I just wanted to get my money back. The few extra pounds certainly didn’t cover the hassle and time spent trying to get those precious tickets. Still, someone bought them and I was very happy.<br /><br />Forget Leonard, though, it’s tickets for the new RSC <i>Hamlet</i> with David Tennant and Patrick Stewart I should have bought seats for! I’m on the priority mailing list, I could have got tickets (for the Stratford and London runs) very early on for £40 and sold them on eBay for around £300 (that's their current price).<br /><br />Problem is, I don’t watch <i>Dr Who</i> or <i><i>Star Trek</i></i> and I had no idea a whole lot of mad fans would suddenly want to sit in the theatre and watch the longest play in the Shakespearean canon. I think some of them are in for a shock and a disappointment: when it comes to supernatural beings, there <i>is</i> a ghost in <i>Hamlet</i>, but that’s about it – and there are no intergalactic creatures at all.<br /><br />The RSC has ‘asked people to desist from bidding for the tickets. As part of our terms and conditions, they are not to be sold for commercial gain. The tickets are for their own use.’ However, unless eBay closes the auctions down, I can’t see how the RSC can stop people from buying and using those tickets.<br /><br />People’s names are printed on the tickets, but in order for them not to be used the ushers would have to check IDs at the door; or the RSC would have to scour the auctions, draw lists of performance dates and seat numbers, and the ushers would have to check tickets against those lists every evening. I don’t see it somehow.<br /><br />Forgot to say: it’s not just that I’m not a fan of those TV programmes, it’s that I don’t really like David Tennant and Patrick Stewart. The former was a terrible Antipholus of Syracuse in a dreadful production of <i>Comedy of Errors</i> a few years ago. He was good in a wonderfully frightening play entitled <i>The Pillowman</i> at the National, but, basically, I think he lacks charm – and he makes faces. As for the latter, I’ve known him – as an actor – for nearly 40 years. I’ve seen him in dozens of RSC productions: he is what you might call a ‘solid performer’, i.e. someone who’s never very bad, but rarely very good. He was pretty good as Antony in the latest RSC <i>Antony and Cleo</i>, and I remember him as Launce with a hilarious, gloomy dog in <i>The Two Gentlemen of Verona</i>, in 1970,<i> </i>but I can’t think of any production where one came out saying, ‘Wow, wasn’t Patrick Stewart amazing!’ Oh, and he nearly killed me once, but that’s another story...</span></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">Also, I feel a little bit Shakespeared out: I have seen all of the guy’s 37 plays ten, nay, twenty times over. Even the obscure ones (<i>Timon of Athens</i>, <i>Titus Andronicus</i>...) I’ve seen at least three times. I need a Shakespeare moratorium. The thought of seeing another production of <i>Hamlet</i> gave me a migraine, so I didn’t book. My loss, obviously.<br /><br />Slapping the silly – and ignorant – fans who wouldn’t touch <i>Hamlet</i> with a barge pole if it didn’t have TV stars in it! </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">And the RSC for pretending to be surprised by what’s happening. Yeah, right!</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: 85%;"><b><i>Addendum (31/08/08):</i></b> </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">The day I was nearly killed by Patrick Stewart:<br /><br />I was watching a poorly attended matinee of a very bad production of <i>Titus Andronicus</i>, with PT in the title role, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford. I was sitting in the front row; there were several empty seats on either side of me. In the course of a furious fight, at some point in the first half of the play, PT let go of his heavy sword (the RST craftsmen pride themselves in creating ‘authentic’ weapons), which did several somersaults in the air – watched in disbelief by me and a few hundred people – before landing vertically at the foot of the nearest seat on my left, i.e. a few centimetres from me. There was an audible gasp from the audience, as the sword remained there, swaying gently. The look of horror in the eyes of all the actors on the stage was something to behold, but they never missed a beat. I don’t think I heard much of the play after that. In the interval, PT and several of the actors rushed towards me to ask whether I was all right. They were pretty shaken up too. The sword was unstuck from the floor and everything went back to normal. The second half proceeded without any other drama – either in the auditorium, or on stage (unfortunately).</span> </span><br />
Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-44436506658050568782007-05-19T13:30:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:23:06.324+01:00Grotesque and unseemly<span style="font-size: 85%;">Back in February I wrote about the huge part Ian Richardson played in my life (see <a href="http://slapoftheday.blogspot.com/2007/02/old-and-desolate.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #660000;">Old and desolate</span></b></a>). On Tuesday, three months after his death, a memorial service was held at the Actors’ Church – St Paul’s Covent Garden. My partner and I were lucky to be able to attend it. <a href="http://briansibleysblog.blogspot.com/2007/05/our-revels-now-are-ended.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #660000;">Here</span></b></a> you will find a lovely account of what it was like, by the writer Brian Sibley, and <a href="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/court_and_social/article1795752.ece" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #660000;">here</span></b></a> a complete list of all the famous theatre/film/TV folk who came to pay tribute to their late colleague .<br /><br />What these articles don't mention is that Helen Mirren started crying even before the service began and could hardly be heard when she read out the moving ‘Dirge Without Music’ by Edna St Vincent Millay. It was very endearing.<br /><br />What they don't tell you either is that we all came out of the church to be met by a swarm of paparazzi, professional autograph hunters and pushy elderly fans of both sexes. What is wrong with these people? Have they no shame?! OK, there had been laughter as well as tears during the service, but this was still a sad occasion. Who turns up at such an event and behaves as if it were a press night? I always thought that celebrities were fair game, that if you spent your life courting publicity you couldn’t complain if your privacy was invaded. I have changed my mind.<br /><br />We were chatting with the actor Michael Pennington (whom I’ve known for 30 years) when a man sidled up to him, opened a folder and asked him to sign photos of himself. Michael, who’s the gentlest of souls, signed photo after photo – five or six, I think – with good grace. We were indignant on his behalf. When I said, ‘How much will these fetch on eBay?’, the guy pretended they were for a friend of his in New Zealand!<br /><br />Most of the famous folk let themselves be photographed too: the last thing anyone wants is to be splashed all over the tabloids and being described as unhelpful and rude to ‘the great British public’. It was painful to watch.<br /><br />After saying hello to a few more people and being stared at a lot (‘Are they famous, do you think?’ ‘Nah, don’t bother with <i>them</i>!’), we walked away and wandered around Covent Garden. About an hour later, we went in search of somewhere to eat. We ended up in Catherine Street and walking past one of the restaurants we noticed a couple of the autograph hunters who’d been at the church earlier, standing outside in the cold, apparently waiting for something, or someone. Obviously, a few of the ‘celebrities’ were having lunch there. They were going to be accosted and pestered again when they came out.<br /><br />Slap!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-34781125723971572652007-05-06T13:43:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:23:26.776+01:00Small pleasures from small favours<span style="font-size: 85%;">Since I’ve already denied women the right to make fools of themselves by taking up pole dancing as exercise and learning it at public classes, and thereby contributing to the backlash against feminism, I thought I would now deny women the right to have children at an age when they should be playing with their <i>children</i>’s children or enjoying retirement. But too much has been said about that 63-year-old mother-to-be and the subject has gone stale on me.<br /><br />Instead, I want to slap people who, having acquired a little bit of power, suddenly take themselves seriously and refuse to do other people small favours, when it’s no skin off their noses.<br /><br />My partner and I went to Stratford-upon-Avon for Shakespeare’s Birthday (April 23rd, in case you’ve forgotten when it was): the Royal Shakespeare Company had planned masses of events and we thought it would be good fun.<br /><br />We hadn’t booked for anything (we’d learned about it too late), but we managed to attend two very interesting events (one about playing Cleopatra – with Harriet Walter and Janet Suzman; the other about the Sonnets – with Patrick Stewart and my beloved John Barton). There had been a few tickets left for the first talk, but the second one was booked up. Nevertheless we thought there might be some returns so we queued anyway. There weren’t, but just before the start we were let in, together with four or five other people, because there was space and because they took pity on us. We stood, or sat on the floor, at the back of the room, and spent a wonderful, stimulating two hours.<br /><br />There was one more event we ‘didn’t mind’ attending: an interview with Judi Dench. It was to take place in the big marquee that had been erected in one of the theatre gardens (and where we’d heard the two Cleopatras earlier that day). For this too tickets were unnumbered and the queue to go in was unbelievable: it went round and round and round… We, and a very small group of other unfortunate, ticket-less people, waited for everyone to be seated. We had money in our hands; there was plenty of standing room on the side of the seating area and there didn’t seem to be any reason why we couldn’t be let in. That’s when I noticed her – Bronwyn Robertson, <i>the</i> most officious woman ever, and I more or less knew we were waiting in vain.<br /><br />She could have said to us, “You’ve been waiting so patiently; there’s only a few of you; this is the last event of the day; I cannot deprive you of the pleasure of listening to Dame Judi, who’s come specially today – a Sunday – to give this interview. Please come in!” But she didn’t say it and everyone wandered off (one person was in a wheelchair – you’d think she would have allowed <i>them</i> in), disappointed. We did hear the interview for a while, because we discovered that, if we positioned ourselves in a special spot, behind the marquee, and listened closely, we could hear every word. Unfortunately, the questions were so lame and banal and so unworthy of her talent that we gave up halfway through. But that's not the point.<br /><br />It would have been so easy for Bronwyn to make us all happy. But, no, it was in her power to deny us and she did. I wonder if she got any satisfaction out of it.<br /><br />I first met Bronwyn in 1974, when I lived in Stratford and needed a job. She was secretary to one of the directors; she was obstructive and annoying. She was then put in charge of something or other and she carried on being unhelpful. I must have been introduced to her a dozen times. She always forgot who I was. It requires a special kind of person to ‘forget’ completely someone they see practically every day.<br /><br />While I’m slapping people who deserved it in the past but who only got the utmost courtesy from me because I was still hoping to have a career with the RSC at the time I might as well mention Diana Minchall. We met in 1977, when we were both attending the Summer School and were staying in the same B&B. She knew no one; I knew everyone. By the time she went back to London she knew everyone too. Two years later, when <i>she</i> got a job with the RSC (in the Publicity Department), she had a head start. I had told her about the vacancy so she could apply for it and when she got the job she promised to return the favour. Yeah right!<br /><br />Not only did she not help me in any way but, within a few weeks of her taking up her new post, one might have thought she was the RSC’s Artistic Director, judging from the way she started behaving. I stopped being in the secret of the gods because my contacts assumed she was giving me lots of info and I didn’t need to be told anything.<br /><br />She was there for about ten years and I never got another chance to get a job with the RSC. Instead of being a help she was an obstruction. I’ve been wanting to slap her smug face for a very long time. There!<br /><br />When I used to work at Penhaligon’s I had access to perfumes that everyone valued immensely. I was in a position to give my friends a few samples from time to time. And why not? My mistake is that I’ve always expected others to derive as much pleasure from doing (or returning) favours as I have.<br /><br />I’m sure Judi Dench would have been very sad to know that half a dozen people were turned away that day – for no good reason whatsoever – because of some self-important official.<br /><br />Slap!</span><br />
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<br />Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-10649024054959562642007-02-09T13:37:00.000+00:002013-04-30T20:38:11.253+01:00Old and desolate<a href="http://photobucket.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="If you're the owner of the copyright, I apologize and will remove this pic straight away" border="0" src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v629/JFC/marat_sade_appa1.jpg" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 78%;">Patrick Magee as Sade and Ian Richardson as Marat</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">... that’s how you feel when the idols of your youth disappear. Gods should not be allowed to die.<br /><br />The actor Ian Richardson died this morning, in his sleep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">I am in shock.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><i>The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as performed by the inmates of the Asylum of Charenton under the direction of the Marquis de Sade</i> (at the time of its release in the </span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">’</span>60s, people joked, 'I haven't seen the film, but I've read the title')</span><span style="font-size: 85%;"> or <i>Marat/Sade</i>, directed by Peter Brook, changed the course of my life </span><span style="font-size: 85%;">– literally. I owe my love of the theatre to that film and it's because of it (and more especially because of Ian Richardson, who played Marat) that I stopped studying psychology at the Sorbonne and took up English instead. The first time I saw it, I stayed for two performances and nearly missed a train I had to catch that evening. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">I will write more later.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><b><i>Update (10 February):</i></b> By the time the world became aware of him, Ian Richardson was already past his prime. Yes, he was wonderful as Francis Urquhart in <i>House of Cards</i>. Absolutely wonderful, but...<br /><br /><i>I</i> was there. I was there, night after night, matinee after matinee, in the dark and womblike auditorium of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, standing at the back of the stalls, leaning on <i>my</i> railing, lapping it all up: the scenery, the costumes, the music, the verse, the emotions. I was there when Ian Richardson was a god and he knew it and he had the audience hanging on his every inflection, when his voice soared... ah!...<br /><br />Don’t just take my word for it. <i>Every</i> review of <i>every</i> play he was in mentioned the voice, but this is what Roger Lewis says in his book <i>Stage People</i>:</span><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-size: 85%;">He sings his sentences, his voice swooping from a bellow to a whisper, from a hoot to a silence. Richardson’s voice is his instrument; he is conscious of it and proud of it; he plays upon it and with it. He can draw out a single word into an alarming stutter of syllables, like a libretto fragmented and reproduced under the stave; he’ll then speed ahead, putting a girdle around a paragraph in four seconds.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: 85%;">It <i>was</i> the voice above all. But also the poise, the stillness. And the wit. And the sense of danger too. There, on the stage, not preserved in aspic for posterity.<br /><br />He’s gone and hardly anyone is mentioning Shakespeare. My 20-year-old self would never have believed it. It makes me very sad now.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">I knew Ian Richardson – a tiny little bit. I lived in his Stratford house, with two other girls, for the best part of 1974. He wasn’t there; he was renting it out to us. The house was very cold; my room was the coldest of all, but I didn’t care. There was a throne from some past RSC production on the patio; Marat’s tin bath was rusting at the bottom of the garden; his acting editions of Penguin Shakespeare were sitting on the shelves in the living room (they got thrown away a little later and I now wish I had ‘stolen’ a couple of them, but I didn’t dare at the time). Fans used to walk past the house, stop and point at it. Told you he was a star.<br /><br />He used to scare me to death, from time to time, by turning up unannounced (always accompanied by his wife, who usually remained silent) and demand to know why the lawn hadn’t been mown (the neighbours were always complaining). I’ve heard Marat and Francis Urquhart and Angelo and Richard II yell my name from the bottom of the stairs and then discuss mundane things. It was wonderful.<br /><br />Later that year, when I was working at the Aldwych Theatre (dressing the tallest actor in the company, of course – some kind of hazing I believe it was), we used to pass each other backstage every night and exchange no more than a smile, except once, when he said something so bitchy about someone we both knew that I was in hysterics for the rest of the evening. That’s also how I want to remember him: rather camp and mercurial.<br /><br />I visited eBay last night: lots of people are trying to cash in on Ian’s death and flogging photos and letters signed by him. I have a few of those, among them a very grumpy letter: I had reproached him for wasting his time on rubbishy stuff (it must have been <i>before</i> <i>House of Cards</i>), and he had written back defending his choices. I wasn’t convinced, and I was right: a few years later, he said in an interview that he bitterly regretted not doing stage work any longer, and Shakespeare in particular.<br /><br />I also have the waistcoat he wore as the Government Inspector at the Old Vic (I didn’t steal it; I bought it for a few pounds at a charity auction). No, you won’t find it listed on eBay either – not now, not at any time in the future.<br /><br />What else can I say? I saw him recently at the National Theatre, in a play, and also talking about his career (I went mainly because my younger self would not have missed it and I owed it to her). He was just as entertaining as ever. He said he would probably never act on the stage again (a premonition?) and his one regret was that he’d never got a chance to tackle King Lear. He sounded happy, though.<br /><br />There’s no doubt about it: it was the voice that did it.<br /><br /><b><i>Update:</i></b> To hear the voice that mesmerized me 40 years ago, <a href="http://freespace.virgin.net/lovely.perfume/MaratSade.html" target="_blank"><b><span style="color: #800040;">click here</span></b></a></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
<br />Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-23968425000505418182006-06-28T12:34:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:23:39.454+01:00Tête à claques XI<span style="font-size: 85%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034379349233000738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uOJKnW27ujzCKfCe4ltKp5UuK3KJFCnT3mJPosfquYWcT_zerxrV-A3Kf9bZbd7eWy8es5qoWKc1WXQsx-SlWtPPIU1JPki3KE6Uwmhkp-FH5wqM9fvyUepR80h_ees85O3HmQf6AA3y/s320/Juliet.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" />Told you the mellowness wouldn’t last long.<br /><br />Before you go on reading, please answer this question: did you enjoy <i>Truly Madly Deeply</i>? If you’ve answered, “Oh my god, it’s my favourite movie; I’ve seen it 25 times and cried soooo much each time,” you can stop reading now because this post will upset you.<br /><br />If, on the other hand, you’ve answered, “Ugh! That movie made me want to throw up: it was so syrupy and fake and the acting was disgusting,” then please carry on.<br /><br />Juliet Stevenson was the main culprit and I wanted to slap her very hard for it when the film came out, all those years ago, and I can’t wait one minute longer.<br /><br />I used to adore her. I saw her in her very first part at the RSC in 1978. She was 20 years old, I think, and fresh from drama school. She’d got the part of a servant in a marvellous production of <i>The Taming of the Shrew</i> because the actress who should have been playing that part had broken her leg or something, and she made a great impact in that small part. I got to know her and the following year she even stayed in my flat in Paris, while I spent the summer in Stratford. I saw everything she was in and was never disappointed. She had a superb, distinctive, grown-up voice and she was <i>always</i> good. She was also very serious and dedicated and had unbelievable self-discipline.<br /><br />And then <i>Truly Madly Deeply</i> happened and that was it. She became <i>the</i> most mannered actress ever – a kind of caricature. My partner’s theory is that she was praised so much for her performance in that film that she must have thought that was what the public wanted from her so she gave it more of the same. And she started playing fluffy (she doesn’t have the physique for fluffiness) and scatty women because she was offered other parts like that after that landmark film. Her voice got shriller too.<br /><br />I stopped being able to watch her, but I don’t give up easily on people and I’ve seen her in other things since then – just because I keep hoping that one day she will be the powerful performer she was when she was young. Tonight my partner and I saw her in a terrible production of <i>The Seagull</i>, directed by the perverse Katie Mitchell. Perverse because she decided to go against the text all through, without any reason whatsoever. Perhaps tomorrow’s reviews will reveal that the nonsense we saw on the stage had some profound meaning, but I doubt it. Juliet wasn’t bad, but she couldn’t be good in such a preposterous production. I’m afraid I hid from her, when she walked by in the foyer after the show. “Darling, you were wonderful!” I couldn’t possibly have said that to her – no way.<br /><br />I’m slapping Dame Juliet (it’s only a question of time…) for being <i>such</i> a disappointment.</span><br />
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<br />Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-77368496890160181102005-12-04T13:46:00.000+00:002013-05-02T01:23:54.489+01:00Tête à claques V<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiob4SUseLlIrPK7ig1X5mgsifRmQpW2A22cltscNJvvgkaQSsoVimmn3EClzTfbtyz2xhIU4UYxYSK9PF5B_pKEeZByBKknpLESxIXc4SvQlfX_wJDD0E9OwACE-39HGs3sk66fCbQGDRE/s1600-h/Rupertthen.jpg"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033849487707627570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiob4SUseLlIrPK7ig1X5mgsifRmQpW2A22cltscNJvvgkaQSsoVimmn3EClzTfbtyz2xhIU4UYxYSK9PF5B_pKEeZByBKknpLESxIXc4SvQlfX_wJDD0E9OwACE-39HGs3sk66fCbQGDRE/s320/Rupertthen.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">I’ve never met my previous Têtes à claques, but I knew Rupert Everett when he was a young boy. These photos were taken in Stratford-upon-Avon, in 1977: Rupert was 18.<br /><br />He was tall and thin as a beanpole (an <i>asperge </i>in French – we’re a little more refined in our choice of vegetables). He was gangly, not quite coordinated; he could be bitchy and waspish, but also very very cute.<br /><br />I first saw him in Stratford in 1976; he used to hang around the theatre day and night and , as I was on holiday, <i>I</i> used to hang around the theatre day and night. That year the RSC had decided to transform the theatre into a replica of Shakespeare's Globe and there were seats at the back of the stage. This young man was annoying me a lot by pacing up and down at the back of the seating area; I kept wondering why he was allowed to disturb the paying public in that way. Then, one morning I saw him with Ian McKellen outside my B&B. They looked very ‘friendly’ with each other. That was ten years before Sir Ian came out of the closet; he was a matinee idol rather than a gay icon and female fans used to mob him at the Stage Door (one of them even threw herself into the Avon to attract his attention). Anyway, who was courting whom, I couldn’t possibly say.<br /><br />The following year I bumped into Rupert again in London: he was working as an usher at the Warehouse (the RSC’s studio theatre) and already charming his way to fame. He recognized me and we started chatting. We met up a couple of weeks later in Stratford: we were both attending the Shakespeare Summer School and we had great fun together. He was always on the lookout for mischief and together we behaved outrageously (one night we were even thrown out of a very respectable Chinese restaurant). He returned to London at the end of the week and we didn’t see each other again for another year.<br /><br />Then, one afternoon, in Paris, I got a phone call from him, “Please come and bail me out. I’ve crossed the Channel without a passport. I’m at the Hôtel Meurice, on the Rue de Rivoli. I'm hungry. I've got no money. I'm going back tonight. I don't know what's going to happen.” By chance another actor friend was staying with me. He knew Rupert too, by sight. He was extremely amused and agreed to go with me to rescue him. We found him lounging on a sofa in the beautiful lobby of that most luxurious of hotels, writing a letter with a pen and a pad lent to him by one of the commissioners. He stood up languidly to greet us and, on the way out, offered to return the writing implements, but the commissioner told him to keep them with a huge smile – totally under his spell. We took Rupert to Angelina (a very posh tearoom) next door and plied him with tea and cakes. We had a whale of a time. Later, he borrowed money from us (“Rupert, you still owe it!”) to pay for the fare to Gare du Nord, and he left as nonchalantly as he had appeared. No doubt he charmed passport control too, later that evening.<br /><br />In 1981 I went to see him in <i>Another Country</i>, at the Greenwich Theatre (before the show transferred to the West End). He was the same old Rupert. He entertained me with stories of the other actors in the play (one of whom was Kenneth Branagh). That was the beginning of his rise and rise to stardom.<br /><br />I’ve seen him a couple of times since then, but not recently and if I had I probably wouldn’t have recognized him. He’s had plastic surgery: a brow and eye lift, and cheek implants, they say. He doesn’t look like himself any longer.</span><br />
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<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5853/703/1600/Rupertnow.0.jpg"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5853/703/200/Rupertnow.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">Rupert, I’m slapping you for spoiling your good looks – even more than a few wrinkles would have. </span><br />
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Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-60230870149428435512005-09-18T12:32:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:26:23.432+01:00First a secret, then a lie<span style="font-size: 85%;"><i>Secrets and Lies</i> by Mike Leigh is one of my favourite films: one of those I can watch every single time it’s shown on TV (there are a few others that never cease to delight me). It’s wonderful: funny, profound, heartbreaking, delicate. The acting is superb. You care deeply for the characters: they are <i>real</i> people with <i>real</i> emotions.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">It’s the way Mike Leigh develops his projects: he chooses a subject; selects a handful of actors and tells them to go out there and work out their characters. The scripts evolve through research and improvisation. Very often the actors don’t know what the others are actually playing. In <i>Vera Drake</i>, for instance, only Imelda Staunton, who plays the title role, knew that her character was an abortionist, so when the police come to arrest her the look of utter horror on the faces of the other characters is absolutely genuine.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">So, considering what gems Mike Leigh can create (there were also <i>Abigail’s Party</i> and <i>Nuts in May</i>, among others), what <i>was</i> it my partner and I saw last night at the National Theatre? What <i>was</i> that lightweight, banal, lazy, superficial, cliché-ridden play? We bought our tickets ages ago; at the time, of course, no one knew what the play was about – not even Mike Leigh himself. It was announced as “A New Play by Mike Leigh” and it sold out within minutes because… well, because of what I said above. We all trusted him to produce something exhilarating.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;">It now has a title – it’s called <i>Two Thousand Years</i> – but it’s not worth seeing. It was fascinating while it was a mystery. Now it’s as interesting as listening to a trivial conversation at a party.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><i>Some</i> critics are already saying it deserves to transfer to the West End, after its run at the NT (btw, if you hate E M Forster <i>and</i> love this play I can't be your best friend; don't bother) : it makes me wonder whether we saw the same play. But, then, I didn’t like David Hare’s <i>Amy’s View</i> and Alan Bennett’s <i>The History Boys</i> either (to name but two), and they were hailed as masterpieces. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">A slap to Mike Leigh for disappointing us!</span><br />
<br />Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-82335335438580300342005-08-26T01:15:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:24:12.835+01:00Puzzle of the Day<span style="font-size: 85%;">I’ve just spent nearly two hours trying to book theatre tickets for the forthcoming Royal Shakespeare Company London season. The National Theatre priority booking forms are always a bit tricky and counter-intuitive, but you need a degree in <i>something</i> (but what?) to fill in the RSC ones.<br /><br />There was no proper schedule of performances – a calendar with plays clearly marked, just separate blocks of dates for each play (and there were seven of those I wanted to see) so you couldn’t see the “big picture” and there was a risk of booking two plays for the same date.<br /><br />Then there was the odd weird instruction and you had to rack your brain to try and fathom what on earth they might mean.<br /><br />Why do they think anyone has the time for this? I suppose the subscription and seats are so expensive that they reckon only wealthy retired people can afford to book anyway. I adore the RSC – they are the reason why I moved to the UK (long story), but when the mailing from them lands on my mat my heart sinks and I get panicky. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />And don’t get me started on the fact that they lied to me – and to Dame Judi Dench, which is much worse – when they promised to find a home in London that wouldn’t be a West-End type theatre. So what do they choose as their London base: the Strand Theatre (they can't fool us by renaming it the Novello Theatre? Ha!). Liar, liar, pants on fire! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">Slap!</span><br />
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<br />Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-72743409640096286602005-08-13T02:39:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:24:24.328+01:00That's it! We're outta here!<span style="font-size: 85%;">I’m dying to slap someone, but I can’t, so, I’m afraid, a lot of other people are going to get slapped in her place.<br /><br />Three hundred thousand people have been affected by wildcat strikes at the height of the summer holiday rush. British Airways staff have come out in support of sacked in-flight catering staff, egged on by the unions, of course.<br /><br />Now, the unions have their uses and I remember defending them to my father (who, as a small employer, had had a brush with them), years ago, when I was an idealistic teenager, but they can also be incredibly pig-headed and devoid of common sense. I’ve had experience of it.<br /><br />In February 1986, I was on tour in Paris. I was working as a technical interpreter on a National Theatre show at the Théâtre de l’Odéon. I was interpreting for the French and British lighting crews and things were not going very well. The main NT man was a woman hater (you should have seen his face when he realized he’d be working with me) and the French guy was an impatient boor. I was caught in the middle and had to resist translating the curses that those two men (who couldn’t have been more different and had taken an instant dislike to each other) were uttering under their breath while I was speaking. Still, the set was being built and the play wouldn’t be played in the dark.<br /><br />And then, late one night, the day before the technical rehearsal, it all came to a head: a few minutes before midnight the French oaf said something; I translated it; the NT chauvinist pig then answered and I’d just started to translate when the French union representative stepped forward and ordered me to stop. Stunned, I uttered one more word…. and the French lighting crew walked out. Nothing anyone said could make them resume work: it was past midnight; they wanted to be paid overtime, but had been told earlier that they wouldn’t be. <i>I</i> hadn’t been warned – I would have told the British crew and advised them not to go beyond midnight – and they used me as an excuse to strike. I’d never been in that position. It was horrible.<br /><br />Time was of the essence, as always on such tours – there’s never enough time to do everything and one has to work all hours (we worked 40 hours non-stop once) – and the union rep used it to blackmail the theatre administration. The way he did it was shameful.<br /><br />The following day, they had a meeting, which lasted most of the morning and afternoon thereby reducing the possibility of getting things right even more, and they resumed work grudgingly in the evening. By some miracle the lighting was fine on the night and, as far as the critics and audience were concerned, the tour was a success.<br /><br />By the way, the actors, one of whom was Ian McKellen, remained totally unaware of what had happened.<br /><br />A slap to the unions and their flagrant disregard of common sense and of people’s needs, except those of their members.</span><br />
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<br />Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1790522215714099197.post-35026709938740868492005-07-10T00:26:00.000+01:002013-05-02T01:26:35.136+01:00We know what you're doing<span style="font-size: 85%;">Ok, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted (btw, the perpetrators of those atrocities have not only been slapped by millions but cursed to the 12th generation)?<br /><br />Oh, yes! Once upon a time, back in the early 80s, if you were a member of the mailing list of the National Theatre (thank goodness it’s dropped Royal from its name: what’s the RNT when it’s at home?) you paid your £4 for the year and you were entitled to priority booking, i.e. you got the booklet listing all the forthcoming productions earlier than the hoi polloi, and could book for plays in advance of them. Yes, it was elitist, but if you were a theatre freak like me you couldn’t do without it, and anyway it worked very well. In those days, £4 was quite a lot of money for the service, but not beyond the means of you or me. Over the years the price went up steadily but moderately: it was £10 in 2000, for instance, <i>until</i> we (my partner and I) realized that fifty percent of the time we weren’t getting the seats we wanted any longer, or even getting <i>any</i> seats for our chosen dates. Somehow, the priority system wasn’t working any more. The National Theatre must have realized that as well because, lo and behold!, they soon started a 3-tier system: a priority-priority-priority thing, which entitles you to priority-priority-priority booking – in advance of everybody else and which costs £350 per annum; a priority-priority thing, which entitles you to priority-priority booking – after the moneyed people have made their choices; that costs £60 per annum; and finally a priority booking thing, which costs £10 and which entitles you to, as I said above, not much at all.<br /><br />We pay £60 (because we’re made of money, LOL!) and these days we do get what we want <i>most</i> of the time, although forget about getting tickets for every press night, as one used to: entire auditoria are now block-booked for those performances, you know, for “personalities”. However, I expect we will have to join the upper tier in the future because no doubt we will start not to get what we want at <i>some</i> point.<br /><br />Also, there are different prices for different performances. That’s always been the case: previews have cost less than later shows. But, in the past, press nights, which come at the end of a run of previews, used to count as previews. Then they decided that one should pay more for the privilege of sitting next to a critic scribbling all through the play or fiddling with his programme when he can’t remember who plays what. Fine, ok, I don’t mind paying a bit more to be able to spot the odd celebrity. But the latest booking form (which, btw, arrived one day <i>after</i> the opening of the priority-priority booking period!) revealed that previews are now split into early and later ones. The first two, when the actors can’t remember their lines and the director hasn’t quite made up his mind about lots of stuff and the lighting is less than perfect, are cheap-ish; and the rest are even more expensive. Outrageous!<br /><br />Then there’s chicken. Once upon a time, if you bought a chicken, you could be more or less assured you were getting nice, lean meat (perhaps not as much as turkey, but less chewy and a bit more tasty). Now we’re told that ordinary chicken is just as fat as fast food, so to get the same good-for-you food you need to buy “organic” chicken, i.e. fork out a lot more money!<br /><br />See a pattern here? There’s a constant erosion of goods and services and it’s happening <i>everywhere</i>. How do we stop it? No idea.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">A slap to all those sly providers of said goods and services who are playing with us and think we’re not aware of it!</span><br />
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<br />Belahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16935284724145788208noreply@blogger.com0