Monthly Archives: August 2013

Reviewing the Reviewer

I’ll begin with an obvious truth: I am remarkably thin-skinned. I get very hurt at nasty comments, of which I’ve had my fair share over the years. Where reviews are concerned, I do seem to make a habit of rubbing my nose in the dirt. And taking to heart what I find there. Yes, I’m hyper-sensitive – yes, I’m desperately insecure. But then, I’m only twenty-two, I’ve been acting professionally for less than a year, and I’m still trying to find my niche – not just in theatre, but life at large. The last time I wrote on theatre criticism, it was in a purposefully idealistic light, stressing the need for a collective ambition. On this occasion, though, I want to be more personal. How do I, as an actor, take and respond to criticism?

Respond! How critics scoff at the proposal! The standard reply being that ‘AN ACTOR WHO RESPONDS TO CRITICS IS NOT BEHAVING LIKE A PROFESSIONAL!’ This strikes me as nonsense: the knee-jerk defence of those who are too frightened to bob out of the shadows and risk exposure to criticism themselves. I don’t believe that actors should keep quiet out of fear. Least of all the fear that they’ll be punished in some nebulous future review.

Not that I’m suggesting that actors deserve nothing but empty-headed praise. It’s hard to disagree with Nicholas de Jongh’s observation that ‘actors get more praise in ten minutes than most people get in a lifetime’. But it’s harder still to disagree with de Jongh’s reflection that ‘theatre criticism is an evasion of life, a living of life elsewhere’. It follows that many critics despise confrontation. ‘WELL, YOU SHOULD BE MORE THICK-SKINNED!’ is the standard defence. That people who profess to know about theatre can’t make the alarmingly obvious correlation between someone who’s involved in theatre and someone who’s engaged with their emotions is, to put it mildly, worrying.

However, I don’t want to speak from a position of lofty superiority. In the interests of a full disclosure, here’s a far-reaching selection of negative comments about me and my acting. To mix things up a bit, they’re from critics and directors both:

… Occasionally runs the risk of slipping into caricature.

A lack of self-discipline in Swanton’s performance…

… Enough ham to make the production neither kosher nor halal.

Nobody has ever been that mental.

Stop overselling the character!

Throw off all the mannerisms!

… Indulges in facial acrobatics and extreme gurning that is initially amusing but soon becomes irritating.

There is an indulgent and overdone approach to a whole parade of unfunny and unnecessarily twisted gargoyles … the ever-manic James Swanton as Coupler [is] particularly guilty here.

… An absurd, gurning (and, as the front row of the audience can testify) spitting grotesque.

And my favourite (accidentally sent to me in an email by a disingenuously apologetic reviewer):

He was crap, that’s the problem.

There are a few words around which these comments pivot, with boring predictability: caricature, indulgence, ham, gurning, gargoyle, grotesque, guilt (lots of g-words). ‘Oh, here we go again…’ I find myself thinking. I can usually compose my reviews in my head. I sometimes wonder if I’m the ‘wasp cake’ of various different productions: unfailingly drawing attention to myself – for better or for worse – and opening myself up to every kind of attack. How smug I must seem; how full of myself.

This brings me to my major point. A critical attack, everyone seems to agree, is based on something you’ve done – never what you are.

Personally, though, I don’t ever see the difference.

In my case, I don’t think there is a difference.

Whenever I’ve been criticised, it’s been for some form of overacting (a difficult word, but we’ll go with it for now). That much should be clear from the quotations above. ‘WELL!’ the critic might well sniff, ‘IF WE KEEP TELLING YOU NOT TO DO SOMETHING, THEN YOU SHOULD LISTEN FOR A CHANGE! NOT GO ON REPEATING YOUR MISTAKES!’ Yet whenever I’ve been praised, it’s been for exactly the same thing. When I look back on the positive reviews I’ve received (and there are some), they’re pretty well all commendations for going too far, for doing too much, for pushing myself and the play beyond a place of safety and attempting something more heightened. I suppose I’ve been applying Boris Karloff’s mantra on cinema to the theatre for quite some time:

The secret of success in Hollywood lies in being different from anyone else. Find something no one else can or will do – and they’ll begin to take notice of you. Hollywood is full of competent actors. What the screen needs is individuality!

Let’s return to those words flagged up earlier. One critic thought my Friar Laurence ‘risky’ because caricatured; another considered it a ‘marvellous caricature’. Yet another critic praised Scrooge & Marley for allowing me ‘to deliver a goody bag packed with caricatured delights’. ‘Grotesque’ seems to be the word with the most positive capital (it’s certainly a word I’ve pondered at length elsewhere). My Quasimodo is ‘positively stunning in his grotesqueness’ whilst the ‘grotesque contortion’ of my Coupler (lambasted above) is elsewhere acclaimed as ‘flawless acting’ (the sort of egregious hyperbole which actors apparently dream about). For Love’s Labour’s Lost we have ‘James Swanton makes a wonderfully grotesque Katherine’. The latter review consolidates this general critical schizophrenia, in locating the positive flip-side of even ‘indulgence’ (still the word I think most abused in theatre criticism): ‘It’s over-the-top and self-indulgent but the audience loved it’.

You can begin to see why I find critical assessment so aggravating. No description of my acting has ever contained the words ‘subtle’, ‘naturalistic’, ‘restrained’, ‘nuanced’, ‘shaded’, ‘quiet’, ‘kept his head beneath the ramparts’ or anything vaguely comparable. It’s fast reaching the point where I can’t draw satisfaction from the positive reviews. I know what they’ll say before I’ve even seen them. (Let alone the fact that I never quite believe them.) Instead of providing a description of what being in the audience for that show was like – a revelatory practice, and one that largely died out with the Victorians – reviews tend to provide something baser: an opinion. I recall being at a dinner with Howard Jacobson, who expressed an opinion of his own: that opinions were worthless. As time goes by, I don’t think he was far wrong.

A review of my performance in Romeo and Juliet crystallised this for me. It came from the website of Nick Holland, an online reviewer of deathlessly prolific output:

[I] found James Swanton’s Friar Lawrence actively detrimental to the show overall – inexplicably channeling Vincent Price, I found him hard to watch, and he drags out the character’s final speech, making the speedy running time feel as if it’s acquired that lost hour again…

This is about the most venomous thing that’s ever been written about my acting. ‘Actively detrimental’ – ‘hard to watch’. I seriously doubt Mr Holland would have the courage to say such things to my face: the unfailing acid-test for separating judicious negativity from outright nastiness. And cruelty. It does strike me as odd that a man who communicates through such over-the-top linguistic contortions can’t stand my performances, which – by his own admission – are nothing other than over-the-top contortions. Caliban’s rage at his face in the glass, perhaps.

But what stopped me from taking this too much to heart was the mention of Vincent Price, a man who I’ve loved for over a decade. Price was an actor whose performances were, I believe, uniquely good and wide-reaching. I’m more entitled to my opinion (that word again) than most, having sought out over forty Price films: everything from Laura (1944) and Champagne for Caesar (1950) to The Whales of August (1987) and Edward Scissorhands (1990), by way of House of Usher (1960; a film I’ve discussed here) and Theatre of Blood (1973). Having just rewatched The Raven – a 1963 Poe bastardisation, with Price outrageously camp as a medieval wizard – I find it impossible to believe that Price took his screen image seriously.

Theatre of Blood (1973)

But what was Price’s screen image? What exactly am I being compared to here? It’s not my Vincent Price (a damned good actor); it’s not the ‘real’ Vincent Price (whoever that was). Rather, it’s an opinion about who Vincent Price was. And an opinion so lazy that Holland didn’t even originate it: that of Price as the deranged old ham, embarrassing everyone by the baseless over-confidence of his performances. It’s the very image that Price lampooned so expertly in Theatre of Blood, playing homicidal thespian Edward Lionheart. If only Holland would watch the film! (Watch, not review.) He might discover he was attacking me with a ghost that Price himself laid to rest forty years ago.

The opinions pound on. I frankly don’t care that Holland considered ripping Romeo’s clothes off ‘a seriously understandable impulse’, or that he is, in general, ‘easily distracted by attractive men on stage’. I do dote for a moment on the virtues of possessing the amiable plasticity of a GQ model rather than a body like an attenuated candlestick and a leering hatchet-face that naturally operates like a morpine-fuelled Crash Bandicoot villain (you see, we can all play childish games with high-colour adjectives). Possibly then I’d have been praised. Whether I want that sort of praise from that sort of man is something else again. I wonder if Holland would have the courage to confront his innumerable pert-buttocked young actors with his fantasies. I’d be interested in their reactions.

I’m left only with the impression that Mr Holland doesn’t know what the hell he’s on about. I’m learning about him, certainly – not least his startlingly original comic insight that priests are invariably child-molesters – but not my performance. I know he didn’t like it; I just don’t know why. But given that I know what I didn’t like about my performance – and we’ll get to that – what’s to be gained from yet another opinion? Sadly, I am what I am. I simply wasn’t capable of a repressed, naturalistic and (for Holland’s benefit) resolutely unembarrassing Friar. No more than Holland was capable of writing something insightful and coherent rather than sniping, odious and swollen with pederastic rumblings. Not at that moment, not in those circumstances. Too bad – for both of us, I suppose.

It’s a shame. I wasn’t swanning about in my days in Romeo and Juliet (or Love’s Labour’s Lost) with a sense of how glorious and earth-shattering and downright bloody definitive my performances were. Quite the opposite. I was wracked with insecurity and the merciless, pettifogging feeling that I was letting people down by not delivering something I was at peace with. Some of this insecurity stemmed from the fact that I’m so rarely allowed to play a human being. I’m forced to quote Karloff again, this time in the person of the aging horror star in Bogdanovich’s Targets: ‘I couldn’t even play a straight part decently anymore – I’ve been in the other thing too long.’ None of this is the audience’s problem. I’m not asking for sympathy here. But I am asking for understanding. I’m not some complacent, over-confident, ego-fuelled monster who constantly needs putting in his place. My other point is purely pragmatic: that there’s no amount of unpleasant things you can write about me that I haven’t already thought or said or even written myself. This critic takes the biscuit, though, trashing not only me but one of my all-time heroes. That’s some sort of achievement.

Nick Holland’s linguistic masturbations bring me to another point. Blogging has a worrying parallel in masturbation. Being a blogger myself, I think about this fairly often, scrolling through endless sheafs of dangling, comment-less posts, all just floating off into cyberspace… At what point do these writings intersect with the human race? It scares the hell out of me. It’s something that always daunted me about the Cambridge University Library. I’d go off in search of an obscure academic monograph – on Monk Lewis or Thomas Peckett Prest. I’d find it by means of the online catalogue, before traipsing past hundreds of thousands of books to read it. I’d pluck it off the shelf; the front papers would instantly inform me that the book hadn’t been taken out in ten, eleven, twelve years. I don’t intend to take it out. All I do is look in the index. Read two paragraphs at most. I’m done in five minutes. And it’s left on the shelf again.

There’s a litany of unbelievably horrid things I could say about Nick Holland. But why bother? What little I know of him doesn’t fill me with rage. I feel sorry for the man. I certainly know I wouldn’t want to be him, any more than he’d want to be me (or rip my clothes off, for that matter). He’s a cautionary example; I want to do my utmost to avoid turning into him when I’m grey-haired and middle-aged. I don’t want my passion for the theatre to disintegrate into a series of tired and cynical detractions from it. Nor do I want to spend my adult years emptying my creative energies into the premature coffin of an internet blog.

We all make our own worlds – some of them remarkably lonely – and then go off and lose ourselves in them. It’s our right to do so. I hope to do so with my acting, once I find my elusive niche. This is all fine and admirable and good – provided we don’t wound other people in the process. Critics can deny the fact that they upset people with their remarks. But such remarks are often so far from constructive criticism that they veer into ostentatious, grand-standing, show-boating cruelty. A shoddy investment of human life.

Of course, that’s only my opinion. We all have the right to an opinion.

It’s that inclusiveness that makes them so worthless.

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Sublime Misanthropy

This essay was written six months ago, with a view to its appearance in another publication entirely. However, I really can’t be bothered to keep chasing people up, so I though I’d whack it on here. For the most part, the piece is an appraisal of two of my personal heroes: Quentin Crisp and Kenneth Williams. If you don’t know them (shame, shame!), then chase them, pin them down, discover what makes them so great. I hope this piece will be a starting-point on that quest. I also take a glance at Oscar Wilde – a man who I wish was more of a personal hero, but one I find rather troublesome. It seems an ultimate heresy to criticise the noisy cult of Wilde (particularly when you’re gay yourself); I’ve found myself wondering (incorrectly, I hope) whether this is the reason the article didn’t see publication. I don’t think I’ve rubbished Wilde outrageously – it’s impossible to feel any less than compassion for the man – but I’ve certainly prodded him a bit.

Alright, enough innuendo. On with the article.

SUBLIME MISANTHROPY: GAY SAINTS OF THE 20TH CENTURY

Homosexuality and the Catholic Church are a very old arrangement. The gay hagiography is organised according to a strictly Catholic lexicon: the ‘gay icon’, the ‘martyr to gay causes’ and, most compellingly, the ‘gay saint’. Martyrdom is often a facet of sainthood. An icon, meanwhile, is a form of reproduction – often offering a reflection (inevitably diminished) of a primary sainthood.

To be canonised as a Catholic saint, a candidate must be responsible for miracles – at least two of them – after their death. To be canonised as a gay saint, then, an individual has to have left a truly remarkable legacy.

In looking back on the twentieth century, Quentin Crisp (1908-1999) and Kenneth Williams (1926-1988) strike me as prime candidates for gay sainthood. They’re not very fashionable choices. They’re not fashionable full stop: Williams clung religiously to greying suits and ties; Crisp’s eternal mantra that style and sincerity were the same thing made his silk scarf and fedora a second skin, too personal to be quoted by others. No one has ever accused these men of being attractive: Crisp was a sort of benevolent metropolitan vampire, Williams the consummate shape-shifting grotesque. Most heinous of all, neither one is Oscar bloody Wilde (whose 1900 death brings him up for consideration).

Saints are expected to have suffered. But the derision with which Crisp and Williams are today regarded suggests they were the enemies of gay liberation. Since their deaths, there has been much unfavourable journalism: in The Independent, Peter Tatchell demonises Crisp as ‘an often self-hating, arrogant, homophobic gadfly’; in The Guardian, Justin Quirk claims to speak for the English public when he describes Williams as ‘a nostril-flaring, camp absurdist’. The case for the defence is not aided by Crisp or Williams themselves, who turned upon the counter-culture for which they’d become eccentric figureheads. Crisp did well to smash such faux gay icons as Princess Diana; less honourably, he pronounced AIDS ‘a fad’ at the height of the mid-eighties epidemic. Williams dismissed the musical La Cage aux Folles as ‘dire sentimental slush about two old queens’ (perhaps some will agree). He never acknowledged his sexuality in public, instead gracing the chat-show circuit with suggestively veiled denials: ‘I don’t do it… I’m asexual… I should have been a monk!’ But like many a celibate monk (or high-ranking cardinal), Williams did want to do it, and – occasionally – did.

And yet there was more to Quentin Crisp than anti-monarchism and indefensible tabloid sound bites; more to Kenneth Williams than acid drops and a fumbling, feigned asceticism. Gay liberation is dependent on its lofty misanthropes. These are the gay saints: those individuals who, by merit of their outsize personalities, do inestimable work for the gay community – and often quite by accident. The misanthropic stance that opens Crisp and Williams to abuse is what made them influential in the first place.

They were curiously dislocated characters. Both had an extreme approach to hygiene. Crisp never cleaned his tiny apartment, clinging to the belief that ‘after the first four years, the dirt doesn’t get any worse’. Williams was his polarised opposite: haunted by the idea of contamination, he insisted his guests use a public lavatory rather than sully his own. This neurosis made celibacy inevitable. Yet Williams had no qualms about owning up to his celibacy, often using it as the basis for double entendres: ‘I live a life of celibacy. I’m not interested in the other.’ Of course, such jokes depended on his homosexuality being the most open of open secrets. Everyone knew what Williams was. Crisp had no fear of dirt; indeed, he was casually employed as a rent-boy in his youth. His celibacy resulted from an absolutist personal creed: ‘If I was to become Miss Arc’s only rival, it wouldn’t do to be picked up by strange men. This would give people the opportunity to say that I had only adopted an effeminate appearance for that purpose.’ In evoking Joan of Arc, Crisp makes a tongue-in-cheek bid for gay sainthood. Celibacy was the final step in the construction of the Crispian persona, already laid out in the make-up and dyed hair.

It is a paradox of these gay saints that they were gay in every facet of their being – except for their sex lives, which were non-existent. Yet this displacement was also their completion. Crisp and Williams demanded attention, and they got it, but always on their own terms. Their lives were shaped by their sexualities rather than defined by them; they were less gay men than men who happened to be gay.

Oscar Wilde endured all the agonies of martyrdom, but he was no gay saint. His hedonism remains a black spot on his character. Wilde hurt innumerable people with his sexuality: not only lover after lover after lover – most of whom were left reeling from his bewitching narcissism – but his wife and his children. There is no denying Wilde’s suffering – but the suffering he inflicted on those around him is too often overlooked. In groping for stars and gutter both, Wilde fashioned a double life that made him a figure of damaging dislocation.

Damaging Dislocation - Oscar Wilde

Crisp disliked Wilde for one very simple reason: ‘He never faced anything!’ During the court proceedings against the Marquess of Queensberry – which Wilde himself had started – Wilde denied his homosexuality again and again. This can be excused: Wilde, after all, faced a dreadful punishment. But even in De Profundis, his confessional, the play-acting went on. There is a flash of self-knowledge when Wilde writes that ‘my ruin came not from too great individualism of life, but too little’. But this soon explodes into a fanciful identification with Christ: ‘You can see to what intensity of individualism I have arrived – or am arriving, rather, for the journey is long, and “where I walk there are thorns.”’ That the ‘thorns’ allusion is taken from A Woman of No Importance reveals Wilde’s suffering as self-dramatising: an extension on the play-acting that cloaked his sexuality. In consorting with the Son of God, Wilde seems to have coveted gay sainthood. He didn’t achieve it. He didn’t know himself.

Benevolent Vampire - Quentin Crisp

Quentin Crisp never pretended to be other than he was. Unlike Wilde, he made a courageous stand for his sexuality. Here is how Crisp approached the London gay community of his youth: ‘At first I only longed to wallow in their misery, but, as time went by, I longed to reach its very essence. Finally I desired to represent it. By this process I managed to shift homosexuality from being a burden to being a cause.’ Thus did Crisp break from the furtive majority to make some serious progress. He risked his life every time he walked the streets. The best-known record of Crisp walking the streets is found in the music video for ‘An Englishman in New York’. This song (‘be yourself, no matter what they say’), along with the John Hurt teleplay The Naked Civil Servant, delivered Crisp’s ‘cause’ to a worldwide, predominantly straight audience. Crisp did more for gay people by simply appearing as himself – wise, warm, elegant, and quite at peace with the world, as immortalised in the Sting video – than most civil rights campaigners gave him credit for.

Kenneth Williams never found a satisfactory outlet for his idiosyncrasies. He disguised his unhappiness with his sexuality in all but his private diaries, in which he vented his anguish in tortured, spidery language. Yet for a man whose channels of communication were so severely disrupted, Williams did much to expose how gay men communicated. His double-act with Hugh Paddick as Julian and Sandy on Round the Horne snuck Polari onto BBC airwaves – the underground slang responsible for such phrases as ‘friend of Dorothy’. Similarly, the Carry On films blessed gay men with a consistent presence in mainstream cinema. It’s too easy to rubbish Williams’s performances as shrieking, effeminate nightmares. They are also an assertion of difference – a statement of sexuality, no matter how distorted – and this has an inherent political value. These British comedies were always fundamentally safe. Yet they were surprisingly progressive, in daring to present gay men in a context detached from the Hollywood tradition of the demonic and monstrous – as exemplified by a Charles Laughton (The Sign of the Cross) or a Laird Cregar (The Lodger).

Consummate Grotesque - Kenneth Williams

Such is the weirdness of the Carry On universe that Kenneth Williams became a beacon of heterosexuality, his gawky frame and Olympian nostrils stirring the deepest passions of Hattie Jacques. The union’s transparent improbability was the joke. Wilde likewise gave homosexuality a coded release in his work, allowing his style to betray his substance. But given that Wilde was infinitely comfortable with his sexuality, this seems teasing rather than progressive. Wilde ultimately brought all his darkness on himself. Williams harnessed his predisposition to darkness, and raised awareness of the sexuality that tortured him in private.

Kenneth Williams never lived to see the influence he would have; Quentin Crisp lived perhaps too long, and lost the good opinion of many. Both fell, late in life, into the traps of their bizarre personalities: wheeled out on chat-shows, repeating the same jokes and stories – ‘just living off body fat’ as Williams put it. Yet it was by mastering their strangeness, their isolation, their inbuilt misanthropy that these men made enormous steps for gay liberation. These gay saints seemed simply to happen, like freak natural phenomena: unexpected, inexplicable, and completely inimitable. A kind of miracle, in fact.

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