This second diary entry kicks off with an apology. Well. Almost. Because I just haven’t had it in me to diarise the later rehearsals for Sikes & Nancy – those six days in York, followed by four more in London. I’m aware that this catapults me into the Dickensian school of ‘grow sad’ and ‘can’t do it’, which I vowed last time to avoid. In truth, I was staggered that I was so drained by my one-man rehearsals. Such depressive thinking isn’t worth airing. But it might be usefully explained.
I maintain that the main preparation for the solo show takes place within the head. The point of rehearsals is to release that mental energy through the body and the voice; to translate that energy, so furiously pent-up, into the kinetic, the sonic. It’s like a medium disgorging ectoplasm at a Victorian séance. Out comes the cheesecloth, knotted and knobbled, dragging a few people along as it leaves your system. An unnatural birth. And then we have our play.
The grey wall I bumped up against in rehearsals usually revealed itself as my own sabotaging brain. First there was the onset of a mysterious swollen throat, just before leaving for London – a swelling which I now suspect was (partly) psychosomatic. No fun to vocalise through. There was the terrible self-consciousness when people – God forbid! – actually started to watch the play. Then there was that unsettling late run-through in which the play lost some twelve minutes in length. A fine illustration of how faulty an actor’s perception can be: I’d felt I was going so terribly slowly. Beyond these considerations, there were the high-octane splittings of the self required to make the piece work at all. For roughly half its runtime, Sikes & Nancy features scenes of three characters (four, should we include the Narrator) engaged in intense conversation. I am everywhere yet nowhere: forever gazing, abstracted, at the place where I stood a moment before.
And, beyond anything, there’s the unfettered self-focus. Bolstered, in this case, by the absence of a director. Other than me, that is. Me, me, me, me, me, me, me. I’ve felt much burdened by me of late. You stumble about, rehearsing away, vaguely humiliated that you’ve no one more interesting to focus on. I would look wistfully to the plaque outside our Percy Street rehearsal rooms, commemorating the residence of the great Charles Laughton next door. Laughton, who played to acclaim in seven West End plays in the year he left RADA – and just as I’m preparing for my first West End stint. Laughton, whose remarkable Quasimodo – the subject of my second one-man play – remains the supreme grotesque. Laughton, who, not content with being the supreme grotesque, lived in Percy Street with Elsa Lanchester, herself the indelible Bride of Frankenstein. Why could Laughton – almost impossibly interesting – not resurrect and give Sikes & Nancy instead? You start wondering at the point of the torturous enterprise, but this is mostly healthy: a reminder that the one-person show, like pantomime, is completed by its audience. Until the audience arrives, self-focus is inevitable.
The absence of a director is a little unorthodox. But I feel it’s an unorthodoxy into which Sikes & Nancy has grown. I have no excuse for stalling the self-reliance required to embody the show – to beat it into the blood and the bones, so I can incarnate that other world. (And is this really so unorthodox? Dickens self-directed in the Public Readings.) However, a director no doubt eases the burden of the solo show. And fends off the pettifogging suspicion that it’s utterly terrible.
So a proper diary, a further reordering of grey space, proved to be one complication too many. Leisure hours were better spent in escaping. However, this has helped me towards a structuring principle for future diaries. From now on, I won’t chronicle anything other than the performances (and the days that swirled about them). This will save on much boredom.
RADLETT CENTRE (17TH SEPTEMBER). A night of terror. Our opening night – in a distinctly professional three-hundred seater theatre. In handling first nights, I often think of my great hero Boris Karloff. After ten years of Hollywood bogeymen, Karloff made his Broadway debut in Arsenic and Old Lace in 1941. He was petrified. What’s more, he excellently preserved his self-persecuting ramblings:
I thought, ‘There are only two things I can do. I know that I’ve always had this little, if I… go way below par. It has never troubled me, but now, in the tight spot, it has caught up. And only one or two things I can do. One is to go to them in the morning and say, “Well, I’m terribly sorry but we’ve all made a mistake. You’ve seen what’s been going on. You’ve been very kind and haven’t said anything, but it’s just no good. I can’t make it. How much do I owe you?”’
And then I thought, ‘Well, if that happens and I go back to Hollywood, I’m just about done there – because there’s been a flourish of trumpets and all that, and a week later, I come back with my tail between my legs and that’s it.’ So I thought, ‘Well, I’ve just got to make myself do it. I’ve just got to force myself to do it.’
The genial Frankenstein Monster had diarrhoea for a good few weeks after opening night: ‘I got on the scales and I had lost twenty-six pounds – in sheer fright.’
Fight or flight, fight or flight. Sikes & Nancy has always daunted me, but airing it in this newly professional context has added an extra spice of terror. Higher stakes; greater expectations; more and more people not to let down. I doggedly told myself that I’d much rather be acting than sitting an exam (thanks for that, Cambridge), and hurried upstairs for the fifteen-minute pre-state.
The performance was acutely discomfiting. Not that I hadn’t been prepared for that. From the get-go, I was sweating buckets. In seeming compensation, I was spitting buckets, seemingly every time I opened my mouth. (A post-show tweet was poetic in its evocation of ‘spittle overload’. Mea maxima culpa.) But then, this was in an effort to articulate and therefore be heard in a theatre so vast. Dark too – impossibly vast and dark; I could sympathise with Stanislavsky’s terror of the black hole of the auditorium. Felt I should be running to the foot of the stage to embrace whoever was out there. Felt I was tearing myself to pieces too, but for who exactly? And to what end, to what purpose? A nightmare thought, half-way through, while strangling myself as Fagin: ‘I bet they all hate this.’ Soon forgot this when I got some fake blood (primarily washing-up liquid) in my eyes. It mixed quite wonderfully with the sweat descending from my forehead, which had anyway been leaking into my eyes from the start. My eyelids flickered like moths throughout. The fatigue was quite powerful.
It’s a challenge I meet with some relish, powering through the haemorrhage of horrors that arise on first nights. The performance was no disaster. It’s just that I’m so aware of my mistakes. (That which goes to plan is unworthy of comment; the least of your professional obligations.) I must take care not to labour the pains of Sikes & Nancy. There’s the old story about Richard Mansfield, collapsed at the Garrick Club, and bemoaning the strain of playing Jekyll and Hyde to Henry Irving. Irving’s mumbled response: ‘Mm. If it’s unwholesome – why do it?’
Why do it then? Because it’s not unwholesome. Not really. It’s a joy. Even when it’s anything other than joyful. All was worthwhile. I managed to get the play’s running time to over an hour: adjusting to the vastness of the space had its compensations. And wandering through the new lighting designs (courtesy of Matt Leventhall) was an atmospheric treat. Matt’s brilliance has been to cross-light from the wings, with minimal spots and light haze, making it appear that actor and chairs are floating in an inky black void. The question-and-answer session was also strangely liberating. So exhausting is the play that I was free from self-consciousness: the ideal state for banging on about Dickens without fear of boring people.
Terrors aside, how good to get the play before an audience again. Having lain dormant since St William’s College – back in March of 2013 – Sikes & Nancy has returned.
LETCHWORTH ARTS CENTRE (19TH SEPTEMBER). The eighteenth was an odd day. I transferred from my Travelodge to a hotel where seemingly nothing worked: the tap, the shaving light, the shower, the pillows (so like four white boulders), the television, even the toilet paper (how can it work when there isn’t any?). A monotony broken only by choice attacks from crane flies. What little of Hertfordshire I could see was bizarre: everything seemed to be built next to a motorway. Quite different from the rural idyll I knew from watching Hammer House of Horror (barring the hitchhiker-happy ‘Two Faces of Evil’). Still, I had to restore myself for the next performance. Trusting to Dickens’s old mantra that energy begets energy, I went off on a five-hour walk. This did much good. A lonely day in all, tramping through Henlow churchyard, brooding on matters of love and death. All helpful, of course, for the next evening’s Sikes & Nancy.
The Letchworth performance struck me as a throwback to performing Sikes & Nancy at the Golden Fleece Inn (accomplished back in October 2012, thanks to the entirely brilliant Mark Watson). Here we had a venue, which, as arts centre, was not quite a theatre. (Indeed, we were informed that the room was being given over to Christian worship and recreational pole-dancing over the weekend. Not at the same time, I assume.) Here we had the audience on fold-up chairs and one lighting state throughout, as well as tabs that left one garden centre-style wall resolutely uncovered. And, just as at the Golden Fleece, there was great deliberation about whether we could open the windows (an exact parallel: both venues hovered above a pub on a Friday night). We were blessed to find a window, sequestered high above the performance space. I’d have been lost without it: I was more sweat than man before we even started.
It’s cruel that the seeming informality of Letchworth did nothing to reduce my nerves. Simon Callow put it best: ‘for actors as for farmers, nothing’s ever right’. I must have it out with my brain, and the only way to do that is to get a few more murders under my belt. Nonetheless, this Sikes & Nancy was an improvement on Radlett. I’m coming together a little bit more, reducing the extraneous twitchiness (some is desirable), happily adjusting to a space that’s intimate rather than epic. I find some more nuanced tenderness in Nancy (such a challenge: really thinking those high-emotion lines in speaking them) and forget some inhibition for Bolter (the key to that character, I believe). But there’s still a way to go yet. The audience seemed at ease with the play also: the question-and-answer session went on nearly as long as the show. It’s great for a solo performer to come together with an audience in this way. When I last saw Pip Utton in Edinburgh, he shook hands with the audience as they left. Ideal.
ASHWELL SCHOOL HALL (20TH SEPTEMBER). A day of impeccable framing. Ashwell is the Hertfordshire of my imagination, redolent with the autumnal Gothicism of The Blood on Satan’s Claw (hideous title, beautiful film). A smattering of mist and rain helped, as did the ominously chiming village church. I was fortunate enough to be staying in the medieval house of Colin Blumenau, our tour manager: a beacon of hospitality, particularly after the hotel where nothing worked. Colin had what can only be described as a theatrical library on the floor where I was staying. Utter heaven. I found a copy of Antony Sher’s Year of the King, which I hadn’t lain hands on since I was in Sixth Form. Really good to return to it; a formative tome for this slightly hunchbacked actor.
To our venue in the evening. Some interesting new challenges. The high-echo acoustics familiar to many school halls – always a danger with a piece as vocally detailed (and, let’s face it, loud) as Sikes & Nancy. Also a new thrust staging arrangement, the audience facing me on three sides. This is just what we’ll have in Trafalgar Studios, so I best get used to the nodding dog sensation. I find myself wondering why all school halls have parquet flooring. It was on just such a parquet tract that I gave my Ebenezer Scrooge in 2005. And everything encircling it, from Nativities (early to mid-1990s) to Return to the Forbidden Planet (2007). How many others discovered their love of acting on a parquet floor? Possibly the comforting old memory helped. Ashwell proved to be the least tiring show yet; certainly the least sweat-drenched. I’m starting to rediscover a certain ease in the performance. Vital, should I ever fling myself safely over the piece’s relentless emotional peaks (more an emotional mountain range). There are, unbelievably, moments for recovery – even mid-murder – so I’m pleased to be gaining access to them. Dickens wrote a monster, but it may yet be tamed.
A special joy in the question-and-answer session: practically the entire audience of sixty-five came round afterwards, mostly armed with glasses of wine. A lovely bit of chit-chat ensued. Not for the first time, I was addressed as ‘rubber face’ (Rowan Atkinson has played Fagin, of course), and I had chance to eulogise the just-deceased Donald Sinden as King of the Irvingites. And one delightful lady came out with the best of all after-show comments: ‘I’m really glad I came to this tonight, instead of staying in to watch The X Factor.’
I think I have arrived.