Where There's Smoke...: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man, a Memoir

by William B. Davis

  Now that I was in London and Veronica still in Scotland, the overnight train from London to Dundee became a regular part of my life. I’m still haunted by the sound of trains at night, the rolling of the wheels, the creaking of the cars, and the long forlorn whistle. British trains were divided into tiny compartments, each with an upper and lower berth, and toilet down the hall. Travelling alone, the only certainty about one’s companion would be his gender. I shared one trip with a small wizened Scot, well into his bottle that he had brought with him. We got to talking, with some difficulty, both the accent and the inebriation creating challenges for me. When it got around to my being in the theatre, his eyes lit up, “Now that Hamlet, tha’s a good play, eh?” Since it had become clear by now that his education level was limited I was surprised he’d even heard of Hamlet. “Wha’s it aboot?” he demanded to know. I considered giving him a short summary but, what the heck, we have a long train ride, I’ll tell him the story. So I started at the beginning with the sentinels on the wall waiting for Horatio. He was riveted. When I was about halfway through, possibly around the play within a play, he asked me to stop. He had “tae piss.” “Dinna forget where y’are,” he demanded. As soon as he returned I continued to the end of the play. I told him only the plot, no character description, no exploration of theme, certainly no poetry, and he was spellbound. We forget how good Shakespeare’s plots are; we’ve come to know them so well. But does my companion’s reaction tell us something about Shakespeare’s audiences? Here is a person, quite possibly illiterate or nearly so, lacking any overlays to understanding that sophisticated education might give him, completely taken by the simple, direct story. That’s as close as I have ever come to imagining how an audience in the pit at the Globe might have appreciated a Shakespeare play in his time.

  Being back in London had its compensations; there was some remarkable theatre to be seen: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf with Uta Hagen and Arthur Hill; Michel Saint-Denis’ production of The Cherry Orchard with Peggy Ashcroft, John Gielgud, Roy Dotrice, Dorothy Tutin, and the young Judi Dench as Anya; Anna Massey in The Miracle Worker; and Joan Littlewood’s original creation of Oh, What a Lovely War!

  All very well, but what about making a living? Getting a day job didn’t occur to me. Not yet anyway. Fortunately Michael MacOwan at LAMDA came to my rescue, and though I didn’t know it at the time, I would begin a whole new career. I returned to LAMDA now as an instructor. I did some scenes with first year students; I don’t think Michael was too thrilled with that. I hadn’t yet learned the best way to work with beginning students. He seemed happier with my rehearsal class which followed and it appeared he would have more work for me after the Christmas break. The clouds were lifting, my marriage was approaching, and I was more or less earning a living in what was more or less my chosen profession.

  If my first wedding was a good time, my second was a real blast. Veronica and I had a real church wedding, morning coat and all. My parents came over from Canada and Maurice Podbrey came up from London to be my best man. Veronica gave the minister strict instructions; she was not going to say “love, honour, and obey.” I think she changed it to “love, honour, and respect,” but on the day, the minister dried. He knew he wasn’t supposed to say “obey,” but he had no idea what he should say. Finally, he gave up and said “obey.” What could Veronica do? Her “Don’t push me, Daddy” had already echoed through the church before her entrance. Could she risk another embarrassment? She had to agree to obey me. It hardly mattered. She was never inclined to obey anyone, nor was I ever inclined to ask her to. The future problems in our marriage were of a different nature. The reception that followed was terrific, my speech was a hit, and soon we headed off for our honeymoon in St. Moritz, Switzerland. Was it here that the trouble started? Instead of spending our wedding night in a lovely Swiss hotel, we spent it in an airport waiting room, one leg of our flight having been postponed. Once we finally got to our destination, skiing and sex kept us pretty happy for the two weeks, even if conversation at meals was a bit halting.

  Once back in England in our tiny Notting Hill flat, another setback. No, Michael MacOwan didn’t have any work for me this term, had I been counting on it? Since Veronica had not yet found work in her publishing field, she donned her new fur coat — a wedding present — and we both signed on at the Labour Exchange. A somewhat humbling experience, but at least in those more enlightened times we were not expected to look for any old job, but only to pursue work in our own field. The Toronto actor Louis Negin is reported to have listed his occupation as “shepherd.” Darned if he could get much work herding sheep in downtown Toronto. Truth to tell, we weren’t on the dole all that long. Veronica soon found work with a prominent women’s magazine and freelance opportunities started to roll in for me.

  The next two years are something of a blurr. I did do more work at LAMDA, first a rehearsal class of Romeo and Juliet in their exciting new theatre and then a production of Two Stars for Comfort by John Mortimer, which Mortimer himself came to — his daughter was in it — and told me he thought my production better than the recent West End production, something I should have remembered when I fell under the spell of the director of that production, Michael Elliott, at the National Theatre a year later. I started to teach at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama, at that time a second tier drama school whose principal felt I was an upgrade to his faculty. Later I would direct a production of Chekhov’s Ivanov for him. I was an assistant director of The Easter Man, a play by Evan Hunter that started in Birmingham and transferred to the West End for a too brief run. The cast featured a young Ian McShane. One night during rehearsals he and his wife/girlfriend invited me to crash with them rather than travel home. I was startled to discover that crashing with them meant sharing their bed. But, alas, that’s all it meant. I guess in the early sixties we were all chums together.

  Other directing assignments came my way. I began a year-long relationship with the Colchester Repertory Theatre, a fortnightly company within an hour’s commute from London. I directed many productions there including Look Back in Anger, The Corn Is Green, The Reluctant Debutante, The Fourposter, and Macbeth with David Calderisi. And I finally directed a pantomime, Aladdin, with Bernard Hopkins as Aladdin. I don’t remember why the role wasn’t played by a woman in this case. A baby-faced ingenue, Bernard went on to become a stalwart member of Canada’s Stratford Festival company. As I have said, pantomime is full of strange traditions, one of which turned out to be that one should never say the last line of the piece until opening night — “don’t ring down the curtain until you have rung it up.” Right up until the final dress rehearsal, Bernard would not say the last two lines. A pretty crummy tradition in my opinion; on opening night he totally flubbed the final speech.

  Prior to the pantomime I directed a production of Treasure Island, also at Colchester. David Forder, the theatre’s director, gave me the playscript that had been used at the Belgrade Theatre in Coventry where he used to work. I’m not sure if we had trouble getting scripts or if he wanted me to see this highly annotated text. It was full of music cues; it seemed the whole production had been one long music cue. I wasn’t having any of that and pared the music down to selected moments that could enhance the action. Who was this director who drowned his production in music? A young chap named Trevor Nunn. Ever hear of the all-music drama Les Miz?

  And then there was the haunting presence of Michel Saint-Denis. And the mystery of how some mortals become gods. Saint-Denis was a French director and teacher who made a name for himself in France in the thirties and was invited to establish training schools in England, becoming director of the Old Vic Theatre and School after the war, where he directed an iconic production of Oedipus Rex with Laurence Olivier. He left the Old Vic in 1951 to head the Centre Dramatique de l’Est but returned in 1961 to work with Peter Hall at the Royal Shakespeare Company, where he directed the previously mentioned production of The Cherry Orchard. With a cast like that how could one lose? While
the production was praised in the press, it was perhaps better not to ask the cast their impressions of their director. The usually positive Judi Dench was treated as his whipping boy and even John Gielgud is reported to have said that Saint-Denis was “too set.”

  Nothing would shake the mystique surrounding Saint-Denis, however. And if the Brits were in awe of him, imagine how the colonials in Canada fawned over him. He became a consultant to various companies and schools, but notably to the Canadians who founded the National Theatre School of Canada. Was it a good thing to have a consultant who made his reputation in the thirties in France advise on the founding of a school in Canada in the sixties? The man was such an icon no one has ever asked the question so far as I know.

  At any rate I was to fall into his sphere for the first time — Canada’s National Theatre School would come later — when I was engaged along with three other ‘young Turks’ to direct in the studio of the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford in the fall of 1964. Peter Hall’s company, now playing in both Stratford and London, was challenging Olivier’s recently established National Theatre for cultural supremacy in Britain. In keeping with Hall’s artistic ambition, at the end of each season, after all the plays had opened, Saint-Denis would run something called “the flare-up,” a series of workshops, rehearsal productions, and related activities designed to enrich the company, particularly those who might not have been fully challenged during the regular season. Among other things I did an experimental improvisation exercise we called “pop drama” — this in the days of pop art — where the actors riffed on randomly selected news stories I would give them, and I directed the second act of The Three Sisters. John Barton ran the program this year in the absence of Saint-Denis who had other commitments. Nonetheless, the great man did arrive in time to view our work and share his wisdom. In a French accent, of course. One story goes that when giving a criticism he told the actress she did not have the réalité. When the person beside him said, “Michel, it’s reality,” he is said to have replied, “I know.” So maybe it’s the accent that gives one iconic status? Telling an actor she is not real would not otherwise seem very insightful. But perhaps I am just bitter for reasons that will become clear later.

  In the meantime it was a real treat to get to know the young John Barton. John was the company’s dramaturge and had been largely responsible for the conflation of five Shakespeare plays into Peter Hall’s dynamic three part Wars of the Roses. His skill with Shakespeare’s language was such that he could write linking passages with no one aware of the difference. Where did Shakespeare stop and Barton begin? No one could tell.

  After “the flare-up” I went back to doing alternating productions at Colchester. While Colchester paid a living wage for the two weeks of rehearsal, they didn’t pay me for the two weeks between productions. Of course, they should have; that’s when I did my prep for the next production. So, for the first time since my brief stint in the bowels of Woodbine Race Track, I needed to find some other work, some day job. I soon found myself selling advertising space for a buying guide to be placed in all the rooms of a new hotel. To this day I am not sure the book was ever placed in the hotel. I’m not even sure the hotel was ever built. I know I never received the promised second and third year commissions. Never imagining I would be any good as a salesperson, I took it on as an acting exercise. I convinced myself the product was a marvellous opportunity for any merchant and lived truthfully in these imagined circumstances. And darned if I wasn’t good. Soon I was making more money when I was out of work than when I was in work. When I finally had an offer of full-time employment as a director and had to give up the sales job, the business owner offered me a huge increase and a car if I would please stay. I refused. It took thirty seconds. But I refused.

  The National Theatre of Great Britain

  It is 1964. I am living in London eking out a living as a professional theatre director. I’ve settled into a fairly comfortable routine directing every second play at the Colchester Rep and directing occasional student productions at London drama schools. I get a call, or a letter, I don’t recall which, from the National Theatre of Great Britain, the most prestigious theatre in the country. Would I come for an interview for the position of Assistant Director? I am twenty-six and ambitious. Of course.

  It turns out there will be three interviews: the first with the General Manager, the second with Associate Director, John Dexter, and the third and final interview with Sir Laurence Olivier himself. The first of these went very well. General managers usually have people skills and this lovely man was no exception. We had a pleasant conversation and I was assured of interview number two. John Dexter, a long story himself, was brilliant but full of himself. All I had to do in interview two was listen to John Dexter talk. And then came interview three.

  I still recall sitting in the reception area waiting for my interview with the great man himself. The scheduled time for my appointment passed, and passed, and passed. After what seemed like an hour, though was likely less, a pale-faced individual emerged from what I assumed was the meeting room and staggered towards the exit. My god, I thought, this is going to be a test indeed.

  After a few moments, I was summoned inside to be met by two people in addition to Sir Laurence himself. I was invited to sit. There may have been, must have been, a few polite opening remarks. But all I remember is silence. And Sir leaning forward and staring at me. What should I do? Stare back? Finally, I figured I should talk. But about what? In the end I babbled for two or three minutes, whereupon Sir said, “Thank you very much,” and I was dismissed. What a disaster! My predecessor had been in the room for an hour and I lasted no more than five minutes.

  A week later, they phoned and offered me the job.

  The National Theatre, now the Royal National Theatre of Great Britain, opened in 1963, domiciled in both the Old Vic Theatre and the Chichester Festival Theatre, the arena style theatre modelled after Stratford, Ontario. In the 1970s the company would finally move into its own home on the South Bank. Laurence Olivier was the general director, John Dexter and Michael Elliott were associate directors; assistant directors such as me were quite a bit farther down the depth chart. The acting company included Albert Finney, Maggie Smith, Derek Jacobi, Michael Redgrave, Joan Plowright, Robert Stephens, and Frank Finlay. There were two separate companies, one in Chichester and one in London, the A and B companies. One could always remember which was which. Olivier was in the B company. I was to be in the A company.

  We had a slight wrinkle as I was opening a play at the Guildhall School during the first week of rehearsals for the Chichester season. I had been assigned as assistant director of a double bill of Miss Julie and Black Comedy. Michael Elliott was directing Miss Julie with Albert Finney and Maggie Smith, and Black Comedy was to be directed by John Dexter with Derek Jacobi as well as Albie and Maggie. Management assured me starting a week late would not be a problem, but during that week I had an angry phone call from John Dexter. “Where are you?” When I explained, he barked that no one had told him. Not a propitious beginning. Was that why my sole duty on the production turned out to be to check sight lines at one rehearsal? (Although I was also responsible for rehearsing the understudies, one of whom was the young Ronald Pickup.) Dexter was short and dark with a menacing air, but his bark turned out to be worse than the proverbial bite and he was quite friendly when I finally did get to rehearsals. He just didn’t have anything for me to do. On the other side of the bill, the stage manager for Miss Julie assured me I wasn’t missing anything: they were just talking, and talking, and talking.

  Despite being relegated to observer status on Black Comedy, the experience was instructive. Peter Shaffer had written a warm humorous play about light and dark, seeing and not seeing. The play opens in darkness with the characters on stage apparently going about their normal lives — we know this from what we hear them saying — when suddenly the lights blaze on and the characters are seemingly plunged in darkness by a power failure. A nice conce
it that sets in motion a light comedy with something to say. Dexter’s blocking of the first half of this one-act play was brilliant — if only it were a Feydeau farce. Problem was, it’s not. Halfway through the play the Maggie Smith character enters, and the play moves (or should I say, moved) into more profound territory. But the powers that be were flummoxed. Maggie Smith, the great comic actress comes on, and the play isn’t funny anymore. What to do? We young types — who included my old girlfriend, Carolyn Jones, who was a junior member of the company — sat at the back of the theatre and watched while John Dexter, Peter Shaffer, and Kenneth Tynan (the great critic and now dramaturge of the company) sat in the front row trying to make the second half of the play as funny as the first half. It was quite a pathetic sight. It didn’t occur to any of them that the problem might be the first half of the play, that maybe the first half didn’t blend with the second half because it should never have been directed as a farce in the first place. But no one asked us.

  My experience with Miss Julie couldn’t have been more different. The stage manager was indeed correct; they were still sitting around a table talking by the time I joined them. Miss Julie, by the great Swedish dramatist August Strindberg, is a play about class, privilege, power, and ambition. Miss Julie herself is in a double prison, being both a woman and upper class. The play takes place in the kitchen of the estate on Midsummer’s Eve in nineteenth century Sweden and centres on the dynamic between the aristocrat, Miss Julie (Maggie Smith), and the servant, the ironically better educated Jean (Albert Finney). Why so much talk at rehearsal? Why didn’t they get on with it? After a time it became clear that the director, Michael Elliott, had an intense vision of the play surpassed only by his intense vision of theatre in general, what it could and should be. There were to be no tricks, shortcuts, generalities, or handsome performances in this production. We were searching for truth, clarity, and immediacy. And unlike Dexter, Michael would take me into his confidence.