Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Catellier gave a little smile, like a grandfather patting a child’s head because the child is showing enthusiasm. Douglas went on:

  ‘The facilities have got to be unblemished. Their journey to Shireston has to be free from anxiety, their arrival uncluttered. They must see the lawns and the house, the theatre to the best advantage. There must be food, served with elegance before they are given the big treat: and remember some of them don’t regard Shakespeare as a treat to start with.’

  Catellier’s smile went thin and dry: it was not unpleasant. ‘You’re an idealist, Douglas. The way you tell it makes everything smooth and glossy: like the colour advertisements. Come to the Shireston Festival. Travel in one of our superb streamline coaches that will whisk you effortlessly into the countryside, through the green lanes that are still part of Britain’s heritage. Stroll on the lush lawns and watch the day die in splendour, once only available to a chosen few. Visit our Shireston restaurant and experience the delights of living like a gourmet. Then have the great experience of magnificently performed drama. This you will remember all your lives.’

  Douglas smiled. ‘We’ll pay you for the advertising copy.’

  ‘But,’ Catellier held up a hand, ‘when you take the trip dear boy, the coach is crowded, the hostess has bad breath, you’re stuck in traffic jams and it’s pouring with rain when you arrive at Shireston and the gourmet dishes are rubberized plastic. Is that why you want to stuff Romeo and Juliet full of the racist problem? Why you want a sixty-year-old Jewish television folk hero playing Shylock and a smart coloured night-club entertainer giving his tiny impression of the great Othello? How do you want me to play Richard? In clown costume?’

  Douglas sighed. ‘I know all of these things can go wrong. That’s why I’ve got to have back-up schemes. I have one idea about combating the weather problem, but it is in the theatre itself that the final memories have got to be planted and it’s there that I have to draw them in any way I think fit as long as it produces good Theatre. I know I’m an idealist, but I still must have drawing power. That’s why my Romeo has got to create a talking point; I’m aware of that even if I’m not prepared to make any distinct racist point within the direction: the casting’s enough. As for Maurice Kapstein as Shylock, Kapstein’s a diabolical comedian full of horrendous sick jokes, that’s his appeal and I think that’s casting William would have approved.’

  ‘Joe Thomas?’

  ‘Joe Thomas fell into my lap. Sure, wherever he goes people queue up at night-clubs to see him, and they’ll queue at the Shireston. But I didn’t get him for that reason alone. He’s what they call a good marquee name, a good name at the box office, but that name only remains good if he can turn in a great performance. Think back, Conrad, did you ever see a couple of films — The Talking Man and Under The Trees At Akron?’ His head was thrust forward, daring Catellier to remember.

  The Talking Man had been made around ten years before; Under The Trees At Akron a year later; both of them long before Joe Thomas’s meteoric rise as the all-singing, all-dancing black ball of fire. In those days he had been trying to make his name as a straight actor and had all but succeeded in the supporting roles he had played in the two movies: a cunning, psychopathic killer, masquerading as an Uncle Tom, in The Talking Man; and the sergeant in Under The Trees At Akron, a film concerned with the basics of fear: a patrol, during the Korean war, pinned down for one night in an area code-named Akron, and in particular the mental agony of one young soldier. A standard plot, but superbly done. Joe Thomas had been outgunned in both films simply because of magnificent lead performances.

  Catellier remembered. You could see it in his eyes as he sat staring down at the table. Then his head moved, imperceptible at first, into a slow nod. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘yes, I give you that. It might just work, but don’t forget that a lot of water, and even more applause, has run under Joe Thomas’s bridge since those two films.’

  ‘I know,’ said Douglas. ‘Only too well. I’ve been close to him and it’s terrifying.’

  ‘Perhaps because he’s terrified.’ Another pause, as though Catellier was switching his mind to matters closer to himself. ‘I do see your problems, Douglas, even if I don’t quite endorse your methods.’ His eyes lifted, trapping Douglas who could see in the deep blue of them the marks of high intelligence and a certain concern. ‘You haven’t answered my question yet, Douglas. You talk about me making a fine Richard, though for the life of me I can’t think why; it’s a role I’ve never even contemplated playing. How? How do you want me to play it?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of how I would want you to play it. I believe you would make an exceptionally magnetic Richard simply because you’re not the most immediate, or natural, choice; you’re not a man for melodrama, but I think there are times, with great talents like your own, when one should go against the grain. We’ll do it any way you want, Conrad, though I would suggest that we forget about the melodrama inherent in the play and do it straight. The unsubtle push to power played with subtlety. Point down Richard’s physical deformity, after all William only used that to colour the deformity within—’

  ‘That’s why the play’s top-heavy and over melodramatic.’

  ‘Quite, so let’s do it within your particular talent.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the downgrading of melodrama reduce the impact, somehow emasculate the play?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Reduce the obvious on stage and replace it with a revelation of Richard’s mind. First we make Richard’s hump almost imperceptible, the limp slight and the withered arm almost unnoticeable; that in itself would make the scene before the coronation more horrific — the meeting of the Council.’

  ‘Richard’s accusation of Hastings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look how I am bewitch’ d; behold mine arm

  Is, like a blasted sapling, withere’ d up.’

  ‘I thought you’d never considered Richard.’

  ‘I know my Shakespeare.’

  Douglas grinned, lifting his glass and taking a sip of wine. ‘I know a woman who met Hitler twice. The first time was accidental: he was on his way to Berchtesgaden and broke his journey at the hotel where she was staying. She happened to be the only English woman in the place and he asked if he might talk to her. She spent the evening alone with him and told me that he was one of the most charming men she’d ever met. This was a cultured woman, Conrad, a woman who is no fool. She met him again in 1939, officially this time at some social function in Berlin, and she said that, in spite of the different atmosphere, her impression was the same: a man of charm, wit, intelligence and character. When the truth emerged she found it difficult to reconcile what she had experienced with the facts. Conrad, could you play Richard like that, with both sides visible to the audience?’

  He took a long time to answer. ‘It’s certainly the right approach for me.’

  Douglas leaned forward, one hand still on the stem of his glass. ‘There are many facets. You could for instance, do it with a slight hint of homosexuality.’

  Catellier’s head came up. For a moment Douglas thought he had lost his man, but when the actor spoke he was calm.

  ‘What about the wooing of Lady Anne?’

  ‘Expediency?’

  ‘It’s expedient already, but it would strengthen the point. Good thinking. That helps remove melodrama. Good.’ He settled into his chair. Douglas had the distinct impression that the man was itching to get home to the text and start work. It was the moment for him to start pulling the threads together. ‘There are other ways of ironing out the melodrama, we can suggest the rise of political despotism through the music and the way we use crowds, the soldiers, the Court...’

  ‘Jackboots.’

  ‘Peter Hall virtually did that in the Histories at Stratford, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t try it again.’

  ‘What about my supports? My Buckingham’s got to be strong.’

  ‘Trust me, Conrad. I’ll give you a strong Buckingham. My wife
’s playing Desdemona and I’ll try and get her to do Lady Anne as well, it’s only small but it would be a start.’

  Catellier smiled. ‘A very pleasant start.’

  ‘Then you’ll do it?’

  ‘I’ll talk with my agent. He’ll call you tomorrow.’

  Catellier’s agent did call: at ten-thirty on the following morning as Douglas was wading through a pile of casting lists and innumerable incidentals with Ronnie Gregor. Catellier would play Richard and Douglas felt he could now leave the small print of the negotiation safely in Ronnie’s hands.

  It was a tiring, necessary and fiddling morning, leaving Douglas edgy as he walked up Shaftesbury Avenue and into Dean Street to Gennaro’s for his meeting with Adrian Rolfe, very conscious of the fact that Adrian’s willingness to lunch was far from the real crunch of getting him to work at Shireston.

  Adrian Rolfe was sipping what appeared to be an innocent tomato juice when Douglas arrived, and the director was relieved when Rolfe tipped back the drink and rose to meet him. Time was always against them, and Douglas, who envisaged a long haggle in any case, did not want to be pushed into small talk.

  They were shown straight to their table, the one by the window corner where, if you sit with your back to the mirror, facing the big pillared painting of Christ casting the moneylenders out of the Temple in muted colours, you hold a dominant view of the place. If you face the mirror you have the same view reflected, so winning either way.

  Rolfe was in his early forties, a short man with a slightly affected voice, trim clean good looks and closely cut hair which curled naturally near to the scalp. His smile, which was practically constant, irritated Douglas who saw in it that superior element which tends to display itself among the class conscious or highly competitive professionals. Rolfe was smiling, almost a smirk, now as they sat down flanked by attentive waiters.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Douglas.’ The timing held perfectly before he brought in memories of their last eruptive association. ‘Peer Gynt seems a long way off, especially now that you’re such a grand person — director of the Shireston Festival.’

  Douglas held himself in check, remembering that it was not so much what Adrian Rolfe said as how he said it. ‘Adrian, one thing before we go any further. You were right about the Peer Gynt programme and I was wrong. I’m sorry. Can we forget that ever happened?’

  ‘Of course, Douglas, of course. I never bear grudges.’ He opened the long blue menu in which he appeared to become quickly engrossed.

  It was at this point in the preliminaries that Douglas became aware of an added disadvantage, one not usual in this restaurant. Their first few sentences had been exchanged during a lull in the conversation from the next table. Usually the quiet atmosphere and careful service at Gennaro’s overcomes any tendency towards loudness on the part of its clientele, but, in the present instance, nothing — atmosphere, a book of printed instructions on decorum, the advantages of a Cistercian convent — would have dissuaded the gaunt, grey and elderly American lady who was entertaining a middle-aged couple at the next table.

  Douglas opened his mouth to make some suggestion regarding choice of food and was shrilled into silence by the manish bray which came from his left.

  ‘Of course I’m used to the English now,’ the American lady bawled at her companions. ‘The trick is in understanding their sense of humour. Icky has it. Did I ever tell you about Icky and Alice when they first came over here in 1959?’

  Douglas felt himself hunch against the outlandish volume and caught Adrian’s eye: a mildly amused frown.

  ‘Well you know Icky, straight to the bar as soon as he gets on the plane,’ continued the unbelievable grandmother. ‘They get to Heathrow and the customs’ man asks Icky if they have anything to declare. He just looks around and points at Alice and says, “You’d better ask her, I’m loaded.” The English love that kind of thing.’

  The anecdote dipped into temporary silence as its narrator took a final mouthful of cream cake and they were able to give their orders. Once the waiter departed, Douglas leaned across the table.

  ‘Can I plunge straight in, Adrian? What’s your availability?’

  The irritating smile again, lifting a little to the right like a sneer. ‘For Shireston? Not available. Sorry Douglas but I’ve had the theatrical scene. It’s just so much sweat and routine. In any case the best publicity story you’re likely to have blew up in your face.’

  ‘No.’ Douglas put his hands palms down, firmly on to the table. ‘No, I mean how are you fixed contractually? Can you get a release?’

  ‘Oh I can get a release. Any time I want. But I don’t want the Shireston, chum. Can’t you tempt John Goodwin from the R.S.T. or David Fairweather from Chichester?’

  ‘I want you. I understand your reticence but will you listen for a few minutes?’

  ‘I’ll always listen.’

  The conversation was broken again. The male partner of the couple being entertained at the next table proved to have a voice at least equal in strength to his hostess.

  ‘When the kids started growing up,’ he announced to his female companions, ‘Paul came to me and said, “Pop, I want a car.” So I told him, “You want a car, so go out and work and get money and buy yourself a car.” Almost all my friends said, “Jack you’re a son-of-a-bitch doing a thing like that. You could buy that kid twenty cars.” But I think I did the right thing.’

  Murmurs of assent from the ladies.

  ‘Mind you it was bad when he went on drugs.’

  It was a natural punch line. Uncharacteristically, Adrian’s shoulders began to shake and Douglas saw a determined waiter approaching the American trio with a bill. It was impossible to converse properly until the party had left on a trail of explanations of the British monetary system imperfectly understood by the elderly lady.

  ‘You still listening?’ Douglas spooned pasta fagiole into his mouth.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘First, a question. What is public relations work in the Theatre about.’

  Adrian did not pause. It was like a tennis volley. ‘It’s about actors and directors with inflated egos claiming they aren’t getting enough publicity; it’s about soothing over bad publicity and keeping some stories out of the papers and some stories in the papers; it’s about advertising and programme layout and press calls, and picture calls, and after a while it becomes a complete drag.’

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Douglas.’ A warning implied in the note of his voice.

  ‘You are wrong, Adrian. You’re wrong because you worked for too long with the same outfit and the whole thing became automatic. It lost its challenge. Public relations in the Theatre is about getting people into seats every night of the week, and I have the biggest challenge any P.R. man could be offered. It’s not just concerned with keeping actors and directors happy. Whoever takes over the P.R. job at Shireston will have widest brief anyone in Theatre P.R. has had this century.’

  Rolfe pushed some of his fish hors d’oeuvre around his plate and slowly shook his head. ‘You always were one to be carried away by your own enthusiasm. I hear you’ve done a dodgy bit of casting that will catch a few votes, but it’ll be hell for anyone handling the publicity scene. Quite something to have the great Joe Thomas at Shireston. But Shireston’s clapped out, Douglas. They’ll laugh.’

  Was clapped out, Adrian. Was. The trustees are putting up a great deal of money to make Shireston a viable proposition again. I’m going to see that we do it, and, while the plays, productions and performances are the obvious end product I have to start selling Shireston on its environment: on the theatre and its setting, the grounds, the natural beauty, the house, the restaurant which I’m building up from scratch.’ Douglas was totally wound up within his subject now. He talked for fifteen minutes about the kind of advertising and the quality his project would mean, and about the kind of service that would be required: a tie-in with some luxury coach service, the link with continental package holidays to Britain, and
hotels in the major cities, British Rail, charter flight companies, schools and organizations.

  Slowly Adrian’s attitude began to change, the mocking smile turning to one of concentrated interest.

  ‘What about the end product though, Douglas? What is the real final weight of the company going to be?’

  Douglas slid his hand into his breast pocket and drew out the, so far incomplete, cast lists, handing them across the table.

  Rolfe put on his glasses and began to study the lists carefully, making comments and asking the occasional question. ‘You’ve definitely got Catellier?’

  ‘This morning we finalized, yes.’

  ‘And Edward Crispin for Buckingham.’ Crispin was a good solid middle billing actor with plenty of experience in the Theatre and a lot of recent television exposure as the lead in a twelve episode serial on the scale of The Forsyte Saga.

  ‘Crispin is another we only got this morning, I haven’t talked to Catellier about him yet but I think he’ll be acceptable. You’ll see he’s also going to play Iago.’

  Rolfe’s eyes flicked up in a look of understanding then returned to the lists. ‘Who’s Carol Evans? Isn’t she a coloured...? Oh yes, I see you’ve got Thomas marked in to play Capulet... and Felicity Durrant as Nurse? But she’s—’

  ‘White,’ said Douglas, clipped and sharp as though the casting should be obvious.

  ‘No Romeo?’

  ‘Auditioning a good unknown on Sunday. Hope he’ll double as Lorenzo and Cassio, but he doesn’t know about that yet.’

  It was a grin this time instead of the smirk from Rolfe. ‘It looks very good, Douglas. You directing the lot?’