by John Gardner
The director explained that he was not going to subject this particular cast to a rigorous block out of the scenes; with this production they would work as a group, the inspiration coming from all of them as they proceeded. He went on to describe the setting, with the help of Tony Holt and the small model which had been made. Lastly, he moved to the minor adjustments of text.
Apart from one or two small changes, like the addition of Off with his head: so much for Buckingham, the only major alteration was that which Olivier had made, both in the film version and in his Richard at the Old Vic in 1944: compounding the opening, Now is the winter of our discontent, with the passage from scene two in the third act of Henry VI, Part III, where, at the end, Richard of Gloucester proclaims:
I can...set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut! were it further off, I’ll pluck it down.
Conrad, already perfect in word, had obviously spent his time at Shireston working hard and alone; now, in the opening moments of rehearsal he held out to them almost the full dimensional character for which Douglas had asked: charm and bravura most apparent on the surface, a chilly ruthlessness in the heart. There was even the hint of homosexuality which Douglas, with some trepidation, had suggested at their first meeting.
As though spurred on by Catellier, the remainder of the cast followed his lead. What had, in the beginning been tense, now relaxed and they started to work together, bringing a corporate mind on to the production.
By lunchtime Douglas felt more at ease than he had done for several weeks.
Asher Grey had, literally, got Lorenzo and Cassio buttoned up. He had learned Romeo weeks ago, but only now did he have time to begin thinking about the flesh and blood with which to clothe the character. In many ways the solid block of work, which had consumed time since rehearsals began at Shireston, had been a domestic Godsend. Julia was also called upon to work hard, doing a serving maid to Portia (she even had a few lines, transposed from the serving man in Act One, Scene Two), a series of changes in Othello: a lady-in-waiting to Desdemona and a citizen of Cyprus. She was also understudying Carol Evans’s Nerissa and playing a lady-in-waiting in Richard; wisely, Douglas had seen to it that she was in no way concerned with Romeo and Juliet. So far, the tight timetable meant that, while they met in rehearsal, Asher and Julia only really came together in the evenings, often late, so some strain was taken off the young actor.
Asher thought deeply about Romeo, trying to see how he could bring some of his own experience to bear on the emotional dilemma of the young man. The key was, of course, the mad, hot, passion of love in its early stages, when everything is beautiful and all things rational are thrown away and life is lived wholly for the adored. That had nothing to do with his experience with Julia Philips: theirs was a relationship bound together solely by emotional blackmail and (he was the first to admit it) exceptional sexual pleasure: it was Julia’s preoccupation with his body, and his with hers which made their state matter at all.
Julia’s honest earthiness, and her knowledgeable approach to sex quickly stirred him, and while Romeo and Juliet certainly had to contain more than a little sexual stimulation, its quality had to be of a more pure and innocent nature, not quite puppylike, but a blend of desire, need, romance: a bodily giving between both partners, all shrouded in floating joy which was turned easily to despair. There had, Asher considered, only once been a time like that for him and, even at his age, it seemed so long ago that he could not even grasp at the memory of feeling.
He must have been all of twenty-one years old, out of work, seeking a job during his looking round the agents’ period (before Stanthorpe Repertory). She could not have been more than seventeen, in her first job, a secretary (which meant she was in the firm’s typing pool) at some big city office, they sold furniture he suddenly recalled, and with that one fleck of knowledge a great deal more came rushing back to give him mental images: their meeting, passing the salt to her across the table of some tiny fried food restaurant; she being very impressed by the fact that he was an actor, even an out of work actor: her first question had been, ‘Do you know Laurence Harvey?’ The next evening he took her to a local movie, A Man For All Seasons he seemed to remember, Schofield was always a particular hero; there were afternoons, at week-ends, talk, talk, fun talking; laughter; holding hands and a lot of kisses; the sense of being oblivious to everything else but her, even being without work did not matter much. Then, in the middle of the joy, came the ecstatic agony of mind, the great decision which was no decision because they had both made up their minds, yet it had to be talked out; and the disaster of the first time. He had taken other girls before, but never a virgin, like Barbara, he now recalled her name and with it came the face, snub nosed, blonde hair which she had to wash a lot (There’s too much oil in my scalp.’), wide hazel eyes and striking white teeth: he could see the face screwed up in pain and hear her breathing the classic words, ‘It hurts, God it hurts. Go on...’
He fumbled it, of course, but the next time was easier, and the next delirious. Then something happened; she had to leave London, something to do with her family in the Midlands. She wanted him to come and see her but he could not afford the fare; there were letters; waiting for the mail each day; passion in blue ink on pink paper and his semen caught in a tissue, the mind blown by thought of her absent body, the feel of her under her clothes, nipples like wild raspberries. Asher smiled to himself: the clash of phallic symbols. Then what? Stanthorpe Rep? No, a change of pace and mood in her letters, that was the start of the decline; a trailing off into the wind; ragged trees at the end of autumn. Then nothing.
If he could only recapture those first days, their eloquence, madness, irresponsibility, the experience of being high on love. If he could do that, then his Romeo was made. Asher Grey tried to reach towards total recall.
At the first Romeo and Juliet rehearsal it was obvious in the minds of both Asher Grey and Carol Evans that, in spite of all their separate, previous or even present, emotional ties, their combination in this play put both of them at great personal risk. It was a thing apart, they knew that without saying anything. This was a thing removed from permanence and they felt the spider’s web static flow between them, as it had at the company reception, and all nearby were aware of it. Douglas also saw and felt, and the professional in him warmed to it: he wanted this to be a dangerous production: as he explained to the company, he saw it mapped out in great dramatic colourful bursts, teetering on the brink of wide-screen romanticism, with youth in the foreground proclaiming the dangerous innocence of being young, together with that particular hot-headedness which clashed with the hard reality of the mature, already formed, world.
Within a couple of hours Douglas was fairly certain that he could get just what he wanted: the flash of steel contrasting with the rich colour of the moment, as age and tradition strove with wayward, thoughtless, beautiful and emotional young people.
‘I knew you’d wear pink underwear.’
‘David you are a fool. You pervy old devil, thinking about my underwear. Well I hope it brought you pleasure.’
‘On. And off. Delicious. I love you Rachel.’
Pause of five seconds as she props herself on one arm, moving a pillow with her other hand.
‘Really love me? Or is it just...what does it say in the song? Just a passing fancy?’ Depressed that he had brought it this far by saying it out loud: she had played this scene before and knew that it ended badly. (‘A little touch of Harry in the night.’)
‘I think it’s real-type love. Is there any way of knowing?’
Another pause during which Rachel cannot look at him. ‘No. No, I don’t suppose there is. Have you had a lot of women? You’re very good at it, David, very good.’
‘You’re pretty adroit yourself.’
‘Well I haven’t done it in a long time. Have you?’
‘Done it in a long time?’
‘No stupid, had a lot of wo
men?’
‘Not that many.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Ten? Twenty?’
‘More like five or six.’
‘Oh.’
‘What about you as we’re on the truth game?’
‘Never had a woman in my life.’
‘Idiot. Men?’
‘Three. But I know lots of girls who’ve had many more than that.’
‘Who’s the best ever?’
‘Don’t search for flattery. What’re you...Oh David, again?’
‘Come on, closer.’
‘Oo. Oh. You’re the best ever. Uhu.’
‘Open your legs. They’re like the buds opening in May, your thighs.’
Noises.
‘...but, I do see you’re moded;
I am to pray you not to strain my speech
To grosser issues nor to larger reach
Than to suspicion.’
‘I will not.’
‘No, hold it. Joe, I thought we ironed that move out last week. You cross behind Edward, not in front.’
‘Oh, sure, sorry Douglas. Yea you’re right.’
‘We changed it so that the cape movement—’
‘The pase de rodillas.’
‘Okay if you want to be technical, so that Edward’s pase de rodillas, his move with the cape, would be more pronounced.’
‘It’s better than your pronunciation of pase de rodillas.’
‘That’s it. Okay, carry on.’
‘Morning Mr. Swimmer. Usual?’
‘Usual Raquel, thanks.’
Four members of the company in the corner of the bar. Two strangers. Six regulars. Nodded towards and examined carefully at a distance. Laurence Pern and a boy called Mark (a walk on), the girls looked identical, though he knew one by name, Eve Lester. Jeans, shirts, rubber soled shoes. They all looked dirty, but when you have to roll around on stages and floors all day you always looked dirty. People expected actors to be all smart suits and carnations.
The pint on the counter, a tankard of sunshine; picked up and held to the light. The old joke, ‘you horse is in perfect condition’.
‘Thank you Raquel.’
‘Mr. Swimmer.’
Cloud of white froth; your Raquel pulled a good pint; a smooth head, not too big but enough. Well built girl; a year or two ago you’d have had that, Archie boy, like that big salesman from Shireston who came up most evenings in his Triumph to conquer and enjoy her plump thighs and swelling breasts which moved behind the glossy material of her blouse, all red swirling patterns. Ah, Archie, firm young breasts, a simple lascivious phrase that used to get the old saliva running; all fading away; you don’t stand a chance now; time was, and it takes you back: the times you had with companies all anxious now to forget their ages (the ones that are still with us).
It was so simple then, flats and battens, a lighting plot operated by one man on the Prompt side with his mind on other things: a couple of good scene painters, backdrops with no problems, a painted garden with a fountain up front and, maybe a bench on stage; no real problems; Shakespeare without the big modern techniques, not complex like today. Mind you, you could see how it could all go right back to that: the set they were building for Richard III for instance, a dirty white box with odd sections which came in and out of the rear wall. Very strange that looked, but it was the nearest thing he’d seen to an old-fashioned box set in years. Back to the simple way: cleat hooks and cleat lines.
The acting seemed easier then; you had to have a good strong voice and presence. ‘The poetry is all that matters, my boy. Give them Shakespeare’s poetry and you won’t go wrong.’ That’s all that still matters to those stupid buggers down in Shireston. The bloody Shireston Festival Society; they’d never caught up with the change; Shakespeare at its simplest level with no underlining: that was what they wanted, unadulterated Shakespeare, meaningless Shakespeare, words that just sounded beautiful if spoken in a certain way with painted trees and walls, to show they had nothing to do with real life: de-claimed bravely with a passion that had little to do with violence, politics or sex. Sex, that Eve Lester was a little mover. Archie, you should have been a bloody director not a stage carpenter. Another gulp from the jar, then back to supervising the building of Mr. Holt’s new set for Richard III.
‘I trust we’re not going to have any problems with this scene: either of the schoolboy variety, or the shocked, old-fashioned kind. There’s no problem and it’s perfectly straightforward. Romeo and Juliet have spent the night together, and it’s love in a hot climate. They’re both naked and I see no reason for either of them to be coy and start putting clothes on the moment dawn breaks. Asher and Carol have no reservations about playing it nude. If anyone else in the company has an objection would they please make it now because we haven’t got time to argue.’
‘The press will have a beanfeast.’
‘The press have not yet adjusted to the fact that nude scenes can be beautiful and, if used properly, they’re perfectly natural; they still see them as news stories of spectacular interest. You only have to look back a year to Abelard and Heloise. Give the press the fact that there was a five-second nude scene and they went wild. At the outset nobody bothered to mentioned that there were also two castrations, one of them on stage. So let’s forget about the press and get on with it. Asher and Carol in bed: I know you’re fully clothed and lying on hard boards and that it’s a chilly morning. But think bed, and hot. Right?’
‘It’s beautiful. You’ve done a first rate job.’
‘It’s a sixteen page pamphlet on art paper with thin card covers and some difficult colour work, Mr. Rolfe. Even for flattery I can’t bring the price down.’
Adrian flicked through the programme under the tubular lighting of the printer’s office. The cover insides and back carried advertising, the rest was a splendid layout job: colour, every device used for making space count, economy. A short article about the history of Othello. This production: two pages of black and white photographs of the company in rehearsal; a piece on Joe Thomas; a page of Tony Holt’s designs; the centre spread of cast and credits littered with drawings; notes on members of the company.
‘I’m not trying to flatter you. It’s a bloody good programme. I doubt if any of the other festivals could match this quality.’
‘Glad you like it, we’re pretty pleased ourselves. Now, are you sure that first print is going to carry you for three weeks — the Othello and Merchant I mean?’
‘That’ll carry us, but what about the alterations?’
‘Well, I’ve got to have them a good fortnight before we go for the second print, and we’ll be coming up with the Richard and Romeo programmes by then.’
‘You have my notes?’
‘Yes. We slip page three for the second print. You’re planning to give me a completely new page?’
‘No, it’s easy. The art work stays, we simply lift the copy and insert extracts from the press reviews.’
‘We have post first night comments instead of pre first night.’
‘That’s it. You’ll have those within a week of opening on all plays.’
‘Good.’
‘Okay, that’s the programmes. On to the second stage posters, stickers, advertising matter.’
‘The individual play posters?’
‘Yes, and the rest.’
‘Well, we’ve had a slight problem with your Mr. Holt’s colour drawings for The Merchant poster.’
From: the Executive Director
To: The Director.
Date: 13th March, 1971.
Please note that the attached current booking figures, for w/e 6th March, show a rise of zoo per cent on previous weeks.
‘It’s only the cuffs on this one. Far too tight. Fabulous blue. Feels super on.’
‘It looks lovely Miss Column. Make a note of the cuffs, Brenda.’
‘Any more for me today?’
‘Only the costume for the Trial scene, then that’s you finished, Miss Column.’
‘All right. Would you like to take that one off and change? Brenda, help Miss Column.’
‘You very busy?’
‘It’s always a rush. We’ve got Miss Frost in at four o’clock and she has seven changes in Othello. All the odds and sods are done for the first two plays. It’s only the principals now. Little fiddly alterations.’
‘Like those cuffs.’
‘Yes, like your cuffs.’
From: Director of Publicity
To: The Director.
Date: 14th March, 1971
For your attention I enclose the six new colour postcards of the house, gardens and theatre. These are best we could find and I have made arrangements for their sale in the foyer and at the exhibition. I am also pushing for a wider distribution through all available outlets.
Regarding our conversation two days ago. I have arranged for Michael Lees to be present at all photo calls and would be obliged if the principals would give him time for dress photographs to be used as extra postcards for sale in the theatre and elsewhere.
Asher Grey and Rachel Cohen have just run through scene one of act five in The Merchant: on stage using the set.
Douglas Silver looks annoyed.
‘It’s not sexy enough.’
‘Doug, have you tried being sexy in a hammock?’
‘God give me strength. That’s the whole point of the hammock, to get the laugh at the end. They always play this scene for lyrical romanticism and it’s so wrong. In such a night...Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew...In such a night Medea gather’d the enchanted herbs...Yuck, they pull out all the stops and make it gooey. It comes out nine times out of ten like the second movement of that piano concerto, what is it, the second? By Saint-Saens. Loves, Lorenzo and Jessica are finks. They’ve pinched the old man’s bread; you, Rachel, you’re a randy, lusty little Jewess with no thought in your head but clothes, playthings and screwing...’