by John Gardner
‘Oh yes sir, it’s perfectly all right. The taxi that brought him down last night has been booked to take him back. I gathered that he simply wanted to be away from everybody up at the house.’
‘That figures.’
Back at the house, Douglas telephoned Edward Crispin and then Robert Hughes, to put their minds at rest. It was four-thirty before he got back to the flat where Jennifer was using all her control to keep mind and body in check.
Douglas told her about Thomas.
‘I don’t blame him at all. If I could, I would get a million miles away. How do you really think it’s going to go, Doug?’
‘I told you last night. If you all keep the pace steady and don’t start getting ragged, and, between ourselves, if Joe Thomas doesn’t lose his nerve, I think it might just be a knock out.’ He had made an enthusiastic speech after the dress, designed to bolster any signs of sagging moral, only too conscious that his own stomach was in a nervous twist.
Just after five, Douglas got into the bath and began to prepare for the long evening ahead.
They started to arrive shortly after five-thirty. The restaurant was solidly booked from six onwards and the exhibition had officially opened at three that afternoon. They came in cars and taxis, while the first special coaches rumbled in through the main gates a little before five-forty-five. The British Railways’ special from Waterloo got into Shireston station at a quarter to six, met by coaches; Adrian and two of his staff waiting with cars to add a small slice of luxury, and flattery, for the reviewers who had chosen his method of transport.
The rain seemed to have gone, though it was still a chilly evening; yet, in spite of the weather, the grounds seemed to be full of people, a holiday mood taking over the whole area.
Among the company and theatre staff, however, there was the natural strain and concern. No panic, simply sustained anxiety.
The technicians did their last checks on equipment. For the hundredth time, Archie Swimmer, who had been in the theatre all day, went through his list of changes. Just after six o’clock, members of the company began to drift in through the stage door.
Douglas, now dressed in a dark blue double breasted velvet suit, passed through the crowds, noticed at this time of day by only a few, and headed for his rendezvous with Art, Ronnie, Frank and Robin, on stage at six-fifteen. None of them would dine until it was over.
The others were already there by the time Douglas arrived, and they prepared to begin what amounted to an almost ritual leave taking, the final words with the company. Tonight they would be out front, their job now was to be back stage until the A.S.M. called ‘the half’ (with curtain up at seven-thirty, it is usual for the assistant stage manager to keep actors informed of the time by calling ‘the half’ over the backstage inter-communications system at five minutes to seven; ‘the quarter’ at seven-ten; ‘five minutes’ at seven-twenty; and ‘beginners on stage’ at twenty-five past. In this way, actors have a vocal time system to which they can refer).
After a last word with personal staff, Douglas sent them off on their trek around the dressing-rooms. He was far from being a religious man, but there was an old superstition of his, an undying habit to which he had adhered through the years. Now, alone on Tony Holt’s opening set for Othello, Douglas Silver knelt down and made the sign of the cross.
Joe Thomas sat in front of the mirror in his dressing room and saw that he looked exactly how he felt, frightened out of his life. Wilson, his dresser, a little rabbit man who, like Archie Swimmer, had tended actors in the theatre at Shireston for over forty years, had come in at six-thirty to find Thomas sitting just as he was sitting now.
‘Come back at the quarter,’ Joe had said quietly. ‘I’ll dress then. Just don’t bother me until the quarter.’
Wilson knew better than to argue with him on a night like this.
A tap on the door and Douglas’s head peeping round. ‘Just looking in to make sure you’re okay, Joe?’
‘Come in Doug, baby.’
The director could feel the strain and terrible tension which had built up. ‘You had a quiet day?’ He tried to sound casual.
‘I skipped out last night. Holed up in Shireston so nobody could get at me. I probably did the wrong thing.’
‘I knew where you were. It’s sometimes good to be alone.’
‘I don’t know. Douglas, I’m frightened out of my life.’
‘Now he tells me.’ Douglas grinned. ‘Joe, what the hell’s the matter? You’ve been before larger audiences than you’ll see tonight.’
‘Yeah, but I ain’t done this in front of audiences. Everybody expects so much...’ He waved his hand limply at the framework of telegrams and cablegrams which surrounded the mirror.
‘I only expect you to do what you’ve been doing in rehearsal. Just go on and do it, Joe; there are no problems, I promise.’ Before he could take it any further, there was another tap on the door and Jennifer was in the room, a long towelling robe over her underwear, her face calm, not showing the swirling apprehension within.
‘Good luck, Joe.’ She bent to kiss him.
‘And to you, honey. I’ll do my best.’ The very act of seeing his Desdemona, seemed to reassure him.
‘You’re going to be great,’ Jennifer smiled, then looked up at Douglas. ‘Good luck, Doug darling.’
‘Just do it all. Good luck, it’ll be fine.’
Jennifer took her husband’s hand and gave it a long squeeze, then turned and left the room.
For the next fifteen minutes it was a constant chorus of good lucks as Douglas toured the dressing-rooms, and, for him alone, that terrible sense that it had all fallen away; that the work they had done together was about to be thrown into the open to become almost a sexual act in the centre of the marketplace, rending all trust and mutual respect between actors and director.
The dressing-rooms all had the smell, known only to Theatre people: stale sweat, perfume, make-up. Everywhere the sense of communications breaking down.
Asher Grey pacing the room, dressed and ready, even before the half; Laurence Pern adjusting a buckle; Ronald Escott putting on his beard for Brabantio, looking up, then quickly away as Douglas came in; Liz Column, cool and talking about clothes to Rachel Cohen, both of them trying to blind themselves to the fact that, in barely twenty minutes, they would be on. He popped in to see Jennifer once more and she was twisting the Christmas ring on to her finger. She had not worn it at any of the rehearsals, but now, as she had promised, it had become her Desdemona ring. He grinned at her and held up crossed fingers and she blew him a kiss.
They called the quarter.
Douglas headed towards the stage door where Frank Ewes and Ronnie Gregor caught up with him. There was some commotion at the end of the corridor and Douglas looked up to see Tommy Carr, Joe Thomas’s manager, and Smiley come hurrying from the direction of the stage door. Douglas breathed an obscenity before Tommy Carr called out loudly.
‘Hey, there’s that Douglas Silver now. Hi Douglas Silver, how’ve you been, man?’
He was obviously a little drunk.
‘Hi, Tommy,’ Douglas lifted his hand in greeting.
‘We’re just goin’ to wish our boy well before he goes on.’ Carr’s face grotesque in smiles.
‘He know you’re here?’ asked Douglas.
‘No, thought we’d give him a surprise.’
‘Yeah, a surprise,’ echoed Smiley.
‘As his director, I’d be glad if you didn’t.’ Douglas pulled himself up to his full height.
‘Hey man, we want to give him a lift, like surprise him.’
‘You already told me that. I’m telling you that it would be better to surprise him after the performance.’
The smile faded from Carr’s face. ‘Look Silver, I’m his personal manager. When I want to see him I see him.’
‘And I’m his director for this production; this is my theatre, my company, my Othello. In fifteen minutes they’ll be starting. They’re all twitchy back there, part
icularly Joe. It’s a big night for him, Tommy. If you want the truth he’s already spent twenty-four hours running away from it. It is just possible that he could be very great tonight. It is also possible that he could die a thousand deaths out there; he’s certainly going to do just that if you bust in on him now. He’ll blow it for sure, Tommy, so get out and into your seats and stay there until it’s all over.’
The speech came out so forcefully that Carr and Smiley only had a second’s thought before making some disgruntled noises, turning on their heels and heading back the way they had come.
By this time, Ronnie had joined Douglas and Frank. Robin and Art were following. On the way out, Douglas left the stage doorkeeper in no doubt that nobody, except theatre staff, was to be allowed through until they had come down at the end of the production.
With the help of his staff, Adrian was looking after the press, making sure they were all there and catered for; that they had transport home, or a hotel room into which they could retire when the night was over; or facilities for writing and telephoning in their copy. All the senior men were there from the Nationals and Sundays, while the bigger provincial daily papers were well represented. Locally, Adrian saw that Hedley Moir himself was covering for the Gazette. With thought only for the festival, the P.R. man went across to invite the editor to the press bar in the interval; but he was met by a sharp rebuff.
‘I am not in the habit of taking any kind of bribe.’ The editor’s lips pursed neatly.
‘It’s not a bribe, merely a social courtesy. I know previous directors have not allowed the custom to develop and that the National has discontinued it as an economic measure. But this year we’ve got all the important critics here. So I do hope you’ll come and join your colleagues.’
‘I think not.’ Rudely, Moir turned away.
By this time the foyer was packed full, and Adrian could see that there were press men covering the audience as well as the play, the surroundings being lit spasmodically by the flare of photo-flashes.
All members of the company who were not in the Othello cast had been asked to attend, and they had turned out in force and style. Catellier was talking hard to a London producer; Kapstein had a mob of television people around him, there were pop stars and actors, big names from the whole entertainment industry, from all walks and all strata.
Douglas arrived with his small retinue and the flashes exploded again, newsmen hustling for shots. The director found that even getting to his seat was tricky, a business of being accosted by someone every couple of steps.
Adrian finally got to him. ‘They’ve really turned out for you tonight, Doug. Good luck.’
Douglas muttered a perfunctory thanks, saying that it was Joe they had turned out for, then immediately asked, ‘Did anyone find out how Emilio was coping in the restaurant?’
‘Yes,’ Adrian had to almost shout above the prattle and noise. ‘I went over there myself. He was fine, packed out but cool. Everything like clockwork.’
Eventually Douglas got to his seat and discovered that, momentarily, his apprehension had been drowned by the general excitement.
People waving to one another across the auditorium, the rustling of programmes, confused chatter. Carol Evans looking outrageously beautiful in a long white lace gown. Despair: Douglas felt the anxious loneliness and a sense of being totally deserted by everybody: even Ronnie sat silent by his side. Then the moment, as though someone was pulling a dimmer on the noise.
The houselights went down and Raymond Leggat’s raucous fanfare split the ears, followed by the loud medley of night noises coming from the stage, a black cavern. Though he had heard them all many times before, Douglas felt the audience react to the noises and he with them: the tingle low in the spine and at the back of the neck, the shudder he had asked for passed through the auditorium as the night street noises built, echoing and grating with increasing volume — something which could have been a cat yet sounded shocking in its confused echo; the mutilated cry of a baby which made the very bowels tremble with fear; a muffled shout and cry which could only have come from the most terror-struck darkest recess of a mentally warped mind, then, through it all, Laurence Pern’s voice, as Roderigo, on the tape and as though from down a long street—
Tush; never tell me; I take it much unkindly
That thou, lag°, who has had my purse
As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this,—
The stage lights came up to reveal Tony Holt’s lowering setting and Edward Crispin, Iago, dancing attendance on Roderigo. It worked, through the first scene, worked marvellously, the noises, the hint of the grand corrida to come, the action and the poetry.
Then, to the end of the scene, the noises of intrigue stabbing through the darkness as Archie Swimmer’s boys got Brabantio’s house off; then the quick pasodoble and Crispin on stage with Joe Thomas and the others, the lighting plot working with the flickering torches, throwing great moving shadows.
Douglas hunched down in his seat as though trying to disappear. For a couple of minutes he thought he had made a terrible mistake with Joe Thomas: within the darkness and light from the torches the man appeared to have diminished, not looking as lordly or beautifully dominating as he should. His first lines came out without the real force, but suddenly, on the arrival of Brabantio’s search party, and at the words—
‘Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them—’ Thomas seemed to have got it together: the dignity, unruffled calm, the strength; in a blink he became Shakespeare’s creation. It was the first spark of many. Both Joe Thomas and Crispin seemed inspired, like men throwing down lightning bolts, while, between them, Jennifer flashed a brilliant theatrical conception of Desdemona. Crispin’s Iago sparkling with subtlety, the matador motif always a fraction below the surface, and Thomas’s Othello uncompromisingly great, both to see and hear. Douglas could not entirely trust his emotions but did not remember ever hearing the major speeches done so well by anybody, let alone Crispin and Thomas.
Othello’s logical pleading of his cause—
‘Her father lov’d me; oft invited me;
Still question’ d me the story of my life
From year to year, — the battles, sieges, fortunes
That I have pass’ d.’
Iago’s evil plotting, a river of malice in the hands and method of Crispin’s portrayal—
‘The Moor is of a free and open nature,
That thinks men honest that but seem to be so,
And will as tenderly be led by th’ nose
As asses are.
I have ‘t; it is engender’d: — hell and night
Must bring the monstrous birth to the world’s light
The putting down of the first snares that will eventually trap Cassio as an innocent victim, lead Othello into madness and Desdemona to an unhappy end-
‘He takes her by the palm; ay, well said, whisper: with as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio.’
It seemed also that Douglas’s directorial underlining and counter pointing did its job: the faena sequences, the sound track noises, the crowds at the arrival in Cyprus, the drinking scene, Tony’s great hot Cyprus settings. By the interval it was as though the audience was watching the play as if they had never seen it before.
In the interval, Douglas hurried through to Joe’s dressing-room to find the man lying on his couch, Wilson bathing the sweat from him. The director scarcely knew what he said, but the words of encouragement seemed to help before he left for Crispin’s room, and lastly to Jennifer, who was now at a quivering pitch of ultimate control.
Slowly, as Iago dismantled the greatness of the Moor, Douglas thought the audience were viewing the action with a rising sense of horror, Joe Thomas connecting hard with the soul of the play; it was what he had intended, but now the moment was here, Douglas was once more assailed by doubts and concern: most conscious of Ronnie Gregor, calm and writing notes as he sat beside him.
The wretched handkerch
ief did its work, plot weaved with sub plot, the grandeur of the language echoed in the mind and before they knew it, they were engulfed by the final moments of the play: Othello dissolved into the raging mad wounded jealous bull, ravaging and smothering Desdemona. Then the quiet anguish of what follows. The truth slowly impinging on his mind. The climb up the staircase and the walk along the unprotected gallery—
‘...Set you down this;
And say besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban’ d Turk
Beat a Venetian and traduc’ d the state,’
The voice held to one note, rising imperceptibly, almost sung. The bodies of Desdemona and Emilia ; Asher Grey, as Cassio, wounded and held up by two soldiers; Murray Fleet’s Gratiano, Paul Berger and Mark Lynton stock still as Montano and Lodovica; Edward Crispin being restrained by another pair of soldiers. Tension complete and all eyes on Thomas, no, not Thomas, the complete Othello standing high on the gallery—’I took by th’ throat the circumcized dog,
And smote him — thus’
The arm up and the flash of light on the blade, the thump they had devised on the tape, again and again the thump as he stabs himself, the thin wail from the tape (they had done it with an electronic organ), so slight at first, and so much part of the whole, that nobody could really hear it, but rising to its crescendo by the last lines of the play.
‘O bloody period!’ Just enough projection from a heavy hearted Lodovico.
And from Gratiano—
‘All that’s spoke is mare d.’
Thomas, gore soaked now, having burst the blood pellets and still with one in his mouth ready to bite, sways and drops the long dagger, puts out his arms, the audience perched to a man on their seats, tension cutable. Arms out to Desdemona’s corpse—
kiss’d thee ere I kill ‘ d thee; no way but this,
Killing myself to die upon a kiss.’
The hand just makes his mouth, then flaps forward as he bites the blood pellet and pitches off the gallery.