by Shane Briant
The final few moments of the play are a gift to any young actor. Robin, completely under the thrall of his cruel vindictive sister, is given two choices; kill his own mother with a knife handed to him by his sibling, or be left to fend for himself in a cruel world devoid of the only human he has ever known – his twin, Linda.
This is true modern day Greek drama, no?
Robin's mother, desperately remorseful for what she did to her children and for the first time feeling a violently strong bond for her son, attempts to make things easier for him by guiding the knife to her heart as Linda looks on. "Be brave for me," the mother says. But Robin cannot bring himself to kill the mother it has taken him all his life to find. His sister turns and leaves. Crying out "I'm sorry!" in a high-pitched scream, he stabs his mother many times. The final stage direction in the play is: "He continues screaming with terror as the curtain falls – quickly."
The effect on the audience each evening was magical. Stunned silence for a few moments, then applause. Yvonne and I would rise and Sheelagh would join us on the proscenium. I was always in a state of emotional turmoil at this stage, with tears flowing like a gusher. I could scarcely speak. The three of us would hug, and then the curtain would come down.
What more could a young actor want?
After the rapturous notices we received in Dublin, the reaction in London was somewhat of a disappointment. The headline in the Daily Telegraph was "Yvonne Mitchell grips the audience" while Cecil Wilson of the Daily Mail said, "Yvonne Mitchell crumbles under the weight of her sins with enough harrowed dignity to keep the situation just this side of ludicrous."
As I read this I wondered if he was familiar with any Greek tragedy. The Medea, perhaps? Oedipus? Who was Peter Wilson anyway, I mumbled. After all, the revered Herbert Kretzmer of the Daily Express called our production "A lesson in the art of terror," and called me "An Irish actor of whom more will one day be heard." My new agent, the incredibly wonderful Adza Vincent, who had taken me on at the Dublin Festival, liked the quote in the Guardian. "Yvonne Mitchell marvelously projects a sense of terror and is balanced by a wonderful performance of a half-retarded semi-stammering twin Shane Bryant (sic) whose disheveled unease helps lift the play into better regions."
Another critic whom I admired from afar in Dublin, John Barber, said, "As the stammering male twin, Shane Briant could not be bettered." And the New York Herald Tribune predicted I was an actor "destined for great fame." Nice of him to suggest this might be the case, but he was to be proven not entirely accurate. Shame.
One thing I learned was that if everyone in a city other than London says a play is brilliant, it will always encourage the London critics to take issue with their comments. It's the same with films, I think.
The play lasted four weeks. I think the theatre was simply too big for us and we couldn't fill it. Although J.C. Trewin had said the play "should undoubtedly stay in Shaftesbury Avenue," and Bernard Delfont had sent each of us a telegram to that effect, Delfont had already made arrangements to end our run. I understood then that business was business, and actors were in the hands of a few important critics. It was a salutary lesson.
But the most ironical twist was to come two weeks after we closed. Harold Hobson, doyen of London theatre critics, who had not been able to attend the opening night because of ill health, had come to see our final performance. In the Sunday Times Weekly Review he said, "If Bergman reduces an Eastern myth to the greyness of
promise, is much more successful in re-interpreting the story of Electra and Orestes in his play, 'Children of the Wolf'."
I had to smile when I read this. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. At last a critic had said something intelligent and 'got it.' This review could have saved us, but it came too late. "Yvonne Mitchell gave a memorable performance of haunting beauty and Sheelagh Cullen and Shane Briant showed how rich in acting talent Ireland is." Again I was dubbed Irish – but I didn't mind at all.
There was a great cartoon in Punch that month, one that featured our play. To be in Punch? Wow!
Punch 1971
Strangely enough, many months later someone told me I had been nominated for the London Theatre Critics' 'Newcomer of the Year. I hadn't won it, but just to be nominated was fantastic. The odd thing, though, was that no one had informed me; a shame, as it was the first and last nomination for a theatre award to date! Mind you, I'm not dead yet!
Those four weeks at the Apollo were sheer magic. I had a wonderfully spacious dressing room and somehow managed to refrain from going over the top and buying silk dressing gowns à la Noël Coward. I did, however, organize a pretty good bar in the corner for any friends who might drop by after the show. There was a decent selection of spirits, wine and bubbly – no French champagne as Delfont's wages scarcely covered what I was advised was a decent weekly tip for the aged doorman (about ten per cent of what I had left each week after Adza's commission). I can see that dressing room in my mind's eye quite vividly even now. And one more nice touch was to come. J.C. Trewin was to include 'Children of the Wolf' in his annual volume, 'Plays of the Year.' We were in good company that year with David Story's 'The Contractor' and William Douglas Home's comedy 'The Jockey Club Stakes.'
In 2010 I visited Vincent at his home in Chester, Massachusetts. He is a very sprightly eighty-two years old and has just completed a wonderful full length play titled 'The Upstart Crow.' The thrust of his play is this; months after Shakespeare's death his daughter meets his favourite actor, Richard Burbage on the stage of the Globe and they talk of her father and his friend. Great reading – should be performed soon.
Vin and Olwen own about three hundred yards of delightful trout fishing at the end of his garden and he casts a mean fly.
MY LEGENDARY AGENT, ADZA VINCENT.
Despite 'Children of the Wolf' closing far earlier than we had anticipated, I knew that I was in the very safe representational hands of Adza, an agent who handled just the few special clients that she really believed in. One was Yvonne Mitchell, another was Michael Crawford. Adza was the lifelong close friend of Anthony Asquith, son of English Prime Minister H.H. Asquith, and director of many famous films in the '30's such as 'The Winslow Boy,' 'The Browning Version,' and 'The Importance of Being Ernest.'
Adza was far more than a theatrical agent; she was also teacher and mother figure. Every Sunday she'd invite Jane and me to lunch at her small home in Ivor Place, a home she shared with three wonderful lurcher dogs who had the run of the house (inside and outside of dinner hours) and the run of the kitchen when it came to Sunday lunch. The board was always groaning, and it was she that taught me how to make the crispiest roast potatoes and the most heavenly Peking duck. She was also a stern pseudo-mother. I had to do what I was told – her 'advice' was more like an order.
So it was that one morning she telephoned me and told me I was to attend a 'cow-herd' audition for a forthcoming big West End Musical the name of which escapes me.
"But I can't sing and I don't dance, so what's the point?"
This immediately got her hackles up. "Don't be ridiculous! I've heard you singing Sweeney Todd the Barber. Not bad at all. And anyone can dance. I expect you to be at the Prince of Wales Theatre at 2 p.m. Sharp!"
She rang off.
So, at two o'clock that afternoon I was waiting in the wings with about fifty other 'wannabes' – terrified. When I reached the head of the queue I heard the stage manager call out loudly. "Mr. Shane Briant!"
I stepped forward and was immediately asked for my sheet music by the pianist – the rest of the vast stage was bare.
"I don't have any, I'm afraid," I replied.
"What are you singing, young man," he asked.
"Er… Sweeney Todd the Barber," I responded.
"I know it well, I don't need any sheet music," he said.
"I'd rather sing it without accompaniment, if you don't mind," I ventured.
"Do get on with it," someone called from the stage right wings.
I did as I was told
and finished two minutes later. Several moments of silence followed. I didn't quite know what to do. Was I expected to shuffle off stage right?
I'd taken one step in that direction when I heard footsteps at the back of the stalls. I stopped. Five seconds later I made out the features of a man. My heart sank. It was the legendary Bob Fosse. He was kind enough to smile up at me from the far side of the orchestra pit.
"Hey, Shane. How about you give me some kind of a dance routine. Suit yourself. Something with a bit of a kick. Whaderyousay?"
I stared back at him; the only dancing I had ever done was to the Kinks at the Marquee Club.
"I'm afraid I don't dance," I croaked.
Fosse's smile practically split his face in half. "Well, that's a damned shame," he replied, "'Cos sure as hell you don't sing!"
It was the first time I died on stage. Now I tell the story all the time. I think it's hilarious. At the time, with fifty young actors roaring with laughter, it wasn't exactly a fun experience. I never told Adza the truth. "How did it go," she asked that evening. "Really well," I replied, hoping she'd believe me, but never send me for another musical.
Talking of musicals, I did appear in one and great fun it was too. It was shortly after I had worked with Yvonne.
In those days The Bush Theatre was one of London's most interesting fringe venues. The musical was called 'The Greasy Spoon.' The musical comedy was the hilarious story of a takeaway restaurant. However, in this musical it wasn't the food that was delivered, but the restaurant itself. It was written by Richard Fegan and Chris Langan, and had some great songs. Chris and Richard were to go on to write several comedy series for the BBC.
My role was that of a Hollywood movie producer, and my best song was 'How'd ya like to be on Broadway, baby!"
"How'd'ya like to be on Broadway, Baby?"
I had a ball singing that song. As I finished, the script called for a special effect. 'His teeth light up.' I asked Chris how this might be achieved, and was told simply to 'make it happen.' So I manufactured a fake cigar that one could smoke and had a pencil torch down one side. When I sang out the last line I'd withdraw the cigar from my mouth and flick a switch halfway down it, so that the battery made contact with a tiny bulb that was directed at my open mouth. My teeth actually lit up.
Yvonne came with her daughter Cordelia to the opening night. She told me she found it thoroughly enjoyable. Her favourite line? "No matter how hard you shake it, the last drop always goes down your leg."
As with all great theatrical agents, Adza could arrange anything and so immediately found me, her new client, a reasonably priced yet wonderful flat in Pimlico. A duplex above a branch of the Sunlight Laundry. Four huge rooms and a vast stairwell where it was rumoured the last occupant had hanged himself. I put in a bathroom and kitchen and lived there with my lovely Jane for many wonderful years.
Incidentally, I forgot to mention something that most likely should remain unmentioned. But I like to think I'm reasonable modest and frank, so here goes.
I did gain my Honors Degree in Legal Science at Trinity. Not only that, I came top of the law school that particular year! The year before, Mary Robinson, who went on to become President of Ireland no less, topped the list. But here's the thing I've never mentioned in any press release. The year I topped the law school was one of the most inauspicious in living memory. I came top with a 2-2. There! I have come clean at last! What a catharsis. This only goes to prove that there are many other dummies at University. And they most probably all go on to become judges. A sobering thought.
It was around this time that my wonderful grandmother passed away. I'd always had a strong bond with Doris and my Aunt Margaret. Mum, Dermot and I used to spend every Christmas Eve at granny's. Dermot and I would dress in the Gordon tartan (sporran and dirk to boot) one we were allowed to wear since my father was a Gordon. The adults dressed in black tie. When we'd finished our Christmas pud and Dermot and I had extracted every sixpenny bit, Conway, my Grandpa, would always ask the 'ladies'
to 'repair' to the living room so that the men could drink a glass or two of port. Then he'd lock the door and sit with Dermot and me sipping an aged port while we sipped soft drinks in port glasses. It was the tradition that was important to Conway. He was delightfully old fashioned, and during the half hour we remained locked inside the dining room he'd talk about politics and world affairs. We were six and nine years old at the time.
When Doris died Margaret my aunt was the executor. Since she appreciated that my brother Dermot was at heart a chancer, she nevertheless allowed him to dispose of the less valuable furniture in the house, while the 'nice' pieces went to Bonhams. Needless to say, the pieces that Dermot stashed in the huge van he hired for the day disappeared without trace. But here's the funny part. Granny had given me the baby grand piano – a Steinway – in her will, and I had yet to transport it to my flat.
"How about I put it in the van with the other stuff and take it to your flat now? It'll save you hiring another van," he said.
Naïve as I was, I never suspected his motives. Not a smart move.
"Great idea! Thanks," I replied.
A week later, no piano. So I telephoned my brother.
"Hello, little brudder," he said.
"Where's the piano?" I replied sternly.
There was a long pause.
"How would you like an upright?" he said.
"Where's the baby grand?"
"How would you like an upright," he repeated over and over again.
I never saw the piano again, nor did I receive an upright. He was a consummate rogue at times.
We both loved our maternal granny. We weren't so close to Alice, our paternal granny. I think it was because mum hated her, so we didn't warm to her either.
Two years after her son Keith died, Alice decided to dig him up from his resting place in Burford, Oxfordshire and re-bury him in Scotland. So she called mum and asked if Dermot and I would travel up with the coffin in the train to Scotland. We'd never seen Scotland before so we persuaded mum to let us go. It felt very odd to sit in a railway carriage knowing that our father was in the goods van behind us in a spanking new coffin. We both felt very confused to be standing at his graveside for the second time.
When Alice passed away, many years later, Dermot and I were invited up to Dumphries for the reading of her will, to be followed by her burial.
First up was the reading of the will. We were the only ones present, as well as being the sole relatives, so we were anticipating some, er… 'mention' in her will. After all, she was very wealthy, and we didn't own a red cent.
The solicitor then informed us she had given her entire estate, barring her huge diamond ring, to a religious charity in Luxembourg. The diamond ring was left to a Church of Scotland minister, who later married my late father's second wife.
We listened with poker faces. Not so much of a twitch from either of us. Finally the solicitor told us that Alice had left us a hundred pounds each. To give you some idea of Dermot's very dark sense of humour, when we left he immediately visited the town florist and bought a two-pound bunch of flowers – the cheapest bunch he could find. We then attended the burial in a very bleak churchyard.
When it was over, Dermot told me we'd go and have some lunch and then return later. He went to an off-license and bought a cheap bottle of red Argentine wine, that he always referred to as 'the old infuriator.' Then we bought some sandwiches. Why? Dermot wanted to drink a bottle of red wine while sitting on Alice's recently filled-in grave. She had been a staunch advocate of temperance all her life – so this was my brother's form of payback. So we ate the sandwiches and drank the wine leaning against granny's headstone. To this day I can't think why Alice should have wished to disinherent us boys.