9th March, 2011
Survival
is all, is it not? Mother Nature and Reality Television have taught
us that if nothing else. And I can announce I have achieved two
distinct wins against the English winter and Ken Halls's adaptation
of 'The Invisible Man'. Both seasons, one caused by the tilt of the
earth, the other by the tilt of a pen, are over. Both shared some
chilly moments. The lack of heat in the theatre surprised management
despite the provision of the blow heater for which they bid on ebay,
the only competition being some Lilliputian dwarves who were hoping
to use it in their Lilliputian chihuahua's kennel. Hypothermia in the
stalls lost us a couple of laughs.
The
show was a modest success in that the revues were good, the patronage
well above the 90% line, and the bar takings, in line with the
actors, covered wholesale costs. I discovered how to play my Act Two
character, a daft colonel, 6 weeks into the run, after which I was
hilarious. I confessed this to Gordy, our Invisible Man. He admitted
having enjoyed, on occasion, similar epiphanies. On trains. Two weeks
after closing night. We laughed in the wings as another patron fell
into involuntary hibernation.
Dressing
room-wise, I was the only gay in the village. Heterosex was the order
of the day, on matinees, and the order of the evening, Tuesday
through Saturday. Cars, assembled in some weekly publication together
with photos, ages, mileages and possibly star signs, instigated many
conversations. I heard sentences involving the hardy phrase “tricky
clutch” and nouns such as “tyres”. The mention of breast sizes
on certain actresses, coupled with the winking of eyes was not a
one-off event. Some of the actresses were - credit where credit is
due - dead. Some jokes mentioned vaginas, although there were more
about penises to be fair, although these penises were generally
interested in vaginas. I was out of my depth and removed from my
people. I coped by sitting at the far end reading Patrick White,
Australia's difficult and utterly brilliant Nobel Prize-winning
writer and a shirt-lifter to boot. It must be pointed out that these
men with whom I shared the dressing room were all perfectly lovely,
intelligent, and talented. But straight. I blame the parents and very
occasionally Mother Nature. Reality TV is, for once, free of
implication.
The
dressing rooms were located underneath the more popular bar area.
They suffered from bad lighting, the kind that puts you in a bad
mood, lowers your self-esteem and makes you question your
contribution to mankind and why you aren't with one of the top five
agents in Hollywood. It was a rabbit warren down there. I discovered smaller, even
more poorly lit rooms after several weeks, when I thought I had
explored all possible hanging beams. In these rooms were stored, or
dumped, or calmly unreturned, costumes and props from shows whose
final night party and drunken couplings were well past, the
unintended progeny already attending primary, and for the inaugural
show, upper primary, school. At the back of one of these rooms, I
once noticed a thin sliver of light. Light! I was intrigued,
beguiled. I stumbled over halves of fake animals, brushed aside
brocaded vests, knocked over a moon, collided with a chaise longue
(all necessary and vibrant allies when on the stage of truth), and
clawed my way, heroine-like, toward that thin sliver of
life-affirming light. It was a door. A quiet, humble, tiny,
hidden door. Whoever had last been through had, upon closing
this opening, failed to notice Lavinia's severed tongue from Titus
Andronicus...The Musical, now lying on its side and poking
a stiff sweet section across the threshold, almost as if to moisten
the way for a searching, reaching character such as I.
Let
us enter the present tense for effect...
Despite
the half hour call having been called five minutes before, which
means I only have half an hour, and despite hearing the beginnings of
a joke involving one vagina and three penises and a 1986 Ford Escort
(you knew it was going to be funny), I decide to keep going.
To find out. Carefully, my hand inches – although holding an
Australian passport I correct myself – my hand centimetres its way
through the shadowed air until it touches the rough, fibrous texture
of what is a very thin door indeed. It sways easily at my small
effort. Lavinia's tongue, given room, tips over onto all fours. Five
if we include the new taste sensation umami. Ducking, I slip
between the door's wooden boundaries and find myself in a high,
bright, and perfect tunnel of concrete. It ends here. The rest of it
rushes away at great speed to my right, disappearing around a curve
approximately 200 yards (182.88 metres) from where I now stand, and
because I can, upright.
If
my instincts are to be trusted, as they can so often be, not that
this certifies a positive outcome, I sense this grey, subterranean
passageway confidently leads towards London's glittering West End.
With 29 minutes at my disposal, I decide to investigate.
As
I head into that first curve, or last, depending on one's personal
trajectory, I hear chanting. “Nam myoho renge kyo”. Over and
over. Soon I see a 13th century Japanese monk drawing a
sunrise onto the curved wall with chalk. It's rather good and I
immediately want to suggest he repeats his efforts above ground, but
we've all heard that advice before, so, with a grit of wisdom in my
mouth, I shut up. He keeps chanting. One hand keeps drawing and
another holds out a business card. I didn't see from whence it came
and am doubly impressed. I read the card.
“Chant
Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, your wishes will come true, and all will
be well. Best of luck, Nichiren Daishonin, 13th century
Japanese Buddhist Monk.” I leave him to make the sun rise. I begin
chanting and walking. I'm committed to my new philosophy and am
prepared to keep chanting until the next corner or the 15 minute
call, whichever comes first. I've recently discovered new lines on my
face – the beautifully plain planes of my cheeks, don't you
know? - and so am in need of hope. Or a surgeon. I'm unsure. Perhaps
the chanting will fill in the blanks and the lines.
My
mobile starts playing the theme tune to 'I Dream of Jeannie' (fiddly
to set up, always worth it). It's my ex-agent. I'm certainly
impressed that my service provider is able to make me use up my
minutes at this depth. My ex-agent, who has now set up his very own business, wants to meet. I ask if he's seen
me in 'The Invisible Man'. He has. During the first 6 weeks. Still,
he wants to meet. Unexpected. I resume chanting.
Nam
myoho renge kyo.
Around
the next corner I hear lots of male voices, a primal beat, see a
flickering light. The Babongo tribe are in the middle of an
initiation or it's a gay club. Turns out to be the latter. A few
friends are there, pints in hand, no doubt procured from that bar set
into the curve of the wall. The bar staff, as per the rules, resemble
gods. Like gods, they look down on the rest of us. But give us beer
and temptation. They have successfully subsumed all god-like
attributes.
I
wonder if this is a dream or am I already under Soho? I did hear
Barcode was re-doing downstairs. But no. This is neither
Barcode nor a dream. Just a fun place to be. But I'm not
having fun. I wave to my friends, decline offers of Carlsberg,
pointing to my naked wrist and yelling that I have a show in 20
minutes, smile and push through the men until the voices, the beat,
the lights are all behind me. I have moved through it all, untempted,
untouched, and I wasn't felt up. I tap those new lines on my cheeks.
Perhaps I have been silently initiated into middle age while I was
sleeping. Those Babongo chaps can be pretty quiet when they so
choose. Still, I could've done without the scarification.
Again,
the tunnel is silence and length. But I can smell the large drums of
make-up for The Lion King waft towards me. I'm getting closer.
I
continue chanting. I look again at the monk's business card. Turn it
over. A 5000 word essay on the meaning of Nam Myoho Renge Kyo
is written on the back. I have left my glasses back in the dressing
room. I'm missing the Ford Escort and three penises joke. I wonder if
I made the right decision in exploring down here. Life is confusing.
Straight
ahead, I see three people sitting behind a desk and a man behind a
piano. Hmm. A musical audition. There are no curves, no corners, no
escape. No option but to head straight to them. I've got 26 songs up
my sleeve, a smile on my face, and an unexpected wish for a
flame-thrower. Nam myoho renge kyo, nam myoho renge kyo.
“What
have you got for us today?” says the one in the middle, his back
straight, knees slightly to the left, my photo on his lap.
“I've
got a little Australian number you might not know.”
Everyone
is excited.
“What's
it called?”
“No
Way Get Fucked Fuck Off.”
All
eyes go up and to the left as they think. They hate not being able to
place a song. I take the opportunity to slip by them and keep heading
towards London's glittering West End.
My
phone goes 'ding'. A text. It's my stage manager. “That's the 15.
Where are you?” I quickly text back, “Obviously within range.”
I
keep chanting. It's growing on me.
Small
alleys start to appear on either side of the tunnel; small signs
above. “The Terribly Interesting Victoria and Albert Museum.”
“The Absolutely Free National Gallery.” “Gorgeous Hyde Park.”
“The British Film Institute That Shits On Other Film Institutes.”
“The Old Vic – Kevin Spacey Tells Us What To Do!” “Typical
English Pub But With Cold Beer.” “Mates.”
I
find myself walking past all of them because I really should be
getting on. Or back. Yes. I'm in a show after all, and then, after
that, I have to catch a train back to distant Norwood Junction. And
in the morning, after a lie-in, I have to worry for hours
about what I'll do after this gig before catching another
train into London Bridge and doing it all again. No one
understands...
The
tunnel curves, and soon I'm faced with the entrance to a concrete
maze, fecund with provocative right angles. I hear faint overtures.
I've reached the edge of London's glittering West End! Nearly there!
But where is There?
I'm
torn. Less than 20 minutes until curtain-up versus a fascinating
life-sized puzzle staring me in the face. I enter the maze.
My
instinct and an appalling need for revelation guide me. No hesitation
at any juncture. Left, right, left, left, right, ball-change, right,
right, left, step-kick. Ghosts haunt my limbs. I lurch through
corners, my arms gesticulating wildly, reliving the pleas and
admissions of long-dead over-actors. The thespian spirits are strong.
Involuntarily, I pull faces I thought only possible when pushed
against glass to amuse café patrons. Or at the RSC. I make a note of
all of them, some to be used in just over 20 minutes. I know I'm
nearing what can only be the middle of London's glittering West End.
The Centre. The Hub. The muffled din of vocal exercises
(redleatheryellowleather) and the clear stench of port becomes
overwhelming. I turn a final corner.
Terminus.
There's
a woman in a twin set holding a clipboard to her chest. Her hair, up,
the shoes, flat. She sees me.
“Yes?”
she says in a perfect English accent. She's been to drama school
then. Perhaps we can connect.
“Yes,”
I say. “I'm - ”
“Australian,”
she says. The 'yes' I can wangle, the 'I'm' is always trickier. I
nod.
“And
you're from Leeds.” She can't say 'Australian' without falling back
on her northern roots. One all.
“Where
are we?” I ask.
“Directly
under The Mousetrap. 59th year, don't you know?”
Who
doesn't?
“What
are you doing in London's glittering West End?” she asks.
“Um...just
wondering why I'm not working here, I s'pose,” say I, hands going
confidently to hips.
“Let
me look at the list,” she says. And does. “Nnnnnnno. You're meant
to be at the highly-respected Menier Chocolate Factory Theatre. In
Southwark.”
“How
do you know who I am?” I ask.
“I'm
The Casting Director,” she says.
“For
what?” I say. A fair question.
“No,
love. Not a casting director. The Casting Director.”
I've long suspected such a character, in dreams and staring out
windows on public transport. “I make sure everyone is in exactly
the right show,” she says, “love”.
“Right.”
“What's
wrong with the highly-respected Chocolate Factory?” she asks, her
sincerity actually sincere. Or she went to RADA.
“There's
very little heating and,” I tell her, “the money's shit.”
“Is
that it?”
“And
there's no other pooftas,” I conclude.
“What
about that lovely stage manager?”
“Boyfriend.”
“Didn't
know about that,” she says.
We
both shrug.
“Still,”
she bravely reactivates the conversation, “you're working. Aren't
you?”
“But
I want to be in London's glittering West End,” I say, trying not to
whine. Failing. “Or do a bit of tele.”
“You
just want to have people around to fetch you a coffee,” she says,
her eyelids going for the interrogative squint. “Am I right?”
I
slump. It's all the answer she needs.
“Thought
so. Well, you're just going to have to wait.”
“I'm
47.”
“You
don't look it.”
“Thank
you,” I say, “but flattery isn't going to pop me up to the next
tax bracket, is it?”
“Couldn't
hurt.”
We
both shrug.
“Now
off you go. You've got curtain-up in...” She consults her
clipboard. “Heavens! Seven minutes! How long do you need to get
ready?”
“Two
minutes,” I say. “118 seconds to get into costume and 2 to get
into character.”
“Oh
good,” she says. “Then you're fine.”
“It's
quite a walk back,” I tell her.
“Nonsense,”
she says, her eyes darting to her right. I look. Sure enough, there's
a small gap in the concrete leading into blackness.
“What's
that?” I ask her.
“You
immediate future,” she says, “love.”
“What
am I doing after this?” I jerk my chin toward her clipboard. She
holds it closer to her light yellow cardigan.
“I
can't tell you,” she says, her voice flatter than her shoes.
“I
don't want to have to sing,” I say, trying not to plead. Failing.
Her
eyes narrow. “Six minutes.”
“Can
I be on Doctor Who?”
“Oh
grow up,” she says, the voice not so flat.
I
knew she was going to say that.
“It's
just...I'm not really sure what it is I want to do. Hoping you
could...you know...offer a clue...?”
“Thank
you!” she says, in that tell-tale, sing-song way that tells you the
meeting is over.
Chanting
it is then.
I
duck down to get through the small opening in the concrete. Hands
out, I feel my way through shadows. I stumble but land softly in a
reclining position. The chaise longue! The light fades up, or my eyes
accept the reality. I'm back at the Menier. Clearly the physical laws
within a metaphor are not as concrete as the metaphor itself. I
scramble my way toward the badly-lit dressing rooms.
“And
she says, I thought you said stick-shift!” Followed
by male voices laughing. That was a long joke.
The
stage manager calls out “That's the 5, guys...” and the
inevitable response from the men “...named Moe!” A tradition in
these here parts.
I
smile. Perhaps these are my people after all. I change my clothes for
the first of what will be 11 times during the next two hours.
Afterwards, in the more popular bar area, strangers touch my arm and
tell me they thought I was very funny. I smile and say 'thank you',
Nam
Myoho Doc Tor Who, Nam Myoho Doc Tor Who.
To
be continued...
