National Express

I don't just lounge around on a chaise longue dabbing my temples with a damp flannel when I'm not working. Oh no. As anyone will tell you, an actor must be constantly in a state of coiled, tensed readiness - as a rubber band on a balsa wood plane or an overwound cuckoo clock. Do not be deceived by the casual emptying of the dishwasher or the languid sorting of dirty washing; the playful nappy changing and the relaxed grocery purchasing. That man is ready.

Except when the National Theatre want to see you, that is. With two days' notice and two scenes from the new Conor McPherson play to "be familiar with" (i.e. learn). Is anyone ready for that?

It helps if you have been able to read the whole play and someone hasn't picked up forty pages of it at Didcot station along with their document wallet. And if it isn't pouring with rain. And if your train isn't delayed. And you don't have another audition the following day. In the circumstances I was an oasis of calm, but as I announced myself at the Stage Door I sounded less like James Earl Jones and more like James Blunt than I would have liked.

But it was all good. I made a good fist of the Irish accent and my reading of the blissed-out intellectual went down well. I got on well with the director. I confidently asked to re-read a section and managed not to read it in an identical fashion the second time. In fact it was very much like the audition I went to the following day - except after the following day's audition they didn't just ask me back for a recall. They offered me a job.

Not The Last Post Just Yet...

I'm sorry I haven't been about for a bit. Blame my acting career. It nearly died - the doctors despaired of it for a while, and it reached the stage where it could breathe unaided no longer and had to be supported by artificial respiration (or "teaching" as it is better known). But five months and one week (plus many confused kids) later the wheels begin to turn and the juggernaut rumbles on. Oh yes.

It's not like nothing has happened. I got a lovely recall from Jill Freud which went brilliantly but which was never going to work out. I mean there's only so much you can do if your character is 28 and you are 44 - hair dye, spray tan and botox notwithstanding. And with Karen Simpson (of OTC, natch) I've been working on a project to take "Vertigo" out on the road again next year which has been bearing some interesting fruit. But overall it's been a bit of a thin year.

And then last week all the buses really did come at once.

Plus Ca Change...

Just another day at the office. Less than 24 hour's notice to learn alternative words for Alice Cooper's sensational 80's rock classic "Poison" and then a trip to London to sing it acapella to camera whilst pretending to drive a car. What could go wrong?

But no, 'tis not to be. The odd thing is, I actually drive a VW Passat.

The Long View

It's a mystery, how I managed to get a general casting for Jill Freud's Summer Rep company. Nothing to do with my agent, and I'm fairly sure they don't just work their way through Spotlight. They did Abigail's Party last year, though, and for a moment I delude myself that my portrayal of Laurence was so definitive that they somehow decided to see me because they heard about that. I then reject this as ludicrous...
It's a delightful surprise, though, to get a written invitation to audition, and as I chat languidly in the reception area of the London flat whilst eating a jaffa cake with tea I reflect that once upon a time, perhaps all auditions were civilised affairs like this.
The mystery is exploded when I walk in and Jill holds up my letter from February 2010. I must have just missed the general castings last year, but they troubled to hold on to my application for this year. I don't want to sound like an old fossil, but stuff like that restores your faith that there is a benevolent force in the galaxy.

Jo Heaton (nee Maxwell-Muller)

In one of those rotten twists of the great cosmic plan, shortly before I mentioned her in that last post, my lovely friend Jo died unexpectedly.
I met her when I was training - in fact she worked in the Student's Union as the permanent secretary. She was an unexpected choice - a bit off-the-wall and apparently rather ditsy, but this concealed a sharp intellect and keen sense of humour, together with a strong aversion to pomposity and pretentiousness. Well, there was a bit of luvviness, how could there not be? But it came from a different age, an age when the Spotlight Directory was one slim volume and everyone started their career in rep. A time when it was a bit tasteless to do commercials but you'd consider "Play For Today". So when Jo said you were a "supportive actor" she meant you had good stagecraft and generosity to other actors, and it was a quality she considered essential.

She was most famously cast at Christopher Plummer's insistence as Ophelia in the BBC's "Hamlet in Elsinore" co-production with the Danmarks Radio Company, when only 18. Her breakdown is described as "a memorably deranged rendition", but the film itself has never been released. As Alice's sister in Jonathan Miller's "Alice in Wonderland" one gets tantalising snatches of her talent, but I suspect that her greatest work was on the stage, that most transient and temporary of arenas, and certainly the only one she would have considered worth bothering about. When she first saw me on stage she visited me afterwards, put her hand on mine and said, in a sympathetic and regretful tone "Oh dear, I'm afraid you've got it". She didn't mean talent (although she sweetly thought that too), rather that I had the bug which would bring both great happiness and frustration - emotions she'd experienced sharply herself and which had meant a bumpy life.

RIP Jo darling. And as Jane Lapotaire remarked when we went backstage to meet her after a show, "You were better than all of us".

Other People In My Shoes

"Abigail's Party" was on telly the other night, and I watched a goodly chunk of it. It's odd - before, all I could see were the faults and the things we did differently, but fresh eyes are a great thing. I mean, there is some howlingly hammy acting - the bit where Laurence comes back in, realises he's forgotten the light ales and exits again was straight out of Norman Wisdom, but otherwise it's amazingly fresh - and I speak as someone who's seen it at least 200 times. Alison Steadman is amazing - massively OTT but totally believable (take note, Steve McFadden), likewise Janine Duvitski. Elements of grotesque caricature but so carefully done that it's entirely credible. I watched Laurence's "talent" speech and was almost moved to tears, it's so sensitively delivered.
The matter of watching other people do parts you've done/were up for/feel you should be getting is a vexed one. Apparently one of the other recallees from "Vertigo" lives so near the OTC base he could have seen the dress rehearsal from his bedroom, but he didn't, and I don't blame him. My dear friend Jo says one of the big things that made her leave the industry was having to watch other people playing the parts she wanted - and she was Ophelia to Olivier's Hamlet at the embryo NT, for God's sake. But the necessary public posture is much like the one you have to adopt when a friend tells you they've landed a job at the RSC. You smile and nod and all that, but a little bit of you wants to hit them with your shoe...

The Sprinter Beckons...



Pete, Sophia, self and Dan, all in protective get-in gear the day before the tour started. Adieu "Vertigo", and thanks for all the good times x



So Here We Are Then...

One thing today's venue, Carterton, has in common with the JR is that it's a venue OTC haven't visited before, and last week it was reported that it wasn't selling very well. Which strikes fear into you for a last night - I mean, a bang not a whimper, not the other way around, right?
But Vertigo isn't destined to close under a cloud. Despite many potential drawbacks (including the news that there won't be any booze on sale - which is mistakenly announced just as someone starts uncorking wine in the bar...?) a good crowd gathers and we set about doing everything for the last time.
Of course it's emotional. It's an age since we first landed the parts back in May, and we have all been gently considering how to play them - making decisions from the limitless number of possibilities - up to and during the rehearsals and run. There were certainly moments, scenes, which could have been played differently, possibly better. Over the next few days I, for one, will be seized by the fear that I was inadequate, that more research, more enquiry might have improved the performance.
Tonight, though, we relish what's left. Act II is a dream, everything is high stakes. The laughs are better, the silences more electric, the emotions more raw. At the end, when I look down at the twisted curtains on the stage and beg Ballard "May I kiss her?", I completely break down - experiencing, perhaps, a tiny shadow of what the loss feels like.

My friend Ali once wondered whether ending a play was like a mini-bereavement, and I've always thought it too trivial for that, but today it seems to qualify on such terms. There's talk afterwards about whether "Vertigo" will have another life - and yes, it feels as though we barely started - but experience and reason suggest it's unlikely. Thank God it happened at all, I say.

Infirm at the Radcliffe

The last time I was in the John Radcliffe Hospital my grandmother was very ill. The time before, my missus gave birth to Molly; when I was a teenager I was treated for what I self-diagnosed as a brain tumour but which was more accurately discovered to be bewilderment and angst. So to say it feels odd to be doing a show here, let alone one with the subject matter we're tackling, is an understatement.
Our contact, Ruth, is charming and chatty and all smiles and enthusiasm, though, and this demeanour lasts right up until she collides with some scaffolding Pete is carrying, whereupon she leaves. Possibly to go to the neurological department to have the lump on her head seen to.
After a start like this you'd be forgiven for expecting the worst, but as the Oxford Playhouse are in the crowd tonight, together with Karen and most of OTC, it can't be the worst. It sort of has to be the best, really.
We're up against it, though. The room is a badminton court, there's a huge wall hanging of a pink gangsta elephant dressed in a doctor's coat facing the stage, and even though it's October it's hot enough to grow orchids.
It's a nervous start, and with phones going off, watches beeping and the side doors opening every now and then, the audience must be having trouble with focus. I have forgotten my show pants, so I'm forced to wear a terrifyingly large and baggy pair of y-fronts which are period but massively impractical. As I remove my PJ trousers under the towel after the dunking scene, I feel the accursed underwear slide over my bum, gangsta stylie, and the audience nearly get an eyeful. Not the way I would wish to be remembered.
 In Act 2 it really starts to fly, though, and there's some great work from Sophia, Pete and Dan. And perhaps me, but of course I couldn't possibly comment on that...
Afterwards I talk films with Chalky, Si Porritt and Baz in the foyer. The top secret film on rugby lines has been put back a couple of months and will be shooting in the Spring. Exciting casting developments talked of, too. My parents watch all this with interest  - and my mother, I believe, has a tear in her eye. My father is very enthusiastic, and despite inadvertently mentioning that I've been "wooden" occasionally in the past, clearly loved it. Good times.

Shouting Distance

If ever there was a mid-scale touring venue which inspires love and hate in equal measure, it's Hemel's Old Town Hall. The plus side is that it's within reasonable reach of London so your agent/casting director/family and friends/famous celebrity chum (in Peter's case) might come. The minus is that the get-in's a monster. Just ghastly. There's a spiral staircase for God's sake. Madness.
The other minus is that ironically, the pluses tend to inspire a certain edginess because of the pressure to put on a good show. If you're feeling jaded in the middle of a long tour this can be good, but we're not and I think the show falls somewhat short of our barnstorming gig on Saturday.
It's amazing how different this audience is, though. They're knowing and savvy; they like the broad comedy less; they pick up on totally different things than we've been accustomed to.And by gum, they're close.

Chewing The Scenery

I sometimes wonder what our promoters make of us. They're usually there to welcome us and sometimes they stay for the get-in and out, and it's then that we slip into a sort of theatre slang generally centred around the shortcomings of our set. Manfrotto stands become Man Fridays and then morph into Frangipanis, we'll audibly hunt around for the Stage Right Flappy Thing, The Piece of Wood That Does F*ck All and The Pointless Support Under The Upstage Step. Interrupt us during the laying of the floor and you'll wonder why we rub the edges vigorously with candles; come in when the windows are going up and the Fatties and Thinnies conversation may puzzle you. You'll need a clue to discover why the ladder's called Zach (he's an a-frame) and why the door lintel is called Fellini (he's number eight and a half). That's not even mentioning multicore, socapex, DMX, phono cables, DIN and spiders (all Colin's domain and therefore not to be tackled lightly. Or at all if you can avoid it).
Later on you get the whole thing in reverse, with Colin bellowing for Fascism, T-bars and Soft Things To Stuff In The Shelving Unit. It's worth the entry price without seeing the show, I can tell you...

Easy, Now...

Leadenham is not a prepossessing name for a village, and the place looks asleep when we arrive - a feeling reinforced by the sophorific atmosphere in the pub. However, at the hall we get the warmest welcome yet, along with tea half-hourly, and the most fantastic smells coming from the kitchen.
Here they've chosen to add a buffet to the beginning of the evening and consequently it's a sell-out, with an audience of dangerously full and contented punters - one wonders whether they'll manage to stay awake for the full 75 mins of the first half.
But we needn't have worried - they're with us all the way. It's our best show yet, for me certainly, great on cues, lots of fresh things happening in the characterisation and so on. In fact it belts by, carried along on a wave of enthusiasm, appreciation and good humour. This continues well into the get-out, where we're invited to hoover up what remains of the buffet, glug some wine and depart with a carrier bag of pork pies. Fantastic.
The pub where we're being put up tonight stocks 700 whiskies, and we sink a couple along with the late night pints. Just as we're contemplating retiring - at about 2am - local Colston Bassett Stilton is brought out by the landlord, and the night owls invite us to join them. Mad not to, although we may feel bilious over breakfast. Oh, what the hell. We live once.

Breakfast Business

It's two nights in a Travelodge for us here in Nottingham, and there's a pub next door which opens for breakfast. Colin and Dan are already there when I show up, and are tucking into the maximum possible breakfast available. We're all losing a bit of weight because the tour's so physical, but there's something about Stage Managers and their metabolism - I mean, Colin ate seven KitKats the other day without incident.
Next to the order point there is a display of cheesecakes of such obscene dimensions that is makes me queasy. They are covered in Aeros, Dime Bars, Twix and so on, and they're all at least a foot high. As someone who's attitude to food is "cram as much sensual gorgeousness into your mouth as you can" not much throws me, but the sight of this, coupled with the carvery along the counter where someone chooses that moment to pour about four gallons of gravy into a tureen makes the knees buckle. Ugh.

Loose Lips

Both Sophia and Dan have London auditions this morning (for Shrek, Avenue Q and Journey's End), so it's a depleted van which departs for Nottingham. I did check my voicemail for messages from Trevor Nunn and Steven Spielberg, but they're probably still making their minds up. Me or Colin Farrell - tough choice.
Anyway, Grange Hall is the polar opposite of yesterday in terms of capacity, and it's a busy night again.
The show's well bedded in by this stage (although we've only clocked up 12 performances) but every now and then we'll get the odd reminder of what a fragile and unpredictable medium live theatre is. The odd dry and fluff is to be expected, and there are more than a few of those tonight, perhaps accelerated by the presence of visiting directors and a video camera (along with our peripatetic director!). My only gaffe is to substitute one word for another, but when it's "heroin" instead of "morphine" it provokes an audible gasp and bang! Roger's a druggie from "Trainspotting". Oops. Karen's very kind about it, but I guess she'll video again tomorrow... 

Wecome to our Village - Beware Livestock.

We have some trouble finding East and Botolph Claydon, and when we finally arrive and set up, the stage totally dominates the hall. They're sold out, too, so the audience is only a few feet away from the front of the stage. The performance which follows is necessarily detailed and intimate - more that ever before, I think.
Our confusions with directions means that by the time we leave we're comically low on diesel, and despite our efforts the return journey turns into a mini-drama all by itself with wrong turns and lost GPS signals and, at one point, a sheep with a gammy leg standing in the middle of the road. It's totally impervious to horns and shouts, so we get out and try to encourage it to the side of the road. The sight of a human makes it freak out, and it's all we can do to get it to stop on the verge whilst the van slips by, running on fumes and not much else by this time...