Year of the King: An Actor's Diary and Sketchbook - Twentieth Anniversary Edition (37 page)

Almost before I'm awake, I try little voice tests: `Mmmaaaa, mmmoooo
... Surprisingly it's mostly there, except for medium-high notes which
are dry, vaporous sounds.

My brother Randall phones from South Africa. `Hi, howzit going?' Very
casual. But again I can sense their excitement, their hope for this one.

`I think it went all right.'

`Just all right?' He laughs, but you can hear the disappointment. As
Mum's telegram indicated yesterday, they were hoping, at the very least,
my Richard would conquer the world.

V o I C E CALL Ciss and I agree that, because of the vocal strain of the
part, when/if the show transfers to the Barbican, we'll both request it
never plays twice a day. The problem doesn't arise up here in Stratford
because there's always a change of play between afternoon and evening
shows. This is so that a tourist coming up for a day of culture can have a
different menu at each sitting. This doesn't apply to the Barbican. Jacobi
sometimes played Cyrano eight times a week, twice on Thursdays and
Saturdays. An opera singer asked to sing a comparable role as often as
that would simply laugh.

Lunch time. I beg Bill to make some cuts or to get the show moving faster.
It's up to the rest of the cast now. I'm going as fast as I can, which maybe
is why I keep stumbling over lines. He agrees, but when it comes to
Company notes, does nothing about it at all.

SECOND PREVIEW I'm much more nervous. Having to do it all again,
without last night's adrenalin.

There are less laughs and the first half drags terribly. The lighting
computer has a nervous breakdown, so the audience witnesses several
total eclipses in the middle of scenes. One of these happens in the Princes
scene and I fear for the kids. But they're much calmer about it than we
are. They simply hold their lines until standby lights come on and then
continue as if nothing had happened.

My voice holds out well, growing stronger as the evening progresses -
until the big shouting moments at the end when it deserts me. But in
many ways it's better paced than last night. However, the lines are less
secure and at one point I dry completely - before the line `The sons of
Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom'. After a long, long pause it comes out
as, `The sons of Abraham sleep with Edward's sons', causing Freud and
Shakespeare to exchange sideways glances in their respective graves.

The show ends at II.05 p.m. The audience are too tired to clap
properly. And they're not pleased at having missed both their last buses
and last orders in the pub.

An awful, flat feeling.

Ciss pops into my dressing-room. She is worried about my voice: `We
must be very careful now darling.'

In search of Bill A. We're so close to having a good show, but he must,
must cut now. He's not in The Duck. I buy a bottle of wine and set out
to find him. Roaming the dark streets, feeling like a gunfighter.

Back at the theatre I find Sonja Dosanjh, the Company Manager,
switching off lights in the offices. She rings round possible numbers, Bill's
digs, the theatre restaurant, but no sign of him.

I wander into the wings. That cool darkness. A figure standing alone
on the set. It's Bill D. looking wrecked and grey after days of strain.

Almost as one we say, `He's got to cut.' Apparently he's been badgering
Bill A. for days as well. We set off together, resolved to sort it out once
and for all. As we head out of the stage door Bill A. bursts in: `I know
what you're both going to say! It's all right, I'm cutting two whole scenes.'
The Clarence children scene and the one in which Elizabeth flees to
sanctuary.

We sit down on the floor and, passing the wine bottle around, consider
the implications. Both scenes unfortunately involve the Duchess of York
which means Yvonne losing about a third of her part. Bill A. is worried
what effect this will have on her. But tonight's performance has finally
convinced him.

Even his notes on my performance tonight - `By the way, I thought "Now is the winter" and the speech in the Elizabeth scene were quite
dreadful' - can't wipe the grin off my face.

He also says he's never seen me dry before and found it fascinating to
watch. It's a relief to have this secret fear out in the open at last. Maybe
this will lay the jinx.

Arrive to find Bill A. looking like a ghost. Says he hasn't slept at all.
Yvonne is coming in at eleven when he'll break the news to her.

We do notes on the early scenes, but he's hardly concentrating and
generates a ghastly tension. Makes some general comments on the Lady
Anne scene and then asks if Penny and I want to go through it quickly. I
say, `I'd rather not spend the time. There are so many other things that
need sorting out.' Penny suddenly starts to cry. Says she is suffering from
terrible stage fright - having to deliver the goods right at the start of the
play, no warm-up, no second chances. It's one of those parts in Shakespeare, famous but tiny. I realise that I've misjudged the situation completely. Because of our immediate rapport I assumed she shared my total
confidence in the scene. But I've been overlooking certain facts - it's her
first time on that great stage, and coming from another country the
reputation of this place is that much more awesome. I know how she feels.

Nevertheless, the fact remains that the scene has always been excellent
and time spent- on it now would be wasted. These working days during
the previews are almost the most valuable in the whole process. The
audience teaching us what does and doesn't work.

She assures us that she'll be all right, and feels better for having shared
the problem.

We're all cleared out of the Conference Hall and Yvonne is called in.
Nobody else knows yet. I pace around the balcony, watching the Avon
drift by.

Five minutes later we're called back in. Bill looks ten years younger
and is glowing with relief. Apparently she took it very well and he was
more upset than she was.

I seek her out to offer condolences. She says she has sensed it all along
and that's why she has been constantly volunteering cuts. Says she was
much more worried for the kids playing the Clarence children (who've
lost all of their lines). But apparently the little girl just shrugged and said,
`Well, that's showbiz.'

On stage. A lighting effect, which is being tried through one of the upper cathedral windows, reveals a spider's web spun overnight, glinting
delicately. The Bills and I stare up at it in delight. A good omen - the
bottled spider.

Outside the theatre on the lawns, a group of university students are
reading the entire works of Shakespeare non-stop, as a stunt to raise
money. There are about four of them and a pile of cloaks, hats and
wooden swords. They have been at it for over forty-eight hours. Currently
on Much Ado, they are already staggering and giggling, voices gone, heavy
eyes - drunk on Shakespeare.

THIRD PREVIEW The cuts help enormously. Paradoxically, although
they give me less rest breaks, they make the first half much easier to carry.
The audience is noticeably gripped.

Towards the end, in the middle of the Bosworth scenes, I'm waiting
for an entrance, hunched forward on the crutches. The green cue light
comes up earlier than expected, startling me and causing a fart of quite
remarkable resonance. Scurry on stage with my little army all suppressing
hysteria, only to find that one of my first lines is, `I will not sup tonight'.
This renders everyone helpless. Simon Templeman (Catesby) is forced
to desert the stage before he has been given the crucial instructions,
summoning Lord Stanley's army. The scene is almost ruined, but this
relaxation and anarchy has been lacking in the past few days and is
welcomed back.

We finish at 10.50 p.m., fifteen minutes shorter than last night! The
audience continue to clap after the house lights come up, demanding
another call. A few of us run back on stage. Some of the audience are on
their feet, but whether out of enthusiasm, or simply caught leaving the
theatre, is hard to tell.

No voice at all by the end. Ciss visits the dressing-room to say, `You're
going to have to make a decision about next week darling, you're risking
permanent damage now.'

Try not to think too much about this. It's lucky the R S C didn't give
me any more Shakespeare biggies. I'm clearly not ready yet.

THE DUCK `Was it all right, aside from the corpses?' I ask Bill. He grins
and shakes his head in disbelief.

Our first chance in ages to do some stocktaking. The production has
turned out so differently from what we both intended. But, as Bill says,
that's surely part of the creative process: `When you set out to do a painting
you don't know how it's going to turn out. It grows.' I mention how some of the music and costumes have worried me. The tightrope that we're
walking. Last night's show felt silly and trivial, a pantomime. Tonight was
something weirder, richer.

`Exactly the same as Moliere and Tartuffe,' Bill says, `the balance between
comedy and nightmare.'

Bill D. puts it lucidly as always: `What we've got is a comedy-thriller in
the best sense of the words. Vintage Hitchcock, if you like.'

I think I've understood something about it tonight. It is a young writer's
play. It is a young director's production. It is a young Shakespearian actor's
performance. It has the crude vitality all of that implies.

As I'm leaving the pub, putting on my jacket, someone says, `Don't
move! There's a spider on your shoulder.' That's the second spider today.
We turn the jacket inside out, examine my shirt, but no sign.

I can't help smiling - the bottled spider has, at last, been absorbed.

Disappointing little piece on me in the Sunday Telegraph magazine. Rotten
photo and uninteresting comment. We've hardly had any publicity at all,
there's little anticipation of this production. I keep telling myself this is a
good thing. If we're successful, it will be nice they didn't spot it coming.
If we're not, it'll be better not to have had a big build-up.

Of course there is always the other depressing option - the production
might just be regarded as run-of-the-mill, middle-of-the-road Shakespeare. Early on in rehearsals, the publicity department asked me if I had
any ideas on angles they might take. Various editors had already expressed
a lack of interest in `just another production of Richard the Third' That
hurt me a lot.

The day is spent in monk-like silence, resting the voice. And making
first-night cards for the Company - individual cartoons. It's relaxing using
sketching to make this dreaded Sunday fly by.

FOURTH PREVIEW In the dressing-room, Black Mac is laying out my
costume and deformities, while I'm practising one of the speeches under
the shower.

He says, `Clever, henny, clever, must be clever to remember that fokkin
bollocks.'

But this is just Black Mac bravado. Later he confides to me: `The
shows I've seen here mate, the memories I've got, and I've viewed them from angles no other bugger has ever seen, no fokkin critic, not even the
directors have seen them like I have, from my special places in the wings.'
He taps his forehead, says, `They're up here mate. Special memories.'

Tonight's performance is done on three large bottles of mineral water at
room temperature instead of gallons of iced Coke. Ian MacKenzie (Ratcliffe and understudying Richard) told me that Coke wasn't very good for
one, and iced Coke positively bad. The vocal chords are muscles, and to
be constantly doused with icy fluid when they're overworking isn't a good
idea. I am grateful but puzzled - I thought understudies were meant to
push you down stairwells, not recommend ways of keeping you going.

Mark through the performance very lightly, particularly vocally. Very
unusual sensation this, holding back in front of an audience. But I've got
four performances to get through this week and, however much I try to
pretend tomorrow night isn't special, I'm determined at least to be in good
voice.

So, a feeling of being once removed from my performance tonight,
once removed from the whole experience of being on stage. Looking out
calmly at that beautiful black space, the green exit signs like jewels on
black velvet. During the Richmond scenes at Bosworth, when the lights
are down on my side of the stage, I sit staring at the wall of people. How
bizarre it is.

The nightmare speech remains a disappointment to me, shared, I know,
by Bill. He has always regarded it as one of the finest speeches in
Shakespeare. He said earlier today, `The trouble is, you're playing it
exactly like the rest of the part. But a new man is born there. It's as if
T. S. Eliot has thrown a speech into a Shakespeare play.'

Maybe tomorrow night ...

Two mogodons to sleep without thinking about the opening night
tomorrow.

I wake with that feeling, that sickening feeling. It only lasts as long as I
lie in bed. There are still the last cartoons to be drawn. Sadly, I run out
of time and fail to do ones for Alison Sutcliffe, Charles and the rest of
stage-management.

The day is warm and thick like treacle. 'Twill be a storm .. .

Entering the stage door, the first signs of hysteria. Flowers, cards,
presents already piling up. A carnation from David Troughton with a card written as Bouton to Molicre - `Master, have a glorious summer' - starts
me crying again.

Rehearsal on stage with the coronation cloaks. Apparently, on several
previews the naked hump (or `The Money' as Bill D. has taken to calling
it, because of Tucker's astronomical bill) hasn't been fully revealed when
Buckingham disrobes Richard. Endless suggestions - change the fur to
silk so it will slide off better, weights in the hood to drag it down. After
an hour of rehearsing this, Mal says he's now more nervous about this
responsibility than playing Buckingham.