Act Serious

Going Further, Deeper

2012-02-24T14:03:00.000Z

Last night, the third in the run, was press night and the theatre was almost full. There was a nervous tension among the cast before lights down and even I found myself affected. Until now, I realised, I have just been sailing through this production. All I had to do, I thought, in two of the roles (Cardinal's Man, Executioner) was stand still, walk slowly and look mean, while in the third role (Keeper - pictured below, photo by Robert Gooch) my task was to move and look crazy. With all the moves choreographed and no more than five lines, totalling sixteen words, sprinkled throughout the play, I didn't have much to worry about.

So far so easy. But something happened last night that made me realise the scope for development even in a non-speaking role. Each day I had seen other players develop their characters, their actions and words bringing depth and meaning to both their characters and the play as a whole (particularly Robin Holden as Duke Ferdinand, the unstable aristocrat obsessed with his sister's purity descending into madness and murder) but I had thought that my input was fixed. Over the weeks of rehearsal I had added a tic here and movement there; it seemed to work and during rehearsals, glowering Bruce and others expressed their satisfaction with what I did. By opening night I was sure I had reached the peak of my performance - a peak that could be easily maintained.

Last night, however, something forced itself out from within me. I found myself no longer representing Roderigo (one of the Cardinal's Men) but being Roderigo himself. This man's walk and his expression changed as his attitude towards his employer moved from respect to insolence. This man, who had spent his adult life at the heart of intrigue, aloof, uninvolved, saw what was happening to the Duchess and her brothers and no longer gave a damn - in fact he looked forward to the carnage that would bring an end to them all. Throughout the play this Roderigo drew the audience's attention simply by being there, by saying nothing, by watching, watching, watching.

This was not just my own fancy. At the end of the evening, when the press and public joined us for drinks (not a regular event, so don't expect that on the night that you come), two people came up, unsolicited, to say how scary and sinister I looked. I was pleased to be praised for my Keeper - a role based primarily on the generic Igor, the deformed half-wit who assists Frankenstein and other mad scientists, shuffling here and there eagerly, often confused by events around him. With my right leg and arm stiff, my body hunched, my face darting hither and thither and my brow frequently crinkling in bemusement, even in that comic scene it was Igor, not I, who took the stage, with far more movement and expression than I had portrayed him.

I'm not sure what will happen tonight - or in the next three weeks. Some nights I may revert to my perfunctory performance - which is competent and acceptable - but on those nights I think I will have little pride in my work. Most nights, however, I now expect that the characters will take over and I will find myself going further and deeper into their lives, and into the hearts and minds of the audience around me.

One Down, Twenty-Three To Go

2012-02-22T15:01:00.000Z

Last night was first night of the The Duchess of Malfi. A small but enthusiastic crowd and an efficient and energetic cast. Only a couple of minor slips. Followed by champagne and a thank you speech from our producer, Alice. Then to the Novotel for more alcohol and home by midnight to a sleeping partner. Today was the first day in several weeks that was rehearsal free, so I celebrated by going to the dentist and to the doctor and to the pool for a 1,500 metre swim. Apart from the wind and rain, life is pleasant again...

PS: don't forget to come to see us: details here

Choc Tactics

2012-02-20T08:59:00.000Z

I have enough experience (one show) to know that cards and little gifts are appreciated on first night. That is tomorrow. Including cast and crew, that means fifteen people, which adds up to a lot of time choosing prezzies and writing notes, not to mention spending some money. Give everyone chocolates? I suppose so, but there are one or two people I'd like to give something special to - and if I give something special to one or two, then I have to do the same for everyone. I've started on a list, but it's beginning to give me a headache. Looks like it might just end up with chocolates...

Slow, Slow, Quick Quick, Slow

2012-02-18T08:53:00.000Z

Tech run yesterday. It took us over ten hours to set a two hour play. Which is normal, I believe. Glowering Bruce took us back over move after move as he and his assistants/minions altered and experimented with lighting and sounds. Yes, it's boring, but it's necessary and, like some forms of self-deprivation and minor pain, rewarding to see the production add colour and depth in the dimensions of light and sound.

As time passed I consumed mug after mug of coffee, alternating between Nescafe gold and the Nespresso machine, with the occasional mug of tea. (This production has brought me to the conclusion that such machines are not as good as the adverts in which George Clooney appears.) I scoffed chocolate biscuits and chocolate cake and chocolate bars. A bowl of home-made pasta salad disappeared as the hours went by. I exchanged weak jokes with other players. I read a few pages from A Dance to the Music of Time. I micturated from time to time. I got locked out with fellow executioner Alex as we burnt rope and exploded a cigarette lighter. (For the play, constable, and not for our own amusement.) And occasionally I found myself under the lights and the steely glare of our director and the sympathetic eyes of our fellow-actors.

All went well, although I realised when wearing gauze which covers the eyes on a darkened stage, not much can be seen and care has to be taken as one wends one's way exitwards 'tween audience rows. Released shortly before ten, on a near-deserted railway platform I discovered a new way home, by Docklands Light Railway and Overground. By eleven I was in abed and asleep.

And so, onwards and upwards. Today is the first of three dress rehearsals and a photo shoot. I'm ready for my close-up, Mr De Mille...

Good News, Bad News, Good News

2012-02-16T21:22:00.000Z

The good news is that I have twice been contacted in the last couple of days directly by directors hoping to use my services. The first was by visual artist Ian Giles to make a short film - no pay, only expenses - but the project would take up little of my time and looked interesting. The second, by Charm Offensive, was for a new production at a theatre ten minutes' walk from where I live; another interesting play, with no pay but the possibility of profit share.

The bad news is that I am not free for either offer, my time being taken up first by the Duchess of Malfi, from 21st February to 18th March, followed by four weeks when I will be out of London. So, sadly, I had to decline. (I'm not kidding myself that either director contacted me because s/he considered from the start I was the right actor they wanted for the part on offer - but it's a step forward that I now have enough credits and voicereels to persuade some to contact me directly and ask me to work with them. That puts me in a much better position that I had expected to be this early in my career.)

I can end on good news. Today we ran through The Duchess twice and it is clear that we have a powerful production on our hands - a drama that will move its audience to some sympathy and suspense, occasional laughter and fear. If you live in or near London and haven't booked your tickets, do so now, using the link above. At £13 (£10 for concessions), you have little to lose and much to gain.

Not Wanted

2012-02-12T12:36:00.000Z

Another audition, another silence. I was up for a major part in Lilies, a prison drama with a play-within-a-play being produced by Wild Oats for performances in Dublin, Brighton and London. I gave them my monologue (Azdak in The Caucasian Chalk Circle) and then, after a little preparation, read from the play itself. The monologue was ok rather than good, but I imbued the lines from Lilies real depth and variety, acting rather than reading, moving and reacting to my partner, ending on a dramatic pause on the line "and that little sneak . . . is you". I wasn't convinced I'd get the part, but I was sure I'd be one of those called back the next day.

And of course, I wasn't. Ah well. Rejection is the name of the game. I don't mind when it's something I don't really want - usually a student film written by some emotional innocent who is unable to spell simple English - but I'm disappointed when it is a project that I could give a significant contribution to. I reassure mysef by saying that if they turn down someone as good as me, it must be because they have someone pretty awesome lined up....

From the audition to coffee with the lovely Shahla and from there, eventually to the National Film Theatre and David Lynch's Fire Walk With Me. I've been a Twin Peaks fan since it first came out, but I hadn't seen the prequel film for 20 years when, like most others, I'd been profoundly irritated by it. But having rewatched the series recently I wanted to give the film a second chance and I'm glad I did.

It still has many faults - much of the prologue (the Teresa Banks murder) is weak and with jokes that do not work; the David Bowie scene is pointless - but the main body of the film, depicting Laura's descent into destruction, is powerful and disturbing.

One problem remains with Laura's story - the fact that it is too diffuse, with half the characters from the TV series showing up in mini-scenes that distract too easily from the main story. There's no way to solve that issue, so it has to be accepted - and if they had brought in the rest of the cast and included everyone from the Sheriff's Department, the mill and the Great Northern Hotel, the film would have turned into something akin to a variety show.

Back home and the day ended with the Other Half and me on the sofa listening to Leonard Cohen's Old Ideas. Not his best album, but better than Dear Heather and pretty good for a man of 78. And so to bed.

Money, Money, Money

2012-02-10T11:26:00.000Z

I got paid again. £55 for the six-night run of As You Like It - considerably more than I had expected.

If you calculate the amount of time I was actually on stage, that sum works out at £55 an hour - a reasonable wage in today's world. On the other hand, if you include all the rehearsals and time spent hanging around backstage, it comes to about 50p an hour, not including travel time to and from the various venues.

I'm not complaining. In fact I'm impressed. The profit is a tribute to the rest of the team, who deserve it much more than I do...

Older

2012-02-07T21:53:00.000Z

The White Bear is a fast-receding memory. One week in a crowded dressing-room, waiting to go on to a tiny stage, wondering whether I'm going to fluff my lines. Surrounded by fifteen other actors, with the director and stage manager hovering by the lights. Feeling redundant each night as two hours pass between my first exit and last entrance. Often bored. Sometimes tense. Expectant. Excited. Pleased that the production went well, but aware that I was more an observer than a participant.

The Greenwich Playhouse (pictured) is very different. Every rehearsal is in the theatre - unlike As You Like It, where until the day before opening night we were cooped up in a classroom with different measurements and unclear entrances and exits. The cast in Greenwich is smaller and older. We do not divide into generations but cohere as a group, with the occasional outrider sitting apart to learn their lines or scrutinise the screen of their phone. There are costume and set and lighting designers, a stage manager and other assistance that comes and goes, leaving the director free to focus on the play.

I am more relaxed in this production than in the one before. I feel a participant rather than an observer, fully involved as I watch Bruce craft the blocking, shifting his players up and down, left and right, here and there until he has created the vividest of tableaux to express his vision. In the process, he gives few notes as to how he wishes each character to be played; this allows each of us to draw our personalities from within ourselves, to instinctively find our own level and our own response to the characters around us. On the rare occasions he does say "I want it this way", he explains why and willingly listens to our thoughts and alternatives until, together, the adjustment is made that brings director's and actor's perceptions into alignment.

The more I work in the theatre (assuming I do work more), the more I expect to see directors' methods differ. Marianna's approach, fine-tuning each performance, worked. It created a quick, enjoyable production that was highly successful, with many audience members saying that it brought Shakespeare to life. It also made me uncomfortable. If I have the luxury of choice, I would seek out the older director who fully trusts his / her cast, and who allows characters to emerge rather than forcing characters onto the actors portraying them.

Maybe I’ve lulled myself into a false sense of security. Maybe on the first and subsequent nights I will fluff my few lines or otherwise let the production down. But I don’t think so. I am more confident now of my abilities now than at any time during the rehearsal and run of As You Like It. This time, I believe, I will be proud of my performance.

Drunk in Shoreditch

2012-02-06T09:47:00.000Z

I like bars. Not big noisy bars with music blaring out so loud that you have to shout to hear yourself speak and you can only catch half of whatever your neighbour is saying and where you go home with ears ringing knowing that you are going to have hearing problems later in life. Not bars that are so crowded that you have to wait hours at the counter, pushing and being shoved while trying to catch the attention of an overworked barman. Not bars with large screens showing darts and football or news channels that no-one can hear. And not bars so modern that the walls are bare, the seats uncomfortable and the well-dressed clientele between 25 and 35 trying to impress each other and only displaying how vacuous and self-centred they are.

I like bars with history, with character, with seats you can sit on, barstaff who have time to talk to you, a few other drinkers in the late afternoon. Bars like The Drunken Monkey in Shoreditch before the end of work crowd piles in.

Actually, I'd never been in the Drunken Monkey before Saturday, when I spent half the day shooting a music video there. But it was the kind of bar I feel at home in. The wall is lined with coloured bottles of alcohol from all over the world, much of which I recognised, some of which was new to me and which I would have liked to try. But although I was playing a drunk, in a stereotypical drunk's pose, hunched over a shot glass, with a half-empty Jack Daniel's bottle before me, the alcohol before me on the other side of the bar remained undrunk.

Of course I wasn't the star of the film. That honour goes to the bear pictured here and the shoot in the bar was only one of several in which the bear appears. But it was good to be on set again and to compare this with the other two films I have been in.

Made by students, there was an element of professionalism behind the camera, but not on the production side. I was not the only person, according to Eddie Connor (the barman) who had turned up for his audition to find that no-one at the building reception knew that casting was taking place. Several people, he said, had walked away without being seen. I had known about the bar shoot only because I had contacted one of the producers, but the call-sheet had only been sent out at 11.45 the night before, long after Eddie had been tucked up in bed - unaware that he was wanted on set at 9.30 the next morning.

But incompetence at administration does not necessarily mean amateurism in art. The rushes looked good and I suspect this film will be of high quality. I look forward to seeing both the finished video and the outtakes from my contribution which will end up, I hope, on my intended showreel.

Busy, Busy, Busy

2012-02-03T00:38:00.000Z

I'm still here. A four-day break in Scotland and back to all-day rehearsing in Greenwich. On Saturday I'm in a music video, playing a drunk in a bar in Shoreditch - so no change there then...

Give me a couple of days and I'll be back with my usual updates.

The End of the Beginning

2012-01-30T14:42:00.000Z

Yesterday was the last performance of the first run of my first appearance on stage since I was a spotty-skinned, spotty-brained youth many decades ago. And of course I fouled up in the speech that I have come to hate:

Oh no, for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have followed her exile or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter.

Easy, isn't it? Every time I rehearsed it in front of a blank wall, I got it right, playing to the audience as directed and using hand gestures to distinguish between "she" Rosaind and "she" Celia. Then I would go on stage and every second performance my mind would go blank as the attempt to explain to the audience confused me. So again last night I ad-libbed to cover my foul-up (against the director's note) - and this time the audience wasn't amused. I recovered by the end of my short appearance, but I have come to loath this minor role of Charles the Wrestler and will be happy if I never see him again.

I then restored my reputation and confidence with my final appearance as Jaques de Boys (let's forget the noise in the dressing-room as I kicked the box before entry). For the first time I felt it had real power behind it and I was aware of the potential within me for strong and serious parts where I don't have to play wordgames - an impression reinforced by dear Kate Glover in the post-run party, who told me that for the first time she felt the potential menace in my stage presence.

So this is the end of the beginning. The last week has been exciting and nerve-wracking, stimulating and depressing, boring and informative. I'm aware that my performances so far have been inconsistent, but I'm also aware I did not wholly disgrace myself and I didn't damage the overall production. I'm glad I've got so far and I'm grateful to all those who gave me the opportunity and supported me both off and onstage. To name-check (in addition to the already-mentioned Jeffrey Ho and Daniel Yabut) patient director Marianna Vogt, smiling S M Davey Kelleher - and I'm not going to add any more labels except talented and friendly, to the following, with an apology where I have not been able to find a link their profiles - Will Wheeler (Orlando), Ryan Wichert (Oliver), Bryan Merry (Adam / Sir Oliver Martext), the very special (ok, she's an exception) Kimberley Maloney (Le Beau / Audrey), Clare Langford (Rosalind), Gabrielle Curtis (Celia), Jeryl Burgess (Duke Frederick), Yvonne Riley (Duke Senior), Catriona Mackenzie (Amiens 1), Tracey Pickup (Amiens 2), Owen Nolan (Corin), Kate Glover (Jaques) and Kate Bancroft (Phebe). I hope to see you all again - and work with you if you'll have me.

It's Official: Are You Following Me?

2012-01-27T10:08:00.000Z

Remember the mutilated corpse? Me, I mean, last Saturday. Head back on a chair, with my eyes cut out and my throat slit. The only part of me that moved being my hand falling off my knee when my "son" discovers his father's dead body.

I got paid for that part. The money landed in my bank account yesterday. All £12 of it, for two hour's acting work (well, let's be fair; 45 minutes acting, 45 minutes preparation and 30 minutes waiting for the film crew to turn up). That means I have now been officially paid to act - or my arm has. The first goal of my year - to be paid for appearing on stage or film - has been met. Now for my second goal: to find an agent.

The film, by the way, is Witness The Beginning. Here's more information.

Yesterday was a busy day. I turned up for the 12.30 call at the doomed Greenwich Playhouse, without time for lunch. There'll be a break about 2.00, I thought, enough time for me to skip out for a sandwich. I thought wrong. For five hours, under the beady eye of the glowering Bruce and schoolmistress stare of the steely Alice, we were blocked and reblocked. In the first act I'm one of the Cardinal's men - appearing and reappearing to add menace to his presence. Hunger apart, it was a worthwhile afternoon. Unlike As You Like It, which was rehearsed bit by bit in a classroom in Holborn, I could see from the start the coherence and strength waiting to be brought out.

Which doesn't mean that the show I'm currently in lacks these qualities. It's sold out, and last night was the best performance so far. I even raised the first laugh of the evening, in my short speech where Charles the Wrestler is explaining to wicked brother Oliver that Rosalind has not been exiled with her father, but remains at the court with Celia.

It's a confusing piece, where neither character is named and they are only identified by ambiguous "she"s and "cousin"s. The direction calls for me to play it to the audience, using my hands to demonstrate the difference between the two young women. Doing so, however, confuses the wrestler and annoys his patron, and last night, as he turned away in irritation, I ad-libbed "are you following me?", which brought out the laughter.

The good mood continued throughout the evening. In a strong cast, it's invidious to pick out individuals, but the comic element was particularly helped by the skills of Jeffrey Ho, playing the hapless Silvius in love with the contemptuous Phebe and by Daniel Yabut's capering. And of course there are the shenanigans with the other lovers and exiles in Arden, whom I'll cover in later posts. They all came together again last night, and the strongest cheers yet at the end of the show had us all running back in for a second ovation.

Not Bad

2012-01-26T08:57:00.000Z

The second night. The theatre was overbooked and extra chairs were brought in, further reducing our limited stage. I fluffed a line in my first scene as I addressed my second speech to a silent audience - an audience which stayed silent through the wrestling match and long into the first act. Only with the entrance of dismissive Phebe and lovestruck Silvius did we hear the first murmur of appreciation. In the second act there was occasional laughter, although less than the night before. At least when I came in for the final scene, the audience was still attentive in the overheated room and the final applause was genuine.

I left the dressing-room to get the tube home and found myself face to face with friend Todd who had come, unannounced, to see the production. He was genuinely flattering about my own limited roles and the production as a whole and I was genuinely flattered that he had taken time to come and see me.

Back home I found myself unable to sleep. I'm not sure why. Now the run is underway, any tension should have dissipated, but my mind kept revolving round lines from the play and other things in my life, none of which are problematic, but which for reasons unknown my mind could not let go off. When the Other Half rose at 5.30 for his morning shift, I tried to stretch out without him, but in the end I gave up and shortly after 6 got up to deal with the piles of emails and books that have been waiting for days and weeks to be dealt with - so maybe that's what churning my subsconscious.

Meanwhile, the first review has come in. Mary Tynan, in frostmagazine.com is generally complimentary, although she credits the wrong actress playing the part of the evil duke. My attention is moving on, to my first rehearsal, today, for the Duchess of Malfi, being held in the doomed Greenwich Playhouse. And I now have six (count 'em, six!) followers on Twitter. Is there any reason why you aren't one of them? @actserious

Second Night

2012-01-25T10:31:00.000Z

At sixteen I was Private Smith in a school production of The Long and the Short and the Tall, a laconic Northern Englishman in the jungles of Malaysia surrounding by the advancing Japanese army. I stood on stage, gormless, reciting my lines with the enthusiasm of a metronome. I didn't need anyone to tell me that my acting was awful and I resolved never to tread the boards again.

Memory tells me that was a one-night production. Skip forward 40+ years. Last night, I appeared on stage in public for the second time, in two short roles topping and tailing As You Like It - as Charles the middle-aged Scots wrestler and Jacques de Boys the young (!) son of old Sir Rowland. In the first I got laughs - unexpected but not unwelcome; in the second, I held their attention. In short, I acquitted myself well.

In my downtime - almost 2 hours, I sat in the dressing-room reading the paper and doing Sudoku, watching and chatting with fellow thespians as they exited and entered. Laughter and applause drifted through the blackout curtain from an overflowing auditorium. At the end of the show, we trooped off after the curtain call, to be hauled back in again by ongoing applause. In short, it was a very well received production.

I was tense but not nervous, a little bored during the long wait off stage. I don't do happy - at least not in real life - but I was content and pleased that I had taken this step to explore acting at this late stage in my life. As I add another credit to my short CV, the next step is to take the phrase "would-be" off the heading of this blog. Now I know I can call myself an actor.

And Back Up

2012-01-24T14:51:00.000Z

When you reach bottom, there's only one place to go... Yesterday we were in the theatre running through the tech, then the dress. My threatened sore throat didn't materialise and my mood gradually lifted as the day went by. I even had a positive note from the director, which didn't surprise me, as my confidence was back where it should be.

Today is the first night. Am I nervous? No, because I haven't had time to think about it. Rushing around the past few days left me a pile of emails and paperwork to deal with all morning. Now the Other Half is dusting the living-room and making me feel guilty I'm not helping with the housework. First night nerves may arrive tonight - and almost certainly would arrive if I had a significant role - but at the moment All Is Well

Roller Coaster

2012-01-23T11:58:00.000Z

The past few days began well, went downhill, back up, down again, up, down and now really down...

First was the first meeting of The Duchess of Malfi cast; three hours in the doomed Greenwich Theatre with Director Bruce, Producer Alice and various members of the technical crew. Highly professional and a sense of being back in school, with strict rules and firm timetables. A good start.

Then came another rehearsal for As You Like It; the details are already foggy in my mind, and I do not remember any particular problem, but I came home out of sorts, and went to straight to bed for a long, pleasurable sleep.

Saturday morning was an audition in a venue near my home for a music video. I would be the barman, a role I'd enjoy. I won't hear for several days, and even if I don't get it, I made, I think, a good impression.

On to As You Like It, a speed-through. The young cast around me rushed through their paces, enjoying every minute. I fluffed my lines, majorly, and left the stage angry with myself. The fact that all the other older actors found the experience unpleasant and some coped no better than I did, didn't lighten my mood.

From there to Snaresbrook to be filmed as a mutilated corpse, discovered at my desk by my son returning home. The only part of me which moved was my arm, flopping off my knee when he touched me. Uncomfortable but fun.

Back home, exhausted, I thought I'd sleep, but the speed-through failure rankled in my mind and I tossed and turned for hours, angry with myself. Sleep, when it came, was spasmodic and I woke up in the morning in a foul mood.

To Holborn again for another run-through of AYLI. My lines were better but not perfect. My presence was stronger but I again fluffed lines, again the director pointed out faults and again my confidence fell, to its lowest point yet. From Holborn to the White Bear to paint the set. A relaxing evening and my mood improved, but again I was pleased to get home and collapse into bed.

A good night's sleep until 6am, when I woke with a sore throat, dozing fitfully until I finally woke up. I now sit at the computer, catching up on emails, with a headache and a sense of dread. Today is the Tech, followed by a Dress. I know I will be competent, but everyone else will do well. I know the director will criticise whatever I do. I know I will be in a bad mood. I know I will come home with a worse headache and a more painful throat. I know that opening night, tomorrow, will not be the best start to my stage career. At least I also know that my parts are so small that no matter what I do, I will not harm the overall production.

Win Some, Lose Some

2012-01-19T10:50:00.000Z

I'm lazy and a tad insecure. I like life to be certain, to know what's happening and what's about to happen and to have my days planned and unchanged. Life, for some obscure reason, doesn't play by my rules.

When two groups of film-makers say they want to use me on the same day and it seems possible that I can shoot one in the afternoon, then shoot to the other set to shoot the other in the evening, plus attend a morning audition, of course I spend twenty-four hours juggling emails and text messages and phone calls to make sure it will happen. When everything is in place, I twitter about it (reminder - I still have painfully few followers - cheer me up by joining #actserious). Of course it doesn't work out because my afternoon shoot is moved to the evening, so I have to be replaced. It would be poetic justice if the evening shoot gets canceled as well...

Meanwhile, today's As You Like It rehearsal has been called off. Bad news in that I needed the rehearsal to secure myself in the role. Good news in that it gives me time to relax and to go to two parties tonight - one being the wrap party for last year's film, The Players, the other being a reunion of Poor School colleagues last year. Not that I will be out late - I have a costume fitting and the first meeting of the Duchess of Malfi cast tomorrow morning, followed by the AYLI rehearsal in the afternoon. So many performances, so little time...

Faster, Faster, Faster!

2012-01-17T11:23:00.000Z

An almost-full run-through of As You Like It last night. Umbrellas were harmed during the making of the play and my magnificent white and purple shade was retired - principally because we don't want to advertise the Siam Commercial Bank in a play set in London.

My director's note was the same as always - speed it up. I take the point that the play cannot drag, but the instruction runs counter to my intuition of the part - a gossippy middle-aged Scotsman always speaks slowly, relishing each point that he is emphasising. But the director is Queen and I'll spend half an hour or so tomorrow with a microphone, recording the speech both at my usual speed and much faster, to see if I can get the same personality across when I'm whipping through my lines.

The play as a whole is definitely emerging from the mist. We have several minor stars, including Touchstone, Audrey and Silvius, who will all hold the audience's attention and make them laugh. Orlando is the epitome of the sweet, gormless youth, with his brother Oliver as a strong presence. Rosalind and Celia are also coming to life. No-one, it seems to me, apart from perhaps my good self, is less than competent.

Meanwhile, I learn of the imminent closing of the Greenwich Playhouse, where I appear in The Duchess of Malfi next month. Bad news for the Galleons Theatre Company, which has been in residence for 16 years, but good news for me, since the DoM is likely to draw full houses.

And I keep busy in other ways. An audition a short film for Saturday morning and a short part in a film promotion as Corrupt Cop are both confirmed. More details to come.

Heaven or Hell?

2012-01-15T17:47:00.000Z

I've betrayed all my principles by joining Twitter as #actserious. Follow me into this cyber equivalent of heaven or hell ...

Thanks to arabiangazette.com for the armed tweeter

Definitely Definite

2012-01-13T10:26:00.000Z

On Wednesday afternoon I'm walking along the canal with the Other Half, when I get a phone call from Bruce. Good news. He's got the other actor and now has the 2 bodyguards / executioners / keepers he needs for The Duchess of Malfi. My role is confirmed. Of course I'm pleased. A four-week stint at the Greenwich Playhouse, even if my lines are minimal, is an opportunity to be seen, an opportunity to become embedded in an acting company and a valuable addition to my credits.

Bruce starts to give me more details about the script he has sent me - since amended. I realise, not for the first time, that the strong silent type that he appeared at my first audition is only one of his personas. There are times when, like my mother, he likes to talk. I tell him that I'm not in a place where I have either the script or the facilities to take notes and the conversation comes to an end - only to resume an hour later for reasons I have already forgotten.

My cock is definitely a-hoop - and I mean that in the most non-sexual sense - so when I return home and find an email from a fellow cast member in As You Like It, with a copy of an email that has apparently been circulating among the acting fellowship for the last few days, that Bruce is Desperately Seeking Two Actors, I'm more amused than annoyed to realise that he was apparently still looking for a couple, when he already had one of a pair in me. Well, he might have got twins who looked better together in which case he could have chucked me overboard (wrong play, I'm thinking of The Tempest: see below). Anyway, we've had one more phone call - again I've forgotten what about - and that email has sunk into cyber-oblivion. The important thing is I have secured the best role so far in my short career - and the Other Half has accepted my b*gg*ring up our holiday with good grace.

Finally.... Four of us from As You Like It went to see The Tempest at the White Bear (where we will be performing in a fortnight) last night. An amateur production, with a confused overview (what was going on with the make-up and costumes?), three good performances, several mediocre, and one so bad that it must have come from The Art of Coarse Acting. Of course, I should not be too critical. It's quite possible that we will give the same impression in our turn...

Backwards, Forwards or just Round and Round?

2012-01-11T10:33:00.000Z

A full evening's rehearsal last night. The first time the whole cast (less one absentee) has been together. There are fifteen of us in the room and I see faces I don't remember seeing from the read-through. Before the start I have three quick run-throughs of my dialogue with Oliver, a clear and confident performer. I've known the lines for weeks and I'm word perfect in my flat or on the bus, but each time with him and in front of others I still stumble and stutter. Third time round, however, all flows well and the lines appear to have finally embedded themselves.

The first 90 minutes are taken up with Acts 3 and 4, in which I do not appear. As the play comes to life - far from perfect, but recognisable as a performance - I begin to get an idea as to each individual's ability to act. Among the men, Orlando has the greatest range of emotions and expressions, Touchstone clearly enjoys playing the fool and Silvius does the love-struck shepherd to perfection.

The older women enunciate clearly and give crisp performances, as limited by their role. Audrey also is a definite character, but I have difficulty understanding some of the others. Perhaps the full range of my hearing is going as I get older, but in this show, as in every acting class I attended, there have always been some women whose diction and adenoidal tones wrap their lines in aural fog. (And in this production one of men is also thick with nasality.)

But I'm a lowly cast member, here to impress, not to criticise. When Act 1 rolls around and I find myself alone on stage with Oliver, my mind again suddenly empties and the words come half a second too late for comfort. I flail, and try not to show it. It gets no easier when Oliver speaks; during his denunciation of his brother, my stock of expressions - shock, surprise, anger, respect - emerge in no particular order. Finally, I leave the stage, not even sure I am walking properly.

I don't do despair, but I am plunged into annoyance and uncertainty. This is so small and simple a role and I am finding it so hard to do. When I return for the fight scene and the assistant director interrupts to straighten out the entrances, I do not fully understand what is being said. Information is pouring through my head, taking with it whatever certainty I had. At least we get through that scene more or less intact and that is me done for the day.

The notes are brief - my only fault, it seems, was to sway too much when talking with Oliver; as the wrestler I should be more grounded and display more confidence. That much I think I can do. As for my overall performance, I have no idea whether my acting has moved backwards, forwards or just round and round. But it's time to leave and with a sense of relief I get the bus home, hoping that Saturday, when I am next called for rehearsal, will be better.

Definitely Maybe: Maybe Definite

2012-01-10T10:25:00.001Z

To Billericay yesterday and a wander up and down the bleak Radford Way (large tin boxes housing salesrooms, fitness centres and other impedimenta of post-industrial suburbia) before finding Creative Blast. Pleasant conversation with Darryl, who of course will not take me on but wants to follow my developing career. Well, it's a step upwards from previous agents who have politely said thanks but no thanks, and I head back into London with a sense of having inched a little forward towards the light.

In London I get two phone calls within an hour from Bruce of the Greenwich Playhouse. No, he can't commit to using me in The Duchess of Malfi, because the play won't work with only one of me and he's still waiting for confirmation for the other bodyguard. Which means that my travel plans (the Other Half and I intend going back to Thailand for three weeks in March) are still up in the air. In the meantime Bruce sends me the script, heavily amended from Webster's original. I find my part much smaller than I expected, on stage for few scenes and with no more than four lines, in place of the ten or twenty I had inferred from earlier discussions.

Am I still interested? Well, I like the idea of a four-week run and the discipline that involves, plus the opportunity of being seen, even if only as part of the scenery. The downside is that it b*gg*rs up our holiday; the Other Half is sympathetic to my wanting the role, but his sympathy might dry up if he sees how little I get and how much he has to give up...

Classic Pantomime

2012-01-09T10:48:00.000Z

To the Rosemary Branch Theatre last night for the last performance of the (adult version of the) pantomime Beowulf, presented by Charles Court Opera. The cast of seven, plus musical trio, gave a pitch perfect (in every sense) performance, complete with cross-dressing, farce, audience participation, dreadful puns, over-the-top costumes (in particular Grendel's constantly changing artificial arm), double entendres and puppets. The free glass of champagne, on top of whatever other alcohol had been drunk in the bar before the show opened, helped the hilarity but was not essential to the fun.

This was the second production I'd seen at this small theatre on the fringes of Islington (Hackney lurks on the other side of the road). The first was I am a Camera at some point last year. Both were excellent. On the other hand, I hadn't realised, until our neighbour in the Rosemary reminded me, that it was the second Charles Court Opera production I'd seen. About a year ago a group of us had seen a slimmed-down version of HMS Pinafore at the King's Head in the heart of Islington and had not been particularly impressed. This production more than made up for that disappointment.

Now it's time to switch off the computer to head into Essex for my meeting with the Creative Blast Agency - on a day when I have been turned down by another agency without a meeting. Am I optimistic? Not particularly. But at least I'll get to see some of Billericay...

Not My Number

2012-01-07T18:57:00.000Z

To the National Theatre with suave T, candid K and stable C. We have front row seats in the circle for Mike Bartlett's 13, which at one point was billed as an atheist, sci-fi epic and later described on the NT website as a Flash Forward type drama: "Across London, people wake up from an identical, terrifying dream."

Of course we couldn't refuse such hype, particularly when tickets were only £12 each, so expectantly we sat down, obediently we switched our phones to silent or vibrate and eagerly we waited for the spectacle to begin.

"Let's not make a judgement yet," said C in the interval, almost 90 minutes later. "It could all come together in the second act."

"Well, for twelve quid front row seats it wasn't too bad," was the general opinion when we emerged into the evening twilight, "but hardly memorable."

This being the National Theatre, the acting could not be faulted. The problem lay with the writing - a state of the nation piece complete with the obligatory personal dramas being played out against a backdrop of social unrest. The key question was should Britain join with the US in invading Iran to prevent it going nuclear? with opposing viewpoints championed by the prime minister (female, not that it mattered) opposed by a messianic champion of the people - and of course they had a common tragedy in their past.

Mixed into the plot were an atheist academic, a grandmother with Alzheimer's, a god-fearing mother afraid of her own daughter, and young couples finding and losing each other and several other story strands, none of which were more than mildly interesting. The London they represented was almost all Caucasian - very unlike the London in which I live. The shared dream was an irrelevance which was never explored and if there was a conflict between atheism and faith it was so brief that I was unaware it had passed. This was drama that tried to say everything, and ended up by saying almost nothing. And as a backdrop, as in previous NT productions, the set once again revolved and rose and fell from scene to scene - less because these movements were integral to the story than, it seemed, because the designer wanted any excuse to play with his or her toy again.

Tomorrow I'm going to see Beowulf, an adult pantomime at the Rosemary Branch Theatre. It'll be interesting to see how it fares in comparison...

Pas possible

2012-01-06T10:17:00.000Z

Well, as I half-expected, Arnold got back to me a couple of days ago confirming that he could not get the crew together for the only dates that I was available to film, and he's going ahead with the French version only. The subtext is that he's looking for another actor to do the English serial killer on dates that I will not be free for. Eh bien, c'est la vie.

Meanwhile, back in London, the rehearsal schedule for As You Like It picks up. On Wednesday I turn up for the wrestling scene, to realise that no-one has brought the all-essential umbrellas. We use the collapsible variety, damaging one, and schedule a quick run-through for Thursday lunch-time. I also have a couple of run-throughs of the one-page dialogue Charles has with Oliver. Although I was word-perfect on the bus coming in, I stumble over my lines and Marianna is not pleased. I feel like an amateur, and schedule more time with Oliver on Monday. At least on Thursday, with full-length umbrellas and left to our own devices, Oliver and I achieve a fair semblance of a fight.

The weekend approaches and I'm in the sixth week of a mild cough/virus that has severely reduced my energy levels. I still have to prepare my audition for Monday afternoon, get up to speed with Charles for Monday evening and learn my Jaques de Boys for Tuesday evening - as well as go to an exhibition tomorrow and the theatre on both Saturday and Sunday evening. Luckily, I have no other commitments. Unluckily, that means I have no income . . .

As You Like Me

2012-01-04T10:07:00.000Z

Three weeks before the first night, publicity for As You Like It begins. The official poster is unveiled - at least emailed out - and requests for headshots and bios are issued.

Am I excited? No. I don't do excited any more. But I am mildly pleased. And surprised to realise that opening night is only twenty days away. That should be enough time to learn my few lines well enough to allow them to appear natural on stage. Not to mention the umbrella wrestling that will need to be rehearsed frequently in the final week. With luck, none of the cast and no members of the audience will be harmed in the making of this fight.

So, come and see me if you will, for all of 10 minutes at the beginning of the play and another 5 minutes at the end. The 90 or so minutes in between should also entertain. Details here.

As for other projects... The Greenwich Playhouse has not got back to me. The likelihood that it will go ahead? 75%. The French video director told me he is still sorting out dates. Likelihood? 50%. And the Billericay agency audition has not yet confirmed a time. Likelihood of being taken on? 25%. Not bad odds for someone who six months ago had only a dreadful school play and four days' acting class to his name...

A Blast in Billericay

2012-01-03T11:50:00.000Z

A new year, a new invitation to audition for an agency. This one's called Creative Blast and it's based in Billericay. That's right, Billericay. In Essex. It's only the second time that an agent has offered me an audition and I've obviously agreed to go. But Billericay? Well, let's not be prejudiced. Any agency is bound to be better than none. And any agency that's willing to look me over deserves the opportunity to do so. So next Monday, at a time to be confirmed, I will be on a train to Essex where I hope my Creativity will make the appropriate Blast...

Time to Kill

2011-12-29T21:58:00.000Z

Here I am in the early evening, sitting at my computer, trying to keep up with book orders (suddenly after Cmas, everyone's got money to spend, so I'm wrapping books and deleting entries from various files), in a good mood after today's callback at the Greenwich Playhouse, when I see an email in my inbox about a Video Project. Director Arnold de Parscau wants me to fly to Brittany to act the part of a serial killer. He's seen me on Casting Call Pro and has taken the trouble to track down my personal email (there's also a message for me on CCP which indicates that he really does want to get in touch with me). Am I interested?

I look at the videos he's sent me, particularly the one which became the official video for David Lynch's Good Day Today. I like David Lynch. I like this track. I like the content and style of the video. I like this project. Of course I'm interested. The problem is I'm committed to As You Like it, which is being rehearsed when Parscau wants to film, and, if I'm lucky, that'll be directly followed by The Duchess of Malfi.

Arnold gives me dates that sound reasonable. I email Marianna to beg time off AYLI - which

surely won't be difficult, considering how small my roles are. It looks as if it might happen. So Arnold and I agree to Skype each other tomorrow morning to see if we're compatible - and I'm sitting here surrounded by uncatalogued books and a cooling cup of coffee with an uncharacteristic beam on my evil, serial killer's face...

Called Back

2011-12-28T15:18:00.000Z

A pleasant surprise after a few days' break in Bonnie Scotland. I've had a call back for the Duchess of Malfi. A major part, says Glowering Bruce on the phone, an amalgam of several in the original script, but with little dialogue, which means it's difficult to fill. Am I interested? There's a small problem in that the Other Half and I were scheduled to fly to Thailand in the middle of the run, but dates can be changed or he could go first and I catch up later. But of course I'm interested, so tomorrow lunchtime I head back to Greenwich. I'm not counting chickens, but I can hear pecking from inside the shell...

Reeling Backwards

2011-12-22T17:02:00.002Z

The Voice. The Voice. Everyone tells me I have a good voice. I like the sound of my voice when I hear myself speak, although I’m less impressed when I hear it on tape. Still, the couple of times I have made voicereels – firstly with the unimpressive London Academy, then with Cut Glass – it has seemed that while my range may be limited, something lurks in my chest and larynx that can be used in some commercial and dramatic settings.

So I Googled voicereels and came up with a surprisingly short list of studios in London that create them, usually compiling six or so samples in different settings complete with atmospheric music. After some deliberation I chose Round Island, persuaded partly by price (£325 for two reels, commercial and drama), partly by location (on my side of the city and easily accessible) and partly by the apparent professionalism of Guy Michaels, the producer.

Yes, Guy had hundreds of scripts; no, it sounded to me, he wouldn’t let me use them. Producers and agents were tired of being given the same texts again and again, he said, put together by studios that just wanted to hustle their clients in and out. If I wanted to stand out from the crowd, I should choose my own scripts to match my talents and voice.

Naturally lazy, I at first resisted. But I respected the underlying principle and after going through dozens of plays and books and radio and television ads I came up with more than twenty extracts from which I expected to use about ten. And on 13 December I took the 141 bus to its final stop and walked the short distance to the home of Round Island, arriving a few minutes before the appointed hour of 10am.

I had Streetviewed the address and seen a suburban house, but knew it was possible to set up a professional small studio and recording booth in a spare bedroom, although not the size of the one pictured . . . I was not prepared for a microphone in the corner of a kitchen/living-room with what I had assumed was two squares of felt, but which, I have been informed, were two pieces of 'auralex pro foam panels positioned for optimum ambience and deadening along with SE electronics reflexion filter pro' behind it to act as baffles, and a mere keyboard and computer where I had expected a full sound deck. As I sat down for coffee and began chatting with Guy the fridge hummed a few feet away and traffic rumbled in the distance. Surely these would affect the quality of any recording?

But I have almost no experience in sound recording and the website and my previous contacts with Guy had reassured me, so I silenced my doubts and we started work. First I read through the pieces I had brought to let Guy select the ones that would work best. I would have liked more time to choose and experiment, but Guy wanted to start recording.

The time passed quickly. Guy pushed me to try different variations in each of the texts I was working with, which ranged from selling coffee seductively to going mad in Ionesco’s Rhinoceros. To my surprise, shortly after 1pm he announced we had finished, but we had put together the requisite number of extracts and my presence was no longer needed. Like a child allowed early out of class, tired (I was in the middle of mild flu which, fortunately, had not affected my voice) and with a desk at home full of other tasks that I was eager to get on with, I took my leave.

At the weekend, the recordings arrived in my inbox, both the individual extracts and the two compilations. Busy with parties and the filming of The Players, I did not open it. Monday brought an audition, a rehearsal and Christmas shopping. Tuesday was the Other Half’s day off and we spent it together shopping and lazing. It was only on Wednesday that I heard the recordings. And almost wept.

The voice that I heard was slow, unintelligent and mind-numbingly boring, the Scots accent inauthentic in one extract, laughable in another. The music used is minimal and to my mind routine (Guy had said that he did not use pre-recorded sounds but created his own).

Compared with the voicereels I had made earlier, I expected a leap forward. What came across to me was a leap backward. There was no way I could respect myself and still use them.

Aware that I am a harsh critic and I might be making a mistake, I sent out the recordings to friends and colleagues. Two said the quality was excellent, one said he couldn’t stop laughing; most said they were “all right”. But “all right” isn’t good enough. If it isn’t generally perceived to be excellent, it isn’t worth using.

I don’t blame Guy for this fiasco – although I think his claim to professionalism is on shaky ground. I blame myself. I should have researched the options better. I should have refused to record in what seemed to me such an amateurish setting. I should have insisted on hearing the tapes I had made, instead of accepting Guy’s opinion as he listened on his headphones. I should have stayed and rerecorded and rerecorded until I got to the level that I was happy with. And if I did not reach that level, I would have said to myself that I did not have what it takes to be a voiceover artist. Then I would have walked away, having lost money but gained experience. In short, I should have trusted myself, not a stranger in his living-room.

Now I have to start all over again. I have to find a truly professional studio and I go there with a professional attitude. I need to listen to myself as I record. I need to agree the music / sound effects with the producer. In short, I need to go forward, not back. Only then can I decide if I can be a voiceover artist. And if the answer is no, I can’t, at least I will know that my money has been well spent.

Glory and Gore

2011-12-21T09:32:00.002Z

To the Greenwich Playhouse to audition for The Duchess of Malfi. The only role that meets my age range is the Cardinal, who - for those who aren't familiar with Webster's gory masterpiece - is one of the Church's more devious servants scheming, bribing and murdering his way through life. The speech I've learnt comes early in the play, when he first berates and then seduces his mistress, and I've chosen it because it allows me to convey a range of emotions from curiosity to mockery, desire to contempt.

Arriving early, I wait in the lobby below the theatre as the player before me auditions. There is much Sturm und Drang, but the words are unclear and I cannot determine which character or play is on offer. Then there is a brief moment of silence and a deep, impatient Scots accent offers notes even louder than the previous performance. It feels as if I am back at school, eavesdropping outside the headmaster's office; with a slight feeling of guilt, I remove myself into the bar and wait to be called.

A few minutes later a young assistant leads me up into the Presence. Short, smiling Alice offers me her hand; glowering Bruce does likewise. Producer Alice has me sit before her; Director Bruce sits to one side. Alice smiles a lot. I am not sure that Bruce has ever smiled. Alice and I chat and I respond primarily to her, but glance at Bruce every so often to acknowledge his presence. My lack of acting experience does not seem to be a problem and my choice of the Cardinal's speech seems welcome.

Using the chair as an improvised prop, I chide Alice "Why do you weep?", boast that "You cannot make me cuckold" and seduce her "I pray thee, kiss me". My voice is quiet, but it covers the range of emotions and while I do not give the speech full justice, I at least indicate I understand it and that my performance suggests I could do much more.

Alice thanks me, turns to Bruce. Bruce continues to glower. Do I have anything more passionate? she asks. I offer Malvolio or Shylock. Bruce hums and haws about length and then goes for Shylock. With Alice as Antonio, I put more anger into the speech than usual. Again, I feel, I demonstrate both understanding and potential.

I sit down again. There is a lull in the conversation and I expect to be thanked and asked to leave. Then Bruce speaks. Most of the characters in this production will be young, he says, by which I understand I am too old for the part. But two actors will be needed for their physical presence. I puff myself up and deepen my voice in acknowledgement as the Cardinal's robes hover about my shoulders. These actors will play multiple roles, Bruce adds, and the robes fade. Not that they would be small parts, he goes on; as bodyguards, jailers, murderers they will be key to establishing the mood of the play.

The unspoken suggestion hangs in the air that I might just possibly be suitable for one of these parts, if no-one better comes along and I perform adequately in some call-back. Am I interested, I ask myself? Well, of course, any role is better than no role and the Greenwich Playhouse, under Alice's and Bruce's stewardship, has a good reputation. I would be a fool to turn down anything they offered. The only problem would be six weeks standing up to an irascible Scotsman who, appearance suggests, chews up and spits out novices like me on a regular basis. (The fact that I am half-Scottish and have the accent to prove it would be little defence; when it comes to aggression, the apologetic Englishman in me inevitably comes to the fore.) But problems and challenges can be met and overcome and if I can't play the Cardinal, I'll gladly be his bodyguard and bask in his glory and gore.

So I leave, once again quite pleased with myself. Of course, I've experienced this post-audition warmth before and I'm aware as I wait for my train to Charing Cross that today is likely to come to nothing. But once again I've proved myself, and for at least another month I have As You Like It to keep me occupied.

picture from the BBC

Muscle Memory Or More?

2011-12-20T16:32:00.000Z

It was cold. Very cold. Our clothes were piled on top of the only radiator and in between shots, the wardrobe mistress - or whatever you call the woman responsible for costumes on set - ran round thrusting heated jackets and scarves and hats onto our shoulders and other body parts, until a few minutes later she scurried round to take them off again, leaving us trying not to shiver.

My First Film Shoot had started at 7.20 am, when I turned up at the make-up studio off Hackney Road. Next to arrive was Gary, who had only slept for two hours out of the last forty-eight and whose previous twenty hours had been spent on another film. His sunken eyes and manic expression told the toll; luckily sunken eyes and manic expression were integral to his part in the upcoming recording.

Over the next half hour, the make-up artist, costume designer and other players turned up and the five of us were transformed into the characters in this unusual game. My bald head was deshined, foundation softened the bags under my eyes and the redness of my cheeks and nose, and the stylish purple shirt and tie I was wearing gave way to pale lilac. Once in character, we all squashed into an old small Ford or Honda and were driven a mile or so away to the basement set. The cold basement set. The very cold basement set.

From then on it was shoot, position, rest, reshoot, reposition, rest, reshoot, resposition and so on hour after hour until 11 at night. At times the whole game was filmed - an event that lasted anywhere from two to three minutes; at times merely reaction shots. The longer the shot, the more I fell into character, but even then I did not connect with Spike in the same way as I did our first rehearsal, when improvisation allowed us each to explore our adopted personalities in some depth. The problem was that Spike is a naturally fidgety, talkative individual and in this game of poker he has to sit as still and as silent as he can.

I wondered if it was the same for all actors when filming. When the scene lasts only a few seconds, for an over-the-shoulder or other reaction shot, can any player fully inhabit their character? Surely the best that can be hoped for is muscle memory to screw up one's face to the appropriate expression, while one's mind stays behind in reality rather than the character they are creating? Or are we always expected to fully become the person we represent, if only for five seconds?

If the director was unhappy with my performance, he did not say so, offering only a couple of notes as the day went on. Everyone else fulfilled their task in a similar, quiet fashion, no matter how late in the day or how tired we were getting. At least we were quiet when filming, but when the camera was off, the mood was light. We were all from very different backgrounds - one a Scandinavian, one a young heart-throb, one a reformed ladies' man, one a sharp businessman, and me, the oldest in age but youngest in experience - but we stayed together most of the time, talking and joking. Meanwhile, behind the lights the crew of ten moved quietly and efficiently, with only the occasional hint of tension when Producer did not always agree with Director's decision.

As the characters came together, one set of doubts I had had last week evaporated, but another set remained. When off set as other characters were filmed, I watched the monitor but could not see the vision that the script and rehearsals had suggested. Everything was in place - the challenging faces, the surrounding darkness, the table bare of everything but cards and chips - yet they did not come together with the intensity that I had thought would be the hallmark of the film. I knew that weeks of editing lay ahead and the quality of the screen might be much poorer than the quality of the recording, but I was disappointed that it was not immediately obvious to me that a masterpiece was being filmed. Of course I said nothing. I had been proved wrong once already and hope to be proved wrong again.

Finally we went home, a merry band of players, peeling off at the Angel, Islington, as we each headed in our different directions. I came home exhausted and exhilirated, texted the Other Half, who was in a nightclub bonding with a new friend from his homeland, and collapsed into bed. I fell asleep, The Players already forgotten as I mumbled the Cardinal's seduction to his mistress for the Duchess of Malfi audition - but that's a story waiting for tomorrow.

Cold Nightmare

2011-12-17T11:04:00.000Z

In the heart of London there is a deserted building with stairs that go down and down leading to a warren of dimly-lit and unlit basements and cellars and tunnels. Six of us descended last night into that bleak setting, reminiscent of horror movies and Gothic tales - "Just a little further down this damp, dark passageway, Fortunato, lies that cask of amontillado..." - and shivered in the cold to play our never-ending game of poker.

In that setting, the characters finally came to life, as we glanced round at our fellow-players and down at the cards that appeared on the table. Again and again we glanced at our hands, called, raised or folded, straining to reveal no hint of our strength or weakness as we assessed the strength and weakness of those around us. This was no friendly Friday night game, but a nightmare set in freezing, dark uncertainty. As the pile of chips rose, so did the tension, higher and higher, until one of us broke.

Tomorrow is the day we shoot. I am 90% confident of my ability to play my part - the challenge is to marry Spike's underlying emotions with the poker-face he has to present to the world. But with twelve hours to shoot three minutes and the emphasis on five different characters, at some point during the day I am sure I will give the director what he needs to complete a memorable scene. In the meantime it's back to the real world and a day of meeting old friends and new as the ancient festival of Yule draws near.

Coming Together

2011-12-16T11:37:00.000Z

Two hours on Shakespeare, three hours on poker. They are coming together. Act 1 of As You Like It has been blocked, and on Monday, we will go over the short duologue between Charles and Oliver.

I'm happier about The Players, but not yet ecstatic. Our missing cast member, the Dashingly Handsome Young Jack, turned up last night. I couldn't work out whether his distant attitude was his personality or his character. My own character, Spike, settled over me, although he's still not fully there. All but one of us knows his moves - let's hope the dealer gets it right for tonight's dress rehearsal. More accurately, rehearsals; the film is so short that we should get through it at least twenty times before the end of the evening. Tonight we shall probably all be seeing cards in our sleep.

A glass of brandy and Anthony Powell

2011-12-14T22:01:00.000Z

To the Old Fire Station in the Holloway Road last night, for another rehearsal for The Players, the short film we're shooting on Sunday. I'd missed one rehearsal, when everyone sat around playing poker so that the cast could get familiar with all the elements of the game. To make up for it, I had spent an hour playing a moneyless game online to remind myself of the mechanics of Texas Hold Em. In a rapid-play room, where thinking time is limited, I started with 400 chips, headed up towards 600, then fell back towards 0. Only by risking All In on a hand of three 7s did I manage to keep in the game, quitting with an overall loss of only 50. Poker is fun, I decided, as long as money isn't involved...

Back to last night... The rehearsal room was cold, I had slight toothache, my seat at the table was uncomfortable, one of the cast had had to quit and his replacement wasn't yet available, we were slow at picking up the mechanics of the game to be filmed, we spent ages analysing each character's motives for every move he made. As time passed, more questions distracted me: shouldn't this character have more chips? shouldn't that character react differently in that situation, surely by now we should be rehearsing much more and discussing mechanics less?

Pluck the log from thine own eye... As I mentally criticised the script, the director, my fellow players and the makeshift set, I was also conscious of the weakness of my own contribution. I forgot some moves and repeated others. I couldn't get into character - even though the director had not asked us to - and felt increasingly lost and incompetent. Where should I be looking at this point? What should my hands be doing? How can I convey my thoughts and emotion with just a glance?

At the end of the evening I said goodbye to everyone cheerfully and walked out into the cold, windy street depressed.There was no bus in sight and the busstop indicator said the next one was 12 minutes away. I was shivering. A taxi brought me home to warmth, a glass of brandy and Anthony Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time.

After a good night's sleep and a thorough review of the script my optimism returned. There's still time for everything to come together; besides, I've never made a film in my life, so who am I to decide whether it is going well? As for my acting, perhaps I shouldn't worry. In costume and on set, with the whole sequence running without interruptions, the Spike I had created earlier will surely come back to life. Let's see what Thursday's rehearsal brings.

The Ideal Mistress

2011-12-10T20:07:00.001Z

Q: What happens when a glitzy West End production starring two household names gets mediocre reviews?

A: Half-price (plus fees and commission) tickets are available from the tkts booth in Leicester Square.

Q: Did the glitzy West End production deserve the mediocre reviews?

A: Yes.

Q: So the evening was a waste of time of money?

A: No, it was hokum. It was fun.

Q: Pray, illuminate us . . .

The play in question was The Lion in Winter, the Broadway play that became a famous film (Peter O'Toole, Katharine Hepburn and Anthony Hopkins in his first screen role), about Henry II of England and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She supported one of their sons in his rebellion against his father and was imprisoned by the king for her pains. The play presumes (an unlikely) reunion of Mum, Dad and their three sons one Christmas and the power struggle - mostly verbal - between them.

The stars were (are) Robert Lindsay (of BBC's My Family) and Joanna Lumley of New Avengers and Absolutely Fabulous fame. (To heterosexual men of a certain age there are only two British actresses worthy of the name: Judi Dench - the ideal Mother - and Joanna Lumley - the ideal Mistress.) Both give creditable performances which only occasionally remind the audience of their television personae. The only real drawback is that both monarchs come across more cuddly more than cutting.

The main problem is the script. Throughout two and a quarter hours parents and scheming children are pitted against each other in a succession of plots and counter-plots, so bewildering that we are never quite sure who is allied with whom and what their goal is. Indeed by the time we get to the point where Philip, the young king of France (Rory Fleck-Byrne), tries to get back into bed with eldest son Richard (Tom Bateman) (while Richard's brothers are hiding behind the tapestry), we no longer care. Let's just go with the flow, we tell ourselves, and if we're getting bored with the story, we can always admire the set - and the set, courtesy of Stephen Brimson Lewis, is so stunning (see pic) that it deserves top billing.

At £33.50 for good seats in the stall, this is a production well worth seeing. At £60 it's only for diehard Lumley fans. So wander down to Leicester Square one afternoon and treat yourselves. It's ideal entertainment for a Winter evening.

Ass Backwards

2011-12-09T12:13:00.000Z

Is it because I'm old, or did I always do this?

We're practising the opening ritual of the umbrella wrestling scene. Marianna The Director suggests that we plié as we raise our weapons above our head. My knees creak as my body lowers slowly towards the floor. And my backside sticks out. I can't see myself in a mirror, but I'm sure I look as if I'm lowering myself onto a lavatory pan...

Marianna hasn't noticed this, but now that she looks, she isn't impressed. Can't I keep my back straight? Well, a little, but my ass still thrusts itself outwards and my descent is even slower. Not impressive. I ought to be pleased that I have an ass - the Other Half insists that my backside is as flat as my singing - but I'm aware that this is not the right time or place to show it. Marianna suggests an alteration. The plié goes and is replaced by a lunge. I can do that. So honour is restored and the cast and audience are spared a laughable sight. Now it's time to practice my battle-cry...

Life Is Good

2011-12-05T13:21:00.000Z

For much of the past year I have been operating under a grey cloud. I don't do Depression, but I'm an old hand at Irritation. Despite the fact that I have no financial worries, my health is very good for my age, I have a comfortable home, good friends and a loving companion, I was not finding life enjoyable. Each morning I woke up with a sense that the day ahead was full of small tasks that I had no wish to undertake, and each evening I would go to bed feeling that another day had passed in which I had achieved nothing. Outwardly, I was amenable; inwardly, I was decidedly grumpy.

Given that background, in the last week my mood should have darkened. I have developed a persistent cold/cough and, this morning, when I should be full of energy, I find an ache lurking in my bones, hinting at the first stages of flu. Yet, rather than falling into a Slough - or more likely Puddle - of Despond, the adrenalin is flowing and the serotonin (pictured) is bubbling. In short, I'm decidely chirpy.

This renewed approach to life is down to my new drug: Acting. Acting gives me a kick. Acting brings me to life. Acting makes me feel good. Acting stretches me. Acting allows me to experience parts of myself - and parts of other people's lives - that I have, until now, had little contact with. Acting is different. It's challenging. It's fun.

On Friday, I was being interviewed for the part of a corpse. On Saturday, I was a strutting athlete rehearsing a fight with umbrellas. On Sunday, I was a diffident ducker and diver (the poker player, now a Scot, no longer a Londoner). And today in audition, I was Malvolio, berating Olivia for his imprisonment. Some of these situations were easier than others - my stage fighting skills are limited and I have not yet seen the full extent of my gambler's character. But even when I am uncertain of my abilities and nervous that I have not produced the effect the director is seeking, I am glad to be in the situation I am in.

Today, in particular, I gave what felt like a powerful rendition of Malvolio's hurt at his situation, but it required only a couple of notes from the director for me to really bring the steward to life, as I seethed with anger in the first half of the speech and then almost collapsed in grief towards the end. It was a powerful sensation and even if I do not get the part, I am grateful to the producers for the opportunity they gave me to experience and present it.

Perhaps I only feel this upbeat because I am at the beginning of my career. I might feel very differently after a year of auditions and rejections. Point taken. But acting is not the be-all and end-all of my life and if I fail to reach the level I aspire to, of a small income and regular performances, I will yield the stage to others and seek some other interest to keep Irritation at bay. In the meantime, however, thanks to Acting, Life Is Good.

Wrestling With Umbrellas

2011-12-03T11:54:00.000Z

I didn't get the corpse job. I was too young to play a dead seventy-year-old. Well, I knew that, but Hamish The Filmmaker had felt a little embarrased by calling for an old man to play dead and had stretched his age limit down to 50. I didn't expect to get the work, but it was an excuse to get out of the house, travel to sunny Ealing and meet someone who might nevertheless decide to cast me in their next blockbuster.

I still have the wheezy voice and lack of energy from the cough/cold that's been bothering me all week, but The Show Must Go On. Boosted by caffeine, I will spend this afternoon at my first rehearsal for As You Like It. I'm Charles, a Scot in a Mexican Lucha mask, wrestling with umbrellas. That's right, umbrellas. Well, Marianna, our director, comes from a clown backrgound and this production is modern-quirky, so It Just Might Work.

Back home to rest and decide whether I will go out tonight as planned. The Other Half is telling me to stay in, but the party animal in me is restless...

Tomorrow the first rehearsal for The Players, the quirky (there's that word again) short film about a poker game shooting later in the month. I'm Spike, a nervous Cockney minder. I have no lines in this production, so I have to act London - and no, that does not mean a Pearly King or Beefeater outfit. I'm not sure what we're going to be doing for six hours, but I'm mugging up on my Texas Hold Em and preparing to sell the family jewels in case rehearsal turns into a real game.

Then comes Monday and an audition for Much Ado About Nothing. I'm taking no chances; I've actually read the instructions before turning up. Which means that unlike last time, I've learnt the correct speech with which to impress them - Malvolio confronting Olivia on his release (I know, different play, but Directors Have Their Reasons) - and I think I'm in with a chance for Leonato.

Finally, immediately after that audition, I was supposed to head into the country for a week, to act the starring role in another quirky (it seems to be my speciality) short film. Except I haven't heard from the producers for over a week and I suspect it ain't going to happen. I can understand they may be having financial or logistical problems, but it would be polite to keep me informed of what is, or is not, happening. The fact that they have been incommunicado means that I am most definitely Not Amused.

A Corpse With A Cough

2011-12-01T07:50:00.000Z

I'm auditioning for the part of a corpse tomorrow. The role calls for me to lie motionless in a bed. Shooting is expected to take no more than a morning. I've been asked to give my thoughts on the character's background...

In the meantime, I've picked up a cough. The question is whether I'll die of it- which would make my playing of the part more realistic - or whether during filming I'll erupt with unexpected expectoration. I'll keep you posted.

The Next Peaks

2011-11-28T17:33:00.000Z

Yesterday saw the last day of the Introduction to Acting course at the Actors' Centre. A very helpful six hours spent on tv and film, based on Eastenders and Hollyoaks scripts.

(I'm not a soap fan, nor am I fan of constant close-ups, with camera bouncing from face to face in order, supposedly, to capture the intensity of the emotional moment. For me, the technique is superficial, a symptom of the short attention spans of the internet age, briefly showing emotion without truly involving the audience. In contrast, in films from the 1940s and 1950s shots were longer in both distance and time and close-ups were used sparingly; that allowed the emotion of the scene to build up and become much deeper and more intense.)

But I can set these personal prejudices aside and appreciate the skills and talents required both to act in and to film today's stories, and thanks to yesterday I am a little closer to being able to perform competently in front of the lens.

Seeing myself on screen was instructive in many ways. I had not realised exactly how big my ears are or how deep the bags under my eyes. (Why do mirrors flatter us while camera lenses mock us?) Nor had I realised that my open, unmoving mouth, instead of conveying surprise or desire to speak, suggests nothing more than mental subnormality. On the other hand, once my mouth is closed, my face conveys much more subtlety of emotion than I had expected, and overall I came across as a serious actor rather than a talentless wannabe.

So, the course ended and those of us who made it to the final day walked away with a well-deserved sense of achievement. But, as I pointed out to one of my fellow-students (and I think wrote about here earlier in the month), each time we think we have achieved something, all we have done is reached the top of a small peak. If we look forward, not back, we will see how much more there is to learn and do.

My next two peaks are approaching fast. One is another Shakespeare audition, next Monday, which I hope will be more successful than my Twelfth Night disaster. The other peak is the two short films I have committed to this month - which I am sure will be even more challenging than the weeks that have just gone by. And as with all challenges, I'm looking forward to it.

A Laughter? A Lullaby? A Lurk?

2011-11-26T08:57:00.000Z

What's the collective noun for luvvies? Maybe I'll find out tonight when two of us hold a joint birthday party in a bar near King's Cross. I have other questions that I need answered. What is the maximum number of Darling!s allowed before one is officially drunk? What is the exchange rate between Denches and Redgraves? How do I work out which of my fellow thespians has coat-tails I should cling on to before they rise into super-stardom? As a budding player, I have so much to learn!

The Horror! The Horror!

2011-11-22T07:26:00.000Z

What do you do when you apply for an audition, the producer / director tells you they're very keen to see you, you get excited, and then they send you the script. Which is awful. Terrible. Appalling. Naive and childish. With no redeeming factors. Whatsoever. None at all. None. N-O-N-E.

It's a student film, but that's no excuse. I've auditioned for some interesting, intelligent concepts in the last couple of months, including the one I have been given a role in. But this... What was précised as a study of an individual under stress turns out to be a whimsical science fiction piece, totally devoid of internal logic (SF can be as absurd as it likes, as long as the underlying principles hold it together),with unbelievable characters and excrutiatingly simplistic (although meant to be intelligent and witty) dialogue.

I could be wrong and I'm turning my nose up at the next Gone With The Wind or Star Wars. I've invented an excuse, of course. Told them that other commitments have come up, terribly sorry to inconvenience them, wish them luck, etc etc. But I've also learned a lesson. Do not appear to be too enthusiastic at the start, or it can become difficult to extricate yourself once you see what a mess you could be getting into.

We Don't Haf Vays Of Making You Talk

2011-11-21T13:18:00.000Z

Two frustrating days at the Actors' Centre with the delightful Vicky. (The more time I spend with her, the more I want to hug her, but it ain't going to happen.) The problem? Our foreign students, two of whom have a tenuous grasp of English. They may be delightful people - and I've got to like one in particular more and more as the month has gone by - but their inability to engage with the text, or to respond to Vicky's gentle directions, considerably slowed down our "production" of the first act of The Cherry Orchard. (Of course you know that that's author Anton Chekhov in the pic.) Clomping across the makeshift stage instead of entering by the wings, speaking in a girlish whisper when the part requires a manly arrogance, drawing cartoons in one's notebook when being given notes, are just a few of the issues that would have tested the patience of lesser directors. In short, considerable time was spent coaxing the non-native speakers along, which could have been much better used with the rest of the cast, who had potential that could be developed.

Still, the time wasn't entirely wasted; we have finally begun to bond as a group and some of us have definitely developed as the time has gone by. I wasn't impressed by my script-in-hand performance yesterday, but three or four others showed real talent and I am sure I will see them again on stage or screen. And in compensation, I've just been given my first (short) film part. It's a fun piece, designed to go viral - and I think there's a good chance of that happening. More details towards the end of the year.

Hear Me Roar

2011-11-20T08:18:00.000Z

I leave the Actors Centre for an early lunch to walk up to Grape Street for my next audition, one of the many student films that do not pay but which keep players on their acting toes. Despite the fact the last time I had to prepare a monologue the presentation I gave was abysmal (when I gave a weak Malvolio - and the wrong speech - to a sceptical director), I'm optimistic about this one. Instead of telling myself I have no need to go over my lines because I remember them so well, I walk up Shaftesbury Avenue insistently muttering "I'm not good-looking. I'm not good-looking", presuming that the passers-by will take me for one of the harmless homeless who loiter in the area.

The assertion (whether or not true, is not for me to say) is the opening line to Berenger's final speech in Ionesco's Rhinoceros, when everyone else in the town has turned into the eponymous animal and he's regretting the fact that he has been unable to do the same. He goes on to compare, unfavourably, his smooth brow with the horns that those magnificent animals have and his white, hairy body to their wonderful dull green skin. Then he wishes he could trumpet in the same way they do. But it's too late. He will never become a rhinoceros now.

I came into the audition room where director, scriptwriter and cameraman were smiling and waiting. After the introductory pleasantries, I got up to give my speech. With an imagined mirror on one side of the room and, supposedly, rhinoceroses rampaging through the town on the other side of the opposite wall, I began my lament and built up to an almighty roar as I tried to imitate the pachyderms' sound. In the end, however, I accepted my fate as the world's last human, I swore that I would fight the lot of them to the very end.

It was good. It felt good and I could see from the audience's eyes that I impressed. From there it was three short scenes improvising, wordlessly, on the scenario of a stationmaster at work in a deserted office. The feedback there was good too. I left walking on air, pleased with myself and my abilities. Of course, I may never get a callback - they may see a dozen actors better than me - but it's a still a good feeling, knowing that I stretched myself, knowing that I can give a good audition and will not always perform as disastrously as I once did.

Ask Me The Question Again

2011-11-18T20:06:00.000Z

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm highly impressed by Vicky, our Scene and Text tutor at the Actors Centre. If I were (a) heterosexual and (b) single, I'd consider marrying her, but since neither of these conditions apply, she's safe from my predatory charms.

After two sessions on modern texts, yesterday she led us into Hamlet and The One And Only To Be Or Not To Be Monologue. I've read it before, but never devoted much time to it; in fact if I've had any opinion about it, it's that it's too long and convoluted. Now, thanks to Ms V, I'm still of the opinion that it's too long, but it's also straightforward.

Unlike previous texts, where she took us through the scene line by line, she skipped through it, pausing only to translate difficult words. The next step was to have a volunteer read-act it. A fan of Shakespeare, my hand shot up and I was sent out of the room for five minutes to prepare. When I came back, I found myself pouring out my Danish soul and the agonising question as to whether or not to top myself to eleven jeering so-called friends who basically informed me that my opinions were rubbish.

Surprised, I ploughed on, knowing that I had to convince them to take me seriously. To do so, I adopted various strategies, including addressing the whole group and going down on one knee to try and persuade at least one person that suicide was a viable option. The experience was both frustrating and invigorating, both showing me the limits of my acting (I couldn't persuade them) and the strenghs (my speech gained considerably in passion).

Vicky then had each of us take the piece and make it our own; we had decide how our invisible audience was going to react, and present our speech accordingly. Thus the key lesson of the day - in any soliloquy, Shakespearean or otherwise, imagine your audience's response and respond to that response.

The results were impressive. As expected, the twins - as I have mentally christened our Scouser and her new found Kent girl-friend - came up with pure soap, in scenes that were both gripping and amusing. Our Polish model, whose grasp of English is tenuous, started with a series of syllables that I could barely understand, but by the end of the class had moved towards sentences that were still thick with accent, but which clearly reflected the sense, if not yet the emotion, of Hamlet's speech. Of the others, all the native speakers managed to convey some emotion, some point of interest that held our attention, while all the foreigners, if they could not give the words nuance, at least demonstrated that they clearly understood what a poet, 400 years ago, had written.

As for my own encore, I started with an open question, reacted with surprise and pleading to my imaginary, jeering audience, then turned to anger and finally resignation as I realised that I could not convince them. It wasn't a performance to win a Tony; it probably wasn't even a performance to convince a director, but it was a performance that carried on the process of teaching me how to get into a text and how to make it so much bigger and better than I had thought possible.

So what's next? The first act of the Cherry Orchard, to take us over Saturday and Sunday, interrupted only by another audition, for a student film where I would be the only performer....

Looking down on Jerusalem

2011-11-16T20:37:00.000Z

To the theatre on Monday night, again with the sultry (and fidgety) Ms N and the suave Mr T. Jez Butterworth's Jerusalem, a Royal Court production transferred to Apollo. Over three hours long. Sensational reviews. Packed, four-level house, with N, T and me in the very back row of the highest tier of The Gods. Did we enjoy it? How fresh was the Curate's Egg? (No, I'm not going to explain the origins of that phrase.)

The success of any theatrical experience depends on a variety of circumstances. The theatregoer's physical state (tired? stomach full? seat comfortable?), intellectual capacity (what do you like? what do you know?), others around them (people coughing? checking their phones? shifting in their seats?) all affect how much s/he enjoys the experience, no matter how good the script, actors and director.

The Gods at the Apollo are noisy. Seats creak. Floorboards resonate as men with over-full bladders make for the toilet (directly behind where we were sitting) and let the door slam behind them. People (including the sultry Ms N) drop things. Loudly. The stage is Very Far Away and there is a safety bar directly in your line of sight. You can barely distinguish players' faces, far less their expressions, at this distance. (Only later did I realise one was the very recognisable Mackenzie Crook.)

The dedicated theatregoer should be able to ignore such distractions and focus on the play, so let us turn our attention to the stage. We were offered a simple tale, as summarised by Wikipedia: "On St. George's Day, the morning of the local county fair, Johnny 'Rooster' Byron, local waster and modern day Pied Piper, is a wanted man. The council officials want to serve him an eviction notice, his son Marky wants his dad to take him to the fair, Troy Whitworth wants to give him a serious kicking and a motley crew of mates want his ample supply of drugs and alcohol."

These plotlines all offer potential but Jerusalem is less story than portrait. There is some tension - will Johnny defy his evictors? (we assume not); will teenage Lee get to Australia? (again we assume not); will Ginger realise his dream of dj-ing at the local fair? (the omens are not good) - but Butterworth is less concerned with taking us on a journey than with painting a picture of contemporary rural England. And, in Butterworth's view, contemporary rural England consists of two tribes: free spirits who are addicted to alcohol, drugs, sex and four-letter words, and the bureaucrats and anonymous dwellers of housing estates who would restrain them.

It's a depressing picture. Of course we don't want to be killjoys, but the alternative offers little more. Yes, there is the exuberance and celebration of youth, as personified in Byron's hangers-on, but youth passes quickly and once it has gone the only options appear to be a lifetime of excess, which can never entirely banish physical and mental pain or the mental rigidity of the petite bourgeoisie. Only one character on stage, the fey, aging Professor, appears to have achieved tolerance and contentment without drugs or alcohol, and only because he is sustained by the illusion of mythical vanished England.

And if its inhabitants have little to look forward to, neither does rural Albion. Its future hangs between row upon endless row of anonymous housing and vast wastelands of broken down caravans surrounded by the detritus of years of party-making. Even that is an illusion, for we know that this generation's pristine houses will become the slums of the next generation.

The strong, if disheartening, picture, is given life by both the direction (by Ian Rickson) and cast. Mark Rylance, at the centre, as Byron, gives a powerful performance and is ably supported by his fellow-players, although only a few have the opportunity to develop their characters. As for the script... Was its length a strength or a failing? (Remember that a full Hamlet would take about five hours to stage.) Did Jerusalem really drag in its final act, I wondered? Does it need coda to follow coda, or would only one suffice? Or did the fault lie with me and the Twit world we live in, where attention spans are limited to 140 characters?

Despite the semi-standing ovation around us, my companions were dismissive of the play. Mr T suggested that any actor can portray excess energy (I'm not so sure). On my way home I wondered whether they were confusing three distinct ideas: the world portrayed; the script that revealed it; and the players who presented it. What was it that N and T disliked? All three?

Forty-eight hours later I am of the opinion that the acting was excellent and that the script was very good. I suspect that if I had had a comfortable seat in the stalls, with a clear view and with no companions clinking ice in their plastic containers or writhing like over-active children, I would have appreciated the whole evening much more. I am getting too old for The Gods and like the Raven I am tempted to say Nevermore, Nevermore.

Whatever my doubts about the play, they would of course disappear if a voice from The Gods declaimed that I was to appear on that stage. Up till now I have only been thinking of fringe theatre and the occasional voiceover, but I hear the very distant call of the West End and wonder if it is beckoning me...

The Shame, the Shame, Oh the Shame!

2011-11-12T11:56:00.000Z

My left leg is sore. I've been busy kicking myself. Hard. Ouch. And Again. Double Ouch.

I turned up at an audition for Twelfth Night yesterday, very pleased with my Malvolio speech that I had been preparing for 10 days and revealed at my acting course.

First problem: I was supposed to give two speeches - both dictated by the producers. Had I not seen that information when preparing for this audition? No, I admitted, my face colouring in embarrassment and shame.

Director and Other-Person-In-The-Room-Whose-Role-I-Have-Forgotten were gracious. Could I give the Malvolio speech I had prepared? Yes, I could. Bring on the Second problem. My speech was terrible. My "Malvolio" voice melted into my normal tones. I stared into mid-air. The subtleties that I had been able to reveal the many times I had rehearsed it disappeared. Instead of bringing Olivia's steward to life, I drained him of all depth and colour.

What about my other speech? Was it another of Malvolio's, as it should have been? No. More embarrassment, more shame. I could give them Shylock's reaction to Antonio's request for money, I said with a faint, hopeful smile. Please do. I went ahead, addressing Other Person. That performance came alive. It wasn't my best, but it was strong and varied and it showed that I did indeed understand The Bard and could give a reasonable rendering of his words.

It didn't matter. There was still the Third problem. I had thought this production was for much later in the year, but its rehearsal times conflicted with my commitment to As You Like It. So, with polite smiles and handshakes I was dismissed, and I kicked myself all the way home...

Speaking prose

2011-11-11T10:10:00.000Z

Progress at the Actors Centre... Last night was the first session of scene and text with Vicki. The first hour was theory - analysing a script into objectives, units, events etc; the last part was practice - playing around with the opening pages of Mike Bartlett's Cock.

Like Monsieur Jourdain in Moliere's play, who discovers he has been speaking prose all his life, we opened our eyes to what we presumably already knew without naming it: that plays do not exist without a purpose, that actions and lines move the plot forward and the more we analyse a text, the better we are able to understand it.

The final part of the evening was assigning different, and sometimes contradictory, attitudes (Vicki called them actions, but I find that term confusing because it makes me think of physical acts) to the duologue between M and John in Bartlett's play. It was an interesting exercise - saying "don't fucking do that" in a loving tone in the midst of a speech that was definitely written as aggressive. It was also difficult to switch from mood to mood within a few words, particularly when we were still reading the lines. And it would have looked ridiculous on the stage. But it was an exciting and energising process that opened up the potential in both the text and ourselves. I went home once again feeling that I had learnt and progressed.

So much for business. What about pleasure? Once again, when the class ended, the eleven of us (one of the most talented has dropped out) scurried away, unlike my last acting course, when we filled the local boozer each night. I've suggested that we all go for a drink after class on Saturday evening, but I'm not convinced there'll be more than a couple of us. Group bonding does not seem to be our forte...

She Liked It

2011-11-09T21:41:00.000Z

Last Saturday's audition is in the process of turning into my first paid (well, profit-share) performance. I apparently redeemed myself after my initial disatrous presentation of Shylock's speech and impressed Ms Marianna Vogt (for 'tis she the producer / director) with my Oliver and Corin. As the result of which I have been offered, and I have accepted, two small parts in Ms V's upcoming production of As You Like It. I initially demurred at the role of Charles the Wrestler, on the grounds that my bones are too old to be thrown to the ground each night, but Ms V assured me that no real wrestling was involved. And if I survive the play's first act, I am resurrected in the final scene to be Jaques de Boys. This Jaques, who is not to be confused with Melancholy Jaques, an important denizen of the Forest of Arden, gets to make one stirring speech. Let's hope I don't make a hash of it...

Francis Hayman, "The Wrestling Scene from 'As You Like It'."
Oil on canvas, 1740-1750. The Tate Gallery, London

Incited in the letter

2011-11-08T14:49:00.000Z

Buoyed by my As You Like It audition on Saturday (and by the very enjoyable night out that followed), I strolled into the Actors' Centre on Sunday morning full of confidence that I would render fellow-students and tutor Jonathan Broadbent speechless with admiration for my Malvolio during that day's Shakespeare class.

Jonathan is a pleasing young fellow, with thick glasses and the habit of nervously fingering his shirt buttons (thankfully not undoing them) while talking. He is, of course, knowledgeable about Shakespeare (although I had reservations about the meaning he gave to one or two of the Bard's lines) and an excellent coach. Like all born teachers, he encouraged and was never critical, despite one or performances that would have had lesser men saying "Darling, I know you've put your heart and soul into this piece, but let me say now that you will never master Shakespeare and I doubt you will ever reach the standard of third Essex girl from the left in the Queen Vic, so you should just leave now." No matter how inadequate the performance, each time he responded sympathetically and helped the player make adjustments that moved them up a notch or two or on the acting scale.

One speech impressed me and two had real potential. Sheena, who had already demonstrated real talent the day before, presented a headstrong Phebe who came alive under Jonathan's direction. Peter offered a believable downcast post-battle Richard II, but, despite J's encouragement, seemed unable to move from self-pitying to philosophical mode. And Katerina, our diminutive Brazilian, not only fought through her accent to reveal a believable Cleopatra, but, again thanks to Jonathan, lifted it up from uncertain schoolgirl to imperious queen.

As for my own performance... As Olivia's steward (a role I'd chosen because I have an audition for that character coming up) I'd selected a piece which, according to Jonathan, is either dropped or reduced in most productions. It comes at the point where Olivia has just seen the extent of her servant's supposed madness and has instructed others to take him away. Malvolio responds with self-justification that is reasonable from his perspective, but which provides ample evidence of his unbalanced mind to those who are unaware that Sir Toby and others are playing a trick on him.

Oh, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? This concurs directly with the letter; she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him, for she incites me to that in the letter . . . to . . . Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked.

I played it, as I thought, in the manner of one sane justifying his actions, but it came across - JB said - as one who is in fact crazy. I should tone it down. I tried to do so. Next point: what does "limed her" mean? Trapping her like a bird. "Jove make me thankful": is that statement really sincere? And so on. Each comment and question from Jonathan both knocked away at my confidence and opened a door into a meaning I had not considered. By the time I gave my fifth and final rendition of the piece I knew that I understood it much better, but I had no idea whether my performance had improved or deteriorated.

This, of course, is acting. Actually no, it's life, or my life. Ever since my schooldays I have underestimated each task ahead of me. Because I am reasonably intelligent, knowledgeable and competent at many things, I assume that I can do anything well, without much study or dedication. In any sphere - business, love, acting, whatever - I have only to turn up, do my best and everything will fall into place. And of course most times in my life I have been wrong.

So here I am, four months through my one-year plan to launch an acting career. Like a hill-walker cresting a peak, I see not one more hill before me, but half a dozen more, and behind them almost certainly even higher mountains that I have to climb. Well, there's no going back, and even if I never reach my goal, the journey is fascinating. As for the next peak... assuming I don't lose myself as I did on Saturday, the audition for Malvolio on Friday may go better than it otherwise would have done.

Did She Like It?

2011-11-07T18:13:00.000Z

On Saturday afternoon I left the first day of the acting course early to audition for a role in an upcoming production of As You Like It. Prepare a Shakespeare speech, the advance information said, from any play. Afterwards we'll ask you to read some parts with other actors. So I revised my Shylock, the "Signor Antonio, many a time on the Rialto" speech that had wowed fellow-students, the director and myself on my last course and prepared to give it. What happened? Faced with the steely eyes of the casting director, the speech vanished from my memory, as most of the emotion and meaning that went with it.

I suppose I was suffering from Stage Fright or Nerves. My primary emotion was confusion, as in a dream when one wanders into a situation that one is totally unprepared for. Should I apologise? Ask for a break? No, I told myself; The Show Must Go On, so I stumbled through the piece, aware that I was missing lines and that there was more recitation than reality in my performance. The CD made no comment, but handed me some lines and asked me to read Oliver to another candidate's Orlando. I went out, met him and started to rehearse. Then I was given another set of lines: could I read Corin to an actress's Touchstone. I wasn't flattered - I was the only other male around - but I was pleased that I was getting another opportunity to show what I could do.

Back in again to strut the part of the evil elder brother. I felt good about it. Put the scripts away, the CD said, confront each other physically and wordlessly as brothers. I felt awkward; Orlando was a foot smaller than me, but we glared at each other and paced the stage in hostility. Was that enough to satisfy her? It didn't satisfy me. Thanked and sent out again. Called back in again. This time as Corin, the shepherd. Could I do it in a Scottish accent? Yes, and it seemed to me I read that piece even better than the last. Something in my reading struck the CD. Would I read one of the speeches directly to her? I did. Did she like it? I have no idea.

I don't expect to get the part. But I enjoyed the experience and I learnt two valuable lessons: that my mind can unexpectedly lose its focus and that an audition can require the kind of improvisation that I have only begun to take on board. I came home in a state of tension, but it is the tension I have come to associate with acting and which makes me even more convinced that this is what I want to do.

Soaping Up

2011-11-07T09:02:00.000Z

Day One of the Introduction to Acting Course at the Actors' Centre. A motley crew of three men and nine women. One of the men appears older than me; the third is in an archetypal musclebound hunk in his late twenties who probably turns on more gay men than straight women. None of the women appear over thirty-five; five are foreign (two Russian; Polish; Mexican; Brazilian); there are several models, including Lloyd the Hunk and the Polish woman who can only be seen sideways if you squint. The foreign accents range from impenetrable to unnoticeable - plus the Liverpudlian whose accent is so thick and quick that even we natives cannot always follow her.

We gather in the basement of the Actors Centre with tutor John Melainey, who teaches us more about acting in a day than I learnt in a week at the Poor School. Alone, in pairs and as a group, we go through a series of clearly-explained exercises that first connect us to Status and Emotion and then enable us to develop short scenes out of nothing at all. We learn what moves a scene forward and what deflates it, how to give information and how to respond to it and generally how to hold and build the audience's attention.

It is soon obvious that two of the women have real talent and two of the foreigners are severely hampered by lack of English; the others and the men, may develop in time. It also soon obvious that - despite the fact that tomorrow's class is to be given over to Shakespeare - this course teaches only one subject in depth: Soap.

It is not just that the scripts we will work from later in the course are from East Enders and Hollyoaks, but in today's class every suggestion for action, plot or character, from tutor John or fellow students, involves a soap cliché. So we have long-lost Dad meeting daughter at bus-stop, two women accusing each other of stealing their boyfriend and so on; there's crime and hysteria and blame in abundance. And of course, we're hooked; with every revelation we want to know more.

Nadine, our Liverpudlian, is perfect for these roles, screeching out accusations left, right and centre with never a pause for breath. Two or three of the others are not bad, and I wonder how much their acting is based on East Enders and how much is a reflection of their own lives. I even find myself getting into it; after being called up short in a scene where no-one recognised my character's repressed anger, I let it all hang out and berated my daughter - whom I accused of living with a young criminal, thief and possibly murderer - in quiet reasonable tones reminiscent of Phil Mitchell. By the next scene, where wife Shona and I were berating each other for losing an important Document (no, we never discovered what the Document was about), we were both in Full On Mode, circling each other in frustration and anger, I was fully enjoying myself and annoyed that I had to leave early for an audition. About which I will write in my next post...

Too many balls

2011-11-04T10:27:00.000Z

I got back to London on Wednesday and spent Thursday catching up on 80+ emails and all the other minor activities that are part of returning to normal life. To my surprise, scattered among the spam and updates on my bookselling business were several relating to my infant acting career.

First up was the bumph for the Actors' Centre. I start their monthly course in Covent Garden tomorrow, complete with old Hollyoaks and East Enders scripts. I can see myself in the role of Adam Morgan, but I suspect that my acting skills are not up to persuading others that I am indeed the handsome young lifeguard who is irresistible to women, and I certainly don't look like any of the hunks in the calendar. As for the East Enders excerpt, I am disappointed to see that Dot Cotton is not an option...

In addition to the course, there were three - count 'em, three! - invitations to audition, two for Shakespeare (As You Like It and Twelfth Night) and one for an educational video in what appears to be hip-hop style, encouraging young people to read. And guess what, two of the auditions clash with the acting course. I'm taking time out to attend one of them, but, because filming also conflicts with the course, I've sent in my apologies.

Trying to juggle too many options, I'm bound to drop one. I'm disappointed, because I like the idea of appearing in something cool and modern (assuming I got through the audition), but I'm also chuffed to know that I am considered by some very different people to have potential.

Hot and Cold

2011-10-19T11:28:00.000+01:00

I'm taking my second break of the year, first heading to Scotland to pick up the Aged Parent, then off together to a week's holiday in Sicily. I've packed for hot and cold weather in equal measures. As soon as I'm back, I'll be starting a course at the Actors' Centre...

Accenting Differences

2011-10-17T14:53:00.000+01:00

Earlier in the year I saw Emperor and Galilean at the National Theatre, a rarely performed Ibsen epic about the life of Julian, the last pagan emperor of Rome. Reviews were mixed, but I enjoyed it thoroughly apart from one niggle. That was the discrepancy in accents between Julian and his entourage and his best childhood friend (name forgotten and I haven't been able to identify it online). Julian and co spoke origin-neutral RP; Best Friend came out with Pure Scottish. That made their long-lasting friendship totally unbelievable - as unbelievable as if Julian and co were all Glaswegians and the Best Friend who had grown up with them somehow picked up LA street slang.

The problem is that people who grow up together spending years in the same social milieu always end up with the same accents. Any transplanted parent - a German in the UK, an Australian in Canada, a Geordie in London, knows that as their children become adults they will speak the language and dialect of their peers, not their ancestors. It is highly unlikely that bosom buddies who first met in childhood speak differently from each other.

I am having the same problem with a dvd the Other Half and are watching of Children of Dune, a 2003 production that first aired on the Sci Fi channel. Sumptuous settings (mostly CGI, but acceptable) make up for erratic acting and a complicated plot (luckily, I've read the books, so I know what is going on; even with my ongoing explanations, the OH is struggling to keep up). Presumably to save costs, the cast is a mix of US, UK and European, which leads to a constant clash of accents. Yes, in an empire that is scattered over dozens or hundreds or planets, you are going to get diverse dialects, but couldn't the casting director group the accents together so that there was at least some conformity and believability - have all the Brits play the evil Corrinos while Americans act the heroes and the weirdly-accented Europeans are restricted to the rest of the galaxy?

This is not the first time I've come across this phenomenon, and each time I've been irritated by the director's failure to understand the characters that he or she is working with. Accent is as essential to character as age and physical appearance and to consider it irrelevant when casting a play or a film is disrespectful to both the script and the audience. And if you don't respect me as an audience, do not expect me to respect your sloppy work as director.

Bookseller! Actor! Housekeeper!

2011-10-16T20:42:00.000+01:00

One of my favourite cartoons in the now-defunct Christopher Street, by the magazine's resident cartoonist Rick Fiala (no connection with the baseball player, for transatlantic readers), showed a couple in a restaurant trying to draw their server's attention by calling out "Waiter! Model! Actor!" There is always truth in jest, and the underlying reality was of course that the individual concerned was merely 'resting' between appearances on the catwalk, stage or screen.

I feel myself to be in the same position when confronted by this blog. Since last Wednesday morning, when I learnt that I was not going to be taken on by the casting agency I had auditioned for, my acting life has been on hold. Yes, I've perused the offers that have come through Casting Call Pro, but since I'm about to take a two-week break, accompanying the Elderly Parent on a trip to Italy, there's not much I'm available for. And so my attention turns back to my other two roles in life - as an online bookseller and - since I am at home most of the day while the Other Half commutes to and from work - housekeeper.

Both tasks are routine. One involves sitting at a computer and cataloguing books while waiting for orders to come in. The other involves getting up from the computer and processing dirty dishes and washing, superficial cleaning and watering the plants. Neither is particularly demanding and both allow me to listen to the radio (preferably the dramas and comedies on Radio 4 and 4 Extra) and music (either peaceful classical or various forms of chillout). And so the days pass.

By the time I come back from Italy, a quarter of my self-imposed deadline (get paid acting work, a serious agent, or quit within twelve months) will have passed. But my batteries will be recharged and I have two projects ahead of me: a course at the Actors' Centre that will take me through November, and a voicereel to make. Until then, however, the Actor part of me is resting, and while I'm away even the Bookseller and Housekeeper will take a break.

An art, not a science

2011-10-13T18:43:00.000+01:00

To the Olde Rose and Crown in Walthamstow (pictured) yesterday to audition for agent Diane Marshall. Nice lady; pleasant, professional conversation. She enjoyed the monologue I gave her (Azdak from The Caucasian Chalk Circle, berating the local policeman who has come to question him about his poaching, and putting the wind up the fugitive who is hiding in his hut). But, I learnt this morning, she didn't want me. She had seen 22 people, the email said, and only wanted 10; I hadn't made the cut.

Of course I'm disappointed, but not immoderately so. I would have been surprised if my first audition with an agent actually got me onto their books. And I can imagine that most of the 21 others she saw had more experience and were therefore easier to promote.

What bothers me, however, is the lack of feedback. Was the deciding factor my lack of experience? Did my monologue reveal me to be an incompetent, unbelievable performer? Was it the fact that I did not express a strong preference for either stage or screen work? Was it my age? Am I not marketable? What exactly was / were my weak point(s)?

I wouldn't expect answers (and I haven't asked her the questions). Acting and casting are arts, not sciences. Any comment someone might make about my abilities is going to be subject and influenced by many factors I have no control over. So I simply have to accept that my first audition for an agent didn't work out and maybe my second, third and fourth auditions - should I get them - not work out either. Time to move on. What's for dinner?

Cutting It

2011-10-11T16:42:00.000+01:00

Up at 8 this morning to check my email, shave (a longer process than usual, because for the last ten days I'd let what's left of the hair on my skull grow and removing it took a good half hour - it also made me look 15 years younger), shower and head out to Cut Glass Productions in Kentish Town for a voiceover class. (Before you copy the image, make sure you acknowledge it's theirs...)

I had a good feeling about this course from the moment I booked it, if only because the price, at £38 for three hours, was a bargain. It was a bonus to find that only three of us were taking the class (we were told that there might be as many as 10, which would have considerably reduced our airtime but still been good value). The icing on the cake was Phil, our coach, who provided a wide range of scripts and encouraged each of us to stretch our voices. I ended up reading five scripts, to which were added the music and FX that gave my voice the final touch of professionalism.

First up was the strong Scottish accent to advertise - surprise, surprise - Scotland. It was the same script that I'd read at the dreaded (spit, spit, curse) London Academy last month, but this time I was able to give it a much richer sound. I was so good that when I heard myself give the phone number of the Scottish Tourist Board, I almost picked up the phone to book two weeks' holiday at my mother's Edinburgh bed and breakfast...

Next was a deliberately gobbledy-gook insurance advert which I presented in a bureaucrat's voice. That also went down well, and although I could spot several weak spots and mistakes, these could easily be eradicated in a second recording and I was, as YouthSpeak has it, Well Pleased With What I Done. Third was hard-sell for a Scottish pop band. That was a mistake - my voice was too old for the product - but it made me think that there were some hard sell commercials that I could do. Fourth was the weakest performance - a soft-spoken trailer for Magic Radio; not only was my voice lost behind the music, but it was weak and did not carry the seductive tones I was aiming for. Last came a narrative for a documentary about the candiru in the Amazon - a fish that I had thought was legendary, but which apparently really does swim up your urethra and eat away at the inside of your genitalia. My fellow-students claimed they were sitting cross-legged and nervous as I described the torture in detail...

We didn't get copies of our recordings - for the sensible reason that they were rushed and did not convey either our or Phil's full talents. But I did walk away in a much more optimistic mood than after the London Academy fiasco, where £300 and two days had done nothing more than convince me that my voice was reedy and I had no talent as a voiceover artiste. The only problem that I still face is the "bubble" that I sometimes sense in my lungs, which can rob my voice of some of its roundness. It comes and goes unpredictably and today, annoyingly, it came. Nevertheless I still gave good voice. (As for the other two students, one had considerably more talent than me and will soon, I am sure, be in high demand; the other tended to be too theatrical but had definite reassuring tones when she toned down her performance.)

Next on my agenda, therefore, is a professional voicereel. I've seen them advertised at under £300, so I'm not keen to pay CGP's £360 (less deduction for the course already taken). I may end up back there, but I'll first spend time researching the studios available and listening to their samples to see what best combines cost and quality. But wherever I end up, I'm truly grateful to Phil for restoring the confidence that I had lost.

Back to Basics

2011-10-08T15:39:00.000+01:00

I've been back in London for over a week and am still feeling the effects of my trekking in Morocco. It was very enjoyable and I'm pleased to say that despite my age, I was one of the most energetic in the group, even arriving back first at the end of the 20 mile mountain trek (from 1,900 metres to 2,400 and back down) that completed our three day marathon.

But while my energy levels were high in Morocco, they have plummeted since my return. A stomach virus that bothered me all last Sunday, as Ricardo and I first flew to London via Madrid and then suffered the Piccadilly line home, has disappeared, but left me with an unaccustomed lethargy that still lingers, while a bruised toe, although getting better, continues to bother me. These symptoms, combined with a week's worth of emails regarding acting, my bookselling business and general catch-up with friends old and new, have prevented me from updating this blog until now.

But enough mea culpa. There has been good news, bad news and expected news on the acting front. The expected news is that I have received no follow-up to the twenty or so parts that I applied for in the week before my departure and in the week since my return. It's the usual problem - I don't get called to auditions because I don't have experience, and I can't get experience till I get called to audition. (Even when I am called to an audition - as I have been twice - I don't get the part.) But it's early days and I still have another nine months to make good on my promise to myself to get paid work within a year.

On the other hand, I did have, before I left, a promised audition with UK Actors Ltd some time in the first week of October. Off I went to Morocco, with two monologues well under my belt (Azdak in The Caucasian Chalk Circle and an early Shylock), and the text of a third (Berenger in Rhinoceros), to learn at odd moments on the trek. I arrived back prepared for action, but to find no confirmation of the audition and no reply to my email asking for an update. UK Actors claims 40 clients on Casting Call but it does not have a website and I am beginning to wonder how professional they are. I will call them on Monday and report back.

The good news is that Diane Marshall of the eponymous agency has called me in for an audition on Wednesday, so the Rhinoceros may be put to good use. I have therefore been rehearsing it, along with the other two pieces, every day while the Other Half is at work. I'm not sure how clearly my nearest neighbours - who, like us, live on the 8th floor of a tower block - can see into our living room, but if they have been watching through their net curtains, they will have been bemused by the sight of me either pulling my hair out while staring at a door or remonstrating with the bookcase on the other side of the room. I don't enjoy working with animate objects as much as with real people, whose presence helps give my performance depth, but the furniture nonetheless allows me to explore each monologue and give me a framework of movement and emotion that I can use.

Meanwhile, on Tuesday I've opted to spend £38 on a three-hour voiceover class with Cut Glass Productions. I have no idea what to expect, but the session is cheap and will, I hope, give me a better sense of how to develop my voice than the two days I spent with the London Academy last month. That brought confidence in my voice to a low, but since several of my companions on the Moroccan trek told me they liked what they heard and I'm convinced there's a voiceover artist somewhere within me, I'm ready to give myself a second chance.

A Mountain to Climb

2011-09-23T20:04:00.000+01:00

I'm taking a break. One day at Hever Castle to see where Anne Boleyn once lived, then a week in Morocco, in Marrakesh then trekking in the Atlas Mountains. Taking my monologues with me to go over in the evenings. Hope to come back with a tan, some photos and good memories. Back the first week in October.

Once a Week

2011-09-23T16:47:00.000+01:00

Once a week. That's about how often I've been called to auditions since my profile went up on Casting Call Pro. Considering I'm applying to 8 to 10 productions a week (paid, unpaid, film, theatre), I reckon a 10% follow-up rate isn't bad. Last week it was to do a rehearsed reading of Mervyn Peake's classic Gormenghast. I even recorded voicereels for the characters they were looking for and they called me in. The problem is, that they wanted me on a day when I'm no longer free and I had to turn them down. I begged them to reschedule for when I was free, but, not surprisingly, no can do.

The most recent call was last night. The Other Half and I were watching the last season of Lost (it's one of the most ridiculous programmes I've ever seen, but we're hooked and we're both going into withdrawal when it comes to an end), when the phone rang. Could I come in to audition for the part of an angry Peckham racist the next morning? Could I? Of course I could. And could I prepare something in character, combining anger and humour? Of course I could. So the dvd player was switched off while I hid myself away to spend a couple of hours drafting writing a monologue for this character, followed by an hour this morning to to rehearse.

I was pleased with myself. I pressed all the right buttons to create the obnoxious character I was meant to be. Stuff about working the railway (his job), being a Chelsea fan, insults about non-whites, sex and a situation where he thinks he has the upper hand and he doesn't. I was feeling quite chipper when I got taken into the audition room, gave myself a 70%+ on the quality of the monologue. Then I got asked one routine question and that was it. Not more than 10 minutes after I'd gone in, it was thanks, we'll be in touch, have a nice day.

Maybe they'll call, probably they won't. I got the feeling that while the script amused them, something in the performance was missing: not enough anger, perhaps, or dodgy accent (I've lived in London half my life and can do a reasonable imitation, but it might not pass muster in a tight spot), or just the wrong look. Well, I told myself on the way home, if they call me, they call me, and if they don't, it's been a good experience.

Good, but not fun. From the minute I put the phone down last night to the minute I walked out of the audition this morning, I had a tension headache. Creating a personality and an accent that were a long way from my own had pushed me far out of my comfort zone. The more I wrote last night and the more I repeated my lines this morning - getting deeper into the part each time - the more my chest and voice tightened. I was being taken over and I didn't like it. I couldn't help saying goodbye to the Other Half in character. I had on the earstud and tight white t-shirt and walked out of the flat with his swagger, not my lazy walk. My mind was alert and loving what I was doing - I wanted the part, I want to prove myself - but my body was definitely unhappy; it was being dragged into something it really didn't want to do.

I've read about actors undergoing these personality transformations, but this is the first time I've experienced it. All the other characters I've taken on board, from Azdak to Shylock, have been fairly close to myself in one way or another. This was the first time I had to be someone that was very different and very unpleasant. Maybe that showed up in the audition. Maybe my voice was trying so hard to do the accent that it didn't give the character depth. Maybe my body language was artificial. Whatever the problem, I'm glad it's over. But it's not going to stop me applying for such parts in future. The more I can be someone else, the better an actor I will be.

Of Rabbits and Men

2011-09-19T16:52:00.000+01:00

I have to be honest. I'm not a fan of Bertolt Brecht (yes, that's him in the pic). We had to study Mother Courage in German when I was at school and the effort of ploughing through compound words and convoluted grammar destroyed any pleasure in the play. (Why do Germans the verb at the end always put? When the sentence very long is, can you find yourself a lot of difficult ideas in your head until the very last word holding, which often you the first idea forgotten have before you the last idea at arrive means.)

Things didn't get better when I saw one or two of his plays. I'm a simple man and while I can deal with multiple plots on the screen, I prefer my stage productions to be linear, with no more than one beginning, middle and end. The more that's going on, the less I'm engaged in the story. And with Brecht there's more going on than most.

On the other hand, I can see that acting Brecht is a player's dream. The characters are big and bold and run the gamut (what is a gamut?) of emotions and styles. Which is why I've chosen a speech by Azdak for my upcoming audition. Azdak is the village clerk, a poacher, a man with a fondness for drink and a man whose mind often runs faster than his voice. Through a combination of circumstances and cunning, he starts off by hiding an aristocrat escaping the mob, finds himself on trial and ends up as the judge...

The monologue I've chosen is near the beginning of his scene, where he's harbouring the Duke and negotiating with the policeman at the door who has come to arrest him for poaching rabbits. Will he hand over the Duke to save his own skin? Azdak's one-sided, tipsy conversation veers from mockery to the serious, from sense to nonsense, from bonhomie to mistrust. It's a challenge and I look forward to seeing how well I do with it.

I now have the lines committed to memory and I'm going through the second stage - repeating them aloud (thank goodness the flat is empty) again and again. Each time I say them, my understanding of the speech and of Azdak's character gains in depth, which means that my performance becomes increasingly nuanced as I play with different emotions, different speeds and different emphases.By the time the audition comes, the piece should be ingrained not just in my memory, but in my personality, my gestures, my whole being.

This is only the second monologue I have learnt in depth (the third will be Berenger's final scene from Rhinoceros), but as with the first (Shylock's 'Signor Antonio, many a time and oft in the Rialto you have rated me...') I find it a fascinating and almost magical experience to find my way into a character. And while I will be disappointed if the audition does not get me onto the casting agency's books, the mere fact of learning the speech is reward in itself. This, for me, is what acting is about.

Voicing My Complaint

2011-09-16T10:54:00.000+01:00

At the beginning of the month I did a two day Voice Over class at the "London Academy of Media Film & TV". The website promised

Key Benefits of taking this course

1 Industry recognised Diploma

2 Work experience

3 Professional Voice Over Tutor

4 30% discount off your next course

5 Build your own voice showreel

What happen during the course (note the grammatical error)

During the voice-over course you will experiment with your voice on various themes, such as; narrating documentaries, corporate videos, trailers for film, TV & radio commercials as well as radio station promos.

I had my doubts about the Academy's efficiency when I had to contact them by phone to pay the fee. An automated North American voice gave way to live human beings for whom English was a second language, who did not have a record of my application (although I had received an automated email in reply) and who, when they found it, had me down for the wrong course.

Doubts increased when I read the class instructions. "Turn up at the door on Lancing Street only five minutes before the course begins. Your tutor will let you in." Was this a prison? An army camp? No, my fellow-students and I discovered on the wet and windy day as we stood waiting in the street; the grandiosely-named Academy is no more than a couple of hired rooms in an anonymous block of flats; there is no office, no reception, nowhere for students to come in from the cold.

There were three of us on the course, plus tutor Bill (not his real name), replacing advertised course tutor Melinda. Bill was an affable chap, an actor with a wonderful voice - you will have heard him and seen him in old films - but also an actor going through a difficult patch, as witnessed by his unshaven face and the various stories of his private life that came out over the next two days.

It took Bill the first 45 minutes of the day to finish telling us about the problems he was having in his new flat and to start us on a series of vocal exercises. It was then time for lunch. After an hour's break, we took turns to read poetry (Shakespeare's Sonnet 18 and Lewis Carroll's The Hunting of the Snark) before we were shunted off to the computer and told to choose three or four potential pieces for our voicereel. (We queried the poetry, thinking that it might be better to practise on the pieces that we were more likely to be asked to present and were told it was useful to train clarity of speech...)

Once we'd chosen our pieces - with no guidance as to which would be more suitable for our voices or which different styles they represented - we each read through them a few times and decided with Bill which ones we were most comfortable with. We were then sent home. At five o'clock. An hour before the scheduled end of the class.

Next day. A few vocal exercises. Time spent while the engineer discovered that the loudspeakers he needed were missing and had hunt up a pair. Time in the cubicle reading our pieces. I was crap. I sat at the microphone and for the first time since I took up this career, I froze. My voice came out thin and throaty, with no emotion or variety. I wanted time out, to relax, but it was clear this would not suit either Bill or the engineer. I had three shots at each piece (a continuity announcement, an advertisement, a documentary narrative) and I was only happy with one.

But never mind, it was five o'clock, an hour before the scheduled end of the class and that meant it was time to go home...

Jack, one of my fellow students, and I sat in the pub afterwards and agreed that we had not had our £300 worth. There had been no structure to the course (I should know - I was a teacher for 10 years and one of the basic principles was to have a clear structure to each part of the lesson, what should be taught and what students were expected to achieve); no explanation of the differences between the various styles of voiceover and how we could and should adapt our voice to each; too much time had been spent listening to Bill's tales of woe; Bill, a classically-trained actor was obviously uninterested in the crass commercial side of voiceover; an hour had been shaved off the end of the class each day; and so on.

I intended to complain, but I wanted to complete the course - receive my "professionally produced" voicereel and "Industry recognised Diploma" first. The voicereel came. Of the three recordings, only one was usable and I have uploaded it to Casting Call Pro and my website. The other two were bad. I'm sure if I had spent an extra twenty minutes in the booth I wouldn't have produced a perfect voice, but I am also sure that if the course had been more professional and we had been given the time we needed, I could have made better recordings than the ones I ended up with.

Then came an email about the Diploma. I would receive it but only after I had rated the course. I looked to see if could rate the course online so that potential students could see my comments. Surprise, surprise, I couldn't. My comments had to be vetted by Sari Bannister of Student Support. I wrote back that I gave the course 3 out 5, with my reasons for that rating and in the hope that the comments would be posted, together with a reply from the Academy recognising my concerns and agreeing to improve the course in future.

I did not get that guarantee; I did not even get a response acknowledging that I was disappointed. A couple of days ago, however, I did get my diploma - a pretty piece of paper that looked as if it had been designed by a 13 year old girl playing around with ClipArt.

I notice that on the "London Academy of Media Film & TV" website there are comments from students suggesting they have profited from their courses. I will be charitable and assume these comments are genuine, but my experience is that the London Academy is happy to take your money and to go through the motions of tutoring and does not care about the quality of the classes it offers. In future, my money - and I suggest other people - will go elsewhere.

Acting Absurd

2011-09-14T12:49:00.000+01:00

What would I do without Casting Call Pro? I regularly get notices of work, both paid and unpaid, that match my specifications. Unfortunately, because of holiday plans booked months ago, I have very little availability between now and the beginning of November, which means that most of these notices get deleted.

I also get notices about agents looking for clients and after applying to a few, one has actually got back to me. However, searching for the agency online provides mixed messages. It doesn't have its own website - which is surprising in this day and age - and Google can only track it down to Casting Call Pro, where they claim to have only opened this year to have 40 players on their books already. I know I have to be circumspect - no upfront fees, evidence that they will actually promote me - but even if nothing comes of it, an audition is an audition and it's good practice.

A time has been provisionally scheduled for the first week of October, giving me two weeks to learn two new monologues. I already have the Shylock but I presume they would prefer something more modern. So I have begun leafing through monologue books and full-length scripts to see what suits me. I'm looking for something Scottish - any suggestions for a male, aged 40 to 60 would be very welcome. I'm also thinking of doing something very different - like a eunuch or something from Theatre of Absurd. If you know any monologues written for a castrato, let me know, otherwise I'm in the mood for Ionesco ...

Doctor When? Again?

2011-09-11T19:44:00.000+01:00

Long ago - so long ago that it seems that in the intervening years entire civilisations, even planetary epochs, have risen and fallen, I was a child who spent his Saturday evenings staring at a small box which showed a grainy moving black-and-white picture. That box was called a television, best beloved, but it bore no more resemblance to a television today than the chimpanzee swinging through the trees bears to the modern politician or banker oozing through the concrete jungle.

One autumn evening, I found myself watching the strange story of a surprisingly intelligent girl (Susan Foreman, played by Carole Ann Ford) living with her grumpy grandfather (William Hartnell) in junkyard. The girl's surname was the same as my own and at the back of my young mind there was disappointment that this connection was not strong enough to pull me out of our living-room and into her world. Never mind; there was something strange and intriguing about Susan and her grandparent, and when her teachers, Ian and Barbara, investigated, I was eager for them to leap into the inevitable adventure.

The first oddity was the policebox in the junkyard. The second oddity was the inside of the policebox was much bigger than the outside. And the last, exciting oddity, at the end of the first episode, was the appearance of the policebox on a strange landscape on what even my young mind took to be a strange planet.

Those first episodes, when the travelers are held captive by a primitive tribe, were intriguing, but they were nothing in comparison to the fifth episode, when the TARDIS (by now everone in Britain knew what a TARDIS was) landed on another planet and Doctor, Susan, Ian and Barbara entered an apparently deserted metallic, humming city. Something Dreadful was about to happen, and as the minutes passed, I withdrew slowly from the screen and tried to hide my eyes from whatever was going to happen. But curiosity is stronger than fear and when at the end of the episode we glimpsed a kitchen plunger pointing at a terrified Barbara and as the swelling weird electronic theme tune drowned out her screams, my heart leapt in my scrawny chest. Along with half the British population (at least those under 30), I was hooked.

How could I not be a fan of Doctor Who? It was part of my childhood and even lingered into my early student days. I might not watch every episode, but I knew who acted each doctor and the idiosyncracy of each incarnation. In the end, I got too old and bored with the fact that the Doctor appeared too often on Earth. It was the early episodes that appealed to me - the ones where it seemed that every series took place, if not on a different planet, at least in a different reality - a Space Museum, a Celestial Toymaker's Workshop, and, dim in my memory but still my favourite, an incarnation of M C Escher's world where staircases led in every direction but always back to the same few places.

I did not so much grow out of Doctor Who as away from it, and when the series was resurrected with Christopher Eccleston I was curious enough to watch a few episodes. I enjoyed Eccleston's short-tempered Time Lord, seeing in him an echo of William Hartnell's original Doctor. Then David Tennant came and on the occasions I saw an episode, I approved of the continually enhancing production values and enjoyed some of the stories that were aired. Even more, I approved of Tennant, whom I have seen and heard in many different performances and whom I believe to be one of the finest actors of our time. But, why, I wondered, did storylines always seem to be set in the UK, in its past, present, future or alternative time-line, or on a world or spaceship that always echoed modern Britain? This wasn't my concept of Science Fiction; it was like the later, boring series of Star Trek, when it degenerated into soap opera with human beings in funny masks. I wanted the doctor and his companion to escape from all that and to find themselves in worlds where they were the only humans, where alien lifeforms were not bipedal, but perhaps composed of liquids or gases or communicating through media they were unaware of, where English was unknown.

Now we have Matt Smith as the Doctor, Karen Gillan (Amy) and Arthur Darvill (Rory), who all do exactly what the script demands of them, and who do it well. But What, I wonder, are they doing? I turned on the television ten minutes into last night's episode and caught an episode where today-Amy and future-Amy were battling some robots and there was a question about whether both could be in the TARDIS at the same time. Onscreen there was plenty of energy and action and panic and reassurance and fear. Offscreen, I was bored. It seemed to me every time I caught an episode the Doctor and Rory and Amy were zipping backwards and forwards in time to save each other and I wondered if the scriptwriters had got caught in a timewarp and could do nothing other than sending their characters shuttling to and fro in time.

I know, the show's not meant for me; it's meant for a generation to whom these ideas are new and challenging. And it is well done, and of course if some from the production team reads this and is looking for a bald villain who can also be an authority figure on the side of good and gives me a call, I'll drop everything and come running. Every British actor wants to appear on Doctor Who - and not in a tin can or behind a rubber mask. But I doubt such a scenario is in my future reality. In the meantime I hope that in their world time will stop reverberating like a twanged rubber band, and TARDIS will once again take the Doctor and his companions to somewhere far beyond our imagination....

There Are Two Wars

2011-09-09T07:29:00.001+01:00

Back at the Paintframe of the National Theatre last night with Suave Tom to see the second in their double feature of two plays - Nightwatchman by Prasanna Puwanarajah and There Is A War by Tom Basden. We were underwhelmed.

Nightwatchman is a one-woman play performed by Stephanie Street (Puwanarajah, incidentally, is of the male variety), with Abirami as a member of the England cricket team (female variety) practising in the nets the night before a test match with Sri Lanka. Piquancy is added by the fact that Abirami is a Tamil who comes from a family where superficial unity masks deep divisions over support for the Tamil Tigers - the terrorists / freedom fighters who until last year were fighting the majority Sinhalese for control of the north of the island. The set and special effects (throughout the play Abirami was batting imaginary balls bowled by an invisible machine) were excellent and Street herself played the part with energy and authority. My only quibble was the play, which I found a little formulaic and which left some questions about Abirami's unseen family hanging in the air. Nevertheless, for a debut, Nightwatchman was impressive and if Puwanarajah can break out into more universal themes, he should one day be presented on one of the National's main stages.

On the other hand, universality is not a guarantee of a great play, as Tom Basden's There Is A War, the second offering of the evening, confirmed. In this black comedy, a pointless civil war between identical Blues and Greys has devastated an imaginary country-that-could-be-the-UK, with all the confusion and violence and death and misunderstandings and gore and humour that war and plays about war can throw up. The action is fast and furious, the acting (almost 20 players) excellent and the laughter frequent. The problem is the play's lack of internal logic; the giant roll of sellotape, old-fashioned matchboxes and abandoned drinks carton out of which appear severed hands and heads at first suggest toy soldiers, but that idea is never developed. Other moments are updates of Oh, What A Lovely War! There are some imaginative scenes - the routine torture is one and the Welsh protesters is another - but there is no coherence. (Yes, you can make the point that there is no coherence in war, but we are not fighting, we are playwatching; to constantly try and make sense of what you are watching is frustrating and detracts from the overall experience.) And then, at the point where the play should have stopped - the ending would have been unsatisfactory but we had had enough of the comedy and noise - we get another long scene that hammers home the point that had already been made: war is destructive and absurd.

Despite their drawbacks, both plays were an actor's dream. Suave Tom was dismissive of Stephanie Street, saying that he thought she was doing no more than acting herself. But even acting oneself in front of an audience, for an hour, alone, requires considerable stamina and - of course - talent. The other actors had to go to the opposite extreme in playing caricatures of soldiers and civilians and caricatures are relatively fun and easy. (At least I assume that for most of them it was an opposite extreme, although in Trevor Cooper's case, an aging South London hard case appears almost natural.) Each of them played to perfection.

Back home to an email from Sarah telling me that they had decided not to use me for the part of the policeman in her upcoming student film (I knew that already) but she was keeping me in mind for future productions. Considering that she didn't have to be that polite, I think I believe her...

Site unseen

2011-09-08T15:54:00.000+01:00

I have officially launched my acting website. The one dedicated to me, Me, ME! So far this month, I have registered 41 visits. (I know some people measure their site's popularity in hits or files, but visits provides the closest determinant of individual viewers.) About 12 or 14 of these visits were probably me checking on the site during fine-tuning. Which means that a grand total of 20 to 25 other people have seen www.martinforeman.me.uk in the last eight days. And since I've told very few people about the site, perhaps 10 to 20 of these are complete strangers who have stumbled over me in the virtual jungle that we know as the internet.

How many job offers have resulted from these random visits? Of course none. I'm aware that vanity sites like mine generate very little traffic. I'm unknown, I'm not doing anything unusual, and in the interests of Artistic Purity, I'm not featuring the bells and whistles of colourful advertisements and links that help to push you up the Google rankings. (Unlike this site, where a glance to the column on the right shows you a soulless mix of Google and Amazon that so far has failed to tempted anyone to click on a link and thus earn me two or twenty pence.)

But at this stage in my career that doesn't matter. Maintaining my own website is a hobby, not work. Alternately, it's a seed sown in the desert that may sprout one future day. Have a look, if you have time and can summon up thirty seconds' worth of interest, and, if you really do have nothing else to do, send me a comment.

History Was Made

2011-09-07T16:08:00.000+01:00

The first section of the Voiceover Course concluded yesterday. I will blog about it, but only when the whole process is over. More importantly, at least as far as my ego is concerned, was my first audition, in a room in Ealing Studios.

One young woman and two young men asked me to read through parts of an 11-page script. A policeman interviewing the friend of a rape victim. A couple of read-throughs with one of the men in the woman’s role, the first time with my copper cynical, the second time sympathetic. Was I any good? I thought so. The non-verbal cues from my hosts appeared positive. Discussion of character motivation revealed that more was going on than appeared in the current version of the script. Then the casting director – a slightly older woman with a more distant attitude – was brought in. Could I read the script with her? Of course I could. And then it was “thank you very much” and out I went, no more than 10 minutes after I arrived.

I haven’t heard since. I would have been surprised if I had. That doesn’t matter. I actually enjoyed the experience. I went in with the mental attitude that I didn’t care if I got the (unpaid) work and I came across as friendly and professional. I was comfortable with the readings I gave, and if they go with an actor who has more hair and youth and sex appeal then I wish them well. It will free up my weekend to do other work or relax. One day I may get more cynical about crossing London to audition for unpaid parts that I will not get, but at this early stage in my career, it's still fun.

I walked out as dark was falling and headed back through the centre of Ealing – a dismal, anonymous place – to get the tube back to London and another pub reunion with my July acting course. It was only this morning that it struck me that the anonymous buildings I had walked past yesterday were history. Opened in 1902, Ealing Studios is the oldest continuously working film studio in the world, the home to the Ealing Comedies of the 1940s and 50s and, more recently, The Importance of Being Earnest and Shaun of the Dead. If I had remembered last night I would have walked more carefully and looked out for the ghosts of Alec Guinness (pictured, Kind Hearts and Coronets), John Mills, Margaret Rutherford and many more who brought light and laughter and thrills and spills to a generation of Brits in the years after the Second World War.

There Is Nothing Like . . .

2011-09-05T09:18:00.000+01:00

On Saturday to see the Lincoln Center production of South Pacific at the Barbican. I had to go. I not only know many of the songs, but I mangled my way through several of them in acting school earlier this year. And although I’ve only ever seen the film version – once, ten years ago - I maintain that this Rodgers and Hammerstein show is the best musical ever written.

As for the plot... well, I’d forgotten most of it, only remembering that it’s set on a Pacific Island during the Second World War and involves inter-generational and inter-racial love and sex. My partial amnesia was in fact a blessing, because it allowed me to watch the show without knowing what was going to happen.

Of course I loved it. From the opening scene with Jason Howard as plantation owner Emile de Becque (the role on some nights is played by Paulo Szot) singing “Some Enchanted Evening” to the final scene where Samantha Womack sings “Dites-moi” with De Becque’s children, my attention was gripped. The acting and singing, by British and Americans, were all crisp and ranged from very good to fantastic, the direction (by Bartlett Sher) smooth, the sets (by Michael Yeargan) on the shallow stage ably represented the different settings, of the beach, De Becque’s house, the army command centre and so on.

My quibbles were minor. Loretta Ables Sayre, as Bloody Mary, speaks her lines with an accent so realistic as to make it sometimes difficult to understand her, especially in the Upper Circle, and her rendering of “Bali Hai” is perfectly in character, but it weakens the romance inherent in one of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s greatest songs. The use of two black children as De Becque’s children were good but unbelievable as children who are supposed to be half-white and half-Polynesian. (But the number of acting school children in London who fit that description is presumably small, and their colour stressed the racial difference that De Becque’s intended finds so difficult to accept.)

Other thoughts that came to mind… the comic role of fixer Luther Billis (ably played by Alex Ferns) was a precursor of CPO Pertwee in the 1960s BBC radio series The Navy Lark (played by Jon Pertwee, who later became a Doctor Who) … “Younger than Springtime”, sung by Lt Cable (the excellent Daniel Koek) to Bloody Mary’s daughter Liat (apologies to the actress for losing her name) implies that the girl is both a virgin and possibly in her early teens … And the shower scene with the naked sailors was a pleasant and unexpected surprise…

If you live in the provinces and the show is coming to you, definitely buy tickets - it's an evening you will not forget.

Evening, all!

2011-09-04T15:27:00.001+01:00

After a quiet few days, the Career is getting back into gear. I've launched my website (more on that anon), seen South Pacific at the Barbican (ditto), will start my Voiceover course tomorrow (ditto ditto) and, to my surprise, I have been called to my first audition.

It's a short student film, so no money. The role is an aging, unmarried, cynical police constable dealing with a case of rape. Filming next weekend. Will I get the part? I'm offering five to one against, so I'm not exactly hopeful, but I definitely chuffed that someone is offering me a chance despite the fact my profile shows no relevant experience. So I'll spend the next two days practising my George Dixon accent and bending my knees in the best comic opera tradition. And since Dixon of Dock Green last graced our television screens in 1976, I need a back-up character. It's a toss-up between Helen Mirren's DCI Jane Tennison and someone from Waking the Dead.

In the meantime, thanks to Casting Call Pro, the notices for auditions keep rolling in and I keep applying.

Acting My Age

2011-08-31T20:44:00.000+01:00

CCP approved my mugshot and my profile came up as #391422. Great, I thought, I only have to wait for 391,421 people to retire or die and I'll automatically get work. Instead of mass suicide, however, emails started dropping into my virtual box. It can't be this easy, I thought, clicking on the links for various parts that came into my age bracket. Sure, I'm not going to get considered, far less get the part, but there's no harm in applying. The worst that can happen to me is that I get ignored, and I can deal with that.

Actually, no. The worst thing that can happen is that CCP tells me I'm too old to apply for several of the parts. Unh? My playing age is 50 (well, I'd say 45 - 60, but CCP's technology is not that advanced; you can only put in one specific year), but when I click the Apply Now button, I get reminded of my real age, and my real age (50+, if you haven't worked it out) is over the limit of several parts I've applied for.

This smacks to me of a computer glitch. I've been informed about the part because my playing age fits the criterion, but I've been denied applying for the part because my actual age (which CCP swears blind they will never reveal to anybody, not even Steven Spielberg or the Pope) is Over The Limit. Not sure whether the glitch is my end or theirs, I start corresponding with Ms B at CCP support. Ms B is helpful, although doesn't understand the problem at first, and then she tells me I'm only getting turned away by paid-for roles because - at that stage - I'm not a paid up member. That isn't the case (I was getting rejected by unpaid work) but by the time we're on our fourth exchange of emails, the glitch suddenly fades into the ether and I'm open for business.

Which has allowed me to apply for my first job - for a commercial, with a four-figure payment if I actually appear onscreen. I know I'm not going to get it. Someone, somewhere has splurted out their coffee on looking at the mismatch between my requirements and their needs. But it feels good. My toe is in the water and I'm not yet shivering with cold.

Throwing a Needle into a Haystack

2011-08-29T17:51:00.000+01:00

I have just created my profile on Casting Call Pro. It was a relatively painless process, with only one minor hiccup, as it insisted on my entering at least one credit before I could be accepted. So I dragged up some presenting I did for Radio Forth in my student days and then was slightly miffed on that station's behalf, when CCP huffed and said it had not heard of such an organisation. I put them right. So I'm now waiting for the 24 - 48 hour delay while some monitor at CCP takes out a tape measure to reassure themselves that the pic I have submitted is in fact the regulation 10 inches by 8 inches and I have not cut off a few millimetres here or added a centimetre there in order to appear more dramatic than I am.

I'm aware, of course, that creating a profile on CCP is about as useful as throwing a needle into a haystack. The chances of any prospective director or agent e-flicking through the site, coming upon my phiz and saying to him-/herself, "By George! Felicity, (or "By Felicity! George") that's just the face I had in mind for the lead in our next production at the Theatre Royal. I can tell from his photograph that he has all the range and skills for the part. Get him on the blower now!" are slightly less than one in several hundred thousand. But it's all publicity and a profile on CCP is a start; if only one starving student director sends me a grammatically inaccurate and misspelt email offering to pay me nothing for the privilege of spending several hours lurking in the shadows of their next zombie movie, I won't rule it out of hand. In the meantime, it's back to the dayjob - the tedious task of scanning and uploading dozens of old magazines to Abebooks in the hope that someone will buy them; but before that, the all-important pot of tea . . .

Half a shoulder

2011-08-25T21:03:00.000+01:00

That's what I learnt at my photographic session today - an actor's headshot should focus on the face and reveal very little else. As a novice, I hadn't been aware of this strict convention, but when I thought back over my limited experience of the theatre, it rang a loud bell. Like all conventions, it sounded both reasonable and unreasonable - why should the picture that shows half a bicep be unacceptable to an agent? Surely you get a better sense of an actor's physical appearance when you step back from the two olives and banana that make up a face and put it into the broader perspective of shoulders and body?

But mine not to reason why... Instead I relaxed sat back and let Paul Harrison spend nearly two hours with me this afternoon, taking almost 200 pictures, which we then whittled down to three primary images and a bonus. It was - for me - a difficult task. I consider my face one of the less attractive parts of my body and do not enjoy having to go through dozens of pics showing nothing but my mug. All I see are wrinkles, spots, too big a skull, ears too big, misshapen mouth, baggy eyes, droopy eyelids and so on. The only good thing about my face is that I very seldom have to look at it. But others find it inoffensive and the Other Half has been known to call me good-looking, so I put up with it and can at least fall back on the old joke that I have an excellent face for radio or horror films.

Somehow, by the end of the session, Paul had taken about a dozen pictures which revealed a potentially interesting character who might be an asset in a production involving criminals or perverted uncles. From these we (including the Other Half, who had sat in on the shoot) chose three that revealed me to be more or less human, including one which even showed a bit of bare arm. "A casting director might not like that," Paul warned, "even as your third picture", but I thought I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. If I'm lucky enough to get an agent who gets me work, I'll give him or her a headshot that shows every vein in my bloodshot eyes if need be.... And with a spring in my step because I thought the final pics were not too bad and I would soon be on to the next stage of my would-be career - contacting agents and looking for auditions - I said thank you and goodbye and the two of us set off for home.

I Don't Want This

2011-08-21T18:53:00.000+01:00

The Other Half and I found ourselves watching The X Factor last night. It's the kind of programme that highlights the differences between us. Alone, I would never watch it, but the OH is a fan of reality and talent shows so I gritted my teeth and followed events on the screen.

About a third of the way through, the OH turned to me and said I should audition. My eyebrows rose. Did he really mean I should try to get on The X Factor? He nodded. Never, I said. Why not, he asked, lots of people would see me. I can't sing, I reminded him. Nor can many contestants, he reminded me, but it doesn't matter if lots of people see you. Or how about Britain's Got Talent? I could do something there and I'd get a big audience. Never, I said; these shows are about Celebrity, and that's not what I want. He looked bemused but another act came on and the conversation ended there - and I'm still not sure whether he was serious or joking.

Like millions of others, the Other Half loves these shows because they give ordinary people the chance for their dreams to come true. The hype and hysteria, the hope and the hokum are all part of the package. Contestants and audience should leap up and down and scream their enthusiasm and financially and emotionally impoverished individuals should reveal hidden talents that bring a tear to the eye and a tug on the heart-strings. At the end of the day, someone - perhaps more than one - will emerge A Star and the country will celebrate.

A third of the UK may be hooked, but another third are indifferent and an unknown number, like me, dislike the artificiality of these shows, the way in which they manipulate people's emotions, the superficiality of the judge's comments and production values that encourage not only the talented - some contestants have genuine talent - but also the talentless and insecure and disturbed to step forward for their moment of humiliation or fame.

If the The X Factor and its clones were about real Talent, they would skip the self-congratulatory scenes of the judges gliding through crowds and uttering fatuous comments, and tuneless and tone-deaf contestants would be allowed nowhere near a camera. But the real purpose of these shows is the illusion called Celebrity, the idea that our lives only have meaning when the world showers us with fame and fortune. Listen to what contestants say when asked 'Why are you here?' and see the hunger, desperation, in their eyes when they almost invariably answer 'Because I Want This' - 'This', meaning Fame, meaning Fortune, meaning Television Interviews and Hollywood Parties, Autograph Hunters and Oversized Mansions with jacuzzis. 'This' meaning the world saying 'you are important; we reward you; we follow you; we worship you'.

Whether sixteen or sixty, the more intensely a contestant wants 'This', the more obvious it is that their present lives are unfulfilled and only Celebrity and Fame can give them meaning. But Celebrity is a lie that destroys our humanity and replaces it with the superficial values of the red carpet and airbrush. It is a conspiracy that says you have no value if others do not approve of you. It is fickle mob rule that decides whether you will be loved or reviled. (Perhaps the most honest reply to the question 'Why?' came from Frankie Cocozza (pictured) from Brighton, who says he entered the contest to get women. Given his looks and his personality, I doubt that he has any problems in that department, although I also suspect that he does not yet understand the responsibility that comes with such attractiveness.)

That is the sadness that lies at the heart of 'reality' shows - the fact that the audience and the contestants fail to understand that true pride and self-worth do not come from other people, from money or a feature in Hello or a spot on The One Show; it comes from within, from an acceptance of who we are and an ability to build on our strengths irrespective of the acclaim of others. Only when people see through the glitz to the underlying truth will The X Factor and its clones fade away.

Entering The Matrix

2011-08-20T16:35:00.000+01:00

At this early stage I have no idea whether my career - if any career develops - will veer more towards acting or voiceover, or somewhere between the two. But since acting is on hold until I get my headshots (I've booked a session next week with what must be the cheapest studio in London), I've been focusing on my voice.

I had thought I was wiser than Molière's Tartuffe; I not only knew I had been speaking in prose for most of my life, but I assumed that to be a voiceover artist, I had only to open my mouth and speak. Oh foolish man, how wrong I was...

I started listing the accents I thought I could either do already or easily pick up. First was my basic pronunciation: RP with elements of Scottish. Some people identify the Scots immediately, others are uncertain. I've occasionally been taken for American (I did spend four years in LA and NY in the 1990s but, as far as I am aware, picked up none of the accent); once or twice strangers have thought I was originally Dutch or German.

I noted down my normal voice as RP1. I can eliminate the Scottish elements and come across as upper-crust 1950s - although I'm not sure whether that sound comes across as normal, dramatic or merely comic. No matter, I listed it as RP2. Alternatively, I can head in the other direction and become more Scottish, allowing me to list middle-class Edinburgh as SC1 and generic working-class Scots as SC2. How about London? I've lived here on and off for over 30 years; surely that's CO. Then there's NO for generic northern English (somewhere between Birmingham and Liverpool). Add on French, German, Italian and Spanish accents. Maybe even US?

Accent is one dimension of voice. What about style? I wrote down three basics: normal, loud / aggressive, quiet / seductive. Add on women - not in the expectation of act women's roles - but in narratives where a male narrator has to give the impression of a woman's voice. And don't forget the several comic accents I can offer, like Kenneth Williams but without his range.

I didn't stop there. These were only the dramatic possibilities. There's also the commercial side to voiceover, which may be more lucrative. So far I've come across three basic styles - hard-sell, medium-sell and soft-sell; I'm not yet sure I can do them, and meanwhile, what is the voice that should be used when selling one's soul?

At this point I opened up the spreadsheet and created The Matrix - my database of possible accents and styles that would index the recordings that showcased my voice. Recording A1 would be my normal accent as a narrative (documentary); A2 would be narrative (drama); A3 would be normal voice high-pitched with normal rhythm, A4 would be high-pitched with a staccato rhythm, A5 normal pitch with staccato rhythm. B1 would be middle-class Edinburgh as a narrative (documentary), B2 as narrative (drama). And so on and so on.

So far, so good... but my confidence began to fade when I started to rehearse the different voices, using texts and scripts from Shakespeare to Dickens and Round The Horne to modern monologues...

I have, I think, two problems. The first is not serious. It's the fact that speaking clearly and authoritatively for any length of time requires stamina. Money for old rope, I had thought when listening to stories read aloud on 4 Extra; the reader only has to glance quickly through the text beforehand, checking for strange names and convoluted sentences and then they can tell the tale with no more effort than it needs to hold a conversation over or at the pub. I humbly admit I was wrong and recognise that it requires considerable mental concentration and physical effort to keep the listeners interested for long periods, particularly when there are no images to hold their attention.

That's an obstacle, but not an insurmountable one. I presume I can develop both the physical and mental skills by spend time every day reading different texts aloud and checking the results on playback. Of more concern is the second problem ...

All the accents and characters that I was proud of are fine for a few short phrases, but I cannot yet maintain them for any length of time. In the space of a few minutes my middle-class Edinburgh heads for Inverness, drops down to the Gorbals and skips briefly into England before I can haul it back to Corstorphine. My French tones decide they'd be happier in Germany. The seductive low-voiced lady that was lurking in my larynx soon changes sex, and the various comic characters that were exchanging one-liners in my head soon melt into the background, leaving my everyday voice to take over.

Is this a basic lack of vocal talent, or is it something I can overcome with training? Is there a voice coach who can help me sort out my different voices so that I can draw on each of them on demand and maintain them as long as I need without fear that they will get disappear? I hope so. I've started making enquiries and may have a booking for next week. In the meantime, I'm about to spend another hour in The Matrix, picking characters at random and trying to hold on to them. And this is something I will do day after day. (Taps microphone, clears throat, intake of breath...)

Real life . . .

2011-08-18T16:09:00.000+01:00

. . . keeps getting in the way. It's Thursday and I have spent no more than an hour this week on my supposed acting career. I had planned to learn a modern monologue and to confirm a photographer for a headshot, but work got in the way.

I say work, but the Other Half disagrees. He thinks that because he heads out into the city five days a week, taking a bus, then the Northern Line followed by the Central Line, while I sit at home semi-dressed, sipping tea by my computer, that he's working and I'm doing nothing. The fact that I deal in old books for a living and spend a considerable amount of time cataloguing and uploading stock and promoting the business, doesn't impress him, particularly when he knows that I very much enjoy what I do. I'm my own boss and run my own schedule; for him, that's not really work. Only the fact that money gets paid regularly into my bank account - money which goes into paying my share of utility and grocery bills - reassures him that I'm not just doing it for fun. He's also mollified by the fact fact that I ensure there's always rice waiting for him when he gets home at the end of the day (he's from South-East Asia and would die if he did not eat his weight in the white stuff every day).

Anyway, it's been a busy week in the book world, but I haven't entirely neglected the Acting. I've booked another course for November (I'm away from London several times in September and October - does this mean I'm not serious about my career?) and I've provisionally scheduled a photographer for next week. With a voicereel scheduled by the middle of September, I should be ready to launch my own website (I already have the domain and a temporary notice up), put myself on castingcallpro.com and start contacting agents and looking for auditions.

I've cleared the decks so that tomorrow I can concentrate on Acting. I intend to draw up the first draft voicereel - short phrases in different styles and accents to showcase my vocal range. I will also prepare a list of longer pieces - short stories and monologues that I can put on the website and give to agents and producers who are intrigued enough by the voicereel to want to hear more. I wonder what I'll come up with...

Roughly speaking

2011-08-14T21:55:00.000+01:00

I can't get away from Arthur Smith, the comedian. I spend much of my time listening to Radio 4 and 4 Extra, depending on whether I want to be informed or entertained. (When I'm trying to concentrate on work, it's a choice between Radio 3, Classical, Chill or silence.)

Smith seems to be a nice enough hail-fellow-well-met character, the kind of guy you'd happily spend an hour or two down the pub with bemoaning the state of the world. I haven't heard his comedy act and nothing he says makes me feel I'd react with more than a wry smile, but no doubt he has his fans. The problem is, his gravelly voice and his South London accent grate in my ear and more I hear him, the more quickly I switch off the radio. (After weeks appearing relentlessly on on 4 Extra, he's now non-stop on 4 reporting from the Edinburgh Fringe.) It's a great - or should I say grate - voice for a character actor, but for the role of host and presenter, it's too prominent for someone who should recede into the background.

It's not the gravel that irritates me - plenty of men have throaty voices (Leonard Cohen comes to mind) - that are acceptable to the ear. Nor is it the accent - Saf London can be as weloming and unobtrusive as RP; it's the combination of the two in Arthur Smith's voice. Nor is he the only irritating announcer on Radio 4. There's a Neil Someone who occasionally pops up between programmes, speaking slowly and with a large stone in his mouth. (I've also heard him on the World Service.) Every time he annouces another programme, I tell him to take the damn pebble out from between his teeth and to stop sounding so pompous. Regrettably, he can't hear me.

The fact is, the older I get, the more some accents irritate me. I find working-class Strathclyde one of the uglier forms of English known to humanity (I'm from the East Coast of Scotland where our tones are softer), a disappointing development from the warmer Glasgow accent of thirty or so years ago. Thick South African and antipodean English are equally ugly. I cannot take seriously the sing-song of most south Asian accents. Extreme Southern US is laughable. Geordie hovers on the edge of annoyance. Some Irish accents irritate (others pull you in). African English comes across as indistinct - another case of the speaker being encumbered by something in their mouths that garbles their words.

Of course I like some accents, or at least find them inoffensive. North-eastern England, the west of England, most London speech, most varieties of West Indian, the various Canadian accents, most US speech, Welsh sound patterns and the lilt that has almost disappeared from the Highlands and Islands of Scotland are all easy on the ear. So too is the RP of today, in comparison with the RP of the 50s, which now comes across as stilted and artificial.

It's not just varieties of English that either please or annoy me. Most foreign languages come across as exotic, their personalities spanning the spectrum from romantic to robust, but there are a few exceptions. The Spanish from Latin American and the south of Spain is musical, but the accent of Madrid and neighbouring regions is a staccato monotone that drills into my head like a machine-gun. Newsreaders on Chinese television sound like sergeant-majors barking out orders. Some forms of Arabic sound as alien and unwelcoming as Klingon. And so on.

So why do I find Kirsty Wark soothing but Ant n Dec ennervating? What do Huw Weldon and Jim Naughtie have in common? There's something going on here and I'm not sure what it is, but as someone who wants to appear on radio and to extend his own range of accents, I ought to find out what makes an attracive voice. After all, although many people say they like my dulcet tones, there may be hundreds, thousands, millions who find my voice drives them up the wall...

Actor or Actress? A Play on Words

2011-08-12T21:09:00.000+01:00

I've been asking myself whether I should stop using the word "actress" and, if so, why I find it so difficult to do so. The argument, I have heard, is that the word emphasises the gender of the individual, rather than their ability; by calling Judi Dench an "actress" we are belittling her acting skills.

My immediate reaction is poppycock! When I call the Dame an actress I am stating that she is a woman who acts (and who does it damn well and who should play the role of the Queen 24 hours a day when Elizabeth Windsor decides it's time to put her feet up and watch the Yesterday Channel morning, afternoon and night). The Dame's talents and skills are renowned the world over and are, as we all know, irrespective of her gender.

Really? says a politically correct voice in my ear. If her gender is irrelevant, why not use a word which is gender-neutral, such as "actor"?

But "actor" isn't gender-neutral! I reply. An actor is a man, an actress is a woman. It's oranges and apples. They're both fruit. Neither is better than the other. They fulfil the same function in different ways. Why not retain both words?

Then another voice makes itself heard. This is the linguist in me, the young man who decades ago spent four years of his life studying language in all its forms and history. Language changes, he reminds me. Words come and go. So what if "actress" disappears? Many words are gender-neutral. We don't say "editress"; we don't have a word for female writer. We focus on the action not the gender. Why not with acting?

You're right, I tell myself. But there's a problem. I'm nearly 60 years old and everyone knows that the older you get the more difficult it is to adapt to some aspects of modern life. (Yes, I have a smartphone; yes, I have a plasma tv; yes, I vote Green; but there is much in this modern world which others accept with glee but which I find ugly and destructive.) Sixty years from now, when I'm dead, will I care whether Prunella Scales - a woman who plays Elizabeth II much better than that long-faced Helen Mirren - was once known as an actor or an acress? And the answer, of course, is no, of course I won't care.

So perhaps I should drop the word "actress". And maybe I will. But I'm not going to leap towards "actor". I much prefer "player", the word that has been in use since Shakespeare's time and probably long before then, the word once recommended by the Motion Picture Production Code in the US (well that's what Wikipedia says, but it doesn't provide a citation), the word that always has been gender-neutral. But forgive me if from time to time I talk about my favourite actress. It's a word that I will always have a fondness for.

(Food for thought: I finished writing the above and started looking on Google for an image to epitomise the word "actress". And what do I get? Page after page of comely young women pouting at the camera or otherwise emphasising their general attractiveness. This is not a problem for each individual woman, but when the overall definition of "actress" appears to be no more than a 25 - 30 year old person of the feminine gender trying to present themselves in the most alluring pose possible, then I begin to wonder whether those players who dislike the word have a point. Try it for yourselves; it's not surprising that I ended up with Bettie Boop.)

Double Feature (1)

2011-08-11T13:29:00.000+01:00

To the National Theatre on Tuesday, to watch two short plays by young writers on very different themes. They are performed in the Paintframe, the space where the National's sets are usually made, and the setting is suitably industrial, with scaffolding and paint cans and the various paraphernalia required for lifting and holding large and heavy objects. The audience sit on padded benches, and Terence and I are lucky enough to be at the back so we can lean against the wall.

First up is Edgar and Annabel by Sam Holcroft. The set is small, an anonymous kitchen in a large box, suitable for a young married couple. Annabel is preparing dinner; Edgar comes home. Their conversation is confused, stilted. Edgar pulls from his bag a couple of scripts and hands one to Annabel. They read their parts in turn, more coherently, but still awkward and odd (why do they talk about salmon when Annabel has prepared chicken?) Things become clearer in the next scene when Annabel and Edgar step out of the box to meet the authoritative Miller. A and E are roles being played by a couple whose real names are Nick and Marianne. There is talk of surveillance and elections and resistance. The pretence of normality is maintained by the scripts that Miller produces daily. But how good is Nick at playing "Edgar"? How can they deal with the obvious lack of chemistry in a couple that is supposed to be happily married? And what happens next?

Edgar and Annabel is a clever idea, well played by its cast of seven (all competent performers, most noticeably Kirsty Bushell as Marianne). There is comedy and suspense, with a memorable scene involving karaoke and bomb-construction. But the conceit is dragged out for a good fifteen minutes longer than it deserves for a situation and characters that entertain but do not emotionally involve us.

In contrast, the second play of the evening, The Swan, is an intense emotional drama played out in an empty pub. The set, by Soutra Gilmour, who also gave us Edgar and Annabel's kitchen, is so realistic that we wondered why the National Theatre did not provide a similar selection of drinks in its own bars. First to appear are Jim, a loud and bluff South Londoner in his 50s, and Russell, similar age, a middle-class refugee from an unhappy marriage. A funeral is underway in a nearby church and the wake is to be held here. Whose funeral and the emotional turbulence that accompanied his life and death form the subject of the play, and the situation develops as various other characters come in and leave.

There are good performances all round, most notably from Trevor Cooper as Jim, although he is occasionally limited by a script that does not develop the vulnerability underlying his relationship with the dead man; from Pippa Bennett-Warner as the loud Denise and Nitin Kundra as dopey Bradwell. There's comedy and suspense and vulnerability, which come together in an absorbing character study and a satisfying story arc which ends in an emotionally and intellectually satisfying close.

So I came out of the theatre muttering the comment "excellent", to find that Terence, who had also enjoyed the performance, was wondering whether the play was in any way different from East Enders. Which led us to wonder if that soap opera - which neither of us watch - was high art, or whether the play we had just seen and the characters who inhabit it were no more than - well-acted and generally well-written - clichés. But whether or not they were clichés does not distract from the fact that the piece was acted well and directed well (by Polly Findlay) and the writer, D C Moore, has the potential to create even more absorbing work in future.

London's burning...

2011-08-08T22:16:00.000+01:00

...about a mile from where I'm sitting at my computer comparing acting courses. Every hour or so I check the BBC news channel and watch louts throwing bottles, breaking windows and setting fire to the communities in which they live. A mixture of testosterone, boredom, ignorance, bravado and ignorance lies behind such behaviour and it will die down eventually, but it's depressing to think that for many young people - mostly men, but some women - this is the human condition, this kind of action makes them feel good.

A couple of glasses of rosé and Chill (that's the name of the station) playing on the DAB radio is enough to restore my mood and I spend an hour or so online compare acting courses. There are several, but I haven't come across what I'm looking for - 8 to 12 hours at the weekend focusing purely on presentation of a text. The Actors' Centre is offering some interesting one-off day / evening courses, but it isn't clear if they're open to everyone or simply to AC members, and there are a couple of weekly courses that I want to follow up. The other option is to focus on my voice, and I'm looking at a two-day voiceover course at the London Academy of Media Film & TV and making a list of voice / accent coaches.

Once I've booked a course, next on the agenda will be to seek out some auditions. I know, I'm trying to run before I can walk, but my age, I can't afford to dawdle. If I don't get a paid part or a capable agent by 30 June 2012, I will stop looking for acting / voiceover work - and what a loss to the world that would be . . .

Character or Caricature?

2011-08-06T19:35:00.000+01:00

I always go to a Shakespeare play with a mixture of anticipation and dread, never sure whether I am going to find myself enthralled or ennuyed. The Bard's language is now so distant from us that his words appear like a mountain in the mist; we get the vague outline but the details are often uncertain. It needs highly talented players and directors to ensure that the words cross the centuries with the maximum of meaning. The poetry of iambic pentameters, if poorly expressed, can leave many in the audience dozing or dazed.

On the other hand, the distance between the sixteenth and twenty-first century does allow every director and player to present their own take on the play and characters, so that every time we see Hamlet or Midsummer Night, A Winter's Tale or Tempest we get new insights into both the drama and the human condition.

So what to make of the Sam Mendes-directed, Kevin Spacey-starring production of Richard III at the Old Vic, which I saw last night? It took me a little time to get into the plot (my own fault: it is years since I last saw it and I'd made the mistake of not rereading the script beforehand), but once I had the characters and situation straight, I was gripped. The story of how Richard, Duke of Gloucester, cuts a swathe through the royal and noble houses of England to have himself enthroned, and how he is then deposed, appeals on several levels, and the pace of the play - one of Shakespeare's finest, although a relatively early work - as it shifts from public to private scenes and back, focusing most often on Richard but bringing others (his brother Clarence, the Duke of Buckingham, Queen Elizabeth etc) to the fore at different moments - holds the attention throughout.

Perhaps I should say that it is Mendes' pacing of the play which is masterly. Certainly there is little to fault in this production. The excellent set (by Tom Piper) begins as a bare room in an anonymous country house, closing in to become a prison and opens up to become a cathedral, a city, a battlefield. Catherine Zuber's costumes are less successful, starting off in the early twentieth century and ending up sometime around World War II. The players, with one exception, are uniformly good, with Haydn Gwynne, in the role of Queen Elizabeth excelling as the widow of a king and mother of the murdered princes. The overall production is crisp and clear, with - for me - unexpected but welcome humour.

So what's the problem? In a word, it's the star. Kevin Spacey gives an all-out, energetic, over-the-top performance that in many ways is admirable - and exhausting as can be seen from the drained, almost pitiful expression that he offered to the crowd at last night's curtain call. But his Richard jars when compared with the quieter intensity offered by the rest of the cast. In the first half of the play Spacey's crippled monster (throughout the three and a half hour performance he wears what must be a crippling leg brace) cannot stop moving and his head and his free hand frequently jerk to and fro out of control. And too often his facial expression gives way to a self-aware mockery, particularly noticeable when his reactions are magnified on a large tv screen. We are offered a caricature more than a character, a man who is too easily seen through. Surrounded by men and women who are no fools, it is scarcely credible that none would question his motives and that his murderous path to the throne would be so easy

It is only in the second half that Spacey's self-mocking personality - so effectively revealed in such films as The Usual Suspects and American Beauty - is completely submerged by Richard's evil and paranoid nature. Among several strong scenes, the one where he woos Elizabeth, whose children he has murdered, - to strengthen his position on the throne - is one of the most powerful pieces of drama that I have ever seen. The evil schemer who appears in that scene - cold, calculating, focused, with no time for mockery or excessive movement - is the man who should have dominated the stage throughout.

My companions had a similar reaction to me, although they expressed it less strongly. And whatever the weaknesses in his performance, Spacey's energy and domination of the stage held our attention throughout. As he took his final sweating bow, we applauded with admiration and with gusto, but we were not persuaded as half the audience were, to give him a standing ovation.

Resting . . .

2011-08-01T06:14:00.000+01:00

Don Freeman: Man Resting in Park

available from Sullivan Goss

... with the family in Scotland for a week.

Let Down

2011-07-31T10:23:00.000+01:00

The Day of Reckoning, when we face our class tutors and hear their comments, was more or less what we expected. It started with a minor diatribe from the Prince of Darkness about punctuality; he has a point, but there are reasons behind some people being late and other issues about the tutors' punctuality that could have been brought up, so let's leave that aside.

The comments were mostly positive and basically fair, with two or three exceptions where the tutors were too harsh, criticising students for where they were now rather than complimenting them on how far they had come. In my own case, Tracy was less than complimentary about my Roy in The Odd Couple; she wasn't wrong, but, as I pointed out to the PoD afterwards in the restaurant afterwards, it was a play I would never have auditioned for and would never have felt comfortable in. His argument was that a good actor would have overcome the various hurdles of accent and inappropriateness of casting to turn in a good performance. That led onto a discussion as to whether I would be a good actor, to which his response was basically, only after a two year course (preferably at his school); which didn't mean I would never get acting work, only that I wouldn't reach the standard of acting which he defined as good. It's a point that I'll keep in mind as time goes by and I get others' opinion of my work.

In the meantime, Brendan, who had come up with the most cogent criticism of the course one evening in the pub, and who turned up at the Reckoning an hour late, dishevelled, with a fierce expression, and then spent most of the time scribbling on a notepad instead of paying the other students the respect of focusing on them. After the tutors' accurate comments on his performance he made a short, difficult-to-hear pronouncement on each of them, which had the effect, not of making coherent points about the shortfalls of some of the teaching, but of shutting down any discussion because his input appeared so off-the wall. At the end, Matt the drama teacher and I raised a separate issue about the structure of the course, which might have led back to Brendan's points if other students had joined in, but which petered out. And when most of us traipsed off for lunch with the tutors, Brendan and a few others stayed away, which meant that the issues could never be raised. At the end of the day it was disappointing that an intelligent likeable man behaved in a way that prevented us making the very points that were important to him, me and others.

"It wasn't as bad as I expected"

2011-07-30T09:54:00.000+01:00

That was Carl's comment on our performances last night. Which pretty much sums up how we all felt. The singing hovered between poor and passable; the energy levels in the acting were higher than ever, but - hampered by the short scenes, the characters in the play (The Odd Couple), the Noo Yoik accents and the lack of rehearsal time - none of us could only give one-note performances. My particular note was grumpy, sweaty accountant.

I was, incidentally, the hero of the hour, because when silence fell and we all sat there for that awful second when someone has forgotten his words, and the person following can't come in because he hasn't had the cue, I was the one who leapt up and moved the action forward to a point where we could all come in again. But that was a minor moment and I was more concerned that the others acting with me - Brendan, Floyd, Sean, Milt, Matt - turned in good performances, and they all did. We may not be Laurence Oliviers, but between us we have the makings of an up-and-coming Carry On crowd and I'd be happy to work with them all again.

That leaves one more day, the Day of Reckoning, when the course leaders tell us what they think of us, followed by lunch (in a more modern restaurant than that depicted here by Bosch). That will be interesting. More interesting will be whether the students tell the course leaders what they think of them. Poor planning, disrespect, lack of coherency and irrelevance are some of the comments that have been bandied around in our evening get-togethers. Will they get aired today, and if they do, will it be before or after lunch?

You know what they say . . .

2011-07-29T12:50:00.000+01:00

. . . a bad dress rehearsal means a good first night. That had better be true, because yesterday was a disaster. Scenes that had been coming together fell apart as every one of us fluffed lines and movements and cues. The more nervous we got, the worse the performances. Tracy the director's always severe expression turned volcanic, but the expected explosion never came; I think she realised it would make no difference.

Am I looking forward to tonight? Yes, but only the bit where we drown our sorrows in the bar . . .

To Be Or Not To Be Nice

2011-07-28T09:32:00.000+01:00

We're in the pub at the end of the day and talk drifts round to the Prince of Darkness, the school principal, who watched and commented on our singing performances earlier in the day. Two or three of the group are highly critical of the way in which he picks on individuals, making disparaging comments. My sense is that this is his style of working, he is not consciously victimising anyone, and isn't this the stereotype of the director - a vicious, heartless bastard? (How would I know? I could count the number of directors I've worked with on the fingers of one foot...)

It appears I'm wrong. The consensus is that directors can and should always be critical in a sympathetic and supportive way. Of course I agree with that principle, but as an older, short-tempered, critical individual myself, I have a sneaking sympathy for those who say what they think and don't give a damn about people's opinions of them. To the surprise of Myfanwy, our Welsh songbird, I'd even be happy to have a drink in the pub with him.

That doesn't blind me to his faults. Even if the PoD turned into a cuddly bear, the course he runs is a mess which may give students a watered-down taste of full-term acting school, but which gives them almost no support in identifying strengths which can be built on, and weaknesses which can be corrected.

Looking forward . . . Today is the last rehearsal for tomorrow's performance. Some of us feel we've had too much of Tracy's time and others feel we've had too little. I'll be surprised if she manages to pull it all together into one coherent performance.

Counting down

2011-07-27T10:55:00.000+01:00

It's the last week of the course and I'm not sure if I'm pleased about that or not. The upside is that I'll have more free time and that I won't be spending hours on activities that seem peripheral to my future acting career. The downside is that I may lose focus (will I really spend all that time working on my voice, getting my name out and pursuing all the opportunities I come across?) and the energy that comes from working with a group of supportive colleagues.

Monday was our second day of Elizabethan dance. I know that roles occasionally call for actors to dance, but the chances of my auditioning for a part where I have to cut a good pavane are pretty close to zero. Prancing around on my toes is something I'd prefer to see as an option in a two year course than as a requirement in basic acting. Which means that my heart is not in it - and my calves, already sore from Saturday's upping-and-downing - are still complaining two days later.

On Tuesday we are back to Voice - and this is the class we should have had much nearer the beginning of the course. No-one really understood the point of all the groaning and puffing that Cynthia made us do on earlier lessons, but today she has performed two miracles.

Firstly, her directing talents came to the fore when she made us perform our mini-scenes from Waiting for Godot in sequence. The play began to come alive and as a group we were acting rather than reciting words. Secondly, she took each of us in turn and, with startling accuracy, focused in on the physical sources of the weaknesses in our voices. She told Lloyd that his tension was in his legs - and Lloyd told her that he had been born with a deformed foot and that he still sometimes struggled to correct it. Brenda's problem was in the roof of her mouth - and Brenda had had a cleft palate. Sean's sibilants could be traced to thumb-sucking. Irina's strong personality was diverted into her mind and her dress rather than her body. My own fault was a laziness that let me speak from the head rather than use my body. And so on and so on.

If such comments had come early in the course, we could have used them, both in the scenes we are showing on Friday, and in our overall development. Subsequent Voice classes could have helped us resolve some of our problems through the course, instead of merely informing us near the end what our inadequacies are. Texan Jack, for example - who, it seems, on getting to know him, is less a potential axe murderer than a likable, nervous, intense young man - will probably forget what he has been told, but if he had been reminded two or three times during the course, his tense hunched body might have begun to uncurl into a confident upright figure.

Cynthia's comments had most of us paying attention. Sean, however, insisted on playing the clown. He has a good sense of humour and his comments are funny, but they detract from the focus of the class and make it more difficult for the rest of us to concentrate on what the teacher is saying. I like Sean, and he's a good companion in the pub. He has undoubted talent, but he is also unaware of or uninterested in the needs of others. In a short course it's only slightly irritating; in a longer course he'd be putting several people's backs up....

Today it's back to Singing. To get off book, I have two and half songs to learn in less than an hour. ♪ There is nothing like a dame..... ♪

Have Faith?

2011-07-25T12:43:00.000+01:00

One of the names of possible schools that came up in Saturday's discussion was the Actors' Temple (I've added the apostrophe - it makes more sense) near Warren Street in London (actorstemple.com). It has a good reputation and the website is professional and attractive. But the website also says that their courses are coming to an end as the Temple transforms into a fully-fledged acting company, so if I want to take advantage of their expertise, I should get in there quick, particularly when there is only one introductory week available, for an astonishing low £50.

The Temple specialises in the [Sanford] Meisner Technique (that's him on the left, see Wikipedia for more on the Technique), using "an inter-dependent series of training exercises". According to Wikip, several actors I respect and enjoy, from Robert Duvall to Leslie Nielsen, reportedly trained in the Technique. So far, so good. Back to the Temple website, I start watching their 45 minute film showing extracts from the classes and discussions and comments from teachers and students giving their views on the Technique and its results.

Five minutes in, I have Questions about the course as I watch students wind each other up by continuously repeating short phrases about how they feel. By the twenty-minute mark, seeing a student first humiliated and then berated because he has not burst into tears (there appears to be a lot of crying in the Temple, as well as some laughter and rolling around the floor in ecstasy), those Questions have solidified into Doubts; by the end of the film, Doubts have become Certainty that this is not a line of training I want to follow. Why? Because the Technique, as applied by the Temple and presented in this documentary, comes across as something between a religious cult where each follower's personality must be broken in order to be moulded to the leader's bidding, and an intense therapy session where deeply wounded souls are encouraged to cry out their anguish.

The theory underlying the training - if I understand correctly - is that actors can only give a true performance if they are true to themselves. The only way to become true to oneself is to open up to every emotion. And to open up to every emotion one has to go through a series of exercises that - from the evidence of the film - rely heavily on endless repetition and regular humiliation. (I assume there is more to the course than that, and there is a point where students actually act, but the emphasis appears to be much more on the challenge of the Dragon than the prize of the Princess.)

There are certainly some plays and films, and styles of theatre, cinema and television which require extreme performances, and I am sure that such a Course would help some actors achieve that goal. But just as in Art the same scene can be portrayed with truth in many different styles (think of Art, and painters from Rembrandt to Picasso, Duchamp to Hopper and so on), so too can truth on the stage be portrayed by actors from many different traditions and training techniques. I don't believe the Meisner Technique is a prerequisite of good acting; it's simply a tool that some individuals may find useful.

It could be argued that my distaste for the Temple technique is because I'm unwilling to put myself through the various extremes that it requires. There may be some truth in that, but as an older man, I have already experienced most of the traumas and elations that the course would want to me relive. I believe I know myself well and there is little of my personality left to uncover. And while I'm willing to express profound rejection or celebration on stage to convey an emotion or message to an audience, I'm not interested in repeating emotions for the sake of an exercise.

The Technique, as demonstrated by the Temple, almost certainly has greater impact with young actors, who have less experience of the world and who are in many ways more defensive and insecure. It is more difficult for the young to express deep and complex emotions - which is why so few 14 and 15 year olds can give a good performance of Romeo and Juliet and so few 19 year-olds can convey the complexities of Hamlet, while older actors portraying Lear are so much more compelling. A young person who goes through the intense experience of this course, who gains a clearer understanding of the complex emotions that make up a human being, and who emerges from it with their personality intact will almost certainly benefit as an actor.

The young student who was humiliated in the film is shown later speaking happily about the benefits he has got from the course. And I doubt that those who enter the Temple are expected to give up all their possessions and cut off all contact with their family. But I am also sure that the name of the Temple was not chosen by chance; this is the place where acolytes must abase themselves before the God of Acting, where they must undergo Ordeals to be accepted as Initiates, and where some may one day become Priests. Such a place is not for me. As an atheist in the Real World, this is one place of worship I can easily pass by.

What Next?

2011-07-24T15:27:00.000+01:00

The course ends in a week and discussion in our group naturally turns to what we do next. The problem is, there doesn't seem to be a clear path forward. Should we take lots more courses, spending money that we don't necessarily have? Even if we had the money, how many of these courses would be taking us forward and how many would simply take us the same ground as we had covered before? And would we know the difference between the courses before handing over our cash?

We exchange names of schools we have heard of or attended or known others who attend. The Actors' Centre seems to have the best reputation. The Bridge School next. But it seems there are dozens in London alone. Milt the Builder says the situation reminds him of his own trade - there are always plenty of people willing to take your money to teach you something - far more than people willing to pay you for doing something you have learnt. He himself is torn between doing a full-time course and going straight into auditions. Most of us, on the other hand, have to balance full-time jobs with developing an acting career - a task that may be impossible.

From there the discussion moves inevitably on to whether to work for free. Whether we know from hearsay or personal experience, none of us is surprised - although several of us are shocked - by the number of producers profiting from desperate actors who'll do anything to appear on stage or in front of the camera, even paying for their own travel and other expenses. Would I do it? Yes, occasionally, if I felt it was merited by the script - of course it's more likely that I would not even get so far as being offered a part.

Reality is making itself felt. At the back of my mind I've always believed that one can either act or not act - and those who can act need only experience and self-awareness to develop the talent within them. If a role demands a special skill, such as fencing, then you either study that skill when offered the role, or you study the skill hoping to find a role that it needs. As a 59-year-old whose emotional and intellectual life has been wide and varied, I'm egoistical enough to consider I have the understanding and ability to portray a wide range of characters - and as 59-year-old I don't want to spend the next two to three years of my life, plus thousands of pounds that I cannot afford, doing training after training after training.

Of course I will do a few more classes. But I have a limited budget of £1,000 to spend on further training and £500 to put together headshots and voicereels and a website. Give me two months to put together a profile and I'll put myself out there online and in person. In the meantime I'll scout around for courses - I'm particularly interested in the £5 a lesson offered in this week's The Stage (see pic) - see what I come up with. By the end of the year, I'll know how difficult it really is for hope and egosim to overcome lack of experience in an overcrowded job market . . .

Building up a Picture

2011-07-22T12:39:00.000+01:00

Rehearsal. While Tracy is working with others, our group retires to run through the extracts from The Odd Couple that we are performing. Imaginary curtain up on four of us sitting around an non-existent table playing virtual poker, while trading insults and occasionally shouting questions at Oscar offstage. Script in hand, the four of us bumble through the words and movements. It's not that we haven't learnt our lines; it's that we don't trust ourselves to remember lines, cues and blocking without those precious pages in our hands. And with all that responsibility, focusing on a New York accent and getting the right emotion into the words come far down on my list of priorities.

The first run through is not so much a mess as a flop. We run through it again. I sit on my script and leave it behind at the point where I have to get up and inspect the garbage. With nothing to look at, I have to concentrate, but I get most of the words right and in the right place. As do the others. So we do it again, and again, and again. We're all gradually coming off book and although each of us misses a cue or fluffs lines from time to time, we can feel the play coming together.

I'm still not quite sure of my character, Roy, but he has a nice interaction with Oscar that I can work with and I'm getting a clearer idea of what kind of person he is. It's not just my character that is coming into focus; as I watch the others interact and become aware of my own movements, there's no longer a blank space between each of my lines. As a writer I had never appreciated how abstract words are, but now I can see from the inside how acting builds up a picture, three-dimensional and in colour, that printed words cannot convey. It's not just me, of course; the other actors are equally good or better. Sean's exaggerated accent, facial expressions and gestures are just right for comedy; Brendan contributes a laid-back, likable Oscar; Matt easily gives Speed presence and Francis is getting the hang of dumb Vinnie.

As the play comes together around me, my accent begins to improve and my other main concern - what do to with myself when the focus is elsewhere and I have nothing to say - begins to fade. I know my performance is a long way from perfect, but I'm no longer worrying about whether I have any right to be on that stage.

Voices Off

2011-07-20T18:41:00.000+01:00

I'm missing Movement class. I was showered and shaved and ready to go, shoes on, bag on back, when I realised that the sore throat and headache that had lingered in the wings since I woke up were now demanding my attention. If it had been Rehearsal, I would have sworn that The Show Must Go On and taken with me a bottle full of honey and lemon juice, but I'd rather save my energy for tomorrow and plan for a restorative sleep tonight.

But the day hasn't been wasted. As I've said before, I intend to pursue voiceover work as vigorously, if not more so, as I seek work as an actor. So today I've been exploring the web and listening to VO artists, to give myself an idea what is expected and how to find work. I then followed that up for a couple of hours recording my own voice to try out different effects and accents. And a mildly depressing experience it has been.

The first problem is that my recorded voice seems much less rounded and deep than it sounds to me when I speak. I'm not immediately disheartened; the weakness may be the fault of the recording, or my ear, or my incipient sore throat may have been holding me. But then I try various accents and moods and there is far less distinction between them than I expected. When I play around with my voice unrecorded, I hear different people, but when I play the recordings, I hear only me with different voices. And more than once - particularly when I'm trying the New York accent I need for The Odd Couple - the voices are off.

The only sample I make that comes close to what is going on in my mind is She Walks In Beauty, a short poem by Byron (yup, you guessed; that's him above). I give it a rhythm that marries the different paces of the verse and the meaning, and the words come out in an intimate, seductive tone that - I think - conveys the intensity of the poet's emotion. I am pleased with my work and encouraged by it. I'm even briefly tempted to upload it here, but sense prevails and I will get a professional opinion before I go that far.

By the time I switch off the microphone and make myself tea, I'm still convinced I have a natural talent for voiceover and radio, but I'm no longer naive enough to think that untrained talent alone will get me work. So when this course finishes, the next stage in my development is likely to be finding a coach or a class that specialises in voiceovers and accents. Can anyone recommend one to me?

Oh Godot!

2011-07-20T10:36:00.000+01:00

Voice class again. We're taking it in turns to lie on the floor and have our heads rocked or arms pulled while breathing "hey, hey, hey" or reciting a favourite text. Then we're up on feet with our hands around each other's bellies, to feel the lower back muscles as we breathe in and out. My partner is Sean, who I variously think of as Joker and Alpha Male. He's one of these people whom I initially find irritating, but whom I get to like as I get to I know him and his hidden talents and vulnerabilities begin to show. So after the ritual male-bonding double-entendre about giving me head, we settle down to our task. And of course come to different conclusions when we have to report back to teacher Cynthia. There was I thinking I was going with his flow as my arms were yanked this way and that, while Sean says that I was stiff as a board.

I get the point that awareness and relaxation should improve the quality of our stage voices, but I still don't see how we are supposed to translate the benefits of exercise into improved performance. But we've moved on to the very short scenes that we are giving from Waiting for Godot. (Pause to acknowledge line drawing above, downloaded from mumbai.burrp.com, who may or may not hold the copyright.) It's another gratifying moment, when Matt and I stomp around the stage and exchange insults and the class erupts into the loudest applause of the evening, so my ego is suitably massaged. There are other good performances: Milt is fully in his role, with partner Francis almost as good and the two of them together have the makings of a fine comic act. I like Maria's take on her role. And it's helpful to watch Cynthia direct and to see eyes light up as the depth of the play becomes more apparent to them.

But why, oh why, in a voice class, does Cynthia not use the time to help the quietest voices project? Irina, Roberto and Lloyd whisper or mumble and get no advice how to expand their voices, which would immediately make their performances much stronger. (It's a problem I've noticed with all the women, that it is often difficult to make out what they are saying.) Surely projection should be one of the primary aims of a Voice class? Otherwise, they will continue struggle along without the boost to their confidence that such advice could give. And with that thought - and the lingering applause - in my mind, I head off to the pub to meet friend and theatre fan Carl, where I can praise myself and complain about the course to my heart's content.

Be My Friend, Please! (falls to knees, grasps skirt hem and sobs)

2011-07-19T13:44:00.000+01:00

I've just joined Face Book. Will you be my friend? Find me here: Act Serious I'm not proud, I'll be friends with anyone, even Trotskyists and Creationists as long as they laugh at themselves. What I'm looking for ideas, inspiration, intelligence. I also like humour (behind the best humour lies modesty, thoughtfulness and a sense of proportion). I'm not that keen on calumny or insults, but constructive criticism is always welcome.

You get the point - befriend me!

Tone Deaf

2011-07-18T22:46:00.000+01:00

Singing class again. As mentioned before, I hate to sing in public. On my own, I can belt out a song (notice, I didn't say tune) with the best of them. But when I'm surrounded by people who can sing, and when I'm asked to produce the same note as the accompanying piano, my brain disconnects and my voice has no idea where it is or where it should go. In a chorus I can mouth my way through, but when, like everyone else, I'm asked to do a one-line solo (in "There Is Nothing Like A Dame" from South Pacific), I become increasingly tense. All I want to do is walk straight out of a class to which I can add nothing. But I can't act the Diva, so I sit there becoming increasingly angry that instead of listening to one of Rogers and Hammerstein's greatest songs, I am forced to ruin other people's and my own pleasure with my harsh, ugly, tune-destroying voice.

Nor is my mood enhanced when the men are sent off while the women rehearse their production. We sit in Starbucks, slightly subdued. Some of us tell jokes; while one of mine works, the others fall flat. I should have kept silent but I was tone deaf to the mood. It's a relief when class finishes early and I can go home.

My own mood does not improve when I review the upcoming timetable. Tomorrow is Voice, which, given the experience of last week, I'm not looking forward to. The day after is Movement, which might be interesting if the teacher demonstrates what the connection is between running around like butterflies and acting on the stage. More Singing on Friday and half Saturday wasted on more Movement. The more I think about this course and how little acting we are doing, and how little we are learning about actual stagecraft, the more irritated I become. This is not what I thought I was spending my money on and I do not see how it will help me develop the talent I seem to have.

Acting Odd

2011-07-17T12:08:00.000+01:00

After the Shylock triumph, Texan Jack - the young Leonardo diCaprio with the wild eyes and intense posture - and I get talking. He says something about my performance and I say something about Shylock and he looks at me in surprise. "You mean that was Shylock?" I nod. His face lights up. "Shylock's the man! I really want to do Shylock!" "So do you think Shylock's a good guy or a bad guy?" I ask him. He looks at me, uncertain. "I don't know," he says. "But you know the story, don't you?" I ask. He shakes his head. I wonder whether I should point out that it's a little strange to admire a character you don't know from a play you haven't read or seen after hearing a speech that you didn't know was by the character that you profess to admire, but instead I say that the play is quite simple - it's about a man who wants revenge on someone who has humiliated him. He looks interested, so I go on to add the bit about Jews and Christians, moneylending and wealth. He's still paying attention. I bring in Portia, referring to a competent monologue given by Bethany earlier in the day. At which point Texan Jack throws up his hands in confusion - "you lost me" and walks away.... (that's Henry Irving as Shylock, by the way - one of the few pictures on the web which doesn't pander to stereotypes)

The afternoon class is taken up by rehearsals for The Odd Couple. Since there are more of us than in the cast, some of us are sharing roles, and we're doing both the male and the female versions of the play. Ideally, Tracy, the director - who, with her glasses half-way down her nose, book in hand and no-nonsense attitude, fits the role of director to a T - should give us all equal time, but at least half the afternoon, it seems, is given up to blocking the early scenes of the male version, particularly the part where Felix arrives and we all rush around worrying whether he's overdosed and trying to stop him from killing himself. I've learnt my lines, but like everyone else, I haven't learnt my cues, so we're all on book. What with the script in my hand, a wandering accent, uncertainty as to what to do with myself in the long periods where Roy has no lines, and Tracy giving me notes (mostly "speed up") on the lines I do have, the fund of confidence that I built up with Shylock has quickly depleted. But I'm not complaining, because it's fun to do and it's good to see the others develop and of course I'd rather be on stage fluffing lines than watching bored from the sidelines.

At the end of the day there's another bonding session in the pub where we explore each other's backgrounds a little further. With each revelation comes a vulnerability; today I learn that alpha male Sean, 31, and gentle Balbeer, 35, are both reluctantly single, and both willing to seek partners from outside their cultural background (respectively Jewish and Sikh). There were more insights from others, but they got lost in the haze of gossip and alcohol, noise and elation. Another two weeks to go, who knows what more I will learn and what embarrassing facts I will let slip . . .

A Lock on Shylock

2011-07-16T21:49:00.000+01:00

Half a day on Shakespeare with the school director, known to many as the Prince of Darkness for his harsh and abrupt criticism of student performances. I saw him in action on my First Course, when students were lucky to get out more than four lines before he interrupted with an occasionally encouraging, but usually devastatingly critical, comment on their performance. I got off lighter than most, my two memories being (a) told that rocking backwards and forwards was a sign of nervousness, which indeed it was, and (b) asked to make my speech (Claudius' attempts to cajole Hamlet out of his mood - 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature...') more sympathetic, which I apparently managed to do.

Today the PoD is in more benevolent mood - apart from the occasional flash of anger when one of us makes a noise or a whisper that indicates we are not giving the class our full attention - and the students are, on average, both better prepared and more talented than before. There are some good performances - from Hamlet, Othello, Richard III and others. Occasionally the PoD gives advice on technique - speak louder, enunciate less - but his primary concern is to throw light on a character's background and relationship with others in the play, in the hope that the actor will instinctively, rather than intellectually, deepen and round out their performance.

By chance or design, I am last to be chosen. My speech is Shylock's response to Antonio, when the latter asks to borrow money on Bassanio's behalf (see below). I had originally chosen it for the First Course, but decided it was too easy - the primary tone is sarcasm - and had switched to Claudius' speech. I did not have the patience to learn another text for this course, and so I revised the words on my way too and from the school each day.

The speech, it seemed, became more difficult than less, as increasing familiarity revealed alternative approaches to each line. Should my final words "and for these courtesies / I'll lend you thus much moneys" be spoken mockingly or in anger? quietly or in raised voice? How great a pause should there be between "for suff'rance is the badge of all our tribe" and "you call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog"? And so on. I became less, rather than more, certain of my performance. I was tempted to watch again the film where Al Pacino turns in an impeccable performance (and overcomes the director's occasional mutilation of the text), but I wanted to make this speech my performance, not his. In the end I decided that my best approach was downplay the importance of the class in my mind and let what happen happen. I became so laid back that when my mind occasionally wandered as others gave their pieces, I was not panicked by the fact I seemed to have forgotten half the text. Then I was called forward, and Something Happened.

I have a vague memory of announcing which speech I would give, and of declaring that Milt the Builder would be my Antonio, and then, it seems, I disappeared. There was someone in that room, reminding Antonio of the insults he had been subject to, demonstrating his surprise that the merchant had come to borrow money, and wondering aloud how to respond to that request, but that person was Shylock, not me. Yes, there were brief moments when I looked out of Shylock's eyes and noticed that this man's body had moved a little closer to Antonio to make his point, or saw that others sitting on either side of the merchant were entranced by Shylock's words, but for most of the Jew's speech, John Heminges did not exist. Only at the end, as Shylock turned away, his gesture expressing disgust at the hypocrite who had come to ask for money, did I become fully conscious that Something Wonderful had happened and I had given a performance that had silenced the room.

As I came back into the room, the PoD gestured me to my seat and told me that between the first time he had seen me and the speech I had just given, I had become an Actor; I had given a performance so good that there was nothing he could add. And as my eyes focused on the class around me, and became aware of the strange sensation in my gut and mind, I knew that he was right, that Shylock had indeed been present in the room.

It was a weird sensation, which lasted to the end of the day - and which carried me through the mess that was our first rehearsal of The Odd Couple (about which I will write tomorrow) and long into the evening. I was both elated and drained. In an earlier post I compared acting to sex, but this sensation was so much more. Sex is about physical sensation, and too that we often add emotion, but acting - or at least the few minutes this afternoon in which John Heminges became Shylock the Jew - is physical and emotional and intellectual sensation all rolled into one. It is both the complete sublimation of the personality and it is the personality expanded and fulfilled. It is... At which point I have to stop, because the more I have to explain it, the less clear the explanation becomes.

All I can say is my last doubts have disappeared. This is something I want to do, I can do, I must do, I will do....

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys and my usances:

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,

For suff’rance is the badge of all our tribe.

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,

And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,

And all for use of that which is mine own.

Well then, it now appears you need my help:

Go to, then; you come to me, and you say

'Shylock, we would have moneys:' you say so;

You, that did void your rheum upon my beard

And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

Over your threshold.

Moneys is your suit

What should I say to you? Should I not say

'Hath a dog money? is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats?'

Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key,

With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this;

'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wedn’sday last;

You spurn'd me such a day; another time

You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies

I'll lend you thus much moneys'?

Singing and Fighting

2011-07-16T08:54:00.000+01:00

I can't sing. I like to open my voice and bellow something which my brain thinks is a tune, but if I actually listen to myself when the sound

comes out, I have a sensation that might be described as minor nausea. Other people don't like to hear me sing. The Other Half gives me a piteous, begging look when I, very occasionally burst into song.

You get the point. I don't like to sing. I don't want to sing. Other people don't want me to sing. But we have a day's singing class. George, our elfin music teacher, is full of enthusiasm and energy and gets us to produce a loud noise that sounds fairly tuneful to my uneducated ears, as I enunciate as quietly as I can. Milt, beside me, who has form when it comes to singing, makes up for my reticence in a pleasant full tone. So far, so good, but it appears that future lessons are going to involve smaller groups and solos and my sense of discomfort grows.

On the bus home I find myself sitting next to Bethany. She is - believe it or not - Welsh and of course she can sing. I make a minor comment about today's class and unwittingly provoke an outburst - well, Bethany is sweet and polite and her outbursts are about as offensive as a vicar's wife saying "bother!" when she accidentally decapitates the cat - an outburst about George's teaching technique which, in B's opinion is wrong, wrong, wrong. She begs me not to tell anyone in the class and I promise not to do so. I also silently promise myself not to tell her about this blog...

Next day, stage fighting. It's fun as we mock slap, punch, eyepoke, strangle and abuse each other and practise being slapped, punched, eyepoked, strangled and abused. At one stage I have Kitty, our motherly Canadian (that's being premature, she's too young to be motherly, but you know at one point in her life she's going to have a full-time career and a kitchen full of her own and the neighbour's kids and she'll be dispensing wisdom as fast as she can hand out cookies) on the floor with my hands round her throat and I'm shouting "Die, bitch!". Milt the Builder, points out that I did that rather well and I comment that it brought back a lot of good memories...

But the real acting comes when a group of us are in the pub afterwards. It's a pleasant place, with comfortable seats and background (not OVERLOUD) music and we're chatting about the course and life. I'm playing the role of a straight man (as in sexual, not comedic), by which I don't mean that I'm talking about Birds and Getting My Leg Over, but I'm having an ordinary conversation with a group of people who do not appear to be gay in orientation. Which is unusual in my life and the lives of many of my friends, because as we get older, we tend to settle into groups of like-minded people who think and live the way we do. So no matter how critical of the course I and others might be (why is there so much movement and voice; why don't we spend more time doing different scenes learning how to develop character?) I'm enjoying these three weeks because it's bringing me new friends and insights into other people's lives - of which more anon.

An Accentuated Performance

2011-07-15T17:38:00.000+01:00

The third day of the course is devoted to casting for the extracts for the play that we will put on at the end of the course. It's Neil Simon's The Odd Couple, the well-known 1960s Broadway Hit (and film and television serious). [Did you know - as I didn't - that Simon wrote a female version 20 years later?] My heart sinks. I can do several accents, but I'm not confident with New Yorkese.

Casting consists of sitting round Tracy, the director, in a semi-circle, while she tries us out reading various parts. We will be producing highlights from the play, alternating the male and female versions, with some of the men doubling within a scene to make sure that we all have stagetime.

It's a painful process. The scripts are photocopied on both sides of the page and stapled in the corner, which makes turning pages complicated and performances frequently grind to a halt as one or other reader, with the help of their neighbours, tries to find the next line. And some of us are either not concentrating or have difficulty reading, and the performance again halts while they stare at the words on the page. By the end of the evening Tracy's professional smile and demeanour has disappeared behind a deep silent frown

As time goes by, I wonder why Tracy chooses some readers over others, asking builder Milt or strutting Sean to repeat parts again and again while leaving others waiting dumbly for their first chance to read. I get three roles at different times: the nervy Speed, the cop Murray and, in the women's version, Spanish Jesus. I think I do a good Speed - the accent is not bad - and I'm pleased with my Murray, but Tracy complains that I took him too slowly (despite the stage directions and her own comments that he's a ponderous policeman).

What really lets me down, however, as effectively as a lead balloon, is my Jesus. Surrounded by a cacophony of accents from real Italian to fake Brooklyn, from London to Lahore, my usually reliable comic Spanish (based partly on Speedy Gonzalez and partly on the fact that I speak the language quite well), wanders all over the place, at times emerging as Indian, which is embarrassing, given that we have one real Indian in the group, who has that accent, as well as a Brit of South Asian descent (whose accent is pure London). At the end of it, my ego wants nothing more than to retreat into a darkened room with nothing but Lapsang Souchong, cucumber sandwiches and several hours of Ealing comedies to alleviate its misery.

At the end of the evening, I'm given Roy the accountant, who, it seems, is the least consequential character in the cast. Ah well, an actor's life is full of rejections, but one of the advantages of age is to be able to ride over them, so I'm all smiles when half-a-dozen of us repair to the nearest pub and continue the process of bonding. Due reverence is paid to my previous experience at the School and the upcoming Shakespeare audition and the combination of cameraderie and whiskey work their reliable magic (I knew I could get to like Sean and have a pleasant conversation with Irina, even if it is complicated by the fact that she knows much about Shakespeare's plays except their titles in English).

By the time I go home all is well with the world and all I need is a modicum of sympathy from the Other Half, which I get, and after which I sleep soundly till morning.

Voicing Concern

2011-07-15T17:01:00.000+01:00

Day two. Voice class with Cynthia, who was the highlight of Course One. Cynthia is a luvvie of the old school, where everything is fantastic and everyone is darling. From the little I have seen of her work, she's an excellent director, but today her role is to take us for voice class. It's a three hour session and she happily talks for half an hour at a time, in a rambling conversation that explains little but keeps asking us whether we have understood.

The key points she wants to get across are diaphragm (see above) and larynx (see below), but instead of clearly telling us that the former is the large muscle that few of us are aware of that stretches across the middle of the body separating the lungs and heart from the digestive organs below, and the larynx is the Adam's apple (which even women have), she wanders around the subject and lets each of us filter out the appropriate information as best we can.

I'd like to interrupt, to take the knowledge I learnt in Linguistics a generation ago, to suggest that everyone put their fingers on their throat to make the sounds "f" and "v", "s" and "z" to learn what the larnx does. I'd add on a vowel, both spoken and whispered, to underline the point, but I keep silent and the class lumbers on.

Half an hour or more is spent in half-heartedly doing games that either repeat yesterday's Movement work with Ann or have more in common with physical expression than with sound. And the final session is taken up with a lengthy and unclear introduction to Waiting for Godot, which explains nothing to those youngsters who have not heard of the play. Which means that we only have a few last minutes, for couples - I am paired with drama teacher Matt, who is pleasant and more intelligent than first appears, and who shares my concern with Cynthia's wandering style - to engage in rapid-fire Vladimir and Estragon exchanges. Just as we are getting into it, it's time to go home...