The Shame, the Shame, Oh the Shame!

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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.