Backwards, Forwards or just Round and Round?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...