Well we actors are most happy when we’re in work aren’t we?
Not a hope.
Actors will always find something to bitch and moan about. Even if they have the lead part in a smash hit West End play and they’re on a million pound a week and they’re in the number one dressing room, which is more like a flat than a dressing room, and you’re a dead cert for at least an Olivier award and if you decide to extend your contract they’ll give you a percentage of the box office, yes even if all that is the case you would still hear said actor moaning about the fact that he doesn’t have SKY+ on the telly in his dressing room, or forever questioning why they ever invented matinees. I mean the poor fecker that’s doing dodgy TIE has something to moan about alright, people in good work really should be grateful. In other words I should have been grateful that I was in rehearsals for an extremely good job. I mean this was the Peter Hall Company at the Theatre Royal Bath (or have I already mentioned that?) so surely there would be nothing for me to moan about.
Well......
Now don’t get me wrong because rehearsals were going extremely well. This guy Hall knew how to do his Shakespeare but after the first week it did kind of hit me; we had 5 more weeks rehearsals! Now I’ve never rehearsed for more than 5 weeks altogether, 6 seemed like a marathon! We did the entire production of Wind in the Willows last year in 3 weeks. Now why the hell am I moaning about the fact that there’s a nice long rehearsal period, surely that would make things easier, I hear you ceist? Well it does indeed give you more time to get it right, but the first thing to realise is that when you are rehearsing you are on rehearsal wages. These are significantly lower than performance wages and in my case that was just over half of what I was going to be paid once the show is up and running. Its something I’ve never really understood. I always find rehearsals to be the time of the really hard work, so why should you get paid less for more work? Now don’t tell me that’s ‘Just Showbiz’ or I’ll give you a puck in the eye. Seemingly its to do with the fact that the producers aren’t making any money during rehearsals so they pay less. Whatever, we were still on barely sustainable wages for 6 weeks. Also the 6 weeks rehearsals were made all the harder by the fact that I had an extremely small role. Now I thought that would work to my advantage as it meant I wouldn’t be called all day everyday. I’d definitely have a few hours off each day to chill and do stuff and I may even have a day off here and there. Not a sign. Meself and Andrew Mack(lough)lin ended up being called in all the time only to have to wait for two hours before we got to do something. I’m not the fastest reader in the world but I got through 3 novels during rehearsals, which was a record for me. It was common sight to see meself and Andrew sat in chairs with our heads stuck in books that certainly weren’t the script. Then we would get the call to jump up and stand at the back. This is the problem with carrying a spear. They call you in to stand there and carry it. Andrew got through Ulysses for feck sake. Now this wasn’t down to Sir Peter I have to say as he left the scheduling of the day up to other people. It came to a head in the fifth week when I had been called at 9 am (we started at 9am every day. That’s not normal for rehearsals and not easy either. C’mon I didn’t become an actor to work 9 to 5!) to sing for half an hour and then wasn’t called again until 3pm. I mean what do I do for 5 and a half hours for Christ’s sake!?!? Why could I not just come in at 2.30pm do me bit and join everyone else at 3? At least I’d get a sleep in for the first time in weeks.
‘Well I’m not sure about that, I’d have to talk to Mick about it.’ the lord of the schedules replied.
The Mick in question was Mick Sands the composer, and a nicer more approachable man you’ll never meet. Approached he was and there was no problem at all. In I go at 2.30 the next day;
‘Jesus thanks for changing the time for us Mick. I needed the bit of a sleep in.’ Quoth I.
‘Not at all Jamie, I was delighted to have the extra bit of time myself this morning.’ Quoth the man of music. A fuss over nothing so.
Then I went to have a costume fitting to find out that as well as playing Balthasar and Watchman I was now going to be a tailor in a scene where I run on and do nothing more than brush another character’s coat. This was where the wanky actor in me kicked in as I wasn’t hired to ‘play as cast’ and they had just assumed I’d do it. I wasn’t happy and made it known to the assistant director. It got back to Peter that there was a problem and he looked over at me as only he can and said;
‘Is there a problem?’
Whereupon I exploded and replied;
‘Nah, its grand.’
Beamish thou art a pussy.
Then there was the issue of facial hair. Jesus don’t start me on that. There seemed to be a consensus among the design team that we should have lots of facial hair, but said facial hair was not to be our own. Aw crap! That could only mean one thing. False beards and moustaches. There is nothing in the world of wonder that is theatre so bad as false facial hair. It itches, it restricts your face, the glue gives you a rash and at the worst possible time it will inevitably fall off. All of these things did indeed happen but more on that later. I had to wear a false moustache for 8 months on Pirates and I hated every minute it was on me lip. And I believe that inevitably it looks cat. But that’s just my opinion. The fact was we had to wear it. There was no way I could grow my own (which is what I’ve normally done since puberty) because I had to open in Willows the same week Much Ado was closing. I had to grin and bear it (and that was only if I was able to grin once I had glued the bastard to my lip!). The plan was for me to have big sideburns and a moustache for Balthasar and A full beard for the watchman. Aw shite. There was now a cloud of glue, mesh and hair hanging over rehearsals. Jesus. And how that issue would indeed play out.
Stop me now if I’m moaning.
Actually despite everything I’ve just written, I had a deadly time at rehearsals. The above is to show what a fucking stupid attitude I had in rehearsals, I kept going home after work saying I was sorry I accepted the show, the part was too small, blah blah blah. What I then began to realise was that I was having a very specific learning experience. I had to cop on and get on with the job no matter what it was and I also had to make this my own. If I kept up this crap attitude I would also be crap in the show because I was focusing on the negative rather than working hard to find the positive. In the first week of rehearsals I mentioned to Peter Hall that not only was I from Waterford but so was Andrew and Matthew Dunphy (who was to be in a Shaw play Peter was directing in the second part of the season). He remarked:
‘Well you must come from a very talented town.’
Too right we do boy. I couldn’t let that perception down by acting the prick. And things started to happen that made it all better (The facial hair issue was still shit though).
Now the reason I was hired to do this job was primarily because I could sing (well the debate goes on). The thing was that there was no music to sing in the first 3 weeks. Mick Sands was busy opening some productions for the RSC, so I was in rehearsals speaking the lines of the songs I had and generally feeling like the pleb who can’t sing. Every now and then I’d get innocent comments from the other actors asking me was I a singer? or stating that they can’t wait to hear the music. Neither could I buddy, neither could I. Innocent and all as these comments were they were like a boulder on me back because I was feeling the weight of their mounting expectation. And as the weeks without music went on, the pressure grew and grew. What if I got the music and it was too high for me and I opened me mouth and they all hated it? What if I was just crap full stop? It felt like I hadn’t sung for years. Then at the end of the 3rd week I was told I was in at 9am on the Monday and that I was starting working with Mick on the songs. Despite the shits kicking in I became suddenly focused. Right, this was one I was not going to fuck up. I spent a saintly weekend not touching a drop and was in bed at 10 on the sunday up at 6.30 on the Monday to be wide awake for the sing song that morning. I had the guitar with me seeing I was accompanying meself on one of the songs. Mick had the songs and jaysus they were good. He got me range spot on. They were very very different in style, one being a real singalong boisterous number (the famous ‘Hey Nonny Nonny’), the other being a reflective lament in almost plainchant style (I knows me music so hence the big words!). Good stuff. I could show off a bit of versatility so. And the pipes were in good order too so I was pleased. That night I celebrated by going to the press night of Twelfth Night at Regent’s Park and getting shitfaced enough that I wasn’t able to sing the following day, but that was ok the first day was over and that was the main hurdle, enough people had heard me finally sing to know that I could do what it said on the tin. A couple of days later (when the voice came back) we rehearsed the scene that the plainchant song was in and those that heard it were very complimentary about me singing and I finally felt I had something meaningful to bring to the table for this production. Maybe I got too cocky though. They were working out who would be holding candles in the scene and I was told I would have to hold one.
‘Will you be ok to hold the candle if you’re singing?’ quoth Sir Peter.
‘Oh yes, sure we learned that at drama school.’ cheekily quoth I.
The assembled cast members and composer got a good laugh off it but I’ll never forget the look Peter gave me. To this day I don’t know whether it was a good or a bad one. But not to worry Beamish the singer had arrived. Then I got bolloxed again on the Friday night at another Park press night and had to sing ‘Hey Nonny Nonny’ the following morning in a run of act one. I wasn’t at me best but one of the actors complimented my singing of it to which I replied;
‘If you think that’s good, wait until you hear me without the hangover.’
He thought I was being humble. He’d learn.
And then rehearsals were buzzing by, I was starting to enjoy them. This is where you learn your craft, in the room watching others. Whether it was observing the direction of Mr. Hall himself or the skill of our two leads (Janie Dee and Aden Gillett), or the command of the language by the veteran Philip Voss, or the sheer comic brilliance of Sam Kelly, this is the education you never get for 10 grand a term in a drama school ladies and gents. I was singing well, learning me shakespeare but what of that other skill that would make me the triple threat that you need to be in this hungry business. What of the auld dancing?
Wait’ll I tell ya!
I’m doing Shakespeare right? Straight theatre? Classical theatre? Oh yes, but Shakespeare is littered with song and dance so you don’t get away with anything. I think choreographers must dread doing Shakespeare. I mean unless they’re presented with a separate cast of dancers, they walk into a room of actors of wildly varying ages, none of whom are happy to be dancing. Of course the funny thing is that most of these actors have done Shakespeare before and so must have danced in another production. Indeed they did and they hated it just as much then. Dancing is for the twirlys in musical theatre after all! Well twirly thy name is Beamish. After all have I not hoofed my way through various musicals in my time, and was I not at one point a line dancing instructor (the cat’s out of the bag now)? Well anyway I wouldn’t call meself a brilliant dancer. I know brilliant dancers and these guys and dolls are phenomenal, absolutely unreal. I can ‘move well’. Well enough for Shakespeare let me tell ya. So the day the choreographer came in to teach the two dances that were in the show it didn’t bother me at all, indeed I was only in the first dance because I had to play the drums in the second dance. Nice one, saved by the drums, b-dum tish!! Handy dancing followed, the kind of period dance which is more to do with style than any fancy moves. I was picking it up pretty quickly alright, but then I wasn’t the only one, I mean Janie Dee who was playing Beatrice is a diva of a dancer, really brilliant. But as the days progressed I found myself being called on by the other actors to go over the steps with them any time we had a break. The thing that being in musicals had given me was the super power to remember the steps the next day. Muscle memory. I may not have had fancy moves but I had a good memory. I was going to say like Stephen Hawking but that’s going way too far. So they jokingly started referring to me as the dance captain and I kept telling them to cop on. Then one day just before the end of the London rehearsals the assistant director came over to me and asked me;
‘Jamie, have you ever done dance captain on a show before?’
‘Yes.’ I lied.
‘Well we were wondering if you would be dance captain on this show for us?’
‘Ah yeah no hassle’ I replied as if it wasn’t a shock, ‘but you do realise that by equity law there would a dance captaincy fee to be paid.’
I’m no fool. I’m a union man and I know me rights and I was right to say that. She said that was fine and from the following week I was handsomely rewarded the princely sum of an extra 28 bob 50 to do what I was already doing for free. How bad. Actually I nearly bit off more than I could chew but that’s a story for next time. The 5 weeks rehearsals in London had finished, the show was in good shape, I was singing well and I had gotten over the disease of being full of shit and not appreciating what I had (the part of the tailor was coming along nicely thank you very much), and the maddest thing had happened, some mental fella had put me in charge of the dancing for the show. Jesus!! I got some load of jeers from the dancers I knew.
The pressure was on, we had one week’s rehearsals to go.
So off to Bath we went.
And not to wash ourselves.
