Spin, Spit and Swear. The Curse of Macbeth.

Some sixty years ago television began it’s decimation of theatre and theatre going in this country…. Yet it did not kill it. Theatre, in London at least, still provides for the exigencies of the culture vulture. True, the West End does often seem to be over run by musicals derivative of 1980’s Films, yet there are treasures still from the National to the Fringe. Indeed the best place in the world to see Shakespeare is surely Southbank’s Globe (Or Rome’s identical Globe?). So Theatre’s heart still beats for those that want it, thank God.

Theatre can never really die. Television, Film, Computer Games don’t happen in the room with you. Even if it’s a bad play where an Actor fell off the stage… you were there when it happened. Long may Theatre reign, even if, sadly, it must be temporarily second fiddle to 1980’s nostalgia guff. Theatre can’t die but genres can.

Long after the apocalypse comes and the current world order dissolves, whether it be via climate change and, or war, there will be directors having breakdowns and actors sweating while an audience quietly fill a space in a nuclear dug out to be shown willingly natures mirror.

One theatrical tradition however, that is regnant still, and that really should be asked politely to go forth and multiply, sooner rather than later, in this modern era of logic and reason…. Is that of theatrical curses.

Many theatricals still swear by them. And not just the “Mad Actress with the horoscopes page” types either. Oh, these absurdities range from whistling to ghosts via never wearing blue or green or why not any colour for that matter?

They, (the eponymous and ludicrous “they”), say that if you whistle in a theatre a lighting rig will fall and kill you. Why? Because in the old days there were naval forms of communication in theatres via whistling from stage managers to techies up in the rafters. If you whistled and it happend to be the wrong type of whistle the techie might drop a heavy light directly onto your head at great speed. Why they would do this anyway is a mystery.

“But whistling has not been used for at least several decades?”

“But it’s bad luck.”

“Oh okay, excuse me while I try and scoop your brain back into your head.”

Also of course every Theatre is supposed to be haunted. There was one such tale of a young actress working in a victorian melodrama at The Ida Mosley Theatre in Derbyshire.

“Don’t leave me alone in my dressing room, I saw the ghost of Ida Mosley last night.” Pleaded the actress.

“Ida Mosley’s still alive, she’s in on Tuesday.” Came the reply.

“Oh well, it’s someone who looks like her! I think she’s jealous of my performance!”

Also of course it’s bad luck to say good luck on opening nights. Why? Just is. Or make up a theatre tale at your leisure of Johnny Actor, say,  saying good luck to another Johnny Actor, only to see them drop dead, of paranoia probably, in the first act of Macbeth.

Ah, Macbeth. The King of Theatrical Superstition. Macbeth, when in a theatre MUST be referred to only as “The Scottish play”. And if ANYONE dares even whisper the name…. Macbeth, why they must leave the theatre, spin around three times (to the amusement of any witnesses one assumes), spit on the floor (to the disgust of said witnesses), swear (ditto), and then knock on the door and ask to be let back into the theatre.

This tradition probably derives from the fact that it was first produced in more naive times when many, indeed most people believed in, or at least the possibility of, a supernatural world. Therefore the witches spells could be real spells recreated right here and now on the stage! Well, it’s 2013 now. Enough said.

Some theories say that it is more reasonable than that. People feared the play because of all the sword fighting and worried that actors might get hurt. Fear equals not even wanting to say the title! Stupid but… human? Hang on though, there’s a lot more sword fighting in the history plays!

Many believe that it was during a production of Macbeth that the Globe Theatre (original) burnt down in 1613. No, that was Henry VIII.

And then we have the endless stories and interpretations of bad things happening in, oh, about a thousand past productions of Macbeth. They usually run something like, “In 1769, there was a production starring Sir Humphrey Sidebottom. Everything went wrong on the first night. Scenery fell over, wigs fell off. Banquo actually got a bit of a stab wound… off stage in the green room while making tea! Then one of the Witches vomited in Macbeth’s helmet! Then the next day the whole cast died! Except Ernie who played the Porter. He moved to Crete and lived to be Ninety Seven.”

In the end it’s harmless nonsense but let’s at least have a new superstition once in a while. Perhaps that you may only refer to any Pinter play as “The play (pause) of pauses” Or that we must only call War Horse “The Equestrian Play” because the great God Epona, protector of horses, might get a bit upset.

Foreign Navigation: Driving in Los Angeles

As a Brit that has spent a bit of time in Los Angeles I have discovered, by trial and error, some rules in regards to driving in LA. To an Englishman, these are quite bizarre but good to know AHEAD of time.

I – You can make a right turn on a red light. BUT as you look LEFT to make sure no traffic is oncoming, you turn RIGHT and can quite easily “nudge” a Pedestrian with your CAR. (For, due to an ongoing freak chance of possibility, the Pedestrians ALWAYS seem to cross the street at the precise same moment that you turn the corner).

II – When you first enter a Freeway such as the infamous 405 you will have an initial reaction of awe, bewilderment and blind terror. Your mouth may expel the words “Jesus Christ”.

You can overtake on such a Freeway on the inside lane, as in you can overtake ANY WHICH WAY YOU PLEASE. Anathema to a Brit. But there are of course TEN LANES to choose from.

III – Rush Hour is against the natural laws of Time and the Universe in that it never lasts for just an hour. It is also wildly unpredictable. 11am and 4pm seem to be peak times for a colossal stand still. No living Human has ever deciphered why 11am and 4pm should be such crucial times to drive in LA, as “rush hour” occurs at approximately 8am and 5pm in EVERY OTHER CITY ON EARTH.

IV – When stuck in Traffic (and you will be), be aware that your left breaking foot and leg will have so much exercise that it will end up twice as muscular as your right leg and foot. This will look weird and give you a silly walk. (All cars seem to be Automatic and roll forward unassisted, thus the right foot can have a nice Holiday, relax and reflect on life during slow moving traffic).

V – When Street parking, be aware that your car must face the same direction as the flow of traffic on that side of the street. Even if there is NO Traffic on the Street. So, in other words, if you see a parking space, you cannot simply park in it. Are you mad?

VI – If you want to drive from Beverly Hills to LAX, it will either take forty minutes or six hours. There is no way to tell which. LA has a kind of Time Vortex problem.

VII – US Gas is usually a third of the price of British Petrol and yet everyone still seems terribly cross at the expense. Try not to look too bewildered by this.

VIII – Some people, seem to all intents and purposes, to be driving Tanks. Again, try not to look too bewildered at this.

IX – Road Rage is not an option. If you have Road Rage in LA you have a ninety nine percent chance of your heart exploding within twenty minutes.

X – Often, due to a strange blip in the laws of improbability, there are NO parking spaces anywhere in the entire City. So… a bit like London then. (Sort of).

The Ten Questions that People ask Actors (Quite a Lot)

These questions do seem to arise whenever one is caught at a weak moment and admits to actually being an Actor. Shock, horror, gulp and gargle.

Whether it is a social gathering or some other excuse for Human interaction with strangers, admit you’re an Actor and at least some of the following questions will arise. Thus they are all cliché’s but the type of cliché’s that are also absolute truisms.

Some questions are profoundly irritating and some are fine and actually jolly nice to talk about. However due to the universal law of the sod the profoundly irritating questions are asked to a far greater ratio. Nine to one I’d say.

Oh well, here they are. When reading the answers, please imagine that you are at a party in Hemel Hempstead, it’s 1:02am and you have consumed six large glasses of a wine called Bladders Creek.

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I: What have I seen you in?

Spoken answer: Oh not much unless you were in Russia during October 2008 when my Vest commercial aired?

Thought answer: Sod all.

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II: How do you learn all those lines?

Spoken answer: Oh I just go over and over the script, usually late at night, until I fall asleep.

Thought answer: I have no IDEA…. How do I learn those lines? Cripes… what if I can’t learn them anymore now that you’ve made me think about it? Bugger.

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III: Can’t you get into East Enders?

Spoken: Oh if only! I’d love to have a pint of apple juice beer in the Queen Vic.

Thought: The chances of them casting a posh voiced, middle class, living Jane Austen character in Walford are about as viable as me being reincarnated as a Lobster called Cyril Peterson.

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IV: What about Panto?

Spoken: Oh yes, what fun. Good money too of course, but really it’s the thrill of those audiences. Ah Panto.

Thought: Are you F’ing kidding me?

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V: What have you done recently?

Spoken: Ooo bit of this, bit of that. Just finished a tour, couple of thing in the pipe line, don’t want to jinx them, hahaha.

Thought: I took some old VHS tapes to Oxfam last Tuesday… then spent an inexorable amount of time wondering who on Earth would buy VHS tapes at this point in history… even City Slickers 2 for 30 pence.

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VI: Are you resting then?

Spoken: Yes, just briefly, much needed, much needed. Phew. Bloody exhaustion here. Clinical the Doctor says, still I like to work so I’ll be back in the saddle soon enough.

Thought: No, I’m actually hard at work… suppressing a colossal scream just at the back of the throat. If I DO scream, kindly throw a drink in my face and call me a cab.

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VII: Where do you see yourself? Hollywood?

Spoken: Oh, these dreams, these dreams. Who knows? Couple of friends out there, doing well.

Thought: Criklewood.

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VIII: Who have you worked with?

Spoken: Christopher Biggins, oh yes. Lovely chap… quite loud.

Thought: Lot’s of talented people who you’ve never ever heard of and perhaps never will. Oh and Christopher Biggins.

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IX: Have you done Shakespeare? “To be or not to be!”

Spoken: Oh, hahaha, yes, a bit. Hamlet, very good.

Thought: Finish the speech, go on, finish the WHOLE speech WITH MEANING!

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X: Show us a bit of Acting then?

Spoken: Oh, no I couldn’t, I couldn’t, no really… oh….very well, “To be or not to be, that is the question, Whether tis nobler….” (Etcetera).

Thought: You wouldn’t ask a plumber to demonstrate suction on a toilet would you? (Or would you?)

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Audition from Hell # 31772

People often say how terribly unfair the business is. Indeed, it feels like a constant battle to not go into the tunnel of bitter thinking. The thought process that involves supposed ideas such as: “No Oxford, no Cambridge, no Rada, no chance.” “No Agent A, B or C, no chance.” “No random, uncontrollable meeting with random caster… no chance.” In reality there are, of course, plenty of Rada graduates who struggle or “connected” Actors that get no where.

I walked into the Theatre, resolute to think positive and dispel in myself the notion of unfairness and elitism in the business. To dispel also the idea of illogicity in the audition process. If you’re good, you’re good. When you’re bad, you’re bad. Simple. Right? Goodness knows there’s nothing more destructive to the soul than self pity. Self pity can be kept at bay with the slightest of perspective. Self doubt however is a harder nut to crack. It comes with being judged continuously.

So I entered the Theatre with the usual combination of confidence and self doubt. Both emotions locked in a struggle to the death that neither can win outright. Smiles, hand shakes, big eyes silently screaming “love me you bastards!”

It was a sort of avant-garde company. No Director but three Producers. Ten people auditioning at a time, performing in front of each other and, most scary, getting notes and comments in front of each other. I hoped I wasn’t last to perform, the theatre was cold and my fixed grin was freezing into a position that may have left me looking permanently like The Joker. I was last to perform.

They wanted Shakespeare and that’s what I attempted. The trouble with Shakespeare is that people  have so many disparate ideas about how it should or can be done. Traditionally, modern, poetically, raw, loose, fast, slow,  high octane, subtle…. I suppose it should ideally be all of these things and more.

Usually when you give a speech it’s quite normal to fill with regret and longing for a second chance but then…. Just once in a very rare blue moon… it goes, you feel, okay. Well, even. I finished the speech, then came that awkward silent pause where time stands still, then some claps and, most pleasingly, praise and no notes due to having “nailed the speech”. I could now rest easy. Allow even, a pat on the back.

I felt great! Shakespeare is a hard beast to ride but the more you enjoy it the more you want to master it yourself. Indeed, part of the genius of Shakespeare is that once you get on board and enjoy the plays and poems, it’s, in a clichéd but thus true way, a life long passion. It was Dorothy Parker who said; “I return to Hamlet every ten years to find someone has rewritten it”.

Walking the streets after the audition I felt totally other to how I usually feel in the post audition analysis. I felt… good. Normally you feel that you blew it, you said something stupid, they hated you, you’re not right for them, etcetera, etcetera. Today I felt, whisper it, confident. I instantly forgot my previous negative ideas about the unfairness of the Industry. Selfy pity gone. Self doubt alleviated. Faith restored. Anxiety subdued. Logic refound. Strolling in the midday sun.

I didn’t get a recall. (Not bitter, not bitter).

Commercials?

The cliché about castings for commercials is that it is a lottery. Indeed, sometimes you have to do little more than say hello, show your profile, show your hands and leave. A morning or afternoon’s trek into central London for five minutes of “hand time”. Only, months later, to see that other person in the waiting room, selling whatever commercial object it happens to be, on the goggle box.

Then one day, eventually, perhaps, maybe, an ad might come your way. You’ll make a very good hourly rate. If it’s for a super brand you’ll take the rest of the year off. After a long vacation. In Hawaii.

Some people ask a lot of questions, go in dressed as the character and get the job. Some people go in, ask a lot of questions, dressed as the character and… don’t get the job. There are no discernible rules or tactics that I can readily identify… except perhaps, make them laugh. Though this is by no means fail safe either.

So many people are in and out for these that it is all too easy to be forgettable in the long procession of available actors. They know the second you walk in if you’re a contender or not. The look they want is in mind.  Otherwise it’s just a case of going through the motions and getting out of there so that you can buy a paper and get a coffee. And sigh heavily. You usually know if you’re in the running but not always. Indeed, often you feel it went badly… and then get the job.

There’s often SOMETHING you’re asked to do beyond profiles, hello’s and hands. A little improvised scene such as, “You open an oven to find it full of little sausage men. One jumps on your left shoulder and tells you a funny story. You pick him up and place him on the floor. You look at him with mild amusement. Keep it totally natural, okay?” Natural? It’s a little sausage man!

Sometimes it’s very simple. “You’ve just seen naked people run past, what would you do with your face? Do more! Do less! Do something!” Meanwhile you look like Kenneth Williams having a spasm.

I once had to improvise being in a plane crash “comedically”. Two minutes of screaming and flailing arms and gibbering. When, one suspects that in reality you’d probably be in the brace position, head between knees, weeping. I was soon back out on the street, hoarse, border line embarrassed and disheveled, urgently looking for a paper and a coffee shop so that I might get my mind off of the recent indignities. Then you remember that lack of self-consciousness is an asset, nay essential to an actor. And by golly that helps with some castings.

Usually you are alone with the casting director and cameraman but sometimes you’re seen in pairs. This can go either way. I once had to flirt and be flirted with by an Actress. It was a bar scene. She took flirt to mean sticking a tongue down my throat and trying to take all the oxygen from my lungs. Well, it made the director laugh and I suppose there are worse ways to spend a morning. Neither of us got the job.

EJ

In the Summer of ’00

Santa Monica, Malibu, Santa Barbara, Carmel, Monterey, these are the places I’ve been in recent days. They all hold an abundance of charm as I tour the California coast…  yet to me, Santa Cruz will always hold particular draw. I lived here when I was 21 and when I come back… I feel 21 again… or at least I feel reinvigorated. It is here that I had all that innocence and optimism of early adulthood. When all was possible. To quote Francis Cornford:

“A young Apollo, golden haired,

Stands on the verge of strife,

Magnificently unprepared

For the long littleness of life.”

Not that I was an Apollo of course. Perhaps just “Afellow”.

Am I just romanticizing the past? The myth of “golden days”. It was, after all, in Santa Cruz that I was mugged, had a crazy sleep walking roommate, was hospitalized after an allergic reaction, got a speeding ticket, had bad sun burn, was unlucky in love and almost died surfing.

No, I can’t convince myself. It is a wonderful place. To somebody based in London, Santa Cruz is gloriously laid back without being at all dull. The Surfing Museum, the Boardwalk, Pacific Avenue with its independent book stores, the café on Walnut Avenue. The beach town that is not too posh but not too scary… forever immortalized in the film, The Lost Boys.

To look at it another way, it was here that I partied hard after long years of University, had ridiculous fun, surfed, went on road trips to Tahoe and Yosemite, interned at a TV studio and… vomited on a Frenchman.

To revisit this place is not, to me, to mythologise the past or linger in nostalgia but rather to get a little fix of youthful enthusiasm and optimism back in the veins.

Some people go straight from education into the world of work…. But to miss that chance of freedom and adventure between the twin peaks of education and work is, I would argue, a mistake… or at least a missed opportunity. It’s a potential window of time when you can step out of expectation and planning and worrying about the future and just be. It’s a state that my reluctance to leave may well of led to this acting business. Your opportunities in the future for more time out of work to “just be” are manifold.

One Mans Mordor is another Mans Mecca of course. Without my personal experiences of this place would I feel the same? Probably not. it might just seem like a scruffy beach town… it IS a scruffy beach town. But that too is part of it’s charm.

Selling Your Soul: Musings on Extra Work

When you are young and know little, advice from respected elders can imbue itself deep within your cerebral cortex. At a formative age as an Actor, one elder said: “You must NEVER do extra work” with such theatricality and flair, it was as if I was being commanded not to kill by Moses himself, up on Mount Sinai. Another elder said: “Do it if you want, no harm in it, quite fun, you learn a lot.” As if to be an extra was no more apostate to being an acting professional than it would be to play Hamlet for the RSC.

A few years ago I was suffering from the eternal dread that will haunt an Actors being for as long as they are an Actor. No work. I hadn’t had an audition since the birth of time and bills and debts were encroaching into my every waking (and sleeping) thought. I was suddenly looking at pavements next to buildings with heat extractors and thinking… when the time comes, that’ll be a good place to sleep. “Tramp dread” as Martin Amis called it.

So I did what I had to do, took a tip from a friend and turned my back on the preaching’s of Moses of Theatreland… I signed up to be an extra on a Hollywood film. £160 a day for a week would save my bacon. (And quite possibly my eggs, sausages, beans, hash browns, et al). I assured myself that I would not be seen, have a relaxing time sipping coffee and reading and that I would leave the film set at week’s end with my self-esteem perfectly in tact.

As Gertrude says, upon seeing “herself” being portrayed by the players in Hamlet: “The Lady doth protest too much”. (There is NO “methinks”).  There is a deep voice with in us all. Our speaking voice may be as elegant and convincing as it may like… without ever altering the inner voice. Our subconscious. Our true feelings. Our core. What we really think.

I knew that there was and is nothing wrong with extra work. Indeed they are officially called “supporting artists”. Friends of mine greatly enjoy it. If it’s your main line of work, however, you don’t really want to have no dialogue, no character, and no purpose beyond being “Man in crowd walking”. It’s not ego that makes an Actor avoid extra work, it’s a profession distinction. An Actors very job is to be another. To act! To think, speak, move, interact, play a part, have a super objective with in the entire narrative context. To be creative. To (pompous as it may sound), connect. As an extra your job is to disappear. To be indistinguishable. To essentially be nobody. Suddenly you realize that, as an Actor, you’re making a Faustian pact for the sake of a few hundred pounds and free food.

Anyway, here I was, sometime in the past, dressed as a Victorian Man on a lot at Elstree Studios. I was with dozens of other Victorian looking people and remember being distinctly jealous as I hadn’t been given a moustache. All I had to do was walk up and down a mock Victorian London road. For ten hours (with breaks). It was very cold and our costumes were thin. There was a constant threat of rain. Between each take we all rushed for what shelter we could find. Runners covered us in blankets before the next bone shaker of a take. One large chap with real facial hair walked away to a cabin because he couldn’t feel his feet. We never saw him again.

We were made up of all sorts. Young, old, essentially self-employed people doing this on the side. (Very few of us were Actors and only the younger ones were being open about the fact). We were treated respectfully for the most part, although there was one ugly moment when an AD shouted at an elderly supporting artist for being too slow back to the set. He was seventy-nine, with a stick that was more than just a prop.

You don’t have a name as an extra. We were lambasted with cries of “Oi, you lot, over here” or “No Sid, they’re not Actors, they’re extras”. “But I am an Actor” I thought in a feeble, self-pitying inner voice… as my soul shriveled.

One day it was a night shoot and by 3am this really was the coldest time of all. It was January and between shooting outside and then rushing inside to stand almost on a blow torch heater in a giant tent… it’s a wonder we didn’t all get seriously ill. My trousers were as heat saving as my bare legs, my shoes were so tight I had to invent a limp for the “character” and my hat was so small that I had to constantly carry it in my little, numb, blue hand.

Almost as bad as freezing through the night, was the day, towards the end of the week, when we were not called to set at all. We sat, in our multitudes, in cabins with so much heating that moustaches were slipping off all over and constantly being glued back onto faces by stressed make up ladies. I was glad now that I didn’t have a Victorian moustache. For twelve or more hours we sat in these cabins. Yes, we had endless Coffee, snacks, lunch and dinner. Yes, you could wrangle some interesting conversations here and there. Some time with the crew. Valiant people who have travelled the world, worked with the greats and have many a tale to tell. Yet, there were, inevitably, many hours of staring into space. Especially when the papers were exhausted and your book finished. We were not allowed to nap on the backless wooden benches in the cabin… but people did of course. Sat in that cabin in a cravat with no stimulation but vats of (stimulating) coffee… reality and sanity waned.

By 8pm on Friday I felt more like a Prisoner facing freedom than a satiated Actor. My self-esteem was wavering. Hell, it was destroyed. I felt… blank. Buddhists may say that to feel blank is to achieve enlightenment. However, I was not in any sense “enlightened”. I was heavy with boredom and sullied as an Actor. I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. Capriciously ignoring my other promise to myself to never say never about anything.

If I’d been free that week, I may have had an audition for a dream job and actually got it. It’s unlikely but it’s possible. This is the gamble of the Actor. To do extra work, I would argue, is to renege on that gamble. To betray your craft and yourself.

EJ