Making an Exhibition of Myself

by Peter Hall

  The first important step was to speak to Peggy Ashcroft. I took her out to dinner and talked and talked of my hopes for the new company, the RSC. She was enthusiastic, though cautious. We were like two people contemplating a love affair; but by the end of the meal, I still hadn’t mustered the courage to pop the direct question. Coffee came and went and my courage still failed me. I couldn’t bear to be refused. I drove Peggy back to her home in Hampstead, and, when time was running out and we were more than half-way there, gulped and asked her if she would lead the company – be the first three-year contract artist. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. She didn’t quite say she thought I would never ask.

  Throughout her life, Peggy was always part of any serious new movement in the theatre. She was with John Gielgud and Michel St Denis in the Thirties; with Gielgud at the Haymarket in the war; with Tony Quayle and Glen Byam Shaw at Stratford in the Forties; with George Devine at the Royal Court in the Fifties. And she joined me in the Sixties. The RSC would never have happened so quickly without her. Where she led, others followed. And, like Fordie Flower, she never wavered.

  In all the years I worked with her, we only had one real quarrel. In the early Seventies, I was asked to direct the National Theatre. Peggy’s initial reaction was violent. She said that if I did it would be like crossing the floor of the House, spurning my background and joining the Tories. We argued for months. Finally, she relented and became one of those who were with me through the hell of the South Bank opening. Characteristically, she did her best for the National as she had always done for anything new: she cared about the theatre as a whole.

  But she remained fiercely loyal to the RSC – the ‘Co’ as she called it. To the end of her days, she saw everything the RSC presented, commented on everything, helped young talent and attacked the vagaries of directors who arrogantly ignored Shakespeare’s text. By nature she fervently espoused causes, and the theatre owes much to her convictions. Throughout my career, her belief in me gave me strength. It was never more important than in 1959, at the start of the RSC.

  The all-powerful West End impresario Binkie Beaumont was on the Board of the Stratford theatre. I think he had been persuaded to serve by Tony Quayle, who knew well that where Binkie approved, the stars would follow. He completely controlled the West End. Very few plays were produced outside his management. He was clever and charming, secret as a lizard, and at the centre of an elegant and predominantly homosexual circle that included Noël Coward and Terence Rattigan. In the Fifties, you had to be truly original to be taken into that circle – though being of the right sexual persuasion helped. It was a continually threatened world of innuendo and covert glances, of gossip and the unsaid. It was also very talented.

  At Binkie’s parties, I always felt as if I had ten thumbs and straw in my hair; I was the outsider. I didn’t resent his influence: he had infallible taste; was a brilliant manager with none of the usual envy of the creative; and, unlike many producers, he loved and respected actors. They loved him in return, however much he manipulated and conned them. There is a famous story of Binkie thinking out a way to explain a disastrous mistake to John Gielgud, a close friend and confidant over many years. ‘Well,’ said Binkie, ‘if the worst comes to the worst, I suppose we can always tell him the truth.’

  His philosophy was not unlike Glen’s – that performers need care and understanding because to stand on the stage emotionally naked and face the merciless judgement of an audience requires immense courage. Bouts of selfishness, childishness and vanity must therefore be forgiven. I don’t altogether agree with this judgement: it is a touch patronising. There are as many kinds of actor as there are kinds of people. Actors are certainly vulnerable, yet the best of them are tough-minded craftsmen, frequently inspired, who have a passion for what they do and a dedication and discipline in doing it which puts many other professions to shame.

  I worked for Binkie in 1958 directing the first English production of Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in which Kim Stanley was brilliant as the sex-starved wife. The play was banned by the Lord Chamberlain. In order to stage it – together with Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge and Bill Inge’s Tea and Sympathy – it was necessary to convert a London theatre (in this case the Comedy) into a club. Only then could these ‘undesirable’ plays, which dared to mention that homosexuality was a human condition that clearly existed, escape the Lord Chamberlain. Throughout the season, Binkie’s concern for detail, his enthusiasm and tireless devotion to his actors and his directors, were a lesson to me. He spent the early part of every morning ringing round his key artists: just keeping in touch, even if there was nothing much to say except ‘How are you?’ in his silken tones.

  As the leading West End impresario and a Stratford governor he had, however, a lot to say about my plans for the RSC. He believed that if I expanded Stratford into London and succeeded in running a year-round repertory there, I would ruin the West End theatre. Actors, he thought, would be seduced away from him. With the RSC, they would only have to perform two or three times a week in a range of plays, instead of eight times a week in one play. I pointed out that they would earn much less money. He was also worried that new plays would come to me. The repertory system gave a safer opportunity for writers to find their audience, since the play could be nursed. He added to these objections a dire warning. If I failed, he said, I would bankrupt Stratford and destroy a thriving institution In his most charming tones, he told me he was implacably opposed to what I was trying to do, would resign from the Board if they continued to back my plans and would do his very best to persuade any theatre owner from leasing me a London home. He was frighteningly honest and forthright. And true to his word. Once I had had the go-ahead, he did indeed resign from the Board. But he was careful to go quietly. It is possible he thought publicity would not serve his turn. On the other hand, he always went out of his way to remain an enigma, to be secret and anonymous. In those days it was still possible. Today, such Greta Garbo behaviour would attract wide attention.

  Again true to his word, he made it very difficult for me to find a suitable London theatre. ‘No chance as far as I’m concerned,’ said Prince Littler, head of the giant Stoll Moss empire, who freely confessed not only that he didn’t think I could run a successful repertory system in the West End, but that he was worried by Binkie’s unrelenting opposition. So I went next to Emile Littler, his brother and head of another group of theatres. They were sworn enemies and, according to report, never spoke. Emile was the pantomime king but, it was said, longed to be culturally respectable. I told him Prince had turned down my request for a theatre. Could he suggest anything? He looked pensive, then offered me the Cambridge, in those days a not-very-successful house on the fringe of the West End. I thanked him and asked for time to think.

  I went back to see Prince and said that the attempt to stop the RSC moving into the West End was doomed: Emile had offered me the Cambridge. But I added that it was a theatre which didn’t excite me. Surely Prince could now help? He did. Within a short time we had negotiated a three-year lease on the Aldwych. We arranged to open there at the end of 1960, after my first year’s season at Stratford.

  Chapter Four

  It seemed to me that a new Shakespeare company should begin at the beginning. So I started with Shakespeare’s comedies, presenting in my first Stratford season six productions which traced the development of his comedy from the very earliest through to the later plays. Shakespeare’s actors had developed with him, and as time went on simple early verse became a complex medium in the mouths of virtuosi. Perhaps over the first years, my company could develop in the same way.

  Penelope Gilliatt wrote of the company that it included ‘a number of actors better known to audiences at the Royal Court and the Arts and Theatre Workshop’. She was welcoming new talent to Shakespeare. Among the younger ones, some of them then hardly known, were Dorothy Tutin, Ian Holm, Ian Richardson, Patrick Wymark, Eric Porter, Dinsdale Landen,
Francis Cuka, Derek Godfrey and Jack McGowran. The established was balanced with the new by Peggy Ashcroft being cast as the Shrew and Paulina in The Winter’s Tale, both for the first time, and Max Adrian as Pandarus in Troilus and Cressida and as Feste.

  Bumps and disasters lay ahead though. Paul Scofield had agreed to three parts: Shylock, Petruchio and Thersites. But a few weeks before rehearsals started he sent me one of those letters all impresarios dread. It was reasonable, well argued – and devastating. He said he knew he was committed to Stratford to lead my first season, knew the contract was agreed, but now found he just couldn’t face it. Something deep inside was telling him that it wasn’t right. He had to be released.

  I had a moment of great anger, even of a desire for revenge. Then I calmed down. If actors change their minds, there is nothing you can do about it. For better or worse, their selfishness is the root of their talent. They have to do what they have to do and, when the crunch comes, nothing else matters. They are what they play, and if it doesn’t feel right – for whatever reason – it won’t be right. Of course I tried to persuade Paul to change his mind. But I failed. I had to accept his decision with a good grace, hoping he would join me many times in the future – which I’m glad to say he did. All this explains the impresario’s shriek of rage: ‘I will never work with you again – until I need you.’

  Meantime, I was left with the urgent need to find a new male star to lead the company alongside Peggy. The previous year, I had been to Bristol and seen an electrifying young actor called Peter O’Toole burn up the stage as Hamlet. His performance was rough and crude; but it had an animal magnetism and danger which proclaimed the real thing. He made Hamlet unendurably exciting. He was a tall gangling figure with an enormous hooter of a nose, and looked witty, intelligent and very sexy. I asked him if he would take over Paul’s roles. He said yes, and became the sensation of the season.

  At the beginning of rehearsals, I had been slightly dismayed to meet an unrecognisable O’Toole at the stage door. His marvellous hooter had been transformed into a delicate, almost retroussé nose. It seemed hardly the ideal preparation for Shylock. I asked him what he had done. ‘I’m going to be a movie star,’ he quipped. I didn’t take the remark seriously at the time …

  O’Toole was, in truth, too young for Shylock, which he performed as the first of his three parts. But in the event he was mesmeric. With brilliant power, he found both the anarchic humour and the pathos of the man. On the first night of The Merchant of Venice, in Michael Langham’s lucid production, it was clear that a new star had arrived.

  Many old friends supported me in this first season, among them Lila de Nobili; the conductor and composer, Raymond Leppard; Peter Wood and John Barton. Not everything went well. My opening production of The Two Gentlemen of Verona was judged a complete disaster and was rather a dim affair. But there was work which planted seeds for the future. The production of Troilus and Cressida, in which the characters thrashed out their physical and mental conflicts in a big sandpit designed by Leslie Hurry, started me on a journey through Shakespeare’s political ironies which led to The Wars of the Roses and David Warner’s Hamlet.

  It is strange to think now of the controversy that the sandpit Troilus provoked. It was as if that degree of reality was an affront to the drama – as if I had brought the distraction of a real dog or a real child on to the stage. But the sandpit was a wonderful image: Mediterranean, a cockpit for hand-to-hand combat, an arena for political debate. It slowed down movement, represented heat and intensified sexuality.

  Leslie Hurry and I reached it by chance. We had a hexagonal-shaped arena as the floor of our model setting, and I kept asking him to make it look more and more like sand. I wanted it to be yellow – a colour his palette for the play did not readily encompass. Finally he rolled his grey eyes to heaven and said, ‘Why don’t you just have real sand?’ To, I think, his surprise I jumped at the suggestion. And though we had to endure the jokes of the cast turning up for rehearsal clad in large sunglasses, and the scoffing of critics who thought real sand ridiculous, the texture and movement of it made the production sing.

  I worked on Troilus with my old friend John Barton. I had persuaded him to give up his life as a don at Cambridge and join me at Stratford. He was to direct plays and help me train the company in verse speaking.

  In 1960, there was still a gulf of suspicion between theatre people and academics. The theatre was pragmatic; the academic world absolute – or so it was thought. I think both sides have now learnt to appreciate the virtues of each other. When John arrived, however, it was a gulf which I didn’t sufficiently appreciate. I had found no difficulty myself in going from Cambridge into the professional theatre, and couldn’t see why anybody else should. John, initially, had problems. Shortly before the opening of The Taming of the Shrew, which he was directing, there was a company revolt led by Peggy Ashcroft and Peter O’Toole. They were happy with the concept of the production, but were getting insufficient help on the detail. There was too much theory and not enough practice. I had to take over the final rehearsals and edit the proceedings. It was devastating for John.

  Scholastic absolutes terrify actors. They have to be led to discover for themselves. In time, John became more flexible; and actors, for their part, saw more and more the strength of his vision and integrity. In season after season, he proved his extraordinary qualities as a director. In 1960, it was a jibe that going to the RSC was like going back to university. Within five years, the jibe had become affectionate.

  Throughout this first season I worked non-stop. Apart from directing four of the six productions and planning the opening of the Aldwych, I lobbied the Palace for permission to change the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre’s name; remodelled its stage so that the action was brought closer to the audience; and signed up a rich group of actors, directors and designers for the three-year adventure I had outlined to Fordie.

  Meanwhile, Leslie was in the South of France filming the Hollywood version of Fanny. I tried to see her and the children as much as I could, and flew nearly every weekend to Nice and then drove the hundred miles into Marcel Pagnol country to spend a few precious hours in their company. But our absurdly pressured life was taking its toll; the separations were chipping away at our marriage. If you don’t have time to share the ordinary details of life, the large issues start to get neglected too.

  Early on, I had a sense that in starting the RSC I had created something that had a vitality and a will to grow which was unstoppable. It was clearly the right idea at the right time. Ashcroft’s Shrew and Paulina, O’Toole’s Shylock, Tutin’s Cressida and Viola, the Troilus and Cressida, Peter Wood’s Winter’s Tale and my revival of Twelfth Night made the box office hum. We became hot and fashionable. Reams were written about the new company – whether it should have happened or whether it shouldn’t; whether we should move to London or whether we shouldn’t; whether we had a new style of presenting Shakespeare or were still in search of it. There was plenty of controversy and plenty of comment. We were news.

  By then, though, it was clear that I had brought into being something that was much too big for one man to handle. The responsibilities of a large theatre company whose theatres were a hundred miles apart were too complex and far-reaching to be borne alone. I have always believed that the clever way to run anything is to have around you people you think are better than yourself, and who will challenge and provoke. Running a theatre is a lonely job, and it is no help to be surrounded by a team of yes men.

  Peter Brook had been a friend since 1954. He, and soon afterwards Michel St Denis, agreed to join the RSC as co-directors. I couldn’t believe my luck. We were a strong triumvirate of which I was the day-to-day chairman and manager. We aimed to create an innovative Shakespeare company with techniques that were unmatched anywhere else. Michel founded a studio for research and training; Peter, over the next few years, directed a series of historic productions which led us into new territories; and they both provided me personally wi
th a store of wisdom and stimulation that I have drawn on ever since.

  The years with Michel taught me to remember what is owed to the public if you are in charge of a theatre. If you invite an audience to surrender two or three hours of their lives to you, you must do all you possibly can to offer them something very special in return; and it is far, far better to fail in that attempt than to repeat an empty pattern. He felt, too, that all of us in the theatre should not just display whatever talents we may have to their best advantage, but also be at our best as people. For him, the two qualities were one: they were indistinguishable. Talent did not excuse unbalanced or selfish behaviour and could only be diminished by it. His favourite question about a colleague with whom he was about to work was: ‘Is he in a good state?’

  Michel was very careful of people. Everything he did in the theatre was based on cherishing the quality of the human being – indeed his career is a testament to his own quality, his own integrity. He was the sworn enemy of dead convention. For him, the truth was something which changes as our lives change; thus the search for truth was never ending. It is not a comfortable philosophy; but it is alive.

  He was an intellectual who was instinctive; a peasant who was an aristocrat; a radical who was careful to conserve the past; a man of control who fought sometimes recklessly for his beliefs. He was sceptical and responsible, ironic and dedicated. I can hear him laugh approvingly at my inability to categorise him. But the contradictions in his character were signs of his own renewal and continuing growth.

  He was as French as one of my other great heroes, Jean Renoir. Yet Michel’s influence on the British theatre directly touched and changed several generations, and, indirectly, the generations to come. Four major theatres – the Royal Court, the National Theatre, the English National Opera, and the Royal Shakespeare Company – all owe part of their way of working and part of their aesthetic to his ideas.