Year of the Fat Knight

by Antony Sher

Greg had commissioned a student at the Shakespeare Institute to collate all the cuts from previous RSC productions of the Henries, using the stage-management prompt copies which are stored at the Birthplace Trust in Henley Street. This student has now provided us with a stack of scripts (Parts I and II), each with the full text, the cuts marked in red, also running times and other details, recording what edited versions of the plays were presented in 1964 (directed by Peter Hall and John Barton), 1976 (Terry Hands), 1991 (Adrian Noble), 2000 (Mike Attenborough), 2007 (Mike Boyd).

  So today we compared and contrasted these with our own cut copy. It was like being surrounded by a group of wise counsellors; as if those directors were in the room themselves, but without their egos – oich, imagine the scene in reality! – no, just in benign and generous mood, just there to help us. It was useful that we knew them all personally, knew their tastes, and had our own attitudes to them: ‘So what did Terry do here?… and Adrian?… and the Great Barton?’ Some of their cuts coincided with our own, some were startlingly more drastic, some we rejected outright, some were inspiring, and some weren’t cuts, but additions – from the Quarto. These were mostly irresistible:

  In Falstaff’s first scene with the Lord Chief Justice, he has a speech where he complains about being sent to war again. The new line allows him to say, ‘It was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing to make it too common.’ Which roughly translates as, ‘Just because I’m the hero of Shrewsbury, I’m now our country’s secret weapon!’

  And in the Gloucestershire scene, when Falstaff is gossiping about Shallow, scandalously, there’s a new line, which claims that he was ‘lecherous as a monkey, and the whores called him Mandrake.’ Delightful.

  In the past a director, if so inclined, could visit the Birthplace Trust, and, under supervision, examine the prompt scripts of his predecessors. But Greg wants to get them reproduced like these today (maybe online), and made available to each new director, should they want them.

  It’s a wonderful archive that the RSC holds. What other theatre company could offer such guidance, such riches, for the preparation of a Shakespeare production?

  The hours flew by. With us, alongside the Avon, working on Shakespeare. A perfect Stratford day.

  Saturday 2 November

  London.

  We’ve come down for a big event at the National: the celebration of their fiftieth anniversary. There’s a gala in the Olivier, which is being broadcast live on BBC2.

  Before the show began, Nick Hytner came on stage, to explain the proceedings: ‘This evening fulfils one of my secret desires – to tell an audience how to behave.’

  There followed a series of extracts from the National’s hits, some performed onstage, some filmed. One of the most moving was Joan Plowright doing a speech from Saint Joan (filmed a few days earlier on the stage of the Old Vic), still with the same good, down-to-earth honesty that she was blessed with as a young actress.

  For me, other highlights were: film of Scofield in Amadeus (Christ, the power of the man!), Judi Dench live, doing one of Cleopatra’s speeches, a sequence from War Horse, another from Jerry Springer, and a scene from Angels in America.

  The show overran (I wonder what they did on BBC2?), and it was going on for midnight when it finished. So we found Nick, congratulated him, and slipped away.

  It’s funny – although I’ve had two big successes at the National (Pam Gems’s Stanley and my own Primo), it’s never felt like home, in the way that the RSC does.

  Thursday 7 November

  Stratford.

  With the sun shining on the river, I had the surprising experience of learning Falstaff’s last scene: the rejection by Hal. It’s very moving. How does Shakespeare do it? How does he make us care so much for this cowardly, criminal old bullshitter? Don’t know. It’s a wonder. Literally. Just like there are wonders of Nature, there are wonders of Art, and the creation of Falstaff is one of them.

  For the record, I began learning this role on the 10th of September and today is the 7th of November. About two months, working between two and three hours on weekday mornings. I’ve only learned the main speeches, so it’s only about half the part, and it’s not properly inside me yet – I could no sooner stand up and do it without the script than fly – but it’s roughed in. And I’ve still got a month and a half before rehearsals…

  Tuesday 12 November

  When the autumn weather allows, we begin each day with a river walk. I find these as refreshing as dipping in the sea; it’s the same kind of tonic, setting you up for the day’s work. We either go out of town, alongside the fields, or – as today – cross the footbridge and traverse the other bank, before looping back.

  As the path turned the corner at the Witter Lock, and we were presented with that sudden view of Holy Trinity Church, we both stopped in our tracks, and one, or both of us, said, ‘Just look at that!’ The church is already a remarkable place, housing as it does a remarkable grave, but to see it from this side of the Avon, with it on the higher bank, and the graveyard lifting it even higher, like a great work of art on a giant pedestal, and to see it on a bright blue morning, with the gorgeous gold, red and rust colours of the surrounding trees, and these reflected again in the still river, and this with a slight mist on it – oh, it was a marvellous thing.

  Meanwhile, our talk was of casting. Hotspur. The only main role still free. So important. And so hard to find the right actor. Made harder by the fact that Hal is being played by Alex Hassell. He’s such a dynamic stage presence that he could trespass into Hotspur’s territory. The challenge is to find someone who has even more fire, more danger. Greg has three ideas for it, but his favourite is Trevor White, the Canadian actor who played Aufidius in his production of Coriolanus. He was terrific. I’d be very happy if he did Hotspur.

  Friday 15 November

  Back in March, I did a drawing of myself trying to decide whether to do Falstaff. Today I had my first go at drawing myself in the role. I’ve no idea what the actual ‘look’ will be, or the costume, or anything, so this was just an impression, just how the character feels at this point in time.

  Working from some of the photos that Stewart Hemley took of me at Hampstead last month, I sketched in a very free way, letting the crayon marks go all over the place, wild and wavy for the hair and beard, patchy and criss-crossed for the booze-blasted face, and then blurring them, smearing them. I stopped well short of a homage to Francis Bacon, but I had him in mind. He’d have done a good portrait of Falstaff; he was Falstaff!

  The end result bore only a vague resemblance to me, but, more importantly, did it look like Falstaff?

  I’d say… ish. Something too benign about him, too polite. As though he’s posed for the drawing in a rather well-mannered way. There needs to be a darker edge to him.

  That’s fine. That’s helpful, in fact. The part is unformed at this point in time. This shows the way forward…

  Saturday 16 November

  Back from London, Greg liked the drawing, and said it made him excited about doing the show.

  ‘How would you describe his expression?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, like someone has just given him a cup of sack and some nice cheese.’

  This confirmed my reservations. Falstaff’s appetite is for more than sack and cheese. They’re only fuel. He actually wants to consume all the rules and regulations in the world, all the order of the universe.

  Tuesday 19 November

  On this morning’s river walk, when we crossed the Tramway footbridge just past the theatre, we didn’t loop back to Avonside, but went on to the far end of town, where our new house is situated, the Artistic Director’s house. In fact, we lived in it before – when Adrian Noble had The Job, he bought a house outside Stratford – but the renovation is so extensive it’s like a different place. The builder, David Neale, showed us round. It’s in a rough-and-ready state at the moment, but the potential is exciting. A much bigger kitchen, a guest suite above it, dormer windows in o
ur bedroom and bathroom, which will flood those areas with light, and, best of all, my painting studio. It’s considerably larger than it looked on the architect’s plans, and will have French windows, with a splendid view of rolling fields. The best thing is that the floor is going to be made of some of the teak and mahogany stage-boards retrieved from the old theatre.

  I’m a great believer in ghosts in the walls, of all theatres, and in their stages especially. Just think of the actors who have bestrode this one. I’m going to have Laurence Olivier under my feet…!

  Monday 25 November

  We spent the weekend in North Wales with Greg’s family, celebrating his fifty-fifth birthday. Pleased to have bright weather for our drive back this morning. Coming into the Vale of Llangollen was a breathtaking moment: a giant bowl of sunlit mist with the flame of autumn trees showing through here and there.

  We took a little detour to Shrewsbury, to visit the battlefield site there – the location for the climax of Henry IV Part I. Not much to see. The viewing mound overlooked a huge pylon and a path for dog walkers. Further on, the Church of Mary Magdalene (built to commemorate the victory) was closed. So our chief pleasure turned out to be a rather Falstaffian one: discovering the Battlefield 1403 Farm Shop, which was filled with goodies, from big home-cooked meat pies to little bottles of damson gin. We stocked up greedily.

  Tuesday 26 November

  One of the lasting memories of my first experience of living in Stratford, during my debut RSC season in 1982, when I had rooms in the old Avonside mansion, was the sound of bell-ringing practice coming from Trinity Church on Tuesday evenings. In the thirty-one years since, whenever I’ve been here, that sound makes me stop whatever I’m doing, and listen for a moment, smiling.

  Tonight I experienced it at close quarters.

  Greg and I have become patrons of the church, which is quite odd for a gay couple, one of whom is Jewish. Anyway, this allowed us the special privilege of attending tonight’s session.

  Climbing the tower wasn’t easy: a steep twist of narrow stone stairs with only a thick red cord to cling on to. Finally we reached the chamber where the bell ropes hang. A group of about a dozen people were assembling. All volunteers, not just from Stratford, but surrounding towns and villages as well, and mostly in middle or old age.

  Before they started, we were taken up another floor – via an even more precarious staircase – to see the bells themselves. Great big brass things, brownish grey, patterned with bird droppings. Some quite temperamental, we were told. If you don’t control your rope carefully, they can break their wooden cradles, and run amok, or rather ring amok.

  Back in the main chamber, it was time. The first group took hold of their ropes – along a padded length – and began a curious rhythm, pulling down, letting go, pulling again. The lady next to us explained that everyone was playing the same tune, but at different times, like singing a round.

  I noticed that the ringers were sometimes exchanging comments. ‘What are they saying?’ I asked our guide.

  ‘Well, there’s only four commands really,’ she replied; ‘One to start, one to stop, and a couple in-between. Oh, and occasionally a few expletives deleted if someone gets the timing wrong.’

  Looking round the circle of gentle, focused, grey-haired faces, I thought the expletives deleted probably weren’t much stronger than, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake…!’

  Each group did about ten to fifteen minutes. In one of the breaks, we were invited to try. I was too timid, but Greg had a go, taking the opportunity to explain who we were: ‘…and Tony is about to play Falstaff, who gets to say the famous line, “We have heard the chimes at midnight”.’

  ‘Not round here you won’t!’ exclaimed one old chap. ‘We’ve got to stop at nine, or they complain in Old Town.’

  We said our thanks and left them to it. Walking back to Avonside, hearing the bells strike up again, the sound was more enchanting than ever, now that I had a picture of that little chamber in the tower, brightly lit and nicely warmed, with a gathering of devoted folk who journey there on Tuesday evenings, to practise a skill they’ve learned carefully and take great pride in; it’s a picture of Middle England, a picture which reminds me why I love this country.

  Wednesday 27 November

  Revised all the lines that I’ve learned so far, in both parts. Thought how different the river view was, in front of me, from six weeks ago, when Hysteria finished and I moved up here. The autumn was beautiful then. Now the light is grey, the water dull, the trees quite bare, the remaining leaves a flat yellow tone.

  Thursday 28 November

  With my script back on the drawing board in my London studio, I begin work on what I call the little lines: the quick-fire banter and exchanges with other characters. These are much harder than the big speeches to learn before rehearsals, without knowing the rhythm of your fellow actors, the interplay with them, and indeed the physical shape of the scene. Certain lines will become easy to remember when they’re connected to a specific movement: I’m sitting down at this point or I’m moving from A to B. In the absence of these aids, the public’s favourite question – ‘How do you learn all those lines?’ – is difficult to answer again. (Someone should do a study.) Today I find myself using all sorts of devices: word association, letter association, all kinds of alliteration, half-hidden tunes in the dialogue (Shakespeare is good with these), and other tricks. But why do some sections go into the brain quicker than others? And why do I stumble on a particular word or phrase again and again? These are easily solved – I write them out on a sheet of paper next to the script, and practise them more than the rest – but why do they happen in the first place? And as to the use of ‘thee’ or ‘you’, that’s simply a bloody nightmare. There’s not always an apparent logic, and sometimes they’ll both appear in the same sentence. Then the task is simply one of repetition, of developing a kind of muscle memory with the line, like a dance step or a fight move: it can only be this way.

  Friday 29 November

  Stephen Brimson Lewis and Greg had a design meeting at the house today, upstairs in Greg’s study. I only popped in at the end. Stephen had some images on his laptop of overweight chaps. ‘You can google “Fat Men”,’ he said with an air of apology. ‘Now, is it this, or this?’ he asked, showing a fat man and an obese one. I chose the first, reiterating that it must be realistic, it has to be feasibly me. We agreed to meet the fat-suit maker soon, try out some shapes, and get a rehearsal version made.

  In line-learning, one leapt out at me. Part I, Act Three, Scene Three. Mistress Quickly is telling Hal that Falstaff claims the prince owes him a thousand pounds. Hal confronts Falstaff. Falstaff replies, ‘A thousand pound, Hal? A million. Thy love is worth a million. Thou ow’st me thy love.’ Quick as a flash, Falstaff gets himself out of a tight corner, and gives a tender description of their friendship. Fine writing.

  Sunday 1 December

  My God, we’re in December. Rehearsals start this month…!

  Thursday 5 December

  To the Duchess Theatre, to see Arturo Ui. I have a complicated relationship with this play. Shortly after arriving in this country, I saw Leonard Rossiter play it in Michael Blakemore’s production, and it remains one of the best pieces of character acting – no, of acting – I have ever seen: a walking cartoon, hilarious and chilling. When I came to play the part myself, at the National in 1990, I felt thwarted by the Brecht Estate forbidding us to use the George Tabori version (which Blakemore and Rossiter used): Tabori’s version improves on Brecht’s own work. At the time, I felt that this accounted for the disappointing time I had on that show. But, puzzlingly, the Brecht Estate have allowed this current production, from Chichester, to use the Tabori, and yet for me the play still falls flat. But it certainly works as a star vehicle, and Henry Goodman certainly delivered. He began in very grotesque form: a strange, shuffling, hunched figure, who gradually grew more upright, more presentable, more Hitlerian. It was mesmeric.

  Afterwards, we were on
our way backstage, to visit Henry, when Greg turned on his phone.

  ‘Mandela has died,’ he said.

  I stopped in my tracks. It was expected, of course, but still a shock. We hailed the first taxi we saw, and Greg texted Henry to explain.

  Back at home, we watched BBC News for a couple of hours. Although Obama, or his speech-writers, came up with a good sound bite – ‘He no longer belongs to us, he belongs to the ages’ – the President was clearly speaking from his own heart when he said that, if it wasn’t for the inspiration he got from Mandela, he wouldn’t be where he is today.

  At one point, they showed Table Mountain and played ‘Nkosi Sikelel’’. We were both in tears. Greg said, ‘Thank you for letting me know that country and meet that man.’

  (Although I had met him before, Greg and I met him together in 2002, when we organised a gala at the Royal Festival Hall for the Celebrate South Africa festivities. Greg often talks about the handshake, which others have also described: how Mandela used his free hand to enfold their gripped hands, while meeting Greg’s gaze with a deep, calm smile.)

  Friday 6 December

  The feeling is strange. It’s as though I’ve lost someone close to me. But that’s true in a way. He was close to us all, to the spirit of humanity. No, that’s not true. Humanity is a pretty ugly thing – not like him at all. We marvel at him, we praise him, but we don’t really recognise him. He’s the kind of human being that religion pictures. He may have lived, but he’s almost like a fantasy.

  The Guardian was transformed. The front page was just one big photo of him.

  On the Today programme, John Humphrys did a moving tribute, which included an interview from 1994, with a black woman who was queuing to vote in the first democratic elections; she was pregnant, and talked about how her child would know a different South Africa. There was also an interview with Denis Goldberg, the only white man among the accused at the Rivonia Trial. He reminded us that they were all expecting the death penalty. Just think.