by Antony Sher
Mind you, if I’m knackered, what about everyone else? Just two examples. Jenny Kirby is giving a heartfelt (and sexy) performance as Lady Percy, but also has to play a tavern lass and a scarecrow soldier – thankless but tiring work – and understudy Doll. Rob Gilbert does a strong double as Mortimer and Coleville, plays another scarecrow soldier, a drawer, a carrier, a groom, and understudies Hotspur, which means not only learning all the lines, but that big, difficult fight with Hal. There are understudy rehearsals all the time (taken by Owen Horsley), alongside Greg’s calls. The company is being worked to its limits. Being at the RSC is not for sissies.
This evening’s audience – for Part I – was probably the best we’ve had: packed to the rafters and wild with enthusiasm. On occasions like this I always say that the show flew, I flew – but tonight it was almost true. At one point I felt so exhilarated that I had a sort of out-of-body experience: it was as though I lifted out of myself, and saw this enormous theatre, filled with this joyful crowd, and there in the middle of it – there I was playing Falstaff. Now that wasn’t written into my destiny. And all the more fucking marvellous for it!
Wednesday 9 April
The day was hot and glorious. In Stratford we call this matinee weather. The sun is somehow guaranteed to shine whenever we’re trapped inside a dark theatre for a whole day.
So – the marathon again: Parts I and II. When my contract was being negotiated, I’d specifically asked for more of these double-days to be scheduled during the preview period. Part of the job with Shakespeare’s great roles is just learning how to pace yourself.
The start of this one is quite unique:
Falstaff’s first entrance is from under a pile of bedding at the foot of Hal’s bed. Beforehand, in pitch darkness at the back of the stage, I’m helped into a prone position by Daisy (our ASM), and then Kevin (from Props) whispers, ‘All right, Tony?’ I whisper back, ‘Yes thanks,’ and feel him place the quilts over me. I keep open a little section to breathe, then lie there waiting. I always think: what a totally bizarre way to begin a major job of work…!
A good sign. During today’s shows, I stopped fretting about the work, and was relaxed (or tired) enough to sit back and look around me. The spectacle of backstage life…! For years I’ve wanted to do a big painting of it, but I simply don’t know how to capture the sheer variety of activity and pace.
The setting is one of the wings on either side of the RST stage: a shadowy, blue-lit area which is locked in permanent night-time. On floor level, it is crowded with prop cupboards, prop tables, stage furniture and chairs just for sitting. But a few metres higher it becomes an empty, incredibly tall space, reaching all the way up to the flies, where pieces of set and lighting bars are suspended. The wing is populated by dozens of people dressed in three different ways: some (the actors) are in costume, many more (stage crew, stage managers, dressers and wiggies) are wearing black clothes and radio-contact equipment, and a few (those stage hands who will appear on the stage to move scenery) are in a mixture of both: rudimentary costume and radio-contact equipment.
One or two of the actors are about to enter the present scene, and stand in that poised state, that particular stillness, containing adrenalin, nerves, and a memory bank of words. Other actors are waiting for the next scene, sitting in their regular seats – it can be a plastic chair or a throne – and holding whispered conversations, or sipping at bottles of mineral water, or (if they’ve been at understudy rehearsals all day) catching a quick nap. Another actor has just exited, and has a quick change ahead: they run, fast but quiet, beginning to undo belts and buttons. In the quick-change room – an improvised, tent-like structure – they are set upon by dressers and wiggies, with busy hands grabbing, lifting, lowering. It can feel like being mugged. Meanwhile, other dressers and wiggies have nothing to do for now; they’ve brought along books, magazines, and crossword puzzles, and seek out any spill of light to see by. A stage manager is knitting, with one dutiful eye on the big colour monitor which shows the onstage action; they will never miss their next cue. Another stage manager is walking purposively, carrying a prop – it was deposited on stage-left during the last scene, and needs to arrive from stage-right in the next one. The stage crew have long, long waits during the performance. These days they have iPhones to alleviate the boredom, and their faces are lit by the tiny, cool glow of their screens. The Wardrobe Mistress passes, wheeling a small trolley of used costumes…
There’s the sudden arrival of men in armour: actors who’ve being changing in their dressing rooms. They go to the sword rack and collect their weapons.
Now, abruptly, everyone is on their feet, and milling towards the entrances: actors lining up in a prescribed order, stage crew manning ropes or preparing to go onstage to clear the set. Cue lights have come on here and there in the dark, showing red. On the little black-and-white monitor the Musical Director can be seen in front of the band (they’re in a separate room, high above the stage); he’s wearing headphones, and holds up his fingers in a countdown: two, one, and – the music starts. The stage lights dim. The cue lights turn green. The wings empty. After just a few seconds, the crew returns, the stage lights brighten, the music fades, and you hear the actors beginning the new scene…
Thursday 10 April
Greg mustered his forces, and did a lot of work on Part II today. ‘We’re learning its true nature in performance,’ he told the company; ‘Much more than with Part I. That came fully formed. It’s so strong, you just have to do it. Easy-peasy. Part II is a much subtler, stranger thing. But a fine thing. Maybe we’ve been regarding it too much as a dying fall from Part I. Well, a dying fall can’t sustain a whole evening. It’s got its own dynamic. And we’re finding it, we’re getting there!’
He did a good exercise with the Pistol section of the tavern scene. Asked us to do it without all the frenetic moves – just sitting in a circle of chairs, talking to one another, really connecting. Then we put the moves back in. Suddenly the scene was more febrile, more dangerous, more important. It ceased to be a kind of turn – which needed laughs and wasn’t getting them – now it was real life in this tavern: booze-fuelled craziness. This affected the Falstaff/Doll relationship too. Nia and I began fighting more, loving more. She’s so good. I can’t imagine a better Doll.
With Alex, Greg has been tracing a new route for Hal through Part II: finding out who he can trust. Best friend Poins? Maybe not. (In the tennis scene, Hal discovers that Poins might be trying to engineer a marriage to his sister.) Old mentor Falstaff? Not on your nelly. (In the tavern scene, Hal overhears Falstaff bad-mouthing him.) Enemy number one, the Lord Chief Justice? Yes, surprisingly. (When the King dies, LCJ swears allegiance to Hal.) Hal’s journey to the crown is tenser now, more paranoid, more exciting.
For my own part, I gave myself a subtitle for tonight’s show – ‘The Fears and Decay of Sir John Falstaff’ – and the results were surprising. Maybe they’re things I’ve noted before, but it’s different when you’re out there doing it. I realised that Falstaff is besieged by danger, whether from within (his health: gout, possible pox, ageing) or from without: he’s still accountable for the Gad’s Hill robbery (punishment: death), and Mistress Quickly tries to get him arrested for debt, and at Gaultree Forest he has to physically confront the knight Coleville. There’s new spitefulness in him: people only have to leave his company for him to start rubbishing them. Best of all – because it accords with an audience’s response to Part II – is that he can no longer make people laugh like he did before: his humour falls flat with LCJ, Hal, and especially Prince John. And, as an alcoholic, he’s no longer trying to clean up his act – his happiest speech is now a hymn to sherry-sack. He is an embittered, vulnerable old soak, trying to cover up reality with a few tired jokes. This is Falstaff in Part II. And this is who I played tonight. The changes to my performance were probably quite minimal, but they were vital. And felt right. As did the whole evening. When, in Act Four, Scene One, the Archbishop of York cried, ‘We ar
e all diseased’, he was describing the one thing that unites this disparate play. We had our smallest audience so far, yet did our best show.
I hesitate to say this aloud, or even write it down, but I think we’ve cracked Part II.
Friday 11 April
A complete change of focus, thank the Lord. The Irish President, Michael D. Higgins, is in the middle of a historic visit to England. The Queen gave a state dinner in his honour at Windsor, he addressed both Houses of Parliament, and, being a poet and writer, he specially requested coming to Stratford. The RSC is hosting him here.
So this morning Greg gave him a tour of the building, which was crawling with security people, and then brought him into the main theatre for a short performance. First, three of our actors – Trevor, Sean and Tony – spoke the words of some famous Irishmen who’d been to Stratford:
Wilde, unveiling the Shakespeare Memorial that had been carved by his friend Gower in 1888, commented on Falstaff ‘indulging in that eternal laughter which time has not been able to dull’.
Yeats was so moved by seeing six of the History Plays together in 1901, he wrote, ‘That strange procession of kings and queens, of warring nobles, of insurgent crowds, of courtiers, and of people of the gutter, has been to me almost too visible, too audible, too full of unearthly energy.’
Shaw, when asked in 1925 to propose the toast to the Immortal Memory on Shakespeare’s birthday, finally agreed to do it. He’d been declining for years, saying that since he never celebrated his own birthday, he could hardly celebrate that of ‘a lesser dramatist’. He hated the architecture of the Memorial Theatre, and when it burned down the following year, he sent the Board a telegram: ‘Congratulations!’
Then we performed the ‘play within the play’ from the tavern scene. And then Higgins came onstage – a diminutive, white-haired gent – and gave as fine a speech about language as only an Irishman could:
‘The words exchanged between Ireland and England have often been part of a long and sometimes tortured exchange… Here in this place, sacred to the English language and its many glories, it would be inauthentic and foolish to gloss over the truth, since at the heart of language there is and must be a passion for truth. Today I want to acknowledge a great truth: the English language that we share, if it was once the enforced language of conquest, it is today the very language in which we have now come to delight in one another.’
I found the whole event rather stirring – to be reminded that our theatre is a place of pilgrimage, and not just, as it sometimes seems to us, an unforgiving workplace.
The media were here in force today, and as they were being guided round, one of our press officers showed me a bizarre piece from this morning’s Daily Telegraph, in a column called ‘Mandrake’. It claims that I visited Clarence House to discuss Falstaff with Prince Charles. Is this a form of Chinese whispers following Greg’s trip to High-grove on Monday? Anyway, it’s one of those things that, because it’s in print, will now seem like truth, and some members of the audience will watch my performance wondering which bits were suggested by HRH.
Saturday 12 April
There are times when the demands of this giant part – the mental pressure plus the physical discomfort – start to feel overwhelming. My chief enemy is exhaustion. This I morning took two vitamin C tablets, one Berocca, drank several cups of coffee, and at the end of my shower turned the temperature to cold for thirty seconds. This is the equivalent of jumping off Big Rock on Saunders Beach back at home in Sea Point. (The icy Atlantic gives the body a thrilling shock – it can cure hangovers and even jet lag.) But today nothing worked till we started the marathon – both parts again – and Doctor Theatre kicked in. It’s just adrenalin, I believe. Some American study claimed that when an actor goes onstage, the adrenalin is equivalent to being in a car crash. So a press performance must be like a plane crash. But this isn’t useful thinking…
Sunday 13 April
I’ve lost more weight. My cheekbones are surfacing. It’s a race against time.
More worrying, I think I’m getting that cough which has afflicted me in the past. I used to think it was from living next to the river, but now I wonder if it’s being caused by wearing soaking-wet clothes for hours on end: throughout the show, the body suit and my vest are drenched with sweat. It can’t be good for the chest. To think that the rest of the company had that terrible coughing illness which swept through the building, and are over it, and now I’m feeling this tiny, deadly tickle in the throat, just in time for the big day. Greg says I’m to just say NO to it. Trouble is, he was brought up by a down-to-earth Yorkshire mother who had no truck with illness. My mother was a Jewish hypochondriac.
The irony is – a cough like this led to that ghastly performance of Köpenick, which in turn led to me deciding to playing Falstaff…
Talking of which, have I captured him now, is my performance there?
The role is immensely complex. Some of it has only fallen into place during the preview period: after that first sight of him in my dressing-room mirror, the discussion about his youth with Greg, and discovering the relationship with a live audience. On the one hand, these growth surges have come rather late; on the other, thank God they’ve come at all…
I do a sketch – like the ones of other actors playing the role – but now of my Falstaff. I compare it with the first image I drew of him (15/11/13). There’s a vital difference. Then he was sitting back – now he’s heaving forward, eyes gleaming, mouth open. I’d subtitle it APPETITE (his primary characteristic, I believe): not just for food and drink, subversiveness and danger, but for life. [Photo insert, page 8, My Falstaff 8]
Monday 14 April
Woke with a peculiar feeling. Now that Sunday’s over, there’s no safe barrier left – between me and Wednesday, the press day. Maybe people who are going to have a major operation feel like this. Except I’m both patient and surgeon. With the endurance of the one, and the skill of the other. Falstaff will either come back to glorious life for the critics, or do the opposite.
Tuesday 15 April
Bad sleep. Coughing. Yet it isn’t occurring during the day, or affecting the performances. It’s like I’m half in control of it. Greg and his mother are half-right.
Anyway, the sun is shining, and the big sycamore outside our window is in leaf. Our view is of its inside body, the branches rippling with river light. All this spring brightness fills me with energy, aggressive energy. Fuck it, I’ve done all I can, I’ve done my best. Let tomorrow come.
Wednesday 16 April
Took one and a half sleeping pills last night – no coughing – but I still wake much too early, of course.
Before we leave the flat, we exchange first-night cards. Both express similar sentiments. His says, ‘How could we nearly not have done this?’ Mine says, ‘Thank you for your craziness and bravery in giving me this part.’ It’s also a chance for me to comment on his production. All the things I’ve been admiring – Stephen’s design, Tim’s lighting, Paul’s music, the cast’s performances – they all start with Greg’s vision. I’ve always felt these two plays have his name on them. And he’s brought his three main gifts to the table: clarity, imagination, and heart. It’s beautiful work.
The company, myself included, are mystified that our first call is at Trinity Church. Jasper says, ‘Are we going to pray for a miracle?’ But it’s not God that Greg wants us to honour, but one very mortal man who happens to have been baptised and buried here. The company mood is festive – people are wearing sunglasses and T-shirts – you’d think we were going on holiday rather than embarking on our toughest marathon day yet. Greg gathers us into a circle in the churchyard, and quietly gives a rousing speech: ‘We’re entering a hall of mirrors. The critics are unlikely to reflect accurately what we’ve done. Some may flatter, some may distort. It’s important for us to step into this hall of mirrors together, as a company, to know what we think of our work, before others start telling us what they think.’ Then he takes us into the c
hurch, and, because of his special influence here, is able to escort us past the barrier at the Chancel, so that we can stand round Shakespeare’s grave itself.
Have to confess that while the company is looking elsewhere – as Greg is doing a bit of tour-guide patter – I kneel briefly, touch the magic stone and bring my fingers to my lips.
After the church visit, everything goes into fast-forward for me: doing my make-up in the dressing room, while cards and gifts keep arriving, or people pop in to wish me well – including Ciss on her stick (I’m touched by that) – and then, before I know it, the solemn, majestic music of the opening motet, ‘Urbs beata Jerusalem’, is booming over the tannoy, and we’re off.
First impression is that the audience is friendly. Odd. As I hurry to my next scene, I say to the actors whom I pass, ‘What’s the matter with them – don’t they know this is a press performance?!’ All is going well, but after the interval, I start to get that press-performance feeling: just getting through it, no sense of enjoyment or inspiration.
At the end, a great ovation… great cheer for me…
Greg comes to my dressing room. He says, ‘You’re on splendid form.’ Then suddenly becomes emotional: ‘When you all came on for the curtain call, I was so proud of what you’d all done.’
I hug him: ‘Be proud of what you’ve done.’
I become strangely tense during the break. Manage to eat half a sandwich and a banana, but can’t snooze. Go through all the lines of Part II.
Bump into Trevor in the corridor. He’s had a stupendous surprise. At the end of the matinee, he was called down to the stage door, and found his parents standing there. They’d flown over from Canada. Everyone kept it a secret. I can’t help picturing how two South Africans (now deceased) might have done the same thing.
