Year of the King: An Actor's Diary and Sketchbook - Twentieth Anniversary Edition

by Antony Sher

  As we're leaving the King's Arms Hotel after Sunday lunch, I watch a beautiful white dove walking down the wet road. A car approaches and the bird accidentally turns into the wheel rather than away from it. A gentle crunch. The car passes. A shape like a discarded napkin left in the road. Still perfectly white, no red stains, but bearing no relation anymore to the shape of a bird. A trail of white feathers flutter down the road after the car. The suddenness is very upsetting. That gentle crunch.

  Monday 28 May

  Two weeks to go.

  Another bad day on the early group scenes. We've all got different solutions to the problems in these scenes and no one can agree. Bill, the most democratic of directors, sits silently, looking miserable.

  The current bone of contention is whether there should be outbreaks of violence in the court - the Margaret-mugging episode, Rivers and Dorset drawing knives on Richard's faction after Edward's death. I am very much in favour, others feel it's an intrusion on the text. Adam Bareham (Lord Rivers) says, `The violence should be suppressed, these people should be able to sustain a politic decorum. Let's just use the text, not impose and demonstrate.'

  I cannot let the matter lie. It seems too good an idea, that violence should always be a hair's breadth away. It says so much about the history of these people, the years of bloody civil war, the world that has bred a Richard.

  Bill should decide this one, but he continues to sit obstinately on the fence, so it's left unresolved.

  I go to the G B H to pump iron and deflate aggro. It's Bank Holiday in Stratford again. Morris dancers skip and drunk punks fall into the river.

  BAYNARD'S CASTLE As an exercise, we try the scene for real. As if Richard was a genuinely honest and religious man and Buckingham was determined to make him King in order to cleanse the country of `the corruption of a blemished stock'. It's the old problem of playing hypocrites and dissemblers. It's so difficult to enter into their play-acting with the emotional commitment they would be forced to use in real life. You are drawn like a magnet to the wink at the audience.

  The exercise yields hidden treasures: how traumatic for Richard to have his family's dirty linen displayed in public, how savage Buckingham has to be to shake some sense into this man. Richard tries to clasp his hands over Buckingham's mouth or over his own ears, Buckingham wrenches these away, Richard weeps and sobs.

  The discovery is so rich that we end up putting back most of what we'd cut.

  And now that real issues are at stake the scene is also, at last, extremely funny.

  Tuesday 29 May

  It's the first sunny day for ages. The bright light makes you look around again and everything has changed. The countryside has turned green. That dusty, summer green I love (I suppose because of South Africa). Even the fields of rape are turning green now, so mercifully I can stop trying to describe them. Specks of white fluff on the air. Going over the bridge at Welford-on-Avon the river is a thicker, warmer brew today.

  SOLUS We take stock. Almost all of the original plans for the character have changed. That's all right, that's healthy. Only by putting him on his feet (all four of them) could we really find out what works and what doesn't. The monster to strike pity and terror has gone; the new man has become funny and even a bit sexy!

  `How many severely deformed people are regarded as sex symbols?' I ask for the last time, because Bill has found an answer: `This is no ordinary severely deformed man.'

  A rather upsetting incident involving one of the boys playing the Princes.

  Bill and Alison Sutcliffe have had to choose an A-team and a B-team; the A-team gets to play the press night and schedules have to be worked round that.

  For the A-team they've chosen a Prince Edward from one pair and a Duke of York from the other, which means separating the two sets of `brothers' who have rehearsed together for all these weeks.

  The demoted York freaks out and disappears. We assume this to be the behaviour of a diminutive prima donna, so he doesn't win much sympathy. Welcome to the big cruel world of theatre, kid. But as the hours pass, and Vera the child-minder and his parents fail to find him anywhere, the smiles start to freeze on our faces.

  At last he does turn up, tear-stained and grubby. Our assumptions were all wrong. His despair is not to do with being robbed of the chance to play his York to the critics. It's because he's being separated from the boy playing Prince Edward with whom he's been working for weeks. He believes in their rapport: 'Ile feels like my brother,' the boy cries. Clearly he has the making of a serious actor.

  The press night is starting to cause its special mayhem and claims an early victim.

  14t'dnesday 30 .Ilan'

  Compromises are being reached on Court violence.

  The tension of the other day is being defused almost single-handedly by Blessed, the rock on which this year's Company stands. With that massive smile and manic machine-gun delivery: `Yes Bill, what d'you want me to do', You tell me, yes Bill, you tell me, I can take direction like the 'kin best of them! Yes you tell me Bill, where's John Barber going to be sitting, where's little Jack "Pinker-"Tailor?! You tell me Bill, I'm going for the 'kin reviews, me, you tell me Bill!'

  I le and I have developed a running gag - Hastings is always trying to be of help to Richard, getting him in and out of chairs, with a commentary under his breath: `Copes well for a cripple doesn't he? 'Kin marvellous how he copes, never grumbles, there you go your lordship, you want to have a word with your mate Buckingham, off you go now, on yer holidays.'

  `On yer holidays' has become a catch-phrase shared by a small group of us, to represent our enforced exile up here in Stratford. We greet by saying, `Been down the arcade yet?', or 'I pulled a cracker in the Tunnel of Love last night.' Pat occasionally throws in, `Breakfast is now being served in the Portofino Room', which she confessed doesn't just sound like an Alan Bennett line, it is one.

  Blessed is a total anarchist; every line that he says is followed by a twinkling glance to Ial or me, as if to say, ` 'Kin daft innit?' The wonderful thing about his I lastings is that he's using this for the character and it fits perfectly. His I castings is a man who doesn't take life seriously and so fails to notice that he's heading for disaster.

  A solus session scheduled, but both Bill and I are bored with these - we need an audience now. It's a warm sunny evening so we cancel the rehearsal and head off to Lambs in Moreton-in-Marsh: the Bills, Alison and self. Discussion about the privilege of working at Stratford for the Company, how as students we all made pilgrimages here, hitchhiking, queuing for returns, sleeping-bags in fields, dreams of working here one day. We share a sense of wonderment that we should he directing, designing, starring here now.

  The scoliotic patron again a source of intense fascination. As the evening progresses, and bottles of wine gather and empty, I become increasingly determined to speak to him tonight. Again a threatened exodus from the table. Bill D. says, `I'd really rather you did this on a night when I wasn't here.' Bill A. says, `It's completely bad form, like chatting up a waitress.'

  Again, an argument rages about research. Where to draw the line?

  Thursday 31 May

  CORONATION SCENE Guy Woolfenden arrives to teach the cast the Gloria.

  Guy is, of course, another R S C legend. He's been with the Company for decades and composed the music for three previous productions of Richard III. This makes me very self-conscious again. Like Ciss, he's heard all these lines spoken before, better or worse.

  Bill's conception for the coronation is brilliant. Everyone is there - the congregation is made up of the living and the dead (ghosts of the early victims, Clarence, Hastings, Rivers and Grey). The ceremony is conducted by the clergy assisted by the murderers and Hastings' whores.

  So the full Company is assembled (they'll be supplemented by a full chorus Guy's recording in London next week). I'm the only one who doesn't have to learn the Gloria. Sitting behind them all, sketching, I find it rather moving. The voices soar. So do my hopes for this production. I must
n't set myself up for disappointment.

  People complain that the hymn has been set too high. Guy says he was watching the football on TV last night and was amazed to hear how high the crowd were singing `You'll Never Walk Alone'. He says, `I rushed to my piano and discovered they were singing a fifth higher than I bet any of them thought they could sing. The adrenalin supplies the boost.'

  Bill fits the ceremony to the music. At the moment of climax, as the voices reach for that final `gloria!', the throne bearers hoist me up as high as they can above their heads. A ripple of shivery sensations - it's like being shot out of a cannon. There is nothing more exciting than acting to live music, the make-believe at its most indulgent and its most thrilling.

  The coronation is going to be a tremendous end to the first half. In fact, a hard act to follow.

  Bill's idea is to echo it at the end - bring the congregation on again, perhaps singing, or a more violent chanting, for the death.

  After the rehearsal Guy spots the throne we've been using for rehearsals and asks, 'Is that from an oldJulius Caesar?'

  `Looks more like a Cymbeline to me,' says Bill.

  Jim and others are quick to join in, circling the throne, like a crowd of Arthur Negii on `Antiques Roadshow':

  `Or Coriolanus even.'

  `Well, a Titus for that matter.'

  `I wouldn't put a Troilus past it.'

  `Antony and Cleo?'

  `I don't know,' says Guy, `the feet still have the look of a '72 Chris Morley Caesar to me.'

  Black Mac's on board; he will be dressing me after all. He's using the two-week holiday due to him from the Army so that he can be here during the days of the technical and dress rehearsals.

  `I told you Animil, if you wanted me, I'd be there!'

  Friday i _7une

  Despite a mogodon, I wake with the four o'clock gremlins. Today, the first run-through of the whole of our first half. Also the false back will finally arrive from Tucker.

  RUN-THROUGH OF THE FIRST HALF The cast warm up on the coronation Gloria, while I limber up on the crutches. Feel very nervous. A lot of the Company will be seeing it for the first time, also Bill D., the lighting designer Leo Leibovici, and Charlotte who has come up from London to pronounce final judgement on the safety of my deformed position.

  Bill says, `Right, we're starting in fifteen seconds' time ...' I'm pacing around muttering `Now is the winter' under my breath like a rosary. Bill's countdown is not helping: `... nine, eight, seven -'

  `Has anyone seen Roger Allam?' asks Philip MacDonald, the stagemanager.

  Everyone stops what they're doing and looks round the crowded room. No Roger Allam. The stage-managers hurry away to put out a call over the tannoy and to phone his digs. We wait poised. We can't start without him - the first Clarence scene is straight after `Now is the winter'. Word comes back that he is nowhere to be found. Stage-managers are sent to his digs, we to wait in the Green Room. People who know him well say it is untypical of him to have misread the call sheet. Something more ominous is feared.

  Waiting. At regular intervals he is called over the tannoy. But there seems to be some problem in pronouncing his name: `Will Mister Allen go to the Conference Hall immediately ... Mister Allung ... Mister Annun ... Mister Annum ...' as if by trying different names it will miraculously conjure him up.

  We wait an agonising half hour. At last Bill decides to proceed with Clarence's understudy, Andy Readman, who knows the lines and is prepared to have a go.

  After all of this, the run is extremely tense. It probably would have been anyway.

  Andy is quite stunning as Clarence. The character's fear and confusion are, of course, well served by the present situation. But even so, he plays with a speed and absence of emotional indulgence which we all could learn from.

  I take until Act Three to relax and start enjoying myself. Earlier on, the feeling is dreadful - no laughs from the people seeing it for the first time, I'm trying much too hard, dripping with sweat after the first five minutes. I remember all the lines, but clumsily. Stumbling and paraphrasing.

  Oddly enough it's the two boy Princes who get the first laughs and everyone relaxes around them.

  Strange feeling afterwards. Exhausted, wet through, disappointed with myself, but also uplifted by the bits that have worked. Also a feeling of presumptuousness - the check of daring even to attempt this great part. Wanting to run away and hide, but having to put on a brave face, like after press nights.

  Charlotte is very encouraging about the disability and gives it the seal of approval. She's never seen the play before, or even the film, and says it had heron the edge of her seat. That's good to hear. Jim also encouraging but says, `You've got to find more of Richard's intellectual brilliance. You've got to be as agile with his mind as you are on the crutches.' Other reactions from Blessed - `Going to be 'kin marvellous, very original, very exciting' - and Harold Innocent who says, `Too long, too long.' I agree with this. It ran over two hours and people are still tending to play their moments rather than telling the story.

  Bill has a rather charming weakness for note sessions. He launches into reams of detailed notes, forgetting until half-way through to make a general comment: `Oh, by the way, it was very good.'

  Roger Allam appears, looking ashen. He had simply misread the call sheet. He goes on his knees, and begins to crawl across the floor towards Bill.

  Bill says, `Roger, the worst punishment I can give is to tell you that your understudy's performance is rather brilliant.'

  WARDROBE FITTING-ROOM With my heart in my mouth, I hurry over to see my back.

  It's much softer than I imagined, lying on the floor like a big pink blancmange, a slice of blubber, a side of Elephant Man. I can hardly get my clothes off fast enough to hoist it on to my back. A crowd of wardrobe staff, the Bills, Alison, Charlotte, are gathered around. They gasp at the first sight. I view myself in a series of mirrors. It's magnificent from the side and back, moving with my body in a convincing and disturbing fashion. But nothing shows from face-on because of Tucker's refusal to build up a massive central hump extending on to the shoulders. A faint sense of disappointment that the bull is gone. But hardly time to register this as an army of wardrobe ladies descend with pins and scissors.

  The back has arrived so late that they are now left with exactly one week to make all of my costumes. No doubt they've all been through anger and despair, but this evening there is an atmosphere of celebration. Everyone is grinning, laughing, chattering away. Again that sense of hope for this production is rather moving.

  The deformity will be worn in two sections. The arms and knees will be sewn into a complete body stocking. The back will strap over this like a parachute.

  Roger Allam seeks me out to apologise personally. He's looking so shaken I end up consoling him. He's been out and bought Andy Readman a bottle of Madeira wine called Duke of Clarence.

  The Bills have disappeared to a lighting meeting, so I'm left alone for the evening. Exhausted and fighting back post-natal depression after today's run.

  Luckily bump into Penny who feels the same, so we take one another to dinner at Hill's, Stratford's excellent new restaurant, and have a wonderful evening. She is terrifically constructive about today's run: `It was too long, not because it lasted over two hours, but because the play is a classy thriller, no more, no less. It's got to go like the clappers.'

  Saturday 2,June

  Bill and Ciss give me notes on the run. Bill puts it vividly as always: `You haven't learned the part yet. You've learned the lines, you played each scene well, but you haven't got the shape of it yet. It's like you're surfing this magnificent wave, but you're not content to lie on the board and enjoy the ride. You're paddling furiously with your arms, expending lots of energy, but not affecting the progress of the journey in any way.'

  Ciss points out that Richard has no set-backs in the early part of the play, nothing to jolt his sense of confidence. Success with every step he takes. She talks of me overworking my voice
and it lacking a lightness of touch, but is always careful to add, `It's only a question of degree, darling.'

  I request that we run the whole play at least three times next week. I've got to be able to treat it as just another play, de-mystify it. In Shaw's words, I'm still too `solemnly conscious of Shakespeare's reputation'. In a way, I've got to get a bit bored with it.

  I mention cuts and the discussion immediately disintegrates into a tense monologue from me. Everyone felt the run was too long, why is Bill the only person who can't see it? I resort to a few blows below the belt, suggesting that by refusing to cut, he's making my job harder, forcing me to overwork in the effort to drag this deadweight along.

  Bill's tactic is to sit very still, stare at the floor and not enter the discussion at all. It's very effective. I run out of steam and begin to pack up for the weekend.

  He suddenly says rather formally, `I just want you to know that I think you're doing smashing work on this.'

  I'm taken aback. He never normally says things like this to me, but expects me to know for myself when things are working well.

  I say, `Thank you. And I'd like you to know that I think you are too. And it sometimes occurs to me that you think I've lost faith in you.' (Very pleased to have had the chance to say that.)

  `Oh no, no.' He blushes, we shake hands in a curiously formal way and part for the weekend.

  Feel shattered with exhaustion as Jim drives us back to Islington. Sleep most of the way, half waking as we come into a sunny London evening. Horse chestnut trees, coral and white, through the sun-roof of the car. A glimpse of myself in the wing-mirror. Unshaven. Heavy eyes. Arriving at the house, that hazy sense of waking from or falling into a dream. The house so familiar and yet the garden wildly overgrown. Branches, vines, firethorn and pink roses pouring in from both walls, giant hollyhocks leaning about, the grass long and silvery ... an ice cream van plays `O Sole Mio'.