by Antony Sher
Hastings' head finally makes an appearance. Despite all our discussions it is just another prop head, bearing only a passing resemblance to Blessed and having no weight at all. The poor thing doesn't even have ears. I fly into a totally unprofessional rage backstage, screaming and swearing while dressers and actors look on bewildered. Afterwards, I am doubly ashamed of myself when I am told the man who was making the head had been rushed to hospital and this was the best they could do in the circumstances. Now it's over, we have the two-hour wait till 7.30 p.m.
We're going to do it, we're actually going to do it.
I feel a restlessness that is almost uncontrollable. Try to eat, but, as at lunch time, no appetite. Half a bowl of soup is the most I can manage. Energy is being supplied by the sportsman's protein mix that Blessed recommended - a mildly repulsive drink made up of protein powder, milk and a banana - which I just manage to down. Try chatting to people and find that helps, particularly if I can joke and seem relaxed to them. Acting in real life helps quell the screaming voice inside - `Help me, let me go, let me escape please!'
Selecting a tape for my massage I come across the opera choruses from that drunken, lazy day on a beach on the other side of the world. I lie there watching the polite Avon drift by, remembering how improbable it seemed then that I should come back to England and play Richard III.
Jenny, the masseuse, says, `Your body is bursting with energy today.' Says it transmits to her through her hands, so that by the end of the session she is buzzing as well.
FIRST PREVIEW At 6.45 p.m. Mac and Pam O'Halleron arrive to dress and bewig me. Pam is another friend from my previous season here, which is a comfort. Joking with them helps calm me again. When Pam has gone, Mac says casually, `It's gonna be a good show, mate. You can always tell. They're talking about it round the theatre. Like they did with your Fool. It's gonna be a fokkin hit, you mark my words.'
Bill never comes round to actors' dressing-rooms. Very unusual this. It is routine for the director to pop in before, after and sometimes during first nights. But I think his way helps to defuse the tension. No token good wishes before and token congratulations afterwards.
But tonight, surprisingly, his voice comes over the tannoy in the manner of this-is-your-captain-speaking: `Hello everybody, this is Bill ... just want to say uhm ... good luck, have a good time and uhhh ... that's all. Right. Thank you.'
I ask Mac to leave me alone for a while. Put on some perfunctory eye make-up, muttering my rosary, `Now is the winter . . .' Will I remember the lines? In the profession it is considered a joke that outsiders always ask the question `How do you learn all those lines?' This is a joke that I will never again find remotely funny.
Tannoy: `This is your Act One beginners. Mister Sher, this is your beginners' call please. Elecs and sound operators stand by. Musicians stand by for cues one and two. Stage staff stand by on O P and Prompt Side doors. This is your Act One beginners ...'
Waiting in the wings I feel completely calm. Peeking at the audience. Familiar somehow. Just another show.
But as the house lights dim, I feel the heat correspondingly drain from my veins. I have to give myself a little shove. Mutter `Come on,' like a parachutist launching himself into mid-air. Forcing myself to do something that human beings simply were not intended for.
Scurry on stage and take up the sunbathing pose. Eyes closed. Hearing the music change, feeling the lights warm on my face. Open my eyes. There they are. One and half thousand of them. A wall of people. In Dame Edna Everage's immortal phrase, `hanging off the picture rails'.
` "Now is the winter -" ' horrifying sense that if I pause at all here they will all join in and finish the line in chorus so, hurriedly - ` "of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York." '
Feeling calm again. The rush downstage revealing the crutches produces an audible gasp. Teasing them with the profile turn, knowing they're straining to see the hump.
To my surprise, when Blessed comes on I realise my face is quite dry. As I exit from the scene, a polite round. In with a chance.
The Lady Anne scene goes well. Just before her spit, on the spur of the moment, I slide one of the crutches under her skirt and between her legs. Normally, I would never dare try something like this at a first performance but Penny and I have always had a special rapport in this scene. Nevertheless it shocks both of us as well as the audience, creating a rather wonderful moment. Another exit round. But I am starting to feel exhausted already.
Sucking Nigroid voice tablets as I dash round to the entrance on the other side. Nigroids are planted everywhere, even on the upstage edge of the throne. But the voice is feeling strong and whip-like.
In the Queen Margaret scene - the old problem scene - things start to go wrong. Sense a restlessness in the audience. However, Pat gets a round on her exit.
From then on, the first half is up and down. Another round after the Clarence scene. But something is wrong. Am I trying too much for the comedy, showing too many cards? Or is the play itself darkening as it should? Or is it simply too long? Should Bill have cut more, or should we be playing faster?
Win them back on Baynard's Castle and they certainly seem to like the coronation - the interval applause is thunderous.
I'm soaked through as though a bucket of water has been poured over me. Mac supplying endless pints of Coca Cola with ice - I drink about ten during the evening. Later when I pee it's the colour of Coke.
The second half is very good. My voice holding out well. Feel they're with me now. I'm playing the humour much harsher, less sycophantically than before, making them enjoy it on my terms.
During the Richard/Buckingham bust-up I bash Mal fiercely on the chest and spend the rest of the scene worrying about it. Try to apologise with hand contact, but I feel terrible, getting out of control like that. I seek him out afterwards. He says he didn't notice a thing.
Jim's Tyrrel takes a terrific leap forward in front of an audience. He had been experimenting with different accents, but doing him posh now adds to the seediness.
Queen Elizabeth scene excellent. Frances is very moving in the speech about losing her children and starts to cry for real. In my current emotional state I feel my own eyes filling. Have to fight against it. Would hardly be like Richard. In the screaming, Hiderian `cannot ... will not be avoided' section I do too much and feel the voice give way. Come off, cursing myself. The whole of Bosworth and the oration to go. Popping Nigroids till I risk overdosing.
The Nightmare speech is unfelt and technical. Different funny voices coming out. I had hoped it might release in performance, but not yet. Afterwards, in the Ratcliffe scene ('0 Ratcliffe, I fear, I fear!'), my failing voice cracks badly, giving me a terrible fright. Fear that it won't last and the relief that we're coming to the end produces a flood of real tears. I stop it instantly for `play the eavesdropper'. Real emotion is so useful to act with - wish I had more access to it.
Disaster in the arming ceremony. My soldiers accidentally get the two arms of the armour the wrong way round; I can't bend them at all. In between my lines, I mutter `Help me, twist them round', but neither they nor I am sure what has happened or how to solve it. Can hardly get on to the horse. A feeling that I could break an arm with the strain of trying to bend against the armour joint. When I do struggle on to the horse I can hardly gesture at all. This, combined with no voice, turns the oration into a spectacular non-event.
The applause at the end of the show is vaguely disappointing - a respectable success perhaps. At least I remembered the lines.
Penny and Frances have bought birthday champagne for the dressingroom afterwards. Then to The Duck where Pam has picked the most beautiful rose from her garden and put it in water in a brandy glass. `Like I did for your birthday two years ago,' she says, presenting it to me.
Driving home, on a quiet country road, I take my foot off the accelerator and let the car gradually slow and stop. Sit there staring at the full moon. Exhaustion like I've never known.
Fr
iday 15 June
Almost before I'm awake, I try little voice tests: `Mmmaaaa, mmmoooo ... Surprisingly it's mostly there, except for medium-high notes which are dry, vaporous sounds.
My brother Randall phones from South Africa. `Hi, howzit going?' Very casual. But again I can sense their excitement, their hope for this one.
`I think it went all right.'
`Just all right?' He laughs, but you can hear the disappointment. As Mum's telegram indicated yesterday, they were hoping, at the very least, my Richard would conquer the world.
V o I C E CALL Ciss and I agree that, because of the vocal strain of the part, when/if the show transfers to the Barbican, we'll both request it never plays twice a day. The problem doesn't arise up here in Stratford because there's always a change of play between afternoon and evening shows. This is so that a tourist coming up for a day of culture can have a different menu at each sitting. This doesn't apply to the Barbican. Jacobi sometimes played Cyrano eight times a week, twice on Thursdays and Saturdays. An opera singer asked to sing a comparable role as often as that would simply laugh.
Lunch time. I beg Bill to make some cuts or to get the show moving faster. It's up to the rest of the cast now. I'm going as fast as I can, which maybe is why I keep stumbling over lines. He agrees, but when it comes to Company notes, does nothing about it at all.
SECOND PREVIEW I'm much more nervous. Having to do it all again, without last night's adrenalin.
There are less laughs and the first half drags terribly. The lighting computer has a nervous breakdown, so the audience witnesses several total eclipses in the middle of scenes. One of these happens in the Princes scene and I fear for the kids. But they're much calmer about it than we are. They simply hold their lines until standby lights come on and then continue as if nothing had happened.
My voice holds out well, growing stronger as the evening progresses - until the big shouting moments at the end when it deserts me. But in many ways it's better paced than last night. However, the lines are less secure and at one point I dry completely - before the line `The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom'. After a long, long pause it comes out as, `The sons of Abraham sleep with Edward's sons', causing Freud and Shakespeare to exchange sideways glances in their respective graves.
The show ends at II.05 p.m. The audience are too tired to clap properly. And they're not pleased at having missed both their last buses and last orders in the pub.
An awful, flat feeling.
Ciss pops into my dressing-room. She is worried about my voice: `We must be very careful now darling.'
In search of Bill A. We're so close to having a good show, but he must, must cut now. He's not in The Duck. I buy a bottle of wine and set out to find him. Roaming the dark streets, feeling like a gunfighter.
Back at the theatre I find Sonja Dosanjh, the Company Manager, switching off lights in the offices. She rings round possible numbers, Bill's digs, the theatre restaurant, but no sign of him.
I wander into the wings. That cool darkness. A figure standing alone on the set. It's Bill D. looking wrecked and grey after days of strain.
Almost as one we say, `He's got to cut.' Apparently he's been badgering Bill A. for days as well. We set off together, resolved to sort it out once and for all. As we head out of the stage door Bill A. bursts in: `I know what you're both going to say! It's all right, I'm cutting two whole scenes.' The Clarence children scene and the one in which Elizabeth flees to sanctuary.
We sit down on the floor and, passing the wine bottle around, consider the implications. Both scenes unfortunately involve the Duchess of York which means Yvonne losing about a third of her part. Bill A. is worried what effect this will have on her. But tonight's performance has finally convinced him.
Even his notes on my performance tonight - `By the way, I thought "Now is the winter" and the speech in the Elizabeth scene were quite dreadful' - can't wipe the grin off my face.
He also says he's never seen me dry before and found it fascinating to watch. It's a relief to have this secret fear out in the open at last. Maybe this will lay the jinx.
Saturday 16 june
Arrive to find Bill A. looking like a ghost. Says he hasn't slept at all. Yvonne is coming in at eleven when he'll break the news to her.
We do notes on the early scenes, but he's hardly concentrating and generates a ghastly tension. Makes some general comments on the Lady Anne scene and then asks if Penny and I want to go through it quickly. I say, `I'd rather not spend the time. There are so many other things that need sorting out.' Penny suddenly starts to cry. Says she is suffering from terrible stage fright - having to deliver the goods right at the start of the play, no warm-up, no second chances. It's one of those parts in Shakespeare, famous but tiny. I realise that I've misjudged the situation completely. Because of our immediate rapport I assumed she shared my total confidence in the scene. But I've been overlooking certain facts - it's her first time on that great stage, and coming from another country the reputation of this place is that much more awesome. I know how she feels.
Nevertheless, the fact remains that the scene has always been excellent and time spent- on it now would be wasted. These working days during the previews are almost the most valuable in the whole process. The audience teaching us what does and doesn't work.
She assures us that she'll be all right, and feels better for having shared the problem.
We're all cleared out of the Conference Hall and Yvonne is called in. Nobody else knows yet. I pace around the balcony, watching the Avon drift by.
Five minutes later we're called back in. Bill looks ten years younger and is glowing with relief. Apparently she took it very well and he was more upset than she was.
I seek her out to offer condolences. She says she has sensed it all along and that's why she has been constantly volunteering cuts. Says she was much more worried for the kids playing the Clarence children (who've lost all of their lines). But apparently the little girl just shrugged and said, `Well, that's showbiz.'
On stage. A lighting effect, which is being tried through one of the upper cathedral windows, reveals a spider's web spun overnight, glinting delicately. The Bills and I stare up at it in delight. A good omen - the bottled spider.
Outside the theatre on the lawns, a group of university students are reading the entire works of Shakespeare non-stop, as a stunt to raise money. There are about four of them and a pile of cloaks, hats and wooden swords. They have been at it for over forty-eight hours. Currently on Much Ado, they are already staggering and giggling, voices gone, heavy eyes - drunk on Shakespeare.
THIRD PREVIEW The cuts help enormously. Paradoxically, although they give me less rest breaks, they make the first half much easier to carry. The audience is noticeably gripped.
Towards the end, in the middle of the Bosworth scenes, I'm waiting for an entrance, hunched forward on the crutches. The green cue light comes up earlier than expected, startling me and causing a fart of quite remarkable resonance. Scurry on stage with my little army all suppressing hysteria, only to find that one of my first lines is, `I will not sup tonight'. This renders everyone helpless. Simon Templeman (Catesby) is forced to desert the stage before he has been given the crucial instructions, summoning Lord Stanley's army. The scene is almost ruined, but this relaxation and anarchy has been lacking in the past few days and is welcomed back.
We finish at 10.50 p.m., fifteen minutes shorter than last night! The audience continue to clap after the house lights come up, demanding another call. A few of us run back on stage. Some of the audience are on their feet, but whether out of enthusiasm, or simply caught leaving the theatre, is hard to tell.
No voice at all by the end. Ciss visits the dressing-room to say, `You're going to have to make a decision about next week darling, you're risking permanent damage now.'
Try not to think too much about this. It's lucky the R S C didn't give me any more Shakespeare biggies. I'm clearly not ready yet.
THE DUCK `Was it all right, as
ide from the corpses?' I ask Bill. He grins and shakes his head in disbelief.
Our first chance in ages to do some stocktaking. The production has turned out so differently from what we both intended. But, as Bill says, that's surely part of the creative process: `When you set out to do a painting you don't know how it's going to turn out. It grows.' I mention how some of the music and costumes have worried me. The tightrope that we're walking. Last night's show felt silly and trivial, a pantomime. Tonight was something weirder, richer.
`Exactly the same as Moliere and Tartuffe,' Bill says, `the balance between comedy and nightmare.'
Bill D. puts it lucidly as always: `What we've got is a comedy-thriller in the best sense of the words. Vintage Hitchcock, if you like.'
I think I've understood something about it tonight. It is a young writer's play. It is a young director's production. It is a young Shakespearian actor's performance. It has the crude vitality all of that implies.
As I'm leaving the pub, putting on my jacket, someone says, `Don't move! There's a spider on your shoulder.' That's the second spider today. We turn the jacket inside out, examine my shirt, but no sign.
I can't help smiling - the bottled spider has, at last, been absorbed.
Sunday 17 June
Disappointing little piece on me in the Sunday Telegraph magazine. Rotten photo and uninteresting comment. We've hardly had any publicity at all, there's little anticipation of this production. I keep telling myself this is a good thing. If we're successful, it will be nice they didn't spot it coming. If we're not, it'll be better not to have had a big build-up.
Of course there is always the other depressing option - the production might just be regarded as run-of-the-mill, middle-of-the-road Shakespeare. Early on in rehearsals, the publicity department asked me if I had any ideas on angles they might take. Various editors had already expressed a lack of interest in `just another production of Richard the Third' That hurt me a lot.
