by Simon Brett
For a young actor, the possibilities of a showbiz career appear infinite. Each job, however minor, is the next rung on the inevitable climb to becoming the new Olivier. They all know they’re going to get to the top; it’s simply a question of how long the process is going to take.
Charles, in whose battered heart such fatuous ambitions could still be ignited by a sudden phone call or a good rehearsal, couldn’t yet judge whether Benzo Ritter had the talent to realise his dreams. As well as being an ASM, the young actor had been cast as one of the officers who arrest Antonio in Act Three, Scene Four. He was the Second Officer, which was unfortunate for him, because the First Officer has the lion’s share of the lines.
All Benzo had to say was:
“‘Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Count Orsino,”’
“‘Come, sir, away!”’
and
“‘Come, sir, I pray you go.”’
On their second appearance in Act Five, Scene One, the First Officer is the only one who speaks. So the only opinion Charles had formed was that Benzo Ritter, in common with most young actors in their first parts, had a tendency to make too much of his minimal contribution to the play.
There was no immediate glow of talent, such as Russ Lavery had shown in his first job, Gavin Scholes’ Macbeth at Warminster. Still, learning to act is a long process, there’s a lot of luck involved, and Benzo Ritter might yet make it to the top of the profession.
Certainly he and Talya Northcott seemed willing to learn. They watched rehearsals avidly, particularly when their idol, Sally Luther, was involved. Sally took their devotion in good part; it seemed to amuse her rather than anything else.
The conversation at the other table appeared animated, though, Charles noticed with a small twinge of guilt, they were all on the mineral water. The twinge lasted a microsecond until John B. Murgatroyd returned from the bar.
‘Sorry, they were fresh out of canary,’ he announced, putting the two full pint glasses down on the table. ‘Had to make do with bitter.’
‘Oh well. “Needs must when the devil drives.”’ Charles Paris took a long swallow. Nice stuff, beer. Three pints’d have him peeing all afternoon, but it was nice stuff.
‘Irritable bowel syndrome,’ he announced.
John B. Murgatroyd cocked a quizzical eyebrow. ‘You too, mate?’ he said.
‘No, irritable bowel syndrome is what Gavin was told he’d got last time he went to the doctor about it. He’s always been – a bit of a hypochondriac, and he seemed quite relieved to actually have a name given to his condition.’
‘So he’s got an irritable bowel, has he?’
‘I guess so.’
‘I must introduce it to my grumbling appendix,’ said John B. ‘I’m sure they could have a wonderful time moaning away at each other.’
Charles gave the joke a token chuckle, then looked pensive.
‘Mind you, what Gavin’s got now sounds a bit more serious than just irritable bowel. I mean, that wouldn’t put him right out of the production, would it?’
‘I suppose it depends how irritable it is. If his bowel’s absolutely bloody furious, then I’d imagine –’
Charles shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be hospitalised with just that. Wouldn’t be all this talk of “tests”. No, I reckon it sounds a bit nasty.’ He took another substantial swig of beer. ‘Oh well, no doubt we’ll get more details in time.’
His tone was rueful. The news of Gavin’s illness had cast a shadow, threatening his uncharacteristically upbeat mood of recent weeks. Maybe things have been going too well, he thought gloomily; it can’t last.
‘Come on, Charles, perk up.’ John B. quoted Sir Toby again. “‘I’m sure care’s an enemy to life.”’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is too.’
The other Twelfth Night party were moving across to the door. Benzo Ritter, Charles noticed, glowed with excitement. Was it just the thrill of being in a professional production, or had it something to do with being with the undoubtedly dishy Sally Luther?
‘You two coming?’ asked Chad Pearson in his lilting, Caribbean tones.
‘In a minute.’ Charles raised his glass. ‘Just finishing this.’
‘See you then.’ Charles watched Chad and the others out of the pub, then turned back to confront an exaggerated expression of reproach on John B. Murgatroyd’s face. ‘What’s up?’
‘You just don’t care, do you?’ said John B. in a voice of camp petulance. ‘I just give, give, give, all the time, and you just take, take, take.’
Charles grinned, wondering what this latest performance was in aid of.
‘I mean, I don’t ask a lot, Charles, but I would have thought there are certain basic reciprocal rules of friendship that just ought to be observed.’ John B. Murgatroyd flicked back a piqued eyebrow and gave a little snort of martyrdom.
‘What are you on about, you idiot?’
‘Well, I’d have thought it was obvious. We came into this bar – what, an hour ago? – and I bought us two drinks. When we’d drunk those, you went and bought us two more. When we’d drunk those, I went and bought two more. And now . . .’ John B. drained his beer glass and turned to his friend with a smug grin. ‘Your round, I think, Charles?’
‘But we shouldn’t . . .’ All too easily, Charles Paris caved in. ‘Same again?’
‘You bet.’
The following morning Charles had another headache. The trouble was, once he started drinking, he did have a tendency to continue. Stupid habit, he could recognise that. And it was already proving destructive. Frances had been a little less than forthcoming at breakfast. Mustn’t slip back into the old ways, he told himself. What he’d got going with his wife was far too important to be jeopardised by a little carelessness on his part. Pull yourself together, Charles.
The assistant director was even less assertive that morning. Something in the doomy way he put the cast through their paces suggested he now definitely knew he wasn’t going to take over the production on a permanent basis.
They were doing Act Five, the final scene, for which Gavin Scholes had done a rough blocking the previous week. The action was complicated, with all the principal characters – except Maria – coming on, in turn, to tie up the various threads of plot. As a result here was a lot of hanging around for everyone.
Charles himself didn’t have much to do. Sir Toby Belch’s only contribution to Act Five is to be led in, drunk and bruised, by Feste, to say a few bad-tempered, truculent lines, and be led off again. In Charles’s current state, little acting was required.
While the rest of the cast were reminded of their moves, he sat slumped on a chair, head aching too much even to contemplate The Times crossword. Tottie Roundwood sat beside him, but mercifully did not seem in a mood to chat. Charles’s mind alternated wearily between two familiar poles – swearing he’d never touch another drop of alcohol, and looking forward to the first life-restoring drink at lunch-time.
John B. Murgatroyd seemed unaffected by the excesses of the day before. Indeed, he was infuriatingly bouncy and on top. He’d probably been sensible and not continued drinking into the evening. If only Charles could learn to do that . . .
The atmosphere in the rehearsal room was bad, even for those who weren’t hungover. Though the Twelfth Night company had all bitched behind his back about Gavin Scholes’ lack of imagination, they had found him an unchallenging, reassuring presence. They liked the way he only gave them minimal notes on interpretation; few actors object to being allowed to play parts as they want to play them. And, while he was around, they’d all shared in the communal warmth of a show that felt good, a production that was going to work.
Without him they were bereft, and their mood was further weakened by the faltering suggestions of the assistant director. Tensions came to the surface.
The one in whom they were most evident was Russ Lavery. Having taken the decision to ‘get back to his theatrical roots’ in the surprisingly minor role of Sebastian, he had
been extremely obedient and self-effacing under Gavin’s direction. Except for the blow-up over attendance at the press conference, he had demonstrated none of the starry behaviour that might be expected from someone so used to being the centre of attention.
With Gavin removed, however, Russ Lavery became a very different creature. He seemed wound-up, impatient when the assistant director spent time with other actors. Suddenly he seemed to think that Sebastian was the only person in the play who mattered. He injected into the rehearsal room that unease that only a discontented star can bring. Even when he was sitting silently away from the action, no one could be unaware of his seething resentment.
The awareness was greatest in the assistant director, who looked frankly terrified, and winced visibly, anticipating an outburst, every time Russ Lavery shifted in his chair.
Charles Paris was reminded of a story – maybe apocryphal, maybe not – about the great Edith Evans. One day at rehearsal she decided that the director had been taking too much interest in a speech delivered by one of her supporting actors, so she swanned up to him and demanded, ‘And what am I meant to do in this long pause while he’s talking?’
The cast member of whom Russ Lavery seemed most jealous was Sally Luther. Every time the assistant director gave a note for Viola, the star of Air-Sea Rescue sighed with exasperation, as if commenting on the incompetence of someone who needed so much guidance. This was completely unfair. It was early days of rehearsal, and the notes Sally was given were largely technical ones relating to movement or position, but Russ still implied that she was at fault.
Charles suspected a hidden agenda in all this. Maybe Russ Lavery and Sally Luther had known each other before. Maybe it was some resentment born of television, the rising star not liking to be yoked with the forgotten one. Perhaps Sally Luther’s presence in the company was too vivid a reminder of the fickle nature of the medium that had puffed Russ Lavery up so high.
Whatever the cause of the friction, it was strange that it had never manifested itself before.
The climax of bad feeling came at the moment when Viola – dressed in male clothes as ‘Cesario’ – and Sebastian come face to face and catalogue the coincidences of their lives.
“‘My father had a mole upon his brow,”’ said Sally Luther.
“ ‘And so had mine,”’ Russ Lavery agreed.
“‘And died that day when Viola from her birth Had numbered thirteen years.”’
Sally stopped. ‘Do you think she should be sad here?’
‘Sad?’ echoed the assistant director uneasily.
‘Yes, I mean sad because she’s remembering her father who she loved and –’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Russ Lavery erupted. ‘She’s not bothered about her father now! She’s over the moon because she thought Sebastian was dead and she’s found him alive!’
‘But has she actually realised Sebastian’s alive yet? Is she actually sure that –?’
‘Sally, of course she’s bloody sure! You have to remember – Viola’s not as stupid as you are. You’ve got to play her intelligent, for God’s sake. Tricky for you perhaps, but maybe it’ll help if you think of it as a character part!’
The whole rehearsal room reeled at the sheer rudeness of Russ’s attack. The assistant director, the one who should have defused the atmosphere, stood fidgeting awkwardly. But one voice did leap to Sally Luther’s defence. Surprisingly, it came from the Second Officer.
‘Russ, that was an unforgivable thing to say. Apologise at once.’
‘What!’ The television star rounded on Benzo Ritter. ‘And just who the hell do you think you are, to speak to me like that?’
The boy stood his ground ‘And just who the hell do you think you are, to speak to Sally like that?’
‘I am an experienced actor with a lot of good work under his belt – not some incompetent teenager with no talent and a silly name!’
‘Now, listen, Russ, don’t you dare –’
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ came another voice, as the two squared up to each other. ‘Let’s just get on with the rehearsal, shall we?’
It was Sally herself. She was a pragmatist. Russ Lavery had been extremely offensive to her, but Sally saw that as his problem rather than hers. Certainly nothing to stop the rehearsal for.
Benzo Ritter and his opponent edged away from each other. With bad grace, Russ Lavery resumed his rehearsal position. The younger actor gazed hopefully at Sally Luther, perhaps seeking some accolade for his intervention, but she didn’t look at him, just took her place facing Sebastian. She was not going to let temperament and bad manners from other members of the company get in the way of her performance.
‘Hmm,’ murmured Tottie Roundwood to Charles Paris. ‘That young man may not be going the best way to further his theatrical career.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Russ Lavery thinks of himself as very important, because of the television and everything. Trouble is, he probably is quite important – now Gavin’s not there to rein him in a bit.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I would say this show is in serious need of a Director.’
Charles nodded. ‘Wonder who it’ll be? Not him, will it?’ He nodded towards the assistant director, who stood awkwardly chewing his fingers and looking down at his copy of Twelfth Night.
‘No way.’ Tottie Roundwood grinned confidently. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure Asphodel will get someone good.’
The rehearsal dragged on through its uninspiring course. There were no more open confrontations, though an undercurrent of resentment remained. Gavin-Scholes’ patterns of movement and tableaux were more or less accurately recreated, and at last the stage area was emptied of all characters except for Feste, the Clown.
Chad Pearson moved forward to centre stage, sat down cross-legged, and began to sing.
“‘When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey-ho, the wind and the rain;
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day . . .”’
As he sang through to the end of the song, the room stilled. He had a beautiful light voice, and the tune either was, or sounded like, a traditional English one. Singing, Chad Pearson ceased to be a short, tubby West Indian and became a natural part of Shakespeare’s world; there seemed no incongruity at that moment about the presence of a black Feste at the Illyrian court. It was not just voguish casting against ethnic stereotype. He felt right in the part, and the song was the day’s only moment of genuine theatre.
The cast left for lunch in slightly improved spirits.
The ‘go on, you’ll feel better if you have a drink’ voice in Charles’s head beat the ‘I’m never going to touch another drop of alcohol’ one. Again. But he and John B. Murgatroyd did only have a couple of pints each, so they felt relatively virtuous.
In fact their sense of virtue was a little specious. They had been contemplating a third pint, but just at that moment Benzo Ritter, in his assistant stage manager role, appeared in the pub, ordering everyone back to the rehearsal room. A representative of Asphodel Productions had just arrived. With an announcement to make.
‘. . . and I’m afraid the hospital can’t see any prospect of Gavin returning to work in the short term. I’m sure he will make a complete recovery, but it’s going to take time.
‘And time, with just three weeks till this production starts a four-month touring programme, is something we don’t have a lot of.’
The man from Asphodel Productions, whose name Charles hadn’t caught, wore a dark suit and looked more like an accountant than an impresario. Probably he was an accountant. They seemed to be running most areas of show business nowadays.
Charles felt a twinge of regret for the more colourful characters he had worked for in the past. His memory instantly summoned up a gallery of producers, agents, managers and fixers. A rogue’s gallery, it had to be said. Many of them had fabricated completely indefensible contracts. Many had inexplicably disappeared just when the company was
due to be paid. Many had screwed everyone they worked with – particularly the leading ladies. But Charles Paris couldn’t help feeling nostalgic for the dead, gone days.
Probably, his cynicism told him, nothing had changed that much, anyway. Nowadays the producers wore suits and had their deals checked and authenticated by lawyers, but they were still out for as much as they could get. Show business management, like horse racing and boxing, has always attracted its share of shady characters – not to say crooks.
‘So,’ the Asphodel Productions man went on, ‘we need to appoint a director as soon as possible.’ He looked across at the assistant director, who hung his head in a rather shamefaced way. ‘And while we very much appreciate the way you’ve held the fort, Nick, for the last couple of days, as you know, we need to look for someone with a bit more experience for a production of this scale. Don’t worry, what you’ve done for us has not gone unnoticed and your day will definitely come.’
I doubt it, thought Charles, realising that it was the first time he’d been aware that the assistant director’s name was Nick. The boy had so little charisma that even his name didn’t register. But the quiet way in which he took the news of his demotion showed he had been told of it beforehand.
‘We have been very fortunate, however . . .’ the Asphodel executive continued,’. . . very, very fortunate . . . to secure the services of someone we’ve been keen to work with for a long time . . . One of the most dynamic and exciting new directors currently working in the British theatre.’
Oh dear, thought Charles Paris, I don’t like the sound of this.
‘I say working in the British theatre, but in fact a lot of his work has been abroad and he’s only recently come to this country. But I’m sure all of you who know how much of a stir his vivid and radical reinterpretation at the Old Vic of She Stoops To Conquer caused will not need me to tell you his name.’
There was a murmur of stunned appreciation from the cast, though Charles wanted to say, ‘I need you to. Please, please. I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
