Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Strangely enough, in the hard cold climate, Stanthorpe Repertory Theatre flourished. It captured a large audience by intermingling standard favourites, comedies, farces and thrillers, with more avant garde work. They even managed to fill the house for a fortnight each year with their annual Shakespearean production.

  Within less than an hour after the curtain had risen, Ronnie circled the name Asher Grey in pencil on his programme.

  The production itself was a moderate and modest affair. In spite of its poetic simplicity, As You Like It is not a pushover of a play. Its romanticism, magic and comedy are not easily balanced, and the mixture comes out heavy if the director does not follow Shakespeare’s blend with accuracy.

  There was no doubt, though, that young Asher Grey’s Orlando stood head and shoulders above the production and the rest of the company.

  Physically he was stocky with broad shoulders; black curly hair and a face which had all the markings of good looks, carved ruggedly from a lump of weathered granite. He could not be more than twenty-three or four, yet the face was already adaptable. A pop face: not smooth, girlish or sensual, but the features of change and endurance. As Orlando, he moved with a grace that accentuated his masculinity. So many actors of his age would have confused the issue and equated grace with an overlay of high camp.

  His voice had a soft resonance. Ronnie reckoned that he was only using it at half strength, but there was control, a sense that young Grey understood the words.

  The considerable subtlety of his performance was that Asher Grey managed to sustain the strength of character even in the most moonstruck moments of comedy.

  He would do, this small blossom of unknown talent. He would do very well. In the interval, Ronnie scribbled a note on the back of his card and took it round to the stage door.

  ‘Mr. Grey says if you’ll hang on, he’ll be down in a minute,’ the doorkeeper told him when he went round at the end of the performance.

  There was a light drizzle outside, occasionally swept up the street by light gusts of wind. A couple of actors and one of the girls came running out shouting loud ‘Good nights’ to the doorman.

  Ronnie was annoyed. He thought it a somewhat cavalier gesture for Asher Grey to leave him standing there in the cold by the stage door. But when young Grey arrived the actor could not have been more apologetic.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, but it’s bloody murder in there. Eight of us in one dressing-room.’ The voice that had so lovingly caressed Shakespeare’s poetic prose seemed harsher now.

  In his note, Ronnie had asked if Grey would have a drink with him to discuss a business matter. Now he found that the actor planned to invite another guest.

  ‘Do you mind if I bring Julia along? Julia Philips that is.’

  Ronnie’s mind did some mental gymnastics to remember Julia Philips. He decided that she was the pudgy-faced girl who had played Phebe without any noticeable talent or ability.

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Julia and I...We sort of live together.’ Asher sounded almost coy.

  ‘I think it would be better if we were alone.’ Ronnie felt for the right words, he was not one of nature’s diplomats.

  Asher Grey nodded, a fleeting look of relief on his face. ‘Okay then. I’ll tell her to get on home. How long will we be?’

  ‘Half-an-hour.’

  He hurried off. The small scene intrigued Ronnie. Here was this lad who, only a short time ago, was creating a strong, sensitive character on stage. Now he seemed flattened, nervous, bereft of confidence.

  Asher Grey returned and, together, they crossed the road to a corner pub, active with regular patrons of the rep’ arguing a little too loudly about the production. One or two members of the company were also there. It was a large, bare, unattractive place: all that is worst in public houses, shirtsleeved publican and fag-in-mouth wife; no sense of display; a room in which you could buy and drink booze without particular comfort. But it was obviously the local for members of the rep’ and their audiences.

  They found a quiet corner and Ronnie ordered the drinks. Asher opting for the familiar pint of bitter.

  ‘What’s on then?’ the actor asked after taking a long pull at the beer. The coyness and uncertainty had gone. Ronnie wondered if Julia Philips had something to do with it.

  ‘Well, you know that I’m with the Shireston Festival Company as stage director. You know what the Shireston is?’

  Asher laughed. ‘Aye. I know about the Shireston. What’re they looking for? Someone to play Titania?’

  It was a reasonable reaction. When Ronnie had joined the company, two years before, it was pretty run down. Now it was only thought of as the kiss of death. Some members of the company referred to the theatre itself as ‘The Last Chance Saloon’, and the current season had been an object lesson on how not to cast plays.

  ‘Did you know there was going to be a new policy and a large injection of money. They are appointing a new director.’

  ‘They bloody need to an’ all.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ronnie agreed, deciding that it was time to stop messing around. ‘Can I talk to you in confidence?’

  ‘It’s dangerous, but if you must.’

  ‘Douglas Silver’s the new director.’

  Asher gave a low whistle and began to look interested.

  ‘He’s been given a large amount of money to mount a spectacular season. Shireston’s making an all out bid to get up there with Stratford and the National.’

  ‘So you’re draining the reps’ of likely lads to be walk-ons and back-up men eh?’

  ‘No. Douglas’s in America for a few days trying to sign someone big. But he wants to see you as soon as he gets back.’ Though it was not strictly true, Ronnie felt it justifiable. ‘Can you come down and see him? And would you be prepared to audition?’

  ‘Come down to Shireston?’

  ‘Or London’

  Asher hesitated. ‘It’s a bit difficult. You know what it’s like in rep’. I’m playing Orlando, rehearsing Xavier in Orpheus Descending and learning Captain Keller for The Miracle Worker. It’s tough at the top.’

  ‘I know. I’ve had some.’

  They haggled for a while about the possibility of Asher coming to London. Ronnie could not pin him down. In the end he said,

  ‘If it’s out of the question I suppose Douglas might get up here.’

  ‘Sure he wouldn’t spoil his pretty hands?’

  Though he had shown interest when Douglas Silver’s name was mentioned, Asher’s attitude throughout had been diffident. Ronnie had yet to play his trump, the size of the role being offered, but Asher’s last remark infuriated him.

  ‘You obviously don’t know Douglas and you have no idea what this could do to your future. I think you’re being pretty stupid.’

  ‘Aye, I’m well known for my stupidity. That’s why I’ll end up on top, Mister Gregor.’ The eyes blazed. Then, just as quickly he seemed to take hold of himself again. ‘If the Shireston’s throwing money about could they buy me another beer?’ He grinned shyly: infectious and generous with warmth.

  Ronnie went over to the bar. Asher Grey was one they would have to watch. There were tender areas in his character, the makings of temperament, the sign of deep talent. As he got back to the table a brace of girls, moddy dressed and shielded with thin raincoats, were passing the table. One of them laid a hand on Asher’s shoulder.

  ‘Smashing Orlando, Asher. Smashing.’

  ‘Good. Glad you liked it.’ The grin was a beautiful thing to see, embracing both the girls, making them prettier.

  ‘Hey,’ he shouted after them. ‘See you at the party, Saturday.’

  ‘Sure.’ The girls chorused back, leaving the pub twittering.

  Asher sighed. ‘There’s some smashing birds around here.’

  ‘I thought you and the girl? Julia?’

  ‘That’s just it, isn’t it? There’s so much around it makes you want to cry.’ He stopped and the face became serious again. ‘What does Douglas Silver want m
e for?’

  ‘I think he wants you to play Romeo.’

  ‘Me?’ The man’s jaw dropped. ‘Play Romeo at Shireston?’

  Ronnie nodded. ‘It’s going to be quite sensational. You’d be playing opposite a black girl.’

  Asher thought for a moment and laughed. ‘That makes sense. You can justify it artistically and it’ll bring in the crowds. Hey, you’re putting me on aren’t you?’

  ‘No. Douglas has asked me to find the right Romeo. I think you’re it.’

  ‘If it’s all going to be so sensational why doesn’t he get a name?

  ‘Because for this he wants an unknown. There are going to be a lot of names in the company anyway.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’ll have to trust you. It mustn’t go any further. Jennifer Frost’s going to play Desdemona.’

  ‘To whose Othello?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you. But I’ll give you another couple of names. Conrad Catellier and Maurice Kapstein.’

  ‘That’s okay for starters isn’t it?’ He closed his eyes and sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Christ, sorry I went off like that just now. About getting to the top and all that crap. Sometimes I really believe it myself. Then I think, what the hell, I’ve been at this end of the world since I left R.A.D.A. I’ve never had another offer. I wonder in the night what I’ll do if one comes along. Three years here and I’m cock of the walk. You get frightened of leaving don’t you. It’s a bloody rootless profession and you stick around at one place and grow false roots. I want to say yes, but there are problems.’

  ‘I can understand your feelings but I think you’d be crazy to turn it down.’

  ‘I’m crazy. Can I have some time?’

  ‘To think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not long. Douglas’ll be back in a few days and he’ll expect me to have someone lined up.’

  ‘Till tomorrow? Can I have until tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. That’s as long as I can possibly leave it.’

  Asher Grey could be close when he wanted to and tonight he wanted to. He could not really face a searing shouting match with Julia, yet she would not stop.

  ‘But what did he want, Ash?’ She had pestered him from the moment he arrived back at the bedsitter they called The Chamber of Horrors. Now she was still nagging at it as they stretched out in bed: looking at the cracked ceiling, illuminated from outside by courtesy of the street lighting. As Asher often observed, their hovel was early John Osborne.

  ‘Come on, Ash, what did he want?’

  The only thing he could do was slip her into laughing. She might bypass the whole business that way.

  ‘They want me to do this washing powder commercial for the telly, love.’ He grinned in the darkness. ‘It’s going to be with this gorgeous spade dolly, and we have to sing this jingle together. Well, actually we do a jingle together.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Me, lie to you, darling? Never.’

  ‘You’re a bloody liar. He wasn’t from television and there’s no washing powder...’

  ‘I’ll get some first thing in the morning.’

  ‘What did he want?’ She was getting angry: out of patience. ‘He wants me in the movies.’

  ‘What movie?’

  ‘The one they’re making from this novel they’ve just bought.’

  ‘What novel?’

  ‘You know. The one with the long title. The funny one. In fact he said they were thinking of using the title instead of a script.’

  ‘What is the title?’

  ‘It’s called The Night You Talked Me Into Dining At The Dragon Room And I Got Left With A Sweet and Sour Waiter. You see it’s all about this girl, she’s going to be played by Mia Farrow, and she’s a secret agent who spends all her time going round Chinese restaurants looking for the fortune cookie that has a message in it for the Prime Minister. She eats Lobster Balls and...Hey, you’re supposed to say lobsters haven’t got any—’

  ‘I know. Ash, for the last bloody time. What did that little bugger want?’

  ‘Wants me to go to Shireston.’ He knew he should not have said it and she knew that she had the truth at last.

  ‘Well why the devil didn’t you tell me to start with. That graveyard. You said you wouldn’t go?’

  ‘No. I’m phoning him tomorrow.’ Under the sheets, Asher clenched his fists tightly. For the past year, since he had been living with Julia, he had constantly gone out of his way to avert confrontations with her over myriad things: standing up to the director; his drinking habits; family; ambition; even, on one occasion, his choice of breakfast cereal.

  Julia should never have been an actress. Ideally she should have been understudy to his mother. In many ways she already was understudy to his mother.

  In the first instance, Asher had become an actor mainly to escape his mother. He had certainly taken the scholarship to R.A.D.A. in order to get away from her. They were facts that plagued his conscience as much as anything. Plenty of people did not get on with their parents, the generation gap and all that crap. Plenty of young people openly despised their parents, you only had to talk to some of the boys and girls in the company. But most of them did it with good humour. Asher actively hated the couple who spawned him, especially his mother. His father he could accept as the gutless drunk every Friday, lazy soldier of industry. There was a despair in the man that he could appreciate, and which, sometimes, he thought he even shared.

  But his mother was a different matter. She had neither the intelligence to accept the situation, nor the wit to find a way out by offering assistance to the wretched man she had married and vilified from that moment.

  Only the other evening one of the older actors was talking about his childhood: one of seven, he drew a picture of Christmas that would have warmed the heart of Charles Dickens; you could smell the turkey and feel the glow.

  Asher’s early Christmas memories were epitomized in being wakened by the screech of his mother as she assaulted his father’s ears, demanding to know where he had been until this hour. Not pausing for an answer, the nag shrewed her way right through the day of peace, joy and goodwill to all men. All the Sunday School pictures of the baby Jesus and his loving mother and father were shrunk to this undersize woman, if woman she was under the paint and nail varnish badly and thickly applied, screaming at his fuddled father.

  And now, Asher clenched his fists against the barrage coming from Julia’s pert honey mouth.

  ‘...ask anyone. Christ, Ash you should know by now. After all I’ve tried to do for you. I suppose it’s an escape. You’re tired of me so you leave here and get rid of me at the same time. Well it’s not going to work, because I’m not going to let it work. It would be suicide...’

  ‘As it happens it wouldn’t be suicide. You don’t even know the deal.’

  ‘What sort of deal can you get from a broken down place like that?’

  ‘Well this isn’t exactly a shop window of the arts.’

  ‘It’s safe. It’s secure. We’re all doing what we want to do. Anyway, that’s not the point.’

  ‘It’s very much the point. Shireston’s going to be big, as big as any of the others, and I have an important chance of being part of it...’

  ‘And what about me? Just because we’re not married doesn’t mean that we have to forsake all moral obligations. You took me, I look after both of us, cook the meals, help you, let you fuck me when I’m dead tired and have to work on top of it...’

  ‘You always gave the impression—’

  ‘Impressions? Asher I’m not going to let you throw yourself away.’

  ‘Look, love, when it all boils down, I’ve got no moral obligations to you, and you know it. I’m a big boy now. I must make decisions.’

  Then the tears. If there was one thing he could not stand it was tears. The comforting and baby talk. The half promises. Whispers. Confidences half-shared. If he got Romeo at Shires-ton he would make damn sure that Julia would be there as well. Yes, of
course, he would. That was a deadly promise and he knew it. Deep down at the tip of the emotional and unstable bond which held him to Julia, Asher was painfully conscious of a situation that equated him with his father.

  For over a year he had taken the line of least resistance with this girl: the easy way; the way that would quieten her, pacify her.

  Whispers again. Then the soft, rhythmic creaking of the bed.

  In the year 18 Do, Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, parish priest of the little village of Dolores, Mexico, got up one September morning, rang his church bells and shouted ‘Long live Religion. Long live our Most Holy Mother of Guadalupe. Long live Ferdinand VII. Long live America and death to bad government.’

  With that Cry of Dolores, Hidalgo began the revolt of the peones against their cruel and tyrannous Spanish overlords. Within a year he was captured and put to death.

  Those are undisputed facts. Even now, on every September fifteenth Mexico’s President rings a bell in Mexico City and repeats the Grito de Dolores.

  The script for the movie, Hidalgo, used the facts as a loose framework. After all, the story was a natural for spectacle and box office in these times when revolution and change are the breathing air.

  It was also an easy matter to inject into the historic bones some other aspect of box office: the beautiful daughter of a high-ranking Spanish officer, for instance. A junior officer. Love and Mexican moonlight. The young officer siding with Hidalgo and the revolutionaries. The lady joining her lover in the struggle.

  Jennifer Frost was playing the beautiful daughter. She had taken the part because it was offered to her at a time when she felt the need to work again. It was also a bit of a joke between Douglas and herself. Douglas kept referring to her as ‘Daughter of Cisco’, and would constantly end sentences with a movie Mexican ‘I theenk’. Jennifer had never been to Mexico either, which was a good idea on its own.

  But the script that Jennifer had signed on was subject to much alteration. Now they had shot all the location sequences, which had been fun, she began to realize that she was mixed up with a dreadful script and a debased motion picture. The original idea had presented a wonderful opportunity for the examination of revolution in historic depth. With a clever director it could have been wonderful. But now the original script had been ripped asunder, all the thought-provoking material kept at arm’s length and a banal emotional love story moved into the foreground. The whole thing was twenty years out of date and had nothing to do with the professional Cinema as known by Jennifer Frost.