Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  ‘I’m now going to give you the most difficult points in my doctrine. They are obvious things, which I’m afraid, will not please all of you.’

  He stopped for a moment and took a long look around the hall. ‘In order to act together as a unified group we have got to spend as much time as possible with each other. By this I simply mean that, from the outset, we must aim for a classless society here at Shireston. There are those among us who are big names in the Theatre, and quite rightly so: through talent and much hard work they have achieved position,’ he looked towards the seats nearest to him, ‘most of the big names are sitting in the front here. Well, even though in the natural order of things you are leaders we cannot have segregation of any kind. The general public can think in terms of big names, but here, on the ground, we must have total equality — that goes for you black guys as well, those of you who spent most of yesterday evening segregating yourselves. All equal and with an equal voice, that’s how it’s got to be. I want to see this company mixing together, talking together, doing what we used to call at school “spare time activities” together.’ A couple of catcalls from the back, silenced with a freezing look. ‘This, I know, will not appeal to you all,’ a pause held for a count of five, ‘and that’s just too bad because that’s the way it’s going to be.’

  Douglas took a step back from the table, buried his hands in his pockets, allowing the last words to sink in.

  ‘As you know, from the numerous instructions I have had circulated to you, rehearsals start each morning at ten o’clock. But the whole company, and I stress the whole company, will meet here at nine o’clock each morning. On Mondays we will have our weekly company meeting when we can thrash out company problems, things we haven’t got time to deal with during rehearsals: you can all have a good beef at me and I can have a go at you. On Thursdays we will all work at communal voice production; there will, of course, be individual voice coaching for those who need, or want, it. On the other mornings we’ll exercise for one hour before rehearsals.’

  He did not dare look towards Conrad Catellier who was already shuffling in his seat. Douglas cleared his throat and went on.

  ‘What are the matters of urgency in the world today? I believe they are concerned with social order, that many-headed beast: the racial problem, pollution, violence, crime, famine, personal relationships on every level, greed, hatred, lust, want, common sense and true freedom. Now I also believe, as I know most of you must do, that William Shakespeare wrote about these very things: whether he knew he was writing about them is another matter. I believe that the four plays we are to perform this season make apt comments on the matters which are of most concern to us in this age. Some of these are obvious, others we will discover as we work together on the plays; and the plays have more to say than just comments on our problems: I would like, for instance, to put a little of the romance back into Romeo and Juliet.’ There was genuine laughter now, a true sense of relaxation.

  ‘Now, with regard to direction. I’m afraid there is no time for us to have any magical mystery tours, to discover how best we can interpret the plays as we go along. But I’m not a cold and inflexible dictator; I expect actors to evolve characters, even though I will provide the ground plan, the working guide lines for each play; I will set the moods and give the technical aid to the extent that I will even be old fashioned and plot your moves at the outset of each play going into rehearsal. That will give you more than a skeleton with which to work. Your task will be to provide the flesh, blood and nerves. So, we will have to rely upon each other, trust each other, set up links of collaboration which will create moments of Theatre capable of shattering the minds of audiences: and this we can only do as a team. We must interpret Shakespeare so that the modern audience will understand with complete ease yet with a fresh in-sight; and this we can only do as a team. We must pull from our collectively stored theatrical knowledge all the devices and resources known to our art, smashing our critics with colour, style and brilliance; and this we can only do as a team.’

  He paused again, letting the last words thud home before making the concluding remarks.

  ‘I apologize for this bleak and barren hall in which we have to work, if it’s any consolation I am assured that the theatre will be ready for us in a matter of two to three weeks, so that we can at least expect to transfer rehearsals to the stage in good time. Are there any questions of burning importance?’ He did not give anyone time to develop a mental theme. ‘No? Good. Then if those of you who are not concerned with Othello would be good enough to leave, and those who are concerned with The Merchant will note that they are to reassemble here at two-thirty, we can get on with some work.’ He gave them the most dazzling smile he could muster, sat down and pretended to be busy sorting papers.

  Adrian put a hand on his shoulder as he moved past, on his way to the exit. ‘We meet at twelve-thirty?’ Eyebrows raised.

  Douglas nodded quietly and then cast his eyes round the hall. He was pleased to see that the Othello cast were shifting into a solid group at the front and that Jen was doing her best to react to his plea by splitting herself from the bunch of principals, going to sit next to a couple of supers. Edward Crispin, Liz Column, Rachel Cohen and Murray Fleet (who was to play Montano) were clustered together, and Joe Thomas was with Asher Grey, cast as Cassio, and Laurence Pern, their Roderigo.

  During the following hour, Douglas talked about his visible and audible vision of Othello: Iago the matador, Roderigo the little bull, Othello the big fighting bull, the faena, the music and noises for the cinematic fades at exits and entrances, the noises of intrigue, the suggestion of a corrida. He went on to speak of the main issues within the play, of love and the devil jealousy, hatred, greed, ambition, personal and political power and the interrelation of the major characters.

  By lunchtime they had walked through the rough plot of the first two scenes and were well into Act One, Scene Three, the Council Chamber where, in front of the Doge and his senators, Othello clashes with Brabantio following the secret marriage to Desdemona.

  There was a sense of headiness, an almost naive camaraderie, as they broke for lunch; Douglas was fending off a stream of questions from the junior actors and shrugging into his coat when Jennifer came over to him.

  ‘I’ve been asked to lunch with my Othello,’ she announced, a half smile on her upturned face, as though she was asking permission to go. For a second Douglas felt disturbed: doubtless all the old theatrical legends of Desdemonas and their Othellos screamed silently round his mind, then the calm returned. He grinned at his wife, looking over to where Joe Thomas stood out of earshot.

  ‘If you like that sort of thing,’ he said quietly. ‘Some prefer them.’ In the rear of his brain there was a tiny image: Carol Evans naked and thrusting out towards him, reaching for him. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he pulled a glum face. ‘Me? I have to work. Lift that barge, tote that bale. I’m lunching with Adrian. A working luncheon.’

  ‘You’re moving like a politician, darling. Maybe my lunch’ll turn out that way as well. A working luncheon.’ Jen wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Watch it,’ Douglas grinned again. Then, seriously, ‘How do you think it went?’

  ‘It’s going to be great, but your Othello’s in need of a lot of help,’ her hand on his arm. ‘He’s not an actor Douglas and it’s no good any of us pretending he is. He’s a performer and you’ll have to blast an actor’s performance out of him. It’s going to take a lot of work and patience.’

  ‘Will you talk to him over lunch?’

  She nodded assent.

  ‘Then we can go over it tonight.’

  ‘Okay love, see you.’ A wave of affection bubbling through her. His appeal to the company had been impressive, even inspirational, and Jennifer felt the least she could do was to give him as much assistance as her mind, body and professional knowledge was able to contribute. She did not marvel at her husband’s brilliance when he gave out glimpses of his vision of Othello, or the company, but she was th
rilled by it all, becoming excited about being part of the festival, an emotion she had not felt until that morning, although her doubts all too readily moved under the surface.

  Joe Thomas’s invitation had come as something of a surprise to Jennifer, who felt that the man was uncertain of his attitude to her; she did not particularly like him, even at their early meeting in his bewildered and downcast state during the drama of his arrival he seemed too wrapped up in the extreme fantasy creature that was the public and publicized Joe Thomas —ballad singer, owner of real estate, automobiles, a helicopter, countless women. He seemed to be limited in the amount of time in which he could be serious, professional and involved in the matters of the season and Othello, his mind slipping quickly back into the extraordinary other world which existed for him as a normal life style. Strangely, Jennifer thought, it was that world which made him unpleasant. Was it that all the ballads, the beat songs, the sweet love sonnets arranged for this black man’s hypnotic voice, set against milling strings, were so deeply equated with sex that he had become to believe in the music and the, often banal, lyrics as an ultimate truth? But this was only how she saw him, a vain singer stuffed with arrogance and little real culture. Was there more? Could she feel anything else? After all, creative people were always a prey to their own work, and Thomas was undoubtedly creative and professional within his particular field. Did she dislike him, resent him perhaps, because he was trying his strength in a more demanding area, acting? That was nonsense, and she quickly dismissed the thought, for it was Douglas who had persuaded the man to come, against his nature to Shireston.

  ‘I ain’t organized yet, Jen. You got transport?’ Thomas asked when she returned to him.

  ‘Yes, Douglas isn’t using the car.’ She was surprised, automatically thinking that he had meant lunch in the company restaurant. She gave a little chuckle. ‘You want to go off limits?’

  Thomas flashed a smile. ‘I always want to go off limits, ma’am.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘No, I just heard some of the boys talking about a near-by pub. Sounds a good place.’

  ‘You mean The Bleeding Sheep?’

  About half a mile up the road, leading away from Shireston, was the small and attractive village of Ledgerow. Bristling with retired army and navy officers and civil servants, it also sported the best country pub for miles, The Lion and Lamb, known traditionally as The Bleeding Sheep. The place had been an actors’ haunt since the festival’s early days, in fact the present landlord, who had been in charge for the past ten years and had therefore known Shireston’s bleak years, was quick to cash in on the new surge of life which had been granted to the festival. While his steady round the year custom came from the locals, he knew very well that the company trade, and that of passing tourists drawn in by the festival, could be of great benefit to his books. In other years the actors’ patronage had added a little colour to the place, a whisper of small scandals for the locals, but not an enormous amount of profit in the till. Now that there was an injection of power, money and big names up the road, the landlord, Jack Wedlock, had taken the step of circularizing the whole Shireston Festival Company and executive staff, sending each his specially designed brochure listing The Sheep’s amenities and placing high on the list the fact that lunches and simple dinners were available, either from the cold buffet (notable attraction of the house for many years) or the grill.

  At first, Adrian Rolfe had been furious over the circular, knowing that it was a direct threat to business in the company restaurant and possibly to the new theatre restaurant as well. Adrian even made a vain attempt to find out who had supplied Wedlock with such a complete and detailed list of the company and staff, but the task, he soon realized, was beyond him: too many of the permanent staff were long standing customers at Sheep.

  ‘Competition’s a healthy thing, Adrian,’ Douglas told him. ‘In any case I think it’s good that there’s at least one reasonable local where the company can feel at home. There is a tradition you know, and it doesn’t hurt any of them to get out. After all, we don’t want to make Shireston into a concentration camp for actors.’

  Now, on the first day of rehearsals, the director’s wife was going to become a customer in company with possibly the most notorious celebrity at Shireston.

  Art Drays was waiting outside the rehearsal hall when Douglas emerged. The rain had stopped, but there was a cold damp feel to the air, clouds black-grey washing the sky.

  ‘I thought I’d catch you for a second.’ Art fell into step with his superior.

  ‘It’ll only be for a second. I have to meet Adrian.’

  ‘Enough time. Douglas, I wanted to know if you’d come to any decision about Conrad’s understudy. I know we don’t go into rehearsal with Richard for a few weeks, but if it’s going to be Asher Grey I think someone’s got to approach him soon.’

  The question had been difficult and one that Douglas had already shelved a dozen times. They were all conscious that Catellier’s Richard III was going to be one of the most difficult performances to extract, and that it was of utmost importance that the understudy should be strong. Conrad was a highly professional man of the Theatre but, everybody knew, he was also prone to nervous attacks, particularly if he found the role difficult or the production not to his liking.

  Douglas, head down into the wind, gave a sigh. ‘I know. I know. Asher’s the most obvious, but I’ve got him doing Romeo, Lorenzo and Cassio; that’s a lot for the boy to handle. I’m worried about him carrying an overload.’

  ‘He’s young and strong.’

  ‘Oh yes, and I’m sure he’d be willing.’

  They were on to the gravel drive now, in front of the house with only about a hundred yards left to get to the theatre restaurant.

  ‘We’ve got to have a decision, Douglas.’ Art making it sound like life or death.

  They walked a few more paces.

  ‘Give me until the morning.’ Douglas stopped, turning towards his productions’ manager. ‘I don’t think Asher realizes how much of a key he is to the season. When he does discover how important he is, that boy is going to begin worrying and if he’s overloaded he’ll get distracted and maybe ruin the roles I’ve already given to him. By tomorrow you’ll have an understudy for Conrad. All right?’

  It was just one of a dozen or so decisions of some importance that were hanging over Douglas now that the company was gathered together and matters were moving inexorably towards productions being in performance. Now he had to face Adrian who undoubtedly would have another pile of problems which only he, as director, could untangle, veto or mark with his verbal seal of approval.

  Adrian Rolfe was already seated in the restaurant, Emilio fusing round him with menu and wine list as though he was some tycoon with an eternally extendable expense account. As soon as Douglas entered, Emilio switched his attentiveness to the director, seeing that his coat was taken, ushering him to his table, during which time Douglas observed that Ronnie Gregor and young Robin Alvin were lunching together (a good thing, he thought), and in the far corner David Wills was hosting Rachel Cohen.

  ‘Stirring words this morning,’ Adrian greeted him with a smile. ‘Had us all straining in the slips, blood pounding and all that. The company that prays together stays together: only I spell it p-r-e-y-s.’

  ‘That’s a pinch. It’s a line out of a play.’

  ‘I’m the greatest plagiarist since W. Shakespeare, didn’t you know?’

  ‘It’s based on a line from David Turner’s Semi-Detached.’

  ‘How about that, I couldn’t remember where it came from.’

  After they had ordered, Douglas opened his briefcase. ‘I suppose you’ve got a list as well?’

  ‘Long as your arm.’

  ‘You want to have first crack?’

  ‘I’m cautious, let’s hear yours.’

  Douglas looked at the foolscap page he had withdrawn from his briefcase: it was covered with scribbled notes and had the scrawled heading Adrian Rolfe. ‘I’m concerned
about us making the maximum publicity push,’ he began.

  ‘Don’t be.’ Adrian spoke quietly but with his usual confidence. ‘Everything’s being handled. All your principal actors and actresses will get at least one feature in the national press or on the magazine scene before April. The Sunday Times wants to do a photo sequence for their colour supplement: that’ll mean a day here and then a morning or afternoon with you. Got your diary?’

  They fixed the date for early in February and Adrian went on talking. ‘I have the ad layouts over in the office if you need to see them. The posters will be ready by the end of February but I haven’t booked space until the middle of March. The brochures are ready now...’

  ‘They’d better be, we open the box office on the first of February.’

  ‘That’s another thing I have on my list.’ Adrian looked grim for a moment. ‘We’re obviously overlapping on some matters.’

  Douglas caught the apprehensive look on his P.R. man’s face.

  ‘You worried, Adrian? What’s the problem with the box office?’

  ‘Have you talked to anyone about the situation there?’

  ‘No, the box office is David Wills’s territory. I was quite specific about that.’

  Adrian looked down his nose and pulled a face. ‘Douglas, I know David’s your protégé, and I speak low because he’s sitting over there, but he’s not the most on-the-ball executive director in the business.’

  Douglas was aware of the lack of trust which had existed between Adrian Rolfe and David Wills from the moment of the latter’s appointment, but it was now coming out into the open: the first intrigue of the season, perhaps; the first of the long knives.