Appearing as Masha in Trinidad Sisters, embracing Patrick Drury
It was a controversial decision to stage this adaptation of a European theatrical ‘holy cow’. Most reviewers were especially kind, but one or two were downright hostile – Irving Wardle of The Times headlined his review ‘Hijacking a Classic’, although he did say that ‘the playing was extremely capable’.
I thought it was fantastic to be in such a talented ensemble cast playing Chekhov, albeit ‘an intrepid colonial hijacking of a European classic’, but some black actors were against this ghettoization of black productions. They argued that it just kept black actors in second-rate productions, instead of lobbying white directors at the big institutions to cast black actors in lead roles for the European classics or Shakespeare plays. Laudable comments, but getting angry about perceived injustices in the theatrical world rarely got black people what they wanted and most times reinforced the white prejudicial stereotype that ‘all blacks are trouble’. Most black actors agreed that it was better to be in a brilliantly acted version of a well-known play than never doing the so-called ‘classic’ roles at all. Any actor’s worth was increased the more classics they appeared in. Judging by the full houses that we got every night, white theatre-goers were eager to see what black actors could bring to this play and black theatre-goers were overjoyed to see themselves not playing one-dimensional prostitutes, pimps and criminals for once!
There was a joke going around among black actresses when we met up at auditions in those days, which was to quip: ‘How many prostitutes have you played this year?’ White actresses probably only had to play one in their entire careers. It was tough fighting against the constant stereotyping of black actors by casting directors. I’m glad to say that these days black actors have proved their theatrical worth and are treated more fairly and offered more variety in their roles on stage, TV and film. There is even a healthy modicum of colour-blindness when the big institutions cast the classics. But let’s not forget that it has been a fight for recognition every step of the way. I feel extraordinarily proud to have been in the vanguard of that ‘all-black experiment’.
For those who think that Black Chekhov is absurd, perhaps it is worth remembering that British actors donning Tsarist cavalry uniforms while speaking in upper-class English and calling each other by long Russian names is no less bizarre!
And once again there were good reviews. ‘Pauline Black…cuts a beautiful and stylish figure as Marsha,’ wrote Charles Spencer in the Daily Telegraph.
Next up was a six-month tour of Antony and Cleopatra for a small-scale touring theatre company, ATC. A fellow black actor had once told me that if a director offered you a part, any damn part in a Shakespeare play, then snap it up immediately. Since I didn’t think that any director at the RSC was going to offer me the coveted role of Cleopatra any time soon, I took the advice. The director, the sadly departed Malcolm Edwards, wanted me to play Cleopatra as a ’40s screen idol; a welcome degree of imagination at last, I thought. The only problem was that we had to enact the whole play with a cast of four! Not only that, we had to set up the scenery and stage every night and tour it to the outermost corners of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, namely Enniskillen and Coleraine.
I have never had so much fun on a tour in my life, even skinny-dipping with the whole cast, director and crew in a basement hotel swimming pool owned by the parents of a splendidly Wildean young Irishman, who was full of the blarney and persuaded us to divest ourselves of our clothes and swim as Nature intended one drunken evening post-performance. I’m sure this young man had an ulterior motive, because I later found out that he sang in a band aptly named The Emperor’s New Clothes. Fortunately the days of mobile phone cameras and instant photo uploads onto Facebook were far ahead of us.
It was hard work shlepping around the highways and byways of Britain, but our reward, apart from a few heady days performing at the RSC Swan Theatre in Stratford-on-Avon, was a three-week stint at the Lyric Studio Theatre in Hammersmith. I had very good reviews; unfortunately my Antony, played by the excellent actor Patrick Wilde, less so. In fact he was said to be as ‘limp as a lettuce leaf’ by one uncharitable reviewer. In his defence, he was not best served by the director, who insisted that he wore leather body torso armour over a ’40s suit. Such attire only made him look thinner than he was. Antony is supposed to be a grizzled old war-horse, and the incongruous addition of leathery fake muscles made my Antony look as though he was in desperate need of a Charles Atlas body development course. Nonetheless, for a company of only four attempting to do such a huge tragedy, we garnered good reviews for our London stint: ‘Pauline Black is every inch the icy temptress,’ wrote the Guardian. ‘Her resolve has a truth and beauty that is majestic, sublime and marvellously affecting,’ praised the Independent.
While we were at the Lyric Studio, two of my adoptive brothers, Roger and Tony, decided to come and see their little sister in a production. I think they were motivated by the fact that our mother had seen me in The Cape Orchard and liked it, and now wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I wasn’t sure that either of them had ever seen a Shakespeare play before, but I didn’t want to seem unwelcoming, so I booked them some tickets. Unfortunately the audience was thin on the ground and very unresponsive the night they came.
For those unfamiliar with studio theatres, there is usually no recognisable stage or proscenium arch or indeed curtains that open to mark the start of the performance. To make matters worse, our production had no stage set, just an empty floor space bound by rows of chairs on three sides. While I was putting on my make-up for the evening performance in the communal dressing room, my heart sank when one of my fellow performers announced: ‘Blimey, we’ve got Reggie and Ronnie Kray sat in the front row tonight.’
Patrick Wilde and me in Antony and Cleopatra at the Lyric Hammersmith, 1989
Instantly I knew she had seen my brothers. I went backstage to peer through the black curtains and saw them looking decidedly uncomfortable, fully kitted out in navy three-piece suits, sporting wide, ’70s ties, large, gold-plated cufflinks in their immaculate white shirts and freshly polished black lace-up shoes, patiently waiting for the start of the performance. A few more people drifted in and sat in the back row. Simultaneously my brothers craned their necks round to stare at the new arrivals, probably wondering whether they should move further back. The next two and a half hours yawned before me like a bottomless pit. Most of the action would be happening about two feet away from them, much of which was now running through my mind’s eye, trying to check for the most embarrassing moments, such as when I had to French kiss Patrick in a particularly passionate embrace. I’m not sure why, but at every performance as soon as we started kissing, my stomach audibly rumbled until we stopped. It was very difficult for us to keep a straight face on stage with such an abdominal cacophony filling the silence, which had on a few nights elicited titters from some audience members. To make matters worse, the director had positioned us at the front of the playing area in the centre, exactly where my brothers were sitting. I made a mental note to ask Patrick to cheat himself further upstage for our romantic clinch.
The small audience was quiet throughout. I just hoped and prayed that they were listening attentively rather than sleeping. My brothers stoically stared forward at all times. Patrick completely forgot to change his position as asked and I have never acted quite so determinedly as when I flew into his arms and found myself looking directly at my brothers as they watched their sister being right-royally Frenched in front of their eyes. As if on cue, an almighty stomach gurgle destroyed the deathly quiet studio theatre. I saw my brothers do a comedy double-take as they looked at each other, perhaps wondering whether the noise emanated from one of them. It was all too much for me, I had to pull away from Patrick and bury my head in his shoulder, in a vain attempt to stifle the giggles that beset me. We hoped that our shoulders looked as though they were heaving with sobs at having to part from each other, rather than uncontr
ollable laughter.
After my appointment with the asp of death, all four actors returned from the dead to take their bows and the audience, as small as it was, enthusiastically applauded. Both of my brothers were grinning from ear to ear. Phew, I’d got through it. Now for the after-show party!
I had told Roger and Tony to wait for me in the theatre bar after the show while I changed out of my costume. I tore off my stage clothes and dressed as quickly as possible. I was eager to hear what they had thought of their first Shakespearean performance.
Vanessa Redgrave was doing a production in the main house, A Madhouse in Goa written by Martin Sherman, which came down fifteen minutes before our play. Every night she joined her fellow actors for a quick drink in the bar before being whisked up the road by taxi to her Chiswick home. At this time I was still very loosely associated with the Marxist Party (it had changed its name by now from the Workers Revolutionary Party) and therefore also with Vanessa and her brother Corin. She found it expedient to have a short chat with me after the show if our paths crossed in the bar. I hadn’t seen her for the past few nights, but I desperately hoped that she would have left by the time I got to the bar because I didn’t fancy a stilted conversation with her while my brothers were there. My heart sank like a thirsty camel’s hump when she hoved into view, all smiles and piercing, ice-blue eyes, and engaged me in conversation. I saw both my brothers’ jaws drop as they instantly recognised who was earnestly talking to their baby sister. It’s worth noting that all conversation with Vanessa is earnest. In an effort to include them, I made the necessary introductions. I figured that an authentic whiff of Essex working-class folk would do her good. I boldly announced: ‘Vanessa, these are my brothers. They came to see tonight’s performance.’
It was now her turn to do a comedy double-take, as she looked from my white brothers to me and back again. ‘Hello,’ she stammered as everybody heartily shook hands, desperately trying to think of something to say. ‘So you are Pauline’s brothers?’ she asked rhetorically.
‘Yes,’ they chorused, almost standing at attention. I had always noticed that people stood up a little straighter when talking to Vanessa, she just had that effect on them.
‘Um, what did you think of your sister’s Cleopatra?’
If she had been expecting a learned discourse on the merits of reductive Shakespearean works, then what she got must have come as an all-out assault on her theatrical sensibilities. Roger took up the lull in the conversation.
‘First time I’ve ever been to this kind of theatre,’ he announced. ‘I’ve been to Raymond’s Revue Bar before, but this was a bit different.’
I could see that her eyes were searching his face to see if he was taking the piss, but Roger stared back at her so star-struck that it was impossible to perceive any malice or amusement in his answer.
‘Didn’t expect our little sister to be doing all that kissing on stage though, good job our mum didn’t see that,’ he said, laughing heartily.
At which point I blurted out, presumably by way of explanation: ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, I think Patrick is gay.’
Unfortunately this was completely the wrong thing to say. As if on cue, both of them leapt towards the bar counter, where they theatrically turned to face me and Vanessa and loudly announced in unison: ‘Backs against the walls, boys, backs against the walls.’
Time flowed like treacle. My brothers giving a passable rendition of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber didn’t seem to notice that they had just uttered the kind of tasteless faux pas that even Russell Brand might think twice about. Ms Redgrave proved her Oscar-winning worth by pretending that we had entered a time warp, which rendered my brothers as belonging to a parallel universe, one that had never heard of the term ‘PC’. Her elegant mouth twitched upwards at each corner, while her watery blue eyes remained as steadfastly cold as always.
To make matters worse, Patrick appeared at my side, obviously waiting for me to introduce him to the others. My brothers immediately shut up. It was now their turn to enter a parallel universe. I don’t think either of them had ever met a gay person before, or for that matter a film star. At least they would have plenty to talk about at family get-togethers in the future. Much to Patrick’s chagrin, Vanessa made her excuses and hurried off in search of her taxi, leaving my brothers to handle the thorny problem of shaking hands with Patrick. I hope it was character forming for them. None of my brothers have ever again shown the slightest interest in my acting career.
In August 1989 – at long last – All or Nothing at All began rehearsals. The newly rebuilt Tricycle Theatre now stood proudly and newly refurbished on Kilburn High Road. Nicolas Kent, its energetic and fiercely talented artistic director, had fought hard to raise the necessary money to save the theatre and hoped that a strong and stirring new play based on the tragic life of the celebrated Billie Holiday would be a bold opening gesture.
I returned to my hard-won role, suddenly thrust into a situation where I was leading a cast of seventeen people. From the first day of rehearsal I knew I had my work cut out. If I failed to convince as my idol then the play would be a non-starter. I was simultaneously excited and apprehensive.
The play was somewhat unadventurous in that it used the story-telling technique of a series of flashbacks in which Billie Holiday’s agent, excellently played by Henry Goodman, and others, reminisced in scenes from her life played out in chronological order. On the plus side, it never descended into the mawkish sentimentality of the Hollywood film version of her life, Lady Sings the Blues, starring Diana Ross.
Rehearsals went well for the first couple of weeks, until an unexpected bombshell hit – the author, Caryl or Caz Phillips as he liked to be known, wanted his name removed from the script and posters and refused to have any further contact with his play or the performing cast. Before the assembled actors had fully digested what his actions meant, it was further announced that no words could be changed in the script and lawyers would be sent in on opening night and press night to make sure that this directive was sacrosanct. The effect of these pronouncements on cast morale was devastating. There was an intractable rift between Caz and the director Nick Kent. Nobody knew why.
I tried to intervene, rather foolishly in retrospect. I knew Caz through a mutual friend and had visited his house on one occasion. I took it upon myself to go to his house and try to convince him that what he was doing was detrimental to everybody concerned, particularly because there was a lot riding on the success of the play reopening the theatre. I arrived at his house about 7 p.m., but he was out. So I sat on his doorstep and waited for his return. I’d already waited for two and a half years to make my personal dream of playing Billie Holiday come true, so what difference would a few more hours make? I fervently believed that I could make him see sense and agree to come back on board.
He returned at 10 p.m. He was surprised and embarrassed to see me. To his credit, he invited me in, but would listen to none of my well-rehearsed arguments. After a while, I found his self-righteousness irritating. He was jeopardizing the livelihoods of seventeen cast members and the countless other staff who were working on wardrobe and design. Any appeal to his better nature was resolutely rebuffed. Eventually I lost interest in being a go-between. There is only so much begging that one person can do before you begin to question your self-worth. He didn’t seem to care about anybody else caught up in this drama, only himself. To my mind, he never gave a coherent explanation for his actions. I lost a lot of respect for the man on that day. I’ve never seen him since.
The following day the entire cast was called into the theatre auditorium so that a decision could be made about the future of the project. It was put to us that we could carry on with the project, but any script changes were now out of the question. But I consoled myself with the fact that Billie Holiday had had to surmount bigger difficulties in her lifetime than this relatively minor inconvenience, and in some ways it seemed a fitting tribute to her that a play about her should mee
t with such an insoluble problem. After all, we are talking about a woman who was raped at nine, a prostitute at twelve, a prison inmate in her thirties and eventually arrested on her deathbed for heroin possession. Even though she had arguably been the greatest female jazz singer ever, she was still hounded to her grave by bad-minded people. Unfortunately, an author who should have known better had chosen to dump on her legacy again.
Three people in the uniformly excellent cast stood out for me in this production: Alan Cooke, Henry Goodman and Colin Salmon, the latter having been discovered busking outside the theatre. Alan took it upon himself to act as my vocal coach and Henry as my acting coach throughout rehearsals. I am very grateful to them both for their unselfish and invaluable help. Colin has my sincere thanks for being such a superb trumpeter and all-round nice guy.
What fun we had knocking what was left of the imperfect script into shape! Working on a scene with Henry Goodman was a revelation. Until then, I hadn’t worked with anybody, actor or director, who applied such exactness to every word in the script. Before Henry would utter a word of the script, he would subject every phrase or sentence to rigorous analysis in a never-ending search for intellectual meaning, nuance and truth. Similarly, he demanded that whoever else was in the scene applied the same dramatic tenets to their lines. Admittedly, this approach was not universally liked, but once you had surrendered to it the possibilities for playing a scene seemed endless. I relished the scenes in which Henry and I were alone on stage. He gave so much as an actor and demanded the same in return. No ego was involved – quite the opposite, he knew that he would shine if the other person did too and that the only way this could be achieved was to get right down to the essence of the scene and serve the play, the written word. How wise such thinking is and I wondered why I hadn’t met anybody before who tackled a script in the same manner. Don’t get me wrong, I had been in plays where we had all sat round and discussed our objectives and super-objectives à la Konstantin Stanislavsky. All of that had been very useful, but nothing replaces the root-and-branch dissection that Henry brought to a script. My performance owed as much to his attention to detail as it did to Nick Kent’s direction.
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