The noisy munching of sweeties and incessant chitchat of some audience members is another bugbear. Once I was in the audience of a show in New York. I don’t remember which show it was, but there were people talking and volubly snacking on a shared box of Maltesers. They talked and rattled and crunched all the way through the show. In the interval, I couldn’t help it: I burst out and said to them, ‘You are barbarians!’ They looked at me, and I said, ‘You’ve been talking and chattering right the way through the show, spoiling it for everyone else. Have you no manners? Did your mother never tell you how to behave in a theatre?’ One of the men said, ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Get out of here, I’m a member…’ I cut him off. ‘Shut up! Somebody else is talking, not you. I don’t want to hear you talk, your talk is stupid. Behave yourself!’ And they did shut up after that.
We’ve forgotten how to behave in a theatre. Maybe some people talk all the way through whatever they are watching in their own home and they don’t realise how much it impinges on others when they do it in public. That excitement of being in a space with other people all experiencing the same moment, that is the magic of theatre. And talking kills the magic.
One of the funniest things that ever happened to me on stage was in 1966 during the Leicester Repertory production of The Widowing of Mrs Holroyd by D. H. Lawrence. The play is an examination of the humiliations in a marriage. The husband, a miner, is fed up with his wife for always behaving as though she is somehow better than him. One night, he goes to the pub and brings two tarts home with him and they’re all a bit tiddly. I was playing one of the tarts and in the scene the husband is arguing with his wife while the two tarts are drunkenly looking on. My direction was to sit down on a chair and act sozzled.
We had our dress rehearsal, all was well. However, in the period between the dress rehearsal and the first performance a few hours later, the chippies — the carpenters of the theatre — had attached castors to the bottoms of the legs of the armchair in which I was to sit. But no one had told me that. So, when I plonked myself down heavily, as if totally plastered, the chair seemed to be moving downstage. It was a raked, sloping stage: I assumed it was the power of my acting, that I had so perfectly embodied the drunken tart, I was simply imagining my rolling progress — but no! I really was moving! The chair (and I) slid slowly but inexorably down to the edge of the stage. Then it rolled off, tipping me on top of an unfortunate punter in the front row. Amazingly, I wasn’t hurt — the punter luckily also largely survived — but neither of us could speak we were laughing so much. Eventually, I somehow managed to get back on stage, someone hoicked the chair up as well, and the show went on.
Such malfunctions can happen to the great as well. In 1967, I saw Laurence Olivier in Strindberg’s The Dance of Death. A dramatic, serious piece — and a great actor. That night, a door in the scenery would not open, so Sir Laurence made his exit through the fireplace. When he re-entered through the door, he was carrying a large sword. That’s the way things are done in the theatre.
Let me share with you one last theatrical malfunction. In 1963, as a student, I played Mary Cavan Tyrone in Long Day’s Journey into Night by Eugene O’Neill at the ADC Theatre, Cambridge. The abiding memory of my performance was on the first night, the opening of the third act.
Stage directions: ‘Dusk is gathering in the living room, an early dusk due to the fog which has rolled in from the Sound and is like a white curtain drawn down outside the windows.’ In order to achieve this effect, the stage management had been working very hard in the wings during the interval, using the fog machine. They were surprisingly efficient.
When the curtain rose, I was onstage with Cathleen, the servant girl. But I couldn’t see her. She couldn’t see me and the audience couldn’t see either of us — though I could hear the front row was coughing hard. Mary’s first line is: ‘That foghorn! Isn’t it awful, Cathleen?’ In my anxiety, I said instead, ‘The fog is thick tonight, Cathleen.’ There was a roar of laughter from the audience which lasted a good minute, accompanied by clapping and foot-stamping. I just about managed to keep from ‘corpsing’. It’s a searing, brilliant play, but that was a moment of sublime comedy.
The Joys of Being an Understudy: The Threepenny Opera
Everyone has landmark productions in their careers; The Threepenny Opera by Bertolt Brecht with music by Kurt Weill was certainly one of mine. Weill’s widow, Lotte Lenya came to see the show; alas, she never came to our dressing room. I was not in any way a star despite having the terrific Kate Feast as my agent.
The last theatre piece I’d done was Fiddler on the Roof, the previous year; a few TV roles had followed. But this was the Prince of Wales Theatre in the West End; a famous director, Tony Richardson in charge; with huge stars like Vanessa Redgrave (Polly Peachum) and Barbara Windsor (Lucy Brown) and Annie Ross (Ginny Jenny, a whore) and Hermione Baddeley (Mrs Peachum) in the leads. I was delighted. Among a big cast were also Joe Melia who played Macheath — ‘Mack the Knife’ — and Arthur Mullard as ‘Crook Finger’ Jake. My main role, Nelly, was called simply ‘Whore’ but I also took on an understudy role for the first and only time. I understudied Barbara Windsor (or ‘Ba’, as we all called her).
It was hard work for us alclass="underline" a show of the size and complexity of The Threepenny Opera would normally have two months of rehearsals, but we opened on 10 February 1972 after only a month. The show later transferred to the Piccadilly Theatre on 10 April.
Tony Richardson staged The Threepenny Opera as if in a fairground, with a real carousel, painted in dark and light silver, in the centre of the stage, designed by Patrick Robertson. The theatre had a revolving stage and Nelly was one of four prostitutes (I have played a lot of whores in my time) who sat on this merry-go-round which, as the reviewer for the Stage noted, was ‘at once gay and charming and strange and forbidding’.[12] The three other whores were formidable personalities: Patricia Quinn, who is now Lady Stephens, widow of Sir Robert; Diana Quick; and Stella Courtney, an older actress who smoked continuously.
We four tarts shared a dressing room and had a wonderful time, gossiping and going off after the show to Gerry’s Club, run by Annie Ross’s husband, Sean Lynch. I never went in for all that partying and the Soho scene, but Annie knew all the late-night spots around Soho and the West End, and we all followed her. They drank for hours. I just ate. Annie was where the action was; she was part of that world, and I enjoyed tagging along. She took us to the Buckstone Club, an after-hours dining and drinking club in a basement behind the stage door of the Haymarket Theatre on Suffolk Street in St James’s, where Ronnie Barker met Ronnie Corbett. I had never been anywhere like that. Famous jazz musicians who’d probably been playing at Ronnie Scott’s and actors in all the West End shows came and caroused, and I mixed with the glamorous people; that was a taste of the highlife, but it’s not my natural habitat. Sometimes Annie would sing; I knew her records from the Lambert, Hendricks & Ross days; but when she did ‘scat’ singing… that was my favourite.