Tony Bell will be keeping a blog during Richard III and Comedy of Errors, sharing personal insights into his experiences with the tour. Entries will be posted on the home page, as well as collected in links under the 'Tour Diary' tab.*
“Don’t believe all you read in the papers”
Week Two, Guildford
I’ll talk about the show in a minute, but I need to get something off my chest first.
This theatre has special memories for me, and for every Propeller boy I imagine (I’m
using “boy” in its less literal context). This is the eighth production we’ve performed
here. The first was ‘Rose Rage’ with Richard Clothier as Richard, and here we are
ten years later with the beast from that embryo. But less about that beast, the “bottled
spider” I mean, and more about this beast, the “wrinkled witch” I mean (that’s me
for those who haven’t seen the show.) The performance I remember most was “A
Midsummer Nights Dream,” because I got to play Bottom. As you know I’m not one
to talk about myself but I should mention that Charles Spencer, theatre critic from the
Daily Telegraph, said I was the best Bottom he’d ever seen.
My last visit to Guildford was as a regular punter to see Propeller old “boy” Tam
Williams (the context is less stretched here, on account of Tam’s gene pool). He
was playing Lysander in Peter Hall’s “Dream.” Peter had seen ours, the one where
Spencer said, you know, and cast Tam, not me, in his Judi Dench starring one. Some
graduate played Bottom, rather well actually. Anyway, there was a review from the
Telegraph in the foyer, from Charles Spencer would you believe. It was effusive
about Ms Dench as Titania of course, and it also singled out another performance for
special praise, describing the young actor playing the donkey as “the best Bottom I’ve
ever seen.”
Today’s reviews are tomorrow’s Prop wrapping and all that, I know, but still, it hurt.
Actors are sensitive creatures, and not a little self absorbed, or is that just me? I
had to shake myself out of my ‘glass half empty’ mood so I did what Willy would
have done. I wrote about it. I plagiarised some dead writer’s words and made them
my own, as he would have done, only I didn’t perform it at the Globe. Dominic
Dromgoole wouldn’t let me. He just got me to read. It wasn’t a long meeting.
They say recycle your material, so here goes, my attempt to exorcise the green eyed
monster. You will notice I have replaced the name of the aforementioned usurper
with names of other nemeses. I wish to protect his anonymity, and he gets more than
enough publicity without my help thank you very much….
“When my cue comes call me and I will answer. My next is “Most fair Pyramus.”
Peter Quince? Flute the bellows mender? Snug the joiner? David Tennant the doctor?
What sold out and left me asleep? I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream
past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to
expound this dream.
Methought I was an actor. Methought I had talent, charisma, an agent that loved me
(more than David Tennant). Methought I wasn’t bitter, and twisted, and insanely
jealous of Simon Russell Beale, Simon Pegg, James Corden, Gwyneth Paltrow,
Gwyneth Paltrow’s husband and Wagner from the X factor (I’m not really jealous of
Wagner).
Methought I hadn’t destroyed my marriage by sleeping with the entire UCLA
undergrad theatre programme one fateful night in Stratford after playing the bear in
Adrian Noble’s anthropomorphic Winters Tale. Methought I could listen to other
people’s conversations without checking my mobile. Methought I was having sex
with all the actors who ever played Titania, including Richard Clothier. Methought
they told me I was the best Bottom they had ever seen (let it go, Tone, let it go).
The eye of Gloucester hath not seen, the ear of Hamlet’s dad hath not heard, Lavinia’s
hand is not able to touch, David Tennant’s career is not able to nosedive, Judi
Dench’s heart is not able to report, what my dream was (because Peter Hall didn’t
cast me…I know, I know, I’m trying).
I will get Elton John to write a ballad of this dream, and it will be called Bottom’s
Dream because it hath no Bottom, and I will say it at the latter end of the play before
Nick Hytner, and the entire casting department at the National, peradventure to make
it more gracious I shall sing it at David Tennant’s wedding*
*I’d love to come when you do get married David. Maybe I could do my Bottom
speech?
This theatre has special memories for me, and for every Propeller boy I imagine (I’m
using “boy” in its less literal context). This is the eighth production we’ve performed
here. The first was ‘Rose Rage’ with Richard Clothier as Richard, and here we are
ten years later with the beast from that embryo. But less about that beast, the “bottled
spider” I mean, and more about this beast, the “wrinkled witch” I mean (that’s me
for those who haven’t seen the show.) The performance I remember most was “A
Midsummer Nights Dream,” because I got to play Bottom. As you know I’m not one
to talk about myself but I should mention that Charles Spencer, theatre critic from the
Daily Telegraph, said I was the best Bottom he’d ever seen.
My last visit to Guildford was as a regular punter to see Propeller old “boy” Tam
Williams (the context is less stretched here, on account of Tam’s gene pool). He
was playing Lysander in Peter Hall’s “Dream.” Peter had seen ours, the one where
Spencer said, you know, and cast Tam, not me, in his Judi Dench starring one. Some
graduate played Bottom, rather well actually. Anyway, there was a review from the
Telegraph in the foyer, from Charles Spencer would you believe. It was effusive
about Ms Dench as Titania of course, and it also singled out another performance for
special praise, describing the young actor playing the donkey as “the best Bottom I’ve
ever seen.”
Today’s reviews are tomorrow’s Prop wrapping and all that, I know, but still, it hurt.
Actors are sensitive creatures, and not a little self absorbed, or is that just me? I
had to shake myself out of my ‘glass half empty’ mood so I did what Willy would
have done. I wrote about it. I plagiarised some dead writer’s words and made them
my own, as he would have done, only I didn’t perform it at the Globe. Dominic
Dromgoole wouldn’t let me. He just got me to read. It wasn’t a long meeting.
They say recycle your material, so here goes, my attempt to exorcise the green eyed
monster. You will notice I have replaced the name of the aforementioned usurper
with names of other nemeses. I wish to protect his anonymity, and he gets more than
enough publicity without my help thank you very much….
“A Midsummer Night’s Meltdown” by Tony Shakespeare
“When my cue comes call me and I will answer. My next is “Most fair Pyramus.”
Peter Quince? Flute the bellows mender? Snug the joiner? David Tennant the doctor?
What sold out and left me asleep? I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream
past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to
expound this dream.
Methought I was an actor. Methought I had talent, charisma, an agent that loved me
(more than David Tennant). Methought I wasn’t bitter, and twisted, and insanely
jealous of Simon Russell Beale, Simon Pegg, James Corden, Gwyneth Paltrow,
Gwyneth Paltrow’s husband and Wagner from the X factor (I’m not really jealous of
Wagner).
Methought I hadn’t destroyed my marriage by sleeping with the entire UCLA
undergrad theatre programme one fateful night in Stratford after playing the bear in
Adrian Noble’s anthropomorphic Winters Tale. Methought I could listen to other
people’s conversations without checking my mobile. Methought I was having sex
with all the actors who ever played Titania, including Richard Clothier. Methought
they told me I was the best Bottom they had ever seen (let it go, Tone, let it go).
The eye of Gloucester hath not seen, the ear of Hamlet’s dad hath not heard, Lavinia’s
hand is not able to touch, David Tennant’s career is not able to nosedive, Judi
Dench’s heart is not able to report, what my dream was (because Peter Hall didn’t
cast me…I know, I know, I’m trying).
I will get Elton John to write a ballad of this dream, and it will be called Bottom’s
Dream because it hath no Bottom, and I will say it at the latter end of the play before
Nick Hytner, and the entire casting department at the National, peradventure to make
it more gracious I shall sing it at David Tennant’s wedding*
*I’d love to come when you do get married David. Maybe I could do my Bottom
speech?
*This post was sent to the blog publisher by the author and does not infringe on the author's copyright.
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