Diary of a Gossip: My body is my tool

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.*

“My body is my tool”
Week Four: Girona (still)

Day One

Last night was the European premiere of Propeller’s Richard Third, complete with
incomprehensible Catalan surtitles. Catalan is not Spanish, apparently, it’s Catalan,
and the audience was predominantly unCatalonian, so I was told. Actually, those that
told me were Dutch, though one had Spanish blood, I’m sure of it, my knees shook.
However, despite the lack of audience response during the show, the spectacle of fake
blood spurting all over the place must have held attention, since we came back for six
curtain calls, because we had to, not because we needed to, though I think I do need
to, as often as possible, but we won’t explore that now. To top it all the producers
took us out for tapas, where we drank at someone else’s expense, which meant we
were paralytic.



It’s all great then, we’re a triumph, whoopy-doo. I don’t want to sound ungrateful,
but sometimes this job is really dull. Stuck in a one horse medieval town, the morning
after the night before, in a continental quilt, on the continent, incontinent (not really
but I like the wordplay), with an overseas mobile tariff, a choice of single beds, and a
steaming hangover.

That’s why I’m writing another one of these. And to be fair, it’s about time I wrote
something more elevating, about my life in art, perhaps, like that Russian bloke did.
Stan I think his name was, only with the Russian spelling it comes out as Stanislavski
and he is father to an acting system that is taught at every British drama school
(except the one Christopher Biggins went to.) It’s what American film actors like
Marlon Brando, and Madonna, call the ‘Method.’ According to Stan then, it’s all
about what your character wants. In life we act because we want something, and it’s
the same in acting. We work out what our character wants, then we go onstage and
try to get it. Queen Margaret wants to curse everybody, right, so she goes out there
and, er, curses everybody. Then she has a rest, and in the second half she brings on
two dolls’ heads in a jar, which are the heads of the dead princes, right, and she pokes
the new queen with her walking stick and shouts at her, because she wants revenge
for the death of her own son, she wants to rub the queen’s nose in it, because he’s
younger, and prettier, and has a sexy girlfriend. Did I tell you that you’re allowed to
use your own feelings to make them real for the character?

The thing Stan forgot was that in Propeller you also have to sing falsetto, wearing a
prickly mask, lifting a bag with a body in it, and moving a hospital screen, all at the
same time. And then you have to do a rap, to an electric guitar, with no mike, while
everyone bangs things, and later you have to drink cheap Spanish plonk till four in
the morning. When you wake up after breakfast has finished to order room service,
you sound like Bonnie Tyler, and when you open the door to the cleaner you walk
like Quasimodo (that bit doesn’t matter if you’re playing Richard). So it matters not
a Spanish fig what you ‘want’ in the end, if you can’t speak, and you can’t move, and
you’ve got to do another show. Not much good having an imagination if you can’t
get the words out. So that’s really why I’m bored, because I’m trying not to speak,
or move, for the next six hours, so come nine o’clock this evening I can do it all over
again. Actually I’m bored of typing now, so I’m going to hobble out of here and pick
up some take away ‘potatas bravas,’ and then try to warm up with the rest of them.
Doctor theatre will sort me out. Just hope I can pick up that jar without having a back
spasm – those pickled heads are really heavy.

Day Two

Okay, so I was a miserable bastardo yesterday. It was the comedown from the high of
the show, it’s called cold turkey when Ewan McGregor does it in ‘Trainspotting,’ and
acting’s a drug, right? Simon Callow, and other scientists, say the adrenalin released
from a performance is the same as a serious car crash. Actually, I’ve been in some
performances that are the same as a serious car crash, and one where a car literally
crashed, and it wasn’t ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’ (‘Grapes of Wrath’ actually, where
the extended Joad family drove an old banger through some sheets on sticks for an
extended three hours.) Still, if this theory is true, no wonder I was a bit queasy going
into the second show.

The director warned me not to hit top C too early in the big space, and mindful of
the time I hyperventilated as Marley’s ghost ten feet up in Scrooge’s attic during a
matinee at Basingstoke (my agent was in), I decided to take my foot off the pedal.
As it turned out, when I dived Shiltonesque to save the skull of my (dead) son
which Mister Crookback was bowling into the wings (no respect that boy), my stick
went ‘awol’ stage left. I had to lift Hastings’ shoe off it, before I could carry on
cursing (there’s a film title in there somewhere). The blocking was totally buggered
so I ended up breathing ‘potatas bravas’ into Buckingham’s hairy nostrils, but at least
the scene was fresh. I loved the way Hastings stamped on the wayward stick to stop
me doing what I ought to be doing, like picking it up. That’s what’s great about this
company. I’ve been in some where actors would have been thrown by something
like that. “I believe this is yours Queenie?” a less flexible Shakespearean might
have iambicked as he waved the offending article. Not our Tom Padden: “I used it
Tone, I went with it, did you see that?” “Yeah, rock on Tommy, I might keep it in
actually.” “Well that was a dog’s breakfast wasn’t it?” You can count on Old Mother
Buckingham to spoil the party. New-minted, I believe, is the phrase you’re looking
for, you boring fart. Chris is old school, he doesn’t embrace change easily, you can
tell from his wardrobe.

So back to Stan, then, and his theory on stagecraft. As David Mamet points out, in
his three acting books, there are just too many books about acting. You can either
do it, or you can’t, ask Arnold Schwarzenegger. In any case, I’m not sure you can
apply method acting to Shakespeare, with the iambic pentameter, the rules of verse
structure, and all. After a workaholic week off at the New York actor’s studio, I tried
playing Bottom using the ‘Meisner’ method, which is even more purist than Stan, and
means you don’t say anything unless you really, really have to. I put twenty minutes
on the first half in Bromley. Hey, at least I tried, and Bottom isn’t just a buffoon, you
know, he’s a real human being, okay? Excavate the depths of the role, that’s what
I say. And make sure you don’t lose your voice, or bump into a hospital screen, or
drop the dolls’ heads, or slip on the vomit, or squirt blood on Wayne Cater. Oh, and
definitely don’t lose your walking stick. It’s like Sampson, and his beard, that is.
Without it Margaret is nothing, do you hear, nothing. Eat your heart out, Stan.

*This post was sent to the blog publisher by the author and does not infringe on the author's copyright.