Covering McKellen

An Understudy's Tale

David Weston

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN:
  9781786824752
• eBook ISBN:
  9781786824769
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Acting & Auditioning

WINNER OF THE 2011 THEATRE BOOK PRIZE

Shakespeare's greatest play, directed by the most experienced and acclaimed director in the land, starring one of our very finest actors at the very peak of his powers... What could possibly go wrong?

The stage is set for what promises to be one of the greatest tours in the history of theatre. Take a front row seat as a whole host of stars led by Sir Ian McKellen and Sir Trevor Nunn set off to take the world by storm with their new production of King Lear only to endure injuries, critical backlash and almost constant controversy.

As understudy to the King himself, Weston's frank and funny account takes us right through from the London rehearsals to the historical Stratford Season, back to the glittering West End, and then out across the globe. Punctuated with hilarious celebrity anecdotes, insightful travelling tales, and lessons for any aspiring thespian, Weston deftly lifts the curtain the on Royal Shakespeare Company's much heralded tour and reveals the chaos underneath.

Stratford

Monday March 19^th

Get up early and drive up to Stratford on the M40. It seems like such a long time since I first took the road to Stratford. I can remember that it was Richard Burton himself who advised me, during a break from filming on Becket, to make my career in the theatre and not to be seduced by films as he had been. He was dramatising things, as he always did – he positively revelled in being the biggest film star in the world, as he was at that time – but he also knew that most actors can only find a long and fulfilling career on stage. So, 40 years ago I rejected the only film offer I had on the table (the juvenile lead in a Hammer film about Rasputin) and began my first Stratford Season, playing Benvolio to Sir Ian Holm’s Romeo. I can still see myself in 1967, brimming with the confidence of youth, and planning to work my way up the company; full of hopeful expectation. At least I can say I’ve gone the distance.

We all start off thinking we are going to be stars – the realisation that we won’t comes at different times. Some poor souls leave drama school and never get a job, others quickly find they can’t stand the constant rejection and disappointment. I still held on to the belief that I had that special quality until I was well into my thirties – always thinking that the big break was just around the corner. When I finally realised that it was not to be, I made a conscious decision to soldier on in the business, no matter what. I loved acting and being an actor too much, I would take whatever came. I am so glad that I did – especially with this new adventure about to unfold.

Flat’s not too bad. Lovely views over the Avon, but the carpet and oven are dirty. It is in a modern block, part of a development built on land sold by the RSC about 20 years ago. I can remember the big old house and lovely garden that was once here. Part of the deal was that the RSC was given a block of flats, which the RSC rents out to its visiting actors. They pay you £125 subsistence for living away from home, and promptly take it back, and more, in rent and commodity charges. I’m on the ground floor next to Ben Meyjes. Monica, Melanie, Guy and Trevor’s assistant director, Gemma, are all above. I’m sure we will get to know each better now we’re living in such close quarters. Lady Sainsbury, who is on the RSC Board, has lent Ian her beautiful cottage on Waterside. Bill is bringing his two beloved cocker spaniels with him so has rented one of the RSC’s little houses with a small garden, almost opposite the stage door. Others are renting various properties the RSC owns around the town, whilst some are staying in cheaper, privately-rented accommodation. Guy, our intrepid Kenyan, is living in a caravan. John Heffernan has the cheapest accommodation of all as he is staying with his mother who lives in Stratford.

In the afternoon we all assemble at the Courtyard, the temporary venue for all the main plays here at Stratford until the entirely rebuilt RST re-opens. Though it looks just a functional brick building from the outside, the auditorium has a real Elizabethan feel about it.

There is nothing glamorous backstage at the Courtyard: it was never intended to be the main house, so there is not much room. I go upstairs to the plain, brick-walled dressing room. I’m sharing with Lear’s two sons-in-law, Guy and Julian, as well as Seymour, big Adam and John Heffernan, who is going to be very good in the sneaky little part of Oswald. I’ve never really managed to break the ice with Seymour in all the years I’ve known him. I ask him what happened to a girlfriend I had here in Stratford in 1967 – I’d always suspected he was rather keen on her. “She was my first wife,” he growls. I make further attempts at conversation and discover that he supports his home town Colchester United and Liverpool – and hates Chelsea.

The younger actors share two more rooms along the corridor. The girls are all crammed into one on the ground floor, where Jonathan and Sylvester share a small room, as do Ian and Bill.

We begin technical rehearsal which, knowing Trevor, will go on for days. We stagger slowly through the first scenes. Everyone tries to adjust their own performance to the theatre: we will have the audience on three sides of us. Trevor constantly fine-tunes positions, whilst Ian’s eyes dart everywhere as he seeks out the most effective spot to deliver a line.

My evening is made by Chelsea winning the FA Cup replay 2-1, which I watch intermittently on the stagehands’ TV.

Because of Union regulations, Trevor has to stop at 10. Some things have changed for the better: when I started in1961 at Manchester Library Theatre, technical rehearsals went on all night. Most of the cast opt for a drink, but I’m too tired. I go back to my lonely little flat and wish I was back in Pimlico with Dora.

Tuesday March 20^th

Cold night. The noise of the rushing Avon waters on the weir outside keeps making me want to pee. Wake up lonely and freezing.

Technical rehearsal continues. It becomes apparent that the design of the Courtyard, which will be repeated in the RST when it is rebuilt, is faulty. The thrust stage has terrible sight lines so unless the actor is moving, he blocks the view of large numbers of the audience. Trevor is forced to put most of the action towards the back of the stage as if there’s a proscenium arch. One begins to wonder what was wrong with the original RST: it was good enough for Olivier, Gielgud and Scofield. So many great productions were created in it. Only my opinion of course, but isn’t it a case of ill thought-out change for the sake of change? And what a waste of millions! Talking of waste, four musicians will be touring the world with us. As their music is played a long way from the stage and is only heard by the audience through speakers it could so easily have been recorded, but, unfortunately the original charter of Stratford theatre stipulates that every production must have live music. Fortunate for the musicians, however.

Discover, in the close proximity of the crowded dressing room, some of my fellow players have BO. Hope it won’t get worse in the tropics.

Go to The Black Swan (or ‘Dirty Duck’, as it has always been known since thirsty actors as far back as Sir Frank Benson – and probably much further – started stumbling the 100 yards there from the stage door). Memories of the Summer of Love of 1967 flood back, but now the young, nubile, dolly barmaids have been replaced by hairy, butch Australian blokes. Pam, the formidable Brummie manageress, with whom you had to find favour to get an after-hours drink and be part of the scene, has long departed. Can’t help but feel it’s lost some of its charm.

Wednesday March 21^st

Our first preview performance is only three days away and there is a slight feeling of unease as we stagger through lighting cues, sound cues and scene changes. So much is expected of this production. In the back of my mind I recall the Macbeth, always an unlucky play, which Peter Hall did here with Paul Scofield in 1967. That was going to be a definitive production and it too was scheduled to go around the world. We rehearsed for a few weeks, things were going well, then Hall got shingles. The production was postponed and never recovered. It got a lukewarm reception and we got no further than Moscow. Will history repeat itself? I am having trouble with the Gentleman’s 60-odd lines. I’ve never had trouble before or really worried about the magical way lines go into an actor’s brain. Every veteran actor fears that one day this magic will leave him. I’ve heard a certain dame resorts to Eye Q tablets from Boots.

We eventually get to the end of the play and start again from the beginning as Trevor polishes and cleans up. Everyone seems very quiet and tired, but that is normal after three long days of technical.

Thursday March 22^nd

A better day. In our dressing rooms we find our costumes waiting for us on rails, together with a pretty dresser. We put them on for the first time. What we originally saw as sketches now look superb. Ian is dressed in a scarlet and gold coat in the first scene; Jonathan and Bill, as Kent and Gloucester, are accoutred as Russian grand dukes in black and silver; the three daughters are glamorous in décolleté ball gowns. Romola, naturally, is particularly ravishing. Frances’ dress has a high collar, made of dark lace that makes her resemble the Wicked Queen in Snow White.

All round the auditorium, laptops gleam in the dark, as lighting, sound and music all fit into place. Trevor is constantly reworking positions. He discovers that an arrowhead formation works best on the thrust – you cannot be upstaged as in a normal theatre. I have never known him to be so nervous. He was always calm at the National, even in Troilus and Cressida, when we got so far behind with the technical that we had to do the first preview without dress rehearsing the second half.

We have real rain in the storm, which floods the front row.

Friday March 23^rd

Ian is having his hair dyed pure white and I am suddenly asked to stand in for him, in the scene where Lear wakes from his madness and recognises Cordelia. Am relieved to find I know the lines and am touched at the end when Romola whispers: “Well done, David.” In the evening we do a full dress rehearsal. It is very frantic working out how one gets to either side of the stage to make one’s entrances. In this case it’s even more frantic as the Courtyard is not built like a normal theatre. One is always terrified of being off: a worse nightmare even than drying on stage. As well as the usual entrances from the sides, we also use the two vomitaries that thrust out right through the auditorium. I even have to make a couple of entrances through the lobby, as does Ian, past gaping tourists. I see a couple of Americans casually take photos of him as if it has been laid on as a photo opportunity. The show is long (all Trevor’s productions are), but goes better than I’d expected, though I still don’t find poor old Sylvester funny, even with his music hall costume and various props, including a fool’s head which he uses as a sort of ventriloquist’s dummy. Like all comedians he desperately needs an audience.

Tomorrow the previews begin, before the critics come in and the show opens for real. An audience will judge for the first time the fruits of our 12 weeks of labour – I have no doubt we’ll be ready. As I drop off to sleep I realise that, from now on I will be expected to play Lear at the drop of a hat if anything happens to Ian, no matter that I have had barely a couple of rehearsals. I’m relieved to find that it doesn’t worry me. I am more or less secure with the lines: imagine the nightmares if I weren’t.

Saturday March 24^th

First preview. Trevor spends the day giving us notes and making final adjustments. A sense of keen anticipation is all around the building, which grows gradually throughout the day. All too soon we find ourselves standing nervously in the wings, and then the moment finally comes. The musicians begin to play Stephen Edis’ stirring Russian music from the depths of the building. Seymour and I, at the head of the waiting procession, watch the red cue light gleaming through the darkness. It turns to green; we each take a deep breath and then walk firmly out to centre stage, before turning down towards the waiting audience. The rest are coming behind us, with Ian far at the rear: we are under way at last.

Everything fits into place. Ian rises to the occasion, as I knew he would, and is wonderful. But others come up as well: Bill is rock-firm as Gloucester; Frances and Monica are suitably evil as the wicked daughters; Ben Meyjes works his arse off as Mad Tom; Philip looks dashing in his costume and fights a good duel; Sylvester manages to get a few laughs, as does John Heffernan as Oswald. Everybody else, including the Gentleman, puts all they can into it. There is a great feeling of excitement and the audience is completely enthralled. I feel very proud to be a member of this company. Even though the show is three hours and 40 minutes, there are cheers at the end. Trevor is delighted and relieved; we each get ‘Treved’ as we come off stage. Everyone seems happy, but we must remember that this is only a preview. The first night and the all powerful critics: Billington, De Jongh, Nightingale et al – the big hurdle – is waiting round the bend.

Drive back to London, get home in the early hours.

Monday March 26^th

After a restful Sunday, drive back up to Stratford on the old road, via Henley, Woodstock and the Cotswolds. A lovely spring morning. Apart from the speed cameras, nothing much has changed: England is still beautiful. One of the bonuses of touring is that you see a lot of the country. I once drove through Sussex on a sunny day with the sultry Kate O’Mara, who told me that her idea of heaven would be to drive through the English countryside for eternity.

Arrive in Stratford to learn that Frances Barber has fallen off her bike: a female American tourist stepped in front of her in the High Street. She has dislocated her knee and her voice is tired, but insists she will not be off. There is a scurrilous article in the Daily Mirror, headlined, ‘Gandalf Waves his Wand’, claiming that some members of the audience were shocked at Ian’s nudity and complained that they hadn’t been warned. I can’t believe it. Probably phoned in by some would be journalist on the make. Trevor is very happy and relaxed, however, and gives us four hours of notes. The only real problem is that the show, like most Nunn productions, is too long: he says it must come out at under three and a half hours. He will give us the cuts tomorrow. I wonder how much of the Gentleman will go?

Tonight’s performance is naturally a bit flat. As well as being the second night, it is a theatrical tradition that Monday performances are always bad, as are Friday nights in the West End, when wives drag their reluctant husbands along from the City. Am slowly finding my personal rhythm backstage – how much time I can s...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Half-Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• Preface
• The Players
• London, 2007
• Stratford
• Newcastle
• London
• Singapore
• Melbourne
• Wellington
• Auckland
• London
• New York
• Minneapolis
• Los Angeles
• London
• 2008
• Afterward