Hell in the rehearsal room

Six years ago I had the displeasure of working with an insidiously passive-aggressive actor. Native to small towns rich in comfort-zone entitlement, this thankfully rare breed was one I had not quite encountered before, but one I certainly hope never to encounter again, and one that perhaps others have also met. There is fresh breath in sharing these experiences.

We that tread the boards have all met our fair share of the more common and harmless eyeroll-inducing diva, making inappropriate comments and demands that can be calmed and washed under the bridge. This is not they.

Scene: I had co-written, and was producing, a play. One of the cast was less than pleasant. Consistently late or absent for rehearsals with no reason or apology, including the tech-dress (turning up halfway through, in trainers, for the photo shoot, amongst a full set of Victorians, distracted and distracting as hell, subsequently demanding detailed feedback as though we were watching his performance and his alone as it would be in the show. Critical of others’ performances past the point of suggestion, forgetting that he was playing a minor, one-scene role, stealing off with other actors for private chats pre-show to make his own directorial enforcements and generally contributing a sickening kind of uneasiness to the room, this man was unbearable. But we bore it. He was alright as an actor when he didn’t let his ego take over (in case you doubt that they know best – improvisation needs to be capped when your director shows you the yellow card; if you don’t trust the script, you’re not doing your job properly.) We were as civil and professional as we knew how to be, and gave him as much as we could. We arranged extra workshops for him. Which he was late for. We exchanged hopefully reassuring glances and quiet words with the rest of the cast.

The main sticking point was the recording of the show. He wanted a copy, and he wanted it now. Now, as a general rule, we didn’t do that. We made theatre. I ensured recordings were made wherever possible for my personal portfolio, and, as a second priority, for the company (this had previously only mattered to me, and could, of course, have encroached too far and spoiled the live experience.) We were but three women, we worked full time, were in the middle of a crazily intensive six-shows-in-six-months programme, and we did not then possess that magical unicorn that poops out time enough to edit and send off copies of all our shows to everyone involved. Additionally, the company ran on volunteer power, and the kindness of friends, and our running and resources were heavily dependent on those people. Records of various shows and the means to edit them lay with the different people who could provide us that help at the time, and so editing the footage, even collecting it, meant coordinating our ‘days off’ (I’ve heard of these) with those who held the footage. I mention all this not to labour a defense but hopefully to shed some light on the process for others experiencing similar problems from either end. The task sounds simple enough, yes, if we were working 4/5 day weeks with regular hours and didn’t run a fucking theatre company in every spare minute we could grab. Days off consisted of the odd hour on a random day of the week in which I might lie in a little longer because I was physically exhausted, or one day in a few months when I actually had a full 24 hours in which no doctor’s appointments, laundry, rehearsals, meetings or chores were inescapable. On these days, because they came so rarely, I often literally needed to sleep all day. My brain required a few YouTube kicks before I made it downstairs, and after that everything was just a blur.

This ugly soul sent me a hideous, threatening email a whole year after the show closed, to reinforce just how angry he was that we had not yet provided him with a full video recording of his performance; a voluntary role he accepted without that caveat, which he then raised during the run. Such was his fury that we could not immediately deliver on his last-minute, never-promised request that he vowed a vendetta to upend our script, our experience of the show, and our reputation.

We would gratefully have accepted his withdrawal from the project at this point, and needless to say, certainly would never be hiring him again.

So goodnight unto you all, aggressive, strained egos seeking out a target. Take your leave. And everyone else – it is not.your.fault.

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Foodie Review: The Pig & Pastry

I was recently inspired by my friend Martha at Tulips, Teashops and Tales to try out a foodie blog for a change. If you’re into food and based near York (or London), she’s your gal.

This weekend I was helping a friend clean out her very first house what she now owns and after a few hours of getting intimate with parts of second-hand white goods that one never wishes to make the acquaintance of, we decided it was Tea and Cake time.

We ambled into a nearby old favourite, The Pig & Pastry on Bishopthorpe Road, York. Bishy Rd is known for its inclusive, bohemian, independent vibe, and the P&P might just be the keystone of that community. It’s a forever-bustling family-run hub of yummy mummies and bookish types, (books conveniently provided in the nooks and crannies) and it’s the kind of place you sit down with strangers, whether it’s full or not (it mostly is). Children and babies (and, I think, dogs) are welcome.

The menu comprises fresh, locally-sourced, homemade recipes spanning indulgent all-day breakfast treats like waffle-bacon-maple volcanoes, Benedict Cumberland, cheesy-chutney sarnies, quiches, salads and more – the lunch specials change regularly just to keep you on your toes.

I restrained myself with great difficulty from the waffles this time, with the thought of returning to heavy duty cleaning with a belly full of said waffles (you kind of owe them an immediate nap of appreciation.) I opted for the roasted squash and sweet potato soup, served with spongy bread and what was possibly crème fraîche, certainly delicious. My friend went for a sourdough cheese and chutney sandwich and we shared a large, warm, wobbly slice of custard tart for afters.

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The P&P always delivery first-class food and service at affordable prices. It’s an absolute haven and I hope it never changes.

Acting is the lifelong sting of not being chosen

I wrote the following passage a few months ago now, and it felt a bit too ripe to publish in the heat of the moment, but the sentiment stands, and is, I imagine, something that recurs for other actor-creators too, and perhaps sharing it now it is at a safe distance can be of some worth.

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It’s been a while since I had something to say. It’s been a while since I had something to say that meant something to me. Since this blog has been less anonymous, I’ve also been less carelessly candid. It’s been a dry spell. But pain and writing have long been intertwined in my life, and right now I’m kinda hurtin’.

An actor dating a director, I’ve developed a nasty habit of typecasting myself. I am constantly hearing actors being ruled out for being too comic, too straight, too camp, too hulky, too silly, too homely, etc., etc. I’m sure this doesn’t make directors bad people, it’s just how they’ve learned to function efficiently. Conversely, in acting training I’ve always believed (was I taught to believe it? I don’t remember) that any great actor can perform any role. THE MAGIC OF THEATRE. If you believe it, they believe it. Etc. But… I’ve started to internalise the typecasting, physical and otherwise. Actors beware; if you’re going to put yourself on that side of the table and keep up the acting too, the perspective will take its toll on your ego.

Instead of being the go-getting ambitious actor I was a few years ago who created her own roles, writing new scripts every week for the fun of it with the tireless belief that each piece might be the next exciting project I got to act in, I’ve written less and less, and mentally cast myself in less and less roles. Why? I’m hearing myself say things like “So-and-so would be really good at that actually.” “I can’t do ____.” “My nose is too round.” “I’m not Hollywood enough. You want her instead. She’ll enjoy that.” Which is very selfless of me, bravo me. But no fucker else is going to be doing that for you, and they shouldn’t be either.

Now, I’ve long been in the habit of pretending I care less than I do, because it’s not cool to care. Not in interviews, not in auditions, not in relationships. “Oh, you care how this turns out? Um… O-kaayyyyy…” *Makes ‘help me’ and ‘crazy’ gestures at someone behind you, as if you’re so blind with crazy that you can’t see them.* I’ve been taught over and over that I’m not welcome at the party if I want the thing at the party.

Recently I discovered a TV series which made my heart sing and my brain buzz and I thought, “That’s it. That’s what I want to be doing.” It crept inside me and I started singing out loud and practicing accents and expressions and seeking out auditions and acting classes and agents again. (Don’t get me started on the endlessly deflating catch-22 of needing drama school to get an acting job to get Equity to get Spotlight to get an agent to get an acting job to get Equity…)

I suggested it to my partner while cat-sitting at a friend’s house, we watched it together, and it was all great fun and dreams were ignited. Kittens literally gamboled. And now that friend is making something in the vein of said musical wonderment, and they’re making it for someone else. And they happened to mention to my partner that they discovered it because he had watched it on their TV. So, not only am I not  in the running for my dream roles, (not putting myself in the running?) I’m being written out entirely from my own mini tale of self-pity about it. What am I left with? My own fucking ideas?  Have you forgotten what my brain’s doing to me? No thanks, I hate that guy.

I’m all for loving one’s own company, and building one’s own dreams, but fuck pretending not to care. I am fucking burning with want. It feels ridiculous to even have to say. I’m an actor, of course I want all the goddamn roles that have ever been written. I want to perform every classic as a one-woman show in downtown New York unused fire stations, I want to be shimmying across Broadway under the spotlight, I want to be standing next to Spielberg in photographs where he’s explaining how he wants me to do something emotionally complicated. I want all the lead roles, now and always, all the best and most demanding ones, all the ones that show range and give me a chance to be loved and hated  by committed audiences. And the funny ones.

And I will hunt those down. But it would be nice for the phone to ring sometimes too.

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Missing:
; Not misplaced,
rather deliberately hidden
and buried and forgotten and set aside
is too tender a phrase
for what’s required to unfind
your sense of humanity
when confronted with the past of having
left a child behind
in a place about to be an un-place
uninhabited by un-people.
Un-children.
Not misplaced but missing it so
dreadfully terribly un-much.

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Missing:
Figure with staring white stellar eyes
dragging out through viscera and membrane
Hard wart knot at the corner of the
[nose?] accentuated by fearful tunnel groove
where anything might happen after curfew – leading down to lips,
rather, lip, huge, bounteous,
impenetrable unless explicitly inviting
disguised as soft though one knows better.
Brow not unlike large testes with uniform bush strip decorating the crag,
sagging over the pushy stars punching through their sacks, rippling skin.
Red haze haunting lower lip edge and chin creases.
Something like a nose, if noses were known to him.
Five-three, Caucasian. Any news?