Year of the Fat Knight Page 3

  Well, why didn’t McKellen or Jacobi do it? They’ve both spent their careers notching up a line of Shakespeares, and they’ve done their Lears now, and there’s nothing left. What was it about Falstaff that they shied away from? Maybe a generational thing. They’re the last group from a theatrical tradition which said that, for the classical actor, certain roles (like Hamlet, Macbeth, etc.) lead to Lear, while others (like Touchstone, Bottom, etc.) lead to Falstaff, and never the twain shall meet.

  This is a blind alley. You can’t judge yourself against other actors.

  What is it then? Why is this decision harder than any other?

  Look at the eyes in the portrait. Half-closed. Defensive.

  The thing I’ve said again and again is that I don’t want to be laughed at.

  Where is this from – this fear? Me at school, me in the army. Short and weedy – feeble at sport, at marching, at running up fucking sand dunes with a weight on my back.

  And here we are again – the little guy trying to be a big guy. Scared of failing, scared of mockery.

  The portrait is finished. The man in it just looks pissed off now. Paralysed by indecision.

  Something is going to have to happen to break this.

  When Greg came home, I showed him the picture, thinking he’d disapprove. It’s an unflattering image of his chap, after all. But he liked it as a drawing – said it was very economic, very assured, very free. That cheered me up.

  Thursday 21 March

  Köpenick back in the repertoire. But I’ve brought a bad cough back from Stratford (maybe the ‘river cough’ which Greg and I seem to catch sometimes when we stay at Avonside). One of the craziest things actors have to do is perform when ill. In any other job, you’d just go home to bed.

  The experience was dreamlike, or rather nightmarish. My entire focus went off my performance and onto my cough. I was engaged in a battle – between the huge amount of text I had to speak and the tiny but deadly tickle in my throat. Would I get through the next line, the next speech? Was it safe to turn my head, to sit or stand? I carried a hipflask of water in my costume, in case of choking emergencies, but, for the most part, stage adrenalin – Doctor Theatre – held these off. Then I’d go back to my dressing room and hack my guts out.

  Tonight’s audience was quiet, and for the first time the applause didn’t lift when I took my solo bow in the curtain call. Nor did it deserve to. I was definitely ‘under’, as they say.

  What a wretched evening.

  Friday 22 March

  I said something would have to happen, and this morning it does.

  All alone in the house, I have an outburst of fury. At my cough, at last night’s performance, at Köpenick itself. Funny, but now that I’m not well, I’m suddenly aware of the show not being well either. I mean, at its heart, Zuckmayer’s play just isn’t good enough! And it’s happened to me before. Kean in the West End. Sartre’s play just wasn’t good enough! It’s not good enough to have a good part if the play isn’t good enough!!

  And here I am now, with Falstaff – being offered not just a good part, but a great one, in two plays which are not just good, but great. And am I seriously farting and faffing around, wondering whether to do it or not?!

  Fuck tradition, fuck the normal notions of who should play Falstaff, fuck its status as an iconic role, fuck the fact that I’m not fat enough or tall enough or whatever…!

  I’m a character actor, and this is the greatest character part ever written. It presents me with a tremendous feast of the kind of acting that I like best, that I do best – it’ll take all my imagination and creativity to invent his shape, his voice, his very being, and I will enjoy doing that. And yes, it’s a humungous job, and will feed my workaholism to the limit, and that is important, and I’ll enjoy that too. And Greg and I will be working together on Shakespeare again, and I will especially enjoy that.

  It seems only polite to tell Paul Lyon-Maris first, in case there’s any news on the Broadway production of Hysteria – though if it came to a clean choice now between the Thin Professor or the Fat Knight, I’d go with the latter.

  I put in a call to Paul, but can’t get hold of him straight away.

  And then a strange little domestic crisis suddenly propels things along. Our cooker has been ropey for some time. The dial for the oven is loose, and given this is a gas appliance it’s dangerous. At lunchtime I’m about to bake some fishcakes when I notice that the oven is warm, even though the dial is turned to ‘off’ and there’s no flame. Greg cooked last night, and somehow it’s stayed warm since then. Being the least domesticated person in the world – my excuse is, ‘I’m a white South African’ – I don’t know what to do. Try ringing Greg but his answer machine is on. Leave a message. Then go out and buy fish ’n’ chips.

  When I return, I find that the loose dial can be turned off further, and then the warmth inside does finally fade.

  Greg rings, concerned by the anxiety in my voice on the message. We agree that the cooker is now unusable, and we’ll have to get a new one.

  As we’re finishing the call, I say, ‘By the way, I hoped to talk to Paul before you, but he hasn’t rung back yet… anyway, I’m going to do Falstaff.’

  Greg goes silent, then gives a whoop of joy. ‘We are going to have such an adventure!’ Then he’s silent. Then says, ‘I’m crying… I’m in the middle of Tottenham Court Road, and I’m crying.’

  After the call, I feel an enormous surge of relief – and excitement.

  I scoff my fish ’n’ chips, then email Paul with the news. He’s still not available, but his second-in-command, Nick Forgacs, rings back immediately. Tells me that he’s thrilled – the Henries are his favourite plays, and he thinks I’ve made absolutely the right decision. I’ve been waiting for someone to say it’s a good idea. ‘Thank you!’ I reply.

  Back at home after tonight’s show, I open a bottle of champagne. Greg asks, ‘What was the deciding factor?’

  ‘My cough,’ I answer.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No. In the end it’s just about… character acting.’

  ‘Mm-mh?’

  ‘Anyway, to our big adventure.’ I lift my glass. ‘And to…’

  We say it together: ‘…The Fat Knight!’

  2. Character Acting

  Monday 1 April

  What is character acting?

  This question arose as I was clearing a part of my London study today and came across a photo of my giant painting The Audience. Done in 2009, it’s an autobiographical piece, showing about a hundred and fifty people sitting in a dilapidated theatre auditorium. There are groups of family and friends, of heroes and villains, and also of actors in some of my favourite character performances. I’d forgotten that I’d included this section. But it makes sense. I prize character acting highly enough to feature it in a portrait of my life.

  But what is it, character acting? And do I mean the same thing as other people?

  In my childhood, there was a distinguished British actress called Margaret Rutherford, whose work I saw in the cinema (or bioscope, as it was known in South Africa). She was always very charismatic and funny: as Miss Prism in The Importance of Being Earnest, Madam Arcati in Blithe Spirit and Miss Marple in Murder Most Foul. Stout, white-haired, with popping eyes and quivering jowels, she was no one’s idea of a film star, so she was politely referred to as a character actress. This was generally the case, even in the actors’ directory, Spotlight: the beautiful people were listed as Leading Actors, the rest as Character Actors. But this is a nonsense, surely? I think the term ‘character acting’ refers to the powers of transformation. Margaret Rutherford had none whatever. Nor did you want her to have. You wanted her to be exactly the same glorious presence that she was in her last film. She was the ultimate Personality Actress.

  In my adulthood, there has been Meryl Streep. She is the ultimate Character Actress. Her powers of transformation are phenomenal. She is totally convincing as the Danish farm-owner in Out of Africa, the Poli
sh Holocaust survivor in Sophie’s Choice, and the British Prime Minister in The Iron Lady. But she brings much more than a talent for mimicry to her roles, she brings her soul. This is crucial. Her characters may be vocally and physically different to herself, but shining through is her own spirit. It’s a remarkable combination. It’s the best acting I know.

  Meanwhile, in terms of my own character-acting challenge, Falstaff, I may have accepted the part, but I notice I’m still not comfortable saying it aloud, saying it to other people. I’m nervous of glimpsing a look of incredulity in their eyes. So when I’m asked what I’m doing next, I tend to mumble something about hoping that Hysteria might have a future life… [Photo insert, page 2, Character Acting 2]

  Monday 8 April

  New York.

  We’re here for an RSC double whammy. In this one week, Matilda opens on Broadway, and Greg’s production of Julius Caesar opens at BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music).

  We’re staying on the south end of Central Park, at the Essex House Hotel, where I had a condominium during the Broadway run of Primo. We’ve just got a room for this visit, but it has the same spectacular view. The entire length of the Park stretches out below – it’s like a runway, and you’re coming in to land. From up here, the trees looked grey and wintry, but when we went downstairs, we found that the day was in fact rather warm and sunny. Greg needs a new jacket for all the public events coming up, so we strolled down to Bergdorf Goodman. Found a beautiful jacket – dark blue-black with a lighter blue fleck – and were impressed that they could do the alterations in time for his afternoon appointments: a round of press and TV interviews.

  At 3.30 p.m., looking very smart in the jacket, he set off from the room. A moment later, rang from the lobby, to tell me that the publicist had asked what he was going to say about Margaret Thatcher. He said why. The man said because she’s died. As a visiting Brit of note, Greg would be invited to comment.

  ‘I’ll keep it short,’ Greg said to me; ‘I’ll just say she was no friend to the Arts.’

  I smiled, remembering how a few years earlier he refused to shake her hand. We were the guests of the late Bob Alexander (then RSC Chairman) at a dinner in Middle Temple, and the Thatchers were there too. Bob offered to introduce us. Greg said absolutely not, while I, who’d hated her when she was in power, now thought it would be interesting. I found her surrounded by young Tory fans. They asked her about the new leader, Iain Duncan Smith, and she answered diplomatically, being very positive about him. Emboldened by my glass of wine, I said, ‘But you see, in my profession, there are leading players and supporting players – it’s all to do with charisma – and you had it, you were undoubtedly a leading player, and he hasn’t got it, he’s a supporting player.’ Torn between my flattery and her need to support Duncan Smith, she went quiet for a moment. I regard that as quite an achievement. I silenced Margaret Thatcher.

  Evening. Another great view of the Park, now from a sumptuous apartment on the west side: a dinner hosted by one of BAM’s biggest sponsors. I talked to the Shakespeare scholar James Shapiro, who sits on the RSC Board. He said that when he was a student, he admired my performance as Richard III, which was flattering to hear. He spoke passionately about Shakespeare, but with a streetwise New York spin: ‘All my fellow students were taking drugs at the time, but I tell you, man, Shakespeare was my drug – I couldn’t find any better high than Shakespeare!’

  In Greg’s speech to the guests, he explained why he’d set Caesar in Africa: it’s a popular play on that continent, and Julius Nyerere (the first President of Tanzania after independence) even translated it into Swahili. Greg also mentioned the Robben Island Shakespeare. This was an edition of the Collected Works disguised as a Hindu prayer book, which was passed among the prisoners, some of whom signed their favourite passages. Mandela’s choice was Caesar’s speech, which begins, ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths/The valiant never taste of death but once.’ (The Robben Island Shakespeare has become quite a famous book, and Greg and I are proud to have been part of discovering it: we heard about it in South Africa, and helped to bring it to Stratford for the Complete Works Festival in 2006.)

  Thursday 11 April

  A night of complete craziness, or, to put it another way, the opening of a Broadway musical.

  Although Matilda was part of Michael Boyd’s regime – and he was here tonight – it still fell to Greg to front the RSC, along with his Executive Director Catherine Mallyon. Her partner is Susan Foster (Director of Fundraising for the National Trust), and she and I did a lot of bonding as we followed Greg and Catherine about; we called ourselves ‘the pretty young things on their arms’. When it came to the red-carpet moment, with Greg and I posing together on one side and Catherine and Susan on the other, I think the photographers were a teeny bit confused.

  Inside the theatre, the Shubert, there was chaos. The audience only seemed interested in itself. Wouldn’t stop talking, wouldn’t sit down. The performance was meant to start at 6.30, but it was closer to 7 when it finally got going.

  I never saw the show in the UK, so was surprised by everything. Particularly the anarchy. I laughed so much it was embarrassing – as though my tear ducts had become incontinent. Actually, my tears weren’t just of joy – it was also very moving to see the children perform with that phenomenal stage energy and expertise which is quintessentially Broadway. The nine-year-old girl playing Matilda – there are four of them alternating the role, and they just tossed a coin to decide who played tonight – was possessed of such calm confidence that it was almost as extraordinary as her character’s super-intelligence. The cast achieved a brilliant cartoon style, and they were all-new, all-American – except for Bertie Carvel as Miss Trunchbull. He was even better than everyone has said. Facially, an eerie resemblance to Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, and the body a glorious shape: a neckless, pumped-up, weightlifter’s torso set atop long, quite slender legs. Best of all was his/her inner life: a psychopath on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  This was superb character acting. I didn’t realise quite how superb till I met him afterwards: a handsome, thirty-something guy. It seems bizarre that he should have even been considered for the part, even more bizarre than me as Falstaff.

  The post-show party was as out-of-control as the audience in the theatre: hundreds of people milling about in a vast room, swarming around the food tables, queuing at the bars. No special treatment for the RSC – not for Chairman Nigel Hugill, not for Deputy Chair Susie Sainsbury – we all had to just throw ourselves into the scrum.

  Then suddenly someone ran up to Greg with The New York Times review on their iPhone. In this city, it’s the only really important paper, and here was a rave, a mega-rave. Amazing. Within the space of just a few hours, we’d seen the show and got the verdict. And it’s a hit. It’ll run for years, it’ll tour the world, it’ll be filmed. And be a nice little earner for the RSC.

  I said to Mike Boyd, ‘This is a great way for you to finish.’

  He said, ‘And for Greg to start.’

  It’s true. Although Greg had little to do with it, he’ll certainly benefit from this triumph.

  As we were leaving, we popped into what was called The War Room, and stood at the back. A group of producers (including the RSC’s Denise Wood), financial backers, and marketing folk were seated at a long table, discussing the next phase: advertising strategies, which quotes to use, etc. There was no air of celebration, no joy. Just a hard-nosed, slightly exhausted concentration. The room’s nickname was appropriate. These people weren’t planning the invasion of North Korea, just the future of a Broadway show – but the atmosphere was almost as intense.

  Saturday 13 April

  Compared to Matilda, Caesar’s opening at BAM tonight was an extremely civilised affair. The show was playing the smaller of their two main auditoria, the beautifully battered Harvey Theatre. Michael Vale’s set of a crumbling concrete African stadium sat splendidly in this space. The show was on great form, and I’ve n
ever seen the post-assassination sequence so dangerous. The conspirators had summoned up the courage to do the deed, but now what? Their adrenalin threatened to spiral out of control. When Mark Antony came on, it got worse. Anyone could have stabbed anyone. As Antony, Ray Fearon gave a thrilling display of Shakespeare acting: that perfect combination of verse technique and real passion. At the end of the show, the audience stood and cheered. I was moved. Greg was too, but covered it, saying, ‘Oh, New York audiences stand for anything!’

  Afterwards, I was required to join the other RSC folk in schmoozing the party guests: wealthy and powerful people who are American Friends of the RSC or BAM sponsors. I fell into conversation with one lady, who asked what I was doing next for the company. I made the mistake of telling her. She exclaimed:

  ‘Falstaff? Oh no, I can’t see that. You don’t look right.’

  I said, ‘Well, watch this space,’ (which was quite witty, actually) instead of kicking her arse. People talk to actors in a way they’d never dream of doing to other professions. Imagine saying to a doctor or lawyer, ‘You don’t look right for this job.’

  Anyway, someone has said it aloud, the thing I most didn’t want to hear, and it’s fine, I’m still standing.

  Sunday 14 April

  The Hobbit script pages have finally arrived.

  This has been quite a saga. On Thursday Nick Forgacs rang from my agents, saying that I’d been offered a part in Hobbit 2. They filmed most of it last year, but this was a new, extra sequence. Nick wasn’t able to tell me much, other than that the character was called Thrain, he was King of the Dwarves, all his scenes were with Gandalf (Ian McKellen), and it would mean a couple of weeks in New Zealand. The film people couldn’t show me the whole script – this was highly confidential – but my scenes would be conveyed to the hotel. However, the envelope couldn’t just be left at the desk, it had to be handed over in person.