Many Lives by Stephanie Beacham

I’m on stage acting there is a perfect moment. If you stop and think, ‘This is a good moment,’ you’ll dry up on the next. You can only acknowledge it after it’s happened. There’s an experience of energy and communication; something happens. It’s about the synergy between the actors and the audience in the theatre.
    RADA prepared me in so many ways for my career as an actress, including the experience on the rooftop. At the time it was another amazing new experience in a life that had been fuelled by new experiences. I put it in my medieval suede bag and it’s always been there, casting a glow over my life.
    Theatre is its own kind of magic. Hamri, a wise Moroccan expert on magic, told my anthropologist boyfriend Bernie:
    In the early human times there was magic everywhere, then over the millennia as mankind became civilized, magic declined and became ritual. Now in the modern world all that is left of true ritual is the theatre.
    There’s nothing fantastical about make-believe; fantastic, yes – because believing is three-quarters of the way to achieving. I don’t have fantasies, I just make plans. I think of something fantastical and then I plan how I can make it happen. Everything begins as an idea, as a thought that bubbles up from the imagination. And being able to play, allowing yourself to play, exercises the imagination. The creative self is the God-self, born from the imagination. To create is to conjure an idea into existence; it’s magic. Being a creator is not playing at being God; it really is drawing on that God-self we all carry within.
    I’m exceptionally lucky – I’m paid to play.
    When I was in The Colbys I remember Charlton Heston and me injecting magic into some very dull scenes. Never mind the fact that the peripherals of the show were all about gloss, we still cared that its content should have a spark of magic. That great star Charlton Heston was a grafter, and he had real integrity. I’d go up to him, and he’d say, ‘Oh dear, I see the fingers are going,’ because my fingers wiggle around when I’ve got ideas. And I’d say, ‘Chuck, I’ve got this idea, because this looks rather bland the way it’s been written,’ and he always listened. We’d add subtext and superimpose meaning onto dull scenes, for the fun of it and because it made it a richer experience to do and to watch. As a rule, technicians – the chippies and sparks – don’t bother to hang around the set during filming. They do their job, and then clear off. But when Chuck and I had a scene and the First Director called, ‘Quiet on the set, we’re ready for a run-through,’ we’d gather an audience. They knew they’d get to see a little bit of theatre because we cared enough to want to create some magic.
    It’s a very interesting thing not to kowtow to an audience, but to woo them without being a whore; to gather them up. It’s an art. It’s usually about the cast working together, unless you’re the main focal point on stage. When I toured Master Class in 2010–2011, I had sole responsibility for gathering the audience and taking them with me. The play’s set inside the Juilliard School of Music. It’s based around a master class being given by the great diva Maria Callas. For two hours, Maria talks to the audience as if they are Juilliard students. It was an extraordinary experience. The way I would woo them, the way I would gather them was different in each town. In Cheltenham, where everyone seemed to me to be so fragile and insecure, I had to be rather gentle and encouraging, whereas in Brighton the audience just adored Maria flagellating them!
    My preparation before going on stage is sacred, and silent. Some people natter; I don’t. I absolutely have to zone in. Immediately before going on I rub my hands together until I feel the energy all around myself, and then