Year of the King: An Actor's Diary and Sketchbook - Twentieth Anniversary Edition by Antony Sher
Authors: Antony Sher
Tags: Drama, Literature & Fiction, British, Theater, Humor & Entertainment, Biographies & Memoirs, Performing Arts, Shakespeare, British & Irish, Arts & Photography, World Literature, Acting & Auditioning, Arts & Literature, Entertainers, Stagecraft
Ads: Link
by a third party.
Speaking of whom, Chris Hampton turns up in the dressing-room
afterwards, a little startled that his translation was subjected to that
unscheduled interruption, but since he spends much of life on the verge
of corpsing, not too bothered.
As we're leaving the theatre we pass a group of Cyrano players trooping
into the main lift which is huge; a neon-lit garage filled with Koltai's monochrome people. Black velvet and lace. White faces. The only colour:
some gold, and red tongues.
They look exhausted. It's 10.30 and they're only just starting Part
Three.
`Ta-ra, we're off to the pub,' I call into them.
'PISS OFF!' they yell in unison.
Chris giggles behind me.
`Have you seen it yet?' I ask.
`Life's too short to see Cyrano.'
KING'S HEAD PUB, BARBICAN Interesting discussion about the difficulties we had in rehearsal with Tartuffe. It's going to be excellent trying
it again now for the video, now that we trust the play more and our ability
to perform it. The problem with Moliere's writing is the deceptive thinness
of it. There's no poetry, no sub-text, just a very basic situation, like
sit-com. Chris says, `All there is is what is there, but that happens to be
brilliant.' He says the French find Shakespeare difficult for the opposite
reason. Why is he so oblique? they cry in Gallic confusion, why doesn't
he just say what he means?
Norma, a girl who works in the Stratford box-office, comes over and
says, `Congratulations. I hear you're coming back to play Richard the
Third.'
`Oh, but it's not definite.'
Chris leans in. `What was that?'
`Don't ask. It's a long story.'
Monday 5 December
OXFORD STREET A steady procession of Christmas shoppers: faces so
determined, so concentrated, round and round we go, the Hajj in Mecca.
Spot two disabled men and can't stop myself from staring. One has his
pelvis so twisted that his feet point away at ninety degrees from his torso.
Walks with two sticks. The impression is of a skier negotiating a difficult
turn.
Strange how, ever since Richard III was suggested, I keep crossing
paths with the disabled. Did I just not notice before or are there vibes at
work?
The other day in Euston Road, a dwarf dodging through the traffic,
one shoe massively built up like a clanging black anchor on his leg. He
reached a traffic island and shouted at the world. My car passed close.
The face was red, unshaven, in pain.
And yesterday, a black couple leaving the local church. Both young and
good-looking. In their Sunday best, but jazzy as well. He had one thin,
very withered leg and had to hobble along on the tip of that foot, in its
white patent-leather shoe. It made his walk seem even more dude-like.
She strolled at her normal pace, making no concession. He kept up with
her. They smiled at one another. After they passed, people stared.
SELFRIDGES 'Hello Tony.' David Hare, towering above me. He always
looks at me slightly sideways, as if not quite sure about me yet, and speaks
slightly from the corner of his mouth. 'Congratulations. I believe you're
playing Richard the Third.'
`Thank you, but it's not decided yet. Who told you?'
'Oh, someone . . .' He gestures vaguely, blaming a passing shopper,
and quickly changes the subject. 'I'm Christmas shopping for my kids.'
`I'm shopping for holiday presents. Going to South Africa on Sunday.'
`You're going to South Africa. Blimey.'
'I know. Very mixed feelings.' (I'm still doing it: apologising for where
I was born. Must stop.)
I ask him about his TV film Saigon, which has just been shown, and
he says, `Well, of course it's been mercilessly hammered by the critics.'
'Critics? But you don't read them.'
'Didn't use to.'
'Oh no. You're back on them?'
' 'Fraid so.'
I stare at him, shocked. Along with Jacobi and Peter Gill, David has
been a guru for me in my own new-found abstention.
`But . . .' I stammer, `... but ... when we did Teeth 'n Smiles, if anyone
so much as came near you with a newspaper,
Speaking of whom, Chris Hampton turns up in the dressing-room
afterwards, a little startled that his translation was subjected to that
unscheduled interruption, but since he spends much of life on the verge
of corpsing, not too bothered.
As we're leaving the theatre we pass a group of Cyrano players trooping
into the main lift which is huge; a neon-lit garage filled with Koltai's monochrome people. Black velvet and lace. White faces. The only colour:
some gold, and red tongues.
They look exhausted. It's 10.30 and they're only just starting Part
Three.
`Ta-ra, we're off to the pub,' I call into them.
'PISS OFF!' they yell in unison.
Chris giggles behind me.
`Have you seen it yet?' I ask.
`Life's too short to see Cyrano.'
KING'S HEAD PUB, BARBICAN Interesting discussion about the difficulties we had in rehearsal with Tartuffe. It's going to be excellent trying
it again now for the video, now that we trust the play more and our ability
to perform it. The problem with Moliere's writing is the deceptive thinness
of it. There's no poetry, no sub-text, just a very basic situation, like
sit-com. Chris says, `All there is is what is there, but that happens to be
brilliant.' He says the French find Shakespeare difficult for the opposite
reason. Why is he so oblique? they cry in Gallic confusion, why doesn't
he just say what he means?
Norma, a girl who works in the Stratford box-office, comes over and
says, `Congratulations. I hear you're coming back to play Richard the
Third.'
`Oh, but it's not definite.'
Chris leans in. `What was that?'
`Don't ask. It's a long story.'
Monday 5 December
OXFORD STREET A steady procession of Christmas shoppers: faces so
determined, so concentrated, round and round we go, the Hajj in Mecca.
Spot two disabled men and can't stop myself from staring. One has his
pelvis so twisted that his feet point away at ninety degrees from his torso.
Walks with two sticks. The impression is of a skier negotiating a difficult
turn.
Strange how, ever since Richard III was suggested, I keep crossing
paths with the disabled. Did I just not notice before or are there vibes at
work?
The other day in Euston Road, a dwarf dodging through the traffic,
one shoe massively built up like a clanging black anchor on his leg. He
reached a traffic island and shouted at the world. My car passed close.
The face was red, unshaven, in pain.
And yesterday, a black couple leaving the local church. Both young and
good-looking. In their Sunday best, but jazzy as well. He had one thin,
very withered leg and had to hobble along on the tip of that foot, in its
white patent-leather shoe. It made his walk seem even more dude-like.
She strolled at her normal pace, making no concession. He kept up with
her. They smiled at one another. After they passed, people stared.
SELFRIDGES 'Hello Tony.' David Hare, towering above me. He always
looks at me slightly sideways, as if not quite sure about me yet, and speaks
slightly from the corner of his mouth. 'Congratulations. I believe you're
playing Richard the Third.'
`Thank you, but it's not decided yet. Who told you?'
'Oh, someone . . .' He gestures vaguely, blaming a passing shopper,
and quickly changes the subject. 'I'm Christmas shopping for my kids.'
`I'm shopping for holiday presents. Going to South Africa on Sunday.'
`You're going to South Africa. Blimey.'
'I know. Very mixed feelings.' (I'm still doing it: apologising for where
I was born. Must stop.)
I ask him about his TV film Saigon, which has just been shown, and
he says, `Well, of course it's been mercilessly hammered by the critics.'
'Critics? But you don't read them.'
'Didn't use to.'
'Oh no. You're back on them?'
' 'Fraid so.'
I stare at him, shocked. Along with Jacobi and Peter Gill, David has
been a guru for me in my own new-found abstention.
`But . . .' I stammer, `... but ... when we did Teeth 'n Smiles, if anyone
so much as came near you with a newspaper,
Similar Books
