‘Just run out of ideas. Unless we start pasting bits of the script all over the set. God, if only it were television. There you can use autocue and idiot boards, but in the theatre there’s no technology that can help you out.’
‘Oh,’ said Wallas Ward, the languid Company Manager. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FRIDAY’S rehearsals followed the pattern of the previous day. Followed it even down to the detail of Michael Banks not knowing his lines.
The strain was beginning to tell on him. The casual bonhomie was maintained with more difficulty. There was no arrogance in the man; he was desperately aware that he was letting down all his fellow-actors, and by one of the least forgivable of professional shortcomings. Knowing the lines was the basic equipment for the job. Actors throughout history had staggered on to stages in various states of alcoholic debility, but they had almost always got through the lines, or at least an approximation of them. Michael Banks knew how much he was showing himself up, but the lines just wouldn’t come. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he might well have spent the entire night going through them on a tape recorder, but it hadn’t helped. Every improvement was at the cost of another speech forgotten.
And he knew fully what was at stake too. He was aware of his responsibilities as a star. One of the reasons why people in his position were paid so much money was because their presence could often ensure the survival of a production and keep the rest of the company in employment. They were responsible for the complete show, which was why stories of stars giving notes to other actors or ordering changes in sets and costumes were not just examples of megalomania, but the desire to maintain the overall standard of whatever production they put their names to.
Michael Banks knew that
The Hooded Owl
was not up to the required standard. It was due to open in less than a week. It was due to be shown to the paying public in a preview on the Monday evening. More important than either of these, it was due to be run again on the Saturday afternoon in front of Bobby Anscombe. And if it didn’t live up to the investor’s rigorous standards, no one had any doubt that he would make good his threat of withdrawing his backing.
Consciousness of all these pressures did not improve Michael Banks’s concentration and, together with fatigue, ensured that the lines were worse than ever on the Friday afternoon run.
The rehearsal ended in apathetic silence. The actors drifted uselessly to their belongings.
‘Micky, could we have a quick word?’ asked Paul Lexington, and the star, with the dignity of a man mounting the scaffold, went across to join the producer, director and Company Manager.
Conscious of the straining ears of the rest of the company, Paul Lexington led the little group out into the corridor. They were out for two or three minutes, during which no one in the hall spoke.
Michael Banks led them back in, saying, ‘No, I’m sorry, Paul. I couldn’t think of it. I have a reputation to maintain.’
‘Do you have any alternative to suggest?’ asked the Producer, careless now of listening ears.
The star spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘Only that somehow I’ll get the lines. Somehow.’
‘Micky, you’ve said that for a fortnight, and there’s no sign of it happening. We’ve got to do something.’
‘But not what you suggest. There must be some other way.’ And, to put an end to the conversation, he walked firmly off to pour himself a cup of coffee.
After a muttered colloquy with Peter Hickton and Wallas Ward, Paul Lexington announced, ‘O.K., everyone. We’ll break there. Ten o’clock call in the morning. There’s still a lot of work to do.’
‘You can say that again,’ murmured Alex Household, who was standing beside Charles, ‘but I fear it will all be in vain.’
‘Alex,’ said the producer, ‘could you just stay for a
‘Oh,’ said Wallas Ward, the languid Company Manager. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FRIDAY’S rehearsals followed the pattern of the previous day. Followed it even down to the detail of Michael Banks not knowing his lines.
The strain was beginning to tell on him. The casual bonhomie was maintained with more difficulty. There was no arrogance in the man; he was desperately aware that he was letting down all his fellow-actors, and by one of the least forgivable of professional shortcomings. Knowing the lines was the basic equipment for the job. Actors throughout history had staggered on to stages in various states of alcoholic debility, but they had almost always got through the lines, or at least an approximation of them. Michael Banks knew how much he was showing himself up, but the lines just wouldn’t come. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he might well have spent the entire night going through them on a tape recorder, but it hadn’t helped. Every improvement was at the cost of another speech forgotten.
And he knew fully what was at stake too. He was aware of his responsibilities as a star. One of the reasons why people in his position were paid so much money was because their presence could often ensure the survival of a production and keep the rest of the company in employment. They were responsible for the complete show, which was why stories of stars giving notes to other actors or ordering changes in sets and costumes were not just examples of megalomania, but the desire to maintain the overall standard of whatever production they put their names to.
Michael Banks knew that
The Hooded Owl
was not up to the required standard. It was due to open in less than a week. It was due to be shown to the paying public in a preview on the Monday evening. More important than either of these, it was due to be run again on the Saturday afternoon in front of Bobby Anscombe. And if it didn’t live up to the investor’s rigorous standards, no one had any doubt that he would make good his threat of withdrawing his backing.
Consciousness of all these pressures did not improve Michael Banks’s concentration and, together with fatigue, ensured that the lines were worse than ever on the Friday afternoon run.
The rehearsal ended in apathetic silence. The actors drifted uselessly to their belongings.
‘Micky, could we have a quick word?’ asked Paul Lexington, and the star, with the dignity of a man mounting the scaffold, went across to join the producer, director and Company Manager.
Conscious of the straining ears of the rest of the company, Paul Lexington led the little group out into the corridor. They were out for two or three minutes, during which no one in the hall spoke.
Michael Banks led them back in, saying, ‘No, I’m sorry, Paul. I couldn’t think of it. I have a reputation to maintain.’
‘Do you have any alternative to suggest?’ asked the Producer, careless now of listening ears.
The star spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘Only that somehow I’ll get the lines. Somehow.’
‘Micky, you’ve said that for a fortnight, and there’s no sign of it happening. We’ve got to do something.’
‘But not what you suggest. There must be some other way.’ And, to put an end to the conversation, he walked firmly off to pour himself a cup of coffee.
After a muttered colloquy with Peter Hickton and Wallas Ward, Paul Lexington announced, ‘O.K., everyone. We’ll break there. Ten o’clock call in the morning. There’s still a lot of work to do.’
‘You can say that again,’ murmured Alex Household, who was standing beside Charles, ‘but I fear it will all be in vain.’
‘Alex,’ said the producer, ‘could you just stay for a
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