Witch is dizzy from bowing...
So, we've redone the end of the show. About time. I know the curtain call is way down on the "to do" list, but it was getting just a little embarrassing, straggling on all higgledy-piggledy like Aunt Sally's Ballet Academy annual display. A few half-baked bows to a piece of music that ran out thirty seconds too early was not going to cut it.
After two weeks of this increasingly awkward proceedure, I began to wonder if it would ever get changed, or if the creatives had forgotten about us and we were doomed to a finale of embarrassing entrances and excruciating exits.
I failed to remember one thing: Anthony Van Laast.
The king of the curtain call, the don of the encore, the man who single-handedly invented the megamix (remember Joseph?), Anthony Van Laast is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to the matter of stooping one's head to the merry tune of applause.
We started off in the usual way - ensemble, followed by semi-demis, principals and top turn. Nothing new there. Every West End and Broadway show seems to follow the same pattern these days. We dutifully followed the formula before piling into the wings, relieved at such a quick and painless curtain call.
But what was this? A false exit? Surely not?
We were herded back on stage quicker than Liza to the bar. Round two of the bows. Okay, fair enough, I conceded. The show gets a standing ovation most evenings. Let's not be selfish here.
After the seventh bow, I was beginning to feel a little like a weeble. But surely this must be it now?
Almost.
Just a quick verse of Raise Your Voice, and you're done, said the voice over the God mic.
Okay, a simple reprise. I could handle that. It was the show's signature tune, after all. I wouldn't begrudge them that. But that really must be it. He wouldn't make us do any more. We finished and turned to go.
Onemorebow! screamed the God mic.
I think I did nine bows in total. And that was just me. So, with all the principals, including several for Sheila and Patina, the figure must have surely reached the twenties. Maybe even the thirties.
I'll count tonight. Maybe I'll have a little sweepstake. Answers on a postcard, please...
Monday 18 May 2009
Thursday 14 May 2009
Nuns Play for Chelsea
Well, that was a first. West End Witch playing football at Stamford Bridge. A peculiar day...
I made a comment some weeks ago about the instant comedy points that can be scored from wearing a habit. Part of the show's success must be down to the fact that nuns doing anything is funny. People will laugh at anything you do, provided you are "Y-wimpled well".
It seems that this hilarity even extends to the football field. Joop van den Ende (our producer) agrees and today had us all lined up for a footie lesson with his pal, Guus Hiddink. Apparently he's a big deal in the football world. I'm not sure what Guus or any of the Chelsea officials knew what to make of a bunch of over-excited nuns descending onto the field, but they took it with good humour.
Witch didn't exactly shine on the pitch...
Let's face it, I'm more croquet-on-the-lawn and cucumber sandwiches than muddy shins and sliding tackles. I left it to some of the more skilled players. Emma Woods scored a spectacular goal, to the thuggish chants of "Woods-y! Woods-y!" Verity Quade gave us some Beckham-worthy free kicks, too, and Allison Harding was like a brick wall against penalties.
What a good idea for publicity. I don't even like football and I was impressed. I thought it would be hard to top the abseiling nuns, but I think we did.
I wonder what stunt the marketing team will come up with next. It had better be good. After all, one more and it's a hat-trick...
I made a comment some weeks ago about the instant comedy points that can be scored from wearing a habit. Part of the show's success must be down to the fact that nuns doing anything is funny. People will laugh at anything you do, provided you are "Y-wimpled well".
It seems that this hilarity even extends to the football field. Joop van den Ende (our producer) agrees and today had us all lined up for a footie lesson with his pal, Guus Hiddink. Apparently he's a big deal in the football world. I'm not sure what Guus or any of the Chelsea officials knew what to make of a bunch of over-excited nuns descending onto the field, but they took it with good humour.
Witch didn't exactly shine on the pitch...
Let's face it, I'm more croquet-on-the-lawn and cucumber sandwiches than muddy shins and sliding tackles. I left it to some of the more skilled players. Emma Woods scored a spectacular goal, to the thuggish chants of "Woods-y! Woods-y!" Verity Quade gave us some Beckham-worthy free kicks, too, and Allison Harding was like a brick wall against penalties.
What a good idea for publicity. I don't even like football and I was impressed. I thought it would be hard to top the abseiling nuns, but I think we did.
I wonder what stunt the marketing team will come up with next. It had better be good. After all, one more and it's a hat-trick...
Monday 11 May 2009
Cut and Paste
So, by Wednesday night Sister Act's opening will have changed quite dramatically. True fans will have to come to every single preview to catch each version of the show before it is lost forever to musical theatre history.
It won't be the first change. I was told by a very reliable source (the musical supervisor himself, don'tcha know) that something like seventeen numbers have been cut or rewritten in the four years since Sister Act was first reborn as a musical.
Seventeen.
Got me thinking. I'm halfway through writing my first novel. Well, I say halfway. I have actually finished it insomuch as I've got from beginning to end. Unfortunately it needs so much editing that it's going to take me at least as long again to get it into a state I feel happy for anyone to read, let alone think about publishing. Part of the reason for my starting a blog was to make me braver at publishing immediately. There's something exhilarating about writing, editing and hitting "Publish", all in the space of an hour. Blogging is the fast food of literature. Write and go.
It's been good for me. I'll be starting back on the novel (as well as getting a few more blogs out than I've managed lately) as soon as rehearsals have calmed down a bit, but if I'm honest, the prospect of such a huge edit frightens me. My blog feels friendly, colloquial. The novel's a different story (sorry for the excruciating pun). It seems more serious; intimidatingly so. When I'm editing the book, I can spend hours agonising over a semi-colon. That slightly unnecessary one in the previous sentence, for example.
I know. What a loser. It'll never get finished at this rate.
There's also the small matter of making quite a substantial change to the ending, and adding a new but vital twist to the plot, not to mention the fact that about two-thirds of the way through I decided a character wasn't working so I just stopped writing him with no explanation. I've yet to go back and remove him from the rest of the story.
It was scaring me more than I cared to admit.
But today I had a new thought. If the likes of Alan Menken and Glenn Slater aren't afraid to throw material away - material that some writers could only dream about creating - than I am not, either.
Blue pencil at the ready.
It won't be the first change. I was told by a very reliable source (the musical supervisor himself, don'tcha know) that something like seventeen numbers have been cut or rewritten in the four years since Sister Act was first reborn as a musical.
Seventeen.
Got me thinking. I'm halfway through writing my first novel. Well, I say halfway. I have actually finished it insomuch as I've got from beginning to end. Unfortunately it needs so much editing that it's going to take me at least as long again to get it into a state I feel happy for anyone to read, let alone think about publishing. Part of the reason for my starting a blog was to make me braver at publishing immediately. There's something exhilarating about writing, editing and hitting "Publish", all in the space of an hour. Blogging is the fast food of literature. Write and go.
It's been good for me. I'll be starting back on the novel (as well as getting a few more blogs out than I've managed lately) as soon as rehearsals have calmed down a bit, but if I'm honest, the prospect of such a huge edit frightens me. My blog feels friendly, colloquial. The novel's a different story (sorry for the excruciating pun). It seems more serious; intimidatingly so. When I'm editing the book, I can spend hours agonising over a semi-colon. That slightly unnecessary one in the previous sentence, for example.
I know. What a loser. It'll never get finished at this rate.
There's also the small matter of making quite a substantial change to the ending, and adding a new but vital twist to the plot, not to mention the fact that about two-thirds of the way through I decided a character wasn't working so I just stopped writing him with no explanation. I've yet to go back and remove him from the rest of the story.
It was scaring me more than I cared to admit.
But today I had a new thought. If the likes of Alan Menken and Glenn Slater aren't afraid to throw material away - material that some writers could only dream about creating - than I am not, either.
Blue pencil at the ready.
Sunday 10 May 2009
First Night
I wasn't entirely sure the first preview was going to happen. After a reasonably smooth tech, everything suddenly started to go wrong on the dress.
1. Kabuki didn't drop at the top of the show
2. Revolve ceased to revolve half way through act I
3. Lift under the stage broke with a drop and a loud bang (whilst I was in it)
4. I fell arse over tit in a pile of sequins
Not a promising start.
So you can imagine how twitchy we all were as we listened through the dressing room speakers and heard the rackety audience filing in as the orchestra tuned up. The flicking of programme pages competing against the crunching of Maltesers, underscored by chatter and the gentle tightening of strings. Nerve-inducing noises if ever I heard them.
I sat behind the curtain at the top of the show, wondering what to expect. Wondering what the people the other side were expecting. Was the show even any good? I mean, I thought it was good, but what did I know? There could be two-and-a-half thousand people out there who might disagree. What if we sucked?
My worries were quickly allayed.
The kabuki dropped to deafening applause. As Patina stepped out, the audience erupted like a football crowd. No less than she deserved. She worked them like clay, oozing sass and style and delicious vunerability.
One thing I had forgotten lately was how funny the show was. For four months we had performed only to the people who watched us every day. Pretty boring for both sides. It had begun to feel just a little stagnant. The jokes felt laboured and trite and the show had less atmosphere than the moon.
You can imagine my delight when Claire Greenway practically stopped the show with her first line. It must have been a relief for her. To play a part where your sole purpose is to make people laugh must be pretty difficult without an audience. Claire has endured four months without an audience. Now she had four months' worth of Saturday night at the Comedy Store all in one night. Now, her every word, every breath were funny.
As each laugh topped the previous one, I rediscovered my favourite moments - the moments I liked before I had heard them seventy-five times. I waited for the laughs when Julia Sutton finished her verse in How I got The Calling - and was greeted with a round of applause. In fact, Julia managed to get a round for almost every line.
It was fun. Like hearing my favourite joke being told to someone new and waiting for their reaction. Sheila Hancock was on fire as the Mother Superior, dry as bone and with sharper timing than Big Ben. They loved her.
As for the musical numbers, Take Me To Heaven was exposive and Spread The Love was positively contagious. I think Raise Your Voice actually raised the roof.
The only thing that put me off slightly was having the Wanderer in the front row. The only ticket he could get was A10 in the stalls - to my absolute horror. Bang in the centre as well. He was so close to the musical director Nick Skillbeck that all through the show various members of the cast kept pointing him out to me on the monitors. Thankfully, he behaved himself. I didn't catch him yawning, although at one point I did see him biting his nails, even though he assures me he has given up the habit.
It was nice to have him there, though. We scurried down to Ronnie Scott's afterwards to celebrate. The nuns were out in force, downing the wine like it was their last ever communion and shrieking like they didn't have to belt top Gs first thing in the morning. What a fantastic evening.
I don't want to speak too soon, chickens, but I think it's going to be a hit.
1. Kabuki didn't drop at the top of the show
2. Revolve ceased to revolve half way through act I
3. Lift under the stage broke with a drop and a loud bang (whilst I was in it)
4. I fell arse over tit in a pile of sequins
Not a promising start.
So you can imagine how twitchy we all were as we listened through the dressing room speakers and heard the rackety audience filing in as the orchestra tuned up. The flicking of programme pages competing against the crunching of Maltesers, underscored by chatter and the gentle tightening of strings. Nerve-inducing noises if ever I heard them.
I sat behind the curtain at the top of the show, wondering what to expect. Wondering what the people the other side were expecting. Was the show even any good? I mean, I thought it was good, but what did I know? There could be two-and-a-half thousand people out there who might disagree. What if we sucked?
My worries were quickly allayed.
The kabuki dropped to deafening applause. As Patina stepped out, the audience erupted like a football crowd. No less than she deserved. She worked them like clay, oozing sass and style and delicious vunerability.
One thing I had forgotten lately was how funny the show was. For four months we had performed only to the people who watched us every day. Pretty boring for both sides. It had begun to feel just a little stagnant. The jokes felt laboured and trite and the show had less atmosphere than the moon.
You can imagine my delight when Claire Greenway practically stopped the show with her first line. It must have been a relief for her. To play a part where your sole purpose is to make people laugh must be pretty difficult without an audience. Claire has endured four months without an audience. Now she had four months' worth of Saturday night at the Comedy Store all in one night. Now, her every word, every breath were funny.
As each laugh topped the previous one, I rediscovered my favourite moments - the moments I liked before I had heard them seventy-five times. I waited for the laughs when Julia Sutton finished her verse in How I got The Calling - and was greeted with a round of applause. In fact, Julia managed to get a round for almost every line.
It was fun. Like hearing my favourite joke being told to someone new and waiting for their reaction. Sheila Hancock was on fire as the Mother Superior, dry as bone and with sharper timing than Big Ben. They loved her.
As for the musical numbers, Take Me To Heaven was exposive and Spread The Love was positively contagious. I think Raise Your Voice actually raised the roof.
The only thing that put me off slightly was having the Wanderer in the front row. The only ticket he could get was A10 in the stalls - to my absolute horror. Bang in the centre as well. He was so close to the musical director Nick Skillbeck that all through the show various members of the cast kept pointing him out to me on the monitors. Thankfully, he behaved himself. I didn't catch him yawning, although at one point I did see him biting his nails, even though he assures me he has given up the habit.
It was nice to have him there, though. We scurried down to Ronnie Scott's afterwards to celebrate. The nuns were out in force, downing the wine like it was their last ever communion and shrieking like they didn't have to belt top Gs first thing in the morning. What a fantastic evening.
I don't want to speak too soon, chickens, but I think it's going to be a hit.
Wednesday 6 May 2009
Abseiling Nuns
Spotted: seven nuns abseiling from the roof of the Palladium, in four-inch heels and red lipstick. Now, that's my kind of nun.
Sorry it's been so long, chickens - for the last couple of weeks I've known nothing but the deep, dark bowels of the theatre. I've barely seen daylight. We open tomorrow. After that I'll be back on tip top form with the usual witchy observations about the glamorous goings-on of the glittering West End.
Party's in Ronnie Scott's tomorrow night. Can't go full-out glam; I'm reserving all that jazz for press night. But Mr. Scott deserves a little effort, I think. Hopefully I'll be able to sweet-talk them into letting the Wanderer in too. I'm sure they will. He's very well-behaved, for a bloke.
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