Just trying out a little image change with the blog. Witch was getting a little fed up with that tired old pink and dreary claret. A little reinvention never hurt anyone...
I'll be back soon, dears. Back with a whole new cornucopia of theatre-related loveliness.
Ciao for now...
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Friday, 16 October 2009
A Visit From The Mail: Petronella Wyatt Versus West End Witch
Oh dear. I was afraid of this...
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1220716/Holy-fishnets-My-night-naughty-nun-Sister-Act.html
A few weeks ago, the cast was rounded up after warm-up to be informed that Petronella Wyatt from the Daily Mail would be at the theatre the following day. In a stunt organised by our keen-witted publicity department, she was to come and do a "Day in the Life" piece about Sister Act. Alarm bells were already ringing, but we were assured it would be a sympathetic report designed to promote the show. Any publicity, and all that.
Now, I'm all for a bit of artistic license. Where's a good story, without a bit of embellishment? Heaven knows I'm always tarting up reality for the sake of a cheap laugh. But what I read this morning was so far removed from the truth that I simply couldn't resist setting a few facts straight...
Everything is just how I imagined it. Someone is plonking at a piano and two girls in hotpants, who are auditioning to be nuns, are hoofing on the stage.
Choreographer Ben Clare tells them: 'Great. Thanks. You can join in two weeks.' Talk about fast-tracking holy vows.
Who are these mysterious hotpant-ed girls? Why are they the only people in the whole of showbiz to turn up? And how have they managed to bag a top West End gig without so much as a second audition? Witch herself had to endure six auditions for Sister Act, including a hideous two-and-a-half hour dance call involving improvisation (shudder) and a terrifying singing final onstage at the Shaftsbury in front of Alan Menken and fifty equally scary people. Far be it from me to cast aspersions on our dance captain Ben, but I'm not sure he has all the hire-and-fire power she is suggesting...
Emma introduces me to the gathering by saying: 'As you know, this is Petronella from the Daily Mail who will be in the show tonight.'
There follows the sort of silence that there used to be in court rooms before
hanging judges would pronounce sentence.
If my memory serves me correctly, we all welcomed her warmly whilst she stared blankly around the stage, saying nothing.
We rehearse the scenes in which I appear, including the finale of Act One.
We rehearse the scenes in which Petronella appears, not including the finale of Act One, which took us six weeks to learn and perfect and would be impossible for even the most accomplished performer to grasp in twenty minutes.
We sing Raise Your Voice and Take Me To Heaven.
We sing Raise Your Voice and Take Me To Heaven; Petronella does not.
Time's winged chariot hurries by. Suddenly I am a nun eating dinner with the other nuns as the set becomes the convent. Then Deloris is teaching us how to sing and, as if only five minutes have passed, the first act is over.
I don't know what show Petronella was doing that night, but it certainly wasn't the one I was doing. She comes onstage twice — sitting at a bar in the background of the first scene, and revolving on with the nuns to sing a few out-of-tune lines of Latin for about thirty seconds.
Behind the slider, I say to her, "Are you alright? Excited?" Petronella stares at me vacantly and says nothing. Another nun jokes, "Have you learnt your lines?" Petronella stares at her vacantly and says nothing.
The thing I find so unbelievable irritating about all of this (aside from the fact that none of it actually happened), is the way in which she has made it all sound such a breeze. Any soggy old journalist with theatrical aspirations can just walk into a theatre, have half a day's rehearsal and perfectly execute what in actual fact takes months of hard graft, sweat and injury.
As for all the costumes being from "Primark or the cast's own", well... yes, you've got me there, Petronella. Fortunately all seventeen nuns happened to have identical white-sequined habits lurking in their wardrobes at home and the black ones were bought job lot from Oxford Street.
I can't comment on Sheila Hancock's "basilisk stare" because I wasn't there, but I can only assume it was:
a. Deserved
or
b. Imagined.
All too soon we reach the finale. We wave and laugh and sing Spread The Love Around. Suddenly, I have a lump in my throat.
The curtain goes down and the audience roars. Even if I have not, the audience has performed beautifully. Behind the curtain, my fellow nuns and I embrace. Tears spring to my eyes as the audience claps wildly.
When Act II arives, we are informed that Petronella has a prior engagement and will not be appearing in her other rehearsed scene. In fact, she has already left the building.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1220716/Holy-fishnets-My-night-naughty-nun-Sister-Act.html
A few weeks ago, the cast was rounded up after warm-up to be informed that Petronella Wyatt from the Daily Mail would be at the theatre the following day. In a stunt organised by our keen-witted publicity department, she was to come and do a "Day in the Life" piece about Sister Act. Alarm bells were already ringing, but we were assured it would be a sympathetic report designed to promote the show. Any publicity, and all that.
Now, I'm all for a bit of artistic license. Where's a good story, without a bit of embellishment? Heaven knows I'm always tarting up reality for the sake of a cheap laugh. But what I read this morning was so far removed from the truth that I simply couldn't resist setting a few facts straight...
Everything is just how I imagined it. Someone is plonking at a piano and two girls in hotpants, who are auditioning to be nuns, are hoofing on the stage.
Choreographer Ben Clare tells them: 'Great. Thanks. You can join in two weeks.' Talk about fast-tracking holy vows.
Who are these mysterious hotpant-ed girls? Why are they the only people in the whole of showbiz to turn up? And how have they managed to bag a top West End gig without so much as a second audition? Witch herself had to endure six auditions for Sister Act, including a hideous two-and-a-half hour dance call involving improvisation (shudder) and a terrifying singing final onstage at the Shaftsbury in front of Alan Menken and fifty equally scary people. Far be it from me to cast aspersions on our dance captain Ben, but I'm not sure he has all the hire-and-fire power she is suggesting...
Emma introduces me to the gathering by saying: 'As you know, this is Petronella from the Daily Mail who will be in the show tonight.'
There follows the sort of silence that there used to be in court rooms before
hanging judges would pronounce sentence.
If my memory serves me correctly, we all welcomed her warmly whilst she stared blankly around the stage, saying nothing.
We rehearse the scenes in which I appear, including the finale of Act One.
We rehearse the scenes in which Petronella appears, not including the finale of Act One, which took us six weeks to learn and perfect and would be impossible for even the most accomplished performer to grasp in twenty minutes.
We sing Raise Your Voice and Take Me To Heaven.
We sing Raise Your Voice and Take Me To Heaven; Petronella does not.
Time's winged chariot hurries by. Suddenly I am a nun eating dinner with the other nuns as the set becomes the convent. Then Deloris is teaching us how to sing and, as if only five minutes have passed, the first act is over.
I don't know what show Petronella was doing that night, but it certainly wasn't the one I was doing. She comes onstage twice — sitting at a bar in the background of the first scene, and revolving on with the nuns to sing a few out-of-tune lines of Latin for about thirty seconds.
Behind the slider, I say to her, "Are you alright? Excited?" Petronella stares at me vacantly and says nothing. Another nun jokes, "Have you learnt your lines?" Petronella stares at her vacantly and says nothing.
The thing I find so unbelievable irritating about all of this (aside from the fact that none of it actually happened), is the way in which she has made it all sound such a breeze. Any soggy old journalist with theatrical aspirations can just walk into a theatre, have half a day's rehearsal and perfectly execute what in actual fact takes months of hard graft, sweat and injury.
As for all the costumes being from "Primark or the cast's own", well... yes, you've got me there, Petronella. Fortunately all seventeen nuns happened to have identical white-sequined habits lurking in their wardrobes at home and the black ones were bought job lot from Oxford Street.
I can't comment on Sheila Hancock's "basilisk stare" because I wasn't there, but I can only assume it was:
a. Deserved
or
b. Imagined.
All too soon we reach the finale. We wave and laugh and sing Spread The Love Around. Suddenly, I have a lump in my throat.
The curtain goes down and the audience roars. Even if I have not, the audience has performed beautifully. Behind the curtain, my fellow nuns and I embrace. Tears spring to my eyes as the audience claps wildly.
When Act II arives, we are informed that Petronella has a prior engagement and will not be appearing in her other rehearsed scene. In fact, she has already left the building.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Wot No Phil: Sister Act Does This Morning
Hello, chickens. Sorry I'm so slack on the blogs these days. It's a busy life, what with trying to edit a ropey old first draft into an internationally-bestselling debut novel, as well as eight shows a week and more time in the Palladium rehearsal room than is necessary — or indeed, healthy. It's like dancing in a dirty old sauna. Even when you open the windows you're blasted with hot air from the generators outside.
Moving on quickly to This Morning.
If ever there was a topic you could move onto without having to fashion an appropriate link, it would be morning television. They do it themselves, every five minutes. Phil and Fer—um, Holly can be interviewing some distraught soul one minute about some dreadful catastrophe that has befallen them, only to switch glossily to camera two to introduce a ridiculous item about canine fashion. The programme coordinators never seem to get the order quite right. I know the age-old device of splicing up tragedy with comedy for greater dramatic effect, yadda yadda yadda, but still, there's only so crestfallen you can legitimately appear when telling several million viewers about their chance to win 25k.
Anyway, today was Friday, so it was an Eamonn/Ruth day...
Right, let's get this one out of the way or it'll hang over the rest of my latest entry like a black cloud of unspoken resentment.
I was disappointed. There, I've said it. Don't judge me. I know you all get it, that sinking feeling when you switch on the telly at half ten for an hour or so of guilty chit-chat pleasure and realise that it's not a Phil-and-Holly day. It's not just me, is it?
However, the disappointment faded slightly when breakfast arrived. You can always tell a group of musical theatre actors in a TV studio. We'll be the ones making the most of the free food. We're not used to it. The television stars drift in and out at their leisure, sometimes only turning up three minutes before they're due to be interviewed (you know who I'm talking about, Mitchell and Webb). They give their finest colloquial chat for five minutes and then waltz out again without so much as a bacon sarnie. The actresses are too busy trying to stay waify to squeeze in a pain au chocolat, and most male actors prefer to maintain a self-styled air of mystic importance on black coffee and nicotine. Besides, they're all so used to catering and runners attending to their every whim that they barely even notice it all.
Not so with us turns.
I remember a chilly afternoon in January when, after a particularly grueling morning of rehearsals, the company manager brought biscuits in for us as a treat. Nothing special, just a few custard creams and the odd Hobnob.
It was carnage.
You can only imagine the excitement of a full English at eight o'clock in the morning. Catering didn't know what had hit them. "Chocolate, before the performance?" "No, but I will have egg, sausage, beans, tomato and two rounds of toast."
I avoided the make-up police successfully, having had a particularly nasty run in with them on GMTV when I tried to convince Linda, one of our wiggies, that the blusher on my cheeks was just a "natural glow". Apparently nuns don't wear make-up. Neither do they break into disco songs and shake their booties every five minutes, I tried to argue, but she wasn't having it. I had to console myself by keeping my pearls on under my habit. A small act of rebellion, but it made me feel better.
No, this time I dodged the baby wipe test with all the finesse of Jack Dawkins on a pickpocketing mission. I even got away with a small amount of natural lip liner and a dab of Eight Hour Cream. Mission accomplished.
Our item seemed to go well. We were following an interview with Sheila and Patina. I'm sure the last thing Patina felt like doing before singing live on national television to a quiet backing track was telling Ruth and Eamonn how she was finding life in London, but she coped very well, before legging it to the other side of the studio to start the number with us in record time.
It was over very quickly. I had a minor skirmish with the dry ice machine, but managed to bat off great swathes of smoke with my habit sleeves. Finally, that horror of a frock has a use.
Eamonn rushed over to us at the end of the programme.
"Girls, girls! Can I get a picture? It's for my mum. She'll appreciate the nun thing."
I was surprised how pleasant he was. Chatted to us for a few minutes, located the Catholics amongst us and compared tales of convent school life — the highs, the lows, the beatings... No sign of Ruth, though.
I bumped into Jason Gardiner on the way out. He was very charming — a kindred spirit, a fellow twirly. I wanted to mention that he knew the Wanderer, but couldn't think of the best way to work "I think you worked with my fiancé in Beirut" into the conversation.
Maybe I should have made like This Morning and done an inappropriate link...
Sunday, 13 September 2009
The Curse of the Chipbelly
Witch has another illness to add to the list, having suffered profusely at its menacing hands on Saturday...
Chipbelly.
Well, I'll call it Chipbelly, but it's really a blanket term for having eaten too much before a show. It's most common on a matinee day, but can occur at any time.
The conditions have to be right, of course. At Grease or Mamma Mia for example, with their strict back-to-back regimes, it just wouldn't happen. The turn around between performances is so quick that after the matinee you find yourself getting out of costume to the tune of Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your half-hour call...
Harsh.
And no time to stuff anything more down than a couple of biscuits.
Another contending factor is the choreography. Attempting a Chipbelly in a piece by Rob Ashford or Gillian Lynn would be foolhardy. You'd simply be sick. Trust me, I've tried it.
The final hurdle is your costume. A major hindrance to the cultivation of the perfect Chipbelly. Anything involving whalebone is a no-no, as are hooks and eyes or any sort of corsetry. Lycra is definitely out.
No, what you need is a show with not too much choreography, with nicely loose-fitting costumes and about an hour in between the matinee and evening...
In other words, Sister Act.
On Saturday, the girls in my dressing room and I decided to go for fish and chips. We had been planning it since Wednesday and were really looking forward to it. Oddly, half of the building seemed to have the same idea, and the queue outside the chippy looked like the turnout for an open audition at Pineapple.
We thought we'd be conservative, sharing chips and ordering small portions. No need to overdo it. We still had another show to do, after all. Best not be greedy...
By five to seven not a chip was left, no morsel of batter could be seen and five pots of mushy peas had been licked clean. We looked at each other nervously.
"I feel alright," said Jennie cautiously, as if she couldn't believe it.
"Me too," said Helen, a little over-confidently. There was an air of doom hanging over us. We sat in silence for five minutes, hoping to escape the inevitable...
And then it came.
The half was called. I tried to move, but it was as if Derren Brown himself had bound me to the chair with the power of his mind. Nothing happened. I tried again, managing to unseat only my left buttock as my right one remained rooted to the chair. I heard a little whimper from the other side of the room.
"Oh...God..." said Helen. "Spoke...too...soon."
Gradually, with much sighing and grunting, we started to get ready for the second show. Poppers and zips were groaning under the weight of our stomachs. Mutterings of "Never again" and "Whose idea was it to get fish and chips" floated around the dressing room. This did not bode well.
It seemed we were not alone. I passed Tom Goodridge in the corridor, clearly anything but ready to go onstage, his eyes rolling back into his lolling head as he grasped the wall.
"Two...jumbo...sausages..." was all he could muster by way of explanation.
It appeared that most people had succumbed to the lure of Chipbelly. At any given point during the show I could virtually guarantee there would be a nun, somewhere on the stage, taking advantage of a moment facing the back to blow her cheeks out exhaustedly and try to gain momentum again. The dance numbers felt as if we were wading through curry sauce. Getting a big enough breath to sing was a chore. Even bending over to put a pair of tights on was a struggle.
Suffice to say, tomorrow I'll be having a sandwich...
Chipbelly.
Well, I'll call it Chipbelly, but it's really a blanket term for having eaten too much before a show. It's most common on a matinee day, but can occur at any time.
The conditions have to be right, of course. At Grease or Mamma Mia for example, with their strict back-to-back regimes, it just wouldn't happen. The turn around between performances is so quick that after the matinee you find yourself getting out of costume to the tune of Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your half-hour call...
Harsh.
And no time to stuff anything more down than a couple of biscuits.
Another contending factor is the choreography. Attempting a Chipbelly in a piece by Rob Ashford or Gillian Lynn would be foolhardy. You'd simply be sick. Trust me, I've tried it.
The final hurdle is your costume. A major hindrance to the cultivation of the perfect Chipbelly. Anything involving whalebone is a no-no, as are hooks and eyes or any sort of corsetry. Lycra is definitely out.
No, what you need is a show with not too much choreography, with nicely loose-fitting costumes and about an hour in between the matinee and evening...
In other words, Sister Act.
On Saturday, the girls in my dressing room and I decided to go for fish and chips. We had been planning it since Wednesday and were really looking forward to it. Oddly, half of the building seemed to have the same idea, and the queue outside the chippy looked like the turnout for an open audition at Pineapple.
We thought we'd be conservative, sharing chips and ordering small portions. No need to overdo it. We still had another show to do, after all. Best not be greedy...
By five to seven not a chip was left, no morsel of batter could be seen and five pots of mushy peas had been licked clean. We looked at each other nervously.
"I feel alright," said Jennie cautiously, as if she couldn't believe it.
"Me too," said Helen, a little over-confidently. There was an air of doom hanging over us. We sat in silence for five minutes, hoping to escape the inevitable...
And then it came.
The half was called. I tried to move, but it was as if Derren Brown himself had bound me to the chair with the power of his mind. Nothing happened. I tried again, managing to unseat only my left buttock as my right one remained rooted to the chair. I heard a little whimper from the other side of the room.
"Oh...God..." said Helen. "Spoke...too...soon."
Gradually, with much sighing and grunting, we started to get ready for the second show. Poppers and zips were groaning under the weight of our stomachs. Mutterings of "Never again" and "Whose idea was it to get fish and chips" floated around the dressing room. This did not bode well.
It seemed we were not alone. I passed Tom Goodridge in the corridor, clearly anything but ready to go onstage, his eyes rolling back into his lolling head as he grasped the wall.
"Two...jumbo...sausages..." was all he could muster by way of explanation.
It appeared that most people had succumbed to the lure of Chipbelly. At any given point during the show I could virtually guarantee there would be a nun, somewhere on the stage, taking advantage of a moment facing the back to blow her cheeks out exhaustedly and try to gain momentum again. The dance numbers felt as if we were wading through curry sauce. Getting a big enough breath to sing was a chore. Even bending over to put a pair of tights on was a struggle.
Suffice to say, tomorrow I'll be having a sandwich...
Thursday, 10 September 2009
What's Up, Doc?
Witch has developed a sudden interest in medical matters...
There are numerous ailments suffered by performers that sadly go undiagnosed and untreated, so I thought I would bring some of them to the public's attention. Education is the first step, after all. Here are some of the most common theatre afflictions:
Mugging
A psychological disorder which renders the sufferer unable to control his or her onstage facial movements.
Marking
At the opposite end of the medical spectrum from Mugging, this condition usually rears its head during dance numbers. The afflicted party will lack energy and appear listless, easily distracted and slightly behind the music. Movements will be small and unfocused. Only two known cures for Marking currently exist: the threat of a clean-up call or an announcement that the producer is watching.
Don't pop the head, Cassie.
Sowing the seed
Also known as How-to-get-a-day-off-when-there's-nothing-actually-wrong-with-you. A common affliction, particularly amongst lazier performers. Usually involves a pained expression, limp and/or cough, loud request for Neurofen, doubling over, refusal to eat and a brave "No, I'll soldier on" attitude. Precedes a day off.
Anyone who has swung a show will have an acute ability to spot the seed-sowers, but it takes a strong dance captain to weed them out.
Saturdayitis
A medical condition that renders the sufferer unable or reluctant to come into work on a Saturday. Often accompanied by Friday seed-sowing. Cf. Midweek Matinee-itis.
Phoning it in
A polite way of demonstrating one's apathy towards the show.
Midweek Matinee-itis
Why should I come into work more than once a day?
Corpsing
Probably one of the most common theatre ailments; certainly one of the most well-known. Often mistakenly associated with dead bodies, corpsing is actually the inability to control laughter when onstage. Can be caused by anything from a rogue piece of set to a fart noise from the wings. The effects of corpsing correlate directly with an actor's self-control and can be calculated by the simple formula C=E (s x S), where E is the event causing the mirth, s the amount of self-control mustered by the actor and S how high the stakes are at the time of corpsing, ie. how serious the moment in the piece.
Inappropriate Notes Tourette Syndrome
The inability of an actor to refrain from giving fellow turns advice on their performance.
Pulling Focus
An umbrella term encompassing many disorders, from the classic hand-clap-and-rub-before-one's-line, to general ensemble mugging.
Don't Pop The Head, Cassie
Focus-pulling for dancers. Often accompanied by extreme arrogance. Very difficult to treat.
There are numerous ailments suffered by performers that sadly go undiagnosed and untreated, so I thought I would bring some of them to the public's attention. Education is the first step, after all. Here are some of the most common theatre afflictions:
Mugging
A psychological disorder which renders the sufferer unable to control his or her onstage facial movements.
Marking
At the opposite end of the medical spectrum from Mugging, this condition usually rears its head during dance numbers. The afflicted party will lack energy and appear listless, easily distracted and slightly behind the music. Movements will be small and unfocused. Only two known cures for Marking currently exist: the threat of a clean-up call or an announcement that the producer is watching.
Don't pop the head, Cassie.
Sowing the seed
Also known as How-to-get-a-day-off-when-there's-nothing-actually-wrong-with-you. A common affliction, particularly amongst lazier performers. Usually involves a pained expression, limp and/or cough, loud request for Neurofen, doubling over, refusal to eat and a brave "No, I'll soldier on" attitude. Precedes a day off.
Anyone who has swung a show will have an acute ability to spot the seed-sowers, but it takes a strong dance captain to weed them out.
Saturdayitis
A medical condition that renders the sufferer unable or reluctant to come into work on a Saturday. Often accompanied by Friday seed-sowing. Cf. Midweek Matinee-itis.
Phoning it in
A polite way of demonstrating one's apathy towards the show.
Midweek Matinee-itis
Why should I come into work more than once a day?
Corpsing
Probably one of the most common theatre ailments; certainly one of the most well-known. Often mistakenly associated with dead bodies, corpsing is actually the inability to control laughter when onstage. Can be caused by anything from a rogue piece of set to a fart noise from the wings. The effects of corpsing correlate directly with an actor's self-control and can be calculated by the simple formula C=E (s x S), where E is the event causing the mirth, s the amount of self-control mustered by the actor and S how high the stakes are at the time of corpsing, ie. how serious the moment in the piece.
Inappropriate Notes Tourette Syndrome
The inability of an actor to refrain from giving fellow turns advice on their performance.
Pulling Focus
An umbrella term encompassing many disorders, from the classic hand-clap-and-rub-before-one's-line, to general ensemble mugging.
Don't Pop The Head, Cassie
Focus-pulling for dancers. Often accompanied by extreme arrogance. Very difficult to treat.
Friday, 21 August 2009
Witch Returns
So, after two weeks of Mediterranean bliss, Witch finally made it back to work last night...
I was a little concerned that I might have forgotten the show, after so long a break. I'm not known for my long-term retention of steps. Give or take a fortnight and things I've had in my brain for six months will start seeping out of one ear.
Lipstick frequently entertains me with her renditions of numbers from a job we did five years ago together. She remembers every kick, every turn, every top C that has ever come out of her. I humour her and watch politely, secretly wondering if I ever performed the same steps, or if she's just improvising very well. My memory is not what it was.
Of course, some things never leave you - All That Jazz from Chicago, the jive from Grease, or anything that has ever been drilled into you by Karen Bruce. I can also still remember the first jazz routine I ever learnt at college, oddly. Whether I can still do it is another question...
It seems that a fortnight, though, was not long enough for me to forget the show, although God knows I tried. The only problem I had was that people seemed to have forgotten how big I was (having been blessed with the teeny tiny Kate Coysten for a couple of weeks) and spread out accordingly. Gaps had become narrower, spaces smaller and I felt the jostle of shoulders and elbows at every turn. I felt like a full-on Blundernun, Bella Emberg-style. Not good for one's self-esteem.
Aside from that, very little seemed to have happened in my absence. It seemed there had been another skirmish with Equity over an additional EPK recording (which thankfully I missed) and more dramas about the West End Agreement, which could perhaps more aptly be named as the West End Unfair Buyout, but I won't get all political on you now, chickens. It's so boring you'd be asleep before I got through the first sentence.
Oh, and I did nearly miss a cue because I was engrossed in my book. I'm reading The Historian, by Catherine Kostova. Terrifying and gripping all at the same time. Fine for holiday, but now I'm not sure if it's unholy or blasphemous to read about vampires whilst dressed as a nun. Still, it's compulsive reading. I can't seem to put it down.
It's only fiction, but I keep my rosary to hand, just in case...
I was a little concerned that I might have forgotten the show, after so long a break. I'm not known for my long-term retention of steps. Give or take a fortnight and things I've had in my brain for six months will start seeping out of one ear.
Lipstick frequently entertains me with her renditions of numbers from a job we did five years ago together. She remembers every kick, every turn, every top C that has ever come out of her. I humour her and watch politely, secretly wondering if I ever performed the same steps, or if she's just improvising very well. My memory is not what it was.
Of course, some things never leave you - All That Jazz from Chicago, the jive from Grease, or anything that has ever been drilled into you by Karen Bruce. I can also still remember the first jazz routine I ever learnt at college, oddly. Whether I can still do it is another question...
It seems that a fortnight, though, was not long enough for me to forget the show, although God knows I tried. The only problem I had was that people seemed to have forgotten how big I was (having been blessed with the teeny tiny Kate Coysten for a couple of weeks) and spread out accordingly. Gaps had become narrower, spaces smaller and I felt the jostle of shoulders and elbows at every turn. I felt like a full-on Blundernun, Bella Emberg-style. Not good for one's self-esteem.
Aside from that, very little seemed to have happened in my absence. It seemed there had been another skirmish with Equity over an additional EPK recording (which thankfully I missed) and more dramas about the West End Agreement, which could perhaps more aptly be named as the West End Unfair Buyout, but I won't get all political on you now, chickens. It's so boring you'd be asleep before I got through the first sentence.
Oh, and I did nearly miss a cue because I was engrossed in my book. I'm reading The Historian, by Catherine Kostova. Terrifying and gripping all at the same time. Fine for holiday, but now I'm not sure if it's unholy or blasphemous to read about vampires whilst dressed as a nun. Still, it's compulsive reading. I can't seem to put it down.
It's only fiction, but I keep my rosary to hand, just in case...
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
West End Live
West End Live...
It's a bit of a new phenomenon, this. A strange outdoors-y affair. London theatre's attempt at a festival, a chance for the producers to wring some free publicity out of their shows.
When I was there four years ago, it was a tame affair. A smattering of people, hardly enough to call a crowd, consisting mainly of proud mums, diehard fans and passers-by who had halfheartedly stopped on their way through Leicester Square to see what all the racket was.
Saturday was a different story. Thousands of people had crammed themselves into the relatively small space to show their support. The Wanderer came to show his support (or rather, bring my packed lunch that I left on the kitchen sideboard) and found he couldn't get anywhere near the stage, having to content himself with a rather inhibited view from the other side of the square behind a giant Postman Pat.
It was definitely the place to be on Saturday morning.
I felt a little bit like a child at a dance competition as we piled into the coach outside the Palladium, already in full costume and wigs. It was Aunt Sally's Ballet Academy all over again, en route to the annual Eastbourne Dance Festival. All we were missing was a bottle of Ellnet and a carton of Um Bongo.
People stared as we drove down Regent Street, teenagers laughed, children waved... We could have been on an open top bus going to switch the Christmas lights on, for all the attention we attracted. I felt a strange pressure to put my wimple on correctly, even though usually I leave it till the very last second. (It leaves a crease in my forehead, and who needs more of those?)
We were quickly herded onto the stage, sandwiched neatly between Jodie Prenger and the cast of We Will Rock You. For some reason we were to be introduced by Biggins. I suppose it needed someone pretty spangly to contend with a show like ours...
After his patter, he bizarrely chose a seat at the side of the stage, crossed his legs and sat back to watch the action like a oddly camp Brechtian Chorus, tapping his foot and grinning over at us encouragingly. I had to fight an irresistible urge to drag him up and start do-si-dos-ing with him.
The sound was a bit am-dram, but apart from that, everything went well. Alli Harding did a great job of standing in for Julia Sutton, despite our concerns that she might repeat her performance at the press launch when she forgot the words and sang four lines in what can only have been Gaelic.
I looked up West End Live on the internet. As far as I could see (and I researched it a long time), it's purely a promotional gig, designed to encourage people to go and see shows. Performers are required as part of their contracts to do a certain amount of publicity unpaid. Fair enough. We're happy to promote our shows if it keeps them open and flourishing. Not a bad cause, if you don't compare it to any serious charities. But I couldn't help thinking I'd be happier to work for free if I knew someone else other than the producer was going to benefit. It would be nice if the bosses would stump up some cash for something like the Variety Club, or the Unicorn Theatre. For the families who can't afford sixty five quid a ticket.
The Broadway community has a different fundraising event almost every week. We do a bit here, but not as much as we could. West End Live would be the perfect opportunity to give something back.
It's a bit of a new phenomenon, this. A strange outdoors-y affair. London theatre's attempt at a festival, a chance for the producers to wring some free publicity out of their shows.
When I was there four years ago, it was a tame affair. A smattering of people, hardly enough to call a crowd, consisting mainly of proud mums, diehard fans and passers-by who had halfheartedly stopped on their way through Leicester Square to see what all the racket was.
Saturday was a different story. Thousands of people had crammed themselves into the relatively small space to show their support. The Wanderer came to show his support (or rather, bring my packed lunch that I left on the kitchen sideboard) and found he couldn't get anywhere near the stage, having to content himself with a rather inhibited view from the other side of the square behind a giant Postman Pat.
It was definitely the place to be on Saturday morning.
I felt a little bit like a child at a dance competition as we piled into the coach outside the Palladium, already in full costume and wigs. It was Aunt Sally's Ballet Academy all over again, en route to the annual Eastbourne Dance Festival. All we were missing was a bottle of Ellnet and a carton of Um Bongo.
People stared as we drove down Regent Street, teenagers laughed, children waved... We could have been on an open top bus going to switch the Christmas lights on, for all the attention we attracted. I felt a strange pressure to put my wimple on correctly, even though usually I leave it till the very last second. (It leaves a crease in my forehead, and who needs more of those?)
We were quickly herded onto the stage, sandwiched neatly between Jodie Prenger and the cast of We Will Rock You. For some reason we were to be introduced by Biggins. I suppose it needed someone pretty spangly to contend with a show like ours...
After his patter, he bizarrely chose a seat at the side of the stage, crossed his legs and sat back to watch the action like a oddly camp Brechtian Chorus, tapping his foot and grinning over at us encouragingly. I had to fight an irresistible urge to drag him up and start do-si-dos-ing with him.
The sound was a bit am-dram, but apart from that, everything went well. Alli Harding did a great job of standing in for Julia Sutton, despite our concerns that she might repeat her performance at the press launch when she forgot the words and sang four lines in what can only have been Gaelic.
I looked up West End Live on the internet. As far as I could see (and I researched it a long time), it's purely a promotional gig, designed to encourage people to go and see shows. Performers are required as part of their contracts to do a certain amount of publicity unpaid. Fair enough. We're happy to promote our shows if it keeps them open and flourishing. Not a bad cause, if you don't compare it to any serious charities. But I couldn't help thinking I'd be happier to work for free if I knew someone else other than the producer was going to benefit. It would be nice if the bosses would stump up some cash for something like the Variety Club, or the Unicorn Theatre. For the families who can't afford sixty five quid a ticket.
The Broadway community has a different fundraising event almost every week. We do a bit here, but not as much as we could. West End Live would be the perfect opportunity to give something back.
Monday, 8 June 2009
The Witch Returns
Oh God oh God oh God. Has it really been a whole month?
I'm so sorry, Witchlings. I have no idea where the days have gone.
One day, chickens, one day, I'll effortlessly be able to churn out a daily blog entry, just like the old days. It's poor, I know - sometimes not even managing one a week, but I've never felt such a lack of time as I do at the moment.
Still, I thought, once we've opened I'll have time. Loads of the stuff. Seconds and minutes dripping off me like warm honey. Hours oozing by like treacle. All those delicious daytimes to sit and scribble to my heart's content. I might even get the novel finished in a few months.
Naive.
No sooner had we opened than the rehearsals kicked in again. Understudy calls, clean up calls, rehearsals for the cast recording, not to mention West End Live and GMTV... An endless list of reasons to bring us in early. I reckon I've got about a month of it left. The end is in sight...
So, I'll do a quick run-through of the main events, just to catch you all up.
Right, what's first? Oh, press night, if I can remember that far back...
It went well, I think. Opening night audiences are a strange breed, a bizarre concoction of businessmen and cronies, crazy fans and cast members' families. It makes for an odd evening. Laughs are thrown up unexpectedly from concentrated parts of the auditorium, mainly where friends and relatives are stationed. Some gags fall on huge applause, others get caught on passing tumbleweed.
Whoopi came, or should I say, was shoved somewhat reluctantly onstage at the end of it to shrieks and whistles from the audience. None of us knew exactly what she was going to do, but I had a feeling it would be a talk about how the film came about, what she thought of the musical and how exciting it all was.
Instead, however, she merely gestured to Patina and Sheila and made them bow several times, holding their hands and pushing them forwards. Not a word did she utter. Not a single sentence of endorsement or opinion, no stories of life on set with the original nuns, nothing.
Had Whoopi become a mute? Where was the chatty, witty woman we met in rehearsals? Was she under some sort of silencing clause in her contract? Did she hate the show? Or had the Palladium worked its showbiz magic and left her speechless with wonder at our good ol' British theatre? Who knows.
The party was good, from what I remember. We managed to befriend one of the waiters and successfully got us table service all evening, including all the best food and a never-ending supply of champagne. It made for a bleary-eyed show the following day, though, with more than half the nuns looking as if they might throw up at any given moment.
GMTV was fun...
The studio is surprisingly tiny. It looks sprawling on television, all luxurious sofas and Habitat vases big enough to pop your children in. In real life it's about the same size as my living room. When the presenters do the inter-department chit-chat between items, it looks as if they're calling to each other across a small park. In reality, Penny Smith is practically sitting on Andrew Castle's lap for most of the news hour.
It was a bit boring miming a song that we belt out every night, but the GMTV studios do not support live music. Go figure.
New weather presenter Kirsty McCabe caused quite a stir.
"Where's she from, anyway?" inquired Jennie Dale.
"She used to be weathergirl on the BBC," offered someone.
"What?" said Jennie. "She's a lesbian?"
Everyone stopped.
No, weathergirl, not with a girl," I said.
I'd better stop now and do West End Live tomorrow, chickens, before this blog spans more than a page and starts to look like an industry publication. I promise I'll be on it as of today, though. In fact, to quote a phrase that's spreading round the West End quicker than cocaine at a press night party, I'll be all over it.
I'm so sorry, Witchlings. I have no idea where the days have gone.
One day, chickens, one day, I'll effortlessly be able to churn out a daily blog entry, just like the old days. It's poor, I know - sometimes not even managing one a week, but I've never felt such a lack of time as I do at the moment.
Still, I thought, once we've opened I'll have time. Loads of the stuff. Seconds and minutes dripping off me like warm honey. Hours oozing by like treacle. All those delicious daytimes to sit and scribble to my heart's content. I might even get the novel finished in a few months.
Naive.
No sooner had we opened than the rehearsals kicked in again. Understudy calls, clean up calls, rehearsals for the cast recording, not to mention West End Live and GMTV... An endless list of reasons to bring us in early. I reckon I've got about a month of it left. The end is in sight...
So, I'll do a quick run-through of the main events, just to catch you all up.
Right, what's first? Oh, press night, if I can remember that far back...
It went well, I think. Opening night audiences are a strange breed, a bizarre concoction of businessmen and cronies, crazy fans and cast members' families. It makes for an odd evening. Laughs are thrown up unexpectedly from concentrated parts of the auditorium, mainly where friends and relatives are stationed. Some gags fall on huge applause, others get caught on passing tumbleweed.
Whoopi came, or should I say, was shoved somewhat reluctantly onstage at the end of it to shrieks and whistles from the audience. None of us knew exactly what she was going to do, but I had a feeling it would be a talk about how the film came about, what she thought of the musical and how exciting it all was.
Instead, however, she merely gestured to Patina and Sheila and made them bow several times, holding their hands and pushing them forwards. Not a word did she utter. Not a single sentence of endorsement or opinion, no stories of life on set with the original nuns, nothing.
Had Whoopi become a mute? Where was the chatty, witty woman we met in rehearsals? Was she under some sort of silencing clause in her contract? Did she hate the show? Or had the Palladium worked its showbiz magic and left her speechless with wonder at our good ol' British theatre? Who knows.
The party was good, from what I remember. We managed to befriend one of the waiters and successfully got us table service all evening, including all the best food and a never-ending supply of champagne. It made for a bleary-eyed show the following day, though, with more than half the nuns looking as if they might throw up at any given moment.
GMTV was fun...
The studio is surprisingly tiny. It looks sprawling on television, all luxurious sofas and Habitat vases big enough to pop your children in. In real life it's about the same size as my living room. When the presenters do the inter-department chit-chat between items, it looks as if they're calling to each other across a small park. In reality, Penny Smith is practically sitting on Andrew Castle's lap for most of the news hour.
It was a bit boring miming a song that we belt out every night, but the GMTV studios do not support live music. Go figure.
New weather presenter Kirsty McCabe caused quite a stir.
"Where's she from, anyway?" inquired Jennie Dale.
"She used to be weathergirl on the BBC," offered someone.
"What?" said Jennie. "She's a lesbian?"
Everyone stopped.
No, weathergirl, not with a girl," I said.
I'd better stop now and do West End Live tomorrow, chickens, before this blog spans more than a page and starts to look like an industry publication. I promise I'll be on it as of today, though. In fact, to quote a phrase that's spreading round the West End quicker than cocaine at a press night party, I'll be all over it.
Monday, 18 May 2009
Curtain Call
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...
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...
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.
Monday, 27 April 2009
Last-Minute Changes
Witch apologises for the lack of info lately. We've been working twelve-hour days and I really don't know my arse from my elbow at the moment.
So, what's been going on? Well, the big news is that the opening number of the show is potentially cut. I'm not sure how it will be replaced, but the existing one is almost certainly out.
Of course, there have been a few annoyed mutterings from cast members - understandably, as many of them have lost a number - and whisperings of how the show will begin without Studio 54. Are they going to replace it? Or just adapt the show without it?
We start previews in little over a week.
At first I felt more than a small stab of panic. How would I learn (and manage to get right) an entire new number in just a few days? It has taken weeks to get the rest of the show together. We haven't got a lot of time.
But then I thought about it. How lucky am I to be part of something where the people in charge are not afraid to lose something that's not working? It's a cliche, but they're making a brave decision for the "greater good" of the piece.
Shows in the past have suffered because the creatives panic during the tech.
We open in a few days. It's too late to change anything.
Things get left as they are for fear of not getting the show finished on time and everything becomes all rather...well, average.
We may be running behind, but we're going to have the best show at the end of it. I have faith.
So, what's been going on? Well, the big news is that the opening number of the show is potentially cut. I'm not sure how it will be replaced, but the existing one is almost certainly out.
Of course, there have been a few annoyed mutterings from cast members - understandably, as many of them have lost a number - and whisperings of how the show will begin without Studio 54. Are they going to replace it? Or just adapt the show without it?
We start previews in little over a week.
At first I felt more than a small stab of panic. How would I learn (and manage to get right) an entire new number in just a few days? It has taken weeks to get the rest of the show together. We haven't got a lot of time.
But then I thought about it. How lucky am I to be part of something where the people in charge are not afraid to lose something that's not working? It's a cliche, but they're making a brave decision for the "greater good" of the piece.
Shows in the past have suffered because the creatives panic during the tech.
We open in a few days. It's too late to change anything.
Things get left as they are for fear of not getting the show finished on time and everything becomes all rather...well, average.
We may be running behind, but we're going to have the best show at the end of it. I have faith.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Sister Act Pop Video
I can't believe I haven't put this on yet. Apologies, witchlings. I've got some more for you for next week, too, so stay tuned...
PS. How hot does Patina look?
PS. How hot does Patina look?
Thursday, 23 April 2009
The Paul O'Grady Show
Witch is considering a career in TV after her appearance on the Paul O'Grady show...
I awoke yesterday morning in eager anticipation of a fun-filled, celeb-packed day at the London Television Studios. That place has long intrigued me, ever since I walked past one day on my way to the Oxo Tower and saw Christine Hamilton doing a live televised survival course on the roof for This Morning.
TV is a different world. It's all "security" this, and "have you got your pass" that. You can't even go to the loo without being collared by some well-meaning runner. It's not their fault. They're under order to chaperone you to within an inch of your life.
They also seem to be under strict instruction to feed you at every opportunity. It's a good idea. Those stroppy celebs don't like to be kept waiting, especially when there's a sea of low-grade paps waiting outside for them. The TV people cleverly provide food as a pacifier. The dressing room is a cornucopia of cakes, biscuits, sandwiches, tea, coffee, juices...
Let's be honest. It probably goes to waste when the likes of Angelina and Paris come in to promote their latest ventures.
Not so today. Every morsel went.
It's easy to spot the theatre people in a TV studio. We're the ones stuffing our faces and putting biscuits up our sleeves for later, you know - just in case. We're not used to such spoils.
I was hoping to get a glimpse of Phil and Fern thrashing it out over wages, or at the very least Jane McDonald and Carol McGiffin mid-slanging match in the cafeteria, but the most I got was Justin Lee Collins sweeping grandly down to the first floor in a pair of outsize sunglasses. (FYI we were in a sunless stairwell miles from the entrance, ample time for him to have removed them. No. He meant to wear those shades indoors.)
The team at The Paul O'Grady Show were still cobbling together a mini-church set for us when we arrived at the studio. I was grateful for the camera rehearsal. Having lived and breathed the musty air of theatre for the last ten years, I found it difficult not to stare directly into the lense. I even got a bizarre urge to pull crazy faces and wave, but thankfully I managed to control it.
Paul O'Grady loved our rendition of Raise Your Voice and the audience seemed to as well, although it can be difficult to tell with a telly crowd because they'll applaud someone blowing their nose. Not so much a sign of true appreciation as an eagerness to be noticed.
Look out for me, chickens. I'm the one in the habit.
Saturday, 18 April 2009
The London Palladium
Okay, so I'm a few days late, chickens. I do apologise. There's just so much going on at the theatre that it's been impossible to write anything...
Oh, and just for the record, the tech is going very well, thank you. Friends in other shows keep calling and asking me what's going on, why are we so behind. Are they going to have to delay press night? Apparently it's spread round the West End quicker than when Richard Dreyfuss got the sack from The Producers that we're running ten days late, the set's not working and we're going to open late...
Not so. The set changes are seamless; beautiful, even. There's an air of relaxed calm about the place and the faces dotted sporadically amongst the sea of equipment in the stalls are contented. Carline, our director, manages to stay buoyant even when things are perhaps a little slower than anticipated. No, all things considered, a good tech.
But as soon as anything goes wrong, Witch'll be the first to tell you.
So. The Palladium...
For a start, its very name is grand. As a substance palladium is as precious as gold or platinum. Rare and lustrous and highly valuable. An apt title for a building steeped in glamour. It's no stranger to sparkle.
Even the stage door is glamorous. Huge cast iron gates crowned with the words London Palladium in gold paint and a rather grandiose sloping walkway lead you down to a pair of heavy wooden doors. Their brass handles must have brushed with more celebrity than Parkinson and Letterman put together.
There's something about those vast iron gates that screams importance. We're not tucked away down some rancid back alley, hidden from public view like the hired help. Oh no. At the Palladium we're worn proudly like a badge, paraded like pageant contestants as we walk down the ramp. As I walked towards the entrance on Great Marlborough Street I could hear the cheers of fans from days gone by ringing in my ears. I half expected someone to unroll a red carpet for me as I slipped through the gates.
Sadly no one did. I was brought back to reality with a sharp whiff of bins and the sight of disused paint pots and a forklift truck. There's nothing as humbling as the smell of garbage...
We're doing the Paul O'Grady show tomorrow, at the London Television Studios. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm hoping to bump into Phil and Fearn, but I'll settle for Buster the dog.
Oh, and just for the record, the tech is going very well, thank you. Friends in other shows keep calling and asking me what's going on, why are we so behind. Are they going to have to delay press night? Apparently it's spread round the West End quicker than when Richard Dreyfuss got the sack from The Producers that we're running ten days late, the set's not working and we're going to open late...
Not so. The set changes are seamless; beautiful, even. There's an air of relaxed calm about the place and the faces dotted sporadically amongst the sea of equipment in the stalls are contented. Carline, our director, manages to stay buoyant even when things are perhaps a little slower than anticipated. No, all things considered, a good tech.
But as soon as anything goes wrong, Witch'll be the first to tell you.
So. The Palladium...
For a start, its very name is grand. As a substance palladium is as precious as gold or platinum. Rare and lustrous and highly valuable. An apt title for a building steeped in glamour. It's no stranger to sparkle.
Even the stage door is glamorous. Huge cast iron gates crowned with the words London Palladium in gold paint and a rather grandiose sloping walkway lead you down to a pair of heavy wooden doors. Their brass handles must have brushed with more celebrity than Parkinson and Letterman put together.
There's something about those vast iron gates that screams importance. We're not tucked away down some rancid back alley, hidden from public view like the hired help. Oh no. At the Palladium we're worn proudly like a badge, paraded like pageant contestants as we walk down the ramp. As I walked towards the entrance on Great Marlborough Street I could hear the cheers of fans from days gone by ringing in my ears. I half expected someone to unroll a red carpet for me as I slipped through the gates.
Sadly no one did. I was brought back to reality with a sharp whiff of bins and the sight of disused paint pots and a forklift truck. There's nothing as humbling as the smell of garbage...
We're doing the Paul O'Grady show tomorrow, at the London Television Studios. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm hoping to bump into Phil and Fearn, but I'll settle for Buster the dog.
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Darlings. I must apologize for the distinct lack of anything resembling a blog over the last couple of days. It's been pretty hectic here. We've just moved into the Palladium to tech the show and the first day was pretty full-on. I promise promise promise I'll give you the full update tomorrow, with all the glitter, glam and glitz that this fine theatre deserves.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
More Nuns Behaving Badly...
Put a group of actresses in nun costumes, point a camera at them and then simply wait...
Happy Easter from the Little Sisters of Our Mother of Perpetual Faith!
Happy Easter from the Little Sisters of Our Mother of Perpetual Faith!
Friday, 10 April 2009
Even witches get sick...
And this particular witch has a lousy, stinking, streaming cold. It's been going around the cast. Better now than on opening night, I guess, but still. I could do without it.
I pitied the girl dancing next to me today in Studio 54, the opening of the show. Think high-energy, body-popping, 70s disco with lots of spins and head rolls and you'll get an idea of how much potential flying snot there could be. I had to sniff hard every time I pirhouetted to avoid such a situation.
We got to the end of the show this afternoon - apart from the finale, which is still being fiddled around with. Alan Menken popped in (I know, chickens - I'm so showbiz) and left just as quickly. We've got a photo shoot tomorrow - no idea what it's for, but I'll let you know as soon as I do. Hope this cold clears up a bit.
Sorry it's a short one, witchlings, but I really rather need my bed tonight. I'll try and get some pics for you of tomorrow. Night night.
And this particular witch has a lousy, stinking, streaming cold. It's been going around the cast. Better now than on opening night, I guess, but still. I could do without it.
I pitied the girl dancing next to me today in Studio 54, the opening of the show. Think high-energy, body-popping, 70s disco with lots of spins and head rolls and you'll get an idea of how much potential flying snot there could be. I had to sniff hard every time I pirhouetted to avoid such a situation.
We got to the end of the show this afternoon - apart from the finale, which is still being fiddled around with. Alan Menken popped in (I know, chickens - I'm so showbiz) and left just as quickly. We've got a photo shoot tomorrow - no idea what it's for, but I'll let you know as soon as I do. Hope this cold clears up a bit.
Sorry it's a short one, witchlings, but I really rather need my bed tonight. I'll try and get some pics for you of tomorrow. Night night.
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