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.
Showing posts with label musicals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musicals. Show all posts
Friday, 16 October 2009
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...
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, 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...
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.
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.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
An Observation
Sometimes, in the rehearsal room, it can get a little bit...well, a bit dreary. Not that what I'm doing isn't completely, all-consumingly, exciting - or even challenging and involved - it's all of those things. Just occasionally, however, there can be a bit of hanging around. The director or choreographer may get ensconsed in something over the other side of the room - some fiddly piece of traffic, fixing an armline, or maybe even an internal conflict between creative departments.
It can be hard to stay focused fifteen minutes before lunch when you're starving and need the loo. Four o'clock is never a good time, either. If the cast was all pumped up and running scenes and numbers, it would be fine. But a few minutes' hiatus from the main action can be deadly. Even the cleverest of choreographers have fallen prey to the curse of the mid-afternoon lull.
The secret is simple: there's a maximum amount of time a group of performers can be left unattended before they lose interest, and once that point has been passed, there's very little chance of clawing back a return. It doesn't generate productivity.
What it does create, however, is the perfect opportunity for a tired turn to sneak a little sit-down. Of course, it's not without complications. There's an automatic check list to run through in one's head before taking action:
1. How guilty do I feel about not using the time productively? Would a little rest be more beneficial to me than running through that difficult bit of the routine I keep getting wrong?
Invariably rest wins over extra practice. Which brings us to:
2. How long is the choreographer's attention going to stay diverted? Seven minutes? Or a few seconds? Is it worth the bother? There's no point collapsing in a heap only to be called up again immediately.
3. Sussing out the best spot to sit. Usually, the only place is the floor. Occasionally there might be an unused chair onstage, or the edge of a flight case lurking near the sound desk, but these are only worth it if getting to them is inconspicuous. Moving away to find a seat will draw attention and could remind the choreographer to get everyone back to work. No. It needs to be subtle. The best way is to sink slowly to the floor without changing location.
It's amazing how quickly people will follow suit. I tried it today with the express purpose of seeing how long it took the rest of the cast to succumb to the luxury of a few moments' rest - even on a dirty floor.
I counted thirty seconds.
That's not long for the twelve or thirteen people in the rehearsal to be off their feet. (Lipstick says she can beat that with the same amount of people down in twenty-two seconds. We set each other little challenges sometimes.)
It's as predictable as well-placed dominoes, how quickly they all go down. There must be a subconscious comfort in knowing that someone else has already started the mutiny. The knowledge that by adding yourself to the growing number of sitters, you can only increase the safety.
As Lipstick always says,
"When one goes, they all go."
It can be hard to stay focused fifteen minutes before lunch when you're starving and need the loo. Four o'clock is never a good time, either. If the cast was all pumped up and running scenes and numbers, it would be fine. But a few minutes' hiatus from the main action can be deadly. Even the cleverest of choreographers have fallen prey to the curse of the mid-afternoon lull.
The secret is simple: there's a maximum amount of time a group of performers can be left unattended before they lose interest, and once that point has been passed, there's very little chance of clawing back a return. It doesn't generate productivity.
What it does create, however, is the perfect opportunity for a tired turn to sneak a little sit-down. Of course, it's not without complications. There's an automatic check list to run through in one's head before taking action:
1. How guilty do I feel about not using the time productively? Would a little rest be more beneficial to me than running through that difficult bit of the routine I keep getting wrong?
Invariably rest wins over extra practice. Which brings us to:
2. How long is the choreographer's attention going to stay diverted? Seven minutes? Or a few seconds? Is it worth the bother? There's no point collapsing in a heap only to be called up again immediately.
3. Sussing out the best spot to sit. Usually, the only place is the floor. Occasionally there might be an unused chair onstage, or the edge of a flight case lurking near the sound desk, but these are only worth it if getting to them is inconspicuous. Moving away to find a seat will draw attention and could remind the choreographer to get everyone back to work. No. It needs to be subtle. The best way is to sink slowly to the floor without changing location.
It's amazing how quickly people will follow suit. I tried it today with the express purpose of seeing how long it took the rest of the cast to succumb to the luxury of a few moments' rest - even on a dirty floor.
I counted thirty seconds.
That's not long for the twelve or thirteen people in the rehearsal to be off their feet. (Lipstick says she can beat that with the same amount of people down in twenty-two seconds. We set each other little challenges sometimes.)
It's as predictable as well-placed dominoes, how quickly they all go down. There must be a subconscious comfort in knowing that someone else has already started the mutiny. The knowledge that by adding yourself to the growing number of sitters, you can only increase the safety.
As Lipstick always says,
"When one goes, they all go."
Friday, 3 April 2009
Whoopi Arrives
We tweaked and twiddled, prodded and poked, rehearsed and re-rehearsed act I yesterday morning, in anticipation of our visitor.
Four o'clock arrived. The general buzz became subdued as people quietened down, scared of missing the arrival. The corridors were jammed with loiterers, hoping for an early glimpse. All the entrances were manned. Every time the door opened someone cricked their neck as heads turned sharply to see if it was her.
And then she arrived.
It wasn't the grand entrance we had all hoped for; quite the opposite. All the various Stage Entertainment people came through the doors: producers, assistants, publicity, marketing, TV crews and photographers... But where was Whoopi?
She had ducked behind some pieces of set at the back of the room and emerged from the corner quietly. I wondered if she had hoped to enter unnoticed. No such luck. As soon as her head emerged she was halted in her steps by a loud and sustained applause. She stood there, grinning at us, while people took no pains to hide their cameras, grabbing their photo opportunity.
What was it about her? Was she embarrassed? No... She didn't exactly look uncomfortable; it was something else. I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
Then I realised. It was as if she had been warned how excited we would all be and was dutifully indulging us, but didn't really see what all the fuss was about. It was that simple. She seemed to think it odd, but was unfazed regardless.
After a few minutes, she was ushered to her seat in the front row.
All through the performance, eyes darted to Whoopi. Every gag, every moment, every step, she was watched as she watched. It was like one of those moments when someone tells a joke you already know and you find your enjoyment in watching the other person's reaction. I wonder if she knew how much scrutiny she was under.
When we had finished, she said a few words to us about the piece - how the film was created, who turned down the role before she was offered it (FYI it was Cher and Bette Midler, but not necessarily in that order), how all the nuns were old Broadway dames (Witch loved his one).
It was weird to see her in the flesh. A woman I have looked up to since I was a child; laughed at; adored; idolised, even. And there she was, looking small and strong and not a day older than she did in Sister Act. What an inspiring lady.
I got a few shots, but I thought this one (of Whoopi with Patina Miller, who is very capably filling her shoes for the musical) was really sweet.
An extraordinary afternoon.
Friday, 27 March 2009
An Evening At Angel
We recorded some of Sister Act last night at Angel studios. Whoopi is coming over from the US to do the interview rounds and promo for the show (can't wait for that), and they needed something to use on Wossy and the like.
Angel's beautiful. All wood-panelling and polished floors, and the hugest organ I've ever seen in the corner of the room (pause for laughter). I would have got a picture for you, chickens, but time seems to be money of Ghetti proportions when you're running on the studio clock, and I didn't think Alan Menken would take too kindly to me flashing my iphone around the room when I'm supposed to be belting out top G's.
There was a lively buzz amongst the girls, although no one dared voice it in anything more than a whisper. Not like in rehearsals, where raucous rules supreme. The code of behaviour is different in the studio. Everyone seems to observe an unwritten law of silence - even when the red light's off and silence isn't necessary. There's an air of anticipation. I felt as if I was in some kind of magic library, knowing that something amazing was about to happen but having to contain my excitement (not that that would ever happen - bad analogy, I know).
And what is it about putting cans on my head that automatically turns me into Bono?
It was extraordinary. I started singing with my eyes closed, one hand on the ear with the can on it, earnest expression on my face. When I did eventually look around the studio I could see I was not alone. It took me a while to remember that we were singing Raise Your Voice and not Feed The World.
I tried to forget about Bono (wrong sound) and instead began to channel the likes of Aretha, Donna and Roberta. Ooh...love to love you baby...
It worked. I don't know if I sounded anything like them, but I felt like them. I lived them. When I finally opened my eyes (it seems that sort of behaviour is not strictly limited to Bono), I was almost surprised to find myself in a small studio in Islington and not in a seventies disco joint.
As always, there were a few hiccups - the best being Katie Rowley Jones singing "Ecstasy!" at a really inappropriate moment - but my God, we made some noise in that studio last night. Watch out, West End.
Angel's beautiful. All wood-panelling and polished floors, and the hugest organ I've ever seen in the corner of the room (pause for laughter). I would have got a picture for you, chickens, but time seems to be money of Ghetti proportions when you're running on the studio clock, and I didn't think Alan Menken would take too kindly to me flashing my iphone around the room when I'm supposed to be belting out top G's.
There was a lively buzz amongst the girls, although no one dared voice it in anything more than a whisper. Not like in rehearsals, where raucous rules supreme. The code of behaviour is different in the studio. Everyone seems to observe an unwritten law of silence - even when the red light's off and silence isn't necessary. There's an air of anticipation. I felt as if I was in some kind of magic library, knowing that something amazing was about to happen but having to contain my excitement (not that that would ever happen - bad analogy, I know).
And what is it about putting cans on my head that automatically turns me into Bono?
It was extraordinary. I started singing with my eyes closed, one hand on the ear with the can on it, earnest expression on my face. When I did eventually look around the studio I could see I was not alone. It took me a while to remember that we were singing Raise Your Voice and not Feed The World.
I tried to forget about Bono (wrong sound) and instead began to channel the likes of Aretha, Donna and Roberta. Ooh...love to love you baby...
It worked. I don't know if I sounded anything like them, but I felt like them. I lived them. When I finally opened my eyes (it seems that sort of behaviour is not strictly limited to Bono), I was almost surprised to find myself in a small studio in Islington and not in a seventies disco joint.
As always, there were a few hiccups - the best being Katie Rowley Jones singing "Ecstasy!" at a really inappropriate moment - but my God, we made some noise in that studio last night. Watch out, West End.
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