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...
Friday, 21 August 2009
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.
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