When Words Win: Notes from Rehearsal

Lucy: You're saying the line wrong. That's not how it's written. 
Graham: That's 'cos you've written it wrong. I'm saying it right.
Lucy: No I haven't! I can assure you it's right. 
Graham: It's wrong! People don't speak like that. 
Lucy: Graham. It's a transcript. 

...and that's why I love verbatim theatre. Quash the actor!

Getting Your Show Put On Ain't Always Easy - So This Is Nice!

As anyone who has met me, seen my facebook wall or follows me on twitter will know, I have written a play. A while ago now actually, a year ago, but I'm still going on about it. Sorry about that. It's a hazard of knowing someone trying to make their way in a profession like the theatre I'm afraid, we never really switch off, we yak on and on about what we're up to all the time in the hopes that we might wear you down to the point that you agree to actually come and see our shows. And from there we hope that you might actually like watching our shows and will, in turn, begin the yakety yakking to your friends. That, I think, is the basis of creating an audience for your work. Or it's something like that. 

Anyway, the play started as a bunch of interviews and slowly -very slowly, about two years slowly- became a 50 minute one-man play with no clear plan regarding what to do with it once I'd written it. Then an opening came up at the Edinburgh Fringe last year and, after a seven week whirlwind of rewriting, casting, rehearsals, set building etc., it debuted at the Fringe for a month. And it did pretty well. Obviously not everyone saw it, and not everyone who saw it liked it but it did well enough for us to have the newspapers say it, I and the actor all had promise and to build up a little gang of people interested to see us develop it and who sent us emails, tweets and facebook messages to prove it. We got invited to do the show in Dublin this year, so we did that. Then we popped on over to the Brighton Fringe which was a tremendous highlight of the adventure so far. 

But then I sort of stopped. I wasn't really sure what to do next. That's pretty unimpressive seeing as how I have an MA in Creative Producing for Theatre, but maybe that sort of mindset doesn't fly when you're looking at your own work. When you've done a show for a year and it hasn't made proper money or been offered a run at a real life theatre is it time to put it to sleep and pick up a new show? Or is that quitters' talk? Have I just completed all the preparation and workshopping of a play and am now at the appropriate point to give it a leg up to something bigger? How do you know if something's good enough? 

While I was mulling over these sort of chipper thoughts I got a reply to an email I sent a while ago, when I was mailing organisations that I thought might fancy seeing the show or publicising it to their followers, and the email invited us to put on a one-off performance of the play in London as a fundraiser for their organisation. Excitingly, the show would be at London's Central School of Speech & Drama and they would take care of all the theatre hire, tech costs and FOH shennanigans in return for the play and a brief Q&A afterwards. 

If you haven't tried to tout a play around theatres and to attract audiences, fighting the likely rejections, whilst maintaining your belief that it's a good piece of entertainment that is worthy of your potential audiences' time and money then you won't perhaps understand the little thrill you get when someone approaches you and says, "Hey, that sounds great. Do you want to come and do a show for us?" But for someone not quite sure where to go next it was a beautifully timed opportunity and a sign that the show quite possibly has quite a bit of life in it. 

So, as I climb back into my producery promotery shoes I'd like to invite you to come and see Rachael's Cafe at Central School of Speech and Drama Embassy Theatre at 7pm (Bar open from 6pm) on Wednesday 26th September 2012 as a fundraiser for arts based charity Gendered Intelligence. Another happy turn-up for the books is that tickets are selling well so please do snap yours up now: http://www.wegottickets.com/event/184947

Unpaid Work: How did such an oxymoron become the norm?

The topic of unpaid and profit share work in the theatre is a widely discussed issue and a contentious one at that. We might all go into this profession starry eyed and willing to live on beans on toast for the next ten years, but realistically most people cannot afford to work for free long term. Those who can? I suppose if you have a substantial nest egg, generous parents and/or an incredibly flexible job then you may well be prepared to work for nix. However, as Rupert Goold pointed out recently in a talk for Sky Arts, unpaid internships and work tend to attract a long line of privileged individuals which in no way offers a variety of experiences and approaches to our Arts scene. Now as companies such as Cheek by Jowl and the Old Vic are forced to suspend their unpaid internship positions are we any closer to achieving some potential of financial stability in this profession?

Recently I was asked if I'd like to co-produce an Edinburgh 2012 show. I was told the existing company would need no financial input from me, just lots of hard work both during the festival and for the two weeks rehearsal process. I liked the play and was impressed by the company's good reviews for some exciting sounding past shows.

Enquiring a little further into what my actual duties would be it occurred to me that they were looking for not only a co-producer but also a PR and marketing assistant. But this is Fringe theatre and I'm used to the need for people to fill multiple roles within a theatre company. Discussing payment naturally led to the Profit Share scenario. Whilst this offers money on the basis that the company make any, generally an Edinburgh show rarely ends up in profit. Although not ideal it's a situation we're all familiar with and, for the most part, understand the need to accept while we're making our way in the profession. However, to be part of the profit share payment list, I would have to also stage manage the show for two shows a day for the entire month. Sigh. Ok. It was still ultimately a cheaper and more involved way to experience the Edinburgh Fringe. 

Finally, just as I was ready to sign my summer away I was asked to prepay the cost of accommodation and travel on the understanding it would be paid back if they made their money back which was apparently very likely. I replied and said that I would fulfil all the above criteria but, keeping in mind I had been told that no financial input was needed from me, I wanted confirmation that I would definitely receive my full accommodation and travel payment back. This couldn't be done, my belief in their confidence wavered and so I politely declined to get involved.

This interaction really worried me. Once upon a time people developed skills that they could be paid for. Nowadays we seem to be paying for the opportunity to work. As a producer one could argue that if I did my job and secured a transfer for the show I could potentially eventually make my money back. But what about the actors? It turns out they are all working on exactly the same deal. What if the show transfers and they're replaced? Their financial input and unpaid performance in the show will have facilitated this company's success rather than their own. I know for a fact that one actor cast in the show had to turn it down as they couldn't afford to front the cash needed. The role was recast. So it's not the best actor playing the role now, it's the richest one. Is this the way we want to see theatre going?  Or is this nothing more than a glorified amateur dramatics outing? I might work on a profit share basis when I produce my own work but I can assure you that I would never expect my actors to pay for their own accommodation or transport costs. If I can't raise that cash, then the show doesn't go ahead. That's a producer's job. Isn't it? 

Short Story - My Boy James

As I pull up to my mother's house to drop her off after our shopping trip my little red Golf slams to a shuddering halt that lets me know it is, once again, not planning on restarting anytime soon. 

"Fuck!" 

Unladylike a word this may be but, if it's any consolation to my staunchly middle class parent, I do say it with the crisp enunciation she drummed into me.

"Sarah!" It's no consolation it turns out. "I don't know what's happened but, as you're not bleeding or unconscious, I can't imagine it deserved that response," she returns as she climbs gingerly out of the car.

Every day is fairly exhausting but today, Friday, has been particularly taxing. The normal stress of my single working mother life has been complicated by this breakdown which immediately throws my carefully regimented day into chaos. 

"For heaven's sakes," my Mother throws at me. "What a Drama Queen. You're wasted in Human Resources Sarah, you ought to have been on the stage." It's a pretty cheap shot seeing as my childhood dream to flee to London and be an Actress on the West End stage was somewhat scuppered by the arrival of my son James and the subsequent departure of his father, Tim. But then again that was a while ago now, and she's pretty old, so perhaps she's forgotten. Or assumed I've got over it. Which I suppose I have. I'm mostly just getting annoyed with her because I'm already riled up over the car and worried about James. 

"Take my car. I'll wait here for the AA man. And relax," she orders me. I jump into her car and drive off. I already have the keys, it's mostly only me who uses it anyway - when mine's conking out like now. She doesn't want to admit it but she can't really drive very easily any more - a combination of watery eyes and arthritic knees. Let's face it, she's old. But that's one more thing I'm not willing to think about. So long as she's chirpy and getting around, albeit with my help, I don't see why we should dwell on it. It's life right?

My worries race away as soon as I see James' face and I smile as his hands, sticky from PVA glue, grasp at my face as he greets me with the kind of wild abandon expected from kidnapped journalists being reunited with their families after a decade's separation rather than a two hour break while I went to Sainsbury's and he hung out making art. I don't care. You tell me what feeling could possibly be sweeter than knowing you have the total adoration of your child and I will almost certainly instantly dismiss whatever you come up with. I'd happily give birth all over again, without painkillers, just to experience this wonder in my life. It's a bit of a cop out to say that I suppose since, no doubt, my baby bearing days are over, but I do mean it. I'm trying to say goodbye to his teachers, trying to organise times for tomorrow, checking everything was okay today and all the while he is trying to get my attention: clinging, grabbing, kissing, giggling, "Mum, MUM, MUM-MING!" me. 

"James!" I bark sharply. Perhaps a little too sharply because his beautiful -mucky, but beautiful- face crumples. Luckily, years of practise have prepared my automatic response. A kiss on the cheek, a reassuringly firm stroke on the back and a plastic bottle of the appealingly bright coloured Fruit Shoot drink emerging quickly from the Sainsbury's bag and finding it's way into his grasp. Everything's fine. As he sucks on the bottle I finish my conversation and then we make our way back to the car. "This is Granny's car," he tells me, surprised. 

"Yup," I confirm. "My car broke down." 

His eyes widen and the arm holding the juice bottle drops to the side. He studies me seriously. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" 

"No, no," I reassure him quickly. "Everything was fine. It didn't crash."

"No crash?" he demands to be told again.

"No crash." 

"Okay." Calmed, and assured that I'm in one piece, he gets into the front passenger seat and wiggles around to get himself comfortable in the unfamiliar chair. I click his seatbelt in and take the opportunity to straighten the collar of his polo shirt. I set off back to my mother's house, hoping against hope the AA man has arrived. James has recovered from the shock of my supposed near destruction and is bursting to tell me about his day, literally dribbling with excitement, as he and his Fruit Shoot war for control of his mouth. "Mum?"

"Yes?"

"It was good today."

"Was it? Good." 

"It was Art."

"Yup." 

"I made you a pot."

"A pot?"

"Yes! It's in my bag. It is brown and it is little. Do you like it?" 

I laugh. He's silent. I realise he thinks I'm laughing at him. "I haven't seen it yet silly! But I'm sure I'll love it." 

"I wrote Mum on it in red paint. And a strawberry - I drew it. You like strawberries." I smile. James' memory is still pretty much linked to whatever happened the day before. Hence why last night's strawberries are currently taking centre stage in his rendition of the most loved aspects of my life. I used to feel queasy listening to people listing how great their kid's foibles were but now I realise I'm probably the biggest culprit of them all. James can tell me he sat on a Ladybird and the sky is made out of poo and I still gaze at him like he's Einstein.

We arrive at my Mother's house and I'm relieved to see the AA man is there. Once I meet him I'm less thrilled. He turns out to be an impatient, patronising, ever so slightly misogynistic soul - "Looks like those tyres are wearing a bit thin. Not got a hubby to sort out all this sort of stuff for you Love? Imagine it's a bit of a dirty job for a bird like you to handle?" - and I'm grateful Mum is entertaining James inside so he doesn't witness me trying to beat down my ever-rising hackles.

Finally we're on the way home, James having sloppily administered several loving kisses onto Mum's face while she giggled like a schoolgirl, and soon we're sitting down to a dinner of "SAUSAGES!" His roar is deafening. I think it's fair to say that he's delighted with the sausages. I smile but my mind is elsewhere. It's getting late, I still have to sort out a lot of paperwork, James has a hospital appointment due that I need to chase up and...

..."It's my birthday tomorrow," he informs me. Ah, his birthday. The one date he never forgets. He knows the date, the day, the hour, the minute he was born and he loves the fact that for one day everything can be about him, a celebration of him, without having to censor himself or his wants. James' birthdays are always an Event. Yes, with a capital E. 

"That's correct," I confirm. 

"And I'm having a party." 

"Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. William is coming."

"And Daniel. And Gemma."

"Yes."

"And we can have cake?"

"Yup. Pirate themed remember?"

"Yes! And I have an eyepatch!"

Pirates of the Carribbean didn't come out too long ago. It's the current fad. He and his friends all fancy themselves the next Captain Jack. The birthday party confirmed and dinner finished we attempt the washing up but James' attempts to help ends abruptly with two broken glasses, a smashed plate and an extraordinarily loud screaming fit. The explanation that, thanks to the delay caused by the car breaking down, we don't have time for tonight's movie, goes down equally well. By the time we've struggled through a bath, pyjamas and an episode of Scooby Doo we're both exhausted and, not for the first time, I catch myself thinking about getting some help. I could even get someone to stay with him one night a week while I go out, I catch myself thinking. Mum's not really up to it anymore but maybe...James laughs at Scooby and Shaggy and I stop myself guiltily. I don't need to go out. What for? To find a man? I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror across the room and laugh bitterly at myself. Who'd want me now? I feel a tightness on my shoulders and I realise I laughed out loud. Or perhaps snorted would be a better word. James is hugging me to him with his right arm and staring at me quizzically. I smile brightly and give him a little hug. Reassured he turns back to the TV. 

When I tuck him in to bed he holds me to him and solemnly reminds me not to forget it's his birthday tomorrow. I promise and walk to the door. Finger on the switch I turn to blow him a kiss before I click the light off and he's gazing at me with his big, soft brown eyes and a huge smile. "I love you Mum". 

"I love you too son." Tears pricking my eyes I spin round, turn off the light and go back downstairs where I sit, revelling in the quiet, at my desk. Slowly I pull out all the paperwork and bend over the various forms and lists. Somewhere in the next two hours I pull out the final preparation sheet for the party. Clearly James has found it already. He's printed in large, unsteady letters along the top, 'DEAR MUM. DON'T FORGET MY BIRTHDAY!!! LOVE JAMES'. Yeah Sarah, I tell myself. Don't forget. Tomorrow it's your son's birthday! I'll throw him the pirate party of his dreams. He deserves it. It's a big one. Tomorrow my son will be thirty. 

Chatback Comedy Club's Upcoming Season

This is the new flyer for my comedy club (co-owned with Mr. Sam Gardner) Chatback Comedy Club.  It's currently based in Canterbury and specialises in bringing the award-wining & up-and-coming acts from the London Circuit over to Kent. We're pretty proud of it. If you get a chance to come see our shows then please do, we've had some lovely reviews. If not go and see any of the same hilarious talented comics wherever you might find them. 

Iain M. Banks: Novels Vs. Film

Iain M. Bank's explanation as to why he doesn't mind if his books don't make it to film: 

"I have a bigger special effects budget. Mine is infinite, Mr Lucas, I think you'll find."

Perfection!

Short Story - 'Surprise'

I’ve always arranged surprise parties. I never understand people who don’t enjoy them. I love the fact it means you care enough about someone to want to express your love and pride for them. I get a thrill from crossing my fingers that everyone’s gonna keep the secret, I take the challenge of making sure that each individual contribution to the food, drinks, decoration or entertainment melds together seemlessly very seriously and I adore the moment it hits the party recipient that all these people who mean the world to them are right there in the room without having to have lifted a finger to get them there. My party organising was the bane of Martin’s life. Nice, sweet, sturdy Martin who lived life with his face in a book and his hand clasped around his daily organiser. I think he was just as shocked as his family and friends were that he’d fallen in love with the kookiest, most excitable girl at university.  But, like in every aspect of our lives, he knew how to humour me, to play along and, always, to be my rock. The prep for this party was squashed in between treatments, panics and painful paperwork. Yet it was perfect in every way. 

The cake was chosen because it was a replica of our wedding cake. The deep chocolate sponge I loved made up the base of the cake and the top was the light vanilla sponge that Martin, the purist that he was, always found superior to any of today’s fancy flavours. Squashed in between them was the heavy fruit cake that we both hated but, since it’s the traditional choice for a wedding cake, superstitiously agreed we should include. You know. Just to be sure. 

Martin’s surprise party was a bittersweet affair. A heady mix of love and loss and an oddly cordial acceptance of failure. I suppose there’s no other way to put it really. It was a goodbye. The chance for everyone who knew and loved Martin - I was never surprised by how many people that described - to see him, touch him, kiss him and breathe in the very essence of him one last time. And for him to do the same. 

The music was a strange little band that had been playing in the dingy pub where we had our first date at university. I doubt any of the guests at the party enjoyed the music. In fact I’m not sure either of us ever had either. We’d talked through their set, lost ourselves in our first kiss and then snuck out, away from the racket, to smoke. Later I’d bought their album at a student union gig for Martin’s Valentine’s Day gift. A jokey one really, but he’d put it on, lowered the lights and kissed me. Recreated that first night. Then he looked at me and said, “Gemma, I love you”. For the first time. Suddenly that music meant something, regardless of how terrible it sounded. 

If it seems weird to you that a party was the way this was done, well, I don’t blame you. I think most people believe that when you’re dying, it’s the time for you to be closed off from the rest of the world to be with your family. It’s supposed to be a time of shock, of pain, of grief, of heartache. All very serious. But when your husband has been dying, right in front of your eyes, for years and years? When your wife has become your carer - doing all the things for you that you one day expected her to do for your children? When you’ve spent so many horrendous years swinging between joy, hope and misery, spending most of it in a limbo land where you have absolutely no control so you’re stuck just watching the years pass and, along with them, steadily losing ground on all the plans you once made so carefully and lovingly together? Well, you’re done with being serious. You’ve earned a party. I think our friends and family just wanted to see us together one last time, relaxing into each other like we used to. 

The weeks leading up to the party was the sickest I’d seen Martin. I’d stopped getting shocked at his bald head, his steroid bloated frame and his slurring voice. I was so busy looking after him, in what must have become a rather over-efficient matronly type of way ,that I’d blocked out the difference between what I wanted my husband to look like and the awful reality. But now even I was noticing the difference. His breathing was more and more laboured, his nose bleeds frequent and, though he didn’t say anything, I could see his eyes glaze over each time he was racked with pain. For the first time he started asking me to leave the room while he talked to his family on the phone. I thought he didn’t feel I was strong enough to handle too many goodbyes. 

On the day of the party I picked Martin up from the hospital and was driving towards his parents’ house when he suddenly said, “Turn left”.

“What?” I asked. 

“Turn left here.”

A little chill ran through me. “That’s not the way to your Mum’s house Martin.” 

“Thank you Einstein.” I stared at him and he weakly forced a throaty little chuckle. 

“I’m not quite off my rocker yet darling. Turn left. Please.” 

“We’ll be late for dinner at your parents”, I murmured. But I was already turning left. I never could say no to him. 

“They’ll understand”. 

I drove down the road until I came to the town hall. I slowed down as I caught sight of fifty, sixty, maybe more people filling the car park until we finally came to a standstill at the entrance. I turned to my left and looked at Martin. He was gazing back at me with the broadest grin I’d seen on him for months and his whole face with glowing with pleasure. 

Everyone and everything was there. My parents, his parents, our nieces and nephews, best friends, the cake, the terrible music. Each guest received copies of the book we were reading in the English class we met in and, rather embarrassingly, a copy of the first poem I wrote for Martin. We ate an eccentric looking buffet that was a gastronomic history of our relationship eating habits stretching from university stir fries to my ‘grown-up’ Nigella-esque meal attempts via plenty of chinese takeaways, emergency pizzas and broke beans on toast. We sat and told stories. About Martin, about our parents, about us...everyone had an anecdote. Kids scrambled to press kisses on Martin’s cheeks and a sombre-faced ten year old nephew reassured me he’d look after me after Uncle Martin had gone to hang out with God. Grown men laughed while brusquely wiping away tears and women clucked and cleaned busily, stopping only to lay a gentle hand on one of us or to press champagne into our hands. Later that evening we all sat close, huddled under blankets, and used the hall’s projector to watch home movies, laughing at the sight of a five year old Martin running through his garden stark naked. At midnight he squeezed my hand lightly and, smiling, whispered, “Surprise darling”.