Poem - Grandma

Today I went to a wonderful masterclass called From Page to Performance run at IdeasTap Hub by Zena Edwards. It was especially for writers who create work that they want to perform themselves on stage and about creating that unique voice, finding out what you want to say and how best to say it. I am most inspired by writers who create realistic, human character based pieces like Alan Bennett and Alecky Blythe but I'm aware that I'm still at a point that I'm constantly influenced and distracted by all different styles and forms of writing. While this is quite clearly a huge roadblock for me in moving forward as an artist I felt that I could at least take advantage of the positive aspects of my thirst to adopt the feel of the writers I most admire. So, while my focus is really writing plays that are either verbatim or at least quite realistic, I thought that since I was about to do a masterclass with a poet I'd try my hand at a form of writing that thrills me to the core whenever I hear someone really nail the sounds, beat, narrative and character that defines the perfect performance poetry for me. So last night that's what I did. 

I learnt that I'm not a natural poet. I'm not musical enough to hear the sounds, to understand the ways that words go together in the way that poets can. I don't see the world in symbols or metaphors and, too often, I dump subtext in favour of plain expression. But all these things affect the quality of my usual work too. They hamper my ability to create theatre that suggests and entices rather than tells and demands. So I reckon I should keep having a go. Because even if I don't end up as the next great poet perhaps it'll be the best writing exercise I ever did. 

I don't share enough of my writing either here or on stage. I'm not yet confident enough. But it's the only way to pave the way forward so, without further ado, here is last night's attempt.

Grandma

My Grandmother is a woman you don't fuck with
If it seems common as muck to start an ode to a well-respected older person
By cursing
Then please forgive me
But you will see that she
Is hard to encapsulate
In mapped out daily thought or conversation
And, as so often is the case
When all trace
Of carefully constructed thought through language
Escapes me
Due to an over effusive dose of emotion
I revert to words that I know emerge at such times
To mean something that is otherwise
Indescribable

If youc an live to eighty-six years old
And still see off colds

That have full-grown men licked
You must have tricks
About how to live this life
Whether that's as someone's wife
Or child or mother
Or lover
And we, young women as we are,
Should clamour round, from near and far
To hear
Your stories loud and clear
To take our lessons
And count our blessings
That here in front of us
Is proof 
That regardless of life's crazy ways
If we can find the truth 
That we are living for
That we are driven by
And stick to it
With both sass and charm 
Then there is a chance
That we will come through unharmed
And continue on in this merry dance
Until someday we too hear some young person say 
'Well, isn't she amazing!?'

Broadening My London Horizons: Polari - My first night at a Gay Literary Salon

It's so often said that it's almost boring to repeat it. But I will. 

'London is full of wonderful cultural activities and events to see or do no matter what your tastes or budget.'

It's true. I imagine it would be impossible to exhaust your options of things you could experience. When tourists come to London this is one of the first things that hits them.  But for those of us who live here, and particularly for those of us who have grown up here, we see London less as a cultural hub and more as our, albeit large, hometown. We become accustomed to certain people, certain areas and certain forms of entertainment and get locked into our own little worlds and routines. For me that means working, spending time in North West and Central London mostly and watching theatre and comedy. Those are the things I do. I could write you lists of what's on in the West End, fringe theatres and comedy clubs that go on for pages, but I wouldn't know where to start if you asked me where to see a new band play a gig or where you could watch some sort of sporting match. I just wouldn't have a clue despite the fact that people make near pilgrimages to this very city to do those very activities. Actually it can be quite overwhelming to try to start all over again with a new form of entertainment and learn where best to go, when and how. 

However, once in a while, a new friendship or a work event or an ambitious first date will introduce us to something we wouldn't have dreamt of doing (if we knew it even existed). And we might be intrigued, bored, enticed, thrilled, who know's what, by this new experience. Whether we end up adding a new cultural love to our roster or not, at least a brand new bit of London will now be within our reach. Which is why this Monday was so interesting for me. 

Over the past year I've met all kinds of people related to the different artistic activities I've taken part in and through them I have experienced aspects of London, and life in general, that are brand new to me. Through looking for companies to advertise in my programme for my Edinburgh show Rachael's Cafe (about a pre-op transgender lady living on the Bible Belt in the USA) in 2011 I met Alex Drummond who advertised her book Queering the Tranny. Alex, in turn, introduced me to Andie Davidson who runs Bramley Press which published the book and I met up with her when she came to see the show in Brighton. This Monday Andie invited me to watch her read from her book of poetry RealIsations at Polari, the gay literary salon at the Royal Festival Hall on London's Southbank. I must admit I doubt that this is an event I would ever have booked to see without such an invitation. Not that I wouldn't expect to enjoy it but I just never really came across it and, if I had done, I might've felt that it wasn't necessarily directed at me as an audience member. While this is of course entirely in my head I know it's the way that a great number of people would naturally feel about not only this event but also others that are clearly directed at and serve a particular sector of society that we don't feel we belong to. 

But the whole point of this blog is that this is the wonderful thing about experiencing London through the eyes of others, who are not necessarily Londoners. Polari was like an exciting little world I'd just discovered, like an intimate gathering of literary geniuses and fans ensconced in a friendly little room but right in the centre of London! Up and comers like Andie were on a mixed bill with steadfast names in the business such as Jake Arnott and Stella Duffy. There was poetry, historical fiction, occult novels,  a reading from a book with steamy sex scenes that was accompanied by a live reenactment (to some degree), episodes from a serialisation in The Gay Times which started out life as a screen play and then a novel before its move into the newspaper...It was like story time for grown ups, like live audio books, theatre and comedy all mixed with a pop-up bar and bookshop. I can't imagine it's for everyone, I won't deny I was blushing at a few choice moments, but if you like any combination of poetry, novels, storytelling and theatre I'd wholeheartedly recommend Polari. There was something incredibly nice and honest about people simply reading and an audience listening with no soundtrack or flashing lights or set. It was up to the quality of the writing and the delivery of it to shine through and it did so so very brightly. 

A Film Actor's 'Right' to Protection

The other night I was watching television and caught sight of a friend playing a substantial role in a fairly major movie. I called him the next morning to congratulate him and, thanking me, he said that he'd been thrilled to work with the stars in the film and had loved the process but absolutely hated how it had been edited. He thought the film had the potential to be so much better than it ended up being. This got me thinking about the lack of control an actor has when appearing in a film over anything but the performance he puts in on set on the day of filming. The reason I've always aspired to work as a performer in the theatre rather than on screen is because, for me, it's an actor's medium. Once the work on the script, direction etc. is complete and opening night rocks up it's the actor's world. Obviously you're playing by certain guidelines but the show is in your hands, you're in control of what the audience sees and what might be created in the moment. With a film the actor's performance can potentially be dramatically altered by the editing process or even last minute changes to the script - think Thandi Newton's complaint when the director of Crash significantly rewrote a scene in the movie after they'd already filmed what would be her reaction to the events of that scene. In her opinion the acting choices she had made based on the original script were no longer as relevant or effective and reflected badly on her as an actress. 

So what rights - bar the initial contract signing and script approval - do actors have? Once we commit ourselves to a project are we agreeing to lend ourselves, our faces, our skills, to become instruments for the filmmaker's vision? It's all very well saying we only choose to get involved with projects we believe in but that's not always an option when looking for work and it's also not always possible to be entirely sure of where a director or producer is ultimately going to go with a project. Keeping in mind that we are all now much more aware - thanks to reality TV- quite how spectacularly editing can change our perceptions of people and events, should we not all be a tiny bit more concerned how our performances can be twisted and turned into something entirely different? Most of us are far too focused on the desperate struggle to actually get cast in a film to spend time thinking about what might happen afterwards. This might be okay with harmless comedies, over the top action films or sentimentally sweet films where, if anything goes off piste the worst that's likely to happen is that we get a bit of flack from reviewers or are underwhelmed with the showreel material we get from it. But what about when a role holds us up as poster people for a political stance or religious belief that we don't represent? Then it becomes a bit more serious than mere questionable acting choices. 

I pick these out as possibilities because they're particularly relevant at the moment after last month when actress Cindy Lee Garcia went to court to sue the filmmaker Nakoula Basseley Nakoula claiming she was 'duped' into appearing in her infamous movie Innocence of Muslims, which led to worldwide riots and deaths, and had not been 'aware of its anti-Muslim content'. Her request for a 14 minute trailer of the film to be removed from YouTube as it had 'violated her privacy and endangered her life' was rejected by the Los Angeles superior court judge Louis Lanvin who agreed with Google lawyer Timothy Alger's statement that 'the rights of an actor do not protect that person from how a film is perceived'. 

Now, not having seen the film, her contractual agreement or truly knowing for certain what the endangerment to her life is, it is impossible to comment on this legal decision. However, taking Judge Lanvin's assertion as a stand-alone comment, I ask my own. 'Is this right?' After author Salman Rushdie was issued with a fatwa for writing a book he was offered protection based on how it was perceived. Why wouldn't actors be offered the same rights based on how work they are involved with is perceived? After all they're the ones who will be instantly recognisable to those offended. This is obviously a unique case and it would be silly to blow it out of all proportion since most of the time an actor's concern is that their scene has been unfairly cut or weirdly edited. Unfortunate but the way of the world. However this did all make me stop and think about when it might get a bit more serious. If an actor does choose to get involved with a ground-breaking - whether that be politically, religiously or other - movie or television project and, in doing so, takes an even greater risk than the directors and producers of said project will be doing, shouldn't they then be entitled to protection in the case of a public reaction to it which may result in endangerment to life, death threats and the like? If not then perhaps we should all be committing ourselves only to sweetly flippant projects or all be making our own work. 

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.