All Balls and Glitter (25 page)

It was an exciting project. I assumed when I got Cameron’s call that I would be devising the choreography alone. Maybe that was presumptuous of me, but I really thought that after the phenomenal success of
Spend
, I had proved myself. Once again, however, Bob Avian was brought on board. I love working with Bob and have nothing against him, but I felt I needed credit if I was going to continue working and growing. I wanted to be named co-choreographer if I was expected to create steps.

As it turned out, when the contract came through, they were offering me only the title of associate choreographer, which would mean I had no ownership rights to the material and would be working under Bob’s name.

It’s a similar situation to the fashion industry, where a lot of people design frocks for a label, but just one person gets the credit. I wanted my own label. I wanted to be independent and I wanted to have my name anywhere, even in the back of the programme in small print, so that people knew that I had had a part in creating the steps. I could then move on as a choreographer, instead of always creating for Cameron under someone else’s flag.

I nervously approached the producer and told him of my concern.

‘Bobby is the choreographer and your position will be that of associate,’ Cameron responded. ‘I’ve never seen you do comedy. No, that won’t be possible.’

‘I have just choreographed
Spend Spend Spend
,’ I replied. ‘That is a comedy, Cameron, and I was nominated for an Olivier Award for it.’

I knew I was placing poor Cam in an awkward position and it really wasn’t fair of me, but I was speaking with my heart rather than my head.

He replied, ‘Yes, dear,
that
is a British musical comedy;
Witches
is an American musical comedy.’

I couldn’t answer that, except to say, ‘I’m really left with no choice, Cameron, but to say no. I can’t accept associate. I can do the gig only if I’m credited as co-choreographer.’

There was no stamping or shouting, no big song and dance. It was all very calm and relaxed and actually quite sad. I went on to thank him for all the work he had given me, the support he had always offered, the fun and opportunities he had blessed me with, and then I had to walk away from the production and out of the office with my stomach in my mouth. I
so
wanted the job and I knew I’d be suited to it. It was right up my street, choreographically. It was a terrible risk to lay myself on the line like that, but I seriously thought that the situation would progress and I would eventually be given the co-choreographer credit.

In fact, the opposite occurred. At the time, I was terribly embarrassed because everyone in the business thought that I would be doing the gig, as by that stage I’d taken all of the auditions and created the routines for them. A month went by and I have to admit I was stewing over it, all the while thinking that the decision would be overturned.

The phone finally rang and it was the Cammac office, wanting to arrange a meeting between Cameron and me. We agreed a time
and I went to see him, only to be kept for an hour in the waiting area. That really built up the tension, as I still had no clue what he wanted to tell me. I went into his office and he told me the news …

‘I just wanted to let you know before the posters come out tomorrow that Stephen Mear has accepted the job and will be billed as co-choreographer with Bob Avian.’

Stephen Mear, who is my contemporary and a really good friend, is now quite famous within the theatre world for his input on
Mary Poppins
and, more recently,
The Little Mermaid
for Disney on Broadway. We’ve been up against one another for Olivier Awards. He’s a brilliant choreographer, and Cameron’s decision to employ him at the last minute, giving him the exact job title that I’d requested, was the hardest thing in the world to accept. I am eternally grateful Cam told me before I saw it on the posters.

‘Thank you very much for letting me know, Cameron, it’s been a pleasure to have worked with you,’ I replied, and that was it.

I couldn’t believe it. I left the office after eight years of working for Cameron, feeling totally at sea.

I’m not bitter about the outcome, though, as I see now it was the best thing for me. Cameron had told me that having Bob on the show was like handing over the baton, whereas I believed I was ready to run solo. Sometimes I think if you work in a big company like that, you can get stagnant, or others can’t see all that you have to offer. In leaving Cammac, I was now completely free to explore my potential.

Cameron had taught me so much, but it was time to stand on my own two feet and take a different path, so actually he did me the biggest favour. I can only thank him for that.

It put me in the poorhouse for ages, I will admit. Yet as soon as the double doors of the Mackintosh empire closed on me, I was spurred on to other things. I knew that this was the beginning of what was going to be my final rise to independence – and the most creative and important work of my life.

I
f you are used to dishing out criticism, it’s not easy to put yourself in a position to be judged, as I know more than most. When Christopher Tookey, the long-term film critic on the
Daily Mail
, wrote
Hard Times: The Musical
, he suffered the curse of the critic-turned-playwright. His fellow journalists couldn’t wait to get the knives out.

The show was to go on in the summer of 2000 at Windsor, and then at the Haymarket Theatre in the West End. Another choreographer had been due to create the routines, but had walked out after some sort of altercation with Christopher, so they got me in at the last minute. It sounded like a fun project, and with
Witches
out of the picture, I thought, ‘Why not?’

Brian Blessed was playing Mr Gradgrind. He’d occasionally throw tantrums when he was learning a song and wasn’t getting the timing or pitch right, which often happens when you’re attempting new material. In the middle of rehearsals, Brian would stop abruptly and you would hear his famous booming voice shouting, ‘I climb mountains. I am not a singer!’ before he stormed off in a frustrated rage; but of course he is a singer. His co-star Roy Hudd would persistently run after him saying, ‘Come back, come back.’

One night after the run started, Brian was on stage performing his big solo, which is all very quiet. He was building to a dramatic finish and, as usual, rose from his chair on the key change.
Suddenly, he stopped singing and toppled backwards on to the floor, like a huge felled oak tree. The orchestra played on as he just lay there. I was in the audience and I thought he was dead. I was thinking, ‘Oh my God. Brian Blessed has done a Tommy Cooper and gone down like a ton of bloody bricks.’

The stage manager instructed the curtain to close and it came down as it does after the end scene of
La Traviata
: very, very slowly. The audience must have thought it was an extremely odd conclusion to the show. All was quiet, then a bizarre applause crept in, the house lights came up gradually and the audience had no clue what on earth to do. People began to murmur and then an announcement was made into the house, saying that due to technical difficulties we would be taking a brief intermission.

I ran backstage and Brian was sitting in his dressing room, absolutely fine. He had fainted, but he came back on. The play ran over by about forty-five minutes because he kept referring to the incident throughout the rest of the performance and cracking jokes about it, like, ‘I climbed Everest and go and faint on stage!’ Every second line became a gag and it felt like the night would never end. Good on him for carrying on with the show, however. It was certainly a night for that particular audience to remember.

In 2001, Denmark and the director’s chair came calling. Danish actor Stig Rossen and musical director Mikkel Rønnow had recently set up a new production company, the aim of which was to bring great stage musicals to Denmark. They asked me to direct their first two productions,
Chess
and
Copacabana
, which was a real honour
.

I found
Chess
a galvanizing experience because it was the first time I could be absolutely creatively honest. There was no one on my back saying, ‘Do this, do that.’ I could just stage whatever was in my head.

The result, even if I do say so myself, was brilliant. The show starred Stig, who had previously played Jean Valjean in
Les
Misérables
and who has a sensational voice. It was a truly international cast: Emma Kershaw, an extraordinary British talent, was Florence, while Zubin Varla took on Frederick Trumper.

Coincidentally, the Australian actor Michael Cormick, who was a really old pal and ex-London flatmate of mine, played the part of the Arbiter. He was a blast from the past. Michael was famous back home for winning
Young Talent Time
, and being a singer with the Channel Nine dancers. I had a huge crush on him when I first started at Tony Bartuccio’s in Prahran. I’ll never forget him strolling into the changing rooms at the dance school and slipping into his blue tights right in front of me: he was hot and I was overwhelmed. In one of those funny twists of fate, he went on to have an eight-year relationship with one of my best friends, the theatre designer Christopher ‘Master’ Woods.

After Denmark, it was back to England to work on the opening ceremony of the 2002 Commonwealth Games in Manchester, where I teamed up with a certain colleague called Arlene Phillips. She was also choreographing
We Will Rock You
, which was a big risk, so I asked her how it was going. She replied dejectedly, ‘It’s not good news. The critics slated it. It might be coming off in two weeks.’

I said, ‘Oh darling, I’m so sorry.’

That was in May 2002, but then the show had a stroke of luck that was to turn its fortunes around. It was the Queen’s Golden Jubilee and, in June, there was a huge concert at Buckingham Palace to mark the occasion. The cast sang the rousing Queen number ‘We Will Rock You’ and they sold so many tickets after that performance that the musical exploded. I was so pleased for Arlene.

I had a success of my own on my hands when I took on the challenge of choreographing
My One and Only
, which played at the Chichester Festival Theatre and then transferred to the Piccadilly Theatre in the West End. I was thrilled to be nominated for an Olivier again in recognition of my achievements, especially
because I’d had a bit of a falling out with the musical’s stars when we’d moved venues. I never understood what happened. They were wonderful to work with when we did the show at the CFT and then something changed. Suddenly, we were clashing on everything.

I’ve learned that when you work as a choreographer and director (or even as a judge on
Strictly
), you run the risk of upsetting people with your comments – although I don’t know that that was the problem in this case. What’s bizarre is that actors and dancers often don’t believe they are doing something wrong until they hear or see it for themselves. I’ve had to video dancers and play the tape back to them to prove that they’re flailing their arms about, or to demonstrate some other fault. People simply don’t like to hear criticism.

At the Oliviers that year, I was up against Susan Stroman for
Contact
, which was playing at the Queen’s Theatre. That seemed remarkable to me. She was my mentor, someone I’d always considered a genius and whose work on
Crazy for You
had given me the confidence to think that maybe I could one day be a choreographer. The other nominees were Matthew Bourne and Company for
Play Without Words
at the Lyttelton, and Peter Darling for
Our House
at the Cambridge.

Even though I didn’t win – Matthew Bourne triumphed on that occasion – I was exhilarated to be in such acclaimed company. All these choreographers were absolute legends and their work filled me with admiration. It was extraordinary to commiserate with the likes of Stro. She has been the most supportive colleague and, I hope she won’t mind me saying, friend I have had. She has always made the effort to come and see all my shows and be honest about the work, and I adore her.

In 2002, Lloyd and I faced a crossroads. We needed to do some serious work on the restaurant, the Duke of York in St John’s Wood, in which we were in partnership with Brendan Connolly. The toilets needed updating, the bar area required
redecorating and the kitchen was gasping out for air conditioning. When we added up the costs, the total bill was going to be £150,000.

With our two shops, the house
and
the restaurant, we were already up to our eyeballs. Nevertheless, I believed it was a good idea to invest the money. We’d had the restaurant for about three years by then and it usually takes that amount of time for any new business to kick off.

Lloyd disagreed and said he didn’t want to stump up the cash. In fairness, it wasn’t my day-to-day responsibility and I didn’t have to commit much time or thought to the venture. I pulled a few pints and waited on tables when it was extremely busy, but I had my packed theatrical career, so the businesses were Lloyd’s concern. He decided we shouldn’t shell out the money, so we didn’t and we sold our share. Typically, three months later, after the renovations were made, the whole thing just took off. It’s been a huge success.

Lloyd and I weren’t all work and no play. We’d been together for a decade by then and had shared a host of wonderful experiences. One of our favourite pastimes was going on vacation; we specialized in motoring breaks. He would do the driving and I would navigate. We explored all around Wales, which I loved. I used to make mountains of sandwiches for our trips. I’m not joking – about two loaves’ worth. We always scoffed the lot on the first morning as they were so tasty.

We’d stay at B&Bs and hotels all over the country. One in particular was gorgeous, the Swallow Falls Hotel at Betws-y-Coed. It remains in my memory, as the only room they had available for us was the honeymoon suite, with its king-size bed.

It was odd back then, as a gay couple, to ask for a double bed at reception; you’d tend to get some very strange looks or conveniently some places would no longer have any rooms available. So we got into the habit of asking for a twin room, as though we weren’t in love at all. Consequently, as the kind
hoteliers at the Swallow Falls offered us this amazing suite, they gave us their sincerest apologies that there were no twins available. We took the room, looking as if it was going to be a drag having to share a bed, and as soon as the door had shut behind us, we went wild. We were so excited. It was beautiful and the sound of the waterfall outside the window was exquisite.