Sicken and So Die (19 page)

‘While I support in principle the old adage that “the show must go on,” I am sure that you will all agree the show should only go on if the performance is of a standard that will not do discredit to your own high professional standards. Now in this instance a variety of potential scenarios offer themselves to us if we –'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake, get on with it!' Alexandru Radulescu's patience was exhausted. ‘We're incredibly pushed for time, and you're just wasting more of it with all this long-winded crap!'

Julian Roxborough-Smith was so unused to anyone speaking to him like this that he could only gape and straighten his bow-tie. Charles noticed that her boss's discomfiture brought an irrepressible grin to Moira's lips. She'd enjoy seeing that kind of thing happen more often.

The Asphodel representative suavely interceded to cover up Alexandru's rudeness. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Roxborough-Smith, we're all obviously under a lot of stress.'

The Festival Director was still too shocked to do more than mouth back, so the accountant slid quickly on, ‘And Alex does of course have a point. Time is of the essence, so I think, if it's all right with you . . .' He didn't give Julian Roxborough-Smith time to say whether it was or it wasn't ‘. . . I should hand straight over to our Director, so that he can put forward to the cast his proposed solution to the current crisis: a solution which – in keeping with most things Alex does – is extremely
radical
.'

Charles groaned inwardly, as the small figure of the director stepped forward. The black eyes gleamed with fanatical zeal.

‘Friends, fellow-workers, fellow-artistes,' Alexandru Radulescu began. ‘In no way do I wish to diminish what has happened. It is a terrible thing. Sally was one of us – we have lost her. At the proper time we will mourn her properly. But for now my priority must be
Twelfth Night
.'

Why suddenly? Charles's cynical mind couldn't help supplying the question. It never has been before.

‘This is not just my priority – it is
our
priority. And it is a priority which Sally – of all people – would have respected. The show, as Julian has said, must go on. The question is how soon it goes on. My proposal is that we open tonight as scheduled.'

A collective gasp of astonishment rose from the company. They were all troupers, but surely what their director was suggesting was impossible.

Talya Northcott voiced the communal objection. As understudy to Viola, she had more reason than most to be anxious. ‘But, Alex, we just haven't got time. I mean, I know the lines all right, but I'd have to go through all the blocking and –'

‘Besides,' the lighting designer chipped in, ‘we haven't done the tech on the second two-thirds of the show. We've only got the roughest kind of plotting done for that.'

‘You can continue plotting as we rehearse,' Alexandru announced magisterially.

‘But look, that'll be daylight. We won't be able to judge how the –'

‘That is what we will do.'

He did not raise his voice, but the words were a testament to the strength of the little man's personality. The lighting designer was silent as his director repeated, ‘We will open tonight, as scheduled.'

‘But don't you think that shows a lack of respect for Sally's memory – as if we don't think her death's important?'

This latest objection, from Benzo Ritter, was slapped down as firmly as the others. ‘I do not think so. She was an actress. She would understand. Tonight's performance will not be a disrespect to Sally Luther – it will be a tribute to Sally Luther.'

Alexandru Radulescu knew he had everyone's attention and he played his scene to the full. ‘As I say, we will open tonight, as scheduled . . .' He turned to Talya Northcott ‘. . . But I am sorry, my dear, you will not be playing Viola.'

Like Julian Roxborough-Smith before her, the girl was stunned into silence. She too mouthed hopelessly. Charles felt sure she had already been on the phone to Mummy about her big break, and Mummy had already rung round all her family and friends. Some embarrassing calling back was going to be necessary.

‘I have said before,' Alexandru continued, ‘that what some people regard as problems, I see as positive creative opportunities. All through rehearsal we have been saying that
Twelfth Night
is Shakespeare's exploration of the potentialities of human sexuality . . .'

Charles's knee-jerk reaction – ‘No, it isn't!' – once again remained unspoken.

‘. . . . and a solution to our current problem which extends the range of this exploration occurred to me very early this morning. It will need some revised blocking towards the end of the play, but this is not insuperable. You see . . .' He turned again to the stricken Talya. ‘. . . we already have someone in the company who is fully rehearsed in the part of Viola. Yes, my friends, we will open
Twelfth Night
tonight with the parts of Sebastian
and
Viola both being played by Russ Lavery!'

There was another gasp from the company, which quickly gave way to delighted applause. Charles Paris looked round the semicircle of faces to gauge reactions. Apart from Talya Northcott, who could not suppress her tears, Benzo Ritter seemed to be the only one downcast by the news, presumably because he still thought it betokened disrespect to his lost idol.

Vasile Bogdan and Tottie Roundwood were ecstatic in their appreciation for another stroke of Radulescu genius. Chad Pearson shook his head, chuckling at the audacity of the solution.

And on the face of Russ Lavery was an expression of unambiguous triumph.

THE REST OF the day was a tribute to the organisational skills of Alexandru Radulescu. He started by rehearsing Act Five, the only moment in the play where Viola and Sebastian, brother and sister, are both on stage at the same time.

He must have been up all night devising the blocking for this confrontation. Inevitably it involved the use of a double. Talya Northcott, who had been cast for her physical likeness to the compact Sally Luther, was awarded this role (the nearest she was ever going to get to playing Viola), but all the lines were to be spoken by Russ Lavery. Mummy and the large party of family and friends she had conscripted for the first night, were due for a disappointment.

In Alexandru's revised blocking, by ingenious use of the entrances and exits, by a lot of crossing behind the emblematic trees of the simple set, Viola and Sebastian appeared, reappeared and changed roles as in some elaborate conjuring trick.

When the Duke, upstage of the identical pair who faced him, said in wonderment:

‘One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!

A natural perspective, that is and is not', few of the company would have disagreed with him. The director had created another moment of theatrical magic.

Even Charles Paris, who thought this new twist only served to push Shakespeare's play further out of true, could not help but be impressed.

Given the opportunity, Russ Lavery demonstrated what an exceptional actor he was. After the popular success of
Air-Sea Rescue,
in which he played an amiable but two-dimensional character, there had been a tendency in the profession to dismiss him as ‘very limited – plays the one part fine, but that's it.' Russ Lavery's work on
Twelfth Night
that day refuted any such criticism.

As he had begun to in the experiments during rehearsal, he created two totally different characters for Sebastian and Viola. The physical likeness was obviously there; there were vocal similarities – though Viola's voice was lighter and more feminine; but he differentiated the two so subtly that throughout the play there was never any question which of the twins had just come on stage.

In most productions of
Twelfth Night,
much effort is expended to make two people of different sex – frequently also of different height, bulk and colouring – look alike. In Russ Lavery's performance – or performances – the likeness could be taken for granted, and so he was able to emphasise the differences between the two characters.

For anyone who knew anything about the theatre, the development was fascinating to watch. Russ Lavery's performance as Viola had come on so much from the sketchy outline he had revealed in previous rehearsal exercises.

It was almost as if he had prepared for this moment, as if he had known he would be playing the part.

The inhospitable nature of the Chailey Ferrars Trustees for once proved a benefit. During the day of rehearsal they kept the estate firmly shut, so that the horde of tabloid journalists, drawn to Great Wensham by Sally Luther's name and the whiff of potential scandal, was unable to get near the
Twelfth Night
company.

In fact, the only way they could get into Chailey Ferrars was by buying tickets for the evening's performance. This was good news for the box office, and also had the beneficial side-effect of introducing to Shakespeare people whose only previous contact with English literature had been ‘GOTCHA!', ‘PULPIT POOFTAHS!' and ‘QUEEN: IT'S BEEN A BUM YEAR!'

Because of the intense rehearsal pressure, the grounds were not to be opened to the public until six-thirty, three-quarters of an hour before the performance. This caused a great deal of disgruntled harrumphing from hamper-laden regulars, who could not understand why something as minor as getting the performance right should be allowed to abbreviate the time they spent setting up their picnic tables.

The change in the weather had been maintained. The weekend's downpours had left the Chailey Ferrars lawns glowing with health; the surface moisture had dried off and the worst of the mud crusted hard. The audience seating was in place, chairs joined together in the requisite manner and passed as safe by the fire officer. The Saniserve lavatories were fixed and plumbed, ready for the worst the bladders and bowels of Great Wensham could throw at them. Volunteers were in position behind the bars of the refreshment tent, from which the spicy aroma of mulled wine fought for dominance with onion soup. Outside, under an awning, charcoal glowed beneath the grills which would soon be busy cooking hamburgers.

In the Patrons' and Sponsors' marquees (behind which were special Patrons' and Sponsors' superloos that played music and sprayed perfume), uniformed waitresses waited to dispense food and alcohol – the Sponsors' only tangible reward for putting money into the Arts. By the entrance gates, programme-sellers and usherettes, wearing sashes with the appalling ‘GWF' logo on them, massed in readiness. Men in Mutual Reliable anoraks criss-crossed the auditorium, talking importantly into two-way radios.

Six-thirty arrived. Incredibly, the Asphodel company had just completed a full run of
Twelfth Night.
The new moves and business in Act Five had worked without a hitch. Alexandru Radulescu gave very few notes, thanked the cast for all their hard work and instructed them to ‘fuck the bastards rigid!'

The great and the good of Great Wensham, at that moment admitted through the gates of the car-park into the Chailey Ferrars grounds, were unaware of this exhortation – which was probably just as well, because they were a very strait-laced bunch.

They hurried in, outpacing each other with their tables and hampers, desperate to secure the best pitches on the grassy slopes behind the seating. And they settled down to enjoy their picnics and . . . ‘Which one is it this year . . .? Oh yes,
Twelfth Night
.'

The British notoriously love underdogs, they love stories of plucky little Britishers triumphing against overwhelming odds, so the first performance of the Asphodel
Twelfth Night
started on a wave of goodwill. The Great Wensham audience might not know a great deal about Shakespeare, but they were good on television drama and sitcoms, so the news of Sally Luther's death had shocked them all. The fact that the person stepping into the breach – as they were informed by a printed slip handed out with their programmes – was none other than Russ Lavery, who played Dr Mick Hobson in
Air-Sea Rescue,
ensured the production a sympathetically partisan reception.

But it wasn't just a softened-up audience that made the show go so well that night. And it wasn't just the communal spirit-of-the-blitz, let's-do-a-good-one-for-poor-old-Sally spirit that lifted the company to new heights. Alexandru Radulescu's production actually worked.

All the apparent perversities of his interpretation were ironed out in actual performance. The seemingly unconnected sequence of theatrical moments developed their own rhythm and momentum, as if they were part of some meticulously prepared master-plan. It still wasn't Shakespeare's
Twelfth Night,
but it was a fascinating theatrical experience.

What made it perfect for Great Wensham was that the production was experimental without being impenetrable. Somehow the outline of the story remained intact, so the audience's attention was held throughout. The show manifested a kind of licensed
enfant terriblisme,
which would enable the great and good of Great Wensham to say at drinks parties, ‘Oh, I'm not against experimental theatre, you know. I mean, we saw that very radical reinterpretation of
Twelfth Night
at the festival, and we enjoyed that a lot, didn't we, darling?'

Even the company member most opposed to Alexandru Radulescu's innovations, Charles Paris, was forced to concede that the evening worked as a piece of theatre. To his annoyance, he even found himself caught up in the impetus of the production. His performance as Sir Toby Belch shifted away from the traditional – in his view, ‘right' – way of playing the part towards the style Alexandru Radulescu had been trying to impose on him. A more than friendly relationship with Sir Andrew Aguecheek emerged – though it stopped short of the mooted homosexual kiss. And under his doublet Charles Paris did wear his Guns ‘n' Roses T-shirt.