My First Play E-Book

Nick Hern

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

My First Play is a unique collection of pieces by playwrights, actors and theatre directors – all of them regular Nick Hern Books authors – in response to the simplest of briefs: write about your first play. Candid, hilarious, and often sharply revealing, the resulting pieces – many of them written in the hurly-burly of work on a new production – combine to prove the power of theatre to entrance us, and hold us captive in its spell. Included here are remarkable first-person accounts from many of our leading playwrights: Caryl Churchill performing Cinderella to her parents with a cast of dolls and stuffed animals; Howard Brenton pinching his first main character from a boy's comic; Jack Thorne having to become a thief to get his first play on; Conor McPherson still waiting to write his 'first play'. There are also enthralling insights into the first steps in theatre of some of our principal actors and theatre directors: Antony Sher discovering theatre in Cape Town during the apartheid years; Dominic Cooke paying the price for using a real knife in performance; Harriet Walter's photographic recall of the annual outing to Peter Pan; Richard Eyre on an open-air performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream that descends into chaos. Published to celebrate twenty-five years of Nick Hern Books, the royalties from the sale of this magical collection of sixty-six miniature autobiographies will be donated to the Theatre Section of the Writers' Guild.

Leseprobe

An Anthology of Theatrical Beginnings

Compiled by Nick Hern

NICK HERN BOOKS Londonwww.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Introduction

Nick Hern

Mike Alfreds

Clare Bayley

Alecky Blythe

Andrew Bovell

Howard Brenton

Simon Callow

Alexi Kaye Campbell

Anupama Chandrasekhar

Caryl Churchill

Jo Clifford

Dominic Cooke

Oliver Ford Davies

Gregory Doran

Ariel Dorfman

David Edgar

Helen Edmundson

Kevin Elyot

Richard Eyre

Stella Feehily

Vivienne Franzmann

Stacey Gregg

Catherine Grosvenor

Chris Hannan

Nancy Harris

Ella Hickson

Sam Holcroft

Robert Holman

Joel Horwood

Stephen Jeffreys

Fin Kennedy

Deirdre Kinahan

Dawn King

Larry Kramer

Elizabeth Kuti

Jonathan Lichtenstein

Liz Lochhead

Linda McLean

Conor McPherson

Chloë Moss

Rona Munro

Elaine Murphy

Joanna Murray-Smith

Bruce Norris

Ronan O’Donnell

Mark O’Rowe

Michael Pennington

Mike Poulton

Nina Raine

Lou Ramsden

Morna Regan

Billy Roche

Tanya Ronder

Diane Samuels

Antony Sher

Ali Taylor

Polly Teale

Steve Thompson

Jack Thorne

Stephen Unwin

Harriet Walter

Steve Waters

Tom Wells

Timothy West

Amanda Whittington

Nicholas Wright

A Chronology of Firsts

Copyright Information

Introduction

In 2013, the year I’m writing this, the publishing firm I set up in 1988 celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary. As a publisher I naturally wanted to publish something special to mark the occasion. Rejecting the idea of a ‘Reader’ consisting of bleeding chunks of plays and books by the various authors on the Nick Hern Books list, I hit instead on the idea of asking pretty well everyone whose plays or books had been regularly published by NHB to write a little piece on ‘My First Play’.

I explained to them that this could be ‘the first play you ever saw, the first play you wrote/acted in/directed, the first one that blew your socks off, the play that made you want to go into the theatre etc., etc.’ And I attached a piece I had just written on the subject by way of proving to myself it could be done – and that it could be fun.

The result was instantaneous. Pieces started coming in that very evening. The first was by Caryl Churchill with a note that read: ‘This is the sort of thing that if I don’t do it at once the time will rush by and I won’t do it at all.’ Then a piece by Ella Hickson, full of the joy of a fascinating discovery. Then Larry Kramer, Stephen Jeffreys and Alexi Kaye Campbell all came through within a day or two. After the trickle came a gratifying flood, the results of which fill this book.

People who were absurdly busy were often the most punctilious – Bruce Norris and Dominic Cooke both sent pieces while opening The Low Road at the Royal Court, Richard Eyre from Chichester where he was opening The Pajama Game, Howard Brenton from Hampstead where he was arresting Ai Weiwei, Joanna Murray-Smith from the opening of her new play at the Sydney Theatre Company, Oliver Ford Davies from the exhaustion of an extended tour of Goodnight Mister Tom, and Polly Teale from mid-rehearsals for Alexi’s Bracken Moor. Tanya Ronder struggled out from under the Table at the National to deliver her piece, while Conor McPherson managed his while attending to the revival of one play, The Weir, and the premiere of another, The Night Alive, both at the Donmar. It wasn’t all theatre, though: Elaine Murphy, six months pregnant, overcame ‘baby brain’ to write a piece, while Chloë Moss delivered hers soon after giving birth. And these are just the stories I heard about. Everyone whose pieces appear here generously put aside pressing obligations to make their contributions, for which I’m humbly grateful.

And what heart-warming, revelatory, hilarious and touching pieces they are – all in all a marvellous birthday present to NHB. I read many of them with eyes misting over at the joyous – yet complex – innocence on display. And it occurred to me that each of them in their way is the story of a love affair…

So, to get the ball rolling, here’s mine.

Nick Hern

The first play I ever acted in was As You Like It – playing Silvius, the lovelorn shepherd. I was eleven and at an all-boys prep school. Daniels minor was my Phoebe. The first play I starred in was The Taming of the Shrew in my last year at school. My seventeen-year-old Petruchio wooed a Kate played by Nick Sherwin, brother of David, the future author of If…, which was self-confessedly based on the school we all attended. Which, say people who’ve seen the film, explains a lot about me… My servant, Grumio, was played by Timothy (James Bond) Dalton.

The first play I fell in love with on the page was Harold Pinter’s The Dumb Waiter, also in my last year at school. After a diet of compulsory Shakespeare, Racine and Schiller in the way of drama (I was doing French and German at A level), I was set alight by the raw street-cred of Pinter’s dialogue and the alluring mysteriousness of his characters – who were these magnetically attractive people, opening the doors of perception for a sheltered public-schoolboy? When I joined Methuen as their drama editor in 1974, I became Pinter’s publisher, and it took me two years or more to stop pinching myself as I sipped Chablis in his study going over proofs of the latest masterpiece. Back in 1961, my discovery of Pinter had led me on to all those Angry Young Playwrights being collected and published in the newly launched Penguin New English Dramatists, the fourteen volumes of which are still on my shelves. And so I added Wesker, Osborne, Arden to my acquaintance as well as N.F. Simpson, Peter Shaffer, John Whiting and Bernard Kops. When my school sanctioned a rare sixth-form outing to London, I made a bee-line for the fabled Royal Court, determined to see whatever was on. I struck lucky: John Dexter’s charismatic premiere production of Chips with Everything, with its brilliantly choreographed silent raid on the coke-store – my first lesson in how drama doesn’t necessarily need dialogue to engage an audience and score a point.

The first play I ever published was one that Methuen had already committed to, so not my choice. The Incredible Vanishing!!!! (four exclamation marks), which was Denise Coffey’s take on Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market, had just been staged at the Young Vic under Frank Dunlop’s regime. It was an attractive and energetic play for children, and Denise was a helpfully attractive and energetic author to work with on my first publication. I no longer have a copy, but I see it’s available via Amazon for the customary penny. The first play I chose to publish was Hitting Town, Stephen Poliakoff ’s ‘breakthrough’ at the ripe old age of twenty-two. At that time Methuen was still publishing all its plays in both hard-back and paperback, and publishing them some months after the premiere. Coming from teaching in the provinces where we needed immediate access to the plays that London was seeing, I was determined to short-circuit this cumbersome publication procedure. The result was that Stephen’s play and many by subsequent up-and-coming writers were published in hideous KwikFit editions, with the text set in double columns and the covers printed in black only. They were pretty universally disliked, but they served their turn by greatly reducing the interval between the appearance of the play on stage and its appearance in print.

I struck lucky again with the first play I published when I set up Nick Hern Books in 1988. Nicholas Wright’s Mrs Klein, now – like Nick Hern Books itself – twenty-five years old, has become a modern classic. So proud was I of this first product of my new imprint that I blazoned ‘A NICK HERN BOOK’ all over the front cover. ‘Humph!’ said the author on seeing the first copies, ‘Your name appears rather more times than mine.’ The banner headline was promptly dropped.

The first play I ever saw in the theatre was, I’m pretty sure, something called The Silver Curlew by (I’ve just looked this up) Eleanor Farjeon. I was six, and, my mother being ill, it fell to my father to entertain me that Christmas. Off we went to a matinee at the cavernous Kentish Town Forum. My memory is that there were only about six other people in the audience, and we were moved forward from the cheap seats at the back. I found the proceedings on stage tedious and fey, an opinion I’m sure I would still share with my younger self. The cliché about falling in love with the theatre at first sight failed miserably in my case, and my father’s well-meaning experiment was not repeated. Instead, as with real-life love affairs, I had to make my own choices, and, as in real life, theatrical love exploded when least expected. The Christmas 1960 school holidays saw me take over operating a follow-spot for the pantomime at the New Theatre, Bromley (now the Churchill). A more enterprising older friend had sweet-talked his way into this job but had to absent himself for a couple of days to attend a round of Oxbridge interviews. I shadowed him for one performance, and then I was on my own. The anxiety, the thrill, above all the glamour – I can still recapture that heady brew today. And, despite the thousands of plays I’ve watched, read and published since, I have to admit that training my follow-spot onto the principal boy that Christmas over fifty years ago as she sang ‘Moon River’ to the principal girl was the moment I fell irretrievably in love with theatre.

In italics at the foot of each piece is a listing of that author’s plays and/or books published by NHB. The dates given are of first publication as a Nick Hern Book.

Mike Alfreds

As a child, I wanted to act. Rotting in some attic – or so I fervently pray – is a technicolour home movie of me, aged six, impersonating Carmen Miranda, with a turban of real fruit and a towel, and multicoloured plastic rings, the sort for identifying chickens, dangling from my ears. My First Stage Appearance – or half appearance – was as the third of a trio of bluebells in a school pantomime. We wore gauzy blue costumes with floppy hats. Due to the incompetence of the first bluebell, I barely got out of the wings. My First Speaking Role was in the following year’s school play, when I was promoted to the role of Amundsen, of whom I’d never heard, and had one line: ‘My name is Amundsen and I’m going to get to the South Pole before anyone else.’ Then, bearing the Norwegian flag, I had to run in a circle faster than the boy playing Scott who was running around in the opposite direction with the Union Jack. At grammar school, I played Madam Wang, mother of the eponymous heroine, Lady Precious Stream, and had to learn to mince like an ancient dowager with bound feet. Not easy; I was an awkward child, large for my age. The Big Time came when I got to play the heroine rather than her mother: Raina, in Shaw’s Arms and the Man. I dread to think… Then my voice broke – and nobody wanted me.

As a child, I wanted to write plays. My First Play started: ‘Act One, Scene One. The living room of a charming country house. There is a sofa filled with bright cushions downstage centre and a cocktail cabinet stage left. Below that, a door leads to the dining room. A door stage right leads to the hall. Up centre, French windows open onto a lawn and flower beds in full bloom. The French windows are open’. Nobody ever came through those windows. That was as far as I got. The First Play I ever read (apart from those above) had been Hay Fever.

As a child, I went to the theatre a lot. The First Professional Play I saw was at a matinee at the Criterion in Piccadilly Circus. It was The Guinea Pig by a playwright called Warren Chetham Strode about a grammar-school boy who won a scholarship to a public school. It wakened me to the iniquities of class.

As a teenager, The First Play that gave me some insight into what Great Acting really might be was Clifford Odets’s The Country Girl, here called Winter Journey (Heaven forbid it should be confused with our very own Country Wife) at the long-gone St James’s Theatre. In it, Michael Redgrave and Sam Wanamaker seemed to be improvising recklessly – dangerously. I got very excited.

The First Play that showed me that comedy and tragedy could be contained in one and the same moment was the Oliviers’ playing of the Screen Scene in The School for Scandal at the then New Theatre, now the Noël Coward. This revelation was raised to dizzying heights many years later by Jacques Charon and Robert Hirsch in the Comédie-Française production of Feydeau’s Un fil à la patte, part of a Peter Daubeny World Theatre Season at the Aldwych. They took one brilliantly contrived farcical situation beyond what one could have believed possible and caused the audience’s hysterically mounting laughter to plummet abruptly into distressed silence.

My First Encounter with Theatre-in-the-Round was an early version of Arthur Miller’s Crucible at Washington Arena Theater, which ever since has messed with my relationship to Proscenium Theatres.

My First Realisation that Theatre could be ‘In the Moment’, Really and Truly Alive, was Joan Littlewood’s Oh! What a Lovely War at Stratford East’s Theatre Royal. It’s the only production – by someone other than myself – I’ve ever seen more than twice.

The First Play that made me Sweat Profoundly was the original production of Saved at the Royal Court. I remember, in the interval, standing on the outside steps, trembling from aftershock and sudden illumination. Sweating was intensified by a production in Tel Aviv of Execution, a play by Hanoch Levin, a brilliant, prolific playwright, whose work, sadly, seems to be translator-proof.

My First Experience of the True Meaning of Style and Ensemble was the visit of the Berliner Ensemble to the Old Vic in 1965. I saw five productions on five successive evenings. At long last, I understood! Each production created a Unique World (a word I prefer to style), totally true to itself and totally unlike any of the others. And, what’s more – subverting our ideas of how Brecht ought to be done – they were fun, camp even!

The First Productions to Restore My Faith in Theatre after one of my many periods of disillusionment I owe to Robert Lepage: his ninety-minute solo, Needles and Opium, and his seven-hour epic, The Seven Streams of the River Ota, lifted my theatrical spirits inspiringly skyward.

As a grown-up, I wanted to be a director. My First Production, in Hollywood, was of a one-act play by Tennessee Williams called Hello from Bertha, about a whore dying of a broken heart in a New Orleans brothel – a long way from Maida Vale! Nevertheless, it won the Southern California Theatre’s Jesse Lasky Award for Best Production. It seemed to confirm me in my third choice of career.

My Last Play…?

Different Every Night (2007), Then What Happens? (2013)

Clare Bayley

I was a shy and timid eight-year-old, so although I had the desire, I was overlooked when they were casting the school production of The Wind in the Willows. I must have been bold enough to protest, though, because I remember the drama teacher dismissively saying I could audition for the part of Chief Weasel. I think it was intended as a put-down – I was so unlikely to be any good in the role that I would realise my shortcomings and stop bothering her. But in defiance I channelled my drunken inner hellraiser to good effect. I remember the surprise in that drama teacher’s eyes. I got the part.

That bit of casting set the pattern for my acting career. At my sixth form, I was Moloch the Magician (in Robert Bolt’s best-forgotten The Thwarting of Baron Bolligrew), for which my hair had to be plastered down unattractively with baby-oil and the art teacher gave me a zig-zag parting, coloured in with purple eye-liner. I was evil personified and I got to set off coloured flares on stage. My performance was acclaimed.

At university, of course I wanted to play the pretty parts, the heroines, but the competition was too stiff. Eventually I found my way to the inspirational Diane Samuels, who saw something in me and cast me as a Nazi in her play about Hannah Senesh. I also worked with Abigail Morris and the feminist theatre company, Trouble and Strife. We took a devised play about Mary Shelley to Edinburgh. I played Frankenstein’s monster.

And through all that of course I learned the lesson that no amount of Juliets or Rosalinds would have taught me – the transgressive fun of stepping into other, bigger, bolder, crueller shoes. That the reason people love theatre, and why it is powerful, is that it allows you to understand someone who you’re not.

That, and the companionship of collaborating with a group of other people to pull off a piece of work together – with all the excitement and hilarity and hard work that entails – were the hooks that reeled me in. Then I started going to the theatre. When I was a theatre critic I saw a huge amount of electrifying work. Of all of them the one I can’t forget was the Maly Theatre of St Peters-burg’s Brothers and Sisters. It was a long time ago, and what I remember of it may be completely false and distorted. But the memory is so important that even if it is wrong, I still want to hang onto it.

The production was extremely long, and performed in Russian, telling the story of the physical and emotional hardships of life on a collective farm immediately after the Second World War. My overriding memory is of the stoicism and suffering of the women left behind when their men go off to war.

We witness years and years of back-breaking work, sexual frustration and emotional privation, which takes hours and hours for us in the theatre – but it isn’t gruelling; it’s enthralling, captivating. Eventually, after all those years and all those hours, the news comes that the men are returning. Despite their grief, hunger and exhaustion the women find new energy and put their scant resources into a welcome-home fiesta for the men: bunting, food, drink, music. They gather on stage, waiting for them to arrive. They wait. They hope. From somewhere behind the auditorium, the sound of an approaching marching-band. It grows louder and louder until the jubilant men burst into the auditorium and march triumphantly through the audience, up onto the stage, and are reunited with their womenfolk. There is cheering, hugging, crying, kissing, dancing. The theatre resounds with joy and celebration.

But something isn’t quite right. As we watch, the men start to fade away from the stage. The music grinds to a halt, and there are the women again, alone and waiting for their men. And then, again, we hear the marching band, faint at first but getting closer and louder. What’s going on? We’re confused. We look around the auditorium – has there been some kind of glitch? A catastrophically missed cue?

Then, from the back, a pathetic straggle of wounded men limps and hobbles their way through the audience. There are only a very few of them, and they are old men. They are dirty, ragged and broken, with missing arms and legs, bandages on their heads. Slowly, painfully, they make their way to the women. As they approach, the women realise – as do we in the audience – that this is all that is left to return to them. The first homecoming was their hope, their fantasy. The reality is this: cruel and bitter and full of disappointment.

And that’s how the play ended. We stayed in our seats, overwhelmed and crying, until long after the house lights were back on and the cast were off carousing in the bar. The emotion of that coup de théâtre, of false hope dramatised, has never left me. We had more than understood something we didn’t know before – we had experienced it.

The Enchantment (2007, adapted from Victoria Benedictsson), The Container (2007), Blue Sky (2012)

Alecky Blythe

The first play I experienced took place in my second-form Speech and Drama class. It was my favourite class, run by the formidable Mrs Blythe. Tall and elegant, and an actress in her youth, she injected into her teaching the same passion and theatricality that I imagine she must have put into every part. She used to ruthlessly critique our poetry recitals, regardless of our delicate age or demeanour. I feared and adored her in equal measure.

One particular week, we were treated to a performance of a Joyce Grenfell monologue from George, Don’t Do That! by one of the older girls, who was in need of a group of seven-year-olds on whom to rehearse. I sat cross-legged on the floor along with my classmates and listened in wide-eyed wonder. I found myself completely transported to Grenfell’s world of naughty children and truly believed I had become one of them. This to me seemed quite different from the poetry recitals I had heard in class before, as this time, even though I was still just listening, I was actively engaged in listening rather than passively, and that was how the spell was cast. When I later discovered that some people made a living out of this magic called ‘make-believe’, I knew that was what I wanted to do with my life.

Twenty years on, despite not exactly making what anyone could call a living out of it, my childhood dream remained strong. So in the absence of work coming to me, I decided to create my own to appear in. My first play was Come Out Eli, inspired by a verbatim workshop run by Mark Wing-Davey at the Actors Centre. I had an idea to make a play about fear, so I ventured out to situations that I hoped would give way to conversations around the subject. As luck would have it, a siege taking hold just round the corner from where I had recently moved to in Hackney provided the perfect setting. Armed with a microphone, a smile and a bucket load of determination, I recorded conversations with curious onlookers, intrigued and perturbed by the police cordon that was infringing on their everyday lives. The police decided not to storm the block of bedsits where Eli Hall, the gunman, was holed up with a hostage, mistakenly thinking he would eventually come out. It was not until fifteen days later that the stand-off ended with a shoot-out between Eli and the police, in which Eli took his own life. During those fifteen days I visited the cordon many times, collecting material that was to document the story of how the immediate community was affected by this extraordinary event.

Once it was over, I visited nearby residents to incorporate their version of events and to fill in some of the gaping holes in my narrative. Most notably, owing to my day job, temping as a receptionist, I had missed its dramatic conclusion, which came to a spectacular climax after Eli’s death with the whole block burning down. The final piece of the jigsaw that I needed was an interview with the hostage, who had escaped after eleven days. However, brokering the deal for his payment in return for an interview took the play in a most unexpected direction. Having previously spoken to some of the major papers and channels, which must have rewarded him handsomely financially for his story, the hostage was not willing to talk to me for no fee, as my very limited production budget could not afford one, so he asked me over the phone if I would instead pay by sleeping with him. Not knowing whether I would ever get to meet him for an interview, I recorded my side of the conversations in case these were to be my only contact and insight into this man. Fortunately, we did come to an eventual agreement that involved lunch on me at Wetherspoons, £50 and no sex. The phone encounters provided a most surprising and illuminating opening to the show, allowing the audience a window into the verbatim process and a furtive introduction to the world of the siege.

I don’t think Mrs Blythe would have ever imagined where her Speech and Drama classes could lead to, but I hope she would be pleased with the outcome if she had been around to witness it. It strikes me only now that even though on the surface Joyce Grenfell’s nursery monologues and a verbatim play about the Hackney siege do not appear to have much in common, they both rely heavily on direct address requiring the very active engagement of the audience, so perhaps verbatim theatre was a natural progression for me. It was only shortly before making Come Out Eli that I changed my stage name, adopting my inspirational teacher’s, so Mrs Blythe’s Speech and Drama classes are never very far from me, and that serves as a great comfort when needed in this precarious business.

Cruising (2006), The Girlfriend Experience (2008), London Road (2011, with Adam Cork)