A late review from a local paper makes specific mention of me, in very positive terms. One of those that mentions everything that they liked about the play, and then starts a new paragraph with something like 'but it is James Hogg as Roger who... etc etc'.
"There you go," one of my colleagues says, who's read this blog post. "Surely that counts as a 'towering genius of the modern stage' remark?"
No, of course not, it's made of bitey snapping eels just like all the others. What's that? Would you like a compliment, Mr Hogg? Why no! Of course not. I'd like to pick holes in it and find ways of reducing it to a meaningless statement that's really talking about the writer instead. Or feel angry that the rest of the cast haven't been singled out as well when they deserve it just as much. If not more! And goddamn it, I know Oscars are for film work, but why they hell haven't they included mine in this review?
We watched the film Hitchcock the other day. There was a very good line in that when Hitchcock bemoans the fact that the film industry never gives him any appreciation. I can't find the exact quote, sadly, but it's a great film and worth seeing. Do that rather than waiting for me to find the right webpage to lift it from. Along the lines that nobody ever comes out and says 'well done, you're really good,' in so many words.
You kind of expect that they probably did, that they did it via the medium of giving him lucrative film deals, valuable opportunities and their support and time as he experimented on new stuff. And you know, reviews and audience reactions and so on. Isn't that enough?
Yes and no. It ought to be, I know that, but that's a rational belief. We're all still beholden to that personal voice inside that can't quite believe or trust any of the external reviews, good or bad. You want it on a mark sheet, or from some kind of combination auditor/evaluator representing your family, friends, all your peers and your own internal figurehead of self-worth, whatever that may be.
And even then, it's likely only going to be valid on the day you get it. Tomorrow always has it's own doubting demons to be dealt with. Which is good, otherwise there wouldn't be a challenge worth waking up to face.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Friday, December 20, 2013
Advent
Counting down the days.
This is something that V habitually does when one or the other of us is away. Every time we catch up on Skype, usually daily, she'll tell me how many days are left until we're back in the same place. It drives me up the wall. I prefer to shut my mind to however much of the wait is left and just get on with it. Being constantly reminded I won't see home for however many days it is gets torturous.
This time, not so much. Perhaps our habits have rubbed off on each other. Now I find I'm mentioning the countdown most days, telling her "it's only X left now", whereas she's mostly talking about the things we'll do as a family once I'm home.
F mostly talks about what a good girl she is. "Goo gl goo gl goo gl," she says a lot, when she's not saying "mamamamamamama!" (if V isn't quick enough to bring her food) or "dadadadadadadada" as she shakes the iPad around affectionately. No idea what she makes of her remote papa, I'm probably just a form of bearded teletubby to her. Beardy-Weirdy? But I get a very enthusiastic reception on skype calls, which is very heartening.
Now she can walk all the way round the edges of the coffee table by herself. And she's tall enough to reach the TV and try and change the channels. Her crawling already has a strong element of trying to stand up in it, she flexes her feet round to get them flat on the floor then sort of hunch-hop-crawls forwards. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she's walking before I'm back.
And in the run-up to Christmas, I'm okay again. Done my shopping, got gifts ready to take home, looking forward to seeing my parents and family up in Scotland for the 24th. There's only a month left here, already, it's not that long.
Home stretch. I can make this.
This is something that V habitually does when one or the other of us is away. Every time we catch up on Skype, usually daily, she'll tell me how many days are left until we're back in the same place. It drives me up the wall. I prefer to shut my mind to however much of the wait is left and just get on with it. Being constantly reminded I won't see home for however many days it is gets torturous.
This time, not so much. Perhaps our habits have rubbed off on each other. Now I find I'm mentioning the countdown most days, telling her "it's only X left now", whereas she's mostly talking about the things we'll do as a family once I'm home.
F mostly talks about what a good girl she is. "Goo gl goo gl goo gl," she says a lot, when she's not saying "mamamamamamama!" (if V isn't quick enough to bring her food) or "dadadadadadadada" as she shakes the iPad around affectionately. No idea what she makes of her remote papa, I'm probably just a form of bearded teletubby to her. Beardy-Weirdy? But I get a very enthusiastic reception on skype calls, which is very heartening.
Now she can walk all the way round the edges of the coffee table by herself. And she's tall enough to reach the TV and try and change the channels. Her crawling already has a strong element of trying to stand up in it, she flexes her feet round to get them flat on the floor then sort of hunch-hop-crawls forwards. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she's walking before I'm back.
And in the run-up to Christmas, I'm okay again. Done my shopping, got gifts ready to take home, looking forward to seeing my parents and family up in Scotland for the 24th. There's only a month left here, already, it's not that long.
Home stretch. I can make this.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Scenes
Lots of schools audiences. This is good. I don't think audiences quite realise how much a cast can hear and see of them sometimes. Usually as a sort of many-headed blur out in the half-dark of the auditorium. But you can often see the front few rows pretty clearly, and hear a lot of what's going on out there. It's not the cinema, you know. We can hear your asides, we're just keeping to the convention that we can't. Like the 'privacy' of curtains round a bed in a ward.
Young kids don't always get theatrical convention. They answer questions for you, or shout helpful advice. "What should I do?" Titty asks at one point, trapped in a storm with the Amazons abroad on her island.
"Hide!" shouts one kid. "Steal their boat!" shouts another. She does both, which is lucky for those kids. I guess they understand the conventions of telly or story telling, though I also wonder if they think they've given her those ideas?
"We built the harbour, made the fireplace with our own blood, sweat and tears!" sing the Amazons.
"That's gross," opines a young lady in the third row.
Someone suggested I should stab the policeman with a spear when he comes to tell us off. Ha, kids today, eh?
-
I've never done a relaxed performance before. This isn't because I'm remarkably uptight as an actor, neurotic mess though I may be. This is a performance for audience members who don't respond well to the usual restrictions. So the house lights stay on, the audience can move about and talk as much as they want and our louder special effects are muted. It's for families who can't come to standard performances for whatever reason - very young babies, children with special needs like autism (which makes theatre additionally confusing and alarming), elderly bladder limitations, that kind of thing.
Really odd, from up on stage. Someone in the auditorium echoes most of our lines back to us. We can see people wandering around from time to time (just as in school shows, where teachers ferry kids in and out of the loo all through everything). There's a strange and rather ghoulish chorus of moans and howls that comes and goes. It's hugely distracting, so we all cling desperately to our stage relationships to focus through it.
But it's very gratifying, to know you're giving a show for people who don't get to see them otherwise. We go out to meet the audience (and reassure them that we're just normal people really, or at least as near to it as theatrical types get) afterwards.
One family tells us it's the first time they've got to go to a show all together, as their young son's condition means they wouldn't be allowed in otherwise. He calls us all by our character names and plays enthusiastically with the puppets.
There's a group of old folks from a home, who all look very dazed but pleased. When I say hello and ask if they enjoyed it, one of them asks me to help her put her coat on. Is that a no? Or does she think I'm a carer? No idea, she's pleased enough to see me either way.
-
We get letters from some of the children who've seen the show, politely formulaic ones where the teacher has told them to list their favourite bits and wildly enthusiastic ones where they've drawn elaborate scenes from the play in orange felt-tip.
None of the representations of Roger has a beard. I feel this is significant in some way.
-
The Theatre Christmas Party is at the local Skiddaw Hotel. I don't drink anything, but I still dance about like a big floppy twat once the disco starts up. Facebook, I hate you preemptively.
-
Corpsing happens.
I drop a clasp knife which is about to be referred to in the subsequent scene. It bounces once, falls through a hole in the set and is gone. We can do nothing except continue, all of us desperately trying to work out what we'll do to cover this.
Stage management hand me a replacement as I squat by the wings during the next song. It's a rather incongruous stainless steel butter knife from the Green Room. Definitely not the knife we just had or what the actors on the other side of the stage are expecting to have handed to them, but at least a knife, thank God. But because I know how poor a replacement it is, I start cracking up in advance of handing it over.
"Hand me that knife you found, ship's boy," John tells me.
Roger wants to keep the knife for himself, he's pretending to have forgotten all about it. So I say "Whaaa-haa-haaat kniii-hiiiife?" in return. It's an unusual choice, as line readings go, but I think I make it feel justified.
Not as bad as Nancy's fumbled line "Titty didn't hear much dicking", a few shows previously. Not digging, then? Well, okay, I guess that's new direction. We all break upstage to unearth a treasure chest with far more urgency than usual on that cue so we can snigger in private.
"Did she just say dicking?" asks everyone on the front five rows.
Yes, audience, yes she did. Now let's all move on.
Young kids don't always get theatrical convention. They answer questions for you, or shout helpful advice. "What should I do?" Titty asks at one point, trapped in a storm with the Amazons abroad on her island.
"Hide!" shouts one kid. "Steal their boat!" shouts another. She does both, which is lucky for those kids. I guess they understand the conventions of telly or story telling, though I also wonder if they think they've given her those ideas?
"We built the harbour, made the fireplace with our own blood, sweat and tears!" sing the Amazons.
"That's gross," opines a young lady in the third row.
Someone suggested I should stab the policeman with a spear when he comes to tell us off. Ha, kids today, eh?
-
I've never done a relaxed performance before. This isn't because I'm remarkably uptight as an actor, neurotic mess though I may be. This is a performance for audience members who don't respond well to the usual restrictions. So the house lights stay on, the audience can move about and talk as much as they want and our louder special effects are muted. It's for families who can't come to standard performances for whatever reason - very young babies, children with special needs like autism (which makes theatre additionally confusing and alarming), elderly bladder limitations, that kind of thing.
Really odd, from up on stage. Someone in the auditorium echoes most of our lines back to us. We can see people wandering around from time to time (just as in school shows, where teachers ferry kids in and out of the loo all through everything). There's a strange and rather ghoulish chorus of moans and howls that comes and goes. It's hugely distracting, so we all cling desperately to our stage relationships to focus through it.
But it's very gratifying, to know you're giving a show for people who don't get to see them otherwise. We go out to meet the audience (and reassure them that we're just normal people really, or at least as near to it as theatrical types get) afterwards.
One family tells us it's the first time they've got to go to a show all together, as their young son's condition means they wouldn't be allowed in otherwise. He calls us all by our character names and plays enthusiastically with the puppets.
There's a group of old folks from a home, who all look very dazed but pleased. When I say hello and ask if they enjoyed it, one of them asks me to help her put her coat on. Is that a no? Or does she think I'm a carer? No idea, she's pleased enough to see me either way.
-
We get letters from some of the children who've seen the show, politely formulaic ones where the teacher has told them to list their favourite bits and wildly enthusiastic ones where they've drawn elaborate scenes from the play in orange felt-tip.
None of the representations of Roger has a beard. I feel this is significant in some way.
-
The Theatre Christmas Party is at the local Skiddaw Hotel. I don't drink anything, but I still dance about like a big floppy twat once the disco starts up. Facebook, I hate you preemptively.
-
Corpsing happens.
I drop a clasp knife which is about to be referred to in the subsequent scene. It bounces once, falls through a hole in the set and is gone. We can do nothing except continue, all of us desperately trying to work out what we'll do to cover this.
Stage management hand me a replacement as I squat by the wings during the next song. It's a rather incongruous stainless steel butter knife from the Green Room. Definitely not the knife we just had or what the actors on the other side of the stage are expecting to have handed to them, but at least a knife, thank God. But because I know how poor a replacement it is, I start cracking up in advance of handing it over.
"Hand me that knife you found, ship's boy," John tells me.
Roger wants to keep the knife for himself, he's pretending to have forgotten all about it. So I say "Whaaa-haa-haaat kniii-hiiiife?" in return. It's an unusual choice, as line readings go, but I think I make it feel justified.
Not as bad as Nancy's fumbled line "Titty didn't hear much dicking", a few shows previously. Not digging, then? Well, okay, I guess that's new direction. We all break upstage to unearth a treasure chest with far more urgency than usual on that cue so we can snigger in private.
"Did she just say dicking?" asks everyone on the front five rows.
Yes, audience, yes she did. Now let's all move on.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Snippets
The viking combat game I did some voice work for patched the sound in over last weekend. Like a chump, I eagerly went to the forums to look at the response. Maybe, you know, pick up some compliments.
"I'm not being funny, but, right, is this a placeholder for an actual actor? The saxons sound like they're at a tea party. How do I turn them off?" asked Aeronwen (hopefully not his real name, but you never know on forums).
This clearly serves me right. Fishing for compliments should only ever net you the eels of unpalatable truth.
Just after the show opened, the four of us playing the Swallows reconvened to examine how we were managing to steer the boat round the stage. It operates on a Flintstone Engine and handles like a wonky shopping trolley. All of us have bruised our shins, knees and coccyges whilst sailing her.
After spending half an hour sliding round the stage, it turns out that the main problems are
a) Susan and
b) Me (Roger)
If the two of us stop trying to help, the Swallow can turn more freely, stay on course for longer and crush fewer of the appendages of those pushing her.
This is good news, obviously, I can take it a bit easier on stage. More time looking excited and enjoying sailing around, less time having to get out and shunt (which was hardly helping the illusion of gliding round the lake, in all honesty).
It reminded me of one of my less proud moments in the other kind of theatre I've had in my life.
"Can I do anything?" I asked a surgical consultant of gastroenterology during a routine procedure once. I was wondering if I could get a bit of practical experience like helping clear stray blood out of the surgeon's way or pulling on a retractor. That's the kind of low-end dog work lucky house officers might get to do by way of introduction to surgery.
"Yes. Fuck off out of my way and go and finish the discharge summaries for my clinic yesterday," he said. This is the kind of low-end dog work consultants consider to contain adequate training opportunities for house officers, one of many reasons why I'm now an actor rather than a top gastroenterology surgeon. I'm still getting in the way, though.
We have two preview nights for the show. After the second, we also have a party. As I'm standing in the theatre bar, waiting in line for the excellent free curry, fresh from a bout of cheery compliments from the theatre's artistic director glowing with vicarious triumph, I realise the tannoy is playing 'There's No Business Like Show Business'. This is a happy and warm moment.
Following press night, I find I have forgotten my forum-surfing lesson. I don't usually read reviews for plays while I'm still in them, it's just asking for more eel attacks. This time I do.
The reviews are up in the Green Room, and I overhear enough snippets from the others to know they're basically kindly. The snippets make me unbearably curious. After two days of stuffing my fingers in my ears and humming loudly, I cave in, grab the sheaf of reviews and dig in.
'James Hogg has a beard and big hairy legs,' critics agree.
Even though the point of the reviews mentioning my beard-and-legs style of acting is to point out that (remarkably) they didn't find it made me unpalatable as a seven-year-old boy, my feeble ego can't quite accept this as praise. So rather than being glad it's not 'dear god why doesn't he just fuck off and do some paperwork in a back room' as I once became accustomed to, neither is it the 'he's a towering genius of the modern stage' I'm inevitably hoping for.
Goddamn eels.
My knees hurt all the time. There is still no hot water at my digs. I tried to watch a film that contained a minute-long scene about a dad feeding ice cream to his son for the first time, and got so tearful I had to stop watching it. There is indeed no business like show business. Perhaps we should all be glad.
"I'm not being funny, but, right, is this a placeholder for an actual actor? The saxons sound like they're at a tea party. How do I turn them off?" asked Aeronwen (hopefully not his real name, but you never know on forums).
This clearly serves me right. Fishing for compliments should only ever net you the eels of unpalatable truth.
-
Just after the show opened, the four of us playing the Swallows reconvened to examine how we were managing to steer the boat round the stage. It operates on a Flintstone Engine and handles like a wonky shopping trolley. All of us have bruised our shins, knees and coccyges whilst sailing her.
After spending half an hour sliding round the stage, it turns out that the main problems are
a) Susan and
b) Me (Roger)
If the two of us stop trying to help, the Swallow can turn more freely, stay on course for longer and crush fewer of the appendages of those pushing her.
This is good news, obviously, I can take it a bit easier on stage. More time looking excited and enjoying sailing around, less time having to get out and shunt (which was hardly helping the illusion of gliding round the lake, in all honesty).
It reminded me of one of my less proud moments in the other kind of theatre I've had in my life.
"Can I do anything?" I asked a surgical consultant of gastroenterology during a routine procedure once. I was wondering if I could get a bit of practical experience like helping clear stray blood out of the surgeon's way or pulling on a retractor. That's the kind of low-end dog work lucky house officers might get to do by way of introduction to surgery.
"Yes. Fuck off out of my way and go and finish the discharge summaries for my clinic yesterday," he said. This is the kind of low-end dog work consultants consider to contain adequate training opportunities for house officers, one of many reasons why I'm now an actor rather than a top gastroenterology surgeon. I'm still getting in the way, though.
-
We have two preview nights for the show. After the second, we also have a party. As I'm standing in the theatre bar, waiting in line for the excellent free curry, fresh from a bout of cheery compliments from the theatre's artistic director glowing with vicarious triumph, I realise the tannoy is playing 'There's No Business Like Show Business'. This is a happy and warm moment.
-
The reviews are up in the Green Room, and I overhear enough snippets from the others to know they're basically kindly. The snippets make me unbearably curious. After two days of stuffing my fingers in my ears and humming loudly, I cave in, grab the sheaf of reviews and dig in.
'James Hogg has a beard and big hairy legs,' critics agree.
Even though the point of the reviews mentioning my beard-and-legs style of acting is to point out that (remarkably) they didn't find it made me unpalatable as a seven-year-old boy, my feeble ego can't quite accept this as praise. So rather than being glad it's not 'dear god why doesn't he just fuck off and do some paperwork in a back room' as I once became accustomed to, neither is it the 'he's a towering genius of the modern stage' I'm inevitably hoping for.
Goddamn eels.
-
My knees hurt all the time. There is still no hot water at my digs. I tried to watch a film that contained a minute-long scene about a dad feeding ice cream to his son for the first time, and got so tearful I had to stop watching it. There is indeed no business like show business. Perhaps we should all be glad.
-
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Back at the Ranch
My voice work in Sweden continues apace, despite being away. I have pickups to do from my last two jobs.
This is tricky. There is no sound studio at the theatre, although they lend me a good portable mic and cables. I wander round the mezzanine levels in my lunch hour, doing sound checks. The first pickups I have to do are of a wounded viking bandaging himself, which is why I can be found crouching in corners near the lifts, hunched over the mic and moaning softly.
Very well heated, the theatre. Lots of air conditioning. Plenty of odd whirrs and bonks from the pipes. Lots of strange clunking noises from the tech team building or dismantling sets. Occasional sounds of actors warming up, as of distant whalesong. The mic is excellent, it can pick all of this up no bother.
After several failed attempts, the swedish studios send me advice. I need to pad the walls in whatever room I'm recording in. Use a blanket or mattress, they suggest. Get a sound shield for the mic so your plosives are muffled. Improvise. We need this material, urgently.
Improv I can do. I gather extra supplies from the theatre and get to work.
The theatre is too loud, my new digs are quiet but very echoey (tall ceilings and plaster walls are a bad combo acoustically, it seems). The smallest room in the house is, well, it's the smallest room in the house, if you get me.
Which is why 2200 hrs most nights this last week have found me sealing myself into the toilet by jamming my duvet into the door cracks, then balancing the mic amongst the shelved books no English toilet should be without. If I jam a bunch of loo roll into the cistern to stop it dripping, then squat on the lav and read into the mic through a coat hanger with a pair of old nylons stretched over it, the sound quality is apparently 'quite good'. At least this is now a pharmaceutical manual, I'm not lurking in the water closet and screaming like a stuck saxon. Not for work, anyway.
Another day, another dollar.
Meanwhile, at home, F has learnt to crawl.
She doesn't quite pick her feet up, so as she goes forward, her babygro sort of stays put. And she runs out of steam quite fast, but where she used to immediately lie face down and scream for assistance, she now has a short rest, musters her energy and starts again. Two or three times, anyway, then she feels she's made the effort and someone ought to come and help her out. A trainer, maybe, do some stretching.
I get to skype fairly often, confusing conversations where I'm placed on the floor via iPad and then picked up and shaken cheerfully. Or replaced with Facebook, F has worked out how to do that somehow.
But it's not the same as being home, not even close. And I can't help but feel that she's more interested in the iPad than the daddy inside it, although she does coo and wave at me for the first couple of minutes of our chats.
V is coping amazingly, despite work/babysitting timetable clashes and woes. I've been so busy I haven't had much time to get maudlin, although the rest of the cast have kindly stopped asking me if I'm missing my family. Apparently I tend to smile wanly and then gaze into the middle distance with a mournful expression for the next ten minutes. It holds up rehearsals.
Thousands of people every day work away from their families. It can be done. It is not the end of the world. If it's not too thespy to hurl some Samuel Beckett around, I'm very much at the 'I must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on' stage of this trip. Krappy, in other words.
This is tricky. There is no sound studio at the theatre, although they lend me a good portable mic and cables. I wander round the mezzanine levels in my lunch hour, doing sound checks. The first pickups I have to do are of a wounded viking bandaging himself, which is why I can be found crouching in corners near the lifts, hunched over the mic and moaning softly.
Very well heated, the theatre. Lots of air conditioning. Plenty of odd whirrs and bonks from the pipes. Lots of strange clunking noises from the tech team building or dismantling sets. Occasional sounds of actors warming up, as of distant whalesong. The mic is excellent, it can pick all of this up no bother.
After several failed attempts, the swedish studios send me advice. I need to pad the walls in whatever room I'm recording in. Use a blanket or mattress, they suggest. Get a sound shield for the mic so your plosives are muffled. Improvise. We need this material, urgently.
Improv I can do. I gather extra supplies from the theatre and get to work.
The theatre is too loud, my new digs are quiet but very echoey (tall ceilings and plaster walls are a bad combo acoustically, it seems). The smallest room in the house is, well, it's the smallest room in the house, if you get me.
Which is why 2200 hrs most nights this last week have found me sealing myself into the toilet by jamming my duvet into the door cracks, then balancing the mic amongst the shelved books no English toilet should be without. If I jam a bunch of loo roll into the cistern to stop it dripping, then squat on the lav and read into the mic through a coat hanger with a pair of old nylons stretched over it, the sound quality is apparently 'quite good'. At least this is now a pharmaceutical manual, I'm not lurking in the water closet and screaming like a stuck saxon. Not for work, anyway.
Another day, another dollar.
-
Meanwhile, at home, F has learnt to crawl.
She doesn't quite pick her feet up, so as she goes forward, her babygro sort of stays put. And she runs out of steam quite fast, but where she used to immediately lie face down and scream for assistance, she now has a short rest, musters her energy and starts again. Two or three times, anyway, then she feels she's made the effort and someone ought to come and help her out. A trainer, maybe, do some stretching.
I get to skype fairly often, confusing conversations where I'm placed on the floor via iPad and then picked up and shaken cheerfully. Or replaced with Facebook, F has worked out how to do that somehow.
But it's not the same as being home, not even close. And I can't help but feel that she's more interested in the iPad than the daddy inside it, although she does coo and wave at me for the first couple of minutes of our chats.
V is coping amazingly, despite work/babysitting timetable clashes and woes. I've been so busy I haven't had much time to get maudlin, although the rest of the cast have kindly stopped asking me if I'm missing my family. Apparently I tend to smile wanly and then gaze into the middle distance with a mournful expression for the next ten minutes. It holds up rehearsals.
Thousands of people every day work away from their families. It can be done. It is not the end of the world. If it's not too thespy to hurl some Samuel Beckett around, I'm very much at the 'I must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on' stage of this trip. Krappy, in other words.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Hi Diddle Di Dee
It's up to you, really, to decide which of the following moments from my last three weeks was the most glamorous.
Rehearsals started about ten minutes after I arrived in Keswick. Dad gave me and my sister a lift down to Keswick, we arrived at ten to ten and I declared myself present at the box office. Before I could even say goodbye to my sister, our stage manager appeared, pounced on me and whisked me off to the rehearsal room. I've never been attacked by a trapdoor spider, but extrapolating from this experience leads me to sympathize with the prey.
At least this was a friendly spider. Rather than the more traditional 'hang you up and drain your internal organs' treatment, I got tea and a welcome pack. The draining of actorly juices could happen at leisure over the next few weeks of work, there was no rush.
There's no heating in my digs. Well, okay, that's not fair, there is heating. It's just switched off. It's switched off at night. It's also switched off during the day, when everyone is out.
It is switched on for an hour or two in the morning and an hour or two in the evening, because that's when people are in. Not me, of course, I'm out from 0930 to 2130 right now. This enables me to skip all the heated hours and make the most of the cool, damp ones instead, like some form of large hairy slug.
Like most Keswick houses, this one's made of green slate. Green slate is a bugger to heat, apparently. So much of a bugger that it's clearly cheaper not to try. The current energy prices aren't helping, I expect. Bastard big six.
I get an electric blanket for my bed to make up for the fact I won't be at home when the radiator is on. It works. It works really well. The lowest setting makes me sweat like a pig. When I turn it off, the sweat all slowly freezes under the duvet. I'm an actor-flavoured sweatsicle by morning.
Rehearsals are fairly sweaty and intense, it's a movement-heavy show in which I play a wildly enthusiastic seven-year-old. 'Sweat' seems to be one of the themes for the show so far, in fact. There's nothing nicer than getting back after a long sweaty rehearsal and climbing into a deep, hot bath. I know this because I can't. There's no bath at my digs, which are also on the wrong side of town. The icy rain I trudge through for half an hour every night is the closest I get to one.
At least there's a shower. It's cleaner than the rain water, although not really any warmer.
Two weeks into rehearsals. My voice is feeling the strain of singing and shouting all day, I'm getting pretty hoarse. An old chum of mine is sending me helpful emails about the time she developed nodules on her vocal folds and needed an operation. I should eat plenty of salmon and almonds, apparently. And turmeric. That sounds quite nice. Nicer than an operation, certainly.
My landlady is very helpful and friendly. She may have yak genes, she seems immune to cold. She's also a little fussy - she stands next to me in the kitchen, talking at high speed about the hiking she'll be doing all day, and joins in with my cooking. By, for example, chucking half the water out of the pan I've just filled because you don't need that much to boil eggs, for goodness' sake, and oh! the autumn colours in Keswick, oh, the colours James.
Well appointed though the kitchen is, and she's stressed I'm welcome to use it (as long as you use the mats, I can't bear crumbs), I'm not here for long enough to cook. I'm on a diet of tuna mayo sandwiches and hard boiled eggs, easy on the water. I don't mind that at all, it's healthy and cheering. But after a week of it, I certainly wouldn't mind some almond and turmeric salmon to go.
I'm not sure I feel entirely at home here. I don't feel much at all, really, I'm too numb with cold. After hanging up my laundry and going out for the day, I come back to discover she's (helpfully) spread it out to dry on radiators all round the house, a shirt here, some socks there. Not the underwear. I never touch underwear, she later tells me. Never have, I've been saying it for years. They should make a play, call it 'I don't touch underwear'. You could be in it.
Well intentioned though she doubtless was, she's gone out as well, so the radiators have all turned themselves off. I ladle my cold, damp clothes into my suitcase and move to another flat.
My voice is getting pretty hoarse. Too long since I last worked this much, too long since I did any vocal warm-ups regularly. I'm drinking hot water with lemon, ginger and honey all day. It's not enough. Time to add garlic as well.
This kind of remedy is much discussed in the Green Room during tea breaks. Which throat sweets to avoid, what vitamin supplements are cheap in town this week, how thixotropic is your manuka honey, all that kind of thing. Okay, not the last one, I made that up. But we do talk about manuka honey a lot. Mostly about why on earth would you pay forty quid for a jar of it.
My new throat medicine tastes like 75% of a good chicken noodle soup. It just needs the meat and noodles. Everybody says so, because they can all smell it. Not just in the Green Room, which is redolent with the steam and spice of a handful of different Dr. Theatre Brews. Also in the rehearsal room, where garlic has quickly become the dominant note.
At least my voice gets some extra rest, if only because people veer away from me outside of the obligatory bits in rehearsal. No conversation is good conversation.
I'm ramping up the drama for all of this of course (hello, I'm an actor) - it's not quite this dreary or relentless. The company is excellent, the show is great fun to work on (if exhausting) and I do like Keswick, lonely and dreich though it can be. But I'm definitely feeling the distance.
Roll on January, I want to say, although it feels ungrateful to my current employers. Even if I love my job, and this is a good one, make no mistake, being away from home is taking a toll.
-
Rehearsals started about ten minutes after I arrived in Keswick. Dad gave me and my sister a lift down to Keswick, we arrived at ten to ten and I declared myself present at the box office. Before I could even say goodbye to my sister, our stage manager appeared, pounced on me and whisked me off to the rehearsal room. I've never been attacked by a trapdoor spider, but extrapolating from this experience leads me to sympathize with the prey.
At least this was a friendly spider. Rather than the more traditional 'hang you up and drain your internal organs' treatment, I got tea and a welcome pack. The draining of actorly juices could happen at leisure over the next few weeks of work, there was no rush.
-
There's no heating in my digs. Well, okay, that's not fair, there is heating. It's just switched off. It's switched off at night. It's also switched off during the day, when everyone is out.
It is switched on for an hour or two in the morning and an hour or two in the evening, because that's when people are in. Not me, of course, I'm out from 0930 to 2130 right now. This enables me to skip all the heated hours and make the most of the cool, damp ones instead, like some form of large hairy slug.
Like most Keswick houses, this one's made of green slate. Green slate is a bugger to heat, apparently. So much of a bugger that it's clearly cheaper not to try. The current energy prices aren't helping, I expect. Bastard big six.
I get an electric blanket for my bed to make up for the fact I won't be at home when the radiator is on. It works. It works really well. The lowest setting makes me sweat like a pig. When I turn it off, the sweat all slowly freezes under the duvet. I'm an actor-flavoured sweatsicle by morning.
Rehearsals are fairly sweaty and intense, it's a movement-heavy show in which I play a wildly enthusiastic seven-year-old. 'Sweat' seems to be one of the themes for the show so far, in fact. There's nothing nicer than getting back after a long sweaty rehearsal and climbing into a deep, hot bath. I know this because I can't. There's no bath at my digs, which are also on the wrong side of town. The icy rain I trudge through for half an hour every night is the closest I get to one.
At least there's a shower. It's cleaner than the rain water, although not really any warmer.
-
Two weeks into rehearsals. My voice is feeling the strain of singing and shouting all day, I'm getting pretty hoarse. An old chum of mine is sending me helpful emails about the time she developed nodules on her vocal folds and needed an operation. I should eat plenty of salmon and almonds, apparently. And turmeric. That sounds quite nice. Nicer than an operation, certainly.
My landlady is very helpful and friendly. She may have yak genes, she seems immune to cold. She's also a little fussy - she stands next to me in the kitchen, talking at high speed about the hiking she'll be doing all day, and joins in with my cooking. By, for example, chucking half the water out of the pan I've just filled because you don't need that much to boil eggs, for goodness' sake, and oh! the autumn colours in Keswick, oh, the colours James.
Well appointed though the kitchen is, and she's stressed I'm welcome to use it (as long as you use the mats, I can't bear crumbs), I'm not here for long enough to cook. I'm on a diet of tuna mayo sandwiches and hard boiled eggs, easy on the water. I don't mind that at all, it's healthy and cheering. But after a week of it, I certainly wouldn't mind some almond and turmeric salmon to go.
I'm not sure I feel entirely at home here. I don't feel much at all, really, I'm too numb with cold. After hanging up my laundry and going out for the day, I come back to discover she's (helpfully) spread it out to dry on radiators all round the house, a shirt here, some socks there. Not the underwear. I never touch underwear, she later tells me. Never have, I've been saying it for years. They should make a play, call it 'I don't touch underwear'. You could be in it.
Well intentioned though she doubtless was, she's gone out as well, so the radiators have all turned themselves off. I ladle my cold, damp clothes into my suitcase and move to another flat.
-
My voice is getting pretty hoarse. Too long since I last worked this much, too long since I did any vocal warm-ups regularly. I'm drinking hot water with lemon, ginger and honey all day. It's not enough. Time to add garlic as well.
This kind of remedy is much discussed in the Green Room during tea breaks. Which throat sweets to avoid, what vitamin supplements are cheap in town this week, how thixotropic is your manuka honey, all that kind of thing. Okay, not the last one, I made that up. But we do talk about manuka honey a lot. Mostly about why on earth would you pay forty quid for a jar of it.
My new throat medicine tastes like 75% of a good chicken noodle soup. It just needs the meat and noodles. Everybody says so, because they can all smell it. Not just in the Green Room, which is redolent with the steam and spice of a handful of different Dr. Theatre Brews. Also in the rehearsal room, where garlic has quickly become the dominant note.
At least my voice gets some extra rest, if only because people veer away from me outside of the obligatory bits in rehearsal. No conversation is good conversation.
-
I'm ramping up the drama for all of this of course (hello, I'm an actor) - it's not quite this dreary or relentless. The company is excellent, the show is great fun to work on (if exhausting) and I do like Keswick, lonely and dreich though it can be. But I'm definitely feeling the distance.
Roll on January, I want to say, although it feels ungrateful to my current employers. Even if I love my job, and this is a good one, make no mistake, being away from home is taking a toll.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Author's Note
I'm away at the moment, living over in the UK while I work at Theatre By The Lake in Keswick. We're doing Swallows and Amazons for Christmas, a musical version with songs by Neil Hannon (of the Divine Comedy) - please come and see it if you're in the vicinity!
That means a short hiatus for this blog, while I try and learn all the lines/songs/glockenspiel parts I need. Not a total hiatus, or I wouldn't be posting this. Being away from home and F for the first time is a new and strange experience, one which I'll try and write about in due course. For now, though, a short pause will ensue.
In the meantime, thanks very much for reading! The webpage I've set this up on informs me there are around seventy or so of you reading, which is very cheering. Although I may need to discount the twenty or so regular hits I seem to get from Russia. I don't think I know that many Russians, although I'm quite prepared to be a sleeper hit in Siberia if it comes to it. Still, hits from a botnet are still hits, count your chickens while ye may.
In the self-interests of self-promotion, please do let me know if you're enjoying this through whatever social media methods you prefer to employ. Like on Facebook, retweet on Twitter, run naked through the town shouting my name - it's all good. I'll be awfully grateful.
That means a short hiatus for this blog, while I try and learn all the lines/songs/glockenspiel parts I need. Not a total hiatus, or I wouldn't be posting this. Being away from home and F for the first time is a new and strange experience, one which I'll try and write about in due course. For now, though, a short pause will ensue.
In the meantime, thanks very much for reading! The webpage I've set this up on informs me there are around seventy or so of you reading, which is very cheering. Although I may need to discount the twenty or so regular hits I seem to get from Russia. I don't think I know that many Russians, although I'm quite prepared to be a sleeper hit in Siberia if it comes to it. Still, hits from a botnet are still hits, count your chickens while ye may.
In the self-interests of self-promotion, please do let me know if you're enjoying this through whatever social media methods you prefer to employ. Like on Facebook, retweet on Twitter, run naked through the town shouting my name - it's all good. I'll be awfully grateful.
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