One thing that has happened this year is the dearth of work for actors such as myself. You go to auditions, you attend promptly and sing/dance/comede/act your heart out only to hear the word 'next!' uttered from the darkness of the stalls. Moreso now I am afraid. As the theatre dries up work, subsidies are withdrawn or shrunk, there is less work to be spread over a wider area. Several of my contemporaries are considering leaving the profession. Dear old James Corden is working in Waitrose. Tracy-Anne Obermann is esconced in Sainsburys freezer maintenance, while Hardeep Singh Kholi is currently to be found in the adult section of Waterstones. Although whether he is actually employed there is a matter for conjecture.
Some are even branching into other areas. David Tennant, poor shrub, is working on a ten part adaptation of the history of Wimbledon Strawberries, with himself as 'King Of Wasps'. And I did hear Trevor Eve is appearing as a paving slab in Corrie. All hard times.
"But what about you, Tarqs? What are you pulling out of your hat? What's that up your sleeve?". You may well ask. And it's not my sleeve, it's my trousers. For I have finally deigned to enter the world of filth, degredation and disgust. Yes, medieval rep. My codpiece at the ready, I am playing 'Trem', a lowly blacksmith whose love for Lady Elvira is tempered in the fires of hell and largely rust proof, in the 13th century comedy 'Oo, what a palava'. It wasn't my first choice of work. I have spent months looking for work with no avail, and having redecorated my Mayfair flat four times in three months, I decided I should be 'back out there'.
Mike Styone is a fine director, only really speaking to me when he feels he has an idea which may improve the piece. "Stand there" he says, in his commanding way. "Move over a bit" he says. He did actually moot once doing the whole play with me missing, which is truely innovative, I think. He is also always working, developing new ideas. When I questioned him on motivations and text, he simply looked at me over his brioche, chewing both my ideas and the brioche slowly, as only a man with his depth of being can. Finally he knew I was right, because without a word he got up and left our table, to sit with someone from wardrobe. I know he was mentioning my input as several of them looked over and nodded at something he said. I love being part of this great organ called Theatre.
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