Christmas mk3

So here I am on Xmas day and I must say I feel very festive. All my friends I see have the traditional invites onto panel games, year review shows, almanacs, satirical guest spots, appearances on BBC Breakfast and various cameos on certain dramas, comedies and in one case, the news. I myself am very private about Christmas. I believe it is more than just appearing on such trivia to say what it means to you, and I have to say even if I was asked to appear I would politely decline, which is probably why they didn’t ask me. They respect me too much.

Of course, there is always the risk that as an actor you can become better known as an actor than for the parts you play; When I was in the BBC Playhouse production of ‘The Gay Rastafarian’ in the 1970s, the reaction from the public was nothing less than abusive. Some of them didn’t seem to realise I was trying to expose what it was to be a black, gay, Rastafarian living in Merthyr Tydfil, and the language was such I decided to move to another area.

I would hate to be known as an actor. It breaks the illusion. I like people to come up to me and say ‘You know, Tarquin, I loved your drunken milkman in Borradene Close or your tipsy Lord in ‘Not My Trousers, Asquith’ or your merry do-gooder in ‘The Salmon Of Furley Way’’. Of course, it would be too much for them to remember a name for the characters (even if the writers had bothered to think of one) but to think I moved them so much that they would approach me in the Magistrates Court is touching.

Yes, being known as an actor is the pits. For once people see behind the mask, there is no point in having a mask at all. You may as well go on and be yourself in whatever role you do, just pad it out with some silly faces, maybe an eccentric gesture and a seemingly involuntary rolling of the eyes. Did I actually ring Lesley Joseph? I can’t remember.

So here I sit, Xmas morning, listening to the excellent shows provided gratis by the BBC. Like many others I suspect, shouting at the set when I think something isn’t done to the proper standard, or an actor forgets his lines and mugs his way through. One thing you need as an actor is to be able to remember your lines. It’s not hard, for Gods’ sake. Remember your lines. I am sure I would remember my lines had I been given the part. But that’s the thing about showbusiness, it’s not how good you are, it’s who you know. And what you know about them. And the receipts where they bought the equipment.

My card adorns the wall, as does my now admittedly worn paper chain. And I have gone for a tree which is both theatrical and festive, covered in lights and baubles and tinsel. I am sure the Garrick were closed today and didn’t need it.

Under the tree is a little present to myself. I always buy myself a small trinket just to show someone cares. I carefully fill in the label with my left hand to complete the illusion. I always tell myself not to, but sometimes one feels better having something to open from someone who truly cares.

And of course, what Christmas would not be complete without a traditional English breakfast? Although I have abandoned certain aspects of said meal for health reasons, and updated the entire platter with 21^st century comestibles. Cold Chinese.

I wish you a Merry Xmas, whoever you are, and hope you see me in 2012.

Christmas mk2

Christmas this year has been something of a damp squib. The twenty third is when I traditionally do my Xmas voyage into the town centre for present gathering, but this year I was particularly tardy in my efforts and set about my retail duties on Christmas Eve. What a swarm of locusts had this town lain waste? There was bugger all. I had to make do with what I could find. Between you are I, here are some of my presents for my actor friends.

Sir Ian McKellan – A spare rotablade for a hover mower

Dame Judi Dench – A tickle me Elmo

Sir Peter O’Toole – Hotpants

David Suchet – The 2001 Annual

Sir Michael Gambon – Value Hoummous

Robert Lindsay – A spider enclosure

Geoffrey Palmer – A talking toilet seat

Helena Bonham-Carter – swimwear

Jenny Agutter – A ticket to ride an Ostritch, should she care to visit Berlin Zoo.

Of course, not all of these are entirely suitable, and some of my recipients may suspect the gift en route, especially Robert Lindsey who had I to ring up disgusing my voice as being from British Gas asking about spiders, and Helena BC, who put the phone down when I tried a similar ploy to enquire about the size of her bosoms.

I myself require nothing this Xmas. What can you give a man who has enjoyed the work I have done this year so much? All four days of it was a sheer delight and I have to say if they choose to ring me back I shall be the first to answer the phone.

Christmas mk1

Well, Christmas has been and gone, and yet another pantomime season is over. I am never exactly sure what is the purpose of pantomime. Women dressed as men, men dressed as women and a couple of bears. That’s about it, as far as I can see.

This year saw a pitched battle in Saundersfoot between my own production, Aladdin, and the splinter group which was formed by former members of my production, also called Aladdin. I will leave it to the audiences to definitively decide whose was best, but I think it’s safe to say no one in the mutinous bunch of two faced lard arses will be walking tall away from Saundersfoot, oh no. Even the ones who weren’t arrested in the original fracas.

The problem is one of personalities. A lot of people are very protective of their names, careers and prospects, and rightly so. So when one suggests a slight change to their performance in whatever role, one does not expect to be chased down the high street – in full dame costume mind you – by an angry horde of pirates, a fairy and some bears. I say bears, it was actually Jedward but such was the public appetite for bears we were left with little option but to dress them to appease the great unwashed.

After hiding out in an Arts and Crafts shop for an hour or so (during which I was propositioned by the manager) I ventured out onto the street. Sure enough, my troop of thespians had vacated the area, and I was able to return to my hotel. After a brief exchange of views on the subject of ‘suitable attire’, I changed hotels and managed to find a bed and breakfast. It was just as well as feelings were still running high and the next poor occupant of the room was stripped, shaved, tarred, feathered and finally dropped off the end of what can only be described as a pier. Which reminds me I should write to Lesley Joseph.

Anyway, a meeting – of which I was not informed, invited to – took place and the gist of it was that I was to return my costume (for my own safety in the dead of night) to the theatre and say no more about it. This I did, although carrying a pantomime dame costume through the main thoroughfare of Saundersfoot illicited so many propositions that, had I been in the sex industry and not an actor, I should surely be able to rest comfortably on my laurels.

I have been referred to as many things in my time as an actor. As I dropped the clothes into the specially opened window, I recall a new phrase being added to my canon of nom de plumes, vis “Get him!”

Only those who suffered the natural disasters of a Tsunami can imagine the feeling as the blows reined down upon me. Fists, open slaps, boots and in some cases theatrical props including James Bowlams’ old ‘When The Boat Comes In’ cardigan were all utilised in what can only be described as a frenzy. After twenty minutes or so they began to tire and went off to the local Chinese restaurant.

When I reported their actions to Equity, I was stunned that this was a tradition called ‘The McPhereson Thrashing’. Apparently, it is seen as good luck to remove anyone with the surname McPhereson from a production and administer to them a sound and enthusiastic kicking. I then informed the representative that my name was McPhereson and this was news to me. He then – for some reason - covered the mouthpiece of the phone and when he returned he was interested in where exactly I was. Apparently Christopher Biggins is having terrible problems in the West End pulling off a Magistrate and knocking several bells out of yours truly may just provide the impetus he needs to finish the job.

Once again, I do need to write to Lesley Joseph.

The mask slips and other news

There is nothing more reassuring to an actor’s ego than to be recognised for a part. But then, I suppose it depends what sort of role you have played. If it’s a villainous beast of unprecedented naughtiness, then sometimes people will cuff you about the head and say ‘you and your undersea base. Shouldn’t be allowed’ and walk off. Playing the bad guy is never easy; the public sometimes cannot differentiate between the persona you portray and the person you actually are. Charles Dance was once invited to a dinner party shortly after appearing in The Golden Child. Poor Charles was mistaken for being a demon by the other guests and chased around, finally being pinned down while a visiting priest exorcised him and helped himself to the Hors d'oeuvres. Poor Charles hasn’t had a role that evil since, and to my mind he is the poorer for it.

I once spoke with Arthur Lowe, who, as Captain Mainwaring is almost embossed on the nation’s foreheads as that particular character. Chants of ‘Who Do You Think You Are Kidding Mr Hitler’ and ‘Stupid boy’ kept on interrupting the flow of his story, and eventually he told me to shut up.

When I played Fingers McFadden in ‘These walls that bind us’, I did fear that the role would taint me in the minds of the great unwashed as a convicted sheep rustler, but it didn’t happen. In fact, quite the opposite. I remember at a party held by the Producer and writer Garry Struthers, not one guest mistook me for my character. The fact I was left pretty much to my own devices to observe conversations and character interplay was actually a mark of respect, I felt, for a job well done. Even Struthers seemed to treat me as someone he could not talk to, simply pointing out the buffet on my arrival before shaking hands with Gordon Wellbeloved.

Of course the best thing to be recognised for is a heroic role. When I played Sandor, the lost Prince of Eternitia in the film ‘Gladiators of The Fifth Realm’, people did comment. The role involved a soldier who stole the Magic of Ke’logs, and the curses it brought on him, his family and those who tried to help him. In the end he saw the error of his ways and, begging for mercy, handed it back to the Prince. “Your soldier was the worst I have seen” said one friend. “Awful. I could not watch” said another. The character was obviously so convincing. Oh, and before I forget – Mr Times Theatre reviewer – He was supposed to be bad! If you had stayed until the end you would have seen him repent in a scene which many said – and I use the exact word here “harrowing”.

And so to my latest engagement, which I am thrilled about. It’s a tale by a new writer, Dave Noise, about a dying man looking back on the love of his life. It had everything. Pathos, drama, heartbreak, comedy, romance and sound effects. We record tomorrow, and - Thespis willing – listeners will savour this latest venture. It’s to be broadcast after the watershed to everyone except those on the Maternity wing.

Post Ceremony

There is a considerable rumble going on at the moment. I use the word rumble in the same way  as the kids on the street ‘There’s a rumble’, ‘I been involved in a rumble’ and ‘oi you, you lookin’ for a rumble?’. The aforementioned rumble (though I did initially mishear and thought they said ‘ramble’, something I am not opposed to. The punch in the face was not something associated with traversing the countryside) is again to do with damn awards business.

Let me make one thing crystal clear; I do not act for awards. Many directors have commented on this, saying ‘Tarquin, you’re not going to win any awards for that’ and it’s a testament to their in industry perceptions that indeed no plaudits have been forthcoming. This award, which I will hereafter refer to as ‘The award’, is a milestone in a career. It signifies my place in the business. My work is recognised by my peers, my efforts are appreciated for the Herculian endeavours they demonstrate, finally I am recognised as the award winning McPhereson. And of course there’s a buffet.

An award is the last thing from an actors’ mind when acting. Imagine being in a part on a battlefield, your comrade – perhaps a childhood friend – is laying in front of you mortally wounded and you tend to him, knowing your words of comfort are but overheard by the grim reaper drawing ever closer. The last thing you want to think about is a sumptuous four course meal, with speeches and wine and a limosine home. No, you have to be in the moment. You have to be in that position. You have to be that death comforter.  It’s no good as Alfie moans ‘give my heart to my Dolly, tell her my last thought on this Earth was of her sweet face’, replying that you hope that limosine driver isn’t one of those eastern European fellows who seems to know no English and you don’t want to rely on a minicab to get you to the Savoy, as many of those in Saving Private Ryan seemed to.

I well remember Ben Kingsley, who, after being nominated for ‘Ghandi’, was amazed. A letter was received at the Oscars’ office, and I am sure Ben won’t mind if I quote a bit of it here.

Sirs,

I am stunned you have nominated me for Ghandi, which although was a good job from my humble point of view, didn’t warrant the notion of an award. All I did was shave my head, put on some glasses and dress in a bed sheet. Wander around for a bit. Get shot. That was it. We managed to spindle it out for a couple of hours but essentially it was a very easy piece of work and I feel I cannot accept the Oscar you have proposed I should win.

May I make the suggestion that you consider not I, although I am flattered, but my good friend Tarquin McPhereson who’s portrayal of Elmer The Badger in South Ketterings’ Amatuer Dramatic Associations’ production of Rodent Rebellion (the musical). His moving and deeply felt portrayal of Elmer had people in tears, myself included. He is a fine actor and this would surely be a great tribute to an unsung hero of our industry.

Yours sincerely,

Ben Kingsley.

Europe.

PS Don’t bother mentioning this matter to me as I consider it closed and I will pretend to not know what you are talking about, and being so good at acting, you will be convinced. So don’t. It’s definitely me, Ben Kingsley, writing this.