Boxing Day Actors Life

 

One thing about Boxing day is an actor can pick up a lot of residuals. With the growth of TV channels, if you have been in as many programmes as I have, you are certain to be on somewhere.

It’s also nice to see so many old friends who have either apparently died or changed their phone number. For instance, on the Science Fiction channel at the moment, is a repeat of a show I worked on called ‘Moonshot’. Moon was one of those programmes destined to become a cult, running as it did for five episodes. We actually made twelve, but the powers at be considered it to be so ahead of its’ time, they decided that if it got too much of a following then at the end of the 12^th there may be civil unrest. In retrospect they were right, as no sooner had the news of the cessation of broadcast leaked out, there was a ticket office dispute at British Rail.

In the show I played the second in command, the brilliant, charismatic alien Fred Stokes. There was a problem with how to define an alien. Star Trek had done ears, eyebrows and crinkly foreheads, so we needed another way of demonstrating his other world origins. We ignored the face area and went with my interpretation of extraterrestrial life as having really big feet. Gerry – the producer – had cast the excellent Peter Firth as Commander Rex Maximus and Penelope Keith as Doctor Rachel Plastercast, with Arthur English as the chief space pilot Ronnie Speed. We all got along magnificently, and being the professionals we are, when the show was over we all went our own ways, Peter to the west end, Penelope to BBC Sitcom, while I was able to finally concentrate on my cactii.

Many people wrongly think it’s incorrect for actors to be paid for work they did forty or fifty years ago. But I disagree. If you have put in a good performance and people are still getting joy from it, why should you not be rewarded? For example, when I was in the long running Edwardian drama ‘Three Storey Stories’, I played McWinder, the assistant butler to Mr Jeavons, played by the wonderfully talented John Thaw. McWinder was a comic relief, always using the wrong spoon for this, an incorrect place setting for that; much merriment the character brought until his untimely demise off camera being run down by a horse in the third episode. I remember dear John Thaw was so beside himself at my departure he hardly spoke to me again, a testament to my ability that one moment I would be gathering in the laughs to the nest moving people to tears. I am told by his widow he never wanted to work with me again, such was the quality of my work. Smashing Matriarch  Peggy Mount, who played the cook in the series summed it up without over sentimentality as I prepared to leave. ‘Never mind’ she said, before going off to play cards with the crew. It’s always stayed with me. And that now people say it’s best to watch from episode four onwards, as what goes before is too awful, really makes me proud of my job there. So why should I not get paid? People remember it.

I flip through more channels. The Food Channel is always good, and I have appeared several times. Cooking With The Stars is a show I am totally in love with, not least because they invited me on when Chesney Hawkes had something else going on. They know they can rely on me when another lets them down. Plus extra viewers will tune in to see my latest culinary creation and whether I once again need the Fire Brigade.

Of course, unless you are in pantomime, the gap between the Christmas and New Year is a fine time to step back, take stock of what you have achieved. Once you have done that, you can concentrate on all the fine work you have lined up for the new year. I have an appearance on Womans’ Hour in July to look forward to, discussing the history of pantaloons. I had better get researchin’. Toodaloo.

Christmas for Actors

Christmas is of course a time for actors. Firstly there’s all the books actors publish. This year for example, John Gordon Sinclair has brought out a book about his favourite puddings, Jeremy Irons has a tome detailing what he likes to do with balsa wood and Derek Jacobi has a compendium of hilarious stories involving togas. Of course, they would not be able to offer such riches to the public if they were working, but one has to take the filthy lucre when one is offered. My book, which I am working on between engagements, is called ‘Mysteries of Coventry’. I am afraid it doesn’t do the strange and mysterious in the City justice, given the mere three thousand pages, but my editor assures me it’s thoroughly absorbent material.

Writing is a tremendous outlet for an actor. It allows us to get under the hood of a project, to poke around at the distributor and carburettor, to fiddle with the intricacies of the radiator cap. Normally we are but the driver, heading on a predetermined route, but actually writing allows us to prod and examine the engine of a story, to get our hands dirty, bang our heads on the bonnet when standing up and finally calling in the AA.

Of course, many actors use Christmas to tell the public a little bit more about themselves, as if detailing the tough time they had in school somehow excuses them for the awful acting they subject us to later. audiences are going to say ‘We can’t say this sitcom based in a department store is bad, he was assaulted with a hot crumpet between geography and double maths. But I do like his moustache.’. Audiences simply don’t work like that. Sad for us, but they prefer an actor to be good, as opposed to bad, and this is where many of the pleas for clemency fall flat.

Of course, being ‘in the biz’ means I am privy to a lot of scandal, and I have to be careful about it. I don’t want to get a reputation as a blabber mouth. No, the number of famous actors who confided in me deeds and doings which would surely cause consternation should they leak to the cheaper end of the press for a cash payment of, say, £30,000 is legion. My loyalty to fellow thesps and their confidences is rock solid, and should I be approached in the Duck and Cucumber on a Friday night around ten past eight I shall prove that. Unless it’s a bank holiday in which case probably a Thursday.

Of course, books are not the only form of re-enumeration for otherwise inactive performers

. ‘The Devil Writes Sitcoms For Idle hands’ is the saying in our profession. There are personal appearances. I well remember seeing Martin Shaw doing a signing session a few years ago. This is a marvellous way of getting a few quid just for scribbling your name. He was outside Superdrug signing shampoos, paracetamol and prophylactics, before some prole came and moved him on, but not before he’d unwittingly signed a contact to do another series of Judge John Deed. Benedict Cumberbatch was another one I spied with the pen applying his moniker to things. When I say pen I mean spray can and when I say things I mean the wall outside the BBC.

Hanging around outside the BBC around Christmas time used to be a tremendous business decision. Directors and producers would go in, some would notice you, you’d stand in front of them and as if on cue you would do your audition piece. Of course now it’s a lot less dangerous as most of them are not in their cars. Lovely Stratford Johns was a pro at this, stopping a producer and doing an entire vaudeville tribute, and if there was no joy from said producer he sponged down their windows and asked for a fiver. Of course you would always do it to the front of the building, the rear was the territory of Ross Kemp, who demanded a fee just to be there. Any work which was offered as a result of being at the back of TV Centre Kemp took from the performer, laughing as he grabbed their script and pushed them into traffic. It backfired one year though when he accidentality was contracted to play what is widely considered to be the worst Miss Marple ever.

Another way of getting a bit of work over Xmas is to put it about you have something horrendous. And by horrendous I am not talking about a six week engagement in a Ray Cooney in Newquay. I mean either a malady or personal situation which would highlight to the hoi polloi that even though you are successful, famous, desperately talented and lauded by friends and foes alike, tragedy can strike you as readily as anyone else. If you choose a illness, it should be something no-infectious. Peter Ustinov once claimed to have something to garner a bit of attention, but the only attention he got was two men in hazmat suits ushering him into a van. No, if you are going to say bedevilment has befallen you, think it through. And carefully. If you have to, make something up. I remember a lovely actor, who will remain nameless, who had not really worked since the Goon Show. ‘Harry,’ I said ‘the best way to get back in front of people is to be in the papers and the best way of doing that is to tell them something’. He did, and less than twenty five years later he was heading Songs of Praise. Of course, those steeped in show business lore will know of whom I speak, but to the vast swathes of the British public, it shall remain an enigma.

My own discovery of this method of self-promotion came when I was experiencing a particularly fallow period. I had taken a job washing plates at Ivory Street Tandoori Restaurant. Mr Balouff, the owner, had recognised me from my Tonka Toy commercial, and been full of praise at the interview. And despite the comment in the references from Martin Jarvis, had taken me on. (I used to use Jarvis for references, but stopped in the mid 70s when I was looking to get some work in a zoo and he kindly told them – in confidence – that I should not be left alone with the llamas). This particular reference stated that I should only be hired if Mr Balouff was prepared to walk into the kitchen unexpectedly and see me dipping my buttocks in the porridge. As it happens it’s rare for a Tandoori restaurant to serve porridge. So it didn’t bother Mr Balouff. What did bother him is when Russell T. Davies was enjoying a meal and I took my leave from the sink to perform my Hamlet/Odd Couple/Songs from the Shows/Impressions at his table. Davies looked on as I auditioned for him. All the time my pulse raced, what role would he give me? How much work would I garner as a result? Finishing on a tap dance (slightly out of place on a shagpile carpet) I awaited his verdict.

Unemployment is a terrible thing but something one is used to as an actor. Having decided the career progression available in Mr Balouff’s eatery was not one I wished to pursue, we agreed it was holding me back from other more socially suitable work.

Use Of Food In Character

Food is of course a prop many actors have utilised. Who can forget Charles Laughton chowing down on chicken after chicken in his seminal performance as Henry VIII. Ordinary people would just consider his gastronomic interpretation of the role disgusting. But ignoring the chewing sounds, grunting, it and the rest of the cast covered in bits of chicken sprayed out when the great man made his oratory remains one of the absolute pinnacles of performance.

Let’s take the performance apart.

1. Firstly, Henry sits down. Observing the feast in front of him, like a hawk selecting its’ prey.

2. His hand descending on the chicken with deft skill, the way only a monarch would. A King who could invade, execute and demand faced with the challenge of this dead chicken. Determination to pick up this drumstick, and full knowledge that his power and privilege will prevent those who seek to disrupt the course of events.

3. Picking up the drumstick, shouting loudly about how all should ‘feast as ne’er before’, the fingers firmly wrapped around the end of the chicken leg, as it rises to his mouth, the other hand working almost as a supporting artist, seizing another limb of the fowl. Oh, the drama!

4. The bite. Now the bite is dreadfully important. One cannot simply nibble, nor can one guzzle. To get the true measure of the actor, watch him eat in character to know the depth of the portrayal. With almost expert timing, Laughton takes a mouthful just a little too big and lowers the leg, chewing, mouth open, whilst also attempting to say his lines.

5. Chew and swallow are the piece de resistance of the entire performance. The food is chewed. And thence, when full masticated, sent to the epiglottis and then onward to his stomach.

6. The other hand is raised and the pattern continues, and the other performers are so moved you can see some of them wiping their eyes.

I remember watching this as a young actor and thinking ‘that man certainly knows how to eat chicken’. Such was the impact on my young mind. I would tell all and sundry about Laughton eating chicken; the sheer poetry of it. Sadly, most of my non-acting friends didn’t understand and started avoiding me. That’s the thing I find about people out of the business; they have no interest in the technique of acting. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy talking to ordinary people about the weather, football or milk, but for a conversation I always plump for a fellow actor. I remember that legend Michael Caine. I spoke to him at length about the cannolis scene in The Godfather. To me the food stole the scene. Mike nodded sagely, occasionally looking over my shoulder in case he was called back on set. The man is a veritable owl, his head moving around, checking he was not ignoring anyone else. Such is his generosity. When I had finished my dissection, he got up and mumbled something before locking himself in a portaloo. I wanted his opinion and waited patiently outside, but people started giving me ‘looks’, so I sloped off to the tea/coffee area.

Another great whose eating technique I admired was John Hurt. John was a smashing man who could handle anything from a sandwich to the most complex broth. I’ve not seen it myself, but apparently his last scene in Alien is a excellent portrait of a hungry man handling all manner of fayre, although I understand the scene ends with some indigestion.

Another excellent food handler is Brian Blessed. Never have I witnessed someone bring such depth and texture of character with the simple prop of a pork pie.

In short, eating is both an essential skill for an actor and a opportunity to explore the finer, imperceptible details of a character. Be it noodles, a roast dinner, a sandwich or a bucket of chicken.

Below is a list of actors and their expertise in food. If you get the chance watch these people devour the dishes listed. Learn from them. They are all heroes of food.

Richard E. Grant	Roast parsnips (and many root vegetables)
Ricky Tomlinson	Tuna Sandwich (with OR without salad)
Judi Dench	Fluffy Omlettes
John Nettles	Sausage, mash and beans
Joanna Lumley	Fresh salmon garnished with a selection of veg
Julie Walters	Vindaloo curry with naan and popadums
Dean Gaffney	Lamb shanks
John Travolta	Rocky mountain oysters
Leslie Joseph	Crisps.

One of the legendary eaters is of course the late Peter Falk. Darling Peter was underused in terms of his eating. Columbo rarely lingered on a shot of him eating, had it perhaps it would have run longer than the eight years it did. One would have to rely on annecdotes of his use of forks. Poetry. His mastery of a variety of spoons, encapsulating the entire gamut of performance. And don’t get me started on condiments. That Columbo’s producers concentrated on crimes and not on him eating, say, a warm panini, is a travesty.

On the other end of the scale is Bonnie Langford. I have a great deal of time for Ms Langford, but watching her eat anything, and I do mean anything, is akin to a clown receiving a pie.

Character building. Lesson One.

Many younger actors come to me and say ‘Mr McPhereson, Sir, as a young actor where would be best to go to pick up those little habits, twitches and foibles that make a character whole?’. It’s a good question. I am actually asked a surprising number of questions. Some in person, some on small notes affixed to my mirror and occasionally questions shouted from passing vans. Many actors forget things like twitches and idiosyncrasies. I remember watching DiNiro in Godfather films and thinking ‘It would be a perfect performance if he would just pick his nose’. Little touches like that make a performance. Lawrence of Arabia, considered some to be a classic, would have been so much better had lovely Peter O’Toole been allowed to scratch his left buttock. I remember him calling me and saying the whole performance was marred by an itchy cheek. Let me tell you how I build a character. Now, different actors have different techniques, and there’s nothing wrong with any of them but in my opinion they are all wrong. This is how I do it. When I was starting out, it was difficult to get a solid character. We didn’t have television or anything like that in our house. It was just Mama, Poppa and myself. And my sister, Ermintrude. We used to do our own theatre productions in our small terraced house. Murder plays were particularly prevalent and many the time I would be the fallen victim, laying on the hearth, the rug, in a chair or face down in a pudding. There I would remain, the play going on around me, until it was over. One play we did regularly was Murder On The Orient Express, where I had to lay sprawled out on the floor, dead to all, whilst my family played the various parts of the play in another room, finally retiring for the big reveal scene to the buffet car – which in this particular improvisation was the Duck and Horse public house. Of course, I could not go with them because my commitment was so solid and I lay there until their return. As a matter of fact this was only the second longest I had committed to a role; I managed to extend and enhance my ‘dead body’ skills when we did A Caribbean Mystery, when the big reveal was the tail end of a fortnight in Doncaster. Charity shops are an absolutely wonderful place to pick up little character bits and pieces. The people in there are wonderful; mixtures of eccentricity and utter despair. Many the time I have gone into one of their stores, and pretended to be looking at a cuddly toy or Spode tea set, all the while staring intently at those behind the counter, drinking in all their habits and foibles. Of course, eventually they will get up and ask if they can help me. This is where my acting comes invaluable. ‘No, thank you. I am just browsing’ I reply, whilst deftly moving to the clothes racks. The assistant will then invariably walk at speed to a room marked ‘private’. After a few moments, they will return with another store member and pretend to be looking at something behind the till. But my eagle eye can see them looking up out of the peripheral vision to see what I am up to. This is all meat and drink to me. Soaking in their personalities. It is only when they stand up, stare at me with arms folded that I am discovered and must make my exit. I then walk the ten minutes to the next charity shop, drunk on traits and twitches, enter its’ portals, and a woman behind the till who is on the phone, terminating her call not with a goodbye but with ‘Yes, he just walked in now’.