Dinner parties are always a joy. For the very presence of so many people, the opportunity to soak up mannerisms and character traits is simply invaluable. Also there’s vol-au-vents. The whole principle of a dinner party can be an examination of society; watching who gravitates to who, who avoids who, who isn’t being spoken to that much despite coming halfway across London in a cab which he is pretty sure took the long way just to garner a few extra quid out of him.
The most recent one was at Terry Holloway’s. Terry is a wonderful actor, but not had an awful lot of work since he was in Tiswas. But Terry is a fine example, he hasn’t let the fact no one wants him in film, theatre, television, advertising, voice overs, print media or radio get him down. Apart from that one occasion he did that hijack, of course. But that’s all water under the bridge now. With the coach.
Looking around the room there’s Trevor Eve. Trevor is a remarkable actor, and watching him is simply a masterclass in how to conduct oneself in these situations. The way he holds the glass, standing there, relaxed, listening to his conversational partner with interest. He takes a sip of wine and with a grace which comes from years of training, he picks up two vol-au-vents, placing one in his pocket. Such mastery. With him is Jim Dale, he of the Carry Ons. I myself have never watched one but apparently they are very funny. Jim does make a thing of reminding people he is the last surviving cast member, which is either something to celebrate or something suspicious. Of course, this allows him to make up all sorts of nonsense about his deceased co-stars, without contradiction, which no doubt he is drenching Trevor in now.
But all that aside, Jim is a consummate professional, and has brought a shoulder bag in which he is collecting the vol-au-vents. A bold move but one must admire the grace with which he pours them from the platter into the bag as it if is the most natural thing in the world. When he puts the bag back to his shoulder I notice a carriage clock, a picture of an old man with a rosette and a bust of Chopin have vanished from the mantle piece.
Glancing to others in the room and my eyes settle on the sublime Joanna Lumley, who has brought her own food to this gathering, and casually lifts several of the nuggets into her mouth (post dipping in sauce). She really is grace personified, using both hands to satisfy her hunger yet her wine remains unspilled, balanced as it is in her cleavage. She’s talking to Michael Palin who is politely listening whilst wiping bits of chicken nugget off his dinner jacket. Michael’s pose is one to take in. Patient, yet firm. Stoic, yet polite. Holding his wine glass in the traditional manner, although one would think he could hold it in many, many ways, having met the indigenous peoples of the world, and witnessed how they hold their glasses of Chardonnay.
In the other corner, Helen Mirren looks sublime, standing alone, aloof. Her dress a victory for womankind, clinging enticingly to every subtle curve. She holds her pint glass with a firm determination; it says to the audience ‘this is mine. Should you have designs on it, I shall be swift and brutal’. She drinks from it like a Viking warrior after a victory, letting the fine nectar pour down her cheeks and dress, a portrait in the power of women.
I was soaking up the characters and every move was noted for future use. This time will not just be educational, it will add to my acting armoury. At this point Terry closed the curtains. But I had seen enough.
