Playing Historical Figures

 Historical figures are the most tricky to get right. There’s the fine nuance of character, the level of detail needed to react to the mores of their time. And the tights. I honestly think though that diligent research can help an actor discover treasures to behold.

When I was in the period sitcom ‘That’s My Croft’ it took an enormous amount of background to get my part right. I am very keen on handling my part correctly, and people have often commented that I am a supreme part handler. The comedy was based around Loch (Gordon Jackson) and Sellars (Hugh Paddick), two of the worst croft burners of the early 19^th century. I mean Loch and Sellars, not Jackson and Paddick, neither of whom, as far as I am aware, have ever burnt down a thatched cottage. I say that but I have never read their autobiographies so I am guessing.

I played Wee Jim, a torch holder who stood by with his flaming torch, awaiting his masters’ instruction to set the homes ablaze, while Gordon and Hugh administered a savage beating to the tenants. Although the show never made it to broadcast, the realism of the piece was recognised in the letter from the commissioning editor, referring to the whole episode as ‘truly terrible’.

When I was in ‘Vic and Al’, which was based on the relationship between Queen Victoria and Albert. I was footman number 5, which meant I had to hand Albert his boots during a particularly tricky scene involving a shoe horn. Of course, there were no nineteenth century footmen to ask. How did Footmen handle shoehorns? What was their attitude to shoehorns? Did shoehorns imply a class system inherent in the societal structure or were they just as common as shoes? What were they made of? Who made them? Were there different ones for different shoes? All these questions moved around my mind for eight weeks prior to our first show. That and a problem with a particularly bad tempered gull.

Now my warning; as an actor it is best to absorb than to become obsessed. I would like to apologise to all my fellow Thespians for quizzing them at dunner parties, baptisms and that wedding about shoehorns. I would also like to apologise to Jeffrey Stanley, and his family, as my eulogy was not all it should have been.

That being said there was a total lack of information about shoehorns. I simply had to get this right; the whole play rested on my convincing the audience that, as a Royal Shoehorner, I was the best in the land at that particular time in history. The last thing we needed as a visiting professor of history to stand up in the stalls, mid-performance, and point out my no doubt schoolboy errors. The audience would become restless, no longer respecting the stage, slowly anarchy and violence would follow, spilling out onto the streets growing to mass civil unrest and possibly a revolution. I simply couldn’t risk it. Disappointing an audience is the worst thing a performer can do. Ask Jim Davidson, who now has run out of people and is forced to do his act to a front room full of stuffed toys, all of whom have paid over the odds for tickets, which he paid for. The only benefit being he can write it off as a tax loss.

My search for information started, as many do, in the local library. Miss Geyser, who is the librarian there, remembered something when I entered and moved off quickly to attend to it. Fortunately, she left one of the assistants, Jonathan, to help me on my quest. I told him of my query, and he nodded. I didn’t hold out much hope of help from him; he was absolutely no assistance when I wanted information for my portrayal of Sonic the Hedgehog. Now my shoehorn research was to be hampered by his attitude. The absolute abrogation of information on shoehorns is shameful. Not one book is in either this library or any other in the area. It was nothing sort of a nightmare.

Now, all this time later, I have the time to do something about this. What is life if you can’t add something positive to the world?

To this end I have started my book on shoehorns, their history, users and uses is born. Now I have the time, I can fully dive into this fascinating world. Not only will this compendium contain all knowledge and techniques, it will have pertinent humourous anecdotes and witticisms from throughout history. Once you have read this most mighty of manuscripts, none other will surpass it. Not in this subject, anyway. It shall be the Wisden, Oxford English and Mrs Beaton of shoehornery*.

Penguin have already told me they will get back to me, and Methuen are thinking about it, so the market is clearly there.

Calling my Agent

I have one of those mobile phones. It really is an invaluable tool for agents to contact me with jobs and auditions. That’s what I have been told, anyway. Whenever I am in Melissa’s officeI am impressed by  all the modern equipment, all those time saving gadgets which allow her to fully focus on her clients. Computers, calculators, staplers. I often feel I am back on the bridge of the starship Volavent. For those who never saw ‘Marooned on Mars’, I recommend it. Set in the year 2320, I play Dr David Drax, a surgeon with a dark secret. Sadly, we never found what his secret was as he was unexpectedly killed by a volcano in episode two. But such was the medical advancements in the 24^th century, he came back in episode four, although he was then played by Paul Nicholas.

Of course there was a campaign to get me back; it was nothing personal about Paul’s portrayal, but I was better. Letters were sent, petitions were signed, protests were attended. But Thames stuck to their guns. As it happened, the series only ran for nineteen years so perhaps that gave them cause to think about how they treat people. As I said to the Radio Times, their refusal to take my calls is contemptuous to say the least; they didn’t print my letter but it still stands.

As it happens, I suspect Thames’s’ attitude came back to haunt them; I am a firm believer in kismet, and it is of no comfort to me that in the intervening forty three years many of the cast are dead, unemployed, retired or presenting daytime quiz shows.

At the time I was with Dorian Porke Talent Management. Dorian was a curious mix of showman and business person, This was in the days before mobile phones, and my communication was via a telephone kiosk in Curzon Street. This of course was a problem when Dorian said he would call you back. However, Dorian would often forget and cause you to have to camp out by the phone box just to be sure you didn’t miss an opportunity. I wasn’t the only person on his books, there was Ed Bishop, Roy Dotrice, Thora Hird and Desmond from Desmond and the Deckers. In many ways we became a very small shanty town, with Thora providing us with her ‘Beaker of Broth’ as sustenance through the long winter months. She was lovely, Thora; always there with a cheery smile and home spun wisdom. Although if you got in the way of her answering that phone you’d be picking your teeth up off the pavement.

That was then, this is now. And contacting Melissa is a smooth action. I have her name saved in what I believe they call ‘call list’, although I did have a few issues entering it and unfortunately couldn’t get the keyboard out of the symbols mode. So I always have to watch out for (*&$£##! calling lest I miss out on work.

I rang (*&$£##! this morning as a matter of fact. The girl, Jackie, who works on reception said “We will call you if anything comes in”. I don’t know how she got the job. She always sounds remarkably unenthusiastic when I call. It’s almost as if she is not even checking the rosta.

I do call a little too often I am told. Once every couple of weeks is sufficient, I have been informed. I try to stick to this sort of frequency. I am terrified of calling and finding nothing, only for a big role to come in on the next call which I may miss out on. I have called three or four times in a morning, something which irked them greatly, one of which was made while I was standing by Jackie’s desk.

1960s' experimental theatre

One of the proudest moments of my career was the play ‘Kick It Jackie!’, about the 1966 World Cup Final. The play centered on the winning goal of the match, and explored the emotion and repercussions of the tournament. Myself, Kenneth Williams, John Gielgud, Sir Larry, Michael Caine, Richard Burton and Tommy Steele all featured in this seminal piece of late 60s’ experimental theatre. With dear Ralph Richardson as the ball.

The director, Sweaty Don Orange, was frustrated at first that we had not quite got the nuance of the piece, and advised us all to take an inordinate amount of drugs to really ‘feel’ our roles. Sweaty, as we called him, really did produce an ungodly amount of sweat. His clothes and any furniture he used were literally drenched in his perspiration. As his sodden hand proferred the mushrooms which were to take us to performance nirvana, he uttered a phrase I shall never forget. ‘Get ‘em down ya’.

The brew he had given us was heady indeed. Some of us, like Michael, just sat there talking about posture, but others of us experienced things hitherto undreamt-of. Kenneth Williams became convinced he was a spider, and spun an unlikely web in the corner of the rehearsal rooms and sat there waiting for theatre interns. Sir Larry and John formed a magic act and briefly became the biggest celebrities in Durham, Richard Burton only communicated by ringing bells and Tommy Steele became the Isle of Wight Ferry. I myself ‘came down’ to find myself in Marrakesh selling hand made dream catchers to tourists. Ralph burst.

Of course we all recovered our composure eventually, but the embarrassment was already there and we all decided, to a man, to go our separate ways and never speak of this again. Apart from Tommy, who I understand still makes the journey between Southampton and Fishbourne three times a day.