More about Honours, Awards and other events

 I have to say I was disappointed not to be included yet again in the Honours. Years of service in theatre, film and television and I’m not even mentioned. The countless charity events, the altruism and generosity, never expecting anything in return. What for? Nothing, that’s what.

You find me in a slightly annoyed mood. Melissa, my agent, seems to be on holiday. It’s alright for some, but when I have an issue who can I approach? Certainly not David, her intern who is apparently looking after me. I say looking after me but you expect someone to say ‘Hello, Tarquin how are you?’ when you call them, not ‘Oh. You.’. Cassandra was much better as a replacement. Now she I could talk to. She listened silently as I spoke of issues I had with producers, directors, other actors or the poor food provision on set. That sounds like I complain all the time, and I really don’t. But when I do, I like to be listened to. I was saying to a lady on the train about this just yesterday, and she was very receptive to my qualms. That she didn’t know who I was seemed to make it easier to confide, and confide I did. She even asked me questions, such as ‘Where do you get off?’. I informed her I was going all the way back to London. I regaled her with my issues about repeat fees for Lewis, about wardrobe giving me ill fitting moccasins and even showed her the picture of the vase I had signed by Thora Hird when I appeared in that sitcom about dead people. I was disappointed when I returned from the gents to find her gone. Apparently, according to someone sitting in the seat opposite, she had been ‘accosted by a nutter’ and decided to move carriages. I saw no ‘nutter’, but apparently he had moved off to the toilets, so I had been lucky not to encounter them myself.

Before she had gone away for her Floridian odyssey, Melissa had booked me into a Manchester soap opera called ‘Mad Lads’. The gist of this series are a group of young men who are, for reasons which are unclear, a bit eccentric. My role was to be Jeremiah Podge, a local plumber who the boys harrass, eventually leading to his exodus from the series via a canal. When Melissa had told me about this, it was to be a recurring character, but plans had obviously changed and my role consisted of two scenes of the ‘mad lads’ shouting abuse and one of me floating in the canal (in which I had no dialogue). If ever there was a part worthy of an honour, this would be a prime example. I hope the King watches this and has a think about the sort of people he honours. How many of them have floated in a canal for mid afternoon television in the North West? Not many, I’ll warrant.

The actual speaking scenes didn’t take long to film – I knew my line – but the canal scene. I was in that water for four hours! I mean, I wasn’t left just floating there, they did poke me with a large stick every so often, so I didn’t feel neglected. When I emerged I was amazed. Christopher Ecclestone was on the bank, watching. “that was some of the best submersible acting I have seen” he said “Come on mate, got an idea to tell you”. And lead me, soaked and covered in canal debris, to a small cafe. Chris ordered a all-day full breakfast and a peg for his nose. He came back and we were off. The thick mist of negotiation.

“doing this underwater musical” he said “bit of a change from… you know… but it’s going to be fantastic”. Chris’s enthusiasm is infectious. His eyes ablaze with anticipation, his mouth sealing tight at the end of sentences but at the end of paragraphs his smile beamed out as a man with a vision. A passion. An ambition both achievable and awesome. That this idea could do this to this quiet, determined man gave me pause as to the magnitude of his dream. Either that or the cafe had forgot there were supposed to be only two sausages. On and on he enthused, talking about Cousteau and Louganis. The dangers involved in using a live orchestra under the waves. The problem he was having over the lighting, not only with the crew but with the Coroner. Finally, as he dabbed up the last part of the sauce from the beans with the toast, he said ‘Yeah, it’s going to be fantastic’. Then his phone went, he answered it, said ‘Oh no, not again’ and hurriedly left.

In his furore, Chris had not only not mentioned what his production actually was, but pay for his breakfast. I was still in costume and had no money on me. What to do? I thought quickly. As I have stated on many occasions, acting gives you the tools to improvise not only on stage but in real life. I had to move quickly. No money and a suspicious cafe owner. I ordered another breakfast. It at least bought me time.

It was on the sixth breakfast I started to wane. No ideas had come to mind and I was rather too full of black pudding and beans to move. Not to mention the aroma of the canal water had cleared the previously bustling cafe. And, with my stomach bulging like I had devoured the star of Free Willy, I was in no condition to make a bolt for the door.

“We’re closing soon” said the rather large man who had appeared at my table “But it says all day breakfast. The day is not over” I pointed out. He looked at me and mentioned something about having the place unexpectedly fumigated. I did the only thing I could. I asked for a telephone. I explained I needed to make a call and I couldn’t because… I patted my still squelchy costume. Provided with the manager’s phone I called Melissa. Bless her, despite leaving for Florida she took the time to answer the phone. Even if she did say ‘Yes, Benedict?’ upon connecting.

I explained the situation, and Melissa simply said ‘Not again’. Apparently Chris had done this to several other actors. “He hangs around off set picking off the vulnerable ones like a hawk” she said.

“Well, it’ll come off your fee” she said. I handed the phone to the manager. There was some conversation, and I only heard half of it. “Yes”, “no”, “I know what you mean”, “I couldn’t stand that”, “you have my sympathies”. All the while he was looking at me. Then he started laughing and said “God, no. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone” and walked off. Having heard the payment go through I got up and made my way, rather slowly, to the door. “Leave it open” he barked as I squeezed through.

Back at the set, I walked past Ecclestone who was hanging around at the gate reading/hiding behind a copy of What Bride magazine. I made my way to wardrobe who thought I had left hours ago. “You stink” said the small, tape measure wearing gent who I believe was called “Carl”. A voice from behind the changing room curtain said “and so do your clothes”. I was incensed. I strode over to the curtain and pulled it back and there, in her bra and panties, was Vikki Michelle. Of course, she screamed, Carl was almost instantly on the intercom to security and there was a hoohah to end all hoohahs. It was worse than the Hoohah which ensued when Lesley Judd thought I had stolen her sherbert dip dab.

The Officers put me on a train, after taking my picture several times (probably to show off to their mates they had met a celebrity), and saw me safely on my way, even looking through the window to make sure I was comfortable. And this we return to the lady who listened to my problems.

All this underlines why, exactly, I should get something. Sir Derek got one. Sir Ian. Sir Patrick. Why not me? I mean, it doesn’t bother me, but why won’t they give me some sort of recognition?

I know Derek and Ian have done things which possibly deserve a gong, but what about Patrick? What’s he done? Pretend to be on a spaceship and say ‘number one’ a lot. You know what happens to people who pretend to be on spaceships? They put you away! But no, he gets a knighthood. I don’t care. I do it for the craft, not the adulation. It’s the principle of the thing. I’d do anything to become a Sir. Even some letters after my name would do. But it’s not a deal breaker. Who cares? I certainly don’t. Let them boast of their awards. I can concentrate on my work. It means nothing to me.

And what about my outstanding charity work? I mean, I don’t mention it often, but I do spend an inordinate amount of time working for charities. Even the ones who don’t meet my invoices.

A brief thought on pranks

 Pranks are very important in the acting world. They provide a welcome relief from the absolute seriousness of the work; some people say our work is not serious. But it is. It is serious and deadly. In fact I can’t think of one solitary occupation which is more dangerous than acting. Bomb disposers, surgeons, fire fighters and the Army may well have casualties and fatalities, but few of those can face a hostile audience in Stockport on a rainy Thursday, the horror of a prop, integral to the plot, which is not where it’s supposed to be or a bad review in The Stage. 

For example, I once was in a 70s’ farce called ‘The Missus is a Aspidistra’ with June Whitfield as the Missus. There was a scene where I had to water June whilst talking about a fellow in the office, it was quite a detailed bit of exposition. But terror! No watering can was on the stage! Panic, Tarquin, Panic! This is where acting is such a weapon, such an awesome ability to possess, it is simply a crime not to utilise it. I improvised.

While I would not like to say how I managed this situation, the management of the theatre obviously saw me as a threat and let me go as soon as I got off the stage, citing health and safety, hygiene and the obscene publications act.

A good actor will take any job.

 

I received a call recently from my new representative, Amy. Amy takes over from Gavin who takes over from Matt who took over from Gabrielle who replaced Mindy. Tha agenc I am with at the moment has a good promotional record; certainly many of the previous managers have moved on and pleasant though Amy was, I did feel it a bit weird she kept addressing me as ‘Mr Havers’.

She was mentioning to me an opportunity in a film in New Orleans, where the role to be considered was a charismatic Englishman. A role suited to myself and Mr Havers. Of course it would be unprofessional for me to accept this role, it would go against every fibre of morality and integrity I have. I would be taking the food from Nigel Havers’ mouth!

Then she mentioned the fee. Nigel Havers eats very well anyway. And as she had gone to such trouble booking a hotel and hospitality it would have been totally ungrateful not to comply with her arrangements. Almost an act of disloyalty. I could not bring myself to manufacture such a situation. She may never call again. Lord knows she hadn’t called before.

Of course, there will be people who will say my pretending to be Havers is a tremendous act. But am I not an actor? Is not the role of Havers a role someone is destined at some point to play? A biopic or musical based on Havers and the shows he has been in, whatever they were. It would be an insult to him to refuse this role.

The part I was selected for needed a medical; this was no problem. I was to see Dr Noys, who deals with this sort of thing. Fortunately, Noys was not the sort of man who watches a ‘Nigel Havers Big Time Big Top Summertime Special’ or whatever it is he’s been in, so no suspicions were aroused.

After the preliminary examination, and certain questions regarding a rash mentioned on the notes, Dr Noys asked me to strip off. I am not ashamed of my body; as an actor I cannot afford to be. I remember a tender and emotional love scene with myself and lovely Joan Simms. Our bodies writhed in a ballet of fleshy passion, lost in ourselves and each other, hands grabbing, exploring, tongues entwined in between breathy, erotic gasps. It was the best washing up liquid commercial they ever made. Sadly it never made it to air, apart from in a certain cinema in Soho.

As the doctor probed, measured, weighed, felt and massaged he asked me a number of questions which revealed a little more about Havers than I wanted to know. I am not about to go into details for reasons of professional courtesy, but I have never engaged in that sort of thing. It’s even frowned on in Abergavenny.

At the end of the physical he handed me a number for a decent Trichologist, as mine was obviously not up to the job. As I exited his room, Havers was in the waiting area. He challenged me about my impersonation him. Obviously I stood my ground and pretended he wasn’t there. Finally, Havers lost his rag. A scuffle broke out. Rolling about on the floor we battled for supremacy, neither of us noticing the swiss army knife of actors, Hugh Bonneville step over us and into the office. First we knew about it was when we looked up mid skirmish to see the door shut, each of us clutching a large chunk of the others hair.

We arose, dusted ourselves down, applied some sellotape to the pulled follicles. We exchanged pleasantries and promised to send each other small tokens and gifts by way of apology. We exited the premises a good ten minutes before the Police arrived.

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.