rehearsal room. When he was flowing in the part, the company could feel his great presence and their confidence in the whole enterprise blossomed.
The first breakdown came about twenty minutes into the play. Needless to say, it was in a big speech. As ever, the start was confident. And, as ever, about three sentences in, Michael Banks faltered. The entire cast held their breath, as if watching a tightrope-walker stumble, and all let out a sigh of relief when he managed to right himself and make it through to the end of the speech.
But it was a symptom of things to come. In the next big speech, Michael Banks again stumbled. Again he extricated himself, but this time at some cost to the text. What he said was a vague approximation of what Malcolm Harris had written, and he didn’t even give the right cue to George Birkitt, who spoke next.
This threw George, and he got his lines wrong. Being George, he didn’t try to cover the fluff and press on; instead he said, ‘Sorry, love, but I can’t be expected to get my lines right if I get the wrong feed, can I?’
The scene lurched forward again, but its momentum was gone. Michael Banks’s eyes were lit with the panic of a man about to dry. And sure enough, he did. Peter Hickton tried another approach and threw one of his little tantrums. This didn’t help at all. It just soured the atmosphere of the rehearsal, and left Michael Banks looking pained, like some huge animal, beaten for a transgression he does not understand.
For a show due to open for its first public preview in a week’s time
There was a run on the Tuesday afternoon for the producers. Paul Lexington and Bobby Anscombe sat through the whole play in silence.
It was excruciating. Consciousness of the audience made Michael Banks nervous, and nervousness scrambled the lines in his head even further. George Birkitt got through with only one prompt, but his performance was spoiled by the smug smile he wore throughout at the star’s expense.
Eventually, half-way through the second act, as the play’s climax approached, Michael Banks could stand it no longer. He snatched the prompt copy from the Stage Manager and read the rest of his part. The strength of the performance, as ever, increased, but it was worrying.
The play finished and there was silence. The actors drifted away from the centre of the room to the safety of the walls, where they picked up crosswords, fiddled with knitting, lit cigarettes and gave generally unconvincing impressions of people who weren’t worried about what was about to happen.
Paul Lexington and Bobby Anscombe were sitting at a table in the middle of the room, engaged in a fiercely whispered conversation. The cast couldn’t help hearing odd words. Bobby Anscombe seemed to be doing most of the talking. ‘Bloody terrible. . amateur. . when I put my money into something I don’t expect. . can’t put that sort of thing into a professional theatre. . These fag-ends did not augur well for any public announcement that might be made.
And when it came, the announcement lived up to their worst fears. With a gesture of annoyance at something Paul Lexington had just said, Bobby Anscombe stood up and banged his hand down on the table.
‘This is bloody awful. I’ve backed more shows than you lot have had hot dinners and I’ve never seen anything like this. Do you realise, a week on Thursday you’re going to play this show to all the West End critics? At the moment none of them’s going to sit through to the end. If I don’t see a marked improvement by the end of the week, I am going to take my money out!’
Shock registered on every face in the room. Even Paul Lexington’s boyish mask was shattered.
Bobby Anscombe had intended his ultimatum as an exit line, but he was stopped by Michael Banks, who had worked with him in the past and knew his volatile temper. He stepped forward, diplomatically.
‘Bobby, old boy, take your point. The show does look pretty shitty at the moment. Also take the blame myself. I just haven’t got the hang of the lines yet. But don’t worry. Give us a couple of days and you won’t recognise it.’
‘I’d better not. There is nothing in it at the moment that I would want my name associated with.’
‘Now come on, Bobby. It’s only me letting the side down,’ Michael Banks volunteered nobly. ‘I don’t know my lines and I’m dragging down the rest of the cast.’
‘And why don’t you know your lines?’ Bobby Anscombe snapped. ‘Listen. You know how much money we’re paying you. It’s a bloody big investment. And when I invest that much, I reckon to get value for my money.’ He thumped the table with his fist. ‘I’m paying for a star actor who can do the job of acting, not some old has-been whose memory’s gone.’
It was as if every person in the room had been slapped in the face. They all flinched. Michael Banks’s charm had worked on every one of them, and they hated this savage attack on him.
The star himself took it with dignity. ‘Fair comment. I agree, I should know the lines by now. And I will. Don’t worry, once in rep. I learned all of lago in three days.’
‘I’m not interested in what you’ve done in the past. My money is invested in what you can do now.’
Once again, Bobby Anscombe intended this as a parting shot, but again he was stopped. This time the interruption came from an unexpected source, as Lesley-Jane Decker leapt to the defence of her idol.
‘It’s all very well you saying that, but do you realise that Micky only saw the script ten days ago? It’s a huge amount to learn in that time.’
Bobby Anscombe looked at her contemptuously. ‘I am not concerned about
‘You could revert to the original casting.’
It was Alex Household who had spoken. He hadn’t intended to. He looked as shocked as everyone else at his words. They had just come out. The build-up of frustration he had felt ever since he lost the part would not allow him to be silent. When given such a cue, the reply had to emerge.
The investor wheeled on him. ‘What, and put your name above the title? How many people do you think that’ll bring in? At least, with Micky there, we can fill a few weeks of punters coming in to watch him dry. But who’s going to come out to see a non-entity like you? I’ll tell you — bloody no one!’
Alex may have had some response ready, but he got no chance to voice it, as Bobby Anscombe turned his fury on Paul Lexington.
‘Not that anyone’s going to come anyway at the moment. Where’s the publicity? I haven’t seen a single poster for this bloody show. I haven’t heard anything on the radio, seen nothing in the press, nothing on the box. How are the punters meant to know there’s a show on? Bloody E.S.P.?’
Paul Lexington looked subdued. ‘Publicity is being handled by Show-Off Enterprises.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘They’re part of Lanthorn Productions. Denis Thornton recommended them.’
‘Oh, did he? Well, you shouldn’t trust him further than you can throw him. Are they doing the publicity for his new musical at the King’s?’
‘I think so.’
‘Oh well then, you won’t see anything from them. The musical opens next week as well. They’ll be putting all their efforts behind that.’
‘They’ve said they’re going to do a big media blitz for us at the end of this week.’
‘Oh really? And you believed them? Good God, the management of this outfit’s as bloody amateur as the acting!’
And with that exit line, Bobby Anscombe succeeded in making his exit.
Rehearsals on the Wednesday were somewhat desultory, because the person most in need of rehearsal was not there. Michael Banks was fulfilling his previous commitment to play Pro-Celebrity Golf for the BBC. This was intensely frustrating for everyone, because logic dictated that he wasn’t going to get much opportunity to look at his lines between strokes. It was just a wasted day.
But Peter Hickton could not resist working. Back with his own cast, he was determined to keep them at it as long as possible, fulfilling his own need for manic activity. (Charles had developed a new theory about the director’s passion for working so hard. As well as giving him moral ascendancy over the rest of the company, driving himself
