— if he puts on voices, he must put them on almost badly, so that everyone knows it’s him. That’s talent. Okay. What else? Dedication certainly, the conviction that what he does is more important than anything else in the world.’
‘Isn’t that likely to lead to selfishness?’ Suzanne interposed with studied professionalism.
‘Inevitably. Bound to. Hence, presumably, all the stories that one hears of stars hating competition and being temperamental and slamming dressing-room doors and that sort of thing.’
He realised that it could get a little awkward if Suzanne asked him to relate his last observation to the star of Lumpkin! and hurried on before she had the chance. ‘I think there’s also something about the way the entertainment industry works, certainly for actors. Being an actor is, potentially, the most passive function on earth. Most actors are completely dependent on directors, because it’s directors who control the jobs. Some manage to assert themselves by deep commitment to their work, or by directing or writing and devising shows. Some do it by political affiliations… starting street theatres, workshop communes, even — in cases of extreme lunacy — joining the Workers’ Revolutionary Party. Some do it by forming their own companies, that kind of thing. But what I’m getting at is, that, given this lack of autonomy, when an actor becomes very much in demand, as a star might be, he wants to dictate his own terms. It’s years of frustration at living on someone else’s terms. It’s also a self- preservation thing — once someone’s got to the top, he tries to do everything to ensure that he stays there, and that may involve being careful about the people he works with, seeing that none of them are too good. I mean, often when you see a show with one big star name above the title and the rest of the cast nonentities, it’s not just because the star’s fee has exhausted the budget, it’s also so that he shows up in such mediocre company. The Whale among Sprats syndrome.
‘Then there’s management, which is very important. Choosing work, not doing anything that’s beneath the star’s dignity, or anything in which he’s not going to shine. Can’t take a risk, everything that is done has to be right, even at the expense of turning work down. For that reason you often find that a real star won’t do anyone a favour, won’t step in if someone’s ill. It’s not just bloody-mindedness, it’s self-preservation. When someone’s at the top, there are any number of people sniping, ready to read the signs of a decline, so it never does to be too available.’
‘Do you think a star has magic?’ asked Suzanne, with awe-struck italics.
‘I don’t know. I — ’
‘Oh, Mr Paris, there you are.’ Gwyneth of the stage management stood before him, her customary calm ruffled by anxiety. ‘You should have been back in the theatre half an hour ago.’
On the Wednesday morning they were rehearsing the first act finale, Ooh, What a Turn-up, which had been rearranged by Leon Schultz. Pete Masters, the M.D., was not in the best of moods. Having seen his own arrangements thrown out of the window, he found it galling to have to teach the new ones to the impassive band. The musicians had long since lost any spark of interest that they may have had for the show and sat mentally sorting out their VAT returns, eyes occasionally straying to their watches to see if the rehearsal would spread over into another session at M.U. rates. Christopher Milton was onstage directing, while David Meldrum sat at the back of the stalls reading The Stage.
The rehearsal had reached an impasse. Leon Schultz’s new arrangement introduced a short violin figure which bridged from the verse into the chorus and there was no dancing to cover it. The cast tried freezing for the relevant three seconds, but that lost the pace of the number. A couple of the dancers improvised a little jig, which looked alien and messy. There was a long pause while Christopher Milton stood centre stage, the ominous faraway expression in his eyes.
Suddenly he was galvanised into action. ‘Where’s the sodding choreographer?’
‘She wasn’t called for this rehearsal,’ said the musical director smugly, ‘following assurances that the new arrangements would not involve any major changes in the choreography.’
Christopher Milton seemed not to hear the dig. It was as if his mind could only focus slowly. ‘Then what can we do?’ He enunciated the words very clearly and without emotion.
‘No idea.’ Pete Masters shrugged. ‘Unless we cut the meaningless little bit of schmaltz altogether.’ His tone was calculated to provoke, but produced no reaction. Emboldened, he pressed on:
‘Or go back to the original arrangements, which were quite as good and a darned sight less fussy.’
‘What, your arrangements?’ Christopher Milton asked slowly.
‘Yes.’
‘Your sodding arrangements.’ The build to anger was slow, but now it had started it built to a frightening intensity. ‘Your little tuppenny-ha’penny amateur tea-shop quartet arrangements. This is the bloody professional theatre, sonny, not some half-baked student revue. Your arrangements! This isn’t Penge Amateur Operatic Society, you know.’
Pete Masters’ face had gone very red, but he fought to keep his voice calm and give a dignified reply. ‘There’s no need for you to speak to me like that. You may prefer the new arrangements to mine, but there’s no need to be offensive about it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, was I being offensive?’ The last word was pronounced with savage mimicry that exactly echoed Pete’s public school tone. ‘How foolish of me. I had forgotten that I was speaking to someone who has a degree in music and therefore knows everything about the subject. What a silly-billy I am.’
The impersonation was funny and, though Charles cringed in the wings and the musicians continued to stare impassively, it did produce an unidentified laugh from somewhere up in the flies where the stage crew were invisibly watching the proceedings. It gave Christopher Milton a stimulus and he continued to vent his lacerating irony on Pete.
Eventually the M.D. struck back. Still he tried to sound in control, but his wavering voice let him down. ‘Listen, if you’re going to speak to me like that, I’m going.’
‘Go. See if anyone cares. Just don’t think you can treat me like that. You’ve got to get it straight, boy, what matters in this show. You don’t. You go, there are a hundred second-rate musicians can take over tomorrow. I go, there just isn’t a show. Get your priorities right, boy.’
Pete Masters mouthed, but couldn’t produce any words. He did the only possible thing in the circumstances and walked off stage. The musicians looked at their watches with satisfaction. A row like this made it almost certain that they’d go into another session. The atmosphere in the theatre was heavy with embarrassment.
It blew over. Of course it blew over. That sort of row can’t go on for long. The pressures of keeping the show going don’t allow it. Pete and Christopher Milton were working together again within a quarter of an hour, with neither apologising or commenting on the scene. All the same, Charles Paris was relieved that Dickie Peck had not been present to witness the latest challenge to his protege.
It wasn’t just the clash at rehearsals that morning, but something changed the company mood on the Wednesday afternoon. Perhaps it was a small and silent house at the matinee. Perhaps it was Desmond Porton’s impending visit and the fear of having the show assessed. Or perhaps it was The Cold.
Actors, whose working tools are their voices, are naturally terrified of colds, sore throats, ’flus and other infections which threaten their precious vocal cords. They all have their own favourite remedies and preventative methods when germs are in the air, or, in some cases, even when they aren’t. Large doses of Vitamin C are swallowed, dissolved or crunched. (So are most other vitamins of the alphabet, with a kind of pagan awe.) Strange elixirs of lemon and honey (with bizarre variations involving onions) are poured down tender throats. Aspirin, codeine, paracetamol, Anadin, Veganin and others are swilled down, discussed and compared as connoisseurs speak of malt whiskies. Names of doctors who can ‘do wonders for throats’ (as well as others who deal with backs and nervous twinges) are exchanged like rare stamps. It is all taken very seriously.
When a show involves singing, the panic and precautions are doubled. Vocal sprays are brought into play. Little tins and envelopes of pills are ostentatiously produced and their various merits extolled. Some favour Nigroids, small pills which ‘blow your head off, dear, but really do wonders for my cords’; others will not stir without ‘The Fisherman’s Friend’ — ‘quite strong, darling, but they really relax the throat’; there are Friar’s Balsam, Vocalzones, Sanderson’s Throat Specific and a whole gallery of other patent medicines available, all of which have their staunch adherents.
The Cold started with one of the dancers, who had difficulty in preventing his sneeze during the matinee. Then Mark Spelthorne, quick to seize any opportunity for self-dramatisation, thought he might have one of his throats coming on. During the evening performance many of the cast were walking round backstage massaging their throats, talking in whispers (‘conserving the voice, dear — may have a touch of ’flu coming on’) and generally
