In Their Own Words

It’s important that if you are going to make drama it has to speak to a modern, diverse audience and society - and to be bold with it [...] When I started there were hardly any [prominent British black actors] Now, there is a generation who don’t see a colour bar or a barrier to going off to Hollywood or the West End or The Royal Shakespeare Company; it is great that they feel so involved and we should encourage that.

David Harewood, British Actor, born 1965

What Do You Mean You Haven't Seen...?!

Glengarry Glen Ross
(1992; Dir: James Foley; Screenplay: David Mamet)

In my humble opinion, there are very few film adaptations which supercede the original texts. Although I have never read or seen the original stage play by David Mamet, I have it on good authority that the 1992 film version is made margianlly better by the exceptional performance of Alec Baldwin in a scene written expressly for him. More about that later.

Speaking as both an actor and an audience member, there is something very thrilling about ensemble casting. Not only does it give equal dramatic weight and power to every cast member, but the work itself often suits the issues dealt with great skill and efficacy. It doesn't necessarily have to have a large cast, like Pulp Fiction; it doesn't necessarily have to deal with hugely important political and social issues, like Twelve Angry Men.What it does need to do, though, is capture its audience by having a tightly bound cast with not a single weak link. A tall order for any dramatic work, certainly, but when it works, boy does it work.

The cast of Glengarry Glen Ross is spectacular, not least because of the star names: Jack Lemmon, Al Pacino, Ed Harris, Alan Arkin, Kevin Spacey, Alec Baldwin and Jonathan Pryce. Nevertheless, the celebrity factor does not come into play, merely because, as the story makes so tragically clear, no one man is greater than the company.

As the desperate characters are placed into a ruthless competition by their employers, a variety of underhand and dishonest methods are shown to be the tricks of the real estate salesman's trade. The fear of losing one's livelihood is expressed in suitably macho terms, the strong language making the film notable for being one of the most colourful out there. This office is definitely NSFW.

Below is the scene which almost won Baldwin an Oscar. Watch, enjoy, and if you haven't alread seen it, get yourself a copy of Glengarry Glen Ross.

Theatre Review: Sucker Punch

Sucker Punch, The Royal Court (London), 11/06/10

I've never been to the opening night of a professional production. By a happy accident, I found myself among the first few hundred people to ever see Roy Williams' latest play. Before the lights dimmed, The Royal Court's Artistic Director, Dominic Cooke, informed the audience that the production schedule was running behind and that the night was indeed the first time the actors had performed in full costume and with all technical cues. Effectively, we were watching an open dress rehearsal.

Not that anyone would have noticed, of course. This is not the first play in which Roy Williams has used sport as an allegory for what is happening in contemporary Britain: anyone who saw his 2002 play Sing Yer Heart Out For the Lads can testify to that. Williams is a self-confessed sport-addict; he is also highly aware of attitudes toward race and immigration and sport's role in shaping those attitudes. With Sucker Punch, he takes a look at our recent history, along the way commenting on ambition, compromise and how race still gets in the way of how British society sees itself. It is both nostalgic and eerily contemporary: although it is unlikely a 20-year-old white man would refer to black people as "darkies" and "their lot", today, the sentiments and sterotypes remain. The language is either staunchly that of the white working-class or Jamaican Patois which has a slightly clichéd and stylised effect, but does not suffer from this, since the historical distancing technique is clearly meant to be the result of this.

The play is also about the relationship between Daniel Kaluuya's conformist Leon and Anthony Welsh's rebellious Troy. Both are forced to clean the toilets and floor of the boxing gym they break into before the start of the play, owned by Nigel Lindsay's Charlie; both have talent and both become champion boxers. While the former stays and is trained by Charlie, the latter refuses to be another Uncle Tom or white man's toy and relocates to the United States, where he is exploited by a black boxing promoter - played by Gary Beadle - instead. The two are pittied against each other in an intense finale, tragic irony of which is highlighted by troy's father who says: "White people love nuttin' better than to see two black men beat up on each other. They too scared to do it theyself." There is only one winner in the ring, but both have failed.

The audience experience is heightened further by Sacha Ware's staging, the Royal Court's Jerwwod Theatre being refitted in the shape of a commercial boxing ring. The audience become spectators of so much more as the real world merges with that of the play and that of the sport. This realignment of perspective intensifies the reception of the performances, and I have nothing but praise for the cast, almost all of whom are excellent, particularly Welsh and Lindsay. Finally, at just over an hour and a half with no interval, the play really does feel like a match, as the finale is played out in the stalls as well as in the ring, Troy and Leon making spectacular entrances among the crowd. I was spellbound, and I don't like sport.

Probably the most accomplished new play on in the West End at the moment, Sucker Punch is a powerful, entertaining, and challenging production which will no doubt be talked about for decades to come; and I saw it on its opening night!

Book Review: Homosexuality in Renaissance England

Before the 19th century the word "homosexual" did not exist. It's true: look it up. Before then, any behaviour which we might understand to be homosexual was described with words which we may now find offensive (such as "bugger" or "pederast"), antiquated (such as "uranian"), or simply peculiar (such as "pathic", "catamite" or "ganymede"). However the most important difference was that the words were used to describe behaviour and practices, and not an idenity, because before the 19th century, the homosexual identity did not exist.

There are several books which chart the history of homosexuality in Europe. Bray's research - highly praised when published in 1982 and still largely influential when reading English Rennaisance texts from a Queer perspective - covers three centuries of the legal and social documentary in England of what would eventually become the gay sense of self.

It is refreshingly short, too, making what is essentially an academic text all the more accessible to the casual yet keen reader. The first chapter deals with coming to an understanding of what we would now call homosexuality wwithin the social and cultural context of the sixteenth century, before moving on in the second chapter to give examples of legal records: both enlightening for their presence and frustrating in their ambiguity and slippery terminology. The third chapter looks at the phenomenon in the political context, comparing contemporary ideas of spirituality and morality with the justifications both for and against homosexual practices. It is interesting to note that though there was no distinguishable movemont for defense or pride, arguments were made in favour of segregating the sexes, and promoting what Sedgwick called "homosocial" bonding between men as a means of enforcing the patriarchal structure.

Finally, in the fourth chapter, the study jumps one hundred and fifty years on and focusses on the Molly houses, the earliest-known recognisable homosexual subculture in England. Bray also looks at the economic and political shifts caused by the preceeding Civil War and Restoration which may have contributed to changed attitudes amongst men who recognised their own sexual difference. Indeed, the Georgian period is the first, Bray argues, to delineate such differences.

Concise, simply written, and packed full of insights into everyday life, this book is an informative and enlightening must-read for gay men with an interest in our history.

Theatre Review: Women Beware Women

Women Beware Women, The Olivier Theatre (The National Theatre, London), 05/06/10

How do you solve the problem of revenge tragedy? We all know everyone but the super-virtuous will have to die at the end of the piece. Every character will meet his or her comeuppance in a suitably poetic manner which will mirror or distort their vices. The lascivious Duke must be killed in his bed; his ambitious mistress must die a whore's death; her idiot cuckold of a husband will die of shame or commit suicide; and the bawdy wealthy black widow who sits in the centre of this perverse web? She must fall spectacularly from grace and be trampled underfoot. All that will be left is the hired help who have been watching the whole degradating affair from the sidelines and the pious Cardinal who will relate the tale in order for it never to happen again. Why do audiences return to these seemingly self-righteous displays of what happens in godless, corrupt societies?

The answer is simple: we like the baddies. They are bold, charismatic and above all wittier and more likeable. It is no surprise we revel in their inevitable downfall - we have watched their ascent with the relish only an observer in the comfort of an auditorium seat can enjoy. At least, that's how it should be. Marianne Elliott's Fellini-inspired visual feast fails to arouse any kind of sympathy for the charicatures which prance and strut about in her modern version of Middleton's most misogynistic play. For all the sumptuous clothing and impressive staging, the production falls flat on its face in its attempt to reach an understanding of how and why corruption and sin is so attractive. Furthermore, for a play which so openly positions women in the role of corruptor and corrupted - both victim and perpetrator - there is absolutely no questioning of this belief nor juxtaposing modern attitudes with those presented in the text, despite what the audience is seeing in terms of costume and scenery. The result is a series of beautiful yet incongruous and confusing set pieces. Even the blood-spattered finale is stripped of its potential and replaced with a technically impressive dance number on a revolving stage. By this point, though, the audience is so disengaged from the action and subtext that people are willing to stop thinking and just enjoy the spectacle of it all.

As far as the performances are concerned, it is difficult to ascribe blame. In most cases the talent is blindingly obvious - Harriet Walter, Harry Melling, Nick Blood, and Raymond Coulthard give amazingly watchable performances as well as they can, and Samuel James is the most entertainingly sinister Messenger in theatre history. However, Elliott's refusal to engage properly with the characters' individual struggles causes tension between the text and the performances, while some of the cast simply have no clue what to do and resort to pantomime villainy, as in the case of Richard Lintern, or monotonous whining, like Samuel Barnett. It is difficult to tell Vanessa Kirby and Lauren O'Neil apart, not aided by playing two versions of the same character; and the whole shambles is finally stripped of any remaining credibility when Chu Omambala's Cardinal storms in with great bombast but little control of his diaphragm: I can't help but wonder if he was directed to play shock and disgust at Lintern's licentiousness a little too literally. In any case, it was all I could do to stop myself bursting out with laughter. I was sat in the front row, and there would have been no escape.

If it were not for the fact that I had previously studied the play, I would have been hard pressed to relate the actual story. Some people in a palace talk a bit, have an orgry and then kill each other. I could have bought that on DVD for a lot less. All in all, the production was a mess, albeit an impressively designed one. A case for a balance between style and substance.

Book Review: What's My Motivation?

Acting is a terrible business. A career filled with disappointment, desperation and despair. To want to be an actor one must either be  mentally ill or a masochist. That said, an actor who gets regular bit-part work can end up doing fairly well for himself, even though he fails to become a big name even among other actors.

Michael Simkins' "big break", as it were, came when he was approached by The Guardian to write a weekly column about his life and experiences as a nobody. Over the course of a few years, these snippets were enough to be able to be combined and compiled into a single volume, and What's My Motivation was born. We budding actors are better off for it. Not only is the book honest and an incredible insight into the world of the theatre for both actors and non-actors, it is well written, easily read, and extremely funny.

Describing Simkins' career from his first teenage encounter with Gilbert and Sullivan through his time at RADA (where he became close friends with Timothy Spall and Juliet Stevenson) the memoir - Simkins is not famous enough to write an autobiography - charts twenty-five years of playing stalwarts and unsuspecting cuckolds, appearing in supermarket fire safety promotional videos and being cut from adverts with Rik Mayall. While reading, one cannot help but learn and laugh at the same time. Devoid of self-pity or resentment, Simkins thanks his lucky stars for having been able to work almost solidly since graduating. As he is very quick to highlight, only 10% of self-defined actors are working at any one time; the trick is to be in that 10%. Hardly an easy task, but made easier by lowering one's expectations of stardom and simply taking what is available.

Apart from its self-deprecating humour, the book is a charming read because of its sheer honesty about the author and his colleagues. Far from being scurrilous or gossipy, Simkins is a professional to the end by praising other, more commercially successful actors by name and deciding to omit any defining details when it comes to bad behaviour. Among the fellow actors he picks out for special mention are A-listers John Malkovitch, Anthony Perkins, and Only Fools and Horses star Buster Merryfield. He also has some cracking anecdotes and standard actor jokes. The episode dealing with a girlfriend's prank gone wrong while on repertory tour and the tale of reading disturbng medical records which double as police files in The Bill are particular favourites of this reviewer; while the one about the actor's wife who gets raped by his agent is probably one of the best instances of dark comedy ever. The book is doesn't shy away from personal matters, describing Simkins' disatrous relationship history, his first dabble with alcohol at 22 years old, and his lacklustre wooing of and eventual settlement with wife Julia Deakin. He also revels in the mundanity of everyday British life: not one driver will fail to understand Simkins' frustration in his attempt to buy car insurance, nor his inability to keep from slagging off his rivals.

In a way, the book is much like a humourous film following a lifelong secondary character; a true account of the man with four lines in the latest episode of Casualty. This should be required reading for anyone harbouring dangerous dramatic desires: if they still want to ruin their lives after reading Simkins' story, then there's nothing more you can do. Give up and hope for the best.

Now, which way to the Job Centre? I'll need something to keep me going while I work towards that 10%...

An Actor's Journal

The World's Mine Oyster

In many senses, I'm living in limbo. I've finally moved out of Brighton and, barring the odd trip down for my graduation ceremony and the like, I have nothing more to do with the place. Since the beginning of July I have been based in Brixton - a South London district famous for influential race riots in the early 80s - and will be here until the end of August, when I return to the dulcis domus. I may not particuarly relish the idea of moving back in with my dad, but it'll be a cheap and temporary way of surviving while I set myself up properly in London for what looks like the rest of my working life. Part of me wishes I were able to relocate to Madrid, but that is a fantasy. The reality is that not only is it more possible for a black actor to have a successful career on the stage in the UK, but also that (with the exceptions of the experimental, fringe and touring regional companies) Spanish theatre just doesn't compare to that of Britain and is not what it used to be. So Perfidious Albion it is; which is fine, as long as I can be based in the cultural and commercial capital.

Career-wise, things are looking up. The official start of my training will be on the 13th of September, when I walk through the doors for my first day of training at drama school. I cannot wait: after having three months of really intense auditions I knew that the place I eventually chose was the right one for me. In one panel, when performing a section of the Act II Scene 2 "traitor" monologue in Henry V ("The mercy that was quick in us but late...") I was brought close to tears. After that experience I knew I would benefit so much from the training given there. Before that I'll be performing with the National Youth Theatre in the major play of this summer's season, so I'll have that to keep me busy over August. The main worry was what to do with July. I had it all planned: finish university at the end of May, search for a summer job and work part-time over June, move it up to full time for July, then quit and live frugally on my earnings over August. Plans are always perfect; life, however, is less so. I spent a month and a half just looking, applying for almost anything online; handing out my CV in bars, clubs, theatres, bookshops, cafés, restaurants, shops and even in Victoria train station, all to no avail. Finally, this week, after a little CV surgery and a some help from my friends, I managed to get three job opportunities come my way. Jobs are like buses: you wait for one...

So, on Monday I start my new job. Admittedly, it isn't the most comfortable, rewarding or satisfactory job out there, but what can I expect for three weeks' work? Besides, beggars can't be choosers, and it was getting so desperate I was living on one meal of bread/rice/pasta and cheese/chicken/mince a day. Ah, poverty: not so much the actor's friend as the one who's constantly pestering the actor, despite his many attempts to rid himself of its company. Thanks to this placement, I'll be keeping poverty at bay for the time being.

Finally, as the upward trend in my career and professional prospects continues to soar, so the downward spiral of my loneliness and misery continues to sink. It's always the way: my love and work life seem to be in constant diametric opposition; as one goes well, the other goes spectacularly badly. Take Spain: a serious relationship and several lovers; not one single dramatic performance. This year: three plays, three drama school offers and a summer project; but rejection, disillusionment, crap sex, and now being dumped. Without delving into too many details, I met someone who was perfect on paper - a good looking, funny actor who was genuinely interested in me - but for the small inconvenience of being in love with his ex. Such is life: I can only hope that if I have to choose a life of success and singledom over unemployment and a family life, I'll take the former option. Them's the breaks: after all, one needs some measure of heartache and despair to pool and use when playing the dane...

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,
A stage where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.

The Merchant of Venice (I.i.77-79)

In Their Own Words

One of the problems with small theatres like the Donmar and the Almeida [is that] they’re wonderful places to work, icons of fashionabilty and all that, but it’s very exclusive. You can’t get in. Plus these places only function if we actors get low wages. The tragedy is that there’s no ticket equivalent of what there was when I was young. I went to see Olivier in The Merchant of Venice for 15 pence... Anyone who says the seat prices don’t make a difference should go to one of the theatres where they have a cheap night on a Monday. The places are heaving. It’s interesting that Olivier, a conservative figure in many ways, was absolutely supportive of the notion that subsidy subsidised seat prices. That’s gone now. Today it’s all about charging the market rate. The market rate cuts people off from the experience. 

Roger Allam, British Actor, born 1953

Opulence, thy name is Woman!

 Sit back, turn the lights down low, the volume up high, and revel in the magnificent glory of Joseph L Mankiewicz's Cleopatra!