LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

that’s not so bad, is it? Now roll onto your backs and kick those legs high in the air!’ she cries, her pewter bangles clinking like rigging against a sail mast.

      As the Evening Standard’s Most Promising Newcomer of 1980 (I googled her), Portia Howard obviously knows her stuff, but is this what real actors do? I can’t quite picture Dames Judi or Helen kicking their legs high in the air and panting like a dog before a performance.

      ‘This is ridiculous,’ blurts out Poppy, whose every sentence ends with a question mark. ‘Basically, I don’t hold with all this horseshit.’

      Her strained, cut-glass tones echo around the room as we all stare at her bug-eyed, legs suspended in mid-air.

      Rising to her feet and smoothing her skinny jeans, she continues, ‘Release your inner dog? What has all this pretentious rubbish got to do with being an actor? I don’t believe for one moment that Keira Knightley has ever had to crawl around a filthy floor on all fours, pretending to be a dog, so I don’t see why I should.’

      ‘Good point, Poppy,’ says Portia calmly. ‘Keira has probably never done The Dog Shake, and you certainly don’t have to if you don’t wish. But exercises like this teach you to be more fluid in your movement, to release blockages in energy, so that you can express emotion through your body – as well as build up the stamina to cope with eight shows a week, without …’

      ‘Yah, but I’m basically not interested in theatre. I plan to go straight into TV and films. I don’t know about the rest of you,’ she says, scanning the class, perky nose in the air, ‘but I want to learn about camera technique, about close-ups and continuity, and … giving the director exactly what he wants …’

      ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ says Portia, holding up her hands. ‘My class isn’t about showing you a shortcut to fame and fortune – if I knew that, do you think I’d be here now?’ she says with a half-laugh.

      ‘Obviously not,’ Poppy fires back. ‘But I have no intention of ending up a fifty-something has-been, teaching drama in a damp and dreary basement for the rest of my life.’

      Catching her breath and her composure, Portia replies with a little, enigmatic smile, ‘Good for you. But what this “fifty-something has-been” can teach you is how to bring truthfulness and honesty to your storytelling. I can arm you with the right tools to survive in this dog-eat-dog, heart-breaking, wonderful business; talent alone is not enough. You need humility, patience, harmony …’

      With an unabashed toss of her bouncy, shampoo-commercial hair, Poppy Hope-Wyckhill collects her D&G tote bag, places her jacket carefully around her shoulders, and struts out of the grubby basement on her patent wedge boots, in search of celebrity and riches elsewhere.

      ‘So if there are any more of you who are here just because you want to see your faces on the big screen or the cover of Hello! and are not willing to commit to hard work, sacrifice, and to embracing new challenges, then this is not the place for you,’ says Portia, directing her words at each and every one of us in turn. ‘Don’t be afraid to speak up.’

      The clock ticks loudly, a distant underground train rumbles below, feet pound the floor above, as the muffled strains of some big musical number vibrate through the cracked ceiling.

      According to Wikipedia, Portia has worked at The Royal Shakespeare Theatre, The National, and even been in a Merchant Ivory film. So why is she here? Is it the case that after a certain age the parts dry up? What hope is there then for me? I’m a bit ashamed to even think this, but is there an element of truth in Poppy’s outburst?

      But there’s too much at stake now to even contemplate giving up, so I must put my trust in Portia and the great Stanislavski’s theory, that to be a successful actor you sometimes have to make an eejit of yourself.

      ‘Okay, we have just ten minutes left,’ says Portia, rummaging in her well-worn, Mary-Poppins bag and producing a small coloured ball. ‘Let’s see how many of those names you can remember. As you throw the ball, say the name of the person you’re throwing it to and if you’re right, the person catching the ball has to reveal to the group a secret about themselves – the deeper, the darker, the better. Aaand, Emily!’

      It seems like everything is moving in slow motion, including my brain. The ball is heading this way … ooh, I can’t think straight … Oh, God, oh, God, this is so embarrassing … What am I going to say?

      ‘Correct. My name is Emily and … and … I once spent a night in a Middle Eastern jail.’

      * * *

      Being a Monday night, The Dog & Whistle, opposite Dramatic Ar s Centre, is deserted and we all pile around a long wooden table. Drinks in, we raise a glass to new adventures.

      ‘So, Emily. Spill the beans,’ says James, splitting open several bags of crisps to share. ‘You can’t leave us in suspense. How on earth did you end up in jail in the Middle East, for Christ’s sake?’

      I’m not entirely comfortable recounting the sorry tale as it’s not something I’m proud of, and to this day I have never told my parents. The painful memory has been locked away for many years, but tonight, due to panic and a desire to impress, it was unleashed.

      ‘I’d really rather not …’

      ‘Come on!’ they chorus, eighteen wide-eyed faces looking at me expectantly.

      Even the barman is taking an unusually long time to wipe the table next to ours.

      Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I was fresh out of cabin crew training school. My second long-haul trip, in fact. I’d never travelled to such an exotic land before, and instead of lying in my air-conditioned room, I wanted to explore the narrow streets of the old heart of Saudi’s capital; to smell the spices, the coffee, check out the colourful carpets and the ostentatious jewellery.

      ‘Hey, girls, are you all nurses?’ came a British voice behind us.

      I don’t blame them – the young expat geologists who invited us to their compound that night – nor do I blame my fellow crew who weren’t strangers to Saudi and should have known better.

      ‘Isn’t alcohol illegal?’ I’d asked feebly over the blaring music at the party.

      ‘Yeah, but you’re on British soil here,’ replied our host, handing me a glass of home-brewed wine. ‘Cheers!’

      What we naively and stupidly didn’t bargain for was being stopped and breathalysed by the police on the way back to the hotel.

      I don’t blame the authorities either. We knew the laws of the land and we broke them. We were lucky we didn’t end up being incarcerated for years, being lashed, forbidden from entering the country again, or fired from our jobs.

      I learned a hard lesson that night – to trust my own judgement and not be pressurised into following the herd.

      If there was a prize for Most Shocking Secret of the Evening, then I can confidently say I would have won, but I feel cross with myself for having shared that most shameful of events with a bunch of strangers in order to be accepted, to be liked.

      But then maybe daring to lay bare guilty secrets, disappointments, and desires is the key to being a good actor as opposed to a mediocre one.

      Who knows, one day I might find myself tapping into the fear I felt on that terrible night to bring truthfulness to a role.

      * * *

      It’s 1 a.m. by the time I turn off the light, having shared tonight’s events with Beryl over a Babycham.

      It’s early days, but tonight something shifted I think, and I got a tiny glimpse of where I’m headed – a fleeting confirmation that all of this will be worth it.

      T. S. Eliot was right; it’s all about the journey and not the destination.

      Warning:

      Babycham may cause over-sentimentality.

      *

Скачать книгу