The Green Room Incident...
Revenge of the Incels
It wasn’t actually in “The Green Room” but it would have been if The Battersea Art Centre had one. It was in the bar and I was standing with Carol Harrison, a cast member. Her husband, Jamie Foreman, his father Freddie and, Carol’s brother-in-law, Alfie Curbishley (RIP). Raucous laughter abounded and life was hunky dory until, on glancing around, I spotted another gang. This gang though, were not laughing and joking but rather, cowering at a table in the corner. The fear and loathing emitting from that table was palpable. Despite having never seen them before, I instinctively knew who/what they were and equally instinctively, knew it would be me who’d pay for their pain and suffering. Our presence, on what they clearly considered their turf, appeared to have induced a mass flashback to their school days. Re-living your head being stuck down the toilet, can’t have been pleasant. Until that precise moment, I’d always dismissed that toilet business as a myth but looking at them, I wasn’t so sure. Each bore the air of someone who’d been lowered, head-first, into the Kazie and furthermore, if they hadn’t been, they ought to have. Yeah, I said it…
Despite their bitter resentment over our very existence, the chances of them saying, much less doing, anything about it, were non-existent. I mean none of the real ale bottles littering their table were going to be aimed in our direction. The ‘Rules of Engagement’ differed with these Incels. Firstly, there were no rules and secondly, there was no engagement. At least, no direct engagement. They stuck to what they knew, poisoned pen letters… It really is difficult to describe what this sorry bunch of sad sacks looked like, but had you taken a snapshot, showed it on Family Fortunes and asked, “What are these?”, Meg from Rochdale would have pressed that button and shouted “Nonces!” Consulting his card, the host would declare, “Our survey says one hundred percent– nonces! Congratulations Meg, you’ve won the deluxe lawnmower.”
On turning back to the Cockneys, I could no longer pretend to enjoy their banter as I was now seeing and hearing everything through the lens of those in the corner and each bellowed laugh caused me to wince. When, the admittedly loud- call for (another) bottle of Champagne went up, it almost induced a heart attack. These East End types are unreserved at the best of times but once they’ve downed a few drinks, they can become positively garish. Especially when, like me, you’re stone-cold sober. Unable to cope, I mumbled my goodbyes and headed for the car. My drive home wasn’t great as most of it was spent anticipating how bad things were going get. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. They came out a couple of days later, all on the same day…
I may be wrong here, but I think the broadside came from The Times, Guardian, Independent and sadly, the Telegraph. I was outside the Bar Italia reading the fourth and final, extremely vindictive, onslaught, when succour arrived. It came via a surprising source. In the form of Ganda. A well-known, well-liked man about town. He nodded. I responded, somewhat morosely “Alright Ganda.” Sensing my lack of vigour, he enquired, “What’s up?” I responded by showing him the review. Glancing from the headline and back to me, Ganda stated, “You were a fucking lunatic. It’s a miracle you’re alive and you’re worried about that bollocks?” Shaking his head, he popped inside for an Espresso. Ganda had a point. There had been some fun over the years. For those guys and their dandruff-ridden, shapeless shoulders. Firing off spiteful reviews was not only as good as it got, it was as good as it’d ever get.
The play they’d “reviewed” was Swaggers. It had already won the Time Out Best Play award. A fact that I know irked them because they all mentioned it, along with how wrong Time Out had been in its choice… That said, the Battersea run wasn’t as good as the original at the Old Red Lion. Firstly, because we’d replaced Kate Fleetwood, who’d been brilliant. We’d lost her for what would have been one performance. We ought to have just cancelled that show. Instead, we recast the part and the fill-in, whist extremely attractive, couldn’t act. Secondly, this’ll sound ridiculous but details count. In the original, the replica gun used was nondescript. In the rerun, Carol had got hold of a shiny new one. It looked like a Magnum. It also looked… preposterous. Originally, Swaggers had been commissioned by the Royal Court who, in their wisdom, deigned it unworthy. Ian Rickson championed the play but sadly, Ian was pissing in the wind. Mr Daldry was the Artistic Director and Mr Daldry wasn’t having Swaggers but that’s show business.
The origins of the play lay in a place called Romford. Which, in turn, is in a place called Essex. It was in Romford that I’d toiled in a Swag Shop during the build-up to Christmas, a couple of years earlier. I’d been working for a cat named Stephen. One of the brightest individuals I’ve ever known. Stephen ran a slick operation. Swag shops basically sold shit- real cheap. You don’t see many around now but back in the 80s/90s they were everywhere. Often featuring massive posters with garish colour combos. Yellow background with red wording, splattered with exclamation points. “Padded Work shirts! £4!” We had a speaker outside the shop from which, a tape of Stephen listing our wares was played. Vying for airtime with Ronnie Spector’s Christmas Hits. “We’ve got the Gamechild at seven ninety-nine. Men’s jogging bottoms at four seventy-five. The ladies Argyle at…” “Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling too.” Swag Shops should not be confused with “The Run-out”. They too had speakers outside but the Run-out is a far more complex operation. Over the speaker, Stephen’s speech cadence was similar to that of boxing promoter Frank Warren. Ronnie’s cadence was unique. While the content of the play and the reality of the shop shared little - if anything - I could not have written the former without having worked in the latter. I’ve witnessed a field turned into a festival, an empty hall into a boxing arena – within hours - and seeing a well-drilled crew at work is a sight to behold. Stephen’s core staff fell into that category. Turning an abandoned premise into a fully working shop in half a day. Yet, as functional as they were as a team, individually we were all dysfunctional. In some instances, extremely so.
Any normal person would have struggled in that environment as they’d have lacked the hyper-vigilance required to pick up on the cues. An example might be lunch. One day you’d be approached with a smile and asked what you wanted. The smile informed you that it was OK to go for a “large meal”. The following day, the absence of one, warned you to not only stay clear of large meals but to leave the cheese off your quarter-pounder. One could claim that any random group of adults would be suffering varying degrees of trauma and one would be correct, but our degrees were higher and our resistance, lower. One guy, haunted by a family tragedy, was prone to crying mid-sentence. They weren’t big tears, and you weren’t to mention them. The passage of time had made no difference as he’d failed to develop a coping mechanism. There were two distinct schools amongst those of us still capable of analytical thought, on why Stephen employed us. One was that he chose us as we were easier to manipulate. The other, because he cared. My belief, my strong belief, is that it was (mostly) the latter.
The Royal Court though, wasn’t buying into a modern-day saint from Stepney Green. I could drop the play or mount my own production. I’d done a couple over the last few years. The first, Fantasy Bonds, set in a West End club and featuring a host of Cockney miscreants had done well. It’d sold out most nights and generally speaking, got decent notices. I’d trained myself over the years not to get carried away with reviews good, bad, or indifferent. There was one though, from the Evening Standard that was fantastic. It wasn’t overly gushing but he’d got it. Really got it. I think, though I’m not sure, it was by Michael Ignatieff. I may have got this wrong but apparently, the gent was renowned for being rather scathing. I’ve had far more fawning reviews but never one so accurate. Thank you, Michael.
Fantasy Bonds, incidentally, was the first production, at least that I’m aware of, on stage, screen or, come to that, in a novel, pairing gangsterism and therapy. I got it from a book entitled The Sicilian Connection. It’s a non-fiction about heroin trafficking. There was an instance of a guy declining a hit, due to it coinciding with an ante-natal class that his wife was insistent he attend. It’s not therapy but I made that leap. The play was staged in 1993. The Sopranos and Analyze This were released in 1999… Just sayin.
OK. So, that production went well. I followed it with another. Which was such a disaster. It was so traumatic that I’ve blocked the title from my memory. It got indifferent reviews but, more damagingly, it didn’t sell tickets. That one lost money. You get a run of about a month at the Old Red and it’s impossible to make any cash as you’re on a flat rate rent until you start selling out. That’s when they switch to a percentage. When the show’s doing well, that month flies by. When it’s not, it’s the longest four weeks of your life. You may ask what the point is if that’s the case. Well, it’s what’s known as show-business. It’s not show-friends. If your show’s shit, they won’t buy tickets. If it’s good though, there is always the distant chance that it’ll get picked up. By a West End theatre or better, the telly. Chances are slim but…
That second play was a horrendous experience. It had been workshopped at the National Theatre Studio and we’d worked in with the view of putting it in front of the high-ups. Not only at the National but I think the Court may have been invited. The rehearsal period hadn’t gone well. In fact, it’d gone so badly that on the day of the first performance I’d gone in intending to call it off but we did a run-through and, as if by magic, it all fell into place. That afternoon’s showing wasn’t quite as good and meant we’d missed our chance. We had another performance the following day and it was incredible. Honestly, it was beautiful… I went on holiday soon after and returned, a month later, with the intention of staging it.
Trouble was, Ray Winstone had done the workshop and I knew I’d be losing him. I recall Ray’s character telling a lie, requiring a yes or no response. The way Ray said “No” was a revelation. no extras – just a straight “No.” Sounds simple but most actors look guilty when their character’s lying. The simplicity Ray employed rang a bell. Then, I lost one of the two actresses. Problem was, she failed to tell me she’d got an advert. They bang on about their craft and all that, but it was a decent part in a decent play but the advert paid more so… By the time she did get round to informing me, the production’s wheels were already in motion. The actress I got to replace her was nowhere near as good. Ultimately, three out of four of the cast now were not right. The replacement for Ray was a good actor, he just wasn’t Ray Winstone. He lacked the gravitas and I’d miscast him. The one cast member who was right was Elaine Lordan. Elaine’s the most underrated actor I’ve ever known. She’d appeared in Fantasy Bonds and on her first reading, if I’d been able, I’d have told her to forget about rehearsals and just turn up on the first night. She was that good. I had to have her in though, because nobody else was…
During the Fantasy Bonds run, as things had taken off and I didn’t need to be at each performance, I’d pop in every few nights and stand at the back, unseen by the cast. On one occasion, I’d left early and on arriving home, left a note. A minor note, over her answering machine. I popped in a few nights later and sure enough, she’d incorporated it. Most actors need an hour of debate/instruction on taking a note and even then, you have to go over it all again as they forget. Elaine doesn’t. During my time as Writer in Residence at the National, I got to see many productions and the privilege (I didn’t appreciate it) of watching some of the world’s finest actors in rehearsal and none had the natural ability of Elaine. On EastEnders, cast members were popping to the producer’s office, complaining that she was too good and making them look bad. That’s a true story. I have a theory as to why Elaine didn’t get the work her talent warranted. Directors - the vast majority of whom were middle-class males– found her terrifying. They may have put it down to her sharp tongue/caustic wit but Elaine left the director redundant and those lacking confidence, find that a difficult position to occupy.
However, as he/she wins (each) of them over, they’ve been on an individual journey with that actor, one that began in doubt and gradually changed to trust. Because each audience member goes through this journey alone, the bond created by the actor and the audience as an entity, becomes very strong. Conversely, if you cast somebody who looks the part but can’t act, which sadly, is the case with most Cockney actors, the journey’s reversed. They begin with trust and slowly lose it. That distrust seeps from the one character/actor into the entire production and before you know it, or even they know it, you’ve lost them and they’re all hoping it’d all just hurry up and end. So, for me, casting, not necessarily against type but certainly avoiding the overly obvious, is the best way to go. One must bear in mind, when you’re doing stuff on the fringe you’re not going to be dealing with Tom Cruise or Denzel Washington. You’re dealing with- if you’re lucky - jobbing actors who, at that moment, aren’t jobbing. I’d been around a while and my reputation wasn’t too bad so, getting established pros wasn’t a massive stretch. In Fantasy Bonds, we had a guy named Brian Croucher.
Brian had been around the block- a few times. He was a decent actor and a decent fellow but… he fancied himself as a director. It’s a common trait. I think it’s fair to say that for a while there, Brian felt he could undermine me and end up directing the show. “Wants and needs, Mick. What are our wants and needs?” A beat… “My want and your need, is for you to learn your lines, Brian.” He kind of slowed down after that.
This was my third outing as a director and I’ll be honest, those times were easily the most enjoyable and gratifying of whatever career I had. I’d learned a little along the way so when, during rehearsals for Swaggers, Peter Hugo-Daley suggested a line change, I nodded and asked what he wanted to say instead. We marked it and moved on. Sure enough, a few days later Peter says, “You know this line, Mick, can we change it back?” I nodded and we changed it back. Often a line will not look right and it may not (on early readings) sound right. So, surely then, changing it to something that makes more sense will make it better? Except, it won’t. I say this, having had numerous actors wanting to change lines and eventually, wanting to change them back. This is part of the reason most of the stuff on British TV is complete and utter shit. It all reads well, in that it all makes perfect sense on the page but once you put it on a screen, it’s like watching paint dry.
Most things are massively over-written and when you’ve got characters talking verbosely and none of it ringing true, you’ve got a problem. One of the issues is that many script-editors are often just out of Uni and don’t know their arse from their elbow. In order for the average BBC script editor to understand what’s going on, everything has to be spelt out on the page. This means that characters invariably explain what they’re going to do in one scene, do it in the second and then, talk about what they did, in the third. A story told in pictures? Not for these Oxbridge geniuses. The script-editor insists it’s overwritten in order for the audience to understand it- bullshit! It’s in order that they understand it. The problem goes beyond the lowly script-editor though. Most UK television executives do not know how to read a script.
This opinion isn’t restricted to me. A high-ranking television exec once famously opened a speech with the same statement. It may have been Jeremy Issacs - I’m not sure. I don’t know if they’re still obsessed with “issue-based” drama as I’ve long stopped watching but they used to love an issue. “It’s about Monkeys, have we done monkeys? It’s an important issue…” Years earlier, when attached to the National Theatre Studio, the Edmundo there was Peter Gill, a brilliant, brilliant man.
One day he’s sidled up to me and in reference to someone there, has half whispered, “They’re ruining the game, Mick. Ruining it.” Unaware of who he was talking about I’ve asked, “Who Peter?” His response? “Graduates.” He was a million percent right too. Peter Gill was/is a brilliant man, so tends to be right about most things. He wasn’t without his foibles though. I had a Katharine Hamnett coat. She was all the go back in the eighties and it wasn’t cheap. Peter was insistent it was snide. He found it neigh on impossible that a guy like me would shell out the retail price. Fact is, I hadn’t. I got it cheap from a fellow who drove a van for her. I failed to mention that part.
Back to Swaggers. During the first two productions I’d found “designers” a pain. Actually, the first one was a guy called Connor Murphy. Connor not only did a great job, but he was good to work with. The next one was a nightmare. Anything to do with sets bored me, the whole “Get Out” was a drag. This meant dismantling the set and - quite obviously - getting it all out. I solved that by setting Swaggers in the shop’s stockroom.
The entire set, therefore, consisted exclusively, of cardboard boxes. The stockroom was the nerve-centre for the shop’s counterfeit “designer” clothes trade, we stamped the boxes with logos such as Chanel, Polo, YSL etc, etc. We had a great time doing that play. Peter Hugo-Daley played “Moonie”, a former heavy boat who was working as the shop’s sleeper. Because the premises were either squatted or on short-term leases, they were not alarmed and the stock, due to the sheer volume, was worth a lot of money. Hence, the sleeper, who was basically a night watchman.
Daley is a blinding fellow. He’s also, given the chance, a superb actor and he got the chance with Moonie and man, Peter Hugo-Daley… ran with it. He was absolutely exceptional. He turned up one evening looking as pleased as punch as it turned out that earlier in the day, whilst strolling down Upper Street, a fellow’s shouted out from a builder’s van “Moonie!” It’s a big deal for working class people, acting on stage, in to be acknowledged in such a manner. On Daley telling the tale, I too, was as pleased as punch… Moonie!
Aside from Rupert, we had Carol Harrison who played Moonie’s love interest. We also had Helena Cullinan and Kate Fleetwood. That cast, as stated, really did rock that house on a nightly basis. Except, that is, for one night. Now, people talk about the “Luck of the Irish”. My father was Irish but I don’t really think I am and if we’re meant to be lucky, this night confirmed I’m not. Carol Harrison is well-connected, and it was through her that we got to hear of a West End theatre being “dark”. This meant that it was empty for a couple of months. I can’t recall why. I may have never known. Nor, come to that, cared.
The theatre was something to do with the guy at Everton, Kenwright. I don’t think it was Bill but if he has a brother involved, it may have been him who was coming. This was why we were doing this shit and the chances of transferring from The Old Red to the West End were, while not a million to one, not far off it. At least now, thanks to Carol, we had a chance. This is what show-business is all about. A couple of months in the West End could lead to a few more and possibly a production on (or off) Broadway. “Start spreading the news…”
Come the night, there was something wrong from the get-go. There seemed to be a lot of young Americans filing into the seats and these weren’t the ones David Bowie sang about. These were not Manhattanites. These were from Arkansas, Wisconsin. Maybe Dakota. North or South… They’d read the reviews and they’d arrived– en masse. My heart sank. A couple of nights earlier I’d warned the cast about timing. They’d started adjusting it to the audience’s laughter but that night… let’s say the Old Red holds a hundred people. A group of half that, completely fails to understand what’s happening on stage, really- really fucks up the ambience. The cast, used to roars of laughter, were suddenly faced with deathly silence and it threw them. It would have thrown anyone. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as though the characters were speaking in some shit Cockney Rhyming Slang. I mean this isn’t Guy “Citizen’s Arrest” Ritchie. It’s just the pace was fast, real fast. Too fucking fast for a load of kids from Dakota. Whether it be North or South. Post show, the Kenwright emissary, told us straight. It was no good to them as ninety percent of their ticket sales went to tourists.
This was nobody’s fault and maybe it was for the best. Had we opened in the West End and closed soon after, it would have been devastating and nobody involved deserved that. I’m not sure how long after the Old Red run that I got the Time Out Best Play award, but I know it was a Sunday evening as I’d been to Arsenal that day. They’d beaten Spurs three-one, fair to say it was a good Sunday.