Success in Rio

Reprinted from Focus Magazine, August 2014

Cicely Berry
Image © Ellie Kurtz

“Where words prevail not, violence prevails.”                                                                                               – The Spanish Tragedy, Thomas Kyd

By the time this appears in print, the dust of the FIFA World Cup will have settled, the winning nation will have held the golden trophy aloft (C’mon, Argentina!), and we all shall have re-emerged -- somewhat blurry-eyed, perhaps -- from our collective Brazilian hangover. What, one wonders, shall remain?

A great deal of questioning, no doubt. A certain Uruguayan will be due a period of intensive self-reflection (“To bite, or not to bite, that is question?”), and a considerable amount of collective introspection will be due for the likes of host nation, Brazil, and, of course, England.

Following England’s abrupt departure from the proceedings, I was more disappointed by the players’ reactions than by their poor performance. Wayne Rooney’s apologetic epilogue was utterly disheartening, particularly, his assessment that the English side is “too nice” to win trophies. Rooney lamented England’s lack of “nastiness”, implying that the team should become more ruthless and “street-wise”. That would be very sad, indeed, and quite out of national character.

Fair play and sportsmanship are hallmarks of British mentality and disposition. When outlining characteristics of his beloved English for his fellow Americans in 1904, Ralph Waldo Emerson mused that the most indefatigable English trait was “pluck”. He enthused: “One thing the English value is pluck. The cabmen have it; the merchants have it; the bishops have it; and the women have it!”

Cicely Berry, legendary Voice Director of the RSC, is by far the pluckiest Englishwoman I know. Since 1997, Cicely has traveled to Brazil to collaborate with “Nós de Morro” - a group of theatre artists based in one of Rio’s toughest slums (favelas). Far from the lush, tropical scenery featured on our tellies during the World Cup, Vidigal is a world apart - set high in the hills that surround the beautiful and opulent city. Controlled by drug cartels, replete with guns, gangs, and violence, it is place into which the police do not venture except in armoured cars. Armed with the works of Shakespeare, diminutive, octogenarian Cicely Berry enters this volatile place and competes confidently with drug lords for the hearts, minds and souls of Vidigal’s favelados (young people living in the slums).

As vividly depicted in the brutal, but truthful film City of God (2002), life is cheap in Vidigal. Watching that film, I shuddered at the thought of gentle, precious Cicely traversing such a place. (I once suggested accompanying her, and she resisted on the grounds that she could not guarantee my safety.)

True to herself, and driven by her uncompromising politics, Cicely’s mission is to empower, liberate and give voice to the voiceless. For Cicely, Shakespeare’s words are apt channels of expression, and by freeing the voice through his full, rich and powerful language, the speaker ultimately develops the courage and freedom to fully express their inner self. Hers is a truly characteristically English ‘plucky’ success in Rio, and one well worth celebrating!

Shakespeare's ambassador

Cicely Berry

“Thou must be my ambassador to them.” – Troilus and Cressida, III.iii.

The journey I make to Cicely Berry’s house is short, but sensational. Trundle from Barford toward Wellesbourne, whiz through that tiny, bustling village - pass the Co-op, then a sharp left. Suddenly and stunningly, the Warwickshire landscape opens wide to view, in all its verdant lushness. On a rainy, Spring day, the flooded road to Walton forces me to inch along its winding road gingerly, under sudden squalls and through pond-sized puddles, whilst skillfully avoiding the oncoming path of less cautious drivers.

Swish, swish, swish  – and then finally I arrive at the beautiful, Victorian schoolhouse that is Cicely’s home. An appropriately dramatic route to visit a woman whose remarkable life has been full of far more extraordinary and epic journeys, as one of Shakespeare’s most passionate ambassadors.

As the legendary Voice Director of the RSC, Cicely has spent over forty years training and coaching a pantheon of stars, politicians, and royalty: HRH Prince Charles and Neil Kinnock (“I tried to teach them both how to relax,” she said.), Judi Dench, Sean Connery, Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellen – the list of her pupils is truly inexhaustible. However, driven by her uncompromising politics, Cicely’s true mission has been that of sharing the joy and pleasure of Shakespeare around the globe.

A tiny, but formidable octogenarian, Cicely regularly travels far from this bucolic setting, with its stunning views across the fields of Walton, to prisons, detention centres, and some of the most remote and dangerous areas on the planet, such as Zagreb, Zimbabwe, China, Brazil (another inexhaustible list). She ventures to these places preaching the gospel of words, and using Shakespeare as a tool of empowerment. As she often explains, “Everyone has the right to speak. Everyone has a right to Shakespeare.” For Cicely, Shakespeare’s words are indispensible channels of expression, and she believes it is by freeing the voice through work on such full, rich and political language that ultimately allows one the freedom to express the inner self.

“Where words prevail not, violence prevails.”                                                                                             –  Spanish Tragedy, Thomas Kyd

Over steaming cups of Lapsang souchong in Cicely’s cosy sitting room, I once again state my desire to accompany her on one of her trips to Brazil, to observe her in action. “Oh, that would be great, darling!” she says, enthusiastically. “But,” she adds ruefully, “You must understand, it is not safe at all.”   

A scene from Nos de Morro's "Two Gentlemen of Verona"

Since 1997, Cicely has conducted workshops with “Nós de Morro” (“We are from the hillside”), a theatre group based in Vidigal, one of the slums (favelas) in the hills that surround the beautiful and opulent city of Rio de Janeiro. It is a place run by drug cartels, replete with guns, gangs, and violence. It is place into which police do not venture except in armoured cars. And, yet, in this place, armed with the works of Shakespeare, Cicely confidently competes with the drug lords for the hearts, minds and souls of the favelados (young people living in the slums). Life is these favelas has been depicted vividly in the brutal, but truthful film City of God (2002). I remember watching that film, and being dumbstruck at the thought of precious Cicely traversing such a place. Indeed, if I’m honest, my heart sinks a little whenever she informs me she’s headed there.

As the world comes to Stratford-upon-Avon this month for start of the World Shakespeare Festival (happening here through October 2012), my thoughts are drawn to the indefatigable Warwickshire woman who champions Shakespeare around the world routinely. Her politics, her honesty, dedication and bravery (though she denies it) are awe-inspiring. She leads by example, wherever her Shakespeare journey takes her - and Shakespeare could not ask for a better messenger.

Roses in December

I lost the first day of the brand new year nursing a hangover from Hades. (Created a new cocktail on New Year's Eve: Cosmospolitan martinis + Champagne = A Very Bad Idea) I am ashamed to say that I not only failed to make it -- across the road -- to church (and there were two services on the day), but made no attempt to no serious attempt to reflect upon the 12 months that have past.
(Oh, well, better late than never!)
It has struck me that this indicative of a larger pattern for me -- not the Cosmo-Champy hangover part -- but the seeming and literal lack of time to reflect and observe. This year, especially this past Autumn (Fall) has been a whirlwind of activity. I feel as if I have spent the past 12 months in perpetual motion. It is not surprising, of course, given my relentless quest to "make something happen" for myself here in the UK.
I wouldn't trade my little Warwickshire life, with my beloved DEB for anything! And, I really don't miss New York, or America at all. It is hard to describe what I do miss... 
(Warning: Shallow Alert) 
I miss the professional clout I had as a Professor at NYU. The respect and credos that went with the job. That utterly smarty-pants, bad-ass attitude that is bestowed upon NYU faculty as they walk through the Washington Square gate.  
The hours were long, the work demanding, the pay pathetic. I was alone and lonely. The students were great, but it wasn't enough. I would end each academic year feeling drained and morose. "There has to be more to life than this?" I found myself thinking again and again. So, I walked away. For a new life. Looking back, I could have done a better service to myself by making more of an effort to cultivate job prospects while I was on the other side of the Atlantic. But, you live and learn.
I hope and believe that 2012 will be my "phoenix year". That I will rise brilliantly from the ashes!
It has been that bad to tell the truth, I have landed on my feet, slowly but surely. It's just the "slowly" part I had not banked on. I suppose I allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security but the aforementioned 'smarty-pants, bad-ass attitude'. The world would be clambering at my door! Not so.
It has been a real struggle. I have had to learn and master the art of shameless self-promotion. (Not a natural state for me.) And, to accept routine rejection. I have had to be more creative about my career, and accept that my life is now a "portfolio" of gigs, and not a permanent post. I am the servant of many masters, now. That means juggling lots and lots of balls all the time. And that leaves very little time for reflection.
The past year, like most, has been one of highs and lows. 


New beginnings...

My lovely friend, Liz, with her dashing new husband, Noel

My friend, Liz, was married in October, and sweet, little church in Warwickshire. It was a blustery, but beautiful day. And the first English wedding I have attended as a married woman. (And, yes, it does make a difference!) I found a gorgeous hat from Next, that was quite the thing! It was such a delight to see Liz, who I have known off and on for years, but only recently have we gotten to know each other as friends. She is such a sweetheart, and her beloved is yet another darling English boy. 


And, endings...

Sheila Allen 

(22 October 1932 – 13 October 2011)

Sheila Allen was an incredibly gifted actress, and I am honoured to count her as a mentor and friend. Sheila was an early and ongoing champion of my work. She pushed me, and kept me focussed. At my book launch at the RSC in 2006, Sheila, Cicely Berry and my mother were the mighty triumvirate whose support had been indefatigable.
Sheila's funeral precisely the send off she deserved. Lord Melvyn Bragg gave a tearful and heartfelt reading from Shakespeare's Sonnets, and there was not a dry eye in the room. I wept like a baby throughout the service. And, have been so heartbroken at her passing that I have not been able to write about it, until now. 
Sheila was an amazing teacher, and she taught at BADA for over 20 years. She was delighted when I joined their ranks this past Autumn. In fact, less than a week before she died, Sheila and I had made a plan to meet for dinner. Due to other obligations, I requested we postpone. I'd give anything to re-live that choice now. (Maybe there's a lesson in that.)
I remember talking to Sheila in New York about leaving NYU, and coming to Britain. Life, she said, like acting, is about being brave and taking risks. After I made the leap, she wrote to congratulate me:

Dearest A., I’m glad you're back from the 'savage lands' of the USA! It's been a long sojourn and I'm sure filled with important, excellent things. Good for your Darling English Boy for winning you back for us! It may take time to adjust, but you belong with us!

Her words continue to inspire and strengthen me.
And so, the year ahead. There's something in the air, and signs all round like my vibrant pink rose bush is still blooming that give me the feeling that this is going to be a year of remarkable possibilities. And, a year of Love, and surprises, like the DEB arriving home on Christmas Eve with a dozen, long-stem red roses.  
For all my groggy grumbling, I am truly a lucky girl.


HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Soaring...

Friday, 24 October 2008

There are moments in each person's life that on the surface appear ordinary and mundane to others, but for them hold the significance of finding the Holy Grail, or like Frodo finally being able to let go of that blasted ring! The D.E.B.’s wise, sage older brother, “The Guru,” refers to such moments as “passing through a doorway.”  Yesterday, I passed through just such a doorway.

I delivered the “Thursday Seminar” lecture at The Shakespeare Institute. This was the most significant lecture of my life.  More than any snarky conference, or snarly gathering of surly scholars in New York City, this lecture at the Institute meant everything to me.  I was a student at The Shakespeare Institute some 12 years ago. And I as said to the assembled scholars and students, back all those years ago I never ever imagined that I would ever even finish my Ph.D. successfully, let alone become a “Shakespeare scholar”, nor could I have dreamt that I would have my Ph.D. research published, and certainly never fathomed the possibility of returning to my alma mater, and being invited to give a guest lecture there.

The big day came and went, and not without much trepidation. I procrastinated for weeks, uncertain as to what I should speak on. My goals were quite simple: I wanted to impress, and, I didn’t want to be publicly humiliated. My NYC chums: “Boy Genius Playwright” and “She Who Must be Obeyed” emailed me routinely to remind me of the importance of my recent experience with Shakespeare in Alaska, and how I should speak on that. They were of course absolutely right.

Last April, I went to Alaska in search of Shakespeare. (A recurring theme in my life.) I was teaching an undergraduate seminar on Shakespeare in America, when I came across details about a provocative, touring production of Othello in Alaska, wherein the play was being re-visioned with Othello as a Native Alaskan. Before I knew it, I had written the theatre company a letter, and booked a round-trip (return) ticket to Yakutat, Alaska.

In Yakutat, I re-discovered Shakespeare. But not only this, I was adopted by the Eagle clan of the Tlingit tribe; and met the most amazing people on the planet, who I am proud to call much beloved friends. How could I not talk about this? How I could not share this with the Shakespeare community here in Stratford-upon-Avon? How could I doubt this? Quite easily, actually.

I panicked. I doubted the “scholarly worthiness” of what I had to say, then, two days before my lecture, I had a rather unfortunately conversation with a leading Shakespearean who off-handedly dismissed the Alaska production I’d intended to speak about as, “absurd.” More panic.

I fretted, I sweated, I cried. It was too late to switch, and develop another topic. I considered my options, I could feign illness and cancel, or, I could feign illness and cancel. There was no way I could cancel, so I resigned myself to the fact that it was too late, I had see this through as I had planned, come what may. I sent out frantic SOS messages to my friends in NYC and to my friend/mentor/hero, Cicely Berry.

On Wednesday evening, the D.E.B. rushed home from work to cheerlead me through the eleventh hour. After the lovely dinner he prepared, we sat at the table, and I read my lecture aloud to him. Darling English Boy that he is, after I struggled through and finished reading, we both fell silent. He took a deep breath, gathered me into his arms, and said softly: "Darling Girl, I don't know whose voice that is, but it's not yours. Just talk to them. Tell them what you saw." I, of course, reacted just as one might expect: I flipped out, burst into tears, and went to bed.

The wee hours of the next morning found me laying on the bathroom floor and dry heaving into the toilet. And I wasn't hung over. I have never, ever been dizzy like that, even when I have been hung over! It is completely ridiculous that I had gotten myself into such a state over this lecture. On the bright side, I thought, I did now have a somewhat plausible excuse for canceling…

The D.E.B. helped me back to bed, and I did sleep for a short while. He woke me before he left for work, and left a card for me on my bedside table that said: "I am always so proud of you. Just be yourself.”

I slept for a few more hours and was then awakened by the phone. It was Cicely Berry urging me to remember that Shakespeare can and does change lives, regardless of what some scholarly-types would like to think. Then, I checked my email, more messages of support...and then, BANG! The clouds broke, and with new zeal and fresh resolve I shouted, well, swore, actually, very loudly. I grabbed my laptop and started lacerating my lecture. I cut pages and pages of academic crap. I re-typed the entire thing. I was still re-typing my lecture up to the moment that the D.E.B. came back home to drive me into Stratford-upon-Avon for the lecture.

With guns a'blazing I walked right into The Shakespeare Institute, and yes ... I ROCKED, THEIR, WORLD!

I finally realized I had nothing lose. So, I went for it. And the response was overwhelming positive. I had to, in the words of Polonius, be true to myself, and to my friends in Alaska (who are getting quite a beating in the world press just recently, due to their controversial Governor).

In many ways, my talk was just an open love letter to them, and to Alaska. Amazingly, after a night on the town to celebrate my success at surviving my lecture (which included a dinner of Fish’n’chips from my favo(u)rite “chippy” in Stratford), when the D.E.B. and I made it home, we discovered that a parcel had arrived for me earlier in the day. It was from Alaska. A care package from Yakutat.  My dear, dear, cheeky friend, Kris, had filled a box full of (would you believe it?) Tylenol!!! Benadryl and…Nyquil (oooooohhhh!!!!). God, bless her! There were Snickers bars, granola bars, assorted other American goodies, and a freshly canned jar of Nagoon berry preserves. (That smells and tastes of Alaska.) I could not help but see this precious gift as a great reward for holding faith with the remarkable work that I had had the good fortunate to experience in Alaska.

I spent the rest of that blissful, victorious night, strung-out on Nyquil and chocolate, and high on a post-traumatic-stress adrenalin rush. Before bed, I checked my email, and found another incredible reward. An email from my Tlingit Eagle clan sister—who had had no foreknowledge of my intended talk, nor the angst I’d experienced around giving it. She wrote:

“Hello my dear friend. It is so cold out. As I was walking home, I looked up in the sky and saw a young, graceful eagle soaring in the sky, so lovely and free. It reminded me of you.”

(Cue soundtrack: "Theme from the film 'The Magnificent Seven'")