Hurt feelings

One of the things I admire most about my Darling English Boy is his graciousness. He is able to take criticism, rejection and light-hearted ridicule with incredible grace and good-humour.

I am not so blessed. And, I’m not sure if this has more to do with the fact that I’m a woman, an American ... or both.

Either way, I have slowly come to realize that even in the most friendly, affirming and cosy of villages, there exist quiet enclaves of hurt feelings, however unintended.

On a walk in the bright sunshine of a crisp Autumn morning, I ran into my friend, Sally, walking her dog Poppy on the playfield. We haven’t seen each other for ages and took this opportunity to catch up.

Sally’s not been feeling well, so she missed our first Pageant rehearsal at church on Sunday. The “Nativity Pageant” is performed here in our village every five years, and it is a major undertaking. A huge, platform set is erected over the altar, and locals from nearby villages are invited to participate just to swell the ranks.

As with most “traditions”, there is a certain way of doing things. Of course, that is at the heart of what the word “tradition” means. Doing something repeatedly, in a particular way, at a particular time.

And this tradition is no exception. The major roles in the play (i.e., Mary, Herod, The Wise Men, etc.) all have a history. Once cast in one of these roles, the person playing it is ironclad to the role for life. Only death, relocation, or self-imposed retirement can release the role for someone else.

This year, with the sad demise of dear Chris Hayward, the role of Isaiah has a new occupant for the first time in over 25 years. This change has facilitated a shift for many of the male performers, and freed a new space in the role of Joseph. The D.E.B. has been asked to take on that role. Not bad for a “newbie”!

The selection process was very simple. Anyone interested in taking part turned up to the church and indicated their interest on a sign-up sheet. The directors then decide who goes where.

Knowing a longstanding tradition when I see one, I kept my expectations realistically low: women’s chorus/crowd. Sally, on the other hand, had her heart set on playing Mary’s cousin, Elizabeth.

Her disappointment and upset were palpable as we walked along the playing field. “I was told they wanted me for Elizabeth,” she said, sadly.

The irony of the situation was not lost on me. Here was Sally, a former professional stage actress, who has acted her way around the globe (several times) being passed over for a speaking part in the village Pageant.

On one hand, it’s laughable, and the other, heart-achingly sad. And, my heart did ache for Sally. I tried to console her by reassuring her that this turn of events surely had nothing to do with her, but rather everything to do with longstanding traditions, and the fact that there has probably been someone waiting in the wings, clomping at the bit, to play Elizabeth for the past 45 years!

I tried to soothe her by theorising that she, like us, has not been in the village for very long; and perhaps this is the curse of been a newbie, you’re left at the bottom of the artistic food chain.

But, if I’m honest, I share Sally’s pain. I was recently asked if I would consider directing a one-act play for the drama group. I said, yes, of course. And, then dutifully began racking my brain and spent hours upon hours scouring the library for a decent play to propose.

Probably not a surprise, given my professional background and tastes, I opted for a classic. Noel Coward, in fact. I found a little gem of a play called Ways and Means, and absolutely fell in love with it!

I submitted it to the ‘play selection committee’, and after just a few days deliberation, it was shot down like a turkey before Thanksgiving!

My selection was deemed ‘too old-fashioned’. I would be lying if I did not say my pride was more than slightly wounded. Like Sally, I have spent the better part of my life in the theatre, and have worked my way around the world doing so. Selecting plays and directing them was the way I lived my life.

So, a rejection like as this hits squarely, and rather foolishly, in a deeply personal place. Without a doubt, rejection is something artists live with everyday, and is nothing new to neither Sally or myself. As such, it does make me wonder why we have each taken these turns of events so much to heart?

Perhaps for me it is a bit of 'premeditated misery', as we have auditions for the Music Hall at the end of next week. Now, there’s a thing. My goodness, if I fail to be selected for the Music Hall, perhaps that would a sort of karmic pay back for all the scores of actors whose hearts I’ve broken over the years…

No discussion of hurt feelings would be complete without this clip from that fantastic musical comedy/ parody duo from New Zealand, "Flight of the Conchords":

Whose farce is this anyway?

"Mother Superior" awaiting her cue backstage

The DEB and I have recently signed away our sanity, and joined the village Drama Group. As a result, earlier in the summer, I auditioned and was cast as one of the seven nuns in a production of “None The Wiser”. Ho, ho!

The play is gag-filled farce, about two female shoplifting gangs who disguise themselves as nuns, and hide out in a convent. Obviously, both sets of nuns think the other set are “the real thing”, and hope they won’t blow their cover.

The play was great fun. It was silly, contrived and over-the-top, and I loved every minute of it!

I have mentioned before that have I spent decades of my life training actors and directing: Shakespeare, Chekhov, Strindberg, you name it. But this production, placed me on the over side of the directing table, faced with a style of dramatic literature with which I am unaccustomed, and forced me to ask myself a very basic and fundamental question: “Can I be funny?”

This was in fact a real challenge for me, and taught me a great deal about British humour, how it works and why we love it.

Throughout the rehearsal process I found myself striving for realism and depth, when in fact neither of these were essential. That is not to say that our characters were caricatures and not real people, far from it.

I thought my “Sister Jean” was a fully-fleshed out character, with clear objectives and intentions, but the difference was the way in which the characters, and everything else, evolved.

The most important mechanics in our rehearsals were the skills of speed and lightness of touch. I found myself, in a rather American way, pushing the obvious, forcing the joke, when that is the opposite of what is needed, actually.

Of course, when I trained actors in the past, I stressed to them that a comic character doesn’t necessarily realize/realise that he or she is funny, that’s what makes us laugh. And this could not be more true than in the realm farce.

Incredible mishaps, uncanny near-scraps, and obviously mistaken identity are just a few of the features of farce to which actors and audiences alike must turn a willingly blind eye.

(Of course, none of this is new. Dare I say that Shakespeare was the Ray Cooney of his day?)

Whether it is a Carry On film, Ray Cooney romp, or Hyacinth Bucket’s antics on “Keeping Up Appearances”, there is something so distinctly British about farce – even though the French would argue that their man, Feydeau is the undisputed master of the form.

As Jude Law (*sigh*) once put it, “We Brits aren’t afraid to be a bit naughty.” Although Jude may have taken that maxim a bit too far in real life, I think he makes a valid point for the success of British humour on stage and screen.

Even the word itself, “naughty” makes me blush ever so slightly, and want to giggle a little. And that really is the essence of so much of British humour and farce. Yes, it can seem very dated and old-fashioned in some instances, but it can also be very, very funny.

The village Drama Group is gearing up for our next big project, the annual “Music Hall” which happens every November. And the sell-out shows for Music Hall are very naughty indeed!

The DEB and I went along to a Music Hall planning meeting last Friday. The goal of this meeting was to glean preliminary ideas for music numbers and musical sketches.

This involved a group of us crammed into the Drama Group secretary’s cosy living room, gathered round the piano, surrounded by dozens of lyric books, sheet music, and several bottles of Beaujolais and Pinot Grigio.

“I don’t sing.” I said flatly.

However, egged on by my very supportive drama group chums, once the Beaujolais kicked in, I found myself belting a rendition of “Don’t Tell Mama” from Cabaret!

I can only guess where all of this will lead. I have serious doubts whether I will have to guts to attempt a command performance before the entire village come November!

In the meantime, I am becoming more aware of how British farce, absurd as it can be, does in fact imitate British life.

“I haven’t seen you for days!” my dear friend Sally, wrote in a very serious email. “We must get together, you only live up the road! Must tell you, poor dear Minnie. She’s beside herself. As you know, her beloved Oscar is dying. Well, he’s going to be put to sleep tomorrow. Can’t even bear it. And poor Bettye’s had a fall, too.”

Sally’s message left me wracked with guilt. I’ve been such a bad friend, I thought to myself. I need to be better about staying on top of what happening in the village.

My heart broke to read about poor, sweet Oscar. He is such a lovely dog, and we have all been hoping that the tide would turn for him. Minnie will be so lost without him. Right, I thought to myself, this going to be rough for Minnie, she needs a bit of support.

I had a super busy day with work at Charlecote, and one thing and another. But managed to organise myself enough to run by Sainsbury’s to buy some sunflowers and a Sympathy card for Minnie; as well as a Get Well card and flowers for Betty.

I rushed home, sat down, penned my cards, and headed out to make deliveries around the village.

I walked to Minnie’s, deep in thought, pondering what on earth I would possibly say to offer her my support and comfort. “Just give her a hug.” I thought as I rang the bell.

After pressing the buzzer, I heard what was unmistakably, the sound of a dog barking. And not just any dog, it was Oscar.

My heart sank as I stood there, flowers and sympathy card in hand, realising I was there to offer my condolences for a pooch that was still very much with us.

So, I did what any other rational human being would have done in such a moment, I made a break for it!

Yes, I tried to run. But, this is farce, so, of course, any attempt at escape is futile.

“Alycia?”

Minnie called after me, in that familiar British way wherein my name is divided into four syllables with a long “s” sound in the middle. I stopped dead in my tracks. I closed my eyes and tried to think fast.

I swiftly and forcefully crammed the Sympathy card down the front of my top, turned round and beamed, “Hello! These are for you!”

Caught up in the drama

“Revenge is a dish best served cold.” – Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus

As I stepped out into the crisp, night air, full moon beaming above me brightly, I had a sense of vengeance and vindication being acted upon me. A seismic shift of my place in the world.

Allow me to explain.

In my former life, I was a theatre director. It was a life I relished and enjoyed with zeal. I was passionate about my art, and adamant in my devotion to the great craft that I shared with countless scores of actors, hopefuls and talentless wonders.

My relentless dedication to detail and professionalism gave rise to more than a few ‘cruel to be kind’ antics that garnered me a reputation that would make ‘Ming the Merciless’ blush! Although admittedly and decidedly Napoleonic, I viewed myself as loving despot, whose goal was to bring the best out of my performers – often in spite of themselves.  

I was firm, but fair; and saw myself as the means by which my artistic wards would reach their desired ends. In other words, if they couldn’t handle me, how on earth would they ever survive the brutal, heartless world of their chosen profession?

I cannot count the number of nights I have spent in darkened auditoria, slowly pacing richly carpeted floors, in a room that has sudden gone airless. A petrified actor stands on an empty stage; white, hot light glaring down upon his/her vacant face. I can almost hear their racing heart, sense the breath that has now stopped, and the trickle of sweat rolling slowly down their spine.

The actor has dried. Forgotten the next bit of text, but dare not call out “Line!” knowing that I will, in my own words: “Fly, from wherever I am in the room, and stop you.”

And so, we wait.

In silence. 

A silence that seems to last a millennium as the wheels of the actor’s mind spin out of control frantically. As the metaphoric hamster in her brain races in its cage.

My actors would never guess that I hated these moments as much as they did. I will not go so far and say: “I suffered in those moments, too.” Because, I didn’t. Yes, it was painful; but it was my job to make them better actors, to make them professionals.

Then, the spark.

As if they have been struck by a thunderbolt issued from a merciful theatre god, the actor springs back into life, the words flow instantly like a raging torrent, never to be forgotten again.

It seems I have spent decades of my life limping in this manner through pages and pages of Shakespeare, Chekhov, Strindberg, Wilde, Genet, and the like. Excruciating times, amazing times.

As a result, I am still staggered by the joint decision the DEB and I made recently to join the Barford Drama Group. I vowed to myself, and anyone who’d listen, that I would never, ever get involved in amateur dramatics. And yet, here I am.

The Drama Group is a bedrock institution in our village, and its formidable director, Betty Corbridge is a legend in her own time. Well into her 90s, Betty has the spark, verve, drive, agility, and dedication that would give any director more than half her age a run for their money!

Truth be told, I joined the Drama Group just to have an opportunity to work with Betty. Betty is remarkable, and had an illustrious career as theatre director in London. Her career spans several decades, and her artistic triumphs include a citation and Honours from Her Majesty, the Queen.

I spent one glorious afternoon with Betty looking through her old production photographs and stunning pictures of her theatre company during off-stage gatherings. 

Each year, the company hosted a gala dinner for the casts and their supporters. These were no small soirees, but rather lavish, glittering, formal balls; and the pictures are filled with incredibly handsome men and glamorous women dressed to the nines in tuxedoes and gorgeous evening gowns. At the centre of the fabulous festivities is beautiful Betty, svelte and blonde, looking just like a 1950s, Hollywood screen siren. 

Age has not withered her, and she still has that same sassy sparkle in her dazzling blue eyes. But don’t let the sweet smile and delicate, graceful manners fool you, Betty is a force to be reckoned with.

“Well, what did you think of that?” – Betty smiled at us, as we awaited her assessment of our first attempt at the play without our scripts in hand.

“I must say,” she declared, “I thought that was ghastly! Ghastly! Positively awful. Wouldn’t you agree?”

And, in case we were in any doubt, she went on: 

“No. That really was quite dismal, girls. It was so painfully slow and laboured, if I had been a member of the audience watching it, I would have left in the first five minutes.”

Then, she demanded: “What can you say for yourselves? Does anyone have anything to say? Anybody?”

We daren’t answer. Or breathe.

Fool that I am, I hazard a weak apology: “…in some of the really slow moments, Betty, I think we were trying to seem contemplative…”

There is a pause. The air in the room disappears. Silence seems to last for millennia.

“Well,” Betty sighs calmly, bright eyes ablaze. “I could certainly see that you were trying, my dear. It was very trying, indeed. Perhaps, when you all get your lines we may have time to try some of those sorts of nuances, fine tuning, and may be even some acting.”

During the coffee break, I made a note for myself: “Don’t Be a Talentless Slug”. I wrote the note on a POST-IT. And stuck it to my forehead.

Our second attempt warranted a better response from Betty: "That was better. You actually managed to make me laugh once or twice. Well, the play is a comedy, after all."

"Was it really better?!" - we replied, eager for more praise, albeit barbed.

"Yes. On the whole better. There were even a few flashes of brilliance, in fact. Though they were very few indeed." Betty concluded.

Suitably chastised, my fellow actors and I left rehearsal with our tails very firmly between our legs. But, as I walked home through my sleepy village, I couldn’t help but smile, thinking of the times when I, too, have skewered an actor to the quick, with such directorial gems as:  “It’s called acting, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”,  or, “That was good. Let’s do it again, and this time, try acting.”

Sometimes, what goes around comes around.

Festive feelings

Not so long ago, I used to dread Christmas. My feelings of holiday doom and gloom could be begin as early as October, or July. Thankfully, all of that has changed.

It would sound quite, quite trivial to say, "Ah, the difference a Darling English Boy can make." And, I certainly do mean more than that. Perhaps, the phrase I am looking for is: "Ah, the difference Love can make." (A hard-won love at that.)

To that, I could add the difference a change of location and lifestyle can make. Living in New York, I always felt and knew I was in the cultural capital of the universe -- at least as far as New Yorkers are concerned, at any rate.

There are always an endless array of activities and events in which to take part in the City. One could die of many things in the City, but, to be sure, boredom would never be one of them!

However, even with the prospect of being surrounded by such limitless choice, more often than not, I found myself tucked away in my little West Village apartment watching telly -- BBC America, not doubt.

It's a common ailment in the City, I'd call it: Familiarphobia.

Being so used to having so much around you, nothing really seems exceptional.

And maybe, added to that is the dilemma of being a single girl in the City. I don't know about the rest of the world, but I always found it a monumental task to coordinate dates, times and schedules with my overly busy New York friends: "Let's go on Saturday...Can't do Saturday, let's go Thursday..." and on and on, until we never went at all.

By contrast, in my new British life, I always seem on the go! There always seems to be some happening or event on the calendar, especially at Christmas. And I love it!

Here in Barford, entertainment is serious business. To be sure, with two art galleries in our tiny locale, we certainly have more than our fair share of artisans and craftsmen and women. But really, there is more talent in this village than you could shake a stick at!

Every year the Barford Drama Group produces a "Music Hall" -- a little variety show with singing, dancing, comedy sketches and lots and lots of laughs.

The humour skirts the edges of blue, and certainly merits a PG-13 stamp. And, I have never laughed so long and hard in my life!

One of my favorite numbers was a rendition of a tune about Anne Boleyn, called "With Her Head Tucked Underneath Her Arm" -

In the Tower of London, large as life

the ghost of Anne Boleyn walks, they declare

For Anne Boleyn was once King Henry's wife

until he had the axe-man bob her hair

Ah yes, he done her wrong long years ago

And she comes back each night to tell him so

Chorus:

With her head tucked underneath her arm

she walks the bloody tower.

With her head tucked underneath her arm

at the midnight hour.

She's gonna find King Henry, she's giving him what for

Gadzooks she's gonna tell him off for having spilled her gore

And just in case the axe-man wants to give her an encore

She's got her head tucked underneath her arm

Chorus

Along the drafty corridors, for miles and miles she goes

She sometimes catches cold, poor dear, it's chilly when it blows

And it's awfully awkward for the queen when she has to blow her nose

With her head tucked underneath her arm

Chorus

Now sometimes old King Henry throws a spread

For all his pals and gals, the ghostly crew

The axe-man carves the joints and cuts the bread

When in walks Anne Boleyn to spoil the do

She holds her head up with a wild war whoop

And Henry cries, "Don't drop it in the soup!"

Chorus

One day she found King Henry, and he was in the castle bar

And he said, "Are you Jane Seymour, Anne Boleyn, or Catherine Parr?

"Well how the heck am I supposed to figure who you are,

"When you've got your head tucked underneath your arm?"

"Music Hall" is a big event in Barford. Tickets are hard to come by, we were unable to get tickets for love nor money last year, as we were too slow on the jump.

The day tickets go on sale there is a mad rush, and punters form an early morning queue outside Jane and Rod's house -- as early as 7 a.m.! You would have thought it was tickets for the Rolling Stones, or the like.

The DEB and I are flirting with the idea of joining the Drama Group in 2010. I stress we are only flirting with the idea. It could be fun, though.

The week following the Music Hall was the Church Christmas Dinner, another fun-filled occasion with the requisite annual Christmas pantomime featuring more stage acts but a number of different performers than those in the Music Hall. Talent, upon talent in these parts.

The highlight of the Christmas Dinner is the the featured entertainment provided by the highly musical Williams family, Barford's answer to the Von Trapps. They are simply amazing.

I failed to mention earlier the annual Harvest Supper that happens in early autumn, another Barfordian excuse for wine, good food and merriment.

Wine, Food and Merriment seem to be common themes, and another wonderfully recurring element is our resident Magician and Man of Mystery: "The Great Barloni".

(Surely every English village has its own Magician?)

Speaking of magic, a couple of enchanting events that are now fixtures in the DEB household Christmas traditions: "The Nutcracker". This year, we saw the Vienna Festival Ballet perform The Nutcracker in Leamington Spa. Fabulous.

There is something about "The Nutcracker," that always takes me back to the golden days of my childhood.

I first saw "The Nutcracker" at the age of 7, at Ballet Arkansas. My sister performed in it as one of the Flower Maidens in "Waltz of the Flowers."

That was back when people knew how to dress for the theatre, and my memory of it is coloured with little girls with satin bows in their hair, wearing lush velvet dresses in dark, jewel tones; shepherded by lean, elegant women in furs, pearls, and diamonds, smelling of Chanel No. 5.

Whenever I see "The Nutcracker", I am there again, 7 years old; and I cannot help but cry.

Laughter is also part of our Christmas tradition, and the past two weeks have been utterly hilarious. We saw Marcus Brigstocke in Warwick, and got to meet him after the show. He is a very tall man.

This week it was a road trip with the DEN (Darling English Nephew) to Birmingham to see Russell Howard live at the NIA. Russell Howard defies description. I think he is a tremendous comedian, but also a brilliant social observer/commentator. And, he's just plain funny.

The weekend was capped off last night by a wonderful Christmas concert at the Warwick Arts Centre by Kate Rusby. She's a doll, and the show was a real treat. She performed a series of old English carols, and was accompanied by her band and members of the Coldstream Guards.

It was a magical evening, that really got us in the Christmas spirit. And as we came out of the Arts Centre, we discovered a smattering of snow!! Holly Jolly Joy!

Festivities continue today with an afternoon Carol Service at St. Peter's. (The DEB is doing a reading, I shall be there as the proud, beaming Wifey!)

Handel's Messiah, a few remaining Christmas cards, tree decorating, and baking still to done!!! Holly, jolly indeed!

More of Barford...

One of the two red post boxes in the Village 

Local attractions and entertainment

The Granville - our local pub

Our street, with its two names posted

More Barford flora

Our other local pub, the Joseph Arch