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!”

Culture vultures

…a marriage of true minds… - Shakepeare, Sonnet #116

It has taken quite a while, but life is slowly getting back to normal, or rather back to what passes for ‘normal’ here in Barford.  I have finally made my way back to the gym, though I have rather resolutely reduced my workout regime.

 My focus these days is on swimming and the steam room. Eva has no regrets about this shift in perspective, as a very happy accident has prompted a halt in her more stenuous athletic pursuits. My change of heart, for the time being, I am unashamed to say, is driven by pure laziness and utter self-indulgence!

The usual suspects were in force upon my return to the gym, all happy to see me, and keen to share gossip, and hear details about my nuptials, honeymoon and etc. I was flattered to find that our wedding was still “the talk” of Barford, and features heavily in the current gossip mill:

“Is it true that when you arrived at the Machado on your wedding night, the stairway, entire room and bed was covered in rose petals?”-  asked Jackie #1.

“I heard that your D.E.B. hired a professional comedian for his Best Man. Is he available for Quiz Nights and other sorts of parties?” -  wondered Jackie # 2.

I could but laugh! The rose petals were true, that my new brother-in-law (a.k.a.,“The Guru”) is a professional comic is not true, though it should be! He was an amazing Best man and deserves every rumour that is flying around about him. His Best Man’s speech was written completely in verse! He’s a genius.

Entertainment does seem to be top of our list these days. The D.E.B and I seem to be dashing about like mad from one cultural engagement to the next. And we quite like it that way. My freelance gig with the Shakespeare Trust has the lovely bonus of the garnering often-hard to come by theatre tickets.

(And sometimes, one or two freebies, like tickets for last weekend’s staged-reading of Shakespeare’s poems, “Venus & Adonis” and “The Rape of Lucrece,” performed by Michael Maloney and the legendary Janet Suzman!)

We have had the good fortune to see most of the current season at the RSC: Julius Caesar and The Winter’s Tale. We are holding out for Trust tickets to see the new As You Like It. Our close proximity to the epicentre of the Shakespeare universe is not something I take lightly. It is a dream come true to live so close to this theatrical mecca. 

Oh, and of course, there is always London... 

London Coliseum

The D.E.B. and I have spent the last two weekends in London, where we saw Jude Law as Hamlet – yes, I know! And, Waiting for Godot with Sir Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart at the Haymarket Theatre.

Yes, Jude Law was GORGEOUS, but more importantly he was FABULOUS as Hamlet. I was pleased to discover that Jude, I feel I can call him that, far from being just a pretty face (!!!), and an excellent screen actor, he is a tremendously talented live performer on stage. For some, this statement may seem obvious, but trust me when I say, not every screen actor can cut it in front of live audience on stage. There are no ‘re-takes’ or ‘do-overs’ in theatre. That is what makes it so magic for those of us who live it and love it.

(I was naughty and took a picture of Jude Law during his curtain call!)

Sadly, Patrick Stewart was out sick when we saw Godot, though his poor understudy did a heroic job standing in. Talk about the worse job in the universe. 

Sir Ian and 'the Understudy'

Can you imagine? The poor guy is going on stage KNOWING that no one in the audience wants him to be there! Apart from maybe his mother…

In addition to seeing theatre, the D.E.B. and I recently found ourselves roped into doing theatre. Our beloved actress-friend, Sally, asked me to assist her in developing a one-woman show about The Countess of Warwick.

Sally is such a sweetheart, and so when she asked for my help as a writer and stage director, I could not say “No.” Even though, I would like to think that my days of “voluntary artistic endeavours” and doing art for love instead of money, are long over.  So, I did the only sensible thing a girl could do, I roped the D.E.B. into providing the music for the play. 

Sally, as "Darling Daisy"

Our show, “Darling Daisy: Reflections of the Countess of Warwick” was a labour of love all-round. There were no creature comforts, very little outside support, and we were wholly at the mercy of English weather. But, if I’m honest, it was quite enjoyable.

There is something about the theatre that is magic. When the people involved come to it with sincerity, conviction and professionalism, no matter the circumstances, the magic does happen.

Sally has acted her way around the globe, and watching her perform is always a gift. She did a reading at our wedding, and that too, was a remarkable moment that I will always cherish.

We first saw Sally performing in a charity pantomime in Leamington Spa this past Christmas. She was “The Wicked Witch,” and she was great! Her performance was the icing on the cake for me, and it was my first-ever English “panto” experience.

I loved how the actors and audience interacted with one another: hissing and booing the wicked characters, cheering and supporting the goodies; warning the goodies of the dangers befalling them, i.e., “Look out, she’s behind you!”

There was also singing and dancing, which the audience was invited to join in. It was like no other theatre I have ever seen. It is interesting to me that somehow, we Americans have lost—did we ever have?—the panto tradition.

The D.E.B. & I have also supported the work of a local, semi-professional theatre company in Leamington Spa called The Loft. We saw their recent production of Hobson’s Choice, which as it turns out was directed by an old acquaintance of mine. (The Theatre world is so small, you can’t afford to talk about anyone!)

Leamington Spa seems to have become quite a hub for us just lately. We saw the film The Reader at The Royal Spa Centre – that was an adventure. The night we went to see The Reader, we got to Leamington very early, and decided to take a stroll through the Jephson Gardens. (Leamington Spa’s answer to Central Park.)

The Jephson Gardens were so beautiful and romantic, the D.E.B. and I lost track of the time, and then…We got locked in! In the end, after failing to find an accessible escape route, we had to climb very carefully over the iron-wrought fence. We giggled all the way back to the cinema like a pair of naughty school-kids.

I have no doubt said before how much I utterly adore my D.E.B., but I just need to state it here again.  Perhaps, there is some girl out there, who (like me not so long ago) who’s on the brink of giving up, thinking she’ll never find Mr. Right-For-Her. To her, and for her, I have this to say: Don’t give up! He’s out there! And he’ll be worth the wait!

Many moons ago, in my life before I found my D.E.B., I was in a relationship with a very un-D.E.B. who once admonished me with the following advice:

“Look,” he said, “what you want doesn’t exist. You are never going to find someone who really appreciates you, understands what you do, sees things the way you do, likes the same things you like, and so on. That just doesn’t happen.” Basically, the subtext of that tirade was this: Take what you can get, this is as good as it gets. Period.

How utterly wrong he was! (And how foolish I was to have believed him for so long.)

On our wedding day, my Darling English Boy stood before our assembled family and friends and as part of his speech, recited (from memory) the following lines from As You Like It:

“No sooner had [we] met but we looked, no sooner looked but [we] loved, no sooner loved but [we] sighed, no sooner sighed but [we] asked one another the reason, no sooner the reason but [we] sought the remedy; and in these degrees have [we] made a pair of stairs to marriage, which [we] will climb.”

This, my friends, is a 'marriage of true minds.'

Et tu, Brute?

Marlon Brando as Marc Antony in the film Julius Caesar (1953)

Procrastination and panic reigns supreme as I sit in my garden on this sweltering Thursday. I have been invited to give a lecture on Julius Caesar at the Royal Shakespeare Company on Monday afternoon. I am honoured beyond belief, and have had about three weeks to prepare, but due to one thing and another, I have left it until now to start panicking, I mean, prepping.

My head is still very firmly in the clouds since the wedding, and I've been attempting to catch up on all the things that fell by the wayside in the past few months. Our lovely friend Sally has requested my help on developing a one-woman performance piece based on the life and loves of Daisy, The Countess of Warwick, which she is performing near Warwick Castle next weekend. (I've even roped the D.E.B. into providing music for the piece, so it has become a family effort...) So, I have spent the day as scriptwriter-director for her when I should probably be pulling something together for my Caesar talk. Oy vey!

This weekend, our 'one month anniversary' festivities continue, as the D.E.B. and I have tickets to see Jude Law playing Hamlet at the Donmar Warehouse in  London. (Be still my heart!) Jude Law could walk out on stage and read from the telephone directory and I'd give him a standing ovation! All I can say, is finally, this Shakespeare thing is starting to pay off.

Oh, well, back to Caesar...which at least offers me a chance to gander at some fab photos of Marlon Brando as Mark Antony... 

Results in Hottest Brit Boy competition, and a new Brit Boy to Love

And the winners are...

1.) Colin Firth!! 

(Jane Austen fans unite! I would love to say that I shall be congratulating Colin on his victory in person, but alas, no.)

2.) Jonathan Rhys Meyers 

(JRM should be been disqualified because he is, in fact, Irish, but he remained in the poll because he is: a. incredibly hot, and b. currently playing Henry the Eighth who was, in fact, English.)

3.) Jude Law 

(...Be still my heart...)

4.) Clive Owen 

(Meow!)

5.) A tie! Simon Pegg and Edward VIII tied for last place.

(Clearly, this is the category for women of character and substance!)

Note: Someone asked me why the D.E.B. had not be included as a choice in the "Hottest Brit Boy" poll. A very sweet thought, but I'm not into sharing. *Smile*

As promised, I have discovered a new Brit Boy to love: Matthew Goode. All I can say is "Goode golly," what a hottie! 

Yes, that is a beer AND a cigarette in his hand!

I just saw Matthew Goode in Brideshead Revisited. Super film, and the costumes are to die for!

It's the sort of movie that makes you think, "Why can't/don't we dress like that still?"

Speaking of Brideshead, going to the cinema last week was real experience. The D.E.B. booked tickets in advance, which in and of itself is not entirely unusual these days, on either side of the Atlantic. But wait, when we arrived at the Warwick Arts Centre, I found that this was not your typical movie-going excursion. 

First -- no popcorn.  

I was stunned, and doubted my overall ability to actually watch a film without a mountain of popcorn in front of me. This was going to be a challenge. There was Haagen Daz ice cream on offer instead, which was too weird for me to even contemplate. Thankfully, there was bar ready and waiting to serve us any drink of our choice. So, after ordering two glasses of red wine -- which we were able to take into the theatre with us -- we collected our tickets which had our assigned seats listed. Assigned seats? That we actually had to sit in? Whether we liked them or not?!  (I think freedom of choice and rebellion are quintessential American traits, it is programmed in our DNA.) At any rate it was a very good film, and one I would recommend just for the visual stimuli, if nothing else.

American Women & British Men

Finally. We get to the heart of the matter. 

Just what is it about British men? And why do we American women love them so?

Think of the laundry list of American female celebs who have fallen into the arms of British men: Gwyneth Paltrow, Madonna, Jerry Hall, Marsha Hunt (the inspiration for Mick Jagger's "Brown Sugar"), Gillian Anderson, on and on. 

Funnily enough, even among my own circle of friends, I can count a higher than average number of American female-British male couples.

I blame MTV. 

I grew up a child of the '80's. Wham, Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, Flock of Seagulls, Kajagoogoo, The Cure, Culture Club, Pet Shop Boys, and the list goes on and on. We were inundated with images of gorgeous, perfectly coiffed, and often heavily made-up, British men. Who didn't want to be "Rio," or that girl who got to roll around in the jungle with Simon Le Bon in Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" video? 

Then, there were the Merchant-Ivory films. I mean, who didn't want to be Helena Bonham-Carter in A Room with a View, with that "win-win" choice between Daniel Day-Lewis and Julian Sands? 

But, what is it really, about the Brit boys that drives us mad, and makes us sooooo weak in the knees. Can it just be the accent? No, I think it goes much deeper than that. In a recent article in The Hindustan Times (don't ask), Englishboy cutie-pie Jude Law reckoned that American women go ga-ga over British men because:

"It's the use of words. We [British men] use words like 'lovely', and 'naughty'. I think they quite like that."

...Um, yes, Jude, we do rather like that. But, more than word choice, I think there is a larger issue here: the fact that words are being used at all. What I mean is, the fact that a British man is actually talking to you -- and listening, in fact. A conversation is being had, and, in my experience at least, a very engaging one at that. Yes, I think that might be it. I can honestly say, that for me and my D.E.B., it was a meeting of minds, first and foremost. We could actually talk about things, he actually wanted to share and know my opinion, and he loved/loves and relished/relishes how smart and sassy I was/am. 

And besides, a man who knows his Jane Austen always, always, always wins! I will never forget the time, early on, when the D.E.B. signed off on one of his emails thus: 

"Ever yours, Mr. Darcy -- or, Colonel Brandon, which do you prefer?" 

My heart skipped a beat, my pulse began to race, I broke into a sweat, and my brain melted out of my ears. In that moment, I could have crossed the Atlantic on foot!! A seduction of the mind.

Of course, I know not all English or British men are "D.E.B.s." Just like not all American men are mindless neanderthals, who can't hold a conversation. The bottom line is, I suppose, just one of individual preference. But, really, what is there not to love about an Englishman? He knows how to dress, can hold his own in a conversation, isn't afraid to be romantic--even in public!--has good manners, knows which fork to use, isn't afraid to cry, loves his mum, *SIGH* I could go on and on...  

History is also on the side of the alliance of the elegant American woman and her charming Englishman. Our greatest standard bearer was of course, Mrs. Wallis Simpson. What a woman of class, style and grace! What a beauty. Although a well-to-do socialite from a good family, to the British press and British public she was: "An American, two-time divorcee from Baltimore." 

I found an article the other day that said, when it became clear that King Edward had "feelings" for Mrs. Simpson, several groups formed around the country in protest, such as one group of women, who started a campaign called "Mothers Against the King."

Wow. Just imagine the hate mail Wallis Simpson must have received. 

Shakespeare wrote: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind." When Edward looked at Wallis he could see what others could not. And so great was his love, he gave up his crown, his kingdom and his country for her. Now, that is love.

And perhaps, that is what is so very appealing about Englishmen. Their grit, their almost majestic resolve and determination, and their incredible passion, coupled with great sensitivity. These are what have, and continue to attract, entice and beguile us American damsels.   

Rule Britannia!

Fish’n’chips. Jude Law. The Queen. Marmite. Cricket. Shakespeare. Afternoon Tea. The Thames. The Globe. Coffee Mornings. Oxfam Charity Shops. London. Cadbury's Chocolate. National Trust properties. BBC TV. Oxford. “The Shipping Forecast.” Little Red Post Boxes. Little Red Telephone Boxes. Royal Ascot. Full English Breakfasts. Double decker buses. Colin Firth. Radio 4. Classic FM. Brideshead Revisited. Jane Austen. Union Jack. Sunday Lunch. Yorkshire pudding. The Brontës. The Cure. Tesco's. Sainsbury’s. Boots. Marks & Spencer. Laura Ashley. Next. Hugh Grant. Stonehenge. Virginia Woolf. Rugby. Football. David Beckham. Handel. Hob Nobs. Crisps. Ribena. Christmas crackers. Boxing Day. Roundabouts. Driving on the left. Warwick Castle. Orlando Bloom. Country lanes. Cozy cottages with adorable names. Adorable children calling their mothers "Mummy". Pubs. Lager. Ale. Bitter. Cider. Guy Fawkes and Bonfire Night. Dr. Who. Monty Python. Postcodes. Village fetes. Car boot sales. Cotswold stone. Warwickshire red brick. Rhubarb crumble. Fields of sheep. Shepherd’s pie. Nigella Lawson. Harry Potter. Gordon Ramsay. Parsnips. English gardens. English manors. English manners. The weather. The accents. The men.

England.

I love everything about it. I always have. I blame PBS. I was seduced at an early age by Masterpiece Theatre and Miss Marple. And I have finally succumbed utterly and completely to my Anglophilia and Anglomania. I surrendered my big city life in Manhattan to join the man I love in “the Motherland.” I have lived here before, but that was long ago, as an undergraduate and then post-graduate student, this time it’s “for real.” And hopefully, this time, it’s for keeps and forever.

Rule Britannia!