Remarkable. A good night’s sleep and I’m still feeling like I’m fighting Death but subtly it feels like I’m winning. Last night I was fever-sweating into my sheets. This morning I was having to say exactly what has been written into a substitute script over moments that will necessarily be semi improvised. Apparently all I’m allowed to say for a two minute part of the script is “Really?” “Bob Cratchett?” “Yes.” The uninitiated might believe that in a two handed play, one of the actors has rewritten the script and made it a precious monologue with occasional unwelcome interruptions. The old tale of the servant in the Shakespeare play. “What’s the play about?” “Well, this fellow has to tell the king that his wife is dead.” A two hander Scrooge and Marley, written from the point of view of Marley. Even five years ago he wanted to call it “Marley’s Feast”. Does he not see that the bits where I undercut him were so I had a voice too and could deal with the audience? There’s fucktons of audience this year. Does he think he was always the only one?
I’m happy to serve ego if it serves the play, always. But… I think this overall piece will suffer as Ebbies voice will have no power with the audience if I let him pull my teeth entirely before it becomes relevant. Still, it’ll make my work less to be toothless, so I’m not gonna fight it too hard. With all the extra bums it might be lovely just to switch out… I just wish our new writer was the one who has to experience the rod he’s making for the back of the actor playing Marley by making Scrooge mister Ebenezer chocolate box.
The truth is, I’ll keep working and we will dig it from this insecurity egohole bollocks. Basically the script is a slight rearrangement but I think it needs to be styled as a total rejig for financial reasons. I’m just… getting annoyed cos there’s bits he’s scripted from what we mutually arrived at in years gone by and he’s being precious about our shared improv. He’s writted the things down so they is himses now. Hooray but boo. We took our time to arrive at them and then today he just wants me to serve monologues. Really? Yes! Ooh! Bob Cratchett? Gosh! Tell me more!
Truth be told they still came from his hallowed brainhole fresh and panting, new and shiny; WHO IS THIS BARCLAY INTERFERING WITH THE NEW THING GENIUS? NO, LIES I SAY! I AM THE LAPTOP MAN AND YOU ARE NOTHING BUT THE NOISEMAKER!
They didn’t come from his brainhole. Every night, every day we worked it through together. We built and rebuilt and thought and thought, night after night for years. He’s just swapped hats and written these half remembered things, mostly with his own part in mind.
…
Humbug.
This is why I continue to avoid doing production you see. Good on him for making it happen. But … Christ. Creatively and fiscally, ooh he’s a squeezing hand at the grindstone. Not just is he forgetting that we made this up together, not just has he totally restyled it and cut all the bits that gave my character power over his, but fiscally? Humbug humbug humbug.
No per diems and I’m in a hotel burning money on food. Not even breakfast. Apparently “the venue might let me use the kitchen when we’re open.”. Little filming spots before and during rehearsal with no remuneration. Squeeze squeeze squeeze. Life imitating art. Ebenezer. There he is. He’ll end up in the show…
*This blog is a work of fiction etc* Sometimes it’s therapy to put these things out. Nothing is definite. Existence is change. etc. But…
AlBarclay 