After all that business of early morning cape work after my birthday party we are back to square one on the whole “I wouldn’t mind coming on stage a bit in the first half please universe” thing. It looks unlikely.
They need me to drone. Offstage. For a moment. Instead of wearing the lovely robes and headgear that have been made for me and popping my nightly adrenaline cherry as a listeny senator.
“Sometimes it’s important to be the one who vibrates in a corner”, says Jethro, knowing I’m slightly put out. He’s right, despite: “Who is that strange man in gold, mummy?” I’m the surprise actor. The Al-in-a-box. I’ll just show up at the end and be nice and say some stuff and then say three words that’ll be very hard indeed to get away without all the school groups sniggering at peak tragedy. “You’re playing Lodovico?” asked Ollie at my birthday drinks. He’s an architect, married to a writer friend. I don’t know where he went to school, but six foot two in a woolly beanie hat and I guarantee we’ve heard of it. “You’re the one who has to say ‘Oh bloody period!’ ” he immediately observes. Oh yes I am. My penultimate bit.
There will be sniggering classrooms full of Ollies in training, and grown up Ollies sitting with them. School groups tend to be about year ten. I’ve been trying to disguise the words by doing it while the action is happening, making it into an exclamation lost in action, but I’m not allowed to. TC (the director) wants “Oh bloody period” isolated and I absolutely trust TC. So I’m gonna lean into doing it at as truthfully, clearly and oblivious as I can in the clear knowledge that the chuckle brothers are waiting. I can’t disappoint my twelve year old fifty year olds. Bless Lodo. He is a rare good man in this tale and he doesn’t care what the kiddies hear. Neither will I. Neither should I. And also that hearing surely existed when it was written. I’m part of a team channeling the words of someone who really fucking thought about words and how they sound, and who spent a huge amount of time enjoying them he was called Willy. Just because I’m concerned about ninnies sniggering on a line doesn’t stop my words from being the ones Willy decided to stick in there. The pit would have clicked in when someone barked with unexpected laughter at peak darkness at a childish double hearing. My job isn’t to care about how my words are received. I just have to deliver it truthfully, competently and audibly. Let others do interpretation. Willie knew his stuff better than any of us knobs on stage. He was on the edge of the oral tradition. He carries sound and meaning so we don’t have to labour it. The more we try and govern how Willy is received the further we get from where Willy wants to go.
That’s for tomorrow. Tonight in the gathering wind, I’m off to bed ahead of a long call and our first foray into the space they’ve built for us. Time will tell how much of a willy I make of myself. It’ll be my making if I do. You can link me back here then.
AlBarclay 