It’s ten o’clock at night. We just finished rehearsal in Harrow up at The Ryan Theatre. I didn’t tell anyone I was doing this but I’ve gone over the road to sit in The Castle. It’s a pub.
I’m sitting in the chair Martin sat in last time I saw him. The dear old fucker went and died on us all. I found myself thinking that that’s why I’ve ended up doing this Old Harrovian Play this time around.
He did very well with me. He had an extraordinary amount of energy to encourage those of us who were interested in performance as a job. He had “the conversation” with me that you have to have when someone realises they’re gonna be an actor no matter what. It’s important to make sure. This life can look shiny but mostly it is a lot of uncertainty with a side order of rejection and a large portion of constant hustle, for which you are paid barely a living wage. Sure it can be a delight when it works. But filling the gaps…
I’m filling some sort of a gap here I guess, coming up and trying to remember Toby Belch for the OH Players. There’s a good heart at the core of this company. We have some very involved music and nobody is certain on their lines let alone their meanings and targets, but they’re willing. We don’t have long at all before we open. We have had no rehearsal process to speak of. No six weeks sitting round a table before anyone even stands up. No workshops with fight directors or intimacy coordinators. We are making it up with good will and as always when I’m not certain I’m trying to style it out with energy and attack. Let’s see how that pans out eh? Hopefully I’ll get away with it.
Meanwhile I’m sitting here this evening with the ghost of an old friend old teacher old mentor in The Castle. I can’t drink as I’m driving home. But I can sit here a moment and open up my energetic filters and have a flash in the elsewhere place thanking the ghost of a man who really didn’t mince his words. There’s an imprint before we start again. I’m gonna stop writing and tune into that energetic memory thing.
—
Last time we were here he called me a puritan. I think he was cutting into my unwillingness to shift my primary focus. A lot of people would have thrown in the towel a long time ago. I’m never gonna. He knew that. I will miss knowing he’s in the world. And his wry support. I could have made things a lot easier for myself.
He leaves behind two sons. I will likely keep loosely in touch with Louis as we have already crossed paths a fair few times and he knows Esta very well. It was Esta (my beloved agent) who informed me of Martin’s passing. We learnt that we both knew and loved Martin very early on in our professional relationship and I’m sure it is part of why we’ve understood each other so well since I signed with her. Apparently he described me as “A young Michael Hordern but completely mad”.
I guess since my parents shuffled off I’ve been splintering the questions of youth into many people who are older than me and in some way involved with or judgemental of my life choices. It was helpful to sit with Martin here and have him affectionately tell me I’m a puritan as it gives me something to contemplate. I might have been on the non alcoholic beers at the time, it might have been as simple as that, but it’s somehow helpful still to have people who are older than us, somehow invested in us, and absolutely clueless about the nitty gritty of our lives to make sweeping unwelcome subjective judgements about our life choices. That’s a parent’s job primarily, that big fat unwelcome hand.
We have to find people to do that crap once the parents are gone. Because we need the perspective. All of us. You get better at perspective the longer you do this stupid life thing, although not necessarily at context. Look to your elders though. That’s been the last few days for me.
I’ll miss him. A wonderful mad angry delicious bastard.
I’ve stopped at Perfect Pizza which is the halal place we used to order from on weekends on the hill. They are making me my schoolboy pizza. I’ll drive it home and munch it.
