Blakemore Stage Blood

Five tempestuous years in the early life of the National Theatre
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ISBN: 978-0-571-31123-1
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 272 Seiten

In 1971, Michael Blakemore joined the National Theatre as Associate Director under Laurence Olivier. The National, still based at the Old Vic, was at a moment of transition awaiting the move to its vast new home on the South Bank. Relying on generous subsidy, it would need an extensive network of supporters in high places. Olivier, a scrupulous and brilliant autocrat from a previous generation, was not the man to deal with these political ramifications. His tenure began to unravel and, behind his back, Peter Hall was appointed to replace him in 1973. As in other aspects of British life, the ethos of public service, which Olivier espoused, was in retreat. Having staged eight productions for the National, Blakemore found himself increasingly uncomfortable under Hall's regime. Stage Blood is the candid and at times painfully funny story of the events that led to his dramatic exit in 1976. He recalls the theatrical triumphs and flops, his volatile relationship with Olivier including directing him in Long Day's Journey into Night, the extravagant dinners in Hall's Barbican flat with Harold Pinter, Jonathan Miller and the other associates, the opening of the new building, and Blakemore's brave and misrepresented decision to speak out. He would not return to the National for fifteen years.

Michael Blakemore arrived in the UK from Australia in 1950. He spent fifteen years as an actor before directing at the Glasgow Citizens' Theatre. He became Associate Director of the National Theatre under Olivier, and directed him in, among others, Long Day's Journey into Night. He has directed new work by dramatists as diverse as Arthur Miller, Peter Nichols, Michael Frayn, David Hare, Peter Schaffer, Don DeLillo, Woody Allen and David Mamet. At the 2000 Tony Awards he won an unprecedented double as Best Director of both a play, Copenhagen, and a musical, Kiss Me Kate. He has written and directed two films, and is the author of the novel, Next Season. His memoir, Arguments with England finishes where Stage Blood begins.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Blakemore, Michael

Leseproben

TWO

Rescue of a temporary sort (in the theatre it is never anything else) was around the corner. The next production at the Old Vic, Carl Zuckmayer’s , directed by Frank Dunlop, was an unqualified success, particularly for Paul Scofield in the name part, and rapidly sold out. This was followed by John Dexter’s first production since his return to the National. He had chosen a minor Elizabethan tragedy, and, working with his great collaborator from the Royal Court, the designer Jocelyn Herbert, was to give it an exemplary staging. Though the play was well acted by Joan Plowright and Anthony Hopkins and had its merits, it had not been neglected for centuries without reason. The critics accorded it the same fate as the woman of the title.

The repertoire playing at the Vic now consisted of two flops propped up by one success, so a great deal was riding on the fourth play of the season, This was intended to welcome back to London the brilliant Canadian actor, Christopher Plummer. He had made his name in the classics, playing a number of the great parts for Tyrone Guthrie’s Festival Theatre in Ontario, and there had been plans to bring his Hamlet to London some ten years previously, but the production was abandoned at the last minute when Guthrie fell ill. Since then he had rocketed to the higher reaches of showbiz fame, playing opposite Julie Andrews in one of the most successful films of all time, He had been on a percentage of the gross, so not only did worldwide celebrity follow but truckloads of money. Now the fuss had died down and he was looking for a place to come down to earth again where he could resume doing the sort of work that most interested him. Coriolanus was the perfect part to provide such an opportunity. He had bought a huge house in Kensington, the interior of which he had gutted and entirely remodelled, and he now looked set for a new life and a reinvigorated career in London.

a play that over time has often been neglected, was very much in vogue in the seventies. Olivier himself had enjoyed an enormous success in the role at Stratford twelve years earlier and since then there had been numerous productions, of which perhaps the most admired was the East German production of Bertolt Brecht’s version by the Berliner Ensemble, which played at the Old Vic when the Ensemble visited London in 1965. The staging, the design and the acting had an organic perfection which can only be achieved when a company is able to rehearse over months rather than weeks. Its meticulously directed battles and crowd scenes were so mesmerising that English audiences almost forgot that they were being spoken to in German. Had they under stood the language they would have realised that this was not quite the play Shakespeare had in mind. It had been ruthlessly cut and reorganised by Brecht to bring it into line with Marxist doctrine.

The reputation of this production may have been one of the factors that made it difficult to find a director. Those we approached were either unavailable or uninterested. One day someone on our planning committee wondered out loud whether we should approach the two directors of the East German production, Manfred Wekworth and Joachim Tenschert. It was the most improbable long shot but it suddenly seemed to all of us worth a try. An offer was made and to our astonishment accepted. Too late we realised we had waded into deep water because any contract would involve not just two theatres but two governments, the East German and our own. More was at stake than simply the outcome of a first night.

The German directors duly arrived and we were aware that we had in our midst that familiar duo, the bad cop and the good cop. Wekworth was small, dark and scowling, and utterly uncompromising even in matters of common courtesy. He was the one with talent. His colleague Joachim Tenschert was geniality itself, the diplomat exuding good humour and fellow feeling. It was his job to ensure the space within which Wekworth could do his work. I watched them rehearse one morning. Tenschert sat comfortably to one side observing, but Wekworth was constantly leaping to his feet to interject a direction after almost every line. Restaging his production he was like some fierce territorial bird flying back and forth as he meticulously rebuilt his nest, twig by twig, peck by peck.

Alas, within days the production was in deep trouble. Christopher Plummer had arrived at rehearsal with his entire part learnt. It did not take him long to realise that he had wasted much of his time. With its many cuts and transpositions, Brecht’s version was no longer the Shakespeare play specified in his contract and until his role bore a closer resemblance to the original text he refused to rehearse and left the building. Equally adamant were the directors. The National had seen their production when it had visited London and we knew what we were getting. There could be no question now of asking them to compromise its political content. The rehearsal room at Aquinas Street had become a hot spot of East–West confrontation, and neither side was blinking.

*

In Larry’s office it would be fair to say that there was a degree of panic. Ken was particularly exercised because as a critic he had long been a champion of the Berliner Ensemble and in any scandal he was convinced the British press would hold him responsible. Larry, who inclined to a weary stoicism in such situations, seemed more concerned with Christopher Plummer’s state of mind. Were we now to expect outraged statements to the press, appeals to Actors’ Equity, possibly legal action? Even if the stalemate were broken, it was a crisis to which there could be no satisfactory outcome. The Olivier regime itself could be in jeopardy and we had every reason to be worried. Even so, observing the two men I was aware that both in their different ways derived, certainly not pleasure, but a kind of reassurance from being at the centre of this storm. Though fearful, Ken could not resist the drama of it, because drama of any sort released his energies and his sometimes misguided resourcefulness. In Larry’s case he had lived a lifetime with these sorts of pressures, in the betrayals and conspiracies that went with both his elevated professional status and also his tempestuous private life. Escaping through a side entrance to avoid a mob of reporters gathered at the stage door, booking into a hotel room under an assumed name, these were tedious complications to an already fraught life, but what they whispered to you was that you were still holding your own in the public’s imagination.

Desperate though the situation was, my own view as to how we should proceed was very clear. No organisation that receives public funding can justify creating a diplomatic incident for the government that supplies the cash. We had walked into this situation with our eyes open but without thinking the matter through. At the very least we should have warned Chris Plummer about what he was getting into. Both sides in the dispute had a case, but as an institution we had no choice but to come down on the side of the Germans.

‘What are we to do then?’ asked Larry.

By this time Christopher Plummer had holed himself up in his luxurious new house in Kensington, provoking a resolution.

‘I think we should go and see him, apologise for the mess we’ve got him into but explain as clearly as we can the political ramifications of the situation,’ I suggested. I had got to know Chris slightly and believed he would respond reasonably, but Ken and Larry were certain there would be major fireworks. However, since there was no other course open to us, the following afternoon a small party, in which Larry had delegated me to be spokesman, made our way to his house. The interior was lofty, beautifully appointed and strangely empty. We were expecting perhaps to be offered a cup of tea but Chris produced a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne and had it served in brand new flutes. I began to explain the situation as honestly as I could while Chris listened carefully. He nodded, thought for a while, then said he understood perfectly the wider ramifications and offered to withdraw. It was dignified and rather moving. I felt a wave of sympathy for this fine actor as I sometimes have for other men who become extremely rich without being particularly interested in money. They have found the pearl but have finished up inside the oyster. We emptied our glasses, thanked him and left.

Afterwards Larry commended me for the way I’d handled the matter. It was the first time, though not the last in his regime, when he’d allowed me to make a significant contribution. He had that indispensable attribute of the leader – the empathetic curiosity that allowed him to find out what you could do, then leave you alone to do it, and this more than made up for the sharp surprises of which he was also capable.

Anthony Hopkins, the most promising young actor in the company, took over the part and did so splendidly. We soon had a show. However, the National was a very different place from the bracingly disciplined and doctrinaire Berliner Ensemble, and the electricity which surrounded the production when the actors barked at each other in German and the stagehands were as well drilled as a team of acrobats was no longer there. Peter Nichols’ comedy which I had directed, was running at the Greenwich Theatre and I invited the German directors to a...