Sophie So Far

Reality Bites

2011-10-20T07:30:00.000+01:00

How to distinguish between what you can do and what you get paid to pretend to do? After two years playing a doctor on Heartbeat and one year visiting a hospital on Holby City, I just about learned to take a pulse and remembered to put the stethoscope in my ears before trying to listen to a patient's chest (by patient, I mean an actor pretending to be a patient, this is where the confusion starts). But mostly I had to be able to talk the talk, that's the important bit, especially in an emergency situation, of which there weren't too many in fantasy 1960's rural Yorkshire. Nevertheless, confidence in medical technicalities and language is a sort of learned skill. And I got used to taking control when another character was feeling poorly, to being the health detective when a symptom was mentioned, and generally the fount of medical knowledge. While in reality I am only equipped with a Biology 'O'-level and a tendency to pass out when I give blood.

Still, my experience at pretending to be a doctor means that I am sometimes asked if I will attend in a medical situation or give medical advice to passers by. That is a confusion on the part of a viewer. Worse, is what I might kindly call a 'learned behaviour' where I actually think that I am a doctor and proceed to offer some sort of medical advice in the mistaken belief that I am helping. After a few minutes of this, the helpfully advised one may rightly ask, 'Are you a doctor?' and it is only then, and reluctantly, that I will admit that not only am I very much not a doctor but that I am making it all up.

And being a doctor is only the tip of the iceberg of delusion. I also believe I can speak other languages (A Time of Indifference), save marriages (Law and Order), get people out of jail (Hustle), play the piano (Little Dorrit, A Summer Story, almost anything where I wear a corset) and run a country estate (Land Girls but ditto about the corset). That is, I have an underlying sense that I know how to do these things and occasionally attempt them, only to be confronted with the realisation, more or less swiftly depending on the event, that I am able to do none of them. I can spend my days, instead of feeling okay about my luck in getting paid to pretend to be qualified, constantly being reminded that I have very few special skills (see separate post) and virtually no practical qualifications. It can be demoralising.

The net effect is that it can be hard to believe that I am ever actually doing something and not just pretending to do it. The paradigm is teaching an acting class where I find myself feeling as though I am pretending to be a teacher who's trying to teach people to pretend. But perhaps the greatest casualty (not Casualty in which I am a patient not a doctor) is the nagging sense of unreality about existing at all, a general sense that all situations are contrived, all clothes a costume, all behaviour a performance. My partner certainly has her suspicions that I am not altogether attached to the world. 'It's not funny, it's your life' she reminds me when I seem particularly disconnected. Harsh words, perhaps, but necessary. For how can you possibly 'seize the day' when you are dreaming of a different day in a different body possibly on a different planet certainly in a different reality? Often, she is the only one who can tell that I am only pretending that my feet are on the ground. I have to concentrate.

Although, I'm pretty sure I could do a serviceable tracheotomy with the right biro. I learned it from Mia Farrow ( The Haunting of Julia ).

Really.

Land Girls

2011-07-16T20:42:00.000+01:00

Just wrapped filming of Land Girls III and very lovely it was to be back at Arbury Hall which doubles as Hoxley Manor and to meet up with old friends for another summer. Long days, plenty of pressure but a fantastic cast and crew.

Some observations:

1. Doors work better when you open them, walk through them and then close them. Trying to close the door before you're through it doesn't work so well. They're funny that way but I've nearly got the hang of it.

2. Gel nail polish means that you can never get out of character. If you can't get your prop wedding ring off either then your hands may not belong to you for months. Friends look puzzled as they wonder whether you're having a breakdown. Also, bright red nails, gold rings and tattoos do not work as a look.

3. It is always cold in England. Every single day. Remembering a summer years ago when the sun shone and it was hot, is a fantasy. Bring your warm coat on all shoots.

4. Never look in the magnifying mirror the make-up artist gives you. It's a trick to make sure you understand how hard the department has to work to get you to a presentable standard. Nobody should see their pores as big as as tin tacks before breakfast.

5. Everyone can tell if you slept on your face during the lunch break.

6. The biscuits are not just for you.

David Rose

2010-11-28T15:07:00.000Z

This is the You Tube trailer for David Rose, a short film that the actress Shelagh Mcleod has written and directed. We filmed it this summer and I haven't seen it yet but it's looking good. Congratulations to Shelagh.

Apologies for all the short posts recently. Still writing away. Thanks for your patience.

It Gets Better

2010-11-23T18:23:00.000Z

This is Pixar's response to the tragedy of the recent teen suicides in the US. I wholeheartedly support the message for all young gay people who are suffering discrimination and doubt.

Jane Eyre

2010-11-17T19:34:00.002Z

Here is the trailer for the new film of Jane Eyre with the wonderful Mia Wasikowska as Jane. The film looks great.

Agents

2010-10-15T17:02:00.003+01:00

This is a good flavour of the LA agent/client relationship written by TV actor Richard Ruccolo. Tongue in cheek, of course.

Identity

2010-09-17T15:32:00.000+01:00

At the end of a play's run, usually on a Saturday night, the entire production is packed away. All the cast and crew say their goodbyes and rush off back to their families. By Monday nothing remains of the show except for a small shadow cast on the brow of the company at about 7 o'clock, when each member realises they don't have to go to work that night.

In film and television, it is different. Actors come and go; only a few remain for the last day's shooting. The intense bond created during filming loosens its grip more gradually since the production is still a work in progress. Editing, post-synching, music, special effects, are yet to play their part. There will be private screenings and eventually release dates and airings, more opportunities to revisit the show. Above all with film there will always be a record of the event so that in some sense you are never truly finished; you will continue playing those scenes in perpetuity. But unlike Wilde's Dorian Gray, you will be deteriorating while your portrait remains unchanged.

Of course, we all have photographs that can haunt us with their candid reflection of our young and innocent selves. That is not unique to performers. What really confronts the performer is more one of identity itself. In most of their better photographs and in all of their recorded work, the actor will be playing someone else, the memories and associations of those photographs connect to a character. The pictures that survive in the public domain will be of an actor in underpants while an alien licks their face/hands on cheeks in horror at the realisation that your parents have left you behind for Christmas/standing on a railway platform in an oversized hat waiting for daddy. Now those images endure. The question is, who are you when you are not in character?

It's not an issue that should trouble anyone else, but for the actor it is of no little importance. Being 'between jobs' may be of longer or shorter durations for different actors but at some point all will hopefully return to a room you call your own, possibly to share with another living creature (wife/boyfriend/pot-bellied pig) and to interact with companions who have known you at least since before your last movie. It is hard not to mind that no one has shown any interest in announcing your arrival in the kitchen when you walk in (especially not with a Motorola) or laid out your clothes for you/applied your make-up/arranged your hair. There may not even be anyone to make you breakfast. As you stumble around the room trying to remember where you keep the coffee mugs, you are bound to wonder, who are you? And indeed, what do you look like?

It might seem a good idea to get back to your default personality and to make a start on that with your personal appearance. This might be as simple as going back to wearing your own clothes, putting on your wedding ring, washing off make-up and hair products. But it may involve longer term changes and a few decisions.

Some actors are particularly fond of wigs and certainly, when it comes to the end of a job, your own natural hair will be there waiting for you, grateful to feel the wind in its strands and the sun on its follicles. Most of us adapt our own hair for a role which might mean that it has been cut or coloured, or both. Colour can take a while to change, bleaching out red toned hair dyes is a slow process, putting colour back into bleached hair, a delicate one. Growing out a cut is clearly just a matter of time but if it has been left to grow over the course of a job, such as a costume drama where ringlets and bonnets are the order of the day, then it will be ready for a good chop.

There may be weight to lose or gain, fitness regimes to be resumed or abandoned, nails to grow or cut, skin to be tanned or tended. All these personal details have been in the domain of the character; the property of the production. Victorian ladies do not sit in the sun, Noel Coward heroines always have red nails, bathing beauties are suitably depilated. It may well be that these regimes coincide with your own aesthetic but in any event it is not your choice, while you are working that is the way you must look. Every time you finish a job you must re-establish what you look like as yourself. If you don't even try then you are admitting that there is not really that much of a self to go back to. You exist entirely in limbo.

When I was a teenager, a particularly formidable English teacher decided I needed some words of wisdom. She was worried I was taking my acting work too much to heart. After a long chat she appeared to give up and lifting her not inconsiderable self from the armchair she turned to me with a frown, 'But where is Sophie?' she asked and seeing I was not entirely sure, repeated the question as she headed back to the staff room, 'Where is Sophie?'

And whenever a make-up artist looks especially aggrieved at my several tattoos, I remember the formidable lady in tweed and her prescient question and I am grateful for the knowledge that those few square inches are definitely and undoubtedly me.

Land Girls II

2010-08-05T10:09:00.000+01:00

Nearing the end of shooting on the second series of Land Girls and all going well. Great crew, especially the camera operators who do amazing work. We went back to Arbury Hall which doubles as my house, Hoxley Manor. Long, beautiful days in what has been a pretty good summer in the south of England. This week we've been filming at an airfield with a big old DC3 plane. Tried to imagine going accross the Atlantic in it. Terrifying thought.
The new series goes out in January.

Mentoring

2010-07-14T23:13:00.000+01:00

BAFTA the British Academy of Film and Television Arts are running a mentoring scheme between members and young people. Last month I worked on a project with young refugees from the leave2remain programme in London. The aim of the project was to make a 3 minute film in 3 days. We had an amazing time doing it, mostly because of the enthusiasm and talents of the young people involved. To watch the film we made you can go to Success. It may seem strange that with all the difficulties facing asylum seekers, making a film would be given any funding priority, but the idea is a powerful one and the technicians involved all gave their time for free. The young people learn specific skills (performance, camera operating etc) and more general skills (organisation, persistence) and have a tangible, finished product. Most importantly of all, they get to tell their stories.

Location

2010-06-23T23:16:00.002+01:00

Rare is the job that doesn't require an actor to leave home for most of the week, perhaps for several months. Many British actors live in London but films and television shows only use the film studios on big budget or long running productions and the streets of London itself can be expensive places in which to film. Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow and obviously Cardiff are regularly used location cities but most of the actors who could claim them as their birth places have moved to London to look for work. There is, of course, plenty of theatre in London but the majority of plays go on tour or are funded by regional theatres. Voice overs usually record in town and some audio books are even being recorded by actors in their house, a lonely arrangement in what was already a pretty isolated occupation. For the most part though, actors are on the road. What follows is a small guide to what they will need to pack.

Dressing Gown
On set or in your dressing room, this is an essential garment. You will need it while you are in the hair and make-up chair so that you don't ruin the hours of artistry when you take your t-shirt off/put your costume on. You will need it when you are eating your breakfast/lunch/dinner, which three meals are nearly all consumed at work when you are filming. You will need it when you have to run to the tiny toilet two floors below your dressing room in the theatre and you will need it when you are crying/fooling around/sleeping in your caravan between takes.
My own dressing gown is plain white and covers all sizes of costume. Whilst wearing it I resemble nothing so much as a decently medicated lunatic. If the coat fits, as they almost say.
It has to be said that men don't embrace the dressing-gown culture quite so readily and perhaps that is as well. They often make do with item number two...

A Big Coat
Like the dressing gown, this is sometimes supplied by the wardrobe department. But it doesn't hurt to have one packed and it is less fun being warm when you have the name of the production spray painted ten inches long in florescent green across your back.
The days that a coat is not required on location can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Theatres are often kept at refridgerated temperatures, the British countryside likewise. Although I have to confess that on my last tour it was mentioned (by some of my colleagues a little less than thrilled at the prospect of another week spent in shared accommodation with the heating on every night) that I would only ever be truly warm on the surface of the sun, long days, night shoots and wildly inappropriate costumes all mean that a lovely big coat is often the ultimate comfort.

A Hobby
Books, newspapers, crosswords and knitting are all useful activities when standing by. During filming, the location will probably be in a field/quarry/abandoned hospital. Electricity will be provided by generators and there won't be any spare sockets for your iPhone/laptop/Playstation unless you are in a special relationship with the Facilities manager.
You will need a hobby without batteries (special relationship aside), preferrably something that is easy to pick up and put down without too much preparation or distress. In particular, the hobby must make no noise or require too much concentration but be engaging enough to stop the actor from planning a revolution/wandering off/being fired.
See Accomplishments for advice about which hobbies not to bring.

Coffee or other drugs
Most of us have some special titbit that keeps us going for the day. For advice on how to get by without the more destructive addictions, please see your sponsor. For the legal highs, the trick is to be prepared. Make sure you have your supply of cigarettes/candy bars/spirolina in an accessible form, close to hand. There are never any shops near your location, it's like a rule.
For many of us, a good cup of coffee can make all the difference and yet it is the one beverage that is surprisingly difficult to access once away from the main drag. Giant canteens of hot water poured into styrofoam cups of instant granules don't quite cut it. Carrying around a glass cafetiere is not practical and for those with a serious coffee habit and a big budget, that espresso machine is going to need a power supply.
The answer? A coffee flask or mug with a built-in plunger. But of course, I hear you cry, I'll dig mine out from the back of the kitchen. They do exist. If I carried advertisements, I would endorse the brands, but as it is I can only say that there are two manufacturers that I know of that make these products and both are great. Keep a small bag with said mug and ground coffee ready to pack at a moment's notice. With my fresh cup of coffee, I am ready for the make-up chair at 6 am or the evening audience at 6 pm.

So we have sweets, costumes and games. All very helpful in making the day run a little bit smoother, all more than slightly childish. It has probably occurred to you that none of these things are exactly life-saving and certainly none of them are necessary for the job. And that is the point really. The only thing necessary for you to do the job is you. It's quite old fashioned; no equipment, no special tools, the dressing gown is about as far as it goes. But you might as well be comfy.

Line learning

2010-05-29T21:54:00.001+01:00

It is a minor complaint amongst actors, a tiny grain of sand in the oyster of love for the audience, that the aspect of a performance that draws the most comment is often the feat of memory involved in line learning. 'Really?' thinks the actor, 'that was what you guys were focused on when I was out there getting my heart/arm/back broken? But that is just a result of physical repetition, a small tool in my technical armory. I feel so unappreciated and misunderstood'.

I exaggerate, but only slightly (see FAQs). It is true that anyone watching a play is bound to be impressed by the apparently smooth way in which the actors leap around the text, with iambic pentameter or Pinteresque pauses, seemingly holding the entire play in their heads. And it is also true that most actors regard learning the lines as the first stage of the process; it is not until they have committed the text to memory that they can truly discover the performance they want to give. But this is the ideal and the reality, for most actors, is somewhat different.

Of course, the challenge of learning the lines varies from job to job. If you are working in film, the dialogue is often sparse, it is a visual medium and it is often only in one or two scenes that the lead actors will be required to learn anything particularly epic (speeches that frequently fall into the 'I had a puppy' category as defined by David Mamet). The film actor still has to learn lines, but the trick for them will be to play with the form and make it their own, so that the audience will hardly notice that what is being spoken was scripted. This is not a question of changing the words, but of breathing the character's life into them, although famously the scriptwriter has more liberty taken with their work than the playwright.
Also, the pace of filmmaking is glacially slow, two or three pages of script, on average, a day. So there is plenty of time to get familiar with the dialogue.

In television, you will often be working within a genre. There may be technical language to get grips with, such as medical or police jargon that needs to flow seamlessly. The pace is faster and if you are the lead in an ongoing series, time will have to be spent at the end of every long shooting day, learning the next day's lines. But that will be usually be it; about five to ten pages a day, unless it is a soap and then you enter a different realm. Soaps often get filmed in blocks, with colour-coded teams shooting each week and actors going from set to set for various episodes. They may have six episodes in their head at any one time, more if they have to do reshoots or pick ups. But the lines will be scene length, a few pages long. The actors do not need to learn whole episodes at a time.

Then there is theatre, where the actor actually does need to learn their entire part during the rehearsal period. Some actors like to get to grips with the lines before they start rehearsing but this is often not practical for a couple of reasons. Firstly, they may not be cast until quite late and secondly, because learning the lines completely out of context is quite odd, like memorising random items on a conveyor belt. When the movements of your character and the faces of the other actors become known, then the lines start to make sense. For this reason some actors deliberately try not to learn their part before they have thoroughly explored the play in rehearsal; they want the lines to be integral to the interpretation of the character.

So, what about the actual learning? I'm putting off the explanation because it is frankly not very exciting. There are some variations in technique, for example many actors are dyslexic and will record their lines (how much easier now we are digital), and then listen to them or record the other character's lines and fill in their own according to their taste. Some actors like to write out their part by hand as they become more familiar with the words, because the physical act of writing the lines down helps to strengthen the memory.

But the main way of learning lines is plain old repetition. You get familiar with the words when you start rehearsing and then you go over them in the evening, covering your part and stumbling through, asking whoever will help to listen to you and then repeating them to yourself incessantly as you go about your day. Driving is a great time to do lines. Lines tend to make themselves known when you are sleeping as well (preferably not while at the wheel), swimming around your subconscious in a disturbing fashion. Suddenly, everything that you hear reminds you of your play and your friends and family become almost as crazy as you, as you chant bits and pieces from forthcoming attractions in a demented frenzy.

And then there is the learning of everyone else's lines as well. Not their entire part, more the beginning and the ends, well, you want to leave yourself some surprises when they chat away while you listen night after night for the next several months. But you'll need to know the starts and stops because basically, that's where you come in. You cannot, unfortunately, say all your lines in one go. You have to know where they fit in with all the others. And your colleagues don't always make it easy for you. They may take a lot longer than you to learn their own lines, (they may never know quite precisely) leaving you to figure out if they finished speaking or have a little bit more to say or if they're ever going to mention that bit about the wardrobe that you're supposed to ask them about next. But if there's a big pause in the middle of the scene while you wonder whose turn it is to go next, it's usually yours.

I wish it wasn't so prosaic. I wish there was some cunning trick, a shortcut that the Magic Circle of Equity members revealed to the novice before their first night, or even after just for kicks. I don't think most audiences watch a play in the hope that some spectacular mishap will occur, although I have been told often enough that 'audiences love that sort of thing' when I have been responsible for some extraordinary disaster. Actually, audiences rarely notice when things do go a bit wrong. Not horribly wrong like when you might be left alone on stage while your fellow actor screams obscenities into the wings before deciding to return. Just for instance. That, they do tend to notice. But minor mishaps, like skipping ahead an act before realising and then running through the missing pages in your head while carrying on with the play. Mostly, they don't notice that.

This is why the 'actor's nightmare' is not just a cliché. We really do wake up screaming about having to go on without knowing the lines. The feeling is so completely terrible, so sweat soakingly, heart poundingly, panic inducing, that even though there is absolutely no obvious way to do it, every time we start a job we eject large quantities of essential data, (how to file tax returns/recognise family members/tie shoelaces) and shove the whole play into our heads. It's not life saving neurosurgery, or going down a mine, but it is quite tricky. And yet, we still get ever so slightly, very respectfully, affronted when that is the only thing asked of us after a show. Silly really.

Contracts

2010-05-18T12:08:00.001+01:00

Contracts for actors are initially a verbal agreement. At this stage, the project, role, dates and money will be known, everything else is still to be discussed. If the discussions break down then the contract won't proceed and either party can walk away in good conscience. But the verbal agreement holds against say, a better offer coming along, in the case of an actor, or a better actor coming along, in the case of the producers. If anybody walks away under those circumstances, a row is ignited which can only be extinguished with quantities of money.
The producers have the advantage in this situation for two reasons. Firstly, they chose the actor, usually under circumstances over which they had entire control. They will have had a good long think about who they wanted and have cast the best actor they could within their budget. It is rarely the case that the budget suddenly increases at the last minute and they can fire their poorly paid first choice and employ a better-paid A-list first choice. Secondly, if it does happen then they have the budget to pay the fired actor's entire fee.
Actors, on the other hand, don't know what work choices they may have to make within any given period. They will take a job and hope they made the right choice. If they get it wrong, they cannot afford to pay for the entire production in order to get out of their commitment and you can be fairly sure that they will be sued.

Of course, this is all quite unusual. If the contract has been verbally agreed, then that is often a done deal and the rest is detail. But the detail is telling and on bigger productions, with bigger stars there are a lot of details. Billing, for instance, can be crucial and complicated with left-hand/right-hand positioning and higher/lower considerations on the posters. Stars will often prefer not to be billed at all for a cameo rather than be placed far down on the list. Theatrical productions and television series will usually bill actors in alphabetical order or order of appearance and that solves a lot of problems. Arguments can still occur over who goes first amongst the leading cast and there is little quarter given since the positioning reflects the current standing of the actor within their profession.
Other ongoing contractual obligations will cover accommodation, both on set and off, and crucially, transport. On one film that I took part in while still a teenager, my agent had not arranged any transport for me while the other actor's agents had stipulated cars, at least to and from the station. The studio was a long way from any public transport, we were filming in winter and often we did not finish shooting until seven or eight in the evening after a six am start. The assistant directors would try and arrange a lift for me, but it was out of the goodness of their hearts and their hearts were often busy bursting as they comforted yet another one of the company members who had been fired that day. It was not a happy shoot. One of the other actors took me to one side after she had seen me hanging around the AD's office yet again trying to get home. "Always sort out the transport, darling" she said in the sort of tone reserved for a particularly trying child, "Tell your agent next time." I was completely terrified and the incident made an indelible impression on me but I'm sorry to say that I never did get to grips with contract negotiations.
When my partner recently signed her own work contract for a respectable job, she took some time deliberating over certain clauses. Curious, I took out the last contract I had a copy of and compared some of the wording. When I got to Paragraph Four, I gave up. Her contract referred to some of the job requirements expected of her. So did mine. I paraphrase, "The artist will engage in such nude scenes as have been agreed in the script. Should a body double be required, the artist will be informed." I couldn't even decide which would be worse, filming the nude scenes or being told they'd rather have a body double. Turns out it's better not to read the contract at all.

Corsets Again

2010-04-26T18:50:00.001+01:00

Apologies for my absence. I am now released from my corset and trying to get back into a routine. The routine seems more constricting than the corset somehow. After twenty-five years of conforming to schedules and whalebone, I lack the required self discipline.

Anyway, I have discovered that corsets are certainly no more comfortable than they were several years and quite a few pounds ago. It is hard not to panic as the final layer goes on and the seam is stitched into place. The correct procedure is to breathe out, so that there is more room to tighten the laces, but that is not as easy as it sounds. How voluntary is breathing? It is difficult to deliberately stop. The exercises that you use to increase your lung capacity as an actor discourage the practice of high, shallow breathing; it is bad form. Just as ballet training stops you from turning your toes inwards, an actor's training forces you to engage your diaphragm. It was my old ballet master who saved the day though. In times of trouble, an incomplete pirouette perhaps, or a wobbly arabesque, the cry would echo through the studio as you attempted to regain your poise, "Where will you be when the war starts?" A little overwhelming for a ten year old, but inordinately useful as a tool of comparison in times of minor crisis.

The corset is laced, the dress fastened, the seam sewn. The small battle of the ribcage is won. I shall worry about the war when I've learned how to dress myself.

Christopher Cazenove

2010-04-08T18:33:00.001+01:00

The wonderful actor Christopher Cazenove died yesterday. My thoughts are with his family, whom he adored, and his many friends and colleagues. It was hard to be a colleague of Chris's without becoming a friend, so great was his humour and so open his heart. He was brave, thoughtful and just the right kind of impossible. I will miss him greatly.

Pilot Season

2010-03-12T00:32:00.014Z

There are about 10 weeks of the year that stand out, even from the other incomprehensible 42 in Los Angeles. They coincide with the awards season, though they don't exactly connect, and they are interrupted by the Sundance Film Festival, though they rarely benefit from the break. From January to March, the television industry embarks on the phenomenon that is Pilot Season and it is all hands on deck.

For a while, during the Writer's Guild Strike and the threatened SAG (Screen Actor's Guild) strike of 2007 and 2008, it looked like Pilot Season might be in jeopardy. Necessity had intervened and given birth to the dawn of a new era. Henceforth, there would be fewer pilots, more commissioned series and less testing generally. TV executives would be bolder, take more chances, it would be cheaper in the short term and maybe more original material would emerge from the labour. The experiment lasted one season. It was a disaster.

So, just when many thought the savage delights of Pilot Season would be no more, it has sharpened its claws and returned with sleeker budgets and a gimlet-eyed determination. It works like this:

1. All the networks and cable stations that produce their own scripted television series, whether it is half-hour comedies, one-hour dramas or something in-between (see Nurse Jackie), commission hundreds of pilots to be filmed.

2. The world's actors audition for the pilots. They get the scripted material, learn it, go to meet the casting director. They might get a recall where they go and see the producers and writers. Occasionally, someone has thought to employ a director and the actors might meet them as well, though no-one takes much notice of what the director thinks. In the land of television, the one eyed man is king and directors famously have more vision than sense.

Well known actors ignore this stage and go straight to 3.

Extremely well known actors go straight to 4.

3. Once three possible choices for each part are confirmed, the final auditions take place (see Network, Going To).

4. With everybody safely signed up for the next seven years, the pilot is shot. The contract is only limited to seven years because that is the law in California. If it were not, actors would simply be indentured. It is somewhat surprising that no network attorney has thought to utilize the various and more lenient employment laws of the states in which the pilots are actually filmed to implement this process.

It used to be the case that the pilot was a somewhat deluxe version of the possible show, especially with drama series. The budget would be bigger and the pilot would sometimes be released as a video film in its own right. This now only really applies to sci-fi, whose audience is infinitely patient and patently insatiable.

5. The pilots are watched by the studios and networks. 90% of them are shelved. The rest are 'picked-up' for a series of 13 or 26. Actors go shopping. Writers are chained to desks.

6. The 'brand new series' air in the autumn schedule and the viewing figures come in. Some shows are axed straight away, some hobble on for a season. Around half a dozen are a success. One of them wins awards.

7. The mid-season pick-ups are commissioned and filmed. They are chosen from the also-ran lists of the pilots that did not make it through the first round. A couple of them will continue to another series.

8. It's January, executives have come and gone, those who survived make New Year's Resolutions. If Darwin were pursuing his studies today, he might not trouble himself with Galapagos; Studio City would suffice.

9. Pilot Season starts again.

Anything wrong with this picture? It might not be perfect but the best American drama series are consistently among the most well written, polished and emulated television programmes in the world. They have to be.

Tipping

2010-01-11T20:52:00.002Z

The British are reluctant tippers. In the United States a 20% tip, while not usually included in the bill, is common practice. In the UK, I have seen parties of diners almost come to blows over a small saucer of pound coins. Try that in New York and the waiter would readily supply the knuckle-dusters.

Actors, accustomed to using their skills at silver service to support themselves between gigs, should be generous tippers. But there is a dying art to tipping in the theatre, and it is a skill that actors would do well to revive. Dressers and stage door keepers remember the days when the actors would tip them properly and promptly at the end of each week. This is a guide on how to do it, for those of us who have been neglectful, based on information supplied by both tippers and tippees (not tepees, they only need oiling and not toupees, they only need glue).

I was told all this many years ago and 'forgot' it. Mea Cupla. This is to remind me.

1. This sort of tipping is for the work where there is a disparity in wages, unless you are a film star on minimum wage slumming it in what counts for the West End even though your manager begged you to sign up for Comic Hero 2, in which case you can treat the entire cast and crew regularly. When you are all earning £356 a week a thoughtful gift at the end of the run will do.

2. Tip your dresser even if they don't actually dress you. Just as you tip the waiter even if your order was quite straightforward. They are still working and they have to pay the rent/buy baby new shoes/some other increasingly unlikely financial euphemism. At least £20 a week is the going rate if you have your own dressing room. If you are sharing, £10 each is much appreciated. If you are the only cast member do your best; you're probably a nightmare.

3. You'll have to work out who does what at the stage door. There is usually more than one doorkeeper, on a rotating shift. It will not be difficult to understand but it may be a little more expensive. It is not cool to divide £20 between more than two people.

4. Get envelopes and leave them with a name on at the end of the week. Don't start pressing crumpled notes into palms or counting out change. I once left the service charge in coins at a Californian restaurant. The waiter refused it and stood by unsmiling while we rearranged our wallets. It was embarrassing and ruined the meal but it taught me to be more prepared. So thank you, proud and difficult waiter, though I hope I never see you again.

5. Tipping is not a measure of how grand you are or how lowly are others. If you are worried you will seem high-handed, get over it.

6. There is nothing sexy about stingy.

7. If in doubt, you only really need to remember #6.

Holby City

2010-01-06T10:18:00.003Z

Holby City was snowed under but not snowed in this week, as everyone battled against the elements and made it in to the BBC studios. Only half a day's filming was lost in the middle of the week, but it meant that many of us stayed in Elstree so that we could walk to work if we had to. The town has moved on since I first started filming there, 30 years ago, but there isn't an awful lot to do if you unexpectedly finish work at midday. Still, however tempting it might be to venture into the London hurly-burly, it would be hard to justify a snow bound no-show the next day when everyone has seen you dropped off at the Ibis on the roundabout. There's a lot to be said for peace of mind even if you do get drawn into the twilight world of Celebrity Big Brother in the confines of your hotel.

There is a 4 month delay between filming and transmission, and the Holby-in-April setting involved a lot of optimism about what the weather will be doing by then. This translates into a silk sleeveless mini-dress for my character who doesn't take any prisoners when it comes to outfits. The costume department managed to squeeze in thermal garments under the dress, with the result that when the show goes out the local postmistress will again be prompted to ask if I was wearing padding. At least I can blame the layers. Do donuts count as cold weather protection?

Happy New Year. Normal posting to be resumed when I've thawed.

The End of Grass is Greener

2009-12-04T11:34:00.002Z

Last three shows in Glasgow. I haven't worked here since the final season at the Citizens Theatre in 2004 when Giles Havergil, Philip Prowse and Robert David MacDonald retired. I miss working at the Citz and cannot cross the bridge to visit the theatre. Great to be back in this beautiful city though. Party time.

Update

2009-11-12T11:38:00.004Z

We are nearing the end of the tour. Of the original 10 cast and crew who started in Windsor at the end of August, 7 remain. Even though we are not on an Agatha Christie production, there is a certain mystery as to the cause of our 30% drop out rate. But the rest of us continue with only an occasional glance over our shoulder and a modicum of anxiety whenever the company manager announces he has some news. Who will be the next to go? Whether our paranoia is increased by a game of Murder that is currently being played on our days off, I could not possibly say. It is certainly true that on the morning that I woke up with four people to kill before the Half, I was undeniably jumpy.

In October, I finished my Post-Grad course and am now ploughing on with the novel. To follow its progress, head over to the Cyber Reading Room.

There is a new blog for cast and crew on tour in the UK called The Digs List. It seemed such a lottery for people to find good accommodation from week to week that I thought I would ask around and note down people's positive experiences. I am adding to it as we go along. Of course, it may be useful even to those who don't earn their living traveling around Britain with a truck full of make-up and a set. You never can tell.

Special Features 3

2009-09-20T22:18:00.003+01:00

The Grass is Still Greener

2009-09-08T10:09:00.006+01:00

One of the greater challenges of touring belongs to the stage management team, who have to take down the entire set, once the curtain comes down on a Saturday night, and re-assemble it on Monday morning, ready for the show on Monday night. This includes costumes, furniture, and the physical set; flooring, walls, drapes and plenty of ironmongery. Lights in the new theatre have to be re-focused, dressing rooms assigned and labeled, actors coralled and flymen instructed. These and all the many adjustments that have to be made for each new venue are entirely the responsibility of the Company Manager and the Stage Manager. They have a stage crew and a truck and all the actors who very helpfully pack up their own bags and put them vaguely in the area of the stage dock, waiting for them to be loaded on the truck, unloaded the other end and hopefully placed in their new dressing room.

So when, on a Monday afternoon, the actors arrive to have a look at the stage and are a little put out that stage management are busy and are not quite ready but are in fact a little behind, it is surprising that blows are not swiftly exchanged. But such is the patience of an experienced Company Manager, good humour is swiftly restored and the show opens with only a few minor hitches, guaranteed to relieve backstage tension. After all, it doesn't hurt to know that we are all human.

It's great to be back in the lovely Nottingham Theatre Royal and after the crazy schedule for The Grass is Greener in the spring, it's good to have a chance to return and let it flourish.

We're still working on our horticultural metaphors.

Special Features 2

2009-08-18T09:56:00.003+01:00

Anna and Terrance go to a casting session for a new Catma movie called The Missing Link.

Special Features 1

2009-08-11T18:09:00.005+01:00

A few summers ago, my friend Mark Aiken and I made these little films about a pair of English actors trying to make it in LA. My partner Rena Brannan directed them. We called them Special Features.

Careers Day

2009-07-22T10:24:00.013+01:00

Last week I met a friend who was considering a new teaching post. 'Sounds good,' I said. 'Well, not so much,' she pulled a face, 'It's hardly prestigious work and the pay isn't great.' I was puzzled, it sounded like a fantastic job to me, and we both started wondering what my own criteria for taking work might be.

1. Is it indoors?

Seems simple enough, most people when thinking about the kind of career they might like, consider whether they are indoor or outdoor people, even if they do so unconsciously. For some, office work would be too confining while others do not have the call for the wild. Some people perceive the elements as a necessary evil of the job. But should they find themselves say, policing a neighbourhood, or supervising Year Two's lunch break, they will, at least, wear a coat when it is raining, which will be absent when it is sunny. That seems like common sense, some employers even provide appropriate work clothing.

They will not be swimming off the coast of Brighton in January wearing a full-length woollen bathing suit and matching cap, all day. They will sensibly refrain from donning overcoats in a heat wave and camisoles in winter fields when the moon is full. This is because they listened to their career advisor and didn't become actors. Of course, part of the wonder of the job is the different challenges that each day brings, but shivering through a thunderstorm wearing nothing but a silk shift loses whatever charm it might once have had very quickly. Since the locations are often charmless themselves (see previous posts on disused mental hospitals, tunnels, caves, quarries) there is much to be said for working in a purpose built studio , particularly on period dramas. Which brings me to:

2. Will I have to wear anything extremely uncomfortable for a long time?

Astronauts probably have to dress up in heavy gear when repairing the hulls of spaceships, and fire workers, while looking obviously very attractive in addition to being well-protected, may get quite sweaty running up and down ladders in the middle of a blazing inferno. But on the whole, if you were told you weren't going to breathe much or eat solid food when wearing your uniform, you might think twice before accepting the position.

The costumes on one film I was in were so enormous that we were unable to sit down and were supplied with leaning boards. Corsets pulled so tight that you regularly faint, sleeves that give you track marks, wigs and hats that cut off the circulation in your scalp. All beautifully made and incredibly expensive and everyone is very sorry that the skintight tweed habit that a child has peed on under the Tunisian sun, cannot be dry cleaned even though you are wearing it for another six months.

Filming days are not short, lights are quite hot. It is something to bear in mind when offered the job. But not, perhaps, as important as:

3. Will I get to wear anything at all?

Self-explanatory this one. Also, remember the indoors/outdoors question and consider the terrain. Naked, usually in close proximity to another naked body of some description, in public, might be enough joy for one day. Add a gravel pit or a haystack to the list and you could succumb to feelings of negativity. I hesitate to mention bodily fluids (exchange thereof) and I refuse to give them their own heading, lets call it 3a, but surely they must figure slightly in the 'how much do I want this job' equation.

Yes, it’s all fairly sordid in this part of the career forum. Moving swiftly on .

4. Will I be working more than a sixty-hour week?

Doctors and nurses often work these hours, emergency services don't look at their watches and clock off as they go into overtime, prime ministers and presidents age visibly by the day with the sheer amount of work. But these are important, life-saving jobs, not involving mascara and tear sticks and magic pants. Well, apart from the politicians anyway.

The standard union contract for an actor in the UK requires that they have at least eleven hours off between filming days and at least one day a week for a rest day, or three days over a fortnight. You might be working for eleven days at a time, fourteen hours a day including travel, in a corset.

Something to think about, when you consider:

5. Will I be well paid?

Ah, the nub. As we are all aware, some actors are exceptionally well paid; they park their jets in the garage and wear new clothes every day. Good for them. They are paid that much by businessmen earning similar quantities and purely based on the 'return'. Stop earning for the suits and those stars will be selling exercise videos before you can say 'The Power of Now'.

And what of the average actor? What remuneration might they expect for an honest day's work? Well, the actor's union, Equity, just tried to get the weekly salary for all West End actors, raised to a minimum of £500. They didn't quite succeed. In the rest of the country, including the smaller London theatres, the average is about £350. Filming can pay better, with the starting rate at about £100-150 a day. Voice-overs and advertisements can supplement/supply an actor's income.

When my friend and I had finished my list, she looked thoughtful. ‘Your bar is set pretty low,’ she said, ‘I don’t think our positions are comparable’. But she took her job.

Make-Up

2009-07-15T12:40:00.015+01:00

The Make-Up Department holds a special place in the heart of an actor. Like the Costume Department, they work with you to create the character, but whereas with the costume designer much of the creative work is done before the production starts, the make-up designer will be with you in the morning before most of the crew are even awake, and you will spend many vulnerable hours in the shelter of their location van. That is not to say that the folk in Costume work any less hard, but actors depend on the make-up artist for more than just their skill with a powder brush. Apart from anything else, you simply spend so much time together that the hours must fulfill the basic criteria for a long-term friendship.

There are several different sorts of make-up that will usually be required for any character you play:

1. The basic, looking-presentable, natural make-up that your character will sport for most of the show. The standards for this may vary on either side of the Atlantic. In the US, full-slap is the very least you might expect, whereas in the UK, the natural look is taken a bit more literally (spend too much time on a long-running British show and you'll be lucky if you get your hair brushed). In any case, as you get older, achieving this look becomes both more challenging and less necessary. No one wants mom to look like she's tried too hard. Except during...

2. The glamourous make-up moment. This will be the evening party that your character will go to, either as a Cinderella suddenly transformed or as the sex-bomb who made a bit of an effort. The stage directions will read 'She looks amazing. All traces of her life as a welder are gone'. Here, the make-up artist will have a chance to get out that colour palette languishing in the bottom of the drawer. The make-up call will be even longer than usual and much discussion will have centered on the hairstyle in the preceding weeks.

3. The accident make-up. This will be for when your character gets hit by a bicycle/frying-pan/lamppost. Anything larger or more animated (car/dragon/ flying saucer) and you are probably getting into special effects territory (involving at least one different department). Cutting your finger opening the invitation to the ball, will mean a small amount of blood, perhaps a sliver of a silicone cut, maybe even some pretty little stitches specially prepared and stuck on, if you used a carving knife to open the envelope. Make-up artists always have a good amount of blood in their set bags, though there is often a minor argument between the Make-up and Costume Departments about just how washable the blood actually is.

4. Body make-up. Any nudity, tattoos, scars and birthmarks will require some body make-up. This is an intimate part of the job and, depending on the placement of the tattoo and the nature of the scene, often goes beyond the call of duty for the make-up artist. Some are more squeamish than others, though the conscientious make-up artist who applied full body paint to a young actor, with whom I was about to spend a day in bed, alerted me to his unusual rash by her assiduous attentions to his groin area. It took many hours for the results of the skin test I requested to be returned marked 'non-contagious'. Oh, how we actors laughed as we rolled about together later.

Most make-up artists also dress the hair of the actors, unless there are some particularly challenging wigs on a period film. In contemporary settings, it is common for producers to want their lead actors to sport a healthy head of glossy locks. Since these are often in short supply, the make-up department will use toupees, hairpieces, scalp paint, curling irons, straightening tongs, blow-driers and many cans of hairspray to reproduce the look. With long hair, this can take some time. If your hair resembles a sheep's bottom when you wake up in the morning, like say...mine, then your make-up call will be ungodly. That anyone in the make-up department continues to speak to you, let alone hold your hand while your weep globules of painstakingly applied mascara in their make-up chair at lunchtime, is a testament to their much-tried patience.

You certainly wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of a make-up artist, mostly because you won't look good for the rest of the film, but also because make-up artists are incredibly strong. Years of lugging three separate sacks full of make-up up the stairs of stately homes and down into the tunnels of abandoned lunatic asylums, just in case that third set of rollers/spare moustache/extra pointed-ears are needed, has given them the arms of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his Conan days. Yet, somehow they always remain elegant. Of course.

Catch Up

2009-06-26T18:28:00.003+01:00

Sorry for being so silent this month. Hope you're all well and having some sunshine. I'm working on a proper post and I'd love to hear what everyone's plans are for the summer. Also, what's on your vacation reading list?

The BBC

2009-05-18T21:18:00.012+01:00

Careless talk.

After two months caressing the fringes of the 1960s, it's back to seamed stockings and victory rolls for The Land Girls, a new 5 episode series for the BBC. If I can't turn back the clock, I can time travel in my own fashion.

Getting into the BBC building is particularly challenging, and after 15 minutes of signing in, getting a pass, waiting to be collected, getting screened again at the door and walking back through the corridors, only to arrive at the original main entrance where I used to sit and wait for auditions as a child, it feels like a not too subtle metaphor for life. This time I remembered to take my coat off before the meeting, the one piece of advice my mother gave me and one that I always ignored, to my cost. Once, a Gentleman Writer on reviewing my screen test, sent word to my agent that I should wear a less voluminous top on the next occasion we met. I ignored him too and didn't get the part. Though really, I think only augmentative surgery would have given me the correct attributes for the job. Taking my coat off just wouldn't have been enough.

We have a full-on proper Read Through for The Land Girls, with all the cast and lots of Suits and many Heads of Department. Everyone says their name and what they do and it is noticeable that all the actors are nervous. It is impossible not to be. Months (sometimes years) have gone into preparation for this moment, when all the cast, crew and executives get together and the production begins. There has been no rehearsal, few of the actors have met, and some are not entirely sure what their character's name is, but today they will read through the entire project in front of the people who wrote and cast it and are in charge of commissioning, producing and casting all future drama at the BBC. No pressure.

The Read Through goes well and the young actresses who carry the show are delightful and moving. I am booed. After the trauma of Nurse Ratched, I am undecided on the merits of provoking instant hatred in the audience. In some ways it feels rewarding to cause such a reaction after a very short time, especially sitting at a desk in the middle of the day in a crowded room in White City. However, there is a certain type of performance, let's call it pantomime, that I am not exactly aiming for and again, I wonder if I have achieved it anyway. It's not that actors are contrary, you understand, we just spend all our lives seeking attention and when we eventually get it we do tend to wonder if it is actually quite the right kind.

The Grass is Greener

2009-05-04T13:24:00.005+01:00

Last week of the play, in Malvern. There is a possibility that it may go on tour in the Autumn for a longer run which would be a good thing. I am enjoying the play and especially my character, Hattie, and it is a great company of only 5 actors. We have bonded particularly over the issue of such a short rehearsal period, not something I would rush into again. But since we all had to get on with it so quickly, we stuck together and helped each other as much as we could. It is an irony that comedy can often divide a company, as individuals pursue laughs at the expense of their colleague's and sometimes at the expense of the play itself. If the actors collaborate then the play is necessarily better served, and good feeling translates well on to the stage, I believe. However, audiences sometimes prefer one grandstanding performance to a finely tuned ensemble, perhaps feeling that they have really got their money's worth when they can see the work that has gone into it.

The Grass is Greener

2009-04-18T04:40:00.002+01:00

Victor: Well, what's wrong with pride?

Hattie: Comes before a fall, they say.

On Wednesday I leave the rehearsal rooms feeling pretty good. The play is coming together, we have a week until we open and the sun is shining. Then I decide to run for a bus and take a perfect dive into the pavement. The moment I hit the concrete I think of my stupid pride and how just when you lose all dignity, you are made most aware of the enormity of your hubris. With skinned hands and knees, I stumble around for the rest of the week wondering why I am always one step behind my character.

No, I didn't catch the bus, but I expect I entertained the occupants.

The Grass is Greener

2009-03-31T13:15:00.003+01:00

Starting rehearsals this week for a short tour of The Grass is Greener, by Hugh Williams and Margaret Vyner who were married and wrote and starred in the play together . There is a film version with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, Jean Simmons and Robert Mitchum. I was thoroughly enjoying reading the script until I got to the stage direction where I take off my coat and stand in my underwear. This only means one thing and regular readers will know it. No more donuts, dammit.

Speeches

2009-03-02T11:11:00.011Z

It is unfortunate that actors are ever called upon to make speeches, particularly the impromptu kind, but it often occurs that a body of people, a charitable organisation say, or an events company, decide to commission an actor to speak on an appropriate subject, to an invited audience, touching lightly on their own illustrious lives and delivering the material with a blend of solemnity (for the sake of the cause) and humour (for the sake of the audience) that only the literate love child of Shami Chakrabarti and P.G.Wodehouse might produce. Actors are used to speaking in public, the thinking goes, they are comfortable in the spotlight, and people like to watch them, will even pay to watch them. They bring publicity, they embrace a good cause, and my kids/mother/husband loved them in that film/show/photo shoot.
The vital ingredient missing in this recipe is that of the writer. It is the writer who creates the character that the actor assumes, the writer who creates clever/funny/interesting people and the writer who has a point to make. Actors can only pretend to do any of these things. They are good at pretending, so good that they may get asked for medical advice by strangers when all they did was show up on the set of ER dressed as a surgeon. At this point, actors sometimes get confused and may offer a diagnosis. The easiest person for an actor to deceive is himself. The important thing to remember is that even though both parties believe in the character, the actor knows nothing about medicine and any advice should be promptly ignored.
Strip the actor of their character and of their script and they are reduced to themselves, a person who knows an awful lot about pretending and about as much as anybody else on any other subject, perhaps even slightly less. Most people will have a skill that they use to earn a living and so will have some training in a practical/academic capacity. They will know how to engineer a bridge/play the trombone/fly a plane. Actors can wear the right sort of beard to look like Mr. Brunel/purse their lips with a musician's intensity/sleep with the cabin crew. But they haven't learned how to do anything with any degree of expertise, except fake it.
Most people, when asked to give a speech would either decline or start studying very hard. Politicians employ speechwriters, television hosts read from cue cards, even the best man researches his jokes. But actors are used to standing in front of hundreds or thousands of people and making a fool of themselves. They like it. They don't need to prepare, it's just an extension of their day job, isn't it? It's not until I'm standing in the wings of the Albert Hall with a waiting audience of 5,000 and the producer says, 'The band's going to take a while to set up, could you fill for a couple of minutes?' that I understand the true horror of the situation. I have no 'material', I have no speech, I have in fact, no character. For the next five minutes, I get a glimpse into how it must feel to be able to speak another language fluently and to be speaking it to a crowd of people who have no idea what country you even come from. Tumbleweed. If I thought I had got away with it, the look of incredulity tinged with fury on the producer's face when I came off stage, swiftly disabused me. It was such a disaster that the bouncers tried to stop me going to the party after. And I was the host.
So, if an actor stands up at an award ceremony and the rest of the world wonders how they manage to open their cereal in the morning, remember the one thing that actors are totally unsuited for, being themselves.

Television

2009-02-03T14:59:00.010Z

Working on a television series is a very different job to making a film. It requires another kind of discipline, one that keeps you working at your best, long after the initial excitement of playing a character has left. You need stamina to work the long hours on a film, but although the day may be a little shorter on a long-running television show, many of the regular cast will be working all year round. The average working week will be over 60 hours long, with line learning and commuting on top. I know, who ever cried over the plight of the working actor? Still, it's a long haul and the actors who do it are often grey with fatigue beneath their face paint.

One of the benefits of playing a regular character is the familiarity with the role. Most actors get quickly acquainted with the characters they play, whether in the theatre or in a film or TV show, you develop ways of getting to know them. Some actors write out histories, some assume the personality of their part and stay 'in character' for the whole job. But on stage and in film, the character is a collaboration. The playwright's words are sacrosanct in the theatre, not a syllable can be changed without the author's permission and the actor's job is to work with the director to bring the story to life.

On film, famously, writers can be treated very badly, and the script is a little more malleable. However, the character is still a collaboration between the writer, director and actor. Other departments are also influential, the costume, make-up and set designers all make decisions about the characters in a film. Most importantly, once the film is finished, the director and editor get together and make a completely new person out of the one you pieced together over the months of shooting. At this point, the music may be making more performance decisions than you did.

Of course, all these things happen on television shows too. But something else comes into the mix. After a while in a role, the actor starts to know the character better than anyone else ever could. They spend all their working life with them and they have opinions on every choice the character makes. Meanwhile, directors, writers, even series creators, can come and go. Writing teams have a chance to react to what they see on the screen. One character responds unexpectedly to a scene. The writers might want to explore why. A couple of other characters are exciting when they are on screen together, the writers send them out on a date and see what happens. As an actor, this can be both a blessing and a curse. One week you may be celebrating your challenging new storylines, another might find you indulging your paranoia as you search in vain for any non-expositional dialogue.

For the last month I have been visiting the wards on 'Holby City' but the longest time I have spent with a character was on 'Heartbeat'. For two years, I charged about the North Yorkshire moors in my 1960's Citroen Safari, happily dispensing medicine to the denizens of Aidensfield. I learned a lot about the stamina needed to keep up with the schedule and quite a bit about tenant farming in modern Britain. Now there is a tough job.

Week Three

2008-12-06T11:02:00.002Z

After a good two-day break, the first long week starts. We spend every day on location at 'Tollington House' getting used to changing in a mouldy cupboard and knowing too much about each other. It is impossible to speak to the outside world; no mobile phones on set and by the time we finish we are too tired to make any sense, so we just talk to our fellow captives, mostly about the film and about sex, the only subjects we think about. Some of us talk about food as well, but I have nude scenes and they concentrate the mind wonderfully on not eating. It is a bad time not to smoke.

We also expend a lot of energy keeping warm. December in Edinburgh, in a large house with no heating, is somewhat chilly. My costumes don't allow for much padding but we have foot warmers and hand warmers that turn to little packets of rock in your shoes and pockets after lunch. On 'Dinotopia', we would suck on ice cubes before filming so that our breath didn't plume. Here, we have industrial heaters between takes in the hallways that drive the sound guys mad. In the Green Room we huddle around the fan heater and I wrap up in the location coat that has been with me for 25 years of filming. It is huge and loose so it can go over corsets and bustles and hoop skirts without crushing the fabric and it was once rather beautiful, in an ominous way. When I wear it now, I resemble the Michelin man after a day under the sun lamp.

During the week we tackle some of the bigger emotional scenes. (Edited for spoilers)

I have no distance between Mary and myself and the way she behaves seems entirely plausible. I don't sleep at all the night before we film one scene. John places the camera so that I will be able to do a whole speech in one set-up, which means I won't have to keep repeating the action from different angles. We still have to do quite a few takes, for performance and to get the timing right for the tracking shot. I feel almost possessed by the time we finish.

Week Two

2008-11-15T10:38:00.006Z

December 2007

We start the shoot in the middle of the week, which is fortunate because after several days filming we are all sleeping standing up. The filming day on a movie is different from on a TV show; the hours are longer and less regular and the week is usually six days. This is acceptable because of the shortness of a film shoot compared to 9-12 months a year on a TV series, so everyone paces themselves on a movie for having no life at all outside work. There are still union rules but we can assume on almost any movie that the cast and crew are working 14 hour days, 11 day fortnights, and that will just be the 'official' hours.

We are on location in the house that will be used for the interiors of 'Tollington House'. The building is about to be refurbished by the owners, so the Art Department have carte blanche to decorate it. Swatches of wall colour have been given to the Camera Department, for tests with the Viper camera system and filters, and to the Make-Up and Costume Departments to match with hair, make-up and clothes. All the departments confer on the overall look of the film and use reference drawings, photographs and paintings.

Our base camp for the next few weeks is a disused car park down the back of a cul-de-sac. This is where we meet, dress, get into make-up, and eat breakfast, lunch and, sometimes, dinner. The hours for these meals are changeable, so 'lunch' might be at 8pm if the day started at 12pm and is going on until 2am. There are duckboards between the various caravans to climb over puddles and two permanent residents of Facilities who look after all our temporary homes. We are driven to the set in states of undress (rollers in hair, giant warm coats over nightdresses) and huddled into the damp basement 'Green Room'.

Much of the action occurs on the staircase which takes us from Mary and Reg's working set-up on the ground floor, to Mary's bedroom on the second floor and then up to the attic room. The location provides the main staircase, then we use the basement corridor to double for the attic corridor that is being built at the studio. In practical terms, this means Paul Blair and I spend most of the time running up and down stairs in assorted orders. The hardest thing about starting filming is not leaping into big emotional scenes but working on all the little linking scenes that top and tail set pieces yet to be filmed. On the first day of work I have about six costume changes indicating at least eight different story days from all over the film.

There is one big advantage; the character of Mary that Clive created, and John and Darin developed, has grabbed me since I first read the script. I immediately wanted to play her and felt an affinity with her story. If you've read the book or seen the film, I know, it is a bit strange. But there it is; from the moment I laid eyes on her, Mary was mine, and I, in turn, am hers.

Week One

2008-11-04T11:43:00.001Z

November 2007
Everything for the film comes together at the last minute and the cast arrive in Edinburgh with less than a week to go before principle photography begins. On Friday night I meet a lot of the team and then on Saturday the costume designer and I drive to Glasgow and do a frantic clothes shop for the character. This involves finding a look that is right and putting things together to make a convincing wardrobe. In this story, my character changes from having a crisis of faith, to falling in love and finding an extraordinary confidence. As few people suddenly go out and buy a whole new set of clothes, the idea is to gradually combine clothes that she has always worn but that show the developments in her life. The designer, Gill Horn, has strong ideas for the overall look and also what will work on me. When something clicks it is a triumph but there are plenty of awkward moments when clothes look odd or don't fit. No more doughnuts.

In the evening, Jonas and I meet with John Harrison who is directing. We look at storyboards and inspirations for the designs. I get an introduction into the world of Clive Barker, his paintings and the body of work he has created. We discuss ideas and characters and the enthusiasm of a new project turns to practical application. The entire week is spent in prep; clothes, hair, make-up, camera tests, rehearsals. Because of the writer's strike, the script has been locked off since October. After 2 years in production, 'Book of Blood' is ready to start shooting.

Props

2008-10-27T17:28:00.002Z

The use of props is an unavoidable calamity for many actors. The reasons are varied. On stage, there is the problem of remembering to bring them on with you or wondering if they will be in the place they are supposed to be when you open the drawer of the desk in Act II to find the pistol/necklace/letter. And then if they have to do anything, whether or not they will do it. It is not much fun answering a phone that hasn't rung or using a daguerreotype camera that doesn't flash.

On film, there is the problem of having to repeat the same action at the same time for different takes and for different angles while the Script Supervisor has a nervous breakdown. So, picking up the book with your right hand while you thumbed the pages with your left, which seemed such a good idea when you did the master shot, suddenly becomes an impossible act of contortion when you film the two shot. How can you thumb through the pages without looking at them? Why did you pick up the book in the middle of your speech? Surely, you used your left hand to hold the book and your right to flick the pages? In no time at all, whatever performance you might have thought you were giving, is completely forgotten. What accent? What back story about the time your mother left you at the train station? What on earth is the person standing opposite you saying? It's all out the window (I realise that might not always be a bad thing).

Some actors thrive on prop work, inventing bits of business with a hat, taking classes with poker experts so they can do that thing where they move the chips between their fingers. Most of us try to get away with not using them whenever possible. I worked with one television director who insisted that if you were referring to a prop in the dialogue you should pick it up and show the camera. As I was playing a doctor who sometimes did detective work, I occasionally found myself delivering a speech in which I picked up at least five objects. If it wasn't practical to put them down again, I was juggling them all by the end of the scene. It was hardly elegant.

For the theatre, it will be the stage manager's job to lay the props out on a table backstage. For a film or television show, it is the work of the Property Department and there are usually at least 2 'standby props boys' who are in charge of all props used by the actors. The set dressing that is not part of the action is supervised by the Art Department. Clearly, the two departments work together closely and yet traditionally they are completely different in nature with very few women in Props and a history of the job being passed down from father to son. Because Props men work on the set all the time they have a relationship with the actors and they feature heavily in the day-to-day life of a film. It is they who provide food for eating scenes and watered down tea for whiskey. Their van has all the prop cigarettes, cans of beer, bottles of champagne. Most importantly, they often have the ability to make food on even the remotest locations. Make friends with the guys in props and at the end of a long scene wading through a swamp in January in bare feet, you may have a toastie waiting for you.

If you don't know an actor very well and you see them using a ton of props on your first day filming together, or eating/smoking/drinking continuously throughout a scene, you can hardly mention it to them. You just have to wait until the 10th take and be supportive when they swear blind that they could not possibly have chopped the apple with their right hand because they are left handed. If you do know an actor well and see them rest the briefcase on the arm of a chair while they tie their shoelace, then pick it up tuck under the other arm and bite the end of their pen while checking their pocket watch, you still don't say anything. It is just too much fun being stored up for later.

My prop nadir came during a production of Terrence Rattigan's 'Flare Path'. All I had to do was stay very still while my RAF husband broke down and admitted that he was terrified of flying and terrified of losing me. At the end of this moving scene which frequently reduced the audience to tears, I was to pass my handkerchief to the recovering wreck and let him sob on my shoulder. Except that just before the scene I had a very quick change and of course the night came when I had forgotten the wretched handkerchief. Throughout the breakdown I stared in hopeless panic at my husband, (hoping he would notice the international symbol for 'I don't have the prop') and feverishly scanning the set for a replacement cloth. Finally, the poor man turned to me and said "Do you have a handkerchief, Pat?" smiling weakly. "No." I returned and smiled weakly back at him. For the briefest of moments he hesitated before, with a blink, carrying on. That was 20 years ago but apparently he still remembers it surprisingly clearly.

Private Lives Week 6

2008-08-31T11:01:00.013+01:00

"It's nice to think we had a few marvelous moments."

Finally, a weather-free week. Well, I'm sure there was some weather, but nothing very noticeable and so the play continued in its entirety for the full five shows, leaving us to concentrate on the truly interesting thing about any production, the audience.

Clearly, audiences that have sat through the wind and rain and hung on to their umbrellas for dear life while a company of fools comport themselves on a damp sofa deserve some measure of appreciation. However, the individual qualities of the crowd are hard to fathom in a storm, aside from their obvious tenacity. As soon as the evenings became more temperate, we were faced with the nightly question, what will the audience be like this time?

It is not really a matter of numbers, small audiences can be more vocal than large ones, although it is reassuring to see a full house. But every audience seems to develop its own character and it is immediately obvious to the actors, whatever genre of play you are performing. If the show seems to lack energy after the first scene, and certain key moments fail to elicit a response, the actors can behave in different ways. Sometimes they get worried and start to push the show harder which can ride roughshod over the subtle and detailed character work that has been done in rehearsal. Other actors let the energy dissipate with a lackluster audience. Everyone wonders what is going on, why the play is not working. Usually, if you get a chance to talk to members of the audience after, you discover that they were enjoying themselves perfectly well and hadn't noticed anything wrong. It is extremely impolite to then point out the obvious flaws or to criticise the performance of the audience, however tempting. 'Oh, but it was awful tonight!' doesn't make anyone feel any better.

The best audience reaction and lesson came from a 9-year-old boy who had come to see 'Ideal Husband' one night. 'That was hilarious' he told me after in the bar and I was pleased he had enjoyed it, 'You got politics and philanthropy muddled up. I'll never forget it.'

Sometimes, it seems, the flaws are just as entertaining as the perfections. Like watching 'Dancing on Ice'. You don't want them to fall on their bottoms at great speed but it is jolly funny when they do.

So, to the end of the outdoor theatre season, which while not exactly Summer, was a bit warmer than Autumn and slightly less damp than Spring. Perhaps drawing-room comedy doesn't adapt wholly successfully to seasonal fluctuations but when the heavens subsided, it was glorious.

Private Lives Week 5

2008-08-24T22:20:00.015+01:00

"It seems so silly to go on, and on, and on with a thing."

Tuesday night is the official opening night at Kensington Palace, which coincides with the Noel Coward Society's visit. A busy evening gets off to an extremely slow start when the heavens open at exactly 7.30pm. Half the audience decides to remain under cover on the restaurant terrace so the first two scenes are played in the rain to a small damp group while the dry folk watch from the side. As the stage manager calls a break in proceedings while the shower passes, I catch my breath and rue the day.

The rain stops and we pick up the show and suddenly the audience is listening. It flies along from there but my nerves are shot. There is something deeply disturbing about interrupting a show. The weather forms a link between audience and cast that crashes through the fourth wall and refuses to leave. (For an audience perspective see the review at the link above.)

The rain dutifully appears again at 7.30pm on Wednesday, only with a little more determination. We stop the show completely after the first scene. A member of the audience is heard to describe us as 'weedy'. They may have a point. It is hard to know whether it would be better to try and continue. Standing soaking wet in a full length dress, changing the show as we go along to avoid smoking or playing cards or moving too quickly on the sheer surface of wet stone, even trying to look cosy in a Paris apartment while lying on a sodden sofa in the wind and the rain, all seem ridiculous. The play is not served by becoming a running joke about the weather. Then again, the audience has made an effort to come and see the show and they have remained despite the conditions. All theatre involves the suspension of disbelief, does being outdoors watching a play set indoors when the characters are clearly battling a storm that they never refer to, only strengthen the challenge?

The rest of the week is dry and we have the thrill of enjoying the show in our beautiful setting and wresting it back from the elements. The remainder of the run is expected to be sunny and even warm on occasion. How will we cope?

Private Lives Week 4

2008-08-18T16:34:00.006+01:00

"Come and kiss me, darling, before your body rots and worms pop in and out of your eye sockets."

The new week at Hampton Court gets off to a shaky start when one of the actors is punched in the face over the weekend and has to have several stitches in his lip. He still manages to do the show but we re-block quite a bit to make sure he doesn't receive any further damage. We all feel anxious and protective.

On Tuesday, there are gale force winds during the afternoon and a scene of devastation greets the stage managers when they arrive. Picket fencing embedded in chairs, drapes blown clean away from their moorings. The producer gently guides us away and supplies tea while the stage is redressed. We cannot help wondering what else can possibly happen. Snow? Plagues of locusts?

Despite wind and rain, we complete every show and the audience is unflinching in their bravery and tenacity. Our last night at Hampton Court sees some mild sunshine and a full moon. A flock of geese flies over Simon and me during the love scene. After the week we have had I cannot help imagining one of them dying and falling on top of us. The audience clearly envisages something both less fatal and dignified and emits a small laugh of relief as the geese pass by uneventfully. We continue in the collective knowledge that anything is possible in a British summer, outdoors at night in a park. It is this mutual appreciation of eventualities and the communal experience of triumph in adversity that makes the curtain call so poignant. The audience should take its own bow.

On Saturday, we move to Kensington Palace and what we lose in dressing room space and general grandeur is amply compensated by city warmth and proximity to stage and audience. Suddenly, we no longer feel like a small boat in a storm being observed by a distant tanker. The weather holds and the show gathers pace and we look forward to the weeks ahead. Standing in wet clothes for hours every night has taken its toll though and I retire for the weekend with a fever. Two nights off for us all to recover from dislocated jaws and chest infections. Plenty of time when two hours can seem like a lifetime.

Private Lives Week 3

2008-08-11T06:19:00.006+01:00

"I shall catch pneumonia, that's what I shall catch."

The end of rehearsals and we leave the safety of Ealing for the wilds of Hampton Court. Driving through the gates of the palace, the terror of being only 24 hours away from the first night is both helped and hindered by the nature of the setting. Such breathtaking scenery demands a fine production but also lends its beauty to our show for the evening.

The little stage is set up among the famous yew trees, and the drapes, white picket fencing and rows of chairs in semi circles look very inviting laid out on the lawn, like a doll theatre. We have a small area back stage to change and wait, to which we are driven like rock stars every night from our dressing rooms in the barracks. The "hello Cleveland" moment from 'Spinal Tap' springs to mind as we circle Hampton in the back of the jeep, fully dressed and made-up.

We miss the chance to do a proper technical rehearsal when it rains at exactly 7.30. So we wait for the shower to pass and then stagger through as best we can on a soggy stage, without costumes for fear of ruining them before we have even started. The run through gives us a chance to test the acoustics and get the feel of the space but the first night is really the first in every sense; no previews, no tech, not even a staged dress rehearsal.

On Friday, the day is overcast but dry and a little evening sun manages to warm us as we shake in our shoes backstage. The levels of adrenalin are boosted exponentially by the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants quality of the evening. At the end, our hearts are beating so fast we are all doubled over clutching our chests. But we are laughing. It went well, the audience is happy, we survived. "Don't be melodramatic." Amanda would say.

The second show is rather more eventful. At curtain-up, although it is not actually raining, it seems this is only because the air has decided to hold on to the precipitation for a few moments while it catches its breath. An audience resplendent in blankets and brollies waits impatiently for the start, and since they have been bold enough to sit outside for half an hour in the pouring rain while stage management try to keep the costumes, set and stage dry, it seems churlish not to give it a go. "Come on, come on. The show must go on!" Yells an octogenarian from the back row, and in a short time she is rewarded by the sight of all of us clinging to the balcony, shouting above the wind as the heavens open. We wade through the puddles, me in a cocktail dress and bare feet, for the best part of the show until safety issues (lights, soaking wet velvet drapes suspended from metal poles, lightening, wind and rain) force the stage managers to close us down. As one of the actors who had to enter at the end of Act II remarked, we looked as though we were doing the show on the deck of the Titanic.

Disappointed that we hadn't managed to finish, but triumphant that we had done our best, we took the curtain call in the middle of a quick change. Satin pyjamas clung to my legs. The hastily assembled petticoat and jacket hung limply from my dripping shoulders. My hair stood wildly about my melting features. Dignity abandoned, we thanked the audience for their extreme resilience and support. If nothing else, they had been witness to a unique evening at the theatre.

Private Lives Week 2

2008-08-02T14:44:00.005+01:00

"If all the various cosmic thingummys fuse at the same moment, and the right spark is struck, there's no knowing what one mightn't do."

In the second week of rehearsal, the low-level panic that accompanies each waking moment becomes more insistent. Now hails the 3am call from the abyss. It is easy to fall asleep when you have been throwing yourself round the rehearsal room all day, fretting and sweating. It is harder to stay sleeping when every dream heralds imminent disaster.

Various props arrive at rehearsal, costumes are finalised, haircuts booked. The practical aspects of performing outdoors are discussed. There are some potential hazards; slipping on wet floors, lighters blowing out in winds, shivering in silk pyjamas and soggy soft furnishings. Counteracting this are the benefits of playing Act 1, which takes place on a beautiful evening in a lovely setting, on a beautiful evening in a lovely setting. As the sun goes down, the lights will come up and at the end of the play, it will be dusk.

By Friday, the company has bonded, the shape of the play has gelled and we are ready for the next step. Now we start to run it as a whole piece. The excitement of seeing it assembled and on its feet is a cause for celebration. The night brings a new discovery; going to bed at 3am only delays the abyss until 6.

You can get quite a lot of thinking done when everyone else is asleep. Repeat after me 'The abyss is my friend...'

Private Lives Week 1

2008-07-26T11:44:00.005+01:00

"I think very few people are completely normal really, deep down in their private lives."

One week into rehearsal and the sun is shining, which means it is time for rehearsal pants. Since I rarely play any characters that remain upright and clothed for an entire two hours, when it is hot and I am wearing a skirt, I have taken to wearing modesty underwear. These are not attractive. Leggings work quite well, but they get hot and sticky and rolling around on the floor makes them dirty as well. By the end of the day I resemble an enthusiastically abandoned lollipop.

Still, the warm weather makes rehearsing much easier. The room is light, the windows are open and your body feels relaxed and capable. For the first time this summer, an evening outside seems like an inviting prospect. The parks are filling up with newly released children and office workers balancing containers of chicken drumsticks on their trouser legs. All is well, at least in Ealing.

Open Air Theatre

2008-07-11T12:58:00.007+01:00

In June, it seemed like a great idea; summer was coming and the prospect of being at Hampton Court and Kensington Palace in August, working on Private Lives was too good to miss. Now it is July and I am wearing a thick jumper and socks, indoors. The rain is washing away the lettuce and it is too dark to read without electricity at lunchtime. Last summer the whole town flooded and jet skiers were fined for speeding in the high street. How did I forget?

Next week we start rehearsing. For now, I am staring out the window wondering what a 1930's cocktail dress looks like with an overcoat and galoshes.

Network (Going to)

2008-07-07T08:03:00.011+01:00

The traditional pilot season in the States has been decimated by the WGA strike, and the ongoing discussions with SAG and AFTRA over the renewal of the actor's contract, threaten the order of the mid-season pick-up. It may be that the whole edifice crumbles and even 'going to network' will be a process consigned to history and only remembered by those who stumbled into the jaws of corporate television. It is a system unlikely to be missed.

The definition of a 'working' actor is one who seeks work and generally takes what is offered. Working or 'jobbing' actors are the core of most television, film and theatre productions. They earn a living but are usually available when needed and they tend to just get on with it. They also audition, which in the US is a lengthy process. For network auditions, the actor might already have done a 'pre-read', with just the casting director, a taped audition with the writers/producers, and then a callback. They will know the scenes by heart and may have formed an attachment to the role after weeks living with the script and driving around Los Angeles looking for offices in a road where six lanes divide one side of the pavement from the other and the only parking is a twenty-minute meter, but not on Tuesdays when they clean the street. It is hard to read parking signs when your head is busy fighting mutant lizards on an asteroid belt or forming a flirty but argumentative relationship with the other detective at your quirky agency. Your car will get towed.

Having been summoned to the network studio, your agent/manager will be busy negotiating your fee and the terms of your agreement. These will be the arrangements for where you will be filming, where you will be living, what you will be earning and how you will be working. For the next five years. American television contracts don't mess about. None of the British '6 episodes and then we'll find out if you're free again for the next series, if we get re-commissioned which we probably won't'. The US pilot television contract will be a book length document assuming you will shoot, first the pilot and then 26 episodes a year, every year for at least five and maybe more. The reality is that hundreds of pilots will be shot, some will be aired, a small percentage will be picked up and made into series, and most of these will be cancelled before half the series has been shown.

Regardless of the pilot's potential, the contract has to be signed before the job is offered. Just before you go into Room 101, you will be summoned to an antechamber to sign, in triplicate, the contract for the show that you have yet to be asked to appear in, to work with a director you haven't yet met, in a State you have probably never been to. The script is rushing around in your head along with 'five years?' and 'I'll never get it'. At this point you have no idea if you even want the job, but you do want to be asked and if you are asked, well, you've already signed the contract.

In the waiting room are the actors auditioning for all the main parts in the series, also in triplicate. You can look about and see the variety of directions the show could go in and understand absolutely that the producers have no idea who it is they want, they just want something and they all have to agree on it. Today. The other two actors going up for your part, will be much younger or more famous than you. They seem very calm. Their car is not being towed.

At some point, shortly after you've signed the contract, your name will be called and you will stumble into the office/screening room/boardroom they have assigned for the purpose of auditioning you. It will have absolutely no atmosphere, no obvious 'stage' area, no other actor to work with and everyone will be wearing a suit. It is not unlike going into your local bank to perform 'The Sound of Music'. The casting director will introduce you to the room and most of the suits will look up. She will tell you that she will read with you but she will remain seated while you stand at one end of the room on your own. She will not particularly raise her voice. When you are done with your scenes, there will be utter silence while you leave.

Later that day, your agent will call you and tell you have booked the job. You start Monday. You don't know if it will be for a month or a decade. You never will.

Or, your agent doesn't call and the next day you get a message on your voicemail. You put the script in the recycle box and wonder how much longer you'll be out of work. You don't know if it will be a month or a decade. And you still have to get your car out of the pound.

Medicals

2008-06-16T09:34:00.007+01:00

Before each film and during most television series, though never for a stage play, every actor must have a medical check-up. They involve detailed insurance questionnaires and a meeting with a doctor who might examine you very thoroughly or not at all, depending on their temperament. You may find yourself in a vulnerable position, in more than one sense.

Occasionally, actors are refused medical cover on the grounds of ill health, addiction issues or mental incompetence. Once you have been identified as a possible insurance risk and a precedent has been set, you now have form. It is best to fill out the questionnaire very carefully. Does the licorice stick you tried to smoke in the playground when you were nine count as drug taking? Probably not, unless you are now ten. Was the strange and sensitive place on your top lip when you were on holiday last summer a Cold Sore? Definitely not, unless you never want to work again. Have you gained or lost a substantial amount of weight in the last few years? Of course not, you are a sensible dieter with a good nutrition plan who exercises regularly. And your urine test will be clear because you have drunk nothing but filtered water for the past week and the closest you came to smoking anything was on the barbecue.

Actors used to be quite cavalier about these medicals as they were often casual affairs where your word was good, and a chat about Glyndebourne, or the hurricane season in Barbados was more likely than any unpleasant investigation into the state of your liver. Occasionally, doctors get ill themselves however, and their replacement may not follow the opera or holiday in the Caribbean. They might even want to examine you, despite the cheery figures you have filled in for your weight, in kilos, blood pressure, in kilopascals, and alcohol consumption, in millilitres of ethanol. This is one instance when suddenly feeling faint might not help your situation.

Aware of the somewhat arbitrary power of the examining doctor for an insurance medical, I am often intimidated on the day. It is a test, after all, and one in which a negative outcome would affect not just an immediate contract but all future employment. That such a result would possibly be due to poor health and therefore of more concern than a mere job, is not the point. Actors don't want to know if they are ill. They don't have personal disability insurance, (when you work in an industry in which a nasty scratch on your face might lose you a big contract, insurance premiums tend to be on the high side) they don't have pensions, or savings or plans. If they are sick, they go to work and the amount of adrenalin that kicks into their system when they start to say their lines, relieves them of symptoms. Receiving a diagnosis from a doctor, on a medical for insurance that will only protect the company that is employing them, is not much use.

So, in my haste to pass the exam and my eagerness to leave the room as soon as possible, I rarely stop to ask whether the various procedures are absolutely necessary. On the last occasion, it was only after I had spent ten minutes in my underwear in a darkened room having my 'reactions' tested that I started to question the methodology. Lying on my back with one leg pressed against my chest while the doctor bore down with a fair percentage of his not inconsiderable body weight, I pondered on the wisdom of raising an objection. Before I could reach a conclusion, the medical was over and I was dressed and back in reception. All these years of avoiding the casting couch, only to succumb to the examination table. I went back to work and got into my own doctor's costume.

Expletives

2008-06-12T11:52:00.002+01:00

So, the results are in and most people are at ease with the ancient oaths and cusses that enrich our language. I don't swear much in conversation but I like to report it accurately when other people do. In view of the fact that some requested f*****g *s, I will gladly use them and let our imagination and misspent youth fill in the blanks.

Thank you to all who took part.

Love Scenes

2008-06-10T10:36:00.006+01:00

Love scenes, also known as sex scenes, are as inevitable for actors as death and taxes and held in roughly the same esteem. Youth and beauty are not pre-requisites for naked horizontal performances, although, as in the Real World, they may be asked more often. Independent, low-budget, literary or artistic films might deliberately include graphic depictions of sex between the old and the faded to gain some reality points. Independent, low budget, genre or exploitation films will employ the more genetically or cosmetically favoured. Only big budget studio films tend to eschew sex altogether; R-rated movies limit potential box office revenue. So, if you want to avoid disrobing, your best bet is to be American, attractive and extraordinarily famous. If you still find you're rolling around the set with your ass in the air, you must really want to.

Once agreed upon, the days of shooting love scenes are marked indelibly in the schedule and on the consciousness of all involved. And that is a lot of people. The entire crew will be made aware of the sensitive nature of the filming with the large printed 'Closed Set' on the call sheet, if they hadn't already spotted the hunted faces of the actors and director flitting between caravans. Most directors enjoy filming sex scenes as much as they would taunting dancing bears; there is an unpredictable mood to an actor placed in such a vulnerable situation and if they turn, it is the director who will get the first swipe.
With the crew alerted, all bets are on. For the make-up and costume departments it will be a particularly challenging day. Tattoos, scars and other blemishes will need covering. Twenty-nine different types of underwear will need supplying for all eventualities, including the dreaded 'stunt pants'; flesh coloured triangles of synthetic fibre with Velcro sides, for last-minute nudity. Tousled hair, various stages of coital make-up, perspiration application and the soothing of egos will be among the day's work. They will not get to see the results of their labours for some time. The large television monitors, which relay a live feed from the set, are switched off during closed set filming. And although one member of both the make-up and costume department will stay on set to assist the actors between takes, the convention is for them to discretely turn their backs during a take. The first time I looked up in the throws of simulated ecstasy to see my good friends facing the corners like so many naughty students, we had to stop thrusting for several minutes while water and thumps on the back were supplied.

The mechanics of filming sex scenes are complex. Who puts what where being a matter of story, character, personal preference, artistic interpretation and gravity. Not necessarily in that order. While rehearsal is in progress, clothes are kept on and the crew continues work on the sound and lighting. When shooting starts, only the camera crew, a sound operator, and the few facing the wall, remain. The director and the DP will have a monitor. For the actors, the amount of people watching is almost irrelevant, after all, everyone will be looking at it on a screen as big as a double-decker bus in the near future. Even if the camera was rolling with a remote operator there is always going to be a live audience; your fellow actor. And whether you like each other or rue the day they were born, it is they who will witness the baring of your body, and even of your soul if you aren't very careful.
Every actor deals with the forthcoming event differently. "I apologise if I get an erection and also if I don't." The Gentleman Actor is known to have said to his Leading Lady. And while it is true that the subject may arise, male actors are legally protected from having to display their full proportions. Actresses may find it harder to disguise their disinterest from the public view but a cold set and the liberal use of ice cubes can assist if sheer terror has not sufficed.

As soon as each take ends, robes are replaced, cramps attended to, make-up re-applied and hair combed. If outdoors, any thorn scratches, gravel burns or sand grazes are dressed. At this moment, actors can find themselves wondering about the nature of their profession. It is best to keep them distracted with baby wipes and chocolate. They still have another take to do and then several different set-ups from other angles. Let them cry about it later, for now there is stubble rash to conceal and an awkward shot of the consummation in profile. Such are the labours of celluloid love.

Kissing

2008-05-10T13:15:00.007+01:00

Being paid to kiss. This requires two actors to have read the script and agreed to the job, often before they have met each other and sometimes before they know who has been cast. Since the actors are in character when they kiss, it could be said that they are not actually kissing each other. However, in the Real World, where one pair of lips is engaged with another, they are. The possible exchange of bodily fluids may be negotiated by the actors with one another but is only verified by highly trained crew members in what is known as the 'tongue' bet. There is no closed set for kissing scenes.
Kissing on film is rarely choreographed or even rehearsed. Etiquette maintains that actors will rehearse the scene right up to the kiss and then mime contact. The use of breath fresheners is a bit of a minefield, if used too obviously by another actor they might indicate either a) too much enthusiasm a la John Van Horn in 'Tootsie' or b) that your own breath is less than fresh.
There is an element of chance in the performance of a kiss that is unusual in what will be an important close-up. The chemistry between the actors and the atmosphere on set will influence the kiss as much as the writing and directing. Not that writers or directors are exactly shy when it comes to describing physical contact, even if they are they will overcome their hesitance when approaching more explicit scenes. It is more that everyone falls under the spell of the 'Hollywood' kiss, and wants to give that mythical creature a chance to happen of its own accord. Actors cannot help but be aware of this unspoken pressure and the vulnerability and expectation can be a lethal combination when added to the levels of neurosis, paranoia, ego and adrenalin already circulating through the actor's system. If a great kiss emerges from the debris then it is either the result of natural talent on the part of the actors, the camera operator and, most particularly, the focus puller, or the actors aren't acting.
Once the kiss has been established, if it is not a miracle of cinematic magic, the director will step in and start to fine tune the action. At this point, everyone will be aware that the kiss has to be staged and the crew ennui resumes.
After thirty years of professional kissing, I have a few notches on my perspective designed, artificially aged, hollow bed posts. It has never been very difficult, in the sense of unpleasant, kissing my co-stars as I am nearly always in temporary love with them. I start my crush when I read the script and it develops rapidly from that point. Actually meeting and working with the actor rarely interrupts my rosy view of their qualities. The scales don't begin to fall from my eyes until, roughly, the night of the wrap party. With my own rings back on my fingers, and the set packed for storage, it can be hard to see the man/woman/dinosaur who so captured my heart, across the tequila sodden dance floor. We all look the same with our own clothes on.
Yes, every kiss has been splendid. And if some were a little less than magnificent, I would never kiss-and-tell. We were only acting, after all.

Drivers

2008-05-02T08:34:00.000+01:00

A unit driver's life is not unlike that of an actor. It involves frantic periods of activity at the beginning of the day, followed by much waiting around, during which time you must be ready to work at a moment's notice, and you can't leave the location. The hours of limbo are spent reading, chatting with colleagues and watching boxed sets of DVDs. The hours of activity are spent entertaining people. Unlike actors, however, drivers are often privy to inside information, officially gleaned from assistant directors and unofficially supplemented by hours of listening to producers in the back seat shouting into mobile phones and at each other.
The relationship between the driver and his passenger (I have never met a female unit driver though I am sure there must be some out there) is intimate. With all the pressure that accumulates on a film set, the director, producers and actors are frequently agitated when collected and deposited at their destination and may need careful handling. It is a question of chemistry and it cannot be manufactured. A famously outspoken driver was told to pick up a Hollywood director from Glasgow airport but on no account to speak him during the journey. After an hour of silence, they arrived at the hotel and the driver opened the door. 'You must be some special cunt.' The driver observed 'That we can't talk to you.' The director hired him for the rest of the shoot.

At 5 o'clock in the morning when the actor has overslept, it will be the driver who gains access to their bedroom and gets them up. At 10 o'clock at night when the actor is sobbing because they've spent the whole day in a tunnel full of rats and they've missed their daughter's birthday, the driver must get them back to their room and not to 'The fucking airport'. The driver is not employed by the actor or director but by the production. They have the passenger's trust but it is the accountants they answer to. If an actor wants you to box with him in his lunch break, you better not break their nose. If a director is spending his nights pursuing his leading lady, you have to deliver his broken heart to the set. Drivers know what music, what paper, what drink to get. And they know where the skeletons are hidden.

One happy summer shoot, I was out late with the actors and crew, enjoying the delights of our local Butlins. Arriving back at the small hotel we were staying in, the Other Actress and I found we were locked out. My room looked over the lane in front of the hotel and the window was open. Perfect. The room was on the second floor but there was a pitched slate roof ideally placed below it and the OA and I lost no time in shinning up it and diving through the window. My door being locked from the outside, we were effectively trapped, but we were tired and the next day seemed another country. We soon fell asleep.
About 3 hours later, my alarm sounded. I showered and dressed and, remembering the door was locked, climbed out the window ready to shimmy back. Even in the pre-dawn light, I could see that it was quite a long way down. The OA had the day off, everyone in the hotel was asleep. I sat on the window ledge and waited.
My driver was prompt. He pulled up to the hotel some metres away and turned off his engine so as not to disturb the residents. 'Frank.' I whispered, for it was he. 'Frank! I'm over here'. Confused, he got out of the car and looked around. 'Frank. I'm on the roof.' Seeing me perched above him, Frank took a moment to assess the situation. With a quick 'Hang on’, he reversed his car under my window, and opened the sunroof. I slid in.
I got to work on time with only minor grazes easily covered by petticoats and stockings. I'm not sure what the manager thought when she released the OA from my room, but from then on I was careful to bring my front door key with me every time I left the building. And Frank? Well, a disheveled damsel I may have been, but from that morning on, Frank was definitely my knight in shining Mercedes armour.

Jargon

2008-04-28T10:50:00.016+01:00

Some of the vernacular from film, television and theatre explained.

The Martini The last shot of the day. Traditionally accompanied by feelings of great joy or panic. The Assistant Director/Production Executive Abby Singer named this shot after the sound of the Director mixing cocktails in anticipation of the end of the filming day. Hence:

The Abby Singer The second-to-last shot of the day.

MOS Without synchronised sound. Literally, Mit Out Sound, possibly from the German speaking directors who worked in Hollywood such as Lubitsch, Lang or von Stroheim. A liberating experience for an actor, to be paid for later in post-synching.

Alternatively, Minus Optical Stripe.

Post-Synch Also, Dubbing. Recording dialogue in a studio and matching it to the lip movements of the actor in the original scene. Usage, "We can fix it in the dub."

Dirty Shot A close-up with a bit of the other actor in it (usually the shoulder, it's not that kind of dirty).

Flats The flat backdrops that are raised and lowered on to the stage from the flies.

Flies The gantries at the sides of the stage where the ropes for the flats are controlled by the flymen.

Flymen Men who can see down your dress.

Prompt Corner The side of the stage from which the Stage Manager calls the show. Prompt Corner, PS or Prompt Side, usually the left-hand side is Stage Left as the actor looks out at the audience. Thus, Stage Right is also known as OP, Opposite Prompt. However, Camera Left and Camera Right are situated from the point of view of the camera operator. No chance of confusion there, then.

Blocking The rehearsed movements of the actors on stage, after the practice of directors moving blocks on models of the set. It has been observed that some directors would wish the actors to be as amenable as the blocks. Usage, "The director told the actors that he wanted them off the book when they started blocking."

Off the Book The actors perform the play without the script in their hand. Usage, "I can never come off the book until I've finished blocking."

Dailies and Rushes The day's film footage. These used to be a positive print of the daily negative screened by projector for viewing by the director, camera and other crew, usually in the evening after the next day's filming. On some films, the watching of the dailies was an event and the entire company would attend. With the advent of video, it is no longer necessary for many people to see the footage projected, they can watch it on DVD. Also, with some films now shot entirely on digital video, the footage is instantly accessible. This has the unexpected effect of slowing filming down, while actors watch their performance on playback and rally themselves to do it better.

Eyeline The specific point, on stage or set, upon which the actor gazes. Some actors dislike seeing people in their eyeline when they are filming. Usage, "Bob requested another take because the crowd was in his eyeline."

In film close-ups it is often impossible for actors to actually look at the face of another actor and the eyeline will be a piece of tape stuck to the camera. If the director is in love with the other actress and cannot bear to film you without some piece of her in the shot, he may request that she stands nearby in order that her reflection appears in the window behind you. In this instance, you will have to address the moving speech about the death of your mother to a tennis ball stuck on top of a lighting stand. For example.

DCOL Doesn't count on location. A state of denial which exists until the +1s arrive.

+1s Wives, husbands or partners.

Alan Smithee A pseudonym for a director who has taken his name off a film. Usage, "The director said it DCOL but his +1 was the producer and now it's an Alan Smithee."

Practical A prop which can actually be used, such as a light switch. Usage, "The pay was terrible but there was a practical pie in the Third Act."

Pickfords After the British removal company. Additional money when an actor moves furniture on stage for technical rather than performance purposes. Usage, "Everybody had to bring their own chair on and off stage with them but it was a creative decision so none of the actors got any Pickfords."

Craft Services Catering on American productions involves a large trestle table permanently displaying food and drink. Bagels, cream cheese, doughnuts, red vines, fruit, potato chips, candy, juice, tea, coffee and peanut butter are the mainstay of the table. Usage, "Ever since rehab, Bob clung to craft services."

Honeywagon A type of trailer. Sometimes refers to the actor's mobile dressing rooms but more often describing the unit's location toilets. Usage, "Bob gained so much weight from craft services he had to meet his dealer in the honeywagon."

The Wrap Party The last night of the gig that goes on just long enough to make sure everyone is too ill to panic.

Television

2008-04-09T16:10:00.003+01:00

Sorry for the delay in posting this month. Easter holidays and working on the BBC television series 'Holby City' have meant time away. Normal service will be resumed shortly. Hope you are all well,

Sophie

Improvisation

2008-04-01T11:57:00.001+01:00

Improvisation is the art of making things up as you go along. Since this is something we all do every day and is often just called 'living', improvised performances have been accused of cheating. 'What is wrong with getting an author to write a play/film and having actors learn the lines?' some people ask. 'We like it when actors learn lines, it shows they are doing some work for the vast quantities of money they earn.' But of course, there is more to it than that.

Actors who improvise are not making things up as themselves, they are making things up as someone else. To do this, an actor must have developed an intimate knowledge of the character they are playing. This sort of knowledge is very helpful as an actor even when you are working on scripted material, which is why improvisation is often used as a rehearsal exercise. If the director suddenly screams 'Where have you been?' as you step on to the set, they are probably not interested in the cup of herbal tea you brewed in the office while chatting with another actor about your respective agents. They are asking what you think your character has been doing during the time you were offstage. This is a good moment to improvise.

Directors might also want the actors to have improvised conversations in character. If the writer has referred to the time the lovers in the play first met in prison ten years ago, the actors could improvise the scene as a way of making a 'real' memory. There is not usually enough rehearsal time to spend on improvisation; learning what to say in addition to how, where and most importantly when to say it, takes up the larger portion of the commonly allocated three weeks. If your fellow actor's prison antics are not conducive to the happy love affair you imagined, you may be glad that the improvisation exercises had to be squeezed into an afternoon between costume fittings.

Where whole plays or films are constructed from actors improvising scenes, you might think that the actors also receive writing credits/payment. This is not the case. The improvisation is seen as an extension of the actor's normal range of duties. It does not work the other way round. David Hare is paid to perform and if Richard Curtis wanted to serenade Laura Linney under a Fig Tree in his next Romantic Comedy, I'm sure he could command a small fee. However, since actors often develop characters with writers, frequently work on scripts with directors and request line changes all the time, I suspect that this is a Can of Worms.

One of the first plays I was in was directed by an enthusiastic improvisor. That is, he told us to improvise and we did it. The atmosphere was quite intimidating. We were not allowed to bring anything in to the rehearsal room that did not pertain to the play or the time period (1940's). We had a lot of character 'homework' to do and there was plenty of shouting. One day, the director told everyone to leave the room so that I could work on a private improvisation with one of the other actors. It was to be an intimate moment in our affair that would lend some truth to our relationship history. The other actor was not from the improvisation school of acting and was reluctant to take part. I was from a school that only used improvisation and particularly wanted to avoid more shouting. I'm not sure what Terrence Rattigan would have written had he included the scene, but as soon as the director asked us to start my co-star turned to me with a look of fury and said 'Why do you have be such a bitch?'. It went downhill from there.

The play, however, was a hit.

The Half

2008-03-27T15:00:00.007Z

The Half is the time you have to be in the theatre before the show starts. It is calculated to be 30 minutes ahead of Beginners, which is 5 minutes before the curtain goes up. So, 35 minutes before the time the play begins every actor must have checked in through the stage door and be, if not in their dressing room, then very close to it. There are no exceptions.

Of course, this is just the minimum time and only really applies to men and to contemporary plays. Actresses cannot get into wigs, corsets, make-up and costume in under half an hour, especially when you add cigarette breaks, cups of tea, panicking time and the really important chat with another member of the company. It is strange if the first time you speak to a person in a day is when you bump into them on stage; they might have cut their hair or got a black eye or be extremely unwell. Best to find out before you have to kiss/hit/fall on them.

Every actor has their own pre-show ritual. For some, this is about luck, they feel that certain superstitious practices will help them to avoid a disastrous show. For others, it is about tuning their instrument to the best possible performance pitch. An increasingly rare few spend The Half balancing their drug/drink intake. This means that throughout the building you may come across actors wearing their lucky pants, doing headstands, swigging from a flask. Occasionally, this will be the same person.

Some companies have their own way of preparing for the show and will do group exercises to encourage trust and sharpen reactions. These are really completely different species of actors and those who dislike that kind of thing will go to great lengths to avoid rolling around on the floor in a leotard with a beach ball between their knees shouting 'Daffodil!". However, most actors will have to warm up in some way and there will be at least 15 minutes in The Half, after the Stage Managers have set up for the show and before the house opens, when the stage is available for actors to clear their throats. If you are still in the dressing-room during this time, you might turn the Show Relay (Tannoy) down so that you don't feel like killing the colleague who repeats their favourite poem in six different voices at varying speeds while running up and down the aisles in the empty auditorium. The important thing is to remember to turn the speaker back on before the show starts.

During all this preparation, the Stage Manager who calls the show will be making announcements over the Tannoy. They are somewhat old-fashioned. 'Ladies and Gentlemen of the X Company, this is your half-hour call' will be the first address and however hysterical the residents of the dressing rooms become during the following 30 minutes, the announcement is unfailingly polite and calm. Actors are always 'Mister' and actresses are always 'Miss' and even if there 20 people due on stage at the start of the show, every single name will be read out. Twice. This is because actors are not very good at listening to the Tannoy at the right moment.

Throughout The Half, much like the actors, time ceases to behave in any predictable manner, so that covering a tattoo, which usually only takes 5 minutes may seem to take an hour or a few seconds. Your mind wanders, your stomach churns, the lines dance round in your head like so many attractive but elusive ballerinas. The only thing worse than being backstage for The Half is not being there when you should have been.

Not being in the theatre for The Half is considered unprofessional. Also, some people will want to stove your head in with a tyre iron. This is either because a) they are the producer and there aren't any understudies or b) they are in the play and don't trust the understudy. The understudy themselves may have mixed emotions. If they know the play really well and were looking forward to this opportunity they will be excited but slightly annoyed, since they didn't get a chance to call their mother/agent and tell them to get a ticket. Also, they will suspect that just when they have finished squeezing into/safety-pinning the petticoat, the delayed actor will arrive with some breathless excuse. If the understudy does not know the play very well they will be spending some time reflecting on alternative careers.

For the actor still heading toward the building, the adrenalin is akin to being in a small car crash, something they will undoubtedly contemplate as an alternative to just 'being late'. I have missed The Half twice; once through sheer stupidity and once because of a sheep. When you are late for The Half, you go into 'The Book', a large volume in which the Stage Management record all the mishaps of the show. You can also be fined some of the costs that the producers will have to pay to the understudy who had to get into that petticoat. But what you really have to pay is incalculable, as the lost moments of your sleep and peace of mind in years to come, slip through the hourglass of your life.

The Half; the most expensive 30 minutes in the world.

Gaffers and Grips

2008-03-21T00:44:00.004Z

Gaffers work with lights and Grips work with cameras so they are necessarily guys that you spend plenty of time with on set. They know everything and have seen it all. There isn't a freaky actor out there who could surprise them, though if you are lucky you might catch the look on their face when they turn away.

The Gaffer will have a Best Boy and a team of electricians, Sparks, who will work on the lighting plot with the Director of Photography (aka Cinematographer, Lighting Camera). Although much of the work will take place when the actors are off set, using stand-ins, there will be plenty of final touches during rehearsals. The lighting team will bring to life the writer and director's vision for the look of the film. This means lighting for day or night, interior or exterior, summer or winter, regardless of where and when you are actually filming, (Michael Powell's 'Black Narcissus' set in stormy Himalayan mountains was shot entirely in Pinewood studios and a garden in West Sussex).

The job of a Grip in the UK involves the equipment that the camera is mounted on. If the camera has to travel at all, it will usually be on a Dolly that moves along tracks. Hence the term Dolly Grip. The Dolly can also be used for moving the camera up and down. The Key Grip is the chief, and sometimes only, Grip. The Grip has to move the camera precisely, often in difficult conditions. Complicated camera moves, in tight spaces, with particular timing that is dependent on performance, mean that the Grip, along with the Focus Puller and the Camera Operator, can be under a lot of pressure during a take.

You can make the life of the Gaffer and Grip easier; you can hit your mark, you can go through a rehearsal at the right speed and with a decent summary of the action. It's always worth remembering: they're in charge of the lights and the camera.

FAQs

2008-03-08T12:02:00.013Z

Every job invites certain questions. When I was at school, I couldn't imagine what the teachers talked about in the staff room and I would never believe that you could get sick of eating marzipan if you worked in the marzipan factory. Lawyers often get asked how they can defend someone they know is guilty, and "How do you come up with ideas?" has probably driven more than one writer back to the mini-bar. These are a few of my favourites.

How do you remember your lines?

This may be rhetorical, as in 'It must be difficult to remember all those lines'. It is.

Do you get to keep the costumes?

Sometimes you can buy your costumes at a reduced price. If you are in a television series the costumes will have to stay in stock and the same often applies to theatre. For many actors, the costumes are associated with the character they have played and will have been bought or made with the character in mind. The last thing you want to own is a dress that you wore for a month while being chased around a submarine by an alien.

Didn't I used to know you?

Always hard to tell. Sometimes people think you were at their sister's wedding in Chicago or that you went to school with their son. Sometimes they have seen every film you ever made. It is best not to assume the latter; you really might have been to school with their son.

Doesn't your boyfriend get jealous?

Probably not. My partner has a rule that as long as the other actor and I are both being paid, by someone else, then we can do our job.

What was so-and-so really like?

It is a bad idea to form an opinion based on third party information. I will always say they were lovely. I play poker so I won't tell you how to know if I'm lying.

Are you resting?

If I haven't told you within 5 minutes of seeing you what I am working on than I am either not working or I have been abducted and an alien is inhabiting my body. Maybe the alien from the submarine. Best not to ask.

What are you doing next?

Ditto.

Is there a part you've always wanted to play?

The only time I really set my sights on a part, I was overjoyed when I was asked to do it. I was terrible.

What do you do during the day?

I was asked this at a reception for supporters of the theatre when I was doing a play. It is true that once the play is running, there are only a few rehearsals called during the day; understudy rehearsals, line runs, get-ins to a new venue, or short rehearsals of the bits that aren't working, and there are usually only two matinees. So, technically there is quite a lot of free time during time during the day. Still, it is quite an annoying question because it makes you feel like a slacker.

Have you read the book?

There might be a very good reason not to read the book, such as the director forbidding it, but usually it will be the first source available if you are working on an adaptation. If it is a faithful adaptation, then the book will be very helpful. If it is a radical re-working of the text then the book could be a liability. Since the script will already be written, the last words a director or writer want to hear begin "But in the book..."

And what are your FAQs?

Driving

2008-03-07T14:23:00.005Z

Occasionally there will be time in pre-production to discuss what car your character will drive, but more often the decision will be made based on practicalities; what period the film is set in, whether the car has to get involved in a crash/accident, the cars the other characters are driving and, no doubt, what deals the production can get.

Whether or not the actor can drive, there will usually be a stunt driving double. This will save the production money; when the actor is working on the main unit, the second unit can film driving scenes. If the actor can drive, and has a valid driving license, they will perform most of the driving scenes themselves, but there are plenty of ways to make it look as if an actor is driving. If the camera is very close and the car just rolls into shot, you can be pretty sure the actor doesn't drive and several crew are crouched behind the boot hoping the actor doesn't reverse either.

The most common shot you will see is an actor getting into a car and driving off or pulling up and getting out. If you're watching a cop show or movie, you'll see that a lot. They can take a while to film. The actor might never have driven the car before and will go on a test run with the stunt driver or the car owner/driver. Local police officers will be controlling traffic as only they are permitted to do so. The visual effects department will have set up any rain/snow machines and the Director of Photography will have lit the inside of the car and the street, if it is night (characters like to drive with their sun visor down and the interior light on). There will be some form of microphone in the car, if not an entire sound recordist squashed in the foot well.

There are certain hurdles for the actor to clear in these scenes, primarily one of timing. The set ups are narratively necessary but rarely of interest in themselves, so they can't be lingered over. The reality means getting to the car, unlocking it, opening the door and getting in, putting on seat belts, starting the car, getting into gear, indicating etc, pulling out. Costumes, mud, props and combustion engines can all conspire against you. If you are pulling into the shot, then you will also have a critical stop mark. Above all, being a girl driving in front of a predominantly male crew, you will not want to stall.

There are plenty of other ways of filming with cars. A low loader places the car on a flat bed truck with room for the camera and crew. Cameras can be attached to the sides of the car, or the camera operator, and focus puller, might sit in the car with the actor. Rear screen projection inside a studio is not used much anymore, if it is it will usually be in an ironic, 'homage' way. If there has been a stunt shot, you will have to do close-ups, probably parked outside the studio while someone screams "left, right, spin, hit the window with your head!". Driving stunt doubles for women are thin on the ground, so actresses will spend days doing close-ups of accidents to cover for the large man with an ill-fitting wig who performed the original stunt.

When I was filming 'Heartbeat', I drove a rather beautiful but ungainly, Citroen Safari. It was very low slung but in immaculate condition and felt like what I imagine driving a hearse might be like if you were allowed to do 40mph on a country lane. At least it had synchromesh gears. On 'A Summer Story', I drove a vintage 1930's car (I cannot recall the make). It had to be double-declutched to change gears, a process involving much footwork and more arm strength than I can easily access. We were filming on Exmoor and had run over schedule and at the end of the film I was left with the second unit, bombing on my own round the National Park like Mr Toad. So reduced was our crew by this time that when we finished a long shot, the traffic was mistakenly released before I returned to base. The lanes were one car width, edged by dry stone walls, the brakes were heavy. To all the tourists I met on my way back, I can only say, Sorry.

Extras

2008-02-27T12:25:00.011Z

There are professional extras (Supporting Artists) and part-time extras and people who turn up on the day when there is a big crowd scene because they saw the ad in the local paper. It is harder for the ADs when the extras have not been on set before, especially if the scene takes longer than a day; most new extras will not return the following morning after 14 hours in the freezing cold wearing a summer outfit, miming interesting chatter in the background from ten different angles while all the fun goes on 100 yards away and you are shouted at through a megaphone when your phone goes off after lunch.

If the big scene involves food and it is summer, it will be rotting under its coats of glue by the third day and if it is indoors, the flies and the smell will be overwhelming. The costumes will have sweat patches and stains of unknown provenance, the make-up department will have transformed you into something your mother would approve of and you will have to queue for your food in a separate line and eat in a tent without a floor while the crew sit and watch you from the heated bus.

For a rare few extras, this will be their introduction to a dream job. Being an extra means always having time to finish the crossword, belonging to a family that you never have to spend time with over Christmas, eating three square meals a day without doing the washing-up and working with actors that your friends admire.

Extras are actors themselves, though they rarely get any glory or any lines, they might be asked to react to the main action or studiously ignore it, to dance without music to a song that hasn't yet been chosen, to fight, laugh, scream, fall in love, always in the background. Good extras can make a scene come to life as surely as misdirected extras can kill it. Extras are not 'extra' in the sense of 'spare' or 'unnecessary', they are 'additional' and yes, sometimes, 'extraordinary'.

Even if you haven't officially signed up for the job of being an extra, you may find that you are working as one. Small parts in big movies will involve much background work and signing up as the actor who dies in the plane crash at the beginning of the film might lead to weeks of decomposing in the rubble. Actors make terrible extras; giddy with the freedom of having no dialogue and wondering why their make-up artist is ignoring them just because the camera is in a helicopter hundreds of feet above the stadium.

My own experience as an extra was not exactly covered in glory. In my teens, I got a one week job on a film playing a girlfriend at an American party. I didn't have any written dialogue, but as a named extra, I was supposed to dance and flirt and make idle conversation so I practised my accent and improvised when I was on set. Late in the morning on the first day, the actor I was working with called his buddies over, "Hey, come'n'listen to this guys." He yelled and a bunch of extremely large men huddled around. "Do that accent again darlin'" prompted my 'boyfriend'. "Oh, fuck off." I replied and before he could answer, lunch was called. After the break, one of the ADs approached me. "Congratulations" He muttered "You're not fired". During lunch, my dance partner had spoken to the director. "When I come back from lunch, I don't wanna see that girl's face." He'd said, with some vigour. "I don't wanna see her in the fuckin' crowd scene." The rest of the week was a bit tense.

Assistant Directors

2008-02-06T16:51:00.001Z

The title of assistant director covers a multitude of jobs. It is probably most accurate in the theatre, where the assistant director actually assists the director and sometimes works with the actors. During rehearsals, the theatre director and assistant will sit with the deputy stage manager behind a table and laugh, sorry, take notes, as the actors try and figure what they are doing. Assistant theatre directors will oversee understudy rehearsals and will give notes from the director during the run. They are often training to be directors themselves and are usually more interested in the creative than the logistical (economic/organisational) side of the production.

Quite the opposite is true of assistant directors on films/television. There is a highly structured assistant director universe and the rules are manifold. The three tiers of assistant director have completely different jobs. The 1st AD helps to prepare the script breakdown and the schedule and is always on set once principle photography has started. Sometimes with a megaphone. They control much of the ebb and flow of set life and call out the 'Standby' and 'Turnover' instructions and sometimes even 'Action' if the director is too shy or forgetful to do so. They know pretty much everything that is happening on and around the set at any one time and they entirely rule the lives of the 3rd ADs. Some directors like to work with maniacal 1sts and some prefer the quiet but firm types. They are usually men. The 1st AD does not work with the actors and is not usually interested in being a director; they will be more likely to go into the production side of filming. If the 1st AD is a bastard, life on set is miserable.

2nd ADs are hardly ever on set. They stay at the unit base (often a collection of motley caravans in a car park) and work in their office. Occasionally they emerge and hand out the call sheets they have spent all day changing as the schedule finds new and inventive ways of collapsing. They liaise with the costume, make-up, facilities and catering personnel at the base and try to get the actors on to set when they are supposed to be there. Sometimes they have a bus full of extras to keep warm and feed. When things are going wrong at the base, everyone complains to the 2nd AD. They have thick skins.

The 3rd AD is told what to do by everyone, except the extras, who they direct. They are often on set, unless someone has forgotten something back at base. They have walkie-talkies with earpieces so that no one else can hear the obscenities and indiscretions being yelled at them by the 1st AD. In the middle of a conversation about just how drunk they were the night before, they will suddenly press their hand to their ear, go white, then red, then run somewhere. They must keep the actors in their line of vision at all times, even when they go to the bathroom. Actors wander off.

The runners answer to the 1st, 2nd and 3rd ADs. They work the same hours, they are paid less. They have to really want the job.

As an actor, you spend time on set with the 1st and time at the base with the 2nd but your every moment on standby is passed in the company of a 3rd or a runner. This can be many, many hours. They will get water, tea and coffee for you. They will relay messages, make sure you are comfortable, even laugh at your jokes. This is not because they like you; they just don't want you to leave the standby location. If you leave, they will have to follow you. They will also have to explain to the 1st why you have left and where you went, if you are called. Sometimes actors get upset they are being followed everywhere, then the 3rd will still follow them but they will hide. If you turn around quickly you will see a 3rd ducking into an doorway some 50 meters behind you. When the actor goes on set, the 3rd will announce their imminent arrival on the walkie-talkie. 'On their way!' Goes the cry. '1 minute!', '30 seconds!', 'Stepping on!' and there you are, how nice.

Finishing a film is a series of small adjustments but one of them is getting used to being unannounced when you enter the kitchen.

Book of Blood

2007-12-07T07:15:00.002Z

The blog is away filming 'Clive Barker's The Book of Blood' until February.

Corsets

2007-11-27T15:30:00.001Z

There are several types of corset that women have worn to produce the shape that fashion dictated. The main differences are in the length of the corset; whether it covers or reveals the bosom and whether it flares out over the hips or stops below the waist. There are also differences in fastening, with some that just have lacing at the back and others that have hooks in front and some that have both. None are comfortable but the corset that reaches from just under the arm to the top of the thigh is the worst. The corset would have been supported by whalebone but these days there are flexible metal rods that invariably work their way out of their casings and skewer you in the middle of a scene. Riding side-saddle in a corset is an excellent exercise in balance.
It is the role of the costume designer to make sure that your dress is fitted on the tightest corset possible and the job of the dresser to get the corset on, however much the actor pleads for leniency. For period pieces, where corsets are needed, the dress is usually made for the actor and so the day comes when you arrive for your first fitting with the intention of working with the costume department to make the character look just how they should. So when the corset first goes on, you are quite happy for it to be pulled in and for the hour or so it takes to fit, all is fine. The theatre director Philip Prowse also designed all his shows and would notice with hawk eyed attention if there was a millimetre of room for manoeuvre in the corset, then remove it. Later, like the new shoes that were slightly too small in the shop, you will bitterly regret your compliance. For once the dress has been made to fit the contours of the corset you so gamely squeezed into, that is the shape you must retain for however many months you will be working, however many hours a day.
Tricks employed to make the wearing of a corset bearable are: breathing in as much as you can when the corset is going on so that your ribcage is expanded, not breathing deeply, coughing, sneezing or laughing once the corset is on, only eating easily digestible foods, (preferably in the form of soup), not taking it off or loosening it at all during the day as it will never get back on. Losing weight does not help; the corset is fastened so that the ribs meet, having no padding only means that your ribs rub together.
Of course, there are positive aspects to corset usage. You get a stunning waist-cleavage-hip-ratio without having done any exercise or cut any bits off/stuck any bits on. And you stand alarmingly straight. Moreover, as an actor, there is nothing like a corset to help understand some of the true suffering and day-to-day realities of your character's life, now they are your own. If you are very lucky, your corset will have been made to measure and will become like a second skin after a few weeks wear. Wearing a corset on stage is only difficult during the technical rehearsals.
Christine Edzard who directed the film adaptation of ‘Little Dorrit’ designed the most intricate costumes I have worked with. Many of the materials were hand printed especially for the film. I was playing the vain and spoiled Minnie Meagles. On the first day of filming, my hair was elaborately tonged with the old Marcel wave ironing tongs that reproduce the period curl but in keeping with the attention to authenticity, none of the actors wore make-up, except for a little face powder. I was laced into my corset and I am fairly sure an elbow, if not a foot, was applied to get it tight enough. Then they layered petticoats, dress, pinafore and shawl and lastly, a bonnet. I had been wearing the costume for approximately 15 minutes by the time we were done and was already in difficulties with the shallow breathing. I turned to pick up my script, ready to leave the dressing room, tried to catch my breath and promptly fainted.
An hour later, having unsquashed the hair, petticoats, dress, bonnet and face, I was allowed a new addition to the look; blusher for my greenish hue.

Crying

2007-11-20T11:21:00.001Z

Some actors find crying on cue very easy, others impossible. There are various tricks employed to simulate tears, both psychological and physical and all are perfectly valid if the end result works. Like any technical aspect of performance, it is the effect that is important and not the cause, though it took me a long time to understand this. Just as most actors prepare themselves for roles completely differently, some working from the inside out, some crafting the external appearance, the preparation for an emotional scene is intensely personal.
Of course, it is impressive when an actor bursts into tears in the middle of a scene, the evidence of an emotion so sincerely felt that salt water is produced. But that scene will be rarely filmed from one angle in one take. Does it become more impressive if the actor can repeat the flow of tears in every shot? Or less? If an actor needs several minutes silence before the filming of the scene, are they digging deep into their character's psyche, or their own? Is the production of a single tear down one perfectly made-up cheek evidence of great art or a circus skill?
I have seen talented actors use sticks of menthol before a take and watched them transform the minty irritant into a perfect portrayal of grief. I have observed less experienced actors torment themselves for hours or days while they assumed a mantle of despair. Onions on skin, Oil of Olbas in a handkerchief, pepper, staring into bright lights, the death of a loved one, the end of the world; all are employed in the creation of a celluloid teardrop. With the increased use of CGI in films that wouldn't ordinarily call for special effects, tears can now be a post-production addition without the consent or knowledge of the actor. Should this change our appreciation of the performance?
When I was working as a child, it was quite common to use glycerine in place of tears. The effect is not very satisfactory; slimy globules that don't behave like water and have to be in place at the beginning of the scene. Perhaps it was considered less invasive than rubbing menthol in a child's eye. At 10 years old, I didn't know any better, and as I feigned grief over a stolen pony, or recovered from being possessed by the devil, I would proudly let the syrup run down my face. Then one day I was doing a play for the BBC. At that time, the television plays were rehearsed as much as a stage play and then recorded in the studio over a few days. The denouement of this particular play is the revelation that the family's happiness is a charade and my character leaves to shoot herself offstage. For the final argument, I was to break down and cry with my father, which we had rehearsed in the studio with plenty of fake sobbing on my part. On the day of recording, I was in high spirits; the studio was always an exciting place to be and I loved being involved while everything was set up. But when the time came to shoot, I could not cry and the director did not want to use glycerine. After a few takes, they called a break while they got ready for some close-ups. One of the assistant directors came up to me and walked me round the back of the set, out of sight of my chaperone. There was no smiling. Leaning me against the wooden frame of the house, he asked me what was going on. 'You're supposed to cry in this scene.' I nodded. 'Well then,' he said 'You better bloody well cry.' I felt a mixture of guilt, at my failure, and fear, of his anger. Then my pride kicked in. I became determined that I would not cry. And for the rest of the recording that was my goal; don't cry. In the end, the make-up department used the glycerine and I expect my face didn't feature much in the final edit. The strange thing is, that ever since then, I cry at the drop of a hat. Murdered, molested, married or martyred, every type of character in any medium, the tears flow with abandon. The harder thing to do, I have since found, is stop.

Cosmetic Surgery

2007-11-05T14:23:00.001Z

Cosmetic surgery is somewhat of a mixed blessing for an actor. In many ways it is the last thing they should be doing. Actors need movement and expression in their faces and their individual features and flaws are much more interesting to watch than mass perfection. But while surgery used to be confined to the very famous and/or wealthy, a huge percentage of the Western population now routinely undergoes both minor and major cosmetic procedures. How do actors present themselves in such a climate? If they are to reflect the population, they must at least be taking the same amount of care of themselves. And how do they fulfil the image of the fantasy movie star if everyone is sculpting their bodies to perfection?
Those actors under most pressure will be female and working in the States and the biggest threat to their career is ageing. For them, getting the balance right between looking great for their age and losing their facial personality is a constant worry. There will be swathes of acolytes whose income depends on that actor's success who will be only too happy to recommend a good surgeon. If they don't have work done, they might be in competition with those who have and if they do have surgery, the world is eager to notice and disapprove. A recent review for a Demi Moore film in a Sunday broadsheet remarked that her performance was notable for demonstrating her considerable plastic surgery, and ignored her work as an actor.
In England, it is not quite so pressurised. We don't make so many films, the small screen is more forgiving (until HD kicks in) and the stage is positively greedy for character and quirks. We even seem to have an innate suspicion of good-looking actors, especially English ones. French actors are allowed to be beautiful and brilliant, it just suits them.
Living in a country where getting a manicure was regarded as the height of extravagance, British actors used to be relaxed about their body image. The only real pressure I ever received was from a costume designer on a Barbara Cartland film I once screen-tested for, who was most frustrated by my lack of cleavage, 'You could have something done about that' she hissed as we stuffed yet another sock into the cavernous corset.
Then I went to L.A. and it was all a bit different. It took me a while to understand what was happening when every audition I went to I met dozens of stunning, physically perfect actors. One evening I went to a party with a friend and, like the auditions, there were beautiful women everywhere you looked. I wondered what I was doing in that city; I couldn't compete with the level of perfection, nor did I really want to. Crestfallen, I was standing at the bar when I noticed a well-dressed older man staring at me from across the room. His eyes were boring into me and even when I returned his gaze, he didn't look away. At least someone, I thought, finds me interesting for who I am. Embarrassed but flattered I turned to my friend. 'That man, over there. He's really staring.' I said. 'He can't take his eyes off me.' And I looked back and smiled at him briefly. 'Oh, him.' said my friend, 'He's a plastic surgeon. He’s just working out what he could improve. Don't smile for God's sake, he'll get a dentist over.' Sure enough, within a few minutes, several well-dressed older men had presented me with their business cards and reassurances of 'competitive rates for Brits'. How did they know?
I didn't get any surgical work done. At 26, it all seemed both too late and too early. And I figured at least I'd always have a big audience of cosmetic surgeons, waiting in the wings.

Caravans

2007-10-30T12:43:00.001Z

When you are working on a film or television show, you are assigned a caravan (also known as a trailer or a Winnebago) to while away the time between when you are needed on set. This may sound grand but the reality is more likely to be a shabby room with muddy carpets, no running water and at least one other body and all your costumes to share with. Occasionally, they are more luxurious depending on budget and status, but even in the States your dressing room might be a giant lorry divided into sub-sections with room for a chair and table, really a cattle truck for actors. Because the one thing that you have to remember about the way you are looked after on a film is that if anyone is taking care of you it is because that is their job and it is only in order to make everyone's life easier. It is better if you are parked out of the way, not getting your costume creased/wet/dirty. It is better if you don't get sick - days off are expensive for a production. It is better if you are always somewhere that the assistant directors can find you, immediately. And it is better when you are not getting in the way of everyone else doing their job.

I think for some years my children were under the impression that I furnished caravans for a living; so much time did I spend in them. But I have enjoyed my caravan days. When I was 18 I worked on a Disney film called 'Return to Oz', based on the Frank L Baum 'Oz' books. I was playing Princess Mombi, a character who had to remove and change her head, so even though I was only in the film for a few minutes and most of those were headless, I had to be there waiting for all the different special effects departments. I had a dressing room about 12 by 8 feet and was in it, pretty much on my own, from 7 in the morning, after hair and make-up, until about 7 in the evening, for 6 weeks. When I was on set there were so many extraordinary sights; gymnasts working with wheels on their hands and feet, actors on stilts with pumpkin heads, electronic chickens, puppets. It was a beautiful circus. When I was waiting in my dressing room, it felt peaceful and I think I learned then how to occupy myself when on 'stand-by'. A book, some crosswords, music and a script and days can pass quite easily. I had a fantastic time.

So I had become somewhat spoiled by having a 'room of my own' on set when I started work on Zeffirelli's film of 'The Young Tosacanini'. Early filming took place in Portugal in the bowels of a large freighter, dressed to resemble the Third Class deck of an Eighteenth Century ship. There were no bathrooms at the docks, no changing rooms and nowhere to sit. As the star, C.Thomas Howell, who was playing Toscanini, had a room on the ship that had been prepared for him. Quite right, but I was kicking my heels harbour side. I had signed up to the film for a 6-month contract and in the first week of filming I was anxious about how the rest of the production was going to be. Hot and bothered in my nun's costume I worked myself up into a bit of a state and finally approached a producer and asked if I could have a caravan to wait in and change for the week's filming. "Absolutely," I was assured and filming continued. The following day, with no sign of any change in the facilities I enquired after the caravan. "Ah! There no caravans in Portugal, so sorry." I was told. I found it a little hard to believe that in the whole of Portugal, in 1987 and out of season, there was not a single portacabin, caravan or trailer for hire. I asked again and, I am ashamed to say, I was quite insistent. Even the great director became involved, taking me aside with a jovial wink and remarking on the justness of my cause.

I waited, messages came back from the caravan front line. Something had been arranged, something had been found. It was on its way, it would be there soon. Feeling triumphant, I looked forward to some shelter and a chair, maybe even a tap. When we next surfaced from shooting a long sequence with a dying passenger, some moments of despair and nuns praying, I was told my promised caravan was waiting. I tripped down the gangplank with a light heart; I had stood up for myself and earned the respect of the company. Searching along the dock, the object of my affection came slowly into focus. It was a little smaller than I hoped, but never mind. It had rather a large window along one side and some sort of decoration on top, how jolly. But was that writing along the side? Was there some sort of photograph or painting on the window? As I drew closer, I realised exactly what sort of accommodation my petulance had secured, a Hot Dog Stand. Complete with price list and buns and a deep freeze, my caravan was fully equipped to cater for a small crowd. With the briefest of hesitations, I pulled opened the door and jumped in. And there I sat for four busy days, declining all requests for snacks as the residents of Lisbon toured the set.

Babies

2007-10-18T08:39:00.002+01:00

Film sets and theatres are great places to hang out as a child. Everyone is basically playing the same games you play at home, but with better props. And since most of the people working on a film or play become a version of a family, children are easily absorbed into the mix. I have worked on plays with babies asleep under the stage and children doing their homework in the wardrobe department. My parents tell me I sat in a wastepaper basket in their dressing room as a baby while they were both on stage. When I thought about having my own children, I imagined we would travel around together and things would work out somehow. There is a tradition of the travelling troupe and in many ways, we did become an itinerant family. “Still loading the children on to the back of the cart?” asked Leonard Kavanagh when we were rehearsing ‘Venice Preserved’.
When I was pregnant with my first child, and before I discovered some of the difficulties of locations and children, I was asked to do a film in Italy. My filming would take place after the baby was born. Six weeks after, actually, and in my enthusiasm to get back to work, I accepted the part(s). I was to be playing twins in a fantastical recreation of the life of Benvenuto Cellini, a sixteenth century Italian sculptor and goldsmith. The costumes were to be elaborate but they couldn't be made for me until after the birth as, hopefully, my figure was going to change a bit. Once the baby was born the Italian designer, Nana Cecchi, would fly over and get the necessary measurements and then we would go to Rome for the month I was shooting.
In retrospect I can see that this wasn't altogether a foolproof plan, but I was so blithely confident that I must have infected everyone else. The due date grew closer, filming started in Italy, phone calls to my agent from the production office became a weekly, then a daily event as Christmas and my due date passed. Still, I wasn't worried. First babies are famously tardy, I felt fine, all would be well. Reassured, the production company stopped calling until after New Year. By the time my son was born, on the 11th January, the poor costume designer was on the verge of a breakdown. With only 3 weeks until I was due on set, she raced over to London, got the measurements and constructed the costumes. And constructions they were. All hand stitched, embroidered, corseted and petticoated, each costume was a work of art. By the time filming started, I had an entire wardrobe and was settled into the location with my baby, ready to work.
I was breastfeeding on demand, so in between scenes I would go back to my caravan, to feed and play with the baby, and if I looked a little different every time; new wig, strange make-up, he didn't seem to mind too much. Even the costume department was happy with my embonpoint.
The day came in which I was to film a seduction scene with Wadek Stanczak, who was playing Cellini. It was to be fairly raw and emotional and the twin I was playing needed to have her shirt torn. After rehearsal I was duly sewn in to the shirt so that the stitching would rip in an aesthetically pleasing manner and we waited to film the first set up. It was a complicated piece, and like most love scenes, it required some choreography. The lighting took time to adjust and an hour or so passed. The shirt grew tighter. Finally, we were ready to shoot. I strode into the room and Wadek pushed me against the wall. We kissed, he reached down and ripped open my shirt. And with the cameras still rolling, my breast milk shot across the set. It soaked Wadek and myself and poured all over the floor. I hadn't done many love scenes but I knew that exploding breasts weren't usually part of the deal. Wadek looked pained and I flushed redder than my scarlet jacket. But the Italian crew were amazing. "Mama!" they cried and got the mops out.

Blue Screen

2007-10-16T11:07:00.002+01:00

Acting with blue screen mattes is a part of filming that is thought to be especially difficult, since the thing that you are looking at is just a cross on a wall or a stick with a blob on top. Whether you are supposed to be reacting to the majesty of a nineteenth century Brazilian opera house or your beloved being thrown from a parapet, an alien making pancakes in your parent's kitchen or a unicorn guiding you through an enchanted forest, the blue screen stays pretty much the same; a big blue backdrop, just hanging there. Lately it is more likely to be green, but still, it doesn't emote much. Of course, neither does the camera lens or the theatrical backcloth, but you will still spend many hours staring at bits of Gaffa tape stuck to the inside of a lens hood or gazing out of a window frame at a third of a tree stump stuck in a bucket in front of a painting of a forest. (On one film I was in the director was so in love with the other actress that he couldn't bear to have a shot without her in it. Thus, all my close-ups were organised with her reflection over my shoulder while I would talk to a light stand. As she was both incredibly beautiful and disconcertingly lovely, I only minded a bit.)
When we were filming 'Dinotopia', there was an enormous amount of green screen work, and one of the sound stages was entirely painted the requisite shade of green. There were flight sequences and mountain top scenes and machines developed to simulate the stride of different dinosaurs, so that when you sat in the saddle (very high up) and the right programme was set, you could be on a larger or smaller dinosaur, walking or running. (If the wrong programme was set it was not unlike riding a mechanical bull. Yes, I have, once with a lot of tequila.) A great deal of thought had gone into the dinosaur-riding machine, but you couldn't stay on it for very long without throwing up, dinosaurs are an awkward taxi. But the main problem with dinosaur filming was the great variety of heights. In a scene with a triceratops, a couple of diplodocus (diplodoci?) and some veloceraptors, there were only so many sticks with blobs on that could be set up. The amazing special effects team at Framestore must have had a terrible time fixing the eye lines in editing.
My earliest memory of filming with blue screen was the 'Chester Mystery Cycle Plays' for the BBC. I was 10 and playing a type of seraph and spent some days milling around the studio at Woodlane with a pair of wings and a halo. As I remember there were a lot of set pieces and plenty of time to observe the surroundings. When I came home my parents asked how it was all going. "God was lovely." I said, "And Mary gave me a cup of tea. But I don't like the Devil much." "No" said my dad, "I know what you mean."

Actors

2007-10-07T10:26:00.001+01:00

It is an uncomfortable truth that most stage managers and assistant directors do not like actors. This is because a) they spend a lot of time with them and b) they are human opposites. SMs and ADs are efficient, hard working, well adjusted individuals who look around a room/set, see what needs to be done and get on with it. They don't get any glory, I don't believe there are any SM/AD award ceremonies, they get responsibility and a pint of lager.
It is not that all actors are hazy, lazy and crazy, exactly, more that they have to live in a slightly parallel world. During the rehearsal period for a play, a stage management team organises everything from call times and coffee to the buying of props and the building of rehearsal sets. Actors will spend a lot of time having cups of tea and cigarettes/herbal lozenges. They will discuss the merits of various agents/producers/casting directors at length. They will lose their scripts/reading glasses/plastic bag with a banana in it. They will leave the rehearsal room at the end of the day without a thought about all the detritus that will magically disappear by the morning. This is because they are going home to not learn their lines and then to worry about not learning their lines. In the morning they will have to miss the bus/train/plane or have their car stolen or broken into. They will have a mysterious back injury or throat complaint. They will be depressed/anxious/neurotic/paranoid. Some of them will already be sleeping with each other. After lunch they will run through the whole play and it will be like having a kindergarten class perform 'Les Sylphides' on ice. People will crash into each other, fall over, appear in scenes they were never in, fail to appear in scenes they were always part of. The director will cry. On the inside. On the outside they will smile and say either "That was a great start but we have a way to go." Or "That was shit. I hate you all." depending on their temperament. The actor will cry. On the inside. On the outside they will say, "I'm going to the pub".
Last year I took a production of a play to New York. I co-produced with one of the other actors and although we had done the show before, in Glasgow, it was a different production that required a whole new rehearsal period, set and costumes. The original cast of 7 was re-assembled and we had to ship the entire thing to Manhattan. As a producer with my own money as the budget, I was part of the stage management team, getting the coffee, putting out the set in the morning, booking flights, hiring costumes, renting containers. I saw the actors from the other side of the sticky green tape that marks out the set on the floor. I still loved them but for the first time I saw how sometimes, they might not be that lovable. Not that I was any great shakes, bossing everyone around, freaking out about visas and still not remembering my lines even though I knew the play backwards.
The play opened well in New York, we got good reviews, good bookings and after the nervous breakdown of the first week, things settled down. Happy days. The World Cup had started and we could watch matches in the afternoon and get in to the theatre for the evening show. The closest call was the day of the England-Portugal Quarter Final, but it seemed that even with extra time we could still squeak into the dressing rooms if we watched the match in the Italian restaurant opposite the theatre, which was playing it all on a big screen behind the bar.
And that was where the American stage manager found me, 10 minutes before the curtain was due to go up, make-up in my lap, feverishly glued to the penalty shoot out. I don't care about football. I was producing my first play. In New York. I had worked on the show flat out for 6 months of my life and given up a TV series to do it. I had learned how to put a contract together, how to set up a non-profit company, what fire permits I needed for the set fabric and what the royalties were for an author's estate. But at that moment, I looked at the stage manager's face and knew on which side of the green marking tape I stood. I had forgotten everything. And I was in the pub.

Auteurs

2007-09-03T13:20:00.001+01:00

There are many different ways of working with directors. Some directors like complete collaboration using workshops and improvisation. Some prefer a steady progression through discussion and rehearsal with rigid adherence to the script. Some directors want to control every movement, every inflexion and some have such a light touch that you imagine you are not being directed at all. As an actor, you have to make decisions about the amount of control you are willing to surrender and you'll base your choices on your own techniques as an actor, but also on trust. Once a director has gained your trust, you belong to them.
The auteur director will not ask your opinion, they have a vision and it is your job to help them realise it. If you trust them then you will embark on the project with a certain freedom; the capacity to follow where the director leads. If you do not trust them then you're in trouble. The auteur director will not be interested in your doubts and fears, or your individual interpretation. They will let you do whatever you want so long as it is also whatever they want. You are the doll in the auteur director's doll's house, their moods and caprices are not unlike a child's. It is such a struggle for a director with an absolute vision to bend a hundred people to their will that their patience is often exhausted.
I have worked with a few such directors and they were the most exciting projects of my life. Franco Zeffirelli directed ‘The Young Toscanini’. We made the film over the course of nearly a year and by the end of shooting I was several months pregnant. As I was playing an Eighteenth century nun, neither my character nor my costume were entirely flexible. We filmed in Portugal, Italy and Tunisia and every location was impeccably commanded by Franco, every detail of the set examined. When the boat was the wrong colour we went home while it was repainted. If an actor was the wrong type, they went home and didn't return. Not wanting to go home, I lived in fear of being either the wrong colour or the wrong type. As it turns out, I was frequently both, but I survived to the end of the shoot.
I was thrilled to be working with Franco who behaved as outrageously as you would want a director of his calibre and reputation to behave. "Where do you think the f*****g camera is, you f*****g monkey?" he would shout at me, via megaphone. Some days I laughed, most days I wept but every day brought a new lesson about making a film and an insight into the creative life of this great auteur. At 23 I had plenty to learn and what an education I received. By the time filming finished I was completely obsessed with Franco and would have jumped into a vat of boiling oil had he so asked. Such is the Stockholm syndrome nature of being an actor in a good director's thrall.
When the film was screened for the first time, I was looking forward to seeing Franco again. He had looked after me in my early pregnancy and given me time off when my father was ill. I had much to thank him for. The day of the premiere arrived and we gathered on the Lido at the Venice Film Festival. Franco stood at the entrance to the hotel and I approached with trepidation. "Darling!" He kissed me and I waited for news of the film. Franco looked concerned, "You are terrible in this movie" My heart sank but immediately Franco brightened. "Don't worry, darling, I cut around you."
An auteur's work is never done.

Accomplishments

2007-08-26T21:29:00.001+01:00

Spotlight is a directory for casting directors filled with actor's photos and agent details and divided into big volumes by categories of Gender, Age and Type (Leading, Character). It's a forbidding tome and I try not to think about it between the yearly ritual of sending back the photo (old) and a cheque. Spotlight also offers an on-line service that lists an actor's credits and while you're updating those, you're invited to fill out the section named 'Special Skills'. It's a minefield.
Of course, if you really have an accomplishment, then away you go. Concert piano, pilot's license, tap dancing, fencing awards, these would all be both useful and interesting skills to have mastered. But what about driving a car? Or swimming? Most people can do those things, you probably don't need to put them in, though it can be a problem if you can't drive or swim and most companies don't think to ask until the day comes on the set when you're supposed to reverse your car along the marina and dive in to save your screen son. Stunt doubles do amazing work but directors, not unreasonably, expect to be able to get a shot of their actor actually driving the car, or in the water, at some point. And when would be the good moment to confess that, no sorry, you never passed your test, as such, and you can't really swim, but you can float, like really well, on your front, with a very small inflatable?
Still, if you put in driving and swimming it might look a little desperate, next to all those sword fighters and opera singers. What about horse riding? Just how expert a rider should you be before you offer it up as a special skill? Who, while auditioning, would allow that they couldn't ride a horse, had never actually been near a horse growing up in Hackney. Get the job, and then worry about the horse. I do have some horse riding experience but I'm not very good. I've ridden side-saddle in a corset in a forest for a film and waited until I was well out of sight before sliding off onto the one good leg I had left; trees plus horse plus side-saddle plus corset plus bad rider equals bruises. So, I wouldn't put riding horses down as one of my special skills but I'd be absolutely willing to learn.
The most difficult skill I have had to master for filming was the illusion of playing the piano. Most of the time it is the upper body that the audience will see and that can just take a lot of time listening to the music and learning from an experienced pianist the direction and force of the hands and movements of the body. But if there are some chords you can master, some way of learning a piece by rote, then the director will have a better choice of shots. Romain Duris does this brilliantly in 'The Beat That My Heart Skipped' and 'Moliere' and apparently he was taught by his sister specifically for 'Beat', although he was already a musician. The effect is so seamless that you do not question his ability to play. When I was filming 'A Summer Story' there was going to be a scene of me playing a simple song on the piano while my visitor sang along and I set out to learn the piece. Week after week that summer I sat down at a dummy keyboard in my hotel room or in a lesson with a professional, trying to master the notes. Bit by bit the song came together, but I noticed that my wrist started to ache when I played and eventually it hurt all the time and I ended up with a splint. I had some sympathy from the unit nurse and the general feeling was that I must have been practising very hard, poor thing. In the scene that was filmed I played a few chords and then the camera pans away, but I was proud of those chords and didn't mind wearing my arm in a tea towel even after filming had finished. Some weeks later I was on holiday when the batteries on my Sega Game Gear died. Within 24 hours I was free of the splint.
So, I guess I do have a Special Skill after all. I can play 'Lemmings' 'til my wrist breaks.

Advertising Space

2007-08-19T12:09:00.003+01:00

At some point in an actor's life they will be confronted with various advertising interfaces with which they may choose to engage. Between voiceovers, commercials, product placement or ad campaigns it is hard to avoid making economic, moral and career decisions about whom, what and where to sell. At drama school the choices seem easy; sell your soul for brief financial reward and repent in obscurity while your wiser classmates achieve theatrical acclaim. Later, the lines get blurred. "It will only show in Southern Europe", "It's a 20 grand buyout, 2 day shoot" can sound like "No-one will ever see it, it's a lot of money for old rope, it doesn't count". After all, Hollywood movie stars advertise in Japan. Next thing you know, you're on the commercial audition circuit, holding up bits of paper with a number on for a Polaroid and pretending you're skiing in a tube made out of light.

A Small Film About Advertising Casting (Warning Adult Content)

In my teenage years, I was a model. I sold a lot of stuff. I did a commercial for Boots No 7 with a fantastic photographer called John Swannell and a disastrous one for Revlon where my hair was taped to a board to look like it was flowing. Then I was advised that models could never really be actors and I stopped modelling and painted window frames while I looked for acting work. I found it, so maybe the advisers were right, but it was hard giving up the financial security. I didn't miss the auditions though. In New York once, I went up for a scent campaign and they wanted a jazz dancer. My ballet training was no preparation for the excruciating 10 minutes of top hat and cane miming that I stumbled through in a sweaty studio in Manhattan before an incredulous casting director. "That's great!" She said, as I tried to catch my breath. "Only we're really looking for a dancer who can model rather than a model who can...model." I got my coat.

Acting Lessons

2007-06-22T12:18:00.001+01:00

In the UK we tend to go to drama school, or to university to do a drama degree, and once we have graduated and start to get work, that is the end of our formal training. Of course, each job is unique and you learn from every experience. Occasionally a director has such a particular method of working that you develop an entirely new technique during the rehearsal process. But, on the whole, working British actors tend not to go back to school again.
In the US it is very different. Some will study drama at a college, but many will arrive in New York or LA with only the experience of High School productions, and while they are getting an agent and starting to audition, they will find a class and they will stick to it with a ferocity that an Alsatian would admire. Starring in a TV show? Just finished a sexy Independent Movie? Doesn't matter, those guys will be back in class and ready to roll as soon as they are in town.
Like many Brits, when I first arrived in California, I was sceptical about the continuing education aspect of LA actors. Hadn't we done all that stuff? And wouldn't it be, well, a little humiliating? Twiddling my thumbs between auditions, an American actor friend recommended a class he often took when he was around, to 'keep my hand in' as he tactfully put it.
The next day, with some trepidation, I drove to the very far end of town and hesitated in the doorway of a beaten-up building. Inside, a good deal of shouting was going on and a quantity of effing and, goodness, was that the c word? Convincing myself that some kind of acting must already be taking place, I gingerly slipped into a seat at the back of the tiny theatre.
The scene that unfolded over the next several hours confirmed all my worst fears and I went home convinced that I would never return. But during the week my thoughts kept returning to the class. Something exciting was happening there; not just terror and adrenaline, but enthusiasm and care for the job of being an actor for no other reason than to try and be better at it. So I went back and I loved it and I learned plenty. And sometimes, when I am standing in the wings, or behind the clapperboard, I remember the teacher's dulcet tones screaming across the stage, "Knock it out of the f****** park, you c***!” And it helps.

Southend

2007-06-10T20:58:00.000+01:00

Some technical difficulties with the set meant that we didn't start in Southend until Wednesday. It's an emotional week; the last five shows and then we all part company. However often you start a job knowing that it will end in a certain number of weeks, that you will make friends, have arguments and spend a lot of time together working and playing, it is still a wrench when that end comes. People you have spent every single day with for three months you may never see again. In some ways, companies pace themselves for the final week, waiting for those last shows to get too tired to mind about finishing. So it is a busy week in Southend.
There is also the sense of imminent loss of a piece of yourself. The character you play has become part of your life and there are physical and emotional traits that you have integrated. Wearing a watch on the other wrist, leaving your personal jewelry behind, hairstyle, make-up. In some ways, your own appearance is in limbo for the duration of the play's run. As for personality...well I have played a series of monsters for the last year. Some of it's bound to rub off.
So goodbye, Ratched, you were a pistol and I'll miss ya.

Nottingham

2007-05-31T10:36:00.001+01:00

The Theatre Royal Nottingham has the prettiest auditorium we have visited on the tour and no blessed orchestra pit. The first night is good and full and not one boo in the curtain call. I like it here.
Have we talked about heating yet? Some of the theatres had huge air conditioning systems that couldn't be turned off even when it was really cold. It is difficult to keep your energy up when you are shivering backstage and don't have many clothes on, especially the boys in their shorts for the basketball scene. The area backstage is usually vast, like a hangar, at least eight times the area that is visible from the auditorium, so I imagine it is neither enviromental nor economical to heat, but air conditioning? I have heard that cold is good for comedy, can that be right? And who did the experiment?
Anyway, the Royal is not cold and we are all bouncing around merrily with the end in sight. Much as I love the play, and it really is well-written, there is a sense of relief at approaching the end of a run.

Things that had changed by the end of the week. 1. They emptied the first six rows because of sightlines and it was like having an orchestra pit after all. 2. It was so hot on stage we were sliding around as we melted. 3. We were not so merry.

Manchester

2007-05-28T12:43:00.000+01:00

Since there are two common causes for being booed on stage, it has been brought to my attention that it is not an entirely flattering reaction. Either my performance sucks or I am in a pantomime. Since I am not supposed to be in a pantomime it could be that my performance sucks in such a way that I look like I think I am in a pantomime.
Manchester is certainly enthusiastic in its disapproval, but in the whole tour, there have a only been a few shows that haven't ended with booing for me and cheers for everyone else. I have come to expect it and it gives the other members of the company a good laugh. My only real problem with it is that any argument about the merits of the Ratched-McMurphy relationship seem to be lost and so is the balance of the play. And yet, there is a curious pleasure in being the fictional focus of hatred. To quote Jessica Rabbit 'I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way'.

Milton Keynes

2007-05-16T00:12:00.000+01:00

Going on tour is a crash course in different auditoria. This week, the audience feel much closer and the show is more intimate. I think it is one of the best weeks so far. The theatre is very modern, all breeze blocks and bare walls, but it is spacious and clean and organised, so it is an easy place to be in. A bit like the whole city, really. And when it comes to the get out, the crew are amazing, out by 1.30am. They were pulling the carpet up as we walked off, so I was glad there wasn't a staircase.

Tamara came to see the show on Saturday and everyone was nervous. Of couse, things have evolved since she last saw it over a month ago, but you hope for the better. She was pleased that it was in good shape, the first time I have ever heard that from a director. Philip Prowse always refused to come back after the opening night except once, when we were doing 'Hamlet'. Terrified, we awaited his verdict. 'And that' he said 'is exactly why I never see the show again'.

Birmingham

2007-05-07T12:42:00.000+01:00

My last experience of working at the Alexandra Theatre had been so terrible that I was dreading the week in Birmingham this time. But the city has changed and so have I. Although the theatre still has a lot of problems backstage, the set fits well in the space and we can move behind it ok, which was something I had been worried about. Last time, we had a big revolve and you had to go downstairs and under the stage to reach the other side. It was quite a long way, with no show relay to hear the calls or what was happening on stage and it always felt like the twilight zone, as though time might suddenly speed up when you were out of earshot and you'd miss your call.
Without this issue and with a stronger play and a happier cast, the week flies by. The audiences are young and enthusiatic and the houses good. The biggest problem was to be found in Selfridges food hall: Krispy Kreme doughnuts, my downfall. I wonder if they'll have a lift next time I'm at the Alexandra. I may need it.

Bradford

2007-05-02T10:45:00.000+01:00

After a week off, everyone arrives for a line run in Bradford looking extremely healthy and a little surprised. One week feels like an extremely long time. It is bad enough when you haven't seen someone all day and you turn around to speak to them in front of 500 people on stage and they've done something different to their hair. On Monday, one of the characters was drooling (as you do) but he had blood dripping down his inmate's costume. I usually have a good long look at him anyway but I was so concerned, I just stared. Turns out he was fine, he must have bitten his tongue.
So, the line run is very helpful, we all get re-acquainted with our characters and each other.
The Alhambra Theatre auditorium is beautiful and it feels more intimate, at a mere 1400 seats. Who would have thought it would be so enjoyable to get back in that nurse's costume?

Southampton

2007-04-23T23:53:00.000+01:00

Into the amazing Mayflower Theatre. Huge deco auditorium, decorated in the original colours, pale green and rose. Our fairly large set is dwarfed on the enormous stage. Tickets have sold well this week and Monday night we have 1300 in the audience. The sun shines the whole week but even the matinees are busy. Shane Richie, who plays McMurphy, has an easy charm both on and off stage and a loyal following. It is thoroughly enjoyable fighting for power over my ward with him. Ratched comes back in to focus. Slightly difficult to keep a straight face sometimes, when all is chaos around me and the inmates are having a ball.
But mostly, things go well each week because of the efficiency and professionalism of the stage crew. The sound operators, the wardrobe department, the stage managers. They are the heart of the company, and thanks to them, the play runs smoothly.

Wimbledon

2007-04-19T10:37:00.000+01:00

A fresh start to the week after a two day break and most people glad to be back in the city and out of digs. One of the things I love about being an actor is the old-fashioned nature of the job, the strong links with performers through the years who have chosen, rehearsed and played parts that you are working on and the inescapable physical process of being in the rehearsal room and in the theatre. Unfortunately, the difficulties of digs have also remained unchanged over the years. Having to get up and out of the boarding house and pace the streets until the show, can make a week feel very long.
The theatre has a large, pretty auditorium but is usually used for musicals and pantomime and something about the play becomes a little lost in translation. Having started to get hold of Nurse Ratched last week I feel like she's slipping away again, quite literally in the strangulation scene, where I have tried to fall back rather than on to my knees which are now a shade of purple. Hmm...what a metaphor, on my knees or on my arse. Better shape up.

The First Night

2007-04-16T10:37:00.000+01:00

We rehearse all Wednesday morning, then get ready for the dress rehearsal in the afternoon. First time we have run it since Saturday and the last time before we open. Very nervous, but the afternoon goes fine. Tamara, the director, has a million notes, but says it is on track. I tell her I'm worried as the dress rehearsal is traditionally a time for disaster, but it went well, does this bode ill? She tells me it didn't go that well.
That night we are sold out and the show hits the ground running. Lots of energy, really great audience. Happy.

Tech

2007-04-04T11:04:00.000+01:00

So, Tuesday is the day of the tech. In to Plymouth theatre for 9am, costume, make-up, hair and mikes. Never been miked up for a show before but the venues we are playing are so large. It is a big show, big emotions and themes, but it is not a musical. I worry about taking the show so far; will it reduce what should be complex arguments to pantomime? The tech goes well, it is a long, 13 hour, day. When I take off my dress I have track marks all down the insides of my arms and my knees are blue and green from falling on them in the strangulation. Finish the day very anxious. Feel completely lost, no idea if it is ok or not and too tired to do very much about it.
Wednesday is the first night.

The Third Week

2007-04-01T10:04:00.000+01:00

Not sure what happened this week. I was in a somewhat delirious state for most of it, and the whole time was very difficult. We started running the play most days, often with a small audience of department heads and all with their own work to do. I couldn't tell whether something was going wrong, or if it was just my fever but I ended the week feeling very anxious. Of course, there is the pressure of opening the play on Wednesday and it is startling how often you forget that it is always panic and terror at this stage.
Dreaming that I have to do the play underwater.

The Second Week

2007-03-25T18:42:00.000+01:00

An amazing week. Long days, and everyone tired but a lot of the play is coming together. We did some character work which brought interesting stories to light, and was quite raw at times. Even the chronic patient, Ruckly, had me in tears. Actually, especially Ruckly. The contrast between the hilarity and the pathos continually pulls the rug out from under your feet.
Saturday morning we worked through the end of the play and had a very productive session but by then I had a fever. The whole weekend spent in a haze of painkillers worrying away at bits of the play in my head. Slightly hysterical at the idea of only one more week's rehearsal.

The First Week

2007-03-18T11:34:00.000Z

A good, difficult week. We've already blocked the whole play, so many of the usual problems in rehearsal having already been solved in the previous productions. Because we have a lot of the set in the rehearsal room, and some good props, time spent trying to remember what the yellow tape marks on the floor signify, is saved. Love not having to pretend to go up and down steps, open windows, talk through mikes etc.
Rehearsal is always intense and this play is very emotional which makes for a rollercoaster day. Go home every night and fall asleep with the script right by my head, a very reliable learning process. The dreams have already started; the usual suspects (doing play naked, not knowing lines etc) with some interesting variations. The exploration of insanity proves a rich seam.

The Week Before Rehearsal

2007-03-01T11:41:00.000Z

There's one more week to go before rehearsal starts for the tour of 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'. Trying to learn lines and accent and forget that there's ever been a film made which everyone in the world has seen.
The lines are quite difficult as Ratched has a sort of legalese quality to her speech, the disconnected and well-chosen phrasing that covers a multitude of possibilities. The result is that they don't, at the moment anyway, feel very organic. She's not really a let-it-all-hang-out gal, so her speech has to be precise and so do I.
That weird stage in the life of a play when people are booking tickets and we haven't started rehearsals yet. Everything has a timeable and is all set up and yet there are so many, human, variables. That heart stopping feeling when you arrive for the first day of rehearsals and all the posters are up and you haven't even met the other actors yet. How does that work?