The ruminations and frustrations of struggling act

I went to see The Girl with a Pearl Earring on Tuesday night. My agent often gets free tickets for her clients to various different shows and although I see enough theatre to last me a lifetime what with all the people I know in this play or that, my husband and I decided we'd take the offer up.

I have not read the book or seen the film, and so my comments are about the play as a free-standing entity. And my first is that I thoroughly enjoyed it. As can often happen with plays as opposed to musicals, the action can sometimes slow down so much that I suddenly realise I'm bored. It's as though as an audience member, you are lifted up by a cord as the curtain rises, and dangled before the action as the story unfolds. Sometimes you're pulled up high, bobbing buoyantly above the commotion and cavorting on stage, and sometimes you are let down, lowered carefully into deep dramatic tension. And sometimes you are dropped with a yawn-stifling bump. The magic disappears as you check your watch, wondering whether you'll catch the bus or the tube home.

I'm pleased to say no such distractions took hold on Tuesday night at the Theatre Royal Haymarket. I found myself fully engaged at all times. Though now that I think about it, the story-line was such that it could have dragged a bit: there was nothing incredibly gripping or original about the plot, and the raciest it got was when the housemaid Greet took off her head-dress, revealed her hair, and dared to part her lips slightly in a pose for her painter-cum-master (Vermeer). I jest: I do possess enough common sense to understand the differences between then and today, but even if I didn't, the skill of the actors enabled us to sense that such misdemeanours were, in fact, scandalous in the 17th century. The tensions that they created on stage, flying in all different directions, were palpable: the old maid jealous of the new; the grandmother and Vermeer differing over business strategies; the daughter vying for the attention of her father who is instead taken with Greet; the baker boy and his unrequited love, and the mother's disappointment with an inattentive husband.

Performances from many were awe-inspiring. Of particular note were Sara Kestelman as Maria Thins, the formidable grandmother who really wanted the best for her family; Niall Buggy as Van Ruijvan whose energy and comic timing were astoundingly good; Maggie Service as Tanneke, the 'old' maid whose ability to mix caustic flippancy with maternal warmth was exemplary. Lastly, Kimberley Nixon's Greet was presented with such firey gracefulness, if such a concept can exist, such originality and surety of delivery that I was mesmerised. Jonathan Bailey as Pieter, the love-sick youth, was disppointingly outshone on stage amid such fine actors, and his monologue sounded like something one of the feebler students at my drama school might have come out with during week one, before anyone had told them about colouring phrases or thinking the thoughts behind the lines. The one actress I am in two minds about is Lesley Vickerage: she played Catharina, Vermeer's wife. She was rather flakey and ungrounded in her performance, and I don't know whether that's her bad acting or her excellent portrayal of a highly-strung, frenzied and depressed woman.

All in all, an evening well-spent.

Just a quickie about this voice workshop I went to with fellow actress Emma. I don't know where she finds out about these things, but she's always inviting me along to something or other, which is great and saves me the job of seeking them out. This workshop was at the Cottlesloe (one of the National's theatres), actually inside the auditorium which didn't leave much room for joining in with the more physical exercises and warm-ups. This was the first let down, the second being that the material was all extremely basic and typical of Day 1 fodder at drama school. Yawn. The woman leading the workshop (I wish I knew her name...) was a voice coach working extensively in the field with renowned actors on important plays. She had three actors on stage with her as demonstrators, and these three had just finished whatever play was showing in the Olivier. The voice coach herself spoke impeccably clearly and as such advertised the merits of her work well. The actors less-so, in many ways, not because they weren't good orators, but because they admitted (when asked by an audience-member) that they didn't ever practise their voice exercises at home for 10 minutes every day as every good little actor should! What a relief!

I went to see Jersey Boys at the Prince Edward Theatre last night. My friend Jenny called me in the morning saying she had free tickets and would I like to go, and naturally I said yes! The reason the free tickets were available became apparent just before the show started: the resident director came on stage explaining that the show was to be a recorded that night, hence the presence of various cameras around the auditorium. Of course, lots of bums on seats are a prerequisite for a good audience response, and often also a good cast performance. He explained that there would be a short hiatus in the proceedings during the finale, where cameramen would join the on-stage action to film the audience. This caused a general sense of excitement in the theatre.

The show began and well. From scene one there prevailed an energy and a vitality on stage, created both by the excellent performers and also the music, which was fantastic. Jersey Boys relays the story of Frankie Valli and his group's various incarnations before hitting the jackpot with the "Four Seasons". Comedy was rife throughout, but a sincere and truthful comedy rather that the sort shoe-horned in for cheap laughs (all too often the brand of choice in populist theatre these days). My usual standard for good acting was met, which entails my believing each character on stage to be just that, and not an actor playing that character. This is hard to achieve, I think, because as an actor myself, I am all too aware of the theatrical process, and this often overrides my suspension of disbelief.

Of particular note was Glenn Carter as Tommy DeVito, the leader of the group, with his incredible charisma and, frankly, incredible good looks. I had to persuade my eyes to look elsewhere at times, he was so watchable. There was an excellent combination of dedication to his role and audience awareness in his performance, making him believable, but interactive and enjoyable too. The star of the show, Ryan Molloy as Frankie Valli, was tremendous. A shakey start, in fairness, due to his slight over-playing of a shy and nervous debutant, gave way to a really grounded, subtle portrayal of an enigmatic figure. Valli, by the end of the show, has become wizened and cynical, with the grooves of experience and excess etched onto his once-fresh face. This transition, representing decades, took place seamlessly in the 2 and a half hours we shared. No mean feat. Molloy's voice is a thing of utter and sense-shattering beauty. And I am NEVER easy to please in this respect.

The entire cast, in fact, had great voices, and great performance skills in general. The women in the cast had little air time, and the one number fronted by 3 of them was a little under-energised, but I think this is to do with what felt like lazy choreography more than their performances.

The vibe in the auditorium, however, was testament to the excellence of the show as a whole. It was interesting in fact, because at one point, the 4 members of the group were facing away from the audience, and the stage was flipped so that they were performing to a large crowd opposite us, and we were up-stage of them, as it were. There were flashing lights going of everywhere as though they were being photographed from every angle, and the whole theatrical device worked very well, with the sense of being backstage at Wembley. What I noticed, however, was how important a performer's face is. No great discovery, I know, but so very clearly tangible: the routine the group was doing was similar to the usual, that is, standing in a row and doing fairly small but precise movements, and the music was as uplifting as ever, and yet, at the end of the song, the final ba-ba-bum-with-punch-in-the-air was all directed away from us, and the resultant applause was half as big. The connection wasn't there at all, and it is because we couldn't see their faces. If the routine had differed, I wouldn't have drawn this conclusion so easily, but because it was the same routine turned 180 degrees, the effect was obvious. And yet well worth it because it was great to have a change of perspective like that. It wasn't as though there weren't countless other moments of rapturous and explosive applause.

All in all, it was a first-rate show and one I would heartily recommend seeing. I think a lot of its success rides on the joy that timeless classics evokes in us all. Good music can really be medicine for the soul.

Gosh, it's actually a bit daunting, this! My good friend Simon found this site for me, owing to my inability to do certain things for myself, and now that I have a blog set up, it feels like I should be beginning with a great pearl of wisdom or universal truth. Instead, I think it's best to do what I usually do, and plunge in without thinking too hard about the consequences!

I'm not sure exactly what I want to achieve here: when I'm sitting waiting for responses to e.mails I've sent, or wondering how I will ever be able to make a difference in the world, of all grandiose notions, I often think that it would be useful, helpful, or just therapeutic in some way to offload some of my thoughts and musings. I'm sure it's already been done umpteen times, but a novel about the ups and downs of life as a struggling actress, cliched as it may be, seems to be a valid, perhaps even diverting, offering to make to anyone interested enough (or, conversely, bored enough) to read.

But a pseudo-novel, as I imagined this blog to be; a form of anecdotal serial of my day-to-day activities (or lack thereof), is too demanding, too formalised a concept to deal with. I think I'd be more successful, and would certainly avoid writer's block and that "where do I start?" obstacle, if I just darn started writing. So here I am doing just that.

As I type, there is a vegetable soupy-stewy thing on the hob that I've just made, a workout at the gym I'm putting off, and a general sense of well-being, actually. Believe you me, it is better that I am starting this on a positive note, as I can be the dullest of bores when the weight of the world is on my shoulders and I try and dissect that weight. It was in such a mood, yesterday, that I began offloading onto my aforementioned friend, Simon, via facebook instant chat, and boy did he regret it! Poor thing only asked "Don't you get bored being at home all day?" and in doing so, unwittingly unleashed all kinds of pent-up frustrations and resentment generally based on my unfulfilling life of inertia and stagnancy. At least, with the instigation of this blog, he may be spared any future rantings!

I feel inclined to stop writing now, and so will. Till next time (I wonder when that will be? Will I actually write again or will this become another whimsical, half-hearted attempt at doing something proactive in my life?)... E xxx