Plenty to tell here - no lies; no puns
I was born into an amateur dramatic family, so have spent a great deal of time on-stage in productions of assorted quality. From my first performance as Herod, aged 4 (I was aged 4, not Herod), I've tended to be typecast as a villain or psycho of some sort, which surprises me being the well-adjusted normal type of person that I am. Quiet at the back, there...

Act I, Scene I

Anyway, after an apprenticeship of playing heralds and walk-ons, I was finally ready for my first 'proper' part: a young and upcoming barrister in a courtroom scene. It was there I watched a master demonstrate what to do when you forget your lines.

Let me set the scene for you: my opposing barrister was a veteran of the stage, having appeared in umpteen amateur productions every year for about twenty years. Nothing pretentious or sniffy about him: he was just a good bloke with lots of free time who knew how to handle himself well on stage: he never succumbed to nerves. I'll call him Steve - that was his name, after all.

In the dock is Jim, a bluff old Yorkshireman who relied on a lot of shouting and gumption to cover up the fact that he was crap at learning lines. A big-hearted, charismatic fella, he got cast regularly because he was a proper presence on stage. More on Jim later.

Our judge is Derek, a proper old typecast. A doddery, ancient member of the society (actually, at the time he was probably only in his mid-fifties, but you'd have been forgiven for thinking he was at least seventy). He never remembered ANY lines whatsoever, and the judge's role was a blessing for him, because he could sit at a desk high up on the stage, with the entire script of Act I photocopied and sellotaped in front of him where the audience couldn't see it. On such things is amateur theatre run.

Anyway, we were drawing to the end of Act I; I'd performed my prosecuting lawyer with a bit of contempt and sneer (told you I was always a bad guy), and was looking forward to a couple of pints because I wasn't in Act II. Steve, the counsel for the defence, was trawling through about a page of monologue which was his summing-up speech; most of it was delivered straight to the audience with the little nods and winks that most good actors use when breaking the fourth wall.

In the middle of summing up, he sneezed. Not usually a problem on-stage, just cover up the sneeze and carry on. But for some reason, Steve stopped completely. I realised that he'd 'dried', a rarity in itself, because I couldn't ever recall Steve needing to take his prompt. It was as if he'd sneezed all the lines out of his head.

Most amateur actors, when drying-up on stage, turn into a rabbit in the headlights. Their mouth works furiously with nothing coming out and they stare into the lighting box as if that will grant them inspiration. They hope fervently that the prompt is awake and following the play (they often aren't; more on that later). You have to remember that this was a particularly bad juncture to forget what you were saying, because there was nothing happening onstage; Steve was the focus of 180 people who were hanging on his every word.

He probably paused for a maximum of two seconds, but I saw the plan develop there and then: probably the most guileful and brave thing I have ever seen on stage. He did not wait for a dozy prompt; instead he whirled round to face the judge, barrister's gown flourished, and delivered the line, in perfect legal-ese: "M'lud, may I approach the bench on a point of technicality?" My eyes met Jim's in the dock: this was not in the script, and amateur actors do NOT ad-lib. Derek must have been completely baffled, but to his credit managed a strangled nod and "you may". Steve climbed the long steps to the judge's table, and carried out a completely phony under-the-breath 'inquiry', while looking at some 'legal documents' that the judge had in his position. Legal documents, you'll remember, that were in fact the script for the first half of the play. Inquiries concluded, he swept back down the steps and carried on with his summing up as if nothing had happened. I'm willing to bet that three-quarters of the audience didn't even realise that it wasn't part of the play. Genius, I tell you.

Act I, Scene II

OK, so let's fast-forward a couple of years. I had just finished Uni, and had returned home, at which point I immediately get cast in plays again, because am-dram societies NEVER have enough men. So, this time, I was a cheating husband, and spent a lot of time playing opposite my 'wife', played by Deb, a long-time actress and a very good one. She was about twenty years older than me, but on the am-dram stage everyone is 'about mid-thirties' regardless.

Anyway, this play (a not-terribly-good comedy, as I recall) culminated in my wife leaving me and my 'big speech', a realisation that I'd been a horrible man and thrown my life away. I wasn't used to doing such emotional and heart-rending stuff (my varied roles at University had included Abanazer, Sergeant Colon and the plant in Little Shop Of Horrors), so really put my all into this speech, making sure I slowed right down and putting long heartfelt pauses into all the right places. It was, if I saw so myself, quite moving.

Or so I thought.

This production ran from Tuesday to Saturday, as did all our plays, and it was widely agreed that Thursday was always the 'dead' night. This is when the cast got too over-confident and the audience filled with deadbeats from the old folk's home and the local Scout groups because it was the last night of concession tickets.

This particular Thursday hadn't gone too badly though, no obvious disasters, and the audience were quiet. I'd assumed they were dramatically hanging on every word as I entered my final tear-jerker. The speech was nearly two pages and took over five minutes to deliver, which is an eternity in any stage production. There was no worries about learning lines - I am proud of the fact that I've never had to take a prompt - so all I had to do was make a connection with the audience.

This, I miserably failed to do.

I still remember the last lines of my monologue now: "...but I see, now...it's all gone...it's all gone." There followed perhaps a dozen more lines between me and Deb before the end of the scene and a graceful blackout. Naturally, I'd taken to leaving big dramatic pauses between the "it's all gone"s, and I was proud that I could deliver the last one bursting into uncontrollable tears (crying on stage ain't easy, folks).

Tonight, the pause was about to be defiled.

Me: "But I see now...it's all gone..." long dramatic pause, prepares for hysterics

Old Lady in Back of Audience: "YAahhhOhhhhYAhhhOhhhhYAhhh" the MOST theatrical and drawn out yawn I have EVER heard

Talk about breaking the tension. There were giggles around the auditorium. Deb made the involuntary snort that you make when you're trying really, REALLY hard not to laugh. My big line, ruined. I was also in difficulties, because normally I'd be in fake tears by this point, but I was just staring aghast at the back-left of the auditorium where this horrendous noise had come from. I declined to finish the last three words of my monologue.

This wasn't the end of it. Deb was by now puce in the fact and gnawing on her bottom lip in an effort not to laugh. And it was her line! After a few seconds of silence, I realised nothing was going to happen, so I did the only thing that sprang to mind at the time. I picked up my water glass, threw the contents all over Deb's spluttering face and stalked off. Thankfully, the lighting man had the common sense to plunge the stage into darkness at that point, but the entire audience were still treated to Deb's roar of laughter disappearing into the wings.

Act I, Scene III,

My favourite story, for now, doesn't involve me at all, but my father. I was in the lighting box for this particular episode, but the way my Dad tells it is marvellous.

So, we're about halfway through Act I of Season's Greetings, a venerable old Alan Ayckbourn comedy much loved to amateur dramaticians over the length of the country. My father is on stage and, like me, prides himself on never taking prompts. He has just finished a bit of dialogue with another actor who has just exited, and his next direction is to wander upstage (towards the back) and examine the bookshelves with his back towards the audience.

One of the female cast members comes on, dusts around a side-table for a while. Jim (you remember Jim from Scene I, yes? He's one of my father's best friends) passes by the french windows and enters Stage Right. Nothing is said for quite a long time. Jim goes to make a gin at the conveniently-placed drinks table in order to cover the silence.

My father, safely with his back to the audience, thinks: "Oh goody, someone has forgotten a line. I can probably blackmail them for a pint of Boddingtons afterwards, such is the custom"

As the silence grows ever longer and more tortuous, my father carries on thinking: "The audience must have noticed by now. There hasn't half been a lot of silence, hasn't there? I wonder if the prompt is paying attention. I bet she isn't, the dozy cow."

But he is proved wrong. The prompt suddenly splutters into life and hisses out: "Charles!"

My father thinks: "Well, that's a shitty prompt, isn't it? You're supposed to give the line, not the character who's about to speak it. Charles is being played by my mate Jim, so he's going to have to cough up a couple of pints at least"

Still more silence. Jim swigs his gin in deep contemplation; the lady dusts the side table until it gleams...

The prompt hisses across the stage again: "Charles!"

Still nothing happens. My father thinks: "Hoo hoo hoo! Jim's had a major aberration here. He knows it's his line, and he still can't remember it. The prompt's incompetent and just shouts out his name rather than feeding him the correct line. He'll be having kittens right now, and as soon as he speaks every single person in the audience will know that he's the one that's ground this play to a halt. Ha ha ha!

The silence is now extending into its second minute. Remember when I said that five minutes of monologue is an achingly long time on stage? That's NOTHING compared to two minutes of awkward silence. The audience are growing restless now and waiting to blame whoever delivers the next line.

The next line, in fact, being what the prompt now does deliver. In a hysterical whisper, she shrills out: "Charles!... has been showing me round his shed."

My father thinks: "Oh...FUCK"

Yes, it was his line all along. Turns out he does need a prompt occasionally.

Now, rather than deliver the line straight, he concocts a plan to get him away from two other actors and an audience, all of whom think he's incompetent. He simply delivers the fourteen lines of dialogue that he needs to get offstage. All at once, very quickly, without allowing anyone else to speak...

"Charles has been showing me round his shed yes it's delightful the begonias yes yes great well I'm going to check dinner do you want me to call on Joan yes she's a lot better now thanks mother no I have no idea after dinner that'd be great"

...and just walks off. You might as well go out in style.

Apologies for length. I may well work myself up to Act II later.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Fri 19 Aug 2011, 10:51, 3 replies)

What is it about Thursdays? It's the same up here
We've offered discounts on Thursdays, contacted groups - Thursdays are just naff for theatre.
( Mrs. Spatum, Fri 19 Aug 2011, 11:05, closed)

Thursdays are student night in the pub.

(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Mon 22 Aug 2011, 22:16, closed)

I think Ayckbourn without the words would be an improvement.
Almost as good as Ayckbourn without the Ayckbourn.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 19 Aug 2011, 14:07, closed)