2. The One-On-One

No-one taught me how to go about working with actors. It was taken for granted that this was something any would-be director had to work out for himself. The first chance I got was at The Stables Theatre Club in Manchester, where I directed short plays with such future luminaries as Richard Wilson, in Trevor Griffith's first play, The Wages of Thin, and Maureen Lipman, in an off-Broadway play by Israel Horowitz,  It's Called The Sugarplum.  

However, an ongoing part of the schedule, in which I was also expected to participate, was, devoted to “workshopping”. This was very much a trend of the time that followed on from the leads of New York’s Living Theatre, Peter Brook’s resuscitation of Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty, and Jerzy Grotowski’s Poor Theatre. At The Stables these sessions, that focussed on group work, physical expression and improvisation, were frequently lead by, my friend and neighbour, John Downie, whose mantra was, “process before product.” I could see how this might be liberating for an actor, but I could not agree that this was an appropriate motto for a director to have on his T-shirt. It struck me that this was, in fact, shrugging off the director’s prime responsibility, which was specifically to the end-product.

When I began training at Granada TV the first director whom I shadowed was Derek Bennett. He too had become caught up in this trend, and often began rehearsals with some kind of theatrical game. I soon learned, however, that the more seasoned actors, and particularly those who were orientated towards working on screen rather than the theatre, found all this an embarrassing waste of time. This was a relief because I felt much the same. This group work was not what screen acting was about; It was the internalised, often solitary moments that counted for most on screen. Once while, I was watching from the the multi-camera control room, production was halted while some technical problem was solved, but the actors remained in position, with cameras lined up on them, closeups on the monitors before me. As they sat doing nothing, thinking about — who knows what? — I was struck by how very intimate this experience was. Rarely in real life do we watch anyone with such close scrutiny except, perhaps, our closest loved-ones, and then only for moments.

John Wheatley and Tessa Peake-Jones 
in Fallen Hero

On the surface it would appear that actors are the most open and egalitarian of groups, where people of all ages, classes and backgrounds mix freely with each other. In practice, one soon finds that on any set a very definite pecking order is soon established. The stars like to tell the supporting actors what to do, the supporting actors like to tell the bit players what to do, and the bit players like to tell the extras what to do. There is then another hierarchy of age, accolades, and longevity on the production. On Fallen Hero there was a two-episode intensely emotional storyline that focused on the wayward son of the female lead, Dorothy, (played by Wanda Ventham). Cast in this role was  a quirky but sensitive young actor, called John Wheatley, and it was evident that this was the most demanding thing he had yet done. He very evidently needed my input but I soon noticed that some of the older members of the cast were getting fidgety with the amount of time I was spending with him. So, I decided to work with John separately from the rest of the cast, one-on-one. This was made easier because the story climaxed in an unusually long monologue which ended in an emotional breakdown. 

Wanda Ventham and Del Henney in Fallen Hero

When we came to the shoot John was quite mesmerising. Immediately that I shouted  CUT he collapsed into a sobbing heap on the ground, and Del Henney (who played the lead, Gareth) turned and walked off the set. It took several minutes to bring John round; I then went to find out what was wrong with Del. He shook his head — nothing was wrong — he just could hardly bear to watch such raw emotion.

Always under pressure of time in the run-up stages of a shoot I several times brushed off, or made light of, actors requests to meet for a chat. I have since come to realise that this was a bad mistake because the actor/director’s one-on-one is an essential step in the process. 

Ian Bannen in Bookie

This was strikingly brought home to me by an actor at the other end of the scale in experience. This was Ian Bannen, who had been nominated for an Academy Award and twice for a BAFTA. On Bookie Ian would just mark through the scenes in rehearsals for the benefit of cast and crew. He would then wait until he saw that I had a moment spare, take me aside, and, often gripping my forearm and holding his face only inches from mine, run through his lines for the scene, just leaving gaps when others spoke. He would play these at reduced volume, but, otherwise, giving clear indication of the performance he would give for the take. In effect, he was offering up a big close-up of the scene while at the same time putting me in the position of a close-up from which he could read the nuances of my immediate reactions.

In European cinema there has always been an accepted focus on fulfilling the director’s vision. Because our practice in Britain has largely been derived from the theatre and the text, it has taken a long while for this one-on-one communication between actor and director to become accepted as a necessary stage in the process.

Directing Bookie with
Maurice Röeves foreground

Recently Jude Law commented on the evolution of his own practice.

“… what's happened more and more in my process is that I've sought that experience of working with the director one-on-one before we've been in a more communal environment. In fact my whole process has changed quite considerably ... I can feel solid in a role, when I've had that one-on-one experience and asked all those questions and looked at everything. I demand it now. Not by 'being demanding' but just to say, 'I really need this time with you to ask you this, this and this.' (29)

Jude Law

The screen image is one of extreme intimacy; it rarely evokes or relies on the same collective experience as the theatre.

References:

29. Potter, Sally,  Naked Cinema: Working with Actors, Faber and Faber, London, 2014

1. Star Turn

When I got my first gig directing TV drama Pat Phoenix was the biggest star there was, outshining any Hollywood name — at least, in the north of England, and for those who had left their skiffle days behind them. More than fifteen years later she would be proclaimed an icon by another generation when she was chosen as the cover girl for a record by The Smiths. And more recently, Lorraine Kelly has said, “She was Rita Hayworth, Ava Gardener, and Joan Crawford all rolled into one.” (17)

Of course, back then, I knew the name and face — especially the hair-do — but I don’t think that I had ever watched her for more than a few minutes on screen. My inspiration had been the Nouvelle Vague, the Underground, and everything way-out; the ups and downs of Elsie Tanner’s love life had quite passed me by. That was, of course, the character incarnated by Pat in the soap opera that had already run for more than a decade — Coronation Street , known by then, simply as The Street. This show without end was the wall of fire that Granada TV had decreed every drama trainee had to pass through before being declared a fully fledged director. There were dark rumours that a previous trainee had been driven to suicide but I never discovered the truth of that. 

On my first day solo the producer of the time, Harry Kershaw, walked me to the rehearsal room and casually mentioned on the way that discipline had become very slack of late and I should start by getting them all together and giving them a dressing down with regard to time-keeping.  After brief introductions Harry escaped back to his office leaving me to face the army of famous faces before me. There was Violet Carson (Ena Sharples), Margot Bryant (her side-kick, Minnie Caldwell), Doris Speed (Annie Walker}. Peter Adamson (Len Fairclough), Jack Howarth (Albert Tatlock), Jean Alexander (Hilda Ogden), Sandra Gough (her daughter, Irma), Julie Goodyear (Bet Lynch) and, of course, Bill Roache (Ken Barlow), among others. Conspicuous by her absence was Pat; she should have been there, but, had not yet arrived.

Perhaps, the cast all sensed my nervousness and felt sorry for me, for they responded to my pep-talk better than I’d dared hope with mutterings of agreement and support. After a few minutes my embarrassment was put to an end by a call from the press office to inform me that Pat had been delayed by hoards of fans in Kendal Milne department store but was on her way. I decided to make a start without her, and called the cast for a scene in the Street pub, The Rovers Return. Hardly had I started blocking the scene, before Margot Bryant drew herself up to her full diminutive height and with a great huff of indignation stormed out. What had I done? Some minutes later the producer’s secretary crept in and whispered in my ear that I had put Margot in the wrong seat. She had been sitting in the same seat since episode two and was fed up with young directors turning up without having done their homework. Violet Carson gave me her most withering Ena Sharples look and a knowing shake of the jowls.


I’d heard rumours it had been predicted that I would be torn apart by The Street cast  — like a puppy dog thrown into a cage of big cats — so my P.A. informed me. That did not happen, I believe, because they sensed my sincerity of purpose. Certainly, I gave the cast my full attention and by and large they responded well to that. I soon discovered that those with greater technical command welcomed direction that gave them a fresh way of looking at things, while those who had ossified in their parts were often fearful of it because they did not know how to respond. Pat was certainly of the former group, and, to my surprise, we got on very well. I soon realised that she was very savvy and always seem to know where I was coming from; and, in a funny way, I felt that I knew where she was coming from too.

I tried to press on but, moments later, the double doors burst open and in came Pat, followed by a girl from the Press Office, arms piled high with all the star’s purchases. She stopped dead as she saw Alan Browning — her beau of the moment, both in the series (as Alan Howard) and in real life — on the other side of the room. And then, with a sudden stream of lovers’ invective, snatched up one parcel after another and flung them at him full force. When she had run out of missiles, I quickly stepped in, and,  as the press girl scrambled to retrieve the parcels, attempted to call the raucous assembly to order. I reminded Pat that she was already late, and so had missed my pep-talk on time-keeping, but now we really should press on. She looked at me for the first time, shrugged off her coat, smacked her hands together, and, as if nothing had happened, said, “Right Chuck, where do you want me

Pat at home with Alan Browning

Not long into my run a script came up which, knowing the writer, I felt had been quite mischievously concocted by him. It called for Elsie Tanner to be woken up in the middle of the night, to be given news of a traumatic accident, and for her to rush straight out, and across town, in a state of shock and turmoil. I saw trouble ahead and went to talk to the producer about it. He advised that I should have a private chat with Pat and work something out with her in private ahead of time. After recording one day, I went to speak to her in her dressing room. I described the situation and pointed out that it just would not be right for her to appear with her usual heavy makeup and bouffant hair, nor could she wear her tight-waisted costumes and high-heeled shoes. She gave me a long sideways glance and then said, “Eee ... you’re right, Chuck, you’re right.” I left feeling confused and very uncertain as to what the final outcome would be.

All through rehearsal Pat made no objection to any of my blocking or the directions I gave her, but quietly took it all in. It was too good to be true. She, herself, suggested that she would just grab a coat hanging by the door and rush out in her slippers. When it came to the recording she pushed the makeup girl away and mussed up her hair with her own fingers. The key scenes were played with just a trench coat thrown on over a winceyette nightdress and flat-bottomed slippers. By any standards it was a great performance and some of the other members of the cast were quite taken aback by it. Immediately afterwards I went to Pat’s dressing room to thank her. For a moment her eyes flickered in appreciation before batting me away with, “Ey, get off with you, I were doing turns like that when I were your age.” Pat had set out to show me a thing or two, and so she had. She knew just what I was looking for, and this show had been her little gift to me. But I also got the sense that I was not to expect any more performances like that.

Pat liked to talk of herself as a “working actress” and always said that she knew “nowt about being a star”, but this was ingenuous. Pat was well aware that she could act with the best of them when she wanted to; but that kind of immersive performance no longer interested her. What did interest her was connecting with the audience in her own person. Some time later she entered into a bitter wrangle with Granada over pay: she was the star of their highest rating show and she wanted to be paid accordingly. They decided to call her bluff expecting her to back down, but, instead, she left and went on a grand theatre tour. I got a ticket for one show and slipped into the back stalls to watch her. It was a performance designed to draw gasps and cheers and applause from the audience. At the end she stepped out in front of the curtain and spoke directly to them; she knew it was her they had come to see regardless of whatever character she chose to play. That was Pat.

references:

17.   Kelly, Loraine: http://www.soapsquawk.co.uk/news/shes-a-tart-with-a-heart.php#results, 17 February 2014