Way back in the far distant past, way further back than a mere whisky-addled old Scotsman can remember, the solution to “what does the English Theatre Company do next?” was starting to bubble to the surface.
After leaving this brew to simmer quietly and mature the resultant distillation was obtained, approved and bottled. It was then sold in the New Year to prospective cast members who were invited to turn up in mid-march for auditions to “The 39 Steps” — one of the longest running comedies in London’s West End.
Now then, auditions are strange happenings. After being told what we were going to be doing next and what roles needed filling we were supposed to be able to choose our possible character from the cast list. In my particular case I didn’t really have any choice. The character of an ancient and grumpy West Highland crofter required somebody to audition for the part and I was pretty much told that I fitted the bill perfectly. The cheek of it! But there really was no escape for me. Ancient? – ticked. Grumpy? – ticked. Surly? – ticked. West Highland crofter? – lived among them all my life so – ticked. Scottish accent? – I’m totally incapable of speaking with any other so – ticked. Costume? – just dress as normal so – ticked. And tight? – as a drum.
All I needed to do was to learn some lines before receiving the call for audition. Easier said than done in my case. Brain rot, probably due to living under a west coast raincloud for most of my life, has well and truly set in so it was a case of taking the dog for a wee walk every morning whilst reciting my possible character’s lines to myself time and again in the vague hope that I would remember enough of them to be able to win over our Directrice (if that’s a proper word for a lady director). Anyway, as they say down here – “enfin bref” – I seemingly didn’t make too much of an idiot of myself at the audition because I landed the part.
So now, with only five weeks to go until the first performance of The 39 Steps, we have had to memorise all our lines, back to front, front to back, able to start and stop at any moment, learning just how to say them, how loudly or quietly, to whom whilst picking up our cues at the exact moment.
Loads of things happen simultaneously (that’s a big word for a crofter). We have to move to certain spots on the stage, walk, run, use our bodies, our heads, expressions, our limbs and remembering all the time not to just let our arms dangle uselessly. All this whilst trying to recall our next lines in time to say them. And under the eagle eyed scrutiny of our Directrice who, I’ve been told, takes no prisoners. Ever.
We also have had to learn how to cope with the thunderous applause of our audience (although at our last performance it was only a thunderstorm passing overhead) and the occasional clatter from backstage.
Those of you who follow the blogs on the ETC website will remember the ghosts. Those of Dennis Norden, Private Fraser, and Corporal Jones. I can reassure you that these ghosts have woken up already, keen to play their tricks on us, particularly during the sleepless hours of 3am when the virtually unconscious brain starts going over the lines.
Never mind – “Don’t panic”. Only five weeks to go – “It’ll be alright of the night”. If not – “we’re doomed”. We know them so well.
My God! Chust five weeks to go! Ach!!! And I hav’nae sheared the ewes or cut the peats. And I hav’nae even salted doon ma herrin’ yet. Chust five weeks – Och shuddup Fraser!
Chris Sutton
ETC’s very own Scottish crofter