Who knew Rattigan was cool? - Ben Silverstone

Published at by Ben Silverstone

The successful revival of Rattigan’s “Man and Boy” sees the West End debut of Ben Silverstone, who has written a diary of his experiences for The Stage Online

Monday January 17
I’m greeted at the stage door of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane by a vision in orange. It’s our producer, Thelma Holt, grande dame of British theatre and proud possessor of a pair of bright orange trainers and a head of blazing red hair. Thelma has an unconventional approach. Which is why, in fact, we’re both here today. After a successful tour late last year, Man and Boy looked set for a West End run, only for the deal to disintegrate amid fevered financial re-negotiations. At the last minute, Thelma stepped in with the investment needed to put the show on at the Duchess Theatre. With the Duchess still undergoing its refit, today’s first rehearsal takes place in the Drury Lane basement, and Thelma and I blunder into the adjoining boiler room before finding Maria Aitken, our director, and Jennifer Jellicorse, who plays my girlfriend Carol, in the rehearsal space. Given the commercial shenanigans that almost scuppered this production, it seems appropriate we’re working down here today: the show currently wowing audiences in the main house upstairs is The Producers.

Wednesday January 19
Rehearsals are up and running, although we’ve now been temporarily re-housed in the Dome room in the dizzy heights of Her Majesty’s Theatre. These are really re-rehearsals: a two-week course of memory-refreshers after the seven week gap since the end of the tour. They’re also, for me, an introduction to the West End: I’ve never performed here before, but with two theatres covered in three days and a couple more scheduled over the next week, this job’s a theatre-vagrant’s dream. Except the venues’ renowned glamour doesn’t quite reach certain backstage areas. On Monday, at the Theatre Royal, we discovered the medieval-looking doorless loos; this afternoon, at Her Majesty’s, we find the only light is provided by some windows and a few dim halogens 15 feet up in the rafters. So, as evening falls, and David Suchet, playing the corrupt entrepreneur Gregor Antonescu, and Helen Grace, as his wife, rehearse one of the play’s later, darker scenes, we are enveloped in thickening gloom, while the sun sets over the West End.

Thursday January 20
Our first day at the Duchess: we rummage around the history of the place. Jennifer discovers with delight that its art deco interior was completed in 1934, the year Man and Boy is set. David Yelland, who plays Sven, Antonescu’s business associate, comes across two old play-posters advertising productions of Blithe Spirit performed here. One commemorates a 1980 revival of the play, starring our director Maria; the other poster comes from 1942, and contains the following small-print: “In the event of an Air Raid Warning an announcement will be made by means of an illuminated box sign—those wishing to leave will be directed to the nearest official air raid shelter after which the performance will be continued for as long as is practicable.”

Saturday January 22
Thelma pops in to rehearsals. She reminisces about her time working with Robert Maxwell while she was running the Roundhouse Theatre, on whose board Maxwell served. Her stories are of particular interest because Gregor Antonescu bears an uncanny resemblance to the fearsome magnate: both Eastern Europeans, both media moguls and both unscrupulous in their pursuit of money and power. “I shouted at him once when he’d been rude to me,” Thelma says. “I called him a Czech spiv. He replied that he may have been Czech but he wasn’t a spiv. I asked why, in that case, he was wearing a pair of plastic shoes. The next time I saw him, he was in leather.” She tells us that Maxwell’s son, Ian, while usually popular and confident in society, would develop a nervous stammer in his father’s presence, a trait shared by my character Basil, who is Gregor’s son. In creating Gregor Antonescu, Rattigan looked for inspiration to Depression-era businessmen and his own father, but it’s eery to think that, in 1961, just as Maxwell was rising to prominence, a play was being composed which foretold, in certain strange ways, his subsequent fate.

Monday January 24
A request this morning from the producers to drum up audiences for the previews: our West End transfer happened so late that there’s been precious little time for pre-publicity. Though word seems to have got through to one spectator, at least: during the run-through, a mouse is spotted in the stalls. An unpaying audience-member, but one not to be dismissed – never underestimate the pulling power of word of mouse.

Friday January 28
Friday morning at the London Palladium, our latest itinerant home. Salsa music accompanies the cleaners’ scrubbing in the foyer, and David S looks out over the giant auditorium towards the stage where a gaudy collection of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang props are gathered in the wings. “A great variety theatre,” David says. “Built by George Black for all those wonderful, popular shows of the forties and fifties. Fantastic.” There is something of the vaudevillian in David’s own nimble, energetic frame. I’ve never met someone so active in rehearsals: occasionally, during a lull, he’ll embark on an impromptu tap-dance routine, or a Nat ‘King’ Cole croon, and the serious, nuanced actor morphs momentarily into a brilliant song and dance man.

Saturday January 29
A run-through for Thelma who hasn’t yet seen the play. She seems pleased, although her words are somewhat mercurial. “Well, you’re all absolutely right to want to do this play again after the tour. And if you’re wrong, then I’m also wrong. And I’m never wrong.” That’s all right then.

Monday January 31
The technical rehearsal: a day spent assessing lighting and sound levels and cues, and a last chance to make any adjustments before tomorrow’s dress rehearsal and first preview. Actors scour the set for unseen booby traps, dresses and suits are inspected for errant bulges, props are lost and found and lost again. All stage accessories are now regarded with the utmost suspicion. The bed’s moved a foot downstage, the sofa is engulfing actors in its plump cushions, and the carpet’s developed a unwelcome new skid feature. On days like these, when Murphy’s Law prevails and so many contingencies have to come together, putting on a play feels as straightforward as engineering a lunar eclipse. Even getting the actors onstage for the curtain call proves a challenge, but Maria takes a strong line: “I’m not having anyone come on through the bathroom door. It’s undignified.”

Tuesday February 1
The opening preview and, for the younger members of the cast, our first ever experience in front of a West End audience. Helen is waiting in the wings for her first entrance, adorned with jewels and furs and a dress-train to befit a Countess. “Oh God,” she whispers, “this is scarier than giving birth.”

Wednesday February 2
Publicity is now reaching a critical mass: David has appeared on Richard and Judy and breakfast TV, and a series of leaflets and newspaper ads are spotted around London. The image they are using depicts an embrace between David and me, a pivotal moment from near the end of the play. Some young medical students of my real father, who’s a doctor at University College Hospital, were flicking through today’s paper when they came across this shot. My Dad pointed it out and told them that was his son in the photo. One of the students, surprised but sincerely impressed, piped up, “Really? David Suchet’s your son? That’s fantastic!” David, needless to say, was delighted by the story; my father, a year younger than his supposed progeny, less so.

Friday February 4
In the run-up to Monday’s press night, the play is gaining its own momentum. The cast is becoming comfortable with the strange demands of the Duchess space, in which the audience at the front of the stalls are close and low-down, whereas those in the circle are at some elevation. And we’re finding the theatre, smaller than any of our touring venues, well-suited to this play, providing an intimacy that fits this intense drama, set in a New York apartment and played out in real time. A friend of mine who sees the play tonight compares the piece to the frenetic TV thriller series 24. Who knew Rattigan was cool?

Saturday February 5
As preview week ends and I start getting post-show responses from friends, I’m reminded how their feedback, while often interesting and helpful, can also be useless. “You look really skinny in that shirt” and “I don’t think you should smile in the curtain call” are examples of the friendly fire school of criticism. But one totally unexpected and, I thought, brilliant response came in a letter from an unknown spectator after a performance of Man and Boy in Richmond last November. “Dear Mr Silverstone,” the note read. “When you tore off your shirt in a fit of emotion during the Wednesday matinée, the button you ripped off flew halfway across the stage and hit me in the front row in seat A7. It gives rise to no claim since the missile was harmless. I just thought you might like it back.” Sure enough, affixed to the letter with a length of black thread was said errant button.

Monday February 7
Press night. Everyone’s keyed-up. I’m terrified. I tell myself it’s just another show, of no more importance than the 90-odd we’ve already given, and what the critics think is their own business. Although I’m also weighing up the possibility of bolting from the theatre and living out my days in quiet solitude in Kent. With five minutes to go, Will Huggins, who plays the accountant Beeston, and I are stewing silently in our shared dressing room. Then I cut my lip shaving. I try everything – tissues, hair wax, perfume – to seal the wound. But still the blood seeps out. I’m called to the wings with a cotton bud pressed to the cut and the sound of audience chatter throbbing from the auditorium. The stage manager gives clearance, I take a look at the now-forming scab and hear my first cue. I just have time, in that moment, to make the strange discovery that my nerves have disappeared, before stepping onstage. And the next 150 minutes of my life are enjoyable. In the way a bungee jump is enjoyable, but enjoyable nonetheless. Later, we celebrate at the American bar at the Savoy. My jeans and trainers are an obstacle to entry, but the words “first night” are uttered and the waiter wafts us in. I’m afraid Rattigan would have heartily disapproved of my get-up, though.

Tuesday February 8
A frantic scurry for the reviews – not for me the admirable restraint of those actors who eschew the critics. It emerges that the papers have come up trumps: the re-discovery of this long-neglected Rattigan is commended; the production, the performances and the play are all well-received. And not a mention of shaving cuts to be found.

Man and Boy is running at the Duchess Theatre, London until April 16.