ALEXANDRU Radulescu’s mind made a butterfly’s look like a model of consistency. He behaved like a child playing in a toyshop of ideas; and perhaps, after the artistic restrictions he’d experienced in his native Romania, that was how he felt. He came into rehearsal every morning brimful of new thoughts, derived from anything he’d happened to have observed, or heard, or seen. He was into everything just deep enough to get the soles of his shoes wet.
For instance, he saw a mime artist busking in Covent Garden and was so impressed that he brought the guy in to advise the cast on movement. Then in an Indian restaurant, by chance, he heard some Eastern muzak which he decided had an authentic ‘dying fall’. He immediately engaged a sitar player to do the Twelfth Night music. Worse than that, he got the musician to reset Feste’s songs in some approximation to raga style. Chad Pearson gamely tried to ride the unfamiliar rhythms. He succeeded pretty well, but at the expense of audibility. The atmospheric, melancholy words of the songs were lost.
In a way it was all very exciting – so long as you didn’t care about Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Charles Paris did, and he found the rehearsal process agonising. Every few minutes, it seemed, some other felicity of the play was sacrificed or obscured for a theatrical effect.
Even Charles had to admit, though, that most of the effects were very striking. Alexandru Radulescu had an inspired visual sense. He created patterns of movement which were mesmerising and dramatic.
But it was all independent of the text. He would have made as interesting a spectacle of the Yellow Pages as he was making of Twelfth Night. And Charles Paris would have much preferred them to be doing the Yellow Pages than a text he had cherished since his schooldays.
The production’s opening moments were typical of the Radulescu approach. The dumb-show had survived and refined into something far less crude than first envisaged. All of the play’s characters took up positions in the blackout; then, to intricate Indian rhythms, moved like blank-faced automata into a variety of physical combinations. Their bodies had become inhuman, like components of some intricate metal puzzle. The mime, though it still had copulatory overtones, had taken on a universal and emblematic quality. But the precision of their ensemble movement could not fail to arrest an audience’s attention.
The sitar music continued as the cast froze into a tableau, facing out front, chilling the audience with the blankness of their stares. Alexandru Radulescu had wanted this moment to echo his sketchy understanding of Noh Theatre, and only the vigilance of the Asphodel accountant had stopped him from commissioning traditional Japanese wooden masks for the entire cast.
While his fellow-actors stayed immobile, Orsino then stepped forward and, with his staff, struck the stage three times (a convention borrowed from classical French theatre). He then intoned:
‘If music be the food of love, play on:’
‘On, on, on, on . . .’
the rest of the rigid cast echoed in unison, their words tapering off to silence.
‘Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting.
The appetite may sicken, and so die.’
‘Die, die, die, die . . .’ came the dwindling echo.
‘That strain again!’
‘Again, again, again, again . . .’
‘It had a dying fall.’
‘Fall, fall, fall, fall.’
‘O!’
‘It came o ‘er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets.
Stealing and giving odour.’
‘Odour, odour, odour, odour . . .’ This time the echo was as soft as breath.
‘Enough! no more.’
Suddenly Orsino slammed his staff down on to the ground. All of the cast, except for the Duke and Curio, scattered off to the sides of the stage with the exaggerated, flickering movements of silent film.
The Indian musician let out a long lamenting twang from his sitar, and Orsino was left to continue his speech in relatively traditional manner until Alexandru Radulescu’s next theatrical sensation.
The effect was undeniably dramatic, but it had nothing to do with Twelfth Night.
Charles’s position within the production was tense and difficult. Sir Toby Belch was a part he’d longed to play all his life, and he was now at the ideal . . . erm, maturity . . . to do it justice. He wouldn’t get another crack at it. And he didn’t want this chance buggered up by a director with no sensitivity to Shakespeare.
John B. Murgatroyd and he had prepared tactics over various long sessions in the pub. Basically, they both intended to play their parts as they had been playing them under Gavin Scholes’ direction – and, in their view, as Shakespeare intended them to be played.
So, though they listened politely to Alexandru’s suggestions, and even went through the motions of trying out his new ideas, after a couple of runs at a scene they would revert to doing it exactly the way they had before. This did not make for a good atmosphere between the two actors and their Director.
A typical moment of conflict occurred when they were rehearsing Act Two, Scene Three. Maria, having described her plans to dupe Malvolio, has just exited, leaving Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek united in admiration for her ingenuity. The following lines then ensue:
SIR TOBY: Good night, Penthesilea.
SIR ANDREW: Before me, she’s a good wench.
SIR TOBY: She’s a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me . . . what o’ that? [HE SIGHS.]
SIR ANDREW: I was adored once, too. [HE SIGHS ALSO.]
SIR TOBY: Let’s to bed, knight.
Charles and John B. ran through the lines as they had rehearsed them under Gavin. Alexandru Radulescu, his little body contorted into a knot of concentration, watched intently. As soon as Charles had said his “‘Let’s to bed, knight,”’ the director waved his hands in the air.
‘OK, OK, we stop. There is a lot here. It is a very good moment this, I think.’
‘Certainly is,’ Charles agreed. For him it was the most poignant moment in the play, one of the many in Twelfth Night where farce is suddenly shaded with melancholy. He loved the wistfulness with which John B. Murgatroyd played his “‘I was adored once too,” and was pleased with the way he, as Sir Toby, put his arm around the ineffectual knight’s shoulder and led him off. It was a brief instance of closeness between the two characters; for a second Sir Toby suspended his cynical campaign of exploitation and showed Sir Andrew a flash of human sympathy.
That was not, however, how Alexandru Radulescu saw the exchange. ‘Yes, very good,’ he repeated, looking down at his script. ‘As ever, Shakespeare tells us everything. It is all in the text, if only you look hard enough.’
Actually, you don’t have to look that hard, thought Charles. Usually the meaning in Shakespeare’s lines is limpidly self-evident. Still, he was relieved that the director was finally recognising the pre-eminence of the actual words.
‘Now, obviously,’ Alexandru went on, ‘there are references here to the past, things that have happened before the play starts.’
‘Yes,’ Charles agreed.
‘Sir Andrew talking about having been “adored once too” John B. contributed.
‘. . . and,’ the director concluded triumphantly, ‘an unequivocal confirmation of the homosexual relationship between the two knights.’
‘What!’
‘What!’
Alexandru became excited as he expounded his textual analysis. ‘You see, they talk about Maria. Sir Toby says she’s “one that adores me – what of that?” In other words, he is saying, “She fancies me, but what of that? Since I’m gay, she’s wasting her time.”’
‘No, he is not saying that. He’s praising her.’
‘Praising her? How do you get that? What does he describe Maria as? A “beagle”. This is not very flattering, I think. He is saying she is very ugly. He is saying she is a dog.’
“‘Dog” didn’t have that meaning at the time Shakespeare was –’ But the director was too preoccupied even to hear counter-argument. Then Sir Andrew, all pathetic-like, reminds Sir Toby that they used to have a thing going. “‘I was adored once too,” he says – doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, he does, but he’s not referring to Sir Toby.’
‘Oh no? Then why is it that Toby’s next line having been reminded that he’s been neglecting Sir Andrew emotionally is: “Let’s to bed, knight.” I mean, how overt do you want this to be? “Let’s to bed, knight” – you can’t have a less ambiguous sexual proposition than that, can you?’
‘Yes, of course you –’
‘No, come on. What did you used to say, back in the days when you were seducing women, eh?’ Charles rather resented that implication. ‘If you said “let’s to bed”, or “let’s go to bed”, it meant “I want to screw you” – yes?’
‘Look –’
‘Yes or no? Did it mean “I want to screw you” or not?’
‘Well, yes, in that context it probably did, but –’
‘See!’ The director spoke with the satisfaction of an ontologist into whose sitting room God has just walked.
‘But, Alexandru, that is not what it means in this context. Such an idea makes nonsense of the relationship between Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. They’re talking about Maria and what a great woman she is. What they’re saying is in total admiration of her.’
‘I think not. Look at the text, Charles. That is what you must always do when you are dealing with the work of a great genius like Shakespeare – look at the text.’
That’s rich, coming from you.
‘And when we look at the text, what do we see? “Good night, Penthesilea.” Who is this “Penthesilea”, by the way?’
‘Penthesilea,’ said Charles patiently, ‘was the Queen of the Amazons. Hence, any forceful or effective woman. Sir Toby describes Maria by that name as a tribute to the skill with which she has set up the plan to fool Malvolio.’
He looked up, anticipating apology in the Director’s face, but instead saw glee. Wagging a triumphant finger, Alexandru shouted, ‘You see, you see, that proves it! You’ve said it out of your own mouth! “Amazon” means “any forceful or effective woman”. In other words, a dominant woman. In other words, the dominant mother whose sexuality so frightened the son that, in self-protection, he became homosexual.’
‘That is psychological claptrap. Apart from anything else, it’s been proved that there’s no connection between –’
‘What is more,’ Alexandru rolled on with satisfaction, ‘Amazon often means lesbian. Hmm, I think maybe we are also getting the key to Maria’s character here . . .’
He looked thoughtfully across to Tottie Roundwood. To Charles’s annoyance, she didn’t immediately point out what balls this all was. She looked pleased, even honoured, to be sharing the wisdom of the guru.
‘OK.’ Alexandru clapped his hands. ‘Let’s run through the lines again, bearing in mind what we now know.’
‘We don’t know anything we didn’t know before,’ Charles protested.
‘No? So what are you saying? Are you saying that there is no attraction between Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek? Are you flying in the face of William Shakespeare’s text?’
‘No, I am not. I am saying there is affection between them, and this is the moment in the play where that affection is most overtly expressed – but that is all!’
Alexandru Radulescu’s mouth pursed in annoyance. ‘It is very difficult, you know, for a director to direct when his actors will not take direction.’
‘I’ll take direction as well as the next actor,’ said Charles with dignity. ‘But not when I think what’s suggested is destroying the sense of the whole play.’
The black eyes sizzled up at him. ‘It is not impossible for this production to be recast,’ the director hissed.
‘Oh yes, it is,’ said a cool unemotional voice. Thank God, thought Charles, that the Asphodel accountant was once again monitoring rehearsals. ‘Budget doesn’t allow it. Sorry, Alex, you work with the cast you’ve been given. They’re all contracted, so, except in case of illness or accident, they all do the full four months – OK?’
Charles Paris met the stare of Alexandru’s ferocious black eyes and could see the rich variety of illnesses and accidents they were wishing on him.