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Monday, June 8th, Lyceum Theatre
My grandparents pointed to one person after another as we moved through the hall. A to Z listers were everywhere or whatever was the equivalent in England. Here people didn't worship celebrities as Hollywood seemed to. The cheapest ticket for the concert cost £150, twice as expensive as the day before. Two day concert had a final day special in that the Queen was attending. Me, I tried to find footballers, but the best I could do was David Seaman. England's goalkeeper, out with his new wife, looking happier than he did with his old wife. There was this strange sense of entitlement that I got as a football fan: why is Seaman here instead of training? In less than a week, he would be off playing the World Cup against Tunisia. Why was he going to a concert? Maybe that was just a bit of my dad's personality rubbing off on me.
An attendant came over to urge us inside. The interiors of the Lyceum felt much more stuffy than the Apollo's. Everything was varying shades of red—the walls a soft red nearing salmon, chairs a faded red from many arses that sat on it before me, and the curtains were rich velvet. Beauty could often be found in contrasts, and Lyceum did it with taste; complicated Victorian-era decorations were all creamy whites and off-whites. Somehow it all looked humble yet properly posh. Our seats were on the lowest floor, called stalls and as Nain had boasted, we were indeed front row. From my seat, I could see the mezzanine and the balcony seats up and behind me. The circular shape of the theatre surprised me to no end. While my Nain seemed to only pay attention to the royal boxes by the wings.
We spent time talking about nonsense as guests streamed to their seats. My position made me stand out like the stage was standing out. When I turned my head, I could see all three levels of the theatre and the growing crowd. Eyes of the audience seemed to watch me, it was already so intimidating and I wasn't even performing. How must the view be from the stage? Apollo was larger, but Lyceum had packed us like sardines, it had an effect of feeling more crowded.
"God, it is happening!" Nain screamed quietly.
I was already clued in with her obsession, so I automatically looked up at the boxes. Queen's bodyguards had been there before sweeping the place. Now, though, it was the Prince who entered. Gasps and surprises sounded out in the theatre. How many of the audience were crazy royalists like my Nain was, rather than musical theatre fans?
"There she is, what a relief," Grandad said in a dry tone.
Fanfare sounded out from one of the lower private boxes, a herald trumpeting out the notes.
Out came the opera glasses as Nain triede for a closer look.
"That's Prince Phillip. He's Greek, you know." Nain said.
"He's Danish, I doubt he has any Greek in him," Granddad said with frustration.
A man stood in the middle of the royal box, staring down at the audience like a conquering king. He turned around as someone else entered.
"Shush you—Oh, here she is! Ohh." Gladys had her hands to her heart as she looked admiringly at the woman through her opera glasses.
The Queen of England, ruler of the United Kingdom and many other Commonwealth realms, wore a white silken dress with a subtle overlay of green sheer fabric. Theatre lights followed her every movement, casting a soft glow on her face. Her familiar hairstyle was exactly as I had remembered from countless times I'd seen on TV. A diamond necklace and matching earrings sparkled brilliantly under bright lights. I couldn't help but wonder if designers or stylists had meticulously planned her outfit; the soft green sheen of her dress perfectly complemented the bouquet of flowers she held — white and pale pink roses that mirrored her dress and complexion, with greenery along the edges matching the delicate green of the sheer fabric.
Nain excitedly brought me in closer to her, and in my ear she spoke,
"That's roses and lilies of the valley. It's her favorite flower, and she had a bouquet full of it on the day of her coronation. I saw it in the town square in Merthyr Tydfil," Nain told me with remembrance.
"What year was that?" I asked, Gladys hadn't even left for Cardiff.
"That'd be 1953," Grandpa said as he clapped with the crowd.
Slowly, the applause died down, and the Queen took her seat. Everyone followed after. Nain seemed pleased; I held her hand and gave her a bright smile. Just by existing, I had allowed her to meet two of her idols. If I succeeded at nothing else in the future, Nain would still be proud of me.
Lights dimmed suddenly; the loud chatter died down to faint murmurs. Soft piano started to play.
"I had no idea this Mackintosh made Salad Days," Nain spoke silently.
"No, that'd be Dorothy Reynolds. That Scottish lad was probably not even born then," Grandad said with a scoff.
"Shush," multiple people hissed. We shut up, we may be rubes but we didn't have to act like one to enjoy the show.
A small boy in the exact same outfit as Cameron came on stage: kilt and metal plate hanging from his waist, balloon in his hand. The boy went to the piano as if to try playing a note, got shy, and turned back to the audience. Smiling, he let go of a red balloon. People applauded then, but I knew not why. Young Cameron pushed the wheeled piano away as an overture started to play. On my programme, I read that the first piano number was We Said We Wouldn't Look Back from Salad Days; the overture I was hearing now was from Cats.
Sure enough, once the overture started to reach its end, the proscenium expanded like a picture frame being taken apart. A proper orchestra was visible where the crossover for our play in Apollo would be. Lights turned off as the set transitioned in front of our eyes: Industrial London, metal staircases slid in, and suddenly children started to walk in from under the stage, from the wings, or even on the prop footbridge. Bass played ominously in beat with the steps of the children. Mrs. Moss put on the play at our school; our clothing wasn't much different from what these kids wore. These were orphan rags, after all, but Mrs. Moss didn't have the number currently on stage. There seemed to be at least fifty children on stage; there were so many that they fit the stage only because they walked in circular and oval shapes.
When they started to sing, I realized that Mrs. Moss was beaten. Fifty kids sang without any microphones, and all of them were amazing singers. Woodfield hardly had fifty kids that would join the play; West End had fifty who could and had amazing voices to boot. Julie was hosting this concert but hadn't asked me to join—was I worse than these kids?
Woodfield's choreography was simple: children's games done to music accompaniment which built an illusion of well-coordinated choreography. These kids were moving like kaleidoscope shapes they coordinated in sections, across dozen other kids, standing up and down, left and right at opposing times. I felt hypnotized as I listened to the song that I had memorised by heart. An adult actor came out from left stage, walking by the stage apron holding a comically big cooked turkey and roasted vegetables. Eyes of the orphans trailed the food she carried. They sang as they begged for food, holding out their iron bowls which resembled the kind used for dogs. Next came a man holding a steaming pie; the steam made it look so real, if not for the cartoonish pie.
I realized the true difference between Mrs. Moss' play and this: Sure, they had better singers, but we could sound better in solo songs with me and Henry at the helm. On the other hand, we would never be able to have the details that I could see on stage. Each kid had a gray jacket and trousers torn or fraying in different ways. Shirts were mucked up or caked with mud in odd spots. They held those metal bowls dented in different spots, each more unique than the last. Children had went through Hair and Makeup, giving them a pock marks, dirty faces; it sold the idea of them being orphans better than just the clothing. When you combined it with the stage, props and everything, actors could transform fully into the role.
When the ensemble did their dances, they walked on the apron, I could see them so close to me that it felt like a performance just for me. There was also genius in letting this be the first musical number. Children had no microphones, and the audience had to stay silent to hear them. Dancing, elaborate moves, using the prop as makeshift drums, the children did it all, and it ended with Oliver finishing with the high counter-tenor note. I saw myself in that boy's place; I could hit the note more cleanly and louder than that stupid boy. So why was I not invited? There were fifty roles for kids with talent, and I spoke to Julie whenever she visited us. Then my eyes fell down. It was obvious: I had limited work rights. I couldn't rehearse for two different shows if one was already doing a maximum of six days with me. I hoped that was the reason and not my lack of talent.
Thoroughly shown up, I saw the stage transition so subtly; the industrial orphan backdrop changed to a picturesque Tudor-era house. All-adult cast came in wearing outfits suited to the roaring twenties.
Nain was shaking in her seat, her hands grabbed for me. The song was Wouldn't It Be Loverly? Same song my Nain spoke about hearing Julie Andrews perform before she married my Grandfather. I saw the loving gaze the two shared with each other, leaning in close as they listened to the song. I felt like an intruder as I sat between the two, being squished.
As someone who had been practicing cues and stage crossovers during the tech rehearsals, I was fascinated by how smooth the scene transitions were. The footbridge rose up and out until the proscenium blocked it from view. Actors left the stage without drawing attention while new cast members stepped in, fully upstaging by design. So many things happened in those moments, like the lights going out over the ensemble making their exit while the new actors had a light turn on over them. It was also choreographed in a way that made it feel like the gathered crowd went back to shopping as they were or going back to their work, whatever natural thing that fit the scene and actors, they did it. I had seen our cast over the video feed; we never looked this smooth when doing scene changes. Quit Professor Higgins started and finished quickly, but while we were paying attention to the maids singing the song, the stage had somehow lost all props and lay bare. Audience could have their attention directed just as the director could direct an actor to perform in certain ways. Two men walked in at the end of the song.
"That's Jonathan Pryce! He's Welsh!" Nain whispered excitedly in my ear.
Revelation was not needed. I knew him as the High Sparrow from Game of Thrones and Pope in Two Popes. There were only so many Welsh actors, and Mum had done her work integrating me into the Welsh culture. I preferred Sir Anthony Hopkins to Pryce though. The lady playing Eliza started the Rain in Spain song. I didn't like the song, and Jonathan was nowhere as good as Eliza's actress in the trio number. Actor called Peter Bayliss showed up to do a song called Get Me to the Church on Time. I loved the funny tone of the song, but it was forgettable. Jonathan did a solo that I enjoyed mostly for his acting method; his singing—or maybe that was just how the song was written—was boring. There were things to learn from Jonathan. The way he changed his expressions without depending on other external movements was simply breathtaking. The monologue at the end of the solo had this frustrated rage that I committed to memory so I could replicate it if I ever needed it. After all, this man was an actor so good that he'd be knighted in the future.
The song ended, and a rare scene with a dialogue played out between Eliza and Professor Higgins (Jonathan). It was a scene where the two seemed about ready to confess their undying love. When Eliza opened her mouth to speak and to accept Higgin's advances, no sound came out. Instead, Julie's voice sounded out over the house. It was so iconic that people could recognise it instantly.
"I washed my hands and face before I came, I did." Julie spoke.
The crowd applauded so loudly that they broke the polite pattern of only applauding at the end of the song.
Jonathan portrayed shock and excitement in perfect balance. Confused, he looked back. I felt how upstaging worked in real time as I couldn't help but slide my eyes off Jonathan's superior acting and turn to look at Julie Andrews. It was human reaction to pay attention to what someone else was looking to, so one couldn't look at Jonathan when he was looking away from the audience.
"Eliza? Where the devil are my slippers?" Jonathan said then approached Julie with a smile.
Julie walked in all regal and dignified to fanfare louder than the Queen herself had received. She held hands with Jonathan and gave a bow. Since I was on a proper production, I realized that Julie had just messed up. You had to see people fail scenes so many times. This time it didn't seem to be entirely Julie's fault as another principal actor hurried onto the stage, and they bowed together as four. It was the sort of thing that really put into perspective that even the actors who are at the top of their game, who have accomplished everything, could and would fail. It would be fair to say that they may have failed the most out of any other actors. Their brilliance was shown in how they carried on without showing that they had messed up to the wider audience. Once all the bowing and applause finished, Julie made a microphone appear magically using sleight of hand.
"Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness. Ladies and Gentlemen, Good Evening. Thank you and welcome!" Julie said, playing host.
[Applause]
"As you can see, this evening is a celebration of musical theatre. Somehow, Cameron has managed to bully, blackmail, and browbeat the most incredible array of talent to entertain you for this evening. You are in for such a treat. I'm aware of Cameron's power of persuasion because a few years ago he cajoled me back to the New York theatre to do a show of Stephen Sondheim music called Putting It Together. I'm so glad that he did."
[Applause]
Julie wore an all-black sequin dress with pearl beds around the collar. Her entrance had been epic, and her clothes drew you but melded into the dark of the stage. Her pearls framed her face perfectly. Julie had spent all her life in theatre and film; her dress was designed solely to draw the audience's eyes and keep it focused on her face.
"Putting It Together is what Cameron does; he is a true master at it. Why don't you all sit back, relax, and put your feet up because he has done it again!"
[Applause]
Time passed quickly after that. Cameron hadn't shown up on stage, but he had done an amazing job. Memorable songs were One, Two, Three from The Fix, a play that was going to close the same day Doctor Dolittle would start previews. John Barrowman was such a good singer, and the song was simple happy feel good that lifted you up. Jonathan Pryce had been good, but Ellen Greene stole the show. I had never seen the play, but the four-song section for Little Shop of Horrors was all I needed to understand Aubrey the character she played. Hardly any backstory was revealed, but I understood it from the emotions she displayed. It was not as emotional as Anne Hathaway's I Dreamed a Dream, but it was a scalable version that a theatre actor could use to put out a performance that they can deliver every single day. Anne's tragic song could be done once but the actor would need weeks to recover from the emotional toll. It was more impressive to me as an actor to see something theatrical and repeatable with great amount of emotions. The love duet of Suddenly Seymour was so beautiful that I knew I would be singing it everywhere I went for ages. The other plays hadn't interested me so far but once today was finished I would go to watch Little Shop of Horrors. You needed to see great plays if you wanted to put on a great play.