-•✦--✦--✦•-
Day+7, Hanover Gardens
Overcast skies and the grey haze set over London mirrored how I felt. A big opportunity had slipped right through my fingers. It had all been my fault. Moving on was difficult as I recalled Daniel Radcliffe's face, his gentle and kind smile. Then the rest was all a nightmare, really. Working towards stealing someone's place in life made me feel grimy, was it prideful to say that I think I would do better? Do the franchise a justice? In other ways, that was a burden taken from him. I knew that he'd have drinking problems as a teen because of fame. Either way, it felt like I was doing something wrong. Once today was finished, a week would've passed since the first Dickens audition.
Three swings, three strikes. I was out.
Rolling out of bed, I did a short vocal practice. Routine for every day with a performance to give out.
Dragging my feet, I ate breakfast. Even Nain's Full Welsh breakfast consisting of sausage, fried eggs, laverbread didn't cheer me up. Seafood wasn't my favorite, but I could tolerate laverbread which was a patty made of seaweed. Granddad had a cockles on his plate, a tradition for a miner working in a collier.
"Anything you want before the show?" Nain asked.
"Not really," I sighed out more than said aloud the words,
"How about Soho then? You always love rummaging through old music, eh?" Nain suggested.
"I'd rather not," I mumbled, ashamed of spending so much money and still not landing a job.
"Fancy talking about it?" Nain asked gently.
I just looked at her and shook my head.
"Boys'll be boys, let 'em sulk in it, eh? Heh." Granddad chuckled.
Banter was a lot better than the worry in Nain's voice and attempts to cheer me up.
"We'll have to go see Adrian after tomorrow's show," I reminded.
"What for, then?" Granddad asked, already knowing.
"The contract…" I muttered.
"Ah, the contract! Can we say the dreaded word again, eh? Well, that's a load off my mind. I'd've taken that offer in a heartbeat if I were your age," Granddad said, mock-envious.
"Thought you fancied the collier more than theatre," I grumbled.
"Prissy dancing about, that is. Could've done better than you when my knees were sound," Granddad claimed.
"Har-har!" I said, shaking my head.
Strangely, I felt better. It sucked to have failed at everything, but I needed to move on. Yesterday, I understood that you had to put the audition out of your mind as soon as it was done. There was no point in abandoning that advice even though these three were the best bet to get cast in my dream role — I had to move on.
—✦—
D+8, Hammersmith Apollo
Performing in front of the crowd was always an incredible feeling. Accepting that I would have to perform for the next six months untwisted my stomach. Going from denial to acceptance came with benefits. For one, I was looking forward to the money that would hit my account. I'd been eyeing a drum set for some time; my neighbour Ronnie would hate me for it. But it was a drum set! It would make all the difference for the rhythm component of all the genres I'd been studying.
What about a recording instrument? Something I could mix or record my playing to put together something comprehensive as a music, that required more thinking.
Another thing to consider was acting classes, language classes, and preferably a sports hobby. Renaissance man needed to build up proficiency in all things he'd fancied and I fancied a lot of things. All of those required more money.
My raising mood made me realise one thing so glaringly obvious that I'd been ignoring — I did not know people in the crew for Doctor Dolittle. I could rattle off some names but really hadn't spoken to many of them. The human element had always been a hard thing for me to grasp; I thought about using my child status to its full advantage and fix some of my past mistakes. So I found myself in an unfamiliar place.
"What does this all do?" I asked incredulously.
In front of me lay a large desk station for the sound operator for our production. There were buttons everywhere — red and green were switching back and forth constantly.
"Where all the magic happens." Graeme said admiringly,
"I can understand your explanation! No need to dumb it down for me." I promised,
"Sure, but don't complain after." Graeme rolled his eyes and still went on to explain.
Then followed a lecture that a new sound operator would hear from their predecessor. The desk monstrosity went by the technical name of mixing console; it had faders — these sliders for volume control — and knobs for the same. The way Graeme said it, the knobs could be programmed to do control things like gains, filters and EQ. He kept talking about aux and send bits as if that made all the difference. I wanted to complain about technical jargons if he wasn't going to explain what it was.
The matinee show was to start soon. Graeme, who looked like a proper nerd with his tiny glasses and goatee, put on his game face and told me to stand back. His room was at the back of the theatre, at the ceiling level, as a projector in a movie theatre would be located. Having been given a chance to observe him at work, I sat silently at the back of the booth.
If you've ever seen conductors directing an orchestra, you may have seen a fraction of what a sound mixer does. Graeme controlled every musician's volume by way of sliding faders, turning knobs. I had thought that the orchestra was underneath the stage and the sound travelled out to the audience seats. No mixing necessary, live music was what the kids wanted, right? Wrong. Instead, it was all amplified by microphones, and each musician had a track that Graeme would adjust as necessary. Mixing together a final product more befitting what the Music Directors Michael England and Mike Dixon had envisioned.
The overture played, and Graeme's fingers moved like a robot — sliders went up and down, drums faded down, strings boosted a tiny bit, brass reduced, reeds strengthened. I was already impressed when the overture had finished, but Graeme only turned the massive script book in front of him. Bryan came on stage; this angle I had was so aggressively high that it felt wrong to watch the musical that way. Graeme read the script and moved to mute microphones of everyone not speaking, then unmute the person speaking. I was taken aback by the sheer insanity of it.
He was mixing it all live, in beat along with the actors on stage. When Darien spoke Tommy Stubbins' lines, Graeme would manually make sure it was heard by the audience. Two hands, eight fingers all moved independently of each other. Two speakers, three speakers — a full ensemble speaking quick-fire dialogues were all slid masterfully by a DJ unlike any I had seen. His fingers felt like it had eight joints each because it was wrong for fingers to rise and lower those faders while the next finger did the opposite. His script had hand-drawn instructions of which tracks, all numbered should be muted or unmuted at specific times. That wasn't all either as orchestra needed their mixing too and if you know, orchestra played while we played and sang. It was a sprint to make sure every track was mixed properly, but the musical lasted two hours and forty minutes, a full marathon.
Graeme was a true master at his craft, he must spend so much time in concentration each day.
But even that masterful display of skill eventually got boring to watch as I wasn't involved in anything. Thus, I appreciated being able to watch the musical from our room practically in the ceiling of the theatre. Darien only played the role once a week, and I had missed all his performances so far. He had improved just as all the rest of us Tommys did. He'd had a fraction of what James and I got in practice, yet his performance had not been diminished for it.
"That's how it's done!" Graeme boasted as Act One finished without any issue, finally allowing him to relax. At least until Act Two started.
"You're like a maestro at that." I complimented pointing at the console,
"Had to mess up a lot to get to this point. Couldn't have done it without this beaut," Graeme tapped his script book. "Learned it from another operator when I was an assistant sound engineer. When you guys did your technicals, I was up here writing my own script. None of that cue book or prompt books for me. I'll write my own manual. And if I write it down right, I won't mess even if I try!"
"Have you never messed up?" I questioned — there were so many moving parts with what he did, I couldn't believe it.
"No, Sonja will kill me if I do." He chuckled, "You'll be able to tell if I mess up — no audio when a line is spoken? That would be me gone. So far, no incidents in 82…—83 performances!" Graeme said.
He had a chalkboard with those days-since-accident numbers written down. We were getting close to that hundred number. When my next contract ran out, we'd have performed just over three hundred times. How mind-boggling was that?
"This is all so incredible. I've always been worried about the mic being on whenever I'm backstage. But here you've had it all under control. Thank you for keeping us all from messing up — thanks for showing me this." I gestured around,
"You're welcome anytime! Are you off to see Sonja now?" Graeme asked,
I nodded gravely. Graeme gulped audibly.
"Right, she likes a chamomile tea with a dollop of honey instead of sugar— oh never mind, don't bring her any beverage while she's doing her duties. Only before or after. She's got this rule… Better stay out of the way and never speak unless spoken to." Graeme chuckled nervously,
"Advice taken to heart." I said, smiling sadly as if this were the last we'd meet.
Sonja had a reputation and I was genuinely afraid of messing up.
—✦—
Sonja Clifford, Stage Manager stood in a balcony window in the same row as Graeme's booth. Except her room was barely a quarter the size of his. Instead of a mixing console, she had tiny screens to her left and right, displaying either backstage, the stage, or the audience seats. There was some sort of audio monitoring equipment, but Sonja didn't go out of her way to explain it to me.
"Right, you take a seat there and don't interrupt me." Sonja said,
She had a handheld radio and spoke to it frequently,
"Read the temps," she instructed
"20 backstage, 23 on stage. 50% humidity." a voice replied,
"Start cooling, I want it at 21. Maintain 50%" Sonja commanded,
I wanted to ask what the temperature check was for — was it only for climate control, or did it affect lights, our animatronics, or props? Smoke machines? God, there were so many things to consider and I was probably all wrong.
"Start calls for the intercom, Emily you're up." Sonja spoke,
There were no sounds, but I knew Emily was the voice on the intercom who directed us — the actors — to go somewhere or do something. She was an assistant stage manager for stag eleft. The five-minute call was coming up, it was obvious.
Someone walked past one of the monitors on her station, and I realised that it was some sort of night camera — everything was in black and white, sort of like military movies displayed.
"What is this?" I asked, pointing at the odd footage,
Sonja looked at me as if surprised I was there in her booth, then to where I pointed.
"Infrared camera. Lets me see the stage even in the dark."
"Oh!" I said,
That was so incredible. Even as an actor myself, who often moved during the dark moments on stage, I wanted to see how we all looked. The audience never got to see that part — moments before your eyes were blinded by the stage lights and then it all went dark; before your eyes could adjust, the scene would've shifted and lights were back on. The infrared camera would demystify it all for me. I was looking forward to it.
"Mike, did you find the lad with the camcorder?" Sonja asked the radio.
"I let FOH know, no answer yet." Mike replied, another Assistant Stage Manager.
"Make sure the lad's out. I won't have people stealing our intellectual property!" Sonja warned.
Whenever Sonja finished saying something, her attention would shift and it was like her mood was reset at the same time. No more frustrated voice, but she made every line of hers sound disappointed by the end. I think that's why she was an effective stage manager. She was the disappointed parental figure, you just needed to prove her wrong by being useful and doing things right.
"Light check." Sonja read out,
"All good here."
"Prop check."
"List cleared."
"Animals check."
"Polynesia has an issue — when the neck shifts beyond a point, it keeps snapping back. Some of Doctor's scenes will be hard to do." A nervous voice told.
"Is that going to be a problem?" Sonja intoned, demanding a fix.
"Uh— no, I'll tell the controller to keep to the tolerances," the voice said.
"Make sure she keeps to it. I won't have Polynesia break on stage," Sonja warned.
When some time passed without her commanding people or demanding answers I went for it.
"What are these switches for?" I asked, pointing at the electronics before her.
This time, Sonja turned around almost on a dime — even more surprised to find me there than last time.
"Jesus wept, I'm doing important stuff here. Go bother Mike Smith, he's the stage-right Assistant Stage Manager. Off, off you go!" Sonja said.
I didn't even say anything — I had fucked up. Sonja was the biggest boss now that directors or producers weren't here anymore. Getting in her bad books wasn't my idea of fun. The only way to make sure I was to not anguish there forever was to do as she bid without dawdling.
Stage right was another booth, only this one was backstage. I had to get through many confused cast and crew seeing me backstage when Darien was in today's matinee.
I'd seen Mike many times because ADs on either side of the stage were always visible to us actors and company. Though I don't think I had ever seen his station fully — it was set up higher, and I mostly saw his side profile rather than what he had in his station. This booth had another set of monitors and the same equipment as Sonja's, only it was even smaller and was open to the environment.
"What are you doing up here?" Mike said in worry. "Why aren't you in costume?"
"What?" I said dumbly.
"Oh, you're Wilfred. Course, Darien's in for matinee. Ah… you had me worried for a moment," Mike said, relaxing.
Turning around, he started to speak to his radio.
"Calls up, go," Mike said, then turned to speak to me. "Hey, Wilf, what are you doing here? Don't you have the evening show?"
"I do — figured I could take a look around at how it all works, get to know more people… But Sonja kicked me out for asking too many questions," I complained.
"Oh? How many questions did you ask?" He asked knowingly,
"Two, I think." I replied
"That's one more than I would've thought," Mike winced, "She's a great hang after work, throws down pints like noone's business." He chuckled,
"You mind questions, do you? Because you've been asking me an awful many," I said cheekily.
"Oi, you pulling a quid pro quo on me?" he smirked.
"Sure, I'd love to have a breakdown on how all these work," I gestured to his setup.
"I can do that — don't mind if I do other things in between. Once Act Two starts, I'll be too busy to tell you anything. This, here is very important work," Mike warned.
"Works for me."
"Right — these are my monitors. I got the stage-right side monitors and some of the audience. Have to make sure they're not doing anything cheeky," Mike smirked, as if he knew some secret.
"That's my light switches, my cue monitor, those are my cue books. Need a couple for different things. No touching any of them!" he swatted my wandering hands away.
"That's my microphone, my radio, FOH line and that's the intercom line!" Mike rattled off.
I thought it was overkill for me to have two microphones on, but Mike had those three ways and even a handheld radio to go along with it. He did a similar lecture as Graeme did with me, but unlike with Graeme, for every word he spoke to me, he spoke five more to the actors backstage, various people in different booths or departments. His job was to coordinate and he did that with dozens of tasks at any given time.
"Act Two, we're off!" he shouted down at the waiting cast members.
Darien was shocked to see me, but I gave him an enthusiastic wave. Everyone cheered — theatre folks were as friendly as people ever could be. Every moment was a celebration, even when they were about to start another hard performance. I think it's necessary to do that or each day would become more miserable than last giving the same performance.
"Cue, 72… Go!" Mike started his duty.
His eyes roved from the monitors to a cue monitor and then to his cue book, which was another heavily modified script like Graeme had.
"98… Go! 103, GO! Spot on Dolittle, go! Standby, 36, 84, 86… Go!" Mike went on and on.
His work was to cue in the lights, by calling out the fixture numbers he signalled the electricians to get ready and on his go, the lights turned on or off.
It was about as exciting as watching anything for the first time could be, but it was a lot less impressive than Graeme's work with his faders and knobs. The only thing Mike had to do was flip switches — except those switches weren't even the actual light switches. The electricians would actually do all that; the switches instead sent a radio signal which turned on cue lights for them.
"Camcorder lad is back in the house," Sonja said drolly on the radio.
"Fuck," Mike cursed, then turned to me guiltily. "I mean, bollocks— Yes, Sonja, I'll get it," Mike radioed back.
Then I saw him put on the closest impression to a cattle auctioneer — he would call the light cues, catch a breath, speak to the Front of House detailing where the young man with the camcorder was and still be on beat to call out the goes. That was impressive especially with how much he was multi-tasking, but it wasn't Graeme-level impressive.
I would keep on touring around the place during matinees on the days I did evening shows. Knowing how the sausage was made was enlightening. The stress and chaos were everywhere but the crew put out all the fires for us, the cast.
I was told a story interspersed with Mike calling cues. He had once lost all power in his equipment before and only had a radio, the audio he could hear and his cue book to call cues from. It wasn't only the actors who knew the musical and all their cues — no, the three stage managers working today knew every cue by the light changes because they made each of those cues. In each scene, there could be up to hundreds of those cues. I had an internal timer that I kept, one I called the invisible drum machine. I was sure that all of the stage managers had the same thing in their brains to be able to do this job.
Learning how theatre backstage worked was great, but my real wish was to be a fly on the wall in a casting director's audition room. I wanted to know what they exactly wanted, what competitions I faced and how I could get callbacks and jobs. Even as good of a day as today turned out to be, I couldn't keep failing out of auditions forever.
Dolittle would hit a hundred performances soon — that would be a day for celebration. I would, in the next few months, hit hundred auditions. If I hadn't booked a job by then, that could be the funeral procession for my career.
—✦—
D+9, Covent Garden
Adrian's agency office was exactly as I remembered, only the pile of scripts hugging the office had extended. Soon, two people could no longer walk these halls abreast. The first thing inside of Adrian's own office I took notice of was the board containing his clients — a large corkboard that had six photos pinned on it back in February when I had met him. This time, the corkboard had eighteen photos on it. Their names were printed, labeled, and even laminated. Mr Adrian Baldini had been busy obtaining new clients. I was the first photo on the second row, and like a timeline, I studied each new face after mine, guessing at their lives and dreams.
One obvious thing was that we all looked different — so far, I was one of only three child actors on the wall. The other two were both girls: a redhead and a very pale girl with raven hair. Something about Adrian's story could be seen on the wall; all of his clients had something unique to their look. A man in his forties had a mean look, an ugly face, and a scar — I just knew he would've played dozen Russian bad guy roles as many TV shows by the end of his career.
An older woman in a similar grain to Maggie Smith was up there — even her wrinkles seemed to have wrinkles. In keeping with the theme, there was another older woman, only she was smooth of face and round of body. Adrian had been collecting a few of each type of actors casting directors required. Most people on that board were unique faces — not necessarily good or bad-looking, but all looked just a bit different. All faces that you would remember from a crowd.
The very last photo on the fourth row was that of Blane's — his unique feature was that he was different from the rest of Adrian's clients. He was conventionally attractive, a man to turn the eyes of young women and older cougars. He could be a rom-com lead type, a bad boy looks with none of the risk. Was Adrian's story not true? What was the unique thing that set Blane about? A mystery to solve.
"Welcome, welcome! You haven't been in my office since your headshots," Adrian said, wagging a finger. "Some might think you don't like me, Wilf."
"Some might be right," I said, smiling.
"Ah, at least you're smiling again. Your nan's been ringing me non-stop — 'Have you got a callback? Any takers?' She's really fighting for you out there," Adrian added.
I hadn't known any of that. I appreciated it, but a pang of shame hit me.
"Yes, I couldn't ask for better grandparents," I said diplomatically, making sure to include my granddad.
"Flattery'll get you everywhere," Granddad said, with a chuckle. "Not with me, but with most."
"Mr Price, can I get some tea for you?" Adrian offered.
"That'd do me nicely. You've got a kettle here?" Granddad asked, glancing around.
The office was indeed tiny.
"Of course, it's London. Every office must have one, it's the law. Don't quote me on that." Adrian laughed. "Montgomery, get us some tea!"
"Call me Blane, or you're getting fired!" Blane shouted back.
"Then I will fire you from my office!" Adrian shot back, grinning.
"Sorry, he doesn't like being called that — not the most common first name, I'm afraid," Adrian explained.
"Blane is his last name?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Adrian nodded.
"Shall we get down to business?" he suggested.
My mind wandered to a man whose first and last names seemed swapped around awkwardly. I decided to call him Monty from now on — a bit of banter was a solid way to make friends, wasn't it?
"Yes, let's get to it." Granddad said, "Wilf." He jabbed my ribs.
"Y-Yes!" I said.
"Right, here's the new offer from Apollo Theatre Group — £888.45 per week, six months. Running up until early April next year. How do we feel about that?" Adrian asked.
"Annoyed, but I've no other choice," I admitted.
"Giddy up, my boy! That's showbiz as they say. I've worked with the best actors in all of England — they only land one job out of every ten auditions. Even Jeremy Irons or Anthony Hopkins. Acting's a tough business," Adrian consoled.
"I'm barely over two percent at the moment. I'd give anything for ten," I muttered.
"Well, an extension's almost as good as a new booking. It shows you were good enough not to be recast. Might not mean much now, but it'll count when CDs, producers, and directors are making decisions. We'll get you a gig — once you've got a few credits under your belt, your percentage will shoot up. You'll see!" Adrian said, firm yet encouraging.
"Hmm," I said, nodding. I believed Adrian, but I still didn't trust the nepotism that ran through the industry.
"Any word from David Copperfield? Or anyone else?" I asked, hopeful.
Adrian didn't need to answer — his expression said it all.
"Nope, it's all quiet on the western front," he said, shaking his head.
The doors opened and Monty appeared, carrying two cups of tea — teabags still steeped inside.
"Ah, Montgomery. Hand them over to my guests. None for me, thanks," Adrian said sincerely and with upturned posh accent.
"Blane!" he gritted out.
"Thank you, Monty," I said, as he set the cup in front of me.
"You're that kid!" Blane said, glancing back at the board to read my name. "Wilfred! Just so you know, my name's Blane — as it says on the board," Monty said.
Indeed, the corkboard only listed "Blane" under his name — he must've changed it himself, since every other name had a first and last.
"Monty's not bad — he's a real Python too. Heh," Adrian chuckled.
"Oh God, not this again," Monty groaned, facepalming.
"Monty? It's Blane to see, no? It's a better nickname for you," Granddad shot back.
Monty looked at my granddad with a hilarious expression, mouth opening and closing, before making a break for it. "Call me Blane!" He shouted over his shoulders.
"Heh, lad's easy to rile up. Good kid though — bit daring too. Ran off to London with not a penny to his name. Found him doing commercials — he'll be a big name sometime, you mark my words," Adrian said, shaking his head in admiration.
"Let's talk about Wilf," Granddad interjected.
"Right. Since they've offered a higher salary, we can ask for more — maybe even push it up to twelve hundred and meet them somewhere around a thousand or so. It's about as good as child actors in triple-cast roles ever get," Adrian explained.
"Just ask for nine hundred. Nice, round number," I suggested.
"I wouldn't bother — there's no point. Besides, they can go higher," Adrian replied.
"I took too long to get back to them — what if they're all miffed about and recast me?" I said, worry creeping in.
"No chance. Even if you were took fifteen hundred a week, it might still be cheaper than hiring someone new at short notice and getting them up to speed. That's cost for dance captains, rehearsals, put-ins." Adrian countered.
"Still, I don't want to annoy anyone," I explained.
"Don't worry — that's why you've got an agent. It'd be different if you said it yourself. But an agent always wants more money for their client — and, let's be honest, for themselves. Of course I'll ask for more. They'll understand, and they won't hold it against you," Adrian assured me. He won me over with that.
As we finalised all the things Adrian was given permission to bring up in his renegotiation, his office phone rang.
"Sorry, I need to grab this. Could be a booked role, could be a new audition — can't miss either," Adrian said apologetically.
I found myself staring at the corkboard, thinking about the last five months in London. Seventeen others had been through this same grind, or were still going through it. Blane was definitely one of them. Maybe I shouldn't feel too glum about doing Doctor Dolittle for another six months. Blane wasn't even practising; he was busy making tea, sorting scripts for actors, and helping Adrian with his work. He couldn't afford to take time off, which made landing acting jobs even harder.
Granddad placed his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. Hard. Close to hurting, actually. I glanced at him in surprise. His eyes were wide as saucers, and he was nodding his chin toward Adrian. I turned forward to see Adrian grinning.
"You've been pinned, kid," Adrian said, a smile stretching wide across his face.
"What?" I managed, dumbfounded.
"Someone liked your audition. They want to see you as soon as possible. The director's flying in to watch all the callbacks in person. You're their top pick," Adrian said, beaming.
I looked between my granddad and Adrian, unable to believe how quickly things had shifted.
"CD sounds proper stressed — basically all but promised you the role, as long as the director gives the nod," Adrian continued.
"Oh my God… are you serious?" I muttered, numb.
"Yes. Still want to do Dolittle?" Adrian asked, teasing me.
"Can I do both?" I asked, hopeful.
"Hmm." He rifled through a sheet he'd brought up during the call. "Yes. Filming's in May, running through to August at the latest."
"Yes!" I said instantly.
"Ha! Right. Still want to ask for the £888.45?"
"No — ask for fifteen hundred. They can accept it or reject it. I don't mind if I don't do Dolittle anymore. I hate it. We can look for more local auditions with near dates if they don't accept," I said, deciding in a heartbeat.
"Hold your horses, Wilfred. Your parents might not even agree," Adrian said, serious now.
"Why?" I frowned.
"Many reasons. But, Will — tell me, have you got a passport?" Adrian asked.
"No? Why?" I replied, puzzled.
"Because you're going to Italy," Adrian laughed.