Rubble: The Sequel

So, after spending all of yesterday grumping about the director not calling me... the director called me.


And offered me the part. Outright. I don't even have to do a second audition. In fact, I'm going along to the second audition to help with the rest of the casting.


Woot! Woot! Woot! Woot! Woot!


 


Ahem... Sorry about that.


 


 


What a waste of energy all of yesterday's moping was, eh?
1.3.06 10:20


Ol' Blue Eyes is back... Sorry, I meant dead.

When Trilby is not doing his acting-schmacting thing, he works for a ticketing agency. It's easy enough work (although he gets very enraged about the number of imbeciles who phone up wanting tickets to see 'Phantom of the Opera'), and every now and then he gets a couple of free tickets to a West End show. Which is great for me, his ever-loving girlfriend.


Because the tickets are usually for shows that are in previews, you never know what you're going to see. Will it be good? Will it be bad? Will I have to sneak out of the theatre disguised as a box of mint Matchmakers?


So far this year we've seen the RSC's 'Comedy of Errors' (brill) and 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?'(bloody amazing). Trilby went to see 'Blackbird' with a mate (I was otherwise engaged), which turned out to be a lucky escape for me because apparently it was sphincter-clenchingly awful. And yet it's been getting great reviews. Go figure.


Anyway, tonight we have two free tickets to see what is surely the oddest show on the West End. Yes, Trilby and I are going to see 'Sinatra at the London Palladium' (ooh, check out the flashy web site).


Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that Frank Sinatra was dead. He is dead, right? Yeah, I thought as much.


So, what we are going to see tonight is effectively going to be some film footage of Sinatra. Granted, there's going to be a whole bunch of very lively dancers and a live orchestra, all of whom I'm sure will play their hearts out. But still, it's really just like watching a glorified pop video, right?


And people are paying FIFTY-FIVE POUNDS (not including booking fee, Cheapy) for a ticket to see this show?


*cough* Emperor's new clothes *cough*


An evil little part of me quite wants to stand up halfway through and yell, "Hang on, that's not really Frank Sinatra! This is just a film! They're ripping us off! I want my money back!"


Do you dare me?
1.3.06 14:41


The horror... the horror...

So, after a bite to eat at Loch Fyne, courtesy of the Times Dine with Wine vouchers my father kindly donated to me, Trilby and I approached the Palladium with trepidation. The Baboon's talk of a rampaging killer zombie cyborg Sinatra had made us nervous. I worried that the miniscule fish pie I had just consumed might actually be my last meal on this earth. Man, would that be depressing.


We took our seats in the stalls. I casually inquired how much they would normally cost. Surely they wouldn't give us top price seats for free. Boy, was I wrong. Apparently, we were sitting in one hundred and ten English pounds worth of red plush tip-up seat. This made us feel special.



Trilby: a special guy.


The lights dimmed. And then the horror began.


As the dancers began their opening routine, jiving winsomely on the wing of a plane to the strains of 'Come Fly With Me', the re-animated corpse of Sinatra lumbered onto the stage and proceeded to cut a bloody swathe through the cast (most of whom were still smiling as they died - troupers 'til the end). A combination of blood, brains and entrails rendered the floor very slippy, and more than one dancer slipped over, before being devoured by the enraged ex-crooner. Oh, how we laughed! Then, with a feral roar, Ol' Dead Eyes turned on the conductor and ripped his head clean off, leaving his body still standing, the arms jerking spasmodically. This gave the music an interesting reggae beat which had all the audience dancing in the aisles.


zombie_sinatra.jpg
 

"Hey Frankie, you've got something on your chin!"


Then, once he had decimated the orchestra and the dancers, Zombie-Sinatra turned his insatiable lust for human blood on his unsuspecting fans. The first two rows of the stalls were turned into an abbatoir, as bodies were ripped apart and blood and innards sprayed as high as the Royal Circle. An audience member who expired a couple of rows ahead of me was heard to exclaim, "But you haven't sung 'My Way' yet!" as the blood-crazed singer tore off her left arm and beat her to death with it. All this to the sound of wild applause from the punters up in the gods, who couldn't see very well and so thought it was all part of the show.


 


Or, at least, that's what I wish had happened.


 


In reality, the audience were faced with a bunch of moving screens on which film of a strangely uncomfortable-looking Sinatra were projected. He "sang" (or rather, they played a recording of him singing) while the orchestra played along and the cast danced about wearing fixed smiles. It was just like that boring bit in the Oscars where they play the 'Best Song' nominees and a bunch of dancers try to jive it up a bit.


It was nosebleed-inducingly dull. Stick that on your posters, Mister West-End Producer.


The best bit in the show occurred half an hour in, when one of the screens ground to a halt at the top of the proscenium arch and refused to descend any further. The orchestra stopped, the house lights came up and an apologetic announcement was made.


Announcer:  Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for the technical error. The show will continue shortly. Please remain in your seats.


YAAGers:  Not bloody likely.


We virtually ran out of the theatre. It is really saying something when the best bit of a show is when a bit of machinery breaks down.


So unfortunately I didn't get to do any heckling, as I was too busy getting the hell out of there and into a nice Irish pub where I could drink beer and watch football. But I feel that walking out of there was the best form of heckling I could have done, under the circumstances.


And I didn't even get to kill any zombies. I want my money back. Oh, hang on...
2.3.06 12:24


Run, run, run

About three years ago, I used to run all the time. I'd get up early and pound the pavement around Dulwich every morning. I lost a ton of weight and was a size 10 for the first time in my life. I was also unemployed and depressed.


Skip forward to 2006. I'm happier than I've ever been before. I have a wonderful boyfriend who loves me, a job that, while boring, pays my bills, and the acting work is coming in. I am also about two sizes bigger than I'd like to be, my thighs wobble in an alarming fashion and my boobs have grown (though Trilby doesn't seem to think the latter is a problem...). Many abortive attempts at dieting have failed to get me back down to my ideal weight, principally because I love wine too much. Mmmm, wiiiine. Also, regular exercise has gone out of the window following my move to North London - where I once had to walk for an hour every day to get to work and back, I now hop on a bus that stops outside my house and is only five minutes from the office. And running on the mean streets of Holloway is far less appealing than jogging through leafy Dulwich. You tend to trip over stab victims, for starters.


Now suddenly, out of nowhere, I seem to have gained some motivation. I've been to the gym twice this week, and both times I managed to go for forty-five minutes on the treadmill. Normally I'm knackered if I walk for three-quarters of an hour; running for that long has always seemed an impossibility. Now, suddenly, I have become one of those people who hog the running machine. Granted, I do tend to make wheezy, groaning noises for the first 25 minutes or so, but after that I sink into a state of zen-like calm/shock and keep pounding away. I fully intend to go to the gym again today as well.


Trilby keeps saying how proud he is of me. He's also commented that my thighs feel firmer. This is all the encouragement I need. I fully intend to keep on running, despite the worrying crunching noises that are coming from my left knee.


Let's have a bet, folks. What will crumble first - YAAGers' willpower, or her knee joints?
8.3.06 12:57


Methodical

Ooh, but I've been having fun today.


My favourite part of doing a play is not, as one might expect, the actual getting up onstage and doing it in front of an audience. The best bit by far is the preparation. The rehearsals where you tease out the nuances of your character. Making up your working script by photocopying it and pasting it into the pages of a notebook. And the research  - oh! the research.


Being by nature the sort of person who made her university notes in three different coloured pens (i.e. organised to the point of obsession), I just love doing research. Looking for articles and pictures and sticking them neatly into the back of my script makes me happier than someone covered in Pritt Stick and bits of paper has any right to be.


So, as the play is something of a slice of life drama, I've been on Getty Images today finding pictures of my character's "family". And I thought I'd share them with you, because I'm so pleased with my discoveries.


First up, here is my daddy giving me a cuddle:


daddy.jpg


Isn't that just lovely? It makes me feel all weepy just looking at it.


Here's me helping my mum hang out the laundry in the back yard:



Me with the girls from the factory, aged 16 (I'm in the middle of the second row, with the white collar):


Being the anal type, I've given all these girls names. Go on, ask me the name of any one of them, and I'll be able to tell you. I am taking this too far, I think...


Next photo. Me marrying Frank Harrison in1966:



Frank in our front room, holding Jayne (next door's little girl) on his knee, 1969. Three years before his death.


frank_holding_jane.jpg


That last photo makes me feel rather strange. I think I've rather fallen in love with it. Or rather, with the man in the photo. My Frank.


It's odd how a character starts to bleed into your real life. I'm finding it harder and harder to drop my character's Liverpool accent. I've gone all maternal - I've taken to carrying around boxes of SunMaid raisins just in case one of the cast need a snack. I've even started cleaning. It's all most unnerving (not least for Trilby, who is beginning to wonder where his girlfriend has gone, and whether the Scouse housewife that's replaced her is going to stop nagging him anytime soon).


God, I'm enjoying myself.
30.3.06 15:39