The Wedding Collective

Yes.
Hello. Thank you for letting me speak. I haven’t seen Ayaan for over twenty years, though I do remember her. Very well, in fact. She was a very bright, very strong-minded girl. One of my very best. But, you know, I remember her as rather a lost soul at that time. That was my abiding memory when she first came to me. A young woman alone, apart from the other young women there. Rather too sensitive for her own good. Someone who because of some nervous fragility or some event that had brought her to my classes in Saudi, found it difficult to fit in with the other girls I was instructing.

This was in the mid-eighties, you must understand. She was a girl from another world. Somalia and Saudi are not so far apart geographically, but culturally there’s a continent’s divide. Saudi is a very conservative and hierarchical society. Somalia is much looser. More outward-looking. More sceptical, too. And of course, when she arrived, her mother tongue was not our mother tongue. So, even to have been in an Arabic-speaking country must have been - at least in the beginning - very difficult for her. And then you must also remember, she came here under highly unusual cirumstances: her father was a political refugee, a highly placed member of a political elite opposed to a brutal Communist dictator; one of a small number of dissenters in danger of their very lives. Now that I come to think of it, a bit like she is now! They were not part of some general displacement or exodus. They were mostly alone here. Strangers. Outsiders.

However, she’s a very bright girl. She picked up the language quickly.

She was hungry for knowledge. But, above all, I think she was hungry for clarity. Reading about her since I can now see why. Her father comes here and he immediately throws himself back into his political work. Doubly so, since he’s just seen his opposition to Siad Barre in his own country come to nought. Out of a sense of duty, of not wanting to be beaten, he renews his energies. But his wife is not happy. She feels neglected. She takes it out on her children. And then Ayaan comes to me. She’s in her teen years. She doesn’t see her father. She is distant from her mother. Can’t you see why she is so eager for something to hold on to. To attach herself to.

Of course, now she would want to make it sound as if I were the leader of some strange cult. Islam is not a cult, however. It’s a religion practised by one billion people in every corner of our world. And as for my ‘methods’ - there was nothing sinister in them. She is right. When she first came to me I asked her - and her fellow classmates - as I always do: Do you believe in the Qur’an? Yes. It is meant to throw these young people. I wanted their attention. I wanted them to get them away from parroting the Qur’an without understanding it’s meaning. To me it’s meaning is full of meaning. And true. And beautiful. And I wanted them to reconsider what they’ve had drummed into them - so often, as she says, by old-fashioned men who think the best way of teaching a young child is to give her a smack on the head if she gets something ‘wrong’.

In reality, of course, in many things there is no absolute right or wrong in the Qur’an. Much is open to interpretation. Fiqh. That is a complaint that’s often heard of Islam: that there is no Pope. That in many matters, there is no final authority to tell you what to do, no boss; only interpretation. What Marx would call dialectic. Disagreement. And sometimes, sadly, conflict. Sunna against Shiite. Shiite against Sufi. And within all families, of course, when relatives fall out, the fights are often the bitterest.

Ayaan Hirsi Ali appears on Woman’s Hour, BBC Radio 4. February 2nd 2007.

She has a book coming out. Infidel. Hence the interview. Hence the article that appeared a few days back in The Times…

I’ve already heard or read somewhere that the early life stuff, as described in the book, is interesting. And so it comes across here. She appears as objective, sympathetic - and forgiving - about her mum, who, it seems, though unschooled was a rebel in her own way, rejecting an arranged marriage and marrying Ayaan’s dad for love. She also tells how her father’s political commitment affected the marriage and dashed her mother’s dreams of a family life together. It does strike me later, though, that here is Ayaan herself now, repeating her father’s pattern; the political obsession at the cost of everything else in their life. An intense mission, fuelled maybe by anger.

No wonder they don’t get on. Her unpicking everything he strove for.

Very interesting, also, her description of Sister Aziza, her charismatic Saudi religious teacher. The woman who so influenced her teenage years. How Aziza had a completely new approach to Ayaan and her fellow students. Did they believe in the Koran? What? They’d never been asked such things before. It had all been so taken for granted. This seemed revolutionary. The spirit of true enquiry. Her own father’s take on Islam. This was not the teaching of the crude don’t ask stupid questions or I’ll bang-you round the head if you don’t parrot the Koran off by heart type of imam they were used to. But the implication is that Aziza was, in reality, monstrous; her real purpose absolutely malign; a brilliant Islamic Joseph Goebbels, netting up young Muslim women for Jihad. Their only aim: to convert non-believers or, if that were not possible, to kill them. In short, Aziza was some advance guard
from the educational wing of al-Qaeda.

Now this may have been the case, but I’d love to hear the story from Aziza’a perspective.

In fact, this is what I feel most strongly about Ayaan is that there is only one woman’s perspective on Islam: her own. Every word, every story a single note beaten rhythmically and monotonously on an anvil. I get no sense of the possibility of other women’s stories and experiences. Hers is the only voice allowed.

I get this feeling off the Dutch documentary too. When I see another woman refugee - this one in hijab - quickly closing her door on the caravan site where Ayaan once stayed, I get no sense our intrepid heroine is speaking for her fellow. Only that she is speaking to us. And for us. Or, at least, those amongst us who already think we know what that woman would think if she were lucky enough to be us.

So. The early story seems alive; after her arrival in Europe it grows deader and deader. It’s something tailored. It’s authenticity reduced and reduced until all its fit for is propaganda. It’s a case. For the prosecution. But, unlike the early life, it doesn’t ring true.

This is Armand Arce our fabulous Tai Chi teacher and inspiration. His Tai Chi ‘form’ is amazing to behold, he’s very funny - quite wickedly so sometimes - having a great turn of phrase in English,
despite the fact that he’s from Bordeaux; his father a refugee from Franco’s repression in Spain. Apart from his own form, Armand’s Tai Chi ‘corrections’ to his students are always good, he’s a nice mixture of soft-hearted and no nonsense (Yin and Yang) - and, when he’s not being a Tai Chi master, he takes some great photos as well. Including the wedding of some of his students…

If you want to see what I mean, have a look on the Flickr site. HIs Flickrname is Armando lios.

He’s a blessing in all of our lives who’ve come to know him.

Hijab

From the Wikipedia article on Ayaan Hirsi Ali (References N0 12) I got a link to the original investigative Documentary. Made by the VARA company, although it’s in Dutch, some of the interviews are in English and there are enough visuals to give you a fairly good sense of what’s happening.

What’s particularly instructive is Ayaan’s face. The programme makers go to Kenya and Somalia, manage to track down and speak to Ali’s husband in Canada - but their real coup is to get Ali to watch the footage, film her while she’s doing it - and then question her about how it matches her own ’story’. And she falls right into a pit. So, even if you can’t understand quite what’s being said, her face tells you more than you need to know.

I actually felt quite sorry for her through some of this. She looks so exposed - like some school-kid nabbed behind the bike shed with a packet of ciggies in her pocket and now she’s going to get it in the neck from her mum…. The eyes. The body-language. The pauses where there should just be answers, pauses where she’s desperately trying to change the story on the hoof so she won’t get herself deeper into the shit. Her story falling apart before her eyes. And the world’s.

‘Done up like a kipper’ I think wouldn’t be far off the truth.

But there’s also something very disturbing about her. And unpleasant. When she goes on the 60 minute programme on some American jolly - and they seem to just love her over there right now - and some unctuous interviewer says: ‘You arrived in Holland in 1992. You worked as a cleaner, you worked in menial jobs and in 2002 you became an MP. Ayaan, how did you do it?’

And she smiles sweetly and says: ‘The American Dream’.

And you think: ‘Fuck off! What do you mean, you fucking ungrateful cow! It was the Dutch Dream. They fell for you hook line and sinker. What’s America got to do with it? It was nothing to do with America. That’s just you re-positioning yourself for you next career move.

She’s ticking boxes. Lining herself up for the work with the American Enterprise Institute and a tear-stained - but televised - tete a tete with Eve Ensler about her genital mutilation. The latter subsequently writes her a Monologue. You can see it now… And, on V-Day next year, Irshad Manji performs it in front of 16 thousand ’sisters’ at a hushed Madison Square Gardens…

Don’t laugh. This could happen. Believe me. I know. I’ve got the T-Shirt.

That’s for the future, though, but what upsets me in the film is seeing Ayaan’s brother, dignified, with lovely English - an educated and intelligent man - scratching around Nairobi, then, later accompanying the film crew on a battered old ex-Soviet jet to to Somalia, apparently for the first time in years - to the dirt poor back-streets of Mogadishu to which Ayaan;s mother has been obliged to return.

Most poignant of all, though is the film crew’s return to Ayaan’s first European home; a chilly caravan site where she was first welcomed. It’s still there of course, though now that the Netherlands is ‘Full’ from the immigration point of view (if not the tourist one) you wonder for how long. And there on one of their cut-away shots in the film you see a Muslim woman scurrying into her caravan and closing the door.

Not for her the Washington welcome. The flashbulbs. The charity dinners. Give me your tired, your poor/ Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free! This Muslim woman is obviously not ticking any of the right boxes. What an idiot! She needs to throw off her hijab. Throw off her oppression. Her shakles. And get a life.

WATCH THE MOVIE! AND ADMIRE THE AFRO!
high low
high low

ayaan hirsi ali

This from Wikipedia:

Ayaan Hirsi Ali born Ayaan Hirsi Magan 13 November 1969 [1] in Mogadishu, Somalia, is a Dutch feminist and politician, daughter of Hirsi Magan Isse. She is a prominent (and often controversial) author, film maker, and critic of Islam. She was a member of the Tweede Kamer (the Lower House of the States-General of the Netherlands) for the People’s Party for Freedom and Democracy (VVD) from January 30, 2003 until May 16, 2006.

Hirsi Ali has had to maintain a high level of security due to threats against her life for voicing views critical of certain aspects of Islam. For example, her film Submission, directed by Theo van Gogh (who himself was assassinated for his works), made her one of the targets of the Hofstad Network.[2]

On May 15, 2006, officials of the Netherlands government cast doubt on Hirsi Ali’s status as a Dutch national, because she provided false information in her application for refugee status in the Netherlands. She later used the same false information when she applied for, and was granted, Dutch citizenship. The Dutch minister of immigration and integration, Rita Verdonk, moved to annul her citizenship, a move that was overridden by order of the Prime Minister. She released to the New York Times personal letters from her father and other family members that affirmed her story about fleeing a forced marriage.[3] On June 27, 2006, the Dutch government announced that Hirsi Ali would keep her Dutch citizenship.

On May 16, Hirsi Ali announced her resignation from parliament and confirmed her previous statement that she would move to the United States to work at the American Enterprise Institute, a pro-market economics think tank. Her prospective arrival in September 2006 was welcomed by Deputy US Secretary of State Robert Zoellick.[4]

For the full article go to:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ayaan_Hirsi_Ali

Bus Wreck

Hi Mat!

Thought you’d be interested what sad folk can get up to on a scorching hot day in London when they’ve nothing better to do with their lives.

Nadia and Louise and I are now world experts on ‘bombed’ coaches. This one is in a scrapyard off Trundles Road, Deptford originally of Moreton’s of Blackheath. We also went to Blue Triangle and Ensign Buses in Purfleet, Essex where we met afficionado and bus nut Ross who actually knew the life history of the wreck below, the exact coach company, how many vehicles they had in their fleet, when they got rid of this particular one, make, engine capacity etc etc - just seeing a small picture of it on the viewfinder of my digital camera. Amazing! Ross also knows a lot about wrecked buses, having seen his fair share in Bosnia in the 90’s, apparently.

A man after our own hearts.

Which is why we now know all about which buses you can drive without a PVL license; A: Routemaster (assuming you got your license before 1996) and that you can get a good one for 9K. We know about tow charges and low loaders - and the hire rates and issues involved. We know about engine weights, diffs and the load-bearing strengths of roofs. And most important of all we now know that there are only three places in England that are officially licensed to scrap buses (and resell you a wreck) because a lot of the materials used are toxic - the best of the lot, apparently, in Barnsley. They can eve torch one or blow it up. If you want.

And what we don’t know, Ross will. Does this bring back days on the road? We mentioned your exploits in the field(s) and he was suitably impressed.

Steve
x

talking 2 terrorists

Emily

….The acting, as usual with Out of Joint and all Max’s shows, was uniformly excellent. But quite a number of aspects worried me.

The child soldier theme, for example. It’s a really important subject - and one that Stoning Mary, also at the Royal Court, had a go at tackling a few months back. But on neither occasion was it explored in anything like enough depth. There was no background. There was no explanation. It was just: there’s this eight year old girl who’s father keeps beating her so she runs away, meets up with these soldiers who give her a gun, force her to kill people in the most horrifying manner, sexually abuse her and finally she escapes to Denmark where she’s happier but still haunted - as you would be.

The danger was us thinking: ‘Well, that’s the kind of thing that happens in Africa. They’re different from us, of course. We’d never do anything as barbaric as that’. It was too common a theme in the piece generally: Psychotic Johnny Foreigner and Kindly (and often slightly eccentric English) Whitey. Now Auschwitz, Hiroshima, firebombing Hamburg and the 2 million dead in Vietnam may be another category of atrocity from chopping people’s hands off, boiling them alive or bashing their head in with a spade, but I like a show to walk me through that one a bit more.

I don’t think the show was intentionally ‘racist’ but just fell into the trap of being a bit more comfortable with things nearer home than things further away.

And I suppose in the end this would be my criticism: that it didn’t come to grips with any of the issues dramatically. That just as it was starting to get under the skin of things, it stopped.

The strongest moment for me - and I suspect for a lot of people - was probably one of the simplest. The moment when the Loyalist paramilitary in prison library offers to make a cup of tea for the IRA man. And the IRA man accepts. It was the only moment in the show when we saw two people on stage obliged to change or develop. Every other voice was fixed and already past their points of change. Some of them may have been redeemed, but it had already happened - offstage and in the past.

Even that tea moment, come to think of it, could have been the starting-point of the piece rather than it’s conclusion. So what happened next? Did they start to work together? Did they go their separate ways? Did they try to work together but their communities were still resistant? etc…

Don’t get me wrong. I like verbatim shows - and actors addressing the audience. It was Max S-C who pointed out how effective that can be dramatically, callow RADA graduate that I was. But what would have happened, for example, if the Brighton bomber in the show had been confronted by the Tebbit? Especially the Tebbit carrying his shotgun? That’s a scene I’d like to see. Particularly with his wife in the background saying from her wheelchair: ‘Pull the trigger, Norman. That’s the bastard who ruined our lives’…

Isn’t that what you want to see? People brought together in situations they wouldn’t normally find themselves in. Don’t we want to experience their certainties - and ours - undermined in real time, on a live stage?

Too few of these voices were ruffled - and the show wasn’t challenging and dangerous enough.

Dear Ben

Thanks for your reply. Methinks you make this all too complicated. She cant’ act.

However, it has prompted a thought: Why don’t we run a nation-wide competition to find someone who’s willing to say in print that she can? And to award one hundred pounds from The Wedding Collective’s meagre funds for the best-argued defence of her talent, based on any one of her performances. Then let’s truly see if there is such a thing as standards.

Only yesterday, Ben, I was taking tea and cakes with my dear friend J in the ‘Space’ outside the National Theatre. J is a wonderful comedienne, a fabulous and discerning actor and all-round good egg. We don’t, however, always agree on actors. Out of the blue, innocently and with a totally straight face - though not, of course, unconnected with our current debate, Ben - I asked her: “J, a propos of nothing at all, what do you think of Saffron Burrows?”

J convulsed as if she had been punched in the stomach. Then a howl, Earl Grey, scone and jam flying everywhere as she spluttered: ‘Frightful… awful….. she can’t act….” Apparently J had seen Some Girls just a few weeks back and as we discussed things further my scintillating and witty friend took me through all the other ‘Girls’ in the show: Catherine Tate, Sara Powell and Lesley Manville, detailing their merits, actors of proven worth - and RESPECTED BY THEIR PEERS OVER A NUMBER OF YEARS…

But, Ben, of course, this is only our opinion…

So let’s see. Let this competition be open to all comers - except Saffron’s mum and dad, naturally. And Mike Figgis. Who cast Saffron in Timecode just before he left his wife and kiddies. And let the closing date be September the 1st.

Saffron’s made 30 movies, Ben, according to IMDB and I’m sure some of them must be at Blockbusters, for those of us unable or unwilling to get down to the Geilgud..

Ben, spread the word. And scour the land!

Ben wrote to the Blog about ‘Advice to an Actress’ and I thought I’d print my reply here just to widen the discussion a tad:

Dear Ben

Thank you for taking the time to write about the piece.

Youâ??re quite right to point out that there arenâ??t NO standards. And to say that thereâ??s no substituting perseverance - I was being slightly ironic. However, I do believe - with some passion, as you can probably tell and not as a debating point - but standards are constantly under threat. From agents, West End producers, catwalk models, print journalists, TV executives, stage schools, pop stars, ex-Big Brother contestants, Oxbridge graduates on the make and all the other pimps, cheapskates, whores and con-artists.

Take dear Saffron. Please. She canâ??t act. Full stop. This is not a matter of debate. This is not a matter of conjecture. I can prove this on a Sinclair C5.

She really canâ??t. She canâ??t inflect. Everything she says comes out with more or less the same vocal pattern. She reads her lines. Whatâ??s more she has neither screen nor stage presence. Let alone charisma. What Iâ??m saying is not a personal attack against her. Itâ??s a matter of fact and record. Itâ??s like my granny; sheâ??s NOT a Formula One racing driver. Or like me. Iâ??ve got a tin ear. Itâ??s a talent. And I donâ??t possess it. If I tried to sing at the ENO Iâ??d be laughed out of the audition.

But Iâ??ve SEEN Saffron Burrows - with my own eyes - on the stage of the National Theatre. The Royal National Theatre no less. In The Power Book. Saffron Burroughs directed - and what is even more frightening - cast by Fiona Shaw, allegedly one of our finest actors. Didnâ??t she notice? Wouldnâ??t Pavarotti have noticed in a six to eight weekâ??s rehearsal period my tone-deafness? Would he have cast me in the first place whatever the shape of my butt?

And this is the point. What happened here? How did Nick Hytner let Saffron through the checkpoint? Was it because, as some cheap and foul rumours were having it at the time, that Fiona and Jeanette Winterton were trying to get into Saffronâ??s thong? Or that Saffron herself caught Fionaâ??s eye at Grouchoâ??s one night and thought this might be a way to boost a flagging career? Or was it more a marketing thing? That the National were looking for someone young, someone a bit hip to sell Hytnerâ??s Transformation season? But couldnâ??t get Kate Winslet? Couldnâ??t get Sienna Miller because she was still doing her A levels? So went for Saffron instead?

DESPITE THE FACT SHE CANâ??T ACT. And everyone knew it.

Your see thatâ??s what I mean. With brain surgeons you donâ??t just go out into the street and grab someone just because you fancy them. Or because they look pretty and you think youâ??ll get more patients coming to your hospital. Likewise with dentists. They get the job because they pull teeth good. Nor would you ask a man who has poor plumbing skills to fix your central heating. Youâ??d want the best.

Only in acting does the opposite happen. And it worries me. Because I like theatre. I love theatre. I am sick of people saying they get bored with it. I want people to come out of theatre going: â??that was fucking amazingâ??. And they ainâ??t going to do that with Saffron Burrows, Jess Wallace, Madonna, Denise Van Outen or Frank Bruno.

In devalues the people who really care. And really know.

Would be interested in your thoughtsâ?¦

Denise relaxing…

The Wedding Collective is currently organising a Day for Africa - Live Ache - with Sir Bob’s full approval. We’ve already got a fab line-up of actors. Gwynnie, Sir Michael C, Jess Wallace, Saffron Burrows, Jamie Theakston and we’re very excited to be talking to Madonna’s people. Fingers crossed…

But, please PLEASE, can we have a little less of the CARPING. No we haven’t got round to inviting any black actors to perform at this stage -we’ve only had three weeks to organise the damn thing, for God’s sake. And YES, a lot of our ‘turns’ are millionaires in their own right. So what? Frankly, I thought the politics of Envy was DEAD AND BURIED.

After all, artists like Denise Van Outen, Jason Donovan and Pam St Clements are exactly the acts ordinary people will travel to some Godforsaken spot like Edinburgh to go and see.

And no, they’re not just taking part to revive flagging careers. Do you honestly think that Daniella Westbrook is that desperate?

Tickets will be free but we do have an arrangement with Orange, O2 and the other mobile phone networks for 20,000 tickets to be available for the first million people who text in*.

… and giving her legendary Hedda

Many arrangements have yet to be finalised but we intend to take over the Meadows for a good part of July and the programme will contain a broad range of theatrical styles. Natasha Kaplinsky will be MCing.

If you’re an agent reading this blog, please send in your suggestions but do remember, we only want headline acts. No co-operatives, thank you.

And ….

Watch This Space!

*(Texts will be charged at 50p maximum)

Saffron Burrows. Acting.

If you remember only one thing, remember this: anyone can act. If you’ve got enough bottle.

Jamie Theakstone can act. Kylie can act. Madonna can act. Of course Madonna, for example, didn’t know for sure that she could act until she landed parts in Hollywood movies and West End shows but by getting cast, and working with world famous directors it quickly became apparent that she could. It’s axiomatic: by becoming famous she became an actor and, for example, sold out her last West End Show in a matter of days. No mean feat.

At the moment, of course, you’re not famous, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this. But don’t despair. This is what you’re going to do. First, you have to recognise what, in the industry, we call your Unique Selling Point. For example, where do you come from? The East End? Newcastle? The Home Counties? Cheshire? Good. Now decide what broad market that would appeal to. If you’re from the East End, for example, the East Enders TV show would be an obvious choice to set your sights on.

Watch East Enders. Watch it a lot. Immerse yourself in the way that the East Enders writers â??hear’ the world of the East End. How the East Enders set designers â??see’ the word of the East End and, most important of all, how the current East Enders actors â??inhabit’ the world of the East End. Watch everything. Every look. Every mannerism. Every inflection of their voice. And copy it.

Of course, your personal choice may not be to wear dangly earrings and ponytails in real life, you many not drop your â??aitches’ and say â??bo-uw’ instead of â??bottle’ but if East Enders is indeed your target niche, you’ll have to put your individuality on the back burner and start mining your typical East Ender type.

In fact, you’re going to have to â??become’ that typical TV East Ender in every way. And don’t worry, even if you’re from Islington, Elephant and Castle, or even from locations miles away from the East End â?? places like Hertfordshire, Slough or Crawley, for example â?? don’t rule yourself out. The really focused and dedicated actor can take these hurdles in her stride.

A word of warning, though: if you’ve actually had some education â?? or even if you just know someone who has â?? you won’t want to flaunt it. If you get anywhere in this business you’ll come across some very smart people. For example, casting directors. Many of them young women who’s job it is to sort the wheat from the chaff. And they’ll smell a phoney a mile off.

Starting to talk about the anti-war movement, as you wait to go in for your audition, or the fact that you read Chomsky, could create the wrong impression. Not to say that people from the real East End don’t read. They do. There are libraries in the East End and bookshops, probably. Not to say that people from the East End don’t talk about the anti-war movement, but the main thing is: characters from East Enders don’t. That’s the difference.

And you have to remember: lots of directors of shows like East Enders will have their sights set a lot higher than East Enders. East Enders is just a step on the ladder for them. Many of them have been to Universities like Oxford and Cambridge. Their ambition is to make adverts or even feature films. Now, any self- respecting casting director is unlikely to take the risk of introducing them to some actress who might bring up a book they read or a war they’ve been thinking about recently ; a line of conversation, anyway, that could so easily be mistaken for criticism: â??I’m an East Ender, alright, albeit from Crawley, but one who’s read a book and thought about Iraq. The reason I’m telling you this is because in my heart of hearts I don’t actually like East Enders. It’s patronising. I don’t really want to do it. In my heart of hearts I think you’re a complete jerk who doesn’t know jack shit about the East End. Why don’t you ever have storylines with wars in? Or books?

You see? And no one likes a smart arse. Better to trip out all the usual clichés. Keep it light. Don’t be controversial. And even if you’ve been nowhere near the East End in your life, and your niche market is the dim witted Sloane, many of the same rules apply. Know your stuff but keep your mouth shut. I’m sorry but in our business it’s true.

Know what’s going on in your industry. Flick through The Sun and The Mirror. Be up to date. Who’s sleeping with who. A lot of these people with messy personal lives and drink problems will be in shows you’re trying to get on anyway, so by keeping abreast you’d be killing two birds with one stone.

And remember this: not everybody can sing - it doesn’t take the brains of Lloyd George to tell that Denise Van Outen, for example, is perfectly capable of hitting a bum note once in a while. Likewise with art: if it looks like a horse when it’s meant to be a dog, you sure ain’t no Van Gogh, sunshine. But with acting, it’s different. One man’s Laurence Olivier is another’s Jason Donovan. And vice versa. And that’s the point. Who’s to say? Everyone’s entitled to their opinion. I pays me money I takes me choice. In other words: THERE ARE NO STANDARDS. There is no yardstick. If you think you can act. If you have the nerve and self-belief. If you are prepared to ignore the knockers, mockers and critics, who’s to say you’re wrong and they’re right? Who’s to say you won’t be up there with the greats one day? No one.

And even if it doesn’t quite go according to plan, and life doesn’t give you everything you desire as you reach for the stars, remember this: we can’t all be a Jess Wallace â?? life isn’t always that fair - but we can try. We can damn well try.

Dear Luke

Sorry I missed you on Monday night, son, I think it was, but I was out watching A Comedy of Errors.

Your Mamma told me about Eve next morning and I googled some stuff from the New York Post online. At first I guess I was expecting to be all whooping chuckles but once I’d read the piece I grew quicky sad. So A and E split up in December? I think the thing that got to me first in the article was E’s producer saying that A was making an attempt to â??extort’ some money from her. What b***-s**t.

David (Look What I’ve Just Found Under This) Stone!

Man! The thought of A being pronounced upon by that nematoid, that unlanced boil - that creature so gutless as to be unable to see that the only kind action, as far as he’s concerned, would be to put a gun in his mouth, pull the trigger and rid the earth of a douchebag - just made me want to vomit.

A may or may not have written half of Vagina M’s - who knows? stranger things have happened - but he stuck by E through everything; she wouldn’t have been half the gal she was were it not been for him. Not least when she was off round the world, meeting up with C every five minutes for a quick meaningless ’shag’. Meaningless, as far as C was concerned, as he’d never stop telling me, however much I begged him not to.

A was E’s glue. He was there for her. And it must have been tough for him, with his own creative ambitions, while she was basking in the attention and adulation. A’s a Prince. Even if no longer E’s.

That Scotch guy Galloway cheered me up though. I had to laugh. Out loud and often. Those non-entitiies on that committee. â??Norm’ Coleman. What a lightweight. You could tell by that ridiculous bouffant hairdo of his that he really fancied himself. That he’d brown-nosed his way onto Bush’s team with no more talent than would be required to run the Georgetown Cattery. And then badly. Nevin gave old Highland George a bit more run for his money, but only marginally. He still came across as some pompous and self-satisfied Uncle Fester.

Man, we need more of him in the world. More of him Stateside.

Tuesday mixed then. We press on. Hope you’re OK. And Toni too. Jamie’s looking forward to his Connecticut trip.

Thinking of you

B. Daddy
xxx

Hi, guys. I’ve got a meeting later on in the week to talk to Lucy R at London Met about ‘Text’. I’m making some notes here.

Texere ‘ Latin for To Weave. Textile ‘ something that is woven. The Texture is the quality of the weaving. Textus is from the Medieval Latin. The Text. When language was beginning to be written rather than oral. When printing came in came the democratisation of the Bible with the Protestant Churches. The primacy of the Bible and the accessibility of the the Bible to the ordinary man.

Something that is well woven holds together. Something that is badly woven falls apart. The thing that primarily holds text together is NARRATIVE. The bible. In the beginning was the word.

Closely related to the word Scripture. The Scriptures. Precious and meaningful writing. Stories that need to be written accurately.

The plan for the building but not the building. An exercise in imagination and forward thinking; the application of the text-maker’s past experience of text-making.

b. A traditional story. It may never have been written down but it’s still a text. Jan Blake’s African and West Indian stories. They have a social function. A moral function. They are morally complex. Her story of the hunter and the waterbuffalo. Words alone are capable of much more moral - and even visual complexity - than images alone, music alone or movement alone. Or any of the last three mixed as well. .

Brecht’s pleas to his Electricians to give him more light. That heaths conjured up by Elizabethan playwrights, he says, are not only more real than the electricians can create, but more real than the heaths themselves. The power of the word. The power of the text. Brecht in the Shakespearian tradition.The importance of the written text to British art. The commedia companies never came to Britain. There was no Italian company in London.

c. Sermons. Morality Tales. Fairy tales. The lives of the Saints. What we did as children. The daily heroics of our mothers and fathers in war and peace. Shakespeare, Moliere, Chaucer, Emily Bronte, Mark Twain, Bertholt Brecht, Sylvia Plath, Cervantes. Classical Ballet and Opera. The musical. The score. The libretto. Text. Narrative.

d. Film. The text is the script. Charlie Kaufmann is playing with narrative not replacing it.

A cliche of film making that it’s suicide to go into the shoot without a script. A text.

Improvisation is anti-historical. It’s happening in the eternal present. It’s best done when the performer is in a divine state of presence, all past and future forgotten. Ric Morgan of Theatre Machine describes as like being in a car crash, watching yourself, above yourself but with no control. No volition.

Storytelling, writing, is about rewriting. Judging. Going backwards and forwards over what you’ve done. Something more considered. Jan’s African stories orally delivered, never written down, don’t disobey that rule. A story, like a joke gets improved with the telling. All good stories will be retold.

The opposite of improvisation. It says: I don’t know what this will be. That’s the thrill. It has no beginning except the moment when the improvisers come on stage and it’s end is the point at which one or both of the parties signal a halt. Once it is over, it’s gone forever.

Narrative is progressive as well as consequential. If this - A - happens, this - B - happens. This B is a consequence of this A. This gives rise to the idea of if this A hadn’t happened, then this B wouldn’t have happened… TBC….

Facility

Originally uploaded by stevie t.

THE LIGHTING

Give us some light on the stage, electrician. How can we
Playwrights and actors put forward
Our images of the world in half darkness? The dim twilight
Induces sleep. But we need the audiences
Wakeful-, even watchfulness. Let them
Do their dreaming in the light. The little bit of night
We now and then require can be
Indicated by moons or lamps, likewise out acting
Can make clear what time of day it is
Whenever needed. The Elizabethans wrote us verses
About a heath at evening
Which no electrician can match, nor even
The heath itself. So light up
What we have laboured over, that the audience.
Can see how the outraged peasant woman
Sits down on the Finnish soil
As if it belonged to her.

Ist April. Theatre Museum. Two days back from Los Angeles. No Technician. Three lights. Two circuits. But we still have a show. And sixty audience. Students, Friends and even a few punters. A a child who projectile vomits. But good feedback and very good feedback from Claire Hodgson the next day at The Facililty who has seen it a week before in Scarborough. Lucy wants to book it for October.

7th April. Sharon Osbourne does a runner but not me. I’m there supporting the old warhorse on its press night. Gratis. Mark G has given me the lowdown. Why Aimee was in in the first place. And how Aimee and Shazza were out. About Sharon’s people. Press Releases. The Barbara Windsor that nearly was and then wasn’t. Eve’s Agincourt address on the Tuesday night. Punters wanting their Sharon shilling back.

Rula Lenska takes over at a day or so’s notice and does a really good job. Jenny Eclair gives it some welly. Clit Fact Repeat happens on four occasions (some probably plants) and for some mysterious but pleasing reason Jenny starts Reclaiming Cunt in a Brechtian songspiel.

Cruiser

The Englishman Abroad.

Picture this: Los Angeles. Night. La Cienega Boulevard running north south. A silver PT Cruiser has just made a left turn from the five-lane strip tailing out of LAX and guns towards the city. Inside, The Englishman. A man on a mission. But also a man with no clear idea where he’s heading. The guy at Foxes car rental has just charged him almost double what the internet reservation said it was going to be, but who cares? The Englishman has been traveling for 11 hours already. He just wants to find a bed.

OK, he’s done this journey twice before, once with Phil the DoP a couple of years back and once with the taxi driver bringing him back from Phil’s house. It doesn’t seem too strange or too scary. There’s that bit on the left that looks like a funny bumpy bit of green hillside with no houses on, where he has some generic memory of seeing oil donkeys. There’s the ever-familiar low-rise stores. And up ahead somewhere is Hollywood.

And then he’s there. This must be Sunset Boulevard running across, left to right. La Cienega ends at Sunset! Why didn’t anyone tell him that? That’s easy. That’s like the M4 ending at Oxford Street. Simple. The Englishman also has a map downloaded from the internet. It tells him to turn right and first left onto Queens Street. Left onto Hollywood Drive and right onto Sunset Plaza Drive his final destination.

Easier said than done. He misses the turning onto Queens - it’s seconds after the turn onto Sunset and he has to find a way to do a U-ie here on Sunset at 10 at night, the Boulevard streaming with Thursday night pleasure-seekers. But he does it. He finds Queens. He finds Hollywood Drive. He drives up Hollywood Drive in the dark past mansion after mansion, being sure to come to a complete stop at each STOP sign, just as Phil had instructed him on Phil’s tour of Hollywood History.

But the drive up the Drive seems to go on for ever and finally he phones a friend. His friends, to be precise: Sherri and Gilles. They’ve never been up Hollywood Drive. That’s not the route they’d take. They tell The Englishman to turn round, come down to Sunset again, drive West past La Cienega - to Mel’s.

Mel’s. Soon to be familiar Mel’s. And the Coffee Bean next door. Landmarks, meet-up points for the next few days. but today The Director gets into a bit of a barney with the parking attendant when he tries to plonk the Cruiser by the side-entrance and is finally forced to move to the road in front.

And eventually Gilles arrives and The Englishman is escorted right to the top of Sunset Plaza Drive. He greets Sherri. Meets the lovely Stewie - again. Retired sheepdog and all-round good egg who runs the Chiasson-Lee household with a rod of fur.

Prezzies are unpacked. A teapot in the shape of a Victorian Pillar Box. Highland Shortbread packed into an old style London bus, typical Londoners in profile in the bus’s windows: a charlady, a man in a bowler hat with a handlebar moustache, a Cock-ney. There’s also a packet of English Breakfast tea to be used in the teapot. Shame. Why does The Englishman go all atavistic and nationalistic when he travels? Maybe he’s just being ironic. Maybe not.

Spoke to her about me scanning some of her Vagina Monologue photos from The King’s Head and VDay. Putting them on the website. I haven’t seen them yet but, knowing Bunny’s work, they’ll be great.

At the moment, she’s designing The Postman Always Rings Twice. And we have to have a Paddy conversation. Paddy played the Jack Nicolson part when the show was first on at the West Yorkshire Playhouse. He’s subsequently been celebritised by Val Kilmer for the West End show. The usual thing. But what’s more, I’ve worked with Val Kilmer on The Saint in Moscow in 1997. Phil shot it. I know the stories. Val’s a complete See U Next Thursday. No question. I can prove it on an EtchaSketch. Good luck everyone. Unless Val’s had some Damscene Moment: Good Luck! Good luck Director. Good Luck Producer. Good Luck Investors. It could be Sharon Ozbourne Part 2.

Got a parking ticket and a speeding ticket. But not in Los Angeles. Got a better reception (so far) from Los Angeles than we did from Belgrade. But there again, Belgrade is not a happy place at the moment.

Got held up at Heathrow for 9 hours because JAT was on strike. The station manager apologised to me saying that a lot of people hadn’t been paid recently. That’s why there was a strike. So, even before getting out of West London, I was beginning to get first-hand experience of the state Serbia/Montenegro is in. Mr Zoran K, the station manager, then added, out of the blue, as I left him that all this mess couldn’t just be put down to Milosevic….

The name was going to crop up again.

But the eight hours was nicely spent because I got to have a long conversation with Zita Z, a Theatre Studies student from Kingston Uni; to get her take, not only on Serb/Mont but also on the UK. She was going back for the holidays to see her mum and dad. Her English was brilliant, really colloquial, Estuarine and slangy, and she supported, and occasionally worked as a hopitality waitress, for Tottenham… I decided there and then if we succeeded in putting the show on as we wanted - we would ask her to translate it into Serbo-Croat.

She also tipped me off to meet Derjan Mikhailovic, the newly elected Minister of Culture for Belgrade, who, by chance, we were introducted to the next morning at the Museum of Modern Art reception. So meeting Zita got us a meeting with Derjan.

That Saturday, then, instead of arriving at tea-time, we arrived after midnight. But we still went to see our hopeful ‘host’ in Belgrade. Sadly she turned out to be all wind and piss, the Legendary Branka P, whose theatre, the Centre for Cultural Decontamination, turned out to be the Centre for Cultural Non-Co-operation, keeping us waiting another hour only to say that she was too tired to have ‘the meeting’.

In fact, we never had ‘the meeting’. She ‘pulled out’ - was she ever in? - 48 hours later when we were in Subotica.

But lovely to find the Majestik Hotel. Lovely to find Chrissie there. Lovely to be able to park the hire-car somewhere near (and not get a ticket the very first morning).

Lovely to discover we’d been invited after breakfast to the museum. A lovely spring day, leaves just beginning to sprout on the trees, driving out of Belgrade to a park the banks of the Sava river, the forty year old building, inspired by Moma in New York, it’s external roof and gabling etching the letters MM against the emerging greenery.

Lovely to go, that lunchtime, with old friends Joka and Ljubica to the Konoba fish restaurant beside the railway bridge and catch up on their news. Fried catfish and another one called Smuj, I think. The quaint little gingerbread houses in the same locality made of driftwood and salvage, perched among bulldozed levees.

Sitting on the riverbank talking to Joka about his yacht club sailing on the Danube; about the summer regattas; about the Iron Gate further up river near the Romanian border, a gorge with a big lakey marshland in front of it. About the owner of the fish restaurant, feted for rescuing suicides from the bridge, as he sits calmly in his boat catching the day’s menu.

Talking also about a strike the next morning. Ljubica was lending some of the Centre Stari Grad’s chairs to a neighbour. People were coming the next day to pay their condolences. They needed chairs. Their son had been stabbed to death last week. Coming back from school, he’d passed a group of kids sitting on a wall and they’d said something. He said something back, so they’d beaten and kicked him and he died.

The whole country is shocked, the newspapers are full of it, and the Ministry of Eduction so worried it’s called for the schools to close and for a day of rememberance and demonstration from students and teachers. Things are getting out of hand. Things are changing; and - again - not for the better. Ljubica tells me people are shocked. Ljubica, the steadfast one who did so much to provide a haven during the Nato bombing. Where young people could come when all the schools were closed. A refuge of drama and art and orange juice. She thinks that these are the kids of Yugoslavia’s destruction. Kids who were born when Yugoslavian dismemberement began. This murder is their legacy.

That night, Chrissie and Ljubica and Luka and I went to Gordana’s show at the National Theatre: Theatre or Life? Based on the art of Charlotte Salomon, and the life that led her eventually to the Gas Chamber - there were some stunning images - and some stunningly beautiful performers - it was clear and disciplined and well orchestrated but the narrative needed shaping. Ok, we were struggling without the Serbo-Croat, but it appeared to end about five times.

I was painfully conscious of how disciplined and drilled the work was, though. I knew that our actors would not have the chance to rehearse in such detail (or the tradition of it, for that matter either), but I knew we could make up for it in the relevence of our play, and the passion and commitment with which it could be performed. We had something to say - about war, about legacy and about young people.

We had one drink with Gordana in the bar after and went home to prepare for our drive and our ‘meetings’ the next day in Novi Sad and Subotica.

But first, on Monday, the meeting with the Minister. He was late but he gave us a fair hearing - and his backing: ‘Tell Borka P the Minister supports this project’. Pity she didn’t. He also told us that a few years ago Warcrime would have been thought of as ‘politically incorrect’, because any criticism of the Nato bombing was seen as an attempt to support Milosevic….

Now, six years after it happened - three days shy of the sixth anniversary, in fact - we were at last free to speak ‘the truth’ in the country to which it had been done.

Progress.

We drove up to Novi Sad. A meeting with the new director of the Young People’s theatre. Not an inspiring man. Quite kindly looking. Suited. Grey. His young translator Mickey obviously champing at the bit but Mr K could really only offer us technical support…

On to Subotica, Luka at the wheel. We go on a little detour and park up. He shows me the Lake where he played when KPGT were setting the town alight. And across from the lake the wooded area where they did another show. Better times; for all. Luka who now kips on the floor of the Secerana. The excellent actor with no fixed abode.

We drive into town. He seems to know or be known by everyone. Well, of course. He lived here for nine years. He met a girl. They got married. He has a daughter, doing well at school. Hoping to be a doctor or an architect. He still sees her, of course.

We meet his friend, Robika, guitar playing man, Martial Artist with the roguish smile, who’s the director or the school hostel. It’s here that the wedding collective actors will stay, each with their own student room built round an old quiet courtyard.

We go to the Arts Centre. There’s an exhibition launch. We meet the ex minister of Culture of Subotica. We meet the woman who’s just failed to get elected to be minister. We speak to the current Minister on the phone, finally, but we don’t meet her. Protocols have to be observed. Too busy. Apparently from the Hungarian nationalist party. Miss Ildica L. But she does take down our website details… and email us the next morning.

We go drinking with the journalist who did the TV interview with me earlier in the day. Her boyfriend turns up. He’s the chef at his dad’s restaurant we’d tried to park outside earlier. He loves Jamie Oliver. He wants to do programmes about local food. About these farms we’ve been seeing on the way up. Little oases of trees, buildings and animals nestling in a sweep of bare still-winter farmland. Women, children, geese, shade, barns, wells, pumps, machinery, wood-piles, pigs and chicken. But by now we’ve had the news of Borka Contamination and I don’t feel like staying the night. We drive back to Belgrade. Get a ticket on the open road with not a car headlight for three miles either way on the rod-straight roads, not even the cops who ‘caught’ us.

And, thank God, no need to travel the 500 km round trip the next day to Nis, Zoran Zivkovic is going to be in Belgrade. We meet. We have a good meeting, his translator the stunningly beautiful Mira? from Canada. Mr Z, very impressive with his jet black hair and his open neck shirt and dark suit. His ‘proposal’, setting it down on the table like a flush of cards. But it’s good this. Better than pussy-footing around. It allow us to state our ‘position’, which we do.

We talk about the venue. Zivkovic says they have many interesting wrecked buildings in Nis that might be suitable for our show. I ask about the Tobacco Factory that Gordana mentions in the show. No, he say, it’s been rebuilt. Then he adds, and now owned by an American company. Smart, I say, first they bomb it. Then they buy it. He laughs.

The upshot: that we will do the tour two weeks later than initially thought - time for him to get the money.

And at the end Mira say: Mr Zivkovic has just said a famous phrase that Slobodan Milosevic always used to say: OK, that’s it. Now, let’s get back to our desks! Everyone I subsequently told this to knew the phrase - and laughed. It was now politically correct to quote the old enemy. And did I detect some fondness? Zivkovic only became Prime Minister last year because the Prime minister was assassinated.

A good way to end the day. And them Sarajevo Stories at the KPGT Secerana, Philip Gajic’s piece. Excellent. Very clear though for some reason I thought that Ljubisa had directed it, thanked him and didn’t thank Philip….

And finally, getting a cab up to Misko’s. Lily was in Italy. But they are doing better. Misko is still driving the taxi and maybe will always be driving the taxi now, but he has become an internet wizard. He downloads music. He’s not standing still. He’s still gentle and kind. Looking after their son. Providing Luka and me with a stunning Moussaka and salad and wine and everything you could ask for at eleven at night. And two hours conversation. It’s only because he’s now got all his computers and DVD in their lovely flat that we couldn’t find something to attach the old Video player to so he could see the tape I made five years back.

And so I left, for one day in London before I fly 11 hours to LA.

Door

You open the door and you haven’t yet gone in.

The room is vulnerable.

An exchange is about to happen.