COMPETITION

Theatre of war

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1818 you were invited to supply an extract from an im- aginary actor or actress's autobiography in which rancour, rudeness and immodesty are rampant.

—Jeremy," I remember explaining, "we're agreed it's essentially a Marxist play, right? Shouldn't we focus on the whole Elsinore society, not one indi- vidual's complexes? Let's just cut those damn soliloquies." But Jeremy had cast Courtenay Wisp as the Prince. . . Much the same occurred when he attempted to play Macbeth opposite my Donaldbain.' This from George Simmers, one of the best runners-up this week. The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each. I have lenient- ly made John E. Cunningham one of them:

a diary is autobiographical but not, strictly speaking, an 'autobiography', and though the extract is 'imaginary', Burbage is not. The bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to R. J. Pickles.

. . who was screwing my wife among others. Then Tarquin 'Aspinall begged me to play lago in New York with Sir Nigel as Othello. God, Sir Nigel, queer as a coot, married a leggy bimbo extra from some TV production he hammed through to put the press off the scent after the rent boy incident set tongues wagging.

Dame Rita was his aging Desdemona, her face transfixed in a look of perpetual surprise inherited from the plastic surgery she tried to pass off as an appendix operation. Mind you, she coped better after she dried out, even though her lines had to be taped to every piece of scenery and prop.

Her heroin problem was diagnosed as tran- quilliser addiction when her supplier was found dead in her flat shortly before she was evicted for rent arrears. She claimed he was a pizza delivery man. Her tremendous bulk . . . (R. J. Pickles) It should have been a theatrical marriage made in Binkie Beaumont's heaven: me as Elyot, ray ex-wife Sybil as Amanda. The sparks should have flown. As it was, she so comprehensively upstaged me that what sparks there were rapidlY metamorphosed into cold ashes. 'Darling,' said

Nina, for once not lacerating me with her well-honed bitchiness but showing good judg- ment, I thought, 'you could have been the definitive Elyot. But Sybil has destroyed you.'

And not for the first time, I thought, as I watched her malevolent posturings. Given that we spawned three children, I suppose there must have been sex at some stage in our relationship, but surveying her desiccated body at every performance, I was reminded more of the miracles of embalming and modern stage make- up than the tempting flesh and pulsating blood with which I had presumably at one time made 'the beast with two backs'.

(Watson Weeks) Larry and I were never great buddies. I play a part as a surgeon wields a scalpel; he played it like a butcher cutting up meat. When he was directing and playing Macbeth I made a bit of a stir as the Second Murderer. I got power into the part by gazing at Larry's ribs as he briefed us, and imagining myself slipping a knife between them.

Harold Hobson told me afterwards he was unable to keep his eyes off me. Dilys Powell wrote that I generated such force that the tragedy of Macbeth became the tragedy of the Second Murderer.

I think I helped Larry to realise his needs and limitations. He must have grasped the company he was in. Certainly, he seemed relieved when they begged me to come and help Brian Rix at the Whitehall.

(Paul Griffin) Extract from the Diary of Richard Burbage

Sept 1602: All Day rehearsing the new-old Peece that Will have scrambled out of the orts from Kyd (that was Marlowe's Bum-boy until Ned Aleyne stole him, a-promising he shd play Zenocrate to his Tamerlane), but nothing of Comfort. Shakcbag himself beyond Measure ill in the Ghost wherein the Prompter did speak more Lines than he, and Will Kempe, that has ne'er stopped crowing since his Jaunt to Nor- wich — wherein he drunke seven days together, what Marvel's this? — roaring for more Jests for his Second Gravedigger — and he like to die every time he cometh a-stage, and we with him. So to the Mermaid, where Ben flaunting his mouldy Tagges of Greeke as ever. But did espy Masters B. & Fletcher mighty thick, and thought to buy them drink. . . . They tell me the Queen sick near to dying since Sir Walter swives her no more.

(John E. Cunningham) . . . but I thought it was very brave of Noel to do it at his age. Plastic surgery does have its limits, after all. In fact after a thorough make-up job he looked wonderful. It was his mind that had gone, alas. Luckily he was playing to a seasoned, selfless pro and I got him through the first night with some subtle prompts and ad libs that the audience was completely unaware of. It was dreadfully sad that afterwards his fading mental powers caused him to accuse me of upstaging him. Myself, I believe it was the knighthood that first went to his head. It's the kind of thing that makes an actor lose his humility, and I have always made it known that I would never accept one. Mind you, it always seems to be the queens who become knights, and I've never been one of those.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)