Announcements

It is with a mixture of sadness and jubilation that Halden Theatre has to announce Alistair Catterall will be leaving the company; During the time he has been with us he has seen and in fact helped us grow into what he would say "Nottingham's most innovative DIY Theatre company". He will be moving on to bigger and better things which involve concentrating on his writing and film work. I am sure I represent everyone at Halden Theatre when I say Farewell and Good Luck Alistair.

So this of course means that I must introduce our new Producer. Our new producer, one Barry Paul Horrell; some of you maybe aware that Mr Horrell is Halden Theatre's MD (Musical Director). Barry will be holding this position on a temporary basis until we have managed to recruit a new volunteer producer, I think a round of applause is required for Barry as I am 100% confident that he will bring new styles of work to future productions that he will work on. This in mind, If anyone out there reading this is perhaps a budding producer or would like to be a producer please please contact Halden Theatre so we can discuss matters further.

Well we are into the final stretch, 4 weeks to go, the cast are forming an amazing piece of dramatic action. The costumes are having there final pins taken out and the tickets are selling like hot buns at a church fête. All we need now is for the opening night! Of course there is still a lot more work to be done, Lights have to be arranged and more importantly the lighting board! So with no further adieu I had better get back to work . . . Now where is my 12V tester!

We're heading for venus . . .

As Daniel and I wait around the venue, I stare out of the window at the slow passing traffic as he straightens his jacket and struts to and fro. Clear as the black tape tarred across the floor, this show is going ahead. The venues are booked; the posters in print and more worryingly, the cast appear to be forming a play that exudes strength and vitality. As the responsibility dawns, I feel we could fall ourselves free from excuse and bear the burden solely upon our shoulders, but who knows.

Anyway, as promised, allow me to introduce a fantastic artistic and close friend of mine, Hannah Heartshape, who will be taking the role of Estelle, the unsafe socialite with a occupational tendency to introduce those too young to swim to water. Hannah is a wonderful singer songwriter with a voice to rival the best between the blues, soul and disco. With her solo work and her involvement with Sub Rosa (also affiliated with the aforementioned Richard Bolton), she is quickly becoming one to watch on the Nottingham live scene.

Hannah and I met while at a gallery/party opening and proceeded to get thoroughly under water with the free wine, leading to an impromptu session/busking moment out on the street. And as we played with fire (which made us a whole two pounds!), her voice rattled out among cigarettes and smiles, while I played to hard and decided to layer the inside of her guitar with a coat of blood. I’m still fairly honoured that she hasn’t cleaned that away, so that one day I may be able to saunter into a hard Rock and say “there’s a little bit of me” long since after she moves on to the places that she deserves. Put short, she is poetry, of the rarest kind.

Now with the venues in place, and already in work with a fantastic duo for Decadence, it seems that promotion is the thing to do. But all this time with these people, I’m craving my little room and a lot of wine, theatre is a business for wolves, and tonight with this upon us, I feel like a kitten.

Huis Clos:

Lee Rosy’s Tea: 17th July 7 pm

Lee Rosy’s Tea: 19th July 1 pm

Jamcafe: 21st July 7 pm

Jamcafe: 22nd July 7 pm

Fade and the hard to find café: 29th July 7 pm

Lee Rosy’s Tea: 31st 7 pm

To book tickets or for more information, please contact us on: haldentheatre@gmail.com 02071937385

All tickets cost only £2! Please come down and show your support to people trying to do something new, in a town already full with a fantastic night scene, thanks!

Just when you thought it would not get any worse . . .

Hope is a dangerous bedfellow, finished too quickly and asleep too soon. I sit stupid and nervous to lie in his sweaty, overfed arms. However, this time I feel I have no choice but to submit. As the last entry will probably present, despair had sunk in with our sorry state of affairs. We had lost a key member, our rehearsal space was in jeopardy and time spent with our cast was falling by the wayside. Already within a week, things have changed. We now have a male lead far superior to the original, the space has been cleared and painted by our gallant crew, and actors for decadence have already began to rise from the dark recesses of this fair city. Today our performance venues were selected and as Daniel noted “shit, I thought we’d have more trouble”. Yet these things come in threes, so there is still a good healthy fear towards to the future, but who knows.
Daniel and I had our first radio show this week. Hopefully, soon I will work out how to post a link. Amongst much mumbling and a little sullen drunkenness our natural distaste for all popular culture prevailed as we appeared secular and suspicious to the few people listening. I fear Daniel is wasted on radio, arriving in full cravat, shined shoes and tailcoat (suffering in the glorious summer heat). My thanks goes out to Lian for setting the slot up. And as we fell through the tragic miscommunication and obscure references of interview, I believe that at least one of us will have appeared likable. The question is, between the two of us, the mike and the four walls, which presented a greater humanity and stage presence, is debatable.
As for now, we draw in with furious laughter and a little well warmed optimism. I have even stopped my drinking for this. When a performance takes precedence over physical health well, we may just have something. Yet there is nothing to give us a steady heart yet, but what has occurred is a regrouping of the blind united front. We appear to be in control again, apt as we are, at the illusion. Soon, when it is all completed I will be able to post a list of venues and dates and with the next entry I will give a little information on another member of the cast, the wonderful Hanna Holiday. Until then, it leaves me only to say, that as Daniel and I hack away at the fireplace front with drunken saws and rotten wood (red nails etc) we have nothing of this day to fear, except for Daniel’s script typos. I leave you with our current favourite (which sadly will not be repeated within the performance). We will “revenger” ourselves soon.

The Grim . . . .

We sway with wild winds that are beyond our hands. And too often we listen to the guidance of fools and cowards, and sometimes we don’t listen enough. We should watch the spiders run from the new fire and realise that maybe they’ve got something on us. They just might have seen the final hand and thrown it in before the foundations crumble. Because when it reaches the point when drink does nothing, and the company of friends does nothing, and even watching the sweeping of a street in the good sunlight fails to light the green from fresh leaves, there is a problem
“Folk’s I’m going down…”
Our lead male role has dropped out. Rehearsals are falling by the wayside like the sailors who jump knowing that they cannot swim, but the cold water will be faster than the slow soft filling of their lungs. Halden theatre swallows the brine and cannot smile today. We struggle to get performance venues, costume ideas seem impracticable and far fetched for even the most delusional snake oil and lead salesman.
Daniel sits in his living room while we sift the coffee gains from our teeth and next to him I sleep. We have a fireplace front, and that is about it. And with my belly still full of wine, we wait to allow the day to slip behind us, to the tiger of this harsh and brutal night and to the soft beating of the heavy cold and the guttural wail of failure and fatigue that will engulf it all eventually.

“To the St James infirmary, see my baby there…”

Halden Theatre Presents . . . . . Richard Bolton!

Working with people, is something I have never been good with. It’s the interaction, small talk, the miniature taboos. I just struggle. However, within this project, many fantastic new friends and faces have been met. So it leaves me to introduce them. Each entry I will offer a small section on a new face of Halden Theatre in the hope that with a little sweet praise, they will forgive my otherwise vicious and visceral character. So, we begin with Richard Bolton, who will be playing the valet within Huis Clos. Rich is an old friend of mine, often have we drunk deep into the night, and I remember a time when our lives evolved around stealing as many drugs as we could and duping all that would let us. Good times, bad fun, brute strength of character and cruel determination. Since then, he has grown up a little in thoughts and ambitions. Richard is a fantastic writer and a talented musician. A voice, my god, the bastard can howl. Rich has been involved with such groups as the 3am association, Eden06, and Sub Rosa. Also, he has worked with me as a filmmaker, actor and all the sorry stuff that we do to produce a film. I have known him a long time, and hope to continue to. So as we sit and sip whisky waiting for the first rehearsal, all spirits are high in glass and mind as we soak the afternoon air. Gathering all cast and crew together in an abandoned warehouse with the stink of piss is kinda where I saw myself in three years. And know because of that thought, a good drunk is on the table, oh sweet hell it is. But it is something, quite. The reading all goes well and schedules are drawn up, and as they sit and read and Daniel sways with the rhythm, Richard smokes a cigarette, Lian tugs her coat and Hanna tucks into the red leather sofa. It all comes into place. And it strikes me, six years ago, rich and I were crashing in a little homely squat, tucking cocaine under the toilet seat as the police came in through the front by the battered fireplace and the garden full of child’s toys. And now, now, I am sitting in a room with talent resonating against the walls. Shit, someone even brought cake, fucking homemade cake! So as I sit and sip my black coffee, and light another cigarette, it seems that somewhere things changed. I just hope I do not slip. I’m not sure Daniel would forgive me.
p.s. Lian, thank you it was really dam good cake.

B Roads to A Roads!

Watching the walls slump down as I lie on the floor, I draw the days hungover and broken, and it all appears so clear. I know that all of us should be doing bigger and better things with our lives. We should, but we don’t. So I’m going to offer aid and give a quick and cheerful summery for our progress and situation at the moment. We are completely and utterly fucked.
It was fine when there appeared to be no chance in hell that this would begin to work. I kinda thought its legs would buckle and that would be that. I could go back to my slow and tired writing and my window watching drinking, stopping occasionally to pat myself on the back and say well, you tried. But now, Jesus, now! We begin rehearsals this week, production in two, auditions for the next show in three and then the snake continues to eat its own tail till it creates a perfect zero as O’Brien said, leaving nothing but the void. Goddam it and no one is helping! Andrew from Lee Rosie’s has become more generous than before, allowing us performance, rehearsal and audition space. Tom at the studio is giving us space. Our production crew has increased with the help of our good friend Lian Duan, who is now offering her time and effort to production and promotion of the show. What the hell is wrong with these people? Haven’t we spilled enough evidence that we are blind and dumb to the terrible reality of this situation? But it gets worse, oh god does it. I receive many emails a day. Some are from people just keen to audition or offer a little help here and there and that is fantastic. But now, I’m receiving mail from hardened professionals, dancers from New York, Stage managers from London. And the more that I tell these people that we cannot afford to pay them, that we are small and without a venue or local name, it does nothing. They reply, saying “sure, I’d love to come and help out” What the hell! Why? What am I doing wrong? Daniel has become optimistic because of all this, and it does appear that fate is still smiling for the time being. I can no longer remember when the tide turned. Failure was fine if we could attribute it to the elitist attitude of the business and those established within it. When we could argue that no one came to the auditions, rehearsal space prices were extortionate, but shit, we did what we could man, we tried. IT WAS FINE! But, to place it all on our shoulders that it stands to us as to whether it rises or falls, this was unexpected. Well, here goes.
In earnest, I am truly thankful for all the fantastic help we are receiving, soon I will run a long list of all those currently involved. I cannot believe the responses we have had and to all of you, I hope we can help you as much as you are aiding us. Cynical as I am, you all have drastically altered my belief that this city and its people are a closed off and cold lot. I am blown away by all of this, and as sacrine as it is: thank you. We begin soon, and so far you have all offered a great amount of faith. We have a fantastic cast and crew; I hope we can live up to your expectations. I know dam well, that we will try.
As a small note to anyone reading this (does anyone?) Auditions for Berkoff’s Decadence will be running at Lee Rosie’s Tea in Hockley on the 3rd of June (Wednesday) from ten till three.

We've Ditched the Ditch

Well it has arrived; somehow some generously sadistic people have given us the breaks to start with this terrible thing. I have already been warned to be optimistic, by many that I care to listen to. And I think that it is good advise should I take it. But that’s the question, and at this early stage, the light could become all too much, the face has only began to creak in the dawn of this thing. Don’t trust the sun; five o’clock is a better time for mistakes. There is less illumination and a better sense of seedy righteousness. I digress, but I feel blessed to this week. It is true; we have been smashed jovially in the face with good fortune. Now we are the possession of a good and fine, foolhardily and altogether trusting crew, god help them. Not only that, but through a friend with a kind and open heart (whose name I shall not mention as I do not want to cause him any difficulty, dealing with us will be enough) has allowed us the use of a space to rehearse. There is nothing like the swill of piss and stepfeet of broken glass to kick the theatre into you. Hell, I might even start to sleep there.
So it is ready, apparently, and even at these early infant stages we have been accused of stealing. The goddamn insult! Before we were even ready to steal. The trick is to wait to the end and get the head right into the vice, and then go for it. Nobody wants a tail. But this has, thankfully (light a cigarette) removed our doings with the fame factory, a production line of filthy promises to young girls. It sounds horrific, almost wrong, and believe me, it is.
I will not go into the naming and devouring of our cast just yet. Those morsels can be slipped out within the coming weeks. But I will say that we have the crew of strong voices, fine bodies and talent to kill an ox. I am excited; I believe that they can do powerful things, if the right techniques are applied. And my faith is in Daniel too. There is something beautiful in the man’s desperate sickness towards theatre, and it is an illness I intend to nurture.
Already we begin the bull run into our next production, why, I am not sure. But the general gist of the talk has been that the only way to make it, and to do it well with gamble, will be to run regardless of the despotic and obvious truth that surrounds us. Maybe through blind determination and stubborn grit can we succeed and sit in the sun with our feet on the grass. This is a fantasy, but I see it, and I know we can reach the high pinnacle of success that is plastic garden furniture shaded in a fine tapioca (and I will accept no other).
So it simply stands to state this fact, the production stubbornly refuses to die, and it forces us to feed it from an already sore tit. I was not made for this, but I do not resent it. Behind all these terrible prospects, is the possibility that what we are attempting to do, may actually succeed. If it is possible, I’m not sure, but of one thing I am: Halden Theatre is a phoenix, because despite my attempts with gasoline, it continues to rise upward to better planes. The royal bastard!

I have seen him in the watchfires of 100 circling camps . . . .

Here it comes. Noticing spelling mistakes on all the advertising and failing with applications, here it comes. Both Daniel and I have now found ways to ignore the obvious truth. He, more sensibly, has chosen to sort out his garden, has been to a cheap show or two, and spent time with Karielle. I went and drank for three days, doing things that I will regret for some time. Either way we chose to run, the date arrives and we haven’t a goddamn clue what we are doing. Now fighting for rehearsal space, we have opted for a trade off with the stone soup project (if they accept). A cheap/free venue for some good volunteer work, getting our hands back into the shit of clearing out old buildings, it feels good to be home. Yet if this does not come through, well, fear and all that waits around the blunt and harsh corner of the 30th. My solution, although I have not discussed this with my good friend, is a new scheme of director/producer prostitution. Look, all I’m saying is that we are two young men with the long hair and at least one good pair of lungs between us. I have sunk lower than that before, and if it’s in the name of art, well…

Yet, positive we will stay. Small successes and little failures here and there and we will make our way though the fire. And if the worst arrives, then at least we are currently sitting outside, desperately attempting to cheat free food from our friends, enjoying this cool summer air. There are worse ways to live. As we consider ways to make money, we drank our wine and wondered about all those old buildings, those empty student houses that line the roads of Radford. Maybe, I said, we could break into a different one each day, we wouldn’t be the first illegal travelling theatre company. And although we have come up with some good ideas which do involve a slight snap of the law (of which I will not yet let leak) we finally drew back from our home invasion scheme. Not because of any false sense of legal morality, Or any pompous idea that we are better than those occupy their time in such a fashion (if anything, I think less of directors than I do thieves), but purely because of Daniel’s unique fashion. How many burglars do you think, might be found wearing a cashmere jacket with matching cravat? And it wouldn’t be the first time either. The dam fool…

One More Step Along The Road I Go

In these early stages there appears to be a world against you. And wandering from bar to bar attempting to find a venue, is a strong plate of evidence for this case. After one or two unsuccessful attempts to be taken seriously by staff/owners. Daniel and I decide to sit and slowly lament over a few neat drinks. Although not making us seem more effective, professional or credible for the rest of the afternoon, does mean that staff take our now violent advances brandishing posters and accusations, will a little more immediacy. We are crude, but successful.

After becoming lost in the bleached white walls of the Old Know’s Building, and interrupting a dance/prayer meeting, we come across a place willing to offer us a free audition space. I, have to pause before continuing, ok, deep breath. The Nottingham “fame factory”, a space used to offer thirteen year old girls the chance to dance and lip-sync along to their favourite songs is our salvation. In a city recognisably known for its music, theatre, artistic and creative scene, this is the only place that will take us. I do not know what these means about us, our reputation or the factory itself, but I am aware of what it reveals about the appearance of the Nottingham scene, and the grim and terrible reality. There is of course the possibility that I am wrong, and hold a mouthful of unintentional bias. I may just have my preconceptions altered about the fame factory. Maybe this is what I am scared of the most. If to its namesake of the Warhol studios offers Nottingham’s boundary to artistic freedom, then I might be truly fucked.

But it is done and we must continue. Advertisements are made online, and posters are printed. Sexy, black and sleek, somebody must want this glowing from their C.V. goddam somebody!

A few days later, Daniel and begin to distribute the posters, with limited success. As we stand in a bar whose name I will leave for they were kind enough to allow us to advertise, Daniel shakes his head in dismay, for I pin the poster against the door to the toilet at crotch level.

“So this is where theatre has been left” he says, staring at the already stained door.

“I think rather, it is where we have been” I say, and we leave.

Regardless of who is right, one thing is dangerously clear today. As we stare at a show, with no rehearsal space or venue, and the next daunting practice of convincing actors to work for free (oh mother of god,) we are defiantly, about to be pissed on by the public. So smile with that pretty mouth, and open wide…

And So It Begins . . . .

And so it begins. And with it dawns the horrific realisation of the task ahead. No amount of whisky and cigarettes can hide the terrible truth of what must come. At this 3am, I have nowhere, to run. I must face it, I have signed up to this and that is that, but why? Where did this begin?

So, this being the first, some background information may be useful to plot the course ahead. My name is Alistair, and to this point I have been a simple stupid writer, content with my little room and its windows, but now this brave new world draws in on me. I run a-minus productions along with my good friend Richard Bolton, who, although I met in a youth drama group, I have spent most of my time indulging alongside with any drink or drug we can reach. Now those days are over, if they weren’t already, long ago. About a year ago, after a few short and altogether failed attempts at film making, we shot our first feature film, called 2/1[two], a Dogme films shot in a single take, for one hour, with no script. After the god awful process of editing it and setting up some trailers etc, we began to look for a venue. As a gift we found TAO, or The Art Organisation in Nottingham. In exchange for a few days volunteering work, clearing out a hotel of needles, soiled benches and the like, (a detail which I might add, I ended up doing alone, the sucker) we were allowed to show the film. It went down altogether well, and is in fact up for its second showing as this is written down.

While at the organisation, we befriended possibly the most over dressed volunteer I have ever seen, one Daniel Hallam. For a man who spent most of his time in the activities of painting, pouring drinks and manual labour, he still persisted in the cravat with polished shoes and matching jacket. A strange man, I thought. I was not wrong. Over the course of the next few months our work together increased, and after I drank all his vodka, I had an obligation to repay the debt. Over drinks, he discussed his theatre group, Halden Theatre and his desire to get back into work. We then collaborated on a new script and set some work in motion.

Now on this god given morning, I have to come to the understanding in my booze burnt mind that I have signed up to co-run a production of Huis Clos, by Sartre. The fear is coming on strong, and it will not leave me to sleep this off. We have no money really to speak off. We have no audition space, no rehearsal room in mind, and no venue. Yet madness will drive us on, relentlessly forward, always!

I lean forward and tell him, the world is ruled by those brave enough to run towards the traffic, and I think we can do that. However, after deciding against this moment of method, we agree to just persist with the production plan. With this drink and last drop of fuel, gods speed and all those bad omens, let’s go onward! More soon…