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!