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Monday, July 6th, 1998, Labatt's Hammersmith Apollo
Highs from the preview night died down considerably. Our energetic performance quickly became routine. Steven ended up changing almost nothing—I understood why. The feedback we received was mixed; changing one thing seemingly would result in worse feedback in that area. The play was going to be finalised soon, and after this week, we would no longer rehearse as we had. The only exception was when an understudy came on for their main actor. That was called a "put-in," so an understudy got an opportunity to do the play in full without an audience.
In the first week of previews I performed on Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday—four total performances for me, four for James. Darien hadn't performed that week. This week I would do the royal performance, but our schedule would shift once we premiered on July 14th. So moving on, I would perform Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, all were evening shows. James was unhappy with me getting all the special performances, evening shows and occasional fifth performance. A fact that even children could clearly understand for what it was, the director preferred my performance to his. Darien was a lot more down-to-earth kid who was nothing but grateful to do the Sunday matinees.
Just like our first preview night, buzz was in the air. Performing in front of two royals brought out patriotism that many Englishman didn't know they had in them. I wanted to go out and see the royals arrive to my home theatre. Previously, I was denied the chance because I was among the audience and needed to be inside. Unfortunately, today had a different reason with the same outcome. The theatre employed half calls—a requirement for all cast to be inside the theatre thirty-five minutes before the curtains opened. Of course, royals had their silly and pompous tradition of arriving in order of their ranks. Prince Charles would always arrive before Queen Elizabeth II because the Queen outranked him.
"Do you think Prince Harry will arrive before Prince Charles? Will they only meet inside?" I asked the biggest royal family fan I knew.
"Traditionally, yes. But also, it's pointless if they're going to an event together." Nain seemed to think it over.
"They'll arrive together. Prince Harry is still a child. Haven't you seen the red carpet?" Nain asked me.
Of course, I had seen it. The theatre had been completely transformed. A giant Doctor Dolittle marquee in bright yellow dominated the front. Day and night, the large letters glowed with their own interior lights. I loved seeing it whenever I took the Tube home—you could spot the lights all the way from the Broadway Shopping Centre. The theatre sat perfectly between a fork in the road, so everyone driving along the A219 had no choice but to see it before taking either exit.
"You've never seen anything like it…" I quoted.
That was the marquee's subtext, and it seemed apt for the red carpet in use today.
"Prince Charles is a good man; the gate money today will go to a charity for the elderly," Nain pointed out.
"Sure," I said simply.
There was no point in getting into an argument with Nain when the subject was the royals. I for one, didn't believe that a charity would be needed if the government was set up correctly to take care of their elders. Nain would probably agree with me but only if I didn't mention the royal family.
My dressing room was considerably more furnished this time around. James had added pictures of himself with a few select cast members—mostly the animals, who, of course, had no one inside them. Holli was the only person featured, though I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd taken the photo with the empty costume instead. Evidence suggested that to be the most likely. We had ninety two animals in the menagerie, James had made a good dent in that number. I wondered if Holli liked the anonymity the costume gave her, or if she was frustrated not to be recognised for her work.
My addition to the mirror gallery was a few photos of my family and Henry. In one, Mum was giving me a big peck on the cheek while Dad held me up. Their love felt stifling at times, and that picture captured it perfectly—even my annoyed face was spot-on. In another, Henry and I stood together; I was the one hugging him while he posed like a cool older brother, all casual-like.
Conversation with Henry had gone down like a lead balloon. Henry didn't entertain the notion of going for auditions and vehemently denied being interested in what he called "playing at make-believe". I had told him it was a mistake because he was more talented than I was; he wouldn't hear of it. I was confused because he was clearly interested in everything about the theatre and paid attention dearly. Something stopped him from admitting that to me. What was there to not like about singing, dancing and getting paid for it? Getting him onside was going to be a hard task, but one I wouldn't give up on.
"Five minutes, Act One! Beginners to stage!"
The intercom system was the word of God in theatre. People developed routines extremely quickly, and I had gotten it down with only five performances to my name so far. There were also the dos and don'ts of theatre. Leave my dressing room without informing my chaperone or an assistant manager? How about don't! Listen to the call of the intercom? DO that. Also, DO feel free to do whatever in your dressing room, even if that was perusing for a new employer. Having heard the intercom, I put away the scripts and sides I'd been browsing through.
"Bye, Nain," I said, with a wave.
"Good luck!" she said, rising from her seat excitedly.
She was extremely happy to leave my dressing room. Soon, she would be watching the show alongside Julie Andrews—her new best friend—and the two gentlemen who lived in Kensington Palace. She deserved that reward for all the times she'd sat in my dressing room, watching over me as a good guardian would. I could only begin my career in acting because of the sacrifices my family had made—and continued to make—for me.
I sensed a eureka moment—but it was gone just as quickly, slipping out of my reach.
My thoughts went back to the scripts my agent, Baldini, had dropped off earlier today. He was somewhere in the audience now, doubtless excited to see his favourite actor performing— I was certain his presence here had nothing to do with the two royal princes in attendance.
An actor's life could be summed up in one truth: they were always looking for their next job. A "job" could mean anything—a commercial that took a few hours to shoot, a photoshoot that lasted a day, a film that took couple of months, or a TV show that could run for years. EastEnders was like that, though they changed cast too often. A better example would be Hollyoaks, filmed in Chester, still going strong after three years with no signs of stopping.
So even though we were performing for the future King of the United Kingdom, most of us were already thinking ahead to what came next. The next job. I was no exception.
Big-name actors could pick and choose their projects—projects being the operative word there, because at that point it was not about money anymore. Leonardo DiCaprio was in Titanic just last year; I knew his career better than any other actor's. There were not many times I had seen all the movies an actor had been in. He was the exception. Leonardo was already among the richest movie actors in existence now. Revelations told it true, he'd be chasing all the difficult roles or Oscar-baity films for the next three decades. Because if you had all the money, you'd do things for the artistry, for the challenge. Perhaps, that was just who he was; his first big role was him playing a mentally challenged kid. Could the wealth and fame just been a happy coincidence?
Sarah, who played the love interest in Doctor Dolittle, had been working at a bar before she landed this gig. Andy still manned the phones for a travel agency three days a week, even now. Hell, the person with the most stable job before joining Doctor Dolittle was Bernadene, our dance captain—she'd had a two-year contract with a cruise ship company, one she ended early to take this opportunity. Had she somehow been able to work the Mediterranean by day and perform evening shows in Hammersmith, I think she would've done both.
As you can tell, money was an intermittent thing for actors in England. The stream was tiny compared to Hollywood—you had to stand by it, hold out your bucket constantly, and graft hard for your share. Still, I think many preferred that to the fenced-up river that was Hollywood, a private property where only a lucky few got to enjoy all the fame and wealth. Fame, privatised successfully.
My motivations were neither about the money or the art. Money wasn't a concern to me because I was a child. Artistry could be made up for in the future. My goal was to raise my profile, get lead roles so I could that I had what it takes to lead up a massive franchise like Harry Potter.
Audition calls had dried up for some time when I'd been busy with rehearsals, only to pick up again in July. You could find out the reason why if you went through the scripts on my desk. Most of it though, was sides rather than scripts—a scene that I could do for my audition. Sides also had information for the characters described in the scene—their goals, backstory, appearance, maybe more, maybe less. Details were spotty in some, really specific in others. Mansfield Park, a movie I had received the full script for, had a part for me as the younger version of the adult roles. The only problem was that I needed to be between twelve and sixteen year old for the lead roles. Thus, I could only be a featured character at best, main character's friend, family, servant, something along those lines.
Then there were the stacks of TV miniseries from BBC or ITV. These UK networks had quarterly meetings, but the important one was semi-annual budget meetings that approved their broadcast schedule for the period. The stack TV show sides on my desk were all the result of the last such meeting. That stack made me question the executives who ran these giant networks.
The BBC had a clear preference for proven works; I had no other explanation for how there could be so many adaptations of Charles Dickens or Jane Austen novels. One would be a TV movie and another a miniseries—both adapting the same story and filming at the same time. Talk about cannibalising the audience's interest. It frustrated me to no end because the project I was most likely to end up in was Oliver Twist. Again!
The crazy thing was Elijah Wood had already done it the year before—I'd even watched that version when I was cast as Oliver. And now the BBC was producing a TV series just a year later. What was their excuse? That the last one was American, so this one would somehow be better because it was British? I couldn't explain it. Yet, for all my grumblings, I was still looking forward to the audition.
For one, it was not going to be a musical. I liked music but I wanted to do something else for a bit, recharge some of my interest. Dickens' famous novel was being adapted as a pure drama with an expanded story on Twist's parents. A tragic love story could be just what the story needed to elevate it to the next level. Creatively, there were many reasons to read for the part, but I only cared about being the lead—the titular character. Tom Wisdom had played the lead in Children of the New Forest, and he was hardly on screen that much. Oliver would be on screen, most out of anyone else. So as much as I wanted to be done with Dickens, he was not done with me. For that matter, England was not done with his novels.
My next preference was A Christmas Carol, a TV movie, because I could do that one in just a day. Same for Mansfield Park and two other BBC movies. A featured acting job was just fine for me while I had a contract. Then there was the curiosity I received from Baldini today—David Copperfield, two of them: a TV movie and a TV miniseries! The made-for-television movie was of big interest to me because it was being produced by TNT, who were owned by Warner Bros but were casting in London and then filming in Ireland. Talk about a global production!
I was planning to be in the biggest Warner Bros movie series of all time, and creating connections to their production line would help me realise my goals—or at least that was my hope.
All of my machinations for the future were cast aside. I was in the tiny staircase that led backstage. Jumping two steps at a time, I was at the top. The door led to the future. It was time to perform for the royals—a special event for most, but for me, it would be just a normal Monday.