sab: (s&a >> falling theater star)
[personal profile] sab
x-posted to apocalypseweather.blogspot.com

6 Aug 2008, 12:45, Borough of Westminster

The trip broke the bank. One day more and I'd be busking at Heathrow, scraping together the money to get my car out of long-term parking somewhere off Imperial Hwy near LAX. At least busking on the Heathrow side I'd be paid in pounds.

It's just past noon and I'm in a franchisey-looking pub near the Tower Bridge, Wednesday, my last day here. Just coming off a week of unreality as escorted by [livejournal.com profile] cazling (hostess in possession of the unquestionable mostess) and mon couer [livejournal.com profile] samdonne, [livejournal.com profile] infinitemonkeys and [livejournal.com profile] heyiya and some fantastic, hard-rocking good times with Sarah-Jane, a dual-citizenship top mate from back when we were six years old.

And at the same time I'm looking to get back to LA, you know, where everybody knows my name, or at the very least where my outgoing combination of brashness and sincerity is seen as friendly (as opposed to just terribly gauche, or, you know, threateningly offensive). In LA when I'm washing my hands in the ladies' room, next to another lady washing her hands at the adjacent sink, it goes like: I say "hey" and she says "hey" and then there's a "how's it going" sometimes even followed by a "I am in the process of ditching my date" or "I hope they don't tow my car" (this is me, spitballing typical LA convo), and then we dry our hands and go our separate ways, right? Anyway it turns out if you do this in a surprisingly non-touristy subterranean wine pub near Covent Garden, the lady in the loo will look hard at the floor, not say a word, and brush past you like you might be trying to corner and kill her.

But the point of all of this, the culture-clash punchline, is Hamlet, up in Stratford-Upon-Avon, me full of glee and no idea of the appropriate way to show it.



The proper review of Hamlet will come under separate cover (if we're lucky); this is just the context; no melancholy Dane, just the Ugly American and how it all played out.


August 4, 2008; 7:15pm, The Courtyard Theater, Stratford-Upon-Avon

We had front row seats. A mixed blessing. From a combination of nerves, my own chronic insomnia and severe jetlag, I hadn't slept a wink the night before in the B&B. I bought a few white lilies wrapped in a paper cane bouquet. We file in to the Courtyard Theater. We have front row seats. I'm grabbing Caz like she's made of magic.

Lights down, play starts, Tennant in the corner barely blinking and we're all waiting for "a little more than kin and less than kind" and I'm probably actually holding my breath till it comes, but then, I can't stop yawning.

I CAN'T STOP YAWNING. I'm offending even myself. I want to hold up a sign: "It's jet lag! I love this play!" but instead we're in the front row, before Tennant and Shakespeare and god and everybody, and I CAN'T STOP YAWNING.

And what's funny is that in extreme circumstance, I could probably get away with that at the Pantages, but here, not in a million years. Gauche, brash, obnoxious. I figut yawning and shaking from the cold and nerves, all the while yawning WORSE and shaking WORSE, throughout the whole performance; I looked like nothing so much a an epileptic freezing to death in the snow.

I'm not pretty, necessarily, but I'm striking lookng even on the lamest days, high cheekbone and giant Jewish schnoz and a scar over my lip and dark-rimmed glasses, and, anyway, before the show, sitting outside the theater with Caz drinking pre-show beers -- before I learned you don't bum cigarettes in this country -- I bummed a cigarette from an artsy loking university kid named Neil, who'd been in Hamlet at school -- Rosencrantz -- and we talked about the play and our expectations and interpretation. Again, Hamlet review proper to come in separate post, maybe, hopefully.

And, did I mention, we were in the front row, Caz and me? Caz, a model of Shakespeare-going propriety; me haking, yawning, occasionally gasping, and accidentally whispering along to "oh that this too too solid flesh" and "I have of late and wherefore I know not" (which -- though this belongs in the other review -- Tennant played to its perfect emo comic effect where so many other productions play it dark. Tennant's like, REALLY, Hamlet? REALLY, here, halfway through the play you don't know why you lost all your mirth? The line drew a laugh, from R&G onstage to the rest of us off, but again, I'm digressing) and spastic, and gripping my armrests and Caz white-knuckled, SHIVERING AND YAWNING and laughing out loud.

At intermission, as we're queued up for the bathroom and drinking our interval-time scotch, two women said to me and Caz, "you were in the front row, right?" and to me, "I recognize your glasses." You twigged to me because I was the one yawning, I didn't say out loud. Internally, OH FUCK. Oh, the shame.

The show passed in a blur of bare feet and a broken sword (proper review under separate cover, if I can remember well enough to separate the actual Hamlet from the one I saw in my head for six months leading up to this show).

And then the stage door was a mob scene. Horrible, almost shameful to be part of it, but I had travelled 6000 miles and planned half a year for this, and I had flowers, dammit, and I was going to deliver them if it killed me. I grabbed a pen and scrawled YOU WERE TRANSCENDANT (which I spelled, you know, just like that, and not, as it should be, with an -ent, because that's par for my yawning, shaking, embarassing course) on the flowers' paper cone, drunken and bowled over by the show and the night at large.

There were probably a hundred, hundred and twenty screaming fans, pushing and shouting and waving their souvenir swords. As the early actors came out for their autograph signings the fans were generally well behaved, pushing and crushing in controlled chaos and respecting the metal semi-circular barrier that blocked off the crowd from the stage door itself. It's FREEZING outside, me in my short sleeveless occasional dress and Caz trooping it out valiantly, and my teeth are legitimately chattering, making skull-cracking noises as my knees knock and I stand, way back at the edge of the crowd, staring through to see what's what and who's who.

Then the stage manager does a feint, coming out and announcing he was terribly sorry, but David had visitors and would be unable to come out to sign anything. Thanks very much and good night.

About half the crowd dispersed, grumbling, and I made my way up to the metal barrier, planning to give the flowers to the stage manager, nod a thank you for the cast and the phenomenal show, and be on my way.

Of course, instead, David came out, obviously tired and not thrilled about the screaming mob. The look on his face made something actually break in my heart. I can't think back on it too much or it saddens me. A professional Shakespearean actor in the glow of a press night performance where at least three things went wrong on stage that they covered for valiantly, wanting to chill and bask in the glow and wait for the morning's reviews, instead faced with a screaming, shouting, nearly VIOLENT crowd.

The running of the bulls began in force, ramming me into the barrier and smacking me in the back of the head with their programs, the cry of "DAVID! DAVID! OVER HERE!" almost threatening and thunderous.

Caz, wise and classy as ever, stayed back, keeping herself out of the fray while standing by in case I needed a picture taken or a moment immortalized. (Caz = FTW, again, for real, really)

David took a deep breath, stepped up, head down, no smile, no eye contact, and began his semicircular signing frenzy, signing program after program without looking up, as people shoved their programs and tickets and swords under his nose. The first couple rows of the crowd, my row and the crowd behind me, mainly, got to shove up and get their papers signed; the folks behind me took advantage of the fact that I was standing quietly and waiting with my flowers to shove their programs in front of my face, around my waist, over my shoulders, leaning me over the bar to get to David, who kept on signing and ignoring the press of flesh as best he could.

I waited till he was done, and he stepped back, threw up a professional but tired-eyed smile and thanked us, and I tossed my bouquet at his feet.

He picked it up, looked at me, made maybe his only eye contact of the evening, murmured "thank you," and went back inside.

At first I took a small amount of pride; I was the only one who got eye contact, the only one with an acknowledged thank you, the only one who GAVE something as opposed to shouting and grabbing and taking. I touched his arm as he walked by. He's even more beautiful in person. More on that in the review of the production, to follow in this LJ provided this LJer finds the words to talk about it.

The rest came later at the Dirty Duck, the actors' pub.

Despite the freezing -- no, seriously, SO SO SO cold in my wee strapless dress, SO SO cold -- temperature, Caz and I stopped at the pub to find the actors who played Horatio, Ophelia, and Laertes on the patio, drinking with their friends and chatting it up with a small and respectful crowd of adult theatergoers. A much more casual atmosphere for us to chat them up and for Caz to get her program signed.

While she was flirting with Laertes -- quite fit and Caz's new Shakespearean crush -- I offered to by Horatio a drink, and then the night went on like that, drinking and smoking with Horatio -- Peter de Jersey (and a marvelous Horatio he was, blinded by love for Hamlet, loyal to the end, melancholy himself) -- talking about my work and his work and how he wants to come to LA, and about Hamlet and Shakespeare and poetic interpretation (and all the while at this point Caz is taking one for the team and chatting with some horrid crazy fanlady who talked about her life-sized Cyberman cutout and her hideous business cards -- Caz, again, CAPITAL wingman, CAPITAL. She gave me nearly an hour with Peter de Jersey, which was just the night I needed) and British custom and the US elections and manga and beer. "Tell David Tennant you met the chick who gave him flowers," I couldn't help but say to Peter. "And she wasn't insane." He laughed. "I absolutely will."

Later Caz informed me that while I was busy with Horatio, early on, Laertes had said to her, "oh, you were in the front row, yeah, I saw you with your friend." I saw your friend YAWNING, he didn't say. SHE DISTRACTED ALL OF US, that FUCKING AMERICAN, he didn't say.

O, my offense is rank.

So, David Tennant's not in love with me. But the next morning, in the pouring rain, I tromped back to the flower shop in Stratford, bought a couple lovely cut orchids, and brought them (by then a soggy paper cone) across town to the Courtyard Theater. I'd written a nice long card to Peter de Jersey, thanking him for the night before, complimenting his performance and telling him to share my respect with the whole cast.

I stood at the stage door in my soggy hat at 8:30 in the morning, holding my bouquet and card, and knocked on the door. The crewmembers inside saw my flowers and approached the door suspiciously, convinced I was a rabid David Tennant fan.

"Can I leave these for Peter de Jersey?" I asked. The crew member positively beamed. "Oh, Peter!" he said. "Absolutely, I'll be sure he gets them!"

*

So, yes. I was a little bit shamed to be a yawning theatergoer, but at the end of the day, the trip, the summer, I am more shamed to be part of that brutal wave of fans that have made life almost unnavigable for David Tennant. And while I didn't stalk him, or grab at him, or get in his way, or scream his name, I watched it happen.

And I don't just mean watching the crowd mob him at the stage door; I mean watching his meteoric rise to fame over the last two years (and I predicted this, in June of '06, I predicted that with two years Tennant wouldn't be able to walk down the street without being harassed, that he would be a household name. So, go me for getting it, but I wish I'd been wrong), and the audience's shift from appreciating him as a whip-smart waspish actor to a cover model. From having reverence for Doctor Who to making it impossible for Tennant to go see Catherine Tate's West End play, because the audience spent more time harassing him and actually disrupted the play, and Tennant had to get up and leave so the show could go on. Awful, awful.

I wouldn't blame him if he didn't come back to Doctor Who after this; in fact, I'm sure he won't; I wouldn't. And I think we -- me, I -- all made this happen. So now I'm embarassed for my part of it.

I'm the girl who has always -- in the slash battles, the RPS battles, the fanlib battles and the OTW battles, the cease-and-desist battles and the chan battles and the underage battles -- come down on the side of the fans, come down for the rights of fans and fandom. And this is the first time I think we've pushed it too far, and I've done my part, and I feel terrible about it. We wiped the smile off of David Tennant's face. Our loss.


*

Epilogue: After dropping off Horatio's flower, I tromped back through the rain to get my luggage, and then to the Stratford-Upon-Avon station to get the train back to London. In the coffee shack on the platform, a kid says to me: "You were at the show last night." Then I remember him, the Neil dude who rolled me a cigarette before the play. "Yeah, Neil, right?" "Yeah," he says. "I was several rows up on the other side and I saw you, you were in the first row with your friend."

"Did I make a scene?" I asked. He grinned. "I saw you yawning a couple times."

On the train, I sat behind an American college girl and her dad, also on their way back from the show. "I'm never going to wash this hand again," I overhear the girl say.

After introducing myself they invite me up to play poker with them in their double seat. "I heard you say you got to meet one of the stars?" I ask the girl.

"Yeah," she says. "I was a theater major and I love Patrick Stewart, and I got to meet him after the show."

"How'd that happen?" I ask.

"Oh," she says. "I wrote him a letter." I bite my tongue. "Wish I'd known that David Tennant guy was going to be in the show," she goes on. "I'd've written two letters."

*



And on the other hand, I'm going to attempt to get out there and see the show again next year.

*

Date: 2008-08-15 11:54 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Rolling in from the Tennant_love comm.

It seems there were a great many people from LJ land at the performance on August the 4th. It was a brlliant performance and the Dirty Duck has a fab ambience as well (you may have noticed a lost looking girl sitting on the pavement by the courtyard theatre with her back half empty as she tried to locate her phone to ring a taxi. That would have been me, who'd forgotten to book a taxi and had her ass grab by 3 chavs on the walk up to the theatre, even though I was wearing a tunic top,black leggings and ankle boots).

What you did for the actors was absolutely lovely and I applaud you for it. I felt too guilty to go and stand in that crush of people and am rather glad that I didn't now.

About the Tate play-according to people who were there on the night David didn't leave early and there was no interval. The whole thing was whipped up by the press. He was, however, stalked by two paparazzi as soon as he left the back door. This was all witnessed by two girls who had gone to see Catherine and her male co-star from the IT Crowd after the show. No surprise about the tabloids making a fuss out of nothing, though I think you're right about Tennant. The poor bugger isn't going to want to go back to DW after this and I wouldn't blame him. I was sitting in the Dirty Duck the next day, revising for a law exam and waiting for the rain to stop when I saw him walk past with a hat pulled well down over his head for disguise.

Date: 2008-08-15 11:59 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] iamsab.livejournal.com
I had a feeling the Tate play story was apocryphal as soon as I went back to find the link for it for this post and it was gone from everywhere but the BBC America blog. But the thing is, it's not outside the realm of possibility, and that's just, you know. Unfortunate.

I'm glad you rolled in from the t-l comm, and that you were at our performance. Did YOU see me yawn? *g* Did you see us drinking with Horatio on the patio and freezing to death?

Also, as we were walking TO the theater the day before we saw Patrick Stewart walking down the street with his own hat pulled hard over his head, talking on the phone. Man, those poor hounded actors.

Date: 2008-08-16 12:15 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] snowandsunshine.livejournal.com
I did see a group of people sitting on the patio and I saw the Horatio actor walk up to the pub, in fact I was just behind him, looking rather lost. Were you sat at the front of hte stage , or to the side, because if you were at the front I was bout 6 rows behind you.

I feel so sorry for the actors. I did see several of them walk past with umbrellas but I was too engrossed in "Promissory Estoppel", plus I didn't want to bother them. Luckily when Tennant walked past I was daydreaming and looking out the window and got a smile! The poor bugger looked a bit happier, though that was a dodgy hat.

Date: 2008-08-16 12:19 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] iamsab.livejournal.com
We were on the side, stage left about halfway back. I bet we were right next to one another at the Dirty Duck, though.

Peter and I weren't sitting, we were standing by the door double-fisting beers and smoking cigarettes.

And apparently the sword breaking was of course unexpected; Laertes says to [livejournal.com profile] cazling: "did it look like I was still going for him??"

Date: 2008-08-16 12:00 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] thassalia.livejournal.com
I'm weepy today, for a variety of tiny and insignificant reasons,and now I'm weepier and wish I'd been there to hold your hand and watch all this, to see these moments, and to see you and I'm very, very glad you made the trip and came back and that you wrote this down because I knew, no matter what, that you'd have that moment of gaining and giving and it'd be different from everyone else's because that's who you are.

Date: 2008-08-16 12:22 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] argosy.livejournal.com
I totally did that yawning thing to Wallace Shawn when I went to see him in a play he'd WRITTEN in a TINY, tiny theater in the FRONT ROW and I could not stop yawning and nearly falling asleep but it was the middle of FINALS. How well I remember my shame (but not the play, really.)

I hope you had a good time anyway. I hate to hear you sounding down.

Date: 2008-08-16 02:24 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] jalfred.livejournal.com
Did it happen to be The Fever at The New Group?

Date: 2008-08-17 01:00 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] argosy.livejournal.com
Ah, no. It was a long time ago--I don't even remember the play (probably because I was nearly SLEEPING through it). *hangs head in shame*

Date: 2008-08-16 12:45 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] gamesiplay.livejournal.com
Man, I hear you. When I went to see the other big international Hamlet this season, I couldn't even do the stage-door thing. Just. couldn't. do. it. We stood out in the Canadian cold on the concrete stairs high above, and I looked wistfully down at the door, long before the actors were due, but we didn't go. Not out of intimidation, but because I wasn't willing to break that wall at that moment. And this wasn't even for somebody as big as Tennant.

Also, god, this sounds so familiar:

We have front row seats. I'm grabbing Caz like she's made of magic. Lights down, play starts, Tennant in the corner barely blinking and we're all waiting for "a little more than kin and less than kind" and I'm probably actually holding my breath till it comes, and then the SHAKING from excitement and emotion, and mouthing the words-- fuck, yeah. That's why you go.

It sounds like a really ambivalent experience, but you are wonderful about being a sane and thoughtful fan, even in the midst of your shaking and yawning. And honestly, I am most jealous right now that you hung out with Horatio. Because that is awesome and sweet as hell.

Date: 2008-08-16 02:34 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] stoplookingup.livejournal.com
That was a great read. You recreated the night so completely, I feel as though I'd been there with you.

I know what you mean about feeling damn awful for Tennant. It's one thing to come down on the side of the fans when it's about expressing opinions or creating derivative work. It's another thing when they're behaving like half-crazed overly entitled celebrity-worshipping loonies who can't manage to remember how to be civil.

Date: 2008-08-16 04:41 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] allthingsholy.livejournal.com
I do feel so bad for him, so phenomenally talented, and yet fangirled to death largely by people who I think just don't get it, distracted by the fact that he's beautiful and forgetting how well he makes other things beautiful.

I'm still jealous you got to see him, even if you yawned your way through, and I really admire how respectfully you treated him in a mob of people who would've hidden your crassness/selfishness. I'm glad you're the only one who got eye contact. Way to earn it.

(That picture of him kind of breaks my heart. He looks, just ... haggard. I hope he doesn't regret doing "Who," having wanted to do it since he was a kid and doing such a good job since he's been there.)

Date: 2008-08-16 02:18 pm (UTC)
copracat: dreamwidth vera (Default)
From: [personal profile] copracat
God, I nearly fell asleep in the front row of a small theatre once. Same thing, rubbish jet lag!

Your trips sounds awesome event with the downs because the ups: fabulous.

The guy coming out of the takeaway in your photo looks distinctly shifty!

Date: 2008-08-16 05:54 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sophia-helix.livejournal.com
Also popping in here to mention that on consecutive nights I actually fell asleep outright at King Lear and Death of a Salesman at the Ashland festival.

Date: 2008-08-17 07:14 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] fourteenlines.livejournal.com
Oh, I'm sitting here laughing. *g* (Hot damn, I wanted to see Lear, and I can't even remember what rubbish thing we saw instead. I think it was The Tempest. How I loathe The Tempest. I'd ask if Lear was good, but, y'know.)

Date: 2008-08-17 07:19 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sophia-helix.livejournal.com
It was eleven years ago, and it was SO BORING. The idea was that the entire thing was taking place in Lear's mind, so the set was nothing but a grey-painted cyc. Everyone wore Edwardian black (tails for the men, funereal-looking gowns for the women), and with nothing at all interesting to look at, such a serious play was really hard to watch. DoaS was actually good, sadly, but the underlying issue was a) I was fifteen, and b) I had, uh, an undiagnosed (and mild) case of mono. So there you go.

Date: 2008-08-18 12:10 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] pene.livejournal.com
I saw the Tempest at Ashland. It's one of my favourites and I loved that staging. Prospero was Prospera and I loved her and (more) I loved Ariel and Caliban... and then I wrote Tempest fic. tiny Tempest fic. Hee.

Date: 2008-08-16 09:19 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] cazling.livejournal.com
For the record, you weren't yawning nearly as much as you're making it sound like you did. I was sitting next to you so I would have noticed ;). I totally think the only reason people noticed us is cos you looked so enraptured (of course I'd like to think Edward Bennett's only reason for noticing us was that we were SO DAMN HOT and he'd like to sex it up with me sometime).

Also I'm sure from my memory of it that you spelled transcendent right!

Date: 2008-08-19 04:11 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] projectjulie.livejournal.com
I'm home!!!

kind of like when I waited at the stage door for Kate Mulgrew. I'm still traumatized by that. and remember how I was totally freaked by ComicCon? being part of fandom in aggregate at the breach of the fourth wall is so uncomfortable -- and really I wonder who these people are who DON'T find it uncomfortable.

but look at you, being the LEAST CRAZY one! you should be proud of how you comported yourself.

I like to think that, on a good day, Tennant and his ilk appreciate being in this position, and it's just that, after three hours carrying an eponymous play, one is TIRED.

Date: 2008-08-19 10:18 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] chicklet-girl.livejournal.com
What you said about Tennant and the stage door really resonates with me, because I've been thinking about fannish behavior and fan-performer relationships a bit lately. If I work up an entry about it, could I reference this entry?

Date: 2008-08-20 04:45 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] iamsab.livejournal.com
Yes, feel free to link/reference as you will! I'd love to read whatever you've got to write on the subject. I'm still emotionally hung up on this issue...

Profile

sab: (Default)
sab

May 2018

S M T W T F S
  123 45
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
2728293031  

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jun. 5th, 2025 06:15 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios