A Dancer, a Director and an Opera Singer went into a Bar…

Written by Tanya Cooling

It’s 4.30 in the afternoon. My frozen fingers stumble across the keyboard which is illuminated solely by my computer screen. Today’s long-forgotten sun has done nothing to clear the ice that has turned negotiating London’s footpath into a slalom event.

Oh, and Christmas is cancelled.

Well, that’s how it felt a week ago when I realised that heavy snowfall had closed Heathrow Airport and after nearly two years away there was no going home for Christmas. Whatever I might have been feeling emotionally, I can’t control the weather and Christmas would carry on regardless.

While it’s often impossible to separate emotions from the facts, it’s an invaluable skill in a professional setting. Artists by necessity devote large portions of their day to dwelling on emotions. It’s very easy for that hyper-reality to seem normal and it can often leave people wondering at your sanity when you over-react to the most mundane details.

And so I’m inspired to use my five hours of daylight to share a cautionary tale for the New Year.

On a beautiful summer’s day in Frome, tiny wings flickered in the hedgerows and intermittent birdsong twinkled  through the sun-kissed air, gently fragranced with ripening blackberries. Tucked away at the end of a quiet country lane stood an old stone mill. Built over 100 years ago it had recently been reconditioned as a theatre and now awaited a production of Sweeney Todd the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.

With my first year at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama concluded, I was taking on the role of Johanna with a professional company. The director was a successful opera singer and the conductor was on-staff at one of England’s largest opera companies. It was a dream scenario for a young opera singer hoping to gain some insight into the profession.

Due to commitments in London I arrived a day late to discover tempers were already fraying over the intensity of the rehearsal schedule and the autocratic manner of the director.  After a week in Bristol, staving off a plague of bed bugs in the university accommodation we were all ready for the delights of Somerset and a respite from city vermin.

Unfortunately the physical irritations continued. The mill itself was more of a glorified workshop. Everywhere were splinters of varying degrees of viciousness, along with the odd rusty nail pointing straight up and knobbly beams placed at exact head height.  Stinging nettles, various monster pollens - one of which I nicknamed Satan’s candyfloss - and mosquitoes rounded out the outdoor contingent. All of these things, though insignificant by themselves, combined to chip away tiny fragments of company morale.

We rehearsed every day for eight hours for a full month. On top of this, we were living together, eating together and of course, going to the pub after rehearsal together. Combining so many young performers from music theatre, dance and classical backgrounds it was inevitable that misunderstandings occurred, insecurities surfaced and factions were formed. Add alcohol and total insulation to the mix and letting off a bit of steam soon leaves the professional realm and becomes all too personal.

A few days before opening night a member of the cast called a company meeting. The actor’s dispute appeared to be that the director was working us too hard, the show was not following the story according to his personal interpretation and the cast did not have enough input into the direction. What made it worse (humiliating?) was that he announced his grievances on behalf of the entire company.

After the meeting came to a staggering halt with very little progress made on either side I made it my business to speak with the director on my own behalf.

He shared with me a memory from his early days, pre-opera, as a young actor being called to a company meeting at the Royal Shakespeare Company. One of the principals felt that he had a legitimate conflict with the management. Instead of calling a private meeting to discuss the options unemotionally, it became a personal battle during which he attempted to incite a company strike. After an unproductive couple of hours, the principal was in no better situation in the short-term and was, unbeknownst to him, black-marked for the rest of his career.

As with flights on an aeroplane, you might think buying the ticket gives you a right to make plans but in actuality, there is very little in either performing theatre or flying through the air in a giant steel can that you can control. Whatever feelings you might have about the entire workings of the show, as a performer, the only thing you can control is your own behaviour. The director, by definition, has the final say.

There is an enormous difference between a professional conversation about the practical issues of a production and a personal attack. If you find yourself with a complaint always follow a professional course no matter how personally outraged you might feel. Leave the theatrics on the stage where they belong.