Recording Fame
Earlier this week I was kindly invited to see the re-opening of Alan Bennett's The History Boys at the Wyndham's Theatre. It was a case of a friend of mine having to go along for a national daily newspaper to get a morsel of something (something, anything, a crumb of gossip, just get someone to say something, anything) to put in their diary pages the following day. The more famous the person, the more silly the comment they made, apparently the better.
A rainy January night, a pack of desperate photographers and even more desperate autograph hunters outside the theatre. I had made a mad dash on two wheels from the city and was gasping for a drink (something, anything) and wanted to escape the rather ridiculous crowd that hung around drooling for a face to snap or a coat sleeve to pull at. The London hype surrounding famous people is incredible, but all too real.
One tall brunette, bursting out of her sparkly tight gown and pouting her dubiously sized lips, was suddenly recognised and spun round in ecstatic joy on hearing her name called out. Shameful of me to not know who she was. On being asked for a photo she flung her shawl on the ground and rapidly groomed herself before producing the most exquisitely hideous pose, so awful I have trouble erasing it from my mind. Her undoubtedly expensive shawl lay on the wet ground while theatre-goers trampled across it, and she contorted her face into the various caricature expressions she had most probably practiced tirelessly. Fame comes at a price, clearly. But wait, can you imagine the scene if she herself had dropped her shawl by accident on the West End floor (cigarette butts, chewing gum, pigeon shit etc) on a rainy night and watched it used as a carpet by happily unaware Joe Public? I imagine a good purse of those lips, possibly a spectacular tantrum.
My friend (who will remain nameless) pondered hanging around outside with the West End paparazzi ghouls to see if she recognised any of the people they merrily hounded, in order to attempt a casual conversation with one of them later. The sudden possibility of being mistaken for one of those overexcited anoraks made me panic (how superficial of me) and I quickly played up my thirst and said I'd meet her indoors. The drizzle and desperation appeared too much for her too and we fought our way in.
By the time we'd reached the bar (packed) I was more chirpy and less cynical, believe it or not. I love the theatre buzz, the hubbub of conversation in the bar beforehand that has a different ambience and tune to that of the interval, imagining the nerves and adrenaline of the actors backstage, the sweet ringing of the bell and people slowly carrying their conversations into the stalls to await the entertainment, the story, the on the spot immediacy of it all. I suppose it seems special because it feels like sweat, blood and tears have gone into it, that in a strange way it is all performed for you and you alone - a sensation that is scarcely felt when watching TV or a film.
My friend was less dreamy and remained alert in case Somebody should walk in. I pointed out that surely lots of Somebodies were there, but not being part of the theatre world at all we would look straight at them, none the wiser. How lucky for them! I was happy to be there, it had been a long time since I'd seen a play, and I doggedly tried to avoid being dragged into the finger pointing, the neck stretching and the squinting, the sly yet blatant attempts to spot a familiar face.
Suddenly my friend froze and noticeably looked like she hadn't noticed anyone at all. She leaned in to tell me another journalist was here on a similar hunt and subtly nodded towards the bar. A tall bespectacled ferret in a brown suit stared back, having caught a whiff of us across the room. He looked about furtively and then casually made his way over, taking up his watchful position beside me. So strong is the unpleasant sense that somebody you have no desire to talk to is about to trap you into conversation, I'm sure I bristled and gave off a cold unspoken warning. Then we were summoned to our seats by the sweet bell.
I shrugged off my mood on the way in, laughing at myself for letting this silly journalist lark affect me, and lo and behold who should sit next to me but the twitching ferret. Bloody hell. I don't know why I took umbrage to his being there or to him doing his job, and naturally I had no right to do so, but I felt there was something distasteful, almost sinister, about this spy game going on in a place where people had come to enjoy themselves, to watch, appreciate and applaud. Conversation was imminent, I felt it, and knew I had no escape. I mustered as much silent yet visible venom as possible lest he should begin to probe for news of who was there, who we'd seen etc.
We watched and we enjoyed. The curtain fell and we dawdled our way along the row and up the aisle, following the slow moving crowd. The ferret had suddenly vanished, and again I felt silly to have been bothered by his presence at all. I had seen Somebody in the row in front of me and was deciding whether to pass this crumb over to my friend. It had taken me a while but I had placed him, (no staring involved, I assure you). He was a classic British actor, plummy voiced and now in his seventies, that had given some great performances. Clearly I had become diseased with the game because I couldn't keep it to myself and whispered my findings to her. She blinked back at me, puzzled. What was this? She didn't know him? I told her the name again, annoyed that I'd had to speak louder in case anyone heard me giving my spy newsflash. No recognition at all. I hissed sharply "But how can you not know him for christ sake?". Silence. She looked alarmed at my odd outburst. Oh god, what was happening to me? Blushing, I briefly and pointlessly explained who he was and decided it was time for home, this had turned into an offstage farce.
