"Tyrone Guthrie, A Titan of the Theatre"
Sunday Telegraph Magazine
11 September 1983
Our family were churchgoers. Grandpa Sutcliffe was a
professional: a gentlemanly non-conformist minister in a quiet corner of the
north of England. Grandad McKellen, in the same village, was an amateur: a
lay preacher with a charismatic pulpit style — large gestures from the
shoulder like an actor. Reading the Nativity story at the primary school
carol service was my first attempt at performing in public. But, grown up, I
would not be a preacher; I was going to act. Even when I told them I wanted
to be a journalist, or a chef, I was planning for the theatre.
Throughout the middle fifties, with the school camp at
Stratford-upon-Avon, I collected all the famous Shakespeare plays and most
of the magical Shakespeare actors. Olivier as Macbeth and Malvolio; Gielgud
as Lear and Prospero; Peggy Ashcroft's Imogen and Rosalind, and Vanessa
Redgrave. Young O'Toole as noble Shylock; Paul Robeson as Othello,
blundering and bellowing like a wounded elephant. Afterwards, round the
camp-stove, I learnt from the masters and the older boys the game of
criticism. Back home in Bolton, in the programmes of the weekly repertory
players, I marked their performances out of ten.
At school I acted non-stop and envied my contemporaries in
films, radio plays and pantomimes, who had preceded me into show business. I
was allowed backstage at the local Grand Theatre, where variety turns held
out against the encroaching counter-attraction of television. There, silent
and ignored amidst the dust, I marvelled as the comics and magicians, the
chorus girls and the acrobats, disguised their grinding hard work as glamour
on stage. Their sweat shone like stardust. I despaired only that I should
ever know enough to shine like them.
At university, everyone was confident. All the undergrad
actors were going into the business, dear. I caught their infection
chronically. In 21 plays at Cambridge, I served my apprenticeship; still, I
felt unprepared for the profession. In character roles, made-up in crepe
hair and padding as Toby Belch, all was promising. But as an unadorned
juvenile, as Posthumus Leonatus or as Turgenev's Beliayev, my youth was
self-conscious, embarrassed and embarrassing. Imitation, mimicry and
caricature were insufficient. Prepared to labour as hard as any pro, I did
not know how to release and reveal my inner life. My acting was all gestures
and no heart.
Once down from Cambridge, it was up to Coventry as a junior
actor in a fortnightly repertory of thrillers, light and heavy comedies,
popular old plays and unpopular new ones. The style for much of this was set
by the director of my professional debut, who addressed the first rehearsal:
"Okay, the play's A Man for All Seasons. In your scripts, you'll find
the moves they did in the West End production — what was good enough for
Paul Scofield for over a year will do us very nicely for a couple of
weeks".
What it was to be in the Theatre. Learn the lines and do not
bump into the furniture. I bumped into a lot of furniture in the next two
years but my fellow actors picked up the pieces and were very kind about my
arrival from Cambridge. Real pros trained at drama schools. "Ex-varsity
chappies, well, you know, love, they always seem to have rehearsed in front
of the mirror". Which I stopped doing immediately. Oh, how eager to
learn: how happy to be rewarded with some rattling good parts. I was getting
better and I was getting on.
In 1963, I turned down a job in London (I still was not good
enough). Instead I went to Nottingham. There, the new Playhouse would open
with Coriolanus: I in the part of Aufidius; and Tyrone Guthrie, as the
play's director.
To recall his impact on me, 23 years old, there is no need
to catalogue his lifetime's achievement. I knew then only a little of his
reputation as the brilliant maverick who had run the Old Vic after the
Second World War and then brought excitement to the classical theatre
wherever he worked in Britain, Israel, Australia, Canada or at his own
custom-built playhouse in Minneapolis. He bestrode world theatre like a
colossus. And he looked like one, even at our damp, autumn rehearsals.
Six-feet-three in his galoshes, muffling up a serious cold, hugging himself
in an ankle-length tweed overcoat, then stretching out his long arms as he
spoke, radiating energy like a sun: "I'm going to read to you this
introduction to an American edition of Coriolanus. I agree with every word
of it". This short essay concentrated on Coriolanus's heroism,
under-pinned or undermined by a mother-fixation. His archrival Aufidius was
a father/friend figure whom Coriolanus worshipped in combat and lusted after
in dreams. The play, and our production, turned on this homosexual axis. It
was a bold interpretation, albeit secondhand. Next day the book was lying on
the stage-manager's table ". . . with an introduction by Tyrone
Guthrie".
Another novelty was the design of late 18th-century plumes,
breastplates, breeches and boots. "If you're all in togas, the audience
will never know who's who. The play only works if they distinguish civilians
from military, friends from foreigners, nobility from the mob". His
cast was large and varied - stars, tyros, even amateur actors in the crowd
scenes. Anarchy was controlled by a clear, commonsense directive for each
scene. For instance, Coriolanus's victorious return from war was celebrated
with a municipal reception in Rome; crowds roped off by officials, a red
carpet laid, battle trophies paraded — men cheering, women weeping,
salutes, handshakes, hugs and kisses. It was a public scene against which
the private emotions were glimpsed. We must all be in it. Aufidius had no
part in the scene, so "Ian, you'll carry a big banner to hide your face
— you won't be recognised and you can help fill the stage with flags".
"I can see you, Leo McKern, too much funny business with those ropes .
. .". Michael Crawford, in his first Shakespeare, accidentally tripped
and Guthrie, perhaps, initiated a subsequent career of comic stunts:
"Don't worry; I like the trip, do it again more obviously"! He
spied everybody's potential and he encouraged it.
Aufidius has a number of short solo speeches, difficult to
get right while other actors are waiting to rehearse. So he gently suggested
I come in each morning before the rest for private tuition. After a couple
of weeks: "Right, I think you know you're good enough to show the
others how hard you've been working". I would have worked all night if
he had asked it. He despised slacking.
He was a compulsive missionary spreading his gospel that
theatre is excitement and entertainment, not "culture", dread
word, nor an escape from life; rather its enhancement. In unfashionable
corners of the world, he championed theatre people whose hard work,
expertise and imagination might serve their community. We were preachers
with a message. I would never have expected that.
After the official opening of the Playhouse, we were all to
join the civic dignitaries for a reception at the town hall. It might have
been staged by Guthrie's sense of humour. By the time we arrived all the
food was scoffed and the drink dried up. From within the privileged
roped-off Mayoral Parlour, where royalty was still privately feasting, we
heard Guthrie berating the Town Clerk who had refused access to the weary,
hungry actors. "All evening long, you have been entertained by these
people who have worked for weeks, all hours for little pay, presenting your
town with their magnificent talents. And your reward is to spurn them. This
is not seemly". The colossus flapped out past the drinks table where he
removed a tray of gins and tonics and, genuinely indignant, distributed them
to us outside.
The next day he flew on to more excitement in America. He
had changed my life, two days before, at the dress rehearsal. Aufidius
slaughters his beloved enemy Coriolanus and then ends the play with a speech
that many actors (including me) might interpret as mere hypocrisy:
"My rage is gone,
And I am stuck with sorrow".
Guthrie insisted that it was heartfelt and that it be
preceded by a wail of keening anguish over the corpse. It was a moment I had
muffed at each rehearsal and fooled myself that my gestures would distract
from my lack of heart. I was embarrassed. I was acting badly and now at the
dress rehearsal was my last chance to get it right. I could still feel
nothing. And he said, standing right up against the edge of the stage,
privately, but loud enough to be heard - for his message was an
unforgettable one: "We are at the climax of a masterpiece. If we
haven't convinced the audience by this time that they are in the presence of
a great play, they might as well have stayed at home with the television.
Aufidius is a man but he can grow, as we all can, to behave like a god. His
rage can turn to sorrow. Fill your mind, your imagination with your feelings
and let your heart wail. If you can't do it, it's all a waste. You
can".
I think I managed. Those were not his precise words but can
you understand that at last I knew why acting is difficult and, yet, a
glory? It demands that you dare to cut open your heart and make the audience
care that you have done it. Of course, it helped that the play was
Shakespeare and that the director was Tyrone Guthrie.
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Tyrone Guthrie
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