Auditioning - Trying to find my inner Zig-a-Zig-Ah!

I have never been trendy.   Nor hip, en vogue or whack!  I didn’t have a record bag or bomber jacket in secondary school; in fact I wore the same grey skirt for 5 years which is one of the perks to being the same height since the age of 9.

And this has continued throughout my life; Ray-bans don’t suit my face, I can’t carry off the customary summer “boho” look each year or get away with saying “Innit?” whilst flicking my wrist. (I can’t even manage to describe the action in a cool way!)

I was reminded of this lack of street-cred last week when I attended an audition for 'Viva Forever' the new Spice Girls musical.  You need to understand something about actors; even if they don’t want a job when offered an audition, or even worse a recall, they start imagining themselves in the role.  They start to plan their life post getting it and convince themselves it could be a stepping stone to something else or help them save for a house.  The reality is that you never save because you buy Starbucks everyday or the tax man takes it all the following January.

Who has the energy to Spice Up Your Life?

But I transgress; I knew I probably wasn’t right for this new pop musical.  Despite my killer rendition of Viva Forever in a Magaluf karaoke bar after a bucket of sangria in 1999 ,I have firmly left my bouncy pop-self in my last performances of Mamma Mia!  But I started convincing myself that maybe I still had a bit of inner funk left and I could maybe abandon all my writing dreams and be happily ensconced in a massive West End musical for 12 months.

So there I was at the 'Viva Forever' singing audition at the respectable time of 12 noon.  Seeing some comrades of musical theatre auditions relaxed me as these girls were also on the wrong side of 29, so how bad could it be?  But then these so-called comrades changed into their “audition outfits”* and suddenly I was out of the game; I was surrounded by leopard print leggings, leather leggings, converse trainer boots and even a 1990s black bowler hat.  There was make-up, big hair and loud belty voices powering out The Pointer Sisters’ “Jump!” from the other side of the audition room door.  Me and my smart navy dress slowly melted into the background wishing I could teleport myself back home to the Beatrix Potter biography I am currently reading.



Sometimes we are just not suitable!  Image from the album Jesus Chris Superstar,
you can buy it now at www.christhatcher.co.uk

It will not be a surprise to you that I didn’t get re-called to the dance audition, although I later discovered it included 3 routines in an hour plus a bit of crumping so I was relieved.  Crumping?  I didn’t know what it was either, apparently it is a “hip hop grindy thing” as demonstrated on MTV and there I was thinking it involved crimping your hair and eating crumpets. 

I am just not suited to being in 'Viva Forever,' I can’t even dress up and pretend I am.  In case you now see me as some insecure woman who has no idea who she is, let me assure you that this is not the case.  I have grown to accept and love my quirks in my weird little world but sometimes events like that audition just shake you for a few seconds, especially in an industry where we are all judged by our appearance. 

Whatever job we do, don’t we all wish we could be a bit more this or a little less that sometimes?  It could bring us more success, happiness or relationships.  But as Beverley Knight sang so wonderfully at the opening ceremony of The Paralympics last night “I am what I am” such pertinent lyrics by Jerry Herman that tell us to embrace our individuality.  The world would be a very dull place if we all wore leather leggings and bowler hats.

"Cherish forever what makes you unique, 'cuz you're really a yawn if it goes."  Bette Midler

I have no desire to be ‘street’ or ‘with it’ (more phrases that betray my M&S clothes wearing self) but to all those audition girls who are, good luck and enjoy a wonderful job in the West End and I’ll keep praying for a more suitable ITV period drama casting or writing pitch. 

As my nephew learnt with one of his toys – you can’t put a square peg in a circular hole.

But seeing as actresses are allowed to be emotional and dwell on things - the fact I was never allowed Buffalos (don’t pretend you don’t remember the wedge trainer, The Spice Girls were to Buffalos what Carrie Bradshaw was to Manolo Blahniks) just cements how uncool I was and why, 14 years later I am still not cool enough to be in The Spice Girls show so, therefore, with no psychiatrist to tell me otherwise, my lack of trendy genes......?  I blame my parents! 

 

* you can find my thoughts on "audition outfits" in the article "That's all we need for today..." listed opposite on my pages

Finding Love on the Outskirts - London Fringe Theatre

A few years ago I had a fringe cut in (or bangs for any USA inclined readers!)  It felt daring to me at the time, I felt edgier, trendier, sexier even somehow. 

So it seems to me that Fringe theatre coined the name “fringe” for a reason; not just because it is on the outskirts or fringes of a theatre community, but because it is edgier and sexier theatre. 

As stalwart readers may remember, I wrote a post last year about Fringe Theatre in London after working with the director Thom Sutherland, and the affect it had on me.  It was a timely reminder of why I chose this career being surrounded by people who were prepared to work without the weekly wage packet purely to create some legitimate work.  It re-launched my energy and creativity, which, as shocking as it sounds, can so easily fade in a long contract of a “big” musical where you can just feel like a cog in a well-oiled but soul-less machine.

After seeing Thom’s latest production of Mack and Mabel at The Southwalk Playhouse yesterday and having woken up this morning with it still in the fore front of my mind I feel compelled to splurge my thoughts about fringe theatre to you again. There used to be a stereotype that all fringe productions had a slightly A-Level Drama or physical theatre vibe to them; lots of mime and representing weird stuff in leotards.  Or that these productions were on the outskirts for a reason, that they weren’t quite of the West End/Broadway standard but were giving it a go. 

But NO, NO, NO! And if I could make more emphasis with capital letters then I would!  The fringe scene in London now seems to be the place where we have become experimental in our craft and returned back to the roots (for some reason all these analogies are linked to hair??) of why we love and must perform theatre.  Full-size, old school musicals are happening there; Mack and Mabel, Michael Strassen’s The Fix soon to be followed by Call Me Madam (he is someone who definitely does the sexier version of fringe theatre) and I haven’t even touched on the plays.

Norman Bowman and Laura Pitt-Pulford in Mack & Mabel

Something about the setting of these productions, above a pub or in the Vaults of a railway, seems to make you focus on the bare bones of the piece.  The composition, the heart and the raw talent doesn’t just shine through but hits you in the gut, in a way that just can’t reach you when you are sat in a £65 seat in The Royal Balcony.  And my goodness, what talent there is.

Let me let you into a little London theatre secret, the fringe is where the talent is.  All those people who were playing leads, understudies or cameos in the last 10 years in the West End are now playing the roles they have rightfully grown into on the fringe.  It becomes mystifying and frustrating to be offered 5^th munchkin from the left when you are knocking 40 and understudying someone “off the telly” 

I sat next to someone yesterday at The Southwalk Playhouse who told her companion “Stop moaning, this ain’t the West End.”  Yes it was crammed, hot and clammy (unlike a West End show I had seen the night before that was only a 1/3 full) but I wanted to retort “No, it ain’t, its better,” but I didn’t need to because they were weeping with me at the end with the visceral emotion that emitted from that stage.

I am not disparaging any West End shows or the talent of its performers, I have been there myself and those guys work just as hard and are just as talented; we just don’t get to see them shine in the same way because they are masked by special effects, costume or celebrities.  Acting starts as a hobby but it soon becomes a job and you do have to go where the money is to make ends meet or to fulfil a dream and I don’t scorn anyone, including myself, who does.  But sometimes, it is refreshing to fulfil your bigger dreams and re-introduce yourself to that creative, hungry actor inside you – a bus-mans holiday if you will!

Money makes the world go round - taken from Michael Simpkins' blog 2009 for The Guardian http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/theatreblog/2009/jul/03/minimum-wage-fringe-theatre

I have a bus-man’s holiday of my own coming up with a new fringe theatre company in Guildford and I know it will challenge my vocal chords in the way that puppeteering challenged my body!  So I urge you to think outside the box – seeing a big musical or play with Hollywood actors in is wonderful and well-worth the ticket but on a quiet Tuesday or Sunday head to Camden, Southwalk or Guildford and watch some performers get back to their roots and perform their hearts out.

To complete the hair analogies and mis-quote a famous product tag-line “It’ll be worth it!”

 

Just to get you started!.........

Guildford Fringe Company - @GuildfordFringe on Twitter http://www.guildford.gov.uk/article/10195/The-Last-Five-Years-with-The-Guildford-Fringe-Theatre-Company

Thom Sutherland - www.thomsutherland.co.uk

Michael Strassen - www.michaelstrassen.com

Finborough Theatre - www.finboroughtheatre.co.uk

www.anincidentattheborder.com now at Trafalgar Studios transferred from The Finborough and getting rave reviews

 

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas - Prince Harrys through History

So we’ve all seen Prince Harry’s bottom today, big deal.  He is holidaying in Las Vegas and some “loyal” companion has sold photos of him in his VIP suite playing strip snooker on a drunken evening to American site TMZ.  The media has gone wild sharing some delightful puns such as “he really has put the crown jewels on display” and he “bares all,” and is demanding some reaction from The Palace.

But The Palace walls have seen it all before.  Prince Harry is not the first royal playboy and he certainly won’t be the last.

His father Prince Charles has had his fair share of the headlines and his uncle Prince Andrew is sadly still doing it; a constant PR problem for The Palace with travel expenses and flings.

The Tudor ginger rogue

Some of the most glorious royals in history were naughty.  Comparisons have long been made between our Prince Harry and another handsome red-headed Prince, Harry Tudor.  He, too, as a second son was not expected to become King and therefore didn’t have that burden or responsibility.  But before he became notorious for those 6 wives and The Reformation, King Henry VIII was the famed, fun-loving playboy of his time.  The image we have of an overweight, disease-ridden King from his later years is far from the handsome and athletic young Prince who was adored by everybody and brought glamour and glory to the court (remind you of anyone?)

King Edward VIII

King Edward VIII, Prince Harry’s great-great-uncle, is another famous wayward royal.  By defying his Father and marrying a divorcee, the former Prince of Wales draws obvious parallels with our own Prince of Wales and his marriage to Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall.  But Edward VIII, known as David, was also a notorious womaniser and playboy.  His reckless behaviour in the 1920s and 30s worried many people as he sailed carefree around the Med on yachts and socialised with questionable people.  His personal secretary Alan Lascelles was documented as saying

“for some hereditary or physiological reason his normal mental development stopped dead when he reached adolescence".  

That sounds like a few men I know!

Royalty aside, don’t we all know a few men in their 20s who party too hard until responsibility comes a-knocking?  But Prince Harry has begun to face his responsibilities; certain parts of the media choose to forget how Prince Harry was celebrated for his part of the Jubilee tour where he melted hearts in Jamaica and successfully conveyed the youthful representation of The Royal Family. His well-received speech included

“I count it a great privilege to be standing here tonight, representing The Queen in Jamaica on her Diamond Jubilee. Her Majesty has asked me to extend her great good wishes to you all, and is sorry that she can't be here - so you're stuck with me... but don't worry, cos every liddle ting gonna be alright!” 

To me, he, or at least his speech writer, got the tone completely right.

Is no one even slightly jealous?!

He was also chosen to represent HRH the Queen at The Olympic Closing Ceremony; maybe nobody else wanted to sit through Emeli Sande and Russell Brand and who can blame him for a blow-out holiday after that?

We all love Prince Harry; women of all ages not-so-secretly- fancy him, men wish they could be him and we all forgave the Nazi gaff, blurry late night exits from nightclubs and so, of course, the nation can forgive him this.

On a news day when a young girl has tragically drowned with her granddad in Portugal, we are still debating the definition of rape and the death of locked-in syndrome sufferer, Tony Nicklinson do we really need to waste our brain cells worrying about this?

Don’t forget this is the year to be in love with The Royal Family; the Diamond Jubilee, the emergence of William and Kate as the faces of “the new royals” brand and Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie wearing better outfits.  For goodness sakes, this is the year that the Queen did a skit with James Bond so cut her and The Palace some slack.  We don’t need Royal comment or apologies, they, like the rest of us have got much better things to be doing.

THIS POST WAS ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR THE HUFFINGTON POST

 http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/daniella-gibb/prince-harry-what-happens-in-vegas_b_1821067.html?utm_hp_ref=uk

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner.....

Walking the streets of Oxford Circus in London last week was slightly unnerving for me.  Not because I have a phobia of tourists or teenagers with a penchant for TopShop but because it felt frenetic. 

You know those scenes in movies when the protagonist stays in real time whilst a New York street whooshes around them to illustrate their confusion or mental breakdown, well, that was me.  Slightly less dramatic and glamorous, but you get the feeling!  I felt like London was rushing away from me and I couldn’t keep up.

I used to live in central London; au fait with the pace of life and often seen on a night bus at silly 0’clock.  I had my designated spot on the tube platform so I could get off at the exact place at the other side (pathetic, but I know most Londoners will admit to that) and I had my “London walk.”  You know the one that leaves visiting suburbanites agog as you power through any crowd with commuter determination and detachment, you take no prisoners in order to make the 18.08 train.  No “women and children first” you ditch the weak because they only slow you down; I would leave poor family members in my wake after they came to watch me in a show on my mission to get to the tube.  Sadly, this is an accurate picture of my London selfish 20s- self and she had certainly deserted me last week as I shuffled along with a distinct lack of my usual vigour.

So has London sped up or have I slowed down?  I have been away on tour for 7 months navigating the much quieter streets of Rhyl and Dunstable so have definitely been “out of the loop” and London has been energised by our Olympic love affair.  But I think the best explanation is that I have spent much of August camping in the Lake District.

....and breathe!

There are nearly 300 miles between Kensington and Keswick but it feels a million.  But catch a glimpse of the crags and fells of Cumbria and London doesn’t even enter my mind despite the odd buzz of my iPhone if I ever find a patch of signal!  I have exhaled for the first time since January and tension has slipped away; you cannot help but feel insignificant when faced with such natural grandeur and maybe that’s why I feel weird in London?  Everyone feels very significant there, well, to themselves anyway.

The Lake District is both tranquil and awesome at the same time, you don’t think twice about waiting 17 minutes for a camping kettle to boil because you are happy to sit, breathe and appreciate the epic view.  People who know me and now probably guffawing at their computer screens or think I’ve been abducted, but IT’S TRUE!!  The only stress is over which path to follow on a hike!

Ok, that is a little bit of a lie, camping can be fairly stressful if you are known to (sometimes) be high-maintenance, like I am.  I suffered severe dehydration overnight, not wanting to drink too much fluid before bed because a dry mouth and headache was preferable to the 5 minute amble to the toilet in my wellies with a torch at 3am.  I managed a few decent nights sleep but an airbed is wrought with problems; your boyfriend ‘claiming’ it is slanted, thus making him obliviously roll to the centre of the bed as you cling to a free corner, or waking up with your bum cheeks grazing a mole-hill because the air bed has failed to live up to its name and expelled all the air overnight.

But the biggest stress is the weather.  The Lake District is notorious for rain and wind and we were lucky enough to experience them both.....violently.  One night we tried to drift off with the tent flapping furiously in the wind only to be suddenly brought to consciousness as the ceiling met my face.  Everything was blue as our tent lost the battle with the 65mph gusts of wind, we were definitely slanting now in fact the tent was virtually parallel to the ground.  My poor boyfriend struggled to hold it up and re-peg it in the rain as I helpfully screamed that “we were meeting our doom” (high maintenance, much?!)

The casualties that night were the new wind breaker whose steel poles bent under the force and my man’s belief that I may turn out to be a supportive and helpful life partner!  But one look at the view as we crawled out of the tent the next morning made us forgive The Lakes everything!  Like deluded lovers we coo-ed “Look at it, so beautiful, it didn’t mean it!”

What I'm reading now!

This Londoner has fallen head over heels in love with The Lakes, it’s my new dream to become like Beatrix Potter writing on a farm there.  Post-Olympics everyone loves London or as Caitlin Moran tweeted “Everyone fancies us!”  It is vibrant and alive and I am not such an old “ramblers club” fogey that this boost has totally eluded me. Seeing the Thames lit-up at night thrills me and I still know theatre land in Soho like the back of my hand, I don’t think that will ever leave me.

So I may be less Oxford Circus and more Oxford-shire these days but I am OK with that.  I’ll take my new lessons of appreciating my surroundings on my trips to London; breathing and enjoying the view. 

Who am I kidding?  Breathing in fumes and only annoying the people with a “London walk” as I behave like a bemused Japanese tourist?

That just ain’t gonna work!

Tears of Hoy - Maternal Pride

Who could fail to be moved by Sir Chris Hoy’s mum, Carol, this week as she hid behind her hands and willed her boy on to his 6^th gold medal during London 2012.  The normalcy surrounding a national hero; even he has a mum who worries about him.  Could there be a prouder moment for a parent?  Seeing your son adored by millions and achieve such greatness, yet unable to forget his first tooth or smile?  All that and more was clearly illustrated in those moments of footage.

I was chatting with my own mum this week about how the feelings experienced by a parent can only be understood when you become a parent yourself.  Not sleeping until you’ve heard your first born is home safely despite being 30 years old and living in a different house, wanting the best for them or being unable to watch them race around the Velodrome when they have an MBE!

It must be hard for a parent when a child chooses a hard career and your only choice is to be supportive although every atom of your being is screaming “BECOME AN ACCOUNTAAAAANT!”  Some people are lucky enough to have selfless parents who support you whatever you do, not in a scary Judy Garland’s mother kind of way but that quiet encouragement that acts as a buffer; always there to fall back on.

My family are affectionately referred to as “rent a crowd,” appearing unannounced at various venues around the UK and Europe because they “had a free evening” to watch me in a show.  I pretend to sigh and roll my eyes but there is nothing better than seeing their beaming faces silhouetted in the auditorium.  Something I still miss when certain family members can no longer be there.

The most maternal I get at present is my complete and absolute obsession with my nephew who, in my unbiased opinion, is practically perfect in every way or the feelings I have experienced this week with the 60 children I have taught in a musical theatre summer school.  They are not my flesh and blood and don’t even know my second name, I am just “Dani.....?” who responds to every winge and question!  But they have caused me to lose my rag when not using their full potential and moved me to tears when they do.

I have previously admitted my inability to take my heart off my sleeve or keep my emotions in check, blaming my genetic make-up as an actress.  A new by-product from my luvvie-dom is I now find that I’m unable to detach myself from work; proven on Friday as I silently wept whilst 18 teenagers nailed a performance of Don’t Stop Believin’.  I know!  I hate cheesy musical theatre and I sang all my appreciation away for that song twice daily last Christmas whilst trapped in “the Giant’s kitchen” in panto!  These kids weren’t rivalling the cast of Glee in terms of belting voices but they were all “giving it” to the best of their ability and had listened to “Dani’s” rants about passion, selling every syllable to an empty auditorium.  So this mother hen wept tears of pride!

I read a piece by Sarah Crompton in The Telegraph saying that, in her opinion, family values were the true ethos behind our Olympic games.  Whether it can be scientifically proven or not, you cannot ignore the evidence; Mrs Hoy’s heart in her mouth, thousands of children watching with their parents, athletes leaping over barriers to reach family members or Mr Tweddle talking about re-laying a patio when asked what he’d been doing in the run up to his daughter competing in the gymnastics!

The support-givers count; they are the back bone of any successful offspring and we’d all be nowhere without them. 

And I have to let the summer school brood fly the nest because they’re not mine and their own proud parents are looking forward to watching them perform.  Besides, I’ve got plenty of time to discover the rollercoaster of maternal emotions – like my emotional palette needs any more colour......... why couldn’t I have been an accountant?

Link to Sarah Crompton's article http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/olympics/9459116/London-2012-Olympics-we-should-rejoice-the-family-Games.html

London 2012 - I'm a Believer!

I have never been one for athletics; as April rolled into May I would sit on the second floor of the languages building and pure dread would shudder through me as I watched the white lines being painted onto the school field.  The athletics season was starting in P.E and I could do nothing to stop it.

I would be required to be sporty and excellent regardless of my pubescent pudge and short legs.  I did fairly well at the event called “getting out of it,”  I cited long-term asthma (actually it was eczema, but I thought if they sounded alike then they must be the same) as a sick note from long distance badges in swimming and I had dodgy knees for about 3 years every time the 1500m race came around.  In fact the only event I did compete in on Sports day was Shot-Putt.  Insert your own jokes here, I have heard them all and am still embarrassed about it!!

No wonder I was a podgy little teen and how I transformed into the running freak I am today completing a half marathon last year I will never know!

Hardly Ennis-worthy but I felt proud!

If I am honest, I felt a similar dread as the Olympics loomed earlier this year.  I joined in the moaning Londoners ranting on about transport failure, road closures and “look what happened to the Greek economy after Athens 2004, that’s all I’m saying.”  My previous Olympic viewing was limited to Sally Gunnell and Linford Christie’s famous one-piece so I didn’t even feel compelled to enter the ticket bid.

But what an uneducated fool I was.

From the moment I caught the last hours of the opening ceremony in the Dunstable Wetherspoons I was enchanted by the honour and spectacle and succumbed to all of the hype. What a grand and self-aware piece of brilliance to be proud of.  I cannot say anything more unique about the outstanding ceremony than has not already been enthused about in the media but I feel compelled to hold my hands up and say I was wrong.

What a fascinating and inspiring two weeks this will be.  Lord Coe & Co (haha!) chose the word “inspire” as a slogan for London 2012 and it was the perfect description for the events of last night in the Athletic stadium.  Nobody, not even this reluctant convert eating a take-away, could fail to be moved by the sheer brilliance and national adoration for Jessica Ennis, followed by the bounding legs of Greg Rutherford and then the drive and endurance of Mo Farah whose win was incredible.  And what about the cycling girls?  The eldest is still only 23 and those 3 women keep breaking world records every time they mount their bikes and speed around the Velodrome.  The rowers, cyclists and athletes are out-of-this-world brilliant.

I don’t want to find excuses anymore.  I admit I haven’t tried to run 10,000m today or cycle really fast but I certainly feel invigorated by the Olympics;  the actions and discipline of the Team GB athletes can be applied to us all.  The dedication and focus required to achieve greatness wouldn’t go amiss in my own life.  If I practised my craft to that extent every day, was focused on my goals and believed wholeheartedly in myself and my abilities I could be anything I want to be. 

Would I be a more successful writer, actress or person if I had a tenth of that drive?  Too right I would!

So I feel a bit mad at myself today for not attempting the 1500m when I was 13 and for not pushing myself more as an adult in my career.  My awe and wonder at those athletes will hopefully obliterate any laziness and “can’t do, so I won’t bother” attitude and help me discover some much needed energy and drive. 

Why can’t I be a great Briton in Great Britain?  London 2012 could make us all believe in ourselves and what an inspiration that could be.