“And, in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” (The Beatles)
Dear All,
Many of you know that Tally’s Blood was for me somewhat of a departure from the type of pretentious, arty stuff I usually do, both as a director and as an actor… But what an enchanting experience it was to work on this charming play with such a delightful team of people. A huge thank you each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for everything that you brought to the last 2 months of hard slog. Your professionalism, your good humour, your patience and trust in me, your generosity, courage and talent added up to something even greater than the sum of all its parts. The warmth and affection you showed for each other radiated in waves out into the auditorium, and what a joy and a privilege it was for me to witness the tears and smiles of all those leaving the theatre at the end of each night, having been power-blasted with all that love-energy for 2½ hrs! :-) I like to think that the friendships that have been forged amongst us will grow beyond this experience- and perhaps it's this that will give me my most cherished memory of this happy time. Each one of you can afford to take enormous pride in all you did to make this production a truly magical experience- not just for me, but for hundreds and hundreds of people all over this city.
In love and deep gratitude,
Mark x
Thursday, 27 November 2008
As far back as I can remember I’ve been burdened with a deep-seated inferiority complex about my lack of intellect. This seems ridiculous to others who may be- on paper at least- less well qualified. Yet despite the nine O-levels, two A-levels, my good BA honours degree, and even that Distinction in Speech & Drama at Post Graduate level I still beat myself up for being thick. This stems from always feeling out of my depth as a child- treated by my parents and siblings, my schoolteachers and friends as if I was a bit soft in the head. I can now see that this was the impetus behind me studying so hard for all those years for all those bloody certificates and qualifications. I had a point to prove to ‘Them’, and to my self I suppose. And until relatively recently I have continued to flog myself to achieve some kind of academic status and credibility. And what a VAIN endeavour- in all the senses of that word! For what in the end does it all add up to? I have a career teaching others the same set of values, a career that extols the virtues of those silly academic qualifications. A career I have very little passion for any more.
I have a deep understanding and compassion for the academically challenged, but no sympathy at all for the lazy and wilfully ignorant who constitute the vast majority of my students. But, ironically enough, I reserve my most poisonous contempt for those who are gifted and lazy/ungrateful.. I earned all I have with blood, sweat and tears. I fucking worked for it without having any real natural aptitude. And yet I still find myself advocating the meaning of qualifications with no real faith in their importance- the chasing after the spurious and empty credibility of ‘decent grades’ and ultimately meaningless qualifications.
And yet here I sit in my study this evening, drafting an application for an MA in Acting Classical and Contemporary Text for the RSAMD. I ran out of space on the form listing all my qualifications and relevant experience. And yes, OK, it will be nice to have another piece of paper, assuming I get accepted on the course and do well enough; but- you know what?- for once in my life this is not why I am considering putting myself through the torture of formal education again. Because for once it isn’t fear of humiliation or failure that motivates me any more. It’s love.
And, yes, I know how just how lame that sounds. But these last two or three years I have begun to get in touch with transformations taking place at a very profound, ineffable level. I have found myself gradually shifting my focus away from the strivings of 'achievement' and egoic 'point scoring', and towards a far richer and more soulful- and actually quite self-effacing and humbling- perspective. And this is for me a paradigm shift. Of course to the outside eye I still look like I'm the same old me. But I’ve worked hard at finding a way through the fog of ‘adulthood’- a constructed identity that has grown quite dense around m. I've begun to value the importance of my latent gifts for connection with spirit- the child-like creative play where life has its true beginnings. “My Highest for His Best” has far less to do with being recognised for cleverness now than it ever has before. I have learned (un-learned?) to now be truly grateful for simple Passion and Devotion, to apply myself to the gifts of Kindness, of Faith to plain and untestable convictions. I know that far more than Knowledge and Understanding I seek Connection and Flow with my divine source- the Light, or the Seed, as we Quakers are wont to call it. Love. If I get accepted on this course it is not so I can improve my employment prospects. It's not so I can share my expertise with others in the classroom either. I am simply anticipating the unadulterated joy of expanding my consciousness at unplumbed levels, and most probably in ways I will never be able to fully articulate or justify to any one else. This will sound ridiculous to everyone else- especially other drama students and even the lecturers. I am looking to explore the profound union between my spirit and my art. But I can’t write that on my application form or I risk coming across as a time-waster/ wanker/ nutter. So I’m forced to trot out the predictable empty bollocks about 'augmenting my skils', 'enhancing my employment prospects', blah, blah, blah...
Utter shite of course. I don't actually care if they fail me.
No, this is something to do with becoming that ‘mystic without a monastery’ of which Caroline Myss speaks. (Actually, she was in Scotland for 3 days last week, lecturing at Findhorn and I would have loved to have gone along and met her if it hadn’t have been for Tally’s Blood.)
But right now it is much more important I know I am doing this for me…
For God.
And for Love. Pure and simple.
:-)
I have a deep understanding and compassion for the academically challenged, but no sympathy at all for the lazy and wilfully ignorant who constitute the vast majority of my students. But, ironically enough, I reserve my most poisonous contempt for those who are gifted and lazy/ungrateful.. I earned all I have with blood, sweat and tears. I fucking worked for it without having any real natural aptitude. And yet I still find myself advocating the meaning of qualifications with no real faith in their importance- the chasing after the spurious and empty credibility of ‘decent grades’ and ultimately meaningless qualifications.
And yet here I sit in my study this evening, drafting an application for an MA in Acting Classical and Contemporary Text for the RSAMD. I ran out of space on the form listing all my qualifications and relevant experience. And yes, OK, it will be nice to have another piece of paper, assuming I get accepted on the course and do well enough; but- you know what?- for once in my life this is not why I am considering putting myself through the torture of formal education again. Because for once it isn’t fear of humiliation or failure that motivates me any more. It’s love.
And, yes, I know how just how lame that sounds. But these last two or three years I have begun to get in touch with transformations taking place at a very profound, ineffable level. I have found myself gradually shifting my focus away from the strivings of 'achievement' and egoic 'point scoring', and towards a far richer and more soulful- and actually quite self-effacing and humbling- perspective. And this is for me a paradigm shift. Of course to the outside eye I still look like I'm the same old me. But I’ve worked hard at finding a way through the fog of ‘adulthood’- a constructed identity that has grown quite dense around m. I've begun to value the importance of my latent gifts for connection with spirit- the child-like creative play where life has its true beginnings. “My Highest for His Best” has far less to do with being recognised for cleverness now than it ever has before. I have learned (un-learned?) to now be truly grateful for simple Passion and Devotion, to apply myself to the gifts of Kindness, of Faith to plain and untestable convictions. I know that far more than Knowledge and Understanding I seek Connection and Flow with my divine source- the Light, or the Seed, as we Quakers are wont to call it. Love. If I get accepted on this course it is not so I can improve my employment prospects. It's not so I can share my expertise with others in the classroom either. I am simply anticipating the unadulterated joy of expanding my consciousness at unplumbed levels, and most probably in ways I will never be able to fully articulate or justify to any one else. This will sound ridiculous to everyone else- especially other drama students and even the lecturers. I am looking to explore the profound union between my spirit and my art. But I can’t write that on my application form or I risk coming across as a time-waster/ wanker/ nutter. So I’m forced to trot out the predictable empty bollocks about 'augmenting my skils', 'enhancing my employment prospects', blah, blah, blah...
Utter shite of course. I don't actually care if they fail me.
No, this is something to do with becoming that ‘mystic without a monastery’ of which Caroline Myss speaks. (Actually, she was in Scotland for 3 days last week, lecturing at Findhorn and I would have loved to have gone along and met her if it hadn’t have been for Tally’s Blood.)
But right now it is much more important I know I am doing this for me…
For God.
And for Love. Pure and simple.
:-)
Saturday, 22 November 2008
Farewell
Last night of Tally's Blood tonight.
:-(
I am feeling sentimental and nostalgic already. But I have to ask myself what in the end have these two or three months of work actually meant? What’s been learned? What contribution has been made to the world, if any, with this Tally’s Blood?
Well, first of all, I guess I’ve finally understood that it is more important to cast folk who have an aptitude for getting on with other folk, rather than always the best individual talents. It has confirmed for me that people’s egos can and often do corrode the love that might otherwise generate and anoint truly beautiful work. To their credit this wonderful team of mine worked in an unstintingly ensemble fashion, very close to old Chekhov’s ideal I like to think, without any overweening egos getting in the way.
I have also learned that I can use my own experience and abilities as a director to forge deep personal connections between people, and so create uncomplicated joy and straightforward entertainment rather than experiments and artistic ‘interpretations’- my usual brand of grim, brow-furrowing, chin-stroking, serious ‘Art’. And that is actually OK!! The pretentious critics and arty snobs can get stuffed!!! We sold out every night; but that does NOT mean we ‘sold out’! There is absolutely no reason to feel ashamed when you consider the seeds of love and compassion sewn in those who have been involved.
I have learned that my dear Karen has a richer talent than even I realised before, making the work look so easy, and capable of moving many people to affectionate tears and laughter as Rosinella. She has made the most of the gift I gave her when I cast her in the role, and this fills me with such pride. She made the part her very own; and, as many others have said, it is difficult to think of anyone else who could play the role so perfectly. And of course Karen herself has had an absolute ball. I really couldn’t have done this show if she hadn’t agreed to play the role- and, not to put too fine a point on it, the success of the production is due to her- and Robert’s- experience, humanity, generosity of heart, patience and talent.
I seem to have rekindled faith in my own abilities as a director; and despite all the stresses and strains the last time I stood at the helm of a production I can afford to take some pride again in bringing out the best in performers.
As cheesy as it sounds, this cast have become like a family and I will miss them. They are definitely going to miss each other.
And ultimately it is this, more than anything else, which gives me the most satisfaction: the fact that I brought these people together and helped forge those personal, creative bonds and so bring about something just a little bit magical in the process.
PS … And I think our audiences loved it too! :-)
:-(
I am feeling sentimental and nostalgic already. But I have to ask myself what in the end have these two or three months of work actually meant? What’s been learned? What contribution has been made to the world, if any, with this Tally’s Blood?
Well, first of all, I guess I’ve finally understood that it is more important to cast folk who have an aptitude for getting on with other folk, rather than always the best individual talents. It has confirmed for me that people’s egos can and often do corrode the love that might otherwise generate and anoint truly beautiful work. To their credit this wonderful team of mine worked in an unstintingly ensemble fashion, very close to old Chekhov’s ideal I like to think, without any overweening egos getting in the way.
I have also learned that I can use my own experience and abilities as a director to forge deep personal connections between people, and so create uncomplicated joy and straightforward entertainment rather than experiments and artistic ‘interpretations’- my usual brand of grim, brow-furrowing, chin-stroking, serious ‘Art’. And that is actually OK!! The pretentious critics and arty snobs can get stuffed!!! We sold out every night; but that does NOT mean we ‘sold out’! There is absolutely no reason to feel ashamed when you consider the seeds of love and compassion sewn in those who have been involved.
I have learned that my dear Karen has a richer talent than even I realised before, making the work look so easy, and capable of moving many people to affectionate tears and laughter as Rosinella. She has made the most of the gift I gave her when I cast her in the role, and this fills me with such pride. She made the part her very own; and, as many others have said, it is difficult to think of anyone else who could play the role so perfectly. And of course Karen herself has had an absolute ball. I really couldn’t have done this show if she hadn’t agreed to play the role- and, not to put too fine a point on it, the success of the production is due to her- and Robert’s- experience, humanity, generosity of heart, patience and talent.
I seem to have rekindled faith in my own abilities as a director; and despite all the stresses and strains the last time I stood at the helm of a production I can afford to take some pride again in bringing out the best in performers.
As cheesy as it sounds, this cast have become like a family and I will miss them. They are definitely going to miss each other.
And ultimately it is this, more than anything else, which gives me the most satisfaction: the fact that I brought these people together and helped forge those personal, creative bonds and so bring about something just a little bit magical in the process.
PS … And I think our audiences loved it too! :-)
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Tally's Blood 7
I am overwhelmed with the response to Tally’s Blood. In all my 15 years at the Ramshorn- as an audience member/ actor/ director I have never known such vociferous and positive reaction to a show. It’s just astonishing the extraordinary levels of affection the actors are inspiring in those who come to see it. Every night the audience are in floods of tears and sniffles; there are warm gales of laughter, shrieks of delight and sympathetic “awwws” during the tender, sentimental moments; applause at the end of every single scene. Hormonal girls are even waiting at the stage door to pass on messages to the actors playing Hughie and Franco! And none of this is done ironically- which is surely saying something, given that the vast majority of the audience are hard-nosed teenagers. 35 of my own students came to see it last night and they were in raptures. I think they may have a little more respect for the advice i give them in the classroom now :-)
I know only too well that 15-18 year olds are, in many ways, perhaps the most difficult audience to please, even if they may not always (admittedly) be the most critically discerning. They can by turns be both cruelly cynical and sentimental, knowing and ignorant, enthusiastic and dismissive; yet I think it is a measure of our achievement that we have managed to pitch the show in such a way that we are able to appeal to the adolescent, whilst at the same time moving and engaging a more grown-up, theatre-literate demographic. This is because there are so many exquisite subtleties and nuances of observation to do with emotional psychology and the difficulty of love and human relationship in there too. Di Mambro’s writing does much of this, but it would be glaringly obvious to anyone if my production should somehow fall short of her vision of what the play should be in performance. My actors really are doing a fabulous job. I like to think she would find much to admire in our interpretation. I do hope she finds time to come and see it. I just hope the actors are not tempted to try 'to fix wot ain't broke' out of boredom, over-familiarity with the material or a desire to force growth. There are early signs this may be happening (-more of which below), and it must be stamped out now.
Some of the most positive reactions have come from adults, especially drama teachers. “Magical”, “wonderful”, “brilliantly directed”, “perfect casting”, “beautiful”, “the best show I’ve seen here”, “the best production I’ve ever seen”(!), “fantastic”, etc. They love the design, the acting, the choice of music, the direction, the composition of the blocking, and the clever use of set... etc. One middle-aged woman told me that she had seen several productions of this play over the years (where?) and ours was easily the best. The audience particularly warm to Hughie and Massimo’s characters; yet my Karen is attracting some of the best responses from the older and perhaps more astute and discerning members of the theatre-going public for her superbly judged reading of Rosinella Pedreschi. My friend Robert is particularly affecting too as her husband, Massimo. The pair of them are like twin pillars on which the rest of production rests.
The rest of the run is now completely sold out. And the whole cast and crew are lapping it up, of course! The theme of the play is Love, and so it seems perfectly in keeping that everyone involved- behind stage, on stage, FOH and audiences has been infected with that profound spiritual force too- not in a soppy way, but in a deep-rooted and powerful sense. Everyone concerned is really going to miss this show when it finishes. I couldn’t be more pleased. I’m now receiving several invitations from drama departments all over the west of Scotland, asking me to come as a guest speaker and talk about the job of directing.
But even now it is important that none of us grow complacent or cocky. I want the cast to keep the lovely ensemble feeling. There are early indications that the threatening shadows of ego-conflict are starting to loom, which India and I will need to keep a close eye on. Apparently there were some disagreements backstage after last night's show. India, Robert and Karen told me about them. Some actors (who must remain nameless) are making too much of their roles, trying to milk audience response with over-illustration and playing out- which tends to throw the production off kilter and steals focus from the thrust of the story while it places the emphasis on their acting. This is deathly, and must be resisted at all costs for the production to gel as a whole.
Ah, the perils of the Actor's Ego...!
I must be sure I manage these issues as sensitvely as I can, or the ensemble ethic could so quickly fracture and disintegrate. One of the main reason the play is such a success is because everyone involved has until now been so mutually supportive and trusting of each other. Without those precious and delicate bonds the whole thing might easily collapse like a house of cards. It seems my role is now less as 'Director' (the play is now up and running after all, and my job should be over) and more as 'Family Therapist'!
Me!?!! LOL
I know only too well that 15-18 year olds are, in many ways, perhaps the most difficult audience to please, even if they may not always (admittedly) be the most critically discerning. They can by turns be both cruelly cynical and sentimental, knowing and ignorant, enthusiastic and dismissive; yet I think it is a measure of our achievement that we have managed to pitch the show in such a way that we are able to appeal to the adolescent, whilst at the same time moving and engaging a more grown-up, theatre-literate demographic. This is because there are so many exquisite subtleties and nuances of observation to do with emotional psychology and the difficulty of love and human relationship in there too. Di Mambro’s writing does much of this, but it would be glaringly obvious to anyone if my production should somehow fall short of her vision of what the play should be in performance. My actors really are doing a fabulous job. I like to think she would find much to admire in our interpretation. I do hope she finds time to come and see it. I just hope the actors are not tempted to try 'to fix wot ain't broke' out of boredom, over-familiarity with the material or a desire to force growth. There are early signs this may be happening (-more of which below), and it must be stamped out now.
Some of the most positive reactions have come from adults, especially drama teachers. “Magical”, “wonderful”, “brilliantly directed”, “perfect casting”, “beautiful”, “the best show I’ve seen here”, “the best production I’ve ever seen”(!), “fantastic”, etc. They love the design, the acting, the choice of music, the direction, the composition of the blocking, and the clever use of set... etc. One middle-aged woman told me that she had seen several productions of this play over the years (where?) and ours was easily the best. The audience particularly warm to Hughie and Massimo’s characters; yet my Karen is attracting some of the best responses from the older and perhaps more astute and discerning members of the theatre-going public for her superbly judged reading of Rosinella Pedreschi. My friend Robert is particularly affecting too as her husband, Massimo. The pair of them are like twin pillars on which the rest of production rests.
The rest of the run is now completely sold out. And the whole cast and crew are lapping it up, of course! The theme of the play is Love, and so it seems perfectly in keeping that everyone involved- behind stage, on stage, FOH and audiences has been infected with that profound spiritual force too- not in a soppy way, but in a deep-rooted and powerful sense. Everyone concerned is really going to miss this show when it finishes. I couldn’t be more pleased. I’m now receiving several invitations from drama departments all over the west of Scotland, asking me to come as a guest speaker and talk about the job of directing.
But even now it is important that none of us grow complacent or cocky. I want the cast to keep the lovely ensemble feeling. There are early indications that the threatening shadows of ego-conflict are starting to loom, which India and I will need to keep a close eye on. Apparently there were some disagreements backstage after last night's show. India, Robert and Karen told me about them. Some actors (who must remain nameless) are making too much of their roles, trying to milk audience response with over-illustration and playing out- which tends to throw the production off kilter and steals focus from the thrust of the story while it places the emphasis on their acting. This is deathly, and must be resisted at all costs for the production to gel as a whole.
Ah, the perils of the Actor's Ego...!
I must be sure I manage these issues as sensitvely as I can, or the ensemble ethic could so quickly fracture and disintegrate. One of the main reason the play is such a success is because everyone involved has until now been so mutually supportive and trusting of each other. Without those precious and delicate bonds the whole thing might easily collapse like a house of cards. It seems my role is now less as 'Director' (the play is now up and running after all, and my job should be over) and more as 'Family Therapist'!
Me!?!! LOL
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Tally's Blood 6
I realised last night watching a stagger-through of Tally’s Blood just why I find the moment at the end of Act 1 so moving when Massimo returns from Canada. It is for a similar reason that I find the scene where Hughie is trying not to cry so moving. They both trigger the same emotional memory in me that reminds me of an episode from my very early childhood.
I was 3 years old and my mother, due to complications, had been in hospital during the last month of her pregnancy before giving birth to my sister, Katie. For some reason I had been forbidden by my father to visit mum during that time. Perhaps he thought it would upset or confuse me. Dad and grandma had looked after my brother, Julia and me during that time. Eventually of course mum came home. I can still vividly recall standing at the top of the stairs as my dad carried mum’s bag from the car, my grandma held the door open, and my mother appeared looking radiant and strangely different with my new baby sister in her arms. I can remember mum saying to grandma how wonderful it was to be home and then noticing me as I stood at the top of the stairs looking down on all this. My mum smiled hesitantly... “Hello, Mark. Did you miss me? Come and say hello to your new baby sister,” I feigned diffidence, knowing that this was a rite of passage I did not want to make, for as soon as I acknowledged this new arrival the whole family dynamic would change forever and I would have to become grown up and responsible as I had been warned. It would become somehow real, and things would never ever be the same again.
My mum’s expectations of a sentimental homecoming were dashed. I remember she looked so forlorn and disappointed as she looked up at me. She was heart-broken I hadn’t run down the stairs towards her and hugged her with all my might. I overheard her whisper to my father and grandmother, “He doesn’t remember me.”
Of course I did. Of course I remembered who she was! But she had changed, and for some reason in some deep part of me I couldn’t help resenting this. I hadn’t been consulted about this new addition to the family. I was irrelevant. But I knew it would be unfair to take it out on this tiny baby, and the only person I could take it out on was my mother. She said she would always love me, that she had no favourites and I then I would put this to the test.
I had been a happy, affectionate and effusive child until this point. It wasn’t long after this day that I became haunted with recurring nightmares which continued into my adolescence, as I strived to maintain this stiff, unbending visage of emotional restraint and indifference, a stiff-upper-lipped mask of ‘bravery’ which my mother had told me was the measure of adulthood and maturity- the placing others’ needs before ones own. This was the genesis of one of the most destructive and hideously subtle reptiles in my First Mansion. I was being forced to grow up too early, and follow the example my mother set for “adulthood” which seemed to mean resisting one’s natural impulses and emotions; sacrificing one’s own emotional needs and who one really was in order to conform to the onerous and ‘inevitable’ expectations placed on you by the world to be other than one’s true self.
As far as I could see, although I could barely say my own name let alone articulate any of this the rules seemed to be as follows:
Don’t cry.
Don’t be jealous.
Don’t be “silly” (i.e. sensitive).
Always put others’ feelings, especially your younger brothers and sisters before your own.
Don’t seek attention.
Be seen and not heard.
And, (perhaps most wounding of all) suffer in silence.
Inwardly I was not at all ready for these twisted notions of Catholic sainthood (Was I ever??!!). And so it was that I instinctively protested in an insidious and passive-aggressive way. Of course I had never even heard of the phrase passive-aggressive then (- and I suppose in the early 1960s this pop-psychology phrase probably had yet to be coined!), but that didn’t mean I didn’t know how to manipulate others through such means. Now i look back on this I realise what a conniving wee bastard I really was! After all- I had ben tutored in such tactics at the feet of a true master- my own mother. Oh the irony of that! I decided in that very moment that I would use this opportunity to give her a dose of her own medicine and to pretend that I really didn’t remember her. When I sensed she was upset by this I remained where I was on the landing, peering through the banisters. I didn’t come running down to her, I just stared at her as if she were a stranger to me. To her I seemed withdrawn and taciturn, even afraid- which she interpreted as me having forgotten who she was (…How ridiculous! Of course I hadn’t forgotten who she was! My mother and father had always branded me as soft in the head, not very bright, and never granted me any real intelligence at all- but I wasn’t completely daft- or at least only when it suited me to be so!!).
I recall I got this strange feeling of going hot and cold at the same time- a surge of dark power coursing through my legs and chest. The plan I hatched and put into operation there and then was to thereafter withdraw all voluntary displays of fondness towards my mother- and only to embrace or kiss her when she asked me to, standing aside to allow my brothers and sisters to claim the lion’s share of her affection. In retrospect of course this was terribly cruel of me and upset my mother a great deal I suspect- and to be absolutely honest it hurt me a great deal too- but that was precisely why I chose to do it- BECAUSE I KNEW it would break her heart that I had locked away all signs of emotional dependence on her.
She'd hurt me by claiming to know how I felt, and this would be my revenge. She was turning this into some silly drama by pretending that I didn’t know who she was- well then, so be it. If that was the game, then alright I’ll play by your rules, mummy, and we’ll see who backs down first. Why should she assume that because she was my mother that she should have an automatic entitlement to my thoughts, my love, my identity? Hadn’t she been the one to tell me that growing up was about breaking free of ones parents and making ones own way in the world? OK then, so be it. This little boy’s heart had longed for attention which I felt was going to be denied me forever more, and lavished instead on this new arrival, my sister Katie, and my other younger siblings. All mum and dad’s time and energy from now onwards would be taken up with caring for my three younger siblings; my needs would remain secondary to theirs- perhaps rightly so one might think; but to my 3 year old mind this was sickeningly unjust. I didn’t feel ready to be abandoned like this. I would take charge of this and do it myself.
This was a defining event in my early life, and marked the beginning of my individuation process as a nascent personality, and generally fucked-up ego. And perhaps even more interesting and significant than this was the fact that this early episode was in fact the very first time in my life I ever remember pretending to feel something other than what I truly felt inside. What I mean is, this was the first time I ever ACTED! It perhaps set the mark for everything in my life that came after. Inwardly, what I felt was a deep sense of loss and betrayal- but I chose to mask this with a frosty and cold rebuttal- a deliberately constructed charade that I didn’t remember my own mother. She had made this possible, and I wanted her to live with the consequences of having created this situation. After all, if mummy was always right- simply because she gave birth to me- and if, as she also claimed, she knew me far better than I could know my own self, and could see into my inner thoughts- well OK, so be it; I will behave as if that were true- and then watch her suffer the cruel consequences of her assumptions. My acting became about blocking her from seeing my true feelings. My damaged ego was fuelled by an unconscious but toxic envy of my younger brothers and sisters, and a naked fear of rejection by my parents and a rejection of this new regime of self-sacrifice that was being imposed on me. I was going to show her the consequences of her arrogant and false assumptions, and see how much she liked being rejected by me. Of course I am describing something I could never really properly think through at the time. It is only now I can see what happened in that instant.
The reason I mention all of this is because there are two moments in Tally’s Blood that, for me, are somehow deeply redolent of that primal scene. One is where the 6 year old, Hughie, is explaining to Lucia that his mother needs him to be the big, brave man in the family now his father has died, and has been forbidden to cry.
And the other moment that moves me even more deeply comes just before the interval. Massimo Pedreschi returns home after 4-years' incarceration in a POW camp for enemy aliens in Canada. He arrives at the door, and he greets Rosinella, his wife, and then turns to his erstwhile daughter, Lucia (now aged 10). Lucia stares and waits awkwardly at the other side of the room, reticent and cautious, as Massimo extends his arms to her. But she seems not to recognise him- he has lost a lot of his hair; he looks tired, older, thinner.
"Lucia...?" he asks, searchingly.
Lucia pauses and then takes one tentative step forward… and then another, before she begins to accelerate, and then finally launches herself into Massimo’s arms as he lifts her high off the floor. The music swells to a crescendo and the lights dim to blackout on this tearful family tableau. All rather cheesy you might well say... But this sequence is so deeply poignant for me because it contains echoes and parallels with that episode when I was three, offering a kind of evocation and artistic reconciliation of my own past.
And the reason I think I wanted to direct this play is because these two moments move me so much. They are so redolent of my own 'primal scene'. I hope it isn't that I am in any way using this project as some kind of self-indulgent psychodrama workshop, but these moments certainly do offer me the potential for deep inner soul repair, and psychological healing.
Emotional and sexual repression, matriarchal control, Catholic exclusivity, that whole sorry paradigm of 'sanctification through suffering' and the denial of affection are all woven deep into my directorial interpretation of this play- and these themes are very recognisable to me and reminiscent of my own childhood.
Art as therapy anyone?
I was 3 years old and my mother, due to complications, had been in hospital during the last month of her pregnancy before giving birth to my sister, Katie. For some reason I had been forbidden by my father to visit mum during that time. Perhaps he thought it would upset or confuse me. Dad and grandma had looked after my brother, Julia and me during that time. Eventually of course mum came home. I can still vividly recall standing at the top of the stairs as my dad carried mum’s bag from the car, my grandma held the door open, and my mother appeared looking radiant and strangely different with my new baby sister in her arms. I can remember mum saying to grandma how wonderful it was to be home and then noticing me as I stood at the top of the stairs looking down on all this. My mum smiled hesitantly... “Hello, Mark. Did you miss me? Come and say hello to your new baby sister,” I feigned diffidence, knowing that this was a rite of passage I did not want to make, for as soon as I acknowledged this new arrival the whole family dynamic would change forever and I would have to become grown up and responsible as I had been warned. It would become somehow real, and things would never ever be the same again.
My mum’s expectations of a sentimental homecoming were dashed. I remember she looked so forlorn and disappointed as she looked up at me. She was heart-broken I hadn’t run down the stairs towards her and hugged her with all my might. I overheard her whisper to my father and grandmother, “He doesn’t remember me.”
Of course I did. Of course I remembered who she was! But she had changed, and for some reason in some deep part of me I couldn’t help resenting this. I hadn’t been consulted about this new addition to the family. I was irrelevant. But I knew it would be unfair to take it out on this tiny baby, and the only person I could take it out on was my mother. She said she would always love me, that she had no favourites and I then I would put this to the test.
I had been a happy, affectionate and effusive child until this point. It wasn’t long after this day that I became haunted with recurring nightmares which continued into my adolescence, as I strived to maintain this stiff, unbending visage of emotional restraint and indifference, a stiff-upper-lipped mask of ‘bravery’ which my mother had told me was the measure of adulthood and maturity- the placing others’ needs before ones own. This was the genesis of one of the most destructive and hideously subtle reptiles in my First Mansion. I was being forced to grow up too early, and follow the example my mother set for “adulthood” which seemed to mean resisting one’s natural impulses and emotions; sacrificing one’s own emotional needs and who one really was in order to conform to the onerous and ‘inevitable’ expectations placed on you by the world to be other than one’s true self.
As far as I could see, although I could barely say my own name let alone articulate any of this the rules seemed to be as follows:
Don’t cry.
Don’t be jealous.
Don’t be “silly” (i.e. sensitive).
Always put others’ feelings, especially your younger brothers and sisters before your own.
Don’t seek attention.
Be seen and not heard.
And, (perhaps most wounding of all) suffer in silence.
Inwardly I was not at all ready for these twisted notions of Catholic sainthood (Was I ever??!!). And so it was that I instinctively protested in an insidious and passive-aggressive way. Of course I had never even heard of the phrase passive-aggressive then (- and I suppose in the early 1960s this pop-psychology phrase probably had yet to be coined!), but that didn’t mean I didn’t know how to manipulate others through such means. Now i look back on this I realise what a conniving wee bastard I really was! After all- I had ben tutored in such tactics at the feet of a true master- my own mother. Oh the irony of that! I decided in that very moment that I would use this opportunity to give her a dose of her own medicine and to pretend that I really didn’t remember her. When I sensed she was upset by this I remained where I was on the landing, peering through the banisters. I didn’t come running down to her, I just stared at her as if she were a stranger to me. To her I seemed withdrawn and taciturn, even afraid- which she interpreted as me having forgotten who she was (…How ridiculous! Of course I hadn’t forgotten who she was! My mother and father had always branded me as soft in the head, not very bright, and never granted me any real intelligence at all- but I wasn’t completely daft- or at least only when it suited me to be so!!).
I recall I got this strange feeling of going hot and cold at the same time- a surge of dark power coursing through my legs and chest. The plan I hatched and put into operation there and then was to thereafter withdraw all voluntary displays of fondness towards my mother- and only to embrace or kiss her when she asked me to, standing aside to allow my brothers and sisters to claim the lion’s share of her affection. In retrospect of course this was terribly cruel of me and upset my mother a great deal I suspect- and to be absolutely honest it hurt me a great deal too- but that was precisely why I chose to do it- BECAUSE I KNEW it would break her heart that I had locked away all signs of emotional dependence on her.
She'd hurt me by claiming to know how I felt, and this would be my revenge. She was turning this into some silly drama by pretending that I didn’t know who she was- well then, so be it. If that was the game, then alright I’ll play by your rules, mummy, and we’ll see who backs down first. Why should she assume that because she was my mother that she should have an automatic entitlement to my thoughts, my love, my identity? Hadn’t she been the one to tell me that growing up was about breaking free of ones parents and making ones own way in the world? OK then, so be it. This little boy’s heart had longed for attention which I felt was going to be denied me forever more, and lavished instead on this new arrival, my sister Katie, and my other younger siblings. All mum and dad’s time and energy from now onwards would be taken up with caring for my three younger siblings; my needs would remain secondary to theirs- perhaps rightly so one might think; but to my 3 year old mind this was sickeningly unjust. I didn’t feel ready to be abandoned like this. I would take charge of this and do it myself.
This was a defining event in my early life, and marked the beginning of my individuation process as a nascent personality, and generally fucked-up ego. And perhaps even more interesting and significant than this was the fact that this early episode was in fact the very first time in my life I ever remember pretending to feel something other than what I truly felt inside. What I mean is, this was the first time I ever ACTED! It perhaps set the mark for everything in my life that came after. Inwardly, what I felt was a deep sense of loss and betrayal- but I chose to mask this with a frosty and cold rebuttal- a deliberately constructed charade that I didn’t remember my own mother. She had made this possible, and I wanted her to live with the consequences of having created this situation. After all, if mummy was always right- simply because she gave birth to me- and if, as she also claimed, she knew me far better than I could know my own self, and could see into my inner thoughts- well OK, so be it; I will behave as if that were true- and then watch her suffer the cruel consequences of her assumptions. My acting became about blocking her from seeing my true feelings. My damaged ego was fuelled by an unconscious but toxic envy of my younger brothers and sisters, and a naked fear of rejection by my parents and a rejection of this new regime of self-sacrifice that was being imposed on me. I was going to show her the consequences of her arrogant and false assumptions, and see how much she liked being rejected by me. Of course I am describing something I could never really properly think through at the time. It is only now I can see what happened in that instant.
The reason I mention all of this is because there are two moments in Tally’s Blood that, for me, are somehow deeply redolent of that primal scene. One is where the 6 year old, Hughie, is explaining to Lucia that his mother needs him to be the big, brave man in the family now his father has died, and has been forbidden to cry.
And the other moment that moves me even more deeply comes just before the interval. Massimo Pedreschi returns home after 4-years' incarceration in a POW camp for enemy aliens in Canada. He arrives at the door, and he greets Rosinella, his wife, and then turns to his erstwhile daughter, Lucia (now aged 10). Lucia stares and waits awkwardly at the other side of the room, reticent and cautious, as Massimo extends his arms to her. But she seems not to recognise him- he has lost a lot of his hair; he looks tired, older, thinner.
"Lucia...?" he asks, searchingly.
Lucia pauses and then takes one tentative step forward… and then another, before she begins to accelerate, and then finally launches herself into Massimo’s arms as he lifts her high off the floor. The music swells to a crescendo and the lights dim to blackout on this tearful family tableau. All rather cheesy you might well say... But this sequence is so deeply poignant for me because it contains echoes and parallels with that episode when I was three, offering a kind of evocation and artistic reconciliation of my own past.
And the reason I think I wanted to direct this play is because these two moments move me so much. They are so redolent of my own 'primal scene'. I hope it isn't that I am in any way using this project as some kind of self-indulgent psychodrama workshop, but these moments certainly do offer me the potential for deep inner soul repair, and psychological healing.
Emotional and sexual repression, matriarchal control, Catholic exclusivity, that whole sorry paradigm of 'sanctification through suffering' and the denial of affection are all woven deep into my directorial interpretation of this play- and these themes are very recognisable to me and reminiscent of my own childhood.
Art as therapy anyone?
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