Shakespeare Has It Covered

A Life with The Bard

Tim Hardy (1954-59) describes how ‘Shakespeare has it covered’.

“And that was the moment it all began. In all my time at the school, no one had ever said I was good at something – anything.”

‘We’d very much like you to play Antonio the Sea Captain!’ This from a boy I’d never met, waiting for me after class.

‘It’s a production of Twelfth Night we’re putting on ourselves.’ ‘Sorry, you’ve got the wrong person. I’ve never acted in my life.’ I could have added that I had absolutely no desire to do so, now or at any time in the foreseeable future.

‘Well, actually we’ve asked everyone else who’d be available. You’re the only one left.’ ‘As in bottom of the barrel.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘Look, you wouldn’t have to act or anything, there isn’t time now. We’re into the third week of rehearsals. Just learn the lines and say them.’

And that is what I did. He was right, there was not time to do anything other than learn the lines and say them, in this case more-or-less in the right order. To be honest, I did see a lot of acting – or rather A-C-T-I-N-G – going on around me, while all I could do was hope the words would do the work for me. And in a strange way that I could not explain, I did come to like the taste – the feel – of the words in my mouth.

Anyway, all went well and when it was done we celebrated with several cartons of J Lyons’ Dunky Doughnuts, delivered direct from Cadby Hall just by the school, and therefore warm and fresh in a way you could never find in the shops. One of the best reasons for going to St Paul’s.

‘Well done, Scalchi.’ This was Mr Pirkis (Master 1955-86), President of E Club. ‘Oh….thank you, sir.’ ‘Yes…you’re quite good at this.’

And that was the moment it all began. In all my time at the school, no one had ever said I was good at something – anything. In any discipline, scholastic or sporting, if I did my very best I might just about be average, and often not even that.

Mike Brearley, in his book ‘The Spirit of Cricket’, talks about the need to play sport not just because you are supremely talented, but also because it is something worth doing just for the love of the game. He quotes GK Chesterton (1887-92): ‘If a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing badly.’ That will be me.

But now I had stumbled on something that it seemed I might be quite good at! And it was this, more than any love of acting itself that initially drove me on. And here I am, over six decades later, still doing my best to be quite good at it.

My last term at school, I was playing Comus for Mr Harbord (Master 1928-1967), and the ‘acting bug’ – addiction actually – had truly taken hold. To my family’s dismay, I said I wanted to be an actor.

‘You try for RADA and that’s it. If you don’t get in there, forget it.’ That was the deal. No pressure then.

A young master, not long at the school, tried to take me in hand. He shall remain nameless, and is still my hero. Gently, he told me that —

‘Scalchi, you probably think acting is all glamour, fame, and wealth. This is what we read in certain newspapers. The truth is very different. I’d like you to know that my sister is an actress, and for her, life is a constant struggle. She may get a part in repertory from time to time, when she has to leave her home and live in digs which can be quite depressing, when the remuneration is poor – she is always short of money – she has, very occasionally, appeared on television, always just a few lines, and most of the time has to take temporary jobs just to make ends meet. This is her life.’

I was at a loss. This was too important a conversation not to say everything that might be relevant. And yet, the obvious point to make was just not the kind of thing you could say to a master. But he seemed so kindly, and it »

was he who had instigated the conversation, so...

‘Is it also….perhaps…sir….possible….that your sister….is – not very good?’ I remember the moment so clearly. Silence. He looked away, and then down at the ground. And then he said, with such sadness, ‘This is also true.’ My hero indeed.

RADA did not teach me how to act, because that is not something that can ever be taught. RADA set me on the path towards becoming the best actor I could possibly be. And gave us all practical advice on how we might survive in this ferociously competitive business. And suggested I get myself an English name – we were not so multi-cultural then – and with a sense of guilt that has never entirely gone away I took my mother’s maiden name.

A wonderful job touring America saw my first attempt at getting the requisite visa. Many, many forms, the first of which had 64 questions. Including,

‘Have you ever lived off immoral earnings?’ ‘Well,’ I joked, pencil poised, ‘if you’d seen some of the plays I’ve been in….’ The kind friend helping me – I must have been away during the form-filling classes at St Paul’s because when faced with any kind of form I turn into an idiot – put a hand on my arm.

‘No.’ she said. ‘But I just thought — ’ ‘No. No jokes. They don’t do jokes at the American Embassy. Ever. No jokes.’

But it is true that there have been many times when I have wondered if this really is a job for a grown man. There are many reasons put forward to argue that theatre is not just important but essential, and a few of them might even be true, but on a personal level, for heaven’s sake, why do I still need to stand in bright light in front of all those people and say, ‘For the next two hours I want you to look at ME!’

However. Sometimes, like the man said, ‘stuff happens’, and sometimes it happens in a way that gives theatre the chance to show what it’s for. And on one occasion the stuff happened because of something I was part of. The Vienna English Theatre produced a play by the Irish writer Frank McGuinness, ‘Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me.’ It is a play for three actors, and is based on the true story of the capture by Islamic Jihad terrorists in Lebanon in the 1980s of men who were then held hostage for several years, and for the most part in solitary confinement. The character I played, John McCarthy, was held prisoner longer than anyone else, from April 1986 to August 1991.

We had just given our final performance, and at the reception for cast, crew, and selected members of the audience, I was to make a speech of thanks and farewell. Time was getting on, a lot of booze had gone down, and I felt I had better get on with it. One of the other actors was at a table, talking to two Asian-looking men I had noticed sitting in the front row. The actor had his back to me, so I tapped the side of my glass for silence. When the actor turned round I saw that he was in floods of tears. Now the room was silent, so I made my speech, and as soon as it was done went over to see what on earth was wrong.

The younger man explained. They were indeed from India, father and son, on holiday following the son’s release from prison. Without going into details, it seemed this was the result of ‘financial difficulties’, and in any event it was enough for us to know that the young man had served two years in jail, mostly in solitary confinement.

‘And you chose to come to this play?’ They actually giggled, both of them. The father said, ‘Well – because of the title – we thought it would be about Ella Fitzgerald. Maybe even a musical.’

And then the son explained. To his dismay, he had found that the real and lasting damage had been caused not by the experience itself, but by the loneliness he felt now he was back among family, friends, and colleagues at work.

‘You can’t describe what the experience was really like, because you lock it away, bury it, and then blame your loved ones for not understanding. Now, the more I’m surrounded by people, the more I’m alone, and this frightens me. But this play, it gets to the heart of what it’s actually like. Yes, other people have been through what I went through. I knew that intellectually, of course, but that wasn’t enough, in spite of the therapists, medication, hypnosis, I’ve never felt I was part of anything, ever since I came out.’

I know that in my long life, everything I have experienced – really good, really bad, and all the stuff in between – Shakespeare has it covered somewhere in his plays or sonnets. And there is comfort in that.

 Tim Hardy as Comus

He went on to say that he felt he had truly seen himself on stage, and that because the play was based on true events and real characters, here was evidence that you could not just survive, but also perhaps, in time, actually recover. Interestingly, he said that – though he still had so much to process from the evening – he felt that the one thing more than any other that had helped him to believe in the play, was the humour.

‘I think that, in the end, it’s an understanding of the bizarre humour that comes out of such an experience, that most separates those who have known solitary confinement, and those who can only hear about it.’

We exchanged addresses, and months later I received a letter from the father. His son was truly on the mend, and he wanted me to know that both son and his therapist believed that his visit to the theatre that night was what ‘broke the dam’, and started the journey towards his eventual recovery.

Sometimes, this is what theatre can do: it tells us, ‘You are not alone.’ I know that in my long life, everything I have experienced – really good, really bad, and all the stuff in between – Shakespeare has it covered somewhere in his plays or sonnets. And there is comfort in that. There are dickheads who have come before me, and no doubt others who are yet unborn. Theatre, along with the other art forms, can help to show us – sometimes even explain – who we are.

And yet…..When I think of the sometimes almost frenzied silliness of our business, of the ever-increasing worship of celebrity….I think of the actor who appears on my television screen, it seems about once a month, to tell the watching millions what a very private person he is. I think of the Britain’s Got Talent’ competitor who – after screaming the obligatory ‘Oh my God!!!’ tells us through the heaving sobs that her life ‘has changed for ever!!’

And then I think of that wonderful performer Rita Moreno, who in 1962, for her performance in West Side Story, won the Oscar for best supporting actress. In the following press interview, a rather over-excited young reporter asked her how she felt, given that —

RADA did not teach me how to act, because that is not something that can ever be taught. RADA set me on the path towards becoming the best actor I could possibly be.

‘Now your life has changed – I mean for ever!’

She replied, ‘Who won this Oscar last year?’ No one knew the answer. She smiled and asked for the next question.

But I am truly grateful to have earned a living doing something I love. I am in my 25th year now as a freelance faculty member at RADA, serving on the Admissions Panel and directing Shakespeare on the many short courses. I have just managed, I hope, to play Shylock on zoom – old dogs and new tricks comes to mind – and a few weeks ago, for RADA – also on zoom – I directed ten actors from all over the world in Shakespeare monologues. This brought people together from Florida, St Petersburg, Delhi, Rome, Karach... One actor, in Peru, when we said goodbye, told me that the only place he had been able to get connection on his laptop was sitting on his loo. By such means will theatre survive. 