Despite having done this singing malarky for over thirty years now, whenever I go to the theatre I still find myself being taken in by the magic of the proscenium. By which I mean, when I see singers or actors (not that the two are mutually exclusive) leave a scene, rather than visualising them going into the wings and back to their dressing rooms I still get taken in. I do actually imagine them going into the street and climbing into a carriage, or strolling in the streets of Montmartre, or in the case of this Billy Budd, being somewhere else in the school.
Considering the amount of time I’ve spent in the wings, you’d think I would have got the hang of this by now but sadly not. It’s especially odd given that I’m in my dressing room right now, typing this while Billy goes on trial on the stage. The tannoy is belching impassioned music and I’m on my iPad. Well at least I’m being somewhat productive. I could easily have been catapulting squawking birds at grunting pigs, as are half my colleagues right now (those that haven’t already achieved three stars on every level) or playing Scrabble, another favourite time-waster, for me at least, backstage. I think the Novice and Squeak are already propping up the artists’ bar – this theatre being one of the few that has one – as apart from their curtain calls they’re done for the evening. Me, I’ve still got a hanging to do.
So there you are. I know how it really works and yet when I go to, say, Richard lll this summer I really won’t picture Gloucester sitting in his dressing-room doing the crossword for half the play, as he almost certainly will be. He’ll be in his castle, or on his horse, and certainly in another century. He won’t be playing games on his phone. I’m sorry he just won’t. Isn’t theatre wonderful?