All eyes hit the floor.
He groans, inhaling again. Fine. Shall we do it like this, then? How many Juliets do we have with us today?
Three hands go up.
Of course. Lets start with the Juliets. And how many of you have prepared balcony scenes? Please rise.
Two of the girls stand up; a small brunette with glasses and a rosy-cheeked redhead.
Boyd leans forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together. Now, my dears. His voice is sinister. I want you to do the speech together at the same time. He points to the brunette. Shes biting her lip. You take one line and youhe turns to the redheadyou take the next, do you understand? She nods, tugging at her skirt nervously. And yes, my darlings, this is a punishment because no one should have to sit through the balcony scene more than once on any occasion and also, as actresses, you should know better. Juliet has some stonking speeches filled with lust, death, suicide, ghosts, the whole bloody lot and you guys have chosen the naffest one of them all!
They blink at him. The small brunette with glasses looks as if she might cry.
Boyd swivels round to the rest of us. The first rule of being an actor is to grab the limelight. Make the most daring choices you can. Wherever you are, find a light bulb and stand under it! If you dont want to be looked at, if you dont want to be noticed, then youre in the wrong profession. And for fucks sake, do something worth watching! Now that youve got our bloody attention, keep it! Right! Off you go!
They stand, huddled together in the centre of the studio. The brunette starts, hands shaking.
Romeo, Romeo. Barely audible, her voice is brittle and choked with tears. Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Stop! Boyd barks, jabbing his cigarette out on the floor. He strides over, grasping her by the shoulders. Are you going to cry?
She nods her head, unable to form the words.
Brilliant! Use it! Channel it! Feed it into the language! Finally! Ive always wanted someone to do something different with this speech! Whats your name?
Louise, she whispers.
Speak up, girl!
Louise! she shouts back, suddenly irritated.
And he smiles. A great, wonderful, warm, open smile.
His eyes gleam. Bouncing into the centre of the room, he flings his arms wide, throws back his head and shouts Louise! until the windows shake. Grabbing her hands, he whirls her round. LOUISE!! LOUISE!!
And shes giggling, laughing. Wherefore art thou Louise?
He catches the redheads hand. Go on!
Deny thy father and refuse thy name!
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
The redhead spins round. And Ill no longer be a Capulet!
Theyve caught the rhythm; we can feel it.
Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
Whats Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot. They take each others hands. Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man!
And so they dance, turn, vault around the room, throwing the words back and forth, volleyball in iambic pentameter. It becomes in turns breathless, urgent, fancifullaced with longing, then drenched in desire; everything a young girl with her first crush would be, standing in the moonlight of her own private garden.
I want you to remember this. Boyd pulls both his Juliets in closer. I want you to remember what its like to be alive, to be young; to have the most wonderful language ever written rolling about in your mouththe flavour of the words on your tongue and this rhythm, driving you. Its a sensual experience. Actings all about the senses. Well done, both of you. He releases them.
They stagger, elated, back to their seats.
So. He stretches his arms high above his head and yawns. How many Hamlets do we have today?
Tentatively, I raise my hand.
Imo looks at me.
I see. Boyd gestures for me to stand up. So, a bit of a Sarah Bernhardt, are we?
I knew this would be tricky.
And what, exactly, is your difficulty with the traditional womens roles?
Theyre boring. Im pretending to be more confident than I am. Im not good at being young and pretty andwell, thats all they are; young and pretty
He grins. Even sitting, he gives the impression of looking down from a great height. Well, then. Lets see what youve got.
Its strange standing in the middle; quite different from how I imagined it. All eyes are on me and my heart feels like its going to burst out of my chest, the adrenalin races through my veins. What is it he said? Make the most daring choices you can? Do something worth watching? Scanning the room, I suddenly spot the old piano. And a brilliant, bold scheme forms in my mind.
I push it towards the centre on its creaking wheels, then sit down and start to play, plucking out the tune to Mendelssohns Wedding March. Ill slowly build in speed and intensity, a macabre reference to Gertrude and Claudiuss incestuous wedding, and then whirl round and hit them with the first line.
Da da dadada da dada
My hands start to shake.
I havent played a piano in years.
The tune is only barely recognizable. In fact, it sounds more like the Captain and Tennille than Mendelssohn. But the longer I play, the harder it becomes to break off and swirl round.
Im stuck.
Shit! I have to stop playing the piano! I have to stop! Im panicking! I have to stop panicking and I have to stop playing the piano!
I twist round and nearly fall off my seat. A sea of bewildered faces greet me. I feel like a lounge singer. To be or not to be, I shout, sounding remarkably like the guy who sells the Evening Standard outside Baker Street tube station. That is the question!
OK. Calm down. Ive begun. Thats the main thing.
Only now Im trapped behind the piano. I try pushing the bench back dramatically. But it makes a hideous, spine-crunching, scraping noise. The whole room gasps in agony. Once up, I attempt to recover by leaning nonchalantly against the side of it. The lid slams down and I end up screaming like a girl.
Sadistically, Boyd allows me to work my way all the way through. And when I finish he just looks at me, arms folded across his chest. Thank you, Miss? He pauses, waiting for my name.
Miss Garlick, I mumble.
The speech had seemed a lot more impressive in my room last night.
Yes, well, Miss Garlick, I believe youve given everyone a valuable lesson about props.
Theres a twitter of laughter.
I want to die.
So, whats a nice girl like you doing wrestling with a piano? He leans back in his chair.
I stare at the floor. I dont knowI thought it would bea good idea. I sound like an idiot. Why doesnt he just let me go? Why does he have to keep torturing me?
How old are you? he asks.
I pause. Is this a trick question? Eighteen, I admit.
And what do you like to do?
Uh, well, going out, being with my friends
You like boys?
I flush. Yeah.
So pretty much the same stuff Hamlet likes: girls, hanging out with friends, being at school and away from homenormal student stuff. Only, of course, Hamlet isnt eighteen, hes thirty
Oh. This is obviously important. I only wish I knew why.
He looks at me, tilting his head to one side. Doesnt that seem strange to you? You see, he continues, not waiting for my answer (perhaps already knowing that there isnt one), long before the play begins, way before his fathers murdered, theres already something wrong with Hamlet. He enters, fucked.
Im not really getting this.
Thats whats so interesting. The hero of our tale is a loser. The most famous play in the world is about a guy who cant pull himself together, doesnt have a job, cant get the girl and who takes four hours to accomplish something he was told he needed to do in the first twenty-five minutes! And then he dies!
I nod as if its all starting to make perfect sense.
It isnt.
He leans forward eagerly. To be or not to be isnt about indecisionits about failure. He goes through the whole speech, thinks about every angle of the question and then ends up back where he started. So why does the world love Hamlet, Miss Garlick?
I shrug my shoulders, inwardly kicking myself for not learning Juliet instead.
Becausehe speaks with sudden intensity, his face illuminated with feelingvery few of us relate to what its like to be a hero. But everyone understands what its like to fail.
Boyd stares at me, searching my face for some flicker of recognition.
Hes lost me. I avert my eyes, concentrating on the worn surface of the wooden floorboards, hoping hell release me soon. I can sit down and be anonymous.
Of course, theres a lifetime between eighteen and thirty he concedes quietly.
OK, right! he shifts gears. Lets get this speech moving. Standing up, he fishes around in his pocket and throws me a coin. Forget the piano, OK? Lets keep it simple. Heads you live. Tails you die. Go ontoss it.
I throw the coin into the air, slapping it down on the back of my hand. Tails.
Is that what you wanted?
I dont know
Boyd goes over, pulls Lindsay Crafts to his feet. Heres the deal, he tells me. You can either kill this guy or kill yourself!
I blink at him. Im sorry?
Go on, flip the coin! Heads, you kill him. Tails, you kill yourself!
Reluctantly, I flip the coin again. Heads.
Brilliant! He gives me a shove. Off you go!
I look at him, horrified. What do you mean?
Go on! Kill him!
I turn to Lindsay. He smiles politely.
Come on! Whats wrong with you! Boyd claps his hands. Times ticking! Lets go! Stab him! Strangle him! Hit him over the head with a chair! Do something!
Im completely paralysed. No!
Why not?
I cant!
Then kill yourself! Boyds circling me, fencing me in. Go on! Do it! Those are the choiceshim or you!
I cant! I feel trapped, panicky. I cant do either!
So say it! Start!
To be or not to be: that is the question: Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, tis a consummation Devoutly to be wishd.
Thats it! Keep going!
I press on, the language coming fast and easy now. The speech that five minutes ago had seemed like a nightmare of dragging time, tumbles out with a new urgency.
To die, to sleep;To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, theres the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. Theres the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressors wrong, the proud mans contumely, The pangs of despised love, the laws delay, The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscoverd country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied oer with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.
Before I know it, its over; done. And for the first time I feel as if Im in control, driving the words forward instead of racing to catch up. Its an exhilarating, intoxicating sensationlike being behind the wheel of powerful sports car. I wasnt sure I could do it. And now I want to do it again.
Boyds rocking back on his heels. Well, thats more like it!
The door to the studio creaks open and Robbie, still wearing last nights clothes and clutching a takeaway coffee, tries to steal in.
Boyd swirls round. Ahh! An Ophelia! My, my! Youve definitely been picking the wrong sorts of herbs! And whats this? He plucks the coffee cup from her hand, tosses the plastic lid to one side and slurps loudly. Mmm! Milk and sugar! Perfect for a hangover, wouldnt you say?
She smiles uncertainly and I retreat to my seat.
Wrapping a paternal arm round her shoulders, he leads her gently into the centre of the room. Let me explain to you how this one goes. You can be late but youd better be good. If youre crap, youd better make certain that in future youre on time. So my dear (and, by the way, its nice to know Im not the only person in London who takes personal hygiene with a pinch of salt), Id very much like to hear your audition speech.
He gives her his wickedest grin.
She, in turn, looks uneasily at the floor.
Silence extends in all directions; an excruciating, awkward vacuum of embarrassment. I feel for Robbiewish that I could rescue her. But instead, the best I can do is look away, as if its kinder to ignore her as she stands there, staring at the space between her feet as the moments drag by.
Then, very slowly, she lifts her head. Her eyes meet his. And when she speaks, her voice is languid, almost drunk.
i like my body when it is with yourbody. It is so quite new a thing.Muscles better and nerves more.i like your body, i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spineof your body and its bones, and the tremblingfirm-smooth ness and which I willagain and again and againkiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzzof your electric fur, and what-is-it-comesover parting fleshAnd eyes big love crumbs, and possibly [a smile plays on her lips] i like the thrillof under me you so quite new