Don John

The Don John trailer can now be seen on You Tube
Click here to take a look

Stop-motion video of the get-in for Don John at BAC
Click here to take a look

Rehearsal Blog by Carl Grose

Week Five

So here we are. The last official week of rehearsal. And I'm secretly obsessing about trying to get across that my character Alan is a milkman.

I've been in this room too long.

Perhaps we all have.

After the end of this week, we'll move into the Courtyard Theatre for tech, previews and the madness of press night. But until then, we still have a few precious days in our lovely, windowless hall to run the show through as many times as we can.

Throughout rehearsals we've plotted, plodded and pranced our way through the story bit by bit, exploring scenes as stand-alone moments. Now comes the really exciting part when you stick it all together to see how (or if!) it floats! And it seems to float rather well. When I say this, I mean we got through it, which is no mean feat when piecing a show together. However, I could find no moment to convey I was a milkman, and time is running out.

We have an added bonus of having the sublime Mr Tristan Sturrock here with us (stay in your seats, ladies!). Tris is, of course, fresh from Kneehigh's West End hit Brief Encounter, and was Tristan in Tristan & Yseult. He's worked with the company for years, and was one of those Kneehigh performers I watched as a kid that made theatre seem truly magic. He's to take over as Don John for a few weeks in the spring whilst Gisli takes his own show, Metamorphosis, out to foreign climes.

Tris is here to watch a run-through and get a taste of the show in preparation for rehearsals in January but, as is the Kneehigh way, it's suggested he have a go at being Don John in another run we do. He plays it brilliantly considering he hasn't a clue what's going on. There's something delightful in having the dark and dirty Don John look at you with a far-away haunted look, and then say: "What happens now?" Us actors mutter surreal instructions to him mid-scene like, "Now take my knickers off." Or: "Now you punch this bin bag three times then break my ankle." Or: "Now we have sex on the wedding cake." Tris nods. "Oh, right." He's happy to oblige. 

Come the end of the week, the space is tidied, costumes packed up, props are piled high. There's a sad stack of strange items that came with us from the first week at the Barns that never found their way into the show. There, amongst the detritus, I see a rusty holder with six empty milk bottles. I experience an epiphany - the overall narrative structure of Don John won't really be bettered by the fact that I am (or I'm not) a milkman.

The bottles wilt like a half-dozen X-Factor rejects as they realise they won't be playing the RSC's Courtyard Theatre this season.              

Sorry fellas. I tried. But that's show business.

Week Four

Craig Johnson is an idiot.

There. I said it.

Actually, that's not as harsh as it sounds. In fact, where I come from, this is perhaps the highest praise I can give him (and believe me, I've tried to give less). I don't mean that Craig is a dunderhead or a pratt or a pranny or a brainless, gibbering nincompoop. No, no. I mean that he is an idiot in the finest, and most theatrical sense. 

Right now, I'm sitting out front, watching him bust some moves in the rehearsal room. He plays Derek the vicar - a man who preaches to an empty church, and who cannot reach out and touch his poor wife, Anna. Anna (played by fantastic Icelandic actress Nina Dogg Filippusdottir) stands beside her father's body and mourns. She has had a dark dalliance with our anti-hero Don John and demands her ineffectual husband act on her behalf. Craig hollers into the air, "Ohh! I'm going to do... something!" Craig then leaps into the air (sort of), and rolls clumsily across the floor. Action-movie style, he tries to crawl under a chair but gets his head caught. He then tries kicking the door open. It doesn't budge. So he has to open it by hand, and then bolt out into the darkness to find his man. It's heartbreaking, pathetic and hilarious all at the same time.

Being an idiot is what is partly required of us as performers in Kneehigh. It does not essentially mean being randomly stupid. It means allowing yourself to be foolish and naughty and free when rehearsing, in the hope that you might hit upon something truthful in the telling of the story - although, if honest, the stupidity does tend to infectiously take over. The director has to rein us in a little (scratch that - a lot). But when it hums, and this self-imposed playfulness is unbound, we sometimes reveal our most human flaws - ridiculousness is celebrated. That's the idea, anyway.

I've gone all worthy. Enough of that! Want some more examples of sublime unrestrained foolishness at work?

Gisli Orn Gardarsson wears a floral dress and skips gaily about the room, singing a sickly sweet wooing song whilst trying to seduce Emily from Cscape. She's not having any of it. Mike Shepherd's character Nobby takes my character Alan out on an impromptu stag-do, ties me up, puts a pair of women's pants on my head, rubber gloves on my feet and a funnel down the front of my trousers. Patrycja Kujawska plays Zerlina the Polish cleaner. She dances about a seedy hotel room with her vacuum whilst dusting and reading a book - it's sassy and very funny. We're practising the songs. Dom Lawton (singer extraordinaire) looks to me and says proudly, "I'm going to sing like an otter!" And by God, he does. 

What a bunch of idiots.

Week Three

Monday. We arrive in Stratford. We get settled into our "digs" - theatre jargon for "the room you're going to be living in for the next two months". We, the company, go to toast our arrival at The Dirty Duck, which is a famous pub situated on the Waterside right between the Courtyard and The Swan theatres. It is exactly 13 seconds from my door. Perfect positioning! Everyone is revved-up. Another treat is that the fabulous Cornish dance company Cscape have joined us. They will be the chorus of females on Don John's legendary list! It's great to have them on board, and have the team grow so elegantly. En masse, and excited, much ale is quaffed. We make an exception (it is our first night in Stratford, after all), but promises are made that it won't be like this every night... (ahem...) 

Tuesday. Work begins in earnest in the RSC rehearsal space at the top of town. It couldn't be more different from the Barn. It's brightly lit, windowless, and huge. Emma exchanges running on the cliffs for extreme yoga. All new levels of pain are discovered. The Cscape girls' presence also means that a number of dance sequences in the show have gone up a gear. It becomes apparent that this is going to be "a sweaty one" (actually, they always are, but so far, this one's really sweaty!). Seeing as it is our first day of rehearsal, and acclimatising to the new space has been a little disorienting, we decide to unwind from the day by heading to The Dirty Duck for one or two. Or three. 

Wednesday. We plough through the songs again, and familiarise ourselves with the start of the show. Emma now starts to layer in detail, and it gets exciting. At lunchtime we have a meet-and-greet with the RSC team. Everyone is really nice, and we feel very welcome. They asked us here before, with our version of Cymbeline. Guess they liked it! In the afternoon, we start to play around with Vicki Mortimer's looming, rusty, but wily set. I don't want to give much away, but we all get a taste of the "wow factor". Everyone agrees it's cool as ice. Everyone also agrees that tonight should be a night off from the pub as it's Stu Barker's birthday tomorrow. However, we still somehow end up at The Duck. It's hard to resist when it's only 13 seconds away from your door... and the extreme yoga is working wonders, so...  

Thursday. Music maestro Stu Barker's birthday. He gets a chocolate cake, a Flight Of The Concords DVD and a stylophone (picture a sort of shrieking calculator activated by a small wand). The man couldn't be happier. He suggests the ever-so-slightly annoying instrument be in the show. Emma says absolutely not. We rehearse into the evening then go for an Indian meal. We decide to crown the evening with a quick drink in The (yeh, you guessed it) Duck... 

Friday. My character, Alan, gets electrocuted attempting to fix a dodgy festoon for his wedding. We do the scene a number of times, and I end up pinballing off the set, dancing The Robot and almost dying from a heart-attack (told you it was "sweaty"). The scene has next-to-no narrative function. At the moment it's way too long. It may get cut, but it was great fun to make it. I'll let you know if it survives. Hey! Was that the end of Week Three already? Blimey! Look out! Here's comes Week Four!

Quick!

Duck!

Week Two

Mary Woodvine's six month old baby, Morgan, watches us rehearse from the balcony. We're pretending to be electrocuted, we're being "erotic" with vacuum cleaners, we're getting tied up in Christmas fairy lights and attempting to choreograph a dance whilst sitting on chairs. I wonder what must the boy thinks?

We've been charging our way through the first half of the story. Emma likes to work bold, broad and fast, to put a shape on things, refining the details later. Meeting the characters last week was great, but seeing them interact with each other is even better. We learn who they are, what they want for themselves, and from others. They come alive now. And it's kinda thrilling to watch.

We've taken to calling Anna Maria Murphy the Word Witch. This may sound a bit cruel, but I've checked it out with her, and I think she likes it. Why Word Witch? Well, she often sits perched high above us on the darkened balcony, her face eerily lit up by her laptop glow. She watches the scenes, and at Emma's behest writes new song lyrics or poetry, conjuring words as if by magic. She also wears a long black writing cloak, too. Get the picture? Word Witch! There's also a conspiracy theory afoot that the Word Witch uses her powers to help her team win at volley-ball, cursing the other team, and stripping victory off them at the last moment.

Damn you, Word Witch!

Thursday ends with a rough showing of what we've done so far - a sketchbook as Emma calls it. It's for the production team, and some friends from Battersea Arts Centre where we'll be performing the show next year. It's rough but it goes down well. Feels nice to perform already. But we shouldn't get complacent. Maddy, a journalist from The Guardian, is also there. She's writing a piece on the company and the new show. She watches us play ping-pong and get slightly over-excited at our production manager's amazing card tricks. Like baby Morgan, I wonder what she thinks.

Sadly, this is our final week in Cornwall. On the last day, we take deep gulps of precious Cornish air on the cliff, and listen to the navy practice blowing things up off the coast. Ominous man-made thunder-claps coming from misty dots on the horizon. Next week we re-locate to the home of the bard, Stratford-Upon-Avon. We're going to the RSC, where rehearsal will continue. And where the show will open. It's all a bit exciting, really. Not for the first time this week, I wonder: What will they think?

And I can't help but smile.

Week One

Rehearsing a Kneehigh show can be many things, but it is always surprising. My first surprise came on Day One when I arrived at The Barn in Gorran Haven eager to start work, only to be told I was not to play the title role of Don John (the world's greatest lover) as I had initially presumed. The part, I discovered, had gone to an ugly Icelandic actor. With all the professionalism I could muster, I refrained from causing a scene (the poor Nord's country is bankrupt - he needs all the work he can get!), and accepted the role of Alan (a character I couldn't quite recall from Mozart's opera). Our director, Emma Rice, seeing my fragile actor's pride somewhat cracked, came close and soothed me with words of reassurance: "You'll probably be wearing a mullet wig." A mullet wig? There is hope for the production yet...

Actually, I'm just pulling your leg. I knew I was going to play Alan. But it is true that rehearsing a new Kneehigh show is full of surprises. And yes, I may get to wear a mullet wig. And yes, the Icelandic guy playing Don John is very ugly.* 

So. What happened in the first week of rehearsals?

It's all a bit of a blur but it went something like this:

We discussed the story of Don Giovanni or Don Juan or Casanova (or, as he is in this show, Don John). We dipped and skipped through Anna Maria Murphy's gorgeous poetry. We had a close call with a herd of sinister, theatre-loving cows who might well have never been there at all! We got all nostalgic talking about Corona lemonade, The Clash and The Incredible Hulk (the show is set in Britain in 1978). We took each other's weight, and found some balance on the cliff. We winced and strained to hit the right notes on Stu Barker's fantastic harmonies (long way to go yet). We dressed up and met the characters of our story (in low light - with a 70s soundtrack). We lit a fire, set off some fireworks, and endured a seemingly never-ending Beatles medley. We picked our jaws off the floor after some pretty awesome Polish violin playing. We tussled with the minutiae of the rules of Volley-Ball. We (or rather, I) tried to survive a sweaty day long Tango lesson (still scarred from that one). We got to know each other, and sample the world we where about to enter for the next five months. 

There's lots to do. But as our director Emma says: "Every day, in every way..."

* He's not really. He's a seven foot tall, ex-gymnast with matinee idol looks. But I'll cut him down to size over the course of the tour.

Don John is set in 1978, which was a fantastic year for music, we thought you might like to share some of the tracks we have been listening to in rehearsals. Click here to see the Don John Playlist