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Wednesday, September 2nd, 1998, Hanover Gardens
I bowed and waved along with the rest of the cast. If there was one thing I'd never tire of in theatre, it was this part. When the curtain call came, we all lined up to soak in the audience's adoration. Becoming disillusioned with the show hadn't stopped me from doing my job as per my contract, and it certainly hadn't stopped me from fishing for a compliment when I could.
There was something in the air — like a slow train rumbling toward us. I'd only begun to notice it recently, and I was sure the others had too. Even if they couldn't name it, they must have felt it in their bones.
The crowds were thinning. Our previews and premiere had been packed to capacity, every night was a full house. Weekday matinees, our weakest shows brought in about two and a half thousand. Tourists needed something to see. Our evenings always had more than three thousand. But now, that number had slipped to twenty-eight hundred. Still impressive — but all I could see were the empty seats. One in five left unfilled. Absolute numbers meant little when that void stared back at you.
Around late July, I had gone to a tiny theatre in Hampstead—a hundred-seater. It was an oddly titled piece called The Curse of Tittikhamon, one of the weirder experiences I'd had because it was my first straight play—and a terrible one at that. My grandparents and I made a sizeable portion of the audience that day. Twenty-three seats were filled; I had counted. To no one's surprise that show was no longer in production. The same fate had happened to every show in the West End except for The Phantom or Cats of the world.
My understanding of the financial side of things was muddy at best, but the idea was that the producers got people in to finance the show, name them executive producers and offer favours or even promise backstage access. Initial funding covered all our salary during rehearsals, stage rentals, props and assets, costumes, and running costs. Doctor Dolittle had broken records for the production costs, hitting five million British pounds the last I'd checked.
Previews were shown for ten pounds for the low seats. After we opened, our tickets started from £32.50—standard for most of the big-budget West End shows. My math said that each month the production must be making around two and a half million from ticket prices alone. I had heard that Sunset Boulevard by Andrew Lloyd Webber had lost money, and so had Jekyll and Hyde by Leslie. How expensive was our show to run? Ninety-two animals, a cast size exceeding forty, crew members half that size, an orchestra, and one of the larger theatre in London—there were so many things to consider. But the writing was on the wall and on those empty seats.
Our reviews were terrible and getting worse as monthly magazines released their issues. If they had reason to talk about Phillip, they brought it up. He was one of the biggest BBC presenters, so of course all sorts of magazines spoke about him and how terrible the show was. Phillip was still a huge draw, as the stage doors each night when I left indicated. His casting was the single best decision Leslie had made—and it wasn't even his idea; it was Paul Gregg, the chairman of the theatre, who had floated the idea first. He paid for the show, Leslie couldn't say no.
Leslie…
He reminded me of an artist who had lost all their magic. I'd ended up watching the movie from 1967—it was a beautifully shot film with so many authentic animals. How hard must that have been shooting on film? So much rolls must have been wasted trying to get the animals to behave a certain way. The score in the movie was almost exactly the same as our musical.
I remembered all the words Leslie had spoken in his speeches.
"I have rewritten the book many times throughout the years!"
He'd say something along those lines. The man had a tendency to recall names of all the famous people who were in or out of the project at times. He liked to name drop people I had never heard of. But for all those words, he hadn't done much. It is shameful that we were basically doing the movie—just on stage. Leslie was milking old material because he had nothing more to give, no more creativity left in him.
My bitterness and criticism towards Leslie were probably unfair, but I was done feeling sorry for myself or pitying him. He had accomplished many things, and if this production failed, so be it. My focus was on my escape hatch, the tunnel with the light.
I looked to the audience—half made of children and half made of tired parents. Both had different reasons to cheer us, both were right. A bald head caught the theatre light in just the right way highlighting Baldini from the crowd. He had been chasing after me for some time now. Getting a mobile phone resulted in us never seeing each other anymore and I preferred it it that way. But he'd asked to come, so I had Maddie set out a friends-and-family ticket for him. He had not given the show a review so far. If he was to remain my agent, I might as well get his opinion.
f there was one person who should give me objective feedback, it should be my agent.
I beckoned him to the side door near the stage. He seemed to get the message, standing up and making his way to the exit before the crowd would start their march.
The curtains finally started to close. We bowed as one unit together and united. Once the curtain finally shut, half the cast sagged, and the other half moved with a bounce in their steps. We did our own brand of silent celebrations. It was one of the habits we started doing in our previews and never stopped, even after we had performed the show eight times a week for two months. We could always celebrate a performance—whether that meant enjoying the work or loving that it was over, we all had a reason. There was still a challenge of performing without mistakes when you had such a complicated stage, animatronics, voice over artists and more.
"I'm out," Phillip announced, running off backstage.
That was his usual habit after every performance; he'd skip the dressing room and leave in costume every night just so he didn't get stage-doored. No one liked the idea of being held up for up to an hour after a tiring performance, even if those were adoring fans. It was just sad that I had to see the disappointed looks of his fans each day. Faces of disappointment when they realised that the next person leaving wasn't Phillip, it was a face that resembled how I felt about the show.
Grandad was waiting for me as soon as I crossed backstage. We made our way towards the dressing room. After two months of performances, the place was looking proper lived in. Parents and guardians had even assembled to purchase better seats for themselves. The old one had been a rackety old thing. It must not be that fun waiting around whenever their children was here. Laws stated that backstage was one area that a child couldn't be left unsupervised. Parents couldn't even enjoy the musical because they'd seen it dozens of times.
My process had become fast. I removed the tapes, one at the top of my ears, one behind and one on my neck. Lifting the wire holding the microphone out of my ears, I placed it down. I stuck the three tapes in a cross and one across, making a star. Then I set down the microphone above the star. The process had become so routine that if one took photos of the table and microphone each day I performed, they would find no difference.
I entered my tiny closet and changed into my civilian clothes. Only now it was 1998-appropriate rather than for the 1800s.
Soft knocks rang on the door.
"That's Baldini!" I shouted from the closet.
"Is he welcome? I could thump him for ya," Grandad joked.
"He is. For now at least. Wait for my signal," I joked back.
"What's the signal?" he asked.
"You'll know when you see it." I chuckled,
The doors opened. Baldini greeted Grandad and me when I emerged from the closet.
"Ah, there you are, Wilfred. Wilfred Price, is it?" Baldini said, checking me over.
"Right, it's been a while," I nodded.
It annoyed me that he was letting his unhappiness with me known in such a passive aggressive way.
"Your Nain told me that you've been going around seeing many shows. I'm there in Covent Garden, in the middle of all these West End shows you've been to. Couldn't hurt to show your face," Baldini said.
"Adrian… how can I help?" I cut him off.
He took the seat—the old one that parents didn't like and had replaced. Grandad and I took our seats. Mine was the fanciest, though a bit old.
"It's come to my attention," Baldini checked my Grandad's reaction as if he'd heard our banter before, "that you are my worst client. You have earned…"
Baldini opened his notebook and put on his reading glasses. His head tilted back, and he read it like how old people read their news—the upturned nose, wide eyes, and all that.
"£186. My cut was £18.60. I don't have that many clients, but I can tell you that everyone's been booking, and you've earned the least," Baldini cleared his throat.
Grandad shifted in his seat.
"What is it you're trying to say?" Clive asked.
"I don't mean anything…" Adrian sighed, taking off his reading glasses. "It's just better if I tell you both a story about how I ended up in this business. I used to work for the biggest talent agency in London — if you've been around, you'll know the name. We had thirty-odd agents in the talent department, another twenty in literary, and we even had agents for below-the-line, voiceover, the lot."
"What's 'below the line'?" I asked.
"You know the credits at the end of a film? Well, think of the budget breakdown in the same way. The top earners are the writers, actors, directors, producers, casting — that lot. Then there's the line. Everyone else, all the crew, fall under 'below the line'. You see, they don't earn nearly as much," Adrian explained.
I nodded, following along.
"Anyway, every year, you get this wave of graduates from theatre schools — RADA, LAMDA, Mountview — hundreds of bright-eyed hopefuls dead set on breaking into the industry. They all want a spot at the big agencies, the ones who represent Meryl Streep or Anthony Hopkins. We'd filter about fifty of them to sign — best-looking, best dancer, best singer, best actor. Then we'd rank them, whittle them down until the 'top talent' emerged. You'd be disgusted if you heard what was said behind closed doors: big nose, mole's too big, too gobby, stupid-looking — that sort of thing. In the end, the one who offends the least number of agents ends up at the top — not the best actor, singer, or dancer, just the easiest on the eye, the least objectionable person. Then we'd give these fifty talents six months to land something. If they didn't, they were out. Sometimes we'd give them another three months, but that was it. If they hadn't booked by nine months, they were done."
He gave a dry chuckle. "We'd even make bets on them — who'd make it, who'd crash out. And you know what? Nine times out of ten, our rankings matched their success. The ones who easiest on the eyes always climbed high. Booked a lot of jobs. I hated it. The whole thing was a factory for dreams — mass-produced and disposable. You're useful till you're not, and then you're gone. Chewed up and spat out."
"Point is, I don't want that kind of impersonal relationship. We're in business, yes, but it doesn't mean everything has to be a transaction. I went out on my own because of that. But what really gave me confidence to pull the plug was looking at those lists we made and bet on. The actors who offended the most people? They often got the most bookings if you look at a period longer than the nine months. You can have average actors, but you always need an ugly one to make them shine — the fat bloke, a ginger lad, an elderly woman! Typecasting's a big part of what I do. Instead of signing dozens and letting the statistical noise sort out the successful actor, I wanted to sign the anomalies."
Adrian laughed. Somewhere in the middle of his spiel, he'd gotten passionate. Sounding much different than the straight man he usually was.
"Are you saying Wilf's ugly? Is this your idea of getting beaten up?" Clive hissed through his teeth.
"No! I mean, Wilf's a good-looking kid." Adrian mumbled.
"Good-looking kid?" Clive repeated.
"As far as k-k-kids go. Sorry, I'm not saying—" Adrian stuttered.
"I'm taking the piss. Lighten up, will you?" Clive shook his head.
Adrian stared at my Grandad for a while then sorted himself again.
"Ah… sorry, this whole conversation started out wrong. Wilf, I signed you because of your talent, but you also have a typecast. You have your green eyes, dark hair, and the way your gaze looks—I can't describe it, but it's unique! I want all my actors to have something unique. Whether it's the stars or the feature actors who've been in hundreds of films, they all have that in common. Anthony Hopkins isn't handsome."
"That's your opinion." Clive said,
Adrian breathed out his nose but was too serious to laugh. Looking around the dressing room, he seemed to think on things.
"I'm not saying I will cut you, but I need to know what's been going on. We're having the equivalent of a pilot season—the casting frenzy last August and this September—but you canceled most of your auditions! Your contract is ending soon here; you should be looking for a job," Adrian said.
"He's nine; he doesn't need a job. He should be a child," Clive said—this time, he was serious for real. No more jokes.
"That's not what he said when we first met," Adrian pointed at me. "What was it? You'd be in the biggest films and your pictures will be on posters in airports, highways, and train stations? Where's that kid who had all those big dreams?" Adrian challenged.
"Excuse me? I remember that meeting, and you spent all your time trying to convince me that I needed an agent! The rest you spent haggling over how much you'd charge me!" I shouted.
"Everything good?" a muffled voice sounded from outside.
A head popped in—and of course, it was Mad-Eye Maddie. She thought she could sneak around and listen to conversations just because she was my state mandated chaperone or some such nonsense.
"I'm fine, please leave!" I said, not too kindly.
"Jeez, Mr. Meltdown here again," Maddie said as closed the door.
I was reminded of me screaming her ears off that one time she denied me a ride on Phillip's cool new car. My face reddened more in anger and equal parts shame. I had said some bad words back then.
"Wow, you must really not like her," Adrian shook his head.
"Don't," I said through my teeth.
"Alright, everyone calm down," Grandad said coolly.
"I don't need to calm down! I'm not sure what Mr. Bald-ini here wants—"
"I just want you to tell me what's going on with you. I don't need you to book anything, but I need to know," Adrian pressed.
"Come on, just tell him," Grandad said.
I didn't like my seat then. It was in front of the vanity mirror, and they were against the opposite wall. They were crowding me, it felt like I was being interrogated.
"Ugh, I'm in a slump," I said finally. "No, I was actually looking to learn more things. This guitarist told me that I have to listen to music if I want to get better at it. I thought the same thing must apply to movies or theatre. If I want to act, I need to see more people acting. So I spent so much money watching all these shows." Words seemingly poured out of me, but I stopped as I remembered something.
"Adrian, we had this review system we used. I want you to give Doctor Dolittle a star rating from one to five—five being the best," I said.
"What?" he asked, confused by the sudden topic change.
I explained the rules and categories until Adrian nodded. He seemed to think it over for so long—or maybe that was just my impatience.
"Three stars on everything… no, that'd be a positive review. Two stars on everything," Adrian concluded.
I smiled for the first time since he had come into my dressing room.
"You know, only legal guardians or parents should be back there in the dressing room," came the muffled and judgy voice of Maddie.
"Go away!" I shouted in kind.
"That is my problem!" I pointed at Adrian. "I realised that Doctor Dolittle is really bad. I've seen Whistle Down the Wind—that was better, even though the story was worse. There was so much potential in this, but we got a really basic show. I hate Doctor Dolittle!" I said.
"Then the solution is simple—just look for another job, like I've been telling you to," Adrian pointed out.
"I know, I know, I will! I've just been busy watching shows, and I only get three days to myself—one of them I still have to spend studying most of the day, and these auditions are in annoying places or at odd hours. Nain and I missed an audition because we couldn't make it from Kensington to Wimbledon in thirty minutes. And even when we come on time, the casting agents always make you wait and take so long. It's all so inconvenient," I listed out all my hang-ups.
Adrian nodded along to all my issues like he understood them wholeheartedly.
"Right! Okay, those are all easy to fix," Adrian laughed.
I looked up, searching for that easy fix on his face.
"You just need a camcorder, decent mic, and some tapes. You can record yourself reading and send it out," Adrian suggested.
It was as if a completely new method had opened up to me. Revelation told me about digital files that'd make this even easier.
"But…" I said as I sorted out revelations and my own feelings, "I prefer seeing the agent so I can tell how they feel about me."
Adrian shook his head. "You can tell? There's no way. Casting directors always have those sour lemon faces—they're great at not giving away their reactions."
He had a point, but I had my own too.
"But I know that they are at least watching and judging my performance. Who's to say that the tape ever makes it to their desk or even seen by the casting director?" I asked.
"All valid questions, but I get feedback if you get pins or holds, and even rejections. You can even use the tape if you go in person. Leave an impression," Adrian said.
Pins were casting directors telling that I was the top consideration, holds basically asked me to not film or accept other job in a certain time slot.
"They usually have cameras," I pointed out.
"Eh, it's better since you know exactly what you're giving on the tape. It's hard to always give the best performance you can, especially on the spot," Adrian explained.
"I always give my best performance," I scoffed.
"Heh," Grandad chuckled.
I laughed too; I'd been talking about not getting prideful over things and I was already slipping up.
Adrian smiled kindly at the both of us. He had no idea why we were laughing but at least the mood wasn't so hostile anymore.
"I think we've got some understanding—you don't want to play Tommy Stubbins anymore. So, you have no excuse for skipping out on auditions. You already missed some big ones last month, but there are plenty in September. We'll send tapes for all the ones you'll be too busy performing to attend. You'll be free for holds after the middle of October," Adrian said as he took notes.
My mind was elsewhere. Doctor Dolittle had done a lot for me and had helped me jumpstart my career. But now I needed to leave the nest because there was nothing I could improve on if I was stuck here. Having so few days free, pigeonholed me into commercials or small roles that filmed in or very close to London. I needed some flexibility if I wanted to even be in a position to play most roles.
The dressing room suddenly felt too small for me—too claustrophobic. I needed a bigger backyard, open skies, and challenging terrain to muddle through. Muscles didn't build themselves, and hardship was required for me to advance to the next level.
I nodded to each point Adrian made or advice he gave me. There was no point in hiding away from auditions when that was my escape out.