From last-minute self-tapes to Stratford-upon-Avon: One actor’s journey to the RSC.
Having spent the early part of the summer kicking the metaphorical cat and telling anyone who’d stand still long enough how “unfair” the business was, my phone tinkled with something other than a TodayTix marketing email. It was late on a Friday afternoon and like most actors at that hour, I was busy asking the wallpaper why no self-tape requests had arrived for the weekend. Until one did: ‘Deadline Monday’, wrote my long-suffering agent.
I immediately groaned, “Well, that’s my weekend plans gone, then!” The classic actor contradiction – desperate to be seen, furious when we’re prevented from moaning about never being seen.
I soon stopped complaining. They wanted three scenes for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s upcoming production of The Winter’s Tale. Instantly, ‘Mr Anxiety’, with his two mates, ‘Imposter Syndrome’ and ‘You’re a Terrible Actor’, pirouetted into my brain. I shouted, “I haven’t read this one!” at a plant and whispered, “How can I learn all this in 48 hours?” to the fridge. After a good hour of diva-ish despair, I sat down and began to read the thing.
Image credit: Lloyd McDonagh
The Kitchen Self-Tape Setup
What a play though: Love, jealousy, tragedy and a bit with a bear – perfect for an aged ham like me. I printed the scenes and tackled the longest one first, between Polixenes and Camillo. Miraculously, my addled brain retained the lines – a testament to the writing and not my grey matter. Next, the long court scene, followed by the Jailer’s scene. Finally, I braved the biggest hurdle of all: asking the girlfriend to read in on the tape. And because she is brilliant, beautiful and desperate to get me out of the house for three months, she readily agreed.
Early next morning, I chose what to wear. ASOS being tragically low on ruffs and capes, I opted for a blue shirt for the ‘King’ and a suit for the ‘Judge’. Camera by the kitchen window for light, pages taped to the radiator in case I dried and the girlfriend bribed with the promise of a post-shoot bacon sandwich. Action!
Three short hours later – and profanity, dear reader, I could never wish to repeat on the pages of Spotlight – we were done. The girlfriend went to apologise to the neighbours, while I fired the tapes off to Shakespeare HQ with crossed fingers.
For four days, I thought of nothing else. The girlfriend shouted at me to do something useful to stop myself from moping. That afternoon, while begrudgingly doing a dreadful job of replacing the garden fence, the phone rattled. “The director wants a Zoom chat tomorrow. You free?”
You bet I’m free! Plus, it’d get me out of mending the fence. Double win!
The Zoom Call to Canada
The next morning, I researched everything about the director, the RSC and the play. I watched an old production on the Globe’s website, scribbled notes, reread the script and prepared for my conversation with the world-renowned and intimidatingly talented Yaël Farber, who would apparently be Zooming in from her car in Canada.
During the call, I made a pathetic joke about her being a part-time Uber driver, which she politely and quite rightly ignored. We spoke for 20 minutes about the play (“Brilliant”), her vision (“Brave”) and my Shakespeare experience (“Next question”). She thanked me, then casually asked if I’d like to start rehearsals on Monday.
Contracts signed, Prosecco popped, the girlfriend relieved and the fence still broken, I was all set to grab my doublet and hose it down to the RSC rehearsal rooms in Clapham. It took 10 short days from being a miserable and unemployed actor to playing Zip Zap Boing with the finest theatre company in the world.
Rehearsals: Welcome to the Creative Gym
We gathered just before 10am in a humid rehearsal space. My nerves were volcanic. Everyone appeared so confident and cool; I felt shy and wildly out of my depth. We met the full team – Movement, Voice, Stage Management, Marketing, Casting and Costume. Daniel Evans, one half of the RSC’s Artistic Director duo, welcomed us with a Henry V-style Speech.
“Berocca up!” he urged in perfect Rhondda Valley vowels. “This process will make you fitter than you’ve ever been. There is no wrong way to deliver this amazing language. However you say it, is the right way.”
18 pairs of shoulders dropped in relief.
After introductions, during which I’d forgotten my own name, we were shown the set model and heard from Yaël about her vision. Heads nodded, feet shuffled and tails wagged. It was going to be a bold new take on the play.
That first week, we focused entirely on movement. I normally walk through life like a wounded animal and wearing a tracksuit for the first time since Thatcher was in power didn’t help – I looked like a retired PE teacher. But under the guidance of our elastic choreographer Imogen, things slowly clicked.
I’ll keep the rehearsal details private, but that room very quickly became a place where boldness was encouraged and risks were never punished. As an ensemble member playing three roles and also understudy for ‘Polixenes’ and ‘Antigonus’, my hours were long.
Richard Sutton during rehearsals for ‘The Winter’s Tale’ / Image credit: Marc Brenner
An average day looked like this:
- 06:00 – Wake up
- 06:15 – Coffee and lines
- 08:30 – Train to Clapham
- 09:30 – 18:00 – Rehearsals
- 18:30 – 20:30 – Understudy rehearsals
- 20:30 – 22:00 – Lines
This continued six days a week for five weeks, plus costume fittings, movement sessions, voice calls with the wondrous Paula and singing rehearsals with the brilliant musicians. It was like a gym for creatives. Exhausting, exhilarating and utterly joyous.
Life in Stratford-Upon-Avon
During week three, the RSC’s accommodation team helped me find my Stratford digs. I chose a small cottage directly opposite the theatre. You could hold your breath and make it to the stage door. Cosy but with ample space for my growing tracksuit collection. Perfect.
After decamping to Warwickshire, tech week followed. A long and laborious process. Then came the first previews in the evenings whilst we rehearsed, took notes and refined by day. Press Night was on the Tuesday. A thousand people watching. Cards and gifts were exchanged, prayers said and speeches made.
The performance went well and the reviews were great. We had an after-show party in the theatre, eating sausages washed down with wine and gossip.
The girlfriend and I made an earlyish exit and wandered home along the Avon. The younger cast members apparently partied until 4am, but I couldn’t possibly comment.
Curtain Up and Press Night
And so began the run. Mornings were spent exploring Stratford, reading or running lines with the other covers. Some days, I’d swim in the Avon, go to the cinema or take visiting friends for a backstage tour; others I’d hit the gym or dodge the day-tripping Brummies. We’d also watch the other RSC companies performing in the town’s two other theatres before raising a pint to them after.
One afternoon, Bertie Carvel organised a private play reading, complete with sandwiches and coffee. We were immersed in Shakespeare. I was even dreaming in iambic pentameter.
Evenings were for the show. Warm-up and fight calls at 6:15pm, then messages, notes and performance. Eight times a week. I shared a dressing room with Matt Flynn, whose role I was also understudying, so I always ensured roller-skates were kept in precarious places and a heavy chair wedged against his toilet door whenever possible.
On Saturday nights, some actors headed back to London; others to the Dirty Duck for debriefs and Mini Cheddars. The walls at the Duck are covered in photos of theatrical royalty. “One day,” I slurred to a castmate, “I’ll have my picture up there.”
Towards the end of the run, I threw an after-afters after-party at the cottage. Actors from the other shows, plus friends and family, packed into my tiny house where we sang, drank and devoured a baked camembert I’d found in the ‘oops’ aisle at Lidl. I didn’t want it to end.
The RSC were brilliant. They arranged a full understudy run, complete with post-show cake, regular welfare check-ins and invitations to meet students, lead touch tours and do Q&As.
Waiting in the Wings
At the end of August, we gave our final performance. The bear had exited for good. I packed up my accommodation between the last two shows. The next company – Measure For Measure – were arriving, so they needed their digs back. One out, one in. A literal cottage industry.
We had tears and beers in the Dirty Duck, where I was given a T-shirt as a memento and secretly got to hang my photograph opposite the bar next to Dame Judi’s when Tony the landlord wasn’t looking.
And that was it. Early train home the next morning and by Monday, I was back at my kitchen table looking for work and cursing the industry. It felt like the summer hadn’t happened. I’d not worked for months leading up to then and had seriously considered quitting. But that’s the wondrous thing about this business, isn’t it? Even for an old turn like me, you never know what’s waiting in the wings.
Actually I do – I still need to fix that bloody fence.
Richard Sutton’s RSC Takeaways:
- Authenticity in your audition materials is key; using natural light and simple setups can effectively showcase your talent.
- Working with the RSC involves an intensive “creative gym” of movement, voice and ensemble rehearsals.
- The industry is unpredictable and a single successful audition can transform your career outlook in just 10 days.
- Spotlight remains the essential link for professional performers to access global opportunities with top performance companies.
Take a look at our website for more acting advice and industry news.
