“Which show?” asks the box officer, once I’ve given my surname.
“Made in China?”
That’s not the full title, but the truth is, I don’t know how to pronounce the first part of it, and I’m really not feeling up to guessing right now.
I’m still ill.
And feeling sorry for myself.
And it’s a Monday.
Even worse, a Monday evening.
At least I’m on familiar ground here.
I’m at RADA. For my third visit of the marathon. Of four. Or potentially just three. It’s hard to tell.
I thought this place had a studio theatre. I’ve seen it on the hire page. But in the ten months I’ve been tracking these things, I’ve yet to see a single show being programmed in that space.
I’m kinda hoping that it doesn’t exist.
Not that I don’t enjoy my drama school visits. Just, you know, at this point I’d run over my own grandmother for the chance to knock a row off my spreadsheet.
And before you get all offended, both my grandmothers are already dead. And no, neither of them were run over. Not by me, anyway.
The box officer switches boxes and starts looking through it, pulling out a ticket and tearing up the ream into its individual components.
“Ticket and card receipt,” he says, handing them to me. “There you are.”
From the box office, I walk into the cafe space.
I know how things work here now.
A queue lines up along a wall covered with student headshots. Doors open. Tickets are checked. And everyone files into one of the three (or potentially four) theatres. It’s a busy space and the front of housers take no nonsense.
“There’s seven tickets still uncollected,” says a young woman into a radio as she rushes from the box office over to the main doors.
A voice comes over the sound system. “GBS Theatre. GBS Theatre. Tonight’s performance of Stoning Mary is about to begin.”
That’s not me. I’ve already done the GBS. Shame really. I like the sound of Stoning Mary.
The bar is all decked up for Halloween. Cobwebs creep their way around the bottles of spirits, little paper ghosts bounce over the coffee machines in a row of bunting, and there’s even a pumpkin.
I very much approve. So festive. It really is the most wonderful time of the year.
At the end, a table has been set up with wine and snacks. Good snacks by the looks of it. No crappy bowl of crisps going on here. Oh no. These people have cheese twists.
Sipping wine and very much ignoring the excellent snacks, are the very important people. The casting directors, I presume. Theatre people.
I’m not a casting director, and barely count as a theatre person, so I table a normal seat at a normal table.
The tables are covered with photos of costumes. I hadn’t noticed that before.
I settle in and look around for a programme seller. There doesn’t seem to be one around here. There is a sign on the wall though, listing the locations of all the theatre spaces.
The GBS is in the basement, the Gielgud on the first floor, and the Jerwood Vanbrugh or floors two and three.
No mention of the Studio theatre.
If it exists, RADA has no intention of owning up to it.
A front of houser rushes over.
“Are you here for a performance?” she asks a woman standing near me.
I look around.
The woman is rolling a suitcase behind her.
The front of houser looks down at the suitcase with a significant glance.
“I’m like a bag lady,” says the woman with a sigh of resignation.
The front of houser tells our bag lady that suitcases are not allowed. But, she has a plan. “Unofficially,” she says, lowering her voice to emphasis that things are about to get sneaky here. “I can take it…”
And she leads off the bag lady to some back room, where the suitcase is put away. Unofficially. And the lady, sans-bag, can enjoy the performance. Officially.
“Welcome to this evening’s performance of Keffiyeh/Made in China,” says the disembodied voice over the sound system. Keffiyeh! So that’s how you pronounce it. “The auditorium is now open.”
Across the way, a front of houser opens the door which leads to the theatres, and a queue lines up against the wall with the headshots. I join them.
There’s no time to make friends with the headshots though. We’re on the move.
I show my ticket to the ticket checker and get nodded through with an instruction to head “upstairs to the Gielgud.”
As I turn the corner and make my way to the stairs, I can hear the ticket checker’s voice behind me. “Oh my god,” she cries out. “You’re Stoning Mary! That’s already started!”
The owner of the Stoning Mary ticket must have demonstrated some upset at this news because the ticket checker quickly switches to the role of calm problem-solver. “Don’t worry! Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ll get you in.”
But I’m half way up the stairs already, rushing down the corridor, trying to keep up with all the young people as they make their way to the Gielgud.
The ticket checker on the door is tearing tickets. I fold the tab on mine back and forth to make it easier for him.
Inside there’s another front of houser. This one with programmes. I was worried there. Thought there wouldn’t be any.
“Would you like one?” she asks with an enthusiastic grin.
I absolutely would.
“They are one pound.”
Bargain.
I mean, not really. The ones at LAMDA are free. But outside the world of drama schools, these would be a considered a bargain.
Pity I can’t find my damn purse.
“Sorry,” I say, as the rummaging drags on a second too long. “My bag is so full.”
“It’s one of those days,” says the programme seller cheerfully.
“It is! Such a Monday.”
“And it’s a Mary Poppins bag!”
It is huge. And I do keep an umbrella in it. Turns out RADA has two bag ladies on their hands tonight.
But my purse is located, as is the right change. “There we go, two fifty pees,” I tell her as I drop them into her waiting palm.
“Perfect. Here you go,” she says, handing me a programme. “Enjoy!”
That done, it’s time to find a seat. Shouldn’t be too hard. The Gielgud is a titchy tiny theatre. Only a few rows of chairs in front of a diddy little floor-level stage. Not that they haven’t done the absolute mostest with it. There’s a proper set going on, with walls that look like they are going to move around and provide all kinds of backdrops. As for the seats, there may not be much in the way of rows, but every single one is working for it. With raised platform and different height chairs meaning wherever the casting directors are planning on sitting tonight, they are going to get an excellent view.
I dismiss the front row immediately. Not just because it’s the front row, but because it has those hella awkward chairs with the cut down legs. Corgie-legged seats are the preserve of the young. I’m not about that nonsense. Instead, I go for the first row with normal height chairs. Which is to say, the second row. Right at the end. Because I do like me an aisle seat.
The man who sits next to me is immediately greeted by everyone around us, with the young people twisting around to say hello.
I slink down in my normal height seat and have a look at the programme.
I will give the RADA programmes this, they may cost money, but they are beautifully printed. Nice thick paper stock, and with a green seam hidden under the saddle stitch binding so you get a flash of colour every time you crack back that spine. That’s some classy shit right there, and I appreciate it.
From the credits it looks like we’ll be watching a lot of short plays tonight.
I count them up. Nine. That’s a lot of theatre. I hope there isn’t an interval. Not that I don’t enjoy the whole RADA experience, but the experience of going home and having an early night is one I would enjoy a whole lot more.
Lights down. We begin.
And I find myself sitting on the side of the thoroughfare as the cast rush on and off stage. Coming together to shift the set around and then running back off again, leave behind only two of their brethren for the first shortie. It’s sad and confusing and opaque. The dialogue clipped, half-finished and layered. Hinting at a thousand past lives, and casting only shadows of the current one.
A scuffle breaks out in the aisle, and I flinch away to avoid getting hit as the actors blast past onto the stage.
Play after play, taking us from market stalls to children’s bedrooms, moving so fast there’s no time to get bored, with each one leaving a soft thumbprint on your heart that there is no opportunity to process or contemplate before the next one starts prodding at you.
And then it’s over.
One of the ushers steps out.
“Just to let you know, there will be a short after-show discussion if you want to stay for that.”
I do not want to stay for that. I slip around the seats and make my escape.
A few people follow on behind me.
“Didn’t you want to stay?” someone asks their companion as we slip back down the stairs.
“Nah, if I wanted it explained to me, the producers will do that down the pub.”
As for me, all I want explained is where the hell is the RADA Studio theatre.
