Charles Laughton by Simon Callow Read Free Book Online Page A

young, only slightly known, actor to espouse unorthodox rehearsal procedures, and, perhaps even more damaging, unorthodox sartorial choices, was to defy the conventions of the entire theatrical establishment, which, in 1927, was to take on a mighty opponent indeed. As it happens, Sybil and Lewis, of all people, were the least hidebound; they probably felt sorry for him. But he obviously came very close to being sacked. Why did he do it, then? There’s no question that he was incapable of learning his lines or speaking them intelligibly. He was very hard-working, very intelligent, and always had ‘a voice’ (his cousins remember its beauty back in Scarborough). It would appear that he was trying for something unusual, something not apparently in the part as written, some – as Agate said – essence; something to do with oppression and cruelty; something Slavonic, too. The review suggests that he brought a strange sensuality, perhaps even sexuality, to the performance. That’s a very self-conscious-making thing to do. Perhaps he was trying to hide what was brewing inside, a little embarrassed by it. It’s very tempting, surrounded by high-powered and skilful performers simply to produce an efficient result so as not to hold everyone up, so as not to draw attention to oneself. Charles appears here to have taken the alternative escape route from anxiety: to have become secret with his work. That’s not very friendly or helpful to your fellow-players, but sometimes it’s unavoidable.
    What Agate, ahead as often of his colleagues, saw was that Laughton was doing something new, or perhaps something very old. He was re-minting acting. Original in himself, his body and his voice, he had also spent long years observing and cogitating. He had a lot to say; his language was acting, and he spoke it like no one else.

West End Star
    IN 1927, THE year after he left RADA, Charles Laughton played seven featured roles in seven new West End productions: is this a record? Clearly, he was being recognised as something special. But the significant aspect of this phenomenal year is that the work was neither routine nor rubbish. The plays, including
Naked
by Pirandello and Euripides’
Medea
(again with Sybil Thorndike), and others, by lesser hands, were all challenging and interesting. And they all had a respectable amount of rehearsal time. By the seventh play of that year,
Mr Prohack
, by one of England’s most famous
hommes de lettres
, Arnold Bennett, Laughton, playing the title role, was fully established as exciting and individual, a hot tip.
    He had thus escaped the English repertory system, the touring and fit-up companies, and a large part of what ‘being in the theatre’ meant to most actors. He had never had to get a play on in three days, never had to struggle to make sense of a walk-on part, never had to work in tenth-rate plays, playing cardboard characters. Nor would he ever.
    It helps to explain some of his subsequent attitudes. His work had taken place among the aristocracy of theatre talent. He had had time and quality on his side. He had never had to submit to the harsh disciplines endured by most young actors. In a sense, he hadn’t needed them. He was obsessively hard working and took the theatre very seriously indeed. Laurence Olivier has vividly described the practical-joking, let’s-get-this-show-on-the-road feeling of his rep experience. This was quite alien to Laughton, by inclination or experience. But the positive side of it – the sheer stamina, quickness of decision, the ability to paper over the cracks – the theatrical equivalent of what makes English musicians the best sight-readers in the world – none of this was part of his equipment.
    The lack of that experience was exactly mirrored by his temperament: slow to decide, physically energetic but lacking staying power, almost morbidly perfectionist. It is not the best state in which to approach the English theatre. He much more closely, in fact,