A Military Campaign
Green Room Gossip
By (Sir) C.E.S.S. Poole
Your honorary knighted Thespian.
More than once or twice during my illustrious career I have been subjected to
an interview by a journalist. Being what is known in journalese as "A
low-profile celeb" it is usually the most junior
reporter on the local rag who gets lumbered with the task of conducting the
interview by his editor.
One such occasion was in the mid-eighties. Because of a delay, it was scheduled
to take place on the morning of my release from The St. Francis hospital for
the mentally unstable in the Irish town of
With hindsight it has always amazed me that if and when I got the chance to
read the printed article I could never remember saying half the things I had
reportedly said. Now, I know what you're thinking! In Vino Veritas. Yes, I
gracefully admit that the lower the level of alcohol in my "Toddie" the more verbose I become. But an astute
journalist should be able to sort the grain from the chaff and select his
interviewee's gems of wisdom without having to resort to fabrications.
To set you in the picture; I had just finished performing the role of Poprischen in a gruelling eight week tour of Gogol's "Diary of A
Madman". The producer was the infamous Mr. Herbie
Ivegotno Cashe. Herbie had thought that it would be good publicity for me
to be interviewed prior to my final week's performances in Kilkenny. But,
because there had only been twenty punters booked for the week, Herbie had disappeared with the advance takings. The
production had closed, and I had admitted myself to the local asylum hoping to
be assessed as sane enough to continue living.
The resident psychiatrist quickly diagnosed my problem, I was penniless and
without a roof over my head. They fed and watered me for twenty-four hours,
gave me an excruciatingly painful jab of B12 into my backside and sent me
packing.
This was News! The editor of the local rag was still keen to do the interview.
The inquisitive reporter, Patrick, wasted no time in getting down to the
nitty-gritty. "Are you mad? Do you still have a drink problem? And are you
gay?" The questions were fired at me with the precision of a sniper
straight from the
"So, Sir Cess, er, what profession, would you be
saying er, was similar to acting?"
I warmed to him at once and handed him "Toddie".
He graciously accepted and took a hefty quaff of ten-year-old Bushmills whiskey I'd managed to inveigle out of a
compassionate nun at the hospital. I felt like saying journalism, but didn't.
"The Army," I replied.
"The Army? Oh, come on now, you must be
joking?"
"No," I continued, quickly regaining possession of "Toddie". "The Army, the Navy, even the Air
Force. Yes, the armed services!"
"Why?" he probed, his ferret like eyes darting in for the kill. I
assumed he thought he was about to enter into a Brendan Behan-like
philosophical public house debate.
"You ever heard of the expression, hurry up and wait?" I enquired.
"Well that's what we do, just like all those poor sods in the army that
have been rushed into the trenches and then have to wait for the command to go
over the top. Think about it. Our director is the general, the stage manager is
the RSM - the Regimental Sergeant Major -, the assistant stage manager is the
quarter master, and the producer is the pay master."
I was on a roll and Patrick was beginning to understand the feasibility of the
comparisons I was making. "You have to look at a film or theatre
production as a military campaign. First there's the intelligence gathering and
the reccés, that's done by reading the script or the
play most of the time. But sometimes you have to go further afield."
Patrick's hand was scribbling furiously as I continued, "Then you have the
training sessions - that's the rehearsal, when you get to work with your fellow
troops. This all builds up to the engineers being called in, the lighting
designer, the costume and make-up departments, the special effects and the
cameraman. Finally there's the attack - Opening night or The Take."
"So the audience is your enemy?" quipped Patrick thinking he had it
all sussed.
"No, no my dear chap, only the critics.
The audience are just civilians caught in the crossfire."
"What's your next campaign?" he asked smiling benignly and trying to
join in the repartee.
“A tour to the colonies I think. But only if I can catch up with the paymaster
and get my last week's wages."
Whether he took this final statement of mine at face value or whether Mr.
O'Leary was fabricating, I'll never know. But the headline of his article the
following day read: "Madman's Producer to be sued by Cess Poole's
Army".
Till we meet again, don't know where, don't know when...........
(Sir) Cecil Edward Steven Simon Poole signing off till next
month.
Ron
Smerczak
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