This true story will be serialised weekly. To access previous chapters, visit Jane Read’s author page.

 

Chapter 3.                                                                                                   

DAN

                                                                                

            ‘Crazy isn’t being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It’s you or me, amplified’

Suzannah Keyson

                                                                        

After my 20^th birthday, Carl and friends notice changes in me. I am louder and more talkative and suspect that I might be getting there, finally. My confidence grows. My energy is increasing. Mum notices that I am even ‘sitting like an actor’, my posture upright, my stance more powerful. Life, it seems, is about to get easier.

We are taught about the pros and cons of method acting. Strasberg’s theory urges actors to use emotional memories and personal experiences to connect with their character’s inner life. Adler on the other hand, promotes careful research, and a cultural and visual approach. Meisner, the third expert, writes about behaviour, with a strong emphasis on the actor’s instincts and intuitions. I’ve tried to take in all three of these elements, but they keep overlapping and getting muddled in my brain. I’ve been asking my tutors, which is the best one? What do they think is the right way to go about it? But they all have different opinions and don’t give me any straight answers.

Whatever method I’m adopting, this term my character seems to take me over more than usual. I am completely obsessed with the play. I can’t stop talking about it. Even when we go to the pub to relax after rehearsals, I take my laptop with me to do further research. I’m generating exciting debates about the moral and religious questions raised by the plot of ‘Faustus’, demanding that everyone to join in and give their opinions. After one animated discussion, the guy playing the role of my brother, takes me to one side.

‘Dan, I know you’re excited about the play, I am too, but will you please shut up and let me get a word in?’

Friends notice me more and are drawn to my energy and enthusiasm. Some wonder why I’m being so loud. Others dismiss my behaviour as ‘attention seeking’. A few seem unsure whether they like the new me or not. But I am feeling supremely confident, more powerful than I’ve ever felt before. Every conversation is worth taking part in. I need to be in on every joke. I push to be at the centre of everything. The loudest, most popular students used to get me down, but these days I overshadow them, ready with rapid-fire, quick-witted responses to anything anyone says. I have finally lost my inhibitions. Nothing can slow me down, despite the fact that I’m a bit shocked by some of the things I find myself saying. My brain seems to be working faster than most other people’s. At the start of term, I hadn’t enjoyed being around the arrogant, opinionated, loud mouths on my course, but I now realise that I have supremacy over them. I am completely unstoppable.

Dave and I are told to find a barbers at lunch time to get our hair cut short for our parts. It is hot and stuffy in the small salon, with an overwhelming smell of pungent after-shave in the air, making me choke. I sit down in the black leather chair and before long, I’m swivelling around to see where Dave is and how his haircut is going. Eventually the Korean hairdresser loses patience with me and taking my head firmly between her cool hands, she turns me to face forwards towards the mirror saying,

‘Please stop! You have to sit still!’

I feel more driven in rehearsals too, turning up early each day to begin my warm-ups before the others arrive. I’m enthusiastic about absolutely everything. I have now discovered the difference between being an ordinary actor and being a true artist. I am on fire!

We get warned that our new director is one of the most demanding people we’ve worked with so far. He’s apparently on the harsher side with his criticisms. Some of the cast might find him off-putting, but I know I won’t have a problem. I’ll aim to achieve everything he wants and more. By the end of the process, he’ll so appreciate my talent that he’ll be seeking opportunities to work with me again.

I’ve been invited along with a few other actors, to take part in an episode of Downton Abbey. I gather that this is something of a big deal when I phone mum to tell her and she literally screams down the phone. Although I’m not personally into these old-fashioned costume dramas, I’m a professional, and it’s clear that at least half England’s population are hooked. On top of that, I’ve just been contacted by two of the bigger agents, Curtis Brown and Independent. Both want to meet me for an interview after my first public performance. My future is a dead cert.

From this point on, for some reason, everything becomes one big joke. I can’t stop laughing. My family come to see the plays for their second run in Bowness. I walk right past them and stride right on down the street, caught up in my own world. Rehearsals over, I’m off for drinks with the cast, my mood high, my voice amplified. Mum calls my name when she spots me. She says I look different with my cropped hair, and I sound different too. She really doesn’t get that for us actors, it’s all about the look and it’s all about the voice.

The only slight annoyance for me is that I’m struggling to eat, gagging on every mouthful and can’t seem to digest anything. I sometimes throw up when I try. This bothers other people more than it does me. My parents watch me struggling over meals and they persuade me to phone our Tom (now a bona fide, Junior Doctor) and talk to him about it. I think they’re putting it down to tiredness or nerves or being keyed up about the shows.

After the first performance, I stay out all night with friends, but I still feel pretty good by morning, not even tired. I’ve only had a couple of drinks and haven’t eaten all day. I’ve no idea what is fuelling me, so before I go on stage, I down a bottle of Lucozade to give me energy, then instantly spew up the fluorescent orange liquid. Hilarious! Despite the concerns of the rest of the cast, I’m not fazed by this. I go right ahead, performing with sharpness and precision, remembering every one of my lines, punching the air in triumph, like a marathon runner crossing the finish line as we take the final bow. I’m grinning and waving idiotically at my sister, who’s sitting directly opposite me in the audience.

It feels good to be joining my family for the weekend. We take a boat ride across Bowness and a steam train back. I relax just a little bit and sleep better that night in the hotel but weirdly, I get emotional, teary and choked up for some reason. Perhaps I’m feeling deflated now that the shows are done, maybe it’s to do with being with my folks.

It’s the start of the autumn half term break for my sister. Mum’s a bit concerned and says that she’d like to bring me home to get some proper rest. But there is no such thing as a mid-term break from drama school and besides, I’m way too geared up for the next project which is the Shakespeare. Our director has instructed us all to be ‘off book’ by the Monday after our return to London. While Dad drives me to the train station, I hand Mum my script so that I can go through some lines for my part in “Much Ado.” I know the play well. For an initial run, I would normally recite stuff in a boring monotone, but this time I’m projecting strongly, with dramatic impact as though I am already on stage. Mum’s eyes widen and she smiles at my exhibitionism. My sister just rolls her eyes and puts her headphones back on. But to be fair, she’s never been a big fan of Shakespeare.

                                    

It’s the first day of rehearsals. I’m more excited than nervous. I can tell that Reece is scared shitless, mainly ‘cos he hasn’t bothered to learn his lines (amateur!). I’m restless and impatient to get started. Reece and I are best mates now, mucking around like sparring partners, miming gunfights in the breaks. I’m incredibly agile, anticipating all his moves accurately, dodging sideways, then springing out to launch my ambush. I’m asking our director dozens of intelligent questions during rehearsals, sensing that I’m making a strong connection with her, demonstrating my understanding of the most difficult lines in the play. I get bored so quickly these days. It is as though things are a bit too easy for me now.

In the lunch break we’re analysing the symbolism of the play and thinking about its historical context. We soon get into a pretty heavy discussion about religion. One cynical guy tells me that he thinks the Bible is full of fantasy stories and he doesn’t believe any of it, but I argue with him, insisting that he’s wrong.

‘Are you a believer then Dan?’ He sounds surprised. I guess it hasn’t been obvious until now. I tell him that God’s existence is ‘indisputable, undeniable fact’ so he’s more careful about what he says to me after that. Sometimes I step outside and look up at the sky during rehearsals, ‘What is going on?’  I feel as though I’m being taken over by something huge.

By the end of the week, we are back in the auditorium, listening to a terribly long lecture by some forty-five-year-old bloke giving us advice about how to manage our time and our earnings, once we qualify. His voice is totally draining, and I can see right through him, into the heart of his insecurities. I’m convinced that he’s just some failed actor having to do this boring, lecturing stuff instead. I share my opinion later with a bunch of friends smoking joints outside the pub. They high five me, nodding in agreement.

‘You’re a legend, mate, an avenger, welcome to the club.’ I grin at them sensing that I’ve been accepted. I’m establishing my place as one of them now.

That night, when I get back to our flat, I have this weird, light-headed feeling as I step inside. Carl has gone to bed. I’m not even tired. I find myself searching on my laptop for the song ‘History Maker’ by the Christian band, Delirious. I remember it being played at one of the faith camps I’d attended as a kid. It seems a bit of a random thing to be doing.

I try to focus on more mundane things like washing up the pile of dirty dishes stacked in the kitchen. But I can’t even start on this simple task before I feel the overwhelming urge to go back to listen to the song a second time. I turn it up to full volume and suddenly find my arms are raised high up above my head, as though I’m in some high-powered, emotion-filled, worship festival. The washing up doesn’t seem important now and I don’t even think about the possibility that I could be disturbing Carl. My fingers are fizzing and tingling, as though I am alive with a powerful, electrical charge.

‘What the fuck is happening to me?’

I know I’ll have to surrender, so I fall on my knees and cry out. ‘I’m not sure I am ready for this. I am not sure I’m ready to be a History Maker!’

Freaked out and unable to sleep, I decide to phone home. I need to tell someone what just happened.