|
|
Balloch led me to a spot in the centre of the third row in the stalls and threw himself into one of the upholstered seats with a noticeable puff of dust. He didn't appear to notice. I took off my hat and sat next to him, rather more carefully. He waved a hand expansively in the direction of the stage. "So, what'd'ya think?" he asked. I made a show of sitting back expansively and taking in the action, as if I was indeed seriously considering the investment of a considerable sum of money in this particular venture. I fully admit that then - as now - I knew little about the musical theatre - "almost nothing" would be a pretty fair assessment - but the rehearsal I was watching on the stage seemed rough and uncoordinated to my untutored eyes. The performers seemed inexperienced, unfamiliar with the - I imagined - considerable disciple required to move in harmony, for all their evident individual flexibility and physical fitness. Forgandenny was fluttering around the stage, darting in and out of the formations. His hands were in constant motion as he directed the action and attempted to coordinate the movements. As I watched, he called a halt to the action, for what I suspected was the latest of a frustratingly large number of repetitions. The music stopped abruptly - some off-stage lackey operating the knobs on the gramophone, I expect - and the dancers spun to a halt, some of them noticeably breathing heavily. "No, no, no," Forgandenny said quietly, sounding morose rather than cross. His voice was soft and high-pitched, although somehow it managed to carry across the auditorium without apparent effort. He sounded as if he was permanently slightly distracted, his attention now forced on the activity on the stage having been dragged away from something ineffably more important. Still, I thought I could detect a touch of steel in the undertones, a tone which suggested you really wouldn't want to make him angry. "Places for the fifth movement, everybody," he called out, moving to the front of the platform and turning to face up-stage. The performers scampered about the stage, rapidly adopting a selection of poses and positions which looked not far away from their locations when Balloch and I had entered. I couldn't see Forgandenny's face, of course, but the setting of his shoulders suggested he was not best pleased with the disposition in front of him. He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly, and then moved quickly and precisely around the bodies, pressing on the arms and legs - and numerous other body parts - of the performers, encouraging them firmly into precisely the positions that some internal aesthetic demanded. Even without any movement - at least to my inexperienced eye - it all seemed a lot better, somehow a tighter and more energetic formation, noticeably more edgy and, quite frankly, sexier. It looked very much like Forgandenny knew precisely what he was doing. "Okay then everybody, these are your starting places," he called, that soft voice as clear as glass in the third row, "Please try and get them right." There was a chorus of noises indicating assent from the assembled youth. "Very well, let's try again," Forgandenny said. He clapped his hands twice. "Music please. And ... Action."
|
Part 21