So Anyway... by John Cleese

Author:John Cleese [Cleese, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Rich & Famous, Humor, General, Performing Arts, Comedy
ISBN: 9780385348249
Google: GEzToAEACAAJ
Amazon: 038534824X
Publisher: Crown Archetype
Published: 2014-11-04T05:00:00+00:00

★

now i turned my thoughts to Half a Sixpence. On the first day of rehearsal, I turned up very early and asked to speak to the musical director. My agent had assured me that the producers all understood about my lack of singing talent, but I wanted to clear the air with the man who mattered. Accordingly, I was led over to meet Stanley Lebowsky. He was short and plump and pleasant, but he was clearly a busy man and had lots to do that day.

“Mr. Lebowsky, this is John Cleese. He wants to tell you something.”

“What can I do for you, John?”

“Mr. Lebowsky—”

“Stanley …”

“Stanley … I need to tell you something …”

“… What?”

“I can’t sing.”

He laughed.

“I told them at the audition. Really.”

He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“John, let me tell you something. I’ve been working on Broadway for forty years. Everybody can sing …”

He took me over to a piano, hit a key and asked me to sing the note. I did so, to the best of my ability. I think for a moment he thought I was trying to make him laugh, but then he saw from my face that I was in earnest. He hit the key again very deliberately. I made the same noise. He just stared. I think he quite genuinely could not believe his ears. He hit a different note. I made another noise. He looked a little shaken and then nodded a lot.

“John,” he said. “You’re right. You can’t sing.”

“Sorry, Stanley.”

“Never mind! Just learn the words, and mime …”

Because, of course, I was only in the chorus numbers, surrounded by trained singers, so who would ever know?

I wandered back to the main room and was astonished to see just how many people had gathered. A Broadway musical requires a small army. Then I was taken over to meet the director, a dear little Texan who looked like a bushbaby, called Word Baker.

For the first two weeks, rehearsals proceeded at a surprisingly gentle and undemanding pace. After all, I was in scenes solely for the purpose of explaining the plot. I had no big laughs to get, so, as Noël Coward put it, my only requirements were to remember the lines and not fall over the furniture. I therefore became rather relaxed, except when I had to go and rehearse my one and only mime-and-dance routine (which opened the second act). The miming was no problem; the words were simple to learn; all I had to do was to ensure that I made no sound whatsoever. (Stanley Lebowsky could detect a fly clearing its throat, at fifty paces. When, three months after the show opened, I had a rush of blood to the head and actually started singing quietly, pianissimo, at the bottom of my voice, I found him waiting for me as I emerged from my dressing room at the conclusion of the evening’s entertainment. “John,” he said, “are you singing?” To a passing backstage visitor it must have seemed an odd accusation, but he’d caught me at it, fair and square.

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