Where There's Smoke...: Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man, a Memoir by William B. Davis

Author:William B. Davis [Davis, William B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781770410527
Publisher: ECW Press
Published: 2011-10-01T07:00:00+00:00

The National Theatre of Great Britain

It is 1964. I am living in London eking out a living as a professional theatre director. I’ve settled into a fairly comfortable routine directing every second play at the Colchester Rep and directing occasional student productions at London drama schools. I get a call, or a letter, I don’t recall which, from the National Theatre of Great Britain, the most prestigious theatre in the country. Would I come for an interview for the position of Assistant Director? I am twenty-six and ambitious. Of course.

It turns out there will be three interviews: the first with the General Manager, the second with Associate Director, John Dexter, and the third and final interview with Sir Laurence Olivier himself. The first of these went very well. General managers usually have people skills and this lovely man was no exception. We had a pleasant conversation and I was assured of interview number two. John Dexter, a long story himself, was brilliant but full of himself. All I had to do in interview two was listen to John Dexter talk. And then came interview three.

I still recall sitting in the reception area waiting for my interview with the great man himself. The scheduled time for my appointment passed, and passed, and passed. After what seemed like an hour, though was likely less, a pale-faced individual emerged from what I assumed was the meeting room and staggered towards the exit. My god, I thought, this is going to be a test indeed.

After a few moments, I was summoned inside to be met by two people in addition to Sir Laurence himself. I was invited to sit. There may have been, must have been, a few polite opening remarks. But all I remember is silence. And Sir leaning forward and staring at me. What should I do? Stare back? Finally, I figured I should talk. But about what? In the end I babbled for two or three minutes, whereupon Sir said, “Thank you very much,” and I was dismissed. What a disaster! My predecessor had been in the room for an hour and I lasted no more than five minutes.

A week later, they phoned and offered me the job.

The National Theatre, now the Royal National Theatre of Great Britain, opened in 1963, domiciled in both the Old Vic Theatre and the Chichester Festival Theatre, the arena style theatre modelled after Stratford, Ontario. In the 1970s the company would finally move into its own home on the South Bank. Laurence Olivier was the general director, John Dexter and Michael Elliott were associate directors; assistant directors such as me were quite a bit farther down the depth chart. The acting company included Albert Finney, Maggie Smith, Derek Jacobi, Michael Redgrave, Joan Plowright, Robert Stephens, and Frank Finlay. There were two separate companies, one in Chichester and one in London, the A and B companies. One could always remember which was which. Olivier was in the B company. I was to be in the A company.

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