There is an entry, in the category of counts – of whom there are many – in a schedule of the Hungarian aristocracy as follows: “Wenckheim: Article 73 of 1790/91. Austrian baron: 1776; Austrian count: 1802. The Wenckheims’ hereditary seat…
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Nicholas Wenckheim was tall, slim handsomely lean-faced, beautifully dressed – probably in his fifties. He spoke remarkably good English and displayed the most exquisite manners. Even when – later – I detected anger, even fury, he controlled it in a…
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So we wrote to Nicholas Wenckheim as follows: Would he go with this approach? The answer seemed to be ‘yes’. Other jurisdictions do bad things, too, he seems to concede. Also, some astonishing figures came out of this correspondence. Not…
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My main concern, vis-à-vis the Wrangel play, was its historical accuracy. If I were to push it at Dan and Joan Crawford at the King’s Head for production it had to be believable. On the same theme, this is the…
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We were at the height of the Cold War when Wenckheim was writing, so global fear of the possibility of a nuclear exchange, and the resulting effects of radiation on the surviving population, were at their most alarming. Nevertheless, what…
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In September of 1975 Claudine Vattier wrote to say how pleased she was that we liked Wrangel Island; she thought it ‘intéressante’ and found the characters to be ‘chouettes' – cool. She recognised the difficulty of placing it! In passing, she…
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Claudine Vattier’s French translation of Wenckheim’s play arrived. La Terre de Wrangel, she called it; Wrangel Island, in English. It’s a real place. A sizeable island belonging to Russia, about five hundred miles west from Alaska. Today, it’s known as…
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In the summer of 1975, I was driving along the coast in the south of France on the way to visit a girl who’d been au pair to Michael Bialoguski. Michael was the self-appointed counter-espionage agent who’d outed Vladimir Petrov…
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We have pleasure in offering you the second part of the film of Mr Joyce is Leaving Paris, shot with an experimental rig in 2 days, exactly fifty years ago. Here’s a chance to enjoy the work of fine actor…
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Mr. Joyce is Leaving Paris first saw the light of day – in a basement in Soho – in 1970. The critics gave it rave reviews; we sold out. Tom Gallacher's text is a rare example of a fictional portrait…
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I once was walking under the walls of Cardiff Castle with Bernard Bresslaw; we spent a lot of time together before he became ‘starry’ and began to ‘hold court’. Bernard was six feet five. Suddenly he dived violently away from…
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This is the grand finale scene from As You Like It. I can see Ray Llewellyn’s head and shoulders, between two lady’s heads, at the back, a third of the way from the left edge of the photograph. And I’m…
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That’s Paul, second on the left, as Touchstone. It’s how I was meant to look – and then un-look – in minutes. And this is the Olympia Theatre programme, Dublin, where we ended the Season. And you will see that…
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I was Adam, Orlando’s old servant and mentor; he’s seventy-nine. It took me an hour to make myself look like this (I was twenty-one). As curtain-up approached, and Paul Rogers still didn’t show, I was told to undo all of…
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In Part One of my book Are You going to do That Little Jump? I describe a hairy moment at the end of my second season at the Old Vic. I received this letter – out of the blue –…
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I first met Howard Goorney when we were both working with Joan Littlewood’s Theatre Workshop in Stratford, east London. In Part One of Are You Going to do That Little Jump? I describe the weekly Soviet style meetings presided over…
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The other time an actor threatened to unbalance a show I directed, by altering his character, could have been the most disastrous. Jeremy Kingston, notable Punch and Times critic, had written an extremely witty and moving play, much in the…
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What makes a professional performer, hired to play a part in a certain way, deliberately break the tacit deal with author and audience? Did a friend of Keaveney’s come round and say ‘I enjoyed the show, but aren’t you horrible!…
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Stewart Parker had written a play with music called Spokesong which ran for six months at the King’s Head. When he came up with another text, we jumped at it. Again, it had a lot of music and he called…
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I, as the resourceful slave, Tranio, had bundled the naughty young people out of sight. My stern master was approaching his house. I greeted him, grovelling suitably as a chattel slave should and began urgently, desperately, to warn him of…
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