Tuesday 26th January 1988

Dear George Farquhar,

I'm back at the Royal Court now and it occurs to me that you may find the term 'director' confusing. The responsibilities involved would, in your day, have been divided between the prompter, the author and a senior actor. I should have realized that the word is relatively modern. I believe that Tom Robertson, in the middle of the last century, was the first person to undertake responsibility for co-ordinating every aspect of a production and imposing an overall vision on the whole production. And I think the term 'director' or 'producer' was first used then. In recent years, this has often led to directors having overall responsibility for the finances, programming and running of a theatre, and, in this aspect of their jobs, they would be familiar to you as 'theatre managers'. There's no doubt that, over the last hundred years, most of the radical innovations in theatre have been led by director: Stanislavsky, Brecht, Meyerhold, Reinhardt, Peter Brook, Joan Littlewood. Yet, at present, the term is discredited. Actors think directors have too much control. Any group of actors in their first tea-break delight each other with horror stories of directorial incompetence, and it is true that it is much easier for a director of modest ability to achieve security and power than it is even for an outstanding leading actor. But the fact that some poor directors flourish shouldn't obscure the vital importance of the job today. I understand the impatience expressed by actors, but I don't see how the centrality of the role can be diminished without harming the theatre as a whole.

Monday, 2nd May

Dear George,

This is a letter about the workshop we've been doing with Timberlake [Wertenbaker] for the last two weeks on Our Country's Good and I'm finding it hard to write. It's hard because a workshop isn't exactly rehearsal, nor is it journalistic investigation, nor is it academic research and yet it contains elements of all three of these. Part of the function is to familiarize and brief the actors, who are together for the first time. [...] I use playing cards a lot, both in rehearsal and in a workshop, to focus the actors' imagination on specific points. Usually I begin with status games based on those developed by Keith Johnston during his seminal work with the Royal Court's Writers' Group in the late 1950s. You define status on a scale of one to ten and, eliminating the court cards, choose a card at random. This number then becomes the actor's status for the scene. The actors' sole objective becomes to make their status as clear as possible. Thus an office-cleaner could be a ten while the executive, whose office is being turned upside down, could be a mere three. Cards can also define the warmth of emotional relationships: a couple on their first date choose cards at random which denote the extent of their relative passion for each other; or a whole history can be seen in the way in which a mother (eight) gives her son (four) a Christmas present. In the workshop we've just concluded, I began using cards to define and develop a particular argument.

22nd June - Middle of 3rd week's rehearsal: Act V Sc.v

We did an exercise today called Moral Dilemma. It was focused on Melinda's position the year before the play commenced. Her dilemma is whether to accept £500 per annum and become Worthy's mistress or whether to maintain her virginity and honour. She had to decide. In the play, we never learn what decision Melinda would have made; she asks for a week to consider her position but Lady Richly dies in the meantime. The exercise was partly prompted by the fierceness of the Tourneur play last night and by how hard it is for us now to consider virginity such a precious commodity. We sat in a semi-circle and Linda sat in a chair facing us with her back to the stalls. Turn by tun, we gave her our advice. With no cards to determine their advice on this occasion, the company was very evenly split: some actors spoke from the point of view of their characters. Lesley forcefully led the pro-mistress camp. She should accept the offer and would be a fool to turn it down. It was generous. He was a decent man. Who else was going to come along? Everybody knew she loved him. With £30,000 a year (in present day money) she could be an independent woman. Alphonsia, Ron and Jim were much more cautious. Think of the scandal. Everybody would know. A kept woman. Could she remain in Shrewsbury? Would Justice Balance still receive her? Any children she might have would be bastards. It would be a decision she would always regret and there would be no going back. How would she feel when Worthy made a suitable match? Did he have somebody in mind already? She would see those children become the legitimate heirs, while hers would always be dependent on charity. Linda then had the right to consult any of us privately. As the exercise went on we all became more agonized. Nick had a last chance to put Worthy's case; but it didn't seem strong enough. Linda then had to walk up the aisle out of the stalls, through the bar at the back, and down the other aisle, having this time alone to think through the position and arrive at a decision. Long-face and sombre Linda departed. Never was a decision supposedly about pleasure taken with more pain. I thought she wouldn't. The reasons against it were too strong. She came back. We waited silently. She paused. 'I'm going to do it,' she announced. Bedlam broke out. Nick and Lesley cheering and congratulating her, and the other men shaking their heads. 'I had no choice. I had no choice. What else could I do?' she shouted above the noise. Later we rehearsed the scene again and it's much easier now for Linda to relate to her anger. She's aware of her own weakness. 'Oh, Mr Worthy,' she spits, 'What you owe to me is not to be paid under a seven-year servitude. How did you use me the year before, when taking advantage of my innocence and necessity, you would have made me your mistress, that is, your slave.' The emphasis is temporary but she speak with venom and self-disgust. A tangible result. We must apply what we learn to the text. It's too easy to have a good time in rehearsal but not show what we've found on stage. This is a note to myself, George.

Friday 8th July - end of 5th week's rehearsal

I fear the worst because I know the best is impossible. No reaction to this production can possibly co-exist with my expectations. As I peer down the narrow corridor that leads to July 26th, I'm absolutely clear that the impact of my production of your play ought to necessitate an immediate re-write of twentieth-century dramatic history. Anything less will be a major upset. That's why all directors are left flat and hungover following and opening. They're always disappointed. Nor response from critics, friends or public can match the obsessive importance the event has assumed in their lives. [...] The truth is that the process of rehearsal creates an hermetically sealed world for a limited period of time. Sometimes if things aren't going right, this world can be as hideous as a prison camp, but more often, as on this occasion, it provides comfort, shared purpose, comradeship, serious intention, and really good fun. It's like a work in which magic and creation can happen. It's also like a second childhood from which it is traumatic to emerge.