'My Belt Up Journey Thus Far' by Joe Hufton

In March Belt Up begins 'The Beggar's Opera' at the York Theatre Royal, a project that promises to not only to produce a different kind of work but also challenge the way that Belt Up works. Not only do we have to get to grips with working in a much larger space than usual, the main house at the York Theatre Royal, but also working with perhaps the largest cast to date. As such the production team for The Beggar's Opera is much bigger than usual for a Belt Up show, and this is where I come in. I am Assistant Director during The Beggar's Opera and will be keeping you updated with blogs, videos and tweets throughout what promises to be an interesting rehearsal period. I thought I might use my first blog to tell you a little about myself and my Belt Up 'journey' thus far.

My Belt Up story is perhaps one of the oldest of any of the current members of the extended Belt Up family, I have been involved now for nearly three years. Like most of us I first got involved when I was at York University. I had done lots of acting before going away to study English at University but for whatever reason it would be Easter of my first year before I finally made the decision to audition for something. I had no idea what to expect when I went to auditions for the Drama Society that term, I had no idea how they worked and no idea what shows the society was doing, so I picked the first door I came to, it was 'A Clockwork Orange' by Anthony Burgess. It seems funny to me now how uninformed this decision was, a quick look in the campus magazine or on the Drama Society website would have told me that 'A Clockwork Orange' was the latest show by 'Belt Up Theatre' and that it was in the studio of the York Theatre Royal, and that this 'Belt Up Theatre' had just been selected for NSDF '08 with 'Metamorphosis'. However I was blissfully unaware of what I was getting myself into!

So I found myself in the coolest show the society produced that summer and the coolest thing at the Edinburgh Fringe that August. I managed to land some brilliant roles in 'The Red Room' that year and made some great friends over what was perhaps one of the most hectic months ever! There was a definate excitement about that first Edinburgh, we didn't really know what we we were doing but we knew that what we were doing was different and that it mattered. Looking back it makes me laugh thinking of the effort and stress that it took to get 'The Red Room' on its feet that summer, especially if you compare it to the size and scale of the projects we now take on. The House Above for example had four spaces each more elaborate and bigger than The Red Room and took half the time to build!

Needless to say I am still here three years later and am now living with James, Dominic, Alex and Jethro and enjoying working for them and with them. Over the last few years I have; played a lecherous old fox, run through the streets of Edinburgh in the pouring rain performing a 20 minute fight sequence, nearly capsized a boat dressed as a public school boy, sacrificed myself to save my clown daughter, lived for a week as a delusional Victorian Explorer, thrown plastic balls at blindfolded members of the public whilst dressed as Luis Bunuel, got completely naked for a 'Surrealist Experiment,' spent 3 weeks underneath a railway bridge in London and climbed Arthur's Seat at night, with a large group of people whilst under the influence no fewer than 3 times. And thats only the start of it.

And now for the next part of my Belt Up Journey, being part of the Creative Team for Beggar's Opera. I am sure that like any Belt Up project there will be many more stories to come, and I will enjoy keeping you up to date over the next few months.

Thoughts on The Boy James

I arrived at my girlfriend’s house the other night and she was sat watching Finding Neverland, one of my all time favourite films. For me it has something truly magical about it, something fanciful which is all too often impossible to capture, but it somehow wonderfully substantial in the film. I’ve no idea how or why, but I find it captivating and heartbreaking.

A friend who was watching too ended up in floods of tears by the end and apologised, almost as if it had taken her by surprise. I remember a few years ago, myself and the rest of the boys went back to my parent’s house for some beer and curry and afterwards watched Finding Neverland. By the end of the film we were all sat nursing our beers in quiet and unexpected tears.

I can’t really remember when or why I wrote The Boy James, but everything to do with Peter Pan seems to be important to me and I’m not really sure why. It’s one of things which seems to resonate with me, not as a play or a story but just as a notion.

A while ago we were doing an interview with someone about our work and what our political views were. I had never really thought about that before, well not explicitly. I think people can only write about what they know, about what they love or have experienced. I could never write something that is beyond my own experience or imagination. I know that seems like an obvious thing to say, but looking back I think this is, perhaps, why Peter Pan feels so important to me.

I’m very lucky and have a wonderful family who I am still very close to. Indeed my older sister works at the Theatre Royal where we are resident. And with my wonderful family I had a wonderful childhood. My sister and I would spend hours lost in play and magical worlds. She would make things up and I would simply believe her because there was no reason not to. This lead to some wonderful times and some heartbreaking ones. There are many photos of me dressed up as whatever she wanted me to be in her stories or plays. I remember that there was a fairy-land that she was allowed to go to but I wasn’t, despite the fact I was dying to. She had a fairy and so did I, mine was called Zack.

The memories I have of my childhood are very fond ones and very happy ones.

In Finding Neverland there is a line which I had forgotten about until recently. Barrie is describing to Sylvia how, when he was a child, he dressed up as his recently deceased brother to try and make his mother happy. He says that that was the first time his mother truly ever looked at him ‘and that was the end of the boy James.’

It’s strange that I had forgotten this line in the film for a few reasons, the most obvious being because it must be where the title of the play comes from. But more than that, it pinpoints the entire feeling behind the play – the whole notion in half a line. If only my writing was that succinct!

Of course, as we all know, Peter Pan is about growing up and not growing up, about the fear of moving out of childhood and in to adulthood. In Finding Neverland, that transformation occurs instantly, without struggle: ‘and that was the end of the boy James.’

I am now, somehow, twenty-two. Somehow twenty-two years have passed and I haven’t really noticed. Without really thinking about it I have gone through nursery, primary school, secondary school, sixth form, university, learning to drive, being allowed to drink, moving out, getting a job, earning a living. I’m years away from the fairytale lands that I used to play with my sister when I was four or five, but I haven’t noticed the change. For me there has been no defining moment for the end of the boy Alexander. Indeed I couldn’t say whether the boy Alexander isn’t the same person who is now twenty-two because I don’t think I feel much different. But at some point I said goodbye to dressing up as part of my sisters games, of playing Power Rangers, of making cardboard boxes in to machines with my dad, of building secret dens under my bed; but I couldn’t tell you when that happened.

I find Peter Pan fascinating because I love fairytales, the simple belief in the beautiful. And I think this might be the same as my retrospective thoughts on childhood, that ability to accept and believe that things are beautiful and fascinating purely because, to you, they are. I think this is something I never want to lose or let go.

What happens in The Boy James is the equivalent of that line from Finding Neverland and is something that has never happened to me and I hope never will; I have no desire to draw a line under my childhood, having to do so would be heartbreaking. I am not willing to bid farewell to my childhood self, as if he is a different boy to the twenty two year old sat writing this, because I don’t think it is.

Peter Pan poses the question of growing up, but this is a notion we have imposed upon ourselves. Of course we cannot play around in cardboard boxes all day every day forever, but who says we have to throw them out?

Alexander Wright - Co-Artistic Director and author of 'The Boy James'

'The Boy James' at Southwark Playhouse London, Jan 2011

The Business of Show Business

Whilst some argue that a business approach to theatre can detract from the artistic outcome, without it the industry could not survive. Without it the great work that is produced would be a hopeless pipe-dream. The implications of finance and business affect every aspect of a theatrical production, and as our company moves further into a professional environment this becomes increasingly important. As students we ignored this; we regarded the term ‘commercial’ as a negative one. It’s far more romantic to see oneself as a struggling artist, working for nothing, making theatre because you have something to say, something that has to be said at any cost. The reality is something different. When you rely on the commercial success of your project to fund your next meal suddenly everything becomes different.

Over the last year, I have heard a number of people argue the case that ‘no-one is making any money here’. This statement is made referring to a theatrical enterprise, a theatre or company that holds the potential to be something great, something financially viable, something that in the right hands could become a sustainable commercial venture. But this statement, ‘no one is making any money’, is made and it is spoken with a sense of pride. The tone of voice offers the sense that the individual feels they are truly an artist; that the lack of income for their project somehow represents a sense of honesty and morality that cannot be found in the commercial theatre. Perhaps even the idea that commercial theatre is something to be frowned upon, that the practical business logistics that keep the industry running are somehow a negative force. It seems as if some have forgotten the aspect of business in show-business. I feel small companies should be making money, or at least covering their costs. It is rare that the justification for losing money on a project is viable. Occasionally someone will talk of a project that can never be financially viable, where the nature of the project, where its artistic principles are so strong that it cannot fit into a commercially compatible format. These projects will no doubt rely on subsidy, on support from funding; they are unable to exist commercially. In my opinion, this is totally acceptable but rare. From where I sit, too often work is produced that exists through funding, from the support of an external body that, if successful, could exist without it. If the project has the potential to be viable, it should be. The idea that without the support of external bodies, projects cannot exist is applied too widely across the industry. If the show has the capacity to exist but does not succeed through a lack of commercial success, then the project has failed. As companies should we expect for someone else to be subsidising our trade? To play devil’s advocate, should the tax payers be paying for something that they don’t want to see?

Having produced dozens of shows for Belt Up Theatre, a company that relies on a sense of intimacy between the audience and the show, people often question how we can achieve this artistically without sacrificing the financial side. The answer is, with great difficulty. However, all these difficulties aside, we have succeeded in avoiding the dilution of our artistic principles with business practicality. The difficulties we have faced over the last year and a half have challenged the very existence of the company. Now, just into our second year as a professional company, we face the most difficult challenge of all and it has nothing to do with sustaining artistic morals, but facing what all commercial entities must face.

This run in London has confronted us with the reality of the risk that we take in producing commercial theatre. And the risk, unfortunately, is a financial one. When a production relies entirely on sales, the capital raised for the project hangs by a thread and, at the end of the day, it is the public that makes the call. If the show is a success, the money is returned safely, if not, then you are left facing the deficit. The reality of the financial risk you take when producing a show is distant and unrealistic at best, the figures exist in a spreadsheet fiction where the implications of loss cannot be factored. To consider the outcome of such a loss isn’t constructive and, at worst, is potentially destructive. When this risk exists only in figures placed in a spreadsheet in formulas that treat it no differently to any mathematical equation it is something intangible, something that bears no resemblance to reality. And the reality only forms when the figures on the spreadsheet no longer represent a hypothetical profit or loss but represent a genuine, actual loss.

For a company that relies entirely on the financial and commercial success of every single project, the reality of actual loss holds potentially devastating consequences. The position of the producer within this enterprise is to closely observe and monitor the finance of such a project. The reality of the deficit that can grow is one that can appear long before the run closes. As daily sales reports demand higher rates of sales in the oncoming performances, the spreadsheet’s required capacity percentages begin to soar steadily. First through the feasible, then into the unrealistic and eventually the impossible. The public, the taxpayers, have spoken. Finally the theoretical is made real and for a young company, and its young producer, this loss is difficult both financially and emotionally. It makes you question the cost of what you’re doing. It brings the true risk into perspective. And it makes you think, ‘wouldn’t it be great to be subsidised.’

Jethro Compton - Co-Artisitc Director and Producer

Belt Up in The Stage

Earlier this week Dominic and Jethro were featured in the Dear John advice column in The Stage.

Asked for advice on how to adapt an epic story onto the small stage:


DOMINIC J ALLEN
You can't underestimate an audience's ability to suspend their disbelief. It's the theatre-makers most useful tool in reducing the scale of a play; you can have a multi-million pound set and a cast of hundreds but if you don't have a compelling drama that encompasses those epic themes, then you haven't got a play anyway. Once you've satisfied the play's basic requirements, anything extra is probably superfluous. Even when you can't do that there are still ways around it.

In Lorca is Dead, for instance, there are many plays within plays and because the audience are willing to suspend their disbelief, you can get around the vast number of characters through meta-theatricality and getting the audience to play parts. One could argue it undermines the themes and storyline; in fact I would say that it merely changes the way the audience connect with them. Once an audience becomes involved that directly with a storyline, they may miss the occasional subtle bit of plot but they will then have a vested interest in the outcomes for the characters on stage.

Establishing 'the rules' early on in the play helps in getting the audience to come along on the journey. In Lorca is Dead, anybody can play Lorca – but he needed to be clearly identified. A complete costume change was out of the question, so we boiled it down to a simple red scarf. The scarf is set up as a symbol for Lorca as soon as he gets mentioned, and that's all that's required. If the principles are established early on, the audience's collective imagination will do the rest of the work as you go along.

Ultimately, reducing the scale of a show but keeping its power comes down to making logical choices. The simplest solution is often the best. When you can't do something the way you'd like, find a way you can and make it work to the same effect. In Lorca is Dead we wanted Lorca to be everyone's main connection to the play without casting someone as Lorca; the most logical, simplest solution was to get everyone to play him. The result is that when he finally dies, the tragedy hits home especially hard for the audience members who are sitting saying to their friend: “That's me up there...”

JETHRO COMPTON

Epic stories are something that link all of our shows; we’re a company with storytelling right at our heart. I’d always loved the imagery of the Hunchback swinging from the towers of Notre Dame. Obviously that’s something that’s not going to transfer to a small stage very easily. For me ‘Quasimodo’ is more about the story surrounding the four characters, and it’s simple enough.

Rather than tackling the politics and Parisian architecture that are so important in Hugo’s novel, I’ve concentrated on the characters right at the centre of it. I’ve told only a small part of the story, the part that I found most interesting. To try and present every inch of the novel onstage or even just to try and cover all the themes would be disastrous. The themes that ‘Quasimodo’ takes from the novel are ones that relate and transfer most easily to a modern audience. The show is what’s left once the epic story of the novel has been and stripped back to its core. ‘Quasimodo’ presents the themes of ‘Notre Dame de Paris’, it presents its essence and hopefully captures the power of Hugo’s story. It’s the story of a boy in love with a girl, and the girl doesn’t love him back. I think that’s something everyone can relate to.

So if you’re working from a source text, something epic, I guess it’s important to find something at its heart that is more practical, more accessible and use that as your starting point. Don’t get weighed down by the size of the whole thing, just start with something small and manageable, the epic story will always be there in essence.

Critic's Comments so Far

We're hitting the half way mark on our time in London this month.

A few positive comments from the critics so far:

LORCA IS DEAD

Nominated for OFFIES Off West End Award for Best New Play

‘beautifully constructed’ The Guardian

‘fast paced and engrossing’ **** whatsonstage.com

‘real poetry and true emotion’ British Theatre Guide

QUASIMODO

Time Out London Critic’s Choice

‘A clever, claustrophobic hour of psychological horror’ **** Time Out London

‘an intense reworking of Victor Hugo's story’ British Theatre Guide

ATRIUM

Time Out London Critic’s Choice

The Big Bright Lights

We’re down in the big smoke of London town, making ourselves at home at Southwark Playhouse. We’re entering night three of the run, the official press night two of three. Reviews should be coming out soon so watch this space.

The Study, home to Breton and the Surrealists and also to Malcolm Kinnear and his fantasies, is looking bigger, better and more beautiful than ever before. We’ll post some decent photos soon.

Quasimodo has found his new hide away in the Playhouse Vaults, located in the Court of Miracles in the dark, cold dripping railway arches beneath London Bridge.

So far we've a had a few lovely audiences and audience members alike, including one man who finally fulfilled Malcolm's desire to share the stage with a gentleman wearing nothing but a grin.

We’ll provide you with more stories as the month progresses.

www.southwarkplayhouse.co.uk
www.beltuptheatre.com

Thoughts from Antonin Artaud 1

I am sick of this mediocrity, this half hearted fumbling, this flirting with scandal all dressed up in decadence.
This dilly dallying, a ballet, dancing.
This is not seizing art, creating art.
They are holding art in white kid gloves, tickling it with cotton wool. We must mould it with our workman’s hands – it is ours to mould.
Why should we quietly disrupt others? We must split things apart, tear it asunder in order to recreate – render this bourgeois dancing obsolete.

Here, on this bus, imitating the cries of the public’s babies, we feel naughty.

An hour later I woke to find them whispering inks across paper, cooing as one colour mixes with another, dropping wax in to water and looking, starry eyed, at what came out.

I am not one for this art therapy.

I am not one for seeing magic in imitating the play of children.

The play of children is magical – but we are not children.

This, here in the living room, is our club. Here is where us few elite sit and create and discuss, casting arbitrary values and assumptions on works and ideas. We assume we know and that others don’t. This is our clique.

The clique is void. Null.

As a clique we cannot change a thing, we cannot render any alteration to any genuine bourgeoisie – like this, we can only perpetuate it. We must grasp art with both hands and fly it like the flags of the revolution.

If one only speaks of war, no war will ever come. If one merely plans for change, then no change shall ever come to effect. If we sit and quietly deride others, then art is as strong as a foam sword in the middle of a gun fight.

Art is live, it can only be realised in the visceral reaction through the eyes of the viewer. We can only measure the meaning of our art through the change in heartbeats, the rush of blood, the dilation of pupils or the pricking of tears. We can only work towards an end product. Sitting quietly in our armchairs and thinking, alone in our basements making – this is not art. The art exists with the viewer, not the maker.

We must make and we must show and it must be bold and real. What we make and show to people, this is our revolution. Our art must be the flags, the guns, the terrifying reality of change. We must pick up pace and gain a momentum.

There is no momentum in sitting cooing at hardening wax or whispering at inks dry.

This is only how we wait for the death of our fallow ideas.