It was the great stage actor Sir Donald Wolfit who, with his powers failing and having had to swap the bright lights of London for the treadmill of touring round regional theatres, wryly observed: “ I used to be a tour de force. Now I’m forced to tour.”
I’ve been reminded of this bon mot lately, as, like Sir Donald, I’m also currently touring round the UK, albeit in a new play.
In many ways it’s a convivial, if somewhat itinerant existence. Provincial audiences as a rule are more appreciative than the jaded theatregoers of the West End, and they do all they can to make you feel welcome. Yet the lifestyle is not for everyone, involving as it does a new venue each week, long journeys in between, and a new set of problems awaiting you at each venue.
The main subjects of conversation among the cast are where are we staying, how do we get there and where are we eating? Those who drive between venues are glued to traffic updates on the radio, while those travelling by rail find ourselves consulting our pocket timetables as if deciphering ancient runes.
But getting there is only the first step, for you’ve also got to have somewhere to stay. A common fallacy among the public is that touring actors are put up in swanky hotels at the producers’ expense. But unless you’re the star you’re expected to find your own accommodation, a task that relies on word of mouth, the internet and a sixth sense born of bitter experience.
Accommodation advertised as “bright, cheerful, near all amenities”, may be exactly what is described, or it may be some dingy flea pit miles from the venue, with hot and cold running mice and a panoramic view over the cemetery.
Sometimes the drawbacks are less immediately obvious. One actor of my acquaintance was shown to his appointed room, only to discover it knee-deep in cuddly toys and children’s games.
“Of course this was my daughter’s room,” explained the landlady sadly over his shoulder. “Not that we blame the lorry driver. After all, he’ll have to live with it for the rest of his life.”
And the low esteem in which travelling thespians are held by some sections of the public was demonstrated to me during my own first experience of touring back in the 1970s, when my landlady asked if I would “mind staying out of the house between 2pm and 6pm? It’s just that I have friends over for tea and I don’t want them to know I associate with theatricals.” Ah, the glamour of showbiz.
But the main component of touring is waiting. Waiting for the bus, waiting for the local cafe to open, waiting for the evening show to commence — long hours spent mooching around unfamiliar town centres, watching movies in empty cinemas or visiting local tourist attractions.
Because of its interdependence, a troupe of actors on the road quickly coalesces into a tribal community. Individuals you didn’t even know a few short weeks ago soon become your closest friends and your most trusted confidants. After all, they’re all you’ve got to rely on, both onstage and off.
Yet inevitably, the tour will eventually end. And when it does, the set is already being dismantled, while your new best friends are soon running out of the building to try to catch the last train back to London. “Speak soon, lots of love, I’ll be in touch!” they cry over their shoulder as they disappear out of the stage door.
Of course, they won’t be in touch. And nor will you. For the fragile raison d’être of your brief association is now fractured. Indeed, were you foolish enough to suggest meeting up for a coffee in a week or two there’d be little in common to talk about after the awkward pleasantries. Far better to trust to providence and hope you work together again in the future.
Maybe my next job won't be on tour. Maybe I’ll be back in the heart of London’s theatreland. In which case I’ll be able to bore all my friends by grandly intoning; “I used to be forced to tour. Now I’m a tour de force.”
At least until the next time.
Michael Simkins is an actor and writer in London
On Twitter: @michael_simkins
