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Fred Proud, 'in situ' (photo. Nick Coupe) |
It was an almost magical, never
to be repeated period of utter artistic freedom for me in this little one-time,
pop-up theatre – more accurately perhaps ‘pop-down!’ While running the ship, or the submarine that was The Soho Poly
all of forty years ago, there were forty productions or more staged – mostly at lunchtime, though there were
half a dozen notable evening productions too.
At that time there was no board
of directors, no vetos, no rules, no censorship, no limits, (except financial) on
what bold experiments one could undertake. There had already been a sado-masochistic
strip-club play with a torture scene, another where two monks humping a fresh
corpse in a coffin were avidly pursued by a necrophiliac and one other with a grotesque
cross between a spider and a rabbit who ate the brains of a US marine with a
spoon. These were at the first Soho Theatres in New Compton Street or featured
in the two seasons at The King’s Head in Islington.
I had been discovering there how
I just loved rehearsals most of
all and was learning how to do it on my feet as it were. And also about programming, casting and
making a fair crack at all aspects of production. I discovered during the performances all you could do was
watch perhaps rather anxiously from the back as things went well, or the opposite
. And I was surprised to find that
invariably the best ever performance was the penultimate one: when the cast
could really do it all right off the top of their heads and not be holding onto
it, or semi-consciously lingering a little too much, as in the ultimate one.
Audience capacity was around 48
in those heady days and in such a small space they were very influential. A play could be an hilarious black comedy
one night and a serious drama the next. Very often we could have filled the
theatre four times over and had to turn very many away. The National Press were
often very complimentary about us - the result I suspect of grabbing the best
available scripts around, the odd established name and also thanks to Verity’s excellent
PR work.
The Poly had a unique ambiance and
was more flexible than you would think as we had a good lighting rig and a
succession of able designers who invariably rose to the challenge. Their
designs were as in-your-face as the performances. I remember for example John HallĂ©’s all wood set for
Chekhov’s ‘On the Road’ which hit
your olfactory sense at the first stone step as you came down from the street; there was the immense pile of dung (thankfully
not the real thing) for Durrenmatt’s ‘The Fifth Labour of Hercules’ and the
reek of oil and petrol for Barrie Keeffe’s ‘Gotcha!’ with real motorcycle . Then there were
extraordinary moments like when Mum smashed through the bedroom door with a
real axe to get to her son making love to the girl from the despised upper
classes in ‘Kong Lives’ (or ‘Gracie Fields Betrayed the Working Class’ by
George Byatt) or The Headmaster telling the no-hope schoolboy holding a lit
cigarette over the petrol tank he could be a brain-surgeon if he wanted and then
the sight of ten politicians, up to their necks in ‘merde’ hotly arguing how
they were going to get shot of it.
I loved the fact that you were
so close to the actors that you could count the pores on their noses if you
wanted. A tough challenge for them
but incredibly satisfying for all once they got used to it. Experiment was rife everywhere it
seemed and venues were beginning to pop-up in all manner of places in the early
and mid- seventies. Most were
certainly never intended as theatres. The Fringe was the centre of enormous
interest and coverage. I think now that it was reminiscent of Paris of the
inter-war years. For example Erik Satie’s new Furniture Music where the
audience was instructed to ignore the music and regard it as background noise ,
or his taking the principles of Cubism into musical composition: or the exotic
Henri Rousseau, (who despite his subject matter had never been anywhere), the
gun-toting Alfred Jarry, and
Cocteau, Dali, Apollinaire and so many others in their different ways causing
laughter and sensation in equal measure as they promoted themselves as artistic
geniuses and their far-out experiments were embraced by the ‘anything goes’, spirit of the time.
It is interesting that as a
direct result of the explosion of artistic freedom in Paris that Modernism
usurped the arts in every direction everywhere and also that theatre here, when
Thatcher changed everything for the worst, (incidentally sowing the seeds of the
present day recession) there followed a time where every theatre in the land,
new and old, felt the need to build a small experimental studio somewhere round
the back.
So the opportunities are there,
if not the cash, and perhaps there is more opportunity now than ever and, in
addition an urgent need to invent a new kind of theatre that is honest and
provocative; one that pulls down the dumb obedience to consumerism and
hand-me-down depression and encourages out-spoken individualism. Time to promote new waves in experimental
theatre. Something to ‘Stop the
world’, change one’s thinking about the Self and the many myths and half-truths
about the Society in which we live. What are we waiting for?