Performing a Death Scene with Sir Ian McKellen

In the minutes leading up to the start of Sir Ian McKellen’s one-man show I was not filled with eager anticipation. No, I was running madly up Queen Street desperately trying to not be late. A last-minute, failed attempt at procuring coffee almost cost me the first, precious moments of his performance – much to the disgust of my Good friend, Phil, who’d been sending me desperate text messages for the last ten minutes telling me to hurry up and get to the theatre NOW.

I made it – just. Panting, gasping for breath, we hastened to our seats and sat just as the lights began to dim.

Out of the darkness music began to play. The tune was instantly recognizable – the Fellowship were about to cross the Bridge of Khazad Dum.

A light sprang from the shadows, illuminating the stage. A lectern and a director’s chair with a sword lying across it were the only things upon it; but as the music faded a man walked on. He wore a simple blue shirt, grey jeans, and rather snazzy heeled shoes. In a voice where every word was filled with meaning and power he recited one of the most stirring passages from the greatest work of fiction ever written: Gandalf’s battle with the Balrog.

I listened, agog, to Sir Ian shout “You shall not pass!” and “Fly, you fools!” in a voice weighty with expression. He raised his arms and brought them down to break the bridge asunder; and when the Balrog, falling into darkness, coiled its whip around his ankle, he fell to his knees – fell into the abyss – and was gone.

It was unutterably cool.

The rest of the first part of the performance was epically casual. Sir Ian showed off his sword, Glamdring, and allowed a few members of the audience to hold it and pretend to stab him with it. According to him, the show had only been put together very recently. He borrowed a program to find out what exactly he was expected to do.

He called on the audience to ask him questions: Which did he prefer, film or theatre? (Theatre, though he tries not to admit it.) Who would win in a fight – Gandalf or Magneto? (He made the audience vote: every single person voted Gandalf. “Well, there’s your answer, then,” he said.) What was his favourite part of New Zealand? (The Milford Sound. He’d been there four times.) Who was his favourite actor to work with? (Judi Dench. When on stage with her, he felt almost bad about breaking the connection she had with the audience by talking.) Were there any parts he really wanted to play? (Well, he didn’t really have a list, but he still thought he could get away by playing Mercutio. No reason why a man of his age couldn’t be hanging around with the lads. Hm…)

He asked a few random trivia questions of his own. “J.R.R. Tolkien – what does the ‘J’ stand for?” he asked the audience.

            “Jeremy,” someone called.

            “No, it wasn’t Jeremy,” said Sir Ian.

            A perplexed mumbling rumbled through the theatre.

            “John!” I cried out eventually.

            “Good!” Sir Ian said. “What does the first ‘R’ stand for?”

            Phil and I could not resist the opportunity to show off.

            “Ronald!” we shouted simultaneously.

            “Yes! And the second ‘R’?”

            “Raoul!” we cried, flushed with pride.

            “It’s pronounced ‘Roool,’ actually,” Sir Ian informed us.

            “ Roool? Weird,” I muttered.

           

He told stories about working of the Lord of the Rings. He explained why there was never any red blood shown in the movies – it’s to fool the censers. Apparently if there wasn’t any blood they wouldn’t notice the violence and therefore give it a rating suitable for kids to watch.

He talked about how the very first scene he ever filmed was in the Shire at the beginning of the Fellowship of the Ring; he thought how it was great how Gandalf’s first scene was the very first he filmed. And then he talked about the very next scene he had to film – the Grey Havens, and he was now Gandalf the White, and he was saying farewell to his little Hobbit friends. He’d never met the actors before. He hadn’t read the book yet and only skimmed the script. He had no idea of the significance of what was happening.

“What am I feeling?” he asked Peter Jackson.

“Well, you’re pretty choked up,” he replied.

“Is a tear in the eye in order?” he asked.

“That’s probably taking it a bit far,” Peter admitted.

And so, as Sir Ian explained to us, if you watch that scene, his face is completely blank – because he hadn’t a clue what was going on. It’s one of the reasons why he prefers theatre acting to film acting.

He said he was trying to convince Peter Jackson to put a scene in the upcoming Hobbit movie of Gandalf taking a leak. (No luck, as yet…)

He told other stories, too, of the one time he’s ever suffered severe stage fright and how Judi Dench got him through it, and the story of his knighthood, and many others.

Then he read some Wordsworth, who is his favourite poet – and then suddenly it was the intermission.

Sir Ian spent the intermission casually wandering around the foyer chatting with people. Phil and I stared in awe.

The second half of the performance consisted entirely of Shakespeare. If you have ever watched the DVD “Acting Shakespeare”, which is a film of a previous one-man show Sir Ian has done, you will have some idea of what it was like. If you haven’t, you should. It’s amazing.

Sir Ian pulled out a list of all thirty-seven plays Shakespeare wrote and challenged the audience to name them all, crossing them off whenever they were called out. When some of the plays were called he acted out passages from them – Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Cymbeline, Richard III, Titus Andronicus, and others. I suspect he suffered from selective hearing, however, because Hamlet was inexplicably left until last – probably because his rendition of Hamlet was incredible and deserved to be saved till last.

After that, he answered a few more questions, sang a little song, and acted a scene written by Thomas Moore for a finale.

Of course, the audience demanded he come and perform an encore.

Sir Ian invited anyone who wished to act a scene with him to come down to the stage and join him. Phil and I were there in a trice, along with about two-dozen others. He shook our hands as we came up on stage. It was beyond thrilling.

As we huddled together on the stage he whispered what he wished us to do. We were, he said, to be dead French soldiers. When he snapped his fingers, we were to fall down dead. When he spoke a particular name, we were to stand up again, join hands, and take a bow. Easy.

We spread out across the stage. Sir Ian began to talk about how in Shakespeare it is always best to play Kings, partly because you get to wear the fanciest frocks, but mainly because quite often you were given messages to read out to the audience. Because the message was already pre-written, you don’t have to bother memorizing the script.

Which works perfectly, provided the props manager doesn’t stuff up and send out a blank piece of paper instead.

Sir Ian began to act out a scene from Henry V, where the King is given a list of the French dead.

            “This note doth tell me of ten thousand French that in the field lie slain.” Sir Ian snapped his fingers and two-dozen soldiers instantly fell down dead. “These, their names.” Sir Ian studied the note. He turned the blank page over. He glanced off-stage as if to ask, what is this? before steeling himself for ultimate embarrassment.

            He proceeded to read out a list of names that are almost, but not quite, vaguely unlike French.

            If at this point the two-dozen deceased French soldiers were caught twitching from suppressed laughter they should not be blamed.

            Sir Ian ‘read’ the final botched name. We arose, joined hands, and bowed – and everything was over.

Well, not quite. Sir Ian was standing outside the theatre with a collecting bucket. The purpose behind this performance was to raise funds to rebuild the theatre in Christchurch. If we donated money, we got to have a photo taken with him and have him sign things.

I was beside myself with glee. I had a ridiculous grin beaming across my face. Up close, Sir Ian was a lot less charismatic and engaging. Possibly it was because he wasn’t on stage, possibly because we were at the end of the line and was fed up with the whole thing.

            “I really enjoyed the show!” I squeaked in awe.

            “Oh, good,” replied Sir Ian unconcernedly as he signed my orange notebook.

            Phil handed his phone to an attendant whose job it was to take photos of people with Sir Ian. After giving her a brief run-down of how to use the camera, he joined Sir Ian and myself for our photo-op.

            “Where are you from?” Sir Ian asked Phil, evidently noting his unusual accent.

            “Um,” said Phil. “I’m from here, but I went to an American school in the Philippines.”

            “That must have been interesting for you,” commented Sir Ian.

            Looking back on it, I suppose it’s understandable Sir Ian would be more interested in Phil than myself. At the time I was so overawed I couldn’t think beyond, Yay! I’m standing next to Sir Ian McKellen!

            There was a brief, panicky moment when it appeared Phil’s phone was unable to take a proper photo.

            “What are you going to do about it?” asked Sir Ian, sounding mildly concerned.

            “Um….” said Phil. I shrugged, my brain still unable to function properly.

            Sir Ian raised a hand and summoned one of his minions, who immediately appeared as if by magic. “Talk to Ben, he’s good with things like this,” said Sir Ian, and he turned his attention to a new group of fans.

            Ben had a look at the photo and we collectively decided it was actually fairly satisfactory. Because Phil and I are shy, uncourageous individuals, we forsook the chance to say goodbye to Sir Ian and decided to just leave.

As we drove home listening to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack, I thought, Wow. Today I performed a death scene on-stage with Sir Ian McKellen.

Life goal accomplished.

Awesome.


UPDATE: Check this out! See if you can spot Yours Truly.  Hint: I'm wearing glasses and a colourful skirt. http://www.stuff.co.nz/entertainment/arts/7002353/McKellen-lights-up-Akld-theatre

Awkward Conversation #2

The Flatmate and I were simultaneously overwhelmed by the desire to use the restroom at Denny’s. There were two cubicles, both conveniently unoccupied.

“Oh, that’s lucky,” said Flatmate happily.  “It would have been uncomfortable, otherwise.”

“Aw,” I said. “But I was looking forward to sharing…”

We both giggled and proceeded into the cubicles. As we went about our business, Flatmate said, “An amazing thing happened at work today. It involves a child.”

“A child!” I exclaimed. “Did you punch it in the face?” Flatmate’s hatred of children is legendary. The only reason she has not yet embarked upon the mass annihilation of children is because, in her words, “they are potential adults” and can therefore be tolerated.

            “No, I didn’t, believe it or not,” she replied.  “It’s an AWESOME story, but I won’t tell it to you in here because that’d be just a little bit weird.”

            From outside my cubicle came the sound of hands being washed. Evidently, Flatmate was much further ahead in the process than I was.

            I joked, “But look how much we’re bonding in here!”

            “We flat together, Zabinsky, how much more bonding to you need?”

            The dull roar of a hand drier reverberated throughout the room. I spoke louder to compensate.

            “True! We already share the same shower!” I shouted.

            “Hmm,” said Flatmate.

            “Obviously not at the same time, but –“

            “Is that you out there, Zabinsky?” she interrupted.

            I suffered a momentary inability to process the ramifications of her question.

            “No,” I replied. “I thought that was you.”

            We fell silent. The tension in the room was infinite. We listened to the sounds of the hand drier switching off, receding footsteps, and a door opening and closing.

            “Oh my,” I said.

            Typically, we giggled.

Awkward Conversation #1

A couple of weeks ago I walked into the computer lab at uni to find my flatmate, who is also my fellow student, practically bursting at the seams from the sheer strength of scandalous gossip she was trying to retain.

            “Guess what!” she said excitedly.

            “What?” I demanded.

            “I have some awesome gossip I just HAVE to tell you! Not here, though,” she added, glancing around the crowded computer lab. “It’s really not appropriate.  I’ll tell you later.”

            I glanced at the time. Our computer tutorial wouldn’t finish for another two hours and I honestly didn’t think my curiosity could cope with that long a wait.

            “Outside!” I insisted. “Now!”

            I dragged Flatmate out into the corridor and huddled against the wall. In a hushed voice she very quickly filled me in on the shocking antics of one of our classmates. I gasped and looked appropriately horrified. As we discussed in hurried whispers the possible ramifications of the dreadful event, one of our lecturers walked by.

This wasn’t just one of our lecturers – this was the lecturer. Our favourite lecturer. The lecturer we are both deeply infatuated with, the one we fight over, vying for his attention, even going so far as to draw hearts on his window with lipstick. We’ve even given him a nickname: Jaanface - “Jaan” being a Hindi word meaning “darling” or “my dear”, and “face” because it sounds impressive when used as a suffix.

Jaanface walked up behind Flatmate just as she was dissecting the more gory details of the story.

            “Hey,” he said, obviously realizing he was walking in on an intimate conversation but deciding to interrupt anyway, because he’s amazing at ignoring conventions. (It's one of the reasons why we admire him.) “This sounds interesting.”

I flushed a deep magenta, partly because of the nature of our discussion but mostly because of the befuddlement I typically experience when I’m around someone I’m suffering unrequited love for. Flatmate whirled around and turned just as red, probably for the exact same reasons.

            “Obviously you’re talking about my class, right?” he continued, grinning like a gleeful god.

            We're intelligent females. We could have come up with any number of witty retorts. But we didn't. We giggled. Giggled like pathetic little schoolgirls. Jaanface looked faintly alarmed when we were unable to stop.

            “You are interrupting a very important gossip session,” I choked out at last, accidentally sounding somewhat haughty. Flatmate continued to emit high-pitched cackling noises, which obviously freaked Jaanface out even more.

            “That’s really disappointing,” he said valiantly.

            We giggled even harder, and Jaanface made a hasty retreat down the corridor. Flatmate and I ran back into the computer lab and dissolved into howls of laughter. 

When I grow up and become an adult, I’m going to marry Jaanface.