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.
