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Authors: Simon Brett
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understood” that your client had got the sack. Why didn’t you stand up for me?’
‘Now come on, Charles. We both know you’re a very good actor, but you’re not a
name,
are you?’
‘Hardly surprising, with you for a bloody agent,’ Charles mumbled.
‘What was that, Charles? I didn’t catch it.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Well, anyway, the good news is that Mr. Leventon –’
‘Lexington.’
‘Yes, has offered most attractive terms for an understudy contract for you.’
‘Oh, terrific.’
‘No, really very generous. I mean, a hundred and fifty a week – that’s as much as I’d’ve expected you to get for actually
acting
.’
Blood money, thought Charles.
‘Six-month contract, too. I mean, when were you last offered a six-month contract for anything?’
‘So you reckon I should take it?’
‘Well, of course, Charles. What’s the alternative?’
‘No other lucrative jobs on the horizon?’
‘’Fraid not, Charles. As you know, it’s not a good time. All the provincial companies have sorted out their seasons, most of the big tellies are cast, there’s not much on the –’
‘Yes, all right, all right. In other words, things are exactly as usual.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you really think I should take it?’
‘Yes. I can’t think why you’re havering. It’s obvious. A very good offer.’
‘Yes, but it is understudying a part I’ve already played – and played well.’
‘So?’
‘So . . . it becomes a matter of pride.’
‘Pride? You, Charles? Oh, really.’ And Maurice Skellern let out a gasping laugh, as if the joke had really cheered up his weekend.
It was inevitable that, when rerehearsals started on the Monday, the centre of attention should be Michael Banks. His theatrical successes exceeded those of all the rest of the cast added together (and the money Paul Lexington had agreed with his agent quite possibly exceeded their total too).
His face was so familiar that he seemed to have been with the production for weeks. Few of the cast would have seen him in the revues of the late thirties where his career started, but they would all have caught up with the films he had made in the immediate post-war years. He had had a distinguished war, being wounded once and decorated twice, and had spent the next five years recreating it in a series of patriotic British movies. Michael Banks it always was who gazed grimly at the enemy submarine from the bridge, Michael Banks who went back for the wounded private in the jungle, Michael Banks who ignored the smoke pouring from his Spitfire’s engine as he trained his sights on the alien Messerschmidt.
He had then gone to Hollywood in the early fifties and stayed there long enough to show that he could cope with the system and be moderately successful, but not so long as to alienate his chauvinistic British following.
The West End then beckoned, and he appeared as a solid juvenile in a sequence of light comedies. He was good box office and managements fell over themselves to get his name on their marquees.
That continued until the early sixties, when, for the first time, his career seemed to be under threat. Fashions had changed; the new youth-oriented culture had nothing but contempt for the gritty, laconic heroism of the war, of which Michael Banks remained the symbol. The trendies of Camaby Street flounced around in military uniforms, sporting flowers of peace where medals once had hung. Acting styles changed too, as did the plays in which they were exhibited. The mannered delivery of West End comedies sounded ridiculous at the kitchen sink, and became the butt of the booming satire industry.
‘The wind of change’, that phrase coined by Harold Macmillan in 1960, grew to have a more general application than just to Africa, or just to politics. It represented a change of style, and this new wind threatened to blow away all that was dated and traditional.
Amongst other things, it threatened to blow away the career of Michael
‘Now come on, Charles. We both know you’re a very good actor, but you’re not a
name,
are you?’
‘Hardly surprising, with you for a bloody agent,’ Charles mumbled.
‘What was that, Charles? I didn’t catch it.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Well, anyway, the good news is that Mr. Leventon –’
‘Lexington.’
‘Yes, has offered most attractive terms for an understudy contract for you.’
‘Oh, terrific.’
‘No, really very generous. I mean, a hundred and fifty a week – that’s as much as I’d’ve expected you to get for actually
acting
.’
Blood money, thought Charles.
‘Six-month contract, too. I mean, when were you last offered a six-month contract for anything?’
‘So you reckon I should take it?’
‘Well, of course, Charles. What’s the alternative?’
‘No other lucrative jobs on the horizon?’
‘’Fraid not, Charles. As you know, it’s not a good time. All the provincial companies have sorted out their seasons, most of the big tellies are cast, there’s not much on the –’
‘Yes, all right, all right. In other words, things are exactly as usual.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you really think I should take it?’
‘Yes. I can’t think why you’re havering. It’s obvious. A very good offer.’
‘Yes, but it is understudying a part I’ve already played – and played well.’
‘So?’
‘So . . . it becomes a matter of pride.’
‘Pride? You, Charles? Oh, really.’ And Maurice Skellern let out a gasping laugh, as if the joke had really cheered up his weekend.
It was inevitable that, when rerehearsals started on the Monday, the centre of attention should be Michael Banks. His theatrical successes exceeded those of all the rest of the cast added together (and the money Paul Lexington had agreed with his agent quite possibly exceeded their total too).
His face was so familiar that he seemed to have been with the production for weeks. Few of the cast would have seen him in the revues of the late thirties where his career started, but they would all have caught up with the films he had made in the immediate post-war years. He had had a distinguished war, being wounded once and decorated twice, and had spent the next five years recreating it in a series of patriotic British movies. Michael Banks it always was who gazed grimly at the enemy submarine from the bridge, Michael Banks who went back for the wounded private in the jungle, Michael Banks who ignored the smoke pouring from his Spitfire’s engine as he trained his sights on the alien Messerschmidt.
He had then gone to Hollywood in the early fifties and stayed there long enough to show that he could cope with the system and be moderately successful, but not so long as to alienate his chauvinistic British following.
The West End then beckoned, and he appeared as a solid juvenile in a sequence of light comedies. He was good box office and managements fell over themselves to get his name on their marquees.
That continued until the early sixties, when, for the first time, his career seemed to be under threat. Fashions had changed; the new youth-oriented culture had nothing but contempt for the gritty, laconic heroism of the war, of which Michael Banks remained the symbol. The trendies of Camaby Street flounced around in military uniforms, sporting flowers of peace where medals once had hung. Acting styles changed too, as did the plays in which they were exhibited. The mannered delivery of West End comedies sounded ridiculous at the kitchen sink, and became the butt of the booming satire industry.
‘The wind of change’, that phrase coined by Harold Macmillan in 1960, grew to have a more general application than just to Africa, or just to politics. It represented a change of style, and this new wind threatened to blow away all that was dated and traditional.
Amongst other things, it threatened to blow away the career of Michael
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