This article is taken from the June 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £25.
Blowing with the wind
Recent developments over at the Supreme Court regarding the official status of ladies/gentlemen and suchlike regrettably led to this veteran trouper facing the vitriol of theatrical contemporaries, woefully ignorant of the principled stance I’ve long maintained.
Having felt compelled to accept those powerful and exciting winds of change at the time, it was of course with regret that I observed the careers of less enlightened co-stars tumbling off the cliff when foolishly refusing to follow suit. Shamefully, it’s these very same individuals, now largely ruined by drink and neglect, who have the temerity to claim yours truly “jumped on the trans bandwagon” to “save his struggling career”!
Though these decrepit snipers would have you believe my “about-turn”, in the spring of 2022, was all about clinging onto brief-but-pleasing roles in certain BBC/Netflix telly franchises (where such stances happened to be compulsory), I know myself to have remained true to the strictest of professional moral codes, steering me through this hazardous business these past 54 years.
Suffice to say, should the tide now really be turning against the present way of things, that very same code ensures this humble character actor can pledge similarly unwavering allegiance to whatever comes next.
Whilst urged by media folk to applaud the sight of a muscle-bound Ralph Fiennes stripped to the waist as he nears 65, one struggles to muster enthusiasm.
With Ralph’s old rival Ken Branagh having done likewise during his disastrous Lear (also unsettlingly channelling Noel Edmonds to boot), the dreary gym-bunny tendencies of today’s ageing A-listers sets an ominous precedent for the rest of us mere mortals working in the trade — still reliant on the long-time convention allowing male English thespians to happily go to seed after 47.
Having departed these ungenerous shores to make one’s debut in the exotic world of cruise ship entertainment, the omens appeared initially promising when welcomed by baby boomer shipmates, who managed (with gentle prompting) to hazily recall some of the more standout moments of this “special guest star’s” résumé.
After feeling a warm glow of appreciation from all concerned whilst harking back to halcyon days of three channels, Pan’s People and the national anthem being played at half past midnight, optimism regarding the four weeks ahead soon proved tragically misplaced. Taken aback by the sudden noisy arrival of a preposterous telly rival from yesteryear — with whom it very belatedly emerged I was expected to “share the bill”! — the surgically-preserved lounge lizard wasted no time hogging proceedings in trademark ghastly fashion.
Left with no choice but to endure this resulting horror show, as it held sway night after night with endlessly fabricated tales of past career “triumphs”, one came perilously close — on three separate occasions — to shoving the wretch overboard.
Noted swordsman Dominic West cheerfully claims to have given up thoughts of chasing skirt for the joys of horticulture. I’m assured advancing years, Mrs West and a previously unseemly interest in the comely Miss Lily James were all contributing factors prior to Dom’s gardening leave.
Jenny’s many roles
Almost two years since the demise of besotted patron Bill Kenwright, long-blooming English rose Jenny Seagrove confirms she’s now at the helm of his lucrative business empire.
Whilst grubby detractors delighted in suggesting Jenny’s (regrettably underrated) talents were overly showcased at the Kenwright-owned Theatre Royal Windsor during Bill’s lifetime, loyal admirers can rest assured continuity remains the order of the day, with this Queen of Windsor still bagging the best roles!
Like a coiled Python
Basking in the success of a hit Fawlty Towers stage show, Mr Cleese naturally intended to swiftly cash in again (and again!) whilst the going finally appeared good.
Alas, the great man suddenly finds himself stalled at every turn by ungrateful producer oiks, born circa 1982, questioning whether the slightly less funny stuff from 40 years ago can really bring in the same sort of return.
With John still claiming penury as he approaches 90, not to mention the youthful fourth Mrs Cleese proving increasingly jittery over in Sloane Square, it goes without saying that time is very much of the essence!
Recently cast in the lead role, perky poseur David Tennant delights in mocking age-old theatrical superstitions regarding reference to the Scottish Play, crowing: “I say, ‘Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!’”
Those of us familiar with the fates of such braggadocios down the decades quietly look forward to events taking their course.
Though confirmation of new funding arrangements secured by the National Theatre, guaranteeing training for countless future technicians/prop makers, initially appeared cause for celebration, I’m since advised by crusading co-stars that this in part relies on murky dollars from an international bank whose fossil fuel (!) credentials they deem beyond the pale.
It can only be considered regrettable that the National didn’t possess the good sense to hold fire and wait for fashionably vaguer financial alternatives — long espoused by said worldly-wise theatrical comrades — to one day materialise.
All too easy to throw your lot in with ghastly corporate folk, kick-starting the careers of “thousands” with ready cash.
Eager to clarify her stance regarding 007 down the years, Dame Helen Mirren now explains: “I never liked James Bond. I never liked the way women were in James Bond.”
Though should we unhelpfully rewind to the relatively carefree days of 2018, the old girl can be heard enthusing to the press: “I’ve always had a secret ambition to play a villain in James Bond!”
One wonders where this most revered of weather vanes will be pointing next …
Casting aspersions
Regular readers will recall one’s dismay regarding self-tape auditions, these days foisted upon jobbing actors by predictably soulless telly execs.
Forced by necessity to rely on the IT/phone camera skills of the cocksure nephew whenever filming said auditions from home, I should add for the record that the indignity now proves complete when coerced into paying increasingly extortionate sums for the rogue’s “services”.
Needless to say, the young mercenary in question (otherwise presently unemployed) delights in having this elderly technophobe over a barrel whenever I’m up for a casting!
Egged on by interviewers, Dundonian celebrity Brian Cox’s habit of making endlessly catty remarks about male Hollywood actors decades his junior shows no sign of abating.
For the sake of balance, Brian’s also on hand to regularly assure us that the third Mrs Cox — a striking German of volatile disposition — happens to boast the most remarkable theatrical gifts, however unheralded.
