Straight in, no messing!

New Year and time to get stuck in. So I created a new commercial production company last night, incorporated it and opened a new business bank account today. It is the next step in my plan to conquer the world. Mmmbbwaahhhh! All I need now are 80 people with a £1000 prepared to take a gamble/have a bit of fun with Hancock's Finest Hour. Easy? I'm reminded of the fact I started Maverick in the last recession. Is it just me do you think...?

Review of 2008. Well why not...

... everyone else does it. And 08 has been a fairly spectacular year. The first full year of Maverick Limited, me deciding to apply to Uni and getting in. Moving to London full time which was a glorious wrench. Leaving my house after 20 years and living full time with my partner of 17 years...

It needs a picture. Mmm. I know! My part-time review, 'Best Pies of The World' (London edition).

Here's a GREAT pie. Occasionally served in the RADA bar.



Happy New Year.

Come the revolution, comrade...

I've been watching, as I guess we all have, the programmes and events surrounding the 90th anniversary of the end of the First World War. It's all been very moving, but I can't help but wonder at the futility of it all, how it's always the little man who suffers. Left to their own devices, the soldiers on the ground managed to arrange a football match. Apparently the Germans won. Again.

This time last year we presented my Henry V - Lion of England at Brighton. When I was adapting Shakespeare's story in 1992, about an invasion of France, I was listening to the news about the war in Bosnia. It never ends, does it. That's why last year, at Brighton, I had Ed, our Henry actor, pin a poppy on his costume, as he gives the final lines. "... think on our tale, look at the world and muse, How little, little mankind has grown, and how much we still all have to lose." There was a palpable gasp from the audience.

And talking of a world fit for heroes, how come I can't find an NHS dentist in West London? I thought we had a Labour government. Come on politicians, this isn't good enough. You can lead a country to war, but can't arrange for me to have a loose crown fixed without it costing me a fortune.A hero - Ed Morris in Henry V - Lion of England. By... er... me.

Bill's Big House

My education into the big wide world of London theater continues apace. I'm still mindful of the fact that when William Shakespeare was my age, he was actually returning to the Midlands at the end of his career. But then Bill never had the M40 or a Renault Megane, did he.

The first two months have been, in our esteemed tutors own words, something of a 'boot-camp'. Head of the course Andrew is a rare breed - an easy academic with a soft Scottish lilt who has, unlike many academics, been there and done at least most of it. He has all the T-shirts (almost literally!) and has done everything and been everywhere. We - the students - are amazed the R.S.C and the National Theatre have escaped Andrew's gentle touch. It can only be a matter of time, if Andrew decides he fancies it.

The other chief boot camp jackbooter is Julius - arguably one of the top six people in British Theatre. He's an interesting mix, is Jules, and I like him very much. He comes in for lectures once a week after he finishes his day job which at the moment is TEN No 1 theatre tours! After lectures one Thursday night he offers fellow producer-in-training Samantha and I a lift home - we're in the same direction - and he pops in to his office to pick up his phone charger. What an office! But if you're Bill Kenwright I suppose it's all tax deductible.



In stark contrast, here's my office...



A desk in our 1 bedroom flat. Although, apart from the phone, it's newer than Bill's office.

IKEA Wimbledon, we salute you.

Posh Innit!

Look! A new Maverick logo! The first one designed by a pro, Dave Walsh Design, of Birmingham.

The original logo was a mix of me, John Slater, Robb Williams and whatever we could get a computer to print for free. Remember the days, computer fans, before the days of WYSIWYG? (Ask if you want to know more. There's a comment section on this blog thang.) x

Playing with the Big Boys

New experiences continue unabated, not least of which is the fact I've been able - had no choice really - to get over the claustrophobia I developed some years ago on the London Underground. And I also find I'm really quite enjoying this University lark. Don't get me wrong, the pay is rubbish. Well non existent. Actually of course you have to pay fees. (I can't BELIEVE there's virtually no financial help for an MA. Age discrimination I think. Or maybe academic discrimination. Most Masters have done a 'normal' degree. Not me mate. I think I'm a special case. Well, special. Maybe just a 'case'. Whatever. Get back to it...!)

It occurs to me that one of the big gripes I had about my beloved Birmingham is that there were no networks. There are maybe four theatre producers in Brum that I can think of. And the chances of us ever getting together socially were virtually impossible. And we all have different agendas and methods of working. Plus most of the original 'Mavericks' have moved on, mainly to London. My main, regular chums in Birmingham have long since been bored by my theatre talk and it is not doing them a disservice when I say most of them have absolutely no ideas about the standard or concept of theatrical production anyway, so nights down the pub tended to fairly uninspiring for me and probably very boring for them.

So its only just occurred to me that three days a week I am not only listened to when I talk about theatre production, but listen to lectures about it and hang out with people who are equally if not more into it than I am. Bliss! I have a new bunch of chums who rave about theatre in different disciplines and I am regularly meeting/talking to theatre obsessives, mainly West End, but not exclusively. It can't last. This is almost fun. Imagine. Me, at my age, admitting that. They won't believe it down me local in Brum...

The Seven Ages Of Hennegan

All bow. My bag on Joan's desk. Her actual, real desk!

We're all going to die, right? I mean, we have no option. All we can hope for is a long easy life and a short easy end. Now I'm 50 years old, I should be thinking about retirement, maybe. A serene dotage. My mate, Fat-Belly Norton certainly is. But then Brian has had a 'proper' job all his life, with a career path and a pension. On one hand, I envy him. On the other hand, I think I'm just the right age to start a new career.

So I'm now a student. I'm going to University!

There are a couple of things this brings up. Firstly, they accepted me on this MA. Something of a miracle as I've not troubled the education sector much since I failed my 11 plus. You're supposed to have a good degree or experience. Guess which I had. Then another fact I overlooked - I am the first person in my family to attend Uni. It didn't really occur to me until I told Dad what I was going to do.
"University, eh, son.? They'll send you back with a bag of brains then. Make up for me." (By the way, everyone loves my old man, including me. The story of how he survived A Bridge Too Far in WW2 is frightening in its randomness. Maybe next month I'll tell you about that.")

So I'm off to University. To be honest it's an MA in Creative Producing so its more a validation of what I've been doing for the last 15 years, interspersed with radio, than a new career. But it's a strange feeling. We've had a flat in London since my ill-fated gig at the Globe last year, so accommodation was not a problem. Down sizing from my 3 bed house to a 1 bed flat is a problem, but I'm dealing with it. Looking after Maverick should not present too much of a challenge with our cyber-options and the excellent Debs as administrator. Being a commuter on the tube in London is more odd. So too is meeting my corum. Not class, corum. Or Chorum. Sommat Latin. I ent sussed it yet. But on our first day we are all due to meet outside the Uni in Bloomsbury. I approach a young looking group of people who turn out to be American tourists. I explain I'm a Birmingham tourist looking for my corum. They look at me strangely and walk away.

When I find out where I'm supposed to be, I finally find my corum. My 6 other potential Masters. Only two of us are blokes and we're both called Nick. I hope its a good omen. We are a disparate but interesting group and I can see almost straight away what Andrew, the course director, is trying to achieve. We will infest, if that's the right word, a broad range of performance disciplines when we leave and hopefully we will all have the right tools to make a difference. Although I already have many of the tools. In fact I wonder if I'm too 'tooled up' to be here, but Andrew's first address hits the spot.
"There may be some repetition in the early part of this degree. You are all experienced in different areas, so you may find you repeat areas of knowledge. You, Nick, for instance, will have little problem with the academic work, given you already have an MA, 2 BA's and you've taken time off your PhD. " Eh? I'm about to remonstrate when I realise it's the other Nick he's addressing. I think Nick is my age, but he's 27. Wishful thinking on my part. So young and yet so qualified. He's a nice bloke too, on first impressions, and I can't help but feel this degree will give Nick and many others on the course the necessary Producer smarts to allow them to change the world. I'll be long dead by then. Or will I? I am the eldest, but not by THAT much...

Some of my Chorum... chora... corum...

Later we meet the Directors. Some of our work is with the Theatre Directing MFA's. They are all about 12, passionate and intelligent. I find them captivating. They have solid, firm ideas, formed by philosophical debate. Even Director Andy, who tells me he is 37, went to RADA to train as an actor and is originally from Harbourne in Birmingham, is really only 15 and unnervingly handsome. Later in the second week I have a debate about the play 'Festen' with a beautiful director who in spite of her tender years is frighteningly focused.

Beautiful Directors, hangin' outside the Theatre Royal, just being brilliant.

I'm saved by Joan Littlewood and the fact that for the last 15 - 20 years I have worked in glorious isolation. Now Joan is sadly long dead, but amongst other things, (oh what a lovely war) she bought a new, mainly socialist agenda to the Theatre Royal Stratford East. A venue I have heard much about, but never visited till now. Much of our course will be based there. (It's a long way from our flat in West London, but being a Brummy, I can't reconcile distance with the Underground. Not natural and I'm still not comfortable with being in a tube under the earth. Give me the 50 bus any day.)

At the Theatre Royal, I hear their lovely head of outreach and education describe a theatrical philosophy I thought had only existed in my head and at the Billesley Pub in Birmingham when we were there. It's a real shock. I am not alone! A notion I thought I had invented had been created previously. It's a shame Joan is now dead, although I am sure there are more protagonists. I then realise that I am sitting at Joan Littlewood's desk and her library is in the same room. For a theatre anorak, it's a dream. I take a photo of her desk. And although it takes a few days to sink in, I realise that for someone who has worked on his own for so long and generally been responsible for everything, its great to be part of a group.

Mind you, it's only been a couple of weeks...