Anyway, whilst we were eating outside on a beautiful day, I decided to pitch up and ask the question.
"Do you think I'm funny?"
Now, those of you who know Alex, might be wincing already. Those of you who know me are berating my stupidity. I know, I am too.
For those of you who don't know either of us, sorry about that. That's a tough burden to carry.
Alex is from Liverpool, therefore by association, he's difficult to impress, has a Titanic sized bullshit radar and is as blunt as a broken arrow. He will also always ALWAYS speak the truth. As many of my girlfriends on a night out will testify to. This is great when you're walking down the aisle to the guy, but terrible if you're hoping to bask in some comfort and niceness in a bout of uncertainty.
I on the other hand, asides from being stupid, am currently performing in my first "comic" role in a play called 'Unreachable' at the Royal Court. I'm also a glutton for punishment and one of those annoying people who always has to seek perfection and never takes a compliment for what it is. "I'm being nice to you. Just smile and enjoy it you ungrateful cow."
Yep. I could definitely write a good tinder ad.
Whilst copulating in my current bout of self-pity, I also woke up on Saturday morning and my hearing aid had decided to die on me. I wear two, so there was still some lopsided hearing, but with a matinee and an evening performance that day, the faithful spaniel-like hearing aid that had borne with me sweating on it, sitting on it and even pissing on it (once and by accident) for three years, had decided to up sticks and join God with his ginormous Henry the hoover.
Unfortunately my audiologist on Harley Street doesn't work on Saturdays and no degree of urgency or appeal of self-importance was going to change that. But on Monday, I went in and presented my bastard hearing aid in a box with some tissue, and asked them (tearfully) if there was anything they could do. Soberly, they tried everything from CPR to putting another battery in it (those patronising arseholes), before announcing that they would have to send it to Switzerland for intensive care (AKA the Phonak Factory).
I parted with my hearing aid woefully, reaching for my ear muffs which would prevent my ear from feeling lonely and exposed to the environment, even if it was the hottest day of the year. I would not let my ear feel ABANDONED by the world. (I am slightly exaggerating here).
A few minutes later, they kindly provided me with a replacement - a dozen years older than my current one, but still nonetheless one that would provide me with a degree of hearing on both sides of my head. Useful when you have the audience laughing in one ear and the actors speaking in the other. Unfortunately, because the hearing aid is slightly different looking, I'm vain enough to now worry about whether I look a bit of a nob.
The Terminator
I have named my replacement hearing aid "The Terminator". I hope I don't need to explain myself to you.
Going back to the conversation that I had with Alex earlier today, where I asked him whether he thought I was a funny person, I now understand that (according to him) I as Genevieve Barr am not funny. However, what has been written for my character is. Which took my mind down the path of how much we live at the mercy of what writers give us to say on stage.
If the lines are funny, maybe you could just deliver the lines and all would be ok. In a natural performance - if the language is right, then you shouldn't need to do anything to milk the audience for a laugh. That can be kind of scary for an actor who likes to measure how hard they are working by the amount of nuance they try to portray or the range of their emotional journey.
As someone who hasn't been to drama school, also, I have that constant nagging doubt rapping at my brain like a woodpecker, or a hangover, am I doing enough? Does the fount of knowledge that three years of training gives you make you that much better or prepared for the roles you take on? I certainly think that being accepted into drama school (not that I even tried) gives you enough impetus to think that you're good enough.
If you read anything about acting or comedy, you will be led to believe that there is a huge amount of craft in creating successful comic characters. Everything needs to be said in the right tone, with the right pitch, the right mannerisms and most importantly, at the right time. Right? It requires a strong commitment to character. And a strong awareness of the differences between who you are and who your character is.
I suppose all that reading and at the root of it, a lack of conviction, is what led me to ask Alex today whether he thought I was funny. Because I thought if I understood how I, Genevieve, bring the funny, I could decide how much of that to put into my character on stage. Let me be clear right now, Alex didn't say what he said to be cruel or because I, Genevieve, am not funny; he said it (I think) because there is an artifice in a lot of comedy roles and not many people are actually naturally comic - they are just smart with words.
I think I can write funny. Sometimes. You'll have to tell me whether you laughed in this blog. Maybe I was trying too hard to earn your amusement - I don't know. But I know if you ask me to tell a funny story, I will freeze up or reel off a diatribe reminiscent of monosyllabic and monotonic diarrhoea. So dead in the water. Ha! And I don't think I have the face of a contortionist that makes you want to giggle. So everything Alex said was fair.
But I'm still left a bit stuck and I'm on stage in a couple of hours. I would like to know that by the end of this run of 'Unreachable', I've given it all the funny I've got. Without looking like I'm trying to be funny. So will it be the path of the least resistance - react as I would react or will I try and bring more specific comic characterisation to the stage? Undecided. But you're at the Royal Court and in an Anthony Neilson play? That's pretty special. Enjoy every moment.
