You’re Either Too Young or Too Old

I came to the above conclusion early in my attempt to play Romeo. One of the problems with the part is that the overwhelming majority of the critics back in the Fifties were men. Despite all that has been said between then and now, that situation still exists. And many of the scribes harbour the deep-seated belief that they would have made a better Romeo, had they been an actor, than the not-very-talented person they see declaiming “What light from yonder window breaks?” If the gorgeous young thing who’s playing Juliet had sighed “Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” as one of them lurked in the shadows below the balcony, the whole story would have been more believable.

My unsuitability for the role was exacerbated by the long black wig the director had crowned me with. The thing got a bit tangled as the play progressed, and many critics chose to remark upon it as a symbol of my generally messy performance. The wig was rapidly consigned to the bin and I wore my own hair for the rest of the season, to the noticeable improvement of my reviews.

At the end of the 1958 season the Company was invited to visit Moscow, taking ‘Hamlet’, with Sir Michael Redgrave as the Prince, ‘Romeo and Juliet’ with the exquisite Dorothy Tutin as Juliet, and ‘Twelfth Night’, Peter Hall’s beautiful production which he still thinks was one of the best things he did in his entire career. Dorothy played Viola, Geraldine McEwan Olivia, and I had one of the most enjoyable parts I’ve ever played, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, the foolish, loving knight. I decided he was a dog and played him as a spaniel, always trying to please, faithful forever to his unworthy master, Sir Toby, and his longed-for mistress, Olivia.

The season in Moscow and Leningrad was a fantastic, sell-out, black-market-for-tickets success. Used to heavyweight, ’socialist realism’, four-hour productions, audiences were astounded by the speed and brilliance of our shows. We were overwhelmed by the warmth of the receptions accorded us, with flowers and standing ten-minute ovations. The Russians loved my short-haired Romeo and Dorothy’s spirited Juliet, comparing us to the ‘angry young people’ whom they had read were the big thing in Britain at that time. The authorities had fed this message through the state organs of information in the hope that citizens of of the USSR would disapprove of such behaviour. But loving our Romeo and Juliet was part of the peoples’ protest against their grim, ageing, masters. It would take another 30 years before their and the people of eastern Europe’s anger would bring the Berlin Wall tumbling down but I cherish the hope that our work was a tiny part of the process.

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