by Henry VIII auditions for the local pantomime and is told, gently, that he is simply too intense for Widow Twankey
I once commanded absolute attention the moment I entered any room. I auditioned for the role of the King in the community centre pantomime and was asked, kindly, to bring the energy down.
The Audition Room
The audition took place in a church hall in December, presided over by a director named Malcolm who has run the local pantomime for eleven years and clearly considers this achievement roughly equivalent to ruling an actual kingdom, a comparison I found presumptuous right up until I watched him manage six overlapping rehearsal schedules without once raising his voice, at which point I revised my opinion considerably upward.
The Role
I read for the part of the King, a role I felt uniquely, almost insultingly, qualified for, having performed the actual job for thirty eight years with considerably higher stakes than a script requires. Malcolm stopped me four lines in and asked if I could try it again with slightly less genuine menace, explaining that the character is meant to be lovable, and that several children would be in the audience, and that my delivery had visibly unsettled the woman reading opposite me as the Fairy Godmother.
The Notes
Malcolm’s notes continued in this vein. Less like an actual monarch, more like a children’s television version of one. Fewer real historical grievances woven into the dialogue, even when, as I pointed out, the grievances were both accurate and extremely funny. No genuine references to executions, even as a joke, even in a pantomime, even though the entire genre is built on gleeful violence that nobody blinks at when it happens to a giant.
The Alternative Role
Malcolm offered me the part of the Baron instead, a smaller role with fewer lines and considerably less menace required, and I accepted, largely because the alternative was walking home having been formally rejected from playing myself. Rehearsals begin in October. I am told the costume department already has strong opinions about my proposed doublet, which I resent, having worn actual doublets, correctly, for most of my original life.
Opening Night
I have decided to treat the Baron as a creative challenge rather than a demotion, and Malcolm has promised me one good comic entrance involving a trapdoor, which I have accepted enthusiastically, partly for the role, partly because a trapdoor is, on reflection, one of the few pieces of stagecraft from my actual reign that translates directly and without alteration into the modern theatre.
Rehearsals Begin
Malcolm has since sent the full rehearsal schedule, six Tuesdays running through November, and a costume fitting booked for the week after next, at which I am told firmly to arrive with reasonable expectations about sleeve length. I have already started learning my lines for the Baron, and I will admit, quietly, that the trapdoor entrance Malcolm promised me is the single thing about this entire production I am most looking forward to, possibly more than I should.
Readers who enjoyed this should also see Henry VIII: Live at the Tiltyard for the fuller performance history. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: the Royal Family’s own peace summit requiring more security than most actual peace summits, the desperate promoter who booked me for open mic night in the first place, the pub that finally made me feel properly at home again.
