ON SUNDAY, 12 December 1999, a galaxy of British theatrical, television and film stars joined together at the Savoy Theatre to celebrate the centenary of the birth of Noel Coward. Introduced by Richard Attenborough, the evening featured extracts from "the Master's" plays, prose, poems and diaries.
It was an unforgetable evening even before the programme began. The cul de sac in front of the Savoy was filled with men and women elegantly got up in evening clothes in spite of the rain. It was a major gathering of brocade, velvet and black tie - everyone looked like someone, and not a ticket was to be had.
In the first half Alan Bates read "The Boy Actor" (below). A long scene from "Blithe Spirit" left us wanting to see it all; it was directed by Hugh Wooldridge, and featured Marcia Warren, Nathaniel Parker, Imogen Stubbs, Malcolm Sinclair, Jenny Quayle, Helena Bonham Carter and Ellie Nunn. Critic Sheridan Morley read a fine piece about critics. Simon Callow and Raymond Coulthard performed a scene from "Present Laughter," directed by Christopher Morahan. Steve Ross played and sang now and then; a medley of Coward songs ended the act.
In the second half, Alan read "I Am No Good At Love." 92-year-old John Mills entered on Stephen Fry's arm; he spoke with great charm about meeting Coward when they were both young, and sang "Something To Do With Spring." The diaries were read intermittantly by Donald Sinden, Keith Baxter, Simon Russell Beale, and others. Elizabeth McGovern read "Mrs Mallory;" Peter Greenwell sang many favourites including "A Bar on the Piccola Marina."
As the temperature in the packed theatre mounted, a series of film clips of Coward himself were shown, including his unique performance of "Mad Dogs and Englishmen." The evening ended well after 11; the rain had stopped, audience and performers mingled outside, breathing the fresh air and greeting friends, reluctant to end the occasion.
Proceeds of the Gala will be donated to The Actors' Charitable Trust, the charity of which Noel Coward was himself the President for many years.

Here are the two poems that Alan read:

The Boy Actor

I can remember, I can remember
The months of November and December
Were filled for me with peculiar joys
So different from those of other boys.
For other boys would be counting the days
Until end of term and holiday time;
But I was acting in Christmas plays
While they were taken to pantomimes.
I didn't envy their new suits,
Their children's dances and Christmas trees;
My life had wonderful substitutes
For such conventional treats as these.
I didn't envy their country larks,
Their organized games in panelled halls,
While they made snowmen in stately parks,
I was counting the curtain calls.

I remember the auditions, the nerve-racking auditions,
Darkened auditorium, and empty, dusty stage;
Little girls in ballet dresses practicing positions,
Gentlemen with pince-nez asking you your age.
Hopefulness and nervousness struggling within you,
Dreading that familiar phrase: "Thank you dear, no more."
Straining every muscle, every tendon, every sinew,
To do your dance much better than you'd ever done before.
Think of your performance! Never mind the others,
Never mind the pianist; talent must prevail;
Never mind the baleful eyes of other children's mothers
Glaring from the corners, and willing you to fail.

I can remember, I can remember,
The months of November and December
Were more significant to me
than other months could ever be.
For they were the months of high romance
When destiny waited on tip toe
When every boy actor stood a chance
Of getting into a Christmas show.
Not for me the dubious heaven
of being some prefect's protege;
Not for me the second eleven;
For me, two performances a day.

Ah, those first rehearsals! Only very few lines,
Rushing home to Mother, learning them by heart,
'Enter left, through window.' Dots demarked the cue lines.
'Exit with the others.' Still, it WAS a part.
Opening performance, legs a bit unsteady,
Dedicated tension shivers down my spine;
Powder, grease and eye black, sticks of makeup ready,
Leichner number three and number five and number nine.
World of strange enchantment! Magic for a small boy
Dreaming of the future, reaching for the crown,
Rigid in the dressingroom, listening for the call-boy:
'Overture, beginners! Everybody down!'

I can remember, I can remember,
The months of November and December
Although climatically cold and damp
Meant more to me than Aladdin's lamp.
I see myself, having got a job
Walking on wings along the Strand;
Uncertain whether to laugh or sob,
And clutching tightly my mother's hand.
I never cared who scored the goal,
Or which side won the silver cup;
I never learned to bat or bowl,
But I heard the curtain going up.

I Am No Good At Love

I am no good at love
My heart should be wise and free
I kill the unfortunate golden goose
Whoever it may be
With over-articulate tenderness
And too much intensity.

I am no good at love
I batter it out of shape
Suspicion tears at my sleepless mind
And gibbering like an ape,
I lie alone in the endless dark
Knowing there's no escape.

I am no good at love
When my easy heart I yield
Wild words come tumbling from my mouth
Which should have stayed concealed;
And my jealousy turns a bed of bliss
Into a battlefield.

I am no good at love
I betray it with little sins
For I feel the misery of the end
In the moment that it begins
And the bitterness of the last good-bye
Is the bitterness that wins. |||