Old Dog, New Balls.

I can remember my excitement the first time I saw my name on a television call sheet. I was lucky enough for that to happen while I was still at drama school. In the 1970s there was a healthy relationship between the Manchester Polytechnic School of Theatre and Granada TV.  Quite often the casting department would call one of our tutors. His wife happened to be a very senior producer at Granada. They would ask for a couple of students who already had equity cards to come in for an interview for these small parts.

Having gained my Equity card in my first year at drama school as a walk on for the London Festival Ballet as Rudolph Nureyev’s guard (That’s another story), I was keen and eligible. So, I would often hop onto a bus into town to the Granada offices on Quay street

That first call sheet on which my name appeared, probably alongside an artist number somewhere in the hundreds, was for a thriller called “The XYY Man”. I was pushing the casting envelope by playing a choreographer. For some reason this scene was to be shot in a disused bank, and I had three lines.

  HUNKY HERO ENTERS A DISUSED BANK. A DANCE REHEARSAL IS IN PROGRESS. A RATHER CAMP CHOREOGRAPHER IS TAKING THREE GIRLS THROUGH A ROUTINE. ALL ARE DRESSED IN SKIMPY DANCE WEAR.

 

 CHOREOGRAPHER

Well hello, you’re Hunky 

 

HUNKY HERO

Where’s Arnie?

 

 CHOREOGRAPHER

Upstairs, love.

 HUNKY HEADS UPSTAIRS

 

 CHOREOGRAPHER

 Right girls, one more time.

 I should point out that the choreographer wasn’t wearing skimpy dance wear, but had managed to remain in a pair of his own flared jeans with a grandad collar shirt over a tight vest.

 Since that moment of late 1970s epic television was shot, I’ve been very lucky to appear on lots of call sheets. I immediately check the time, the number of scenes I’m in on the day, my artist number to gain a measure of my importance (I may have been Artist 168 in “Wolf Hall”, but at least I was two above Joanne Whaley-Kilmer), and, finally, the most important information to any actor, what time do I finish and am I called the next day?

I thought I could find my way around a call sheet without trouble. How wrong I was. In two days time I will start directing a 90-minute feature film. It’s a comedy drama for a corporate client. Since having the idea accepted in December last year, I’ve been working with my brilliant producer for six months on prep. The last month has seen schedules of every different kind pop into my inbox.

The fatal thing is that I actually like lists. I like timetables. When journeying abroad for a job, (Fond memories) I like working out when I should leave home, when I should arrive at Gatwick (a place that used to be an airport) and the estimated time I will arrive at my destination.

The not inconsiderable job of turning a film script into a schedule has been done by our brilliant first assistant director. She sends me a wonderful document which I can see has taken hours to compile. I try to make sure that I don’t just look at the information I would normally scan on the call sheet but read the whole thing. And then something always jumps out at me. And she, saint that she is, gets the schedule back with some notes and starts what is no doubt the mammoth job of rearranging it.

Actors availability, location availability, amount of time to set up and derig at each particular location — a whole list of essential factors for any successful call sheet. Yet in 46 years of call sheets, these are things which I have probably never managed to notice.

How wonderful it will be to stand on location with a group of actors and create a story. How much richer will that story be now that I know how that location was booked, what time we have to leave it, how long it will take to de-rig the lights, who has what catering preferences, and how much overtime my poor producer will rack up if I don’t do my job and finish on time.

I’ll be venturing into what is a very familiar world, but this time coming through an unfamiliar door. Two more sleeps before the 5:50 AM alarm calls begin for 19 days.

I am incredibly excited and nervous. But as I may have said before, if I don’t doubt whether I can do the job, I don’t know why I’m leaving the house. If there isn’t an element of challenge, risk of failure, then I may as well spend the day talking to myself on Zoom or curled up on the sofa with an old Ruth Rendell.

 So, here’s hoping that this old dog has got the balls to master a whole set of new tricks.