Simon Brett - Star Trap

‘Who’s that for?’

‘Don’t know who I’ll offer it to yet. Cosmopolitan, maybe.’

‘It hasn’t been commissioned?’

‘No, but I’ll sell it all right.’ Whatever Miss Horst lacked, it was not confidence.

In fact she didn’t lack much. Certainly not looks. Her shoulder-length hair was that streaky yellow which might be the natural result of sun on brown hair or the unnatural result of hairdressers on any colour. Her belted Burberry formalised but did not disguise her lithe figure, and though her overpowering confidence might be a slight deterrent, the general effect was distinctly tangible. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Thank you. A vodka and tonic, please.’ The barman eyed Charles knowingly as he supplied the drink. Suzanne didn’t seem to notice. ‘Are you sure you can’t introduce me?’

‘Honestly, it is difficult. You know, people like Christopher Milton have to guard their privacy very carefully. I’m afraid they tend to be a bit resistant to journalists.’

‘But, look, I’m not going to do a big expose or anything. It’ll be an appreciative piece. I mean, I’m a fan.’

‘I don’t think that’s really the point. It’s rather difficult to get near him.’

‘But you see him at rehearsal, don’t you?’

‘Well, yes, but — ’

‘Then you could ask him if he’d be prepared to do an interview with me.’

Her persistence didn’t make it easy. Charles cringed with embarrassment at the thought of putting the girl’s request to Christopher Milton. It was difficult to explain to someone outside the closely defined relationship that exists between actors in a working context. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I really don’t think I can.’

‘Why not? You do know him, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do, but — ’

‘Well then,’ she said, as if that concluded the syllogism.

‘Yes.’ Under normal circumstances he would have given a categorical ‘No’, but under normal circumstances the people who made this kind of request didn’t look like Suzanne Horst. He said something about seeing if he had a chance to raise the matter at rehearsal (which he had no intention of doing) and asked the girl how much journalism she had done.

‘Oh, quite a lot in the States. I got a degree in it, but the scene over there isn’t very interesting, so I decided to check it out over here.’

‘What, you’ve given yourself a sort of time limit to see if you can make it?’

‘Oh, I’ll make it.’

Charles was beginning to find this self-conviction a little wearying, so he brought in a damper. ‘Yes, unfortunately it’s a bad time to get started in that sort of area at the moment. Journalism’s getting more and more of a closed shop. It’s like acting, getting increasingly difficult to make the initial break into the business.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Suzanne, as though explaining to a child, ‘People with talent always get through.’

He couldn’t think of anything to say after that.

But Suzanne suddenly got an idea. ‘Hey, you could actually be quite useful on this stardom article.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, you could give me a bit of background on Christopher Milton. After all, you’re working with him.’

Charles was hesitant, but overruled. She had whipped out a new shorthand notebook and a freshly-sharpened pencil and was poised in the attitude of someone who had taken a degree in journalism. The question came out formal and rehearsed. ‘Tell me, as an actor, what do you think it is that makes some people stars?’

‘And some dreary old hacks like me? Hmm. Well now — ’ dropping into an American accent — ‘what is a star? What is it that picks out one from the myriad throng of the moderately talented and gives him that magic name? What is it that sets one talent glowing in the limelight, that scatters the moondust of stardom on that one chosen head? Is it of the earth or is it made in heaven? Perhaps in that Great Casting Agency in the Sky, there sits the one Eternal Agent who — ’

‘Look, are you taking the rise out of me?’

He lapsed back into his normal voice. ‘No, sorry. I was just getting my bearings. Stardom? I don’t know really. In the sort of theatre I normally do it’s rarely an issue.’

‘But I suppose, if I had to give an opinion… Well, talent certainly, that must be there. Not necessarily a great deal of it, nor anything very versatile. In fact, there should be no versatility. The star must always be recognisable — if he puts on voices, he must put them on almost badly, so that everyone knows it’s him. That’s talent. Okay. What else? Dedication certainly, the conviction that what he does is more important than anything else in the world.’

‘Isn’t that likely to lead to selfishness?’ Suzanne interposed with studied professionalism.

‘Inevitably. Bound to. Hence, presumably, all the stories that one hears of stars hating competition and being temperamental and slamming dressing-room doors and that sort of thing.’

He realised that it could get a little awkward if Suzanne asked him to relate his last observation to the star of Lumpkin! and hurried on before she had the chance. ‘I think there’s also something about the way the entertainment industry works, certainly for actors. Being an actor is, potentially, the most passive function on earth. Most actors are completely dependent on directors, because it’s directors who control the jobs. Some manage to assert themselves by deep commitment to their work, or by directing or writing and devising shows. Some do it by political affiliations… starting street theatres, workshop communes, even — in cases of extreme lunacy — joining the Workers’ Revolutionary Party. Some do it by forming their own companies, that kind of thing. But what I’m getting at is, that, given this lack of autonomy, when an actor becomes very much in demand, as a star might be, he wants to dictate his own terms. It’s years of frustration at living on someone else’s terms. It’s also a self-preservation thing — once someone’s got to the top, he tries to do everything to ensure that he stays there, and that may involve being careful about the people he works with, seeing that none of them are too good. I mean, often when you see a show with one big star name above the title and the rest of the cast nonentities, it’s not just because the star’s fee has exhausted the budget, it’s also so that he shows up in such mediocre company. The Whale among Sprats syndrome.

‘Then there’s management, which is very important. Choosing work, not doing anything that’s beneath the star’s dignity, or anything in which he’s not going to shine. Can’t take a risk, everything that is done has to be right, even at the expense of turning work down. For that reason you often find that a real star won’t do anyone a favour, won’t step in if someone’s ill. It’s not just bloody-mindedness, it’s self-preservation. When someone’s at the top, there are any number of people sniping, ready to read the signs of a decline, so it never does to be too available.’

‘Do you think a star has magic?’ asked Suzanne, with awe-struck italics.

‘I don’t know. I — ’

‘Oh, Mr Paris, there you are.’ Gwyneth of the stage management stood before him, her customary calm ruffled by anxiety. ‘You should have been back in the theatre half an hour ago.’

On the Wednesday morning they were rehearsing the first act finale, Ooh, What a Turn-up, which had been rearranged by Leon Schultz. Pete Masters, the M.D., was not in the best of moods. Having seen his own arrangements thrown out of the window, he found it galling to have to teach the new ones to the impassive band. The musicians had long since lost any spark of interest that they may have had for the show and sat mentally sorting out their VAT returns, eyes occasionally straying to their watches to see if the rehearsal would spread over into another session at M.U. rates. Christopher Milton was onstage directing, while David Meldrum sat at the back of the stalls reading The Stage.