I sit writing this as we finish our technical rehearsals for the day. With less than 24 hours until we open for our first preview performance (Wednesday, 7 p.m) the excitement amongst the company and in the whole building is palpable.
The Bush as a theatrical institution has been through a series of firsts of late: 'Where's My Seat?' was the first original show in the new building, 'Sixty-Six Books' was the first production in the newly-renovated auditorium, and 'The Kitchen Sink' is the first full-length play. As a result, the building has been, over the past few months, in a sort of perpetual state of 'opening'--everything has felt new and exciting (to the point, perhaps, during the 24 hour performances of 'Sixty-Six Books', of generating a potent blend of delirium combined with elation combined with exasperation combined with exhaustion combined with the sense that your face might fall off).
Whilst most of those feelings remain (except, perhaps, the face-falling-off one), now the building seems to have settled into something approaching an established rhythm. The café/bar opens at 8 a.m. six days a week and closes at 11 p.m. It has its morning and lunchtime regulars, the surge in evening activity, and the daily bout of people wandering in off the street wondering what's happened to the old Shepherd's Bush Library, as well as assorted theatre people having meetings throughout the day. The offices upstairs, which once felt temporary, now feel permanent and settled. The loos, which were once perfunctory, are now comfortable--positively luxurious, even (I'd go so far as to say I genuinely look forward to having to use them).
When the plans were announced to move to and renovate the Old Library, the Bush began a bold theatrical adventure. It now feels as if we're at the end of one stage of that adventure and at the start of a new one. It now feels like we have a living, working, permanent theatre building.
The cast, creative and production team of The Kitchen Sink have been working in the auditorium since Saturday, and it's starting to feel like home. We'd spent the four previous weeks rehearsing in the Old Bush. It is a space that has been the site of thousands of great theatrical moments over the past 40 years, and that still, despite creeping towards the end of its journey as a performance space, retains some sense of its glorious past.
The new auditorium is a beautiful space. Full of character, exposed brick forms one of the longer walls, and four exposed concrete pillars frame the centre of the space with a skylight above. But it is also adaptable: it can be set up in pretty much any audience configuration, so prduction designers don't just create a set, but sculpt the entire space. It is also taller, wider and longer than the old auditorium, so tech rehearsals (as well as being wet, wild and long) gave us a first glimpse of what our show is really going to feel and look like.
Our set nestles between the four pillars and is flanked on all sides by steep banks of seats. The effect is such that the space feels both epic and intimate. Perfect, I think, for this play, which I have come to view as a charming sideways comedy about five people dealing with the fairly trivial matter of discovering what it is the universe is demanding of them. (It's also, of course, about a kitchen sink dealing with similar, if not greater, existential concerns.) Having said all that, it quite simply, best of all, feels like our characters and play now have a proper setting, a proper home.
I'm going to leave you with a memory of the occasionally somewhat bizarre results our rehearsal process has thrown up.
Tech rehearsals usually consist of playing certain moments in the play again and again and again, so that lighting, sound and other production effects and cues can be perfected. This can be a frustrating experience for actors; they're asked to recreate, again and again and again, in quick succession, precious moments they've been crafting for weeks. It is, therefore, where all the work they've done in rehearsals can start to pay off, where the hours spent doing one exercise, or playing one scene in a thousand different ways, or researching and agonising over the minutest details of a character's backstory can ensure that they can keep things fresh and avoid losing any detail.
One such instance of lengths an actor will go to establish a clear idea of who his character is can be found in Andy Rush, who plays Pete. Pete wants to be a plumber, so Andy spent a day with the good people at Pimlico Plumbers (see the evidence on their website: link to their website/blog).
Going back through my notes, I found another example of Andy's commitment to detail (and perhaps to spending time doing something silly instead of learning his lines). In the play, Pete buys a new van for his plumbing escapades. He decides to write on the side of this van 'No job too big or small'. Andy was asked to come up with a list of other possible phrases Pete may have considered writing on the side of his van. He submitted 17.
I don't understand them all. Some are surreal, some are rather rude, some are genuinely worthy of going on the side of vans that belong to plumbers (especially ones called Pete); regardless, I think they make for a great read, and form a nice memento of the last month.
They are as follows:
Each, Peach, Pear, Plumb
Plumb Duff
1 Plumb, 2 Pumb, 3 Plumb, Pete!
Plumb & Plumber
Plumbs up!
Golden Showers
No Job too big or small
Wherever, Whenever
Waterworks!
Pete the Plumber
Plumbing the Depths, with Pete
24/7, 365 Pete's Plumbing Promise
Come Rain or Shine, Plumb, drain and...
I've got the Brains, to fix your drains
I've got the Power, to fix your shower
Other Plumbers can't compete, with Pete
Any Blockage or Leak, just call Pete!
Consider this your formal invitation to 'The Kitchen Sink' by Tom Wells, opening tomorrow and running until 17 December. We'd love to see you there.
(For more information about performance dates and times, or to book tickets, click here.)
