That scene again. Yes, THAT one.

One of the best things about live theatre - acting in it, and watching it - is the sense of danger. People forget lines, fall over, break props, start to improvise in Elizabethan English ("Fie, sir! Fie! Fie! Er... have I mentioned, 'fie!'?") and indeed very occasionally convince themselves that no, that isn't an actor playing Hamlet's Ghost, that is actually their own real dead father onstage with them... (Not looking at you, Daniel Day Lewis.) It's great. If theatre wasn't live... well, it would be film.  

Anything can happen. I like that. But then again, when it does...

I mention this because I (yes, this post is mainly about me) forgot my lines on Wednesday. I dried completely and utterly, in a blank horrified sort of way that's never happened to me before. Luckily Pippa, our wonderful stage manager, was on the ball enough to catch my eye and prompt me (what's more, in a lovely tactful undertone that hardly anyone else heard) - but I found the whole experience a little bit disconcerting. And spent the rest of the evening - and the next day - telling everyone who would listen that it had never happened to me before, honestly, promise...

But you know what? I blame the script. And that is only partly a joke. 

It's a hard scene to remember, mainly because Lear and I have lines which bear no relation to their cues or context. I'm wittering on about noses and crabs and - ooh, wait, come to think of it, there are no knob gags, which is possibly why I have so much trouble... and he's wittering on (beautifully, of course) about going mad and filial ingratitude and little things like that. So it's not easy. But it's not just that. The word I'm trying to resist here is "jinxed"...* Because it seems to be the scene which causes problems for everyone. So far - I really love this statistic - 75% of the actors in it have, at one time or another, forgotten to come onstage for it. (One in rehearsal, one in the dress, and one last night. King Lear is the only person who so far has made it every time.) Last night we had a missed entrance, an improvised ending, and several inadvertent cuts, one of which was the cue for the next scene. Surely this can't be a coincidence. 

So my advice to Fran is to cut it, before it gets any worse. Next time, who knows? We might inadvertently cut the rest of the play.

Except that... well, as I said, the potential anarchy of theatre is exactly why it's so much fun. So maybe I should just embrace it. Metaphorically. Sometimes when things go wrong it's good. It throws you unceremoniously into the moment, keeps you on your toes, reminds you that what matters isn't how you feel about a scene or feeling self-congratulatory that you remembered all your lines or even making it onstage (although that's normally better than the alternative. Normally...). What matters is what the audience see. It's not - although I hate to admit it - all about the actors...

So let's keep it, after all. And if it goes wrong again... well, never mind. Such is the joy of theatre. 

Or, yes, I might just learn my damn' lines. 

* Given that last night there were hordes of superstitious actors running round the theatre seven times because they'd whistled onstage (I would love to know what the neighbours thought) I am slightly hesitant about suggesting this...