Still crazy after all these years

Simon Stephens's new play transports Alfred Jarry to the International Criminal Tribunal.

When a play starts with the act of auto-fellatio, performed by a puppet, you know you're not in Kansas any more. Simon Stephens's The Trial of Ubu, at the Hampstead Theatre, begins with a quick-draw, crude in all ways, précis of Alfred Jarry's 1896 play Ubu Roi. Many of us have a beef with our physics teachers, but as far as I'm aware, Jarry is alone in turning his science prof into an unhinged dictator in a scatological satire that was later to be championed as a masterpiece by the absurdists. Ubu is a megalomaniac so grotesque, so murderous that all subsequent wannabe despots have unwittingly become Ubu-esque.

The puppet prologue might be characterised as Macbeth with fart gags. Pa Ubu, spurred on by Ma, and the promise of a big hat, bumps off King Wenceslas (echoes of Julius Caesar in the King's "you 'n' all, Ubu?") before - "bugger me sideways" - moving on to the judges, the bankers and the gentry.

After this entertaining fifteen minute Punch and Judy, set-designer Lizzie Clachan's blandly sophisticated panelling reconfigures as a second, larger booth. This belongs to a pair of interpreters, who are relaying the doings of the international court where Ubu, some one hundred fantastical years later, is on trial.

Here, again, director Katie Mitchell confronts us with arm's length ventriloquism. The actors interpret the words of unseen courtroom protagonists, as received on their headsets. Kate Duchêne and Nikki Amuka-Bird, but especially Dûchene, tenaciously mimic the uninflected, hushed monotony and cracked rhythms of simultaneous translators. We get the enervating mix of tension and tedium in lengthy legal procedure. There are glimpses only of their lives beyond the box. We're drawn, half-starved, to these touches of humanity (a bad cold, a mouth spray, a glossy magazine).

Because this business of relaying speech, and draining it of vitality, is essentially anti-dramatic, we are unengaged in the real-time cut and thrust on stage. The hand-me-down transmission of events keeps us clear of what Othello called "the pity of it" just as surely as the slasher puppetry does in the prelude. Which is not to say that we don't gain something of wit, of irony, from the bloodless broadcast mode. It points up absurdities in Ubu (they intone, "Simple, innit. I make my fortune, rule the world and bugger off"), the legal system and yes, our jaded responses to it all.
We're dished up two flavours, and cannily prevented from luxuriating in either one of them. There's a telling moment when the linguists get the giggles during a particularly grotesque section of the trial. The acting profession gave us the word "corpsing" for such disruptive laughter, which seems ghoulishly apt in this instance, since they're recounting a mass-murder.

Mitchell is a precision miniaturist. The choreographed details in her exquisite dioramas are quietly absorbing, even as we're locked out of emotional engagement. To stalk the action sideways like this strikes me as an alert and thoughtful response to the docu-drama, to "tribunal theatre," not to mention to its flashy new best friend, "verbatim theatre" (as in the National's recent London Road). Mitchell draws attention to these rival approaches to real events in her use (if not overuse) of the fast-forward device, which has the actors bobbing and jerking their way through time. This is not merely arm's length, it's remote control.

There were times, however, when if I'd had such a device I might have used it myself. Hoisted ever so slightly by its own pétard, the show is fatally faithful to the tedium of court proceedings. I suspect many in the audience were yearning for Kansas.

There are two further scenarios-in-a-box. One displays two lawyers on a fag break, arguing about efficacy and morality in the Hague (reach for the remote). And in a final flourish of doubling, we see a garishly painted but very much human Ubu with his guard. I found Paul McCleary, as the broken despot, curiously affecting, despite everything. The unredeemable dictator forlornly suggests to his jailor a slap-up barbecue and the use of the presidential swimming lake. Crazy to the last.

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Jonn Elledge and the Young Hagrid Audition

I auditioned for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, for the part of “Young Hagrid”. Except I didn’t.

I’ve been dining out for years now on the fact I auditioned for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, for the part of “Young Hagrid”. It’s one of those funny stories I tell people when a bit drunk, under the no doubt entirely wrong impression that it makes me sound like I’ve lived an interesting life.

Except, when I came to write this thing, I realised that it’s not actually true. I didn’t actually audition for the part of Young Hagrid at all.

Technically, I auditioned to be Voldemort.

Let’s start from the beginning. In November 2001 I was in my last year at Cambridge, where I split my time roughly equally between pissing about on a stage, writing thundering student paper columns about the true meaning of 9/11 as only a 21-year-old can, and having panic attacks that the first two things would cause me to screw up my degree and ruin my life forever. I was, I suppose, harmless enough; but looking back on that time, I am quite glad that nobody had yet invented social media.

I was also – this is relevant – quite substantially overweight. I’m not a slim man now, but I was much heavier then, so much so that I spent much of my later adolescence convinced that my mum’s bathroom scales were broken because my weight was, quite literally, off the scale. I was a big lad.

Anyway. One day my friend Michael, with whom I’d co-written quite a bad Edinburgh fringe show eighteen months earlier, came running up to me grasping a copy of Varsity. “Have you seen this?” he panted; in my memory, at least, he’s so excited by what he’s found that he’s literally run to find me. “You have to do it. It’d be brilliant.”

“This” turned out to be a casting call for actors for the new Harry Potter movie. This wasn’t unusual: Cambridge produces many actors, so production companies would occasionally hold open auditions in the hope of spotting fresh talent. I don’t remember how many minor parts they were trying to cast, or anything else about what it said. I was too busy turning bright red.

Because I could see the shameful words “Young Hagrid”. And I knew that what Michael meant was not, “God, Jonn, you’re a great actor, it’s time the whole world got to bask in your light”. What he meant was, “You’re a dead ringer for Robbie Coltrane”.

I was, remember, 21 years old. This is not what any 21-year-old wants to hear. Not least since I’d always suspected that the main things that made people think I looked like Robbie Coltrane were:

  1. the aforementioned weight issue, and
  2. the long dark trench coat I insisted on wearing in all seasons, under the mistaken impression that it disguised (a).

Most people look back at pictures of their 21-year-old self and marvel at how thin and beautiful they are. I look back and and I wonder why I wasted my youth cosplaying as Cracker.

The only photo of 2001 vintage Jonn I could find on the internet is actually a photo of a photo. For some reason, I really loved that tie. Image: Fiona Gee.

I didn’t want to lean into the Coltrane thing; since childhood I’d had this weird primal terror that dressing up as something meant accepting it as part of your identity, and at fancy dress parties (this is not a joke) I could often be found hiding under tables screaming. And I didn’t want to be Hagrid, young or otherwise. So I told Michael, quite plainly, that I wasn’t going to audition.

But as the days went by, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. This was an audition for a proper, actual movie. I’d always had this idea I must have some kind of talent*, and that Cambridge was where I would find out what it was**. What if this was my big break?*** What if I was being silly?****

So when it turned out that Michael had literally started a petition to get me to change my mind, I acceded to the inevitable. Who was I to resist the public demand for moi?

And so, I graciously alerted the people doing the casting to the fact of my existence. A few days later I got an email back inviting me to go see them in a room at Trinity College, and a few pages of script to read for them.

The first odd thing was that the script did not, in fact, mention Hagrid. The film, I would later learn, does include a flashback to Hagrid’s school days at Hogwarts. By then, though, the filmmakers had decided they didn’t need a young actor to play Young Hagrid: instead that sequence features a rugby player in a darkened corner, with a voiceover courtesy of Coltrane. The section of the script I was holding instead featured a conversation between Harry Potter and a character called Tom Riddle.

I asked my flat mate Beccy, who unlike me had actually read the books, who this person might be. She shuffled, awkwardly. “I think he might be Voldemort...?”

Further complicating things, the stage directions described Riddle as something along the lines of, “16 years old, stick thin and classically handsome, in a boyish way”. As fervently as I may have denied any resemblance between myself and Robbie Coltrane, I was nonetheless clear that I was a good match for precisely none of those adjectives.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I went to the audition. I don’t suppose I expected Chris Columbus to be there, let alone Robbie Coltrane ready to embrace me like a long-lost son.  But I was expecting more than a cupboard containing a video camera of the sort you could buy at Dixons and a blonde woman not much older than me. She introduced herself as “Buffy” which, given that this was 2001, I am not entirely convinced was her real name.

“My friends always tell me I look like Robbie Coltrane,” I told her, pretending I was remotely enthusiastic about this fact. 

“Oh yeah,” said Buffy. “But he’s really... big isn’t he? I mean he’s a huge guy. You’re more sort of...”

Or to put it another way, if they had still been looking for a young Hagrid, they would have wanted someone tall. I’m 6’, but I’m not tall. I was just fat.

If they had been looking for a Young Hagrid. Which, as it turned out, they weren’t.

The section I read for was included in the final film, so with a bit of Googling I found the script online. It was this bit:

TOM RIDDLE Yes. I’m afraid so. But then, she’s been in so much pain, poor Ginny. She’s been writing to me for months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes. Ginny poured her soul out to me. I grew stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful enough to start feeding Ginny a few secrets, to start pouring a bit of my soul back into her...

Riddle, growing less vaporous by the second, grins cruelly.

TOM RIDDLE Yes, Harry, it was Ginny Weasley who opened the Chamber of Secrets.

I mean, you can see the problem, can’t you? I don’t remember this many years on what interpretation I put on my performance. I suspect I went beyond camp and into full on panto villain, and I dread to think what I may have done to communicate the impression of “growing less vaporous”.

But what I do feel confident about is that I was absolutely bloody awful. Five minutes after arriving, I was out, and I never heard from Buffy again.

So – I didn’t become a star. You probably guessed that part already.

In all honesty, I didn’t really realise what a big deal Harry Potter was. I’d seen the first film, and thought it was all right, but I was yet to read the books; three of them hadn’t even been written yet.

I had some vague idea there was an opportunity here. But the idea I was missing a shot at being part of an institution, something that people would be rereading and re-watching and analysing for decades to come – something that, a couple of years later, at roughly the point when Dumbledore shows Harry the Prophecy, and a tear rolls down his cheek, would come to mean quite a lot to me, personally – none of that ever crossed my mind. I’d had an opportunity. It hadn’t worked out. Happened all the time.

I do sometimes like to think, though, about the parallel universe in which that audition was the start of a long and glittering career – and where the bloke who played Tom Riddle in this universe is scratching a living writing silly blogs about trains.

*I don’t.

**I didn’t.

***It wasn’t.

****I was.

Jonn Elledge edits the New Statesman's sister site CityMetric, and writes for the NS about subjects including politics, history and Daniel Hannan. You can find him on Twitter or Facebook.

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