I'm glad I'm not as famous as Kenneth Branagh
In a break in rehearsals at Hampstead Town Hall, Simon Russell Beale is enjoying a hasty, though clearly tasty, roll washed down with an experimental strawberry and rhubarb bottled drink. ‘Rather good,’ he decides.
Any day now, he will open alongside John Simm in a revival of Harold Pinter’s rarely seen The Hothouse at the Trafalgar Studios. Written in the 1950s, the playwright is said to have put it in a drawer after a relatively poor reception of another early play, The Birthday Party. He returned to it in the 1970s when he rewrote it and in 1995, himself played the part of Roote – Simon’s role in this production – at Chichester, complete with toothbrush moustache.
‘I’ve decided to do the same,’ says Simon, running a hand over his bristling upper lip. ‘I remind myself of my paternal grandfather, Basil.’
The setting is a nightmare institution in a 1950s totalitarian state. A patient has died; another has given birth. ‘People are referred to us by the government to – and I quote – “regain their confidence”, which is a good example of using language to say the opposite of what the words mean. Gradually, the people in charge believe they can do anything they want without being found out, although, in the end, Roote is as much a victim of the brutalisation by the system as anyone else.’
Early next year, 52-year-old Russell Beale will tackle King Lear – for the second time. (He first played the role at Clifton College when he was 17.) ‘I’m looking forward to it, although about once a week, I wake up in a blind panic. My principal worry is that I may be too young for the role. I’d like to think I’ll be able to convey the fear of losing your mind, as Lear does. Finding the motor for that madness is the real challenge.’
He has an astonishing theatrical track record characterised as much by its variety as his versatility. Privates On Parade and Hamlet. London Assurance and Collaborators. Deathtrap and Uncle Vanya. Does he – indeed, can he – choose the order in which he runs his career?
‘No,’ he says, ‘I’ve been lucky the work has alternated in the way it has. I’d been in Shakespeare, for example, and then I got the offer of Spamalot on Broadway, followed by London for a year. More recently, I was in Timon Of Athens and then along came the glorious Terri Dennis in Privates On Parade.’
His masterly portrayal of the reptilian Widmerpool in the TV adaptation of Anthony Powell’s Dance To The Music Of Time won him a Best Television Actor Bafta. But theatre remains his first love. And, he says, that means he can travel by Tube and hardly ever get recognised.
‘When Ken Branagh was appearing as Hamlet at Stratford, he already had a big film and TV career under his belt. I went for a drink one day at The Dirty Duck and Pam, the legendary landlady, said to me: “Can you ask Ken why we never see him in here any more?”
‘So, the next day, I went in to his dressing room and said: “Pam, who you do not disobey, wants you to come to the pub.” He looked stricken. “But I can’t,” he said. “I’d walk in and I wouldn’t be able to get to the bar because I’d be stopped so often.” I wouldn’t want that level of fame.’
When faced with the prospect of ‘resting’, a friend of Simon’s said he could come and work in his bookshop. ‘And I’d have loved to. People will tell you I’m hopeless at not working but it’s not true. I’m essentially quite lazy. I go on holiday with my friend, Susie, but she’s the one who goes off and looks at ruins. I’m happy lying by the pool and reading.
‘I live alone. I’m very happy with my own company. I play the piano as often as I can. In fact, I’ve started having lessons again to increase the strength and dexterity of my fingers.’ He broke his middle finger on his right hand when he fell over during a performance of Timon last year.
‘As a matter of fact, I fell over in every single production in which I appeared last year, including Privates On Parade.’ But, most gallingly, he hit the deck as Stalin in Collaborators. ‘All I wanted to do was say: “I’m sorry and please can I start again?” But you have to carry on.’
Ask him to pick career milestones and he plumps for Konstantin in The Seagull, which he played for the RSC in 1991. ‘It was the first time I’d been given a big, serious role. It’s almost the only part I’ve played about which I feel proprietorial.’
And he’d have to pick Hamlet, of course. ‘I know that’s a cliché. But I remember the actor, Paul Rhys, telling me that it would change my life – and it did. So great a role is it that it requires you to strip away anything to do with acting and just be you.’
Although his father, Lieutenant- General Sir Peter Beale, was Surgeon General of the British Armed Forces, and his late mother, Julia, was a GP, Simon’s paternal grandmother was a natural performer. Simon was a chorister while a pupil at St Paul’s Cathedral School before going to Clifton College and then to Caius, Cambridge, where he took a First in English.
‘I’m extremely grateful for my education,’ he says. ‘And I don’t blame my parents for sending me away; they were in Singapore. But I was only eight. The more I think about that, the more brutalising I think it was. I was happy but I was so young.’
He shakes his head and smiles. Am I looking at a happy man? ‘The work’s great; life is fine. I’d say you’re looking at a contented man,’ decides Simon Russell Beale. ‘And contentment is rather underrated.’
The Hothouse is at Trafalgar Studios, 14 Whitehall, London SW1 until 3 August: 0844-871 7632, www.thehothousewestend.com
Any day now, he will open alongside John Simm in a revival of Harold Pinter’s rarely seen The Hothouse at the Trafalgar Studios. Written in the 1950s, the playwright is said to have put it in a drawer after a relatively poor reception of another early play, The Birthday Party. He returned to it in the 1970s when he rewrote it and in 1995, himself played the part of Roote – Simon’s role in this production – at Chichester, complete with toothbrush moustache.
‘I’ve decided to do the same,’ says Simon, running a hand over his bristling upper lip. ‘I remind myself of my paternal grandfather, Basil.’
The setting is a nightmare institution in a 1950s totalitarian state. A patient has died; another has given birth. ‘People are referred to us by the government to – and I quote – “regain their confidence”, which is a good example of using language to say the opposite of what the words mean. Gradually, the people in charge believe they can do anything they want without being found out, although, in the end, Roote is as much a victim of the brutalisation by the system as anyone else.’
Early next year, 52-year-old Russell Beale will tackle King Lear – for the second time. (He first played the role at Clifton College when he was 17.) ‘I’m looking forward to it, although about once a week, I wake up in a blind panic. My principal worry is that I may be too young for the role. I’d like to think I’ll be able to convey the fear of losing your mind, as Lear does. Finding the motor for that madness is the real challenge.’
He has an astonishing theatrical track record characterised as much by its variety as his versatility. Privates On Parade and Hamlet. London Assurance and Collaborators. Deathtrap and Uncle Vanya. Does he – indeed, can he – choose the order in which he runs his career?
‘No,’ he says, ‘I’ve been lucky the work has alternated in the way it has. I’d been in Shakespeare, for example, and then I got the offer of Spamalot on Broadway, followed by London for a year. More recently, I was in Timon Of Athens and then along came the glorious Terri Dennis in Privates On Parade.’
His masterly portrayal of the reptilian Widmerpool in the TV adaptation of Anthony Powell’s Dance To The Music Of Time won him a Best Television Actor Bafta. But theatre remains his first love. And, he says, that means he can travel by Tube and hardly ever get recognised.
‘When Ken Branagh was appearing as Hamlet at Stratford, he already had a big film and TV career under his belt. I went for a drink one day at The Dirty Duck and Pam, the legendary landlady, said to me: “Can you ask Ken why we never see him in here any more?”
‘So, the next day, I went in to his dressing room and said: “Pam, who you do not disobey, wants you to come to the pub.” He looked stricken. “But I can’t,” he said. “I’d walk in and I wouldn’t be able to get to the bar because I’d be stopped so often.” I wouldn’t want that level of fame.’
When faced with the prospect of ‘resting’, a friend of Simon’s said he could come and work in his bookshop. ‘And I’d have loved to. People will tell you I’m hopeless at not working but it’s not true. I’m essentially quite lazy. I go on holiday with my friend, Susie, but she’s the one who goes off and looks at ruins. I’m happy lying by the pool and reading.
‘I live alone. I’m very happy with my own company. I play the piano as often as I can. In fact, I’ve started having lessons again to increase the strength and dexterity of my fingers.’ He broke his middle finger on his right hand when he fell over during a performance of Timon last year.
‘As a matter of fact, I fell over in every single production in which I appeared last year, including Privates On Parade.’ But, most gallingly, he hit the deck as Stalin in Collaborators. ‘All I wanted to do was say: “I’m sorry and please can I start again?” But you have to carry on.’
Ask him to pick career milestones and he plumps for Konstantin in The Seagull, which he played for the RSC in 1991. ‘It was the first time I’d been given a big, serious role. It’s almost the only part I’ve played about which I feel proprietorial.’
And he’d have to pick Hamlet, of course. ‘I know that’s a cliché. But I remember the actor, Paul Rhys, telling me that it would change my life – and it did. So great a role is it that it requires you to strip away anything to do with acting and just be you.’
Although his father, Lieutenant- General Sir Peter Beale, was Surgeon General of the British Armed Forces, and his late mother, Julia, was a GP, Simon’s paternal grandmother was a natural performer. Simon was a chorister while a pupil at St Paul’s Cathedral School before going to Clifton College and then to Caius, Cambridge, where he took a First in English.
‘I’m extremely grateful for my education,’ he says. ‘And I don’t blame my parents for sending me away; they were in Singapore. But I was only eight. The more I think about that, the more brutalising I think it was. I was happy but I was so young.’
He shakes his head and smiles. Am I looking at a happy man? ‘The work’s great; life is fine. I’d say you’re looking at a contented man,’ decides Simon Russell Beale. ‘And contentment is rather underrated.’
The Hothouse is at Trafalgar Studios, 14 Whitehall, London SW1 until 3 August: 0844-871 7632, www.thehothousewestend.com