ABSTRACT

It took a number of years for me to unearth a hidden reason why I appeared to prefer attending rehearsals of plays to watching the finished product. At the beginning of my rites of passage in a strange, taciturn land called England, one of my favourite pastimes was to sneak into the darkened halls of theatres where rehearsals were in progress. A casual stroll in the foyer admiring photographs and posters - and occasional costume and design displays - invariably resulted in a quick sidestep through the heavy doors and, when I was through, parting the heavy plush curtains and sliding into the nearest seat. A few moments' wait to ensure that I was undiscovered, and my eyes to get accustomed to the dark, then a stealthy advance into a more central seat closer to the stage but still at a discreet distance. Then hours of savouring the bubbling broth under preparation on the lighted stage, a broth of three principal ingredients: the actors and their uneven talents and sensitivities, the lone chef (sometimes with an assistant immersed in note-taking) and an unknown text. It did not seem to matter what play it was.