Beginning
by Kenneth Branagh
Books -- 1989

First published 1989 by Chatto & Windus Ltd.

Excerpts that pertain to Dame Judi ...

"TV was obviously what I was destined for. Two weeks after the Lawrence finished I began work on Ibsen's Ghosts, with a small cast made up of heroes: Judi Dench as Mrs. Alving, Michael Gambon as Pastor Manders, Freddie Jones and Natasha Richardson, and they were all terrible gigglers. The rehearsals seemed to go in waves of intense creative work, followed by debilitating fits of giggles, usually initiated by Gambon or Dench who were always able to stop laughing long before me. Ibsen can be melodramatic at the best of times, but Ghosts had more than its fair share of semi-comic curtain lines. After a morning of going mad from syphilis it didn't take much to turn me into a hysterical wreck.

Judi's delight in this laughter seemed to be bound up in her greatness as an actress. She seemed able to embrace every emotion whole-heartedly. There is an amazing, child-like quality in her acting which allows her to cry or laugh with the full abandon of a child. She assumes nothing, doubts herself constantly, but without indulgence, and seemed often genuinely pained at what she regarded as her inadequacy for the part. Although she could be strong and commanding in life, she retains great humility and vulnerability. In a part that offered her marvellous scope for her extraordinary gifts I experienced great acting at first-hand.

Then there was Gambon. If it were possible, Michael is actually wickeder than Judi, a deadpan teddy-bear who is merciless in twinkling at other people while keeping a straight face himself. During the recording, Elijah Mojinsky, the director, wanted us to perform a short dinner sequence. A silent thirty second piece that showed the desolate supper in the Alving household. They would not be recording sound, but the later cut version would be accompanied by music and would be used to suggest the passage of time. All he wanted was for Natasha, as the maid, to serve each of us in turn while a tracking camera took a close up of each gloomy Ibsen face. Michael was served first while on his close-up. The difficulties of concentration for this scene that Ibsen hadn't written were considerable. It was the end of a long recording day. We were all tired. Tough.

'Action' was called, and we solemnly began our desultory improvised dialogue. Natasha began, leaning over Gambon.

'Would the Pastor like some potatoes?'

Gambon replied. 'Yes, I'll have eleven please.'

The face remained impassive. Then as the camera passed him he bent double over his soup and when he looked up at me the tears were rolling down his face. Judi's close-up was next and although the shot revealed only head and shoulders I could see that her hands were white, gripping the table-cloth for dear life. Once the camera passed her she threw her hands up to her face and stuffed a serviette in her mouth. By the time the camera reached me I was watching two Titans of the English theatre in silent convulsions. I was helpless and it was too late. I could no more have produced a straight face than swim the Channel. They tried for several minutes drying my eyes and asking Judi and Michael to turn round. It was no use, every time the magic word 'Action' was called I could hear the tell-tale whimpers from Dench and Gambon and then I was lost. After five minutes the Floor Manager said, 'It's absolutely no use. Mr. Branagh, the director has asked me to tell you that you must get down from the table and leave the studio. Goodnight.'

The air had turned chill. I started the long walk across the studio like the naughty dog in a Lassie film. This was it, the end of my career. We all met in the make-up room, Dench, Richardson, Gambon and me swathed in shame. The next day we were very good indeed."

 "Judi Dench sent me a birthday card. I hadn't seen her since Ghosts but wasn't surprised to be a beneficiary of her famous ability to remember everything. She'd been in my thoughts, and fate was lending a hand. Everything about the way Judi had rehearsed as an actress for the Ibsen had convinced me that she could direct. She questioned not only the motivations other own character but of all the other parts, and at all times wanted to know how the play was shaping up as a whole. We'd had chats about the instinctive feeling actors had that they could do just as well as the director, and we had also agreed that fear would always defeat such feelings. Not any more. I got in touch with Judi straight away and suggested lunch.

************

Judi was shocked but delighted when I put the offer to her. She confessed with a shiver that only two weeks earlier she had admitted to herself for the first time that she felt able and wanted to direct. Which play, I wondered? I asked the question, and then, by an extraordinary coincidence, we both said at the same time, 'Much Ado About Nothing.'

But Judi wasn't going to agree straight away. The prospect was still full of terrors, and her own humility made her quail at the prospect of actually auditioning or giving orders to actors. And anyway what was this new company, Renaissance? She was having to put all her faith in me. What if the money fell through? What if the previous productions were all terrible? How would that affect the reputation of these Titans? She knew I meant what I said, but I was still only twenty-six and a stranger in a strange land. She was impressed, excited and terrified. It had been a lovely lunch, and she said she would think about it.

************

Phone calls to Judi, who was in the middle of rehearsals for Antony and Cleopatra, revealed a much greater fear of the project than I had suspected - she would still not commit herself. Hopkins was also now undecided. The night before I left for Athens I was rushing up and down the Euston Road from meetings, first with my accountant and then with John Adams, trying to find a phone box that worked. When I got through to Judi, and pleaded for a decision about Much Ado before planning a press conference, she was still unsure. The rain was pouring down and David Parfitt was outside getting drenched searching for more coins and clutching a soggy prototype of the investors' letter with which we hoped to lure the first moneys. The Lyric Hammersmith were insisting that we have a press launch soon in order to give Public Enemy a chance. I was about to go away for a month. Everything was getting too close for comfort. I told Judi I'd come and see her.

My bags were packed ready to rush to the airport, but I squeezed in some time to cajole Judi over the lunch table at the National. It felt like Joe Alien's all over again, with familiar faces walking past, smiling, saying hello, and 'Wonder what they're up to?' written all over their faces. Judi was now in previews for Antony and Cleopatra, and she had been thinking about Much Ado for four months. After a difficult few performances, she had thought about the work in progress and decided that she knew what was wrong, and put her thoughts to Sir Peter Hall, who accepted them gratefully. They were real directorial points, and she had had the courage of her convictions. A day or two later she had asked Sir Peter whether she should direct Much Ado. 'Of course,' was his answer. And now, at last, I had mine. Judi is famous for what one might describe as creative vacillation, but I was glad that she had thought so long about it because I knew that once committed, she would devote herself heart and soul to the job.

"We were all feeling very nervous about the Shakespeare season, and throughout the casting sessions Geraldine and Judi had been modest and hesitant, with everyone straining to be nice to each other. It was a pleasant fault, but Judi saw the need for an ice-breaker, and once the Company had been finalised she had the inspired idea of holding a Company party in her country home, a beautiful Elizabethan house in Surrey, on the Sunday before rehearsals started. It was a chance for this young group to actually see each other once before embarking on nine months' work together. Riotous company photographs were taken, large quantities of champagne were consumed, and I ended up playing football in Judi's garden, with my godson, Calum Yuill.

The party had relaxed everyone but the following Monday morning, which started with rehearsals for Much Ado, was still a very tense occasion. Judi was visibly frightened, and grabbed me at once, telling me to stick close. It was plain that she wasn't keen to give a directorial lecture, and she declared immediately that she didn't have 'a concept' of the play. What she did have was a very clear idea of how the play might look, and convictions about certain aspects of Much Ado which she felt were important. Throughout our discussions she had been very humble about her own ideas, all of which were strong, and on this first morning she was touchingly vulnerable as she spoke to us about the dark side of Much Ado, about its strange treatment of sex, and its often sinister quality, which was an aspect she wanted to underline. She also stressed the lightness of touch which the play demanded. During the first week of rehearsals Judi's tone of voice and manner suggested that people might not take her seriously or do what she said, a nervousness that was quite unnecessary, as the whole Company was more in awe of her than she was of us.

Although Judi had made very sensible cuts in the play, she was terrified of giving them to the actors, who she plainly thought might mutiny. But laughter began to break down the barriers, and amid general hilarity the cuts were noted, moaned about noisily, and the read-through proceeded with first-day nerves starting to disappear. Relieved and slightly hysterical actors broke for lunch and I went to a meeting with a film lawyer.

************

The pace of events at Renaissance had developed so rapidly that I think my mind and ambition were racing ahead.  Anything seemed possible: the Shakespeare season, which had once seemed impossible, was shaping itself into a nationwide tour with a London season; we were moving from a 150-seat Studio auditorium into large theatres up and down the country, and would be playing (we hoped) to up to 2,000 people each evening. I had a blind and ridiculous faith in the venture. We were still in control, and my instincts told me that, if Judi's first comments were anything to go by, then Much Ado had the potential to be very special, and I was sure that the other two productions would at least be exciting. We were on the verge of finalising a West End season that took us to the end of October, and, again, I had a hunch that the possibly triumphant arrival of Renaissance in London for a three-month season could be the showcase which might produce the final bits of finance for the movie. Money men, distributors, anyone could come and see us in the flesh providing the 'popular' Shakespeare which the company and all three directors would be trying to create.
 

************

Judi felt her way carefully through the first week. She didn't enjoy the initial 'blocking', but far preferred the work on character that she was starting with each of us, and on the speaking of the text, which she was determined should obey strict rhythmic rules. By the second week she was firmly into her stride and the laughter in rehearsal was almost as great as the discipline with which she conducted each session. She was particularly savage with my Benedick. She had not wanted to cast me in the role originally but as several actors turned it down and as I made a good pair with her preferred Beatrice, Samantha Bond, I got the part. I found it extremely difficult to get to grips with the role and, though striving for the opposite effect, I was making him very broadly comic. Judi jumped on this immediately. A great comic actress, she was not going to have Branagh's vaudeville act disturb the balance of her production, and she led me very much in the direction of the heartfelt warmth and naturalism of Samantha's Beatrice.

Watching Judi at rehearsals was marvellous. She was like a clear glass through which one could see the mood of the piece ebb and flow. Her instinct was infallible: like an orchestral conductor she knew exactly where to place each pause, each rest, and each acceleration. As the weeks went by her directorial gifts blossomed, and she always resisted the urge to act the scene out for you, searching instead for the words and the imaginative suggestions which would release the actor further into the part.

Judi's ideas for the design of the set and costumes developed and in look and tone she was catching a delightful Mediterranean quality which could convey the light and shade in the play. Confidence was growing all the time, right through the Company - Judi could really direct and the Company responded vigorously. We were already discovering a gold mine in Pat Doyle, who had provided a marvellous score for Twelfth Night and was now producing some beautiful tunes for Much Ado. The music would be performed entirely by the actors, which was another element that bonded the Company together and reinforced our sense of commitment. We really were all in it together, and there was a sense of something very special in the air. As the month's rehearsal in London drew to a close we looked forward to the opening in Birmingham with real anticipation.

It was impossible not to be excited. Judi had informed me before rehearsals started that she'd just got 'a marvellous job for the panto season', which was a delightful way of announcing herself as a Dame of the British Empire. The newspapers were full of Judi, and I was doing endless publicity myself. There was no choice. Birmingham Rep wanted to celebrate our arrival and we were concerned about the box-office: even with a sold-out run at the Studio, Renaissance would be left with a deficit of £80,000. This was serious money, and I was aware of the danger involved. We were in a financial corner, and forced to draw as much attention as possible to a project that we had hoped to initiate quietly in order to protect the delicate conditions of this new actor/director experiment.

We arrived in Birmingham to receive the joyful news that we had indeed sold out, and were now faced with a flood of letters of complaint from people who couldn't get in. Hamlet had sold out its fifteen Birmingham performances on the morning that booking opened. Although we were worried about its effect on the quality of the shows, I was relieved to think that by taking the shows to larger theatres on tour, more people would be able to see the plays than at Birmingham. I hoped that one day we might find the right balance — studio Shakespeare is great, but only for the 150 people who manage to get in. How is intimate acting in Shakespeare shared by lots of people? By making a film of Henry V. But more of that later.

We began the technical rehearsals for Much Ado, the most unfamiliar area for our novice directors. The studio setting helped, as the smaller stage seemed fairly manageable and Jenny Tiramani's set of an elegant Sicilian Villa could be lit relatively easily by Judi, who was working with her long-time colleague and lighting designer, 'Basher' Harris. Judi remained a stickler for detail in this technical area. She hated sloppiness in production or acting, and the actors and stage managers rallied, with everyone in the eighteen-strong team making themselves available for scene changes. There was a tremendous sense of togetherness — everyone knew the precariousness of our financial position and everyone had access to Company accounts. This openness produced the sense of goodwill that creates that hard-to-define quality of a marvellous 'Company feeling'.

It doesn't always follow that this produces a marvellous performance. Although friends who were in loved it, the first preview of Much Ado was a tense affair. The first performance of a comedy is always difficult: people never laugh when you expect them to, and it is very difficult to find a playing rhythm. For our first-time director it was a harrowing experience. The actors are occupied with the play and at this stage are simply concerned with their own performance, but Judi was discovering the unfamiliar feelings of directorial helpless-
ness and a tense concern which embraces every aspect of the production. She walked slowly into the large communal dressing- room after the show, looking white and shell-shocked. I had seen her in the tiny auditorium where everyone was frighteningly visible, hunched over her director's notebook and suffering with every stumbling attempt by her inexperienced cast to get it right first time. Now it was all over and her voice was hoarse with anxiety. 'It was like watching a pile-up on the Ml.'

There was laughter all round but it was clear that she was quite shaken. As everyone disappeared to a local Indian restaurant to mull over the lost laughs, Judi stayed behind and took me by the arm. 'Oh, Kenny - it was like giving birth to a baby that isn't breathing properly. You watch it trying to walk and then it falls over and can't get up, and you can't do anything. It's agony.'

Judi went back to her hotel and came in the next day with new resolve and an armful of notes. The next performance picked up enormously, as we relaxed and allowed the audience to relax as well which—surprise, surprise—allowed them to laugh. On the Sunday I spent my day off in Manchester, where I danced on a giant record player as my last contribution to Emma Thompson's new show. The change was as good as a rest and Emma, who had seen the first preview, was very encouraging.

I left for Birmingham on the Monday morning which was the Company morning off. This allowed them a slightly longer weekend away from an increasingly frenetic work schedule. The local press night for Much Ado was Tuesday, but before that on Monday afternoon we had our first rehearsal for As You Like It. There really was no stopping: note sessions with Judi had to be fitted in after As You Like It rehearsals, or grabbed over beans on toast in the Rep canteen. Financial dictates had forced us to contract the rehearsal periods like this, and I was already wondering whether I would be able to stand the pace.

The Tuesday press night for Much Ado went well, and afterwards Judi, who was now much more relaxed, was already reluctant to say goodbye to the Company of which she was becoming very fond. She had come through with flying colours and the local press concurred by saying all the right things, bar one critic who made the cardinal error of saying I was rotund. I am still looking for her.

The weeks were flying by but the rhythm changed dramatically with Geraldine McEwan whose much slower, more methodical approach to As You Like It was in sharp contrast to the swift and breezy atmosphere which Judi created for Much Ado. Both had judged the moods of the plays perfectly and rehearsed them in just the right way. "
 

A Big Thanks to Lisa S. -- UK -- for scanning and sending this to us.