Actor Ian Charleson's life was completely altered by the film Chariots
of Fire in 1984: it was to make him an international name, but now he
looks back on the period somewhat ruefully. Here he tells ANNE DONALDSON
of his hopes and regrets.
WHEN we met, Ian Charleson was looking at the world through ink-black
shades, the aftermath of a major and unpleasant sinus operation. In
consequence, though, his voice was splendidly resonant, and by the time
he opened as Hamlet at the National Theatre in London a week ago the
dark glasses had been shed.
This is not his first Prince. He played it with the Cambridge Theatre
Company and, though young ''and a bit wild and thrashy'', reckons he got
a lot of it right. He had a strong sense of the contrast between the
forceful soldier King, ready to put down any trouble with unhesitating
militancy, and his dreamer, play-actor son, ''the mother's boy''.
He sees Hamlet as by far Shakespeare's most personal play; wonders if
Shakespeare had recently had a destructive row with his own father, and,
even more significantly, suffered a bitterly hurtful let-down by a woman
-- so uncharacteristically misogynic is his attitude here.
After a long morning's rehearsal he relaxed on the narrow divan in his
dressing room and loaded vitamin C into his orange juice. We recalled
our first meeting 15 years ago. He was 25, a relaxed, easy young man
with long hair and a very long overcoat. He had read architecture at
Edinburgh, but spent most of his time at the drama society and emerged
determined on being an actor -- but complete with his degree.
He was playing at the Young Vic. Frank Dunlop was then director there
and had taken him on straight from LAMDA and given him real parts --
Jimmy Porter in Look Back in Anger among them. He remains deeply
grateful for this trust, and has great respect for his mentor's work.
Charleson then moved around a bit and ended up with the Royal
Shakespeare Company at Stratford. He played a string of middle-rank
roles -- Ariel in The Tempest, for example, with scope for his fine
singing voice. We talked there, drank thin tea from a machine. He was
relishing the company atmosphere, but had a lacklustre air --
post-matinee fatigue, I thought at the time.
In truth, it emerges, he was frustrated -- just as he had been during
his first spell at the National. The nurturing system which had
prevailed at the RSC before his time -- actors beginning as spear-
carriers and moving up through the company to play lead roles (Ian
Holm, Alan Howard, and the like) -- had lapsed. You slogged away, but no
offer came to play even Mercutio, far less Romeo.
He regrets -- indeed deplores -- the big subsidised theatres' present
practice of commissioning directors who then bring in the actors they
want. He is well aware that young actors these days are reluctant to
sign long contracts, wanting freedom to accept any television, or, even
better, film offer that comes along, but he still feels the loss of the
old beneficial progression.
By 1984 Chariots of Fire had changed Charleson's life. He was an
international name -- airmail letters from American fans requesting
information about him arrived in the Herald's London office. Almost
better, at that time, he was about to play Skye Masterson in the
National's highly successful production of Guys and Dolls. His Luck, Be
a Lady Tonight was dynamic, lyrical, and brought the house down.
He looks back on the period somewhat ruefully. Rationalising now, he
realises that when he went to the States to promote the film he thought
he had arrived, that the Golden Gates would open, it would all happen,
and failed to seize the moment and push himself. ''I should have gone
and lived there,'' he says, ''committed myself to it. It was bad
timing.''
There were many offers from both sides of the Atlantic, most of them
rubbish, none irresistible. He blames himself for missing the boat;
still wants to be regarded as a film actor. The only approach now, he
thinks, is to accept cameo roles and build up a convincing reputation.
But if Chariots was one turning point in his life, his performance in
the American Sam Shepard's strong subtle play, Fool for Love, was surely
another. His portrayal of the young, frustrated lover was all pent-up
fury and had an incandescence that riveted the National's Cottesloe
audience, and played to young, packed houses in the West End.
There was an edge to his acting then that seemed quite new, and,
mistakenly, I presumed it was a consequence of working in America. But
no -- just a combination of a great part and his own increasing
maturity.
It showed again when he played Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof last
year (an NT production that played in Scotland). He sees a similarity in
the two characters. They were, he says, ''both Jocks of one kind and
another; they could physically handle themselves, but when Brick is
crippled in body and mind, there is no release for the bottled-up
rage.'' He is the toughest, most draining character Ian has ever
realised. He performed it on and off for eight months, and it remained
an eternally painful and perpetual challenge.
And is Hamlet not a challenge? ''Oh, yes. It requires so much energy
and stamina, but at least Hamlet gets his rocks off . . . (current
theatre slang for off-loading your problems).'' The actor, having made
his quietus, can return home in peace.
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