Most gratified by your vote of confidence in my organisational abilities, Pim.  May I forward them to a few friends, although you must anticipate gales of laughter across the North Sea in quick succession?

Final comments on Paul Scofield.   I last saw him playing John Gabriel Borkman at the NT in the mid-90s, opposite Vanessa Redgrave and Eileen Atkins.   At the time, I was already into my 60s and attributed diminished hearing to the ageing process.  However, well seated at the Lyttleton, I could hear every word spoken by this trio and, recently, I had no difficulty hearing the cast in Peter Hall's touring production of "Uncle Vanya" either.

During a delving session, this afternoon, I also unearthed Peter Brook's memoir 'Threads of Time" (1998) Methuen.  In 1949, Brook had visited the Birmingham Repertory Theatre (the much loved old theatre in Station Street) to meet the director, Sir Barry Jackson, one of the pioneers, along with Granville -Barker, of serious drama in England between the wars.  He launched the careers of some of the finest actors on the English stage and wanted Brook to meet a new young actor.

"A moment later the door opened.  'Ah, here he is!' said Sir Barry. 'This is Paul Scofield.'
As we shook hands I looked into a face that unaccountably in a young man was streaked and mottled like an old rock, and I was instantly aware that something very deep lay hidden behind his ageless appearance.   Paul was courteous, distant, but as we began to work an instant understanding arose between us, needing very few words, and I realised that beneath the gentle modesty of his behaviour lay the absolute assurance of a born artist.   This was the start of a partnership that lasted many years.
   Sometime later, H M Tennant's, the London management firm, asked me to direct my first West End production, Anouilh's  'Ring Round The Moon'.   Paul was already recognised as the most extraordinary young actor of his time, so although his movements were awkward and his voice grated and exploded uncontrollably, I went against all the rules of typecasting and asked him to play an elegant Edwardian gentleman.   In order for him to acquire the grace in his movements that this stylish comedy demanded, I asked Paul to take lessons from a ballet teacher.  He looked at me strangely and was quiet for a long while, then he shook his head.   'I can't do it that way.  You must explain to me what impression of elegance you want me to give.   Then I'll act it.'    This was what he then proceeded to do, day by day in rehearsal.   And although his characteristic movements did not change, by a mysterious alchemy of the imagination, they ended by expressing the essence of the refinement that the part required.    Later, when we rehearsed King Lear, he refused to be disturbed by my constant chiding that he was not portraying an old man.   He remained himself, but by the force of inner conviction he projected to the audience the exact image that he had in mind.   For me this was the first indication that the theatre is the meeting place between imitation and a transforming power called imagination, which has no action if it stays in the mind.   It must pervade the body.   A seemingly abstract word 'incarnation', suddenly took on a meaning.
      There was one time when I saw Paul nearly defeated.   We were responsible together for a season of plays at the Phoenix Theatre, and Paul was playing Hamlet at night while we rehearsed our next production, Graham Greene's The Power & The Glory, during the day.  The part of the humble Mexican whisky-sodden priest attracted him greatly, and although in his imagination he saw the character with absolute clarity, somehow this never descended into his body.  During the last performances of Hamlet, as we drew near the end of rehearsals, the author was desperate, I was alarmed, even Paul was was truly worried - the alchemy of his secret art was failing, and he could not even achieve an external imitation of the part.   Something was blocking his normal process, and neither of us could discover the cause.   Hamlet closed on a Saturday and we were due to open the new play on Monday, two days later.   I spent Sunday in the auditorium with the sets and lights, preparing for the dress rehearsal, and Paul went straight to his dressing room where a barber had been called to cut off the splendid romantic head of hair he had cultivated to play the Prince.   When the run-through started, I was sitting with Graham Greene and Denis Cannan, who had made the adaptation, in the stalls.   The curtain rose on a seedy wharfside shack.   Through a window there was a glimpse of a rusty steamer, a stagnant river, a Mexican sky; in the foreground a dentist was pulling out an Indian's teeth.   The door at the back of the set opened, and a small man entered.  He was wearing a black suit, steel-rimmed glasses and holding a suitcase.   For a moment we wondered who this stranger was and why he was wandering on our stage.   Then we realised that it was Paul, transformed.   His tall body had shrunk, he had become insignificant.   The new character now possessed him entirely.    The obstacle had been his, or rather Hamlet's, noble head of hair.   All through rehearsal his actor's instinct had told him that something was wrong, that the image he was carrying was false; intuitively he sensed that his silhouette was the antithesis of the role.   It took only one lightning glimpse of his shorn head in the mirror for all the thoughts and feelings he had accumulated over weeks instantly to be distributed to the right places inside him, for him to discover organically the person he had been seeking in vain.   

   A decade later, King Lear enabled me to renew my partnership with Paul Scofield.   The communication between us was now so deep that it required few words; gaps of time had made no difference.   Neither of us worked much when rehearsals were over, we never discussed the theory or meaning of what we were attempting, it was implied, unsaid, and the close friendship that existed between us never even required social relationships such as lunches or suppers to keep it alive."

A great practitioner at work.

Pim, re Louise Brooks, the Feydeau and the London production of Look after Lulu, with Vivien Leigh,  perhaps I ought to start a new thread on "discoveries" as I'm about to compile a DVD, from off-air videos, on the nine decade career of John Gielgud with some remarkable footage.   I sat, agog, at 2am this morning!   It's all in the can!   Happy Easter