Stage Mum (24 page)

There’s quite a sophisticated argument going on here, one that separates the making of the work from the finished product and marks a clear division between the way the child actor is treated during the creative process and the way in which they are seen, by themselves and, crucially, by their audience, afterwards. It’s not such an issue in stage work, where what the audience gets to watch
is
the creative process, the realism is tempered by the medium and the images only last as long as the production. But with film and television it’s different. A child can be treated fantastically during filming, and not be remotely troubled by the experience of making something quite hard-hitting. That doesn’t mean they’ll be able to cope with watching themselves in the finished product. But even assuming they can, that they are clever enough to differentiate a realistic on-screen illusion from off-screen reality, and aren’t adversely affected by their involvement, that doesn’t mean that their audience will be able to do the same.

‘That’s the downstream day of reckoning,’ Petersen told me. ‘It’s one thing to participate in a project that has an edge to it. It is entirely possible to have a child in a highly charged emotional scene and, in terms of the work, the kid gets through the day. They know the adults are not really mad, they’re not really screaming and the child’s not in fear of their life. The water may just roll off your child’s back. But
what
doesn’t roll off the back is the way the audience suddenly perceives you. When the audience sees it, their reaction, and subsequent dealings with the real child, is what changes.’ Look at the men who stalked Jodie Foster and Brooke Shields – the former shooting Ronald Reagan, the latter plaguing his victim for twenty years before he was caught. And much more recently, the Afghani boys who were chosen from 2,000 Kabul schoolchildren to appear in the film of
The Kite Runner
have had to be relocated to the United Arab Emirates for their own safety. Ahmad Khan Mahmidzada, whose character is raped, has claimed that he and his family weren’t told about the shocking, though not explicit, scene in advance and feared attacks or kidnap attempts if the film was shown in Afghanistan. He and his family are worried that people in the audience will believe that he really was raped. There are also concerns that showing a Hazara boy being raped by a Pashtun will inflame ethnic tensions. The film company, whilst insisting the content of the film was fully explained, has arranged and paid for the move and is putting the children and their parents and guardians up in luxury hotels until they can be found more permanent accommodation. They are unlikely to be able to return to Afghanistan in the near future.

Shirley Temple famously made her film debut in the Baby Burlesks, hour-long parodies of grown-up movies, with all roles played by pre-school children, clothed waist up in adult dress, waist down in oversize nappies. Titles included
Polly Tix in Washington
– the story of a call girl attempting to corrupt an honest politician. Today the makers would almost certainly be arrested on kiddie porn charges – if not for child cruelty: small actors and actresses who misbehaved were shut in a big dark box with only an enormous block of melting ice to sit on. In her autobiography, Miss Temple Black describes the films as ‘a cynical exploitation of our childish innocence and … occasionally racist or sexist’. Aside from Marilyn Granas, who became Miss Temple’s studio stand-in, used for setting up shots, until her mother refused to bleach her dark hair to match
Shirley’s,
none of the other children are known to have gone on to other acting roles. Miss Temple turned out just fine. But one wonders about her co-stars.

The fact that both Dakota Fanning and Shirley Temple were supported by their parents when they appeared in what were, arguably, entirely unsuitable ventures is not that surprising. Mrs Temple Black explains that the producers of the Baby Burlesks made all kinds of promises to her mother – about the nature of the films, the professional training she would be given and the care she would receive. ‘Mother,’ she explains, ‘had no cause to disbelieve the promises nor presume a mean-spirited character to the films.’
¹
Russ told me that when he’s been chaperoning on film and television sets, children attended by their mum or dad are often given permission, by their parents, to continue working beyond their legal hours, even when they’re exhausted. Parents are less likely to be willing to stand their ground against a production company than a professional chaperone, because they worry that they’ll be perceived as difficult and affect their child’s chances of getting more work. Also, we get carried away.

On the way home after her second performance, I asked Dora if they’d filmed the show, as they had been scheduled to do, for the electronic press kit, and also if they’d had their photos taken the day before. I’d imagined that with the change of leading man, this would be delayed until Alexander Hanson was up and running. I was wrong. Photos had been taken on the Monday, and they’d filmed earlier that afternoon with Alexander Hanson (Christopher Dickins was still being Captain von Trapp that evening). ‘We had to smile more when they were filming,’ said Dora, ‘and look at the camera instead of where we’re usually supposed to look.’

‘Where do you usually have to look?’

‘Lots of places.’

The rest of that week was comparatively quiet. Dora was only needed to rehearse on Saturday; otherwise, she wasn’t required until the following Monday, when she was back on stage. I didn’t book tickets for her third performance: I wanted to watch the show more than a few times, but definitely not every day she was on. However fabulous it was – and like thousands of other audience members, I was genuinely, deliciously swept up in it – too many viewings and not only would I have to declare myself bankrupt, but the magic would undoubtedly pall. Faced with boredom, my brain turns pedantic, which can be as inappropriate as jumping up and down excitedly while a frustrated dresser is trying to get you changed. It was okay when Dora was young and we watched TV together and I became expert at spotting continuity errors in
Bear in the Big Blue House
, but I really didn’t want to find myself analysing the differences between the plot of
The Sound of Music
and the true story of the von Trapps. Or trying to work out the mathematics of making a theatre carbon neutral. Or deconstructing ‘The Lonely Goatherd’. The whole
Sound of Music
experience felt enchanted and I wanted to keep it that way.

That said, my inner stage mother was having the time of her life and didn’t want to miss a single moment. She was stamping her foot on several of my vital organs and complaining bitterly at my failure to fork out for a front-row ticket for every single performance starring Dora Gee as Gretl. She wanted to be right up by the stage, wearing a t-shirt with GRETL’S GREAT AND I’M HER MUM! emblazoned across it in huge dayglo letters, whilst clutching a programme held permanently open to display Dora’s photograph, which she would spend every interval shoving up the nose of anyone lucky enough to be sitting near her, whilst booming out, ‘That’s
MY
daughter up there. The littlest one. Isn’t she cute? Isn’t she just the best thing about the show? Yes, she
is
fantastic, isn’t she? Yes, I am proud – it’s like a little bit of me up on the stage.’ But I kept her firmly under control. Most of the time.

During this quieter, calmer time, we mums started discussing what we were going to wear to the first-night party. I am not good at clothes. When I was a child my mother used to despair at the speed with which any outfit she dressed me in ‘came apart at the middle’, my hair’s refusal to do anything neatly girlie and the fact that one of my knee-length socks would, inevitably, hang gaping around my ankle, revealing a tragically hairy shin. Since my late teens I have been the humble recipient of a stream of hand-me-ups from my much more style-aware younger sister (in fact I’m sitting here writing in one of her cast-off cardis, and very nice it is too). Not being under any illusions about my ability to dress for such an occasion without significant guidance, I emailed Jo: ‘For the sartorially hopeless amongst us (i.e., me), is there a dress code for press night/the party?’ She replied that she hadn’t seen the invitations yet, but thought it would be ‘quite posh’.

I had neither the money nor the energy to shop for a new outfit. Scouring my wardrobe, it became clear that ‘quite posh’ narrowed it down to two possible dresses, both of which, by some fluke, I’d managed to buy in the Voyage closing-down sale several years earlier. Voyage was a very trendy boutique, which didn’t let just anybody in. In fact they were so selective about their clientele, it’s rumoured they once refused to admit Madonna. Anyway, I was, for some reason, pushing Dora’s buggy down South Molton Street when I saw a sign with the magic words ‘Final Day! Closing Down Sale! Everything At Least 70% Off!’ The shop was being considerably less fussy about who they let in – and even opened the door to me. I bought two dresses: one simple black one, and one that the shop assistant forced me into, that I’d never have picked for myself in a lifetime of shopping trips. It was knee-length, all green and gold sparkles, with a big green-and-gold rose thing slap bang in the middle of my belly. The dresses were thirty quid each. I kept the original price tag from the green and gold one. It had been reduced by £969.

That was what I was going to wear for the opening night, so all I needed to do was buy a wrap, an evening bag that would carry my phone, a credit card and a bit of cash, and some boots to go with it. T K Maxx and John Lewis and I was sorted, although that makes it sound a lot quicker and less painful than it was, especially as I also trawled the department stores around Oxford Circus with a few of the other mums, several of whom took the opportunity to invest in new frocks for themselves. Dora, she and I decided, would wear her bridesmaid’s dress from our wedding, although as it was now November, and it was a strappy, floaty, summery number (with gold beading), I popped into Marks & Spencer and bought her a little golden bolero thing to go over the top. Then to H&M for some new gold pumps and grown-up tights. And that was more than enough clothes shopping, thank you very much.

Dora’s Monday night performance went fine. It was her first with Alexander Hanson, who had debuted the previous Thursday. The word on the stage mother grapevine was that not only was he right for the part, but – big bonus! – he was also ‘a good thing for mums’, i.e. sexy. Dora, however, was still a bit cross that she hadn’t done a show with Simon Shepherd – ‘It’s not fair, Mummy. Mittens and Adrianna got to do one, but the rest of us didn’t.’ She continued to feel the unfairness of this for several months, and would still occasionally complain about it even after she’d left the show. Some of the other things that Dora considers unfair are 1) that children aren’t allowed to go into outer space; 2) that February – her birthday month – has fewer days in it than all the other months (not sure if she thinks it’s unfair to her or to February); and 3) that when she tries to ‘imperius’ me it doesn’t work and I still don’t do what she wants me to do.

That night, she came out wearing a huge grin and grasping an extra carrier bag. Because she’d stood so nicely and been so good during the stressfully quick quick change, and the creative team had
decided
on a slightly different costume, they’d given her the nightie she had, until then, been wearing in one of the scenes. She was very proud of herself and loved it so much that for six months I had to do the whites wash first thing in the morning so that her precious nightie was dry and ready to wear again by bedtime. Now it’s too small, we’ve hung it on her bedroom wall.

After a bit of excitement about her nightwear – ‘Can I wear it tonight? Please?
Please? PLEASE?
’ she begged, drowning out my yesses – she strapped herself into her car seat and found an excuse (I think I accidentally clicked on to Radio 4 instead of a CD) to have a short yet intense tantrum and then passed out. When we arrived home, she woke up and watched while I unpacked her Scooby-Doo backpack. Big shock! Somehow one of the blue elasticated ties that the boys wear during the party scene had ended up coming home with her. Dora was distraught. What if they didn’t have enough ties for the next performance? They might not be able to do the show. Supposing they thought she had stolen it? On purpose? Who had put it in there and why? ‘Mummy, you must take it straight back to the theatre now. You
have
to.’

‘Er, no. I don’t.’

I explained that everyone would be gone by the time we got there, that no one would be cross with her, that they would almost certainly have extra ties and if, by some fluke, they didn’t, we could get it there the next day in plenty of time for the show. But I promised to call Jo first thing in the morning, just to make sure. That sorted, I took her up to bed, gave her a cuddle and she fell asleep. I spoke to Jo, who promised to call the people responsible for the costumes (actually, she promised to call ‘wardrobe’, but I assumed she meant a person rather than an item of furniture). She emailed back later telling me (and Dora) not to worry, that they thought it was funny, and just to drop the tie off at the stage door next time we were in.

As the opening night approached, the publicity for the show took off. There were lots of photos in the newspapers – and Dora
appeared
in a lot of them, looking cute and sometimes, but not always, facing the camera. On the day the show opened, all the news programmes ran stories, featuring clips from the electronic press kit. She and her friends ‘Do-Re-Mi’ed tunefully on breakfast news, and ‘So Long, Farewell’ed at lunchtime. I watched much more TV than usual, my finger hovering over the record button. Dora began to think it was quite normal to have her picture in the newspaper and to see herself on telly, but didn’t seem overly affected by it all. I told her that after press night it would stop, and all the pictures would be of some of her other
Sound of Music
friends: Mittens team and Adrianna. She wasn’t bothered, being much more concerned about the opening-night party, specifically exactly how late she’d be allowed to stay up.