Citizens gave me love of Shakespeare, even if witches are in the scud
In 1974 I was in fifth year at school. We were studying Macbeth, and by studying, I mean our English teacher, Miss McNeill, handing out battered copies of Shakespeare’s finest and then picked class members to read the parts out.
Obviously, nothing makes the Bard’s work spring into fiery life more than bored Gary Nicholl droning out Banquo’s last words.
Luckily The Citizens Theatre was performing the Scottish Play. Miss McNeill decided we needed a bit more insight into Lady Macbeth than Angela Murdoch’s interpretation. For one thing, she refused to do the scheming queen’s big “unsex” me speech, because she didn’t like saying “breasts” out loud. It gave her a “riddy”. We were different in the seventies.
Off we went for a night at the theatre. Our mums had put us in our best Brutus Jeans, Ben Sherman shirts and Chelsea Girl tops. Miss McNeill poured us into a row, and took up sentinel duty in the end seat. It was the first time I’d even been in that tiny theatre. The stage was tantalisingly close. Alastair Mitchell said you could ping Quality Street wrappers at the actors.
This Macbeth was produced under the stewardship of the brilliant and mildly bonkers Giles Havergal. It was about as far away as the cosy world of Gielgud/Olivier Shakespeare as you could get. It kicked off with at least one witch appearing on stage naked. It might have been a bodystocking, but all I was aware of was an astonishingly hirsute lady with walloping bosoms leaping about.
Two things happened almost at once. Miss McNeil immediately hustled the fifth year boys out. At the same time, my pal Angela, gazing balefully at the slappage on stage, grabbed my hand and said “I am never, ever taking my bra off”.
The boys were told sternly that they could only go back in if they vowed not to look at any bare naked ladies. They all promised, which held about as much water as a politician’s pledge. The rest of the production was a riot of cut-throat blood letting, Shakespearean bellowing, swooping slapping witches and, at the end, Macduff stormed the stage and threw a bucket of bloody guts and offal all over the place.
We loved it. We talked about it for days. Yes, partly because of the nudity and gore, but we got caught up in the madness of Macbeth. Miss McNeil, however, was incandescent with rage and allegedly wrote a letter of complaint directly to Giles Havergal himself. Bet he binned it.
Havergal was a true legend. He made a little theatre in Glasgow a world-class beacon of talent. Glaswegians went to see everything. We didn’t even care if we didn’t understand it, because there was always the sheer spectacle of the thing. He was bold and daring, and welcomed the folks in the tenements around the Citz just as much as the pan loaf swells. Every ticket was 50p, and if you went on the dress rehearsal night there was always the chance of a blazing cast/director row. He brought a bit of pride to the Gorbals.
Giles Havergal died on the same day his beloved Citizens reopened following its massive glow-up. Now that’s timing. His wild vision gave me a deep and abiding love of Shakespeare, even if the witches are in the scud. Thank you.