Eight weeks - hundreds upon hundreds of shows - tens of thousands of audience members. Our plans for the offensive have been followed to the letter - merciless, unrelenting and born into darkness. There have been faintings. There have been vomitings. There have been pullings of bits and carvings of groins for plague-ridden wretches; hangings and drawings and quarterings for parliamentary conspirators; there have been hauntings galore for beligerent landlords; watchings and waitings and marchings on and on and on and on and on and on and on for long-dead Roman Centurions; burnings and pillagings and lootings and blood-eaglings for the Viking hoardes; there have been stool-duckings and nudey-dancings and inappropriate crotch-thrustings and finger-choppings and kipper-skewed replacings and tongue-to-toilet cleanings for deranged high court judges; there have been hookings of posteriors, rippings of breasts and choppings of chappies for torturers; threatenings and whisperings and corrosive heavy-breathings for Dick Turpin's hangman; there have been prickings and burnings for wild and wicked witches; the jumpiest of jump scares on written record... I can't deny it's been exhausting. But then, it's never been less than rewarding either.
Our clientele have been many and varied. We've enjoyed the old standards: the tourists, the families, the legions of traumatised children. There have been the usual run of surprisingly adventurous, surprisingly desperate women, who've insisted on gifting my characters with (gulp) 'the eye'. There have been gypsy invasions, in which our precious severed heads have very nearly been spirited away at the behest of an overzealous travelling culture. There have been disordered drunkards, who somehow sneaked in without paying, that I delighted in hurling through a fire escape. Particularly alarming were a pair of well-meaning drunkards, who, upon being admitted to the torture chamber, persisted in asking me for fish and chips long after the joke had worn thin... The dust has cleared, the public have parted, and with the end-of-season party over and done with, the Dungeon's mighty plaster walls can settle down to rest.
The experiences of this summer have only confirmed my respect for the Dungeon's unique merits. If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times: it's the most intense acting experience imaginable. Where else will you find it? To reap the benefits of an unending practical rehearsal process; to explore a monologue at your leisure for over a month; to revel in the shadowy, atmospheric glory of cinema-class lights, costumes, props and sets; to learn the intimate particulars of the multiple revelations of voice loss; to hone an instinctive, near-psychic grasp for the requirements of each audience? Where else will you get the chance? The satisfaction? And I'm so grateful that I've had the chance to return to it. A place where you can learn your instrument back to front, improve on it with a bit of luck, and have a hell of a lot of fun into the bargain. In some happy ways, the Dungeon is one of the last gasps of the repertory system, with a group of people - amiable, kind, funny, and all of them fanatical actors - united, occasionally for years on end, to make the best theatre that they possibly can. The camaraderie is everything at the Dungeon. Without the people behind the actors behind the makeup behind the ghouls, the establishment would have no soul. The York Dungeon opened in 1986. As a museum. Now, a near quarter-century later, it is theatre in the purest sense. The actors are the life-blood of the business. They've created this one, and now they're keeping it alive... Wonderful.
I'm severely lacking in a camera of any sort, so I'm indebted to the deft hands and nimble shutters of Natalie, Katie and Sammy for making this retrospective possible. Rotten Corpse is the cheerful title lavished on the Dungeon's end-of-season party - and as my farewell to this year's experience, I felt that it deserved a little good-natured memorialisation. Apologies for any impending slushiness. With any luck, it'll be kept in check by my usual cynicism and polite outrage at the downfall of mankind. Ho-hum. On with the show!
Perhaps the most exciting thing about Rotten Corpse is the transformation that the Dungeon undergoes. And that can mean only one thing: a disco in the torture chamber. Lights! Music! Tasteful array of red and black balloons! Fellow tied to the giant wheel, who spins right round, baby, right round, like a record, baby, right round, round, round! Our DJ for the last two years has been Ryan Stocks, a former Dungeon actor and the first person I talked to about the possibility of working there myself, nearly three years ago now - so it's always nice to catch up! Whether or not I was coerced into partaking of that compulsive rhythmic swaying hereafter known as dance... that, my friends, is a mystery that these images will solve... Also submitted to changes this year were the judge's chamber, which became an all-purpose drinks repository; the entrance to the debtor's prison, given over to an expansive buffet of rare and exotic meats; and the condemned cell of highwayman Dick Turpin, adequately represented in the picture below...
Charming arrangement, isn't it? The cage is normally the show element faced by visitors as they sit clustered in the pitchy darkness, listening to the preposterously deep voice of the psychotic, roving murderer before his execution (the joys of strategically placed speakers). You can just make out the shape of the animatronic Turpin, located behind the gauze at centre, who twitches with remarkable vigour and enthusiasm when subjected to a hanging at the climax. The festive banner and fairy lights do much to brighten up what is probably the darkest chamber in the entire Dungeon, bordering at times on an impenetrable black void, an overwhelming limbo of decay... Thoughts of a merrier strain reigned at Rotten Corpse - as with last year's event, the voluminous benches of the Dick Turpin chamber meant that it became the living, beating heart of revels: a general area for communal chit-chat and the dishing out of the annual Rotten Awards. In a fortunate footnote, the pneumatic system that causes the benches to plunge at the end of the show was disabled. This did mean sitting at a slight downward slant for extended periods, but this was by far preferential to the sort of drink-spewing, glass-smashing mayhem that might otherwise have triumphed. It was here that we assembled at the start of the evening.
I had the honour of sitting next to Mr Bryan Heeley for the awards ceremony this year. The man is a legend in the truest sense. He can be a little intimidating at first - height and hairiness are his defining characteristics - but he's a lovely chap once you get to know him a bit... His shows are simply magnificent. It seems that he's studied every Dungeon script to the letter before summarily throwing them away; devising his own mad, idiosyncratic patter for each position, always filtered through that inimitably droll, quirky, half-dead croak, which never fails to reduce an audience to laughter. You can guarantee that when Bryan's in the building, at least half a dozen of the tour's most memorable moments can be ascribed to him. The lightning-fast alternation between screams and whispers, a technical feat I've never seen pulled off better... His anguished cries of 'SAXONS!', 'GO AWAY!' and (best of the lot) 'SPAWN OF SATAN!', reverberating through the Dungeon and so often interrupting other people's shows (you must shout very loudly if you're placed in Bryan's orbit)... The fact that his witch-burning show metamorphoses, suddenly and without warning, into a Queen concert... There's something of the grizzled rock star about Bryan. It reaches its epitome in his undisguised enthusiasm for the 'once... twice... THREE TIMES A LADY!!' line when elaborating on the compromising bluntness of the chappy chopper in the torture chamber. He's also won more acting awards at the Dungeon than anyone can remember (even Bryan, I'd wager), and this is a fitting tribute to his genius. The wonderful colouring in this picture is down to Natalie. A dress code of red and black was in place at last year's Rotten Corpse, so I'd taken the opportunity of airing out my costume from Richard III a few months earlier: black shirt, black trousers, and flamboyant red bow-tie. It seems that my dress has since become infamous, so I was left with no choice but to whip out the red for an encore! In this joyful spirit, the awards got underway...
Oh, goodness. This was deeply exciting! And surprising! And very, very touching. Turns out that I won the 2010 Rotten Award for Scariest Actor! Personally, I felt I was robbing Bryan of his rightful spoils... but given his prodigious pile of past trophies, I didn't let myself feel too bad about it. On the left are Dan and Mark, respectively Performance Supervisor and Assistant Performance Supervisor, and very nice chaps to work with. I got to know Dan last summer, when he too was a debased and lowly actor 'on the floor' (with the most splendidly bloody eye-makeup in all creation, might I add), but following his promotion, he's now more likely to be found in an office in the upper reaches. Mark was the man who auditioned me for the Dungeon in the first place - I read Richard III, Bottom and (more classical yet) the innkeeper of the haunted pub show - and he's been a constant friend through all of my time there. This was a happy moment, so it's unfortunate that I look so unbearably smug in the picture, a fault that can only be blamed on my lack of a Rathbone-esque Roman profile. The awards themselves are another talking point. Our props mistress, Anna, has hand-made the lot of them, so they're all unique. Every year the awards assume a different shape. I've had the chance to look at some of 'em - particularly good have been the skulls (with hair and flesh in varying states of decay) and a line of mock-Oscar statuettes given a macabre overhaul. Last year, the awards were exquisitely naughty - small wooden plaques festooned with severed fingers, each one jutting forth in an unmistakably obscene configuration. I'm thrilled with the plaster gravestones that Anna whipped up for this year's festivities. . Best of all, they smell like the Dungeon. Priceless. Like most of the prizes given out at Rotten Corpse, the Scariest Actor is elected by a majority vote from the staff, so I got painfully contrite and blustering in my very short acceptance speech, and sat down as quick as I was able. I would not be sat for too long though...
Now this was a genuine shock. Ego of the Year. Me. Eeek. I'd won Ego of the Week before - heck, I'd even won Ego of the Month... But the Year? My goodness... I should explain. Unlike most of the other awards, this one was decided by the public, who have the opportunity to vote for their favourite actor before they leave. In the course of my short contract, I'd netted more votes than anybody in the entire year. As I said, eeek. (Though readily explicable - aside from Easter and Halloween, which together add up to a scant three weeks, Summer is by far the Dungeon's busiest period. And the time when most of the votes are cast, I'm sure.) This was of course lovely, fortifying knowledge, but quite awesomely embarrassing too. No acceptance speech this time. I beat a hasty retreat before they all stopped applauding. Embarrassment aside, I fully intend on taking my awards back to Cambridge with me. If nothing else, they'll deliver on Bryan's suggestion of a pair of jolly good book-ends. Incidentally, my face looks curiously misshapen in this picture. Partially withered jack-o'-lantern maybe. On the cusp of a collapse. There's a reason I don't smile very often in public. (For those needing further persuasion, feel free to corroborate my testimony with the widely circulated 'my nose is naught but an aubergine' portrait, dredged up from the publicity-hungry archives of York College.)
Well, with the awards out of the way, we could move on to the celebratory munchings, crunchings, waterings and talkerings that, for me at least, are the life-blood of Rotten Corpse. Here I am, looking mysteriously like Stephen Hawking, in the happy company of Carol, Flozz and Adam. Flozz's fetching crown (another of Anna's masterpieces; a coronet sculpted entirely from skeleton hands) is representative of her having bagged the Employee of the Season gong. A substantial cash prize, the adulation of your co-workers, a substantial cash prize and a hat that typifies insurmountable evil glamour. And a substantial cash prize. I don't know about you, but I'm jealous! Jealous... and a substantial cash prize.
This is me and Carl! Me and Carl go way back! Back to last summer actually, when Carl was new and I was the old hand, the voice of partial, fumbled experience after my single, scanty season in Halloween. Now the tables have turned: Carl has acted in the Dungeon for the last year, and I am but a fly-by-night guest. He has the most wonderful, playful approach to his characters, and remains a constant competitor in the Ego stakes. My favourite moment this year came when I was on Torture, and Carl barnstormed his way in to collect my victims for a hanging, challenging me to a marathon laugh-off that rattled on for a good forty seconds of senseless white noise. Then a look at the children: 'awwww, they didn't tell me they'd have MONKEYS!'... Majestic, truly, truly. I enjoy this photo immensely. Eyes and bow-tie are in unison, colour-wise. Phenomenally good job we can see where Carl's hand is though. (Dark, dark memories of Brian Blessed bellowing 'I'VE BEEN GOOSED!' on Have I Got News For You...)
Here are another two of the Dungeon's old reliables: Matt and Ali. This was Matt's farewell season at the Dungeon, as it happens, after spending well over a year with the attraction. He left on a high though, courting the unparalleled distinction conferred on him by the Most Fanciable Male trophy. Last summer, Matt was a trail-blazing member of the Dungeon's street theatre team, and, in the guise of a tatty, renegade Bill Sikes, became lucky enough to accomplish that rarest of feats - spending the sunniest months of the year outside. Most enviable. There's nothing you miss so much as the sun in this line of work. Ali has been with the Dungeon for quite a few years now. She's a lovely, helpful member of the team, and the only one of us who's up to defeating the merciless seven-minute batching system on Plague (an almighty thwack to this truly unruly bit of administrational madness). She also has the most fantastic manner of dealing with the occasional disorderly nutters who ooze in amongst our generally well-behaved public. A real asset to the place. And usually a good deal less puckered than this. I'll miss 'em both, I tells yer!
Another angle of the torture-cum-disco chamber. By this point in the proceedings, celebrations were in full swing, with guests free to roam through the Dungeon at large and take part in its novelties. Highlights of this snap include my impossibly attractive head; Bryan quaffing some manner of liquid-based sustenance; attraction manager Helen peering in through the curtains; best of all, the glittering array of ghost orbs at the top of the frame! Also take heed of the cage at the far right. Its use tends to be restricted to the confinement of some unlucky visitor in the Torture show, who you can taunt with the dreadful possibility that something conclusive might happen (such lines 'feel any sharp pain at the base of your neck?' and 'watch out for the rats... they nibble things' have been found to work well), or (much funnier, I reckon) ignore them completely and leave them in suspense long after the rest of the group has departed. For one night only, it was given over to quasi-erotic dance routines, courtesy of assorted Dungeon employees. Horror of a different sort. I do hope that it was scrubbed in the aftermath.
Yet another vantage point on the amiable, well-intentioned chaos! As you may have guessed by now, I prefer to stand apart and let everybody else get on with flexing, swivelling and writhing their frames to musical accompaniment. My dancing is on a par with dancersizing, tragically enough. A life-changing moment loomed on the horizon...
Argh! Curses! Flibberty-gibbet! They got me onto the dance floor! The exposure! The humiliation! The superfluity of communal enjoyment! Shuddery stuff. I blame Emma (just on my right; the abundantly deserving Funniest Actor of 2010!) for this heinous crime. But fair is fair considering that I just about blinded her with the door in Ghosts earlier on in the season. My justification is that the music to which I synchronised my macabre gyrations had enough of the Dungeon flavour to craft my participation into a bonus show. 'The Time Warp' for example. Can't find a greater horror hit than that. I believe that picture was taken during the high-pitched agony-throes of Kate Bush's 'Wuthering Heights'... It may fall short of 'Hammer Horror' for thematic appropriation - but it's still a song about a ghost, so my principles stand! (Just.)
What better way to climax the evening than by mounting to the judge's plinth and striking a disjointed series of dramatic poses? I very nearly put the wig on, but relented with the fear that this might clash with the bow-tie. Very fond of that bow-tie... You'll notice that the gavel is on a chain. This was specifically installed to prevent my homiciding all over the guests by pelting it at them mid-show. Horrific would be a show in which it came flying off. It's surprisingly heavy - and deadly.
A closer look at the judge's plinth; a yet deeper immersion in horror! Now, this image is rather satanic, enhanced immeasurably by the motion blur and gleaming red eyes. Reminds me of certain obscure Mexican photographs purporting to show ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedly aliens and other assorted nasties a-rising from their graves. For that reason, I refer to this picture by the title 'JUDGEO EL CHUPACABRA'. Think of it what you will!
I didn't think it was possible, but I've departed the Dungeon in an even greater state of elation than last year. Above all, I feel grateful. Grateful to the management, for giving me another opportunity to return. Grateful to the public, for stomaching all the nonsense I put them through on a daily basis. Grateful to the seemingly unquenchable kindness of my fellow Dungeonites, who made my latest exit so much more sweet than bitter... In the back of my head, sequestered in the darkened, mercenary department poised between my perpetually deflating ego and my all-purpose jealousy centre, I had the notion that I would cast the Dungeon off after this summer, and devote the next one to something more (shudder) 'ambitious'. There is much to be said for new experiences. Edinburgh bids temptingly in this respect, and my goodness, I really would like to give it a crack someday, if only to see what all the fuss is about. But after all the warmth, benevolence and family atmosphere of the Dungeon... I'm not sure if I could make the break. Hell, why does drama appeal to me in the first place? I suppose it's here that I'm expected to play the great theatrical romantic, tossing back my Byronic locks and adjusting my Olivierian nasal appendage as I expound pretentious truths on the enduring pertinence of dramatic art, its illimitable dominion over human existence, its power to touch the mind, rend the heart and purify the soul... Ultimately though, I think I go by a more stoical rationale. Such grand spiritual overtures are undeniably a part of theatre, and it's a cause for real happiness when you accidentally stumble on one of them all over again. They're not to be strived for however - not to be consciously chased. I don't believe that really works. Too much room for pretension, frustration and exasperation at the sheer, thundering banality of the enterprise...
I'm far happier to cling to a doctrine of simplicity. Let's enjoy our theatre, take it seriously - but not too seriously. It's make-believe, fairy stories... A bit of magic and imagination, replete with terror and wonder and enchantment. The pure satisfaction in doing a job and doing it well - and knowing that you're improving all the time. My time at The York Dungeon has given me that satisfaction in abundance. And for that, I bless it. It's my acting ideal.
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