Helen Mirren Talks about Her Role as Prospera in The Tempest

The historian Simon Schama described his conversation with Helen Mirren in The Financial Times on February 26.

In the London hotel drawing room where we’re talking, her mother’s mink collar wound round her neck, a slash of scarlet lipstick on her mouth, Mirren is warming up the bone-slicing cold with the sparks of her merry, articulate intelligence.

This is the conclusion:

Mirren went to North and West Africa with the Brook company, throwing down a carpet and improvising to unpredictable audiences. “On one occasion 2,000 Tuareg on camels showed up. We’d heard there was a festival. Oh, let’s all go and perform, we said! And there they were on their camels.” “How did they react?” I asked. “Oh, with gracious bemusement…. Once in a blue moon we hit on a moment that did make for the common humanity Brook was after. A Malian actor, Malik Bagayogo, had the inspired idea of taking off a shoe, stringing a line of shoes behind him and then we all just responded to that. The shoe show made a connection.” But it was hard. Unlike a script, “there was nothing to hold on to except yourself and I didn’t have that to hold on to either as Brook was constantly undermining, criticizing – well no,” – she corrects – “challenging.”

“I failed as an esoteric actress. I wasn’t of that ilk; ultimately I’m not part of any group, not the Stanislavski group, the Grotowski group, the Brook group. I couldn’t do the self-effacement. Brook thought stardom was wicked, self-deluding, and tasteless. Oh f*** it, I said; I want my name up there.” Shakespeare the actor doubtless felt the same way, I say. “Yes, but you know, I still do believe Brook is the great genius of the theatre of our time, so far ahead of everyone; doing what was unthinkable…. He truly believes in common humanity.”

She pauses for a second, then adds, “I believe in common humanity too. It’s sex, violence and money.” Then, hastening to explain, that by the “money” bit she just means our material cares and pleasures; she gives up on the qualification, throws up her hands, and lets the Essex chuckle roll round the paneled room. “Have another cup of tea,” she says. “Have a bickie.” I do.