The Fourth Wall

By Chris Leicester

Wise old professor Joe Raymond walks on to stage and addresses us. He tells us about Stanislavsky's Fourth Wall, and how actors use this imaginary barrier to keep out their fear of the audience, but as this story unfolds, we see the actors have fragile barriers in their real lives too. When notorious murderer Peter McPherson is released early from prison, Rob's fourth wall begins to collapse with disastrous consequences. A past life and the actions of others materialise on stage in front of him. Guilt, secrets, suppressed truths and dangerous emotions suddenly burst through, closing the play and threatening financial ruin for Sam. Only by facing their real fears can the actors rebuild their lives, save the production - and Sam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Leicester
• Release date: Jan 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311750174

Chris Leicester

Chris originates from Sheffield, UK but he now lives in Chester with his wife and two young sons. Along the way he’s had several adventures in the world including cycling across Australia for Cancer Research and buying land from cannibals. As well as books Chris also writes stage plays, screenplays, radio plays and poetry. His past work includes; ‘Mickey’, a radio play for the BBC in 2001, ‘Tales From the Riverbank’ in 2001, ‘The Last Train to Jordan Road’ in 2003, (called ‘Mafioso’ for the Edinburgh Fringe later in that year,) ‘The Fourth Wall’ which ran at The Old Red Lion Theatre in Islington and then in Edinburgh in 2005 and ‘The Baby Box’ which ran for a month at The Old Red Lion Theatre 2008, “Slasher” Kincade which toured the UK in 2010. His last play ‘Charlie Bangers’ premiered at the prestigious Lowry Theatre in Salford Quays, Manchester on September 2011 and tours the UK in 2012. His is writing his next new play, ‘Hurricane Hill,’ for a major TV and Stage name and this will be ready for production in 2013. “A brilliant evening of live entertainment and theatre at its rawest best.” (Four stars) whatsonstage.com on 'Slasher' Kincade 16/04/2010 “Slick production is a play of our times” Hackney Gazette on “Slasher” Kincade 6/5/10 “Leicester is also an accomplished director and blends clever lighting and physical theatre to bring his plays to life.” The Stage on “Slasher” Kincade 10/5/10 “The power of Leicester’s writing combined with the wonderful acting talent really carries the play through to the very end....the chemistry of such a beautiful text.” Extra! Extra! on ‘The Baby Box’ 2008. “Naturalistic, gritty writing – reminiscent of Mike Leigh.” Camden New Journal on ‘The Baby Box’ 2008 “Leicester's writing is confident and powerful..” Hampstead and Highgate Express on ‘The Baby Box’ 2008 “Chris Leicester’s clever, acerbic, unpredictable play...” The Stage on ‘The Fourth Wall’ 2005 ‘Achieves moments of mesmerising realism that Stanislavski would have applauded’, Time Out on ‘The Fourth Wall’ 2005. '...beg, borrow or knee-cap for a ticket!’ The Scotsman on ‘Mafioso’ 2003

Book preview

THE FOURTH WALL

By

Chris Leicester

*****

The Fourth Wall

Chris Leicester

Copyright by Chris Leicester 2014

Smashwords Edition

*****

Discover other titles by Chris Leicester:

‘Going For The Wire’

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/159214

‘Charlie Bangers’

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/344073

The Last Train to Jordan Road

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/344957

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

*****

THE FOURTH WALL

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About the Author

Past Reviews

Sample Chapters of other books

Chapter One

‘None of this exists. None of this is real. None of this is here.’

The old man’s face crumpled as he spoke. ‘How can it be?’ he continued with a slight smile, ‘with who we are, what we do; what we’re trying to be?’

The old man laughed.

‘But of course, you know that, don’t you?’ he went on, kindly and yet firmly, like a caring father. ‘Come on, you must; this grand illusion, this delusion we live, this falsehood. But here we are, that’s the price we pay, that’s our test, our skill, what we do that nobody else can; that’s our measure - actors, and the essence, the crux, the most difficult thing? -Having to behave naturally in an unnatural situation.’

He stood easily from his rather precarious looking chair, but not like an old man at all. So perhaps it was the clothes; out of fashion, in the wrong time, back in the seventies; Harris Tweed jacket, corduroy trousers, leather patches everywhere.

He moved closer to the audience, peering at them, as if he was controlling them. They leaned back ever so slightly as he approached as if they feared him possibly. The old man looked up, panning his head around the big, high, majestic ceiling above him, as if he was addressing gods who lived there; ancestors, ghosts, the privileged; those few given the right to dwell in this sacred place by what they’d done, achieved, given, been rewarded for.

After a while the old man made his way back to the centre of the stage and slowly circled the single theatrical prop that was placed there. It was a small, roughly-made wooden cube two foot long around every even edge; and then he stopped, holding the book out in his hand, hallowed, like a bible.

‘It’s analogous to a best man rehearsing his speech at home,’ he continued, his territory and authority now absolutely established. ‘He’s relaxed, he’s confident and he probably thinks it’s going to be the funniest speech ever delivered in the history of speeches. But when the big day finally arrives it never quite goes as planned. He doesn’t feel that same confidence when he speaks, and he’s disappointed because he feels that the jokes don’t work as well as when he rehearsed them. So, why is this?’ He scanned the front row of his audience, watching them lean back further, as if they were suddenly expecting something to come their way. ‘Why does he feel that all his hard work has been in vain?’

The old man nodded his head, pleased with this attention he was commanding. ‘It is because he has become self-conscious,’ he explained, gleefully. ‘Now - as opposed to in the comfort of his own living room - there are a hundred people hanging upon his every word, and so instead of focusing on his speech, he focuses on his audience. And this is our problem too. How can we, as actors, block out of our minds to such a potentially hostile mass of people?’

The old man took one step dextrously forward like the professional he was, not looking down, but finding his marker on the floor perfectly.

‘The solution was what the famous Russian director, Constantin Stanislavski called, The Circle of Attention.’

He stood rigid as a spot suddenly came to life in the rig above him and painted a crisp, white rim of light all around him.

‘The actor places himself at the centre of an imaginary circle. Its purpose is to act as a barrier between himself and his audience. If his focus starts to falter, it is as if this circle has become larger and unless controlled, it will eventually encompass the audience; and it is at this point that self-consciousness will set in.’

The old man made a fist which he drew firmly back in towards his body, like he was retracting a sword from someone he had just impaled.

‘He must pull it back until he finds that focus again.’

The spot disappeared and the softer general state took its place. Professor Joe Raymond looked at ease once again.

‘This concept helped to establish what later became known as The Fourth Wall,’ he said. He looked around before he carried on.

‘The first wall,’ he uttered, pointing to his left, ‘The second wall.’ He pointed right. ‘The third wall;’ pointing behind him. Then he faced the audience and ran his hands along an imaginary screen in front of him. ‘The Fourth Wall,’ he said. ‘It helps the delusion, by keeping you out.’

He smiled kindly.

‘You don’t exist, you see.’

He held his gaze on the audience, then the lights snapped to black, and with only the sound of footsteps clomping in the darkness, he was gone.

Chapter Two

Sam sat on his chair as if it was a tiny island in a savage sea. It was bleak, plastic and uncomfortable for him; just like the expression he wore. His face was contorted, ripped almost, torn at from the insides; agonised. It added another unwelcomed layer to his fifty-odd years of glumness, colouring too, painting his skin with an un-flattering and indelible cruel shade of grey. Every so often he turned to the door, hearing a sound, or so he thought; a slight heave in the fabric of the building, a horn at the lights, the cry of a difficult child in the busy street outside. Then Rob entered, fearlessly and stared deep into Sam’s trembling face, trespassing into his space and seemingly not caring that he was doing so.

‘Hello, Rob,’ Sam bleated without looking up at him. ‘Are you alright?’

Rob didn’t respond. ‘Alan and I have been really concerned about you.’

Rob swivelled round a chair and sat, staring directly at the door, grinding his teeth, angry, the muscles in his face rippling, like boxer’s do before a fight. Sam shuffled awkwardly about on his chair then stopped.

‘Rob,’ he began again, tears threatening now. ‘I’ve never been more sorry about anything in my life before. You’ve got to believe that.’

And there they remained; one young, one old, the raging and the pitiful, both hopelessly locked together in that curious moment in time.

The stage was small, twenty feet by twenty feet with curtains at the back to hide the parts nobody wanted to see. But they forgave the scruffiness, such was the theatre’s reputation. Because they still did the meaty stuff here. There was still the odd pot boiler to oil the bank balance occasionally, but it was only small scale, only a saucepan-full, not a feast for thousands with plenty left for seconds. Voices were still heard here, new writing too and the walls catalogued the successes through their proudly displayed posters . Common enough names now, littering like dog shit in