I first worked with John Gunter in 1969 at the then Hampstead Theatre Club, and it was from John that I really learned to be a director. I was then 26 and he was 30, but he had already made his name at the Royal Court, taking from it and from its presiding designer, Jocelyn Herbert, a design philosophy that embraced white light, a simple stage, real objects, use of real materials in the costumes, exposed lighting bars and a permanent surround.
I learned from John that what you left off the stage was as important as what you put on it, and that being “theatrical” could have as much to do with austerity as excess. From him too, I learned that designing a play is a process of discussion, anecdotes, sketches, photographs and reference books; that you have to keep asking, “What’s this for?” and “What does this mean?”; and that a designer needs to be an architect, engineer, painter and sculptor.
John’s marvellous models for his designs were beautiful objects full of exquisite detail, imagination, learning and practicality. A quarter of the size of most, portable and bewitching, they beguiled producers and production managers, who were too dazzled to notice that the tiny model was of a set that would be very large – and sometimes very expensive.
Nonetheless, when we did The Beggar’s Opera in the Cottesloe in 1982, John accepted without a murmur a budget of almost zero, and made the set from scraps and pulled the costumes from the store.
By the time of Guys and Dolls, John and I had worked together for about as long as Nathan Detroit and Adelaide had been engaged, and we operated by a sort of shorthand. His set was a joyous and ingenious invention that fully exploited the most thrilling aspect of stage design – the ability to transform space; it moved effortlessly from the intimate to the epic, from the realistic to the fantastic, while making each location specific and detailed and full of character. It was a love letter to Broadway that made the audience smile and cheer.
