I first met Robin Phillips in September 1957 when we both arrived for the orientation day at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School. The average age must have been 20, but I was only just 17. The train journey from Huddersfield to Bristol was, at that time, the longest I had ever taken.
Everyone in some degree was nervous, except for the very young, very tall, VERY gorgeous looking man who introduced himself as Robin. I had never met a “Robin” before. It was not a name one encountered much in the Yorkshire West Riding in the 1950s. He was at ease, chatty, funny, almost as if he was surrounded by old friends, instead of frightened, intimidated, insecure teenagers.
We were told we would do a morning exercise ritual which was carried out to the music of The Skater’s Waltz. Every year writes its own lyrics, we were told. When there was a break I saw Robin in a corner writing in a notepad. By lunch he assembled all of us and distributed the “lyrics” for our morning warm-up. And that was it. We sang Robin’s lyrics every morning for two years. There was no opposition, no questioning, no alternatives. This was how it was going to be. “Here at the school we love each rule, we dig our movement, it’s real cool.”
Robin dazzled us. He could already act. He could sing, compose, sew, design, dance. He could even knot, or “ventilate”, wigs. I had never met anyone like him. He was the star of the year from day one and at our graduation he was the actor every manager, agent, director wanted to hire. Everyone admired him. He did not have an enemy, which in showbusiness terms is extraordinary.
Professionally we only reconnected once when he came to Stratford to direct The Two Gentlemen of Verona, only 10 years after we had graduated. It was his misfortune to present this delightful production – with unknowns Ian Richardson, Helen Mirren and me – in the same season as the Peter Brook A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which obliterated everything around it. But the Two Gents company adored him and I still do.
