I have a play, The Goat, opening at the Apollo Theatre in the West End next month. So I'm doing the rounds. The Telegraph. The Independent. The Mail. "The Mail?" cried friends. Someone's got to do it.
I learned long ago what is expected in these situations. It was 1977 and I had just finished a run on Broadway, in Trevor Griffiths' Comedians, directed by Mike Nichols. I was offered free first-class passage on the QE2 for my journey home - as long as I gave a couple of talks to my fellow passengers. One talk, I thought, could be on the London theatre. Armed with the listings from the Sunday Times, that would be a doddle. And for the other: my experiences on Broadway.
This was my first time in America and I had lots to say. I had met some amazing people. Burt Lancaster had stopped by the dressing room. So had Warren Beatty and Lauren Bacall. I had hung out with Al Pacino and spent Christmas with "Mr Success" - Mike Nichols. I could say so much. But it was all either intensely personal stuff or gossip. Stuff I didn't much want to share.
In the talk, I didn't say a word about the married cast member and his affair with the famous film star. About the sex symbol so drunk at dinner her face landed in the food. Or even about my own face ending up likewise the night the show closed, and I celebrated - projectile vomit notwithstanding - with Guinness and oysters. Instead, I talked about the play and my character. I kept my secrets and, more importantly, the secrets of others.
Today, I have a blanket "no comment" when asked about colleagues. What's said in private is private. But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to read of so-and-so's intimate details paraded for all to see - an abusive childhood, an alcoholic parent or a recently overcome drug hell - and discover that a film or a book is about to be launched on an unsuspecting public. Why did that struggle to overcome personal demons come to light a mere week before a play opens in the West End? Why do Jerry Springer-style revelations emerge just as the Oscar season comes around again?
No - tell your friends, tell your family, tell your therapist. Just don't tell me. This need to unburden in order to sell something - whatever the cost to your friends and loved ones - I don't understand.
My character in The Goat, Martin, certainly has a secret. He is compulsively, passionately in love with Sylvia - a goat. He needs to unburden, to tell someone, to stop the ringing in his ears. He confesses his obsession to his best friend, who he hopes will understand. But Ross tells all to Martin's wife. His reason for this betrayal of trust is that if people find out that Martin is having sex with a goat then everything - his family, his career - everything is ruined. And that, he says, is what matters: that people will know, that people will find out.
If only Martin had a play opening next week.
