Everything’s easier if you think of it as theatre: the larger-than-life gestures to be seen in the gods, and the clear enunciation of one’s innermost thoughts in order for one’s motivations to be clear to all. Costume, too, is vital, and we raid the wardrobe for boots and balaclavas, with banners to accessorise while pushing the narrative forward. Lighting should be dramatic, with pyrotechnics adding a touch of urgency and tension, but it is important to remember that these streets, these shop fronts, and these gleaming towers of financial institutions, are nothing but painted planks and canvas, and a single stray spark could raze it all to smuts and ash. It pays to know the script, its cues and pauses, and its denouement which, however unlikely, will bring gasps from the audience and five-star reviews in tomorrow’s press. Ultimately, it helps to consider the end as curtains, before which a chorus line a coppers will bend their knees as one and beat their black batons to the catchy rhythm of their big number. It’s easier if you mouth the old, familiar words, and you’ll pick up the dance moves soon enough.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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