Finding your spark: Hello from our editor!
How a five-year-old’s outburst at a pantomime became an unforgettable moment that sparked a lifelong passion for theatre and community.
Photo of Mikael Phillips by Iain McLellan
2004. Pantomime season. I’ve not long turned five years of age, so sure of the world around me (as most five-year-olds are). My parents have taken me out for the day and all I am thinking about is when we can go home so I can blast the best CD of the naughties - NOW! That’s What I Call Music 56, or as some would call it, the holy grail of music excellence. But instead, we’re heading towards Belfast’s Grand Opera House to see, what is now known as, ‘the best pantomime ever’, my holy grail in hand and an unexpected villainous soap actor who was about to change my life forever.
Liveness is the heart of art. It creates a connection between the subject and the viewer that transcends mere entertainment. That isn’t to say movies, recordings, and physical art pieces can’t evoke deep connection and meaning—as someone who cries at every movie and gets goosebumps listening to my favourite songs, it would be unfair to diminish other forms of art. However, when you are in a theatre, or at a gig, or even visiting a decent museum, something happens in that space that takes you out of the real world and transports you through time and space into that singular moment of existence. A moment where you become part of the story, and that moment is yours and only yours to experience, because no one will ever get to live your experience of that moment ever again. And sometimes, those moments stay with you forever.
My moment happened on this cold winter night in Belfast. As we entered the opera house, I was picking at the cellophane encapsulating my new CD, eager to tear it off so I could read through the booklet and examine the laser markings of the disc. I wasn’t allowed to open it just yet, not until we got home, but I couldn’t wait. Taking our seats front and centre of the dress circle, I sneakily opened it up while my mum grabbed some sweets and immediately nosedived into the track listings. Nothing else mattered. Just me, my CD, and a packet of sweeties to hype me up. Well, at least for five minutes, until the lights went down and the orchestra started to play.
Music was definitely my first love. My mum was always playing something in the house: Fleetwood Mac, The Doors, Black Sabbath, you get the idea—good music, 24/7. So when that orchestra began to play, it was like the entire opera house burst into technicolour and it was all for me. Then, as the curtain rose revealing the magical set, and the otherworldly characters flooded the stage, the room became brighter and brighter. My parents began to fade away, the people in the stalls below vanished into mist, and there I was, five years of age in a completely new world altogether. That was until Leslie Grantham entered the stage as the devious Rat King and my parents had to take me out of the theatre.
At the time, Leslie was quite well known for playing Eastenders villain Den Watts, or ‘Dirty Den’ as we knew him. Having been born in Glasgow and grown up in a family where Eastenders was watched religiously like it was a rite of passage to becoming a true Phillips/Donaldson/Marshall/Welsh/Curley (there’s a lot of us), I knew Leslie’s face all too well. Maybe a little too well for my sure-of-the-world five-year-old self who was so certain that I didn’t yet understand the difference between Leslie, the actor, and Dirty Den, the character…
‘IT’S DIRTY DEN! HE KILLED JACK DALTON! PR*CK! ARS*HO*E!…’ You can see why we had to leave. However, Leslie found it funny, so did the fairy godmother and half the theatre. Not that I was trying to be funny; I genuinely couldn’t believe that right there and then, Dirty Den was about to step out onto the stage like NOTHING had happened and I wouldn’t notice? Not on my watch.
When we got home, I finally managed to pop my CD into my mum’s wooden hi-fi unit, ready to be transported through time and space again. But, it didn’t work. Maybe it was the speakers, something was off, or the CD skipped. I tried again. Nothing. It was then I realised I was still buzzing from my interaction with, who as my mum explained in the taxi home, an ‘actor’ (yeah right), and couldn’t stop thinking about what I managed to do in that moment. I hadn’t just watched another world in front of me; I interacted with it, and for a brief moment, joined it. And nothing would be the same ever again. I had found my spark.
And that’s why we’re here today. Hello, my name is Mikael. I’m the editor of People Make Theatre magazine, Creative Director of Under the Rug Theatre, a freelancer, facilitator, producer, singer, dog dad, cook, baker, wine drinker, and the boy who broke Leslie Grantham out of character that one time.
People Make Theatre is the culmination of a group of creatives who have either built their own companies, or have worked within them, to create something which strips away barriers, supports our fellow creatives, and nurtures that spark we theatre makers have in us that pushes us to create and to create with meaning. And this magazine seeks to not only immortalise that, but to connect and serve our community.
My moment, although a tad dramatic, led me to creating this magazine and will continue to lead me to create for as long as I can see ahead of me. Maybe yours has led you here too.
So, welcome to People Make Theatre. Come on in, share your story, and let’s support Scotland’s Artists.
