BEHIND THE CURTAIN

THE THEATRE BUILDING

THE THEATRE BUILDING
People imagine West End and touring theatres as these vast, cathedral-like spaces. And some of them are. But what would astonish most people is that for the most part — they are actually very small.
Yes, you have the Palladiums and the Drury Lanes. But a lot of them are smaller theatres than the public would imagine. And it's not until you stand inside one as a performer — not as an audience member, you've got a very different view from row K of the dress circle — that you start to really see them for what they are.
Let me take you on a little tour.
The King's Theatre, Glasgow — that's where I first auditioned for Les Mis. And because of my nerves and the genuine size and calibre of the audition, I didn't really take the auditorium in that much. But it is genuinely a beautiful theatre. Anything that still holds its original architecture is always going to win me over.
Some are nice but quite dowdy in their colours. I don't know the history of each one, but I'd assume they've been painted in the colours that would have been used when they were first built. Faithful to the period.
His Majesty's is a perfect delight. Well kept, looks beautiful — and like a lot of those little gems, it has original workings still under the stage floor itself. The actual machinery from when it was built. That kind of detail doesn't survive in most modern theatres but in some of these older houses, it's still there.
The auditorium itself is something to behold. Gold leaf detailing on every surface. A great dome painted overhead. Red velvet seats running back into the dark. Three tiers wrapping around you. When you stand on that stage looking out at an empty house — really look at it, properly, before the audience comes in — you understand what a privilege it is. Generations of performers have stood exactly where you're standing and looked at exactly what you're looking at. That is not a small thing.
Drury Lane is magnificent. The Palladium is magnificent. The Point Theatre in Dublin — it's not called that anymore — was enormous. But that's a historic building used more as an arena space inside. So that was more of a mouth-drop moment just for sheer scale, not for intricate architecture.
Manchester Palace Theatre will always be number one for me. Sentimental reasons mostly — my first big show — but also it looks lovely inside.
Here's the thing nobody warns you about. A lot of these theatres are quite small backstage. Not absurdly small — but for the size of the shows we put on, there is limited space to house the crew, the tech teams, management and the cast. You are all crammed in. I've been in Drury Lane backstage as a visitor and auditioning — and that is huge. But it is the exception, not the rule.
And as a comparison — I've done concert work in Germany, in music venues that weren't strictly theatres. And some of those have the most breathtaking inner architecture I've ever seen. Gold blinging at you from every angle. Very, very posh. You know you're in another world.
Then there's the question of climate. I like to be cool when I'm performing. A lot of people don't — they want it warm. In proper opera houses they will pump a fine watery mist over the stage area to keep voices moist. You don't get that in the West End. But I did get it in a theatre in Dresden. An absolute luxury.
Stairs. Old theatres are full of them. Some have Victorian lifts — like the Palace Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue — and some have something more modern. But there is usually only one lift and everyone wants to use it at the interval rather than climbing the mountain. Named celebrities getting to use it before everyone else. That's the life.
Now — let me tell you what I actually notice when I walk into a new venue for the first time. It's not the seats. It's not the size. It is the smell.
If it's a golden oldie theatre, they have a unique smell. Theatrical, musty, the smell of upholstery in the auditorium, the general feeling of walking through history. I feel instantly at home. You forget sometimes that huge stars have walked these corridors. Have stood where you are now standing on stage. It is such a privilege.
And every old theatre — every single one — has ghost stories. I personally have never encountered anything. And to be fair, you are very rarely there alone. There's always someone around. But the people who are last out, the ones who lock up — they always have stories. Figures glimpsed. Noises they can't identify. Footsteps on stairs that are empty.
I had two buildings where the atmosphere genuinely did get to me.
The Dominion, when I was in Beauty and the Beast. I was on pretty much the top floor. And further along my corridor there were other spaces and rooms that weren't used very often. It was eerie walking up that way. So quiet. You'd find yourself wondering if anyone was watching you.
And then there's the Dome Room. At the very top of His Majesty's. I rehearsed up there a few times.
Now — most people don't know this — but the Dome Room has a history. Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, the great Victorian actor-manager who built and ran the theatre, designed himself a private apartment up there. Directly under that great copper dome you can see from the street. He lived in it. Entertained in it. And in 1904 he founded a drama school in that room — acting classes that eventually grew into RADA. The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art started in the Dome Room of His Majesty's Theatre.
Picture it. A long oblong space at the top of the building. High walls. Tall windows letting in natural light. Big iron circular lighting fixtures hanging on long chains from a vaulted ceiling. Empty most of the time. Silent in a way the rest of the building never is — because you're above everything. Above the audience, above the orchestra, above the wings and the dressing rooms.
And knowing what I know now — about Tree, about the lessons that happened in that room, about who walked through that door over a hundred years ago — it makes complete sense that it has the atmosphere it does.
That room has a presence to it. I can't explain it any better than that. It is ghostly. You feel something in the air. Whether there's actually anything there or whether the building itself just carries that weight — I can't tell you. But the feeling is real. You sense it as soon as you walk in.
That's the thing about these old buildings. They are not just places you go to do a job. They are characters. They have moods. They have smells. They have history baked into the walls and the floorboards and the dust in the wings.
A modern theatre is a venue. An old theatre is something else. Something alive.
And every night, when you walk in through the stage door and you smell that smell, and you climb those stairs, and you stand in that wing waiting for your cue — you are part of a long chain of people who have done exactly that, in that exact spot, for a hundred or two hundred years.
That is something the audience can't see. And it's one of the great privileges of doing this job.
If this spoke to you, feel free to share it and leave a thought.