Grazie a nicole_21290 per la trascrizione dell'intervista dato che è stata fatta in radio; e a zumi per la dritta.

Intervista mooooolto carina del 1996

S: My castaway this week is an actor. Still only 36 he’s one of a highly successful group of performers who came via Cambridge and the Footlights to the London stage and television. He’s probably best known for his partnership with Stephen Fry playing the idiotic Bertie Wooster opposite Fry’s Jeeves for ITV and starring with him in their comedy series for the BBC but his versatility and originality extend well beyond that. He’s rowed for Cambridge in the Boat Race, can play almost any musical instrument he wants and has just written his first novel. None of this seems to make him happy. “If a thing’s worth doing”, he once said, “it’s worth getting absolutely miserable about.” He is Hugh Laurie. You are obviously, by the sound of it Hugh, one of life’s worriers.
H: I suppose… yeah. I…
S: This is a gross understatement.
H: I suppose I am. Yes. I find happiness, I get uncomfortable with happiness. I think if things are going too well I start to worry, you know.
S: So you worry about every part you…
H: Absolutely everything…
S: … do?
H: Absolutely, yeah.
S: Everything? Your writing, anything?
H: I could worry about the colour scheme of this room. I could, absolutely everything.
S: Why do we imagine then, why do we perceive you as being kind of relaxed, witty, urbane and Stephen Fry too, actually, of course, who turns out to be a big worrier?
H: Yes. I don’t know. You know, of course I get lots of pleasure from performing. I’m trying to think when I got lots of pleasure from performing but there must have been times. Possibly...
S: But what do you worry about? You’re worrying about not being up to scratch?
H: Yes. Absolutely.
S: All the time?
H: All the time. About someone just calling out “Fraud. Where do you think you’re going?”
S: And has it got worse with success? You know, I mean, the greater your reputation the higher you’ve got to strive to keep it up.
H: Um. Yeah, well. It got worse in one very swift step when I decided to do it for a living. I used to get a great amount of pleasure out of performing at school and university, you know, as an amateur. I used to have a lot of confidence. I used to think I know I can do this. I can stand on a stage with virtually nothing and no idea what I’m going to say or do and I, it will be alright. I can make it work. And as soon as I started doing it for a living it all changed. I don’t know why and one of the strange things that happened was that I, I had always, hitherto, I had always thought of audiences as being female in character and when I started to do it professionally, for some reason, they became male. And they became competitive. They became an adversary that had to be conquered and I imagined rows of men with their arms folded saying, “Go on then. Go on then.” I actually, I have to confess, I used to get very aggressive about audiences. Stephen and I would both come off stage going “Those… I… Ooh…” You know, we would absolutely be seething with rage if we felt we hadn’t triumphed.
S: So is there nothing at all in your professional life that gives you pleasure?
H: Finishing things. I love to finish things. Almost any amount of pain is worth the pleasure of coming off stage or, um, finishing writing something that caused you a lot of grief. It’s the banging your head against the brick wall. It’s so nice when you stop.
S: So it’s a beautiful moment until the judgments roll in?
H: That’s right.
S: No judgments on a desert island. Presumably you’ll be happy to escape to one?
H: Very happy. Indeed. My wife is rather worried about how happy I would be and I think I have an extremely intense fantasy life, I’m afraid. In fact, it’s too intense in some ways. It’s almost debilitating. It actually stops me from doing things because, um, I’m able to fantasise so accurately about what it would be like to win Wimbledon or be the Prime Minister or climb Everest that I actually never bother to try and do any of these things.
S: So you’d sit on your desert island …
H: Yeah.

S: Tell me about the first record.
H: The first record is Muddy Waters. I have to confess I could quite happily have chosen eight Muddy Waters records. He’s the musician who I have listened to most of in my life and has meant the most to me. It’s very difficult to choose one. I’ve gone for a track called ‘I Want To Be Loved’.
(Song plays)
S: Muddy Waters and ‘I Want To Be Loved’. I said that you’re probably best known for your Bertie Wooster portrayal though I dare say some people would argue that your roles in BlackAdder rather put you on the map. But tell me about Jeeves and Wooster, Hugh. Was there every any doubt which Fry and Laurie would play which Jeeves and Wooster?
H: Not in our minds. No. It’s been pretty obvious really that Stephen has a wiser countenance, I think. He is a sort of darker, more authoritative look. Um…
S: But he could play an upper class twit, couldn’t he?
H: Yes…
S: Could you play a solemn sage, I suppose?
H: Oh heck. You’re saying he could play both and I can only play one?
S: (Laughs) There goes the inferiority complex.
H: Yes. Um…
S: But I suppose yes, it was obvious. He’s got the dark brown voice.
H: The dark brown voice. Exactly. And he’s an inch and a bit taller and, you know, generally more imposing I think.
S: And he’s older than you and he’s richer than you and…
H: Yes.
S: All those things.
H: (in funny voice) Yes, all those things.
S: (Laughs) Now, had you always been a Wodehouse fan?
H: I came to Jeeves and Wooster pretty late, in fact. But I had always absolutely adored Wodehouse and therefore we were extremely nervous about something as loved as Wodehouse. I mean he has such a fanatical following.
S: And also because Dennis Pryce and Ian Carmichael were very much set in the nation’s mind as Jeeves and Wooster.
H: Absolutely. Although, that was twenty-something years before but even so it still… it had still remained in people’s minds as definitive.
S: And apparently it didn’t go down well in America? Which is strange really.
H: It went tremendously well with the critics but the Americans didn’t really go for it. It’s too verbal, really. I mean, one has to remember that we are divided by a common language and to the average American audience I think, you know, (in American accent) ‘Get in the car’, that’s a line. That’s a line they can understand. ‘Get in the car’ or ‘I’ll blow your brains out’ or whatever it may be. But ‘Sir, I shall endeavour to effect a burglarious entry’. It may as well be Swahili to them. They don’t, I think they actually do not hear it. They can’t actually understand it.
S: But they managed with ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’. That was hugely popular, wasn’t it?
H: Ye-es. That’s sort of, ye-es, there are people going ‘My darling’ and kissing each other and, that’s sort of, um, I suppose more melodramatic in a way. I’m not expert on ‘Upstairs, Downstairs.’ Yes. Alright. Okay. So they loved ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’. Why didn’t they like us, then? Uh. I thought I go away with that.
S: Cause you weren’t any good, you see.
H: That’s right.
S: It’s terribly good. Four series. Are there going to be any more?
H: No there aren’t. Unfortunately. Um, a variety of reasons. I started to go bald. That was pretty galling. In the fourth series.
S: You can’t see it. Have you?
H: Yeah. Well, I’m quite tall you see. I get away with it most of the time. But somebody had to swoop in before takes and, sort of, dust my pate which is, we felt was sort of inappropriate for Bertie. And also we had gone through the stories so quickly, having dispensed with the narrative voice-over and having reduced the novels, really, to plots. A lot of which, it has to be said, repeat themselves. We had ripped through them so quickly that there wasn’t a lot left, actually. We had filleted the hors d’oeuvre. That’s rather a pleasing phrase. We’d filleted the hors d’oeuvre pretty quickly.

S: Record number two?
H: This is the opening of, now I don’t even know how to say this. It doesn’t come up very often that I have to say it. Bruch. I’ve never known. It’s a violin concerto in G minor. It’s partly to show that I’m cultured although I’m not actually cultured. I’m a raw philistine. But this is one of the few pieces of classical music that I could countenance on a desert island. It’s just an absurdly romantic piece and, uh, I love it.
(Song plays)
S: Part of Bruch’s violin concerto number one, played by Pinka Sukermann, and with the London Philomonic orchestra conducted by Zubin Mater. Do you play the violin, Hugh?
H: Oddly enough, I don’t. No.
S: I thought you played all instruments.
H: No. I don’t know where you got that from. That’s absolutely…
S: How many instruments do you play?
H: I, I trifle at a number – the piano and the guitar and oh, you know, just a few things. The spoons.
S: Did you play in the school orchestra?
H: I did. Yes. I played percussion in the school orchestra and from that experience I grew to hate violinists a great deal, actually, I’m afraid. Violinists en masse. I used to think of them, because I stood at the back with my cymbals and my triangle and they were the sort of go-lighters down the front who used to snigger at the conductors jokes and I grew to hate them. I really do.
S: They were superior?
H: They were very superior, yes. Violin as a solo instrument I adore but en masse I think of these ranks of people in short, white sleeved shirts
S: Was this at the Dragon school at Oxford or was this at Eton?
H: This was at Eton, yeah.
S: Your father was a GP at Oxford and you had, have a brother and two sisters. Where did you come in the pecking order, if at all? I mean you were the youngest.
H: I was the youngest, yes. Well, I suppose it’s the fate of many families, siblings anyway to think they are the least favourite. My sisters and brother would firmly argue that I was the blue eyed boy who could do no wrong and that I irritated them greatly for that reason.
S: Were you much younger than them?
H: I was quite a bit younger, yes. My brother, who’s the next oldest, is six years older than me. But of course I didn’t see it that way at the time. I don’t suppose anyone does really.
S: So describe yourself to me as a boy of 10. What were you like?
H: Unpleasant, I suspect. Idle. Feckless. And quite happy. Happy because I do, I have this very vivid sort of fantasy life. I was and still am a great fantasist. Um, and I spent a large amount of time on my own.
S: Did you then have the ability to make people laugh?
H: I can remember, my family, I always thought, were very funny. I can remember laughing more than I can remember making people laugh. My father and mother and sisters and brother, all of them I always thought of as being tremendously funny. I can remember, meals were very enjoyable because we did used to laugh a lot and I suppose that by sort of ten I started to give as good as I got, as it were.
S: What did you expect to do with your life? What ideas did you have of becoming…
H: I considered medicine briefly. I never worked hard enough to pass the exams to become a doctor but I had a period of seriously considering the Hong Kong police. In the mid-seventies there was a big recruitment drive. This could be completely wrong but this is how I remember it. There were brochures. In fact, I sent off for the brochures of young men in land rovers with creases down the front of their shorts and shiny peak caps. It seemed to me a terribly sort of glamorous and exciting life.
S: You liked the khaki uniform?
H: Yeah. Exactly. That’s a good enough reason.
S: You like the idea of showing your knees. Somebody told me you were a special constable. That can’t be true.
H: No. That’s absolutely not true and I don’t know how that rumour gained ground. I once made a citizen’s arrest. That may have qualified me for…
S: So you’re a good, law-abiding chap and apparently a bit of a square at Eton. Is that right?
H: Yeah, um. I suppose so. I think I became square. Yes. I mean, I was quite bad at fifteen, sixteen, nearly thrown out and I had ghastly, traumatic meetings with my parents. They came and had to take me away and give me a talking to at a service station on the M-4 which I can never drive past now without thinking of the shame and embarrassment. But then by the end of it I suppose I became square – I became, yes, sort of house captain and that sort of, yes, I became establishment. Ha! God. I’m so sorry.

S: Tell me about record number 3.
H: It’s Tumbling Dice by the Rolling Stones. This is a record, when I was about ten I tried to make a petrol bomb and I burnt myself rather badly which was a just punishment for being so idiotic and, while I was convalescing, instead of… My father actually never got particularly cross about the petrol bomb which he had every right to but he went into Woolworths and he said “Have you got a pop record?” They gave him Tumbling Dice by the Rolling Stones and I probably played it a thousand times while I was getting better. To this day, I’ve imagined this picture of him braving the ‘hit parade’ to ask for this record. I was just so touched by it as a gesture and it means a great deal to me for that reason.
(Song plays)
S: The Rolling Stones and Tumbling Dice. Quick bit of boat race here, Hugh. What year? What number? What was the result?
H: The year was 1980. I was number four in this particular encounter and the result was a loss by Cambridge by a distance of five feet, which is something I shall take to my grave.
S: So, do you still dream about the fact you lost?
H: Mmm. I do.
S: You fantasise about winning?
H: Yeah, I do. In fact I shouldn’t really be saying this because I still wouldn’t – to this day – wouldn’t want to give any pleasure or satisfaction to the opposing crew, for that reason but yes, it is true. It was a very bitter defeat.
S: So, there you were reading anthropology at Cambridge, a member of Footlights. At what point did you meet Stephen Fry and how?
H: That was my last year. I became President of the Footlights. The responsibility was mine to assemble a revue for the end of the year. I was absolutely determined that it should be very grown up in that very pompous twenty-year-old way. Some of the previous revues had been very sprightly young undergraduates sort of nipping about the stage, and it rather nauseated me so I wanted to do something rather sick in fact and I chose (laughs) Stephen. Not for the sickness reason but because he appeared then, he appears slightly younger now, but he appeared then to be about 60. He very nearly wore sort of stiff collars and he’s dressed younger and younger as he’s got older. He’ll be in short trousers in about ten years time.
S: While you’ll go bald.
H: Yes, quite.
S: So it was his gravitas that was important to you.
H: Exactly. Yes.
S: That was what attracted you to him in the first place. Did you know immediately that you’d found a professional soulmate?
H: Not a professional soulmate. Because I hadn’t really considered it as a profession but we got on very well, very quickly. And when we started to write together, we made each other laugh a lot. It seemed to come very easily. We would just churn out great piles of stuff.
S: You wrote the Cellar Tapes together. Or most of it.
H: Yes. Well. A fair bit of it, yeah.
S: And it won the Perrier Award at the Fringe.
H: It did.
S: And then it got on to the telly. What was it about cos I don’t remember it at all?
H: Well, it was a loose assemblage of sketches and comic moments of varying degrees of success. We were extremely lucky because Not The Nine O’Clock News was a great success and very quickly other television companies were desperately scrabbling to get their own version of it. So, suddenly young people doing sketch comedy became a very sought after product – it’s such an awful word but anyway that’s probably how television executives would describe it - and we were sort of caught up in that scrabbling.

S: Record number four?
H: Record number four is Frank Sinatra with Count Basey, because while Sinatra I love anyway Count Basey’s orchestra is about as good a collection of musicians as ever got together and this is ‘Love Is The Tender Trap’. Just about the first house I lived in when I came to London there were about four or five of us living in this house. It was about the only tape we had and we used to wash up to it. I can remember that. Wash up and dry up, obviously. And put away to it.
(Song plays)
S: Frank Sinatra and Count Basey with ‘Love Is The Tender Trap’. Was it a major decision, Hugh Laurie, to say you were going to become an entertainer? I mean, I don’t know what you were going to do with your degree in anthropology and been the threat of the Hong Kong police but…
H: No. There was very little, in fact there was no decision really. In the final year at university we did the show, which was pretty successful and a man with a Bentley and a long cigar – I mean, it’s a real cliché really – turned up from London and said “Do you want to do this for a living?” I didn’t have a great stack of options at the time and I thought, ‘You know. It’s worth giving it a go.’
S: But you found yourself, part of this very talented group of young people and, you know, Emma Thompson and Stephen obviously and Tony Slattery and then later, as time went on, Rowan Atkinson and Robbie Coltrane. I’m sure it’s difficult to look at yourselves objectively but it’s interesting that people come in waves, in groups. Like Cleese and Dudley Moore, Peter Cook came before you. Is there a kind of creative chemistry that gets going with such groups?
H: Yes, I suppose there must be a sort of safety in numbers thing apart from anything else, that people gain a sort of confidence from being around others, you know, sharing a load. Although some, some of the people you mentioned, I mean Rowan Atkinson I think of a completely unique performer who sort of doesn’t need anybody else, really. He’s so utterly sort of self-contained in a way.
S: It just seemed to be sort of a whole swathe of you. I suppose as we eventually saw in the film Peter’s Friends.
H: Yes.
S: All of you, you know, together, all incredibly talented. All individuals. Why do you come in gangs, I think, is the question?
H: I suppose there’s a harvest of the comedy tree. Of course a lot of it is to do with what the diamante people, as it were and continuing this harvest theme, what they’re looking for at any given time. If they decide “Well, what we want is a sort of comedy 20 to 30 year olds, get me six of them” then, you know, then you’re in luck. Then of course five years later it may be “We need ballerinas. Ballerinas are in this year.” It’s all luck really, isn’t it?
S: Talking about Peter’s Friends though. When you made that film it didn’t go down well for some reason. You all made it together with Kenneth Branagh and, I don’t know, it seemed to get up people’s noses. Why was that? Because actually it was quite warm, touching, well I liked it.
H: Well good. I think I can see why it got up people’s noses. It appeared to represent a, um, a clique and people, not surprisingly, are suspicious of cliques. Hostile to cliques even.
S: But it represented what you were? What we’re talking about, I mean.
H: Well. Pretty inaccurately.
S: But there’s been many successes since then and, indeed, before Peter’s Friends and, not least, A Little Bit Of Fry & Laurie and Blackadder for the BBC and some roles in the West End theatre and so on and you’ve just been making a remake of 101 Dalmatians with Glenn Close. So, I mean, it’s big time really. You sure acting isn’t a good thing? Are you in the right profession, Hugh Laurie?
H: Um, I, I just don’t know. I just don’t know. Um. I feel like it’s never been tested. I don’t really know how much I love it in a way. Perhaps I need to have my love for it tested more so that I will actually discover why I’m doing what I’m doing.
S: You don’t think you’re much cop at it?
H: Well no. Not really. To be honest, not really. I suppose I can do it better than some people but then a lot worse than others. I think what I can do sort of a large number of things reasonably well. I can play the piano better than Stephen but I can’t play it as well as Jools Holland but then I can probably act better than Jools Holland but then I can’t act as well as Kenneth Branagh but maybe I can write a, you know… Who knows? And so it goes on. I can do a lot of things, reasonably well.
S: So, what’s the solution? Should you be stretched more?
H: Suicide probably, I should think.
S: Well, you should either be stretched more or you should give it up.
H: Yes, all right. Okay. That’s a pretty blunt choice but yes, I think of giving it up but then everyone thinks of giving up. Whatever they do they think of giving it up and running away or something.

S: Tell me about record number five.
H: Record number five is Ian Dury with a song called ‘Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick’ which I happen to believe is the second best pop song ever written.
S: I’m supposed to say “What’s the first?”
H: You are. The answer is that I don’t know which is the first, what the best pop song is. I just don’t dare say that this is the best because you get people arguing with you saying “Are you out of your mind?” whereas no one’s going to argue if you say it’s the second best,
S: Why is this so good?
H: I just think it’s witty and sexy and clever and I think Ian Dury’s an absolute genius.
(Song plays)
S: Ian Dury and ‘Hit Me With Your Rhythym Stick’. What was the first you knew, Hugh, of Stephen’s disappearance from the West End or from London or from the world really?
H: Our mutual agent informed me that (in funny voice) there was a problem. Very soon after that I opened an envelope from Stephen – he had written a number of letters to people saying, sort of explaining as best he could, why he’d done what he’d done. And, uh, there we had it.
S: But did you ever think, like a lot of us thought actually, that he’d committed suicide?
H: Um, no I didn’t. I didn’t but then again you get superstitious about these things and, I suddenly, I thought I must not going about the place grandly asserting that I know Stephen and he would not do such a thing because one gets superstitious. You think ‘I will be taught a lesson’ and also because Stephen, I think, rather revels in doing the unpredictable thing and in the frame of mind he was then in that might have been enough to make him say “Well, I’ll show him. He doesn’t know me at all.” Plop, off he goes off a bridge.
S: So, how did you feel when finally he did turn up? I mean how did you react? Did you feel sort of relieved or angry or what?
H: Just about, just about the gamut, actually. If gamuts, I think, are still things you run and I ran it. Relief and joy and anger and worry and can’t think of any more but there must be more, I’m sure.
S: But why do you think he did it? Did he do it for all the reasons we’ve been discussing really? This kind of pressure and…
H: Well, you’d have to get him here in this chair to answer that. I mean, I can’t speak for him. To be honest with you I don’t really even know if he knows. It’s difficult to answer for him.
S: No, quite. But because of all the things you’ve said about yourself I wonder if you instinctively understood that fear of failure, which is what we’ve been talking about?
H: Most actors, if not all actors, can understand it, have sort of glimpsed that kind of monster of fear and complete panic.
S: Do you see less of him these days?
H: No. Not really. I suppose it’s true that since that time we’ve done less work together, we haven’t written together since then. And the writing together, that’s what threw us together for sort of ten hours a day. And we haven’t done that. I mean, we are very good friends as well and we have always been close and I hope always well.
S: And he’s godfather to your children.
H: Indeed. Indeed. Jolly good one too. Um, but it’s actually when we make each other laugh, that’s when we are about as close as you can get, really.
S: But do you feel now that maybe the Fry & Laurie era is kind of over? Do you feel more on your own?
H: That’s a lovely idea that there ever was such a thing as the Fry & Laurie era. I can’t believe… But anyway, um, we’re knocking on a bit now. We’re now approaching the age where we could be junior cabinet ministers or, um, all those sorts of positions…
S: Or policeman.
H: Indeed. All those positions that you would want to mock in a sketch show. We are now sort of now getting to that time of our life when you could… it changes the whole thing.
S: So you have to do something else? You might have to do something…
H: I might have to do some work!
S: Yes. And you might have to be tested. And you might have to do something more on your own, having really always being a team player. You’re more on your own now.
H: Yes.
S: Does that worry you? Does that give you problems?
H: Well, um.
S: Well, more than the usual problems anyway.
H: (in fake accent) I’m trying to look at it as a healthy thing, as a growing thing. (normal voice again). Yes, it is a bit scary. You know, I couldn’t possibly deny that I have hidden behind Stephen a bit over the last te-en, ooh, more than that years and that to come out from his shadow, and by golly it’s a long one, is a slightly scary thing. But then I think it’s a good thing. One should be scared and one should stand alone and get shouted at and called a fraud. It’s thoroughly healthy I’m sure.
S: Just deeply demoralising. Record number six?
H: This is an important piece of music. A short piece of music but basically it’s impossible to be despondent to this music. This is, um, the theme from The Sea Hawk, which was a wonderful Errol Flynn swashbuckling film and the theme is by Eric Corngold and don’t half cheer you up.
(Song plays)
S: Eric Corngold’s theme music to the film The Sea Hawk. You’ve now written a novel, Hugh, called The Gun Seller. A very funny novel. But you initially published it under a pseudonym. Why did you do that?
H: I think sort of because I wanted to get a fair reaction that had nothing to do with my name, such as it is. So I sent it – I can’t remember the name, Garry Lyndcombe or something – something plain like that that wouldn’t make any difference.
S: You’re obviously a fan of thrillers because it is a thriller and you obviously know a lot about motorbikes and cars and guns because there are a lot of those in it. A lot of comic irony and it’s occasionally very silly. Has it done anything for your self-confidence, having it?
H: Well, first of all it was tremendous fun. Whether it was a good thing or bad thing for me to do, and let others be the judge of that, it was tremendous fun. I did just lose myself in this fantasy, sort of heroic world, being the warrior hero. I do love thrillers. Some people have said that maybe there’s a hint of parody in it, that I’m doing a sort of, that I’m mocking the genre of thrillers and that’s not really the case. I actually, or if it is I’m mocking something I love. I just get so much pleasure from it. That sort of escapism.
S: Thank god you get pleasure from something, I think, because you’re obviously…
H: Yes. That slipped out. The whole thing comes tumbling down now, doesn’t it?
S: How does your family put up with you? Wife and three children. How old are the children?
H: They’re seven, five and two-and-a-half and the half is very significant.
S: Of course. How do they put up with you? I mean, are you nice at home? I mean, do you make them laugh or are you morose and gloomy?
H: I can still make the five-year-old laugh. The seven-year-old’s rather bored by me now and goes “Oh dad, you’re only saying that just to make me laugh” which is absolutely crushing but that’s how audiences look at you. You’re only saying that to make me laugh. It’s pretty galling actually. So I think I’ve lost him; he’s grown out of me now.
S: And do you make your wife laugh or does she have to put up with all kinds of agonies?
H: Um, well, we make each other laugh. I mean, we do laugh a lot. We’re jolly good chums. Oh, what a stupid thing to say! But you know what I mean. We do make each other laugh a lot.

S: Record number seven.
H: Well, talking of me wife. This is Van Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. I’d love to be able to say we heard this song while, um, strolling through Venice but that isn’t the case. It’s simply that my wife has brown eyes and she is a girl. And that’ll have to do as a reason.
(Song plays)
S: Van Morrison and ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. This is where you get to fantasise out loud. Tell me about Hugh Laurie on a desert island.
H: Quietly confident. Actually. Of my ability to survive, to sort of, to do the binding of coconut fronds. I don’t know if coconuts have fronds but that would be one the first things I would try and discover. And as I say I just have this, such a wonderfully intense fantasy life I would be able to visit many far off continents inside my own head. Actually, without any problem. In fact I think I’m really looking forward to it in some ways.
S: And family apart, what will you miss most of the life you have at the present?
H: I suppose the company of one’s friends and motorcycles I will miss a great deal. That would be a bitter blow. If I was there for long enough I might try and make one. And I suppose musical instruments, actually, rather than the records. A piano would be a wonderful thing to have but then of course one can manufacture these things one way or another – conch shells. I don’t know where this island is. It might be outside the M-25 somewhere. If conch shells are laying around on the beach. If there is a beach; maybe a car park.

S: Last record?
H: This is Doctor John with a very, very, very sad record called ‘Me Minus You Equals Loneliness.’
S: And why do you want that?
H: Because I do enjoy sadness. I rather, I like a bit of a wallow. I’m very happy when I’m sad.
(Song plays)
S: Doctor John and ‘Me Minus You Equals Loneliness.’ Not good for morale, you think?
H: Well maybe not. Maybe not. But I think if you listen to the Eric Corngold straight afterward that will cheer you right back up again.
S: And if you could only take one of them?
H: I would have to take Brown Eyed Girl. I think. And failing that I’d have to take record called ‘Brown Eyed Girl’.
S: And your book?
H: I think I would like to learn Italian. The problem is that all teachers of Italian books boast about how quickly you can do it but on a desert island you’d want ‘Learn Italian Incredibly Slowly’ if there is such a volume. I don’t think any sort of fiction would bear that repetition but I’d love to learn Italian.
S: And your luxury?
H: Ideally it would be the Savoy Hotel but I have a feeling you wouldn’t allow that. I think my luxury would have to be a photo-album, obviously with photos in it – an album on its own would be sort of dull. Containing photographs of my family – my brown-eyed girl – just a collection of everyone I’ve known and loved really. I have no idea how long that would be. It may be a big one.



http://community.livejournal.com/squirrel_scene/13303.html



Ecco il file audio ---> http://www.sendspace.com/pro/ozkj6t

TRAD 1° parte:

S: Il mio naufrago oggi è un attore. Ancora solo 36enne, proviene da uno dei gruppi di attori di maggior successo che è arrivato da Cambridge e i Footlights ai palchi londinesi alla TV. E' forse meglio conosciuto per il duo che forma con Stephen Fry, interpretando Bertie Wooster opposto al Jeeves di Fry per ITV ed è comparso per vari sceneggiati sulla BBC, ma la sua versatilità ed originalità va ben oltre tutto ciò. Ha fatto parte della squadra di canottaggio per Cambridge nella Boat Race, può suonare qualsiasi strumento voglia e ha scritto il suo primo libro. Ma niente di tutto questo sembra renderlo felice. "Se una cosa vale la pena farla" ha detto una volta "Vale la pena rendersi del tutto miserabile per questa". Lui è Hugh Laurie. Sei ovviamente, da questa frase, un pessimista della vita.
H: Credo...si. Io...
S: E' una dichiarazione evidente di ciò.
H: Credo di esserlo. Si. Trovo la felicità, mi sento in imbarazzo con la felicità. Penso che se le cose vanno troppo bene, beh, io inizio a preoccuparmi, sai.
S: Ti preoccupi di tutto...
H: Assolutamente di tutto...
S: ...Davvero?
H: Assolutamente, si.
S: Tutto? Di come scrivi, tutto?
H: Potrei preoccuparmi pure del colore delle mura di questa stanza. Potrei, assolutamente qualsiasi cosa.
S: Perchè immaginiamo allora, perchè ti percepiamo come un essere rilassato, spiritoso, urbano e anche Stephen Fry, ovviamente, si è dimostrato anche un grande pessimista della vita?
H: Si. Non lo so. Sai, ovviamente ricevo molto piacere nel recitare. Sto tentando di pensare a quando ho provato molto piacere recitando ma devono essere passati anni. Possibilmente...
S: Ma di cosa ti preoccupi? Di non essere capace di lasciare il segno?
H: Si. Assolutamente.
S: Tutte le volte?
H: Tutte le volte. Per esempio che qualcuno gridi 'Impostore. Dove credi di star andando?'.
S: E questa cosa è peggiorata col successo? Sai, voglio dire, più la tua reputazione cresce e più tu ti sforzi a tenerla alta?
H: Um. Si, beh. E' peggiorata quando in un attimo ho deciso di farne mio pane quotidiano. Di solito provavo grande piacere quando recitavo a scuola e all'università, sai, da principiante. Riuscivo a sentirmi molto a mio agio. Pensavo, si io posso farlo. Riesco a stare su un palco senza virtualmente nulla e non aver idea di cosa sto dicendo o facendo e per me andrà bene. Posso farlo funzionare. E non appena ho iniziato a fare tutto questo per vivere, tutto è cambiato. Non so perchè ma una delle cose strane che mi è successa, è stato che io ho sempre, finora, pensato che il pubblico è come una donna e quando ho iniziato a farlo per professione, per qualche motivo, è diventato uomo. E' entrato in competizione. E' diventato un avversario che dovevo conquistare e io ho immaginato file di uomini con le braccia al petto, dicendo 'Vai avanti. Vai avanti'. Devo confessarlo, ero molto aggressivo col pubblico. Stephen ed io uscivamo dal palco e dicevamo 'Loro...Io...Ooh...'. Sai, eravamo pieni di rabbia se pensavamo di non aver trionfato.
S: Quindi c'è qualcosa della tua vita professionale che ti da piacere?
H: Finire le cose. Amo finire le cose. Quasi la stessa quantità di dolore è uguale al piacere di uscire dal palco o, um, finire di scrivere qualcosa che ti ha provocato un sacco di dolore. E' come quando ti sbatti la testa contro il muro. E' fantastico quando ti fermi.
S: Quindi è un momento magnifico finchè i giudici non sentenziano?
H: Esattamente.
S: Niente giudici sull'isola deserta. Saresti felici quindi di scappare da una?
H: Molto felice. Ovvio. Mia moglie è più preoccupata su quanto riesco ad essere felice e penso di avere una vita di una fantasia estremamente intensa, mi sa. Infatti, è troppo intensa spesso. E' quasi debilitante. A volte mi ferma dal fare le cose perchè, um, sono capace di fantasticare così accuratamente su come dovrebbe essere vincere a Wimbledon o essere il Primo Ministro o scalare l'Everest che riesco a non preoccuparmi mai di provare a fare una di queste cose.
S: Quindi rimarrai seduto sulla tua isola deserta...
H: Si.

---

S: Parlami della tua prima registrazione.
H: La prima registrazione è stata Muddy Waters. Devo confessare che potrei essere abbastanza felice di aver scelto 8 nastri di Muddy Waters. E' il musicista che ho ascoltato di più nella mia vita e ha significato tanto per me. E' molto difficile sceglierne una. Ho scelto una traccia dal titolo 'I want to be loved'.

[Inizia la musica]

S: Muddy Waters e 'I want to be loved'. Ho detto che sei forse più conosciuto per il tuo ruolo di Bertie Wooster sebbene oso dire che alcuni direbbero che il tuo ruolo in BlackAdder è più importante. Ma parlami di Jeeves e Wooster, Hugh. C'è mai stato il dubbio che Fry e Laurie non avrebbero fatto Jeeves e Wooster?
H: Non nelle nostre menti. No. E' abbastanza ovvio che Stephen abbia un ruolo più furbo, penso. Lui è più tetro, più autoritario. Um...
S: Ma potrebbe interpretare un giovane altolocato, no?
H: Si...
S: Tu potresti interpretare un saggio serioso?
H: Oh cavolo. Dici che lui potrebbe interpretare entrambi ma io solo uno?
S: (Ride) Ecco il complesso di inferiorità.
H: Si. Um...
S: Ma credo di si, era ovvio. Lui è la parte seriosa.
H: La parte seriosa. Esattamente. Ed è molto più alto e, sai, molto più imponente.
S: Ed è più grande di te e più ricco di te e...
H: Si.
S: Tutte queste cose.
H: (Con voce divertente) Si, tutte queste cose.
S: (Ride) Ora, sei mai stato un fan di Wodehouse?
H: Io mi sono avvicinato a Jeeves and Wooster molto tardi. Ma ho sempre adorato Wodehouse e perciò eravamo molto nervosi su qualcosa così amata come Wodehouse. Voglio dire, ha tanti fan.
S: E anche perchè Dennis Pryce e Ian Carmichael erano visti come i veri Jeeves and Wooster.
H: Assolutamente. Sebbene, loro erano 20 anni fa ma ancora oggi...sono rimasti i primi esempi nella mente delle persone.
S: E sembra che non sia andata molto bene in America? Cosa abbastanza strana.
H: E' andata tremendamente bene con i critici ma gli americani non si sono per niente affezionati. E' troppo verbale. Voglio dire, uno deve ricordarsi che siamo divisi dalla lingua e dal tipo di pubblico medio, sai (con accento americano) 'Sali in macchina', quella è una battuta che viene capita. 'Sali in macchina' o 'Ti faccio saltare le cervella' e così via. Ma 'Signore, vorrei tentare di fare una rapina'. Gli potrebbe sembrare Swahili. Credo che non sentano. Non capiscano.
S: Ma sono riusciti ad amare 'Upstairs, Downstairs'. Ha avuto molto successo, no?
H: Si-i. Una specie, si-i, c'è gente che va in giro a dire 'Mia cara' e a baciarsi e, diciamo, um, a comportarsi in modo molto melodrammatico. Non sono un esperto di 'Upstairs, Downstairs'. Si. Giusto. Ok. Quindi hanno amato 'Upstairs, Downstairs'. Perchè noi non gli siamo piaciuti, allora? Uh. Pensavo di averla passata.
S: Perchè non siete stati bravi.
H: Giusto.
S: Siete incredibilmente bravi. 4 serie. Ce ne saranno altre?
H: No. Sfortunatamente. Um, per molte ragioni. Io ho iniziato a perdere i capelli. E' stato abbastanza irritante come cosa. Nella 4° serie.
S: Non puoi vederlo. No?
H: Si. Beh, sono abbastanza alto. Di solito me la cavo così. Ma qualcuno si è intrufolato prima di girare e, diciamo, e mi ha lustrato la testa, abbiamo sentito che era un inappropriato per Bertie. E abbiamo girato velocemente, esonerando la voce fuori campo e avendo ridotto le storie. Un sacco delle quali, devo dire, si ripetevano. Le abbiamo modificate così velocemente che non era rimasto molto. Abbiamo disossato l'antipasto. Frase molto carina. Abbiamo disossato l'antipasto molto velocemente.