Dame for a laugh

BERWICK KALER'S eyes light up the moment I take my hat off. They zone in on my ample nose and polished forehead. He leans forward eagerly, munching on a packet of bacon pieces. "I look at your face," he tells me, "and I can tell we have a Dame in my style."

There's a compliment if ever there was one. Here I am, about to try to turn myself into a woman for the first time in my life, and already the master of the Dame arts is comparing me with himself.

It has to be said there is an undeniable likeness, largely to do with the elegantly domed forehead, unblemished by anything as messy as hair. Then there is the generously-proportioned nose and, of course, the determined chin and steely blue gaze.

For a moment we lock eyes, registering the similarities with a feeling of startled recognition.

Then I have to look away. There is a long way to go yet before I'll be ready to take Berwick's place as the darling of York panto. Even dressed in a comfortable sweater and munching on those bacon pieces, there's an undeniable star quality about him. It's something to do with the intensity of his gaze, the control and power of his movement. As he looks into my face, I feel like a moth fluttering dangerously close to a candle flame.

And so beginneth my first lesson. You don't get to create 25 memorable panto Dames on the stage of the Theatre Royal without having something about you. This Dame business isn't going to be easy.

Lesson number two soon follows. We are standing in a small rehearsal room at the Theatre Royal's studio and costume hire department in Walmgate. Berwick's taken a break from rehearsals to give me a 30-minute masterclass, and is combining it with lunch - hence those bacon pieces. He's not a comedian, he tells me: he's a 'jobbing actor'. And as an actor, he says, the secret to doing a good Dame is character.

Too many Dames overdo it, he says, and ham the part up in pursuit of easy laughs. Not him. There's never even a hint of Danny La Rue about Berwick's Dames. Because according to the Kaler School of Dramatic Arts, the one thing you must never do when playing the panto Dame is give an impression of a man who's enjoying wearing women's clothes.

Why? "Because there are men in the audience and you don't want to make them uncomfortable by giving a hint that you're enjoying wearing all this stuff," he says. "The Dame has to entertain everybody."

What you do have to do, however, is try to genuinely assume the character of a woman. Not, of course, a young and pretty woman.

"Forgive me," he says, casting his eye disparagingly over me, "but you haven't got the best figure in the world. And neither have I!" Instead, he says, you play the Dame as a washerwoman.

"A Dame is a washerwoman," he says. "She's Mother Earth." He gurns his face effortlessly into a toothless, gummy washerwoman's grimace. "She's got all the problems of the world. She's poor, she's got to feed the men and she can't really afford to feed them. She's got too much responsibility to think about herself, and she hasn't got time to have false eyelashes or evening clothes."

That doesn't mean you can't invest her with dignity, though, he says. The washerwoman is a battler, and if you play her right you become one too. So any women's issues that crop up, for example, you support them. You join the sisterhood. But what you must never do is send women up. "That is patronising," he says.

And the humour? It comes from the situation. He insists he has never told a joke in his life.

"But look at yourself in the mirror. Imagine yourself wearing a frock, wearing a wig. Are you telling me no-one is going to laugh with you? I don't mean laugh at you, I mean laugh with you!"

Talk of mirrors brings us on to make-up. It is something Berwick feels very strongly about. Basically, he says, as a Dame you don't wear it. The washerwoman wouldn't have time for it anyway. He scrutinises my face appraisingly. "I will allow you a little eyebrow, but that's all. Perhaps a little rouge on your cheeks."

And, of course, a wig. Berwick and I both suffer from one obvious handicap when it comes to playing the role of a woman. "It is essential to have a full head of hair when one plays the Dame," he says, grinning. We rummage through various styles, rejecting a black, pigtailed job that makes me look like a Native American girl in favour of a blonde Irma-from-Germany look. Keep the glasses on, Berwick advises: they will add something.

I'm keen to try on a frock - there's a pretty little washerwoman's number hanging on a rail in the costume department I've already got my eye on. First, though, Berwick insists I have to get myself a walk.

He demonstrates what he means, slipping effortlessly into Dame mode as he walks across the room. He doesn't mince, and yet there is something undeniably feminine about it. It really is as though he's an ageing, wearied Mother Earth weighed down by the cares of the world, but still defiant. That's especially true when he subsides on to a bench with a groan of weariness and a sideways look of the head. You can almost see the heavy washing basket under one arm.

I have a go while he scrutinises me closely, walking up and down, trying to make myself look weary and heavy and yet feminine at the same time. Under his critical gaze I manage to avoid mincing, but end up walking with a pronounced limp and a crooked back, instead - Mother Hubbard crossed with an out-of-condition baby elephant.

Perhaps the frock will help, I think desperately. First, however, comes the delicate question of ......well, the boobs. Do I need to wear a false pair?

"You need to be careful with boobs," Berwick says gravely, still sitting in his washerwoman's posture. "If you're going to wear them, it's got to be in as respectful a way as possible. Me, I only wear boobs if a role really requires it."

Such as? "I did an Anne Widdicombe number once ... I won't go on."

No boobs, then - I'm to be an oddly flat-chested washerwoman. Up in the costume department, we flick through a number of possible costumes, before deciding on the washerwoman frock I already had my eye on. It's a heavy, pale-coloured dress made of some cheap, stiff material that you step into and then fasten at the back with a series of clasps. It will only take a few seconds to get out of, explains Juliette Berry, the theatre's head of wardrobe - important when Berwick has to change costumes several times during a show.

Finally, I'm almost ready. Berwick wraps a shawl carefully around my shoulders to add the final touch, gives me a final, appraising glance, and then disappears somewhere, packet of bacon pieces still in hand. The photographer leads me outside for the photo shoot.

It's hot in that dress, and despite watching Berwick's effortless transformation a little earlier into a washerwoman, I have no idea of how to walk. I mustn't look as though I'm enjoying wearing this dress, I remember - not a difficult injunction to follow, given that I'm still wearing my suit underneath.

As we walk outside, I feel as though I'm lumbering like a hippo rather than walking like a washerwoman. And I haven't a clue what to do with my hands. Nevertheless, as we head towards Walmgate a man walking past turns his head to watch, mouth open in astonishment. "Now that's funny," he says.

It cheers me up no end. Perhaps I'm better at this Dame lark than I thought.

Better watch out, Berwick. I'll be after your job next year.

Mother Goose, in which Berwick Kaler plays his 25th Theatre Royal Dame, opens tomorrow. Box office 01904 623568

Top tips on how to be a dame:

Don't mince or ham it up. Think washerwoman rather than Danny La Rue

Don't look as though you're enjoying wearing women's clothes. You'll upset the men in the audience.

Only wear false boobs if you're playing Anne Widdicombe

Give your Dame dignity - she has the weight of the world on her shoulders

You don't need much make-up. How much time would a washerwoman have for false eyelashes?

Work on your walk, to establish character. Try to avoid, however, the hippo-on-crutches look.

Don't try to speak in an unnatural falsetto voice. Berwick uses his own voice, and emphasises the Wearside accent a little.

Remember, the Dame is probably the main character in the panto. In fact, says Berwick, the Dame is one-third of the panto, the Villain is another third - and the other main characters, the plot and script make up the final third between them. "Bad villain, bad panto," he says. "Bad dame, bad panto. If you're doing the dame, you're going for a really tough role."

No pressure there, then.

Updated: 09:33 Tuesday, December 09, 2003