Bitchiness gets in the way of the Gielgoodies

In the summer of 1955 a group of finals students trooped into a classroom at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. We had come to hear Ernest Milton talk about theatre. It was exciting to be in contact with a famous actor, even though Milton had not worked for some time. But better him than the man who taught diction, whose chief experience had been as a camel-driver in Chu Chin Chow.

Milton was sitting on a chair in a long, old raincoat, a brown paper bag of groceries at his feet; his beaky nose sniffed us as we crowded into the room. Peter O’Toole was in the vanguard. He had told us all that Milton was the genuine article. Albert Finney, whose hero was Wilfred Lawson, was not so sure and Alan Bates whispered that he wondered if Milton would actually get through the class without falling off his chair.