Ronald ‘Trader’ Faulkner is that relative rarity: an unassuming actor. In their memoirs most actors, after the obligatory two or three chapters describing the hardships at the outset of their careers, indulge in a paean of self-glorification — mentioning their failures, certainly, but only so as to highlight their far more considerable successes. Faulkner is different. At one point he refers to himself as ‘a struggling actor approaching middle age’. (His wife somewhat brutally agreed: ‘Let’s be honest, you’ve had your chance as an actor, and at 40 you still haven’t made it.’)
Faulkner (the nickname ‘Trader’ being bestowed on him in recognition of his prowess in stealing his Australian father’s boot-leg whisky and bartering it at school for marbles) played some distinguished roles and enhanced his reputation with a production celebrating the life and work of the Spanish poet Lorca, but he never hit the big time.
His memoirs make clear how, for most actors, life oscillates between the terrifying uncertainty of unemployment and the grinding tedium of playing a not particularly attractive part in a not particularly inspiring production night after night, month after month, with matinées twice a week and the limited delights of a seedy boarding-house awaiting one when work is done.
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