The art of speaking

John Gielgud never did voiceovers – despite his instrument being described by Alec Guinness as ‘a silver trumpet muffled in silk’.

Now almost every thesp, knighted or not, is keen to race into Soho or, with the new upsurge in working from home, duck under a duvet and breathe heavily into a friendly microphone.

As a young actor, I couldn’t break into that world of extra dosh. I did Dickens, Shakespeare and Wodehouse on radio and television – but that was ‘proper acting’, not being ‘a gob on a stick’.

Eventually, I found myself in a voice studio, recording a nature commentary. Not big advertising bucks but maybe a start as a reach-me-down Attenborough.

As I was leaving, a lady stopped me: ‘Have you got a few minutes, Martin? Can you come into the booth and say something into the mic?’

I could.

She told me their ‘voice’ hadn’t turned up. Could I just say, ‘Twix, the longerlasting snack’?

I did.

I said it three times, attempting different inflections.

‘Thanks. If we use it, we’ll let your agent know.’

They did.

Phew.

Many actors do achieve longed-for days in the Soho sun, dashing from studio to studio. When I graduated to the circuit, I regularly found myself panting at the mic, taking on the breathless intonation of one of my heroes, Richard Briers.

We actually recorded together, extolling the virtues of supermarket chicken. Richard opened seductively with ‘Breast and thighs’ – I answered with ‘Butterball, boneless’. How fortunate that voice-overs are performed anonymously.

Voice-overs produce their own peculiar kind of incidents. During one session, a puzzling request came from the client: ‘Can you sound a bit more like yourself?’

Once, an actor challenged me: ‘Are you voice-hanging?’

What?

‘Your session finished ages ago and you’re still here.’

Voice-hanging was, apparently, lurking in the lobby too long afterwards. Hanging about on the off chance of picking up another gig if someone didn’t show up. Not a bad idea – but not guilty.

Another problem came with a promo for a Mexican restaurant chain. How should I pronounce fajitas? They ditched my Take 1: I had attempted to beguile the audience with ‘You’ll love our fajjytass’.

A Soho star of the 1980s was Canadian Bill Mitchell. Dressed always in black, including film-noir fedora and dark glasses, he could be seen emerging from a studio (at any time) and approaching the Coach & Horses for his liquid lunch. Sensible agencies knew not to hire him in the afternoons.

His unmistakable low tones synthesised groovily, with plenty of gravelly grit, with an old jazzer’s sense of rhythm. When I shared a microphone with him for a Superman commercial, his ‘You’ll believe a man can fly’ effortlessly eclipsed my run-of-the-mill ‘All over London from tomorrow’.

He generously told me, ‘Marty, you – you’re a classical actor; me – I’m just a noise…’

A big one.

I heard he flew to Spain for a short break and was met off the plane by fellow actor Norma. She gazed at him in astonishment: he was sporting a white linen suit, white shirt and tie, white hat, no shades. ‘Bill – what happened?’

The newly blanched figure replied mysteriously, in the familiar basement voice, ‘Baby, there are no enemies out here.’

I met an engineer who said, ‘Y’know, I worked with Bill when he first came here from Canada. He didn’t have that voice then. He sounded like you and me. I wonder where he found it.’

Orson Welles?

Mr Welles often appeared in Soho to record at the acclaimed John Wood Studios. His enormous girth prevented him from entering the booth. Frequently a chair of vast proportions arrived by van for his enthronement in the main part of the studio.

It was here, while vocalising a frozen-peas ad, that he castigated the agency producers, growling, ‘What is it you want, in the depth of your ignorance…? You are such pests… No money is worth it…’ (Now to be enjoyed on YouTube.) When Orson became too expensive, or unable to be directed, his voice match was – Bill Mitchell.

John Wood, top recording engineer, seemed like an in-house father figure: ‘Martin, try it American – but without the accent.’

One afternoon, John leant over the mic, smiled and whispered in my ear, ‘I’ve watched you’ – I prepared myself for a compliment – ‘getting tireder and tireder…’

True. I was exhausted, performing Ayckbourn or Frayn at the Vaudeville Theatre each night. (Full-body acting, my vocal pals called it.) And each day (again their term) turd-gilding. There were a few successes, though sadly I lost the Toilet Duck gig to Chris Tarrant.

Fine actor Patrick Allen was known as the king of voice-over at this time. In many commercials, he would add an extended half-syllable, a sort of hmm sound, to the final ‘strap-line’: ‘Get some tomorrow-hmm. You know it makes sense-hmm.’ In the ad breaks of today, I still hear attempts to imitate the king’s approach. Hmm.

Occasionally the very people who hired us would resent us. One accounthandler moaned to actor Robin Bailey, ‘I think it’s disgraceful the way you lot can come in here, say “Every little helps” and five minutes later walk away with all that money.’

Robin countered reasonably, ‘Five minutes – and a lifetime’s experience.’

In America, I worked with a man who had voiced what became a celebrated, long-running ad campaign. ‘Got milk?’ He’s retired now to the ranch he bought with the millions he made from those two words.

I was lucky enough to record with John Gielgud. Not a voice-over – but an onstage recital of Paradise Lost, adapted by newsreader Gordon Honeycombe. In rehearsal, Gordon dared to give Sir John a note on how to emphasise a particular word.

The great man nodded, turned to me and confided, ‘I suppose I might say it like that if I were reading the nineo’clock news.’

Then, having movingly delivered a cascade of verse from the silken throat, he looked up from the script, shook his head and observed, ‘It’s all wrong, you know. I shouldn’t be reading. Milton was blind.’

‘Where do your audiobook voices come from?’ somebody asked me recently.

Well, when I’m inhabiting Bertie Wooster’s jolly Aunt Dahlia in P G Wodehouse recordings, I think of warm-hearted Joanna Lumley. Lord Emsworth’s sister, Constance: gracious Patricia Hodge. And for the Hon Galahad Threepwood, I’ll channel congenial Charles Dance. When I ultimately directed the three of them in those same roles for BBC radio, they showed me how it should really be done.

My version of Jeeves is Gielgud-inspired.

Role model for Wooster? The late Jonathan Cecil who, in his own recordings, nailed Bertie’s blitheness perfectly.

For Mr Brown in Just William, I reach for the dark, dismissive resonance of Harold Pinter.

A blueprint for William’s speech is astutely indicated on the page by his creator, Richmal Crompton: ‘Doin’ good, ritin’ rongs, pursuin’ happiness. Posh cockney.’

Like Harry Windsor?

I haven’t yet heard Spare – Harry’s audiobook. Will he, I wonder, come over like Crompton’s imaginative hero?

Martin Jarvis’s recording of Michael Frayn’s autobiography, Among Others, is on Radio 4 in April