Simon Callow Directs Pauline Collins in ‘Shirley Valentine’: A Tale of Love and Naughtiness

Pauline Collins stood out as an extraordinary talent in the realm of light-comedy acting—a domain where she described herself as most comfortable. Yet, it was her ability to evoke profound emotional responses from even the most impassive viewers that set her apart. This quality was most evident in her role in Willy Russell’s “Shirley Valentine,” a one-woman show that I had the privilege to direct both in London’s West End and on Broadway. Her portrayal was so seamless and authentic, blending sassy humor with a poignant realization of life slipping away, that many mistook her performance as effortless.

However, the reality was quite the opposite. Taking on the role was a formidable challenge for Collins. Despite recognizing the play’s brilliance, the mere thought of performing it was daunting for her. The rehearsals were tough; the play’s format as a comedic monologue demanded specific talents not all actors possess. I remember making her rehearse daily by having her tell a new joke—an ordeal for her, though a knack seemingly inherent to her character, Shirley. Additionally, mastering the act of cooking eggs and chips during her monologue was crucial. It was essential for her to internalize these elements to convincingly portray a rich, multi-dimensional character, who while preparing a meal, shared profound insights about her own life and echoed the sentiments of countless other women. Amid these struggles, Willy Russell himself began to question his decision to cast her, fearing she might not embody Shirley completely.

During the first preview, a technical mishap occurred when the stage lights went out after just three minutes. In the darkness, Collins, in character as Shirley Valentine, quipped, “Hey! Wha’s going on? I paid me electric bills, right up to date.” The audience erupted in laughter, appreciating her spontaneous improvisation—a skill she had always feared. In that moment, Willy squeezed my arm in the pitch black and excitedly murmured, “She’s got it. That’s pure Shirley. We have nothing to worry about.”

Collins’ charisma was undeniable offstage as well: she was kind-hearted, boldly charming, seductive, affectionate, and had a wicked sense of humor. Our first encounter was during the production of Bernard Slade’s “Romantic Comedy,” where we were introduced at a dinner by the director. Her first words to me were teasingly direct as she asked, “So, you’re a poofter, then, are you?” After my affirmation, she briskly nodded and said, “Good, right,” swiftly moving past it.

Her presence in both London and New York brought a lively, mischievous spirit to the theatre daily, making every day feel like a celebration. Even the typically tough, seasoned backstage crews of Broadway grew to love her. After several successful months, she departed the New York show amidst a flood of emotions, her Tony award packed in her suitcase. Shortly after her departure, the once vibrant atmosphere she fostered had dissipated, returning to a routine, impersonal ambiance.

Collins’ artistic range was vast, far wider than she often admitted. I had the opportunity to direct her again in “Shades,” a compelling new play by Sharman Macdonald. She played a widow, left to care for her son who fiercely resists her pursuit of new love. Her portrayal was intensely honest and received glowing praise from critics and audiences alike. However, for reasons that were never entirely clear to me, she detested the role. Consequently, I knew better than to attempt persuading her to take on major roles like the lead in Seán O’Casey’s “Juno and the Paycock” or Linda Loman in “Death of a Salesman.”

Regardless, the legacy of her performances in “Shirley Valentine,” along with her numerous memorable screen roles, is a treasure. The personal and professional memories she left with those who knew her and the wider audience are indelible.