The worst thing about having old friends is that they go and die on you. When they do, strands of a web of common experience die with them. You also lose what might be called the shorthand of your friendship; how you could talk to each other without ever having to explain why, what or wherefore. You remember the opinions you shared, the jokes you told, the places you went together. You had covered territory as friends and you knew what the other was about, which way he would jump; you knew what delighted and what enraged: all the ingrained intelligence of long association.
Last week a friend of about 35 years died, someone who has left an unfillable emptiness in the lives of those close to him, and those who knew him well enough to rememember what an extraordinary human being he was. Michael Lovegrove, at the outrageously unfair age of only 60, died of complications arising after relatively minor surgery. Michael was diabetic and insulin dependent for the past four years. His overall health had declined quite badly over this time. His passing was eased by medical care of the highest calibre and he went suffused by the love he shared with his partner, Brenda Johnson.
Michael Lovegrove’s life was of an innate generosity of spirit, seeming quite immune to the coexisent pressures of the career he had chosen. The elder son of an Anglican curate, he was schooled at St Martin’s in Rosettenville, then studied stage management at London’s Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. He worked for several years in England before coming back to South Africa and joining the performing arts council, Pacofs, in Bloemfontein, later to move to its Transvaal equivalent, Pact, in Pretoria.
In 1973, Michael was earmarked to take over as the Pact Drama Manager, when Mannie Manim left to help found the Market Theatre. The story goes that, although Michael was the pre-eminent candidate for the job, the head of Pact, the ponderous Eghard van der Hoven, insisted that he write an exam, along with two other potential appointees.
Michael ridiculed the absurdity of the thing by writing farcical answers to the questions. He lost out on a career promotion. Ponderous Eghard felt slighted. The smack on the wrist was a wait of four years before Michael was appointed to the position.
As such, he was a central energy in the grand opening season of Pretoria’s splendiferous new State Theatre in 1981: to him fell the whopping task of searching out and producing a new show every 10 or so days, over a period of nine months. The theatre’s six venues had to be used. As if this were not enough, with typical Lovegrove style and mockery, he opened a revue called the State Theatre Overflow Show at the dingy old Rosebank Arena Theatre — and which ran longer than any of the productions to the north-east.
Michael left Pact to work independently and then joined the Southern Sun group in 1981. He was to produce a rack of 10 “Extravaganzas” at Sun City, another eight at the Wild Coast Sun, and was fundamental to the development of the Superbowl. A memorable comment to a colleague was about how “tedious” it was having to survive endless auditions of topless dancers.
After that he was responsible for the re-opening of a mothballed State Theatre, when Michael was appointed its CEO in 2002. This time the task was far more formidable; not only to resuscitate, but re-invent a comatose leviathan. This thriving theatre stands today as tribute to Michael’s belief in, and faithfulness to the performing arts.
Michael’s brother, Richard, died in 1989. He left a wife and three children, in whose latter welfare, Michael played a significant role.
So much for the history of the generous and special life force that has been taken from our theatre and from the hearts of those who knew and loved him. We all have special memories of Michael Lovegrove; of his wicked sense of humour and, if you were ever to perform in a show he was running from the prompt corner, that feeling of security that only the best stage managers bring to acting companies. He never lost his cool, nor his talent for the quick comment that deflated all pettiness.
I had a look recently at the list of plays in which a so-called jobbing actor had appeared. It was something like five, sometimes as many as seven a year. The same and often a dozen more applied to Michael.
In his utter faithfulness to the medium in which he worked, Michael Lovegrove certified the essential morality of purpose that founds all true theatre. I cannot imagine how many shows, plays, revues, extravanganzas he helped bring to life. But if ever our theatre community or its sponsors decide to honour theatre’s contributors with a lifetime achievement award, Michael should be its first recipient. At the very least an award must be named in the memory of a man so intrinsically gentle of nature, so bountiful of spirit and commitment, so filled up with laughter.
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