housewife

FOR a housewife who started out charging ten pence for after-school drama lessons, Sylvia Young had an incredible ability to spot raw talent.

The 85-year-old, who died on Wednesday, helped hone the skills of a who’s who of the ­British entertainment industry.

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Among those to have passed the audition to join her theatre school in London were singers Amy Winehouse, Leona Lewis, Dua Lipa, Rita Ora and three-quarters of All Saints.

Dua, who has won seven Brit awards and three Grammys, said that she did not know she could sing until a teacher at the Sylvia Young Theatre School told her how good she was.

Actors who attended her classes include Keeley Hawes, Doctor Who’s Matt Smith, Nicholas Hoult, who is in the latest Superman blockbuster, and Emmy-nominated Adolescence and Top Boy star Ashley Walters.

The school was also a conveyor belt for EastEnders stars, with Nick Berry, Letitia Dean, Adam Woodyatt and Dean Gaffney all passing through its doors.

Stage fright

But there were problems along the way. In 1998 one of the drama ­masters was arrested for indecent assault, and the company struggled to survive the Covid shutdown.

The pressures of fame also proved too much for some former pupils, including the late Winehouse and EastEnders’ original Mark Fowler, David Scarboro, who was found at the bottom of cliffs as Beachy Head in East Sussex in 1988.

Sylvia, though, was loved by her former pupils, many of whom paid tribute to the “backstage ­matriarch”.

Keeley Hawes wrote: “I wouldn’t have the career I have today without her help”.

And All Saints singer Nicole ­Appleton commented: “This is going to really affect us all who were lucky enough to be part of her amazing world growing up. What a time, the best memories.”

DJ Tony Blackburn added: “She was a very lovely lady who I had the privilege of knowing for many years. She will be sadly missed.”

Actress Sadie Frost commented online: “What a woman, what a family, what a legacy! Sending everyone so much love and support. She was always so lovely to me.”

And TV and radio presenter Kate Thornton said she “meant so much to so many”.

Sylvia did not boast about the ­success of her students and the school’s website does not mention its incredible roster of ex-pupils.

But it is hard to imagine a single drama teacher ever having as much impact as her. Sylvia’s two daughters, Alison and Frances Ruffelle, who are directors of the theatre school, said: “Our mum was a true visionary.

“She gave young people from all walks of life the chance to pursue their performing arts skills to the highest standard.

“Her rare ability to recognise raw talent and encourage all her students contributed to the richness of today’s theatre and music world, even ­winning herself an Olivier Award along the way.”

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Sylvia made it to the top of the British entertainment industry the hard way.

She was the eldest of nine children born to Abraham Bakal, a tailor’s presser, and housewife Sophie in London’s East End. Born in 1939 just after the outbreak of World War Two she remembered the air raid sirens during the Blitz of the capital.

She was evacuated to a village near Barnsley during the war, only returning home once it was over.

At the local library she was gripped by reading plays and would meet up with friends to perform them.

While still at school she joined a theatre group in North London, but her dreams of treading the boards in the West End were dashed by stage fright.

She said: “I used to lose my voice before every production. When I think about it, they were sort of panic attacks.”

Instead, she married telephone engineer Norman Ruffell in 1961 and stayed at home to look after their two daughters.

When Alison and Frances attended primary school, Sylvia started teaching drama to their fellow pupils. It cost just ten pence and the kids also got a cup of orange squash and a biscuit.

Word spread and when her ­students got the nickname the ­Young-uns, Sylvia decided to adopt the surname Young for business ­purposes.

The first Sylvia Young Theatre School was set up in 1981 in Drury Lane in the heart of London’s theatre district.

Two years later, it moved to a ­former church school in Marylebone in central London, where most of its famous pupils got their start.

Even though it is fee-paying, everyone has to pass an audition — and only one in 25 applicants are successful.

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It costs up to £7,000 per term for full-time students and only has places for 250 pupils aged ten to 16.

There are bursaries and fee reductions for pupils from less well-off backgrounds, plus a Saturday school and part-time classes.

Sylvia was always keen to avoid it being a school for rich kids.

When she took an assembly she would ask pupils, “What mustn’t we be?”, and they would shout back, “Stage school brats”.

Keeping kids level-headed when stardom beckoned was also important for the teacher.

She said: “I offer good training and like to keep the students as individual as possible.

“We develop a lot of confidence and communication skills. Of course they want immediate stardom, but they’re not expecting it. You don’t find notices up here about who’s doing what. It is actually played down tremendously.”

‘Baby Spice was lovely’

A need for discipline even applied to Sylvia’s daughter Frances, who she expelled from the school.

Frances clearly got over it, going on to have a career in musical theatre and representing the United Kingdom in the 1994 Eurovision Song Contest, finishing tenth.

Those genes were strong, with Frances’ daughter, stage name Eliza Doolittle, having a Top Five hit with Pack Up in 2010.

The ever-rebellious Amy Winehouse, who died in 2011 aged 27 from accidental alcohol poisoning, claimed to have been kicked out, too.

She said: “I was just being a brat and being disruptive and so on. I loved it there, I didn’t have a problem, I just didn’t want to conform.

“And they didn’t like me wearing a nose piercing.”

But Sylvia did not want Amy to leave. She said: “She would upset the academic teachers, except the English teacher who thought she’d be a novelist. She seemed to be just loved. But she was naughty.”

Other singers were clearly inspired by their time at the school, which moved to new premises in Westminster in 2010.

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Dua Lipa, who went to the ­Saturday school from the age of nine, was asked to sing in front of other pupils shortly after joining.

She said, “I was terrified”, but that the vocal coach “was the first person to tell me I could sing”.

Talent scouts and casting agents would put up requests on the notice board at the school. One such ­posting led to Emma Bunton ­joining the Spice Girls.

Of Baby Spice, Sylvia said: “She got away with whatever she could. But she was a lovely, happy-go-lucky individual with a sweet ­singing voice.”

Groups were also formed by ­Sylvia’s ex-pupils.

All Saints singer Melanie Blatt became best friends with Nicole Appleton at Sylvia Young’s and brought her in when her band needed new singers in 1996.

But Melanie was not complimentary about the school, once saying: “I just found the whole thing really up its own arse.”

Casting agents did, however, hold the classes in very high regard.

The professionalism instilled in the students meant that producers from major British TV shows such as EastEnders and Grange Hill kept coming back for more.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of less well-known performers treading the boards of Britain’s stages also have the school’s ethos to thank for their success.

Those achievements were recognised in the 2005 Honours List when Sylvia was awarded an OBE for services to the arts.

Sir Cameron Mackintosh, who has produced shows including Les Miserables and Cats, said: “The show that provided the greatest showcase for the young actors she discovered and nurtured is undoubtedly Oliver! which has featured hundreds of her students over the years.

“Sylvia was a pioneer who became a caring but formidable children’s agent.”

A gritty, rock-inflected comedy using the nocturnal peculiarities of Mumbai slum life as a fertile (if at times fetid) palette, British-raised Karan Kandhari’s “Sister Midnight,” about a restless young housewife’s urban malaise, easily holds your attention for long stretches when seemingly little happens, but everything feels charged.

Don’t mistake this stylish feature debut for a misery wallow, however, or some poetic character study. It’s tantalizingly oddball and indelicate: a combined daymare and night odyssey that scratches until a feral hidden strength is revealed in the misfit main character, captivatingly played by Indian star Radhika Apte.

Though the movie ultimately can’t square its episodic unpredictability with the bubbling feminist-outlaw energy at its core — not to mention the comic-book twist that shakes it all up halfway through — that’s less a bug than a feature. Like a movie DJ, Kandhari is flexing a pulpy mood of big-city dislocation, building a trippy, jarring and blackly funny experience out of a city’s stray colors, sounds and personalities.

Arriving at their one-room hovel in the dead of night, arranged-marriage newlyweds and rural transplants Uma (Apte) and Gopal (Ashok Pathak) look more like thrown-together prison cellmates adjusting to a warden’s rules than a romantic couple embracing a future together. We glean that this was a match of undesirables: the timid, sexless guy no girl wanted and the girl too outspoken to be paired.

But here they are, having to make do. Gopal at least has a job to go to, from which he often comes home hammered after drinks with colleagues. Uma, left behind in the solitude of a shack that only allows one shaft of window light, is quick to profanely protest the joyless, intimacy-challenged rut they’ve entered. Alternating between angry and exhausted, she bristles at acclimating to the domesticity that her prickly neighbor wives treat like a club handshake.

Before long, Uma’s taste for cigarettes under the moonlight turns into regular solo walks at all hours. An impulsive journey to a coastal part of town hours away leads to her taking a cleaning job in an office building (and a friendship with a glumly simpatico elevator operator). Suddenly, she’s brandishing a mop and pail everywhere like a rootless knight without a quest or a horse. Then there’s a cryptic street encounter with a goat and things get even weirder. But also, somehow, more validating.

Kandhari, with his hypnotic Wes Anderson-by-way-of-David Lynch widescreen framing and deliberate tracking shots, seems more concerned with capturing something liminal in Uma’s alternative existence, as if the city were just weird and oppressive enough to tease out any transformation that was already lying dormant. (By the time the movie introduces stop-motion creatures roaming the streets, you’ve been primed to think, “Sure, why not?”)

A mischievously off-the-wall exercise like “Sister Midnight” (which eventually embraces some gnarlier elements) needs a certain steam to keep up its deadpan wildness. Kandhari is blessed in that regard with an active visual curiosity about his cracked fable’s punk potential, helped by Sverre Sørdal’s humid cinematography and a game lead in Apte, whose middle-finger energy is sometimes hilariously offset by a wonderful silent-film-star haplessness.

One wishes it all held together a little more, instead of laying seeds that tend to sprout vibes and distractions instead of an illuminating cohesiveness. Kandhari will too often keep Uma in cartoon rebel-goddess mode, needle-dropping another classic rock cut as if daring us to accept Motorhead or Buddy Holly as the only viable soundtrack for what’s going on. But those elements are a kick, too.

Of course, the title “Sister Midnight” is an Iggy Pop staple. “What can I do about my dreams?” it growls, an apt lyric for the singularly inventive and unmanageable fever of a movie that shares its name.