Portrait of the Artist as a Bearded Man

I recently completed a run as the coach, Laurie, in a production of David Williamson’s The Club. This was my fifth time at the acting trough.

Part I: Thezzing Out

Acting was never something I thought about doing, not seriously at least. Not as a career – I grew up in Perth and despite the allure of the spotlight garnered from watching movies at every opportunity, there aren’t that many avenues over there to make a solid career out of it. Sure, Heath Ledger did, so does Judy Davis and Sam Worthington. But my own reservations about doing such a thing were based in a number of factors, not being formally trained or particularly talented being among them. I graduated with journalism qualifications, and had a job to do. Then I became a school teacher and the less I had to do outside of work hours, the better. Then there’s the factor of the physical size. Among actors, especially on screen, you don’t see many that have my … dimensions. To the best of my understanding, there’s Will Smith, Tim Robbins, Vince Vaughn and Clint Eastwood who stretch past six feet tall. I’m 6’7” (which is a flat 200cm), not in any way of an athletic build, and anyone who has seen me on stage or among other actors (other people, for that matter, in any circumstance) knows I stick out like dogs balls out there. James Cromwell is apparently 6’7”, Brad Garrett is 6’8”. Anyhow, bit of a thing, a sore point. I’ve watched Inside the Actors Studio enough to know that by and large, actors have invariably (a) come from broken homes, or are the product of divorce; and (b) are shorter in stature, so it seems that the lure of the big screen, or just performing is a means by which to make themselves seem, look, feel bigger than they are. They are, for the most part, mentally unbalanced to one degree or another. Why wouldn’t they be? I mean, why would anyone on stage, screen, behind a microphone or on a professional sports arena be doing it for any other reason than saying, ‘Mummy, Daddy, look! I’m doing it!’

My parents have been happily married for nigh-on 44 years, and I don’t particularly need to feel any bigger. So I have them to blame for my emotionally stable upbringing and genetics, and have no real yearning for mass acceptance. Thanks, folks.

I had never acted before 2007. I had a walk on, non-speaking part in a high school production of Lady Windermere’s Fan. That was a few years back – 1989 to be precise. Actually speaking on stage is a different thing. I was living in Hong Kong at the time, and one drunken night (of which there were many) I got to chatting with Wendy Herbert, who was staging a production of Don’s Party. I was offered a role (she was either possessed of instinct, desperation, or both).

‘I’ve never acted before,’ I slurred, throwing back more red wine.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told me. ‘I feel like you’ve got enough personality and stage presence to pull it off.’

Wendy might not have said precisely that, as it was Chinese New Year and I was under the influence. It was an interesting SMS to get the next morning telling me that a script was waiting for me. Script? What scri… oh Hell. We met, I got the script, and Wendy promised that at the very least, somehow I’d get laid (and she wasn’t lying either … ahem).

The thing that I’ve found with acting is that it’s not the actual performance that matters the most to me, it’s the process of figuring it out. It’s been my experience five times now that you walk into your first rehearsal with one idea in mind about how your character will speak and act, and after weeks of rehearsing, it’s entirely a different matter.

We did six weeks’ rehearsal, at least three times a week on Don’s Party and performed it all of five times leading up to a Saturday night. I thought I would be a nervous wreck going out there. But it was just like rehearsal, except warmer, and there was laughter when I said something that was apparently funny. Didn’t happen that much, but when it did… I tells ya, the first time was like that first shot of heroin (so I’m told). As an experience, it was totally worth it. I’ve made lifelong friends from that show.

Some time passed. I auditioned for a HK production of Secret Bridesmaids’ Business and didn’t get the one male role in the show; it was the first rejection I got. To hell with am-dram, I thought. Humbug. Their loss. I moved back to Melbourne (not because of that, just as it happens) and about a year later auditioned for a role in Nuts, in the part that Richard Dreyfuss played on screen. Because, I’m totally right for the part of a middle aged New York Jewish lawyer (I can do the accent, no problem, but…) didn’t get it.

The next one, I did. It was a production of Aaron Sorkin’s A Few Good Men, and while I went for the Tom Cruise part, I got the Kiefer Sutherland part and thought, aha... that’s the stuff. A shorn head, southern drawl and a pair of unflattering glasses, and I was in that for good and all. Quoting scripture, being a royal prick. It was great; an immeasurable amount of fun. Didn’t matter that a full house meant 65 people, it was the doing it (heh) that mattered. It got reviewed, and the critic said I was ‘…also effective.’ Kudos!

I also got nominated for an award, but didn’t win. It’s not about the awards, man.

I went for another lead, and got another supporting part in The Philadelphia Story (I had to tell 80% of people that it wasn’t the Tom Hanks AIDS drama). When you do plays in a place like Heidelberg, you end up performing in front of a decent sized crowd in a big, spacious theatre. I’ve seen ‘professional’ productions at the MTC done in smaller spaces, with actors endowed with far less impressive range, and unable to properly master the standard American accent, than what I’ve seen (and for that matter, been a part of) in community theatre. She who had the lead in The Philadelphia Story (Aimee Sanderson) is an untapped gem; as talented an actor as any you’ll see on local stages or TV screens. But it’s non-professional, so you don’t get a look in to the professional world. Therein lies part of the problem – you could be as talented as the day is long, but it don’t add up to a hill of beans if it’s a community theatre production. It’s a kind of artistic fascism.

I liked the opportunity to do new and different things, so auditioned for the lead in Aaron Sorkin’s The Farnsworth Invention in early 2011. And, because it wasn’t the right fit for me, I got offered five supporting roles instead. I wasn’t all that keen to take them on, and I said to the director, Shane Ryan, that it didn’t seem plausible that there would be five people in different points through the play’s narrative that looked like me (‘… a mobile flat,’ per Keith Hutton). But Shane wasn’t concerned about that, and we got on with it. A fine, complex, dense piece of work is Farnsworth. It really has no business being on stage (the scope suggests a movie treatment), but because it’s Sorkin, it somehow works. But taking on five characters without any real personality or development, rehearsing over six weeks, then performing over three with only Monday nights off took its toll. Steve Shinkfield (rightly) got the lead in that, and played it with commensurate skill, which is what you would expect from someone of his extensive credits and talents. It was the night of the final dress rehearsal that I had a moment of clarity and realised I wasn’t cut out for the stage. All that effort, the head cold that went through the whole cast and despite the quality of the production, it wasn’t that enjoyable experience as far as acting goes. Exhausting, for that matter. It dawned on me then that if you want the good parts, the meaty ones, you had to do the hard yards. Build up a cache of performances in small roles, supporting ones, bit parts over time and get enough credo to take on the mighty lead role. You don’t just walk off the street and play Stanley Kowalski.

I hung up my boots after Farnsworth’s final curtain. I decided that my creative impulses could be sated in other areas, and that the hard yards requisite of the substantial roles were beyond my grasp, as getting to these rehearsals tended to take more time than it should have. I live in the inner northern suburbs, and a vast majority of these theatre companies … aren’t. Brighton, Mordialloc, Frankston, Malvern, Williamstown… not as convenient as one might hope. Three rehearsals a week for six weeks, then three weeks of performance; it’s like a second full-time job for which you don’t get paid. And I haven’t the first clue if I’m good or not, I just take other people’s word for it. I can’t bear the notion of watching myself perform. All the glimpses of video footage I’ve seen of myself on stage have made me want to hurl (at the very least) abuse, or at worst, food at the screen.

STAND UP STRAIGHT! STOP BEING A FOOT TALLER THAN EVERYONE ELSE! STOP SPEAKING SO QUICKLY! STOP BEING RUBBISH!

All a bit much, although not uncommon, I’ve read. Johnny Depp has never seen one of his movies. Can’t bear the thought of seeing himself on screen. So it’s me & Johnny Depp.

Two years passed before I even contemplated the idea of ‘coming out of retirement’, and that itself is the kind of preposterously arrogant twaddle that such enterprises instil in me. Keith Hutton, who was someone else who played five parts in Farnsworth was directing The Club. It’s a great play, got turned into a great film, and the idea of doing it was very alluring. We were both at Shane Ryan’s housewarming, and Keith had been trawling social media for male actors to be in this play for months. I had flirted with the idea, but it was going to be performed in some godforsaken place called Clayton, and I hadn’t the first clue if it was even a real suburb.

I got to talking to Keith. I said, not too subtly, that if I was to choose a role in the play, it’d be Laurie, the coach. Straight-faced, Keith looked at me and said, ‘It’s yours if you want it. I’ll cast you right now.’

I said, foretelling a line from the script, ‘I’ll think about it.’

I walked upstairs to get more beer. Talked about it with Shane, was encouraged to do it. I mean, how often do you get offered something like that based on trust? I’d been having a rough trot of it, emotionally. I could use a distraction, and playing the lead in a two-act play is nothing if not distracting. I went back downstairs, shook Keith’s hand and that was it.

Then the real pressure started.

Portrait of the Artist as a Bearded Man (2/2)

Part II: Yelling on Cue

The Encore Theatre Company performs its plays at the Clayton Community Centre, which has a 135-seat theatrette attached to a library, a gym, a swimming pool and is opposite the electoral office of Simon Crean, funnily enough. As a performance space, it’s aces, but you don’t rehearse there. The rehearsal space is a converted indoor basketball court a short drive away; uninsulated and as a result, creates an atmosphere akin to rehearsing in a meat locker. Your best work doesn’t come out when you’re trying to remember your lines, all the while trying to keep the blood circulating in your feet to prevent your frostbitten toes falling off.

The day Keith held open auditions back in May, I showed up to read with the chaps who wanted parts. I was pre-cast, so I had nothing to worry about, except right from the word go I was convinced I was shithouse at it. Right from the start I was thinking, they’re all better at this than me. They’ll resent me for being pre-cast when I’m not that good. As you might gather, I set myself a high water mark right off the bat. That first audition was slick, fast, small and complete within minutes. Tim Byron as Jock (playing older), Greg Barison as Gerry (playing sleazy). Tim’s not been at this for long, but OWNS this play. Greg’s never auditioned for anything before, just made a habit out of doing pantomimes and having scripts sent to him. Keith’s got Geoff Arnold lined up for Ted, who was finishing up August: Osage County – doing what a lot of folks do, which is jump out of one production and dive right into the next one. Geoff’s literally done more plays than he can remember, and is an example of better living through chemistry. Scott Broadfoot as Geoff, who shows up with professional screen credits. He’s been on the tele (Neighbours, Underbelly and whatnot). He has an agent and everything. Pressure. Matthew Coote in the thankless role of Danny, who shows up in the thing three times and spends most of the play backstage. He’s also got an agent and just landed a role in a film. So every other person involved in this play has more experience than me. More pressure.

Learning lines is tough. It’s only recently – after several months – that I’ve picked up a book that isn’t the script. Every train journey, small space at work, lying on the couch at home or waiting for friends to arrive at the pub had me going over the lines. Hoping that rote learning will get the job done. I speak 279 lines of dialogue in this play, which covers a total of 14 pages, and is 4563 words. Some of them are single word lines, like ‘Yes!’, or ‘Rubbish!’ Then there are more challenging bits, like ‘…despite what your economics books tell you, I’m not entirely convinced that pragmatism’s absolutely irreversible.’ Because people say things like that all the time. There are moments in rehearsal when you think you’ve got it down, and you don’t, and you worry that you’ll never remember it all. But you do. Somehow. I was convinced several times that Keith would have to take me aside very quietly and gently let me off the hook for being the crappy weight that would sink this vessel, but it never happened. There’s a moment where something snaps, or clicks, and it’s just embedded there. You block your scenes, you do small sections of acts first, then whole acts, then the whole thing. You make do with what you have, you try to build on your performance. As part of my preparation, I look in the mirror and give line readings, and hope that the performance I give is the performance I would want to see, as a viewer, nee, a critic.

The company is staffed by retirees who serve as volunteers, and the set was constructed in an afternoon by what looked to be the touring company of Dad’s Army. We’ve had some publicity in some local papers, and I was photographed with four of the other actors, with a caption that identified me as ‘Matt Revin’, for some unimaginable reason. They provide Assorted Cream biscuits for the actors, which is a nice touch.

I have to spend most of the play in a bad mood. I’m basically playing Mick Malthouse here, but a guy in his mid 40s, so to subjugate my youthful countenance, I grew a beard. One, it’s set in the 1970s and it’s my recollection that everyone had some kind of facial hair in that era. And, two, I just turned 38 and I don’t look 38 (I drink lots of water and haven’t fathered any children). Needing to look older than 38, the beard makes me look at least ten years older than I usually do.

Being in a foul mood comes pretty easy to me, I have to admit, but there are moments when I have to fly into a volcanic rage. One scene in particular. I hate doing that scene. Hate it. Scott’s a really talented, professionally trained actor and he has this way of doing a 1000 yard stare that would make a lamp post feel uncomfortable, and when I’m yelling – all but screaming at him – I feel just awful. He’s yelling at me. Why is he angry at me? We were just joking back stage. I’m yelling at him and I don’t want to. I don’t hate him at all. So this scene has me reach a crescendo where I yell at him about how unless he improves his attitude, I’ll drop him to the reserves for the rest of his career. I literally (proper use of the term) cannot yell louder or with more anger and venom than I do. And it’s not naturally a go-to response for me. I’m seldom that angry. I do surly well, but not explosive. Each and every time I do it, which took a long time to get to what it ended up being on stage, it’s exhausting, and rips my vocal chords apart. I speak like Barry White for a solid two hours after final curtain and am mentally frazzled. So it’s a sweet relief that I can sit down and just all-but chill for the remainder of the play, until I have to yell at Greg/Gerry about what an oily little weasel he is. I get to drink on stage at this point (iced tea in a scotch bottle) and I think if I had to do anything more than what I do, it’d all be a bit much.

We did 11 performances. Some performances were better than others, some audiences were better than others. Second to last one was an ill-conceived Saturday matinee where the audience outnumbered the cast by two people. Disheartening to say the least. On the other hand, one earlier performance had friends of mine giggling every time I called someone a turd, and cheered when I said ‘Bullshit!’, because apparently they thought they were at a pantomime.

The thing with this business is, you don’t do it with the hope of scaling the heights of fame, being discovered and then being cast in a film which gets you representation at William Morris; the next thing you know, you’re Eric Bana or Russell Crowe or Cate Blanchett or someone else. It is, for the lack of a better word, a hobby. A pastime. You’ll invariably be performing for a small crowd of octogenarians who’re dozy after a steady diet of Mogadon sandwiches and lamingtons, and the only reward you’ll get out of it is the satisfaction of a job well done. Once you get your mind around the fact that you’re not getting paid for it, it’s a most pleasant way to spend some time. It’s also the equivalent of what the Brits call ‘rep’, learning the craft in real situations, giving it professional attention and devotion. The only thing that differentiates what’s done on community stages as opposed to professional ones is the money. The Club was directed by someone who has been acting for 45 years and done in excess of 150 shows, but nobody with any connections to professional theatre shows up. Their loss.

I’ve been through some … stuff this past year. Had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of … stuff to process. The thing about being on stage is that when you’re out there, there’s a surge of adrenaline and there is nothing outside that scene that permeates. The disappointments of your life, the traumas and stresses don’t so much evaporate as disappear altogether and you’re nothing more than that guy in that situation, with that beard, and your motivation is nothing more than getting it done, and well. You have to stay on your toes in case someone in the cast takes a mid-play elocution safari or just forgets their lines. It’s happened more than once. I’ve delivered the wrong lines; Geoff sometimes looks at you in a way that suggests, ‘Well, I can’t find what I need right now, you have a go!’, and in our second Sunday matinee, Tim did a mid-show edit by accidentally dropping an entire page of dialogue from his performance. The thing is, nobody in the audience notices and everyone on stage thinks (in hindsight) that it’s hilarious. We never got it perfect. But it’s the arts: is there a perfect to be got?

We’ve got some good feedback. People who saw the thing liked it and seemed to get value for money. A man who looked about 103 told me that he thought the first act was boring, but the second act lifted enough that he enjoyed himself. My advice to him was to register his grievances with David Williamson, not me. Another lady told me I was ‘… so very noble.’

That’s all very rewarding to know, but the thing is, I’m doing this for me, and it’s been great to know that I can do justice to a great part in a great play. Creatively, it’s hit all the right notes in me. I’ll not do another one for at least a year or so, but for this one I’ve felt I’ve added something, been a part of something good. I’ve felt a sense of camaraderie, felt a sense of responsibility, engaged in a rewarding routine and helped to build something good.

So, no cigar-chomping talent agent spotted me. So, Martin Scorsese wasn’t in the crowd. So what? Their loss. I had fun.