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.