The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life

by Jarratt, John

  He was gay, but all bloke. I called him ‘the Butch Queen of New Orleans’. I had a big fight with Rosa once and I walked out and went to stay with Hargreaves. I said to him, ‘You know, I should go on the turn and join you lot, I get along a lot better with blokes.’ John looked at me for a moment and shook his head. ‘Naaah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, you’d be a butch queen like me and you’d end up with a girlie one like her over there,’ he said, pointing to his boyfriend. ‘Trouble is, they’re just like women, only they hit harder!’

  I met Graham Kennedy at his mansion in Hunters Hill. Eight years earlier I had been sitting in Townsville watching this guy, the most famous Australian on earth at the time. He was better than Johnny Carson: this bloke could ad-lib on live TV for an hour and a half any time he liked. The guy was a genius. His acting was brilliant in Don’s Party and Travelling North but he was totally miscast in The Odd Angry Shot. It should have been Jack Thompson. Graham wasn’t big enough, butch enough or fit enough for the role. He was a chain-smoking, hard-drinking little fella.

  He met me at the door of his house and invited me in. He asked me if I’d like a drink, which I declined because I was driving. He made me a cup of tea and we sat down for a yarn about the Odd Angry Shot script. If he hadn’t have been in it, it wouldn’t have been made. He was too bright not to know he wasn’t right for it and I did detect a bit of an apology for that in his conversation. He did ask me to put a good word in to the ‘wonderful young actors’ to look after him. I did convey his message just before we started shooting. Hargreaves’s comment was, ‘This is a fuckin’ feature film. If he can’t keep up, fuck him, let’s throw everything at him’ – typical Hargreaves. Graham might have been miscast, but that didn’t take away the fact that he was a bloody good actor. He knew his lines and he knew what he was supposed to do. He rose above his limitations. The Odd Angry Shot is one of the most highly regarded films I’ve been involved in. Graham did all right. He was complicated but at his core was a heart as big as Phar Lap’s and he respected where he came from. He had jars with pencils in them around his mansion. It was a constant reminder that when he was a kid, his mum couldn’t afford them. They still had a fair collection, as Graham became adept at stealing them for her.

  The Canungra army base in the hills above the Gold Coast was the location for the film. The government had provided the Army as part of the film deal. A reluctant major was told to ‘volunteer’ to turn us into SAS soldiers in two weeks. ‘I have to do in two weeks what it takes three years to do in real life. What a joke.’

  This guy didn’t know actors. We’ve got two things going for us. One, we are great mimics and we pick things up quickly. Two, we have great egos and we refuse to look bad on screen. He couldn’t believe what we achieved in such a short time. His grumpiness turned into a smile and he had to eat his words.

  This was a great experience for me, on and off the screen. I could write a book on just this alone.

  We did this scene that involved a tricky crane shot. The crane starts high and wide above our tent camp. The siren sounds and suddenly we all run out of our tents and head for the armoury tent. The camera cranes down and settles on three of us at the armoury tent.

  Tony Barry is giving out ammo. He asks John Hargreaves, ‘What would you like, Bung?’

  ‘An AK belt and two white Phos. Send the bill to Ho Chi Minh.’

  The next line is to me. ‘What about you, Bill?’

  ‘A plane ticket home.’

  We rehearsed it and now it was time to shoot. This was a difficult, expensive shot to pull off, plus it had rain effects.

  Take 1, ‘Action!’

  We raced into the armoury tent.

  ‘What would you like, Bung?’

  Hargreaves said, ‘A wet cunt would be nice.’

  Take 2.

  It was Saturday afternoon in Surfers. Browny, Hargreaves, Blundell, a couple of others and I were in a beer garden having a drink. Fred Schepisi (who directed The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith) wandered in with a couple of women whom he introduced as his nieces. He was there for the exhibitors and distributors conference, so we decided to invite ourselves to it.

  By the time we arrived we were all well on the way. We gate-crashed Fred’s table and they had to make up another table for those we displaced. Hargreaves sat at the head of the table; beside him was Jim Oram, a Sunday papers journo who was looking for a ‘Fear and Loathing’ story from us. He was rolling joints under the table and fuelling Hargreaves, as he was a known and easy target.

  ‘Look at this room full of exhibitors, Hargreaves. They handle movies every day and not one of them knows who you or your mates are.’

  Steam was starting to build up in Hargreaves. The President of the Exhibitors and Distributors comes to our table. ‘I believe Mr Schepisi is at this table?’

  Hargreaves pipes up, ‘Yes, I’m Jim Schepisi and that’s Bryan Jarratt, John Brown, Graeme Hargreaves, John Blundell and Fred Oram.’

  ‘Would you mind saying a few words about your new film?’

  ‘I’d be honoured.’ Oram leaped into Hargreaves’s ear.

  ‘See what I mean, they wouldn’t have a clue, just interested in Hollywood and how much money they can make.’

  Hargreaves got to his feet and said in a very loud voice for all to hear, ‘You’re all a bunch of four-by-two cunts!’ (For a bloke who preferred boys, he sure did like that word.) A bouncer came straight to the table and started dragging Hargreaves out. We all jumped up like the Keystone Cops and raced after them. Hargreaves was trying to get at this monster bouncer, so Bryan and I grabbed him.

  I pleaded with the bouncer, ‘Don’t hit him, mate, he’s in a film, don’t bust his face.’

  Bloody Fred decided he had to go to the toilet. While we were waiting for him, we managed to calm Hargreaves.

  Fred came back. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s under control.’

  Fred looked over my shoulder. ‘Fuck!’

  Hargreaves was now punching the bouncer, who turned Hargreaves around and threw him down the stairs. It was a long flight of stairs, and Hargreaves bounced down them at a horrible rate. At the bottom was a set of double glass doors. Hargreaves lurched up, hit the doors and ended up flat out on the footpath.

  We all raced down and stood around Hargreaves, who was lying there, eyes closed. ‘Hargreaves, Johnny, you all right?’

  An eye opened. ‘Did you like the way I went through the double doors?’

  Oram got his story.

  Oram’s Sunday story described Bryan and me ‘whoring around the Gold Coast’. This was crap and we prayed our women wouldn’t read it. As far as I know, Bryan didn’t sleep around and neither did Blundell or I, although I can’t say the same about Hargreaves. We went to bars, had a good time, danced with girls and that’s about it. We managed to get kicked out of all the night spots but one, because of our excessive drinking habits. A band was playing at one joint and Bryan decided to dance with a couple of girls, and the fact they were already dancing with a couple of guys didn’t seem to faze him. The bump was big in those days, so Bryan decided to bump the guys out of the way. One of them grabbed Bryan by the shirt and banged him into the wall. Bryan stared angrily at this guy with his big eyes and started ranting. The band was too loud to for me to hear what he was saying but it must have been persuasive because this guy turned white and slowly let Bryan go. We got kicked out.

  Another time Bryan and I were dancing at a bar. The bouncer came over and said, ‘No dancing at the bar.’ Without a word, we took two steps away from the bar and kept dancing. We got kicked out. The only place we had left was this hard-arsed bar called the Terrace.

  Tony Barry turned up to do his bit in the movie. Tony did his acting training at Kings Cross. He started out as a barker, became the comic warm-up for the strippers and finally graduated to the club circuit. Tough cookie. We warned him he couldn’t play up at the Terrace. He just admonished us at what bad ambassadors we were for the Oz
film industry.

  Graham Kennedy had never been out to a disco bar, so we surrounded him and took him to the Terrace that night. We told the staff that Graham wanted to be left alone. If anyone so much as looked at Graham they threw them out. Graham left early and we kicked on. We left in the small hours. Bryan and I were walking down the stairs and a body flew past and landed out cold. We looked back up and there at the top of the stairs rubbing his fist was Tony Barry. Bryan and I did what any friends would do: we took off.

  As we were heading home we heard sirens, and an ambulance flashed past heading in the direction of the Terrace. We were convinced Tony would be locked up for sure. Not so! After we left, Tony ran down the steps, removed his jacket and placed it under the unconscious bloke’s head. He instructed someone to call an ambulance. He told the cops the bloke was drunk and started arguing with him at the bar. It got heated and the bloke had started throwing punches, Tony right-crossed him and he fell down the stairs. He said he was very concerned and wanted to go to the hospital with the bloke. He was very convincing, as the coppers asked Tony if he wanted to press charges. Tony was and still is Mr Smooth.

  Scotland Island

  Back home for Christmas 1978. The house was almost finished: we were up to the cladding, trimming and painting stage. Zadia was a year old and just starting to walk. Everything in the house was just above baby reach. I just loved her so much that I didn’t know what to do with the love energy. I just wanted to pick her up and squeeze her all the time. I’d let out overwhelming grunts of absolute pleasure at this beautiful soul Rosa and I had created as a result of connected love. We’d take her down to the beach at the bottom of the hill and play for hours. I’d sit on the track at the back of the house watching her entranced by ants for ages. Life seemed really complete then, but it was slowly and insidiously starting to unravel.

  There were many young families on the island as it was a great and inexpensive way to get a start in life. With that came the social life. I started drinking more often and I was becoming an expert gardener specialising in a very popular Scotland Island plant called marijuana. I was stoned most of the time and drunk at most get-togethers. I wasn’t averse to any other drug going around, either. I drew the line at heroin, but I thought it must be absolutely amazing if people were willing to die for it.

  Dope became a big part of my everyday life. I had to drive to Melbourne for a job once. I’d organised a block of hash for the trip, but when I went in the morning to pick it up, my supplier hadn’t got his stash through. I couldn’t imagine driving all the way to Melbourne straight, so I spent four hours driving around Sydney until I scored. This was not a good space to be in for mature growth.

  A Streetcar Named Desire

  After Christmas I went to Brisbane to play Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire. I loved the film, which was (and still is) my favourite Brando performance. I loved doing this play; it was easily my best theatrical experience. Tennessee Williams is a brilliant playwright. You could not change a line or a stage direction without messing with the rhythm of the piece.

  On stage was okay but off stage was a bit of a hassle. In theatre, in those days, everyone associated with the play except the actors was mentioned. If you don’t believe me, check out some old Oz theatre company posters. They had a display of the play in a prestigious bookshop in town. Two Marlon Brando books were wrapped around a model of the set. The newspaper ad featured the famous Brando torn T-shirt photo. I complained about it and they said it was the only way to get attention. Blue Fin was on in town, Picnic at Hanging Rock was playing in the suburbs and The Odd Angry Shot was about to come out. I organised my own press and got a double-page spread in the Courier Mail.

  All the Queensland Theatre Company staff and the company director were in the audience for the dress rehearsal. I did my best Marlon Brando. They stopped the show and yelled at me from the auditorium.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘My best Marlon Brando.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s what you want.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Look, he’s a bit old for the part, but you never know, he might do it – send a telegram to Tahiti. If you want me to do it, get rid of the Brando books and get the Brando photo out of the advertising.’

  They did as I asked and we were a hit. I had the absolute pleasure of inviting Mr Spearot to the opening night. He was the Longreach headmaster who suggested I become an actor. He very proudly told all and sundry how he was responsible for my career and he was right.

  The Last Outlaw

  Back in Sydney I screen-tested for the role of Ned Kelly in an upcoming four-part miniseries called The Last Outlaw. After a couple of callbacks the role was down to me and Mel Gibson. We both wanted it badly. I was driving from the Northern Beaches along the Wakehurst Parkway on the way to the final screen test screaming, ‘I am Ned Kelly, I am Ned Kelly!’

  I got the role, I think in part due to the fact that I looked more like Ned than Mel did, and I was also the same height and build. Mel was really upset that he didn’t get it and rightly so. I would have felt exactly the same.

  The miniseries was due to start shooting in early 1980 and released in late 1980, to coincide with the centenary of Ned’s hanging. I was paid to grow a beard and perfect an Irish accent over four months. Over those four months I drove to the mountains once a week to get riding lessons from the late great Bert Carlon. Bert had worked on movies and TV shows going back to the fifties. He provided horses and riders. I had met him on a short film called The Tree three years earlier. Ned Kelly could gallop downhill, which is very difficult and the reason they couldn’t catch him. That’s what I was aiming at. I got close but Bert pulled me up.

  ‘You wanna play Ned next year or be in hospital?’ Made sense.

  While I was growing my beard I went to an awards night called the Sammies, where I ran into Peter Weir.

  ‘I’m making Gallipoli next year, you’d be great in it.’

  ‘Sounds great, but I’ll be playing Ned in a miniseries next year.’

  ‘That’s a bugger.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I don’t know which part he was thinking of, if any at that stage.

  Life works in strange ways. I could’ve been in Mad Max and Gallipoli, but then I would have missed out on playing Ned. That character and the Wolf Creek character are the acting highlights of my life and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve never begrudged Mel’s fame and fortune. Quite the opposite: he’s gifted, his talent is extraordinary and I’m very proud of him.

  My great-grandmother on Dad’s side was Mary Kilcoy Kelly, from Ararat in Victoria. There’s talk that she was related to Ned. We tried to track it – her parents were Irish immigrants but we couldn’t find any paperwork about them in Ireland. Dad’s father met Mary Carr, a shearer’s cook, at a station near Aramac, would you believe. Her parents were Irish. Mum’s father was first-generation, born in Balmain. His parents were Irish immigrants. Mum’s mother’s parents were a mixture of Irish, English and Chinese. So I’m about 85 per cent Irish, 12 per cent English and 3 per cent Chinese.

  We arrived in Melbourne for The Last Outlaw in early 1980. It was bloody hot. We spent a fortnight getting used to our horses and learning the Irish ethic. An actor called Frank Gallacher drilled into us what it was like to be lower-class Irish Australians in the nineteenth century. The other Kelly Gang actors were Steve Bisley, John Ley, Ric Herbert, Lewis Fitz-Gerald, Peter Hehir and David Bradshaw. We’re all still mates except for Johnny Ley. He was a weird and wonderful bloke, a little eccentric but much loved. He kind of disappeared up the north coast in the nineties and we’ve lost contact. The actresses were Elaine Kussack, Debra Lawrance, Sigrid Thornton, Kaarin Fairfax, Celia De Burgh and Jackie Kelleher. We’ve kept contact over the years and we sometimes go to the Ned Kelly weekend at Beechworth.

  We started with Episode 2, then 3 and 4 and then Episode 1 backwards, so that I ended up at the beginning age sixteen and be
ardless. The Ned Kelly story is mega, and I knew that if I played the character as anything less than a tour de force, I would fail.

  The first scene took place in the Kelly house, an exact replica of an original slab hut. I was having a discussion with my mother in the scene. Frank was on hand to make sure we got off to a good start. He took me outside to have a word.

  ‘J J, you’re whispering.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘You are, believe me. Find your voice.’

  ‘Bullshit, I’m fine.’

  I went back in to complete the scene. I opened my mouth and I was whispering. I stopped the take and said, ‘Do you mind if I rehearse this again, please?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Just give me a minute.’

  I walked out and Frank followed.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, give me a minute.’

  I went behind a tree and did my lines in a loud, confident way. I took a deep breath and walked back in, telling myself, I’m Ned Kelly talking to his mum. Find the moment.

  We rolled camera and I gave it my best shot. We completed the scene and Frank came up, shook my hand and said, ‘G’day, Ned, pleased to meet you finally.’ I didn’t realise that although I’d convinced myself I was up for it and confident, deep inside I was shitting myself.

  The Last Outlaw was a full-on six months, the hardest I’ve ever worked. It was mentally and physically punishing, and spiritually uplifting.

  In the second week we were on our horses. Bizo and I could ride, Ric Herbert was a natural, Lewis would be next, followed by Pete and Johnny. We’d all worked hard at it and none of us looked shabby. I rode a sixteen-and-a-half-hand, thoroughbred, blue-ribbon stockhorse, the same size and colour as Ned’s mare, Mirth. I called mine Mirth too. I fell in love with her so I bought her after the show and took her back to Bert Carlon’s property. She only lasted a few years. She came across a weed called strangle grass that made her throat swell, and she choked to death.