The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life

by Jarratt, John

  Thank God I’m an alcoholic in AA.

  After the revelation with my boy self, the counsellor told me another wonderful thing. Your nemesis is a thirty-year-old intimi­dating coalminer from 1960, not the silly old bugger living at Elanora Heights. I forgave Dad and learnt to love him in his old age and concentrated on dealing with Bruce the coalminer.

  Brian came to me with a problem around this time. He was working as a real estate agent, and a bloke had stood over him and berated him about being gazumped. Brian was in the right but he started shaking all over and became overwhelmed by the attack. Brian was 5 foot 9, 90-odd kilos, fit as, and amazing with his fists: he could have had this bloke for breakfast. I knew what this was about: it was the coalminer from 1960 coming back to haunt him. Brian got counselling advice and overcame the problem. He’s worked hard on bettering himself. He’s a wonderful man with a great outlook, and he’s a pleasure to be with. Lightning wit, funny, one of the funniest blokes I’ve ever met.

  I scored another gig, which was exciting because they were few and far between. Noni was earning most of the money with her Playschool gigs and other bits and pieces. I’m a bit old school and feel uncomfortable if I’m not bringing in the bacon. It was Inspector Morse ‘Promised Land’, and I played the country copper out at Cowra. It was the basic whodunnit. I really can’t stand cop shows, there are so many of them and have been for as long as I can remember. Noni liked The Bill so I watched a few of those. If I have to watch I’d prefer Pommie to Yank. I never watch those, but I’m highly amused by the promos. What’s the latest, CSI Dubbo?

  John Thaw and Kevin Whately were the stars. Thankfully, I did most of my work with Kevin. I couldn’t work out if John Thaw was shy or up himself. He didn’t talk to anyone, and I never saw him out and about. He was either in his trailer or in his hotel room. Not a bad actor, but I thought he was a bit samey. I enjoyed my time on it, working with a nice bunch of Aussie actors: Noah Taylor, Rhondda Findleton, Peter Browne and Max Phipps. My funniest memory was walking with Pete Browne to get a coffee. The cafe had a lot of lace on the windows, not a good sign, and it was run by a couple of big-bummed country girls in floral dresses. One was cooking and the other took our order. She had a pen and paper but she didn’t write it down – she yelled the orders back to the cook.

  ‘What would you like, love?’

  ‘Cappuccino, please.’

  Back over her shoulder, ‘One cup of chino! Waddabout you, love?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll have a cappuccino too, thanks.

  ‘Two cups of chino!’

  Love being in the country.

  There’s always the theatre, darling

  With very little TV and film work happening, my agent tried to get me theatre work. I love theatre: I enjoy rehearsing and having the time to fully immerse myself in the story and the character. I think it’s important and it makes you a better actor. Moneywise, when you’ve got a mortgage and children, you’ll do anything except theatre because it’s all-encompassing, it gives you very little time to do anything else for at least three months and, most importantly, the pay is lousy. It doesn’t pay the bills. If you’re single, that’s less of a problem.

  The first play I did was at the Opera House. It was by far the worst theatrical experience of my life. The director was a dictator: his way or the highway. His boyfriend, who was also the assistant director, took me aside and showed me how I should perform my role. I’d been in the biz for nearly twenty years, this boy had only done a handful of acting work and he was telling me how to act. I needed the work so I just bit my tongue and did what Blundell said: ‘Face the front and go for the laughs.’

  The next play was Diving for Pearls with Robyn Nevin, Marshall Napier and Jenny Cronin. It was directed by Neil Armfield, the best director going around. It was a play about a working-class family in Wollongong. I could relate to that! The play was a hit, the performances were grand, but something strange happened to me. I lost confidence and I don’t think I was very good. The humbling experience of working on the previous play and the fact I wasn’t being offered any work at the time seemed to have undermined my confidence. Neil kept telling me I was fine, but I thought he was being nice. I got by.

  My next play was back at Belvoir with Neil again, so he must have seen something in my dithering performance. This play was called Aftershocks, with Jeremy Sims and Lynette Curran. Jeremy Sims was brilliant and I really enjoyed his company on this gig. The play was a compilation of interviews with people who’d endured the Newcastle earthquake. It was a kind of documentary performed live on stage. It was a massive hit and I nailed it. The reviews were great and some very nice things were said about my performance. I didn’t feel at all uncomfortable and that was thanks to Neil’s faith in me. Neil said, ‘A classical role for you next.’ I’m still available, Neil.

  I did four plays during those tough times. Dead Heart was a new play by Nicholas Parsons, about a hard-headed cop trying to keep an Indigenous settlement under control. It became about who was in control of whom and which side was racist. It’s a gripping, well-constructed, provocative, thoughtful piece. Bryan Brown had the film rights and later did the film version. I joked that I did Off-Broadway for Bryan.

  NIDA had a professional program putting on new plays using pro actors with NIDA crew and facilities. The best part was that my mentor, John Clark, was directing. He’s a great director, his Oh! What a Lovely War was by far the best production in my time at NIDA. The brilliant casting included my mate from Never Never, Tommy Lewis, and the late great David Ngoombujarra. My character was complex and brutal, probably the gutsiest character so far in my career. I enjoyed playing that character and the rest of the cast were into it. Clarky got the whole thing singing. It was a great experience.

  There were five blackfellas in the cast. Bob Maza and Tom Lewis didn’t drink. The three who did drink all went missing during rehearsal at one time or another without informing anyone. When they came back, each of them said they were sorry about going away, but they had to go to a funeral. When the third guy said this I asked, ‘How come the three of you who drink have all gone to funerals and the two who don’t drink haven’t been to funerals or missed a day?’ Long uncomfortable silence.

  I did a few ‘guesties’ on TV series, just chasing a buck. The only formidable gig I had was a telemovie called Joh’s Jury about Joh Bjelke Petersen’s perjury trail. It was mainly shot in the jury room at a long table. The rehearsal was intense. We had to study the original transcripts and find out what our characters had to say. Then the writer would give us a guide, we’d run through it a few times, and when we were comfortable we’d film it wide open three times, trying to stick to the guidelines with a whole lot of ad lib thrown in. The writer would then go home, listen to it and try to write the script from it. It worked a treat. It was a horrific thing to try to shoot and record. Twelve seasoned performers all talking at once. In the end we’d shoot six people down one end of the table and then shoot the six at the other end. Sometimes you’d say half a line and mime the rest so as not to overlap another actor’s line. Complex, but interesting. No room for bludgers: you had to work hard for it.

  Noah Taylor was playing a wheelchair-bound leftie and Malcolm Kennard was playing a right-wing prick. In Queensland they’ve got the Big everything: the Big Pineapple, the Big Cow and the Big Mower, to name a few. Noah was in full flight ad-libbing to Mal Kennard. ‘You know what’s gonna happen to you? They’re going to make a big statue of you and put it in front of Government House and call it the Big Arsehole.’

  Raising kids

  I was a little numb at this time and I don’t think I was very happy. I remember more about my kids. Zadia was in her mid-teens. Kids in their mid-teens don’t hang out with their parents, whether they’re living with them or not. I know: I’ve got four adult kids, they’re all different and they all disappeared at fourteen or fifteen and came back around about twenty. Girls go out of the house a lot; boys go into their bedrooms.

  Za
dia was a very bright, intuitive, talented, stable person, much more together and wise than I was. In some respects, she’s still ahead of me. She is now working with me and my film company. She’s more interested in the other side of the camera, but I keep writing her into small roles in my films because I know she can cut it.

  Ebony was quiet and shy. She’d been staying over since she was three. When she was about five, I picked her up and she’d had a haircut and was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Rosa explained that she wanted to be a boy from now on and her name was Tom.

  ‘Ah…okay, well, let’s go, Tom. Have you got your bag?’ I thought, Ah well, every family has at least one fairy in the garden, this is ours, but it turned out to be a phase. She was well behaved at school, she was bright, she did well, she had friends. Then she became Teenage-asaurus Rex – stay tuned.

  Charlie was born full-on and he’ll go out full-on. He knows two speeds: stop and flat-out. I love all my kids equally, including my grandkids; however, they are all wonderfully different. Charlie was always a handful, or as he describes it, ‘I was a pain in the arse.’ He wasn’t. A pain in the arse is part of it but overall I’d like to describe him as magnificently over the top. It started with not sleeping as a baby. From two this bright little bugger took the world on and his world at the time was me and Noni.

  One night when Charlie was two and a half, I was away, and Noni couldn’t get him to sleep. Four hours of hell passed. Noni never hit Charlie; it would have been waste of time even if she did because he wouldn’t have felt it.

  She went into Charlie’s bedroom and growled, ‘Now you’ve got a choice, you can go to sleep or you can carry on. If you carry on I will pull your pants down and smack your bum hard. So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Carry on.’

  Noni went to the lounge, got in the foetal position and cried.

  Charlie could climb to the tops of trees, ride his bike down hills at a thousand miles per hour when he was five, and build anything with Lego. Lego was overtaking the house, so I set up a massive space for him inside our roof we called Lego Land. Charlie gets obsessed with things. He’s always been large, loud and extremely funny; he has his mother’s razor-sharp wit. We never had to go to his school for any academic problems, but usually because he’d hit someone with a stick or something.

  At home, if he didn’t get his own way he’d go nuts. He’d get violent, scream, swear or throw things around the room, and it could go on for quite some time. I used to pick him up and carry him to the front yard and he’d thump me all the way. I never let on that it hurt but it did, because I’d stupidly taught him how to throw a punch. He’s always been a strong, solid guy, and even as a young kid he was difficult to handle. I’d take him to the middle of the lawn and sit him down. Every time he got up I’d push him back down. After a while he’d sit there yelling, ripping clumps of grass out. Finally he’d stop and I’d take him back inside. My quest for tolerance and patience was fast-tracked by Charlie. When he was about eight, he ran screaming to the front of the house and I chased him. I came around the corner and he was standing there like a crazed animal holding a hose with a big metal spike hanging off the end. He took me by surprise and I leapt back. He yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Wuss!’ I love the big bastard, my God I love him.

  Noni used to say he’d either become the boss of the Mafia or the boss of Microsoft. The Mafia are safe, not sure about Microsoft.

  He’s a tough hombre. Ebony, Charlie and I were playing soccer in the backyard. Ebony was ten and Charlie, eight. The ball went up the bank and got stuck on a tree root. Ebony went for it and Charlie did his usual and challenged, pulled her back and got to the ball. The ball was stuck on a European wasps’ nest. He picked up the ball and the wasps attacked him. I told Ebs to go inside and I raced to Charlie. They were stinging him all over the face and arms. I dragged him towards the house and took wasps off him and put them in my hair, the same as Mum did when I was attacked by bees (they get tangled in the hair). The bloody wasps followed.

  We shut the door on them and they were all over the outside windows. I took Charlie into the bathroom, shut the door and pulled more wasps off him; they’d gotten into his shirt. We counted twenty stings on his stomach alone. We got him into the car and he sat on Noni’s lap. He was in agony, but he wasn’t crying. Suddenly he yelled out ‘Shit!’ We didn’t allow him to swear, but I said, ‘Get it out, mate, get it out, swear, do what you like.’ When we finally got him in front of a doctor, the first thing the doc said was, ‘Aren’t you John and Noni from…’ Unbelievable!

  Charlie has a strong constitution – a few dabs of calamine lotion and he was fine. I went home, put on overalls, a balaclava, boots, gloves, a hat. I went out with a drum of petrol and burnt the bastards. I dug the nest out with a pick and burnt them again, then I got the hose and drowned them. Finally I sat there for an hour insect-spraying the stragglers. Bastards.

  When Zadia was born I wanted her to have a brother or sister. It took Rosa another eight years. I would have preferred it to have happened earlier, but better late than never. Same with Charlie, I didn’t want him to be an only child. In mid-1993, Noni was pregnant and on 28 March 1994 William was born at home in Hazelbrook. He took his time. Halfway through, Charlie went to school and proudly announced that Noni had given birth to a beautiful girl. My beautiful boy arrived at about 1 p.m., I think. Picture-perfect with big green eyes.

  The most heavenly part is their first year of pureness, the complete baby innocence. Everything about them is wondrous: the soft physical presence, the intoxicating smell, the shimmering aura. They are so pure you can almost see their soul. William was extraordinary. William is extraordinary.

  I know nothing of the universe. I’m a speck on a speck orbiting around a speck that’s within a speck in the universe called the Milky Way. That speck would take 120 billion years to cross in a commercial jet. The entire universe is only 14 billion years old (according to our scientific specks!). So who am I to say there’s a God or not? I’d like to believe there is. I hope it doesn’t begin and end on this planet. Given that, maybe I took this journey with Noni to bring Charlie and William into the world. Put it this way, life without any of my kids would be insufferable. I really don’t think I’d cope. Thank Christ parents usually die before their kids.

  All Men are Liars

  Out of the blue I got a film that’s become a favourite. All Men are Liars is a comedy about the annual rock festival in the sugar-cane town of Warrandilla. I played Warrandilla’s king of rock ’n’ roll, Barry O’Brien (the names of my brothers, strangely enough). I was nominated for Best Actor. I didn’t win, but it was cool to be nominated.

  It was very pleasant being in the tropics of north Queensland. I had Noni and all my kids with me in a great house at Mission Beach, the first time I had all four kids under the one roof. It was walking distance from the beach, which looked out to Dunk Island. This is the greenest part of Australia, dripping with tropical rainforests and bordered by the Great Dividing Range. Mount Bartle Frere, the highest mountain in Queensland, stood out like a beacon above the rest.

  My wife in the film had to be Italian, and I suggested we use Carmen Tanti, who played the Pussy Cat in my first gig back in November 1973, The Owl and the Pussy Cat. She was also the wife of my mate from NIDA, Steve Thomas. Steve and his eleven-year-old son came up and stayed with Carmen at Mission Beach. She taught Ebony and Charlie tap-dancing in front of the cafe.

  All Men are Liars opened the Sydney Film Festival in 1995. After the screening we all went for coffee and on that very night, Carmen got a terrible headache. She passed away nine months later due to a cancerous brain tumour. Steve tells me that he and his son can play the film whenever they want and watch the beautiful Carmen Tanti doing what she did best.

  Australian artists

  Due to an acute lack of work in the early nineties, I decided to form a film company with a bunch of actors and make my own films. I formed it in 1991, and by ’94 it was whitt
led down to Noni, Tony Barry and me. We had a great script by Andy Anderson called Flick of the Wrist, about a bikie who becomes a Grand Prix racing champion. The funding bodies loved it and sent me on an all-expenses-paid mission to LA in search of investors and a distribution deal. I had meetings with about twenty established studios and film companies, and the biggest bite was from Mel Gibson’s company Icon.

  In March 1995 I went to LA for a month. I’d been to Europe and Asia, but this was my first trip to the States. It’s always a little surreal flying into a country for the first time. The first thing you see out of the plane window is Santa Catalina Island, developed into a tourist destination by Wrigley, the chewing gum magnate, in the 1920s. Then there’s LA, spread out just as you remember it from a million movies.

  My mate Kevin Dobson picked me up, and I stayed with him and his family in Brentwood. He directed me in The Last Outlaw and a few other gigs. He was trying his luck in Hollywood. He took very good care of me and did so on a number of subsequent trips to LA. He can be a big surly bastard one minute and a funny teddy bear the next. I used to say to him, ‘You’re a cunt, Dobo, but you’re a nice cunt.’ He was also Noni’s first husband, but that never got in the way, we handled it with humour.

  The meeting I was most excited about was with Icon. Before I left Australia I’d managed to meet with Bruce Davey, Mel’s right-hand man. Bruce started out as Mel’s accountant and became mine for a while. Bruce had a very positive response to Flick of the Wrist and got me a meeting with the development arm in LA. They were most enthusiastic and talked to me like it was going to happen. They set a few goals and we were to continue negotiations when I returned to Sydney. Mel was in the building and invited me to his office after my meeting. I opened the door and he hit me in the head with a huge mallet and scared the crap out of me. It was a weapon he’d used in the battle sequences of Braveheart. The very convincing-looking mallet head was made of foam, so it didn’t hurt at all. He’d had a lot of fun in post-production, busting watermelons and such to simulate the sound of a cracked skull. That’s why his nickname was Pus.