The Years Before My Death

by David McPhail

  I looked madly into the wings again. Scott and Gadsby were indicating with wild hand movements that I should keep going. ‘My partner is also confined to a wheelchair but we still manage to have enjoyable sex.’ I felt my vision blurring and I had started to sweat. ‘It just that we don’t know we’re having it.’ At that moment my nerve broke. I had to get off the stage as fast as possible. By the time I reached the line ‘a lot of people say I wouldn’t know if my arse was on fire. And, do you know, they’re right,’ I was gabbling. ‘As I’m a smoker this can cause problems especially if I drop my cigarette.’

  Scott and Gadsby were now in a frenzy of gestures trying to make me slow down. ‘But, in my dual role as lover and fire-warden, I manage to live an interesting life.’ It was torment. I realised my humiliation would be intensified if I got out of the wheelchair. So, when I hit the final line at break-neck speed, I desperately began turning the chair toward the blurry faces of Scott and Gadsby.

  It was at this point I became aware of another problem. The stage at the old Theatre Royal had a slight incline at the front. This slope led directly to the orchestra pit and both front wheels of the chair were firmly on the slide. The slightest misjudgement and the chair and its wretched occupant would topple ten metres into the pit. It occurred to me that should that happen the audience was certain to applaud. I don’t remember how I managed to get off stage but, with the silence still thundering in my ears, I reached Scott and Gadsby.

  Their greeting was not entirely generous. ‘Well, you certainly buggered that one up. You were going so fast no one could understand a word you were saying.’

  Chapter 20

  INSIDE THE GLASS TOWER

  My first television review was written by Warren Mayne, a tall, rather crooked man with a beguiling smile and a tendency to blow cigarette smoke in your face. Warren would creep into my office uninvited. I would turn around and find him staring without admiration at the view. His review was brief and to the point. ‘McPhail’s performance will mainly be of interest to his friends and immediate family. But it must be asked why public money is being spent to make home movies for the McPhails?’

  Warren Mayne was a good journalist and blithely unaffected by the enraged reaction to his observations. He had good sources and frequently knew more about the television industry than many people working in it. Of course, I accepted that receiving a blistering assault on a programme or performance you liked was part of making public television and while I didn’t always agree that my contribution was ‘lame’ or ‘tragic’ I viewed most of these side-swipes as the natural result of sticking your head up.

  But one writer had an uncanny ability to hit a nerve. Colin Hogg was for some years a television writer for the Sunday Star-Times. He waged a ceaseless campaign disparaging most things Jon and I did. Our principal fault was being too old. Our second fault was being too old. Among our other faults were being boring and humourless. Hogg’s battering rams might have been easily dismissed if they had been written with flair and did not constantly repeat themselves. It seemed to me, however, that they were like the predict able ploddings of a writer who genuinely disliked his targets and took every opportunity to remind them of his aversion.

  I responded by sending him pompous and deliberately condescending evaluations of his work. These usually started with ‘My dear Hogg’, and went on to offer arrogant suggestions about avoiding words of more than two syllables or warn about the danger of using too many metaphors. It was all relatively harmless and my letters didn’t deter him from continuing his broadsides.

  As I always wrote to Hogg personally, I was surprised to see one of my missives in the Letters to the Editor column. He had struck back and, because I had always written in the style of a hectoring housemaster, the letter identified me as a self-important, pretentious prig who couldn’t bear to be criticised. This view was shared by a number of readers who wrote the following week observing that David McPhail was haughty and snobbish and should get the chip off his shoulder. I didn’t send Hogg any more letters.

  Many actors claim they never read reviews. If this is true, it’s a pity because they will miss the occasional critique that presents a painful but probably accurate assessment of their current performance. Others advise that an actor should never reply to a critic, and as my exchange with Hogg reveals there is probably some merit in this. But, I don’t really share this view. I think an actor has every right to rebut an ill-considered or inaccurate appraisal of a performance. It is the fear of being labelled ‘a poor sport’ that prevents many from defending unnecessary assaults on their reputations. Of course, this raises the obvious question: Who reads reviews anyway? I admit that I do and I enjoy them if they’re flattering. If they’re not, and many of them haven’t been, I don’t feel a stab of doubt as sometimes they reflect what I secretly feel. On other occasions I dismiss them because I know the writer’s prejudices. However, I do sympathise with performers and writers who receive a cold shock when someone attacks their work. I know because I’ve created those shocks.

  For a time I was writing the television review for the Sunday Star-Times. I liked the money but, although television was my livelihood for many years, I didn’t enjoy watching it. I reviewed a New Zealand television programme produced and directed by men I knew and written by a playwright I respected. But I thought Doves of War was decidedly unimpressive and well below the standards these men had set themselves in the dramatic industry. I had two choices: not to review the show or write what I felt. The show was touted as being a major New Zealand drama. To ignore it entirely would be almost as insulting as writing what I thought about it. So, I reviewed Doves of War and my observations were not complimentary.

  Nearly three years later I met, by accident, the producer of the show. I had worked with Chris Hampson many years before, and while we were not friends we did know each other. He refused to shake my hand, saying it was not a good idea, and Anne and I left in some confusion.

  I thought about this for some time. It was everyone’s right not to like something and explain why they didn’t. Equally, it was perfectly proper for Chris to defend a show of which he was proud and wouldn’t have attached his name to if he wasn’t. It was an odd dilemma. My review had nothing to do with the integrity of his vision. He thought he’d made a good show and I didn’t like it.

  Diana Wichtel is a writer who has achieved great success by remaining one of the head hens in the pecking order at the New Zealand Listener. She is, if you like, the black Orpington in a brood of domestic fowls. Diana has been a television critic for about a quarter of a century. She writes in an arch, witty manner and holds firm ideas about what New Zealanders should be watching. These include women in strong relationships, amusing young men and anything that appeals to her dry intelligence or droll condescension. Naturally, Diana seems to dislike anything I’ve done. McPhail is strictly a bottom-feeder far eclipsed by real goldfish like Billy T James and Fred Dagg. Does this matter? Of course, it doesn’t. I never enjoyed reading Diana’s comments when, like a dentist, she was drilling into my comic cavities. But her reviews of anyone else I read with relish.

  The Pantheon of New Zealand Comics is a small building. Recent surveys place the usual suspects at the top. It must say something about New Zealand’s funny-bone that two of our most revered comedians are either dead or have lived in Australia for 30 years. Death and nearly half a century leave a huge gap. Who plugged it? According to most writers, nobody.

  The work of my colleagues on A Week of It was sometimes dismissed as a mindless romp. McPhail and Gadsby was said to appeal only to people who had difficulty parking their walking frames. This might be true. When I am introduced as ‘a famous comedian of the last century’ that seems to confirm it.

  Many will argue that the rise of stand-up comedy and the success of performers such as Flight of the Conchords and Jaquie Brown prove that New Zealand television comedy is flourishing. But this is simply not true. Stand-up comedians are just that. They stand up and
hope to be comic. Their routines are laced with unlikely stories, anything from gynaecological problems to injecting heroin in their noses and they can be very funny. But show that material to New Zealand television executives and they’ll grab for their bottled water and slide under the table. Flight of the Conchords was made by an American cable network. Jaquie Brown has an audience that is narrowly targeted. There is no national comedy television programme designed for the maximum audience.

  There are two reasons for the reduction and near elimination of a wide comic television spirit. The first goes back many years. There was a failure among those who controlled television to understand that John Clarke’s view of the New Zealand world with its ‘Giddays’ and ‘Stop doing that in the river, Trev’ resounded with the audience. This was unique. It didn’t require some thread to England. There was no connection to British comics and radio shows. It was flagrantly, boorishly New Zealand. It seems ridiculous now but stuffy men whose senses of humour were probably located in their ear lobes were deeply suspicious of this delightful nonsense. So, John Clarke went to Australia.

  The second reason was that some of those who commissioned television comedy had no sense of humour. They could laugh at something as inane as On the Buses — and if you remember that you must be on a pension — if everyone around them was laughing. But, if they watched the show by themselves they were likely to sit in a bemused silence.

  Once, I entered the office of a television executive of some importance. He was tall, charming and, although unhappy to see me, gave the muted impression of cordiality. I was there to argue for the continuation of, or more precisely fight for the existence of, a programme. Tom Finlayson showed me a seat. We skirted around the subject for some minutes. Finally, it was impossible for him to evade the real reason for my visit. I put in a hopeful plea for the show. Tom gave me a puzzled look. ‘You’re talking about Television One. Don’t you realise the Television One audience is on its way to the crematorium?’

  ‘But surely we have an obligation to entertain them on their final journey,’ I replied. He showed me the door.

  The saintliness surrounding the memory of Billy T James reveals another side of this suspicious approach to anything funny. Billy’s comedic flair would have gone largely unnoticed had it not been for the insight and determination of Tom Parkinson. He was a senior producer and a head of entertainment who understood one of the arcane rules of television. A few people and only a few can look through the camera directly into the eyes of the audience. Most television presenters’ eye contact with the audience stops when it slams into the auto-cue. Watch closely one night.

  Parkinson recognised Billy’s great ability to connect directly with his audience and another of his fine talents — he could tell awful jokes beautifully.

  Another executive decision illustrates the frustration of working in a system where logic appeared to be on permanent holiday. At the conclusion of the first series of A Week of It, there was a grudging acceptance that the show had some appeal. The response of the head of entertainment was to instruct me to make a pilot of a totally different programme to replace it. I was to use the same writers, the same actors and the same crew but he wanted something else. Naturally, I asked why. He replied that I had proved I could nearly master comedy with A Week of It so it was time to move on to a new challenge.

  Alas, Jon and I have spent more than a few unhappy moments in the offices of television executives. Many were men of modest abilities whose principal skill was to stud their offices with old trophies.

  I recall particularly one ‘saviour’ of Television New Zealand. He was, not surprisingly, an Australian. The idea of appointing New Zealanders to lead our television industry was considered reactionary. He was very tall with a bulbous stomach and wanted everyone to call him Big Bird. Jon and I went to meet him. We waited while Big Bird was obviously adjusting his feathers. At that time, Pio Tere and Peter Rowley were jumping around television in their own series. Jon and I weren’t on-air. The Big Bird rose from his desk like an old ostrich. He extended his hand. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, I value your work so much,’ he said. ‘Now, which of you is Pete and which is Pio?’

  Later I found myself sitting in a darkened Auckland viewing room with an executive. On the screen in front of us was a pilot programme for Letter to Blanchy. The young man beside me watched with languid disinterest. He didn’t laugh much. The antics of three middle-aged South Island men losing trail-bikes and jet-boats in a remote lagoon clearly had little appeal.

  Yet, it would be his decision whether further programmes were made. There is no more unpleasant way of watching your own work than in a dark room with a man who isn’t easily amused. Finally, the show finished and I breathed with some relief. He was silent for a moment as if trying to find the right words. Then, he turned and said, ‘It is quite funny, isn’t it?’

  I phrased my reply with equal caution. ‘Well, that’s good because it’s supposed to be.’

  Then, he frowned. ‘However, there’s one thing that bothers me,’ he said. Uh oh, I thought. Here it comes. But, he took me by surprise. ‘Are people in the South Island really like that?’ I really didn’t have an answer.

  All I could reply was, ‘I assure you people are like that ten kilometres from Ponsonby Road.’ He must have believed me because Letter to Blanchy went ahead.

  I seem to be suggesting that my dealings with television always occurred in the company of bland men who regarded my efforts with suspicious eyes. For the most part that is an apt description because there’s an inherent danger with comedy that makes it a most awkward form of entertainment. Very few people have written dramas or composed songs, but nearly everyone has told a joke. Similarly, individuals will admit, grudgingly perhaps, that they have a short temper or are inclined to exaggerate. Not many will confess they don’t have a sense of humour. So, any aspiring comedian is dealing with an audience of experts.

  There’s another side to this dilemma. When an actor walks on to the stage in a drama such as O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night, the audience will experience a sense of anticipation and eagerness. If they leave the theatre unmoved by the play they will generally observe that it was well-produced but it ‘really wasn’t their cup of tea’.

  A comedian never has that dispensation. There is an already unwritten contract that within seconds the audience will be laughing. If they don’t, then the performance is a failure; the contract has been broken and the irritation can be great because the performer has let them down. ‘I’ve got a great sense of humour, but what you just did simply wasn’t funny.’

  Of course, it’s this danger that gives comedy its exhilarating delight. There is always risk and every time you beat the odds the relief can be intense. So intense that you walk out the following night, do it all again and fall flat on your face. Comedy in all its guises is an imperfect creature. There are no rules. No guarantees. A delay of half a second can flatten a joke. A momentary distraction will skewer a sketch.

  Comedy is not a science, an art, a craft or a trade. It is an instinct, as capricious and fickle as any human emotion. Therefore, any attempt to define or analyse laughter is doomed and those who pursue this luckless hobby are done for.

  The futility of probing the ephemeral nature of comedy was brought home to me when I was performing in a play called Loot. I was invited by the Silo Theatre in Auckland to play the role of McLeavy. His wife has just died and his son, Harold, has just robbed a bank. In a desperate moment Harold decides to hide the money in his mother’s coffin. This requires the body to be dumped into a cupboard.

  The play was written in the sixties by the perverse genius, Joe Orton. Certainly some of the language and a few of the jokes were slightly antiquated, but hurling the corpse of an elderly woman into a cupboard was still as sacrilegious and funny as it was 40 years ago. On one night the audience would greet the dumping of the mother with yelps of laughter. But, the next night there would be a stony, troubled silence. The performances h
adn’t changed. The dexterity with which Harold and his friend heaved the mother into the cupboard was even more skilled than the previous night. But, for some inexplicable reason, the audience didn’t find it funny. That is the conundrum that drives comedians to keep working.

  My growing attraction to comedy developed in Dunedin. Certainly, there had been hints earlier. I discovered I could imitate people easily and began to compile a collection of accents. I was able to amuse my friends at school. Whether this was a defence to deflect the raucous reactions to my stammer or my weight I don’t know, but it certainly helped. However, I felt no strong wish to perform. It was only much later that I realised the latent desire had been in my mind for many years. It started with the Cathedral Choir. Every day we performed and at each service we strained to sing well — for the glory of God, certainly, but also for the enjoyment of the congregation. At high school I had flirted with the drama club in an ungainly production of a farce called See How They Run. The play was set in wartime Britain and the stage was a wild confusion of vicars, snoopy old maids and even an escaped German airman.

  I played the Bishop of Lax and my contribution was exiting into a broom cupboard instead of the front door thus adding an inexplicable twist to the plot. The only memorable moment in the production occurred when the German prisoner-of-war, played with gusto by Ian Pavitt, accidentally bumped into the scenery causing a large, wooden fire-surround to crash to the floor. There was silence until Bryan Aitken, with admirable ingenuity, announced ‘My God, that bomb was close, wasn’t it?’

  If Bryan hadn’t insisted I was the only boy in the school physically perfect to play the fat Bishop of Lax I would never have considered any role on the stage. Bryan was the comic caricature of an actor even before he left school. He had a highly scented manner of speaking and, later, I discovered his ardour for the theatre and his delight in the affectations of the rehearsal room had contributed to two careers. While I was working on Loot with the director Michael Hurst, he told me that Bryan was adamant he should audition for the Court Theatre. Had Michael not agreed the country might have lost one of its most vivid and intelligent actors.