The Years Before My Death

by David McPhail

  Rather than being alarmed by this, I was very happy. This was an opportunity to say what I knew was true and a chance to confront my silent accusers. I did think the whole idea of a Commission of Inquiry into what started as a trivial employment dispute was an extreme over-reaction. But there were serious allegations being made about my integrity and a formal inquiry was a better place to confront these than furtive meetings with three television executives.

  This is when I first became acquainted with the men I mentioned at the beginning — W Reid Jackson and Mervyn Good were appointed to be the commissioners of the inquiry. The terms of the inquiry were wide-ranging and, at times, a little confusing. It seemed that anyone who had a personal gripe against TVNZ was using the inquiry to dust off their dislike. I discussed this with my lawyer, the memorable Neil Taylor, and, after sucking heavily on his pipe, he observed that I should ‘seek counsel’.

  This was something I hadn’t anticipated. ‘Is it that bad?’ I asked.

  Neil re-lit his pipe. ‘Could be worse,’ he said. ‘I’ll just ring Barry Atkinson.’

  I had heard of Barry. I’d been to school with two of his brothers but nothing prepared me for our first meeting. He was tall, a little stooped and had the slightly distracted air of a man who’d either lost his glasses or his cigarettes but wasn’t sure which. For long moments Barry appeared to be staring at some indefinable point in the middle distance. Then, suddenly, he would ask me a question that left me astonished. He was aware of things I hadn’t considered important and others I didn’t even know existed.

  I was summoned to appear before the Commission of Inquiry in November 1983. I was confident but a little wary. I had no idea what I’d done that was considered improper and no information about the people who were making the charges against me.

  Senior executives of TVNZ and the Broadcasting Corporation of New Zealand were represented by three distinguished lawyers. The offer of legal support had never been made to me, so I hired my own distinguished lawyer.

  The commissioners decided to hold their deliberations in a function room at what was then called the White Heron Hotel near Christchurch Airport. This choice added a surreal quality to the proceedings. The room had been lit to create a cabaret atmosphere so on the first day it appeared as if the commission was being conducted in a nightclub. If Tom Parkinson and I had hung a mirror ball from the ceiling, the scene would have been complete. But, that’s when the joke stopped.

  In plain words I described the That’s Country fiasco, explained my association with Trevor Spitz, Jon Gadsby and Comico and outlined my particular role as producer, actor and writer in productions commissioned by TVNZ. It seemed very straightforward.

  Then the representative of the Public Service Association rose. He was a very old friend who I’d not seen for some years. I had been his best man at an ill-considered marriage.

  Now Tony Simpson was turning to me with a sheaf of notes in his hand and a look of cold command on his face. We batted the ball backwards and forwards for over an hour. He had a responsibility to represent salaried public servants who were worried about their superannuation and didn’t want excitement and rule-breakers disturbing their retirement. I had to prove that, while my methods were somewhat unorthodox, it was not my plan to undermine the careers of earnest men and women.

  The commission’s investigations continued. Very little was forthcoming. The commissioners wasted valuable time considering the complaints of now-forgotten companies. They were thorough if not discriminating. During the whole affair not one specific allegation of wrong-doing had ever been made about my conduct.

  Then came a scene I could never have written. The leader of the That’s Country revolt was in the witness box reclaiming his moment as the down-trodden musician fighting for his rights and the future of others against a tyrannical system determined to promote the career of Suzanne Prentice. Barry Atkinson looked as if he was asleep. I was hiding my agitation by drawing inane doodles on a pad meant for sensible purposes. Then, Barry stood up. He had fooled me and everyone in the room. With needle-like precision he unstitched everything the witness had said. Then, like a legal poacher, he laid delicate traps into which his nervous and frequently untruthful prey fell headlong. After Akkie had finished I knew it was finally over.

  Robert Muldoon’s Commission of Inquiry produced a number of recommendations. None made any significant contribution to the development of broadcasting in New Zealand and many were forgotten minutes after they were written down. The major problem, that the commissioners were incapable of solving, was obvious to anyone working in television. The industry was in a state of change. The aloof rules of a public service system did not apply to dancers, actors, writers and musicians. These rules had been designed for punctual public servants who demanded a tea-break at 10 am, a lunch-break at twelve and another tea-break at 3 pm.

  The brave commissioners were also ill-equipped to make a distinction between commerce and creativity. Of course, both must be defined by moral and financial probity, but there’s a difference between laying a drain and making a television show. The commission ended up being a laughable exaggeration. In my opinion it achieved nothing and wasted a lot of money. Reid Jackson and Mervyn Good, both men of dignity and integrity, were, to my mind and to many others, unsuited for the job.

  I recall, with a tinge of affection, that as I was about to take the stand in the nightclub of the White Heron Hotel, Reid Jackson leaned over to me and said, ‘I love your Muldoon.’ It was most inappropriate for him to speak to a witness and I was surprised by his frankness.

  So, I replied, ‘I love you too, commissioner.’

  Everyone accused of improper behaviour was exonerated. A large number of meaningless clauses were inserted in the staff manual and the matter was dead.

  But it wasn’t for me. I was profoundly disturbed by the allegations made against me. I was even more perturbed by the people who had attacked me. I had been humiliated by the questioning of the members of the Commisison of Inquiry. These men had tried to disgrace me by asking insolent questions that impugned my integrity and my honesty.

  TVNZ and I were no longer partners. This was confirmed when I finally resigned and the Chief Executive, Julian Mounter, sent me a letter of appreciation and spelt my name incorrectly.

  The residue of the Commission of Inquiry lasted for a long time. It had been a useful distraction from the disillusionment growing in the country and it was a handy device for putting the proverbial boot into Muldoon’s known enemy. It also made me aware that reputations can be destroyed when they are incidental to the real plan. In this case the main intention was to humble TVNZ.

  I need to acknowledge two things. The two signatories of the petition may have felt they were right in their concerns. I don’t think they were and because their method of expressing this unhappiness was inane it led to huge difficulties.

  The two men who formed the Commission of Inquiry were honest and sincere. But commissions of inquiry are not always created to inquire into anything. They’re often used to complicate natural justice or divert public attention away from real problems.

  That is why, to give the document its full title, the Report of the Commission of Inquiry into Contractual Arrangements Entered Into By the Broadcasting Corporation of New Zealand With Its Employees and Into Certain Matters Relating to Advertising went first to the printers and then to the dustbin.

  Chapter 23

  INTO THE SPOTLIGHT

  Elric Hooper, the eclectic, eccentric and often electric artistic director of the Court Theatre, asked me to join his highly successful company. I knew of his reputation and temperament but had only encountered them when our floor managers were negotiating with the theatre management to allow his actors to appear on McPhail and Gadsby. Elric had little time for television and the employment of members of his company was carefully managed.

  I watched Elric’s productions with growing admiration. His command of theatre and knowledge of plays were immense and
the flair and imagination of his productions revealed a passion for the stage. He approached me several times. I was flattered by his offers but terrified by the thought. I wasn’t afraid of acting but my earlier stage appearances had been brief and catastrophic. But Elric was insistent and offered me a role in a play that had long been a favourite, Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s comedy of manners, The School for Scandal. I liked Sheridan and admired him even more when I heard of his actions on the night his theatre burnt down. According to legend, he ordered a chair and positioned himself directly in front of the flames. He is said to have observed that as nothing could be done to save the building, he would make use of the occasion by keeping himself warm. The role Elric offered me was Sir Oliver Surface who was described as an elderly aristocrat. I was still nervous but I agreed.

  Entering a theatrical rehearsal room for the first time was a strange experience. I’d met some of the actors and enjoyed their work, but I knew nothing of the theatrical process that produced a play. I had no knowledge of stage craft and no understanding of the techniques required to learn extensive sections of dialogue. Anything Jon and I did rarely extended beyond three minutes and, as we’d written the script, if we couldn’t remember the words we’d make them up. At one point Elric took me aside and suggested gently that he’d like to hear a little more of Sheridan and a little less of David McPhail.

  He started the rehearsal with a scholarly survey of the play, Sheridan’s life and work and the place of The School for Scandal in the canon of English comedy. Elric spoke for over half an hour without notes. The set and the costumes were then described by the theatre’s designer, Tony Geddes, and the formidable Pamela Maling, and we read the play.

  We rehearsed for two weeks and then Elric announced that from the beginning of the third week we would continue rehearsing but with ‘books down’. The other actors took this quite calmly, but I became alarmed. ‘Does he mean we can’t look at the script?’ I blurted out after Elric had left the room. Actors never referred to a play as a script, but they nodded patiently. ‘Yes, that’s what “books down” means.’

  I had one-and-a-half days to untangle my nerves. During the next week I stumbled through my part but I was beginning to learn. The stage manager of the production followed the script carefully and I discovered it was perfectly acceptable to shout ‘Line’ or ‘Yes?’ whenever the mind clouded over. I slowly became aware of other things I’d never experienced before. A line or a speech can be triggered by an actor’s position on the stage. The mind seems to say, ‘When you’re standing by the chair you always say the line about young Charles being a wastrel but an honest one.’ I also learnt it causes unnecessary panic to try and remember the speech at the top of page 39 ten seconds before you’re about to make your first entrance. You remember what you’re about to say in the context of what you’ve just said.

  I knew actors supported each other and would go to extreme lengths to prod a line from a silent and confused fellow actor by veering off the script. ‘I am certain you were about to tell me that Lady Sneerwell is plotting with Joseph Surface, weren’t you?’ But, I’d rarely experienced the generosity of the other cast members as they strained to guide me back onto the correct page. The most curious thing I learnt was it’s entirely possible to speak lines intelligibly while thinking about something completely different. I could ramble on about being a money-lender at the same time as wondering what I was doing downstage when I should be upstage.

  The opening night was an ordeal. In television there were makeup artists and wardrobe mistresses hurrying to powder or dress you. In New Zealand theatre you did it yourself.

  As I waited in the wings I sensed the audience was divided into two factions. There were those who thought it might be interesting to see David McPhail on stage. However, the other half shared a different view. ‘OK smart alec, let’s see how you cope with the real world.’ I wasn’t coping at all well with the real world. I made my entrance and joined two highly accomplished actors on stage.

  They were Geoffrey Heath and a most distinguished performer named Geoffrey Waring who was playing an elderly retainer called Rowley. Geoffrey Waring was an older actor of extreme elegance and grace. He had been a prominent name on the West End stage in his earlier life and had come to New Zealand to retire. Elric knew of his talents and persuaded him to join productions at the Court. Geoffrey had a rich and carefully modulated voice that he used with great authority. He arrived on the first day of rehearsals knowing all his words.

  Shortly after I made my entrance Geoffrey was to deliver a monologue of several paragraphs before the scene continued. He began his speech with great gravity and it was only after 20 seconds I came to the disturbing conclusion that I’d never heard any of these words before. In desperation I turned to Geoffrey Heath, who looked equally puzzled and smiled encouragingly.

  Finally, Geoffrey Waring began to scatter familiar words into his speech and at last delivered a line I recognised. Then, he bowed deeply and, as we’d rehearsed, gracefully left the stage. I was bamboozled. Geoffrey Heath and I continued with a short conversation but all I could hear was my voice, which sounded almost an octave higher than normal.

  I made my exit and Geoffrey Waring was waiting in the wings. It’s important to remember that Richard Brinsley Sheridan is remembered for two plays — The School for Scandal and a work called The Rivals — and Geoffrey had appeared in both of them. He clasped my hand and in a muffled roar said, ‘My dear boy, I was an absolute shit out there.’ I tried to interject but he continued. ‘Do you know I was half-way through that speech and I thought, wait a minute, this isn’t The School for Scandal. This is the fucking Rivals.’

  On the night, this frightening excursion into the unknown did little for my flagging confidence, but Geoffrey taught me something. He may have become confused but he continued to command the stage with his poise and self-assurance. From then on, I learnt every word in a play.

  This does not mean I was invulnerable to mistakes. I played the lead in Tom Stoppard’s convoluted comedy, Travesties. This was a work of lunatic brilliance. The characters included Lenin, James Joyce and one of the supreme artists of the Dada movement, Tristan Tzara. My character was a minor British consulate official called Henry Carr. I had several elaborate monologues at the beginning of the play. The writing was dazzling. Each monologue covered the same ground but to illustrate Carr’s dementia, they were all slightly different. One wrong word and you could find yourself in the monologue you’d just finished. There was an evening when, to the distress of my fellow actors, I found myself trapped in this web of words. I was skipping backwards and forwards from one monologue to another. I was terrified to stop talking and incapable of finding the way out. The audience was becoming restless, particularly when they started hearing phrases they’d heard before. Finally, I broke the fearful cycle but I’d added five minutes to the play. I am deeply grateful Elric wasn’t at that performance.

  When you are on-stage with other actors there is a feeling of mutual confidence. If all hell breaks loose you will desperately talk your way out of it. Alone on stage there is no one you can turn to.

  In the early months of 2000 I finished writing a monologue about Sir Robert Muldoon. It was based on an idea given to me by Tom Scott that I’d completed on the urgings of Bruce Ansley. In 1984, Muldoon called a snap election. He’d been filmed in a state of emotional instability and barely able to string a sentence together. The prime minister was drunk. National was heading towards the opposition benches faster than a speeding bullet. If he gave a similar performance on the night of the election the wound could be fatal.

  My play raised the idea of the prime minister arriving at a celebration party that no one attended. The king was dead so who needed to pay any respects? It was an hour and twenty minutes on stage with the support of only a chair, a glass and a bottle of fake whisky. I must have been mad.

  The opening night at the Court was encouraging and the audience clapped, laughed and groaned at the a
ppropriate times. The second night I made an actor’s fundamental error. I got cocky. Fifteen minutes into a monologue I had written and strenuously rehearsed with Peter Evans, I reached a moment when I had no idea what came next. Peter had warned me my major fault was deviating from the author’s script. When I pointed out somewhat pompously that I was the author, he snapped back by saying I had chosen certain words for a particular purpose and it was ridiculous to keep substituting them with what he described as ‘drivel’.

  I had a massive blank. There were no connections. No words that linked me back to the script. There were sudden glimpses of recognisable phrases but I was terrified if I grasped them I’d lose huge chunks of the play. I started making up new lines while I thought about this. Then, suddenly, I found the only possible lifeline. Moments before fog covered my memory, Muldoon had spoken about his diabetes and had clutched his stomach. I grabbed my padded stomach again and shouted, ‘I have to go.’

  I staggered off the stage. Not a great move in a one-man play. I blundered into the stage manager and yelled, ‘What’s the line?’ Her face was bright with panic. She whispered the words to me and I lurched back on the stage.

  Later, a good friend who had watched the production for a second time asked, ‘Why have you cut that bit where you leave the stage?’

  The Muldoon monologue had a chequered life. The first performance was in the House of Representatives and the invited audience consisted of members of parliament, members of their staff, other government officials and several people who had worked for the former prime minister. Ironically the evening was hosted by my old sparring partner from the That’s Country inquiry, Jonathan Hunt. He didn’t mention our previous encounter, so neither did I.

  The performance was organised by my friend Paula Grant and the purpose was to test the script on an audience, some of whom were very familiar with Robert Muldoon. My daughter, Anna, and my future son-in-law Matthew Garrett acted as stage hands and the production was run by the imperturbable Jennifer Lal, whom Anna had met at drama school. It was a shaky act. Anna and Matthew arranged the chairs and the props. Matthew was also running the sound. Jennifer focused what few lights there were. As I struggled into the padded suit she walked in with a firm instruction. ‘Keep your head up. It’s all top light and if you look down we won’t see your face.’