This was hazardous theatre. It was unrehearsed. The main actor was dressing in a lavatory, Matthew was unfamiliar with the sound system and Jennifer had never seen the show before. But, in the audience was my constant companion, supporter and most vociferous critic, Anne McPhail. There were 200 people waiting expectantly. I walked out and ignored them. I looked straight into her face. After a moment she smiled. Only then did I turn to the crowd and the show began.
The Muldoon play survived Parliament, played successfully in Christchurch and Wellington and started a national tour. The tour wasn’t a good idea. I overlooked or completely forgot there were parts of New Zealand where the former prime minister was still reviled. Anne and I arrived in Westport. The bookings were embarrassing. Slightly more than 70 in a theatre that could easily accommodate 400.
I walked up and down Palmerston Street waving, talking and shaking hands. Everyone was friendly and they all told me how much they were looking forward to the Topp Twins’ concert at the end of the week. Lynda and Jools were coming into town right behind me and I understood immediately why there were only 70 slightly confused patrons at the St James. There was another reason. I was stopped by a gruff and wrinkled man who wondered what I was doing in Westport. I explained I was touring a play. He was curious so I told him I was playing Robert Muldoon and asked if he would like to see the show. He started to laugh. ‘I hated the bastard when he was alive. Why would I come along and see you resuscitate him?’ It was not long after Westport that the Muldoon tour collapsed.
I worked at the Court for more than a few years as an actor and a director. Elric seemed uneasy about the New Zealand comedies he wanted to stage, so he asked me to direct them. When a director is presented with a new script there are two responses: excitement at the possibilities or despair at the improbabilities. Many rehearsal hours were wasted as we fiddled around with a playwright’s imperfect play. I recall one scene where extraordinary moves were rehearsed to explain the presence of a large urn. Later, the writer told us the urn was from an earlier draft of the play and didn’t exist any longer.
Writing New Zealand plays is a frail occupation that deserves to be treated with anticipation or sometimes well-deserved indifference. If anyone was asked to name New Zealand’s most successful playwright the list would be headed by Roger Hall. This is a position he rightly deserves. Yet, I have heard actors moan and grumble about the predictability of Hall’s plays and the work that must be done on his uncompleted scripts. This is only partially true. I have directed and appeared in several of Hall’s works. His plays have a unique symmetry and originality. They contain stylish word plays, sudden surprises and fully drawn characters, although, to be fair, several have felt like cleverly constructed cartoons.
But, if an alien culture walked into our society, as many are doing, and asked what New Zealand theatre audiences enjoyed most during the last 25 years, many people would answer emphatically, ‘Roger Hall’s plays.’ They might not remember the lush, exact and sumptuous productions of the Court. Nor would they recall the exciting, if occasionally overly precise, productions of the Auckland stage. Great tragedy may move members of an audience but they are more likely to remember when they laughed.
Elric Hooper lifted my sights and scared the living daylight out of me with the first play he asked me to direct. It was John Osborne’s celebrated drama, Look Back in Anger. This was a tense and fractious play about a man whose bitterness and resentment of the social system poured out in angry tirades. Jimmy Porter not only abused the world in which he lived but also constantly harangued and taunted his upper-class wife and her family. This was kilometres away from anything I’d directed before. I was fortunate to have four very able actors in the cast, but there was one major problem. I didn’t have a Jimmy Porter. The actor who had been cast withdrew and less than a week before we were due to start rehearsals I was still without a male lead.
Fortunately, Elric was unfazed. He simply said we would find someone. Of course any actor capable of playing the role was already contracted or employed. Eventually, we did find Jimmy Porter. He was an Australian actor who flew to Christchurch to join the cast. Elric had seen his CV and spoken to him on the telephone — I hastily asked if he had an Australian accent and he didn’t — but neither Elric nor I had seen him act. It was a risk but there was no alternative.
I picked him up from the airport and he was rather unsettled. Three hours’ flying across the Tasman had given him time to contemplate the huge task he had set himself. Look Back in Anger was a wordy play and most of the words came from Jimmy Porter’s mouth.
Watching my actors rehearse and feeling the rising tension as opening night approached taught me an important lesson. There needed to be pressure and a degree of anxiety for any production to work. Oddly, a feeling of confidence could flatten a performance. I don’t mean the cast should be hysterical when they walk on stage but a feeling of apprehension is important for a striking performance. My cast rose to the demands of the play and Look Back in Anger was a success. As they took their bows on the opening night I breathed a long sigh of relief.
But, around this time, I had another thing on my mind. It was rumoured New Zealand extras might be needed on the film called Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence being shot in the Pacific by the perplexing Japanese director Nagisa Oshima. He had produced a number of disconcerting films, including In the Realm of the Senses which I thought was highly sophisticated and deliberately obscure. The new production required actors to play prisoners of the Japanese.
I was a devoted admirer of David Lean’s The Bridge on the River Kwai and could picture myself as a younger Alec Guinness, so I made inquiries. The instructions were quite clear. The film needed extras who looked like starving and emaciated soldiers. I was neither, but if I could present myself in that condition within three weeks I might be considered for a role. It seemed an impossible demand but the thought of working on a feature film, albeit in an almost anonymous role, led me on to a futile and as it turned out dangerous path. I decided I would get the part by starving myself.
I explained to Anne what I wanted to do although I avoided the word ‘starving’. I said I would eat small quantities of food for the next three weeks in order to become slimmer. She was naturally suspicious and sensibly pointed out it would be impossible for me to resemble a soldier who’d been malnourished for nine months in only three weeks. But the image of Alec Guinness defying Colonel Saito was vivid in my mind and I started my fast.
I hid the more peculiar aspects of my eating behaviour from Anne. I would drink a glass of water for lunch. After the first week there was no appreciable change in my appearance and she told me to stop being silly. Nevertheless, something kept driving me and it was then I resorted to laxatives. It was only later I understood the source of this aberrant urge. I had always been overweight. There might have been short intervals when I could see my toes but for most of my life I had been a floppy boy. Most of my nicknames arose from my size. Yet, by the end of the second week my body shape was changing. The belt could be tightened by two notches and the shirt didn’t feel so stretched.
When I reached the end of week three, my chances of getting a part in the film evaporated. I still looked too robust to be a down-trodden captive, let alone a defiant Alec Guinness. But there had been a subtle shift in my mind. I looked at myself in the mirror, something I’d avoided for several years, and thought, ‘You do look better.’ And then, after a pause, ‘But, you’re still fat.’
So, I became anorexic. The nonsense of this decision, although it was not a conscious choice, was even more ridiculous because I never wanted to improve my body. I just wanted to make it smaller. Anne watched the change in my appearance and my sparrow-like appetite with increasing unease. It is difficult to admonish someone who takes such childlike delight in buying clothes two sizes smaller than he’s ever worn before. But, there were serious consequences. Anne knew that while women with anorexia could recover, the chances of a man recuperating were much slimme
r — to use an apt but perhaps inappropriate word.
It was when a rumour circulated that I had a type of terminal cancer, conveniently explaining my debilitated appearance, that I looked at myself more closely in the mirror. I saw a gaunt man with vague eyes. I simply couldn’t see past myself. I don’t remember when I started eating again. But, I had seen a reflection so obsessed by his face that he had forgotten his life. I have a suspicion this marked a change in me.
Chapter 24
FROM FAME TO FRAILTY
When Elric Hooper announced his intention to retire as artistic director of the Court Theatre I considered my position. While my theatrical experience was slight, many of the skills I’d learnt in television could be applied to the stage. So I applied for the job and was soundly rejected. While nothing can take the sting from disappointment, this rebuttal marked a significant development in my life.
Cathy Downes was appointed to the position, and I mentioned to her my fascination with Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? This dark, passionate play begins when George and Martha — the names of the first American president and his wife — return home after a gathering of academics at a small New England college. George is an assistant professor of history, a position that rankles Martha. It’s 2 am and their return is disrupted by Martha’s announcement that she has invited a new biology lecturer and his wife over for a drink.
Nick and Honey arrive and the evening rapidly descends into a bizarre, emotional and liquor-fuelled four-sided battle. George and Martha take a gleeful and malicious pleasure in humiliating the new couple while, at the same time, flinging insults at each other. It’s slowly revealed that George and Martha share a fateful secret and when Martha incautiously reveals it, a terrible showdown occurs.
My pocket-sized plot does no justice to the power of the play and you’d be forgiven for thinking that watching four people destroy themselves would be a painful and masochistic way to spend an evening. But, the hypnotic language of the play and the mystery of George and Martha are irresistible. Cathy agreed and included the play in her forthcoming Court Theatre programme.
So it was I met Jennifer Ludlam, a poised and highly skilled performer with a great ability to fully absorb herself in the role she was playing. Seeing her after one play, I had been genuinely surprised that she was the same woman I had been watching for two hours. Jennifer played Martha. The role of Nick was played by Gareth Reeves, a young, almost charismatic actor, and the striking Hera Dunleavy was the tragic Honey. I would be George.
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was a long play and many of George’s dictionary-like speeches were dense and convoluted. Martha was equally voluble. Towards the end of the second week of rehearsals the director, Colin McColl, decided we would have what is commonly called ‘a stumble-through’ of the play without our books. For the first time we would perform the piece from memory.
The night before the rehearsal I slept fitfully with the words running around my head. Each time they became more remote and foreign. In the morning I telephoned Colin and told him I was incapable of performing the play without a script. Further, I was so obviously unprepared that my fumbled lines would probably alarm the rest of the cast. Remarkably, Colin didn’t throw his telephone at the wall. Instead he calmly replied that the only way I could master the role was to enjoy playing it, and if I was frightened of the lines I certainly wouldn’t be enjoying myself. He gave me the weekend off to learn the words.
I stood in my house and didn’t quite know what to do. I was alone except for my paranoia. Then, Annabel Butler walked in. She was the stage manager at the theatre and for the next two days she sat opposite me at the kitchen table and patiently took me through the words. Without her composure and her firm belief in my ability to overcome my fear of the script, I would never have played George. On the following Monday morning I walked into the rehearsal, gave the cast an apologetic smile and started work.
Acting on-stage with Jennifer, Gareth and Hera was one of the most exhilarating moments of my theatrical life. We toured this wild and savage play throughout the country.
My confrontation with the script taught me yet another lesson. There was one particular speech that daunted me. Curiously, after all my difficulties, I can remember it now. It began, ‘It’s very simple, Martha, this young man is working on a system whereby chromosomes can be altered.’ I discovered, during those calm sessions with Annabel, the moment I could deliver that speech, unprompted, the rest of the play began to come back to me. I don’t know what mental processes were involved but something slightly mysterious happened. My failure with that one speech blocked the rest of the play.
I had this lesson firmly in mind when Peter Evans, the director who had turned the Muldoon play from a rambling monologue into a cohesive dramatic work, asked me to play another role — King Lear. This was a role coveted by many actors and Peter was offering it to a man whose principal reputation rested on making people laugh.
I asked myself two questions. Did I have the depth of experience to even approach the role? Secondly, could I cope with the words? My struggle during the early days of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? suggested I might not be overwhelmed by the richness of the language. From the first time I had read the play, I had always wanted to be Lear. So I said ‘Yes.’
There was another more personal reason I accepted the role. In a daring stoke of casting, Peter offered the part of Lear’s Fool to Anna McPhail. I knew the chance to play a great role in the company of my daughter would come only once in my life.
The character of the king is deep, dark and, like an unfinished tapestry, easily undone. During the early days of rehearsal I struggled with his motives and the workings of his mind. I knew that merely performing the words, even with great integrity and passion, was insufficient for such a role. I had to find the king.
Peter assembled a fine cast that included two of my favourite actors, Eilish Moran and Geoffrey Heath. Slowly, with painstaking attention to detail and nuance, Peter brought the play to life. King Lear would be staged in a set that resembled a large, anonymous and almost-empty room. It gave no hint of time or place but you knew it represented ruin.
Tony Geddes, the Court’s respected designer, had included, then cleverly disguised, an imaginative theatrical trick in the set. There were a number of doors on the rear wall. One of the most memorable scenes in the play is Lear’s confrontation with the storm. I had heard of some productions where the director demanded authentic noises. So, the storm sounded great, but you couldn’t hear a word Lear was bellowing.
As I ran out into the teeth of the gale, members of our cast began flinging the doors open and then slamming them shut. Lodged beside each door were small microphones so when a door slammed the sound became an echoing boom. When I first heard it I was reminded of a line about a single door slamming in hell.
Even the costumes had a faintly grotesque appearance. There were hints of military regalia on some characters and a suggestion of the medieval on others, but nothing else. I was costumed in a long, rather shabby-looking coat and bowler hat. Anna, as The Fool, was heavily padded and wore a garishly checked man’s suit and a jaunty pork-pie hat.
On opening night I stood in the wings. Never in my life had I imagined I would play this role. I kissed Anna and walked off into Shakespeare.
Peter’s production was highly praised. The role of the king was somewhat more problematic. Over the years some people had difficulty accepting me in a dramatic part. Perhaps, they had memories of comic pratfalls and disrespectful high jinks. I understood their uneasiness and constantly refined my performances to give them a sense of authenticity. The critical response to my role was muted. My Lear was troubled by a degree of nervousness at the beginning and by an uncertainty about the level of madness in the middle. Otherwise it was a ‘sterling effort’.
But, I didn’t care. I felt my performance strengthening every night as I waited in the wings trying to raise my mind to meet the rolling thunder of the spee
ches. More memorably, I stood with Anna as she flung her lines to me with delicious glee and impudence. Actors hope for many things. I played one of the greatest roles of the English stage alongside my daughter.
After King Lear I was asked to be Polonius in Hamlet. The role didn’t have the towering possibilities of failure that Lear offered but I accepted it with glee. Some weeks later I received a telephone call from a young woman. Would I audition for a new television show called Amazing Extraordinary Friends?
I knew of the programme. My son, Matthew, and his friend, Stephen, had devised it and were writing the scripts, but Matthew had said nothing to me. After I got the role I asked why my name had surfaced from the list of older actors. The young woman was as bright as ever. ‘Matthew said the character was a grumpy old man and your name just kept coming up.’
I had to inform the Court as quickly as possible that I could no longer be Polonius. I rang Philip Aldridge, the new major domo at the theatre. He was sympathetic. Naturally, he asked why.
‘I have been chosen for a part in a new television series.’
Philip was delighted. He knew television paid more and he might get a cheaper Polonius. Then, he asked me what I was playing.
I said, ‘The character’s called the Green Termite.’
The Years Before My Death Page 25
