by Judy Nunn
Maddy suddenly remembered where she’d seen Rodney Baines. It was in one of those glossy liberated magazines she’d flicked through somewhere. The kind of magazine that ran articles like ‘The men we’d most like to sleep with as long as we didn’t have to talk to them’. The in-depth interview with Rodney Baines had quoted him as saying he’d ‘like to be taken seriously’.
‘He wants to be taken seriously,’ Phil was saying. ‘This is going to be his first legitimate film.’ Phil went from ‘Rod’ll be great, the camera loves him’, to ‘It’s a Viktor Hoff film, how can you lose’, and finished up with ‘Well, you’re contracted, so you’ll have to live with it.’
Maddy finally gave in. She’d just have to hope for the best. What else could she do? Oh God, she thought, what have I let myself in for?
The marriage of Alex Rainford and Susannah Wright made headline news. Even six months before the event the women’s magazines were glorying in the match: ‘Australia’s Most Popular Television Actor to Wed Leading Classical Actress’. And accompanying the stories were glossy stills of Alex from his hugely successful series ‘Outback Force’ and portraits of Susannah as Hedda, Nina and Major Barbara from the Ibsen, Chekhov and Shaw she’d performed in that year at the Sydney Opera House.
On the day itself, shots of the happy couple leaving the church made television news footage on every channel, with special coverage of the lavish wedding reception by Channel Five. Channel Five had been granted exclusive rights because they owned ‘Outback Force’.
‘Congratulations.’ Alain King shook Alex’s hand then kissed Susannah on both cheeks. ‘You look radiant,’ he told her. She did for one so thin, he thought. The flowing auburn hair and the translucent skin did it: very much the classical dramatic actress image. No tits, bit short on sex appeal, he thought critically, but then Alex more than compensated as far as sex appeal went. Alex looked devastatingly sexy, the two complemented each other perfectly, and Alain couldn’t have been more delighted. Channel Five’s cameras were whirring and flashlights were popping and it was all wonderful for the ratings.
Alain King was the producer of ‘Outback Force’ and the most successful entrepreneur in Australian commercial television. Still in his early thirties, he was sought after by every major production company with their sights set on top-rating drama series.
Ten years before, Alan King had added an ‘i’ to his name, made the switch from market research to television and quickly become an expert in the field of popular demand. He’d been tempted to start his own production company but, deciding not to risk his capital, he started saving for the million dollar city penthouse he intended to buy and hired himself out to the highest bidder. A columnist who believed Alain’s Midas touch was due more to talent than sheer luck had dubbed him The King and the term had stuck.
Alain had ‘discovered’ Alex. At least he maintained he had. The fact that Alex had successfully graduated from NADA, starred in The Way In Theatre Company’s 1973 season and even received rave reviews in their production of an early Bill Davison play meant nothing as far as Alain King was concerned.
‘You’ll never reach the masses via the stage,’ he told Alex on their first meeting over a bottle of house champagne in the theatre bar after the show. ‘In fact, you won’t even reach them via the movies, not in this country. Maybe one day, but not yet.
‘You star on the small screen in a regular drama series, though, and you’re made,’ he continued. ‘I tell you, this country is finally going mad over its own kind. A home-grown television star gets more recognition than Paul Newman and Steve McQueen doing a tango down George Street on a Saturday night.’
When Alex looked doubtful, Alain came in for the kill. ‘Sign up for this new show I’m doing. It’s called “Outback Force” and it’s going to be a hit. Sign for a year and I’ll prove it to you. In a year you’ll be a national star.’
Alex was sorely tempted, despite his commitment to the theatre and his rave reviews in the Bill Davison play. And they had certainly been raves. Even Myra Nielson had given him a good wrap: ‘Alex Rainford has found his niche. After fumbling with the classics he has now ably demonstrated that his true talent lies in the contemporary Australian theatre. In fact, if producers were a little more adventurous and gave our local playwrights a chance, Rainford could well prove the definitive Australian actor of today.’
Alex had been pleased, of course. Very pleased. Myra had finally recognised his talent and it had nothing to do with their ongoing sexual battles.
However, he had not been deterred from his intention to pursue a career in production. If he signed with Alain now it would mean shelving his plan for a year. But then, he reasoned, surely he would carry more power as a producer and doors would open more readily if he had a high commercial profile.
‘And as far as a projected view of the Australian television Market’s concerned,’ Alain continued confidently, ‘my bet is we’ll be selling internationally within five years. At least, my shows will be.’ He grinned his engagingly boyish grin, the one he always used when he knew he was home and hosed in clinching a deal. ‘Australian actors can finally achieve international stardom without leaving home,’ he concluded triumphantly. ‘About time, eh?’ Alain King couldn’t give a stuff about Australian actors. In fact Alain King couldn’t give a stuff about actors in general, but he certainly knew how to manipulate them. It was probably one of the reasons he despised them, he supposed. They were too easy. No spine.
‘Alex. Good show tonight. Well done.’ It was Roger Kingsley, white wine in one hand, other hand drooped over Alex’s shoulder. He made no move to acknowledge Alain King. ‘The second Act fight’s getting a bit sloppy though. How about you and Hugh come in a quarter of an hour before the half tomorrow and we run through it a couple of times?’
‘Sure. This is Alain King, Roger Kingsley.’
‘Oh. Hi.’ Roger pretended to suddenly notice Alain and offered his hand. He read the newspapers: he knew who the man was, and he’d noticed him the moment he’d entered the bar. So this was the king of soap, he thought. Arrogant-looking bastard.
‘Congratulations. What an excellent play,’ Alain replied, fully aware of the fact that Kingsley, with his well-publicised devotion to the classics, probably hated the play. He returned the handshake and deliberately avoided any compliment on the production. Kingsley was a conceited queen who needed putting down.
‘Yes, it is a good play, isn’t it?’ Roger replied when he’d waited long enough to realise that Alain wasn’t going to follow up with praise for his direction. ‘I’ve commissioned Bill’s next play and I think we can safely say that Australia’s brightest new playwright is about to come into his own.’
‘Not before time, don’t you think?’
Roger started to bristle. ‘The Way In Theatre Company is always searching for material from new playwrights,’ he countered. Which wasn’t true: dozens of plays ended up in Roger’s wastepaper bin unread. He presented one new Australian play a season to meet the demand for local material and he usually relied upon these productions to make a loss in order to justify the whopping government subsidy granted to The Way In Theatre Company. The success of the Bill Davison play had come as a complete surprise to Roger. Not that he would admit it, of course. He was riding the crest of the success, had commissioned the playwright’s next work and was quite prepared to wear his losses elsewhere.
‘Good.’ Alain didn’t believe Roger’s protestations for a second. ‘As producers, it’s our duty to promote Australian material, don’t you agree?’ Alain had never considered it his duty to promote anything but he was on the attack. Somehow he had allowed this self-opinionated poofter to get under his skin.
Roger gave a derisive snort, sipped his white wine and flared his nostrils at Alain. ‘Well, of course, that’s much easier to do on television.’
‘My King!’
Alain automatically turned, but the words weren’t directed at him.
‘I’m dying.’ Hugh Skiffingt
on gulped from Roger’s glass and handed it back to him. ‘Ah, bliss.’ He put an arm around Susannah who was standing beside him and flashed a friendly smile at Alain. ‘On Wednesdays we all die.’ Wednesdays were matinee days.
So this was the actor who’d played the big ocker tough, thought Alain. No wonder he hadn’t been able to handle the role. No wonder Alex with his heterosexual Aussie charm had walked all over him.
‘This is Hugh Skiffington and Susannah Wright.’ Alex introduced the two actors.
‘Yes, so it is,’ Alain said as he shook hands with Hugh. Then to Susannah. ‘Congratulations.’ Arty little thing, but talented. Obviously anorexic.
He turned again to Roger. ‘I disagree. No one medium is easier than any other; it’s a matter of talent. Some producers can successfully interpret original material and others need a safe blueprint from which to copy. The latter producer invariably sticks to the classics and pretends they’re difficult.’ Alain put his untouched glass of house champagne on the bar. Trust the theatre to serve such cheap shit.
He slipped a card into Alex’s hand. ‘Ring me,’ he said and swept out, aware that Roger was fuming behind him and Hugh was making ‘what did I say?’ gestures. Bloody fairies.
Alex had been very impressed. Four years later he was still impressed; Alain was an impressive person. He was manipulative and powerful, and there was a lot Alex could learn from him—and he did. He learned the technical aspects of production: the product, the market, the investment, the promotion. But more importantly he learned, directly from Alain’s example, the seductive art of selling an idea. And he witnessed at first-hand Alain’s ability to wield power and manipulate those responsible for artistic input.
They’re writers, Alex,’ Alain told him. ‘They’re writers and actors and designers and composers and they need you. They need the work. Nine times out of ten you don’t bother bargaining. It’s only the one-off talent that needs to be fêted and there are usually ways of getting around that. Quite often it needn’t even affect the budget. It might be something they want done, or someone else they want in the production or …’ he shrugged vaguely, ‘… a number of other tacks can be taken.’ He didn’t specifically mention anything underhand, but it was implicit in his tone.
From the outset, Alain realised that Alex was using him. When he challenged Alex about it, he openly admitted it. ‘Of course, Alain, that’s why I accepted the acting job. I only want to learn from the best.’
It was a simple statement of fact and Alain didn’t even feel conned. It was obvious that Alex was genuinely fascinated by him. The flattery was irresistible and Alain agreed to teach the young actor.
His first lesson was to demonstrate that everything had its price. And the price for Alex’s tuition was a two-year option on his twelve-month contract should ‘Outback Force’ be a runaway success.
Alex learned quickly. Before agreeing to sign up for a possible three years, he countered with a request of his own. His friend, Julian Oldfellow, was to be employed as one of the directors. ‘Just give him a trial, Alain. If he’s no good then you can get rid of him.’
‘You’re damn right I can.’
Surprisingly enough it had taken quite a bit of pursuading to get Julian to accept the directorial job.
‘I believe the Arts Council’s sending out a schools tour of Little Women,’ Alex said sarcastically at Harold’s the Sunday night after the offer had been made. ‘I suppose you want to apply for that?’ It was a full year since the Sound of Music tour but the memories were still vividly unpleasant for Julian. ‘You can’t exist on play readings and workshops for the Alternate Theatre Space, you know,’ Alex continued relentlessly. ‘You’re not experienced enough for the commercial managements and, face it, Roger Kingsley’s never going to give you a go at The Way In.’
‘It’s true, Julian. You’re too avant-garde for him,’ Susannah agreed as she peeled her second green grape and avoided the cheese board.
‘What’s more, he doesn’t fancy you, dear boy,’ Harold added. No one could reply to that.
Julian finally agreed to direct a maximum of six of the twenty-six episodes made in the first production year (‘That is, if Alain likes your first one,’ Alex couldn’t resist saying) and even then he only acquiesced because it would leave him enough time to continue with his writing. He was sure that within twelve months he would have a play ready for production.
The phenomenal success of ‘Outback Force’ put paid to both Julian’s and Alex’s carefully laid plans. They both found themselves well and truly seduced by the trappings of success and it was a full four years before they finally withdrew from the television spotlight. By then ‘Outback Force’ had more than served its purpose for them both.
Julian had written no less than five plays and the most recent, a black comedy called I, Me and Us, was more than ready for production.
Alex had not only applied the lessons he’d learned from Alain King, he had used his commercial profile to its fullest advantage and had aroused more than enough investment interest to embark on his first production. Not surprisingly, his first venture was to be I, Me and Us, starring Susannah Wright. Rehearsals were to start a fortnight after the wedding.
Alex had made Susannah read opposite the string of hopefuls testing for the male lead for nearly a fortnight. He and Julian had agreed, however, that it was best not to let the press know that Susannah had always been the walk-up start. Not that they were particularly concerned about accusations of nepotism. The powers that be were generally supportive of new entrepreneurial ventures. Even if the production failed, the critics, scribes and knockers-in-general were happy to patronise elegantly from a great height with comments like ‘a worthwhile venture which didn’t quite come off’, or ‘with a little pruning and stronger direction’ …
‘First times are comparatively easy,’ Alain assured Alex. Repeating the success was the hard part—that was when the Australian tall poppy syndrome was applied with a vengeance. ‘They can’t wait to cut you down,’ Alain warned. ‘You’ve got to really come up with the goods the second time around.’
Alain had been openly encouraging when Alex’s plans to leave ‘Outback Force’ and return to the theatre had been announced to the press. Everyone had been surprised and warmed by the generosity displayed by The King. It was presumed he would have been possessive about the star he’d created. Such a presumption couldn’t have been more incorrect. Not only was Alain only too happy for Alex to go, he used the character’s departure as a further lesson for his protégé.
‘Never let an actor become more important than a show, Alex, and that applies to the theatre as well as television. Oh, give the public their stars, certainly,’ he said expansively. ‘They love all that. Make sure they run out and buy their tickets and tune their dials to the biggest or the newest hot favourite. But only to start with! If you want to create an ongoing success and make money, the show has to take over. The actors have to become totally dispensable. Otherwise you might as well go into the superstar concert stakes.’ He gave a snort of derision. ‘And then you’ve got to deal with their personal managers and their lawyers. You’ve got to import their families, their entourage and their Christ-knows-what and, I tell you, it becomes a regular shitfight.’
Alain had ceased to think of Alex as an actor. He was more like an extension of himself, a young Alain King. Although only ten years older than Alex, Alain couldn’t remember when he’d last felt a rush of youthful enthusiasm. And now here was Alex, leaning on his every word and learning every lesson, even when Alain spelled it out the way it was: ruthlessly. In fact, the more ruthless it was, the more Alex seemed to lap it up.
Alex even helped Alain to train the actor who was to take over from him. They tested dozens of hopefuls to find the correct mix which they could market along the same lines that had proved so successful with Alex. ‘It doesn’t matter if he can’t act,’ Alain had said and Alex wasn’t the least bit offended.
The new leading role in ‘O
utback Force’, the press was informed, had been developed not only by the creative consultant but the executive storyliner, the executive editor and the writer who was responsible for the character’s introductory episodes. In reality, the new leading role was an Alex Rainford clone who had been created by Alain and Alex three months before and fed to the executive writers piecemeal at dozens of script conferences until they dreamed it was their own.
Although Alex had left the show two months earlier, his character was still to air at the time of the wedding. It was deliberate. The wedding date had been yet another agreement reached between Alain and Alex, together with the exclusive rights granted to Channel Five to cover the reception.
‘You don’t mind, do you, Sooz?’ Alex had asked beguilingly. ‘It’s good for Alain’s ratings and great publicity for us.’
So long as it was agreed the cameras were not to come anywhere near the church, Susannah hadn’t minded in the least. She was fully aware of the value of publicity.
Susannah did, however, consider it poor form when Alain, having told her what a radiant bride she made, saluted her with the Bollinger and said, ‘Tonight’s episode’ll be up at least five points’. She didn’t like Alain.
Alain was aware of her dislike and it didn’t bother him one bit. He in turn didn’t care for Susannah. He wasn’t one for actors at the best of times, but committed actors like Susannah were Alain’s least favourite. They didn’t seem to have any comprehension whatsoever of the value of money, which made them very difficult to manipulate. All they cared about was the role, the director, the cast and artistic integrity. They were the type who held up production while they said ‘Let’s talk motivation’.
Indulgent bunch of retards, the lot of them, Alain thought, as Susannah excused herself and joined her brother and his wife who were talking to Harold Beauchamp.
