I get twenty-five dollars for answering those questions?
He is pleased, but finds it a bit too far from the ordinary, far enough to suggest that there’d been a mistake. Or that it was illegal.
—that’s right.
—what’s the catch?
—no catch.
—all right by me. He breaks out in smiles. Says he’s in the wrong game.
He becomes uneasy when he has to sign the receipt-release. He makes a motion of reading the form.
He prints his name. Jane has to get him to sign.
He then does it quickly, illegibly, as if to get it out of his consciousness as fast as possible.
—where did you jokers say you were from—TV?
—no we’re just film-makers.
—oh yeah, I see.
He doesn’t see at all.
In the Station Sedan After Shooting
—I think he’s going to be great, says Stewart.
—did you see his face when I gave him the twenty-five bucks? says Jane.
—yes! did you get that, Gary. Did you shoot that? Stewart asks.
Gary Camera says, yes, he got that.
All the ‘cuts’ are phony. The real cuts are by prearranged signal. Most of the filming is done when the ‘subject’ thinks we aren’t.
‘I want all that stuff, I want all the stuff when he thinks he’s not being filmed. How’d he look, Gary? How will he come up?
—he’s got a great head, says Gary.
—fine, fine, says Stewart.
—he probably knows my Old Man if he comes from down around Milton, says Terri.
—we might be able to use that, says Stewart.
Day Two
Frederick Victor Turner is a bit drunk when we arrive.
He’s a bit aggressive.
He’s been ‘talking to a mate at work’, and the mate at work says he should be getting paid a lot more and not to sign anything. He mentions a thousand dollars.
There we are at the doorstep, weighed down with gear.
There goes the signal. We’re shooting.
But Jane explains (we decided that she would negotiate difficulties, after her earlier success). We are just learning the film business (not true—we are all professionals), and we are just a little group of struggling beginners, we have only this tiny grant from the government.
—but you said you were from TV. He’s truculent.
—no, no, it might get on TV, but it might not. We’ll show it at the universities and so on.
—you university students then, he says, seizing on the category.
—well, no, we are just a group of independent film-makers.
—it’s not going TV then, he says, disappointment and relief in one.
—maybe we’ll sell it, but we are not from a TV station.
Jane then dangles Paul Hogan’s name before his eyes.
—thought it was for TV, he says, letting us in, explaining his greed. We troop into his rooms.—I thought it was for TV, but anyhow you think we might still be in the big money? I’ll give it a go.
If we do make any money, I don’t see how he’ll get any.
He sits in his arm chair, a big, oily, hair-stained arm chair.
We give him a can of beer.
—right, says Stewart, let’s start from the beginning—where were you born and so on.
Slate Four, Aussie, I say, marking it.
—speed, says Gary.
—right, Frederick Victor, start talking.
—you mean, where I was born and so on?
—yes, the camera is rolling, says Stewart. Frederick clears his throat.
—I was born at a very early age.
We exchange agonised glances. How long has he been thinking that up.
—cut, says Stewart (a false cut). Now let’s start again. Where and when, dates, and places, Frederick.
He begins again.
—I was born in Milton, on the South Coast.
‘I was born at the foot of the mountain, taught my first letters in sand.’
O Jesus.
—my father was a saddler. I worked around the Shoalhaven district, milking cows, cutting sleepers, bringing telegraph poles down the river; my father said I was a ne’er-do-well because I never learned a trade. Here’s something I bet you never would guess, I sang in the Nowra Musical and Operatic Society once in Chu Chin Chow. I took quite a ribbing, I tell you, for singing in that operatic society. They said, though, I had a good voice and with a bit of training and coaching they said I could have gone on with singing. But I wasn’t much of an actor.
—hold it, Frederick. We want dates and places. Tell us when.
—will I start again?
—yes, If you want.
—‘I was born at the foot of a mountain, taught my first letters in sand.’
I was born at Milton in 1918. I worked there for a while. I remember when they cut up Lenin’s brain into 31,000 pieces and found he had pyramids, his brain was all pyramid shapes and that was how he got his ideas, his brain was not normal. I was the first watchman allowed to carry a gun outside Sydney. For a while I played in the town band, cornet; after we got electricity the band hall was one of the first to have heaters. I was a volunteer fireman and went to classes about what to do with electricity when there was a fire and it was escaping. Damned scared we were. Some of them wouldn’t fight the fire at the garage because of escaping electricity. We got an old Abo drunk once, and he told us where to find Billy Blue’s reef up at Yalwal—you could cut solid hunks of gold off it—but we got so drunk ourselves that we’d forgot in the morning …
Back at Jane’s Place Later
—it’s all so much garbage, it’s too static, Jane says.
—no, no, no, says Stewart, no, this is just the warm-up. This guy is good.
—he’s an interesting type, I say, he’s the sort of person who fills the gaps in the economy. Adaptable, learns new techniques.
—that’s what the film is about, says Stewart.
He doesn’t mean that. He just says that.
—but you’re depriving him of his dignity, Jane bursts out, because he thinks you are making a film about what you’ve told him. But really you’re making it about things you’ve never told him.
—that’s not a film-maker’s response, says Stewart sternly. If you feel bad about it you’re in the wrong business. He, the subject, has to look after himself. We have to fight with reality to get what we want. It’s a battle of wills. We have to attain our objective, regardless. Anyhow, you’re the one robbing him of his dignitas by not conceding him the ability of looking after himself.
—I’m certainly not conceding him that. She laughs.
—that’s what show business is all about. Right, Gary? says Stewart.
—you find ’em, I shoot ’em, says Gary.
—what a trouper! says Stewart.
Day Three
—well, how goes it Frederick Victor? Ready to make movie history? asks jovial Stewart.
—I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure I know what you boys are on about.
—just a few questions tonight, Frederick, perhaps a few more tomorrow night.
—but I don’t know what you fellows want. I don’t think I know what it’s all about.
—just sit down and relax.
Stewart goes into more personal history asking for ‘significant memories’.
—once saw an Avro Anson land in a paddock … once went to Braidwood to see a demonstration of a new fly-trap, which they said caught 30,000 flies in a week using a piece of bullock’s liver and honey … never seen so many flies, thick black like tar they were … this fellow who made this fly-trap was going to put one for every five hundred acres … he reckoned that there’d be no more flies in the country … don’t know why he didn’t go ahead with it …
—entertainment?
—remember going to see Clay’s Variety and seeing Nellie Kolle dressed up as a man.
—you liked that, Frederick?
—you made all the fences, eh?
—one day we’d be working away, could be any time of the day, and I’d see Harry just drop his tools and all and walk off without a word … I knew what would be up … about every two months or so … he’d be off on a drunk … leaving his tools, everything, just where it was … if I wasn’t there to pick them up they would’ve just stayed there till he came back … I used to go with him for the first few hours … but he’d just drink until he fell down and go on for days, stopping just like he started, and go back to where he’d left off. No one could make a fence like him; he got more timber out of a tree than any man I knew. We must have built hundreds of miles of fences …
Day Four
—right, Frederick Victor, Stewart says.
Fred is ready early. Sitting in his chair, hair done. He’s now only too willing to sit in front of the camera to talk about himself. He has discovered film, the ultimate egomaniacal business, where everyone from subject to director feels unnaturally important.
—right, Frederick Victor, tonight is going to be a little different. We’ve heard all you have to say about the good old days, and how you built the South Coast. Today things are going to be a little different. Today I’m going to talk to you about what our generation thinks of your generation—damn it no—to be specific, what I think about you.
Stewart hasn’t warned us about this. This wasn’t how I saw it all going.
—first your attitude to pleasure, Frederick. You could all get drunk, we know that, but did you ever sing? No. Did you ever dance? We know you could tell dirty jokes, but you were never really comfortable with women, women had no place with you and your generation. The bachelor is a sort of hero. You were hung up with sex but could never admit it. Your generation never admitted being wrong, hung up, and you went on to be so damn self-righteous about every bloody thing, you buggered up your kids.
—ain’t got no kids, says Fred aggressively.
—for god’s sake, Frederick, I’m talking about your generation, not you particularly. Your generation never could admit its failings, could never examine itself, could never … For instance, Frederick, where do you get your fucks from? Tell us how you work things out.
Fred looks across at Jane and Terri protectively.
Stewart, I think, is not that coherent, he is I think playing it off the top of his head.
—it’s all right, Frederick, we don’t have a double standard like you. We talk the same way to our friends irrespective of whether they’re male or female. You treated women despicably.
—hey now, just you mind what you’re saying, says Fred.
—your fake toughness, too, you and your generation’s gruffness, hiding your ignorance.
—you know what you can do? says Fred. You can piss off, the lot of you. I’m not here to be insulted.
—oh yes, you are. Ho, ho, that’s just what you are. Jane was saying only yesterday how you were being deprived of your dignitas. Because you haven’t got a clue in all hell what’s going on. And you didn’t have the guts to ask or the nouse to guess.
—go on, piss off, says Fred, getting to his feet, flustered and hurt. Piss off, the lot of you.
He motions with his hand and goes into the other room.
—we’ll wait, says Stewart.
We sit around nervously, smoking, drinking, or pacing.
—I might go to the pub, I say.
—you stay. We might need some more probes, barbs. Start feeding me.
He snaps his fingers.
—feed me, questions which sting, he says.
—at least it wasn’t static, says Jane.
—bugger off, the lot of you, he yells from the other room. Bugger off.
Stewart gets Peter Sound to hold the mike against the door.
—all right, Fred, stop this prima donna bit and come out. Come on, tell us about how you fought on the Kokoda Trail, tell us about serving with the Eighth Divvy, how you worked on the Burma railway, put the telegraph across Central Australia, hewed the granite for the Sydney Harbour Bridge, dug the Parkes Swimming Pool during the Depression, was the first person to retread a tyre, built every fence on the South Coast, picked up Chifley’s pipe when he dropped it at Bathurst once, shook General Montgomery’s hand …
Stewart ran out of questions.
—Christ, take it easy, Stewart, I say.
We sit a bit longer, but Stewart is wrong. Fred doesn’t come out.
Day Five
Jane and I go back to reapproach Fred and to pay him his twenty-five dollars for Day Four.
He answers the door.
—can we come in and talk with you, Mr Turner. We’re sorry about how things turned out last night.
—where are the others? He is brusque, formal.
—we came around to say we’re sorry, says Jane. I nod.
—like to get me hands on that bloody Stewart.
Stewart is crouched with Gary in the hedge with sound gear and a sungun ready to pounce.
As soon as Fred says this, up Stewart and Gary jump, sungun beaming.
—now’s your chance, Fred, says Stewart.
Fred sort of laughs with fright. There is a bit of laughing, and we’re back in the living-room with Fred the centre of attention and the camera rolling. Good spirits.
To soften him up, we let Terri Props, etc., ask a few questions about the coast where she comes from. She’s more nervous on camera than Fred.
—George McDowell! Old T.G.! You his daughter! Go on! Well what-do-you-know! Fancy that! Know him! I used to work for him, probably before you were born. Know him! I used to wash bottles in his bloody cordial factory. He was very particular about that. Well, strike me pink!
—what sort of person was he?
—what sort of person was he? Your father? Old T.G.? Fair, a fair man, but as hard as nails the old T.G. Know his biggest problem? He didn’t understand people. Was always rubbing people up the wrong way. One day I remember Tony Larkins got a dreadful dressing down from T. G., a real bawling-out because Tony said something to me about crawling to the boss. Tony was having me on, like. T.G. went for him. Tony and me drank together. But old T.G. overhears Tony say something about me crawling to the boss, because I’d done something or other to make the line work better. Old T. G. heard him and really let fly. And bugger me, but he doesn’t give me a raise. For having improved things. But you know what? It was Tony’s idea all along. He told me in the pub about the idea to make the line work better and I was just rigging it up! He gets bawled out by T.G. and I get the raise. We laughed ourselves sick in the pub. Your old man, eh! Fancy that!
Stewart lets this go on for a while, although he’s not really interested. But Fred likes talking about it, and we obviously need to win him back on side.
We make it an early night.
Day Six
This time Jane prepares Fred.
—you know, Fred, these days we all talk about sex. People these days want to know about how it is with other people and so on. There’s more honesty about now. Well, we’d like to talk to you about it.
—sex? But everyone will see me.
—but these days it doesn’t matter.
—but Stewart promised no more of that personal stuff.
We are shooting this little exchange, too.
Stewart comes in.
—right, Frederick, stop behaving like an old woman. Let’s talk about prostitutes.
Fred is sullen.
—come on, Fred, you’ve got your twenty-five bucks. Why you’re almost in the same business yourself.
—about what?
—come on, Fred, you must have gone to a prostitute once in your life.
—had a friend up i
n Nowra. We were sort of engaged, I suppose you’d say, but she off and marries this cocky. I was working down the coast; it would have been about the time I was working for young Terri’s father. I’m not the marrying kind. I guess if I’d wanted to marry her, I wouldn’t have gone down the coast.
—all very interesting, says Stewart, but what do you do for sex on the coast when you’re not the marrying kind?
Fred gives a sheepish grin.
—when did you first visit a prostitute, Fred?
—that’s a bloody silly question. How would I remember that? Probably in Cairo during the war.
—Jesus, he was in the Egyptian campaign, Stewart says, rolling his eyes at us. Turning back to Fred, he says, how old were you?
—twenty something.
—before that it was your courtship. Did you ‘indulge’ while engaged?
—sort of.
—sort of?
—I don’t want to talk about her now. She’s a respectable woman.
—all right, what about Aboriginal women?
—never an Aboriginal.
—why not? Prejudiced?
—no, I’m not a prejudiced man.
—then why not with an Aboriginal?
—they’re a different race and I don’t believe in the races mixing.
—that’s prejudice.
—it’s a bloody fact of life.
Old Cocky Calwell was right on this particular issue.
—pure prejudice.
—not in my book, it isn’t.
—we must have a look at your ‘book’, Fred. What is it? Mein Kampf.
Silence.
—so you’ve never been with a black woman.
—I might have been with a half-caste.
—only partially prejudiced then. Stewart enjoys his joke.
—tell us what you say when you go to a prostitute.
—say?
—what do you talk to them about? I wouldn’t know myself.
—talk?
—what do you ask them, what do you say? Do you talk about the weather?
—do you ask about the price? prompts Jane over-eagerly from the sidelines.
The embarrassment is burning me to death.
—yes, Frederick, or do you just take out your prick and put it in their hands and burst into tears.
—how much, he says reluctantly.
—then what? Do you say, ‘Beautiful weather’?
The Electrical Experience Page 14
