Just shoot me please!

The Australian Magazine, June 13-14 1998

I remember well the moment I decided to become an actress. I was sitting in the Hamburger Hamlet at Picadilly Circus after having been to see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with my mother, grandmother and siblings. My grandmother was berating me on my pronunciation of the word ‘solt’ not ‘sult’; my siblings were squabbling over who should sit by the window and my mother, as many poor mothers of pubescent teenagers do, was uttering insanities like “wasn’t that a that a pretty tune?” Oh God, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut, please let me wake up on Paul Newman’s handlebars.

Thereafter, Hollywood was my destination, not because I particularly wanted to be an actress, not because I was hell-bent on fame and fortune but because I wanted my frocks unlaced by blue-eyed barbarians, because I wanted to thunder across deserts on Appaloosa thoroughbreds, because I wanted to spill witty quips at appropriate moments and have my life underscored by a Burt Bacharach theme tune. Becoming an actress seemed the only way to fulfil these fantasies, and since England only seemed to produce actors in the ilk of Hugh Grant and Ralph Fiennes, lily-livered dandies one could meet any day on a number 14 bus, Hollywood became the essential romantic facilitator. In many respects it didn’t disappoint – although I forsook an American twang for strine, I did eventually lasso myself a blue-eyed barbarian.

By that time, however, I was addicted to a very potent drug. A drug that, like the best, conjured the illusion that one was beautiful, admired, and talented, and made you rich to boot. All it seemed to require was a pretty pout and deep cleavage; so little in return for what, in all youthful ignorance, seemed like huge returns. But fame and success in Hollywood is in massive demand and the supply of it relatively small. Inevitably there are many casualties, the bulk of them often in direct proportion to the ease with which they got their first taste. The trouble starts, as always, when the initial buzz begins to fade. Suddenly it is not enough to see yourself on Sunset Boulevard, 12 metres tall and posed astride the manly chest of Jeff Bridges, your cleavage so deeply enhanced that it threatens death by suffocation. Suddenly you want the world, self-respect and Oscars, too. Tough, unless you get on the bullshit bandwagon and hire yourself an ace publicist who’ll convince your peers just how much you suffer for your craft, how much research you do, how many roles with accents and without breast enhancements.

Otherwise, I’m afraid, it’s only a matter of time before you’re on the bus to [a discount designer-ware shop] Loehmanns, with all the other parchment-skinned, lip-enhanced reject starlets.

Lucky for me I had a mother who had stopped speaking inanities and now spoke with uncomfortable wisdom: “Don’t take it all so seriously, darling. I mean you’re hardly Vanesa Redgrave.” At the time, I believe Vanessa Redgrave had one of those lily-livered English things hanging off her arm, so I didn’t particularly want to be her, but I got Mum’s point. Serious wasn’t really an option. So before things got too desperate, I chose the cold turkey option and buggered off to Australia to live in domestic isolation with my barbarian. The hardest part of the cure was how to stop the craving for all the glorious attention but my barbarian was so clever. He said, “…we, we’ll soon fix that,” and along came three little barbarians who wanted all my glorious attention and suddenly I had no choice but to give it, so it worked… sort of.

Twelve years later, I’m not really cured but I’m doing okay. I’m on a sort of methadone program where I go back to Hollywood for synthetic hits once in a while. Mostly B-grade fare with titles like My Stepson, My Lover or Mother May I Sleep With Danger? It’s high risk though; there’s always a chance that you might have a really good experience and get hooked again.

I had a close shave a few years ago when I went to film a movie called After Dark My Sweet. One of the most dangerous scenarios is working with a director whose sensibilities you share and admire. Luckily, it hardly ever happens. What usually happens is there’s some drongo in artistic control who’s sold his soul to the lowest common denominator and now churns out the usual B-grade fodder in return for a permanent mainline drip – power over everyone else.

Of course, if an actor wants to retain performance control, you have to get a little cunning, namely know how you want the character to add up and with each “set up” give no choice over interpretation. Certainly never listen to “Trust me, Rachel, of course you won’t be blubbing in every scene, but I’d like to have the choice.”

Anyhow After Dark My Sweet boded well. Firstly, I had already slept with the director (an ex-boyfriend) and, since he was long over the excitement of his leading lady’s breasts, the usual argument over full-frontal nudity was averted. The part called for lots of torpid drunk acting, the co-star was a dish and evenings were spent in wonderful artistic deliberation under an exotic location moon. An experience like that can really spell trouble. Simply, whatever the cost, you want more. My bags were packed, the kids farewelled and then… I caught a screening of the movie. The performance of my career was on the cutting room floor. I unpacked my bags and went back to tuckshop duty.

Since that time, however, my experiences in Hollywood have generally been much safer; usually peopled with directors like one whose response to a query was “Just say your lines, sweetheart,” another whose response to some performance direction was “Just remember, Rachel, you’re a little sparrow with a broken wing,” co-stars with halitosis, 15cm lifts and arrested development and, of course, the endless bonking-in-the-shower scene, which all somewhat conspire to discredit authority at the next P&C meeting. All in all, the option of staying at home with dignity and baby, and enrolling in some TAFE courses, becomes infinitely preferable.

A funny thing happens, though, while you’re having babies and studying Applied Philosophy – you get older. You get fewer shots but when they come they’re suddenly paying you to keep your clothes on and you seem to spend more time in bed scenes dying than bonking, and the women you play are suddenly imbued with some complexity, subtlety and humour, and suddenly you get all excited and begin to imagine that it’s not just a pretty pout but a performance that’s required, and that’s when you make your next mistake.

Take my latest role. I’m playing Kate, an 18th century wife and mother from rural Ohio in a four-hour American network mini-series to be aired later this year, based on a magnificent book called The Earth Abideth, but to be released with predictable homogenised marketing as Seasons of Love. Kate, however, is a role to be coveted. A noble, long-suffering heroine with an accent to boot.

Let me just say that the only award I’ve ever one was for the tidiest locker in junior prep so I’m probably unusually driven by fantasies of envelopes containing my name being opened.

I’m not playing someone physically or mentally impaired but pulling off an accent seems to work magic for Meryl. Preparation begins weeks before I leave for the States and soon I’m so damn convincing even my children are desperate to be rid of the Yank who used to be their mother. Fooling the natives is a little harder when I arrive in America and inquire “Hozza Weatherr bin,” the limo driver lights up like an exotic alien has just landed on his back seat and says “I’ve gotta uncle living in Melbourne, where are you from?”

My new co-star isn’t reassuring either, “Hozza accent sounding,” I whisper after the first read-through. “Didn’t know you were doing one,” he says. Never, I remind myself, ask another actor for validation. Nothing I can’t fix in post-sync, I tell myself, and fall asleep listening to tapes of Ohio chicken farmers.

Preparing myself for makeup and wardrobe tests I am meticulous in my quest for authenticity. This is a woman of servitude and sun-damage, I remind the various departments who, under-standing Hollywood better than I, look aghast and offer less hideous choices. I push them away. “More padding,” I cry, “deepen the wrinkles.”

Watching the tests, my hair greyed and smarmed beneath a silly bonnet, my frocks buttoned primly to the neck, I exalt in my integrity and secretly reflect on which frock I’ll wear to the Emmy awards ceremony. Tests of the actress to play the young romantic lead follow mine. The 1860s were a period of modesty and conformity; no woman exposed her hair lets alone her flesh. Heedless, lovely red curls tumble down the actress’s back, her lips are drawn so pink and wet they test the limits of decency and her breasts, as smooth and pale as ice-cream scoops, burst from tightly drawn corsets. “You’ve gotta be joking,” I say but my protests go unheard. The crew is drooling and finally, finally I get it. It doesn’t matter what role you play, this is Hollywood and if you get to play lead you’re in the business of selling romance and wet dreams. Three days before shooting begins, I order hair extensions, buy a push up bra and make an appointment with a top plastic surgeon.

I know it might seem obvious but never try to reclaim your youth three days before you go on camera; it isn’t worth the anxiety. I am promised, however, that the swelling from my frown and smile line fills with subside in hours, leaving me radiant and years younger. After a 15 minute procedure I return home and, as directed, fall asleep kissing an icepack, I wake up with frostbite. Far from subsiding, the bruising and swelling have intensified and I wonder how I will explain why I intend to play this character with two golf balls tucked inside my cheeks. Come time to shoot, however, all except my bank balance is back to normal, not a trace of swelling, apparently, of much youth either. “Is Mum ready for her close-up?” chirps the cinematographer on day one.

Understanding Hollywood and how to play it is where the real talent lies. Moments before my use-by date expires, I’ve finally got it and never have I found the experience of working on a film to be so enjoyable. This was in great part also due to the director, a softly spoken minimalist whose approval of a take was expressed solely by his degree of enthusiasm in cutting it. A simple “cut” meant, “in the can and move on”, but “cccccut” meant “better than average and move on”. You learn to be your own best judge especially when it comes to performance critiques from the crew. One of the most demanding days was my death scene where I farewell both my son and husband. There was much emoting, the usual tears, long speeches and last rasping gasps and, although neither the focus puller or anyone else looks particularly impressed, as my own best judge I feel it’s gone well. In the final scene of the day I simply play dead. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and wistfully contemplate which restaurant to dine in. “Ccccut,” says the director. “Gosh,” says the focus puller. “How did you do that? That was brilliant.”

Perhaps it’s not too hard to be brilliant in Hollywood today. As Dustin Hoffman recently whinged, “Being a good actor is irrelevant in today’s market. More than any other time it’s not the quality of your work that counts but the magnetism of your personality.” Does that mean John Wayne or Errol Flynn were only superstars because of the quality of their work? I think not. Nothing’s changed, mate.

One thing’s for sure, those who are Hollywood bound should dispense with any serious acting training. Particularly from schools that still adhere to the principle that less (of you) is best. One of the most misleading directives I received was, “Not bad, Rachel, but I saw much too much of you.” The degree of distinction between one performance and another does not rely on how effectively an actor can disappear under the physical manifestations of Quasimodo. What separates them is how they use themselves to fill out a character. Often those credited with being good “actors” are simply those with more interesting personalities to watch. (No wonder I’ve always taken my bad reviews so personally.) You only have to look at the A-list – Robert De Niro, Jack Nicholson, Julia Roberts, Nicole Kidman, etc – to see that, in the end, it all comes down to the charm quotient. So, unless you can find a “personality school” in the Yellow Pages or pop some natural charm tablets, no amount of fencing or articulation is going to help.

I may not be working at The Old Vic or Shubert Theatre, winning Oscars or Logies, but on an American mini-series with a title like Seasons of Love I am, momentarily, the reigning grande dame and to my bemusement often find myself dispensing little pellets of hard-won wisdom to eager young aspirants. “So what’s the secret?” asks the beauty with the ice-cream breasts. “Well, darling,” I say, “be real, don’t push anything, smile whenever you get the chance and above all, don’t take it all too seriously. I mean… after all, my pretty… you’re hardly Vanessa Redgrave.” Meeeow!