Once upon a time, movies didn’t revolve around special effects. Most of the action in a Hollywood blockbuster these days is pasted in later on a computer, leaving the actors largely superfluous. In fact, so prevalent are computer-generated effects that the day is surely not too far beyond us where the award for ‘Best Actor’ is given to a laptop. Granted, it will have to be carried to the stage, but it will doubtless thank its agent before disgracing itself at the after-party.
Once upon a time, movies didn’t revolve around special effects. Most of the action in a Hollywood blockbuster these days is pasted in later on a computer, leaving the actors largely superfluous. In fact, so prevalent are computer-generated effects that the day is surely not too far beyond us where the award for ‘Best Actor’ is given to a laptop. Granted, it will have to be carried to the stage, but it will doubtless thank its agent before disgracing itself at the after-party.
No, movies didn’t used to have to resort to hocus pocus to draw in the audiences. Movies were, instead, reflections of our own lives and stories were strictly drawn from real life. Films such as ‘Singing in the Rain’, ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ and ‘The Sound of Music’ were harrowing depictions of reality. We saw ourselves in these films. Or we would if we were prone to bursting into song.
I confess, whether on film or on the stage, I am something of a sucker for a musical. Last Thursday night, I went to Narre Warren to see my fourteen year old nephew perform in his very first musical production. As I sat down in the theatre, I could not help but reminisce as the scent of grease paint filled my nostrils. In fact, the scent was so overpowering that I began to regret having smeared greasepaint across the top of my lip and was compelled to reached for my handkerchief.
They say some people are born into the theatre. Not me, though. Sadly, I was born in a more conventional location at the Mornington Hospital, well away anything resembling a stage. Granted, had my parents been less organized, I could have been born in the back of a sedan, thus setting me up with the kind of fabulous back story so beloved by theatre types, but no. They had to be punctual. Despite this major setback, I was always destined to act. Not particularly well, but to act nevertheless.
When Tyabb Primary School announced in 1976 that its prep year students would be tackling the Nativity as part of that year’s school concert, the theatre world sat up as one and took notice. It is well known that the Nativity is one of the great performances, perhaps second only to ‘Macbeth’. In fact, it is often said that Shakespeare’s failure to write a play based on the Nativity was all the stood between him and greatness. Just as actors dare not speak the name of that Scottish play, poor old Willie Shakespeare didn’t dare even to write about the Nativity.
That did not deter us, however. My costume consisted of my dressing gown, gumboots and a beard made out of cotton wool. If I do say so myself, the transformation was little short of staggering. My fellow classmates in grade prep were astounded as I completely disappeared into character and became ‘Bystander Number Two’. I even refused to answer to any name but ‘Bystander Number Two’ for all purposes. As I walked through the street of Tyabb (for there was pretty much only one street at the time), I was all but unrecognizable. Come the day of the big performance, I was determined to give the parents and teachers the greatest show of their lives. I was going to act like nobody had ever acted before.
The performance itself is largely a blur. Whether that can be attributed to the adrenalin of the moment or the urgent need for corrective lenses is difficult to say. The play concluded with a kind of Busby Berkeley style musical production number, except that instead of lots of colour and dancing, we stood rigidly still and tried not to forget the words. It was a task too great for some of my colleagues. But although it may well be true that there’s no business like show business, it is still a fairly brutal undertaking. So it proved during my breakout performance in the Nativity that night. For whilst there were about twenty students on stage, there was only one microphone.
I can’t now remember the name of the little girl who was handed the microphone by our teacher. Let’s call her ‘Lady Macbeth’. She held that thing like Excalibur, determined not to give it up at any cost. What Lady Macbeth never figured on was an actor so determined, so completely immersed in his role as ‘Bystander Number Two’ that he would stop at nothing to get his hands on that microphone. I wrapped my fingers around that thing in a vice-principal like grip. Startled, Lady Macbeth wrenched the object back and I went with it, singing as I went. In the end, they had to bring the curtain down early, to restore order. It was too late. I was reprimanded, but I didn’t care. It would not be the last time that I, or indeed other people, would suffer for my art.
There were no such incidences of intra-cast violence last Thursday. To be fair, though, they had a lot more microphones. My nephew was simply terrific. He hit his marks, delivered his lines with confidence and even managed a dance routine. But as I watched, I could not help but feel a hankering. A part of me, probably the part still covered in greasepaint, wanted to stride up onto stage, grab the nearest microphone and burst into song. It was an urge I managed to resist. Perhaps, just as it had been with that microphone all those years ago, I still can’t quite let go.