My other job was cleaning a hat factory in Surry Hills three nights a week. I hated it. Poor old Mum had to fill in when I had NIDA plays to do on the odd Friday night.
Out of our pathetic wages, Rosa and I managed to go to movies, eat out occasionally and go to parties, and she spent too much money buying me trendy clothes. She loves buying clothes. She also designed her own wedding ring. I put a small diamond on it. She secretly took it back and paid for a larger one. Somehow we got by.
I went to do the manly thing and officially ask for Rosa’s hand in marriage. Charlie was only 5 foot 6, but he was more solid and more muscular than my father, which is saying something. He was 2 inches shorter than Dad and he weighed the same. His nickname at work was ‘Little Big Man’ and he was strikingly good-looking. Rosa took after him in the looks department.
One time a biker, a big 6 foot 2 arsehole, started work on Charlie’s gang. He got off the truck, walked across to a park, lit a smoke and refused to work. Charlie went and argued with him about it. There was a low-lying fence between them. In the end, Charlie lost it when the big guy started calling Charlie a wog, laced with very nasty language. Charlie grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, picked him up bodily over the fence and slammed him into the dirt on the other side. He looked at Charlie in complete shock. Charlie said, ‘You work!’ and he did. He left that afternoon.
We all met in the Miano dining room, Charlie, Carmela, Rosa and me. I gathered up all my courage and said to Charlie, ‘I’m in love with Rosa and I would like your permission to take her hand in marriage.’
Pause. ‘I dow know.’
‘Papa!’
‘I dow know! I spose so…why you ask me?’
Silence.
‘You wanna coffee? Make him a coffee! How’s your mudda and fadda?’
And that was it.
The only other time he seriously spoke to me sent chills up my spine. We we’re both sitting in the dining room drinking his homemade wine, this long skinny boy and this short block of concrete.
He said, ‘Hey Johnny, I thought I tell you…I’m not in da Mafia.’
I was feeling very awkward and embarrassed. ‘Ah, that’s all right, Charlie, I didn’t think you’d be in the Mafia.’
‘Hey Johnny, don’t need da Mafia.’
I sat there, silently shitting myself, thinking, Right, I get it, look after his daughter, if you don’t he’ll crush you into a tennis ball and throw you away.
Finally! The lead role
A lead! At last, a lead! Two and a half years down the track I’ve got the lead. It was a new musical called Cooper and Borgias. I got to act and sing the lead. It was a kind of a mythical piece about two brothers leaving their quiet home and making their way in the big bad world. I loved it, I cherished the opportunity, I nailed it; it was a hit.
I’ve always been a confident performer. I’m secure in the knowledge I can act. I’ve been good at it since I was a toddler.
I’ve always been funny, quick with a comeback, a great impersonator, the life of the classroom or a party. My mother and father could act, they could have made a living out of it. Actors aren’t made, they’re born. From all walks of life.
I was never overawed by any role I was given at NIDA, quite the opposite – I couldn’t wait to analyse it, find my way into it and perform it. My overall feeling was excitement. I felt out of water from an intellectual perspective. I could never enter a discussion on the social significance of Oedipus Rex or the subtle nuances of John Bell’s or Ron Haddrick’s last performance. One, because it was boring to me, and two, I knew my limitations. I found more depth after I left NIDA. I learnt more about the tools I needed to find a character in depth by simply doing it and learning from the fabulous older actors I was lucky enough to work with: John Hargreaves, Max Cullen, Kate Fitzpatrick, Helen Morse, Martin Vaughan, Robyn Nevin, Gerard Kennedy and Frank Gallacher, to name a few. NIDA is a great way into show business, but it’s not the only way. Mel Gibson did, Russell Crowe didn’t. Both fantastic actors, both have their similarities. One’s no better or worse than the other, in my book. And this is my book, so there.
Our graduation play was a musical, Oh! What a Lovely War, directed by John Clark. This was by far the finest production we’d done. It’s a massive piece to do on a small stage. The scale of it was one thing; the other great thing was how well the characters were spread among us. John made a fantastic choice as this was the showcase play that the industry attended to see who was coming out of NIDA. This play had everything: it was funny, moving, poignant, sad, uplifting. It was a joy to be part of. NIDA was so lucky to have a man with the understanding and foresight for what a drama school needs, in John Clark. From my understanding they’re in dire need of another John Clark.
What he didn’t know about theatre and performance wasn’t worth knowing.
John Clark had a strange request from Rosa. As long hair and beards were the fashion of the day, Rosa wanted me, my best man and my groomsmen to have long hair. Brian was my best man; Nial, Max and Herb were my groomsmen. (I know, Italian wedding! The parents wanted it, the parents paid for it, thank Christ.) So Rosa turned up to NIDA with a wig. She tucked my long hair into it and presented it to Clarky. Always a sucker to pleading looks from a pretty woman, Clarky agreed to the wig.
Rosa and I were married in November 1973. All the uncles, aunties and cousins were there. Nanna was too sick to make it. She was less than a year away from dying at the time. Sicily was well and truly represented. Italians love a wedding and boy, do they know how to do it.
We were married in a local Catholic church, something the Irish and the Italians have in common.
Rosa looked absolutely stunning. Her taste in clothes has always been impeccable. The door of the wedding car opened and what emerged was a white butterfly. Within the white was golden brown crowned with thick, long, wavy black hair surrounding the golden exotic face of my Goddess.
Standing before me was an angel, an innocent child-woman born on the mythical hills of Sicily.
The wedding went without a hitch. At the time I wasn’t at all religious and not very spiritual. I was more into the hippie thing by then. Peace, love and rock ’n’ roll. I would have preferred to just ‘live together’ with Rosa, probably because it was trendy, but her parents would have gone ballistic. Besides, it was a wonderful wedding. The reception was a lavish affair – an Italian rock band, Italian food, Italian rituals, Italian exuberance – and we loved it. To this day, if my family, my friends and I are invited to feast at the Mianos, everyone starts salivating counting the days. A meal to Carmela is only a small part of her feasts.
The Irish side of the wedding involved singing and dancing. Aunty Joan sang at the ceremony. At the reception, Dad sang ‘I Believe’, Uncle Arthur sang ‘Moon River’, Barry sang ‘Mandolin Wind’, I sang ‘Something in the Way She Moves’ and Mum brought the house down with ‘Can’t Help Loving that Man of Mine’. Why? Because she’s one of the greatest singers I’ve ever heard, and I’m not saying that because she’s my mum; anyone who’s heard her sing will tell you that. Nial won the dance with his floor-clearing Cossack dancing. It was wonderful.
Rosa and I got changed into our going-away outfits. She bought matching chamois suits. We walked out to our departing vehicle in our chamois suits. I love motorbikes, especially old ones. Dad and I were rebuilding a 1947 1200 Indian Chief and I was riding a 1966 R60 BMW. An absolute classic. The seat was covered in a white fluffy sheepskin which looked fantastic against the black bike. Off we went with much cheering and enthusiastic war cries from friends and family. We went to a great hotel in the city and stayed in the honeymoon suite; it had a heart-shaped bed. Then we…
We had no money for our honeymoon, so we took a road trip with Sally and Nial. We spent a week at their apartment in Main Beach on the Gold Coast. The trip up was fun. We took my bike and the EJ Holden. I sold the EJ in Queensland and rode back to Sydney on the BMW. We stayed overnight in a caravan on the way up. Rosa kept warni
ng me she couldn’t cook. I said not to worry because I couldn’t cook either. We’d learn together. She bought some food and started preparing the meal. She didn’t need help; she’s an amazing cook. It’s only compared to her mother that she can’t cook.
We had a great time with Sal and Nial. It was November. Lots of surf and sun, lots of laughs at the Greaves residence, no dramas. Actually, Rosa had a bit of a drama. Nial picked her up and held her by the ankles over the rail at the top of the outside staircase. He thought it was funny, I thought it was funny, but it seems we were wrong. Sal and Rosa said it wasn’t funny.
The only real drama was at Surfers one day. Rosa walked past these three louts. They wolf-whistled and made some sleazy comments. She ignored them, so they started saying nasty things and calling her a greasy wog. She came up to me and I could see she was upset. She didn’t want to tell me, but I got it out of her. I grabbed her hand and took her back to these three heroes on the bench. I asked them to call her a wog again. They sat there like weasels. I said, ‘Come on, I’ll take the three of you.’ I was fairly confident; I was carrying my bike helmet in my right hand, and if they made the slightest move I was going to run the helmet across their three ugly heads. They didn’t move; they went to water. Sometimes I hate men.
We rode home to Sydney. That bike was so smooth, matter of fact, I think I’ll buy another one. Rosa was very relaxed on the bike. She held me around the waist and clasped her fingers together. Occasionally she’d fall asleep. I know it was wrong and dangerous, but I’d let her sleep. Not good, now that I think of it.
We had a bit of a disaster. One of my panniers came open. We lost some clothes, but much worse, we lost all our honeymoon photos. No getting them back in those days.
Back in Sydney, we decided to move to the eastern suburbs. Max had moved to Sydney, and he and Herbie found this amazing flat on top of the cliffs, overlooking the ocean at Maroubra. The parties there were phenomenal. Herbie had the best hi-fi system and record collection, and Maxy had the best dealer, so they had it covered. They had a piano in front of a plate-glass window that took in the coastal view, which included the main bus stop to the city. Occasionally, Herb would walk to the window and acknowledge the bus crowd in just a towel. He’d sit on the piano stool with a flourish, release the towel over the stool and play piano naked to an appreciative audience. Thankfully they couldn’t hear that he couldn’t play.
Rosa and I found a two-bedroom dump in an eastern suburb called Hillsdale. It was unit hell. Completely surrounded by ugly apartment buildings. That’s all we could afford. Luckily I was about to start my first professional job.
Back in the day, pantomimes were a big part of the theatrical Christmas fair. The Old Tote was staging The Owl and the Pussycat. I was playing the villain, the Plum Pudding Flea; my fellow NIDA grad Angela Punch played the Runsible Spoon and Carmen Tante played the Pussy Cat. She later became the wife of my best mate from NIDA, Stephen Bader (now Thomas, because the Bader family was like the Daddos or Hemsworths of the seventies).
I did it with a Cockney accent. All I had to do was hop on stage and stir the kids up.
‘I saw them goin’ off, oh yes I did, they went that way, didn’t they?’
‘Nooo!’
‘Yes they did!’
‘No they didn’t!’
So forth and etcetera for an hour and a half, six days a week for three weeks.
Meanwhile, I auditioned for a musical, The Fantastics. The hit song from it was ‘Try to Remember’. I got the part, and rehearsals started in January. It was to be the inaugural play at a just completed new venue called the Bondi Pavilion Theatre.
A beautiful theatre in a fabulous location. We surfed every day during rehearsals. The director was a gay, part-Indigenous guy called Brian Syron. He’d studied in New York under Stella Adler, which gave him an air of authority. I liked him but I didn’t like the method stuff. The overemphasis of everything didn’t work for me.
‘John, why do you think you said the word “and” at that moment, what do you think drove the playwright to use the word “and” in this context, how does it affect your character?’
Acting is instinctive for me and fun. I don’t like to analyse it to the point that I believe I am the character. That’s impossible and therefore not truthful. I like to get as close to the truth of my characters, as close to being them as possible but not actually being them. That’s wanking. It’s acting, not being. I’m not a be-er, I’m an actor. Analyse? Anal-yse, interesting.
My acting career seemed to be off to a good start, so we moved to a much better flat in Bronte not far from the beach. Life was good. The musical went well; on opening night Gough and Margaret Whitlam were special guests. I had my photo taken with them. I looked like a midget: she was 6 foot 3 and he was 6 foot 5.
Great moment; lost the photo.
I was in two one-hour dramas on the ABC. In one I played a boxer, and in the second I played a shotgun-wielding intruder. I learnt how to work with a film crew on those jobs.
Next I auditioned for a film called The Great McCarthy. McCarthy was a young Australian Rules footy player with considerable talent. It was a romantic comedy. To audition you had to do a screen test and a football skills test. After the screen tests, it got down to two of us, me and John Diedrich. John was well-known for musical theatre and he’d played reserve grade for the Swans in the VFL. I’d only played schoolboy Rugby League. I lied and told them I’d played at boarding school. John and I turned up for the footy audition. All I had going for me was that I could kick a ball well, I was really fit (I used to run from Bronte to Coogee and back every day) and I’d read the VFL rule book. John was carrying a bit of weight so I suggested we do a couple of laps to warm up. I jogged just ahead of John and I got faster and faster. John tried to stay with me, which was the plan. I sprinted the last lap and John pulled up sucking air. Next we kicked the ball to each other, no problems there. Finally they kicked the ball to the two of us and we had to challenge for the mark, leaping and catching the ball above your head. I knew John had it all over me with this, so I used my Rugby League skills. I had no intention of catching the ball; I let John go for it and I just aimed myself at him and shouldered him to the ground, hitting him in the rib cage. By the second mark I thought he was going to thump me, by the third he was fuming. The director came up to us and said, ‘You’re both hopeless!’
I got the part.
I went down a month in advance and trained with the South Melbourne Swans (now known as the Sydney Swans). I had the lead in a bloody movie. As I was totally unaware of my rights and I had a weak agent, the producer took advantage of me. He gave me a small allowance, and I had to find my own flat and pay for it. My father drove me down with my new 900 BMW in his trailer.
I spent most of the month training to become a footballer. I got good enough to fake it and I looked the part. The interstate crew started to arrive and they were being put up in a brand-new hotel in Prahran called the Octagon. I went in to talk to make-up and they were receiving money called per diems, twice as much as me. They weren’t paying for the posh hotel room either. They informed me this was normal and that I was being used. I was constantly broke and now I was angry. I went and talked to the producer and he pulled out a piece of paper I’d signed that said I’d arrange my own accommodation. He reminded me that this part was a gift and I shouldn’t be rocking the boat.
I left feeling angry and I sat down to a bowl of rice that night. I got halfway through it, threw the plate across the room and got on my bike. I rode to the Octagon and got on the house phone to the producer.
He came down to the foyer and I said, ‘I’ll be back here tomorrow morning. I want one of two things: the key to my room in this hotel or petrol money to go home.’
He went ballistic, called me for everything, said he could make or break me, among other things.
I said, ‘Step outside and we’ll sort this out.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Yup.�
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‘I’ll have you know I did boxing in my high-school days.’
‘Good, that should make it interesting.’
He turned on his heel and walked to the lifts. I turned up the next day and received the key to my room.
The film was a comedy romp and I had a ball. It was about a country boy coming to the big city. Not a huge stretch. The cast was fantastic, a lot of great actors from the sixties. Faces I knew from Homicide, Division 4 and Matlock. Barry Humphries, Kate Fitzpatrick, Cul Cullen, Bruce Spence, Max Gillies, Chris Haywood, Judy Morris.
The first day of filming:
‘Hi, I’m Judy Morris.’
‘John Jarratt.’
Then we stripped down and got into bed. Talk about being thrown into the deep end.
After getting through that, the rest of the movie didn’t seem too hard. There was a fabulous scene with Barry Humphries playing the club president. He was luxuriating on an air bed in his private pool, wearing a white terry-towelling robe. McCarthy, my character, was beside him on another air bed. They argued and McCarthy sank a cheese knife into Barry’s air bed. Barry sank into the pool and ad-libbed stuff ten times funnier than the script, like, ‘I’ll have ya balls for breakfast, McCarthy!’ He kept yelling and spluttering and drowning…literally drowning. We’re all laughing at him and the weight of his wet towelling dressing gown was taking him under. We, of course, got onto it and dragged him out. What a trouper.
The film bombed. It was in the vein of Alvin Purple but it didn’t hit the same note. Not to worry; I had another screen test shortly after returning to Sydney in July 1974.
I went to a casting agency in North Sydney for the screen test and to meet the director, Peter Weir. He seemed impressed. It was a supporting role, Albert in Picnic at Hanging Rock. Albert was a working-class country boy who worked in the stables of a large country property belonging to a local aristocrat. Not a huge stretch. Peter Weir explained Albert’s background and his connection with his sister, who also features in the film. He then got me to improvise a scenario with an actress. Peter had the ability to make you feel comfortable, and his style of directing was very reassuring. I therefore felt at ease and improvised with a reasonable amount of confidence. I somehow knew I had the part there and then.
The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life Page 15