I like to think that I have a path and a purpose. I’ve taken this road because I’m meant to bring my amazing children into being. I think that’s right, although I dare say a lot of you readers would think, What a lot of bullshit! Well, that’s your reality and you are most entitled to it.
We had a three-month break from McLeod’s at the end of May 2002, which I wanted to spend trying to complete the house. I employed my brother Baz, who at forty-four was now an all-round builder: he could build anything out of anything.
I was two weeks into the upstairs construction when I came off my BMW 1200 motorbike. I was travelling up Pittwater Road on my way to see Ebony in Epping. A clown in a Commodore station wagon had stopped across three lanes trying to turn right. He didn’t see me.
Wayne Gardner couldn’t have got out of this. I hit the brakes, thinking, I’m gonna T-bone and go flying through the air. Remember what the old man said: drop the bike.
I dropped the bike, and as I was heading for the road I thought, This is gonna hurt. Ahhh, yep, that hurts. I went skidding along the road at 80 k’s. I’m too old for this shit.
The bike caught up to me and the spinning back wheel hit my arm and broke my elbow and wrist. I slammed into the gutter with my bike. Both knees and my left elbow were gravel-rashed. A small crowd had assembled. I got up and started walking around.
The guy from the Commodore came over to me. ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘My fuckin’ oath it is.’
‘I’m insured, I’ll pay for everything.’
‘My fuckin’ oath you will.’
A person from the crowd cut in. ‘You’re in shock.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m fuckin’ angry.’
‘I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘No thanks, my brother will pick me up.’
While I was waiting, the cops turned up. My right arm was floating around like a limp sausage and the stupid copper said, ‘Sign here.’
It took three months for my arm to heal. I stood around watching Barry and his workmate build the house. Bloody frustrating. As soon as I could use my arm I was back at McLeod’s. Such is life.
Since I’d extended Rosa’s mountain home in 1997, there had been an easing of tension between us and we’d become quite friendly in a platonic way. More platonic for her than me, I must admit. She was still the lost love of my life; I couldn’t get over her. She rang and asked if I knew someone who could put a kitchen together quite cheaply with a bit of style. I knew just the right person. Nikos did the job for her very well. He also wooed her. I’ve got a lot of time for Nikos. On the one hand, it was fine; on the other, my primitive side wanted to kill him. God love him.
It was strange, but even though I was jealous, I had to keep Rosa in my life. Ebony was seventeen so I didn’t have to pick her up as often, and the older she got, the less I’d see Rosa. I invited Rosa and Nikos to the island one day. They had lunch at my home and then we went up to our old house for afternoon tea with our friend Eamon, who’d bought the house from us. I don’t know why I put myself through that. I wanted to see Rosa and I wanted my friendship with Nikos. It was bloody hard to watch them hold hands.
Heading north
In late 2002, I got a gig in north-east Tasmania, a little half-hour SBS drama called Albert’s Chook Tractor, set on a farm. I played a farmer whose wife had died and he and his simple son try to get on with life. The son invents a chook tractor, a mobile chicken pen you shift around to fertilise the field. It was a quaint little drama set in a glorious valley dominated by Mount Ben Lomond. I managed to catch up with my mates Will and Sharon. I also worked with Justine Saunders again. I love her and her talent; she was like a sister to me.
I was taking a bushwalk near Mount Ben Lomond when Charlie rang me from Queensland. He was with William and Noni in Mount Tamborine.
‘Hi, Dad, we’re in Mount Tamborine and guess what?’
‘What?’
‘We’ve bought a house and we’re moving up here!’
That was the first I’d heard of it. Will was nine and Charlie was thirteen. They were going to be 1000 k’s away. I was totally thrown; I hadn’t been consulted. I thought about it for a while and there was only one solution: I had to move much closer to them. I went back to my favourite place on the planet and put a ‘For sale’ sign up on the fourth house I’d built on the island. Like a few of them, I really wanted to stay in this one.
I put the Tennis Wharf house on the market in early 2003. It sold quickly and I actually made a profit, for a change. I wanted to get some acres this time, so I started looking inland from the Gold Coast, and then I drove south into the Tweed Valley. I took the exit off the freeway to Murwillumbah, and when I got to the top of the flyover I had to pull over. The view up the Tweed past the cane fields to Mount Warning surrounded by the Border Ranges is one of the most majestic on the planet.
I found a beautiful old 1880s Federation weatherboard farm cottage on 1.5 acres just north of Murwillumbah. It was a bit 1960s and I had to tear a lot of gyprock away to reveal the original V boards underneath, and rip up the carpet to give light to the hidden hoop pine floorboards. I covered the walls in fresh paint and we moved in. All the while I was flying backwards and forwards to Adelaide to drag myself through endless episodes of McLeod’s Daughters.
Riley
On 18 July my sixth and final angel arrived. Riley was a big angel at 9 pounds. He’s still tall, the same height as his brother Jackson, who’s two years his senior. Jackson was the unexpected miracle but Riley was planned. Even though five kids were more than enough for me, I don’t like the idea of an only child. It’s turned out brilliantly: they are the best of mates, as are my older boys Charlie, now twenty-seven, and Will, twenty-one, who share a flat in Melbourne.
Charlie was fifteen in 2003 and Will was nine. Charlie was still a wild boy, but he took a lot of energy out on his mountain bike. As with all Charlie’s interests, he became obsessed, and he had the best bike you could buy; he spent his savings on it. One day he wanted me to watch him come down this god-awful hill on a narrow dirt track surrounded by rocks and trees. He was showing off and as he was belting down at a death-defying pace, he went off the path and slammed into a tree.
I thought it had killed him; he’s a big guy and he hit it very hard. He ended up with a bruised chest and shoulder. He got up. He was fine, tough bugger. He was rolling his shoulder when he noticed he’d snapped the titanium forks of his bike. He immediately lost it and started crying. He was lamenting that he’d never be able to afford to replace them. Of course I had to say I’d buy new ones for him.
Will was still a star on the soccer field. Charlie is a solid 6 foot 1 version of my father; Will’s more like I was, long and skinny, but he’s a tough, wiry bugger who doesn’t take a backward step on the field.
At this stage they were both seeing plenty of Jackson and Riley. It was good they formed a connection from when their little brothers were babies.
I had Charlie and Will for a week during the September holidays in 2003. I thought it’d be good to go to McLeod’s by hire car. I had to work on the following Thursday and Friday, so we left on the Saturday before and took four days to travel to Adelaide. It was a nightmare. Charlie spent his youth annoying the daylights out of William until Will lost it. Charlie loved it when Will went berko, he’d laugh out loud. Because Will was much smaller, he’d attack Charlie with rocks and sticks, which was even more satisfying for Charlie.
Their arguing was driving me crazy, so, without a word, I exited the highway and headed into the town of Junee. They asked where we were going but I wouldn’t answer. I pulled up outside a hardware store, got out and told them to stay in the car. I came back with the most expensive industrial earmuffs you can buy. I sat in the car, put them on and drove off. It worked a treat: when they argued I could hardly hear them. Charlie quickly realised what I was up to and went all-out to drive Will nuts. It worked. I was still oblivious to the argument when suddenly Will lurched from the back seat
into Charlie’s front seat and had him by the throat, screaming like a banshee. He nearly caused me to have an accident.
When they weren’t arguing they were bored shitless. They couldn’t give a toss about the scenery or the quaint towns. It was the trip from hell.
Tarantino
In mid-October 2003 I was driving home through the cane fields near Murwillumbah from yet another stint on McLeod’s when my mobile rang. It was my agent.
‘You’re not going to believe this. Tarantino got off the plane this afternoon and said, “I wanna meet John Jarratt, he’s my favourite Australian actor.” He wants you to go to the Sydney premier of Kill Bill tonight.’
‘What? That sounds bizarre, you’re pulling my leg.’
‘Nup, that’s apparently what he said.’
‘Well, it’s 6 p.m. I’m in northern New South Wales, I can’t make it.’
I didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe he said that about lots of Australian actors, like Russell or Cate.
I got home and the phone rang again.
‘Tarantino is very disappointed. He was wondering if you’d like to have a drink with him tomorrow night in Sydney.’
Wait a minute, I’ll just check my diary – no, sorry, I’ve got dinner with George Clooney at the Opera House.
Tarantino is one of my favourite directors. Pulp Fiction is one the most innovative, refreshing movies I’ve ever seen. In one fell sweep he created his own genre; I call it Quentinsential. He takes something from every movie that’s ever influenced him and scatters it through his films with the dexterity of a master chef infusing flavours through an incredible dish. His films are unique and yet strangely traditional at the same time. He can pull stuff out of his mind from all the thousands of films he’s seen. They’re in Technicolor in his skull.
I met Quentin in the lobby of his Sydney hotel. Being a fan, I was expecting this larger-than-life character, but he was charming and a little bit shy. I was charming right back at him and pretending to be calm, but inside I was going, Fucking hell, I’m walking down to a private space to have a chat with Quentin fucking Tarantino! What’s a coalminer’s son doing with Tarantino? If I’d stayed in Wongawilli would I have ended up in the mines like my cousins Steve and Tony?’ but then I thought, Maybe Quentin’s saying to himself, ‘What’s a boy from a video shop doing in Sydney with views of the Opera House talking to John fucking Jarratt who did Picnic at Hanging Rock when I was ten?’ Maybe not, he probably got over that after working with John Travolta and Samuel L Jackson.
We sat down and had a drink together and he started asking questions, then the animated Tarantino arrived.
‘How did you do the crane shot in Next of Kin? How did they get it into the pick-up? How did they tongue it off the crane and into the pick-up without cutting?’
And it went on. I couldn’t believe how many Aussie films he’d seen. They’ve had a tremendous influence on him. We can make an action film for $1 million and make it look like $30 million, that is what we’re good at.
He said he’d pencil me in to one of his films, and eight years later he did. I would love it if Quentin came to Australia and made his Quentinsential Aussie film. That would be sensational.
Goodbye, old man
I was standing in Jackson’s room on the phone to the old man, telling him how exciting it was to have a one-on-one with the great Tarantino. He didn’t know who I was talking about; the only director he knew was Cecil B De Mille. He asked me what I was doing, I asked him what he was doing, he asked me if I was all right for money, I said I was, he said ‘Bye for now’ and hung up. Always the same conversation, always the creature of habit. I still remember his phone number, because every time you rang he’d reel it off before saying ‘Bruce Jarratt speaking’.
That was my last conversation with my dad, he died two weeks later. He had dinner, said to Mum, ‘I’ll go get me pyjamas on, clean me teeth and go to bunkyboo.’ He went into his room, pulled his pyjama pants on, had a massive heart attack and left life.
The phone rang and Mum was on the other end. Mum was in the early stages of dementia and Dad had reverted from the cared-for to the carer. Mum would forget to turn off a pot or overrun a bath; Dad kept an eye on her and it actually made him stronger. We thought he’d last much longer than he did; he was seventy-eight. Mum was very calm and collected on the phone. She was protecting her little boy: it just kicks in automatically. I fell to bits, I needed Mummy and she was there for me. I’m a sook when it comes to this sort of thing. If Rosa goes before me and I have to break it to my girls, I doubt very much that I’d have anywhere near my mother’s strength. I’m ashamed to say, they’d probably have to hold me up.
It’s a strange thing, losing your dad. I miss him terribly. He was larger than life; you always knew when he was there. I miss his strength, his never-say-die attitude (‘A Jarratt never gives up’). He was angry at times, he yelled sometimes, he lost it sometimes and said the wrong thing. But he got over it quickly, he never brooded or refused to talk or hung onto things. Overall, he never looked back, he had few regrets and he loved life. He was a paradox. He could be a selfish bastard, but he was a happy selfish bastard. He was also generous – as he would say, he’d give you his arsehole and shit through his ribs. He didn’t give a fuck what others thought of him and he never expected anything from anybody. But most of all, he loved us in depth and he loved Mum with an extraordinariness that words haven’t been invented to describe it. He would have died for us in a nanosecond.
There were a lot of people at his funeral. The families, of course, old friends and new. Personally, what touched me most was my lifelong Townsville mates turning up – Nial, Sally, Max, Herb and Rubin. All except Rub had come down from Queensland. Rubin reminisced about dropping the ball and losing the grand final and Dad calling him Buckets Doube. ‘At least I won’t be called Buckets any more.’
‘Is that right, Buckets?’ we all chorused.
My brother Brian did the eulogy. Man, it was heart-warming, funny, moving. I can’t believe he wrote such a masterful speech. I’d like to say it was a consummate performance, but it wasn’t a performance. It was an encapsulation of Brian’s truth, spoken with guts and conviction.
Dad’s favourite song was ‘Old Man River’. He had a deep, rich, powerful baritone. I opened my mouth to sing and I could immediately hear him singing it in my head. I’ve got a good voice, but I sounded like someone had trodden on a mouse. I blew it.
The coffin was covered in flowers. Nothing could be more ridiculous than putting pretty flowers on Bruce’s coffin. It needed to be an engine block and a bag of cement. The coffin went behind the curtains. Bye, Bruce.
Wolf Creek
At around the same time as meeting Quentin, I got home from McLeod’s to find a script waiting for me: Wolf Creek by Greg McLean. I read it. Fucking full-on. I thought, if this Greg guy can pull this off, it could be a bit of a hit in the horror-genre world.
A couple of weeks later I met him over a coffee in Brunswick Street, Melbourne. He was living above a shop at the time with the arse out of his strides. Luckily for me, he was at NIDA in the early nineties when I played the hard-arsed cop in Dead Heart, so when he wrote Wolf Creek I was the actor he was thinking about.
I asked him all the pertinent questions to ascertain whether he had the goods or not. The film was to be shot on digital, which was still very new at the time, for $1.2 million, chickenshit for what we had to accomplish. He’d never directed a film before, the cinematographer had never shot a film before and the backpackers were going to be Australian actresses because they couldn’t afford English ones. This was a real worry: if the accents are off, you lose your audience. I walked away from the meeting in a quandary. I thought we were fucked, and that the film would be below par. On the other hand, I was impressed with Greg: he was bright and knew what he was talking about, he knew what he was up against and he seemed to be on top of it. I thought that if he could get the script on the screen it’d be okay. He exploded it o
nto the screen!
They raised the $1.2 million and I started getting into Mick Taylor’s rancid skin. I’m a father and grandfather, so for me the only thing sicker than a serial killer is a paedophile. It’s tough playing a serial killer, but the world is full of them and their ilk. It’s a sad part of the human condition and films should be a reflection of society. It was an amazing challenge to play a character who was anathema to me.
I still didn’t understand serial killers or mass murderers, so I decided to work on his justification. I don’t have any problem with culling feral animals like foxes, wild horses, pigs, donkeys, camels and cane toads, but I don’t like cruelty, which I have seen from so-called ‘normal people’ in the bush. So I put Mick in that zone. Mick can’t stand all these bloody low-life young pricks from foreign countries backpacking through his backyard. Also he’s got to drive a long way to the coast to hire a prostitute. He’s in the pub one night and he and his mates start bitching about backpackers, that they’re no better than any other feral animal. Mick decides he’ll start culling backpackers as well as pigs. You can have more fun with them, play games and save money on petrol and prostitutes. Perfect!
As Tarantino says, no art form does violence better than film. Violence is in our nature: football, boxing, ice hockey, we love it. Films are largely about superheroes, villains, wars, Westerns, gangsters, coppers – even the comedy is full of violence, people falling off things, running into things, cartoons especially. Why is this? Maybe it’s primitive. We love action and horror, but why? It’s the same as when we watch a tough game of football. You can see it and imagine how much a crunching tackle would hurt without actually copping it. It’s the same with the movies. It’s why we love roller-coasters: you can feel the sensation of falling off a cliff without hitting the bottom.
The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life Page 32