The need for violent adrenaline is in our nature, but so is love. We’ve all got to learn to enjoy the physical without hurting innocents. If you want to thump someone, do martial arts or boxing; if you want to slam someone into the dirt, join a football team; if you want to fire bullets, join a firing range or go pig hunting. If you want sex, pay a woman, don’t rape one. I’d rather die than allow myself to kill my family or sexually assault a child.
Mick was a rough, tough outback bloke with a sense of humour. I thought to myself, Whom do I know that fits this bill? Dad! So Mick Taylor is an impersonation of my father. I hasten to add that Dad was not psychopathic or evil, so I added ‘evil serial killer’ to the mix. Dad had a really deep voice; I haven’t, so I made Mick’s voice gravelly. I said to Greg that I wanted a scary laugh that started as a chuckle, so that by the end of the movie it would be like Jaws music. I practised for six months until I found the Laugh. When I first did it my Labrador dog, Buddy, turned his head to one side and looked very concerned, and so the Laugh was born.
We shot the first week of the film in Adelaide. I wasn’t involved in those scenes, so I hired a car and headed into the outback on my own. I drove from Adelaide to Lake Eyre, an eight-hour, 700 kilometre drive north. I enjoyed the solitude and tried to cloak myself in Mick’s demeanour. I’ve always loved the vastness of the outback. I passed abandoned homesteads and rusted cars, trucks and machinery, the rotting remnants of hardship and failure being gulped back into the relentless red earth. Tough country. Mick Taylor was among it all the time; he had to be one tough motherfucker. I also spent a lot of time doing weights and thumping a punching bag.
After a couple of days I rolled into Marree near Lake Eyre. It had been raining and you couldn’t drive to Lake Eyre, which was very disappointing. Marree had a beautiful old country pub, where I booked in for the night and wandered into the bar for a meal. It’s a small town and quite a few of them, including women and children, were in the bar. Within two minutes a woman yelled out for all to hear, ‘Hey, are you Terry from McLeod’s Daughters?’ They all twigged to it and the game was up. I excused myself and said I was going to take a walk before sundown. I walked out, got in the car and left. After a few k’s I managed to shake the Terry out of me and went back to being Mick.
The biz has taken me to every corner of this unique continent. Now I was off to the Flinders Ranges to start work. Another ancient, desolate outback mountain range with gnarly rocky ridges, the tops of the mountains like the spine of some monster that once roamed in the Dreamtime. The perfect home for a nasty outback serial killer.
The first line I uttered as Mick was, ‘What the bloody hell are you buggers doin’ out here?’ I’d figured out Mick’s gravelly voice and his crazy laugh, but I didn’t know if it was going to work. I thought it would be either bloody good or a bad Warner Bros cartoon character, so I was very nervous. I opened my mouth, gave it my best shot, and it worked.
I loved what we called the ‘Mad Max’ sequence. I’m a Holden man and loved that Statesman. I did 95 per cent of the driving, belting flat strap along that outback highway. A few months later I ran into the car wrangler. He said, ‘We drove that Statesman around a corner a coupla weeks ago, weren’t speedin’ or anything, and the bloody front end caved in. Lucky it didn’t happen to you at a hundred miles an hour on Wolf Creek, eh?’
Yeah, very fuckin’ funny, I don’t think! What can I say: the perils of low-budget filmmaking.
When the manic car chase ends, the victim’s car flips and it all goes quiet. Mick drives slowly up to the crash site and gets out of the car, then the shot goes wide. Me on one side of the screen and my victim on the other. It stays on the wide shot all the way. She stumbles out of the car with her back to me, she gets to her knees; I slowly raise the rifle and shoot her in the back, off my hip. It was so cold and terrifying because it was like news footage. It was like the famous footage of the officer in Vietnam who raised his revolver and shot the Viet Cong prisoner in the head. Most directors would have gone to a series of close-ups: boots hitting the ground, her eyes, my eyes, finger on trigger, mid-shot blood blowing out of her chest. After the frantic car chase, it was even more cold and chilling. This was when I knew I was working with a great director.
Back to Mick’s hide-out and the torcher scenes. The three actors I worked with – Cassandra Magrath, Kestie Morassi and Nathan Phillips – were brilliant. I asked Kestie and Cassandra if there was anything that was too worrying for them. They both said the same thing, independently of each other, which was basically, ‘I’m fine, I have complete trust in you.’ They are brave women and they gave as good as they got. Cassie also said, ‘I’ve signed up for this, I’m not backing away from any of it.’ Kestie was like a bloody wildcat; I thought if she got off that pole during a take, she’d tear me to pieces. I loved working with them and Nathan. The little motherfucker, you never knew from take to take what would come out of him. I did a couple of ad-lib scenes in the film with him; he’s dynamite to work with.
It was interesting inhabiting the Mick character. I’m not a method actor; if I’m asked, my reply is, ‘No, I’m a professional actor.’ But with Mick, I had to go there because we’re not the same human being. Many of the characters I’ve played are not that far from me. I became a loner during the shoot and I didn’t mingle much with the other actors. If I did, I’d have a bit of Mick running through me. For instance, I said to them, ‘I’ve had a look at the pool scene, you looked so young and vibrant and fresh, I just thought, Veal!’ On set, I definitely stayed in character. You couldn’t be having a coffee during a break as John and when they said, ‘We’re ready for the stabbing scene,’ immediately turn into Mick.
Greg always kept the camera going after the scene finished in case we ad-libbed some ‘gold’. At the end of a scene I got shot in the neck, he didn’t say cut and there was nowhere to go. I told him off as Mick and it scared the shit out of him. ‘Ya gotta say cut, ya stupid cunt. I’ve been shot – that’s it, the fuckin’ end, say cut! Fuck me!’
We had a ball. There were so many good people on this film. Matt Hearn, the producer, mortgaged his house to make the film. He put in so much energy, he was relentless. He also sold the film really well; he came from an advertising background.
Will Gibson, the cinematographer, was brilliant. His handheld stuff was out of this world. He was part of every scene. Here’s a great example: the kids were ad-libbing in the car, Nathan and Cassie in the front, Kestie in the back, making up dialogue. While the two in the front were talking, Will panned to Kestie in the back as she started talking. He instinctively knew she would.
Des Kenneally did sound. It rained twenty-one days out of twenty-six. When we were doing the torcher scenes in a tin shack out in the open, it was pissing down with rain drumming on the tin roof. I didn’t want to have to record my voice to the image at the post-studio (called ADR).
I said to Des in character, ‘Hey Des, I don’t wanna havta do fuckin’ ADR on these torcher scenes, get my drift.’
‘Yeah sure, mate.’
I didn’t have to record one word. He’s the best. I got sick of seeing him jump up to collect awards at the 2014 AACTAs.
We wrapped in the middle of 2004. I got make-up to cut my hair really short, I had a shower and a shave and I shrugged Mick off for the next eight years, sort of. Funnily enough, I did Wolf Creek during a midyear break from filming on McLeod’s Daughters. I didn’t finish with them until 2005.
Meanwhile, back in the real world
Mum went downhill fast after Dad died. At first she was okay living alone. Barry and his family moved to Nowra, where my parents had moved in 2002. Baz kept a close eye on Mum and Mum’s neighbours took her into their hearts. They became like family to her. Dementia slowly took hold and unfortunately, in late 2004, things fell apart for her. She got lost down the street a couple of times and she ended up in hospital with dehydration and a urinary tract infection.
It was so unfair. My mother didn’t drink or sm
oke. She ate well, and she had an amazing figure for her age. She exercised regularly, she did calisthenics. She could sit on the floor, put her head on her knees and her hands around her feet. She consumed books because she left school at thirteen and wanted to educate herself. She taught herself enough piano to sing along with her magnificent voice. If anyone got sick she’d go and look after them no matter how many trains and buses it took to get there. If someone needed a roof over their head, she offered her home. At one stage in our two-bedroom house with a sleepout and a caravan in Epping we had Mum, Dad and us three boys, Auntie Joan, cousin Denise and Herbie. She ended up looking after Dad for nearly ten years, then when he died she lost her mind. I’d pictured her going on the India Pacific railway with her sister, but instead she ended up in a nursing home.
Before that, Barry and his wonderful partner, Julie, took Mum to their home. It wasn’t a problem: they’d wanted to take her straight after Dad died, but Mum hung on to her independence for a while longer. Barry and Julie are saints: they looked after Mum 24/7 for two years, and they didn’t want it any other way. When I said to Barry how indebted Brian and I were to him for him putting his life on hold, he replied, ‘I’m not putting my life on hold, I’m looking after my mother. This is my life and you know what? I don’t mind it at all.’
Sundance
In late 2004 Wolf Creek was selected for the Sundance and Cannes film festival, the big double. Suddenly we were on everyone’s lips. The buzz in Australia was humming; Matt Hearn and company were selling the film beautifully. Word was out that it was a groundbreaking horror film about to take on the world. Tarantino was quoted as saying it was the scariest film he’d ever seen (and later, in his 2007 film Death Proof, a car smashes through a Wolf Creek billboard). Quentin’s distributors Bob and Harvey Weinstein came on board after that, and offered an $8 million pre-sale. That’s the first and last time that’ll happen for an Aussie indie film.
Everyone was raving about my performance. I was finally going to crack the big time – well, that’s what we all thought. Wolf Creek was the highest-grossing film in ten years in Australia. Overseas it did reasonably well but was not the big hit we were expecting, so Hollywood didn’t call, unfortunately.
Sundance was a blast, for two reasons: Wolf Creek was playing, and Park City, Utah, is in the middle of some of the best ski conditions in America. My brother Brian flew in from California. It was heaven for him: ski all day, party all night, see his brother and watch his film at Sundance.
Park City becomes packed and nobody sleeps for a fortnight. Brian brought his ski gear, the Weinsteins paid for my ski gear and our lift tickets – gold. There was about fifteen of us from the Wolf Creek cast and crew. We’d ski all day and party or catch a film most nights. And memorable nights they were.
One night we were all in a bar. It was about midnight; Brian was drunk, I wasn’t. It was a long narrow bar, about 2 metres wide. There were so many people we could hardly move. We were standing beside three good-sized Texan rednecks, who were talking to a good-looking Aussie girl about twenty years their junior. Their language was getting very sleazy. She was a feisty girl and she was holding it together.
I finally said to them, ‘Hey, ease up, boys, she’s just a kid.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’
The Aussie girl seemed relieved that I’d stepped in. She grabbed hold of one of my arms. ‘He’s my dad.’
‘Yeah, I’m her dad.’
‘You ain’t her dad, motherfucker. Go fuck yourself.’
‘Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.’
My drunken brother stepped in. ‘Yeah, have a go, ya cunts!’
The Texans went to water and started backing off, even though it was three to two. ‘Hey, come on, man, take it easy, there ain’t no room to fight anyways.’
My brother jumped the bar and stood with the barman. ‘There’s plenty of fuckin’ room over here, come on!’
Brian and I got kicked out and big Matty Hearn looked after the Aussie girl.
Brian and I left the bar and headed across to a cafe. I needed coffee. There were about twenty people lined up in the crowded cafe. Brian and I were standing next to a display of cakes and tarts. I asked him if he wanted something to eat, and he said in a very loud drunken voice for all to hear, ‘I’ll have a spotted dick and a randy tart!’
No matter how drunk he got, Brian would be shaking me awake to go skiing at 8 a.m. He runs a ski school so you’d think he’d be over it – just the opposite. The ski fields are measured in square miles, they’re enormous, with every conceivable run. Brian and I skied the black runs, and it was all I could do to keep up with him. Matty Hearn loved skiing but he wasn’t too good at it. He tried to ski with us one day. We came to the top of a god-awful steep slope. I told Matt we’d ski to the bottom and wait for him and for him to get down doing long traverses across the slope. He got out of control very quickly, falling and losing a ski. He didn’t have the safety on and the ski went halfway down the hill. We were way, way down at the bottom, watching. Matt got a ski on, squatted on it, tucked his poles under his arm and headed off straight down the hill, aimed at his other ski. He miraculously scooped it up and continued straight down. Matt is 6 foot 4 and solid, over 100 kg of blood and muscle. At first Brian and I were smiling, but the smiles turned into grimaces. Matt increased his pace to a frightening speed, with ice and snow pluming out behind him like the wake of an ocean-racing boat. If he fell, he would become a bag of broken bones. He somehow remained upright and went about 3 miles along the bottom flat before he slowed down.
I can’t describe how good the skiing was. You could ski down a chair and it took you to the main street. When I had to go for interviews about Wolf Creek I’d go down, jump out of my skis, pull off my boots and walk through snow and ice to the interview in my socks. I’d pull the boots back on over icy-cold wet socks; an hour of skiing later, the socks were wet and warm.
The big night, the premiere of Wolf Creek at the same festival that set Tarantino up for life. Was it my turn? When I met Bob Weinstein, he shook my hand and said, ‘You’re a scary guy.’ The film went down really well. A couple of women walked out, which we regarded as a good thing because it meant the horror aspect was working. The Weinsteins threw a big party for us afterwards. The Americans stood up one end drinking politely, watching a mob of Aussies at the other end going berko, making complete arses of themselves and proud of it.
The flight from Salt Lake to LA was interesting. I was next to a very short blonde woman who was having trouble putting her bag overhead.
‘I’ll give you a hand with that.’
‘You’re Australian.’
‘Yup.’
‘I’ve just come from Sundance and I saw a very scary Aussie film, Wolf Creek.’
‘I was there, I saw it too.’
‘Were you? My God, it was scary. It was too much, I had to leave. In fact, I was the first to leave.’
‘Were you sitting over on the left towards the front?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You were the first.’
I thought, How long can I let this go on? I said to her, ‘Do you know who I am?’
She looked at me quizzically and then it quickly dawned on her who I was. ‘Oh my God!’ The whole plane heard it, it was so loud.
I calmed her down, she got used to me and asked me how the film ended.
I had to go back to work at McLeod’s, which was like going from a roller-coaster ride to a merry-go-round. There was so much buzz about Wolf Creek, I couldn’t wait to finish up at McLeod’s. Don’t get me wrong, the first couple of years were quite pleasurable, the scripts were good, the story was fresh, but after a while the work became as mundane as my easygoing, unambitious character, Terry. He wasn’t the most exciting character in the world. He virtually did as he was told and what was expected of him. I was bored in the end, but it got me back on my feet and for that I’ll be forever grateful to Posie Evans and company.
Here comes Wolf
Creek
Shortly after I left McLeod’s, I went to London to promote Wolf Creek, which was about to be released in September 2006. I hadn’t been to London since I was there in 1975 with Rosa. I had a ball, swanning around the city in a hire car for a few days, going from TV stations to FM radio to internet and print media. I was very well looked after. They put me in a beautiful hotel and took me to dinner. It was unnerving having London buses whiz past with my face on them advertising Wolf Creek.
I stayed on for a few days so that I could visit Linley and James. We took a boat down the Thames and drove to Brighton on the coast. What a beautiful town.
Wolf Creek went to Cannes, then to the Melbourne Film Festival. It was released nationally in October/November 2005. The buzz was amazing, the premiere was huge and most of the critics loved it. The rest hated it; there was no in between. A Brisbane paper gave it minus 1 star, which I think is a first and something to be proud of. What a pansy.
The film grossed about $32 million worldwide and it was the most successful Aussie film in ten years. My performance as Mick Taylor was considered by many to be my best and a tour de force.
I went to the announcements of that year’s AFI awards. All the names for best actor were read out: ‘Hugo Weaving, Little Fish; William McInnes, Look Both Ways; Guy Pierce, The Proposition.’
Everyone was looking at me. I had to be next.
‘Ray Winston, The Proposition.’
There was an audible gasp and everyone turned and looked at me. I was terribly embarrassed and walked out. It’s a horror film, I get that. I get that I’d probably not win, but to not even be nominated? The real punch in the guts was two actors from the same movie getting the nod. Isn’t one enough? We left The Proposition for dead. It made $5 million worldwide, we made $32 million. Not happy, Muriel.
Rogue
I immediately went from Wolf Creek premieres to Greg McLean’s new film, Rogue, about a monster crocodile knocking over a boat full of tourists, forcing them onto an island and chewing up half of them. Greg wanted me to play a taxi driver from Melbourne on holiday grieving the recent loss of his wife. He was in two minds as he was worried the audience would think ‘Mick Taylor’ when I came on screen.
The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life Page 33