The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life

by Jarratt, John

  This problem has haunted me ever since. Mick Taylor is a double-edged sword: it put me at a whole new level as an actor in Australia and, to an extent, internationally. A lot of producers think of putting me in their films or TV series but don’t, because they think the audience can’t see beyond Mick Taylor. As a result, employment hasn’t been that good. At least it got me off my arse to make my own films.

  To get into Rogue, I grew a mo, put on a pair of glasses and a goofy cloth fishing hat. I’ve never worn a moustache because it looks hideous on me; my big nose makes me look like Groucho. I took a photo and sent it to Greg. When David Lightfoot, the producer of Wolf Creek, came into Greg’s office and saw my photo pinned up, he said, ‘Who’s that?’ That was the clincher for Greg, so I suppose I can thank David for casting me.

  We had a fabulous time making that film, especially our time in Kakadu and the Katherine Gorge. There were a lot of lads on that film: Greg McLean, Matt Hearn, Will Gibson, Daniel ‘Guido’ Guerra and Des Kenneally in the crew, and Robert Taylor, Geoff Morrell, Sam Worthington, Stephen Curry and Michael Vartan in the cast. These guys were so much fun to be with and we had a lot of laughs. The pranks were great. We spent a fortnight convincing Morrell that a local chopper pilot had it in for him. I’ve got to hand it to him, he was a little scared by it, but when he thought he was talking to the dude on a mobile, Geoff got stuck into him. It was a great moment when the crew member walked up to Geoff while still in character on the phone. Curry set that up, of course. Cuz is extraordinary and he’s only just begun. He’s very bright, very witty, very funny and a fucking good actor. He’s a bit baby-faced; I’m looking forward to him getting into his forties and fifties. When the character on his face starts matching the character inside his head, look out, world. He’s only a year older than Zadia, so I’m old enough to be his dad. That shit freaks me out sometimes.

  Knock, knock, knockin’ on Hollywood’s door

  Everyone, and I mean everyone, thought my career was going to take off and go sky high. You’ve got to go to LA and follow up. I went to stay with Kevin Dobson, who directed The Last Outlaw. This was the second time Dobbo had housed me in LA and it was a treat to spend time with him. He looked after me like a brother.

  My Australian agent, Sue Barnett, did a fabulous job lining me up with management and agents and I spoke to heaps of them. They all said they’d take me on if I moved to LA. Apparently, that’s what they all do: Toni Collette, Anthony LaPaglia and so on. Sure, but they don’t have six kids. I couldn’t do it, and apart from that, I don’t want to do it. I’m an Australian, this is my culture. I want to tell my stories from my country, and I had also made up my mind to produce my own films. As long as my arse pointed to the ground, I wouldn’t be able to make films in LA. I’m not a young man, I don’t have time.

  The big positive on that trip was Tarantino. He wanted me to play an Aussie bar owner in his new film, Death Proof. I met up with Quentin, had a bit of a chat, looked at the script and signed a couple of Wolf Creek posters.

  ‘Would you mind signing these, and none of that “Best wishes” bullshit.’

  He told me I had the part, so I left LA thinking I’d stick with my Aussie agent, who could handle the LA stuff for me. Unfortunately, Quentin later decided he wanted the barman to be American. Another actor, Quentin Tarantino, replaced me.

  Not to worry, I got to play a much bigger part in fabulous film called The Final Winter. It was about family, the difficulty and importance of this guy being a husband and father and trying to juggle that with being a fading Rugby League star. Matt Nable wrote it and got it off the ground, but he had to be convinced to play the lead. You can either act or you can’t. Matt can act, he’s a great actor; I’m sure most of you readers know who I’m talking about, the bastard gets more work than me now! Matty Johns played the coach superbly. I played Colgate, the smarmy, smiling, arsehole club president.

  The funniest moment I had in the film was the boardroom scene. We had some footy greats sitting around the table including the toughest little bastard of them all, Tommy Raudonikis. We gave them each a line to say. Tommy got nervous and couldn’t deliver his line very convincingly.

  I said to him, ‘Don’t think about the lines, just get these thoughts in your head and talk about it: Daisy isn’t playing well, you could do better and you’re thirty years older than him. Just say it in your own words, how you’d say it.’

  ‘Righto, I’ll give it a go.’

  So we did another take and action.

  ‘That fuckin’ Daisy can’t fuckin’ play to fuckin’ save him-fuckin-self. I can fuckin’ play better than fuckin’ him and I’m fuckin’ thirty fuckin’ years older than the cunt.’

  Cut, silence.

  Finally I said, ‘Do you think you could throw a coupla more “fucks” into that sentence, Tommy?’

  ‘Ya reckon?’

  From an indie film to an epic: Australia. I had a cough and a spit in it. I would normally knock back such a small role, but it was a foot in the door with Baz Luhrmann, and a week in Bowen on the Whitsunday Coast wasn’t all bad.

  Australia was the biggest film I’d ever been on. Just the fleet of runners’ cars was mind-boggling, a sea of Taragos.

  My scenes were with Nicole Kidman. In one sequence she thinks her friend is dead and in the other, she thinks the Drover (Hugh Jackman) is dead, so both times she had to stay in the zone and we didn’t get a chance for light chatter. She was just as lovely a person as the sixteen-year-old who wrapped a python around my neck on Chase Through the Night, twenty-two years earlier.

  Meanwhile, back in Murwillumbah

  On 6 December 2006 I became the proud grandfather of Jasmine, my beautiful blue-eyed granddaughter. My baby girl was a mother – wow, how did that happen so fast? Admittedly Ebony was only twenty-one but it felt like a blink from when I could hold her in one hand to now holding her child the same way.

  This little one is brimming with energy: not a screaming energy, but a beautiful sunshine kind of energy. I was amazed at the kind of love I have for her, which is the exact same love I have for my children. I knew I’d love her but I thought it would be slightly different. It’s not.

  In late 2004, from the Scotland Island sale and the money earned from McLeod’s, I was able to buy the houses behind us and beside us…well, the bank bought them for me. The back property was a little white fifties timber cottage on 2 acres, and the one beside us was a little A-frame kit home on 4 acres, so the overall property was now 6 acres with three houses. At the time, the economy was growing and we all thought I’d be dripping with jobs. That didn’t happen; I got much less work and the economy was starting to go backwards.

  I’d decided in 2005 to set up a film company and try my luck as a producer. I was looking for an entrepreneurial type and I was led to a guy in Brisbane who seemed to have the skills. He convinced me to move to Brisbane, saying that if I was serious about setting up a business, I couldn’t do it two hours away in the bush. At first I moved to a rental in Brookfield in Brisbane’s western suburbs where I was paying $500 a week, but I didn’t want to pay dead money so I bought a brick house on 3 acres in Mount Crosby, in the outer west.

  Getting involved with this guy was a huge mistake. Number one, he didn’t have a clue about films. Number two, he was power-hungry and the kind who likes to take over. It got out of hand and I walked away. The only good thing about it was that I met Simon Mathias, who produced and directed commercials and was very keen to get into the movies. We became partners and went about getting a film up. I’d written the first draft of a script called Flood, about a bunch of people who get stuck in an outback roadhouse during a flood. Simon put together a very classy information memorandum and off we went looking for investment. It’s hard, it’s bloody hard – getting a film up in Australia is harder than getting Middle East peace. If it was easy, everyone would be doing it. Simon was good with the paperwork and government forms, the sort of stuff that I’ll never be good at. We had all the facts
and figures and we’d been to many investor meetings and received plenty of numbers. We needed $3 million.

  I met a guy at Riley’s preschool who was a property developer and sold heavy equipment like backhoes and bobcats. I went to check out his kitchen, as it seemed along the lines of what I wanted to do with mine. We got talking about my film and he was very interested. A fortnight later, he got a crew together and we had our investors for the film. We told these guys not to worry if the film didn’t make it in the cinema, as the real money was in DVDs. We were able to show them 2004–05 figures that pointed to a billion-dollar industry. Blockbuster and Video Ezy were full every Friday, with patrons walking out with ten DVDs for the weekend. Internet downloads were just starting to happen but they were nowhere near mainstream.

  We made Savages Crossing, as it was now called, in and around Ipswich. It took place mainly in a roadhouse. We used the Zannows’ farm. Darren and Brad Zannow had been raised by their dad, Viv. He was as deaf and when he couldn’t hear you, he’d say ‘Very good,’ which covered most things. They were salt of the earth; they bent over backwards and threw themselves into our filmmaking. The film wouldn’t have got there without them. They were a godsend.

  I got Kevin Dobson to direct it and we had a great cast: me, Craig McLachlan, Angela Punch McGregor, Sacha Horler, Chris Haywood, Jessica Napier, Rebecca Smart and Charlie Jarratt.

  Savages Crossing is a very good film. The performances are terrific, especially Craig McLachlan’s, and my character is one of my favourite portrayals. We were let down by two things: our distributor and illegal downloads. Our distributor promised us a cinema release, which took them six months to organise it. Finally they rang me with the cinemas.

  ‘We’ve got four: Orange, Wagga, Ballina and Noosa.’

  ‘Very funny. So how many have we got?’

  ‘I’m not joking.’

  ‘You took six months to come up with this?’

  I wanted the film back but they wouldn’t give it to me. I pleaded with them to give me control of the cinema release at least. They gave that to me and then hit me with another clanger.

  ‘We’re releasing the DVD in six weeks.’

  ‘Bullshit, you’ll have to change that.’

  ‘We can’t, it’s already organised and they’re manufacturing the DVDs.’

  I’d just finished work on a film called Bad Behaviour, a slasher film in which a brother-and-sister team goes on a killing spree that ends with the massacre of a bunch of teenagers at a house party. It was a straight-to-DVD film directed by whiz kid Joseph Sims and produced by my now production partner Kris Maric. It’s a terrific film made on a shoestring budget. After watching Kris pull this film together and save my arse on Savages, I hooked myself to her wagon.

  Kris worked in production on Savages Crossing, and after everyone else had jumped ship she stayed on to help Simon and me get the film sold and to clean up loose ends. We borrowed money from Brian and the wonderful Zannow brothers for the cinema release, but we weren’t successful and they didn’t get a return.

  Kris, Craig Kocinski and I got in six weeks what the distributor couldn’t get in six months: cinemas in Noosa, Brisbane, the Gold Coast, Sydney, Wagga, Melbourne, Sorrento, Adelaide and Perth.

  We didn’t stand a chance. I went onto every radio station, TV show, newspaper and internet site in Australia, but we just didn’t have the dough to advertise it properly. The DVD went down the illegal download gurgler; video stores were going broke and none of us knew how to stop the bleeding. When I say none of us, I mean no one in the entire international industry. There were no returns. I’m not a soothsayer, I didn’t know it was going to happen. The timing for Savages coupled with the shortcomings of the distributor were devastating. Simon and I didn’t give up.

  Helen’s road to heaven

  Barry had Mum for three years. She was still as fit as a fiddle; physically she’d make it to 100 easily. The dementia was gaining on her rapidly and Barry wanted to add a granny flat to his house. He thought she might not deteriorate too fast in her own space. To do that would mean turning his house into builder’s chaos, so Mum came to live with me for six months. I saw it as a blessing: I wanted some time with her and my boys would benefit by getting to know Grandma.

  Mum was great. I put her in the A-frame with my dear friend Gary, who was also my PA. She’d walk over and have all her meals with us. She was free to wander around and do whatever she liked. I was clearing scrub on the property, so Mum turned all the branches and bushes into short lengths and stacked them in huge piles, which kept her amused for hours. I’d talk to her about the old days. People with dementia remember everything up until they start losing it. Their short-term memory gets worse and worse. We could chat for hours about the old days. During those moments she had absolutely no sign of dementia, she was good old Mum again. She’d have her nanna nap and read her book, the same one. ‘That’s the upside of dementia,’ she used to say.

  Overall it was a cheery six months. We learnt to handle her struggle with forgetfulness. It didn’t worry Jackson and Riley; they loved playing with her and she with them. Riley was four and Jackson was six. However, she did deteriorate much faster than anticipated, so Barry flew up to get her.

  It was getting to the stage where she could never be left alone. She couldn’t remember she’d had a shower so half an hour later she’d be back in, which could go on for half the night. She lasted about four months with Barry, when Mum’s doctor said it would be cruel for her to stay in the house, and that she’d be far better off in a nursing home. Barry and Julie felt very bad about this because they loved Mum to bits.

  Brian came over from the US later in the year to see Mum. He took her out in the car every day and dragged her around like a teddy. He took her to the beach, Barry’s worksite, cafes and restaurants. He spoiled her rotten. The sad thing was that by the time he dropped her back, she’d forgotten everything. That didn’t deter Brian one iota.

  In March 2009 I went to visit Mum. By this stage she just sat around with her mouth open and glazed eyes staring at the wall.

  I took her for a drive to a very familiar place we went to as kids, St Georges Basin. We stepped out of the car and I took her by the arm to the beach.

  I said, ‘Do you know where we are, Mum?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have a guess.’

  ‘Pallarenda.’

  ‘No, Mum, it’s St Georges Basin.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I go home now?’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘Wonga?’

  ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’

  When we were driving back, I said, ‘Remember when Nanna came with us to St Georges Basin?’

  ‘I’m tired, can we go home now?’

  ‘Yep, we’re going home.’

  ‘Can we go home now?’

  I took her to the rooms she’d spent the last year in. There were only two rooms: her bedroom and a bathroom.

  She asked, ‘Where’s the toilet?’ She didn’t even know where the toilet was.

  I came out, shut the door and started howling. The nurse put her arm around me. ‘I don’t know who that woman is, but it’s not my mother. She looks a bit like her. I don’t know where my mother went, she’s not in there.’

  I flew back to Brisbane and went to my house. Gary and I were painting the inside, so it was just us in the house. I went to bed and saw a star through the window. Whenever I want to contact Dad I pick the first star that takes my attention and talk to it. I found myself yelling at this particular one, ‘Listen, Dad, if there’s anything in this afterlife, you’ll go down and take your wife out of that fucking hellhole in Nowra and put her in a better place. If you don’t, then fuck you! I’ll never talk to a star again.’

  At four-thirty the following afternoon I received a phone call.

  ‘Hi, John, your mother’s given up, she won’t eat and she’s wasting away. This is not unusual, something in them
says they’ve had enough. What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Let her go, let her go. Let her go.’

  I’m still talking to stars.

  A week later, my mother died. Julie and her daughter Harriet had ducked back home for a moment and Brian and Barb were on the phone to Mum. Mum wasn’t able to speak but they could hear her breathing heavily, so they both sang her a song over the phone. By the time they’d finished they couldn’t hear the heavy breathing any more and they assumed she’d gone to sleep and hung up. She had gone to sleep, for the last time.

  Mum’s funeral was brilliant. She wanted everyone to do the thing she loved most: sing. Uncle Charlie, eighty-nine, kicked it off singing a song that his father loved, and accompanied himself on banjo. He was followed by uncles, aunties, cousins, nieces, nephews, sons and grandchildren. Grandson Ben, ten, finished proceedings. Then we played a recording of Mum singing ‘Ave Maria’ to her mum in a church in her mum’s hometown thirty years earlier. It is the best rendition I’ve ever heard anywhere. I can’t describe how beautiful it was. If I could I’d put a DVD of it on the back cover so you too could be blown away by it. Mum sang ‘Over the Rainbow’ as a lullaby to us as kids, so I sang that. It’s more my kind of song and I felt her in the room and it poured out of me. Bye, Mum.

  ‘Why can’t people just be nice to each other? It’s easier.’

  Buggered if I know, Mum.

  The wake at my cousin Kerry’s house was a humdinger. The Sellers family sang up a storm, I couldn’t believe how much music was in the air. Mum’s brothers Charlie and Arthur were sitting with Dad’s brother-in-law Ben Sellers. He was ninety-odd. He was very ill and dying. Tony got him out of the home for the occasion. Whenever I met Ben he’d squeeze my hand to breaking point with his iron grip and talk heartily to me and want to know what I was up to. He was interested in you and made you feel important. His thick wavy hair had become thin and grey, his strong face was hollow. He looked at me glassy-eyed, then he recognised me. ‘John…John.’ That’s all he said. He was saying goodbye to Mum; a month later we were saying goodbye to the great man himself.