Then Greg said, ‘Joss, I think you should test Hugo Weaving.’
‘Oh, he’s too well known for his television mini-series parts,’ I replied. ‘He’s too handsome.’ Hugo had just appeared in Dadah Is Death, about the Barlow and Chambers executions in Malaysia, and before that he had done Bodyline. He was brilliant in those shows, of course, but I felt he might be too suave and debonair for Martin.
My friend Heather Mitchell intervened. Heather is a strong advocate for actors and I always listen to her advice when it comes to casting. She looked at my list of Sydney actors. ‘You are an absolute fool if you don’t test Hugo,’ she said, ‘and I will never forgive you.’
Casting is like listening to music. You are waiting for the perfect chord. It’s like falling in love. The actor not only fits the character as written, but brings something else, something that makes your heart dissolve a little. Hugo walked in wearing the most outrageously loud sweater. Not how I saw the character at all. But the second he began saying Martin’s lines I felt that little pluck in my heart. He had the part immediately. His voice, his height, his physical presence and the way he played being blind all made him the perfect choice. I also loved his gentleness, and the oddness he brought to the character.
I knew that whoever I cast to play Martin’s friend Andy would have to work really well with Hugo. I was looking for great chemistry, a charismatic charge of energy between the two performers. I had tested a number of wonderful young actors for Andy, basing the character on my brother Greg, who had an easygoing charm and a natural, loving warmth, but who could also be down on himself, full of self-criticism. One of the names on the list was twenty-four-year-old Russell Crowe, who had played supporting roles in a couple of movies and had done some theatre. When people heard I was going to audition him they loved telling me a story about him headbutting another actor on stage. I just laughed and said, ‘I don’t think he’s going to headbutt me, not if he wants the part!’
Russell seemed to be able to play Andy without any effort. The way he interacted with Hugo was full of affection and compassion and emotional generosity. All these qualities are very important when you get a camera up close to an actor’s face. I wanted to start shooting the movie right away, they were so exciting together.
I had already decided I wanted Geneviève Picot for Celia. Her audition was awful, but I didn’t care. I knew instinctively that she would be brilliant and had the perfect quality to be able to play Martin’s sadistic, lovelorn housekeeper. I cast a darling little boy, Jeffrey Walker (who has since grown up to be a major TV and film director), as young Martin. I asked Heather Mitchell to play his dying mother. Heather agreed, but didn’t tell me until after the movie was finished that she had lost her own mum to cancer at a young age.
Dowie was ten months old when we started filming. I had weaned him onto formula, so PJ could look after him while I went to work. During this time PJ was writing the script for Muriel’s Wedding. We hired our first ever nanny, a delightful girl called Ruth, so that PJ could get some writing done in the mornings, before visiting the Proof set at lunchtime. He was also drawing storyboards for me, to help me get through my shooting day.
I can only compose shots if I am looking through a camera. PJ (film-savant that he is) can see the shots in his head. Every night we would talk about what I was going to shoot the next day, and he would suggest clever ways of shooting the upcoming scenes. I remember one night, while he was drawing something for me, and I was holding Dowie after missing him all day, I fell asleep.
‘Wake up, woman!’ PJ said, prodding me. ‘You have to make your movie tomorrow! You have to be prepared, Joss!’
PJ’s storyboards gave Martin McGrath, my cinematographer, and me a plan to go by. Even if we changed our minds and shot it differently, we had a plan! Hugo, Russell and Geneviève used to love looking at PJ’s storyboards, which he sketched in the manner of Charles Schulz’s Peanuts cartoons.
‘Look at the way PJ drew my face,’ Hugo would say. ‘Do you want me to try to look like this when I act?’
I could not have got through Proof without PJ’s extraordinary support. I could not have made any of my movies without him. He has always believed in me, as I have always believed in him. Making Proof, we discovered that we are a very good filmmaking partnership. We cannot do our best work without the creative and emotional support of each other.
Most days PJ, Ruth and Boof (our nickname for Dowie) would visit the set at lunchtime. Boof always got a lot of attention. Geneviève would call out, ‘Boof on set!’ when she first spied him. Russell adored Dowie and loved playing with him. Sometimes Hugo also brought along his little boy, Harry, who was the same age as Dowie.
Lynda surrounded me with great people for the making of Proof. Tony Mahood was my first assistant director. First ADs essentially run the show on set. They tell everyone what to do and keep the director and the crew on schedule. They make sure the actors are ready to shoot when the director needs them on set. No film would ever get finished, or even started, without the first assistant director.
Martin McGrath was a tremendous help, as was the production designer, Patrick Reardon. Glen Newnham was my sound designer. He handpicked every sound for Proof, because this was a movie about a man who uses sound to understand much of his world. I remember I wanted to use the sound of a window rattling in its frame to suggest a feeling of unease, of restlessness. Glen recorded hundreds of different kinds of old wooden windows rattling in their casements so we could find exactly the sound that the film needed.
I still have a photo of the crew, along with PJ, Boof and Ruth and me, outside the house in Coleridge Street, Kew, where we filmed the scenes for Martin’s house. I remember the whole experience with such happiness and gratitude. I was learning how to be a director, and I felt that the crew and actors were part of my family. They all taught me something.
My editor, Ken Sallows, also taught me so much about putting a film together. We edited the movie in a small office in South Melbourne, working on a machine called a Steenbeck editing table. Ken had edited a lot of movies, including Malcolm for Nadia Tass, and Celia for Ann Turner. I remember really enjoying the process. Sometimes I would invite PJ into the cutting room as well, to give us feedback and ideas.
At this stage, I didn’t think about an audience. I was happy with my footage and I had a good idea of how I wanted it to flow. When I’m filming, I think of scenes in a rhythmic way, almost like passages of music, and I visualise how the shots can knit together as completed scenes. This process continues in post-production. I love working with editors, and am happy to try out their ideas. It can be a gentle tug of war in the cutting room, as you remake the film together from the footage you created. You are, in a way, doing the final draft of the script—with sound and images.
When the cut of Proof was finished, I had a screening at Nathalie Miller’s Longford Cinema in South Yarra for the cast and crew and family and friends, who all gave a warm and positive response. We later had screenings for various festivals.
One international festival sent a respected representative, who sat alone in the theatre. I was terribly nervous. In the foyer afterwards, he walked towards me shaking his head, like a teacher scolding a wayward student.
‘You are obviously a clever young woman,’ he said in a weary voice, ‘so why did you cast Hugo Weaving? If you had cast anyone else I would have invited your film to my festival.’
I was indignant. How dare he insult Hugo! How dare he insult my casting decision!
‘I cast him because he was right for the part!’ I said defiantly. ‘In fact, I think he is a brilliant actor—brilliant and beautiful.’
‘Oh yes, he is beautiful. But, in that case, you should fuck him, not cast him.’ He then looked me up and down, as if he was imagining what he had just suggested.
I was struck dumb. Outrageous misogyny and sexism usually have that effect on me. He glared at me, enjoying my reaction. I turned and walked away.
But better
news was to come. The Directors’ Fortnight at the Cannes Film Festival (La Quinzaine des Réalisateurs) was created in 1969. Its founders were radical French directors, including Godard and Truffaut. These rebels set up their own ‘anti-Cannes film festival’ to protest what they thought was a lack of support for new cinema. They appointed Pierre-Henri Deleau to run the Directors’ Fortnight. Now, twenty-two years later, Deleau invited Proof to open the 1991 festival. I couldn’t believe it was true.
The only time I had ever left Australia was to travel to Papua New Guinea as a toddler. Here I was at thirty, making my first big international trip, and it was to Cannes, the most important film festival in the world. That year Ridley Scott’s Thelma & Louise was the closing film of the main festival. I was blown away by the movie, and blown away by the fact that I could see Ridley Scott himself from where I was sitting. Yes, I am such a fan! Also at Cannes that year were Robert Altman, Ken Loach, Roman Polanski, Spike Lee and Lars von Trier. PJ and I were overwhelmed at being in the same company as so many cinema legends. At one of the official dinners, held in a giant tent, Geraldine Chaplin walked up to me to tell me how much she loved Proof. She took my hand. She was wearing black velvet gloves. I remember holding her tiny hand and thinking, I am touching the hand of the amazing Geraldine Chaplin, daughter of Charlie Chaplin, granddaughter of Eugene O’Neill.
Russell Crowe paid his own way to Cannes. He had run out of money by the time he arrived, so he slept on the floor of our tiny hotel room. One night, after Russell and PJ and I had dinner in a café, we wandered up a cobbled path to a lookout. All of Cannes was spread out below, the party boats in the harbour, lights twinkling on the water. We could not believe we were there. Russell turned to me and said, ‘Everything’s going to be different now.’ And I replied, ‘Yes, I think it just might.’
Proof did make a splash at Cannes. It sold to many countries. In one of the cafés overlooking the harbour, where the light was so bright I could hardly see, I met two amazing women. One was Bobbi Thompson, a petite bundle of intense energy. Next to her sat a big-eyed, blonde associate with a stunning North Carolina accent. Her name was Beth Swofford. Bobbi and Beth were from the William Morris Agency. They told me how they planned to change my life, if I agreed to have them represent me. I was charmed and happily agreed to sign up with them.
It wasn’t long before their promises came true. Proof was invited to festivals all over the world. I could not go to them all, as much as I would have liked to, because I did not want to be away from Dowie. It was hard enough staying in Cannes for two weeks, I was pining for my little boy so much. At one point he became ill back in Melbourne. Ruth sent me a worried message saying he was having trouble breathing. I was supposed to stay in Cannes in case Proof won a prize, but I was desperate to go home. We flew back on the next available flight to Melbourne.
Proof won an honourable mention in the Caméra d’Or section, and Baby Dowie was diagnosed with severe bronchitis. We got home to find a snot-nosed, pale little bubba, wondering where his mum and dad were. I held him in my arms for hours. I still feel guilty about not being there when he fell sick. But later I did manage to travel to London, Tokyo and the USA for various festivals. PJ and Dowie came with me to the London Film Festival, but Dowie ended up with terrible ear infections. I decided against bringing him on any more long-haul flights until he was older. He stayed at home with PJ from then on and I left for only a few days at a time.
I attended the Sundance Festival, chaired by Robert Redford. Held in January, in the snow-covered mountains of Park City, Utah, it’s an eccentric festival. The ski resorts fill up with Hollywood types who are always falling over on the ice or having skiing accidents. Many of the attendees are limping, have casts or are on crutches. After a screening of Proof, a man with his foot in a cast, using a walking stick, hobbled up to me and introduced himself as Michael Aglion. He adored the movie and wanted to talk to me about what was next for Lynda House and Jocelyn Moorhouse. I told him about Muriel’s Wedding. He asked to read it and soon became one of the associate producers on the film.
On my first night at the festival, I kept falling over in the snow. My asthmatic lungs did not appreciate the altitude or the frozen air. The festival had put me up in a three-bedroom ski chalet. I thought it was strange that I had the whole chalet to myself. To make myself feel more at home I placed photos of PJ and Dowie all over the kitchen. I was startled from my sleep at midnight. Someone was in the kitchen, rattling around in the cutlery drawers. I was angry. I stormed out in my flannel pyjamas (actually PJ’s pjs, which I had packed in a sentimental moment) and confronted the intruder.
‘Who the hell are you?’ I shouted at a bespectacled man making himself a cup of coffee, surrounded by pictures of PJ and Boof stuck to the kitchen walls. ‘What are you doing in my chalet?’ I demanded.
‘My name is Steven Soderbergh, and this is my accommodation too,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ I said, embarrassed. Steven Soderbergh? Where had I heard that name? Then it hit me. ‘Oh dear. You’re a director,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘You directed Sex, Lies, and Videotape, didn’t you?’ I asked. Sex, Lies, and Videotape had won the Caméra d’Or at Cannes a couple of years earlier and Steven Soderbergh was one of the most famous young directors in the world.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and my new film is screening at the festival. It’s called Kafka. I can get you a ticket if you want to see it.’
I apologised for thinking he was a burglar, accepted his offer and skulked back to bed, mortified.
Back home, Proof was nominated for a slew of AFI awards. The ceremony was held at the Sydney Opera House. The presenter of the Best Director award was Peter Weir. When he read out my name, I was in shock, and thrilled that I was going to meet him. He handed me the award and gave me a kiss. I could barely speak. I did eventually manage to thank everyone, including ‘PJ Hogan, for being a ruthless perfectionist, and insisting that I be one too’.
12
There is no present or future, only the past, happening over and over again, now.
EUGENE O’NEILL
When PJ first came up with the idea for Muriel’s Wedding, before Dowie was born, we were living in Richmond with Kathy, Geoff and little Julius. Every day PJ and I would follow the same routine: get up early, catch a train to South Yarra, walk around Melbourne’s Royal Botanic Gardens, then stop for coffee in a café on Toorak Road. On the way home, we would drop into the local video store to return videos and rent a new batch.
The girl who worked in the video store was always talking about her imminent wedding—to customers, or into the phone. Every time we were in the store, we would hear further details about the wedding, which seemed to be getting more and more elaborate in its planning. She talked about it so much that we began to wonder if she was making it all up. The engagement seemed to go on for a very long time: what if it was all a fantasy? Perhaps she just liked dressing up in bridal frocks!
This was a funny idea, but we needed another layer to make it substantial enough for a feature film script. PJ had also been thinking about doing a movie inspired by his own family, about growing up on the Gold Coast. One of his sisters, desperate to escape her tyrannical father and her oppressive life in a small town, had stolen money from her father’s account and run away to Sydney. PJ decided to combine these two story ideas.
When Dowie was one, after I had finished Proof, we went to the Gold Coast to visit PJ’s family for a few days. We borrowed his mum’s car, which had a cassette full of Abba songs in the player. As we drove around, talking about PJ’s script-in-progress, we had the idea of making Muriel an Abba fan. As we listened to each song, we found places to write them into the script, as a loosely autobiographical portrait of his family. PJ received his sister’s permission to use a part of her life story; she ended up being extremely proud of the movie.
Lynda asked me to be her fellow producer on Muriel’s Wedding. We had brought PJ’s finished script with us
to Cannes when we were there for Proof, and we pitched it to investors. After a number of hiccups, we scraped together the $2.3 million budget via the Australian Film Commission and the French film company Ciby 2000. In 1993 we packed up our house in Melbourne and moved to Sydney to begin pre-production.
Dowie was three. He had grown into a curious, eccentric, adorable toddler. His black hair had turned sandy. Some days the luminous hue of his big eyes seemed stormy-grey, on other days as blue as a summer sky. He was sensitive, charismatic and melancholy. Friends said he had an old soul. Intelligent and thoughtful, he often made observations that seemed too worldly-wise for such a young boy. One day he came running to me because he had accidentally killed a frog when he threw a rock into a stream. It took ages to console him.
Dowie was fascinated by anything scientific. He loved to categorise, sort, study and memorise. At three, he became obsessed with dinosaurs. I blame Lynda and Tony for sowing the seeds of reptilian rapture in little Dowie. During the making of Proof they grew close to him. One day they took him to the museum to see a visiting exhibition of Russian dinosaur fossils. I was worried he might be frightened, but he returned home a raving zealot! From that day on, PJ and I had to find books on dinosaurs, watch videos about dinosaurs and buy collections of toy dinosaurs for him. Dowie’s favourite dinosaur was the plant-eating stegosaurus. He loved the diamond-shaped plates on its back that helped to regulate its temperature. He admired its long, swinging tail, which contained a lethal spike on either side.
‘Its tail is a deadly weapon, Mum!’ he would explain. ‘Able to fend off carnivores, maybe even beat off a tyrannosaurus rex!’
Dowie had a rich imaginary life. He began to imagine that he was a stegosaurus. One day, I found him staring at his reflection in a mirror, crying in anguish.
‘I hate my face!’ he wailed.
He had the face of an elf, a charming, handsome and magical creature.
Unconditional Love Page 11