Birthing The Giant
Sydney Morning Herald
Friday August 11, 1995
WHEN Neil Armfield was directing Stephen Sewell's The Blind Giant is Dancing in Adelaide some years back, Senator Chris Schacht took the director and some of the cast to lunch. But it wasn't just a hospitable gesture, Armfield reports: "He kept saying, 'Why have you got it in for us? We're doing all we can'. He was secretary of the State ALP then. It made us feel really important. But we said, 'We've not got it in for you; we're only doing plays!'"
"That's right," chimed in Kerry Walker. "We know nothing about politics, we only know about Art."
Armfield, Walker, Hugo Weaving, Gillian Jones, Peter Carroll, Ralph Cotterill are sitting with other actors, designers, the composer, in a chilly room in St Canice's church hall at Kings Cross. Stephen Sewell, enlisted for a radio interview that morning, won't appear until later.
But it is Sewell's work that has brought them here - the massive, sprawling, 59-scene play - once described as "three hours of moral philosophy, practical issues, soap opera, Brecht and thriller" that opens at the Belvoir Street Theatre on Tuesday.
Armfield directed the first production, in Adelaide in 1983. Today, some of that first cast are back, including Kerry Walker as Eileen Fitzgerald, Russell Kiefel as Michael Wells, the party fixer, and Gillian Jones playing three roles.
Others, such as Weaving, Carroll and Cate Blanchett , though not in the premiere production, have worked with Armfield before. The sense of camaraderie is unforced.
On this second day of work, a few weeks ago, the designer, Stephen Curtis, is presenting the set model. Armfield admits it is "tricky" coming back to the play after 12 years, but as Curtis says, reassuringly: "Our own sense of theatre has changed so much there's no chance of repeating ourselves."
The cast are in the small room at the end of the church hall: the actors sit on discarded pews, stackable chairs, on the floor, scripts in hand, dressed in jeans, duffle coats, whatever is warm and comfortable.
Curtis tells them he's trying to achieve that "flow" that the Belvoir Theatre traditionally is good at, "action flowing from one scene to another". "It's such a big play, it's so long, the action can't afford to waver."
And so, he says, "the set is a space where things can happen, as opposed to a specific world". Instead the images are of the emotional or psychic world of the play, images of "the cold wind that blows from the centre of Australia", of a rust-red wall "like the heart of the steel mill", of strong shafts of light slanting through dust.
People now are standing on their chairs, clustered in a tight semi-circle around the small-scale model. Outside, there's a constant scraping sound from the roadworkers scooping up asphalt.
In this bare set there lies a reflection of Sewell's pronouncement that too much literalism on the stage can only be distracting: "To my mind, theatre is an actor on a stage."
Peter Carroll seems uneasy with the approach. This set "gives up location but (the play) still insists on emotional location ... "
The designer replies by recalling to the actors the Sydney Theatre Company's production of Blind Giant: it tried, he said, to "create miniature worlds for each scene". "Not only did it really slow the action down, but by tying the emotional reality of the scene to such mincy detail, we lost the big picture. But," he soothes, "I appreciate the need for you as actors to know precisely where you are."
Peter Carroll is still worrying: "It depends, too, on different sorts of actors' temperaments, the props some of us need that others don't need at all. But we can only confront that and discuss it and then discard it."
He is playing Doug, Allen's steelworker father, and is concerned that he doesn't know enough about steelworks, about how they work. "I've got to get myself there. Somehow I need to be able to suggest the repetitive nature of the work. It's again that literalness in me," he smiles.
The room has something of that first-day-back-at-school feel: there are sotto voce exchanges, wisecracks, gossip. Gillian Jones prowls restlessly at the fringe of the circle while Armfield sits sideways on his chair, legs crossed, a man who apparently has endless time and endless patience to bring this sprawling work to theatrical order.
"And the wooden wall?" someone is asking the designer.
"Yes?"
"Oh, well, I love it. But why's it there?"
"Neil felt the world of the play was becoming too cold and asked why couldn't it be wood." Silence. Hugo Weaving moves to the centre, squatting and squinting at the set straight on. Armfield says: "I think Stephen's done an excellent job." There is applause, bravos from the actors.
The director then fields general questions. When and where is the play set? "It's the recent past, it's Australia, it is also probably the State ALP. It's not about naturalism, whatever that is."
Then composer Paul Charlier gives his spiel. He's made some recordings at the steelworks but "because the play is so dialogue-driven, it's very hard to use that scale of sound".
"If we plunge into full-on factory sound it should be quite overwhelming," Armfield muses. "Any questions? OK."
Just then, Sewell arrives and Peter Carroll asks whether the "Petersville" of the play is a large place.
"It's Petersham and Marrickville," Armfield replies, "and could you remind me of what the Petersham-Marrickville mob was?" Tom Domican and Joe Meissner come the replies from around the circle.
Sewell explains that the working class roots of the Labor Party meant that "a lot of petty crims were active within the Labor Party and that stretched to the Communist Party. Someone like Lennie McPherson might be defended to you on the grounds that he was against the police ...
"The recent Left are the interlopers from the university days, the '60s period, and they came into conflict with the traditional crew, which gave rise to the Baldwin bashing and comments by people like Wran and Keating about Balmain basket-weavers. It was a whole cultural and political conflict ... the Left were creamed in the end as a result of it."
Cate Blanchett and Gillian Jones are making notes. Armfield is slouched in his chair but his gaze rests steadily on each speaker. They're tossing around the notion of making a police presence apparent in the opening scene, a uniformed cop or a detective - "From the Kings Cross police," someone suggests, a sally that is answered with Sewell's machine-gun rattle of laughter.
More seriously, Armfield suggests chasing up newspaper reports of the Baldwin bashing. Kerry Walker remembers a Four Corners program about it: "We might chase that up, too."
Gillian Jones is quickly and sharply pressing her theory about another character's motivation, tapping a pen impatiently on her script. "Hmmmm," Armfield ponders, his head thrown back. He has a great ability to be silent, to think his thought through before talking. Sewell, head lowered, watches them all. This is actors' time, nutting it out for themselves, seeking motivation.
The room is getting colder. Peter Carroll sneezes. Kerry Walker has put her anorak hood over her head. When the talk is purposeful, rather than joky, Armfield sits flicking a pencil between his fingers, just watching and listening.
With Scene III, they begin to explore images of social disintegration. "It would be great for everyone to be in this scene and create the feeling of the train." Peter Carroll suggests the notion of a railway platform: "If you're on a train, at least you're going somewhere, but on a platform it's different; quite menacing, somehow."
Hugo Weaving contributes his image of the underground tunnel at Central: "It's echoing and there's a slight sense of danger."
With Scene IV, Sewell has some proposed line changes and cuts: "Should we do it now or read through it first?" They decide to cut as they go.
With Allen's line "I'm frightened of turning into a cockroach", Armfield makes one of his quiet remarks: "That's prophetic, isn't it? He's in the process of metamorphosis, of turning himself into a survivor."
Kerry Walker raises a question: "Does the name Costello worry anybody? Just because of Peter Costello."
"Make it Abbott," someone suggests.
"Make it arsehole," says another. "Now that's a nice surname," says Walker, deadpan. "Arsehole." Sewell says he was thinking of rewriting that line anyway.
A generation gap is emerging here, evident in Scene IV between Allen and his wife, Louise. In the original script, Louise says: "F---ing Costello. There's money, all right. What's he do with it all? Spend it on junkets to Bulgaria." Should that be changed to "trips to ... ?"
But for Catherine McClements, "trip" means drugs and for Jason Clarke "junket" means "one of those Hong Kong boats".
"We're getting into old fogey territory here with the young people," Walker grimaces.
Armfield, through the cuts, the changes, the rewrites, reminds them that "we need to respect the rhythm". "We need to respect the writer," says Walker. "Thank you, darling," says the playwright.
After a 45-minute lunch break, they're back. "OK," says Armfield, "let's try to get another line spoken."
TUESDAY, July 25, the third week into rehearsal, and heavy cuts have been made. Sewell, the actors observe, is totally unthreatened by cuts or changes to his script. They're standing outside the rehearsal hall, soaking in sunlight before entering the chill of the hall. Neil Armfield is loved by the actors; he creates an "atmosphere of trust", says Kerry Walker. "He lets you fail in rehearsal, which is necessary because you certainly can't fail up on the stage".
The director appears, mildly asking his cast what they're doing. "We're standing in the sun and we're quite liking it," Peter Carroll replies precisely. "Well, how about going inside and doing something creative," grins Armfield.
Today they're rehearsing a scene at the steel mill. "OK," says Armfield, arranging the scene, "what happens, Russell, if you sit up on that bench, and what if there's someone who walks up and down? Yeah, that's better. OK if you remember those positions."
The director stands, hands in pockets, very relaxed, looking as though he has all the time in the world. They run through the scene, Peter Carroll at near full-throttle, his usually rich tones translated into raw strine.
"Peter," says Armfield as Carroll exits the scene, "I think you should be heading out that way. Also (raising his voice) I think Doug's line about the dunny walls should make you laugh. Have another go ..."
They keep at it and at it, making incremental changes each time they run through the scene. "OK, from the top ..."
To the actor playing Ramon he points out that the other characters are "saying something that's psychologically ludicrous; just play the ludicrous logic of it". He eggs him on, demonstrating a gesture of frustration with hands held to his head. "Just get a bit of Latin passion," he pleads.
This time the Latin passion comes full-force, startling the pigeons outside. Six times they run through the same short scene. "Once more, then we'll move on ... ," he decides.
Now they're trying the party scene. Stage manager Kaz Rodgers produces wine glasses and Armfield says: "We're going to try just a simple dance segment. The key thing with this dance is that you must always keep your eyes on where the dialogue is happening. You can twist, you can do whatever you like but the purpose is not to draw attention to yourselves but to focus on the dialogue happening." He's demonstrating a sort of foot-to-foot shuffle as he says this.
The actors are given a lead-in and burst onto the "stage" with uproarious party hilarity, roistering with their empty glasses. "I don't much like that; let's try it another way," the director says. He looks at them in silence. "Let's see all the party dancers in their line; you all run on without making any noise and as part of your dance movement you pull the table back instead of pushing it forward."
They try it again. "Ralph, you're smiling too much ..."
Kaz appears with masking tape to mark the spot for the table.
"It's a real shocker," Walker complains. "It feels awful." "It's only the beginning of an idea," Armfield soothes her. "The thing is you lose your body and it becomes a head thing ... Maybe you should just freeze at this point and then move into the dancing scene for 'Janice's' entrance."
All through this there is a constant background murmur. "OK," Armfield says briskly, "shut up." It's 4.25 pm and Kaz warns there are just five more minutes for this scene. "Steve, stop playing the guitar and get off the 'stage'." More mayhem, more fooling. It's very entertaining but it's not getting Sewell's play to the stage. "What do you think this looks like to The Sydney Morning Herald? Chaos!" Armfield laughs.
"It is chaos," says Kaz. "We've got five minutes!"
They go back to the scene between Allen and his wife, Louise, played by Catherine McClements . Weaving needs a lot of prompting and finally stamps and explodes "Oh, f--- it!" in furious exasperation.
It's so cold now that Gillian Jones has donned black woollen gloves and Ralph Cotterill has put a striped jacket over his batik pants and green Imperial Brandy T-shirt. The room is bare, the neon lights unfriendly. It's bitterly cold. But as they move into the scene, the background melts, the cold is forgotten. This is what Sewell wanted, this is why audiences go to theatre: actors on a stage. The director leans back in his chair, watching quietly.
© 1995 Sydney Morning Herald