Til Human Voices Wake Us

This REACTION contains references to the film Sleeping Beauty, which may dilute the impact of the film if you haven’t seen it. Please take this into account before deciding to read. 

A beautiful young woman living in a state of disillusionment and disconnection from the realities of the world. Protected from a harsher life she stumbles into a dangerous situation, the consequences of which she is not fully aware, and is eventually brought into real life by an unexpected action. 

This is a fairytale. 

In the version many of us know it is true love’s kiss that brings the beautiful princess back to life. It can be taken as a metaphor for emotional awakening and growing to maturity from a state of innocence and naivety to realise that we can withstand the dangers of the world if we live happily within the accepted definition of happiness. 

It is not an unattractive scenario. 

Julia Leigh’s debut film Sleeping Beauty has attracted attention and reaction, both glowing and derisive, after premiering at Cannes, including the wonderful phrase “psychosexual twaddle”, which I find a touch too demeaning for an unbiased review. 

I am a particular fan of Marc Fennell’s Triple J review, which states “It’s not necessarily badly made, it’s just a movie [pause for humourous effect] that hates you”. For the record I agree with almost all of Marc’s comments and find it a fair way to describe the film for a prospective audience of Triple J listeners, I just reached a different conclusion. 

The film doesn’t hate us – quite appropriately, it hates itself. 

Every character shows, in a variety of ways and degrees, dissatisfaction, disillusionment, regret and longing. The self-loathing humans can feel as a result of living in a perfect-image-based consumer society is evident throughout the film. 

Friends who happened to attend the same screening as myself commented that all of the acting felt self-indulgent and overly pretentious – a statement I don’t disagree with. Rather than saddling the actors with responsibility, I suspect it is a result of a first-time director working with their own material leaning on what is, to them, the most important direction of the work. 

I don’t think it’s a poor decision. 

It lends the film a distinct style – the coldness and distance that Marc Fennell describes – that is offset at unexpected times by moments that insist on feeling different. There is warmth to be found – a glimpse of gilt edging a bed, the rich red of the wine that Lucy (our sleeping beauty) pours, even the luxuriant image of flesh in a vulnerable position that is otherwise confronting and disturbing in its’ eroticism. 

All the warmth is found in Lucy’s possession, but she isn’t aware of what she holds. To emphasise her ignorance, almost every frame contains deliberate and overt sexual imagery – and possibly at this point my penchant for reading too much into a film takes over. 

The way two women consider each other locked together in a bathroom stall; fingers delicately probing a payphone in search of change; the particularly clear scientific testing of a gag reflex; even a lingering shot of two identical doors, one open one closed, describes the illusions and expectations present in any sexual transaction⁺. 

For my tastes it is a dense and intelligent exploration of sexuality as distinct from love and the disconnection we can feel in our lives despite living within a community that can support us. This is my opinion. 

Why does a film attract negative criticism? Of course it may just be badly made; possibly it only aims for too narrow an audience – the blue rinse set or lovers of matinee musicals will likely never respond well to the work of George A Romero. 

But sometimes we react strongly to art and stories, either positively or negatively, because we recognise so clearly the characters and situations they portray. The emotion that can overtake us in the experiencing of such material colours our viewing and our reaction whether we are conscious of it or not. 

Emily Browning’s Lucy is a passive force in her own life. Aside from a few brief and beautifully unexplained theatrical scenes with Ewen Leslie’s tragic Birdmann, she relates to other characters through an idea of her own sexuality that is uncertain and dishonest. She is the princess in an ivory tower who isn’t forced (or indeed able) to deal with the world. 

Every new step she takes to discover her sexuality and express it takes her further away from the real world – the fairytale she finds herself in, the life she thought she wanted, becomes more like a Grimm Brothers Fairy Story than the Disneyfied world of animals singing in harmony. Her reaction is self destructive and isolating – the common youthful cliché is ‘anything to make me feel’. 

While only snatches of her life prior to the film’s beginning are offered to the audience, we understand Lucy has experienced angst and torment that has (we can assume) caused her retreat from the world. When she asks for all the details of her enigmatic fairytale to be laid bare and eventually awakens (the metaphor is physical too), the pain and torment she experiences as a result of her immediate assumption carries with it the force of a burst dyke of repressed emotion. 

None of this is explained, but we feel it through Browning’s performance*. It is an unsettling and unresolved ending, despite the visual tag reminding the audience of what they already know – Lucy’s emotional realisation is based on a lie. 

And now I shall read too much into this. 

How many people live disconnected in some way from their world and the people in it? How many swear they are living the dream when they know, maybe only subconsciously, that they’re lying to themselves? How many among us have feared, in the isolation of a dark night, that we may never experience true happiness in love? 

Our greatest fears are often that, in achieving our greatest dreams, our fairytale will be exposed as a hollow lie. Is it better then to accept a safe alternative and protest (too much) that it is happiness? To say so many times ‘this is what I wanted’, that you start to believe it? 

And do audiences react so strongly to Lucy’s portrayal as passive in her own fairytale because they fear this reality in their own lives? If Marc Fennell is right, if the film does hate us, it hates us for accepting a second-rate fairytale.

It may not be a blockbuster actioner or a heartwarming rom-com, it may not be a touching story of an animated howler monkey, it may not be entertainment in any recognisable shape. What it might be is too much of ourselves. It is Hamlet’s mirror, held up to nature. 

It is certainly a challenge for an audience, but every challenge brings a reward. 

You just have to want to see it.

*Which is, in my opinion, stunning. She show’s amazing range with the smallest variation and beautiful simplicity. Plus, she’s gorgeous, which makes it much easier to want to support her emotional journey.

⁺Shakespeare puts it very well in Sonnet 129 – A bliss in proof, and prov'd, a very woe; / Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream. You should read it, it’s kind of excellent.

**This is a REACTION to Sleeping Beauty, in Australian cinemas now; as well as to Marc Fennell’s Triple J review of the film.

A very good place to start

As an actor, winning a role usually follows the same process whether the work is on stage or screen. Typically a casting director working with the production company sends out a brief for the characters they’re casting. These can vary in length and detail depending on the role, but mostly they will have at least an age range and a physical description of the character.

Agents then submit suggestions to the casting director from the actors they represent that they think would be appropriate for the roles. The casting director will narrow down the list of submissions to a manageable number of candidates that they will offer auditions to.

Material is sent out – either a monologue or a scene, or multiple pieces if the role is large enough to warrant seeing many sides of the character – and, to coin a phrase, an actor prepares. They arrive at an appointed time and place and do their best in a limited space of time with limited material to display the entirety of their skill and potential.

It often encourages me to remember that all along the chain – from writer to production company to director, casting director, agent and actor – every single person hopes that the when you walk into the audition room you are instantly recognisable as the perfect choice for the role.

Despite what we can learn from Entourage, and despite the voices in our heads that will sometimes whisper ‘They’re all against you...’, nobody in our industry wants you to fail. It makes everyone’s job much simpler when the choices are obvious and perfect and brilliant. This knowledge should make it easier to relax in an audition, and often does. If your audition is expected.

However.

If you happen to be sipping coffee in the middle of Melbourne on a mild winter afternoon, struggling to keep ahead of the hangover brought on by excessive enjoyment of the company of friends in theatre, and you get a phone call from a director who had forgotten to let you know about your audition slot two hours earlier but would still like you to come out to the suburbs, yes, now if possible...relaxing becomes a touch harder.

This was my Saturday, hangover and all, when my only thought had been to crawl home and catch up on DVDs I hadn’t watched since Christmas I found myself on a train to the suburbs desperately trying to appear as actorly as possible.

While waiting for the forgotten phone call that would have informed me of the audition I had read the script, but in the absence of a confirmed time had not done any specific preparation. As I swallowed mints and resisted the vomit-inducing sway of Melbourne’s trains I swam through my mind in search of a monologue.

My swag of Shakespeare* was inadvisable here – onc piece of the audition was a reading of Poe’s The Raven, so verse was already covered, and the nature of the text called for something contemporary.

It wasn’t until I met the director and producer at the station – an awkward, blind date type moment, but without the red carnation – that I remembered a monologue I discovered in my 3^rd year of study and had last performed for an audition at the beginning of 2010.

It was a longish storytelling piece with a touch of darkness and inner turmoil, a story that always struck me as beautiful and simple. A decent choice when compared to the script I was auditioning for, but the last time I read through it was 8 months ago, and that was just to remember the words.

So what does an actor do in this situation? Get out of the way.

Even in the most difficult (or unexpected) of circumstances there is a certain amount of our craft that, practiced long enough, becomes innate, almost subconscious in its execution. Things like standing simply and breathing, focussing on the world that your words create, conveying the clear sense of the monologue without excessive adornment. Even remembering thoughts from 8 months ago.

And if you can stop your mind from spinning, from worrying about the pants you wore or what the director is thinking about your hairstyle (or possibly if the panel can smell lager on your breath), and get out of the way, the text will speak for itself.

That’s usually what it wants to do.

So how did I do? Honestly, I’m not sure. I got out of the way for the most part, remembered the words and felt the sense of the monologue, read the poetry piece well** and communicated as humanly as possible. The reception was friendly and positive, but possibly they were better actors than I?

Whatever the outcome of this episode, it’s always a comfort to know that when I’m on the ropes the training kicks in. The skills are there, even the material if I dig deep enough.

I just have to get out of my own way. 

*Shakespeare is one of my greatest loves, I learn monologues in iambic pentameter for fun. Seriously. At last count I have 18 Shakespearean monologues that I could perform at a moment’s notice. And about a dozen sonnets.

**I’m damn good with verse

For loving me at my worst

An open letter to everyone I’ve ever met. Or am yet to meet. 

I don’t say it enough, so I want to thank you. 

You. Yes, you. Really, honestly and from the depths of my soul, thank you.

You may not remember, but you’ve been there for me when I’ve really needed you – perhaps not you particularly, but I definitely needed someone and you presented yourself with an admirable sense of timing. You’re good like that. 

You once brought me a glass of water when I was so drunk I couldn’t stand, then you laid me on my side and let me rest my head on your favourite cushion.

Or you bought me a coffee when I miscalculated how much money I had until the next payday. 

I particularly remember the time when you needed to get home, but you missed three trams so we could finish our conversation about Kubrick. Or maybe it was the conversation about milkshakes. Or something else, equally important.

Or the time, before we had met, when I was standing alone in a room full of people I knew and I kind of caught your eye and we shared – what was it? Not really a friendly smile, but a silent connection and acknowledgement of presence. That was nice, wasn’t it? 

Because that day I was a little, (How would I best put it?) not depressed but, y’know, a touch blah? Just not having the greatest time with things. Life and such, you know how it goes. And then you, with your ineffable timing, were there. Not doing anything other than being you, for me.

We were in a group of people, or we were alone together, or we were alone apart, or we were on opposite sides of the planet and you thought about me and I felt it, remember that? Because we’re connected. A lot. Or a little.

And I needed that.

I probably didn’t realise – you probably didn’t realise, not consciously anyway but in that clever little energetic connection way that you have – but that time (you remember that time, right? I do), you were exactly what I needed to keep breathing for another second. And the one after that. 

Because we all need that now and then.

And we all know – we know we do, even though we don’t say it enough – that we go through this. Because it’s life. It’s not about crying for help or calling a hotline or the black dog, because it’s not that serious is it? It’s not a clinically diagnosable state of being, but it’s...just a touch blah. 

And the smallest thing, the smallest interaction that costs nothing to one but means so much to the other, can keep the world spinning on its axis for just a moment longer so that momentum can kick in and do its work.

You gave me that. Yep, you. Truly, you did, and my god I thank you for it. Because it was something that pushed me up and made me think and made me love a little bit more. 

It helped. You helped.

And I know you’re sitting there, modest as you are, thinking that I’m not talking about you. But I swear I am – I’m talking directly to you. And you. And you! 

Maybe I’m the only person who reads this much into every single human interaction (I can’t be, because I know that you do too) but every single human interaction has helped form my perspective, opinion, past and future. 

And they’re all essential – without them I’m not me.

And they’re all perfect. 

And I love you, for all of them.

And I really hope that one day, when neither of us realise you need it, I can say or do something that is equal to the perfect nod, or smile, or kind word, or drunken 5am conversation that we once had that I remember so well. 

I hope that I can do for you what you once did for me. That I keep you breathing. That I keep your world spinning.

That I show you love. 

Goodnight.

Shut up, the footy’s on the radio

I must preface this REACTION by saying I don’t hate sport. I have been known to attend sporting events and enjoy them, even to play the odd friendly game of soccer or basketball when my ankles agree. As I write this I’m watching the Tigers valiantly fall to the Swans. I have nothing against sport.

But. 

In a recent publication intended for Melbourne’s public transport commuters I found an article titled Watch the footy, you’ll live longer.

Describing the results of a study on young men between 16 and 25 who played football, the conclusions were “Sport provides a way for men and boys to connect with each other, to form broad social networks and build a sense of belonging,” along with “The footy game provides the opportunity to hang out with friends.” 

The final message of article and study was “having two or three good mates could extend your life by five to seven years. Doing things with good friends...is good for your physical health and longevity."

These results aren’t stunning in their revelation. To my understanding it has long been accepted that emotional stability and well-being can be linked to physical health and longevity. 

I wonder what the results would indicate were the study conducted on young men between 16 and 25 who participated in the activities of a community theatre group.

My strongest relationships, both personally and professionally, have been formed through my life in art. From community theatre groups to my training, and the professional opportunities that have arisen beyond, I have a strong network of friends that brings me joy daily. 

It is a common lament among my community that if only the Australian general public showed as much respect and admiration for our creative industries as our sport, we would all have many more opportunities for work and exposure.

A friend who recently visited New York reported that in that great theatre Mecca a young artist can find financial support from any number of wealthy philanthropists who are passionate about supporting the arts. The wistful remark that followed was “in Australia, the wealthy are only passionate about supporting football”. 

An article in today’s Herald Sun concerning patrons being affected by scenes of violence, gore and animal cruelty in new Australian film Snowtown drew some comments that were beyond belief – look particularly for ben scott at 8:12AM 12/06/2011 and Tim7 at 11:02AM 12/06/2011 for examples that horrify me as a lover of our screen culture.

The much decried Tall Poppy Syndrome seems particularly prevalent when discussing our more esoteric artistic or intellectual achievements, especially when compared to the celebration our sporting stars receive in the media daily.* It’s still a point of discontent for me that every nightly news broadcast has a dedicated sports section and rarely a mention of the arts. 

It is this same disregard for our arts potential on a national scale that creates a mindset in young actors of the apparent necessity to make it big in Hollywood before you can find any opportunities at home.

The ongoing uncertainty and fragility of our arts industry, particularly our screen sector, cannot withstand this exodus of talent and potential because our wider national culture refuses to support and nurture the next generation of creative genius. 

We have to encourage our young artists to form broad social networks and build a sense of belonging, to connect with each other, to extend our artistic life by five to seven to twenty to one hundred years.

If we can do it, I guarantee it will be good for our physical health and longevity.

*This is something that preoccupies my thought that I intend to write on further at a future date – particularly the creation of demand/supply in our media for sensationalism and scandal.

**This is a REACTION to the article Watch the footy, you’ll live longer by Michelle Ainsworth

**Published in MX, Friday June 11 2011, page 4.

Anything you can do...

An open letter to Simon Phillips 

Dear Simon 

It may have come to your attention that you are directing The Importance of Being Earnest at the end of the year. I am of the understanding that you are yet to cast the role of Algernon, younger brother to Jack, confirmed Bunburyist and part-time Ernest.

What with your Broadway commitments and care-free musical theatre lifestyle, I realise you must be a busy man. The time it takes to run auditions and select a cast, even with the army of magical woodland creatures that I assume assist you in running the MTC, must create an annoying imposition on your exotic social schedule. 

As a personal favour, I would like to save you the effort. You see I am the perfect candidate for Algernon. He is me, I am him. It is the part I was born to play. You need only hear a few facts of my existence to come to the same conclusion.

For instance, I taught myself to play piano while at drama school. The pride I feel in having achieved such skill coupled with my complete lack of formal technique means I may not play accurately, but I do play with wonderful expression.
 

Also, as Lady Bracknell states, Algernon has only his debts to rely on. As a young and unemployed actor in a cutthroat industry, debt is about the one constant in my life. I should add that the debt is most usually incurred at one of this city’s many fine theatrical institutions – quite often yours.

I know that you are already convinced, wise and all-knowing as you are, and are probably scrambling for the phone right now to call my agent. But let me continue for the sake of those who might question my validity as Algernon. 

Like Algernon, I am unaware that I have a brother. For the sake of character research, I expect to learn quite soon that I do in fact have a brother. Long lost, if that works best for you.

Quite possibly my favourite food is muffins. I could, if interrogated, name five distinct flavours of muffin that I enjoy. With enough variety in flavouring, I believe muffins could become the sole food requirement of the world. Like rice, but tastier. That’s how much I freaking love muffins. 

I spend much of my time pretending to be other people, for reasons of personal entertainment and financial gain. I usually call it acting but it is, in essence and in practice, the same as Bunburying!

On a professional note, I have been following Toby Schmitz on Twitter for some time now and I feel we have an excellent rapport that would translate into instant chemistry and brilliant humour. 

And finally I have been told that, in a dim light, from an oblique angle, if you’re squinting, I bear a moderate resemblance to a possible nephew of Geoffrey Rush. If he were a woman. The lengths I have gone to to be genetically similar to an actor for a single production are truly remarkable!

So you see in word, deed and daily life I am the very epitome of an Algernon, and I feel I would be accepted in many circles of higher society as an appropriate candidate for an Ernest. 

I look forward to hearing from you and taking the first step in what will no doubt become a legendary professional relationship and lifelong friendship.

Kind Regards and Heartfelt Thanks 

David Lamb

PS – If you believe you have other candidates who are more suited to the role, I will happily audition to prove you wrong.