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THE GRASS IS BROWN ON BOTH SIDES OF THE FENCE

STRAVINSKY’S “THE SOLDIER’S TALE”,

was one of our mid year productions. A combination of music and drama that tells the story of a Soldier in conflict with the Devil.
Something like that. As I never got to rehearse it beyond watching another actor walk through his moves, I was deprived of the opportunity to examine the piece in depth. The reason being that there was to be just two performances of The Soldier’s Tale. Each with a different actor playing the Soldier. I was selected to do the second performance. This meant that the actor selected for the first performance ate up all of the allotted rehearsal time. It was he who was to receive all the attention from the Director whose mindset, I was to discover, didn’t go past that first opening night performance. All I got was to watch the first actor rehearsing his soldier from the sidelines and even that was interrupted, as I also had to attend other classes. I certainly didn’t get to rehearse with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra as he did. He travelled to them to rehearse, whereas they were already in the theatre waiting for me on the night that I would attempt to play the soldier. Unless I’ve blocked it out I didn’t even see the he, of the bobbing head’s, performance on that first night. But I do remember some of night two. Vividly.

I’m in the dressing room, trying to come to terms with my hazy idea of what was required of me on stage in half an hour’s time. I was wearing the Soldier’s uniform - it didn’t fit as it had been tailored to fit the other actor. A very short actor. It was an elaborate outfit that had a sword in a scabbard that would take some getting used to. I had already nearly taken out Maggie’s eye and then when I turned to apologise I managed to sweep my make-up and coffee mug onto the floor. The other actors, apart from the one playing the Devil, had small walk on parts and they were fine, as they already had the other performance up their sleeves. So any apprehension held for the second night belonged with me. It was apparent to them, as they had to keep dodging the tip of my sword, that I really didn’t know what was required of me once I was on stage. Also waiting for me out there was a wheelbarrow full of props that I was about to handle for the first time. If he, of the bobbing head, wanted to get his - warranted - deserved own back, he could not have wished for better. His cup was running over when he whispered to me that Sir Robert Helpmann was going to be attending that night’s performance.

THE ORCHESTRA.

Then I heard the orchestra start to tune up. I had never considered that - my relationship with the music had been what emanated from the single speaker of a small record player - and now the wall-to-wall sound of the Orchestra warming up, served to emphasise just how ludicrous the demands of what was being asked of me. I slowly stood up, walked calmly out of the dressing room, went into a toilet cubicle, locked the door and sat on the seat in a ball with my knees tucked up under my chin. I felt strangely safe. That cubical felt like paradise because I knew that hell could freeze over before I was ever coming out. The cast came looking for me of course; I could hear their shuffling’s and whispering’s but paid no attention. They soon detected where I was - no legs to be seen under the door making a lie of the red Engaged sign. There was a sympathetic knock and few whispered --- ‘are you in there’s’. I never replied as the world beyond, had for me, ceased to exist. Then from under the dunny door I noticed a saucer and cup of tea slowly being pushed towards me. A ridiculous but thoughtful gesture that succeeded in bringing the outside world in with it. It took a while but the door handle slowly slid, changing the occupancy sign from a cowardly red Engaged to a Lion Hearted brave green Vacant.

The only real friend I had out on that stage that night was the Devil, which made a mockery of the plot. I have no real coordinated memory of the events that followed other than it being an absolute nightmare. It remains the most terrifying experience I ever had on stage and believe me there has been a few.
I would pick up one of the props from the wheelbarrow and look to the Devil to check that I had selected the right one. He would give little nods of the head for Yes. Little shakes for No.

What was Sir Robert Helpmann making of this? Not that I cared, I was far too busy with interpreting the nods and shakes of my only friend the enemy. The evening was in shambles and god only knows what the audience was making of my performance.
Towards the end of the piece, the Devil’s head poking over a brick wall was my cue to draw my sword and give chase. But the Devil’s shaking head was telling me NOOOOO. I already had my hand on the sword, sure that this was the moment to free it from its scabbard. Not according to the Devils NOOOOOOO though, and if I had had the guts to look at the audience, I’m sure that they would be shaking their heads NOOOOO too.

Then the Orchestra started into something that I vaguely remembered. Oh NOOOOO the Devil was right, I had spotted him seven minutes worth of music too soon. I froze, thinking that a freeze frame for seven minutes was better than throwing everything out of sync. My friend the Devil – thank god for him – froze as well and together we locked eyes and waited for the music to finish. It took forever, and the fact that I had spotted the Devil over my shoulder, meant that I was locked in a position that was causing the too tight collar of my ill-fitting uniform to cut off the blood supply that my head was demanding. The music finally abated and the Devil nodded that we were now back in sync. When things are against you there is not a lot you can do about it, and on this night things were, because when I tried to draw the sword out of its scabbard it moved one inch. By its stubborn stop, I knew that was all the sword I was going to get. The tassel hanging from the hilt had wrapped itself around the scabbard. I had as much chance of drawing it, as I would have plucking Excalibur out of its plinth. This injustice was the pine log that broke this Camel’s back. Enough is enough. The ritual humiliation that I was going through I could take no more. I screamed in anguish – this was not part of the play but as the only crime in Theatre, I believe, is to be boring I felt secure that I was being anything but. Then in an act of super human strength I tore the sword, scabbard, and half the lining of my pants right out of the side of the uniform. I never did catch the Devil as my scream saw him gone with a capital G. The rest is a blur. Next thing I remember is sitting back in the locked toilet with my knees under my chin. No cup of tea this time, but a gentle knock from the usually bombastic Maggie Kirkpatrick informed me that John Tasker, the director of Boys in the Band, was in the dressing room.
Tasker looked as if he had just been shot out of a cannon, which made me wonder what the rest of the audience looked like. Not so much Robert Helpmann, as he had always looked as if he had just been shot out of a cannon.
Tasker was quite angry and said something along the lines that it was a disgrace that any performer should have to endure what he had just witnessed.
Who was I to disagree?
I don’t know what the director of The Soldier’s Tale thought, because he obviously didn’t have the courage to attend the second show. Maybe he was there but I certainly don’t remember seeing him.
Probably just as well.

The only contribution I made as the soldier that was better than the other actor’s, was that my head didn’t bob up and down.

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