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THE GRASS IS BROWN ON BOTH SIDES OF THE FENCE

MELBOURNE THEATRE COMPANY

After NIDA, and maybe because of it, I was summoned to an agency to meet with a Mr John Sumner (1924 - 2013). I had never heard of him but he was the head honcho of the Melbourne Theatre Company. Little did I know that this meeting would change my life in a major way. The interview turned out to be the shortest and easiest I have ever had. As I arrived at the agency Mr Sumner was packed up and dashing off to catch a plane. Looking at me he said, ‘This is more like it.’ Then, as he headed to the door, ‘Do you want to come down to Melbourne, boy?’ Taken back I replied ‘Yeah I suppose.’ ‘Good, see you in February then,’ was thrown over his shoulder as he was out the door, down the stairs and gone.

What a good eye for talent this Mr Sumner had, to take one look at me and see Star Quality. Yeah, and pigs might fly. I later found out that the first play he was directing required soldiers, and he’d had a bad day seeing lots of potential soldiers that were too short. Myself, at 6 feet, helped break that trend and that’s why he had cast me.

My agent rang me with the offer of a year’s contract with the Melbourne Theatre Company. The first play was Ray Lawler’s The Man Who Shot The Albatross, directed by John Sumner and starring Leo McKern (1920 – 2002).

Come February I caught the train to Melbourne, found a comfortable bed-sit in Toorak, and fronted up for my first day of rehearsal. My scream for attention saw me arrive dressed to the nines, including a pair of leather trousers that I had had tailor-made. They had cost a fortune, but I was well heeled from a Television Commercial at the time. They were also a disaster. I had selected the leather in the elegant but dimly lit basement of Mr John’s Men’s Wear. When I picked up the finished trousers and saw them in the daylight, they looked as if they were made of patent leather. Rather than blinding people walking towards me with reflected sunlight, I had seams sown into the legs. This meant I now lit up the footpaths on either side of me instead. At the first rehearsal at the MTC, I was sitting next to another actor who looked at my razor-sharp seams and said, ‘Well, you’ve been up all night ironing.’

My introduction to actor Fred Parslow (1932 – 2017), and his brilliant and caustic humour. The cast for Albatross was huge with Leo McKern in the lead as Captain Bligh. As well as the aforementioned Fred Parslow, there was Frank Thring (1926 – 1994), Simon Chilvers and John Ewart (1928 – 1994). John, like me, was an import from Sydney, while the rest of the cast were the resident stalwarts of the MTC. This was going to be a large production and would tour to Adelaide and Sydney. I already had my lines down pat – which wasn’t hard, as I didn’t have any. I would be playing soldiers various, drunkards various, and a Hawaiian native. The clever lighting designer would provide the suntan.
At the script read-through Leo, by his occasional powerful delivery of the text, showed what we could expect from his Captain Bligh. Then it was time for a cup of tea and a look at the working model of the elaborate set.

Standing alone with my cuppa and not knowing anyone else, I sidled over to John Sumner who I had briefly met in Sydney. He was pointing out something of interest to a group standing around the set model. I joined them and at the first suitable opportunity, I politely said hello to him. He looked at me briefly - as if I was something he had stepped in - before turning his attention back to the set. I now knew why he was referred to as Black Jack and that my time at the MTC was not going to be all beer and skittles.

As I was a mute the initial rehearsals were tedious, broken only by lunchtime at the pub. It was there that I got to know Simon Chilvers and John Ewart. They would give the brandy a nudge while I settled for a couple of small beers. Of the ten playing parts various, I was the only one who did not have a line of dialogue. The only chance of carving a name for myself in the production, was when I had to show my displeasure over some orders given to me by a superior, by slamming a chair down onto the floor. As I have never had to dig far to find anger, I did this rather well, and Mr Sumner thought that a line to emphasise the action might be warranted. So, at the next rehearsal I improvised what came to mind as I slammed the chair into the floor, and was somewhat deflated when Mr Sumner reminded me that it was a line that he had suggested, not a co-starring role with Mr McKern. We settled on a line that now escapes me, but at least I had something to say.

What occupied most of my time was getting fitted for a pair of knee high boots. These were custom-made for all the actors various and splendid they turned out to be. However, the trousers to be worn with them had strips of elastic on the end of the legs that, when slipped under the boots’ heels, pulled down the legs to cover almost the entire boot. Thousands of dollars spent on new boots when any old black shoes would have been just as effective. The MTC in those days spent money as if they were printing it. Not, however on employing actors various.

FRANK THRING

Frank was a wonderful old poof. He always dressed in black with a large medallion hanging from his neck, and was a huge man with a large undershot jaw. To impersonate him is easy - push your lower jaw out as far as it will go and don’t move it just talk. He was at this time very wealthy, having inherited the remains of his father’s Theatrical empire. This included some of Melbourne’s most famous and beautiful Theatres. Daddy must have suspected something was slightly adrift, because to get his hands on the inheritance, Frank had to be married. Easily done, he had a female friend who was prepared to do this. They tied the knot, leaving Frank rich enough to give his soon to be ex-wife a nice dividend. Frank Thring stories abound and as a writer it’s nice to know that for a while this book will coast happily along.

It’s hard to imagine that Frank was ever a child. He came home from primary school on a hot day. When his mother asked him if would he like a cool drink he replied ‘A gin ‘n tonic.’

Frank on a Tonight show, to fellow guest Johnny Farnham, ‘Sadie you can be my cleaning lady any time you want.’

Frank, I would imagine as a favour to friend and film producer John McCallum (1918 – 2001), guest starred in the first episode of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. Arriving on set he noticed a moving sack on the ground. Frank asked, ‘What is that?’ When told that it was Skippy he said, ‘If that’s the star’s dressing room, where are they going to put me?’

Frank is late for rehearsal. The cast is waiting patiently in the largest of the Melbourne Theatre Company’s rehearsal studios. It’s another John ‘Black Jack’ Sumner epic and he is rubbing away at his ulcer, furious that Frank is holding things up. Deciding to find out where he is, John strides down the length of the rehearsal room towards the door. Just as he reaches for the knob, it springs open to reveal Frank. What the cast members at the other end of the room see, is Frank standing on one side of the inward opening door, oblivious to John standing on the other. Seeing that John is not amongst the far away group looking at him, Frank says for all to hear, ‘So where has the black cunt gone now?’

Barbara Stevens who played Desdemona opposite Frank’s Othello, was witness to my favourite Frank escapade.

Barbara is back stage telling the cast of Emerald City about the night that Othello went so off the rails. A drunken Derryn Hinch, who was married to Jackie Weaver at this time, also happens to be present. Slumped in a chair, we think the pissed Derryn has passed out. Right up until he suddenly opens his eyes and blurts out the word ‘Boring’.

Wrong Derryn, you were the one who was boring, which was par for your course.

Jackie sort of saved his arse as only she could by saying ‘Darling I think you are just a teeny bit drunk.’
Thankfully Derryn went back to sleep and the rest of us returned our rapt attention back to Barbara.

THE STORY

As Othello, Frank was creeping down the stairs towards Desdemona, who was sleeping on her bed. He is going to strangle her. He creeps over, puts his hands around her neck and starts to throttle her, when he is distracted by a noise from beyond the footlights. He waits for the noise to abate but it doesn’t, it gets worse. Frank takes one of his hands from Barbara’s throat and shades his eyes in an attempt to see the cause of the disruption, ‘What is going on out there?’ he says to the audience.

It becomes apparent that an elderly lady has collapsed, and her distraught daughter along with other audience members, are trying to assist her. ‘Oh I see,’ says Frank, ‘we have had a bit of an upset, have we? Well just take it easy and I’ll alert stage management.’
He keeps talking as he walks over to the prompt side of the stage. ‘It will be alright lovie. Just relax, help is on the way.’

The lights in the auditorium go up, ushers run down to assist the woman, and her daughter. Frank moves down stage, still shading his eyes as the woman and her daughter are assisted up the aisle. The auditorium lights fade again and Frank makes an announcement to the audience.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will continue with the play.’
He then moves back to Desdemona lying on her bed and, sitting beside her, scratches his head and says, ‘Now where was I?’
‘Oh, that’s right’ he says and puts his hands back around Desdemona’s throat. After a few beats of throttling and shaking, Frank then looks out into the auditorium and makes the following announcement. ‘You see how easy acting is?’

That was Frank. Brilliant.

He is now dead and we will never see the likes of him again - you can’t get the jaws. I never think of him without smiling.

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