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THE GRASS IS BROWN ON BOTH SIDES OF THE FENCE

HOMICIDE
part 3

Quick thinking was the name of the game.
One scene that took place on a country railway station platform had been scheduled to include an interstate train that would be passing through at a designated time. We were running late and by the time we arrived to film the scene the train had passed. What to do? That passing train was at the core of the scene. The director of this particular episode saw a sheet of red industrial plastic lying beside the track. He had someone flap it in front of the camera, while filming me hastily arriving on the Train station platform. It was a case of ‘now you see me now you don’t’ in rapid succession as the red plastic, now representing the passing train, was flapped in front of the camera. The sound of a train would later be added to the soundtrack. Simple and effective. Worked a treat and took no time at all. Homicide was a great training ground for all involved.
There was a two-hour special that was set around the Melbourne Cup. Great script, about a jockey who was going to be assassinated during the running of the Melbourne Cup. There was to be a chase sequence with all four Detectives in top hat and tails, running through the crowds in pursuit of the perpetrators. Why not? Sounds fun. Would be a real crowd pleaser when shown on TV on the night of the Melbourne Cup.

A script was hastily written overnight, and next morning we were out in the country filming an episode about the death of a riding school pony. An episode that everyone found hard to get enthusiastic about.

Another episode was shot in Fiji. Don Barker and myself were the lucky cops who got to go. I remember wondering why there was barbed wire surrounding a Church that was in the middle of the village compound where we were filming. Never did get the answer. But what was clarified for me, was what I actually did for a living.

A film is a lot of bits of celluloid joined together. So, when they filmed my involvement in a gunfight sequence, there was no one there threatening me…but naturally I acted as if there was. After I had dived behind a tree and came up gun blazing, it was disconcerting to find a whole village of Fijians in hysterics. They could not get enough of this idiot ducking imaginary bullets and throwing himself flat to roll around on the ground. The more I did of it in the name of art, the more they fell about laughing. It was further proof that if you are an actor and not prepared to make an absolute fool of yourself, then you are in the wrong business.

On returning to Melbourne, I ran into John Stanton in the back-lot studios that housed the Homicide Department sets. I had just finished for the day as he walked past me on the way to begin his. The humiliation that I had felt from my experience in Fiji was still fresh in my mind when I said to him. ‘Do you ever think about what it is you do for a living?’

Without breaking stride, he just gave me a quizzical look. That night I had a phone call from Don Barker who wanted to know what it was I had said to John. He apparently had had a dreadful day, blowing his lines and stuffing things up in general. This was so not like John, as he was usually right on the ball. As he could be rubbed the wrong way, I was wondering what was in store for me, but all he said was ‘Never say that to me again.’ I didn’t, and to throw him off balance like that had never been my intention.

That Fiji trip was not without incident. The very beautiful and wildly free-spirited Arna-Maria Winchester (1949 – 2008), played the lead role in the episode.

We were flying back from Fiji. I was in the window seat. Arna-Maria was next to me, with a male passenger who had been on the plane since Los Angeles, seated on the aisle. I’m feeling shocking, having discovered that the Kava and half raw pork consumed at the post-filming luau was not a compatible mix. Arna-Maria, in better shape than me, wanted to go to the loo and excused herself to pass the gentleman in the aisle seat. He tucked in his feet to accommodate her, and as she slid by, the knot of her sarong gave way and it dropped to the floor, leaving him looking at one of the best bare bums to grace the planet. Arna-Maria then stepped out into the aisle as naked as the day she was born. She slowly picked up her sarong and casually wrapped it around her and knotted it, before walking on up the aisle. The effect that had on the male passengers was instant and electric. As that old saying goes … you couldn’t hear the applause for fly buttons hitting the roof.

Three weeks later Arna-Maria and that equally free-spirited beauty Wendy Hughes (1952-2014), having been cast in a New Zealand film, arrived in Auckland. They had been there less than a day when they got caught stealing from Woolworth’s. This made the front pages and didn’t do much for Australia’s image. There was nothing in Woolworth’s that they would have needed or wanted, but as they were always catalysts for each other’s outrageous behaviour, would have done it on a whim or a dare.

A director who worked for the ABC in Sydney was so impressed with Homicide, that he handed in his notice and travelled to Melbourne, where he hoped his enthusiasm would be put to the test. It was. I liked him a lot as a director, he was caring and sensitive, but he fell victim to what I would call the Director hierarchy. There were enormous egos behind the camera as well as in front, and he was not made to feel welcome. The two scripts he directed were stinkers that the others were glad to avoid. The end results were not well thought of and he was not asked to stay on, and returned to Sydney with his tail unfairly between his legs. I was the only one who turned up to say goodbye. He returned to his previous position as a director at the ABC and went on to direct several acclaimed Mini-series. He became known as the infamous Rob ‘Rocket’ Stewart. I met up with Rob at an awards ceremony many years later, where I found him to be rude and abrupt and so far removed from the sensitive fella that I had met on Homicide. I have always wondered what bearing his Homicide experience had on his complete change of character. Even Bud Tingwell, the most amiable of men, remarked years later that he remembered Homicide as a sometimes very bitchy period.

All the while pressures, both real and imagined, continue to gang up on me. The nuts holding my wheels on are about to come off. I’m now angry all the time. On my days off I’m so depressed that I can’t get out of bed, and I sleep until late afternoon. Still going for long drives in the country on Sundays, only to find myself weeping uncontrollably by the roadside. I would then drive home at unsafe speeds and not give a damn about the possibilities of what could happen. I drove back to Melbourne from Sydney on the much longer and more dangerous Princes Highway. I only stopped once – for petrol – and when I arrived in Melbourne I didn’t know where I was, and found myself screaming as I raced up and down the roads of Nunawading. When I finally did get home, I was holding onto the steering wheel so tightly that it took ages to prise my hands free. I got out of the car and remember lying on the grass and holding onto it, because I didn’t know what way was up. Not well at all.

The effort to hold it together by hiding behind the facades that I have created for myself are now wafer thin, and that’s starting to show. I come to the conclusion that what I really need is a holiday and decide to spend the Christmas Break in San Francisco and Los Angeles.
Before that could happen, I underwent another worrying episode that would, if I had taken heed, been further proof that I was not stable.
I was attending a Christmas function on the cusp of my departure. A party that saw real Homicide Detectives meeting us - their pretend counterparts. A Publicity stunt that meant members of the Press were also present. One of the heads of the actual Homicide Squad, who had several drinks on board, was condescending to Crawford’s and the Homicide actors during a speech he was making. I thought his remarks were rude and inaccurate, and as my wobbly persona was in its ‘quick to anger’ phase, I left the function room, slamming the door loudly behind me. When I heard the noise that the door had made I thought, ‘Shit that was loud.’ I had misjudged the new carpet and its resistance on the door. Anyway, my departure from the occasion made the front-page on the evening newspaper with a reporter saying ‘…that to have reacted like I had showed a worrying sensitivity on Day’s part.’ He was right about that. Anyway, I was summoned to Hector’s office the next morning and asked why I had reacted like I had. I told Hector it was because the head of the Homicide Squad was being patronising to Crawford’s and the Homicide cast.

I was then cheeky enough to ask Hector if he thought I was right. He took his time, but agreed with me, and recommended that I had better lay low for a while. When I told him that I would be leaving tomorrow to spend Christmas in America he said ‘Good.’

SAN FRANCISCO and LOS ANGELES

American Film stars were at this time moving from the big screen to television. Rock Hudson. Doris Day. Tony Curtis. James Garner. Telly Savalas - to name a few. Terry Stapleton, a Crawford’s stalwart, had given me a few contacts for when I got to LA. One was the producer of The James Stewart Show, who said that he would arrange for me to see some of the shooting process. However, my first stop was San Francisco. Christmas Day wasn’t far off and goodwill permeated the air. I caught a cable car and went over the hill and down to Fisherman’s Wharf. I was spooning away at delicious Seafood Chowder in an old established Café. It had quite a boisterous atmosphere fuelled by the clientele of fishermen, who for the most part, were dressed for inclement weather. Black knitted beanies. Heavy jackets and for some, gumboots. The air was full of laughter and chat indicative of tough men letting off steam after a hard week. I don’t know what it is, but the sound of high heels clicking on stone floors seems to be a reoccurring theme in incidents in my life. I didn’t hear these ones until the bar chat dropped an octave. I was still head down chowdering away as I heard these particular high heels falter on the stone floor. Then they moved on, only to stop again, as if their owner was looking for something. Then I saw them arrive in my peripheral vision, on the floor to the left of my table and bowl of chowder. The shoes themselves were of the toe peeper variety and the fact that the feet were housed in stockings whose seams were visible on the toes was a bit of a worry. However, I was prepared to give the exposed seams the benefit of the doubt, when I looked up to see what was above the shoes was beyond criticism. Apart from the footwear, she was dressed for the cold, rugged up in a hat, scarf and overcoat. She introduced herself in an easy manner and ordered a wine. She was polite and I could not sense any evidence that I should be wary of her or her motives.

It transpired that she was meeting friends for drinks, and as she didn’t have a partner, had come to this bar - one of her favourites - to see if there was someone here that might fill that slot. I gathered that I had been selected. The atmosphere in the saloon had returned to its original frequency, making me think the regulars had probably seen this selection process before. We chatted over a couple of drinks, and she acknowledged a few of the bars clientele, who seemed to like her, and vice versa. Then I was asked if I wanted to meet up with these friends of hers and crawl a few bars. A guide to some sights and sounds of San Francisco sounded good, and there was something about her that I liked and trusted. So away we went in her classic 67 Mustang. It was a great night. I was relieved to see that her friends were very nice and welcoming, as if they too were used to her eccentricities and selected dates. It was a great night and the eclectic bars that we visited were terrific. They were side by side all along the same street whose name, like the people’s I was with, elude me.There was one bar. Very English in décor and patronage. There were two cricket bats either side of the entrance door. These had menus written on them that looked like autographs. Very simple and very effective for the early 70’s. Another bar featured a very good all-girl psychedelic band. The booze flowed freely and the four of us were buzzing along nicely. At one point when the girls were powdering their noses, the other male said to me ‘you don’t have any idea of who you are with do you?’ I told him that I hadn’t a clue and asked who she was? He said that was for her to say, not him.

After a great night and full of the silly soup, it was late when she dropped me back at my Hotel. I told her of the conversation I had in the bar when she was absent and asked her who she was. She said an Artist, but didn’t elaborate. But I gathered by the way that she said ‘Artist’, she had a high profile.

She then invited me to go to Carmel with her for the week. She was leaving tomorrow and said how much I would enjoy it. I politely said that I would have loved to, but my trip was pre-booked and that I was flying to LA the day after. She told me that my planned itinerary wouldn’t be as enjoyable as what she was offering. Boy would she be right about that one. I thanked her for the wow of a night I’d had with her and her friends. She gave me a short, gentle kiss that held all sorts of possibilities, and as the Mustang drove off I felt a pang of regret, wondering what that week with her would have been like.

Sunday in San Francisco was quiet and I was alone and feeling flat after the good times of last night. I put my slight depression down to the alcohol consumed. I went to the movies and saw the latest Dirty Harry film. I felt that it would be interesting to see it while in the town where it had been filmed. And it was. Production back in Australia was not sufficient then to provide a similar sensation. Whereas, San Francisco looked as if it was a set built to Dirty Harry’s specifications.

I had always felt that Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry didn’t really fit. He seemed wrong in some way. Then I found out that Walter Matthau had been the original choice, but had to be replaced after he suffered a heart attack in preproduction. Bye Bye Walter. Hello Clint. If you watch Dirty Harry with Matthau in mind it makes more sense and I reckon would have been a far better film.

 

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