Year of the Queen: The Making of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - The Musical (10 page)

I hug and kiss my way around the room on my way out, leaving Spud and Simon until last. I approach them and timidly stick my head into what seems to be a very intense conversation, offering my quick goodbye. Simon jumps up and hugs me and we share how positive we feel about the shape of the show. I turn to Spud and thrust out my hand, but I see he’s in no mood for fond farewells. Sitting crossed-armed and immersed in a briny cloud of darkness from Mordor, he gives me his worst union-boss scowl and tells me to get cracking on my singing lessons.

If there was an appropriate sound effect for this moment it would be a record player needle scraping across the vinyl. The stunned silence which follows it would then be interrupted by the theme from
Jaws
.

Mouth gaping I turn to Simon, who’s face exactly mirrors my own expression. “Thanks for all your work this week, Jeremy”, or “See you at rehearsals in a couple of months for some more fun”, might have been more along the lines of what you’d expect from this parting encounter. But here I am, tripping innocently through the sunlit forest, only to be leapt upon by the big bad wolf.

Feeling like I’ve just been punched in the guts, I grapple with a weak attempt to reassure him that my voice will be fine. That I have indeed gone back to singing lessons, and will work my voice back into shape by the time rehearsals start. But he doesn’t stop there. He begins a diatribe about how I hadn’t pulled my weight all week, hadn’t put in, hadn’t committed to the singing which made his job all that harder to hear what was working and what wasn’t.

Some dark creature begins to turn deep inside me. I grit my teeth against what it wants me to say in reply. I point out with a stiff politeness that I thought this week was a workshop where we were testing what could work theoretically for when we actually started rehearsing. He makes it clear that whatever it was for, he didn’t get from me what he wanted.

Simon makes a weak effort to defend me, but the damage has already been done. We both stand open mouthed in stunned silence. With little else to say, I nod stiffly and storm out of the room seething with hurt and anger. If I was nervous about my voice before, I’m now completely paranoid. Spud has simultaneously created in me a piercing desire to come to rehearsals brimming with a fit, confident voice and an overwhelming self-consciousness that my singing will always disappoint him. Before becoming a part of this show I’d never doubted my voice at all. I’m aware of its limitations but it’s a nice voice which has stood me in good stead for many a night in the musical theatre.

I get to the car running the altercation over and over in my head. Through the clouds of anger I try to understand what just happened from Spud’s perspective. Was I just in the way when the geyser finally blew? I fully expect my mobile to ring at any moment and hear Simon’s voice smoothing things over but it doesn’t happen.

Hours later I’m still seething. The absence of a call from Simon makes me feel that maybe he thought Spud was right. Maybe I
had
taken the workshop too lightly.

At about nine thirty Simon rings. He seems a little frantic. He’d been given the wrong phone number for me and had been trying to track me down all night. A little breathlessly, he assures me that when I approached them, Spud was in the middle of a melt down about how much needed to be done before rehearsals started, and that I just got in the way. I accept that this may have motivated the ferocity but not necessarily the content of what he said. But with his uncanny people skills working overtime, Simon soon makes me feel absolved, relieved and a million times better. To be honest, just the fact that he called to offer his support was all I really needed. I feel Simon and I are on the same page heading into rehearsals and we have each other’s trust. I just can’t know at this stage whether the egg can be made unscrambled with Spud. Regardless of pre-existing misgivings, once you’ve been cast in a show, surely the expectation must be that you should enjoy the support of the creative team as you head towards opening night together. This is what I hope for, and what will remain to be seen.

Chapter 7

A cock in a frock

For the first time in my life I commit heart and soul to singing lessons. Daily I seal all doors and windows, sneak glances over the fence to check there are no unsuspecting neighbours to offend before I warble away through my vocal exercises. I trot out to Moonee Ponds twice a week to work with Roger, my passionate and rigorous singing teacher, who cajoles and bullies my voice back to its potential and beyond. I feel it waking again slowly. I discover a range that previously had scared me. I begin to enjoy the sound of it once more. The process comes with the frustration of someone learning to walk again after a stroke. In theory, I understand what needs to be done but keeping vertical when the crutches are thrown aside is terrifying and so often ends with me getting the wobbles and I crash to the ground as my flimsy legs buckle under my weight. But my mind is fixed on day one of rehearsals where I change Spud’s mind about my vocal ability.

Sydney beckons once more. Word comes through from the citadel that I have my first costume fitting. I’m very excited about this. Slipping on a costume for the first time is a wonderful way to engage with a show. Seeing yourself as the character you’re about to play instantly makes you feel part of it. It reminds you that the wheels are turning somewhere, even though rehearsals haven’t started yet. The Christmas elves are toiling away in their caves somewhere quietly getting everything ready.

I get out of a cab in some far reaching suburb in Sydney and check the address on my care package. I navigate my way through a hidden doorway and up a set of creaky wooden Dickensian stairs to a security door with an intercom. I half expect Riff-Raff from
The Rocky Horror Show
to greet me at any moment. A cold wind sweeps up the staircase from the street, just as it would the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year. I press the intercom marked Anthony Phillips costumes. “Yes?” says an indeterminate voice. “Hi. It’s Jeremy Stanford here. I’m here for…” there’s a hard buzz and the lock clicks before I can finish and I push through the door continuing up the old firetrap of a staircase.

At the top I find myself in an enormous warehouse space filled with racks of half finished costumes, fabric, giant hats, enormous coloured feathers and staring mannequins. It’s a place you could imagine coming to life at night. There’s a vague smell of glue and an AM radio echoes distantly. Somehow the tempest from the staircase doesn’t make it this far into the building. All around the room the Christmas elves are hard at work sewing buttons and sleeves and sequins and they look up briefly from their toil as I enter. Once they’ve regarded me briefly they forget I was ever there and go back to their labours.

I follow my instincts and wander into the fitting room. There I find Tim and Lizzy poring over sketches and fabric samples. I already feel slightly in awe of them, so I try to appear as cool as possible, but I’m the new boy in the class today and I’m sure I’m wearing it like a badge. Tim beams at me and says “Hi, Sexy”. Anthony Phillips hurries in like head Christmas Elf, his face purple with stress as if the show was going to open tomorrow night. He has armfuls of costumes for me to try on and greets me fleetingly. He gets me to strip to my undies and helps me into a corset. Tim wears the smile of a man delighted by watching this straight boy jump through a particularly unfamiliar hoop. The corset is black and boned and Anthony pulls the ties squeezy tight. This is my first test of drag tolerance and I’m determined to pass. I’m equal parts bewildered and amused. Then I try on a pair of stilettos just to get the right height for the frocks I’m about to try on. Once the corset is fitted and Anthony’s established that I am actually breathing, he helps me into my Opera House frock. It’s a giant Marie Antoinette outfit which fills most of the room with its tent-like skirts. When certain levers are pulled, it will turn into the main two sails of the opera house. It has an enormous foam wig hat which is about three foot high, upon which a sailing ship teeters.

I can’t stop laughing. It’s outrageous. As nervous as I feel in this outfit, I can’t help being taken over by the feeling it gives me, which is like some central European monarch unhinged by syphilis. I implore Tim to take a photo with my phone so I can send it straight to Annie. Once it’s snapped and he returns the phone, I go to send it. I can’t for the life of me think of an appropriate accompanying caption, so I just write: “!”

Next I try on my
I’ve Never Been To Me
frock. It’s a fitted emerald green mermaid dress. It’s so pretty that it raises ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from far-away elves who sneak their heads around the corner to gawk. I find myself mincing around the studio posing shamelessly, and this intensifies the delight in Tim’s eyes. Anthony remains business-like, taking instructions from Tim and Lizzy about adding and subtracting features to complete the dress. I don’t like to mention it but my feet are absolutely killing me in the shoes. I’ve been standing in them now for fifteen minutes straight and I wonder if I’m not wearing rabbit traps on my feet.

Once the frock is approved I take everything off and remain shivering in nothing more than my undies and stilettos in the cold room as I wait for the next outfit. Deep in conversation, everyone seems to have forgotten me momentarily. With agonizing relief, I quietly slip off my shoes but get sprung doing so. Anthony wheels around and apologizes, telling me to get dressed, that I’m finished.

2. The fabulous Opera House frock under construction.

And just like that, a cab is summoned and I head back down the windy stairs again.

Next stop is a moulding session for my head. To get around the problem of us getting in and out of drag make-up quickly in the show, we’ll be using masks. Drag make up takes about an hour and a half to apply, so when we need to suddenly appear doing a drag number, we’ll just slip on a mask instead. That’s the idea anyhow. I’m not sure anyone’s proved it’ll work yet, since it’s a technique which has been developed for the show. Somehow, this next session will produce one of these masks.

A cab drops me at an industrial suburb out near the airport. It’s the kind of area where they take murdered bodies to dump them. I take my life into my hands dodging speeding lorries as I cross a ghastly motorway to a recently finished industrial estate. Dwarfed by the enormous warehouses, I follow the meticulous instructions on my care package to a large warehouse door which looks more unused than used. Doubting I’m in the right place, I press the buzzer and am greeted by two men who look like ex-members of DEVO. They welcome me inside the cavernous workshop, which they don’t seem to notice is freezing cold. Shelves line the walls and there’s numerous empty work benches which look well used but are currently on leave. The men tell me they make animatronics for film and T.V., creatures and monsters, and as they speak I notice a pile of lifelike monster heads on the bench next to the hand where I’m leaning my weight. I quickly withdraw my hand in case I’m bitten. If Anthony Philip’s costume warehouse came alive at night, I certainly wouldn’t want to wander around
this
joint after dark.

The two DEVO guys explain today’s process to me, like it’s a safety drill on an aircraft. They crack funny but nerdy jokes and finish each other’s sentences. I’m in my best tee-shirt, but they both wear crafty smocks which are covered in goo and I begin to worry about the state I may be catching the plane home in.

They seat me in a salon chair and cover me with a plastic apron. They give me two hand signals and ask me to repeat them so they know I’ve understood. One for, “I’m okay” and another for, “I’m
not
okay”. I’m not getting a good feeling about this. I’m instructed to not move a muscle in my face during the procedure as it will wreck the mask and we’ll have to start again. I make the gesture they’ve given me that means, “I’m okay”, as a lame attempt at humour which they ignore as they bring large buckets of… ‘what?’ over towards me.

I close my eyes and try to get comfortable as they first smear my face all over with Vaseline. It feels cold and oily. They ask me my first, “Are you okay?” and I make the sign. Then they entirely cover my face in dental paste which smells minty and hardens with lightning speed. As it sets I try to think of pleasant thoughts, but the best I can come up with is feeling like my face is a giant tooth being cleaned. The dental paste makes its way into my mouth and I can feel it trickling down my throat. It’s gritty and irritating, and I begin to imagine terrible thoughts like I’m going to cough and ruin the whole process, or even worse, vomit, then choke on it and die before they can get this whole shebang off me. One of the DEVO guys has left the room and I hope it’s not to get the large sharp knife they use to decapitate their naïve hostages. The remaining guy cracks odd little jokes and I have to resist reacting in case we have to start this process over. He asks again if I’m okay and I give the sign.

Next they drape plaster bandages all over my face which turns the hardened dental paste icy cold. I have two small straws sticking out of my nose to breathe with and the powdery smell of plaster instantly takes me back to high school craft. Once the bandages are placed, they’re secured by having my whole head wrapped in bandages. They don’t muck around either, sparing nothing to make my head feel like it’s three times its natural size. I must look like a mummy from a fifties horror movie. Well, at least I’m not out of place here.