Year of the Queen: The Making of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - The Musical (15 page)

It’s a lonely, quiet rehearsal room on a Saturday afternoon with no ensemble present. Four floors below, a garbage truck can be heard tipping large bins. At one point in a scene, Tony, playing Bernadette, lets out a long Queenie scream: “Aghhhhhh!” in response to Adam’s constant teasing. Suddenly from way below in the laneway, a lone voice echoes Tony’s scream exactly, the same tone and intonation. We all stop dead and collapse laughing. It reminds us that the world is still turning outside and that our boisterous rehearsals are easily overheard from the street. Tony puts his hands on his hips and yells back, “How dare you! I’ll come down there and hit you with my Helpmann Award!”

Then we work the scene in which we sing
Both Sides Now
. After tossing the song around and trying different versions, Simon decides to cut a verse and therefore create a key change. Behind the piano, Spud goes grey. Simon notices this and sheepishly asks if it’s possible. Spud shakes his head gravely and says, “This is major, major, major.” It means re-recording the entire opera aria which follows in a different key, orchestra, vocals and all. Simon goes quiet. Everything goes quiet. The rehearsal stops as the two men just look down at the pages in front of them, studying their scripts and wishing this impasse would just go away. Spud’s mood is palpable. Simon summons the courage to say that this is the only way it’s going to work. I wander to the far side of the room. I feel like I’m tiptoeing away from a live bomb which has a feather trip switch. The men confer at length and finally Spud graciously concedes Simon’s right and agrees to the change.

Once the decision’s made though, all the air has gone out of the rehearsal room. It’s late in the afternoon and everyone is shot. I tremble with the notion that we may just be released for the weekend and can taste the beer I’m about to devour. Simon asks us to run the scene once more and then we quit for the day.

And that’s it, week one over. We’ve learnt so much but with so much yet to learn. I head out into the late afternoon greyness, a little bewildered about what to do with all my weekend freedom.

Chapter 11

Rehearsals Week Two

I’m a man possessed today. Part of my gusto can be attributed to having played football yesterday. This is one of the great gifts of revitalization given to mankind. A bunch of actors, artists, and assorted fanatics assemble at a dishevelled oval in Alexandria religiously every Sunday morning to kick the ‘pill’. It’s the Sydney ‘chapter’ of a gang of madmen I kick with in Melbourne. Don’t get me wrong. We don’t play a ‘game’, that would be far too physical. We do what’s called ‘circle work’ where the ball travels clockwise around the oval, each player kicking or hand-balling to the next,
as if
we’re playing a game. Almost everyone is far too old and injured to be a respectable athlete, but it’s hilarious in its earnestness, for each to relive his past glory days of football heroics. I arrive in a state of stressed panic from the week’s pressure and leave with the gaze of a Buddha having walked the seven steps to Nirvana. In two hours of footy, I run off all the campery and the stress of
Priscilla
. Subsequently I arrive at work a new man. Everyone is assembled waiting for Ross Partington, an esteemed Osteopath, to deliver a speech about the challenges of working in high heels. Man…! straight out of footy boots and into stilettos…

Ross Partington’s emaciated frame sweeps into the room late and launches into an impassioned and exacting PowerPoint display depicting in forensic detail what happens to the body whilst wearing high heels. It’s hair-raising and has the shock value of road trauma. So animated is he in his rapid fire delivery, that soon he literally begins to foam at the mouth. Not only is it hard to follow the science he’s espousing but his mad professor manner is beginning to crack most of us up. Nervous stage management try to hush the giggles with stern looks but even they find the lecture to be heading into the territory of a crazed comedy routine. As he approaches his allotted hour, Kath is forced to pipe up that he has only a few minutes left and perhaps he should demonstrate some useful warm-up exercises to the cast. For a moment he looks as if he’ll turn on her like a rabid dog, but then, resisting that urge, he instead chooses to react like a chastised child, grumbling that there’s no point doing exercises if we don’t know what is happening to the body.

Grudgingly, he takes us through some agonizing exercises to strengthen the appropriate muscles to spare us from osteoarthritis in our old age. We slip into stilettos and spend a painful fifteen minutes striding around the rehearsal room on tip toe as he exacts his revenge on our mirth and impatience.

When rehearsals finally begin, Tony and I are taken aside to help Spud solve the terrible key change car accident from Saturday. Spud looks as if he’s spent all weekend on it, but the results are reassuring. The scene now works.

Go West
is chalked in for today. We broke the back of this musically at the second workshop, so now we just have to choreograph it - but Ross is clearly not himself. He’s edgy and nervous and his usual muse has deserted him. He stands before us bereft of ideas. The ensemble begin to share doubting looks amongst themselves. For those who haven’t worked with him, his method is easy to mistrust. It looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing until the dance is completed and you’re suddenly in the middle of the Coleman magic. But the magic is not coming. He keeps squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers and repeating: “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” I try to help him out by making suggestions, but I feel like I’m just annoying him. Tony whispers to me that Ross is having trouble because aside from the speed he’s forced to work at, the songs are just ‘covers’ and have no real narrative, so he’s finding it hard to find the motivation for the choreography. The day goes very slowly as the song very gradually takes shape. It’s like pulling teeth and the ensemble are restless and frustrated.

Tuesday begins with a shoe fitting. At this stage they’re not much more than pieces of fabric covered with scribbled lines which are snipped and pinned in order to get my exact measurements. One pair are high heeled “Blundstones” and the others are enormous high heeled thongs.

In rehearsals we make a start on
I Will Survive
mostly to time a quick-change. Felicia and Tick disappear behind the bus to change into the “Gumby” outfits while Bernadette mimes the first part of the song. We find that we have exactly ten seconds to get off stage, out of our costumes, into new shoes, clothes, make-up mask and an enormous hat and be back on stage for our cue. It’s just not going to happen. We play with leaving the song earlier to give us more time – twenty seconds. Simon nods, satisfied. “This can be done”, he says. I can’t believe my ears.

While we go off to drill harmonies, the ensemble reluctantly continues work on
Go West
. They all look grave as they head into what is likely to be another frustrating session with Ross.

Spud is strangely jovial despite having stayed up until four this morning re-doing
Go West
from yesterday. Simon and Ross had requested changes to it and he has cheerfully complied. The work load must be staggering for Spud at the moment.

In the afternoon we finish
Don’t Leave Me This Way
. After struggling through the rest of
Go West
, Ross seems to enjoy this number and the song is quickly finished.

Wednesday comes and the show’s starting to feel like the choreography session that never ends. Number after number keeps coming at us. I can’t imagine how the ensemble can learn it all. They keep commenting to me about how much Tony, Dan and I have to cope with, but I wouldn’t swap with
them
for a second. Today we work
I Love The Night Life
, a scene in the Broken Hill Pub. Genevieve Lemon gets to step out of the ensemble and strut her stuff. She plays a terrible country Mullet who reacts to the Queens as they enter the pub in full drag. It’s an hilarious scene and Gen extracts every possible laugh from it. Infuriating really, that Tony, Dan and I are on stage all bloody night and Gen steals the show in five minutes flat.

I choose to rehearse in high heels today, which is agonizing and also slows me down. My respect for women soars again as the pain in my feet goes from unbearable to just plain numb.

When the session ends, Ross looks more fragile than ever. He has to fly to Melbourne to do a master class with Chita Rivera tomorrow. He’s freaking out about it, as the number that’s been chosen, without his consultation, is
All That Jazz
. For a start, it’s a classic Bob Fosse routine and Ross’s work has always been compared to his, but Ross doesn’t like the song either. He’s agonizing over whether to cancel or not. After the exhausting week he’s had, this is the last thing he needs.

Without Ross, Thursday is spent mostly on scenes. Most of the time is devoted to blocking, and the logistics of getting furniture on and off the revolve. Little time is spent on any character work so it all feels rather technical. Strangely, it’s a relief though as the pressure is off for a moment.

I’ve organized to meet Garry McQuinn at the Newtown Hotel tonight, where he’ll introduce me to Cindy Pastel, the drag Queen Tick is loosely based on. He’s doing his show there, so I can kill two birds with one stone. See a drag show and meet Cindy. I wonder what kind of reception I’ll get from him. As I get out of the cab my phone rings.

“Jezza, I’m so sorry to do this to you, mate, but I’m in a restaurant in the Cross and the main meal hasn’t come yet.” It’s Garry, standing me up. I let him off the hook, and nervously ask if I’m going to get a knife between the shoulder blades from Cindy. Garry assures me that Ritchie/Cindy is absolutely lovely and is looking forward to meeting me.

I approach the Hotel with a tiny sense of foreboding. Gay bars are not what you’d call my usual haunt and I don’t fancy nursing a beer at the bar on my own for too long. When I arrive, it strikes me what a different scene it is in Sydney as opposed to Melbourne. The pub is rocking. Not only that, but unlike Melbourne, it’s open to the street and the internal shenanigans are exposed for all to see. It’s gay pride, it’s safety in numbers, it’s assumed acceptance. Music blares and only the roaring conversation from the packed house tops it. I head straight past the stage to what I assume is the dressing room door. I knock once and walk straight in to the glorified broom closet, stuffed to the roof with costumes and make-up. I’m confronted by two men in their late forties in a state of undress with stocking caps and full drag make-up on. We blink at each other for a moment and finally I introduce myself, saying that I’m playing Tick in the show. They instantly thaw and with their pre-show hive of nervous energy, enthusiastically shake my hand. I send Garry’s apologies and we swap small talk about how the show is going. Soon they usher me out so they can get ready for the show.

I prowl the pub for a good vantage point to see the stage. As I stand at the bar drinking my first beer, it becomes clear that I was flattering myself feeling nervous about standing here alone, since no one has even looked sideways at me. Either that or my “gaydar” is right off. I’m strangely miffed. I feel like I’m the only stranger at a roaring party of old friends.

Finally the show begins. Music swells and Cindy hits the tiny stage wearing a silver jumpsuit, miming to a disco classic. No one even turns from their conversation to watch, and the chat level only rises to match the music. Cindy does everything to get their attention but it’s simply wallpaper to this heaving crowd. I try to imagine how she’s feeling. She’s spotted me and I can tell she’s giving it everything for my benefit. She’s an institution in the Sydney drag scene but for all the effort she’s gone to: making costumes with no money and choreographing intricate dance steps, she’s nothing more than a colour and movement backdrop to the pulsing Thursday night crowd.

When she’s finished she launches into shtick. She’s surprisingly coarse and aggressive, perhaps to avenge the lack of attention from the crowd. She asks if there are any special celebrations in the crowd tonight: “Not that I give a fuck”, she spits. A young woman down the front has brought her Mum. Cindy takes one look at her and says: “Oh hello Mother… fucker!!” Drag Queens seem to have the license to do or say whatever they like. Cindy gestures to me and says with a flourish: “We’ve got a real life celebrity in the audience tonight.” I cringe slightly. “Jeremy Sandforth is here from the
Priscilla
show. You know how the film was based on my life story? Well Jeremy plays my character in the musical.” No one gives a shit, and they all turn back to their conversations. Where in Melbourne, Jess ruled the club with an iron fist, here in Sydney poor Cindy must turn somersaults to even score a passing glance. Sad but true, Cindy’s misfortune tonight has been a gold mine of research for me.

Friday morning I climb the creaky wooden stairs to Anthony Philip’s Costumes once more. Like a concentration camp inmate I strip to my undies in the cold as Anthony fits me with the now familiar corset. As he laces me in I tell him that the change into this corset is going to be very quick in the show. He rolls his eyes at Lizzy. Both of them are looking squeezed.

“How quick”, she says through gritted teeth.

“About a minute” I say. She controls a moment of frustration.

“You’d think in a costume show like this we could have a bit more time to actually get into the
costumes
.”

“Wait till you see the “Gumby” change”, I say. “I’ve got exactly twenty seconds for that one.” She looks dumbly at me for a moment, checking I’m serious, and then just walks away shaking her head.

I’m much less self conscious trying on my costumes today. I attract a crowd as I parade my vaguely mermaid-like
Never Been To Me
outfit, which is nearly finished. Lizzy and Tim fuss over the waist line of my
Shake Your Groove Thing
skirt. Tim fancies my legs and wants it to be as short as possible. For the first time in my life I’m being complimented on my shapely legs and my cute arse. A guy could get used to this. I take the opportunity to sneak a peek at the rest of the outfits that are finished. The funeral costumes hang in the warehouse looking incredible - like some bizarre Beardsley collection. I can’t wait to see them on the dancers.