Year of the Queen: The Making of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - The Musical (6 page)

Then it’s all over. I finish the song and flick a glance along the table to assess the mood but the audition is already over and they’ve shut up shop. I get nothing back from them at all. Having given them the best I could give, I snap out of it and quickly head back the way I came in, kissing and hugging my way along the table in reverse, but this time just that little less self assured, trying to gauge
the shine
in each of them as I go. Ross and Simon are beaming and in turn they each clap me with an affectionate hug. I make a special effort to joke with Frosty, testing his mood and he responds warmly. I see this as a minor victory.

I wave farewell devotedly, as if I’m going away on some exotic journey, never to return, and I leave the stage. The panel begin to swarm, and I know they’ll be discussing
me
. I shudder at the thought. I stumble unsteadily down the stairs back to the auditorium, now exorcising the need to actually be anything but little old me. This last twenty minutes has taken at least two years off my life and I’m exhausted. I smile thinly at the underling on the way past, thinking only of escape.

I hit the crisp autumn sunshine outside and tension falls away like the melting polar ice caps. As I stagger, punch drunk towards my car, a swirl of post-mortem thoughts descends upon me and I swish them away like pesky ghosts. I stop dead in my tracks and shake myself out. I’m going to ignore any negative thoughts which present themselves and I resolve to be happy with having just done my very best in there. I regain touch with the sane world and switch direction heading for China Town and a reward; a delicious bowl of roast duck noodle soup. Doris Day has the best advice for me now: “What Ever Will Be, Will Be”. Time to uncurl from the crushing pressure of trying to stay in this little game.

*

I don’t have to wait long for an outcome. Lisa calls later in the afternoon to say I must have done okay because they want to see me for a call back tomorrow - this time in drag. The crushing pressure returns but this time it’s unfamiliar territory. I’ve never done drag before and now it seems this job depends on me pulling it off. I’m sick with nerves and apprehension. If I was worried about what to wear to the last audition, what the hell do I pluck from the wardrobe for this one?

To my relief they offer to provide the outfit and a make-up artist. All I have to do is show up and be made-up as a woman. Just another day at the office.

I arrive at the theatre to a completely different atmosphere from yesterday. It feels weekend casual, like the formality has drifted away on a cloud. It’s as if the hordes braying at the gates of the production have all been repelled and only a lucky few have made it through to the inner sanctum.

I’m walked by the underling, now my new friend, through the draped doors and up onto the stage. There’s a dance call in full flight as I arrive. The audition panel spot me and wave warmly. It makes me feel special somehow. Ross is taking the dance call and it looks like the beginnings of a show. It’s very exciting to watch. One of the dancers is a well known T.V. actor and I hardly recognize her because she’s so proficient in her steps.

The underling takes me backstage to a groaning make-up desk. The make-up artist turns out to be Jo, a woman I’ve worked with before on kids’ T.V. and we instantly cack ourselves laughing at the thought of her making me up as a woman. She gets a wicked look in her eye as she begins, like she’s just about to roll me in the mud.

Drag make-up is an incredibly slow process. First you have to wax the eyebrows (not off, just to cover them) and then apply a base which the new colours can go over. Jo works quickly, but this still takes a good hour. She begins to sketch in the new eyebrows high on my forehead, then fill colours into the gap between my eyes and my now soaring brow. I’m shaded, highlighted and colourized and beginning to look very funny, like a comic book version of myself. She outlines my lips with pencil before filling in the gaps with lipstick that drips with gloss. My lips now look like a couple of skinned watermelons. As a final touch, Jo applies glitter into my eye shading. She stands back and laughs like a drain. I can’t decide whether to join in or feel insulted. I don’t want to move a muscle in case this new face, which feels like it weighs a ton, should fall off into my lap.

The creative team waits patiently on stage for me, resisting the temptation to sneak a look. Ross is the first to crack and rush in for a peek. As he steps backstage and catches a glimpse, his face lights up. It’s impossible to tell if it’s pure revulsion or desire. He screams and says, “Oh my God”, over and over, like he’s just discovered Christ. Simon hears the reaction and can’t help
him
self. He rushes in and is instantly doubled over. I now feel like a circus clown. I don’t have a vocabulary to deflect this kind of attention. Do I yell, giggle, or play along in character? I campily shoo them away, shaking the back of my hand at them like I’m Jeannie Little.

I’m still de-wigged. There’s a nest of them to choose from and I settle on being a red-head. It goes with the green frock they’ve provided. I fit the wig and turn to the mirror. To my horror, I’m
the
most ugly woman I’ve ever set eyes on. I look like a distorted Angelica Huston, or worse, Cher. But I can also see touches of my sister in there as well, if my sister was ever hit with the ugly stick. My heart sinks. “I’ll never get this job now”, I think to myself, “I’m far too ugly”.

Not to be defeated, I practice a few struts up and down the backstage area in heels. I’m determined to walk like a woman and swing my hips convincingly, but it’s much harder than it looks. I’ve watched woman’s hips all my adult life, and for all of that perving I can’t for the life of me work out how the hell they do it.

I know the creative team is on stage waiting eagerly for my debut. I decide to make a splash on my entrance, so I strike a theatrical pose in the doorway and wait for them to notice me. For at least twenty seconds my arsey, pouty, slutty pose goes unnoticed. But then, one by one, like slow motion dominoes, they all turn and discover the unbelievable transition before them. Laughter builds until it raises the roof. It’s a combination of pure hilarity and outrage.

I begin a long, slow seductive swagger towards them. They are crying with laughter but I fix them with a burning, womanly gaze. This of course makes it even worse. I do everything I can to shut out the laughter bubbling up inside me. I have to hold on here.

Deep down I feel confronted, a little foolish and very vulnerable. I arrive at the panel posing and pouting above my sense of unease. After a very long time the laughter peters, they wipe their eyes and try to decide what to do with me. I flirt outrageously with them which creates little pockets of laughter which flare up like spot fires.

Simon suggests I sing a song. I’m not prepared for this. I hadn’t warmed up. I know it’s the best thing to do, but I’m still so totally out of my depth in this garb. I’m a three year old behind the wheel of a Mack truck. After negotiating what to sing with Spud, I perform
In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning
, perhaps the most beautiful torch song of all. He plays the intro and I strike a pose, leaning dramatically into the piano. Suddenly it’s 3 a.m. and I’m a fallen woman choking on tears and whisky in a smoky club.

As I sing, I hook into a very strange feeling. All men ‘camp it up’ at some stage. But there’s always a point at which there’s a nudge and a wink and you drop it. It’s an escape mechanism to get out of the joke. But for the first time, I can’t drop it. My job here is to drive this character, this
woman
, right through the audition, through the song and not desert her by dropping her off along the wayside. I have to remain
being
a woman. The desire to cut and run is immense. It reminds me of scuba diving. The first time you’re submerged for longer than is natural for survival, the body instinctively wants to head for the surface. You’re breathing through a regulator so you’re not in any danger, but there’s still a panic reflex to make a break for the air above you. I have that same urge now. Swim for the surface and manhood.

I struggle with keeping in character, acutely aware of what an ugly woman I am and how everyone’s astounded eyes are searching me. I marvel at how some women can strip in front of a crowd of slobbering men.

When the song finishes, Simon wraps it up saying, “That’s it for today”. But I can tell no one wants to let me go. They haven’t finished examining the freak. I’m desperate to know I’ve done enough, that I’m not too ugly to play this drag character, but the mood is just too silly to get any indication. As long as I’m standing there in a dress I feel beholden to perform. My feet ache in the stilettos and I want to somehow close the session off with a towering joke. I blow kisses and head back to the dressing room. A bunch of boys auditioning for the ensemble are dragging up too. There’s a scuffle over my wig as it’s far and away the best to be had.

I disrobe, de-wig, and get out of make-up. When I return to the stage it’s become late in the day and the panel is now busy racing through the final auditions. In my boy clothes I’m no longer the star attraction. I bump into Michael Hamlyn, one of the producers of the film and now a producer of the stage show. He seems three sheets to the wind and still recovering from my ‘turn’. He giggles about how they took Hugo, Guy and Terence out in drag as preparation for the movie and confides in me that they fully intend to do this for me as well. I’m staggered. Has he just unwittingly blown the lid on where I stand in all this? The alcohol on his breath feeds my optimism. An electric ball of excitement prickles inside my guts and suddenly the enormity of this job hits me. I recognize just how much work it will be if I
do
get it. Learning the drag, the make-up on, the make-up off, walking in heels, learning how to embody a woman without suffering that piercing self-consciousness.

1. The ugliest woman I’ve ever seen. My first outing in drag.

For a different reason, I stagger out of the theatre again, possibilities whirring. I catch the train home a little dumb with shock, and imagine the research I’m going to need to do for this role. How would it feel getting on this train in drag? Would I have the courage to do it? Would people instantly recognize my masculinity beneath the make up and girly fashion?

I look at the faces around me travelling home from work and smile to myself in wonder at how unusual my job is. An hour ago I was in full drag make-up singing a torch song, dressed as a woman. What did the guy next to me do… sell mobile phones? I’m sure he wouldn’t be travelling home so comfortably if I hadn’t changed out of the dress. The world really is a pretty straight place. A true drag Queen would have many stories to tell about that I’m sure. I’m suddenly filled with admiration at their courage to be so different.

That night Annie and I go to the casino for the opening night of
Eurobeat
. This is a perfect way to take my mind off the audition and the terrible waiting game I’m now hooked into. Just as I’m about to escape into the show, Tony Sheldon arrives. We’re stunned to see each other. I tell him about my day in drag and we piss ourselves laughing. I ask him how
he
went and he sadly confesses he was told not to bother auditioning. He says they’re looking for an international star for the role. I can tell by his face he thinks it’s over for him. It’s impossible to believe. Tony is everything the role needs. I can’t fathom why they would bother looking any further than his amazing talent.

The optimism I felt this afternoon now gutters. My guess is that if they don’t cast Tony, they’ll never cast me. The three leads will be big names. I try to make him feel better by reassuring him that I think there’s no one in the country that could play the role better than him, but I can tell this is small consolation. We both drift off to watch the show only half concentrating, awash with scenarios of how this process will end up.

I hear nothing for five days. I wait until the following Wednesday before I call Lisa to find out what’s going on. I preface my call by reminding her how restrained I’d been. She says she’ll make a call and get back to me. It took until that evening for her to ring with no news and no decision.

That weekend I bump into Ross Coleman outside my house. We chit-chat for a while until I can’t stand it any longer and probe him for whether I’m still in the game. He hedges diplomatically but tells me I’m still in the loop. In a show like this, casting is done in departments. Each fights for their own needs. He wants dancers, Simon wants actors, Spud wants recording artists. He leans on this last statement and I get a drift from it.
Spud
. My suspicion may be right. Spud might be my stumbling block. Ross wishes me good luck and trots off to slow roast a hare.

It’s Wednesday again and I’m doing a corporate gig. I’m performing to a bunch of bored executives to try and make their AGM bearable.

As we rehearse before the show, my mobile rings. I quickly by-pass the call and continue the rehearsal. But during a lull, I secretly pick up the message. It’s Lisa. My heart skips a beat. “Jezza?” she says cheekily, “Looks like you better get waxing. Call me”. Suddenly the earnestness of the corporate gig melts away. My life is once again about to profoundly change. I turn to the other actors in the group, bewildered and announce my good fortune. Everyone celebrates, but I’m too stunned to really join in.