The Actress, the Director and the Balding Writer
Playwright's notes by Robert Hewett

This story began with an almighty whinge. If it had been measured like an earthquake, it would have shot right off the Richter scale. It came in the form of an e-mail from an actress. Part of it read: “ … and I’ve just won Best Actress, Best Director, been awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award and I’m broke and out of work!” It has always been thus.

We are old friends, and a whinge via e-mail, phone or in person is allowed.

I’d been having a bit of a lazy time (I can quite happily sit staring out the window for hours, with nothing of note going on between my two ears), but this e-mail galvanized me into action. The plan: to write a play my friend could produce and perform, then tuck away in her bag, ready to be pulled out whenever the coffers were getting a bit low.

I finished what I call a “splat down” — a rough draft that literally goes splat down on the page. (Who cares about spelling and punctuation? You can fix all that later. The main point is that it has a beginning and gets to an end.) I shot this off to my friend. She liked what she read, making a suggestion or two, which I incorporated into the next draft. With text, production budget and application forms in hand, my friend now set about applying to the various funding bodies in her state. If they were keen, she would be up and running; if not, well — there the story would have ended.

In the meantime, in another part of Australia, another old friend was having lunch with director Jennifer Hagan, who inquired what I was up to. Namely, did I have any two-handers lying about in my bottom drawer? Jacki Weaver, a well-known Australian actress, had recently married and was keen to do a play with her new husband. I didn’t have a two-hander, but there was The Blonde, as the text had now been christened. It was sent off with the proviso that certain territories were already spoken for, but if Jacki was interested, she could have the rest of Oz. They both responded positively.

So now Jacki began trying to haul in a budget. Not an easy thing to do. Then came bad news. My friend for whom I had written the play had been turned down by the funding bodies. A bitter disappointment. Graciously, she wrote to me and said to give her rights to Jacki.

This was November. By December we had a producer, designer, lighting designer and a theatre booked. A definite opening night loomed, but no money, with rehearsals due to begin in three weeks. Things fell off the rails a little until, finally, the money was in place.

At this stage I hadn’t actually had a face-to-face with anyone. I was in Melbourne; they were in Sydney. Everything had been done by phone and e-mail. Our first meeting was a January “workshop”: four days put aside to work through the play, page by page.

We were in high-humidity Sydney, rehearsing in a borrowed flat in Randwick, directly opposite the racetrack. Me on the floor, having grabbed the only coffee table to lay out the text; the assistant director in the one armchair; the director sitting erect on a lone kitchen chair; and Jacki standing beside a wardrobe rack of clothing. Ah, the glamour of showbiz!

Jacki didn’t do a read-through but proceeded to do a run of the play, partial costume changes and all. For the next four days we went through the text, breaking it down scene by scene, character by character. I went home to my sister’s family at night, booting my nephews out of their bedroom while I hit the computer, so by the end of the four days I could leave the crew with the next working draft. This was a good time. Nothing about the story had changed, but perceptions had. Decisions were made, ideas enriched — a consolidating time for all.

Rehearsals proper began two weeks later. I was in Melbourne, 800 kilometers away, so all requests for further rewrites came in via e-mail after rehearsal. I’d work on them that night and send them back, usually in time for the following day. It wasn’t until the last week that I went back up to Sydney. This time, when I arrived at the space, a kindergarten hall in the inner Sydney suburb of Newtown, very serious discussions were being held by mature adults sitting on chairs designed for midgets.

Backsides very near the ground, knees around the ears, there was no room for airs or graces here. There were problems; they were sorted.

A run through, a pack-up and move to the theatre, a preview, then an opening. This was February. It had only been five months. The Blonde, the Director and the Balding Writer had done it. We opened to a wonderful reaction from both audience and critics.

Slightly stunned, I retreated back to my home in Melbourne. By the second week, the tiny Stables Theatre in Sydney was selling out and there were waiting lists for tickets. Interest from the major companies followed. The production and the play began to receive international attention, and within months I was fielding offers from various countries.

With each new country it was decided to place the play in the context of that society. The story remains exactly the same, as do the characters and their actions. However, localizing the piece brings immediacy to the events, recognition and identification for the audience. Very little change to the text occurs.

Passing through Toronto recently on my way to the Canadian premier, I went in search of some fruit. It was a Saturday afternoon, and there was a game on. I was repeatedly asked for, or offered, tickets for “the game,” but no one was able to help me in my quest for some fresh fruit. In the end, and not knowing the area at all, I just followed the crowds. Finally I hit pay dirt. The crowd had led me into a large multi-storied shopping mall.

Looking around, I could have been in Melbourne; I could have been in Manchester. But I was in Toronto, thousands of miles from either of those places. The only things different, were the accents and the local coffee franchise.

One final thing.

The actress for whom I wrote this play, but who never got to perform the role, began her career in this precarious profession in a small theatre in suburban Brisbane, Australia, called the Twelfth Night.

And today, in Cincinnati, U.S.A.  you will watch an actress command the stage for the next two hours, who began her career in that very same Brisbane theatre.

Close the circle.