A Pathologist’s Report
Acting is 90 per cent sitting around, 10 per cent working. It’s not a hard job; the writers pen your dialogue and even if you see an actor sweating, it’s glycerine dabbed on by a make-up person. If it rains, there’s a third assistant director to hold an umbrella over them as they get soaked. It’s not because the actors are precious, it’s to stop the make-up running and the costume getting wet, and causing expensive delays. Actors aren’t called ‘warm props’ for nothing.
I discovered the secret to good acting when I played a bikie in a film called Shame. The director wasn’t happy with my lack of intensity and threat when trying to intimidate another character; take after take, I couldn’t nail it. Then, on one take, I dried completely (forgot the lines) and sat there for what seemed like an eternity, until I remembered the lines and played out the scene. The director and other members of the cast all remarked on how threatening I was when, in reality, it was ‘fear’ I was emoting; the human face is a blank canvas on which the viewer paints the emotion.
Somewhere during my acting career, I realised I was a supporting actor. Probably in my mid-twenties, when my nose became a size to rival Karl Malden’s, and my hair grew in my nostrils and ears more than on the top of my head. The supporting actor’s job is to be punctual, know their lines and not take too much of the expensive production’s valuable time. The massive ego of the actor is needed for them to survive harsh times and criticism, but the upshot is that, no matter how small the role, every actor thinks the scene they’re playing is all about them; and it is, on the day. Not until you see the final cut does the reality hit – that the show is about the main characters, so that even if you’re acting your box off, the end result will be that most of the shots are of the reactions of the main cast as you twaddle on and Stanislavski your pants off.
I auditioned for a guest role in an early episode of City Homicide, which went to Damian Callinan with whom I play indoor cricket in our team, The Fishermen (Go Fish!), but I was offered a semi-regular role as Hamish Gilchrist, the forensic pathologist, chosen to lighten the dark tones of the show as dead bodies were examined. My instruction from the director was to play it like one of the presenters on The Curiosity Show. However, the only episode I remember is the one when Dean examined animal droppings; not too big a leap there.
The writers of City Homicide are sticklers for detail and the dialogue should be word perfect, as they research very carefully the phrases used in forensic pathology. Good in theory, until the tongue-twisting scientific terminology meets the scattered brain of yours truly. In one episode, I was meant to say, ‘The victim most probably died from exsanguination and shock’ (‘bleeding to death’ – thanks, Google), but what came out was ‘The victim most probably died from exasperation and shock’, which is what the crew felt, as we had to do the scene again. Take two!
The cast reads through an episode at 7.30am on a Wednesday, so that the main cast can still work the rest of the day on the previous episode. Some of the main cast can’t even do the reading, as they are already in make-up and wardrobe, so their parts might be read by stand-ins. I might not have played a scene with the actual actors until the day of filming. The writers will assess the script from the reading, and rewrites are sent out on blue pages delivered to your house. The one time I neglected to check the blue pages, I had a long scene explaining the death of a badly decomposed young woman, in my role as Hamish the forensic pathologist – or Dr Explanation, as I like to call him. On the day, the director decided to shoot the scene in one long take and it came as a shock that there were additions to my lengthy mumbo jumbo. I haven’t survived this long in such a competitive industry without having animal cunning, and I suggested at one point that my character would consult his clipboard, with the new dialogue sneakily attached. It saved my lazy bacon.
Playing the forensic pathologist, I spent most of my time on set in the green room with corpses; these were actors made up, with bloody realism, to look like the cadavers I examined. One young lad of about fifteen told me that he wanted to be a dancer, and then spent an hour and a half lying perfectly still on the morgue slab. A beautiful young Asian actress, also playing a stiff, had the seam of her undies showing as I examined her. ‘She’s written the name of the killer on her undies,’ I mischievously ad-libbed, ‘it’s Calvin Klein!’ Stony silence from the crew was only broken by the sound of the tram passing. Take three!
It’s not until I did a scene on location (somewhere other than the studio) that I remembered how expensive dramas are to make. A scene at a university examination room involved at least forty people, including the cast, the crew and myriad extras playing students and police. The police extras love wearing the police costumes, as it gives them some semblance of having respect in a job that has very little. The wardrobe people are partial to doing my costume because it’s the pale blue disposable surgical outfit that goes over my street clothes. I’ve had enough of rubber gloves, though. The first scene I filmed was on a stinking-hot day, so the rubber gloves filled with sweat and had the sound guy checking where the squelching noise was coming from.
The City Homicide set is very relaxed, but one should always be alert if wearing a radio mic. On one film I worked on in the mid-eighties, the lead actor forgot he was wearing a radio mic as he sat in a car with another actor and proceeded to slag the director unmercifully. The actor sitting next to him was fiercely pointing to the tiny snitch taped to the lead’s shirt, but the cursing thespian continued with his vitriolic appraisal of the director. I haven’t seen that actor work again; this wasn’t exclusively because of his indiscretion, more to do with his lack of acting skills.
No such problems on the City Homicide set, as the cast were appreciative that they were working at a time when few local drama productions were being made. I did get to work again with the great man, Shane Bourne, a legend of the stand-up circuit when I first started in comedy in the late eighties and still one of the best raconteurs around. He’s enjoying being a straight actor, and told me that when he does speaking engagements, people don’t even expect jokes (though he has a million, if needed) and that it’s amazing how much a couple of awards will make the audience respect you. Maybe I’ll take my indoor cricket trophies to my next comedy gig and see if that shuts up the hecklers.
This piece originally appeared in ‘The Big Issue’.
Matt Quartermaine is a Melbourne-based writer and comedian. He can be seen taking part in ‘The Chat’ (See four grown men in comfortable chairs spill their guts!) every Friday night from 8:30 at the Maori Chief Hotel, corner of Moray and York streets, South Melbourne. Entry is free. Click here to read Matt's article about ‘The Chat’ podcast (available at iTunes) in ‘The Age’.
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