Year of the Queen: The Making of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - The Musical (24 page)

Suddenly a thought hits me. I’m making myself sicker by worrying about being sick. In my feverish sleep-deprived panic I realize that what I need to do is to have someone magically remove this evil barrier to my recovery. In a flash of inspiration, I pounce on the yellow pages and look up
Hypnotists
. This is brilliant! A hypnotist will hypnotize the sickness away and stop the panic. I let my fingers do the walking and find a hypnotist with the closest city address. I tear the page from the phone book, safe in the assumption that any future guests are highly unlikely to want a quick visit to the hypnotist whilst on their stay in Sydney. It’s four thirty and I resolve to call them as soon as the clock hits eight. Knowing I’m now saved, I go back to bed.

Dead on eight a.m. I dial the number from the yellow pages. In one of the more unforgettable phone calls of my life, I explain my unusual story and plead with the hypnotist to see me at short notice. For a moment I think she is going to have me committed or simply hang up, but something about the desperation in my voice catches in her distant, medical-student drive to help the sick and despairing, and she agrees to see me at eleven thirty, emphasizing strongly that this is her day off. Convinced I’m saved I go back to bed.

When I wake again I feel even sicker. I’m due at the theatre at ten a.m. for interviews, followed by more technical rehearsals, followed by a preview. There is no way I’ll get through all this today, so I text Sandra to say I won’t be coming in for the press call and then I turn off my phone.

I buy flowers to take as a peace offering for destroying my shrink’s day off and jump into a cab for my appointment. Of all the taxis in Sydney, I choose the chirp-a-chirp-a-cheep-cheep cab. The driver is so overwhelmed with the desire to spread his chit-chatty good cheer to the world that he doesn’t notice the seething cross-armed lump of misery in the back seat. I find myself willing my sickness to somehow download itself from me and attach itself to him just so he’d shut the fuck up. Because it’s my shrink’s day off, I’m forced to endure him for a good forty minutes while we travel over hill and dale to her home, out in some far reaching suburb with a name that sounds like a T.V. show.

He finally drops me at a newly carved crescent which, unlike my life at present, is perfectly ordered and boasts not a shrub, lamp pole or fence post out of place. I check the address and buzz for my shrink. She emerges from her condo obviously wary and takes me in like a lost panther cub. I give her the flowers and she does her professional best not to blush. Cheerfully making chit-chat, she leads me through her immaculately tidy French sand-washed apartment to the matching sofa in her home consulting room. I sit into the luxurious cushions trying not to betray the depths of my embarrassment about the tale I’m about to unfold. She looks at me with plastered encouragement, like I truly am a maniac and things can only go up hill from here. Thankfully, she has no idea about the theatre, what the show is, or who I am. Either this or she’s doing a fabulous snow job. I unpack my misery before her and she listens intently, her eyes never leaving mine, until I’ve run out of neuroses to offer her. She warns me not to expect miracles, that I’ll probably feel like we’re just talking while I’m ‘under’. She counts down from ten to one, instructing me to relax. She taps my forehead and speaks in gentle tones. When I’m finally supposed to be ‘under’ I just feel like me, plopped in a comfy couch answering questions. I do indeed feel like we’re just talking. I’m certain it hasn’t worked or I’ve somehow screwed up, but as the session progresses and we begin to cover some important ground, I put my doubts aside and co-operate. We spend nearly two hours together as she takes me to unexpected places, away from what I imagined was really going on.

When the session finishes, I truly feel like things have changed somehow. I head for the door thanking her profusely. She leaves me to wait for a cab back to the hotel. On the way, I stop at a chemist and buy a product he recommends which promises to break up the mucus on my chest. I slurp the stuff before reading the caution on the label warning that it may cause diarrhoea and this is of course what immediately happens.

It’s now late Friday afternoon. Opening night is just one sleep away. World War Three would have to break out for it not to happen, but as I lie here, prostrate across the sofa, I don’t know how I’m going to even make it on stage
tonight
. Sooner or later I have to resurface and make the decision of whether I
can
actually physically get through the show.

That’s when I turn on my phone and seconds later it rings.

“Jeremy?” Sandra says breathlessly. “I think I’ve got something here that could help you. We have a nurse in at the theatre giving out Vitamin B injections. Would you like one?”

My plea is answered. I’ve had a Vitamin B shot before and they’re miracle workers. Kids, don’t mess with drugs, just go straight for the Vitamin B shot. I drag myself off the couch and head into the theatre with the promise of getting my hit.

I stumble into the nurse’s room just as she’s packing up.

“One more,” I blurt as I barrel in to her make-shift nurse’s station and present my arm like an eager junkie.

“Other end,” she quips and I lower my jeans. To take my mind off the jab I scan the room for things to distract me and notice the empty syringe receptacle brimming with needles. Clearly I’m not the only member of the cast or crew seeking salvation.

I head upstairs and by the time I reach my dressing room, whether it’s a placebo or not, I’m already feeling the effects of the shot. Energy begins to return to my depleted soul. I do my best to keep a low profile, choosing to greet Tony and Dan only. I shut my dressing room door against the buzz of what will be the final preview, before opening night tomorrow night.

Kath knocks gently at my door and asks how I’m feeling. I tell her I’m not great but I don’t go into any detail. She fills me in on what they did in the tech today, most of it being tidying up work which won’t affect me directly. I’m so pleased I didn’t come in.

I make-up, enter a routine of gargling and pill popping. I warm my voice and my body up and prepare mentally. By the time the curtain rises, I’ve somehow managed to gather enough will and energy to feel like going on stage.
Downtown
begins and I launch myself into the show determined not to stop until it finishes. Parts of it are still clunky and uncertain, but the audience reaction is unequivocal. They roar their approval at the bows and give us a heartfelt standing ovation. It encourages me that perhaps we will get across the line tomorrow night. After all the toil and the anguish, we bloody well deserve to.

I race to my dressing room and get changed at lightning speed. I’ve kept the hotel room on in case I still feel like crashing there tonight and Annie has given her blessing that I should. So I hunt down a cab and arrive back to sanctuary for my last chance to sleep off this bitch of a flu before we open tomorrow night.

Chapter 19

Opening night

October 7
, 2006

My eyes pop open at eight a.m. As I re-orient myself I realize I’ve slept the entire night. No waking in pools of sweat, no panic attacks. Maybe my shrink has pulled it off. I gingerly slip out of bed and test how I feel. The bad news is that I still feel crook but the good news is that I’ve had some sleep.

Today is a legitimate day off. The cast hasn’t been called in to the theatre until the hour call, the first time in two weeks they haven’t worked us day and night. I’m determined to get back to Coogee and see the family. I call Annie and let her know I’m on my way.

“Are you sure?” she says tenderly. “Stay there and rest if you need to.” I tell her I need to be with them today.

I hit the glare of a brilliant Sydney morning. People are beginning to bustle around the narrow streets. I ache to be one of them, just an anonymous person racing to get their shopping in for the week - not a quivering, self-indulgent mess focused entirely on trying to get through the next twenty four hours.

I arrive home to be swamped with hugs from the boys. I do my utmost to play with them and make up for my three week absence.

The day drags by slowly. I try to eat something but the nerves for tonight’s show snuff out any glimmer of an appetite. I try to sleep, unsuccessfully.

Eventually it’s time to go to the theatre. I leave Annie to sort out the babysitting issues and I drive the car in to work. She’ll follow soon after in a cab.

As I work my way through the twilight traffic, I spot the theatre across Darling Harbour in the sunset. Seeing it from a distance so objectively, it reminds me that outsiders still have no concept of what to expect, or what we’ve all been through to put it on stage. To them it’s still just an idea waiting to hit the world. It’s taken an army of creative people toiling under enormous pressure to get it up. Creative blocks, technical disasters and deadlines which have squeezed people to breaking point have all taken their toll, none of which will be apparent when the curtain rises in an hour and half. Tonight is the culmination of so many elements of this endeavour. This is one of the most anticipated Australian musicals ever, and for me personally, it marks my return to big musical theatre. I want to reward those who fought for me and dazzle my detractors. I want to honour the strange and sometimes chaotic journey I’ve been on to get here.

When I arrive at the theatre the nervous energy is palpable. Even though we’ve already done the show seven times it feels like it’s our first. The tempo is ferocious. People scurry all around me. I feel like I’m walking in slow motion as my energy is low and I’m still crook as a dog.

I wander into Tony’s dressing room which is filled to the brim with cards, flowers and gifts. He looks up at me beaming and asks how I am. “Not bad,” is the best I can muster and we share a look which to both of us reads, “Well, we’re finally here.” I pass him an opening night card, one of two I have bought. The other’s for Daniel. He thanks me generously and says “Chookas”.

I head into my own dressing room and find it is also filled to the brim with gifts and cards and flowers. My heart sinks. I knew this would be the case but I’m filled with remorse that besides my two closest cast members, I haven’t got anyone else a single thing. I curse my illness for depriving me of so many delicious moments leading up to tonight, one of which is the delivering of gifts on opening night. I close my dressing room door, half in shame and begin sifting through the incredibly generous collection of good wishes. I open cards, speed reading the kind words so many of the cast and crew have spent valuable time composing. I become emotional because I feel so left out. None of this love has been reciprocated.

There’s a tap at the door. Trevor pops his head in.

“Hi, daaarling,” he sings. “How are you feeling?” I tell him I’m not great, but I’ll be alright. He passes me a phone number written on a piece of scrap paper. “Stephan Elliott wants you to call him.”

Intrigued, I immediately dial the number. He’s already in the bar and obviously drinking away his nerves. He tells me he loves what I’m doing in the show and to not change a thing. My performance has heart and integrity and truth. I’m bowled over. Being a performer so often consists of feeling like a fake - that at any moment the audience, or anyone else for that matter will work out that you’re just a phoney. Jill Perriman, one of Australia’s greatest performers, who played Dolly Levi in
Hello Dolly!
with me, used to have a catch cry almost every night when we finished our bows. She’d turn to us and say, “Fooled them again!” So to hear such encouragement from Stephan half an hour before going on stage is music to my ears. I thank him profusely and hang up the phone. I decide then and there to take all the love that I’ve just been offered over the last fifteen minutes, from the cards, the flowers, the gifts, the bottles of wine and from Stephan, and draw it all up into the inspiration that will get me through the show tonight.

I do my make-up with an unsteady hand, trying to ward off my nerves. I breathe even breaths. I try to visualize my performance coming to me effortlessly. And then, suddenly, there I am, standing side stage in my fishnets and my corset under my overcoat ready to walk on stage. Every luminary, celebrity and ‘would-be celebrity’ in Sydney has been invited. Most have shown up and are now all sitting expectantly in the house, along with friends, family, nervous producers and cunning, ticket-scrounging fans of the movie. Rumours of the nightmare build-up to tonight are bound to have leaked far and wide, and many, I’m sure, are anticipating the worst. While we’ve been fighting anxiety and wrestling with our confidence backstage, they’ve been ‘arriving’ and strutting the red carpet, smiling at the snapping press and giving out air kisses nineteen to the dozen. To most of them, this is all just a glamorous photo opportunity and they haven’t got a clue what to expect. But then again, we don’t either. What we’re about to do is a high wire act. No one can predict if the bus will work. We haven’t had a single run of the show without stopping yet and we haven’t had a dress rehearsal. My sense of good humoured ‘take it as it comes’ relaxation that I manufactured in the previews has left me, and all I want is a streamlined performance which is slick and professional. Tonight I don’t have the stomach to be humiliated.

As the beginning of the show approaches, good luck hugs are tossed about with gay abandon. Everyone finds that special person or persons to squeeze one last time before they leap into the breach. I seek out Tony, Dan and Marney. We’re all shitting ourselves but we sport a kind of excited brave face over the top of it. It’s particularly meaningful for Tony and me, being the only ones that have ridden this beast from the very beginning.

“Be beautiful,” he says and struts back towards his dressing room. I now disengage from the rest of the cast and take a moment to myself. I draw up all the concentration I can muster, tell myself to ignore the sore throat, the cough, the aching joints, the exhaustion and just get through this one last show. The honest truth is that I shouldn’t be here at all. If I worked in a bank I’d be home, tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle and half a jar of Vicks smeared across my chest. But this is the theatre. Different rules apply, and come eleven o’clock it will all be over.