Charles has arranged to meet Sean in Carlton, for coffee. There’s something he wants to ask him but he plans to build up to it gradually.
He’s recently finished a short course with the Australian Film, Television and Radio School. It was called WRITING FOR ULTRA LOW BUDGET FEATURE FILMS. The blurb said …it was about “…exploring ways to write for that big budget look without blowing all the dough on pricey production values.”
‘It was amazing,’ he told Sean. ‘I didn’t realize, how much I know about film making … all those years of making instructional DVDs, working on a shoestring, making things like diesel engine maintenance look interesting – it’s all been a fabulous grounding.’
Sean has been having an exciting time as well. He’s just returned from Sydney where he attended Mr. Squiggle’s 50th Anniversary. ‘Sydney was amazing for me. We puppeteers feel so invisible and isolated, it’s very wearing but people came up to me at the party and told me how much they‘ve enjoyed my work over the years.’
Both are excited. Both have just experienced a lot of positive and affirming responses to their work.
Charles shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The ‘something’ that he wants to ask Sean is making him restless. The possibility of rejection is stopping him from getting it out. Then Sean says, ‘You know, I was thinking on the way back from Sydney how much I would really like us to work on something together. I’ve gained some experience with film now and you have some insight into puppetry. I’m feeling good about myself at the moment and want to take some risks.’
Charles relaxes, puts his hands behind his head and stretches out his legs. He looks every inch a film director. ‘I guess I could be talked into a collaboration.’
Rejection is not on the agenda today.
When Charles arrives home that evening and tells Liz what he and Sean are planning she’s not encouraging, ‘Apart from one small DVD about sprinklers, you’ve never worked together! He’s a friend. He’s a nice person but he’s insecure and needy. He’s high maintenance!’
But Charles isn’t listening.
The next time the two meet, they talk about priorities, logistics and finance. Charles says, ‘Filmmaking is slow work. It can take years from the decision to make a film to actually sitting in a cinema and seeing it on the screen.’
‘Well what’s the starting point?’ Sean looks blank.
‘We need a story,’ says Charles.
They make some decisions. Charles has been saving money in an account he calls, “my long service leave account”. He grins at Sean, ‘I think it’s time I gave myself that overdue long service leave.’ But Sean has work commitments he can’t ignore. The Arts Council has funded his current show to tour to Warrnambool, Ararat, Mildura and Broken Hill.
‘Perfect!’ says Charles. ‘The first rule of filmmaking is to turn obstacles to your advantage. I’ll come with you. We’ll camp on the way. We’ll document the places we see and the characters we meet. Stories don’t come to those who sit and wait for them to fall into their laps. You have to be proactive, get out there and track them down.’
Liz prides herself on her ability to deconstruct friends, acquaintances and total strangers. She throws her hands in the air when it becomes apparent that Charles is not to be talked out of the partnership. She feels its her duty to make him see that Sean is not a good choice so in a final attempt to get the message across, she lets rip. ‘I’ve never met anyone who is surprised daily by his own existence! I can’t imagine how you expect to collaborate with someone who isn’t quite with us. He’s a dreamer! He drives around in a car with a flat spare and no jack! HELLO?’
‘He sees things differently to other people,’ says Charles. ‘He operates intuitively. He’s in tune with other stuff.’
‘OH PLE-EASE! He’s useless. He can’t even operate a Venetian blind!
Charles listens with relief as her voice fades down the corridor. He knows from experience that it’s pointless to argue and in time she’ll burn herself out.
‘You reckon he’s an alien!’
There’s a lot to organize and quickly too. Sean is expected in Warrnambool in three weeks. Both men have wagons but they don’t want to make the trip in convoy. ‘We can take your car - squeeze in together,’ Charles is confident. ‘The puppet gear can go on the roof rack; we can chuck a couple of swags in the back, a few beers, a box of supplies. We can rough it for a change.’
Sean listens to the simplicity of the plan and it excites him. He hasn’t had many adventures. Charles was a Scout leader in a past life and appears not to have lost his leadership skills. There’s something comforting about his manner.
On the morning of the departure, Liz and Olivia are up early to wave them off. Liz kisses Charles on the cheek. There’s a moment of awkwardness; there’s no one to kiss Sean goodbye. Liz smoothes it over with a peck then Olivia, quick to catch on, throws her arms around his neck. Charles gives Liz the camera to take a few snaps of him and Sean – the first photo-documentation of the trip. The two men stand in a blokey way in front of the car. It’s Sean’s car, a metallic blue station wagon and on the roof racks, wrapped in a gaily painted tarp, is his puppet theatre. The tarp is red with gold stars, moons and comets. Liz shoots Charles a “see what I mean” look and rolls her eyes at the load on the roof.
They drive in silence for a while, Sean at the wheel. The traffic is flowing freely and in no time they’re racing along the Westgate Freeway and up onto the Bridge. As they reduce their speed, they begin the sequence of thoughts that Melbourne people have in this part of the world. They think of the men who died building the Bridge, they think of the ponds below where the ibis colony used to be and wonder where the birds have gone and they think about Coode island, where the petrochemicals are stored in big round tanks and remember the day the benzene exploded and sent a black stripe across the sky. At the top of the Bridge they see a yellow Renault pulled over in the emergency stopping lane and a man shouting into a mobile. Sean says, ‘Buggar of a place to break down,’
‘Stupid bastard’s driving and imported car,’ is Charles’s reply.
They listen to Jimi Hendrix and then Van Morrison and then they swap drivers. The atmosphere in the car is good- a capsule speeding along the highway – pilot and co-pilot. Neither man can be passive. When one drives, the other presses on imaginary brakes, keeps and eye on the speedometer, advises on overtaking and offers the occasional commentary on less skilled motorists and their maneuvers.
As the distance increases between them and Melbourne, Charles feels his whole body relax. It’s been years since he’s been away without his family – just with a mate. It’s good not to feel responsible for Liz and Olivia. For the next few weeks he can go to bed without a shower, smother his food with salt, wear unironed shirts and eat Spam out of a can. While one part of his brain focuses on driving, the other drifts in and out of a reverie in which he no longer makes instructional DVDs but has a small independent film company.
Sean, on the other hand, can feel his body tightening. He begins muttering to himself. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he says. ‘I’m running through some of the stuff in the show – I’m working with new material.’ The muttering grows louder and he holds up his hands as if he’s wearing puppets. His reverie interrupted, Charles watches out of the corner of his eye as the hands assume personalities and voices. Long fingers and flexible wrists dive and dance and as the voices become distinct the temperature in the car seems to rise. Sean is in a place of deep concentration. Charles is quietly astonished at the beauty that’s being created beside him.
In Warrnambool it’s blowing a gale. They abandon the plan to set up camp in the caravan park and make straight for the pub for a late counter lunch. Gerald, the barman says, ‘Good afternoon gentlemen. Down for some whale watching are we?’ he sucks in his cheeks and cocks his head to one side. Charles and Sean raise eyebrows at each other and move apart a little. Gerald continues, ‘Sit yourselves over by a table near the window and you might get lucky.’
Was he serious? They wonder.
Having ordered a Fisherman’s Basket each, the two turn their gaze out the window. It’s warm inside the pub. Double-glazing, thick carpet and brick walls seal the wild weather outside. There’s a radio singing and chattering from behind the bar. They sip their beers and drink in the view. The ocean stretches out below them – clean. Their eyes scan the water, pausing over every irregular swell. Neither knows what a whale would look like, not on television. From the radio, The Village People sing YMCA and Gerald mimes the words behind the bar while he stacks the dishwasher. Then an unctuous female voice announces the time and begins a stream of talk. ‘Well all you expectant fathers out there, I hope you’re attending antenatal classes and carrying mobile phones. Twenty-eight year old Luke McAllister from Laverton was grateful this morning for both these advantages. When his partner Shelley Crisp, twenty-three gave birth in the back of the couples 1975 yellow Renault at the top of the Westgate Bridge this morning. Luke was talked through the delivery on his mobile by paramedics, who were diverted from the Bridge when a front end loader damaged a gas line in North Melbourne. Congratulations Luke and Shelley.’
Sean’s jaw drops, ‘We passed that bloke on the Bridge!’
‘Good job too,’ says Charles. ‘I dunno anything about delivering babies.’
‘You don’t get it?’
‘Get what?’
‘People died building that Bridge and today there was a birth!’
‘Is that irony?’ Charles leans forward interested. There was a film director called Andrew at the course and during lunch one day he droned on about Americans not getting irony. Sean looks thoughtful.
‘No its more a kind of paradoxical thing that feels good to contemplate.’
The lunches are brought to the table. Charles bites into a prawn. He looks admiringly at his friend and thinks, the film world is full of wankers like Andrew.
After viewing the weather report on the pub TV, they agree that camping is out of the question. Now is not the time to battle the elements given Sean’s hectic itinerary. It just wouldn’t be practical to be fussing around with tents and swags, so they decide to sleep in lumpy motel beds instead. There’ll be time between Mildura and Broken Hill and the long range forecast is optimistic. For a split second Sean is disappointed but already his mind is in work mode. All other business, like the whereabouts of the car keys, is pushed aside.
That night Charles rings Liz to fill her in on the change of plan. Her tone is mocking. ‘A motel! That’s a radical shift from rubbing two sticks together and bare-chested drumming around the campfire. I thought the whole idea was to get out of the comfort zone into new experiences that would inspire you.’
‘Yeah .. well .. hold the line a sec will you ..’ Sean has come into the room miming locking his keys in the car – shock horror –and is now rummaging in the wardrobe for a wire hanger - ah ah! In luck! When he turns to leave the room, Charles notices a huge huntsman spider clinging to his back. ‘Yeah well, stories are around us all the time, its just a matter of being receptive. I’d better go. Sean needs a hand with something. I’ll call again tomorrow.’
In the morning Sean’s work begins in earnest. Charles is about to witness what is meant by “whirlwind tour”. He watches Sean checking his puppet gear and flicking fluff off his black trousers. He looks different. He radiates gentle strength; he’s focused, a picture of concentration and purpose. He drives slowly along the main street and when children spot the wagon with the tarp on top they call out in recognition. When he pulls into the library car park, they gather like bees to the honey pot. He listens to them respectfully and shows an extraordinary ability to remember names and faces.
The librarians usher him into the Children’s section where he has the show set up and running in the blink of an eye. He weaves a spell in the room; he’s in control. The children and accompanying adults abandon themselves into the safe hands of the master storyteller.
He stays back after the show and talks to the parents and grandparents and encourages the older children to help him pack up and carry things back to the car. He says good-bye to the librarians by name and leaves a flyer with Elspeth, the Access and Equity person. He has a show that he’s developed for seniors – a spoof about the Internet.
After a quick bite, they’re back in the car an off to Ararat.
Whoosh!
In Ararat he sets up the theatre in the Art Gallery where there is a touring show of picture book illustrations. Arty possum (really Jim Hagley, retired butcher, founder of the Ararat Mouth Organ Band and keen landscape painter) has been handing out leaflets to promote the show. Arty has been so successful they’ve had to turn people away at the door and this distresses Sean so much he’s offered to do an extra show. The offer is accepted and though dead on his feet, Sean plays to a capacity crowd.
Whoosh!
Next stop Mildura. It’s a long drive. Sean is exhausted and Charles takes up the steering wheel. As they travel between the towns they listen to The Eagles and Linda Ronstadt. Sean talks about his marriage break up and how he might have to sell the house and Charles tries to be a good listener and not offer opinions or seem to take sides. And the time passes.
In Mildura, Jason, the Community Arts Officer, has organized a schedule for Sean that would make a lesser mortal swoon; Sean chews his way through it. In three days he visits the hospital, a nursing home, he makes an appearance in the Mall with the Dareton Boot Scooters, he does two shows back to back in the Civic Centre and a workshop for PAHP – Professional Adults Happy People (a support group for professionals who suffer chronic depressive disorders). Sean calls the workshop, “Discovering Alter Egos That Suit.”
And all of this Charles documents. He takes notes and stills and moving footage. He weaves in and out of the shows and workshops with the camcorder jammed to his eye. The PAHP people don’t flinch when he asks if can record. They make a circle around him and massage each other’s shoulders and they imagine themselves to be oranges. And when it’s over they hug each other.
In all of the towns, whatever he’s doing, Sean is greeted warmly and thanked profoundly and as his colleague, Charles is made equally welcome. Between the two of them, they consume litres of tea, kilos of scones and cakes and while Sean’s shape remains constant, Charles feels his waist thickening.
Their final evening in Mildura and Sean is quiet. There’s something he wants to get of his chest. After some throat clearing, he breaks the silence and says, ‘Charles, I’m sorry. This wasn’t how we planned it.’
‘What d’you mean? It’s brilliant.’
‘But we’re supposed to be thinking about stories, somehow weaving this experience we’re having together into a narrative … My head’s just not in film mode. I’m sorry. I can’t think about my job and our project at the same time.’
‘But I’m collecting so much material. I don’t know what it adds up to but I’m an organic worker. I’ll just keep documenting our experiences and the people we’re meeting. I trust absolutely that something will emerge. It might not be a fictional piece – it might turn our we are on the scent of a documentary!’
‘Sean is not convinced. ‘You’re collecting a series of observations, glimpses of people as we pass through their towns.’
‘Exactly! Life’s rich pageant!’
‘Yes but something has to happen for a pageant to become a story.’
Charles decides not to respond to this and chooses instead to get out his maps and spread them on the bed of the hotel room.
‘Right! We have a week’s breather in the itinerary and there’s country to be explored between here and Broken Hill. Now’s the chance to take you out for some real camping, not that tent in suburbia stuff like we do at Mallacoota. We’re about to travel through the kind of country where a man can still throw down a swag, chop wood, light a fire, fry up a Murray Cod and break wind.’ He traces a road on the map with the backend of a teaspoon. ‘We can take the road north out of Mildura, cross the Murray, go through Dareton and Wentworth and head toward the Darling. Now here - is an anabranch!’ He pauses for effect. ‘An ananbranch is a stream that leaves the river and reenters it down stream. In this case the stream leaves the Darling and joins the Murray. I think we should head for the ananbranch. In dry country like this, it’ll be a haven for wildlife. What d’you think?’
Sean doesn’t think anything. It sounds exciting but right now he‘s tired. He can’t take in any information.
He goes outside and double checks the puppet theatre is lashed securely to the racks then collapses into bed and hopes that Charles meant it when he said he ‘trusts something will emerge from the trip’. Then he falls asleep and sleeps the sleep of the utterly exhausted – he tosses and turns and slips in and out of dreams. He sees himself tangled with puppets, frightening small children, the PHAP people accuse him of trivializing their situation and he wakes in a sweat. He has to remind himself that this part of the tour has been a success. At one point he lies on his back, looking at the ceiling and smiles. Tomorrow he’s being taken on an adventure. He’s abandoning all organization to Charles. There’s nothing to do but relax and let sensations, perception wash over him and allow the poet and dreamer to dominate for a few days. He listens to Charles snoring softly on the other side of the room. He’s so glad they’re doing this together. Tomorrow they’ll leave the big river behind and explore the ananbranch.
Ananbranch … sounds like the name of a Bavarian milkmaid …
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