THE
HARDEST THING I'VE HAD TO DO
Edited version published: Frankie #26 (Nov/Dec 2008)
Us homosexuals like pointing out how diverse we are. We enjoy
drawing attention to the fact that we work all around you. We’re
your accountants and bus-drivers, politicians and pastry-makers, school
teachers and engineers. We’re as varied as the colours of that repulsive
rainbow flag of ours. If we spontaneously decided to go on strike—and
just watch, we will one day—society would collapse.
But despite our variety of skills, it’s also true that every gay
man originally wanted to be an actor. Broadway runs in our veins. Growing
up, we used shampoo bottles as microphones to rehearse our Oscar acceptance
speeches in the shower. We’d thank the Academy, our family, our
mothers and, inexplicably, our partners of the opposite sex. (We were
actors, after all.) While everyone else spent their spare hours practising
athletics or making out as teenagers, we attended extra-curricular acting
lessons.
Every Wednesday night, our starry-eyed group of 20 would file into old
church hall, and start breathing exercises and trust games. “Now
walk around the room,” our instructors would say. “Keep a
neutral face, a neutral posture, and fill the space evenly.” Then
we’d play games like Private Moments, where each student had to
pretend they were alone in different scenarios: in their bedrooms, at
a bus-stop, on the toilet. “Ben, you worked that bus-stop,”
they’d tell me after I’d stared blankly into space for five
entire minutes. Boy it was hard work.
The lessons weren’t cheap, but I considered them an investment.
I’d followed Home and Away closely, and had noticed how
obscenely young the actors were. In fact, they were nearly my age: pregnant
Sophie, brooding Jack, doe-eyed Chloe. I’d decided if I hadn’t
scored a speaking role on television by the age of 15, I would be a failure.
In my mind, I knew I was destined to follow in the footsteps of great
actors, performers like Dieter Brummer and Bruce Samazan, men of rare
integrity and craftsmanship.
Dedication was the key. I involved myself in various student films. The
acting school gave me a major role in their industry showcase. I started
downloading movie monologues of films I’d never seen, adapted from
plays I’d never read. I paid obscene amounts of money to be photographed
and featured on the books of a local talent agent named Faye. “Oh,
it’s an honour to have you on the books,” Faye said, observing
what she called my ‘Oriental’ features. “Having diversity
on the screen is so important.” We both ignored the blossoming teenage
acne and orthodontic braces in my photograph.
Soon after, things fell apart. Our imported teachers at the acting school
were replaced with local recruits. “Today, we are going to learn
about American accents,” our new teacher said. “It’s
important for you guys, because a lot of the television series being made
locally are actually American productions. Look at Flipper.”
We then read monologues from Party of Five, the episode where
Bailey is an alcoholic.
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment I realised I’d never
be an actor. Perhaps it was during my second university drama audition.
It was the monologue from Blackrock, and I was crying because
I’d witnessed a gang-rape. Heavy stuff. In the middle of it, I caught
a glimpse of myself in a glass reflection, and realised I looked like
an idiot. One of the hardest things you’ll ever do is accept you’re
something you’re not. But hey: I survived and moved on. We all did.
Why else do you think there’s so many gay accountants and bus-drivers,
politicians and pastry-makers, school teachers and engineers?
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Updated :: 25 October 2008
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Benjamin Law 2008