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Acting on impulse - confessions of a born again Theso

By Rose Cooper - posted Tuesday, 13 October 2009


As I answered the phone and heard the unmistakeable dulcet tones of my agent, I felt that familiar pang of excitement in the pit of my stomach.

“Rose … can you come down to Sydney for an audition tomorrow?”

An audition - yay! My heart soared and my mind raced. I silently uttered my usual, stock-standard prayer - "Please, let this one be for “Love My Way”.

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“It’s a commercial,” she continued, “for a, um … for a feminine hygiene product”. The pang turned into more of a ping. I heard her rifling through the papers on her desk … “Um, let’s see … the product is called, ‘Depends’. How’s 11 o’clock?”

The ping turned into a pong. Ewww! Incontinence pads. Incontinence pads? Here’s me thinking that the headshots my agent placed on the actors’ database screamed “intelligence, wit, sophistication, combined with an undeniably potent sexuality”.

Apparently they also screamed: “this woman cannot hold her water!”

Sure, I’ve had three kids - but come on, I’m only 47. Helen Mirren is 60+. I can’t imagine her lovely face feigning an embarrassing “oops moment” on our TV screens any time soon. Not Hot Helen. As it turned out, I couldn’t make the audition anyway. I took this as a sign from the Gods that I wasn’t meant to be the next Wet Pants Poster Girl. My big break was still around the corner. The next call from my agent (or the one after) would be something far more suited to my unmistakeable star quality. Maybe a tampon commercial or something - at least that style of hygiene product still alludes to youth. Mind you I’d probably have to brush up on my surfing, mountain climbing and whatever else women do while menstruating these days (the ads always make those cramps seem such fun).

It’s at these times I reflect on the sanity of my very recent decision to take up acting. Acting’s a masochistic pastime at any age. One is routinely assessed as a certain “physical type” before a single line is even uttered in an audition. If, like me, you’re struggling to come to grips with the whole onset-of-middle-age deal, this editorialising of one’s superficial demographic appeal is akin to torture. In that one phone-call my, “I look really good for my age” denial was smashed all over the pavement like a television heaved drunkenly out of a tenth storey window. Another audition I was sent on was for a margarine that lowered cholesterol. Apparently the sultry, steadfast gaze of my profile photos also says “angina, anyone?”

But that’s just the commercial side of acting. That part is always going to be a bit of a compromise, seeing as I’m not Cate Blanchette. Be that as it may, I know I was meant to act, regardless of how late I’ve left it. I know it deep down in my (probably brittle) bones!

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It’s pretty lame that it took me so long realise it (confidence has always been an elusive friend) but for as long as I remember, I’ve always been a performer. My late mother used to regale my friends with one particular childhood anecdote. One day she had a bunch of friends over for lunch - and in the middle of it all, out toddled a two-year-old Rosie, proudly proffering a potty in my outstretched hand - which contained a fresh, steaming Number Two. At this point in the story my mother always nearly choked on her dentures, as she laughingly recounted how she then turned to her horrified friends and said, “Don’t just sit there - clap!”

You would have thought that she’d have seen the writing on the wall back then and signed me up to the best talent school in the country. But alas, they took what was obviously a prodigious talent for granted. Clearly, they didn’t know shit back then.

And so it followed that even when I did perform for the family (in a far more salubrious and conventionally entertaining fashion) the significance of whatever talent I may have possessed, went right over their heads. As the youngest of six, it was my job to be The Cute One, and even though I was often encouraged to perform my party tricks for my parent’s friends - they somehow failed to see what was in front of their eyes.

So what if I could convincingly lip-synch the entire soundtrack to South Pacific when I was four years of age - couldn’t everybody? So what if I spent the greater part of my childhood play time recreating entire episodes of Lost in Space in our backyard (reciting every character’s part, verbatim - while doing the obligatory running and falling from one side of the yard to the other to mimic the “Jupiter II being out of control”). My folks never saw it as anything to encourage or discourage. As far as they were concerned, as a female, my future was mapped out: leave school at 16, get a job (so I could pay board), leave home, get married, have kids and then … die, I guess.

When I was 17 and between jobs, I approached Dad with the idea of going to NIDA. I’d just read a magazine article about it and had a major epiphany, but he just gave me a lecture on why it was a pointless pursuit - and as I hadn’t yet grown a spine, I allowed him to extinguish my dreams like one of the many cigarettes overflowing in his bedside ashtray. According to him, the “job/marriage/kids/death plan” was the way to go.

The only other thing that interested me back then was sex. As this was not something that required exorbitant tertiary fees, (ergo, my father’s approval) my fascination with it as both a pastime and as a subject of genuine academic interest was something I could pursue freely - as an ideal adjunct to the quest for a suitable mate. And so I took jobs in retail, while I indulged in all the rites of passage one experiences when one has no ambition.

Fast forward a few years - I bagged husband no.1 and had given birth to two boys. Unlike some, I found motherhood incredibly empowering. There I was making The Big Decisions in these little peoples’ lives - and they were thriving.

Finally, at the ripe age of 30, I found the drive to start addressing my creative urges. At first I heeded the call to write. Even though I strongly suspected professional writing was the reserve of well-to-do college-educated types or urban-raised, second and third generation newshounds, the combination of my newfound Mother-balls and turning 30 endowed me with enough “you only live once” gumption to give it a go. The writer’s creed is “write what you know” so most of my earliest work reeked of sex. In no time I was freelancing regularly for magazines and within three years I was short-listed for a national writing competition … a sign I was on the right track.

Fast forward a few years … a second marriage and a third son and my relocation to the Central Coast of New South Wales which is the all important part of the story. My new husband encouraged me to take singing lessons. It’s amazing what a bit of encouragement will do. Through those lessons I found out about auditions for My Fair Lady with the local musical theatre group. There was a huge roll up, but I was lucky enough to land in the chorus. As soon as I set foot on stage, I knew where I truly belonged. At last I’d found my tribe - other people who were as simultaneously insecure and ego-centric as I was.

Since 2002 I’ve performed in nine musicals and at least as many plays. I’ve had very minor parts and leading roles. I’ve completed courses in Theatresports® learning how to improvise - just like they do on Thank God You’re Here and Whose Line is it Anyway? I learned to trust my instincts and take risks. My Mother-balls are now the size of watermelons.

Amazingly, I actually started earning money as an actor - role-playing for corporate training sessions and performing in government sponsored water-conservation plays performed for primary schools. I haven’t had a “proper job” since opting to be a stay-home mother 20 years ago, so I lack any recognised skills except those which are innate or hard won via the school of hard knocks. I have no choice but to continue on this path. With maturity, I’ve learned to value these skills as highly as if I had a row of letters after my name. I’m straddling two “careers” and while it’s not lucrative, it’s still the right way for me. It’s who I am.

When my confidence finally emerged, I wasn’t about to keep life waiting on the doorstep while I stood in front of the mirror worrying - “does my head look too big in this?” Life’s too short. Sometimes you just need faith. Just as my decision to be a writer was quickly reinforced by a panel of expert judges, so too was my decision to be an actor.

My Valhalla came in the form of a deliciously controversial little play called The Vagina Monologues. I’d heard enough about it to know that if anyone ever produced it on the Central Coast, that I’d crawl over broken glass to be part of it. I’d heard that the play was aimed at stimulating dialogue about women’s sexuality issues in the broader community and that’s been my raison d’etre.

I didn’t realise it at the time but for ten years, an organisation called V-Day has endorsed fundraising productions of The Vagina Monologues to be staged around the world at the same time every year, to raise awareness and funds for the prevention of violence towards women and girls. This was the Central Coast’s first V-Day. Prospective auditionees were asked to choose one of the ten monologues with which we identified the most strongly. I chose “The Woman Who Loved to Make Vaginas Happy”. It was written from the point of view of a middle-aged (yay!) sex worker who exclusively serviced women. It wasn’t her occupation that drew me (although I can think of worse ways to earn a quid), it was her motivation. The character derived immense pride from the primal sounds that she was able to elicit from her clients. She discovered the connection between moaning and transcendental pleasure. As it’s my personal belief that inorgasmia would be virtually obsolete if women just learned to let go, this chick was preaching to the choir.

The 15-minute monologue concludes with the interpretation of 20 different climactic moans all with different names such as “the WASP moan”, “The Jewish Moan” and “The Machine Gun”. Sure, there’s humour implied in the titles, but I added an essential element of truth to each sound. The director said afterwards that I’d given the best audition she’d ever witnessed (they could hear me in the car park).

The actual performances were something else again. The packed hall went ballistic. It was surreal. I had the audience in the palm of my hand. Some literally fell out of their seats laughing and at the conclusion there was a deafening “whooh!” For that perfect moment in time, I was Cate Blanchette. I truly made it my own and they liked me. They really liked me.

People raved on about how “brave” I was. It wasn’t brave. In fact it felt ridiculously comfortable to scream my lungs out in pure ecstasy in front of 600 people. Besides, I’d never faked it before - who knew it could be so much fun? Afterwards, people’s appreciation of what I had done (and how vocal I had been) came laced with gratitude from both women and men. Acting is showing what is real. I candidly exposed my humanity and the experience fitted like a pair of fluffy slippers. I realised then that I truly am an actor. (Ok, sure, I’m also an exhibitionist, but hey … the punters had to pay for their tickets, so it was art, OK?)

How reassuring now to look back and realise that every seemingly “wrong” path in my long road lead me to that singular defining moment. I have seen the light and it’s a neon sign. Can I have an amen?

Of course, it’s a short space from the Penthouse to the Doghouse. The “Depends” phone call came a week later. You have to take the good with the weird and sometimes it means doing wacky things so you can afford to do what is worthwhile.

Those that are yet to acknowledge themselves as artists usually resist claiming the appropriate label. Talented instrumentalists are reluctant to call themselves “musicians” until they are being regularly paid to play. Artists are most critical of their own work. It took me ages to call myself a writer but I’m now prepared to call myself both a writer and an actor. Sure, part of me is still hoping that one day I’ll be “discovered” in a milk-bar like Lana Turner (although it will more than likely be in an espresso bar) and then traditional acknowledgement in the form of fame, will be conferred upon me along with the bigger tax burden. But in the meantime, I’m going legit (hence, the agent). I have heaps to learn and that’s what’s so great about it. Learning to be an actor and learning about life are inseparable phenomena. I’m at drama school every time I wake up in the morning - and of course, many of the times I go to bed.

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The inaugural V-Day Wyong 2007’s two performances of The Vagina Monologues raised $12,000 for local women’s shelters and legal aid. This was backed up with four performances for V-Day Gosford and Wyong 2008 and raising another $40,000. For more information on how your theatre group or college can become involved in this great cause, visit: www.vday.org.



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About the Author

Rose Cooper is a freelance writer and actor who has contributed to many national publications over the past 20 years. She was Australian Women's Forum Magazine's most prolific contributor as well as their Sex Advice Columnist. Her areas of expertise include comedy, women's health and sexuality issues, relationships, theatre and pop culture. For more of Rose's articles visit: www.insiderose.com

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