PASS MY LINES PLEASE

I figured out why movie stars generally are young these days. It's not just because they look good naked. It's also because their brains still work.
I learned this recently when I became an ``actor'' in a movie being made in Manly based on an item I wrote about blokes. I put ``actor'' in inverted commas because real actors can, you know, act. Whereas my job in this movie was to walk into the scene where the real actors were acting, and say a line like: ``Now, that's a good example of what I'm talking about!''
Sounds simple, right? You just walk confidently in there and blurt out that one sentence! What kind of moron would have trouble with that? An older moron. Me, for example. Oh, I'd memorize my line all right. I'd say it over and over, walking around the set like a deranged person, muttering inanely under my breath:
``Now, that's a good example of what I'm talking about!
``Now, that's a good example of what I'm talking about!
``Now, that's a good example of what I'm talking about!''
After maybe 600 repetitions, I was pretty convinced that I was ready to go. The problem was that the movie crew was never ready when I was. Movie crews are, basically, never ready to go. There's always a problem. Sometimes the light is too bright; sometimes it's too dark; sometimes a key actor develops a flagrant and visible guest in one nostril. It's always something . . .
And on those rare occasions when everything is perfect and you're set to go, suddenly, out of nowhere, a council guy will appear about 50m away and fire up a bloody leaf-blower. It seems to be the same bloke every time, no matter where you go. You could be filming a scene at the North Pole, and just when the director called ``Action'': Bla-a-a-a-a-a-a-arrrgh . . . there would be your council leaf-blower guy.
The point is that there are endless delays on the movie set while the crew scurries around changing the lighting, wiping the actor’s nose, firing off tranquilizer darts at the leaf-blower lunatic . . . whatever.
During these delays, I would strive to keep my solitary little line - ``Now, that's a good example of what I'm talking about!'' - at the forefront of my consciousness. But mine is an older brain, already crammed to capacity with vital information, and soon other thoughts would start seeping, like rising damp in an old cellar, into the lobotomy lobe. For example, my brain would decide, for reasons of its own, that now - right this very moment on the movie set, when I was poised to do a scene - would be an ideal time to review the song ``Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life'' sung in that John Cleese movie The Life of Brian. You know the one: Always look on the bri-i-i-ght side o' life, da dum, da-da da-da da-dum ...
So I'd be walking around, with my mouth muttering, ``Now, that's a good example of what I'm talking about! Now, that's a good example of what I'm talking about!'' But my cerebellum, in an assertive brain voice, would be singing, ``da dum, da-da da-da da-dum!'' over and over again until this was all I could think about, and just then the director, Grant Turner, would yell: ``Action'', and ... with the camera and that big fluffy microphone-on-stick thing pointed at me, and everybody watching me intently ... I would mutter: ``Now, that's an example of a good thing I am talking about!'' ... Or: ``I am talking about a good example of a thing now!'' ... Or: ``It's a good thing I have been talking now, about that example!''
And Grant would clench his teeth and purse his thin lips and say: ``Cut''. Then we'd have to do it again, and then again, until it became clear to everyone that, dialogue-wise, the scene might actually work a whole lot better with just the leaf-blower.
Later I had to do another scene with - and you won't believe this, but it's the absolute gospel truth - a trained kelpie named Kylie. I was supposed to pick Kylie up off the ground and, while walking directly towards the camera, speak three simple sentences. Now many of you will be familiar with that famous old saying: ``He can't walk and talk and carry a trained kelpie at the same time'' ... yeah? Well that describes my predicament perfectly. I'm clutching this squirming dog, striding forward, staring straight into the camera, sweat spurting from my armpits exactly like in that deodorant ad, and the boombox of my brain is locked in Replay, going: ``da dum, da-da da-da da-dum!'' So we did it over and over, me picking up this poor pathetic pooch, utterly unable to utter my lines. I bet when Kylie finally got home, she really went for her agent, fangs bared and snarling, foam flying as she locked onto his calf as he made for the door.
Anyway, we finally got through it, even my scenes. If you go see it (``Steve Stickney's Complete Guide to Blokes''), I hope you enjoy it. And if you notice that, at times, I appear to be distracted, that's a good example of what I'm talking about ... ``da dum, da-da da-da da-dum!''