On writing plays & role-playing

For years, I've been meaning to write a one-act play and enter the Brisbane Arts Theatre Drama Festival.

Every July it comes around, and every July it passes me by. Lack of time, lack of ideas, lack of any real knowledge about how South-East Queensland's festival circuit works.

Not this year.

The deadline for entries was June 30. That day, I dropped in my entry form and $35 entry fee. I even wrote down the name of my play: Downsize.

What I did NOT include was the script. Because I didn't have one.

Luckily for me, I know peeps up at the BAT, and I was able to bully convince them I would have a script ready by the festival, three weeks' hence. If I didn't and had to withdraw... well, I'd lose the $35. That deadline and mighty cash risk was enough to scramble my journalist brain into action.

The first hurdle was finding a second actor. After spending a week in text-message talks about whether I could just do it myself, which would allow me to, you know, improvise a fair chunk of it (honestly, scripts are for wimps), I was unequivocally told that there HAD to be at least two people in the play (not just me in a series of wigs), and that festival judges could deduct points if you veered off script too much.

So I HAD to write something. And I HAD to get a second actor.

I solved the second problem first by sending up the Elizabeth Best signal. I've known Lizzie for years, and many readers may remember her star turns in my productions of The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco and How To Be A Man. She's talented, clever, has great comic timing and is incredibly stylish, a key component for character I needed her to play. Thankfully she turned out to be just crazy enough to sign on for the task of learning a script and blocking in less than two weeks.

The first problem - writing a script - took a little longer to resolve. I'd had this idea for a two-handed comedy about an extreme diet that ends up producing a very weird side effect kicking around in the old noggin for a while. Finally I forced myself to start cranking it out. Unusually, I did this by moving my typing location to the couch, rather than the messy desk I usually set my laptop on. I cranked out the first act of the play in about three hours on a Wednesday night.

I sent it off to Liz with a note saying "Just so you know it's not all in my mind". When I received a text from her the next morning saying she loved it, I was chuffed. I finished the second half off on the Saturday, then took it all around to Liz's place for a rehearsal. I was encouraged by her laughter as we read through the script. That's always a good sign, particularly when you've been writing and you're tired and you can quite work out if a joke is funny anymore. Or was funny in the first place.

By day Liz works as an editor, and these skills came in very handy after that first read-through. She offered some great advice on how to ramp up the tension between our two characters, and I was able to rewrite sections to better effect.

We compared diaries and worked out another two times we could meet up to rehearse. Monday, then Thursday, the night before our allocated performance time on Friday 20 July. In between then, we crammed lines.

On Friday night, we turned up for our first-ever Drama Festival play.

When I submitted the entry form, there was a section asking for the name of our performance group. I had no idea what to call us. I looked at the slightly embarrassing form, with my name listed under "Playwright", "Director" and "Performer". Gawd, I thought. I don't have a name for this group. It's just my stupid vanity project.

BOOM.

As we went over our props and starting getting ready, we got a bit nervous. Would we remember our lines? Would the audience laugh? Would we get punished for not making the 30 minute minimum run time requirement?

In the end, as I've said so many times before theatrical productions, you just have to go out and f*** that puppy (Don't hate me, animal lovers, it may be cruel but it's succinct). So we did.

In a lovely gesture, a bunch of our friends had showed up to see us. I was incredibly grateful for that, because they were taking a chance on something that could very well be a steaming pile of unf***able puppy vomit.

Thankfully, they seemed to enjoy it! Liz and I both remembered our lines, and the audience seemed amused by both our back-and-forth banter and our slapstick physical gags (which included me eating a bunch of weird things; and Liz spilling milk all over herself). We got some lovely feedback from audience members and the adjudicator, Xanthe, who suggested we submit the show to other festivals around the South-East corner.

The festival continued, but I couldn't get to see much more of it, because of rehearsals and set construction work for Critical Hit, ImproMafia's newest season. Did I mention that I was rehearsing that while writing/rehearsing this little play? Well, I was. Yes, I'm that awesome/a complete idiot.

However, I did get back up there for the Sunday night prize-giving ceremony. And lo and fricking behold:

We won Third Best Play! Out of 12 eligible plays in the Open Section, we came in third! Very surprising and quite delightful. I also won an Adjudicator's Award - for what, I'm not entirely sure!

I must say a huge thank you to Elizabeth for coming onboard. She's now writing for a great new website called Super Quick Reviews, which I strongly recommend you check out. I'm so pleased she agreed to take a big leap into the unknown with me. We're hoping to put "Downsize" on again at the Sunshine Coast Theatre Festival from 17-19 August.

Until then, I'm back into the unscripted world with the SENSATIONAL new season from ImproMafia: "Critical Hit". It's totally inspired by geek culture - role-playing, D&D, high fantasy, Game of Thrones, World of Warcraft, you name it. We're doing SIX shows over two weeks - starting TONIGHT!

You can check out more and buy tickets here. As always - thanks to everyone who comes along and supports what I do onstage. Your time is honestly the greatest gift and compliment a performer can ever hope for. Your laughter is a sweet, sweet bonus.

Prime Minister Gillard

There was a moment, around half past nine this morning, after Julia Gillard had been announced as the new Prime Minister of Australia, that my heart suddenly caught in my chest.

We have a female Prime Minister.

Slur

I find the story of Timana Tahu's exit from the New South Wales State of Origin team quite fascinating.

I don't profess myself to be any kind of rugby league expert, and forgive me for perhaps painting with a sweeping brushstroke here, but the code strikes me as being the kind of environment where one could expect to find a range of attitudes/discriminatory language that may otherwise be less common in ordinary society.

Feminist?

I generally like to consider myself one of those badge-wearing modern feminists who find they can get about their day fighting the good fight against the fascist bastard patriarchy while still brandishing perfect GHD curls.

But how can a committed pinko commie femmo like myself be similarly unmoved by an offensive T-shirt, amused by moves to put virginity on the agenda, and yet outraged by a political response to said virginity crisis?

Let me explain.

Thoughts on the Code of Silence

There are many things I'd like to say about the current group sex scandal sweeping the National Rugby League. The biggest WTF? is of course the idea that standing around with a bunch of your teammates while you take turns with a young lady or enjoy your own "ballwork" is some sort of heterosexual bonding exercise, and not a thinly-veiled excuse for a lot of latent homoerotic navel-gazing.

But I've decided instead to help NRL footballers as they grapple with the tricky issue of navigating women in a social setting. I've done this by constructing an easy-to-read flowchart.

I'm happy for David Gallop & Co to use that as much as they'd like.

I would, however, like to make some brief remarks about a certain idea/phrase/excuse that's been cropping up a lot in regards to the Christchurch girl at the centre of a group sex incident involving Cronulla players. It runs along these lines:

"Why is she bringing this up after seven years?" - "Everyone's moved on, why bring up the past?" - "She may have done more harm than good dredging up old memories."

Can you imagine suffering a serious trauma and having someone say that to you? Since when was there a statute of limitations on emotions, or personal experience?

Would people say to Denise and Bruce Morcombe - "Guys, come on? Daniel's been inexplicably missing for nearly six years! Move on!"

Would people say to the victims of the Bali bombings - "People! Over seven years already! Build the bridge!"

Would people say to children who suffered abuse at the hands of priests or Christian Brothers - "Guys, long time ago. Don't ruin a top bloke's career over this."

I find myself incredulous that some people cannot make this simple connection in their brains. That just because one party involved in a sordid/ regretful/ hurtful/ controversial event has "moved on", doesn't mean everyone else can, or has to. Experiences stay with people. Time may eventually heal the wound; sometimes all it can do is fade the scar.

The concept of "moving on" is sound; and it's only appropriate that people try - through counselling, medication and other methods - to overcome experiences of trauma through acceptance, in order to live a productive, or at least bearable, life. But there is no stopwatch. There is no final bell or siren you must give, before locking the door forever on that corner of your brain.

Of course, the double standard in this case is clear - it's an incident involving sex, women and the grimy, blurry line of consent. I'm passing no judgement on that event in particular; merely to condemn those who would in turn condemn a young woman for daring to remember what happened to her.

Replacements

Is it just me, or is Triple M's search for a new female breakfast presenter just a tad creepy?

The rock station's Brisbane breakfast show "The Cage" has been left chick-free with the departure of Sami Lukis for Sydney. So they're holding a "10 Hosts in 10 Days" audition process, whacking on a different female talent every day - and getting listeners to decide who they want to join Skip, Marto and Sully (can anyone just use their normal name in FM radio?) in 2009.

This isn't the first time Triple M has done this. They once held a competition called "Brisbane's Funniest Female", during which they put different chicks on drive shifts, and gave the winner one Sunday night show. I was working in news at the time, and was bitter I couldn't get a go at it. Damnit, I'm funny. Anyway, the chick who won got her Sunday night show, but then one of the others got a full-time gig as breakfast co-host. So it seemed to me (in all my experience) that they'd already decided, but were getting all these chicks in (I believe for free) to get a bit of publicity.

And you know what? I've never heard of any radio station auditioning blokes this way.

I wonder if it could happen. Would blokes be happy to line-up for what's essentially a cattle call, or a Miss Universe style competition? I have a funny feeling blokes would say "Mate, take it or leave it. I'm not wasting my time."

But then again, radio remains a male-dominated industry. It's just harder for women to get in. If you read the biographies of the women they've got on - they're all amazing. Their combined media experience is daunting - rivalling, if not bettering, the experience of the existing male jocks. Each one of them is supremely qualified to be an interesting on-air personality. Yet - they're pitted against each other, forced to compete.

I just loathe the message this sends out to listeners. "Our three blokes can stay, fat and sassy as they are, assured of their position as King of the Heap. The women must fight - preferably in bikinis and jelly - for the right to take a solitary position beside us. You, as the great unwashed, may flap your flabby mouth and give your 'expert' opinion. Now, pass us another fatted calf."

But of course, the great question is - would I, if asked to "audition" in this manner - do it?

The sad truth is, I probably would. But I would only do it once. I hope would have the strength to know my own skill, and subsequent approaches would have to be exclusive.

Of course, these are pipe dreams and rolled-up-dollar-bill fantasies. For now, I'll just stay bitter.

Why Feminist is NOT a dirty word

I've never read any of Isabel Allende's books, but I caught her interview with Andrew Denton on "Elders" this evening.

In one elegant, prosaic statement, Allende - who was one of the first feminist writers in Chile before fleeing into exile when Pinochet took power - sums up perfectly why I call myself a feminist, and why all women should do the same:

I think that young women today don't want to be called feminists because it's not sexy and they think that their mothers and grandmothers have achieved everything they want. They don't know how poor women live, how women in rural places live, how 80 percent of women in the world are the poorest of the poor, how still today there are 27 million slaves, most of them women and girls. Two thirds of the work in the world is done by women. Women own 1 percent of the assets. Young women are sold into prostitution, forced labour, premature marriage, forced to have children they don't want or they can't support. They're abused, raped, beaten up. Domestic violence is supposed to be a cultural problem. They are the first victims of war, fundamentalism, conflict, recession. And young women today who have access to education and health care and have resources think that everything was done, they don't have to worry. Well that makes me really angry. I feel that I have to shake them and say, "No, it's your responsibility to make things happen." The women's revolution, the women's movement was something extraordinary that changed a generation. It began the movement. We still have a lot to do.

I call myself a feminist - but I know there's still much I have to do before I truly earn the title.