Brendan Cowell: Actor & Playwright
	Twenty-four hours in search of a production by Catherine Keenan Sydney Morning Herald September 26, 2003 9PM, Sunday. It sounds mad. Six writers, six directors, and 22 actors have 24 hours to write, rehearse and stage six plays. The participants agreed because they thought it would be fun, but as they file into the Darlinghurst Theatre, it seems more like stupidity. "It's theatre as an extreme sport," says writer Brendan Cowell. Melissa Bruder and Andrea Moor, co-artistic directors of Practical Aesthetics Australia, welcome everybody, and run through the strict production schedule. The plan is to cast the play first, and then the writers will work through the night. The directors will return in the morning, choose which script they want to do, grab their actors, and rehearse all day. The curtain goes up at 8pm, and no scripts are allowed on stage. Easy. People laugh nervously. Bruder warns everyone about tiredness. She says there is "documented evidence" that having a nap will probably make you feel more tired. "It's something to do with short-term memory," she says, trailing off. "But anyway. If you're tired, have caffeine and sugar instead. As of now, we are racing the clock." 9.30pm. The actors have each brought a costume and a prop to inspire the writers. They file on stage to display them, introduce themselves, and tell about any special skills they have. "Hi, I'm Rachael Blake. I've bought my dungarees, and my Buzz Lightyear toy. And I can do the splits." Other costumes include a sailor suit, a leopard-print coat, a false moustache, and a T-shirt that says: "I've found Jesus. He was behind the sofa the whole time." Props include a ring of beef sausages, an S&M paddle, daffodils, and a gold-painted Barbie done up to look like a gold Logie. A photo is taken of each of the actors, with their costumes and props. Writer Reg Cribb is in Perth, but listens to the actors via mobile phone. Photographs of the actors are emailed to him. 10.30pm. The actors and directors go home. The writers draw straws and choose their actors, using the photos. Cowell goes first, and chooses Blake. They continue around the circle until everyone has been placed. The writers can use any prop and costume they like, not just the ones their actors brought in. With their laptops, they disperse to various parts of the theatre - the office, foyer, green room. 11pm. Cowell and fellow writer Jonathan Gavin talk on the balcony. The obvious thing would be for them to have prepared a vague idea for a play, but they swear they haven't. "We were both going, 'no ideas, no ideas'," says Gavin later. Then he looked at his actors. Natasha Beaumont and Rupert Reid are both young and good-looking. Bingo: he had a love story. Marian Potts says she didn't have any preconceived ideas either. She had panicked that nothing would come to her. But then she saw the T-shirt about Jesus, and the fake gold Logie. Bingo: she would write a play about praying to a golden goddess. They all set to work. 2.30am, Monday. Bruder is about to go to bed when she checks the cast lists and realises that one of the actors hasn't been cast. She phones Reg Cribb in Perth and tells him that - three hours after he started - he has to write in a fourth character. Shit. 6.30am. Six writers hand in six original 10-minute scripts (Cribb emails his from Perth). It's been a "wild, mad, hilarious, fun, crazy night," says Cowell. He and Jane Bodie have been writing in the foyer, with litres of coffee, wine, cigarettes and loud music. "I'd walk around in circles for 30 minutes," says Cowell. "She'd be stretching and screaming. Eight hours of these two people in a room - it was a play in itself, I think." Potts goes home to bed, and pulls the phone out. Cowell goes home to sleep, but finds he can't. Gavin goes straight to rehearsals for a play he is acting in, at the Griffin Theatre. 7.30am. The directors arrive, bleary-eyed, and read the scripts. They write down their preferences, in order. There is some tussling, but they get the plays they want. Mostly. 8.30am. The actors arrive. Bruder reads out who is in which play. Some actors are missing - disapproving murmurs run through the crowd - but they all turn up eventually. 9am. The groups disperse to the six rehearsal spaces: the theatre, foyer, two hall spaces at St Canice's Church, and two at the Wayside Chapel, in Kings Cross (one is the actual chapel: rehearsing in front of the altar is slightly disconcerting). The groups have to rotate through the spaces every hour, so they get equal time on stage. 11am. It is unexpectedly calm. The day is heating up, and there are trays of Bruder's homemade brownies everywhere. But they have run out of coffee, and Bruder goes to get more. (Before the day is over, they will go through two kilograms of coffee - more than 200 cups). The show is being run on a shoe-string: there are 10 volunteers providing support, and much of the food and coffee has been donated. 1pm. Gavin finishes rehearsing at the Griffin and drops by to correct a line. Cowell sits in on two minutes of his rehearsals, but no-one sees him. All the actors are having trouble remembering their lines, but the directors go easy on them for now. They are trying to figure out what the writers meant in their sleepless states. "It's a bit like juggling balls and riding a tricycle," says director Mark Kilmurry. 2pm. Gavin goes to bed, having been up for 30 hours. He sets his alarm for 6pm. 4pm. Technical rehearsals start. There is only 20 minutes a play to get the lighting and sound cues right. The actors are still having trouble learning their lines. "Everyone is saying, 'remind me why I'm doing this?"' says director Geordie Brookman. 5pm. It's tense now. The actors are all over the theatre, eating a quiche dinner and murmuring lines to themselves. Director Kate Gaul realises - too late - that directing under these conditions is mostly a matter of helping the actors learn their speeches. You can mine the text for meaning all you like. "But it won't matter a hoot if they don't know the lines." 5.30pm. An actor asked Bruder about the prompters. "No. No prompts." "Shit," says the actor. 6pm. Gavin's alarm goes off. He doesn't wake up. 7pm. The actors are searching for cigarettes. A video feed is established into the foyer as the show has sold out and they are expecting a big crowd (the recording will also be sent to Cribb, in Perth). Two groups are rehearsing on the balcony, one in the theatre, two in the park across the road, and one on the steps of a fancy apartment building. "Everyone's just keeping it together," says Bruder. 7.15pm. The actors are still having trouble with their lines. "It's a blood sport. People come to see actors fall over," says actor Peter Lamb, as he drinks his umpteenth coffee. "But it's amazing what you can do on adrenaline." As an afterthought, he turns to the coffee maker: "What are the signs of coffee toxicity?" 7.40pm. The actors warm up. Some shout, stretch, make bird calls, dance. Blake sits quietly on her own, reading her script. Having been lucky enough to draw her, Cowell has written her an enormous part. "She won't talk to me ever again," he says. "Well, I'll thump him. Then I'll talk to him," she says. 8pm. The actors go backstage. No one has seen Gavin. 8.15pm. The theatre and foyer are full. The lights dim, the music starts, and the actors are off. There are hiccups, of course. Problems with the video recorder. Props that don't work. Fluffed lines, and worse, actors staring at each other in mute terror until prompted to go on. After a last-minute dispensation, Blake appears with her script. There are some odd late-night touches to the writing. Cribb has a female character called Brian, the sort of joke that seems funnier when you're wired at 5am. In many of the plays, there is an obtuseness, as there are not enough pointers to let the audience know exactly what is going on. But on the whole, the work is remarkably good, and the actors do a sterling job. The audience applauds riotously. 9.30pm. Out in the foyer, everyone is torn between euphoria and hysteria. The writers don't mind (too much) that a few of their lines were mangled. The actors are relieved to have got through it, even if they are kicking themselves about a speech or two. This is an exercise in not being precious. Would they do it again? Some say yes immediately. Bruder says no. But I suspect it's a bit like childbirth. Ask her again in a few months' time. 10pm. Gavin wakes up, having slept through his alarm and missed the whole show. He bursts into tears. This story was found at: http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2003/09/25/1064083120933.html