I have a small part in a movie “Doing Australia”.
The film has these inane catch-phrases shared as an inside joke ending in “Doing Australia” or just, in non-sequitur, “Australia”.
Main Character: The car was going so fast it was doing Australia.
We are decorating my house. It’s not my house; it’s my character’s house.
It’s not a house; it’s a room. It’s part of the movie set in an office building.
I walk around the room with the well-dressed lady interior decorator. I suggest a few alterations.
She deftly explains the reasoning behind the design; at once I am educated and, without qualm, abandon my earlier line of thinking.
I comment on this, admiring for the skillful tact she must have to constantly employ to surmount the power plays by famous actors and respected directors. She gives a knowing assent.
I’m happy to have a part in a movie. Then, I pause and sadly consider I have separated myself from so many others, I now have no one close to celebrate this good happening with.
As we casually exit my house — the room, rather — some forlorn actors begin to gather their things to leave. They are leaving for good, out of a job. Perhaps they are leaving their profession. Boohoo.
I lightly join some fellow actors in nearby room. We gather to gab. Ah, here’s the famous co-star now.
“Would you like to ???? Australia?” he jovially asks.
I return with a surprised, unknowing gesture.
He adds, “Night, eh?” as if to make it clear.
My prolonged reluctance to accept the jest unnerves him and he goes off in a huff.
I’m mad. I stew, then I pound my fist into the chair over and over.
“It’s good to express my anger,” I think. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy the director observing me.
“Perhaps I have acted well and have pleased the director,” I wonder to myself.