Your first kiss. Getting chickenpox. Sky-diving. Donating a kidney. There are lots of things that people tend to only experience once in their lives. And when you’re on the set of Neighbours and some smiling people ask you if you’d like to be an extra, you say yes, even when you feel only nausea at the prospect of acting on camera.
I visited the Neighbours set in Melbourne in July, the lone Australian among a bunch of sweetly enthusiastic British journalists who had been flown over to report on the soap’s return. They could all breathlessly recall the names of the children of characters long gone. I knew only of Harold Bishop, and Toadie’s suspiciously high tally of dead wives. They were all very at home; I was essentially on safari. It was perhaps the resulting sense of giddy novelty which, when they asked if I wanted to be an extra, made me say yes.
We filed into the costume department, where a woman cast a forensic eye over my clothes and informed me my turtleneck was too sheer for Australian television. She handed me a remarkably forgettable blue blouse, and when I returned to pass the inspection, my prize was a choice of handbags. I like this character I am developing, I thought. Unnamed lady with her sensible top. She doesn’t somehow make turtlenecks look risque. She carries a flashy red handbag. This is what Daniel Day-Lewis must feel like.
We are ushered on to the set of the Waterhole, one of Erinsborough’s many cafes. My dining companion is to be Helen, one of the Brits. We sit down at a table and receive our only direction: don’t make any noise.
Have you ever thought too hard about how to walk and suddenly found it impossible to do? Turns out, if you think too hard about lots of simple things – like, say, how to sit in a chair or how to order from a menu – it becomes very difficult. On the first take, Helen and I can only stare at each other across the table, completely frozen but for the slight vibration of panic running through my body. We’re Pacino and De Niro in that scene in Heat, if they were very bad at acting.
Cut! A very nice man walks over to remind us that we are allowed to move and mime a conversation, which is a kind way to tell someone they look very weird. But the problem isn’t that I didn’t know I was allowed; I just don’t know how to do that any more.
This is a nightmare. On the next take, I take the plunge and grab a bottle of water and, with great bravado, pour myself a glass. It is possibly the loudest noise I have ever made.
Cut! The very nice man jogs over to suggest that maybe we could pretend to order a meal (“and try acting like a human being” is the silent addendum). Helen and I pick up our menus, which turn out to be impressively detailed. In the quick break between takes, we agree that our characters are good friends who like sharing meals and that we’ll put all of our acting prowess into negotiating a joint order.
Repeatedly, and entirely silently, I insist on splitting the soup of the day and the raw seasonal bruschetta, if only because it has the most insanely unappetising description: “Three pieces of raw dehydrated crackers topped with seasonal produce available”. Helen seems to really want the lemony kale salad. For some reason, I’ve decided I really don’t. Has anyone in the history of the world ever tried to split a soup, the small part of my brain that still works wonders, as I shake my head and furiously jab at the menu. Well, this sensible, handbagged lady is doing it.
Somewhere behind me, some actual actors are doing some actual acting. After a couple more takes, we’re done. I emerge from my fugue state deeply relieved, slightly ashamed, and also profoundly admiring of anyone who can do this work.
My episode, number 8,954, aired on Wednesday. If you squint around the 11.47 mark, you can see the back of my head for approximately one second.
