The Long Road to Overnight Success, page 16
The town got behind us 100 per cent: once the word went out in the district that this event was happening, it was sold out almost immediately.
When the time for the premiere came round, we returned to Poowong. It was quite a convoy: myself and Glenn Preusker; Richard Davis, one of our gun AV guys from Premier; Steve Kainey, our AV manager from Premier; Tim Milliken (formerly the bass player for the Divinyls and now an amazing sound guy); Clay and Rohan and Deb. Also with us was my best mate, Andrew ‘Macka’ McKinnon, who luckily for me is an incredibly successful and competent production manager and site manager who has worked with some of the biggest acts in the world. Although this may not have been his biggest day at the office, I was beyond happy to have Macka beside me. Not just for his expertise but because he is a dear and honest friend who is never shy about telling me if he thinks I’m wrong. He’s also one of those people who will ring out of the blue just to say, ‘How have you been, mate? How’s your week?’ One of the great joys of my life was when Macka and his now wife Karen asked me to marry them. A celebrant came in to do the formal parts but I was able to do the rest of the service, which is a memory I hold very dear to my heart.
I drove the twelve-tonne truck full of lighting equipment, truss and red carpet, Glenn drove a truck loaded with portaloos and towed a huge Kenny billboard to go out the front of the town hall as a display, and Steve drove the Premier AV van. We spent an entire day setting it all up: the projector, the sound system, a red carpet, moving lights that did a searchlight effect out in front of the town hall, drapes to decorate the walls — I would like to think the town hall looked better than she ever had.
However, I didn’t actually attend the world premiere of Kenny. Once I had set everything up and before the audience started to arrive for the premiere of the film I was in, I had to go outside and hide in the sleeper cabin of the truck I had driven there, and wait until the end of the film so that Kenny could come out and meet the people.
It was hard not being able to sit in the town hall and listen to how the crowd was responding to the film in its finished state. At one point Clay slipped out of the hall and came over to let me know how it was going. ‘They’re loving it,’ he told me. I snuck out of the truck and he and I stood at the side of the building for a little while, listening to the laughter coming out of the windows and knowing which part of the film they were listening to because we knew the film so well by then. Clay knew every breath, let alone every line.
If I could have had someone film the special moments in my life, one of the ones I would want to capture would be me and Clay listening to the laughter come out of the window of the town hall in Poowong.
If truth be told, though, the real reason Clay came out of the hall was because he had to have a piss in the bushes. Then when he saw the light on in the sleeper of the truck he decided to come over and ask how I was going and have a bit of a chat. Being in a country town, it was okay to pee in the bushes. That’s the other reason you don’t want the Jacobsons to hold a premiere in the city: we might go out and have a piss in the street.
The strong word-of-mouth reviews for Kenny continued, partly because hundreds of people were trapped inside tubes flying through the air, watching our film for free. We had sold it to Qantas and the film was playing in planes at the same time as it was out in cinemas, and that almost never happens. Those people on flights long enough to have a film as their in-flight entertainment would land in Melbourne, Sydney, Canberra, Brisbane, Perth, Darwin, Alice Springs, and every time one of those flying cinemas landed, people would get off their flights and start telling people in cities and country towns across the country that they had to go and see this film called Kenny about this toilet guy. Everyone always says, ‘It’s about the toilet guy.’
To this very day, Qantas cabin attendants come up to me and say, ‘We loved it when Kenny was on. The plane would be filled with laughter: it would start with one or two people in business class and quite a few in economy, and then ten or twenty more in economy would be laughing, and some others would say, “What is it they’re laughing at?” then one by one they would all put on their headsets.’ One hostie said to me, ‘We didn’t have to do much when Kenny was playing because everyone would be laughing and watching the film.’
Funnily enough, although Kenny was described as a comedy, Kenny doesn’t tell a single joke in the film. All of the humour is in the way he is in the world and his turns of phrase. Kenny was often considered something of a philosopher because of that turn of phrase. Clay always felt it would have that effect on people because it is a language that is of another age. Older people would come up to me and say, ‘My husband used to speak like that when he was alive. I miss it, but for a moment you took me back there; thank you so much.’ People in their forties and fifties would say, ‘That was my dad [or my grandfather]; I remember it so well, and that reminded me of him.’
Usually when a film comes out, you do a promotional lap of Australia. Some of the actors, or maybe just one, spend a week or two going around the major cities and doing radio shows over the phone or in the studio and interviews with journos. But for seven months we toured Australia and New Zealand and eventually England as well. We visited all the major cities and the regional towns too. I would do every radio and press and TV interview as Kenny, all of them in person, never breaking character.
Clay knew we were on a winner when he got a phone call from Bryan Brown. ‘I only twigged towards the end that this thing was a bloody hoax,’ he told Clayton. ‘I liked the idea better that this man was out there, and I’m shattered to think that it’s just a character.’
I know what he meant. Kenny is a better bloke than I am, but I do hope one day to be as good a man as Kenny.
The myth solidified a little when I went on Channel 9’s Today show. Karl Stefanovic and Jessica Rowe were hosting at the time, and when I turned up in character and left in character they thought Kenny was real.
We never set out to pretend that this guy was a real person. He was always just a character. Kenny’s name isn’t even on the poster, other than at the top as the movie name. You look down the bottom and it doesn’t say ‘Kenny Smyth’, it says ‘Shane Jacobson’. As soon as the film finishes the credits say ‘Kenny: Shane Jacobson’. Never did Clay or Deb or I say, ‘We’re going to try to convince people he’s real.’ Clay just said, ‘People like Kenny more than they like you, Shane, so let’s put Kenny out there.’
In October 2006 60 Minutes approached us about doing a story, the ‘big reveal’ of the Jacobson brothers. Up until then Clay had kept well out of the way, doing very little press. Deb kept saying to him, ‘You should do some interviews,’ but Clay argued, ‘No, no, no, everyone else does the chats to the director, we won’t do that.’ I think that’s where a lot of the misconception that Kenny was real came from, the idea that it was all my story as opposed to something the Jacobson brothers had done together. Clay was the Wizard of Oz behind a curtain, and he stayed hidden away for so long that the 60 Minutes story really gained some significance as the first unveiling of the Jacobson brothers behind Kenny.
We had some great support from people who came out of nowhere to help along the way. Hugh Jackman wanted to meet up with Clay and me. Apart from being a tremendous performer and one of the earth’s nicest souls, Hugh is also a great supporter of Australian talent and projects. We met up in Sydney and we were talking about the film and our other projects, what Clay had coming up and what I was doing, and Hugh was talking about some of his own work. At that point he was starring as Peter Allen in The Boy from Oz at the Sydney Entertainment Centre, and he said, ‘It would be great to get Kenny on stage with me.’
A few weeks later I flew back up to Sydney. The production team sat me in a special spot, near an aisle on the first level of seating, right up the front. During one part of the show, Hugh looks into the crowd and sees me there dressed as Kenny. ‘My goodness, Kenny’s in the audience,’ Hugh says, and brings me up on stage. All of a sudden I’ve got to do a little dance with Hugh and we have a bit of fun and carry on. When he sends me back to my seat after a few minutes on stage with him, Hugh says to the audience, ‘You’ve got to go and see this film. It’s an amazing film and he’s a great Australian. Great to see you, Kenny, so glad you came.’ As I go off stage Hugh has taken my Splashdown cap, so he puts it on and sings his next song, still wearing Kenny’s hat.
I remember sitting there thinking, ‘Hugh Jackman is on stage as Peter Allen wearing Kenny’s hat with Splashdown written across it. If only Glenn Preusker could be here to see this; if only Clay could be here right now.’ Clay was busy working with Deb on future PR and marketing for the film and starting to do deals with the UK and America, so his partner Vicki was there instead, sitting beside me in the audience.
Right at the end of the show, they had a camera cut to me again, and Hugh said, ‘Remember, everyone, go and see Kenny; it’s a great film.’ In Sydney that next week the figures skyrocketed thanks to Hugh Jackman. Ten thousand people said that Hugh Jackman told them to see this film, so those ten thousand people went along and each took four people with them.
After the show Vicki and I were escorted back to Hugh’s room. We walked in and Hugh was there. ‘Mate, that was great fun,’ he said.
‘Mate, how good are you and how amazing is that performance of yours!’ I replied.
Hugh’s not much of a one for sitting around and talking about how good he is, so he just said how great it was that I could get up there with him. All of this is while he’s standing there with his shirt off, covered in sweat. My sister-in-law was looking at Hugh Jackman, who is as fit as an Olympic athlete crossbred with a weightlifting cougar. A few people came in the room and had a chat with us, including Rungy, an old crewmate of mine who I hadn’t seen for a while. ‘You all catch up for a while. I’m just going to clean up,’ Hugh said, then he disappeared to have a shower. Not long after a much cleaner version of Hugh came out, and it was time to say goodbye.
As we left, Vicki said, ‘What an amazing day.’
‘Yeah, I thought it was pretty special too,’ I replied, thinking about getting up on stage.
‘No,’ Vicki said, ‘I just got to see Hugh Jackman both clean and sweaty, and without his shirt on.’
When we got home and told Clay about our evening, he just laughed and said to me, ‘Why on earth would you let Vicki see Hugh Jackman without his shirt on? I can’t compete with that.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RIDING THE GRAVITRON
In 2005, we had been putting up posters in the toilets outside the AFI Awards. A year later we attended the AFIs in another capacity. In the Feature Film category Clayton and Rohan had been nominated for Best Film, Dad for Best Supporting Actor Role, Clay for Best Direction, Sean and Clay for Best Editing, Clay and me for Best Original Screenplay, and me for Best Lead Actor.
Unfortunately for the family and the rest of the team, I was the only one to take out an award that night, with Best Lead Actor in a Feature Film. I was shocked; I was up against three great actors: Gabriel Byrne, Heath Ledger and Steve Le Marquand, so I never thought I’d win. When Cate Blanchett was standing on stage reading out the nominees and said, ‘The winner is …’ and my name came out of her mouth, it felt exactly like going on the Gravitron. There are fancier versions of that ride now, but when Mum used to take us kids to Luna Park it was literally an empty round room. You’d walk through the door and stand against the wall, then the room would start to spin. Once it reached a certain speed the floor would drop from beneath your feet.
Somehow I knew I had to get up and head to the stage. As I was walking up there my mind was racing because I hadn’t prepared any sort of speech; the only thing that had passed through my mind in those ‘what if’ moments was to make sure I thanked all the people who contributed to the film who usually don’t get thanked. I figured that of course I’m going to remember to thank Clayton and Glenn Preusker, so I’d save them until last but make sure I thanked everyone else first before I got the signal to leave the stage. So that’s what I did. When I got all the way through, my brain was exhausted from thinking of all the people I had to thank and I’d forgotten the very point of the plan, which was to leave Clay and Glenn until the end. My brain told me, ‘Okay, that’s everyone,’ and I said thank you and walked away from the lectern. At the very moment I reached the back curtain I realised I’d forgotten to thank the two most important people in the project: my brother, who had written the film with me, directed it on his own, shot it, produced it, edited it, and every other thing in between. And Glenn Preusker, who gave us the backing and the support in every possible way to make this film happen. I just couldn’t believe it.
I walked through the curtains to see some of my mates from my lighting and rock ’n’ roll days standing there, all looking at me and going, ‘Jaco [as they called me], you’ve just won a bloody AFI Award, mate, you ripper!’ I’m looking at them and saying, ‘I didn’t thank my brother, I didn’t thank the investor.’ They weren’t paying any attention; they just kept saying, ‘Well done, mate.’ Deb came backstage and I said to her, ‘I didn’t thank Clay. Please go get him.’ Clay came backstage and I began to apologise and he said, ‘Mate, you’ve got an AFI Award in your hand and Cate Blanchett and Geoffrey Rush are over there waiting to have their photo taken with you for the press. Who cares about the speech, bro.’ But I couldn’t forgive myself for leaving out the two people I’d so much wanted to thank.
Kenny went on to win a bunch of other awards, and I scored a couple more along the way too: there was the Film Critics Circle of Australia Award for Best Actor — Leading Role and Best Screenplay for Kenny, then at the Inside Film Awards it won Best Feature Film, and Clay and I won Best Script. You’d think with all of that recognition that the confusion over whether Kenny was real or not, and whether or not I was, in fact, a plumber would be dispelled. Not so. We’re not just talking about one or two people; even now, there would be a very large percentage of people in Australia who think that I was a plumber before I was an actor or that Kenny is real.
A friend of Mum’s once introduced her to another lady at a social event. While the three of them were chatting, this lady mentioned Kenny, and Mum’s friend said, ‘Actually, Jill is Kenny’s mum.’
The other lady looked puzzled. ‘You’re Kenny’s mum?’
‘Well, my son is Shane Jacobson, who played Kenny,’ Mum explained.
‘No, I’m talking about Kenny the toilet man, the plumber,’ this lady said.
‘Yes, I know, that’s the same Kenny,’ Mum replied.
‘I think you must be talking about someone else. You can’t be Kenny’s mum — I watched the documentary and his mother is dead.’
‘In the film Kenny’s mum is dead but I’m Shane’s mum in real life.’
‘No, I think you’ve got him confused with someone else,’ the lady said again.
At that point, Mum said, she wasn’t willing to keep arguing the fact that I was her son, that she hadn’t mistaken me for someone else, and that she was in fact not dead. But that was how strongly some people felt about it.
Just two days after getting off the AFI Awards Gravitron, Deb, Clay, Rohan and I were on a plane to Los Angeles, looking to land a sales-and-distribution deal for Kenny in America. Clay and I were also on the lookout for agents, so we lined up many, many meetings between us.
Before we left to go to meetings, Deb had one piece of advice for me. ‘Just do me a favour. Do yourself a favour. Don’t say anything crazy in these meetings. Just try to be normal.’
Deb and I walked into one meeting with an agent whose office looked like 1970 had collided with 2020 in the time machine. There was a lot of leopard skin going on, he had an assistant called Daisy, and I figured, ‘This guy looks groovy. He’ll be up for anything.’ So I relaxed a little and we talked for a while about what he could offer me, what my skill set was, Kenny and how it was going, the industry, and my views on various things. Eventually he said to me in his thick American accent, ‘Shane, what is it you want out of the film industry here in Hollywood?’
I had already forgotten Deb’s advice to say nothing insane. ‘I just want to make enough money eventually to be able to get to the moon to see if you guys have a flag there. Because I’m still a little bit suss as to whether you guys actually got there or not.’
There was around ten seconds of silence. The agent looked at Daisy, at Deb, at me, then gradually an expression came over his face that seemed to say, ‘I think that might be funny.’
Afterwards that agent seemed pretty keen on taking me on, but we decided not to go with him, knowing that he couldn’t quite figure out how to get a smile to make its way from his brain to his mouth. Eventually, though, both Clay and I found the agents that were right for us. Many months after that first trip to LA, our agents in Australia and overseas arranged for Clay and me to return to LA and meet with all the major studios. Sony, Universal, Disney, Paramount — all these film companies wanted to speak to Clayton as a director and me as an actor.
I can’t honestly remember if Deb had renewed her advice to me about not saying anything crazy. I’m pretty sure she didn’t offer that advice to Clay. What I do remember very clearly is sitting in a meeting with one of the major studio executives and him asking us, ‘How are you guys finding it here in Hollywood?’
‘It’s great,’ Clayton said. ‘People have been wonderful and very friendly, much more helpful than we would have expected. So what we do to get ourselves prepared for all the meetings we’re having each day is — we’re sharing a hotel room — so every morning before we get dressed we take turns bending over and we blow hot wind up each other’s arses with the hotel hair dryer, and we find that pretty much gets us in the right mood for coming to these meetings.’
