Some actors will do anything to claw their way to the top, writes Paul McDermott
Poisonous, venemous and ugly creatures that regularly eat children tend not to feature in ads. You may as well hire an actor. Which brings us to the second aspect of animals in ads (see last week's column): some of them are not animals at all. Some of the animals, noticeably the tapdancing ones or the ones with a rudimentary grasp of English, are, in fact, human performers.
Due to the immense popularity of animals in film and TV, there is a hole in the market that must be filled from somewhere. Young, vibrant performers, many from our finest acting colleges, are sucked into this strange world and their dreams of playing Hamlet are lost forever. Confined to the back end of a dancing cow or the animatronic skull of a dog, they become cynical and bitter. For these young people, "playing the Dane" has a completely different meaning.
Sadly, more and more performers are being called upon to play animals. Not just in Berkoff plays, but in shopping malls as tigers or Easter bunnies. Most of us cannot imagine what it's like to be trapped inside tons of rubber, fur and fake hair. We'll never have our feet turn into talons or know what it's like to be stuck inside a polar bear all day, and few of us want to find out.
My awareness of this terrible profession was raised when I met a man called Jack. Jack was up for a part in a new movie called Godzilla: a multi-million-dollar epic from the subtle creative team that brought you Independence Day. He was shortlisted to play the lead, but no-one would ever know it was him, as the anonymity of the animal actor is of paramount importance. No-one would notice him walking down the street and beg for his autograph. There would never be a buzz of murmurs in his local restaurant: "Look over there! Isn't that... Godzilla?" He would remain unrecognised, but he could hold his head high, knowing he was a star.
Jack began his life as a beast working in China, where each day consisted of stomping over papier mache buildings and terrorising Tokyo. He cut his teeth on difficult characters such as a boxing kangaroo, a three-legged dog called "Kundo" and a dancing starfish.
He was true to his art and stayed in character on and off the screen. Stripped of his costume he maintained the mentality of the beast: he refused to talk (preferring to growl), slept on straw and had poor toilet habits. He lost friends but found professional acclaim. This was the cost of being the best. Jack excelled with his unique interpretations of these creatures but, like most actors, he longed for the classics. His chance came with a Chinese- European co-production of Ulysses. Jack got his wish: he played the Hydra, Cyclops and Cerebus.
After 10 years along came Godzilla, the most coveted of all the monster roles. There was intense competition for the part. Out of hundreds of applicants they were down to the last three, possibly the finest creature performers in America if not the world. These were three men who knew how to think like animals and they weren't even involved in politics.
The moment of truth came when Jack clambered inside the motorised rubber body. In that airless prison of PVC he felt at home and he brought Godzilla to life. With her mighty limbs he tore down buildings, breathed fire, crushed cars and menaced children, but at the end of the day he wasn't the one.
It was a painful rejection, an emotional upheaval that forced him out of the business. On contemplation, Jack found that staring through the nostrils of monsters gave him a limited vision of the future. With his head removed the world, once again, opened before him. Here was a real world that didn't crumple when he touched it, a world where men were men. These days Jack is happier playing a comical father in a popular American sitcom - a father that moves with the grace and poise of a caged animal.
By Paul McDermott, appeared in Sunday Life! (the Sun Herald supplement) May 3 1998
