‘As you get older, you feel like such a dag when you dance. It’s a shame’

Each week, Benjamin Law asks public figures to discuss the subjects we’re told to keep private by getting them to roll a die. The numbers they land on are the topics they’re given. This week, he talks to Noni Hazlehurst. The actor and presenter, 71, is best known for her TV work, including The Sullivans and Play School. She is a member of the Logies Hall of Fame and the author of the memoir, Dropping the Mask.

Noni Hazlehurst: “I don’t act for recognition, fame or love. I do it to connect people and to connect with people.”Credit: Getty Images

RELIGION

Were you raised in a religious family? My parents were what I call “true Christians” – they were humble, they were kind, they were non-discriminatory and generous. When I hear what passes for Christianity on the extreme right, it makes my blood boil. They couldn’t be further from the basic tenet of Christianity as I was raised to understand it – which is love, basically. So much hate is perpetrated by people who claim to be Christians.

Do you still identify as Christian? No, I don’t practise or follow any religion. I find it mystifying that women can follow any religion that claims they are inferior or not worthy of leadership or authority. Until there’s widespread change, I have no affiliation.

What do you believe in, then? In the basic goodness of the human heart. It’s one of the reasons I do what I do as a job: to tell stories that allow people to empathise and connect. I don’t do it for recognition, fame or love. I do it to connect people and to connect with people.

What’s your first commandment for good acting? ”Thou shalt not act; thou shalt be.” Acting – we do it all the time. You’re acting the role of an interested journalist; I’m acting the role of the compliant subject. Most of us do it unconsciously. So if I can be in the moment, enjoy myself and play, then I’m alive and I’m connected.

DEATH

What losses have impacted you the most? The deaths of my parents. My dad died when I was 32 – he was only 67. I was working in Queensland when he went to hospital for the last time. I wasn’t told. I was due to fly to Canberra to see him on the Sunday, but my brother rang early that morning to say that he’d died. I never got to resolve that. Two days later, we buried him and I went straight back to work. I didn’t really have the chance to grieve for him. I felt angry about that.

Was the loss of your mother different? Did you get to say goodbye? Very much so. She went into hospital for an operation which went wrong and she had to be taken straight back in, then deteriorated quite fast. She was in a hospice at the end. It was about six months between her having the operation and dying, and I was there when she died. In a sense, I wish I hadn’t been. The overriding image that stays with you is of seeing your parent – the person you love – dead. I wish I didn’t have that image. I wish I could just have the happy memories, but I wanted to be there for her, having missed my father’s death.

Having started as an actor in the mid-1970s, you’ve had such career longevity. What’s the secret? I’m a fourth-generation performer. From a very early age, my role models were the great variety artists on television when I was a kid. In those days, there were these humongous variety shows and they all had an orchestra and dancers. The best talent visiting the country would go on those programs. And I was so well prepared by my parents. They taught me about comedy, timing, singing, piano, ballet, calisthenics and accents. They taught me how to act; they didn’t want me to just be “a nice girl”.

BODIES

What are you liking about your body at this stage of your life? That it still works. But I have become much more careful because I know how easily accidents happen.

What aren’t you liking? I don’t like making involuntary noises every time I get out of a chair. You’ll get that soon. And I’m sad that I don’t have opportunities to dance any more. That’s the thing as you get older: you feel like such a dag when you dance. It’s a shame.

Is that because you have to be more physically careful or is it something else? As a young person, I would look at older people dancing and think, “Oh my god, how embarrassing!” Because you dance the way you danced in your youth. Now I’ll dance by myself; I’ll play music and dance around the house. But I’d feel a bit self-conscious with others, unless it was one of those places where you dance in the dark.

Tell me about the relationship between acting and your body. Acting is an artform, but it’s physically intense, too. How do you ensure your body is in good enough shape to perform night after night? Matinée days – where you have to perform twice in one day – are a mountain to climb sometimes. Especially if it’s a one-woman show. But what’s just as important as the body is the voice: the means of communication. I trained extensively in voice. My father used to sing in the open air to 2000 people without amplification. Now actors wear microphones in the theatre, which I refuse to do. Just go and get training, for god’s sake! It shouldn’t be necessary, and it denies the whole point of theatre, which is a true human interaction. But there’s this thing we call Doctor Theatre. As soon as you’re on stage, all your aches and pains – whatever it is that’s been holding you back – just disappear. You might have been throwing up half an hour before the performance, but Doctor Theatre will get you through. Then you can collapse in a heap at the end of it!

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