One of my favourite films in recent years is the 2003 movie Lost in Translation, in which Bill Murray portrays, with deadly and melancholy accuracy, the strange, sickly lifestyle of the actor working in a foreign land.
In his character’s case the setting is Tokyo, where he has flown from his home in Los Angeles to record a TV advert. During the long, featureless days waiting to film, he drifts between the studio and his hotel room, where he sits each night, with an increasingly glazed look on his face, ordering room service and surfing the TV channels. I now find myself in similar circumstances.
I’m currently in the middle of a two-month theatre tour through Australia of Noel Coward’s comedy of manners Hay Fever. It will take in three provincial cities and have about 40 separate performances.
The play itself has been well received. Unlike theatregoers in the UK, many of the punters in Perth and Brisbane are seeing the play for the first time. To them, Hay Fever might have been written last week rather than in 1924. They have no preconceptions and their reaction has a freshness one too rarely gets back in Great Britain.
In many ways, our collective daily regime is the life of the Lotus Eater. Accommodation and travel to and from the venue are all taken care of by an efficient and well-organised management. All we have to do is to be in the hotel foyer at 6pm every night, to be transported to the venue, don our costumes and ensure we say our lines in the correct sequence.
The myriad concerns of life at home – paying bills, walking the dog, renewing the residents’ parking permit – all fall away as if sloughing off some discarded skin. What’s not to like about such a carefree existence?
There’s that koala sanctuary to be visited, the local restaurant everyone recommends, and a trip on the tourist bus. I’ve additionally spent time watching live cricket, visiting friends of friends, and enjoying the relaxed and uncomplicated lifestyle for which this country is justly famous.
Yet, as with Bill Murray’s memorable portrayal, I’ve occasionally found myself keeping melancholy at bay. The line between relaxation and ennui can be a fine one. And like Murray, in between performances, I’ve found myself spending a great deal of time in identical hotel rooms, with one hand clamped to the TV remote control and the other continually dipping into a packet of potato crisps.
Thankfully electronic facilities such as Skype, Facetime and Vimeo have proved a Godsend. Had such technology been widely available during the making of Lost In Translation, the movie would probably have lost much of its bittersweet solitude.
For at least 20 minutes each evening, I can talk face to face with my wife in London via a live video link, swapping daily experiences just as if we were in the same room. The irony is that I’ve probably spoken more to her in the last few weeks than I do when I’m home, where the pressing concerns of daily life ensure that much of our interaction is on the porch as one or the other leaves.
Next week the company flies on to South Australia, for the final leg of the tour – seven performances at the Adelaide Festival Centre. Another Koala park, another restaurant, another set of TV channels: after which the job ends and normal life resumes.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so the saying goes – and like all successful travelling, this trip has not only sharpened our senses and widened our perspective but has refreshed our appetite for life back at home. I’m actually looking forward to the simple weekly ritual of taking the garbage out. Playwright Alan Ayckbourn sums it up perfectly in his comedy Relatively Speaking, when Philip and Sheila discuss their neighbours’ apparently blissfully happy marriage. “You couldn’t have a happier couple,” says Philip, “I’m sure it’s because he spends nine months of the year in Rio de Janeiro.”
Michael Simkins is an actor and writer usually based in London