The Kangaroo Kid Surfs Again - Part
2
This was written by Peter Phelps, the
Australian actor who played 'The Kangaroo Kid' in "The Exchange Pts.
1 & 2" about his time on 'The Young Riders.' His comments are different
to any others I've seen about the show, but in the interests of free speech,
I include it as a legitimate viewpoint.
Because this was a western, we being red-blooded, macho American/Australian
lads, there were naturally the ubiquitous action scenes; stunts like firing
guns at each other, taking bullets into our bods, punch-ups, bareback leaps
on to trusty steads [sic ] etc. I had one sequence where I
was to brawl with a wanted murderer, eventually coming off second-best with
a few slugs to my shoulder. As is my way of working I will only use a stunt
double if absolutely necessary. I am turned off immediately by seeing a
different person perform a stunt that simply takes a couple of hours of
your time with a professional stunt coordinator in order to make a shot
look good.
Even with all the care taken to secure this shot, nerves and time limitations
can lead to accidents. After several rehearsals of a shot where the bad
guy feigns death as a result of my dead-eye shooting (all those rabbits
and 'roos blasted to buggery on that distant farm?), we decided to shoot
the setup. The different between the take and the rehearsal was that in
the rehearsals the other actor had his eyes open, checking carefully the
required distance by which to miss my actor's glass jaw.
With his hours of daylight slipping away the director hurried the scene
along and called for a take after only a couple of roughly choreographed
stunts of our bust-up. A few seconds after the magic word 'action' was given
by our sun-watching director, my 'dead' companion swung a beautiful closed-eyed
right hook that Jeff Fenech [a famous Australian boxer] would have been
proud of. As I felt my bottom teeth poke out of my now-flapping lip, a sudden
surge of realism hit me and I yelled at the camera operator to keep rolling
on our fight. I knew the other actor's incredulous look and expressions
of 'Oh F**k!' and 'S**t!' could be edited out, so I told him to keep coming
at me. What we got was a great-looking fight scene, and a standing ovation
from an appreciative and caring crew. I got a week off with five stitches
in my lip and a seal of approval from the boys. I was in the club. I was
blooded.
On the second-last day of my stay in Arizona, just as I was eyeing a neat
little four-wheel drive Ford Bronco in a Tucson car dealer's, word came
down (across) from LA that the main producer of 'The Young Riders', MGM
TV was going broke and no new cast would be added to the series, if in fact
it went ahead at all. Indeed one of the principal actors was fired, along
with the champion of my cause, Jonas, the producer who had hired me initially.
Farewell, house and garden. Back to the Dream Factory and the wonderful
world of ambitions.
My first thoughts were that maybe the story became twisted somehow once
again like the 'Baywatch' fiasco, and inadvertently I had fired a round
of live ammo into the crew and killed seven workers. Whoops! Another black
ban on the Aussie.
My legacy from this western adventure is a permanent lump of scar tissue
on my inside lip, and a great rhinestone belt buckle from the ousted producer
with the inscription 'The Young Riders - 1991-92'. I would have preferred
a cottage on the coast. But I'm pretty sure I can get a good game of pool
whenever I breeze through Tucson.
The swiftness and coldness of this action didn't surprise me. Every day
in Hollywood, similar stories of firings and wheelings and dealings are
de rigueur. An old room-mate of mine was recently cast as the lead in a
series. I had known the director of this show for a while and when I saw
him at a party, I asked if he looked forward to working with my friend.
Regrettably, the director informed me, the producer's wife had seen the
ultimate screen test of my buddy) which he spent every minute of every day
agonising over and polishing for more than a month), and didn't like his
face. End of story. End of my mate's job.
From: Sex Without Madonna, Peter Phelps, pp. 92-94