TAKE (NZ Director’s Guild Magazine) February 2010
Ian Mune is the darling naughty boy of Stage, Movies and TV – he’s bad in that best possible way – he’s bad because he cares. And we love him more for it.
I had the pleasure a few days ago of sitting in a café with him under Mt Taupiri – breakfast – the owner recognised him and we get 3 Neenish tarts for the moment of notoriety… though she had to ask his name… “I know who you are but I can’t remember it,” she said.
Ian smiled and said his name – she then banged him on the arm, “yeah I know that”. We all know him, we grew up with him, that was him larger than life.
I have to declare my hand. I still think Moynihan is the best NZ TV ever!
Recently a brick arrived in the mail – a book – the word is out – one of our clan has written it – you can’t miss it he’s on the cover. Once described as ‘a face like an unmade bed…’ – it’s actually quite a beautiful face and though the years have wearied the exterior the mind and the wit is still as sharp as a tack… and those eyes have seen a bit… quite a bit in fact.
Opinion and the ownership of it is an interesting subject. Orthodox thinking and toeing the line – Mune says why bother. It’s like you get one go at this life and this is it! I asked him once ‘what do you think happens after you die?’ … he said that ‘all the pain of this life would be finally gone’. Good answer under the circumstances as we were probably both drunk and probably both a wee bit depressed and did I mention the NZFC which always gets a bit of a hiding under these circumstances?
He writes very well, he writes particularly well about the roller coaster ride of a man who chooses to be an artist in a time when the notion is not even seen as a viable option – 1960’s New Zealand where to be a grey bureaucrat was where ambition came to live and die, it was expected… being a painter, or an actor or god preserve being both! What was he thinking? …and what about his wife and the young kids – he must be mad!
The ‘Rockwell-esK’ picture of the rural New Zealand that we can now only dream of is a gritty introduction to a complex life. Ian paints a picture of a man in a vortex as he tries to tame the beast of the creative soul – then we’re with him on the road hitching in winter from one despair to the next, sleeping rough under bushes just out of Levin, midnight flits on unpaid rent… and billowing Wellington wallpaper. Ian writes with a brutally-astute honesty and doesn’t seem to be holding back on beating himself up… brown and white and the state of thinking from a small colonial country… I like this stuff – it reads like a book – it reads like a living history, our history – our people – our mate telling it from the heart.
Pg 66: ‘play yourself – I then realise I don’t know who that is – so I play someone playing me…’ – this is the Mune we know and love… we never knew ‘til now that he knew what we always did.
It seems that a few of us have been in the inner Mune sanctum forever and continue to ‘bags’ him for the sometimes flawed character he is… he’s that actor-writer-director that could – and we knew it was going to be dangerous, that’s why we hang around – to get closer.
The book is out for Christmas. The first thing you do is go to the back pages (index) and look up your own name; we’re performers and entertainers – our ego’s got us where we have ended up… not so much a cork on the tide but a determined paddle against the current. This is very much so for Ian more than most.
I was there for some of it (his life so far that is) – I was sometimes on the edges of it – and then sometimes closer to the centre than I cared to be – a life? It fits neatly into 328 pages… it doesn’t meander – and neither does the Mune. The preface has an apology to those missing in action and the details cut to the floor due to lack of space – but even so we get enough of this very busy life. His life. I could have done with more.
We’re all in it – in the sense that its about being a ‘Kiwi’ bloke – it starts on the stage as that kid that got a reaction – that first addictive moment when they laughed; they laughed with the actor because of the action and because of the timing… all this was to do with a prop (a pea) that did what it was supposed to (or was it a fluke?) – but as they say ‘the rest is history’.
Ian Mune one of the original old hands – a guy who started when there wasn’t a professional Theatre and the Film Business was trying to re-invent itself – both had to be built nearly from scratch – dreams and hard work and sacrifice – you could call him a Pioneer, a Legend… or as the trades now refer to those from that era – Veterans – John O’Shea always used to stutter mmmmmmaaaakes me sound like a ffffuuuucking old car when they call me that.
It goes from there to here and back – Wales and the World – more rough and tumble – theatre in the extreme – celebration and disappointments – a family displaced over 4 months of travel and young kids who don’t recognise their Father – a family trying to find itself again… this is a ripping yarn… a page turner. I like this stuff…
…in the epilogue he refers to ‘a friend gone feral’ – a mutual friend to be exact – it’s probably the constant burden of those damn mental health issues that have create this rift – no ones to blame – no one at fault – I’ve intervened twice now and put the pieces back together… there’s still hope. This book might just do the trick. It’s a great read.