Norman Campbell's account of the filming of The Story of the Kelly Gang 1906

Punch, Melbourne, 10 December 1925.

Contents

Introduction
1923
1925
1932
Career
References

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1. Introduction

In 1923, and then again in 1925 and finally in 1932, actor and writer Norman Campbell (?- 6 November 1941) published his reminiscences of working on The Story of the Kelly Gang (1906) in Sydney's The Sun, and Melbourne's Punch and The Herald. All three are reproduced below. The articles were also republished in newspapers such as The Armidale Chronicle (23 May 1923) and Theatre Magazine (1 June 1923). They represent the only detailed, first-hand accounts known to the present author, covering filming of some of the most significant elements of this landmark movie - the world's first, full-length feature. Campbell notes therein that this was his first and only cinematic acting experience. The initial 1923 article is a relatively straight forward account. The second from 1925 is in the form of a conversation between himself and a colloquial-speaking friend by the name of Phil the Showman, though Phil is actually Norman. The third, which appeared in 1932, is an expansion on the first. Whilst Campbell makes a number of references to the "perdoocer/s" in the first two, unfortunately he does not name any of the production company crew - the actual makers of the film - or his fellow actors. It is also unclear as to the extend of his involvement in the filming over time - was it only a one-off, six day shoot on location followed by a couple of days in the studio during the six months prior to the film's Melbourne premiere on Boxing Day, 26 December 1906, or was he also involved in the later shoots during 1907-10? Stephen Gaunson, in the published version of his PhD research on the various Ned Kelly films covering the period 1906 through to 2003, includes a list of actors involved, and references Campbell up to the final, 1910 re-release by Millard Johnson and W. A. Gibson, who were the makers of the original 1906 film (Gaunson 2013).

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2. The 1923 article

* The Armidale Chronicle, 26 May 1923. Originally published in The Sun, Sydney.

Outlawed.

Bushranger's Confession. Career of Crime.

(By Norman Campbell, in the "Sun").

So many years have passed since I embarked on a mad career of crime that my confession cannot injure anyone now. At least, I hope not. Ah, those wild, lawless days of long ago! I was led into it. Like Peter Doody, I sighed for a short life and a gay one, and I got it at last as a bushranger on wages, with a price on my head. Mark Twain has left it on record that from innocent childhood to manhood's prime, he always yearned to be a pirate. Similarly, from the time when in the lower fourth I played at "Kellys," I had longed to be a bushranger.

My chance came in Melbourne, when a chap knew I could ride, and so my friend introduced me to the heads of a cinematograph firm. The producer explained that he wanted riders who were sufficiently villainous-looking to personate bushrangers, and he was kind enough to add that I was the exact type required. So, having agreed to the modest salary he proposed, I was duly sworn in as one of "The Kelly Gang." I was to be Steve Hart, but in the end I was also (1) a policeman at Jerilderie, Euroa, and, Glenrowan; (2) Aaron Sherritt, an informer; (3) a hawker, and several others, whose operations, if any, I have forgotten. In those days a cinema actor, like a Prime Minister, was expected to hold more than one portfolio simultaneously.

Our lawless gang journeyed by train to a little country town where wild, rugged scenery was easily accessible, and we proceeded at once to business. We all stayed at the local pub, kept by a more experienced bushranger, I remember, and there we made-up and dressed. I recall with a flush of pride the sensation we made as, mounted on excellent horses, we first clattered through the one street of the little place. We of the gang were top-booted, red shirted, and slouch hatted within an inch of our lives, and we were armed to the chin with lethal ironmongery. We were accompanied by a posse — isn't that the word? — of mounted cinema constables, with the camera man - the perdoocer - following in a spring-cart.

That day every school kid in the district, male and female, wagged it; and they never returned to their studies till we left the town a week later; another damping instance of the demoralising influence of "the pictures" on the minds of the young. Those youngsters used to trail over miles of rough mountain country every day, in order to see the fun, and be in at the death of a policeman or two.

Our first exploit was the sticking up of the police camp at Stringy Bark Creek, in the Wombat Ranges, and the murdering of the troopers. You remember the dear old song of other years —

They'd grub and ammunition for to last them many a week. So two of them set out next morning, leaving Maclntyre behind, all to explore the creek.

And again —

'Twas shortly after breakfast, Mac thought he heard a noise. So, gun in hand, he sallied out to ascertain the cause.

And so on, through 20 verses or so. Well, we did all that, and more. A tent was pitched, a fire lit, and after a few rough and ready rehearsals we committed our first murders, with the camera on us, to the satisfaction of the exacting perdoocers. Their greatest embarrassment was due to the unfortunate fact that Ned Kelly was an indifferent horseman. He said he loved horses, and certainly when we fired our revolvers and his neddy promptly stood on his hind legs, Ned clasped the animal very lovingly round the neck: but when we shot our first policeman, Ned's steed emptied his redoubtable rider into a clump of bracken, spoiling several yards of film, besides damaging Ned's beautiful new whiskers.

We lunched at the pub afterwards in all our warpaint, and rode off on another lawless enterprise in the afternoon, followed by our faithful retinue of school kids. We did some amusing things. By permission of the commissioners, we tore up the railway line, previously loosened by an obliging ganger, and we stuck-up a "really truly" train, to the intense joy of our juvenile audience.

Dan Kelly, after many ineffectual attempts, managed to scramble up a property telegraph pole and chop down the wires and insulators with an axe. Once we fearlessly attacked the local bank, and then burned a heap of property, books, and papers in the bank manager's garden. On that occasion Joe Byrne got a smack in the face from the banker's pretty house maid because of his too gallant attentions. (She wasn't afraid of bushrangers!) One day Ned Kelly and I stuck up the police station and interned the Jerilderie Johns in their own lockup.

My own great achievement was the slaying of myself by myself, and then successfully eluding the police pursuit in which, as a mounted constable, I enthusiastically joined. It was this way: As Steve Hart, I came around the corner of Aaron Sherritt's house, and lured that miserable wretch to open the door, when I shot him, and escaped. It seems a difficult feat to be both homicide and victim, but the interior scenes, which only concern the victim, were taken in Melbourne more than a week later.

We had a great time when we attacked the Glenrowan Hotel. We were all troopers that day, Ned Kelly included. A wooden shanty, standing back from the main road, was commandeered, and conspicuously labelled "The Glen Rowan Hotel," while straw and rubbish were burned inside to make a smoke, as the place was supposed to be on fire. We sprawled on the ground at 50 yards range, and blazed away with our Enfields. Just as we were getting busy, a solitary horseman came down the road. He paused irresolutely at the unusual sight of a platoon of armed police lying on their stomachs in the public highway. Presently we fired a deaftening volley, and the stranger waited for no more. He turned tail and galloped off in a cloud of dust. Perhaps he was a real bushranger. We had some mad gallops over the countryside, and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Our last exploit was the capture of Ned. He was cooped up and encased in the actual armor worn by the original outlaw (there are more than half a dozen genuine suits of Ned Kelly's armour in existence, I believe), and everybody else was a policeman or a railway guard. Ned put up a great fight, with a revolver in each hand, and a frill of them around his equator: but he was at last overborne by numbers. About half a hundredweight of good gunpowder was exploded, but the only casualty was the perdoocer, who had a neat disc cut out of his riding breeches by an ill-directed wad of candle grease. All the interior scenes we did later on in an open-air studio in Melbourne (making movies is full of paradoxes), but our adventures there were very tame in comparison with the bush stunts.

The oddest thing of all was to see ourselves acting. The tryout of the picture took place at a movie establishment at Footscray. We — the gang — dead-headed in the reserved seats. It was a very thrilling, bloodthirsty, picture, and Footscray loved it; but after it was over I swore a great oath that never again would I act in front of a camera. I have kept that vow, and consequently have only been a film star once. There is another sufficient reason for my continued retirement from the screen. Having seen my only effort in the "Kelly Gang" picture no producer is now optimistic enough to offer me another job as a picture actor; and so Doug and Wallace, and all the Clarences and Wilburs and Harolds, and the lulu peaches of Los Angeles have it on their own.

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3. The 1925 article

* Punch, Melbourne, 10 December 1925. This is a more fulsome account by Norman Campbell of the making of the movie from an actor's perspective. The article is presented in the rough language of a character called Phil the Showman, who is actually Campbell presenting his own experiences on the set and during the location shooting. The article is illustrated with line drawings by Lynch.

Making Movies.

By Norman Campbell.

In response to my staccato "Come in!" my old friend, Phil the Showman opened the door and breezily hailed me with, "Well, what d'you know?"

"I know one thing," I answered, and that is that you haven't been near me for six months and more. Come in and shake hands, and cut yourself a slice of cake. Where have you been hiding?"

Phil put his hat on the floor near the door with elaborate care. Then he smiled his disarming, wide smile and came forward and I shook hands heartily.

"Why do you put your hat there?" I inquired.

Phil winked knowingly and apologetically. "It's like this," he said, "old ' Shan th' Goat's chatted me you could always identerfy a gennelman as soon as 'e come into the shovel-an-broom by th' way 'e puts 'is lid on th' table, but as there ain't no space on your Cain an' Abel on account of them there books an papers, I 'ung it on th' big peg." He nodded towards the floor in elucidation. "I'm learnin meself good manners." And he grinned.

"Won't you sit down," I suggested.

Phil seated himself on the edge of the visitors' chair and answered my first question.

"I been all over th' map since I sighted you last," he explained, "side-showin' an' improvin' the min's of th' scratch-cockies, spud-diggers, an' cow coaxers — th' backbones of Orstralia, y'know — at th' agricultooral shows. An' I don't mind chattin' you I done fair. One lurk give me a bit of a win. I went fifty-fifty with Chiller Whipple an' is boxing joint for a few pitches. Chiller's th' pug what outed Cauliflower Kettle at Newtown last March, y'know. O' course, I didn't do no scrappin' meself, not even a schlenter or a bit of fake Jew jitzer. I'm not shook on makin' meself a butcher's block for every ironbark shearer an' marble-topped navvy from Kyabram to Cunnamulla at 'arf a jim a time. Not me. I can't jerry to th' sense of it. Most of them there 'airy chested banjo-swingers 'as got armor-plated dials an ferro-concrete ribs, an fists as hard as a Anzac wafer.

"So I stood outside th' tent an done th" spruikin', an left all th' biffin' an' fancy work to Chiller. You know— 'Nex' sport, who knows it now? Who'll 'avc a crack at th" sillybrated Chiller Whipple for a coupler bob? 'Arf a quid to the sport who can touch 'im once on th' chiv," an' all that.

"But a outsize blacksmith bloke up Peak 'Ill way, with a buffer on 'im like a railway engine, sent Chiller to sleep for ten, an' then wanted me to persolve a coupler quid for doin' it. Me, mind yer! When Chiller wakes up 'e said it was a fluke, but I told 'im it sounded to me like a king hit done with a pile-driver. Any'ow Chiller was gallied after that, an' 'e used to reneg when a extra tough lookin' snag'd line up. 'E squibbed it so o'ten we split up at th' death knock. Chiller got hisself took on as a useful at a rubby -de-dub, in th' bread-an'-drippin' zone out West, an' I joined a blacksmith bloke up Peak Hill way. Help a blacksmith bloke up Peak Hill way, up with old Khan th' Goat once more. The old firm, showin' th' Travesty Wild Man."

"Any adventures?" I asked.

"Not to write 'ome about," said Phil. "We done all right with Shan as th' ferocious wild man for a bit, till a red-hot Noah's ark of a dooty-struck John lumbers us, an' we gets sloughed a spinnaker each, on the Willie wagtail. An' that tore it. Of course, old Shan gets on th' tank as usual an' made Paddy Fitzsimmonses mother of his self."

"And who might she be?" I queried.

"Gawd knows!" said Phil. "It's on'y a sayin'. What you calls a adverb. But, y'know, Shan's a fair Nanki Poo when 'e's properly oiled."

"Nanki Poo?" I asked. "Do you by chance mean nincompoop?"

"Oh, 'ave it your own way!" said Phil, "what I mean to say, if you can, jerry to plain English is, Shan's a starter for th' rat house stakes, if you unner-stan' me, an' a dinkum trier for Gigglesville, as soon as 'e takes on th' Napper Tandy — an' that's th' alibi for three star!"

As Phil seemed a trifle ruffled, I said, "I see," po'itely, and he was at once mollified.

"Well," he went on, "through that there jag of Shan's, we missed th' Wagga dates, an all th' brass waitin' for us out on th' Hay line. So as we was blocked out of th' Riverina runnin', as soon as I got Shan right, we took th' rattler down to Melbourne. There was a o'd lion down there I'd got the chat about, an I wanted to give 'im th' once over. They told me 'e was "armless, an I 'ad th' idee of showin" 'im as a bloodthirsty maneater from Borneo or somewheres, an' gettin' Shan to go inter th' cage with 'im now an' again as Perfessor Shickerini, or somethin', and' lie down beside th' king of beasts an' all that. But th' old fool wouldn't come at it, I don't know why. 'E gets real snake-'eaded at times. So as there was nothin' doin" we went bushrangin'."

"You did what?" I asked.

"Went bushrangin," reiterated Phil. "Oh, you needn't screw at me as if I got th' Willies. It's dinky dorum, orrite. I been a outlaw with a price on me 'ead, dead or alive. You see there was a actorbat bloke I knew — I bumped 'im first when I was on tower as offsider to Omar Khybosh, th' camel, with that there Chu Chin Chow mob through Noo Zealan' — an' I run into 'im again in big Bourke, an' 'as a wongi with 'im. 'E drums me about a pitcher bloke 'e knew oo's makin a movie about th' Kelly gang. "They wants likely blokes,' 'e says, 'oo looks like out laws, 'e says, 'so you an' your cobber ought to fill th' bill to perfeckshun', he says. I done a bit of a gig, thinkin' it was all kid stakes, but old Shan jer-ried it was dinkum, an in' th' end we slides out to St. Kilda an' see th' bloke.

"'E was a doer, orrite. 'E could talk like Andy Watt or Allan Wilkins, th' actor. 'Ere, 'e was a better spruiker than Billy 'Ughes or any magsman I know, an' I know 'em all. Well, at long last we reckoned we'd give it a fly, an nex' day we went up th' country to a little E-flat place, an' they puts us up at th' pub, an' we starts on our creer of crime.

"Th' pitcher bloke said 'e didn't want reg'lar actors. 'E says they think they know too much about th' game, 'e says, an' you can't tell 'em nothin'. An' 'e says me an' Shan's th' very tripes 'e's been lookin' for. Villainous tripes is 'ard to get 'old of, 'e says.

"An' then again I can ride, orrite. Once I travelled with Fritters's buckjumpin' joint, an' any bloke oo's lasted a sixer with Fritters can ride a three-legged bullick round th' dome of th' Exhibition in th' dark, an' shell a peck of green peas while 'e's doin' it.

"Well, it was th' looniest circus you ever sighted. They togged me up like Aunt Sally in a pair of ridin' strides, an' long boots, an' fly-veils an' that, an' a 'at with a brim to it like th' saucer track of th' speedway; an' I 'ad knives an' guns an' tommy-axes, an'' squirts an' spurs an' ironmongery all over me, like somethin' in th' museum. But Shan! Dinkum, 'e ain't a oil paintin' at th' best, 'e's got a dial like a 'orrible bad dream. It's a gift with Shan. Well, they dolls 'im up till 'e looked like somethin' come to light outer old Mother Carter's waxworks — th' chamber of 'orrors section. Talk about th' pig-faced boy! Why, 'e'd win a bonnie babies compertition alongside of old Shan. But of course th' dilly old coot kids hisself 'e's Queen o' th' May, as usual. An' I will say this, 'e could act th' w'iskers off any of th' others, even Ned Kelly 'isself — an' 'e was a shine actor 'oo once played Uncle Tom in a movin' theatre at th' 'Orsham races. I see 'im there meself, so I know it ain't a tale.

"Shan was Aaron Sherritt, th' spy an fizgig for th' Johns, an' by th' same rule 'e looked mean enough to pinch a blind kitten's breakfas'. Me? Oh, I was swore in as one of th' gang. Joe Byrne, I was, with a price on me block, as well as th' old black Stetson I chatted you about, with a verandah round it like them dagos always wear in th' pitchers. Shan said it was a pitcher hat, an' I bet it was.

"They give me a bonzer needy, though, with a bit of blood in 'im — they 'ad a string of a dozen good yarramen — an' so th' circus started.

"Th' first day, after we was done up with paint an' stuff worse than a Sydney shiela, we went out to stick tip th' Johns at Stringy Bark Creek. You know, that was the start of th' real Kelly gang's hurry-up. Th' troopers an' us false alarm bushrangers, an' th' camera bloke in a spring cart, an' all th' bottle-holders an' ramarees, an' th' whole menagerie, rode out together. It was a reg'lar eight hours percession. An' all th' school kids in th' distric' came tailin' after us. They all wagged it for a week while we was up there, an' follered us everywhere. We was 'eroes.

"Well, we gets out to th' pitch — th' 'location, they calls it — an we all 'elped to rig up th' troopers tent among th' bracken an' gumtrees near a bit of a crick, an' then we gets down to graft. Th' perdoocer 'e chats us what we 'as to do, an' we goes through it once or twice before we got took by th' camera. There was a lot of guyver about it, but after a bit we was set, an' th' bloke let 'r go. Us blokes of th' gang galloped up, an' come beltin' through th' scrub an' ferns 'ell for leather, an' singin out blue blazes. We stuck up th' perlice camp, snapped off a few rounds of independent firin', an' shot a coupler Johns. Then all th' mob, troopers an' Kellys an' all quite good cobbers, rode back to th' pub in th' town an' 'ad dinner! It was a dead easy job, orrite. It was good-o!

"In th' afternoon we went to a little kleiner humpy a couple of miles out, an' this time we 'as a few of th' actorines with us, Kate Kelly, Mrs Kelly, an' that. Me an' Shan was in th' aujence with all th' nippers from th' school. One of th' Johns rode up to th' humpy an' Mrs Kelly come out an' 'it 'im over th' napper with a fryin' pan, an' that started it. Ned Kelly come out an' blazed at th' John with a squirt, an' then broke for th' timber, an' Kate Kelly gets on a prad an' streaks off for 'er brothers or somethin, an' you can take it from me, that young twist-an'-twirl could sit a 'orse as good as May Wirth. An' then we all went back 'ome to our rubby-de-dub, an' that was all our yakker for th' first day. I tell you all them there yarns you 'ear about th' 'ard life at 'Ollywood's on'y a tale. Pitcher actin's easier than playin fly loo. If a bloke could on'y 'andcuff 'isself to it long enough, like Douglas Fairbanks an' Charlie Chaplin an' them shrewdies, there's good wages in it, orrite.

(Continued on Page 74.)

MAKING MOVIES (Continued from Page 59.)

"Well, we carried on th' good work for a week or so, an' every day was St. Patrick's Day, as th' sayin is. If Ned Kelly done 'arf th' things we done, 'e deserved all that was comin' to 'im. Old Shan got shot by th' gang at th' door of 'is own 'ome. Not th' first time 'e'd been shot! It was this way. Th' gang stuck up a lizard on a bridge — one of our own mob, of course. One of our 'artiss's', as they call 'em — an' we puts a pair of perlice darbies on' im. Then we gets our squirts out an' frog marched 'im up to a weatherboard 'ouse where Sherritt's in smoke — 'idin', y'know. This bloke we pinched was supposed to be a cobber what Sherritt knew, an' we 'as 'im covered an' made 'im give a hoy an' call Sherritt out, knowin' 'e wouldn't show 'is beak out side, or crack boo, if we called 'im. You see, Sherritt was supposed to be inside, dead gallied, an 'idin' under th' dab with three or four Johns 'oo's pertectin' 'im. We done it orrite, an old Shan comes sneak in' an' side-steppin out, lookin' as scared as a scalded cat, or a welcher 'urryin' 'ome from th' races with 'arf Fitzroy after 'im. Oh, Shan can act, I'm tellin you! That's why 'e's such a blitherin' good ram for th' broad players — 3 card spielers, y'know — 'e looks dead square.

"But jus' as Steve Hart shot old Shan, a bloomin' clucky 'en flew aquarian out from under th' 'ouse, an' spoilt th' stunt — that's what they call each act we done, stunts — an we 'ad to do it all over again. You see it was supposed to be night time, an' clucky buff orpingtons don't fly about in th' dark. It'd do you good to 'ear t'h perdoocer bloke perform. We all enjoyed it, an' th' kids laughed like it was a comic fillum. So we killed old Shan all over again, an' then 'e come to life again an' we did another stunt.

"They do everything upside down in th' pitchers. Begin at th' end an' finish in th' middle, like startin' 'East Lynne' with Gawd Save an' little Willie goin' up to 'Eaven with red fire an' angels.

"Another time we stuck up th' perlice station — th' real, dinky-di boob — an' I "ad th' pleasin' dooty of lockin up th' sergeant an' a young copper in their own peter. I felt like a little kid puttin' 'is mother to bed. An' th' camera bloke turned 'is 'andle 'an recorded th' darin' outrage.

"One day we stuck up th' bank — a dinkum bank — an' we made a bonfire of some dummy books an papers in th' banker's Dolly Varden— that's French for 'garden.' But th' clerk an' the manager bloke couldn't stop grinnin', so we 'ad to scarecrow old Shan up as a bank manager with a vermisilly ziff, like a 'andful of seaweed, an' a starch shirt, an' all. It was another outrage. Shan looked as so'emn as th' foreman of th' jury, or a outside bookmaker at a prayer meetin'. Shan a bank manager! A nun at a prize fight'd be more likely.

"But what made th' king hit of all was when we stuck up th' rattler. Too right! We bailed up th' Melbourne train! It must've cost 'em a nice dry bit to square th' railway 'eads for that lurk. We tore up a rail, too. Them kids near went off their nut for joy. We was more than 'eroes then. We 'ad wings an' 'aloes.

"We done all kinds of monkey tricks. One bloke 'ad to shin up a telegraph pole an' chop down th' wires. Th pole was on'y about 8 foot 'igh, but it took Dan Kelly about a hour to climb it an' chop through a coupler wires. Th' perdoocer was ropeable. 'E 'as a wonderful flow. Better'n Scotch Mattie, th' Tattooed Lady, an' she's a star artiss. I 'eard 'er once at Traralgon when 'er tent blew down an' lef" 'er standin' in th' rain with o'ny 'er one-piece on, an' th' tatoo marks on "er Dutch pegs got wet an' begun to run like th' blue bag on washin' day, an' th' mob got to 'er. Scotch Mattie's performance was a masterpiece that day, but when that there perdoocer put 'is ears back an' opened 'is north-an'-south 'e put Mattie in th' infants' class. 'E beat 'er by a furlong an' give 'er a stone besides.

"Once us four of th' gang 'ad to ride up to a big gumtree an' read th' notice on it offerin' thousands of quids to capture us dead or sober. Then we 'as to give a bit of a laugh an' fire our squirts at th' bill an' canter off, careless like. We done it a coupler times first, without shootin', an' then th' camera bloke got busy while he encored th' stunt. When we fired th' guns off, Ned Kelly's moke stood on 'is 'ind legs like a old man kangaroo, an Ned slithered over 'is rump an' thudded in th' middle of a Scotch thistle, as 'eavy as a bag of cyanide tailin's. 'E sat there rubbin' 'is centre of gravity, an picking spikes outer 'isself while th' perdoocer made a few pointed remarks. Y'd 'ate to be 'arf th' things 'e called Ned Kelly.

"You a bushranger!" 'e surges. "You couldn't bushrange a fowl 'ouse," 'e says.

"You ride!" 'e says. "You Ned Kelly!" 'e says.

"You couldn't ride th' clo-es-'orse in your granny's kitchen," 'e says. An' when you come to think of it, it is a bit crook to 'ave a Ned Kelly 'oo couldn't sit a ocean-wave or a razzle dazzle at a Sunday school feet, let alone a 'orse.

"One day we all 'ad to clobber up as Johns. Bushrangers an' all, an' even old Shan — 'e looked like a tin w'istle. We 'ad to arrest Ned Kelly. We sighted 'im moochin' along with 'is armor on, th' real fit-up borrowed from th' museum on purpose, so a bloke chatted me. I've seen about 'arf a dozen suits of genuine Ned Kelly armor in me time, in fac' I showed a set meself, once. A bloke up Tallygaroopna way made it for me. But this was th' old, original, none-genuine without - th' name Hugh Lennon stumped inside suit, so they reckoned.

Ned come prancin" through th' gum trees, an we blazed away at 'im, an' then rushed 'im an collars 'im low. Spare me days, th' genuine armor's made of cardboard, painted black! There's jokes in every game — even pitcher makin's a schljenter [not genuine, counterfeit]. It's a rum world.

"That was th' same day, I think, we stuck up th' Glenrowan Inn. It was a old empty 'ouse, standin' back a bit from th' road, an they put up a sign on It, 'Glenrowan Inn.' We was all cops, that time, gang an' all, Ned Kelly with 'is w'iskers off was a sergeant. On'y old Shan was th' priest 'oo went inter th' pub under fire, an' lumbers out a made-up dummy. Rescued it from th' burnin' buildin' — 'cause th' plotch was supposed to be on fire. You oughter see th' old cow! 'E done it real well. An' then they stopped th' camera while 'e clucks back, to keep th' 'eap of wet straw smokin inside, an th' smoke belchin' through th' winder like a coffee stall on a cold night.

"All us Johns lay in th' dust in th' frog-an'-toad an' shoots off our martinis at th' Glenrowan Inn. All th' kids, an' every tabby an' bloke in th' township stood pop-eyed, lookin on. It was a great 'ouse.

"Well, we bonged away, an just then I sighted a old cow cocky in Druids' w'iskers come cloomp, cloompin' up th' road on a old prad. 'E pulls up about a 'undred yards off in a reg'lar mish. 'E's serewin is' ardest at us, puzzled like, an' jus' as 'e's dwellin', an wonderin' what a score of Johns is lyin' in th' road for, watchin' a burnin' 'ouse, we loosed off another volley. Th' old Druid didn't wait, for no more. 'E turns 'is neddy roun' an galloped off down 'ill, like Dick Turpin in Eroni Brothers circus. I lamped 'im till 'e got outer sight. 'E never stopped for no beg pardons, an I bet 'e kep' goin' till th' shadders of night fell on 'im. 'E muster thought th' flamin' war'd broke out again.

"I 'ad a few good gallops meself, an th' perdoocer slung me a lot of kid about me ridin' like Frank Dempsey an' that.

"After we'd done all th' open air stunts, we jumped back to Melbourne an' done th' inside views in th' stoodio. Th' las' of all was sep'rit pitchers of th' gang, an' that was th' very first bit shown when th' pitcher come out. Me an' Shan 'ad briefs for th' private view. It's a rum thing, mind you, to sit watchin' yourself act.

"There was one part where us four of th' gang sat 'oldin' our neddies alongside a lagoon, an you could see th' reflections of us in th' water. It was a bosker pitcher, an' looked good-o on th' screen. But me an Shan watchin' it, knew that that lovely scene was really a dirty water'ole near th' town ship, an' jus' outer range of th' camera there was a dead dog float in th' water, what ponged worser than a dead whale. Real life is different from th' pitchers, you can gamble on that. But as I say, it's a rum world, ain't it?"

"By the way," I ventured, "where is your friend Shan now? I'd like to meet him."

"Oh, Shan ?" said Phil. " 'E's waitin for me outside on th' mat."

"And you've left him there all this time!" I remonstrated. "Let's take him over to have a spot."

I found Shan the Goat to be a quiet, grey-headed gentlemanly man, with something of the look of a dissipated Methodist preacher.

At the bar counter Phil tossed off his small glass of ginger beer with a cheerful " "Ere's ow!" and I raised my glass and wished the oddly assorted pair of adventurers prosperity. Shan the Goat made me a little bow and responded, "Quod bonum, felix faustumque sit." [What is good is happy and fortunate!]

Truly, as Phil the Showman says, it's a rum world!

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The 1932 article

* The Herald, Melbourne, 16 July 1932. This article is a variation on the 1923 article, with a similar narrative and some flowery additions, plus some significant new details, including that it was a six day shoot for Campbell. The article also contains four line drawings relating to comments by Campbell therein. It opens with an abstract by one of The Herald journalists:

When I was a Bushranger

by Norman Campbell

In the good old days of the cinema, when pictures flickered like summer lightning on the screen; when talkies were never dreamt of and when Hollywood was never heard of, they sometimes tried to construct film dramas — even in Victoria. In this article Mr Norman Campbell tells of some of the humors and joys of an early attempt to reconstruct the thrilling story of the Kelly Gang for the benefit of cinema patrons.

It is many years, now, since I plunged recklessly into a wild career of crime! I never motor through Mitcham, along the White Horse Road, nowadays, without a sigh for that far-off time when I was a bandit steeped in iniquity and lawlessness of a sensational character! Mark Twain has left it on record that from childhood's happiest hour till manhood's golden prime, he always yearned to be a pirate. Similarly, from the days when I played "Kelly Gang" at school I longed to be a bushranger. Like Peter Doody, I sighed for a short life and a gay one. The opportunity came in Melbourne when a friend told me of an opening for a man who could ride! I could ride, and so my friend took me along to Johnson and Gibson, who were about to make a film of the exploits of the Kelly Gang. Until then you must understand that the highest effort of the cinematographer had been short films of a few hundred feet; but this was to be a 5-reel drama, a whole night's entertainment, and the very first of its kind. Altogether a super-film of the good old days!

The producer explained that he wanted horsemen who looked sufficiently villainous — to impersonate bushrangers; and he kindly added that I was the very type! The salary suggested was exceedingly modest — the whole production coast about £400, where now a couple of noughts would have to be added to that amount — and I was sworn in as one of the gang. Did I say "one?"

I was to be Steve Hart; but in the end I was Steve, as well as a policeman at Jerilderie, N.S.W., another at Glenrowan and at Euroa, Victoria, also Aaron Sheritt, the informer; a hawker; and several other characters, including a bank clerk at Jerilderie. In those days a motion-picture player was expected, like a Prime Minister, to hold more than one portfolio simultaneously. Hollywood, I can assure you, "had nothing on us."

So we went by train eventually out to Mitcham, on the Lilydale line. We were at last, in the modern film jargon, "on location!" In those dear bygone days, of course, Mitcham was a mere handful of houses, and there was some surprisingly rough bush country handy, for local color. Our bushranging gang stayed at the local hotel, then a very small one; and there we duly made-up — to the great delight of the staff — and dressed — and our depravity began! We were theatrically picturesque in breeches and boots, red shirts, and slouch hats; and each of the bandits had a perfect frill of lethal ironmongery round his middle — enough to make Tom Mix envious. We were provided, too, with some splendid horses, which we mounted; and so rode off to our first "stunt," as they called it even then.

This was the sticking-up of the police camp at Stringy Bark Creek, and the murder of the three constables — quite a good morning's work! You may, perhaps, remember the dear old song of other years: —

They'd grub and ammunition for to last them many a week,
So two of them next morning set out all to explore the creek.

And again:—

'Twas shortly after breakfast Mac thought he heard a noise,
So gun in hand he sallied out to try and find the cause!

The metre is a bit rocky, but the romantic atmosphere is faultless!

Away in the pseudo-Wombat Ranges a tent had been pitched, and a fire lit in a gully. Some of our party, dressed as mounted police, made camp, and we roughly rehearsed our first tragedy a couple of times. Then, with the all-seeing eye of the camera on us, we bushrangers galloped through the scrub and fern to the attack. It was, I can assure you, a thrilling moment! Then the murdered policemen fraternised with the bushrangers, and we all rode back to the hotel for lunch!

It was good fun while it lasted — six short days only. We had permission from the Commissioner of Police to stick up the local police station, and the Railway Commissioners even allowed us to stick up a train, and tear up the railway line! We also captured the Mitcham bank, and burned some dummy account books in the manager's garden — to the great enjoyment of a pretty housemaid and a couple of grinning bank-clerks.

At first the residents of the little town were very much stirred over our misdeeds; but they soon got accustomed to us, and it excited no comment if a heavily-armed outlaw walked into a shop to buy a packet of cigarettes. Every youngster in the district, I believe, "wagged it," and enthusiastically followed us for mile over the ranges, or wherever our "stunts" led us. They were wild with delight, and at heart, bushrangers to a boy! And when they saw us tear up the railway line and hold up a really-truly Government train, their admiration became embarrassing.

Some ridiculous thing happened, of course. In one "stunt" we four of the gang had to canter up to a big gumtrce, read the official placard tacked on it announcing a reward of £8000 for our capture dead or alive, then empty our revolvers into the poster, laugh derisively, and ride off! We rehearsed this dramatic incident once or twice; but for economy's sake did not fire our revolvers. But when the producer said "shoot!" to the camera-man and the acting began in earnest, we discharged our weapons. Immediately Ned Kelly's steed — appalled at the unaccustomed noise — stood on his hind legs and waved his forelegs at the sky — and without a moment's pause our intrepid leader slithered over the horse's rump and thudded heavily into the dust, nursing a sprained thumb and some disarranged whiskers! Ned couldn't ride even a merry-go-round horse, and he sat there, the most discomfited bandit in the world.

One day I was sitting smoking on the hotel verandah after lunch, with all my murderous revolvers bristling at my belt, when a stranger eyed me curiously. He seemed deeply interested, and my unusual get-up worried him dreadfully. At last he asked tentatively, "Travelling cattle, mate?"

My own great achievement, though, was the slaying of myself by myself, and then successfully eluding the police pursuit, in which, as a mounted constable, I whole-heartedly joined! It was this way. As Steve Hart, I came round the corner of Aaron Sherritt's house, and with a decoy lured that miserable wretch to open the door. Then I shot him down and escaped. It may seem to be a difficult feat to be both homicide and victim; but the interior scene was done next day when, in a different make-up, I impersonated the terrified Aaron Sherritt, and was shot dead on opening the door! We had our studio tricks, you see, even in those days.

Our Dan Kelly (now living peace fully and lawfully at Mordialloc, by the way) had at one point in the story to climb a telegraph pole and smash the insulator with an axe, and to cut the wires. He clambered up the pole, with some difficulty, but failed to cut the wires! Afterwards fishing lines were substituted, and Dan managed to cut off communications, to the joy of tho audience of school children.

Our last exploit at Mitcham was the attack on the Glenrowan Inn (we did the capture of Ned Kelly some days before, but chronology is disregarded in making a movie). A suitable wooden building, standing well back from the main road, was borrowed for the occasion. A signboard was put up in front of it, and some damp straw and rubbish was set burning inside, for the place was supposed to be on fire. One or two of our company were stationed inside to fire at us through the windows, and all the rest of us, including the redoubtable Ned and his gang, were dressed as troopers and blazed away at the burning building with Enfield rifles.

Wc were all lying on our stomachs on the public highway, peppering the Glenrowan Inn, when I noticed a lone horseman riding up the White Horse Road into Mitcham. He seemed puzzled by our activities. Presently he pulled up, about a hundred yards off — and just then we let go another volley. He never waited for any explanation! The thrilling spectacle of a score of police having a pitched battle with an empty house was too much for him. He wheeled his horse round and galloped off, like a demented Dick Turpin, in the general direction of Healesville and the mountains. We never saw him again.

But the oddest thing of all was to see ourselves in action when the picture was at last exhibited. The try-out, I recall, took place in the Royal Hall at Footscray. We — the gang — deadheaded in the reserved seats. It was a very bloodthirsty picture, too, and FooLscray loved it. But when it was over I reflected that if the genuine Kellys perpetrated anything as awful as we had done, they deserved all that happened to them. Still - we made screen history.

-------------------

During 1949 a letter was published in Sydney's The World News which referred to various actors involved in the production of The Kelly Gang films 1906-10, including Campbell.

* The World's News, Sydney, 11 December 1948.

First of the flicks

RE early Australian films -The Kelly Gang was the world's first long feature. It ran to 5000ft, and prior to that no films longer than 1000 to 2000ft had been made anywhere in the world. Hollywood's first long feature was The Great Train Robbery, produced in 1905. W. A. Gibson and his brother-in-law Millard Johnson set up the first Australian film studio in the Melbourne backyard of a chemist's shop for The Kelly Gang. The leading actors didn't receive more than £1 a day for their work. No copy of Australia's first film feature survives and it is not known who starred. Gibson said Millard gave some of the earliest screenings of imported films at this chemist's shop - the public saw them from the street as the films were projected onto a screen on the face of the building. The Kelly Gang cost only £160 [£400] to make. Up to 1909, Gibson produced nine more features. The Lost Chord (1907) was an attempt to produce the first Australian sound-synchronised musical. Gibson also later established the first newsreel. - L.S.J. (NSW).

* The World's News, Sydney, 22 January 1949.

Those early flicks - The early Kelly Gang picture

The world's first long feature must not be confused with the second film of the same name, which was produced in 1917. Some writers on this page recently seem to have fallen into that trap. L.S.J, states (The World's News, 11 December 1948) that it is not known who starred. The record I have mentions that the late Norman Campbell played several characters, including Steve Hart, a policeman at Jerilderie, ditto at Euroa and Glenrowan, a bank clerk at Jerilderie, and a hawker. In the second production (1917) [1910], Ned Kelly was played by Frank Mills, Steve Hart (Jack Ennis), Joe Bryne (Will Coyne), schoolmaster Curnow (John Tait), Kate Kelly (Mrs. Chas. Tait), and the chief of police by her husband. L.S.J. states that the leading actors did not receive more than £1 a day for their work. He is right! Most of the cast received from 3/6 to 5/- and then only when they worked. - C.S. (Vic.).

-------------------

4. Career

* The Age, Melbourne, 26 March 1910. Advertisement for the play What Every Woman Knows at the Princess Theatre, Melbourne, staring Nellie Stewart and with Norman Campbell as one of the actors - 1st Elector. Review.

* The Express and Telegraph, Adelaide, 4 June 1910. Advertisement for the presentation of Paul Kester's play When Knighthood Was In Flower, starring Nellie Stewart as Princess Mary, at the Theatre Royal, Adelaide. Norman Campbell was Sir Edward Caskedon.

* Geelong Advertiser, 18 February 1911.

"Sweet Nell" Next Week.

Included in the company which is to support Miss Nellie Stewart in the charming play, "Sweet Nell of Old Drury," on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings next, are the names of Mr. and Mrs. Norman Campbell. Mr. Norman Campbell is a grandson of the late James Campbell, one of Geelong's earliest identities, and a prominent citizen here for very many years, his name being closely associated with the Geelong Orphan Asylum and similar institutions. Mr. Campbell's father was the late James Campbell. O.K.. well known and respected in Geelong and throughout the Western District. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell both sustain leading roles in "Sweet Nell of Old Drury" and have been touring with Miss Stewart for the past two years.

* The Riverine Herald, Echuca, Victoria, 20 March 1911. Nellie Stewart - Sweet Nell of Old Drury. Review.

Nellie Stewart "Sweet Nell of Old Drury."

Miss Nellie Stewart and her dramatic company appeared at the Temperance Hall on Saturday night in Paul Kester's historical comedy-drama, "Sweet Nell of Old Drury," which is so closely associated with the popular lady's fame. Although the prices of admission were high and the night was the most inconvenient of the week for most people to attend a house of amusement, the hall was packed. The play is a serious one, but the association of the plot with royalty and old-time London society makes it highly interesting. Miss Stewart upheld her great reputation, and was the recipient of floral gifts. As Sweet Nell the famous actress is quite at home. It is a difficult impersonation, but one which befits her, and to which her talents are fully equal.

Miss Stewart was supported by Mr. Harcourt Beatty, another favorite, who appeared as Charles II, King of England. He did full justice to the role. Lord Jeffreys, Chief Justice of England, was capably portrayed by Mr. Charles Lawrence, who proved himself an excellent scheming villain. Miss Gwen Burroughs was a successful Lady Olivia Vernon (Jeffrey's ward), her acting in the appeal to the King being most effective, Miss Mabel Bardinge-Maltby as the Duchess of Portsmouth, and Miss Madeline Meredith as Lady Castlemaine, were also highly successful. Mr. George Thorne, jun., as Sir Roger Fairfax, Mr William Ladd as Lord Lovelace, Mr. Stuart Clyde as Lord Rochester, and Mr. Norman Campbell as Lacy (one of Jeffrey's agents), sustained their characters perfectly. Other characters were:—Percival (a provincial actor), Walter Bastin; Rollins (his friend), Fred Sherwood; lord-in-waiting, Frederick Pettit; Captain Graham Clavering, Leslie Norman; 1st alderman, K. Benham; 2nd alderman, J. Melrose; Mercer (servant to Nell Gwynne), W. Clifford; William (servant of Jeffreys), George Aylney; Tiffin (a barmaid), Edith Lewis; Lady Clivebrook, Nella Campbell.

* The Mildura Cultivator, Victoria, 3 February 1912. The Campbell Dramatic Company.

The Campbell Dramatic Co.

The Campbell Dramatic Company arrived in Mildura yesterday and opened a short season in the Shire Hall last night with the piece 'In the Power of Sherlock Holmes." At the head of the Company is Miss Nella Campbell, the brilliant emotional actress, whose name is known through out Australasia and whose splendid artistry reaches a very high level of excellence. Miss Campbell has just finished a tour, extending over two years, with Australia's idol, Nellie Stewart. Miss Campbell sustained the role of the beautiful Duchese of Portsmouth in the famous "Sweet Nell of Old Drury." The other members of the Company are all actresses of repute and standing, and include Miss Quita Raymond, the dashing young American "beauty" actress, Miss Sadie South, the popular Australian comedienne, and Mr J. L. Lawrence, leading man with Williath Anderson's company for nearly nine years, who takes the difficult part of subtle Sherlook Holmes. Mr Norman Campbell supplies the comedy element. Mr Campbell was stage manager for Miss Nellie Stewart throughout Australia and is a very versatile actor. The cast of characters also comprises such well-known and distinguished names as those of Lester Carey, J. H. Booth, Jack Forde (son of Martin Forde) and many others. A feature of each production is the beautiful scenery, which has been specially painted for the tour and mechanical effects. Popular prices are charged. The piece for this evening is "The Sailor's Sweetheart."

* The Telegraph, Brisbane, 10 November 1941. Supplemented with matierial from other similar obituary notices.

Death of Well-Known Actor and Journalist

Mr. Norman Campbell, actor and journalist, who died in the Royal Melbourne Hospital [on Thursday, 6 November], was well known on the stage and in journalism in Brishane. Under the pen-name of 'Norbell' he wrote verse and stories [in the Sydney Bulletin]. In the early days of Nellie Stewart's stage career, the late Mr. Campbell was a fellow trouper, and when she made her last appearance, at the Theatre Royal, Melbourne in a revial of Paul Kester's play 'Sweet Nell of Old Drury,' a few years ago, he played Lord Jeffries to her Sweet Nell. For many years he contributed to the weekly Press, and was on ths staff of [Melbourne] Punch and the Melbourne Herald. Until his recent illness he was editor of Australian Life Digest. He was a Past Master of the United Press Masonic Lodge.

* The Age, Melbourne, 29 November 1941.

The late Mr. N. Campbell.

To the editor of the Age. Sir,— After a strenuous life of endeavor there recently passed Norman Campbell, who, by his striking personality and varied positions in the journalistic world, could certainly claim the distinction of being a many-sided scribe. But to entitle references in this column to Norman I must hark back to the years 1906-10, when I was privileged to appear with him in dramatic presentations. He was an actor of the first degree, and excelled in long studies requiring intense declamation and vigor. His attributes covered light comedy to the more serious Shakespearian soliloquy. His able handling of the difficult Falstaff, and of Lord Jeffreys, in Sweet Nell of Old Drury at the Princess in days of old, his correct English and histrionic powers, should be recalled by old theatregoers of the long ago. Memories of an equal success In O'Callaghan On His Last Legs are also recalled, and others of the farce-comedy species too numerous to mention here. His versatility was apparent when on tour with a scratch company through western Victoria to Mount Gambier, where, in addition to playing lead, he undertook the advertising and general management. I am pleased to record the benefactions of Norman Campbell to the "down and out" of unhappy recollections, and once again Poverty Point was the field of operations. On a particular morning he produced a £5 note and shared it in equal proportions among the indigent few. — Yours, &c., VERITAS. Richmond.

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5. References

Bertrand, Ina and William D. Routt, 'The picture that will live forever': The Story of the Kelly Gang, Series: The Moving Image, number 8, Australian Teachers of Media, St. Kilda, 2007, 197p.

Campbell, Norman, Outlawed! Bushranger's Confession. Career of Crime, The Armidale Chronicle, 26 May 1923. Originally published in The Sun, Sydney.

-----, Playing the Kellys for the Camera, Australasian Picture Magazine, in Theatre Magazine, 1 June 1923. Reproduced in Betrand and Routt (2007).

-----, Making Movies, Punch, Melbourne, 10 December 1925.

-----, When I was a Bushranger, The Herald, Melbourne, 16 July 1932.

Gaunson, Stephen, Ned Kelly & the Movies 1906-2003: Representation, Social Banditry & History, PhD thesis, Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology University, April 2010, 288p.

-----, The Ned Kelly Films: A Cultural History of Kelly History, Intellect Books, 2013, 132p.

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Last updated: 1 July 2024

Michael Organ, Australia (Home)

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Norman Campbell's account of the filming of The Story of the Kelly Gang 1906

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