Imagine being told that life is just a fleeting moment—here today, gone tomorrow. So why not squeeze every ounce of joy out of it while you can? That's the profound wisdom from veteran Australian actor Colin Friels, who, at 73, is still chasing the stage despite swearing off acting years ago. But here's where it gets controversial: Is it selfish to keep pushing through exhaustion and health scares for the love of the craft, or is it a brave embrace of life's unpredictability? Stick around, and let's dive into his story—you might just rethink your own 'retirement' plans.
Back in 2013, when Friels was 61, he was dead set on hanging up his stage boots. He called it 'dog's work' during rehearsals for Moving Parts at NIDA. Just months earlier, he'd snagged a Helpmann Award for his powerhouse role as Willy Loman in Belvoir's Death of a Salesman. I chatted with him right before that triumph, and he insisted it would be his final curtain call. Fast-forward a dozen years, and here we are in 2025—I fully expect the same response when I ask about his latest gig. And sure enough, Friels delivers: His starring role in Belvoir's The True History of the Life and Death of King Lear and his Three Daughters (check it out at belvoir.com.au/productions/king-lear) is absolutely, positively his swan song. Well, probably.
'My Achilles' heel is saying no,' he laughs as we embark on a leisurely stroll from Belvoir's rehearsal space through Sydney's vibrant Surry Hills, a neighborhood that's been his stomping ground since his NIDA days in the mid-1970s. 'Opportunities for someone my age don't come knocking often,' he explains. 'When a juicy role lands in your lap and it excites you, you jump at it. Simple as that.'
Friels views himself not as a star with a glittering career, but as a local talent who lucked into sporadic jobs. 'I've always operated under the assumption that any gig could be my last,' he says. 'Just like this walk we're on might be my final one.' And this is the part most people miss: It's not pessimism; it's a grounded reminder that nothing is permanent. To help beginners grasp this, think of it like a freelance artist who treats every commission as potentially the endgame, living fully in the moment rather than planning decades ahead.
I'm not keen on dragging out our stroll—I don't want to be the reporter who interviewed one of Australia's most cherished acting legends during his ultimate outing. The afternoon sun dips low as we amble along Belvoir Street, a lively urban artery on a gentle incline. Friels, lean and buzzing with restless vitality, is hyper-aware of his surroundings. He's a delight to chat with, though his wit often veers into self-mocking anecdotes, Shakespearean quotes, and yarns about his prized stock horses.
'I need to rest my hand on a horse's shoulder to steady myself,' he murmurs quietly, as if sharing a secret. 'This rehearsal phase for King Lear has been nerve-wracking. I'm not matching the role's depth yet—pushing too aggressively, maybe overreaching. But it's a masterpiece, and I'm passionate about it.' For those new to theater, King Lear is Shakespeare's epic tragedy about an aging king who divides his kingdom among his daughters, leading to betrayal, madness, and chaos. Friels' struggles highlight how even seasoned pros grapple with intense roles, making it relatable for aspiring actors or anyone facing personal challenges.
Our path takes us by a sprawling public housing complex and modest brick apartments adorned with balconies overflowing with potted plants, bikes, and drying clothes. Surry Hills has evolved yet stayed familiar, Friels notes. He rented digs here during his student years and later while performing in his debut at the Sydney Opera House—a 1979 rendition of Brecht's The Caucasian Chalk Circle.
'How about we head this direction?' he suggests. We detour towards Ward Park and Devonshire Street, now a bustling light rail route. 'Back when I was in Death of a Salesman, the tracks weren't even laid yet,' he reflects. We stop briefly. 'Right here, I suffered a brutal pancreatitis flare-up.'
That was in 2012, during Simon Stone's adaptation of Arthur Miller's classic. It made headlines twice: first, when Miller's estate demanded Stone restore cut portions (he'd trimmed the epitaph), sparking debates on artistic freedom versus fidelity to the source. Second, when Friels fainted mid-performance during Act Two.
'The pain struck while I was heading back to the theater from here,' he recounts. 'I powered through most of the second act before blacking out. Woke up covered in vomit and bile. All I recall is the paramedic with stunning auburn hair.' Friels grins. 'I asked him what he wanted, and he said he'd take me to the hospital. I insisted we stroll through the park—I'd be fine. I was disoriented, but that medic resembled an angel from Wings of Desire. I thought, wow, Belvoir must have round-the-clock emergency services!'
Health-wise, Friels is in good shape now. 'Sure, I've got a few knocks—achy knees, shoulders, tendons—but the doctors patch you up.' We settle on a low brick wall, soaking in the pink hibiscus, lingering star jasmine blooms, and swaying yellow flame trees as a storm brews.
Beyond reuniting with director Peter Carroll, Friels is sharing the stage in King Lear with his daughter Charlotte, who makes her Belvoir bow as Goneril, Lear's treacherous eldest daughter. 'It's surreal cursing my own child onstage, but she takes it in stride,' he says. Rehearsals have prompted reflections on fatherhood. With Judy Davis, his fellow actor wife, he has two kids: Jack and Charlotte.
'No dad is flawless,' he admits. 'I aim to treat them respectfully and lead by example. I didn't shove ambitions or strict rules on them—I lacked the clarity for that.' His own parents were 'peasants' in the truest sense—hard workers who scraped by with little. 'They were Glaswegian migrants who arrived in the mid-60s, and we bonded deeply. I admired them immensely, so I'd never let them down and always looked out for myself. That's my parenting style too.'
On the secret to their enduring 40-plus-year marriage? 'Solid friendship and mutual respect,' he replies instantly. 'You weather highs and lows together. We're incredibly happy about our longevity.'
When I inquire about recharging his batteries, he confesses, 'I don't. That's my flaw—it's all or nothing. My brain never shuts off.' Yet retirement? Not on the horizon. 'Why stop? I've skipped yoga and gurus, but I get the idea of stepping back. Life brings grief for everyone, but our time here is so short—might as well revel in every bit of it!'
What does he cherish above all? 'A deep appreciation for existence.' Gazing toward the theater, he adds, 'I'm thankful for the warm hill breeze, the peppermint gum leaves overhead, the vast blue sky... and the priceless people around us. Gratitude defines me more than most.'
*
The True History of the Life and Death of King Lear and his Three Daughters is running at Belvoir St Theatre until January 6, 2026.
But here's the controversy that might divide readers: Is Friels' refusal to retire a selfish pursuit of passion, potentially burning out at the expense of family or health? Or is it an inspiring model of living life to the fullest, embracing impermanence? And this is the part most people miss—his philosophy echoes broader debates on work-life balance in an aging society. Do you agree that life's brevity justifies relentless joy, even in tough gigs? Or should we prioritize rest and family earlier? Share your thoughts in the comments—let's start a discussion!
