Interview with ensemble member Daniel Frederiksen
We sat down with long-time ensemble member Daniel Frederiksen to talk about craft, collaboration, and what it means to be part of an actor-led company. From his earliest days at Red Stitch to his most recent work both onstage and off, Daniel reflects on it all.
What do you love about Red Stitch?
What I love most about Red Stitch is that it’s given my acting career meaning and purpose. In society, one of the most powerful roles art plays is to reflect something true back to us—things we might not otherwise see. Story and narrative can be vehicles for transformation, and I believe that’s an essential function in a thriving culture. If we can’t see ourselves clearly, how can we grow or change?
So much of acting work—ads, long-running TV shows—isn’t about that. It’s entertainment. And that has its place; people need to unwind. But for me, that kind of work feels largely unrewarding over time. Red Stitch, by contrast, has offered me the chance to do work that strives for something more meaningful. We don’t always hit the mark, of course, but the intention is there. And that’s what matters.
The other thing I cherish about Red Stitch is the autonomy. As actors, we rarely get to choose the work we do, how it's presented, or how it's made. At Red Stitch, we produce, promote, and perform in the work. And it gives you a sense of ownership, of control, of being part of something that’s yours. That sense of control is incredibly rare and deeply fulfilling.
And finally, community. Some of my most treasured memories are of the times we’ve gone away together—borrowing someone’s beach house, relaxing, bonding, maybe a bit of overindulgence (we’re Australian, after all). The people at Red Stitch feel like my family. Like any family, there are conflicts, but also forgiveness, love, and long-term connection. That continuity—getting to work with the same people over time—is precious in an industry built on short contracts and temporary teams. I’ve deeply valued that.
Can you describe a moment at Red Stitch that felt truly electric?
There have been many. The early years were full of them—staying up late building sets, rehearsing with no money and little time. That chaos was bonding, even beautiful in its own way.
But one moment that stands out is from Patrick Marber’s After Miss Julie, directed by Dennis Moore. I played John, the chauffeur, opposite Sarah Sutherland’s Miss Julie. The play explores class, sexual politics, power, misogyny and general themes around how we are all prisoners of the culture, time and class in which we live.
Sarah Sutherland and Daniel Frederiksen in After Miss Julie. Directed by Denis Moore in 2007.
There were nights during that show when I felt this palpable connection: between me and Sarah, and between us and the audience. It felt like we were all locked into the same rhythm, the same breath. It sounds a bit odd, but it was like a triangle of energy—us and them, in sync. A kind of flow state. It felt spiritual, like something bigger was moving through us.
Another honourable mention would be Fat Boy, our wild, anarchic take on Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi. That show was a riot—funny, grotesque, and deeply political. It felt both irreverent and important.
What feeds you outside of acting?
During COVID, I got into woodworking, and there’s something incredibly satisfying about making things with your hands. These days, since my wife and I moved to a small property in the country, most of my time is spent fixing things or digging trenches for irrigation!
I’m also finishing a degree in social work, and my current placement has been really engaging. I find walking in the bush restorative. Meditation has been a big part of my life for over a decade now—I guess I’d call myself a kind of Western secular Buddhist. The teachings of the Dharma help ground me. All of that keeps me going.
Is there a line from a play that still echoes in your mind?
One that’s stuck with me—though I'm not sure why, even though it is an absolutely amazing play—is from Edward Albee’s The Play About the Baby, which we did in the very first year of Red Stitch. A character I played misquotes, “Oh what a tangled web we weave,” and instead says, “Oh what a wangled teb.” I still say this even when I mean to say the original. It’s now lodged into my brain as a kind of dyslexic brain fart.
What do you wish someone had told you when you were starting out?
Oh look, I don’t really know what you tell anyone when they’re first starting out. I mean, I was told not to do it. That you’re going to be poor. That it’s brutal. That it’s hard. That there are way more people who want to act than there are jobs. And that you really need to be sure why you’re doing it. Because if it’s just to get famous, well, there are probably easier and better ways to go about that. But I didn’t really listen. I was just completely fixated on being an actor—for life.
And honestly, I think that kind of obsession is almost necessary. Because this is a tough, brutal profession. It takes so much. It demands so much. You’re essentially committing to a life of poverty and rejection. For most people, anyway. I saw some stats recently that said only about 5% of actors actually make a living from it. Not become rich and famous—just scrape by.
So, if someone asked me now, I’d probably say the biggest thing to watch for is envy and comparison. I didn’t know to watch for that when I was younger. But looking back, it's caused me huge amounts of suffering. And honestly, it’s something I still grapple with. What's wild is, it doesn’t seem to ease up as you get older. In fact, for a lot of people I know, it gets worse.
Now maybe that’s an overstatement—but a lot of actors who stay in the game long-term seem to struggle mentally. There’s this creeping sense of bitterness, of feeling less than. A lot of that comes from constant comparison, from measuring yourself against others. And from tying your whole sense of worth to being "an actor."
That’s been a big one for me too—over-identifying with Dan the actor. I got a lot out of that identity. When people would ask what I do and I’d say “I’m an actor,” they’d light up. “Oh wow! What have you been in?” And then I’d rattle off a few credits, and they’d Google me or recognise something, and I’d get that little dopamine hit. That validation. That ego bump. And for a while, that felt great.
But it’s also pretty hollow. If that’s where all your self-worth is coming from—external stuff, recognition, applause—it’s a dead end. It just doesn’t fill you up in any lasting way. And the flip side of that is just as brutal: when you see others doing "better," or more “successful,” whatever that means, it can crush you.
So yeah, I guess what I’m trying to say is: really stay connected to why you want to do this. Because for me, at the core, it’s always been about the love of doing it. Especially in theatre. I’ve loved the collaboration, the ensemble, the rehearsal process, the feeling of working on something that feels meaningful. The kind of creative energy that feels like it comes from somewhere else entirely. That stuff—that process—is what has sustained me.
It can be incredibly beautiful, challenging, thrilling. But I think that’s got to be the reason you do it. That has to be the fuel. Because if it’s just about the end result, the status, or the spotlight—it’s going to be rough.
Was there a film or TV project that you loved being a part of?
Truthfully, I’ve found film and TV a bit tricky. A lot of the work hasn’t felt particularly meaningful. And the process can be isolating—long hours of waiting, very little rehearsal, and scripts that aren’t always great.
But a couple of projects stand out. Ten Empty, written by Tony Hayes and Brendan Cowell, was a beautiful piece. It didn’t quite land the way we’d hoped, but I loved what it was trying to do.
And Bastard Boys, an ABC series about the waterfront dispute, was a privilege to be part of. As someone raised with leftist, socialist values, telling that story felt important.
May 30 2025
