Idiot Box (Caesar, 1996)


From the seedy fringes of Australian suburbia, director David Caesar dredges up a portrait of idle and vanquished lives in his second feature Idiot Box (1996). Two moronic dole bludgers, Kev (Ben Mendelsohn) and Mick (Jeremy Sims), spend their life stuck in a familiar loop. Highlights of their day include a walk to the local bottle shop or terrorising a neighbour’s guard dog. With little cash and no means of transportation, their lone ‘big idea’ comes in the form of robbing a bank. Mick has even concocted a recipe for sure-fire success, one that avoids the stereotypical failings he’s made note of in run-of-the-mill Hollywood films.

A cynical hothead who treats his live-in girlfriend Betty (Susie Porter) like a piece of errantly-placed furniture, Kev’s notions of carrying out the perfect crime soon begin to take on the weight of something tangible. At the same time, Mick tries to crack on to the pretty young wide-eyed bottle shop attendant, Lani (Robyn Loau), whose overbearing but dim-witted brother will later become entangled in the pair’s criminal delusion. Coincidentally, a series of bank robberies has a pair of hotshot detectives (Graeme Blundell and Deborah Kennedy) baffled, scouring through the files of lowlifes in the region to come up with viable suspects. Inevitably, it seems, their compasses will be pointing in a certain direction as the fates of our protagonists and others converge.

What mostly prevents Caesar’s profane, kinetic drama from devolving into grotesquery is its coal-black streak of humour. The constant banter between Kev and Mick may be crude and juvenile but it’s genuinely funny too, and rings with a degree of depressing but undeniable truthfulness. Whether recreating a robbery scenario in their living room with a toilet brush in place of a gun, or snatching a donation tin from a guy in a koala suit – which sets off a madcap foot race – these two malcontents are constantly pushing the boundaries of an oblivion that’s closing in further with suffocating intent each uneventful day.

Stylistically the film has plenty going for it with Caesar’s astute cinematic sensibilities really coming to the fore. The narrative moves quickly, settling into a rocking, rasping rhythm all its own. There are consistently interesting set-ups, camera movements and quick cuts that bring immediacy to what, in other hands, might have been a stale, navel-gazing drama. At times Caesar may slightly overdo it; certainly the wild diversity of music choices, though generally effective, often create jarring transitions between scenes, but the unsettling, abrasive tone Caesar is aiming for comes across loud and clear.

Idiot Box is an uncompromising look in the mirror, a vision of vanquished men hamstrung by a lack of education, prospects or the intelligence to extract themselves from the morass of a suburban hell. Beyond the dark stain of its often coarse but very Australian humour there’s an indelible imprint of stunted lives vanishing to the beat of a silent drum; of a writer taking deadly aim, not only at the ruthless, oblivious world around us, but more transparently, at ourselves most of all. Idiot Box proves that we’re our own worst enemies, treading water in a tenuous impersonation of living.

Mick and Kev are worryingly symptomatic of a recognisable surburban malaise. They’re pathetic drongos – misfits who’ve sacrificed a few too many brain cells to the almighty God of Alcohol. They may be great for a laugh, but Kev in particular is sliding dangerously close to the point of internal combustion. He despises boredom, he says. He may dream of robbing a bank by force, but is it to reap a financial bounty as a means of improving their chances of survival? Or simply to alleviate the drudgery of their directionless existences?

This remains Caesar’s finest hour as a writer and as a director, providing social observation camouflaged as nihilism, supplemented with lashings of brash, misogynistic futility; all relayed with a potency he hasn’t been able to replicate since. It may swell with ugly external markings and be an unlikely candidate for consideration as a defining film of its time, but Idiot Box works perfectly on a visceral level. It’s something akin to being told a viciously funny joke whilst having your head rammed down a toilet bowl.



The Man From Snowy River (Miller, 1982)


Iconic images spring to mind at the mention of The Man From Snowy River (1982) – the other George Miller’s most lauded film: the two romantic leads on horseback locked in a first meaningful embrace as the scenic backdrop brings them into stark relief. The two figures were actors soon to become far more familiar in the years to follow: a young Tom Burlinson as Jim Craig, the noble-intentioned mountain lad any mother would be glad to see on the arm of their daughter, and Sigrid Thornton as Jessica, the fiery-tempered daughter of a wealthy-by-good-fortune American, Harrison (Kirk Douglas). A second image, recalled most vividly by the film’s most ardent fans, and just as vividly burned into our consciousness is the spectacular sight of Jim powering his noble stead down a breathtakingly steep mountain face in pursuit of the pack of renegade wild brumbies as part of the thrilling set-piece that brings the film to a rousing close. But just how kind has the passing of years been to this audience-friendly adaptation of ‘Banjo’ Paterson’s most famous poem?

In the desolate Victorian countryside, Jim works alongside his father Henry (Terence Donovan) on their modest mountain property. But when tragedy strikes and Henry is killed in an accident, setting one of their best horses free, Jim must learn to survive on his own. Into the nearby township he heads searching for honest labour, though he’s immediately scrutinised with suspicion due to his humble origins. His earnestness and work ethic win favours with Harrison however who offers him a position as a stablehand where he diligently takes to his lowly tasks despite the mean-spirited ribbing of his co-workers, especially the spiteful Curly (Chris Haywood). In his spare time he works equally hard at impressing Harrison’s lovely but feisty daughter Jessica.

Left behind with the men called away on an arduous ride, Jim decides to try and win some brownie points by breaking in Harrison’s expensive colt, the last offspring of Old Regret. It backfires however when the pack of wild horses passes by, distracting the colt who roughly dispatches Jim and escapes. Upon his return, a furious Harrison assembles every handler in the surrounding districts, including the legendary Clancy (Jack Thompson), convinced the potential loss of his colt is Jim’s doing. Can the young mountain lad make amends and win the heart of Jessica in the process? The outcome is hardly a surprise, but the journey is undoubtedly an adventurous, spirited one relayed with a uniquely Australian voice but with enough universality to ensure broad appeal.

Burlinson’s screen debut set him on the road to stardom and rightly so for he embodies the fresh-faced Jim with the combined vigour and exuberance of youthful impulsivity. It’s true, he doesn’t exactly set the world on fire with his acting range but he has the appealing good looks and requisite physical presence to dissuade any notion of him being unable to cut it once a bit of equine mastery is called for.

Douglas laps up his duel roles with a strange kind of relish, especially in the case of Harrison’s brother, the colourful, one-legged Spur. Early on he’s designated as the comic relief, the hoary loner devoting much of life to panning for fool’s gold whilst Harrison, who unjustly disowned him, willingly clasped at circumstances engineered by fate. Jack Thompson seems underutilised as Clancy, spoken of in glowing terms as the greatest horseman in the land, and who Harrison pleads to lead the charge to retrieve his prized colt. But Clancy falls back into the ruck when push comes to shove, deferring to Jim whose show of strength not only proves to Jessica his worth as a man, but also to the wider community – spotted as it is with vocal detractors – of his credentials as a horseman ready to assume a man’s responsibility before his time.

Who doesn’t recall the film’s score? For this we can thank the talents of composer Bruce Rowland whose lyrical main themes have become as inextricably bound to the images as anything else, musically representing the film’s purest spirit with its wide open spaces and simplified evocation of freedom.

Perhaps the name of Paterson’s poem conjures an image of grace and perfection that can’t be matched by the reality of the film. More than 30 years on, The Man From Snowy River remains a thrilling ride; part tentative first romance, part rite-of-passage for its young hero. Though it’s not without shortcomings, we’re probably all guilty of appraising the film, in hindsight, with a nostalgic fondness that conveniently consigns its slightly dated elements into the background. And I’m no different, for those iconic images we most readily associate with it are undeniably memorable and testament to the film’s enduring appeal.

The Heartbreak Kid (Jenkins, 1993)


Stories that reflect Australia’s embrace of multiculturalism are, thankfully, more common place on cinema screens these days, but more than 20 years ago the same could hardly be said and a piece like Michael Jenkins’s The Heartbreak Kid (1993) emerged as a breath of fresh air. The film stands the test of time in two respects: firstly in that it provides enlightenment of deeply rooted culturally relevant issues – streamlined though they may be – whilst simultaneously maximising chances for a feel good hit in the very commercial appeal attached to it.

Plucked from obscurity, 18 year-old Alex Dimitriades was chosen for the role of Nick Polides, a headstrong, volatile student with grand aspirations of making it big as a stud on the soccer field. Sadly, at his Melbourne high school little progress is being made in abetting those dreams, for he’s unable to even convince the staff to resurrect the notion of a representative soccer team. In a climate ruled by an ingrained religious devotion to Aussie Rules, soccer comes off as an impoverished second cousin long excluded from this particular school’s curriculum. Nick seethes when confronted by the embodiment of this attitude in Mr. Southgate (William McInnes), the footy coach who early on is pitched forward as an all too-obvious adversary; he’s the most vocal dissenting voice in the staff room, a crowd of one rallying against the intrusion into his playground of a game demeaningly referred to – by the community at large at that time – as ‘wog ball’.

Luckily for Nick, a guardian angel steps in to fill the breach in the form of young teacher Christina Papadopoulos (Claudia Karvan) who senses that Nick’s misplaced anger might best be redirected into more productive outlets. Brushing aside the mocking laughter of her fellow staff members, she puts her hand up to coach a hastily assembled soccer team whilst admitting, in the same breath, to not possessing a skerrick of knowledge about the game. But with the cocksure Nick as her guiding hand, she’s able to at least set the wheels of change in motion.

Nick is won over by Christina’s noble decision to stand up for his motley crew of ethnic outcasts. But in the course of their combined efforts to form a cohesive sporting unit, deeper feelings develop. His attraction to Christina begins its pubescent conversion from the lusty fantasies associable with a schoolboy’s crush to serious consideration of Christina as “his girl”. Impropriety aside, he may be just deluding himself. Certainly Nick’s increasingly aggressive pursuit of her would scare off most women, but for Christina – not much older than her students at 22 and still able to relate to their fickle crushes – negating external factors begin to take their toll, alleviating the implausibility of the scenario.

She can certainly relate to the overpowering parental control that Nick is hardly alien to – the type that suffocates with good intentions but leaves precious little leeway for personal freedom to flourish. Raised to respect and adhere to her parents’ wishes, Christina has her life plotted out on a circumscribed path, including a pre-determined husband-to-be, Dimitri (Steve Bastoni). There’s even a model home chosen for her by Dimitri without any consultation that offers little room to breathe, being right across the street from her parents’ home! Having another decision taken out of her hands adds to the sense of subtle manipulation; it’s a façade of compliance as honour, the kind with a firm foothold in tradition, but which the free-willed Christina must reduce to old-world memories if she’s ever going to become her own woman.

Karvan is terrific in this early role that followed her initial breakthrough in The Big Steal (1990). She has that intriguing youthful mix of fresh-faced beauty and yet with the hint of a tomboy in her short hair and ability to pull off a fetching run over a muddy playing field in skimpy shorts and a soccer jersey.

It’s a very physical performance from Dimitriades, in more ways than one; early on he’s a ball of energy, unable to suppress his outrage at the school’s denial of a soccer team. In this way, he’s also living in the shadow of his father George (Nick Lathouris) who once played for the Greek national team. The innate pressure associated with fulfilling parental expectations is a universal one but it has special connotations with those of ethnic minorities in Australian society where the weight of overcoming an implied racial mistrust is ever present.

Jenkins, who jointly adapted the screenplay with the author of the original play, Robert Barrett, does a decent job of relaying how these pressures come to bear on both Nick and Christina. Funnily enough, he’s never made another feature, working exclusively in TV ever since. There’s an element of manipulation and cliché as to how the relationships are pushed to the edge of fragmentation, but the issues they raise have hardly lost their relevance.

It’s fascinating to watch Nick’s perspective alter as his schoolboy crush takes on more meaningful proportions. For a while he just sees Christina as an idyllic object of privilege, the ones not afforded him; an unattainable goddess representative of his cultural ties to both Australia and his ancestry. For Christina, Nick himself may seem unrefined, but she’s attracted to his impulsive, giddily unpredictable nature; a young man yet to explore his potential but equally moved by the prospect of passion as pain. Raw and rebellious, he represents an unlikely outlet to release her stresses, and a polar opposite to the calculating, money-obsessed Dimitri. If her feelings were based on little more than unleashing some suppressed sexual frustration then their relationship would be doomed to a spectacular but swift end. Slowly however, Christina has to put aside the distracting fact of Nick’s youth to understand the reasons she’s really attracted to him and address whether he has any of the qualities she really desires in a man.

And what of the moral implications of a teacher engaging in sexual relations with one of her students? Well, there’s certainly a murky area of grey to consider here, though it doesn’t draw a whole lot of attention other than from Nick’s dad who is appropriately disconsolate at the thought of such a strict moral breach. We can assume that most people have few qualms about such a relationship when the ages of those involved are so close, but what a different light might have been shed on these trysts had the sexual roles been reversed? The sex scenes themselves are surprisingly hot and heavy though it’s hard to know how seriously to take the exultant choral music overlaid across the first of them. Both actors are game however and because of that fact, The Heartbreak Kid mostly defies the juvenile associations of its title. Hopefully it will be remembered as a piece of slick entertainment that also provides some valuable commentary and insights into the rapidly changing makeup of Australian society.

Ned Kelly (Jordan, 2003)


Beyond every shifting guise appropriated by the late Heath Ledger there exists the bittersweet temptation to look back with poignancy, to ponder the creative heights all too briefly scaled. In Ned Kelly, Australia’s most notorious outlaw and anti-hero of legendary proportions, Ledger communed with a kindred spirit, a man who would sacrifice everything to erase the besmirching of his family’s name. And like Ledger, Ned too was a man destined to perish at a tragically premature age.

Gregor Jordan’s film is undoubtedly the most polished and dramatically satisfying re-tread of the Kelly story, offering a welcome balance of drama and portraiture of a necessarily self-serving nature. And despite the presence of Naomi Watts as the fictional, designated love interest – the girl who fancies Ned but can offer no alibi for fear of disgrace – she’s wisely kept to the margins, saving the drama from being cheapened by populist expectations.

The film begins with an oblique shot, later revealed to be Ned’s proudest moment when, aged 10, he saved another boy from drowning. We’re then transplanted to 1871 as a young Ned has his first brush with the law, accused of stealing a horse. From there his struggles and those of his family – with whom troubles with the law have been commonplace – are etched in broad, persuasive strokes. Ned himself is a brawler, earning money with his fists, but just as he’s about to move on, a fateful night intervenes.

Whilst engaged in a tryst with the English girl (Watts), who exists far beyond his social strata, a lily-livered copper with a personal grudge against Ned, Fitzpatrick (Kiri Paramore), visits the Kellys only to leave with a whipping from Ned’s family and friends. But the battle lines are drawn as Fitzpatrick sets his false story in motion: Mrs. Kelly (Kris McQuade) is taken into custody and the search for Ned and his gang begins. The police want their man and will adopt any means to track him down. Similarly, Ned must resort to reluctant bloodletting to avenge the injustice of his mother’s incarceration and there’s no going back once his bridges are burned. Reparations can no longer be considered, for “wasn’t it now war?” For his deeds, which included taking the lives of a few obstinate officers, Ned has a world record bounty placed on his head. But though seemingly everyone who’s ever known him is arrested, nobody gives up the ghost for the sake of the exorbitant sum – such was the high esteem in which Ned was held.

Ledger makes a first rate Kelly, convincingly conveying the basic decency of a man oppressed by the authorities: principled, loyal and resolute. His intermittent voiceover is employed to good effect too, like a ghostly reminder from beyond the grave of Ned’s ability to endure, to evoke heated dialogue about the legitimacy of his legacy more than a century later. The accents are a little dodgy, especially that employed by Orlando Bloom as Ned’s valiant offsider Joe Byrne, but it never hurts the tone established by Jordan and his cinematographer Oliver Stapleton who captures the sombre, almost colourless Victorian bushland with a discerning eye.

Big names like Watts and Geoffrey Rush as the staunch Superintendent recruited from South Africa to lead the hunt for Ned, become bit players for it’s the classic confrontation of the persecuted opposing the unjust that commands most attention. Yet for all the failings of the film to flesh out complementary sub-plots, it’s this adherence by screenwriter John Michael McDonagh to a universal ideal that provides the drama with the impetus it needs to rouse our emotions. Another vital ingredient is the score by Klaus Badelt who contributes possibly the finest of his career to date, other than the more sublime moments of Werner Herzog’s Rescue Dawn (2006). The main theme, in particular, is an appropriately stirring elegy, yet remains admirably understated in most incarnations, never overpowering the images.

Ned’s seething and defiance reach an emotive peak in the brief sampling of his Jerilderie Letter composition; there’s also a wonderfully doom-laden lead up to the final showdown, in which Ned and his gang face an army of officers in their armour-plated defence. Here, Ned’s narration devolves into bleak musings on his dire predicament as he, and the creatures surrounding him in the woods where he lies in wait, are reduced to elemental means of survival.

You could argue Jordan’s portrayal of Ned is perhaps a little too lopsided, a fact sure to be widely criticised beyond these shores. But reminders of Ned’s heroics, and the iconic imagery they evoke, have penetrated our cultural landscape to such an extent that anything less than a biased portrayal would be considered almost sacrilegious. Ned Kelly (2003), tinged with the morose inevitability of its outcome, is a worthy addition to a voluminous body of the work obsessed with affirming a reckless but revered Australian legend.

The Getting of Wisdom (Beresford, 1978)


Ethel Richardson’s 1910 novel about a free-spirited 14 year old country girl refusing to be sculpted and made to fit a mould of British Empire-influenced respectability was adapted with its most important themes and spirited sense of humour intact by Bruce Beresford in 1978. At the time the young director had just finished the seminal Don’s Party (1976) and, before that, a pair of crude Barry McKenzie vehicles starring a young Barry Humphries who would feature prominently in this, Beresford’s first attempt at a film striving to address heightened literary sensibilities.

It’s the turn of the century in rural Victoria’s Warrenega where the unfortunately named Laura Tweedle Rambotham (Susannah Fowle) is about to be shipped off to Melbourne’s prestigious Ladies College. Laura is ridiculed for her frightful red bonnet by the College’s representatives on the train journey and upon arrival finds herself immediately at odds with the school’s airs and graces. The stern and uppity Mrs. Gurley (Sheila Helpmann) assaults her with a litany of rules and regulations before she’s even had time to catch her breath. It’s a clear indicator of the kind of superior attitude that saturates these hallowed halls.

Laura has a love-hate relationship with most of the students; she’s not incapable of taking part in their irreverent, playful, girls-own activities but when it all boils down, she’s viewed as an outsider, earning gently mocking nicknames like “Tweedledum” and “Ram’s Bottom” in the process. She’s an ugly duckling pressed into the company of graceful swans, yet continues to flabbergast and then infuriate students and teachers alike with her blasé attitude and direct, unrefined manner. She shows startling aptitude for the piano as well which will cause a jealous division later on, but in a world where conformity most pleases the teachers, her eagerness comes across as impertinence; her politeness as naivety or ignorance.

Laura’s modest origins are a source of constant stress; her mother runs the local post office in Warrenega and the fact of it becomes a dirty secret she attempts to divert focus from to ease the embarrassment. To her credit she quickly develops a tough outer layer, able to turn the tables on newcomers in her second year, grilling for points of weakness with which to exploit them down the track. But she experiences guilt immediately afterwards – surely a reaction much closer to that of the true Catholic the teachers would like her to become!

Much of the success of The Getting of Wisdom hinges on its performances and debutante Fowle was a great choice to personify the memorable Laura. She’s funny, moving and engaging with a wonderful naturalness to her performance, a lack of inhibition that immediately has us siding with Laura rather than the majority – teachers included – who often walk around as though balancing invisible books on their heads. The younger cast members are equally good; nestled amongst them are familiar names of today in early roles like Sigrid Thornton and Kerry Armstrong. The distinctive looking Kim Deacon is especially good as Laura’s roommate Lilith, whilst John Waters makes the most of his few scenes as the school’s newest recruit, Reverend Shepherd, whom all the girls are instantly and madly besotted with. An almost unrecognizable Barry Humphries offers convincing fire and brimstone moments as their principal, Reverend Strachey; his public denouncement – via a wrathful hailstorm of public accusation – of a girl caught stealing is an electrifying outburst and memorable moment.

Though not explicit, a harsh religiosity is often inferred; an adherence to purity that ultimately chokes creativity and leads to deception to escape thunderous retribution. After getting herself invited to Reverend Shepherd’s home, Laura resorts to fabrication to infuriate the other girls who’ve gone mad with jealousy and suspect a mortifyingly “sordid intrigue” between them. But it’s a fickle world, Laura discovers, for once her playful deceit is flushed out into the open, the girls are no longer playing. They converge on her like a coven of razor-tongued witches, only jealous that Laura’s time spent alone with the Reverend wasn’t theirs to brag about.

The subtle work of Hilary Ryan as Evelyn, the object of Laura’s obsession later on, can’t be underestimated either. She projects a reserved, dignified grace that snares the vulnerable Laura in her web; the younger girl is tantalised by her maturity, sophistication and ability to deal with men who Laura hates and fears in equal measure. The faint crush Laura develops for her will eventually become another painful but instructive chapter on her path to maturity and finding her true self but for a while, fed by her immature longings, Evelyn proves to be the embodiment of everything Laura aspires to become.

The final two sequences pose fascinating questions in ambiguous ways. From a first-person perspective we see Laura receiving congratulations on her successful transition to accomplished pianist. Everyone is there in fleeting glimpses, a succession of figures that dogged and chided her along the way. But are they real or just wishfully provoked faces conjured from her wildest flights of fancy, a future she’s dreamt up in self-preservation or revenge?

Finally there’s the sight of Laura taking off from the group in a park setting; just off to “have a good run” she tells them. She disappears through the ranks of park revelers – the jaunty brass band, the elegant ladies escorted under sun umbrellas – to a point on the distant horizon. But is she just running away, or towards something specific? Is this closing scene an affirmation of Laura’s free will? Or simply a negation of the limited possibilities of life at starchy institutions of learning like The Ladies College with their active discouragement of individuality? Either way, The Getting of Wisdom remains an Australian classic and one of our more enlightening and entertaining coming-of-age stories.

Sunday Too Far Away (Hannam, 1975)



Set in 1956, Ken Hannam’s first feature is a landmark depiction of the lives of a close-knit crew of sheep shearers in outback Australia. Ostensibly the story of Foley (Jack Thompson), the film encompasses a series of rich characterisations of the men who are requisitioned by the cordial Tim King (Max Cullen), a local businessman who has long had an ambition to be a shearing contractor and take out a shed of his own. When his old friend Foley unexpectedly turns up after an ill-fated relocation to Brisbane, he decides to win him over, hoping for a snowball effect to claim more of the town’s best shearers in the process, despite most of them having upcoming contracts to fulfill.

Loading up Tim’s car, they head out to the remote Timberoo shed where the bulk of the film takes place. Here Foley and an odd assortment of mostly toughened veterans undertake the daily grind of their trade for six weeks whilst the property’s owner, the “Cocky,” Mr. Dawson (Philip Ross) oversees all, his greatest fear being that one of these brash outlaws will experience a slip in concentration and lop off the testicles of one of his prize-winning rams. Dawson is contemptuous of the men, regardless of their necessity, admitting to his teenage daughter Sheila (Lisa Peers) after the first day that “I’d forgotten what scum they are.”

The men alongside Foley include grizzled old warrior and unrepentant alcoholic, Garth (Reg Lye), comic relief Ugly (John Ewart) and a suspicious outsider from NSW, Arthur Black (Peter Cummins), who seems the only man capable of going toe-to-toe with Foley in the race for the shed’s top dog. Together, through days of sweltering heat and weekends of inevitably hard drinking that flatten out the hours of boredom into manageable lengths of time, the men somehow survive. Colourful references abound to the wretched cooking of their hired gun chef, the ogre-like Quinn (Ken Weaver) who Foley is finally called to act upon on behalf of the mens collective aching stomachs. His plan involves getting the big fella drunk on his beloved Essence of Lemon, bottles of which he ‘borrows’ from Mr. Dawson’s home, before pouncing on the weakened giant at his time of greatest vulnerability and delivering a withering blow.

The single most distinctive feature of Sunday Too Far Away (1975) is its remarkable authenticity. Filmed in remote South Australia at Cariewerloo shearing station once used in Fred Zinnemann’s The Sundowners (1960), it manages to immerse us in the sweaty, oppressive confines of this place with its constant, rowdy atmospheric clang. For these men, this is a vocation they’ve reluctantly entrusted their livelihoods to and though times are tough they’re duty bound to keep pushing through the pain barrier. With the lens of cinematographer Geoff Burton smothering the men in the heat of battle, there’s no risk of them being unduly glamourised or cariacaturised, the monotony and abrasive physical labour of torrid days spent staving off heat and an endless tide of reluctant ovine adversaries palpable in virtually every scene. The film is as much about male bonding as anything else and it captures the enduring capacity of these men to form a cohesive working unit even under the most trying circumstances.

Thompson has a plethora of memorable roles buried in his back-catalogue but Foley is undoubtedly one of his finest characterisations. Despite his air of invincibility and laconic attitude, a bittersweet aura lingers about him. On one hand his legendary deeds in the shearing sheds have earned him respect, his reputation having spread far and wide, but there’s a subtly-defined emptiness inside him too, rearing its head in moments of silent contemplation. It’s like a yearning for some intangible quality that has escaped him; a direction that might have provided his life with greater meaning. You sense that his imposing physical presence and dominance in the sheds have been a dangerous drawback preventing him from seeking another escape route. His return from Brisbane in the opening scene infers a capitulation; a man who surveyed the horizon for fresh adventures and came to the conclusion that there’s really only one place he can ever call home. He re-enters the fray with his tail between his legs, but quickly picks up his downed tools with the kind of tenaciousness and bravado that exemplifies the outback Australian spirit. As good as Thompson is, he’s more than matched by the rest of the cast who are each afforded indelible moments that, although small, effectively create an assembly of depth out of John Dingwall’s first-class screenplay.

The film finally touches on the shearer’s strike of 1956 as the price of wool forced their wages down; this in turn brought an influx of ‘scab’ labour to town where the frustration and despair of Foley and the men manifests itself in rage that eventually leads to an all-in pub brawl. It concludes this magnificent film with a telling statement on the unity and integrity of ‘average’ Australians who’ll fight like rabid dogs to uphold their dignity, to protect their home ground and maintain their quality of life. The only thing that spoils the effect? Thompson’s god-awful singing of the theme song – penned by Bob Ellis – over the front and end credits. Talk about pained screeching! Jack’s vocal work sounds like the emissions of a sheep or five ensnared in a barbed wire fence, baa-ing for swift mercy. Luckily everything in between these two grating outbursts more than makes up for Jack’s crimes against good musical taste.

Gross Misconduct (Miller, 1993)


You have to wonder if Australia’s own variation on Fatal Attraction is now just a discredited footnote in the career of Naomi Watts. Surely she’s long suppressed all recollection of her demented schoolgirl act in Gross Misconduct (1993), directed unremarkably by George Miller (not to be confused with the George Miller who directed Mad Max). Too early, here, are signifiers of the impending subtext-rich pop psychology laid out: the opening tracking shot through a gloomy mansion at night trawls past an elaborate series of lit candles – a danger sign in any film, for only a certifiably mad person would go to all that trouble – before resting on a naked Jennifer (Watts), dreamily pleasuring herself in an inviting four-poster bed. Jennifer, it turns out, is a gorgeous blonde with an angelic countenance and a murky past. She lives with her wealthy father (Adrian Wright), her mother having died in a crash that he apparently still blames himself for, though in stock thrillers such as these car-crash deaths are never what they seem and either serve as red herrings or risible clues to later crimes.

Jennifer’s eye lingers longest on the man at the head of her University classroom; he’s art history professor Justin Thorne (Jimmy Smits), an American who has adopted Melbourne as his base. As well as being his most devout student, Jennifer doubles as babysitter for Justin and his wife Laura (Sarah Chadwick), allowing her unlimited access to their home where she creeps to his bedroom to inhale the scent of his clothes and smile knowingly at his stash of condoms. She’s besotted with the man, but this lustful admiration shows signs of crossing over dangerous borders into that strictly cinematic realm of obsession. It’s here that innocent gestures are misconstrued and ordinary men become objectified and vilified in the same breath. Justin’s life is about to be tossed down a well, but as a man it’s clearly his own doing. He’s that dangerously appealing type: rugged, effortlessly charming, and intelligent without a need for spectacles; he even moonlights as a saxophonist in a jazz club, giving Jennifer yet another reason to adore him. As if they don’t see enough of Justin in class, Jennifer and her friends congregate at the club as well, speculating about whether he’s the type to stray (undoubtedly yes, the consensus seems to be), tossing lurid visions into the gulf of Jennifer’s quickly unravelling subconscious.

When Justin offers a lift home after a night of babysitting, Jennifer makes her first real move, bemoaning her lowly status on the first rung of Plato’s ladder of love. A hesitant, probing kiss, which Justin neither resists or reacts to, is the dangerous first move in a game that will bring about his moral downfall. The inevitable sex act occurs, though Justin admirably resists many more advancements beforehand, and it’s under unusual circumstances that it finally takes place. It’s a standout sequence too: a stormy night reaching full steam, Justin’s harsh pronouncement met with violent rage from Jennifer – the kind that can only be quelled by physical restraint. Naturally this close proximity draws the calamitous spectre of arousal to the surface and neither party, it seems, is fully cognisant of what happens thereafter. The scene is rife with unsubtle metaphors such as Justin’s raging office hearth as a stand-in for his lust as it’s stoked to new heights; even more obvious is the branch bursting in through the window, symbolic of an alien, irrevocable intrusion into Justin’s life as they lay draped in moonlight, sweating and misty-eyed with confusion.

Always more comfortable on the small screen than in features, Smits at least emerges with his dignity intact, though even he must have been pondering the wisdom of his decision to be a part of this production at times. Case in point is the scene where Justin enters his lawyer’s office, only to be greeted with an ad-libbed limerick poking fun at the sexually provocative nature of his faltering reputation. Smits must have been tempted to turn tail at this point whilst perusing the finer details of his contract in search of an escape clause. For the alluring Watts, this is most likely a regular first casualty on Retrospective Night, the one credit long ago blotted out from her CV with a slathering of liquid paper. She has our full attention as a luscious, coquettish enticement in the throes of schoolgirl lust; she’s less convincing however when having to summon more complicated emotional responses from beneath the pulpy excesses of the unhinged vixen desperate to lose her virginity in the idealised way she describes in her diary.

The film’s straight-faced manner actually works to its benefit, even if its flirtation with aberrant psychology is fatuous and simplified to grease the tracks of Justin’s histrionic fall from grace to come. The construction and more intimate detailing of the film, adapted from a play by Lance Peters, feel wonky and absurd; note the soap-opera moves to a window to deliver or receive monologues; the accused and accuser interacting in the middle of a trial; the tacked-on incestuous overtones to explain all. A few simple alterations along the way might easily have plugged gaping holes in its interior logic.

The wrap-up too has its failings, bringing with it an almost unforgivable whiff of cheapest melodrama. And yet for reasons I can’t logically explain, Gross Misconduct remains a film with “guilty pleasure” scrawled all over it in jagged red lipstick strokes. In retrospect it’s easy to heap scorn on it, but there’s undeniable entertainment value here, if not staying power. For that reason, it’s actually worth savouring – surreptitiously, of course.

Running on Empty (Clark, 1982)


Australian youths of the 1980s were apparently just as likely to fall prey to the same foolish distractions as those of today if John Clark’s mostly unintentionally hilarious Running on Empty (1982) is any indication. This was only ever going to be a cult film, with its undernourished treatment of hotted-up cars, schoolboy vendettas, abnormally high hair and fake Italian accents.

On the backstreets of Sydney, the dastardly Fox (Richard Moir) is ruler and king, disposing of all challengers on the illegal drag racing scene with ease. In the opening sequence we watch in horror as his latest opponent is propelled to a fiery death as the crowd scurries away. Fox’s girlfriend of sorts, and a seemingly reluctant one, Julie (Deborah Conway), soon catches the eye of another prospective racer in Mike (Terry Serio). When Mike is caught in the act driving her around and getting a bit frisky, Fox sends in his loathsome, meat-headed minions to rough him up and propose the kind of challenge that has no escape clause. He must race Fox three times with the stakes rising exponentially with any loss.

Mike is unable to avert defeat the first time around, so with the now sympathetic Julie and his mechanic Tony (Vangelis Mourikis) in tow, they head for the wilds of the outback to drum up some mug racers to thrash, thus building a bank with which to make the necessary upgrades for his car. It’s the only conceivable means of out-dueling Fox, and after running into some double-dealing rednecks who reduce his beloved transportation to a ghost of its former self he calls on the aid of Rebel (Max Cullen), an aging and blind James Dean wannabe who looks like he just stepped out of a malfunctioning time machine.

Mike returns for a second bout with Fox but the latter’s underhanded tricks lead to a disastrous outcome for Mike’s car which, beyond all repair, has to be put out to pasture. For the third and final encounter, the most drastic of measures is required to overcome Fox’s seemingly invincible Dodge. Mike now has to suck up his humility and go crawling back to Rebel to ask permission for the use of his immaculately restored Chevy to give him a chance at reaching the winner’s podium.

Though this simplistic film follows a predictable path, it has achieved some notoriety as a minor cult hit, the type of film that people with a tendency for falling head over heels for fast cars will lap up the drool-inducing associations it conjures. The recurring themes have been put through the wringer in far superior variations, of course: dethroning the arch nemesis (always an unconscionable bastard of the first order) to achieve glory and get the girl; then there’s speed as an unsubtle metaphor for breaking free from the constraints of authority.

This was Clark’s first and only film; seemingly he vanished without a trace after putting together this curiosity – a film set in Sydney and, bizarrely, funded by The Film Corporation of Western Australia. Barry Tomblin’s screenplay is mostly witless and superficial in an almost deliberately B-grade manner. Witness Fox’s admonishment of Tony prior to beating him up: “What a lot of sauce from such a little piece of spaghetti.” Tomblin too is credited with no other project in his career. Perhaps he and Clark got sucked into the same vortex whilst daring to imagine a sequel.

Luckily our hero Mike is a sympathetic firebrand, the kind of fundamentally decent guy we’ll readily root for under these circumstances. His reluctance to back peddle is endearing in the way that a dog wrestling with a bone for hours wins your respect for its sheer tenacity. Serio has charisma of a crude sort, and enough good looks to earn him a passing grade. It’s no surprise however that pop singer Conway’s career haemorrhaged soon after. Mourikis makes for a lovable offsider, suspicious accent and all, whilst Moir doesn’t even get a chance to chew up the scenery, so bare are the landscapes – both literal and metaphorical – of Tomblin’s limited imagination.

Cullen deserves special mention for his funny but excruciatingly awful portrayal of Rebel. His speech is littered with corny American sayings spouted with an accent that wavers in and out like a dodgy shortwave radio signal. And yet somehow he’s hard to hate, especially with that camel tied up in his vacant lot and a propensity for referring to everyone as “cat.” Then there’s the random appearances of Penne Hackforth-Jones and Graham “Auntie Jack” Bond as a couple of ludicrously attired, impotent police officers who look like porn actors teeing up their paper thin personas in those shakily overheated few moments before they rip off their shirts.

The final showdown between Fox and Mike is over fairly quickly, with a thoughtful, wordless pause inserted before the charcoal burning final image that – in a film supported by far sturdier framework – you couldn’t resist labeling ‘iconic’. It ends this forgotten film – cherished by an odd few – on an exultant, audacious high.

Newsfront (Noyce, 1978)



With its wealth of archival news footage seamlessly integrated into an absorbing period drama, Philip Noyce’s 1978 feature debut, Newsfront, can rightly be lauded as a milestone of Australian cinema. Boasting a cast of the highest calibre – a mix of emerging heavyweights and fresh faces about to make their mark – it casts venerable light on the tireless work undertaken behind the scenes of news reporting in the 1940’s and ‘50’s.

The film opens in black and white with footage from historic newsreels, including Chico Marx leading troops through a rendition of Waltzing Matilda; following is a press conference with Prime Minister Ben Chifley and the newsmen, whose task requires them to track the most noteworthy stories down, setting up their positions. For the first of many times, Noyce conveys the sense of opening a time capsule and placing fictional figures in the midst of historical events. We meet the head cameraman for leading newsmakers Cinetone, Len Maguire (Bill Hunter), and his assistant, a recently emigrated young Englishman, Chris Hewitt (Chris Haywood). On the other side of the fence is rival Charlie (John Ewart), star cameraman for Newsco, who’s nearing fifty, with battles aplenty in the field behind him and the scars to prove it.

Though the two companies are competing for the same audience in cinemas across the land, an affectionate camaraderie exists between them. Instead of hurled insults there are tender reproaches, an unspoken credo of men united in a common cause. Both sides even socialize together without any awkwardness, the sentiment of a singular purpose uniting them in the face of social upheaval. Grounded in reality these men barely conform to any fictional identity, and the clever insertion of footage from so many key events shaping an evolving nation provides the film with almost documentary-like dimensions to validate them further.

The only bone of lustful contention comes in the form of Cinetone employee, Amy Mackenzie (Wendy Hughes); Len has designs on her but she remains the casual interest of his brother Frank (Gerard Kennedy) who keeps her at arm’s length and happens to be Newsco’s amiable head honcho. Once on the same side, Frank has ascended the ranks of Cinetone’s chief rival and now harbours ambitions of reaching an international audience. With adequate funding to achieve it, he heads for America in a whirlwind move, leaving Len to his humble devotions and a crestfallen but philosophical Amy behind. Len has his own fledgling marriage to Fay (Angela Punch-McGregor) to contend with, one soon soured by her remoteness and his own wandering eye. Len is indifferent to her religious devotions too, creating a potentially irreconcilable rift.

The edges between fiction and reality are effectively blurred by the sleek, uncluttered screenplay on which Noyce collaborated with Bob Ellis; there’s not a single rough transition between the two time-frames, even when the recreation of the era switches from black and white to colour, as it does on numerous occasions. History serves the quiet heroism and dignity of these men well, amassing the footage that Australians, in the pre-television dawn, became dependant on for contact with the rest of the country; crucial too were the social issues encroaching upon news headlines as we evolved through another important change of government and a wave of anti-communism which sparked a national referendum. Especially memorable is the brilliantly evoked Maitland floods of ’55, a sequence in which Noyce’s footage feels every bit as bona fide as the original black and white vision of the time. As the late 40’s and 50’s are negotiated with subtle fast-forwards, the threat of television suddenly looms large for both sides, but the integrity of these men is never undermined by a lack of commitment or motivation to serve public need above all else.

Hunter’s overpowering presence holds every scene captive to his laconic, distinctly Australian authenticity; given the rare opportunity to shrug off colourful character roles for a lead, he thrives; there’s genuine poignancy in many domestic scenes that might have easily been supplanted by mawkishness with a little less refinement. He’s a highly sympathetic central figure, despite his brother’s assertion that he’s the perfect company man – loyal and unambitious. The emerging Hayward offers occasional comic respite at Len’s side whilst Hughes is luminous, as ever, whether captured in colour or monochrome by Vincent Monton’s intuitive camerawork. A young Bryan Brown has a decent supporting role too as a headstrong, politically-motivated editor; in fact, not a single bit player hits so much as a wrong note under Noyce’s assured direction.

Rich with historical context and believable characterisations, Newsfront is a dramatic success on every level; a telling tribute to the work of Australians in an important era of media relations and the way we finally began accessing the world through a wholly visual medium. A sparkling, auspicious debut for Noyce – who would be Hollywood-bound a decade later in the wake of the commercially successful Dead Calm (1989) – Newsfront remains a landmark film from the Golden Age of our cinema’s history.

The Devil’s Playground (1974)


A pointed examination of both the nurturing capabilities and detrimental effects of Catholicism, Fred Schepisi’s The Devil’s Playground (1974) was shot in Geelong for just $300,000 and effectively drew upon experiences derived from his own brief flirtation with a godly vocation, spending nearly two years inside a seminary in his mid-teens.

Set in 1953, a trio of central characters become the subject of focus: firstly, young student Tom (Simon Burke), a chronic bed wetter who’s being gradually distracted from his religious devotions; he becomes representative of all the boys and their increasingly common lapses, innocence on the cusp of corruption from the wider world. Tom’s own weakness finds a physical outlet in his constant masturbation, a topic often humorously referenced by the boys whose close proximity to puberty draws stern-faced, dire warnings from the Brothers, who in turn seem oblivious to the silly smirks their grave lectures inspire.

Much loved Brother Victor (Nick Tate) is well aware of the restrictive code that dominates his Catholic duty but in Tom and the other boys he sees a means of gently guiding still-impressionable youths beyond the constrictive boundaries of this place by treating them with almost fatherly devotion. A reckless drinker when off his leash and devoid of any social skills around women, Victor can’t imagine life anywhere else for himself. On a basic level – call it devotion or loneliness – he clings to his faith with all its inherent beliefs of fostering a community spirit within an educational context.

As with any film worth its salt dealing with Catholic faith, the all-encompassing force of guilt is evoked. Yes indeed, as sure as the day is long, Catholic guilt will endure, and Brother Francine (Arthur Dignam) is a provocative symbol of the deep-seated conflict the notion inspires, a model of starkest repression. He’s also Brother Victor’s polar opposite. A formal, harsh taskmaster who never allows himself to get close to the boys – earning their derision at every turn – Francine espouses the laws of God with the calamitous promise of damnation to follow for non-conformists. For him, the Lord’s chosen few are those who regard stringent denial a prerequisite for passing the ultimate theological test; he hovers over them proclaiming “an undisciplined mind is the Devil’s playground.”

On a subliminal level however, Francine suffers at the hands of primitive forces pulling him in the opposite direction. Whilst Victor and another young brother head into town for a football match, Francine visits the public baths where he can’t prevent his eyes from straying, catching unavoidable half-glimpses of female flesh; a form of torturous temptation, they’re enough to send him into paroxysms of guilt, soon manifesting themselves in disturbing dreams of his naked body being ravaged in deep waters by a surreal, swirling mobile of elegant, rapturous nymphs.

A fundamental issue for Schepisi is the division between old school and more contemporary – for 1950’s Australia – methods of Catholic indoctrination. On opposing sides sit Victor and Francine, drawn into direct conflict when a tragedy at the seminary finally causes resentments to boil over. Bemoaning an almost medieval adherence to enforcing rules upon the innocent boys, Victor rails against the increasingly dispirited Francine whose final outburst – a result of his morbid inner conflict – is one of the film’s most memorable scenes.

It all becomes too much for Francine, his reluctant body’s unwholesome obsessions slowly overwhelming his spiritual devotions. On the verge of leaving the order, his final declaration is a telling insight into the price paid for his denials: “I hate life” he assures the assembled brothers, “I hate it!”

A visiting missionary priest, Father Marshall (a flawed and overly mannered Tom Keneally) further illustrates the conflicting perceptions attributable to the church; a generally benign and well-liked figure, his homilies turn into fire and brimstone rants, warning of the temptations of evil and ways of being reduced to one of the “howling damned who do not see God’s face.”

On one hand a sombre and sensitive coming-of-age story, The Devil’s Playground is also an unsettling examination of Catholicism, probing its lack of relevance in advancing with the times and moulding the minds of each new generation. Regardless of the decades that separate it from the here and now, Schepisi’s film is as relevant as ever in its assurances of religion’s weakness, that inevitable annulment of rhapsodic but anachronistic eulogizing, bound to turn away as many as it converts.

Though his screenplay is second to none, there’s no doubt Schepisi’s greatly helped by the quality of his actors, particularly the brilliant Tate and Dignam as the two Brothers with geometrically opposed views of how their religious ideals should be imparted to the flock. Young Burke, under the patient and tender tutelage of his director, gives a very convincing debut performance for the most part.

Long acclaimed – and rightfully so – as an Australian classic, The Devil’s Playground is ample proof of its director’s prodigious early talent, whose promise would be further realised with an adaptation of Keneally’s The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith two years later.