Fantasy is usually understood as a situation that one enjoys thinking about but that is unlikely to happen OR a story or type of literature that describes situations that are very different from real life and more closely linked to fairy tales, myth and legend and often involve such things as magic or just the generally abnormal.
Thus, fantasy is a genre of speculative fiction, often inspired by the real world. Its roots are in oral traditions, which then became fantasy literature and drama. Nowadays you can find fantasy in various media, including film, television, graphic novels, video games, animated movies, and manga. One of them is the series H2O: Just Add Water.
The series H20: Just Add Water is a worldwide known Australian fantasy teen drama written by Jonathan M. Shiff which first released in 2006. It was filmed in Australia, more precisely the Gold Coast. The show is about three teenage girls; Emma, Rikki and Cleo, who are facing everyday problems with the important caveat being that they are mermaids with different powers over water. The girls one day ended up in the water under a dormant volcano, at Mako Island, just as a full moon passes above them. There something strange happened. The next day they discover that ten seconds after coming into contact with water, they transform into mermaids. As time goes on, they also discover that they have supernatural powers over water, such as moving water, freezing it or bring it to a boil. With time they adapt their new abilities and lifestyle. Along the way, their smart friend Lewis is there for the girls to help them keep their secret and to find out more about it.
However, the question is: What exactly makes this show an Australian Fantasy and not for example Australian Science-Fiction? Is it the setting, certain themes or even the authors place of birth?
Fantasy is distinguished from the genres of science fiction and horror by the absence of scientific explanations and fear-inducing storylines respectively even though these genres overlap. But fantasy crosses the boundaries of reality in a way that can no longer be explained by laws of nature and scientific knowledge. Fantasy is therefore the oldest fictional genre, because all mythological figures and creatures fall into this category: gods, demons, vampires, mythical animals/creatures, monsters, and other magical figures, and also abilities (such as superpowers). Therefore, one can say that the Australian fantasy genre is therefore difficult to define, but what is certain is that it can be very diverse, due to the influence of the many different cultures that exist in Australia. A text can be Australian fantasy if there is an Australian setting, it deals with Australian culture or even if the author is Australian or has at least his residence there. However, the Australian literature is not necessarily set in Australia or explicitly about Australians or/and Australia. Because this is not a complete list, and it is not required that Australian Fantasy stories must have all this points to be considered Australian Fantasy.
In this case the show’s author is from Australia, as well as the three main characters and the setting is also in Australia. And also, the fact that they are mermaids and have supernatural powers and magical/supernatural things happens makes it an Australian Fantasy show. It makes you dive into a world were mermaids exist and makes you part of the secret, that you forget while watching that there normally are no such creatures as mermaids with superpowers. It is also enriching to see the beautiful Gold Coast and the capital Sydney, where most of the episodes are filmed.
References:
H2O: Just Add Water Ryan, John. “Reflections on an Australian Fantasy: constructing the impossible.” Coolabah. Vol. 18, 2016, pp. 16-22
At first glance the Australian movie Mad Max: Fury Road by George Miller seems to be a stereotypical action movie; wild car chases, burning gasoline tanks, and deadly car crashes. But when you move your focus towards deeper meaning, the movie is clearly about women’s empowerment and feminism. Six women fighting for their freedom, against a cruel postapocalyptic regime. Six women are trying to escape their male predators in a world marked by a collapsed society, famine, droughts, male leadership, and natural catastrophes.
“Our babies will not be warlords.” “Who ruined the world? “We are not things.”
This is the powerful message left behind by five brave women who escaped dictator Joe. Imprisoned and used as “breeding machines”, their only purpose was to bear Joe more sons. Joe is the gruesome ruler, oppressing society by controlling the overall water supplies. Moreover, he especially oppresses women by taking away their freedom and sexually assaulting them. His character is a good example for many misogynistic men – men who are hostile towards women by believing they are more worthy and capable than women. Their message embodies what many women have felt for centuries. Even though the movie is set in the future the patriarchy still exists, moreover, it worsened. It is an act of rebellion when these five-woman escape with heroine Furiosa’s help. They actively emancipate themselves and risk their lives for independence. They rather die in a deadly car chase than submit to male torture and oppression.
Furiosa is the heroine of the story, and she embodies female empowerment and strength. She is the only female among the military ranks who serves in Joe as an imperator. When she was ordered to protect Joe’s wives, she forms a bond with the women and decides to escape with them, by hiding the women in the tank of her War rig, which she used to drive for Joe. She turned to a rebel overnight. She deceives Joe and catches him off guard. Her strength, commitment, and intelligence all contribute to their success in the end. She tricks Joe and escapes with his wives. Joe sees the women as his property and therefore gets angry when he noticed he was tricked. He responds with a violent hunt; however, he is defeated in the end. When the women return to Joe’s fortress they are cheered up and celebrated as heroes.
In the movie, men want to achieve singular glory. However, Furiosa and the other women work together as a team and their success is built by a collective power. In the end, they can improve the oppressive system of this post-apocalyptic society. “Mad Max: Fury Road” is a movie about feminism and the rebellion against the patriarchy. Women fight as a team against men who try to bring back old gender roles, and male authority. Therefore, the movie also tries to warn us by implying that fight for gender equality is not over yet. Misogyny is not only a problem of the past, but also a problem of the present, and future. Misogyny can just be defeated if women work together and not against each other.
“Hello hello? Thought you were salvage, you are about to die!”
Following the action-packed opening mission and violently crash landing on the moon of Concordia, Borderlands The Pre-sequel, with its bizarre but strangely amusing name, opens up with a thick Australian accent, something that took most gamers by surprise.
Known for its quirky dialogue and loot-based gameplay, Borderlands has been deemed the precursor of the “looter shooter” genre, a genre that to this day is unbelievably successful. While the original games Borderlands 1, 2, 3 were all developed by American studio Gearbox Software, 2K Australia, a subsidiary studio under the branch of Gearbox studios, pitched the idea of a prequel game following the release of Borderlands 2.
This prequel would explore the backstory of some of the characters, while simultaneously setting up the future following Borderlands 2 abrupt, cliffhanger ending. In short, 2K Australia wanted to develop a special kind of game, one which took into account both the past and the future: a pre-sequel indeed. Gearbox Studios approved the pitch and 2K Australia began their journey on making their own game. While the pre-sequel built upon pre-existing mechanics, the Australian developer wanted to put their own mark on the Borderlands franchise, and a lasting one at that.
Mainstream media and videogames in general are largely dominated by American influence and Borderlands up to that point in time, was no exception to this. In response to this, 2K Australia saw a great opportunity to sprinkle some of their own culture into the game: since the game took place in a new destination, why not make the inhabitants of the moon Concordia Australian? While the series was always known for its humorous dialogue, the developers who now had their own Australian writing staff, made use of this unique opportunity to implement a plethora of references to Australian comedy and culture. Charming characters like “The Don”, an aptly named NPC whose name is a reference to the renowned batsmen Donald Bradman, serves as one of these examples. Never seen without his bat, this NPC fittingly references the Australian’s favorite sport of cricket on numerous occasions, even tasking the players to retrieve his ball in homonymously named mission “The Don”. The developers at 2K Australia were seemingly quite invested in Australian literature too, as the bush ballad “Waltzing Matilda” found itself recreated in the mission “The Empty Billabong”. Written by Banjo Paterson in the late 1800s, the song is about a “swagman” who gets himself into trouble by killing the sheep of a nearby landowner. Unwilling to get caught by the pursuing authorities, he defiantly declares “You’ll never catch me alive!”, before ultimately drowning himself in a nearby billabong. In the Borderlands version, a NPC named Peepot tasks the player with finding their best friend, “The Jolly Swagman”, who has seemingly gone missing. Similar to his counterpart, “The Jolly Swagman” meets his untimely demise near a river — in this case one made of lava — while holding onto a tuckerbag. Upon opening his tuckerbag, it is revealed that it contained a baby Kraggon, — Borderlands equivalent of a sheep. While the overall setting and humor of the Borderlands universe are unique to say the least, the writers managed to stay somewhat true to the original, simultaneously adding their own twist to the story.
Other more peculiar examples include a foul-mouthed, talking shotgun which stands in direct reference to the “Bogan” stereotype. The Bogan stereotype, which is quite renown in Australia and New Zealand, describes an unfashionable and uncouth person, one that is usually of lower social status. The dialogue of “Boganella”, certainly reflects the colorful vocabulary of someone who is supposed to represent this particular stereotype.
Taking everything into account, this brings us to the final point of this blogpost. The Borderlands community took a divided stance on both the unfamiliar accent and the quirky cultural references. While most of these examples went over the heads of the majority of people, Australian gamers were thrilled to finally see a game in which they could see themselves represented. English is getting more and more prevalent in every aspect of mainstream media, yet people tend to forget that other dialects and cultures exist beyond the culturally accepted American and British variation. While the pre-sequel was ultimately met with mixed reviews overall, 2K Australia sprinkled in linguistic and cultural diversity one a scale that many games to this day have not displayed. I for one enjoyed learning about Australian culture in this game, and I hope to see some more of it in the future.
Cargo is originally a horror short film released in 2013 by Yolanda Romke and Ben Howling. It is seven minutes long and deals with a father who was infected with a zombie virus after getting bitten by his wife. Knowing his forthcoming demise, the father puts his infant daughter in his backpack and lets a stick with a piece of flesh dangle in front him. Consequently, he follows that piece of flesh after turning into a zombie to make sure he finds survivors to ensure his daughter has a future. Four years after the short film was released, Yolanda Romke and Ben Howling had a chance to turn their passion project into a full length movie for Netflix with Martin Freeman playing the role of Andy, the father from the short film, and Susie Porter playing his wife Kay.
The movie has the same premise as the short film but begins before the events of it take place. Andy and Kay, alongside their infant daughter Rosie, live on a boat safely away from the zombie rotten land but Kay gets infected after going through an abandoned boat. Knowing they have 48 hours before she turns into a zombie, Andy and his wife go on land hoping to find supplies. After a car crash, Kay starts to transform faster and ends up biting Andy. This marks the start of Andy’s journey to find survivors and a safe home for his daughter Rosie.
Although the movie may seem like another zombie film, it has several aspects that differentiates itself from other movies of the zombie genre. Primarily, the word zombie is not mentioned in the movie. The directors themselves wanted to avoid the cliches that come with the sub genre and designed the idea of a ‘‘viral‘‘, to make their infected have their own stylistics. Unlike other zombie films, human relation plays a big a role in Cargo as the motives of most characters are driven by their loved ones. Throughout the film Andy meets a girl called Thoomi. Thoomi’s father is also infected, but she is trying to keep him alive by feeding him with wildlife and hiding him from survivors, in hopes of finding a shaman. Thoomi’s introduction opens the movie to the significant role of indigenous characters. In the end Rosie’s life is saved not only by Andy but also by Thoomi and other people of her community as a great deal of them are still alive and healthy. This also demonstrates that indigenous groups managed to survive through to their ability and history in hunting and living in the outback which has left them with better knowledge to live in a world where society is mostly gone. The directors closely worked with an indigenous script consultant called Jon Bell and also asked other natives for criticism on their script and permission to use their language. It also heavily focuses on family and the relationship of a father and his daughter similar to the South Korean zombie movie Train to Busan by Yeon Sang-Ho. Nevertheless, it is still different from Sang-Ho’s film as Romke and Howling decided to leave out classic horror features such as showing great amounts of gore or making use of jump scares to create tension. The real tension comes from the ticking clock of Andy‘s transformation and the seemingly endless landscapes of the Australian outback.
Cargo is a new take on the traditional zombie film, a genre which has recently become boring. Yolanda Romke and Ben Howling created a fantastic full length zombie movie laid on the foundation of a seven-minute short film and managed to find the perfect balance between horror and the relationship of a family during apocalyptic times. This movie, alongside the aforementioned Train to Busan, hopefully marks the start of a new and revolutionized era of the zombie sub genre.
“You can’t transform a society for the better with violence, Ashala. Only with ideas.”
(Kwaymullina 190)
As a person who genuinely enjoys dystopian novels, I have encountered many novels that involve the same aspects of this genre. The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf surprised me in several ways, and I really enjoyed its unique use of narrative devices and play of temporal and spatial factors. The novel is set 300 years in the future and nature is almost completely destroyed. The main protagonist, Ashala Wolf, is the leader of a tribe with children who have special powers. They live together in the so-called Firstwood, outside of the city. These kids are being chased by the government and Ashala ends up getting captured and locked up. She is tied to a machine, which then extracts her memories.
The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf is divided into different days of Ashala being locked up, as well as into core memories the machine extracts from her mind. The switch between these two allows the novel to build up tension and ultimately come to a plot twist that no one expects.
Ambelin Kwaymullina uses the Aboriginal concept of time to represent indigenous perception and values within her novel. In contrast to the western standard of perceiving time in a linear model, Aboriginal people see time as something circular, something that is moving around an individual. The more important an event is, the closer it is to time. This is clearly shown in her narrative structure, as she reconstructs the events going on around Ashala Wolf and their importance to the storyline. The chapters jump in-between time, which gives the reader a nice foreshadowing of what is going to help her get out of the institution where Ashala has been kept.
The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf is a Young Adult Dystopian fiction that gives a voice to Australian history and combines it with a beautiful story about bravery and rebellion. Anyone who enjoys a lighthearted post-apocalyptic dystopia should give this book a try, it is definitely worth it. The combination of mythology, as well as futuristic themes, makes this novel a unique experience. I am also excited to read more about Ashala and her fellow peers in the other books of the tribe series: The Disappearance of Ember Crow and The Foretelling of Georgie Spider.
Bibliography
Kwaymullina, Ambelin. The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. Candlewick Press, 2016.
Rewatching H20: Just Add Water a couple of weeks ago, I started to wonder whether it is in some ways connected to the myth of mermaids living in Australia – considering that it is an Australian children’s show about mermaids!
Firstly, for those who have not seen the series, let me give you a brief summary. It is a series about school girls who turn to mermaids, immediately after having contact with water. Of course, nobody is supposed to know that they are mermaids, therefore life gets very difficult for them and is mainly about them trying to hide their real selves.
So let’s have a look at some Australian myths.
The Yawkyawk
Yawkyawk literally means :”young woman spirit being”. (occultworld.com) The Yawkyawk is a creature with origins in Australian mythology, legend and folklore. The legend of the Yawkyawk states that women can get pregnant, just by visiting a Yawkyawk water hole. It is said that they provide water for plants and sweet water for people to drink. When they are angered, they supposedly start disruptive storms and disrupt marriages. Their true form is believed to be a woman, whose hair is made of algae with a fishtail from her waist downward. Furthermore, they are to be more active at night. There are also some Aboriginal language groups that believe that albino children born to aboriginal parents are a result of mermaid blood in their ancestry. (troublemeg.com)
It should be added, however, that these accounts should be treated with caution as they were most likely not uploaded to the internet by Aboriginal people themselves, but seem to be part of a general cryptozoology community online – perhaps a modern version of colonial collectors of Aboriginal tales and thus somewhat problematic.
Mermaids in H2O
Not only do mermaids in H2O turn into humans and have normal human hair, they also do not help provide water for plants and humans. They have a fishtail once they make contact with water which is a parallel. The mermaids in H20, have their own water hole on Mako Island, which they call the Moon Pool but humans do not get pregnant in that water, they turn into mermaids in that place. The series also features different types of mermaids. The ones that are born as mermaids in the sea, and the main characters of the series, who fall into the moon pool. In conclusion, there are not very many parallels between the myth of the Yawkyawk and H20. The fact that in both, the mermaids have a fishtail and that their own water holes play a big role, even though it is a different one, is in my opinion not enough to call the series based on tales about mermaids told by Aboriginal people; they seem to be conforming to the Eurocentric view on mermaids we know so well from European fairy tales or American films like Disney’s Ariel!
A woman who is stranded in the United States, where she was seeking adventures but is increasingly feeling homesick. Never able to fully arrive in this country the woman wanders through the streets of New York one day until she finally enters a museum that eventually helps her realize that she must go home again to feel whole again. This is the core plot of the short story “Transient”, written by Kellly Joseph.
“And I cry for myself, thousands of miles from home, struggling to stay strong but failing miserably. I don’t know how I strayed so far from my beginnings.”
p. 147
A relatable woman
Reading this story, I was quickly involved, it reminded me of my own experience of leaving my home country and diving in a new and different culture, remote from my roots and familiar surroundings. A major difference to the woman in the story was that I knew the day I would travel home, though, hence I never reached a point of comparable desperation.
Right from the beginning, I was able to sympathize with the female protagonist because of the intimate emotions and thoughts we are presented with. Being “the same awkward, shy-arse girl” is a thought I could relate to, which got me invested in the story and encouraged me to continue reading. I really liked the chain of events that emerged afterwards. Busy city, busy people and no one noticing what is really going on around them. Anonymous in the crowd, just like a beggar, the only person who notices her breaking out into tears at the exhibition. This little twist towards the end that builds a bridge to the beginning reminded me of a spiral inside the story, which in turn made me think of whakapapa, the way Māori look at their heritage.
“Surrounded by thousands of displaced objects, I know what must be done.”
p. 149
Displaced like an exhibit
As the story draws to a close, the protagonist concludes that she must reconnect with her roots. Though it was clear to me that the story could only end in this decision, I enjoyed the metaphor of the museum, making the woman one of many exhibits that are out of place. By relating to one exhibited object in particular, and seeing it in a larger context of displacement, she is able to grasp the severity of her own loneliness and homesickness. All in all, the story was successful in conveying a sense of what it feels like to be out of place, surrounded by strangers in a strange place.
Growing up watching Australian TV shows and movies, we – that is, my generation and before, who were watching a surprising amount of Australian content – unintentionally developed a picture of Australia. A lot of water, beaches and the sea, unusual animals like kangaroos and alligators, sunshine, and great weather. Essentially, a lot of landscapes and positive vibes. As Men at Work said it themselves, it is “the land down under”.
When we start talking about Australian speculative fiction, we realize that it covers a broad genre of books, movies, tv shows, and other media. Once we take a look back at our childhood, we can realize how Australian TV shows that fall into the category of speculative fiction have actually been a part of growing up. Children from various places and generations were able to take a glimpse at Australian science fiction tv shows and form their own opinion and picture of Australia.
By looking at kids tv shows such as Ocean Girl, H2O: Just Add Water,Wicked Science and The Elephant Princess we can acknowledge how much of an impact Australian science fiction and fantasy shows have had around the globe over decades. Different generations were able to watch various approaches of sci-fi characters and touch upon individual topics and stories.
Ocean Girl and H2O: Just Add Water were able to convey similar plots and themes to different generations. Cleo, Emma, Ricki, and Bella are the protagonists of H2O: Just Add Water and Neri, Jason, and Brett of Ocean Girl. The idea of mermaids, underwater civilizations and have been an ongoing myth for centuries such as the island of Atlantis. According to the myth, the island was submerged into the Atlantic Ocean for eternity. Thus, people from all ages – young to old – were all intrigued about stories of the unknown of the ocean and eager to watch mystic creatures such as mermaids and mermen. These two TV shows were able to incorporate these interesting myths and motifs in tv shows for kids to watch and teach them about these centuries’ old legends. The beautiful landscapes and the ocean were a bonus to the nice plot.
Wicked Science on the other hand was able to touch upon the topic of science. It’s a story about regular teenagers who turn into geniuses. An experiment which results in an accident turns the two high-school students Toby and Elizabeth from regular teenagers to kids with scientific superpowers. Whether to use them for good or for bad is up to their own decision. Thus, the tv show teaches kids a valuable lesson to use whichever power they might have for good. Simultaneously, we can follow these school kids along with their everyday life such as friendship problems, family issues and first love encounters.
Lastly, The Elephant Princess is a fantasy tv show about an average teenager, Alex, who one day finds out that she is not the person she always thought she was. It turns out she is the long-lost heir to the throne of a fictional Indian kingdom called Manjipoor. Alex’s life turns upside down and the viewers get to watch whether Alex will be able to master her life between saving the kingdom of Manjipoor and her regular life back home in the Australian suburbs.
All these TV shows were able to draw the interest of children from various places and backgrounds. The key element was the mix of the successful depiction of science fiction and fantasy motifs which were connected to the Australian culture and landscape. Once incorporated and displayed this way, the success was almost inevitable – and generations of children knew of Australian speculative fiction before they’d even heard the term!
(If you haven’t read the first part, check it out here: https://blogs.phil.hhu.de/anglophoneliteratures/2022/02/08/the-long-road-leading-up-to-the-australian-film-revival-part-i/ )
Towards the end of the 1960s, Australian film history was at risk of being completely forgotten. The local film industry was in a state of despair that embraced its looming death rather than its true potential. With no proper record or education in place, barely anyone knew about the early pioneers of Australian cinema anymore (Stratton 1). Even the few aspiring directors left in the country were mostly oblivious to their cultural heritage, since all they ever saw in theaters were Hollywood productions (Haltof 2, 4).
The first book solely dedicated to Australian film history tried to change that, but was not published until 1970 (6). John Baxter‘s The Australian Cinema reinstated the importance of the old masters and reflected upon their accomplishments to lay out a path forward. In the final chapter, Baxter wondered what the future may hold for the next generation of Australian filmmakers. Whether they would succumb to “the public preference for American films and the innate conservatism of the film industry” or if they could overcome these challenges to reestablish “a truly national Australian cinema.” Baxter was confident that Australia had the talent and determination to achieve this goal, but he did not know how it could be accomplished (Malcolm xiii).
By the 1970s, the solution was obvious. All that the Australian film industry needed was a little governmental support. An incoming set of new policies quickly propelled the struggling industry to previously undreamed of heights. After significant lobbying, Australian politicians were eventually persuaded to create numerous institutions to fund local film production (Haltof 4). Thus, a decade-long “national project” ensued with the mission to create a New Australian Cinema that was dedicated to a “culturally worthwhile” cause (4, 6). This sponsorship extended to almost all “films with Australian content” and finally prioritized filmmakers’ artistic visions over investors’ financial concerns (4). However, the tap for all this free flowing cash was soon turned off. Ultimately, the government ended up being just another financial backer who was fed up with failed investments and therefore put measures into place to guarantee safer returns (Stratton 284). Still, a major step in the right direction had been taken which laid the foundation for decades to come (294–295).
The Groundwork
The first political rumblings over the dissatisfaction of the Australian film industry were heard in a 1963 Senate committee. The chairman Victor Seddon Vincent “provided several recommendations for the future development of the national cinema,” which were, however, largely “ignored by the Liberal government led by [Prime Minister] Robert Menzies” (Haltof 6). Part of the reason why these pleas fell on deaf ears was because, at the time, there really was no basis to the claim that Australians demanded to see themselves represented on the big screen. Theaters predominantly relied on American movies to fill their seats and politicians saw nothing wrong with that.
The case for the necessity of “films speaking in a distinct Australian idiom” continued to be rather unconvincing, until They’re a Weird Mob (1966) arrived (6). This film by the esteemed British film-making duo of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger turned into a landmark release for the Australian market. Even though this was another British production set in Australia, it was actually, for once, extremely respectful of its source material. Pressburger wrote a very faithful adaptation of John O’Grady’s novel of the same name about a newly arrived Italian immigrant trying to make it in Australia. And Powell went to extraordinary lengths to shoot in authentic Sydney locations and employ local talent, including the iconic Chips Rafferty. The result was an “immensely popular” movie that “enjoyed the longest run any film has ever had at [Greater Union]’s giant State Theatre in Sydney” (Stratton 5). The key ingredient to the film’s success was the comedy that ensued whenever the Italian, who only ever studied textbook English, encountered real working class Australians:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GCSKD_pn2Rk
In an attempt to follow in the footsteps of They’re a Weird Mob, a series of independent films tried to show an equally keen observation of Australian culture. By utilizing low budget film equipment and small crew sizes, directors like Tim Burstall were able to pursue more personal and experimental projects that did not require extensive funding (5–6). Burstall’s semi-autobiographical 2000 Weeks (1969), about a writer running out of time to succeed in life, was “the first truly indigenous Australian theatrical feature film in many years” (6). It and several other passion projects like it proudly exhibited “the artistic potential of the local cinema” (Haltof 6), but were met with a lack of trust, respect, and funding that shut them out of a wider theatrical distribution (Stratton 5, 23).
At the same time, advocates for the Australian film industry started to mobilize a substantial lobbying effort (5). In 1965, Robert Menzies had just announced his intention to retire in the following year, so there was hope that a new Prime Minister would be more inclined to offer his support. As Harold Holt took office, two groups were formed in favor of “government intervention and the creation of government bodies responsible for sponsoring the local film industry” (Haltof 7). They resided in the two cultural centers of Sydney and Melbourne, which have had a long history of competing approaches to cinema (Stratton 10).
In Sydney, it was the film editor and producer Anthony Buckley who stood up for his profession. Ever since his first assistant job on The Stowaway (1958), Buckley had been continually refining his craft, until he was able to produce his own smaller projects (10–11). His passion for Australian cinema motivated him to dedicate a sentimental documentary to its cause. Forgotten Cinema: The Golden Age of Australian Motion Pictures (1967) “used vintage footage to tell the history of the Australian film industry,” which evoked an overwhelmingly positive reaction during the Sydney Film Festival. Moreover, it also attracted the attention of Roland Beckett, who was an influential member of the Producers’ and Directors’ Guild (11). Buckley and Beckett joined forces to create the more inclusive Australian Film Council, which could accommodate every trade of the film industry. Its main objective was to directly address individual members of parliament “with one powerful voice” (11). Thus, the council invited senators like Doug McClelland to private screenings of Forgotten Cinema that were followed up with discussions for possible legislation to reign in a new era. This course of action proved fruitful, as McClelland soon spurred on fiery debates, in which he “told the house that members should ‘hang their heads in shame’ for not supporting a film industry” (11). After Harold Holt’s untimely death in December 1967, the Australian Film Council extended their invitations to the newly anointed Prime Minister, John Gorton, who readily accepted. In a speech that concluded their productive dinner party, “Gorton indicated for the first time that industry support would be forthcoming” (11).
In Melbourne, Phillip Adams quickly followed up on this new momentum. The young advertising executive had become an integral part of the city’s Film Society and International Film Festival (11). Because of these deep roots, Adams preferred to form a new coalition out of Melbourne. However, to enter the political landscape, Adams had to ride on the coattails of his close friend and fellow Melburnian, Barry Jones (12). After over two hundred appearances of the popular television quiz show Pick a Box, Jones had displayed an “extraordinary encyclopedic” knowledge that made him a national sensation. This launched Jones into a career as host of “Australia’s only talkback radio programme and also a television interview programme,” which allowed him to regularly speak to Prime Minister John Gorton (12). Thus, Adams could inform Jones about the pressing issues of the local film scene, which Jones could then use to confront Gorton. Instead of having these two forces work against him, Gorton soon decided to employ them in his favor. Adams and Jones were appointed to an Interim Film Committee, which was chaired by the Member of the New South Wales Parliament, Peter Coleman. Together, they “wrote speeches for the prime minister in which he was able to establish himself as a man of cultural sophistication” (13). In consequence, Gorton became more and more convinced that the revival of the film industry would be a good political move for him. To make that a reality, Adams and Jones proposed that they should go on “a world trip to study government-funded industries abroad.” Gorton agreed, and when they returned, they wrote up an official report that detailed the necessary measures. According to the committee’s evaluation, all that the Australian cinema needed to thrive was “a modestly-scaled film industry,” “a film school,” “an experimental film fund,” and “a film bank” (13). “Gorton ‘unconditionally accepted’ all of [these] recommendations,” and confirmed shortly thereafter that government support would be forthcoming (Shirley and Adams 235).
The Australian Film Revival
From that point on, the agenda was set and legislative action followed swiftly behind. The consequential upturn of production marked the 1970s as “the most interesting period for the Australian film industry” (Haltof 4). “After years of artistic inertia,” government institutions provided Australian filmmakers with financial support that resulted in 153 locally produced feature films (4, 6–7). A truly momentous achievement, considering that the preceding decade had only yielded 17 feature films (7). Part of the secret of this success story was the fact that the average budget for an Australian film was set at a modest $300,000 to $400,000, which was significantly lower than its American counterpart (7). Thus, limited government resources were spread among more applicants who shared a lowered financial risk that enabled them to focus solely on the domestic market.
The decade started with a bang, as two international productions were officially representing Australia at the 24th Cannes Film Festival (Shirley and Adams 246). The uncompromising approach of Ted Kotcheff’s Wake in Fright (1971) and Nicolas Roeg’s Walkabout (1971) redefined Australian cinema by bringing the bleaker aspects of Australian existence to the forefront. Both films pushed the boundaries of the medium with their distressing portrayals of animal cruelty that just narrowly avoided a violation of the Animals Act (Hitchens et al. 7). They are also both centered around a shocking existential crisis, which Wake in Fright uses for a dark descent into madness, while Walkabout prefers a lighter outcome towards self-discovery. Unfortunately, this proved to be too challenging for mainstream audiences who were revolted by them, which led to bad word of mouth and poor box office receipts (Shirley and Adams 245–246). Nevertheless, these two films have since been reappraised as cornerstones of the Australian New Wave and modern masterpieces.
The first government initiative in favor of the Australian film industry was passed in 1970. The Australian Film Development Corporation Bill proposed an inexpensive proving ground for new directors that was met with bipartisan approval (Shirley and Adams 235). The Experimental Film and Television Fund, which used money from the Australian Council for the Arts that was administered by the Australian Film Institute, began operation within the same year. “In the initial batch of loans, seventy-three applicants were granted a total of $111,450,” which immediately ushered in a new era for independent filmmaking (236). For instance, the EFTF covered the costs of feature film debuts like Peter Weir’s Homesdale (1971), Brian Kavanagh’s A City’s Child (1971), and Esben Storm’s 27A (1974). But it also encouraged filmmakers to further pursue their independent tendencies. Even Tim Burstall was able to secure $7,500 for the development of his next project (Stratton 25). As outlined above, Burstall had been struggling to find his footing in the industry, and he therefore breathed in a great sigh of relief when his uniquely bizarre Stork (1971) was well received (25–26).
Similarly, the larger Australian Film Development Corporation was also created in 1970 to help filmmakers with more commercial aspirations (14, xviii). Bruce Beresford received $250,000 for The Adventures of Barry McKenzie (1972), an inversion of the They’re a Weird Mob plot that has an odd Australian traveling to England (Pike and Cooper 265). Sandy Harbutt also obtained $154,000 for Stone (1974), an outlaw biker film about an undercover police officer trying close the unsolved murder cases of several gang members (278). And since Peter Weir had demonstrated his directorial talent with Homesdale, he was awarded $110,000 for his next project (Stratton 62). The Cars That Ate Paris (1974) became the next stepping stone of Weir’s career that really showcased his greater cinematic ambition. This surreal horror comedy set in the fictional Australian town of Paris portrays a dystopian future that hinges on the pressures of commercialism. Residents of this impoverished town deliberately cause car accidents in order to profit from the resulting wrecks and casualties. This critique about the contemporary societal decay is especially apparent in the film’s opening that is initially shot like an advertisement, which takes a wrong turn, and is then contrasted with the harsh reality of rural Australian life:
To nurture even younger talent, a film school also needed to be established. However, it would take years, until this project would finally come to fruition. After Prime Minister Gorton had agreed to the Interim Film Committee’s recommendations, he restructured it into an Interim Council for the Australian Film and Television School (“Our History” [AFTRS]). In 1970, the council went on another world trip to survey the internationally renowned film schools, once more. They found a location in Sydney and prepared a new report, but were largely ignored. Unfortunately, this project remained in a bureaucratic limbo, even after the council contacted the International Association of Film and Television Schools and wrote up another report (“Our History” [AFTRS]).
Movie censorship was an additional concern for the film industry that also needed to be addressed by politicians, but took a long time to achieve. Throughout the 1960s, censorship decisions were “plagued by official secrecy and laughable double standards.” The debate surrounding this issue reached a boiling point, when Minister for Customs and Excise Malcolm Scott had to defend “the removal of sexual activity from the Swedish film I Love, You Love [1968].” The Sydney Morning Herald mockingly claimed that Scott “would not be able to identify sexual intercourse if he saw it,” which sparked international attention and sealed the end of his career (Shirley and Adams 221). This convinced his successor Don Chipp to take a radically different approach. He invited respected representatives of the parliament, the church, and the media to reconsider previously deleted scenes. Together, they came to the conclusion that “general community attitudes to the suppression of this material had changed” and that it was therefore time to end this excessive censorship (221). In 1970, Chipp therefore introduced reforms to shift Australia “from a closed and highly interventionist model of censorship into a more open, liberal and accountable regime, based around classification as the norm and direct banning of material as the exception” (Australian Law Reform Commission 32). The Australian Classification Board was created within the same year, but did not begin operation until more legislation was passed.
The negotiations over the Australian Film and Television School and the Australian Classification Board lasted well into 1971. In March, Defence Minister Malcolm Fraser abruptly resigned from Gorton’s cabinet and publicly expressed his dissatisfaction with the Prime Minister. To address this issue, Gorton held a Liberal caucus meeting, where he called for a motion of no confidence. The vote was tied, which meant that Gorton could have remained as party leader. However, Gorton still interpreted this result as reason enough for resignation. Thus, he nominated William McMahon as his successor, who was immediately confirmed.
For the Australian Classification Board, this transition went over very smoothly, because Don Chipp remained in his position. In November, he finally passed the National Classification Scheme that introduced four new film ratings: “G (General Exhibition), NRC (Not Recommended for Children), M (Mature) and R (Restricted to audiences aged over 18).” The first R-rated film to be publicly screened in Australia was Robert Altman’s McCabe & Mrs Miller (1971), closely followed by Stork (1971) and The Adventures of Barry McKenzie (1972) (“Australian Film”). All in all, the R rating was a much needed liberation from censorship that finally gave artistic freedom to filmmakers and freedom of choice to theatergoers.
However, the Australian Film and Television School faced significantly more scrutiny under the new government. In May, McMahon appointed Peter Howson to the new office of the Minister for the Environment, Aborigines and the Arts. In this capacity, Howson oversaw the Interim Council and “determined not to proceed with the film school.” This was unacceptable to Phillip Adams, who consequently resigned from the council. Crucially, Adams decided to publicly air his grievances “on the ABC news programme This Day Tonight,” which convinced McMahon to overrule Howson (Stratton 13). In 1972, the Interim Council published another report, which after some hold-up was finally approved by Howson. As a result, Peter Coleman was officially appointed as Chair of the AFTS (“Our History” [AFTRS]) and Jerzy Toeplitz, the co-founder of the Polish Film School who had become “one of the most important figures in film teaching,” was appointed as Foundation Director (Stratton 200). Meanwhile, the 1972 Australian federal election voted William McMahon out of office, which meant a further delay in this process. After Labor Leader Gough Whitlam was sworn in as the new Prime Minister, he made the sensible decision to split the cluttered Department of the Environment, Aborigines and the Arts into two separate offices. Thus, the new Minister for the Media Doug McClelland could finally fast track the Australian Film and Television School Act. In 1973, the AFTS opened its doors to its first and “possibly its most impressive” class of students, including “Gillian Armstrong and Phillip Noyce, who would both become successful feature film directors; Chris Noonan, who would do distinguished work for Film Australia …; Graham Shirley, whose interest was to lie in the history of the Australian cinema; [and] James Ricketson, who would opt for what he himself called ‘poor cinema’ productions” (200). These first graduates already showed that the effort to establish an Australian film school had paid off, since it successfully allowed young talent to branch out into so many different territories of the film industry.
The Commonwealth Film Unit was the last government institution to be impacted by this restructuring phase. Originally, the CFU was created to offer filmmakers the chance to learn their craft by producing large in-house productions. Anthony Buckley and Peter Weir first cut their teeth there, as did Donald Crombie, Brian Hannant, Oliver Howes, Joan Long, Arch Nicholson, and Michael Thornhill (Haltof 2–3, Shirley and Adams 264–265). But the establishment of the Australian Film and Television School meant that this previous “training ground for aspiring filmmakers” needed a new purpose (Haltof 2). In December 1972, the CFU became the responsibility of the Department of the Media. The following year, the organization was relaunched as “the government’s [primary] documentary filmmaking arm” with the new name of Film Australia (Stratton 16, Shirley and Adams 266).
To summarize, by 1973 the Australian Government had created the Experimental Film and Television Fund to invest in independent films, the Australian Film Development Corporation to finance more commercially oriented projects, Film Australia to produce documentaries, the Australian Classification Board to stop banning movies, and the Australian Film and Television School to teach the trade to the next generation of filmmakers. This course of action laid out a solid foundation for a thriving Australian film industry, but the financial support system extended even beyond that. Besides the federal sponsorship, there was also state and private backing. In fact, multiple funding bodies provided alternative and cooperative ways of financing. Thus, filmmakers had the option to choose among several investors to develop their projects from the initial conception to the final release. The establishment of this interwoven financial network is the main reason for Australia’s prolific film production in the 1970s.
The South Australian Film Corporation was the first state production company to follow the example of its federal counterpart. The Premier of South Australia, Don Dunstan, signed the South Australian Film Corporation Act in 1972 “to both encourage and develop the local film and television industry, and to attract production to the state” (“Our History” [SAFC]). Indeed, the SAFC grew to be “a major force in the industry” that threaded the needle between artistic recognition and commercial success (Stratton 17). This was most prominently proven by two of its earliest films, Sunday Too Far Away (1975) and Storm Boy (1976). Both of these films are astutely aware of their social and natural environment. However, while Wake in Fright and Walkabout were pessimistic about these conditions, Sunday Too Far Away and Storm Boy are realistic. Ken Hannam and Henri Safran faithfully capture the challenges of Australian life, without shedding a favorable or unfavorable light upon them. Moreover, their authoritative films do not dwell on animal cruelty. Instead, they showcase humans in coexistence with animals:
The historic significance of Sunday Too Far Away was already felt at the time. Even before its wide release, Sunday Too Far Away was well received at 28th Cannes Film Festival, won four major prizes at the 17th Australian Film Institute Awards, and had already recouped its $300,000 budget (Shirley and Adams 278, 277). For the public premiere during “the opening night of the Sydney Film Festival,” it was therefore introduced with “a retrospective tribute to local cinema spanning [the last] sixty years.” Expectations for the future of Australian cinema were high, and they were met when “twenty-five new Australian features” were released within the same year (276). Among them was also Peter Weir’s next film, Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), which was financed by the Australian Film Development Corporation, British Empire Films, and the South Australian Film Corporation (Stratton 69). Critics’ overwhelmingly positive reaction and Great Union’s “brilliant advertising campaign” intrigued hundreds of thousands to watch this Gothic mystery in the theaters. Consequently, Picnic at Hanging Rock turned into an “instant box office success” that went on to become “the most profitable of all the new Australian films of the seventies” (71–73).
The New South Wales Film Corporation began its operation in 1977 with a strict funding criteria that was based on “commonsense and practical experience of the industry” (Stratton 18). This approach tried to weed out unpredictable filmmakers who presented a financial risk factor, and instead favored formally trained talent. Therefore, the NSWFC invested in the next project by Donald Crombie, the legal custody drama Cathy’s Child (1979). But more importantly, the two most famous alumni of the Australian Film and Television School also received funds for their breakout movies. Phillip Noyce was glad to finally find a production company that was willing to take on his notoriously complicated screenplay about the behind the scenes production of post-war newsreels. However, the NSWFC also had reservations about the marketability of this project and therefore demanded changes that dismayed Noyce (209–210). Nonetheless, the launch of Newsfront (1978) was still critically praised and a moderate commercial success (211–212).
By comparison, the production of Gillian Armstrong’s My Brilliant Career (1979) went quite smoothly. Armstrong also had trouble securing funding, but that was resolved once the NSWFC provided half of the $890,000 budget. In fact, in this case, Armstrong felt so empowered by this support that she took the initiative to hire a script editor to iron out the last wrinkles of the screenplay (217). Some minor pre-production hiccups ensued, but in the end even those turned out for the better (218–219). The NSWFC offered “enormous co-operation” to guarantee the success of My Brilliant Career, which also included two extra weeks of shooting “to do things properly.” The premiere was set for the 32nd Cannes Film Festival, where the film was “extremely well received” (219), even though it went up against an absolutely incredible lineup that year. Nevertheless, My Brilliant Career still stood out because it was a poignant reminder of the female struggle to resist against the greater societal pressures that try to drown their free-spirited nature and ambition. This message and the fact that it was heard so clearly at an especially competitive international film festival speaks volumes about its director, who tried to make a stand “for all the other women in the [Australian] film industry“ (218).
However, as already mentioned above, government support was just the most easily accessible financial avenue. The private sector also offered a last resort for filmmakers in search of final funding (Stratton 18). Most commonly, filmmakers sealed a deal with a private investor by selling the distributing rights in exchange for an advance payment. Movie distributors preferred this hands-off approach that let them focus on the business side of this arrangement. Thus, Greater Union was responsible for the profitability of The Irishman (1978), In Search of Anna (1978), My Brilliant Career (1979), Thirst (1979), Tim (1979), Final Cut (1980), Harlequin (1980), Manganinnie (1980), and Touch and Go (1980). Meanwhile, Hoyts dealt with The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (1978), Long Weekend (1978), Dawn! (1979), Stir (1980), and The Chain Reaction (1980). And Roadshow managed the release of Stork (1971), The Adventures of Barry McKenzie (1972), Alvin Purple (1973), Petersen (1974), Sunday Too Far Away (1975), End Play (1976), Caddie (1976), Storm Boy (1976), Newsfront (1978), Money Movers (1978), Blue Fin (1978), Mad Max (1979), The Last of the Knucklemen (1979), Cathy’s Child (1979), and Breaker Morant (1980).
Conclusion
After name-dropping so many movies, it feels appropriate to review the filmography of the Australian New Wave as a whole. Of course, not every single film has been discussed in detail here, but the main canon has been sufficiently covered to warrant a conclusion. Within one decade, the Australian Film Revival produced over 150 feature films (Haltof 7). This movement liberated Australian filmmakers, who consequently realized that their own local stories demanded to be represented on the big screen. By focusing on the predominant myths of the bush, mateship, and ancestry, they therefore reinvented the country’s sense of identity (8). The majority of this “‘building-a-nation’ process” involved period pieces, which dealt with “nationhood not only through current mythologies and realities but through discourse on the meaning of the Australian nation [throughout history].”
The purpose of this endeavor was to create an acceptable image of Australia and to promote it overseas. The [Australian mythology] was of greater importance here than historical accuracy or truth. As Ina Bertrand bluntly stated in 1984: “Truth is not an issue here. As a nation we can live without ‘truth’: perhaps we prefer not to know if the truth is unpleasant or, even worse, boring. But we cannot continue to exist without a sense of self, identity, [and] in this case ‘Australianness.’” (8)
With this in mind, it needs to be pointed out that these period films actually emerged in two consecutive phases. The previous deterioration of the industry meant that Australian filmmakers had to essentially start from ground zero, again. As a result, ocker films like Stork (1971), The Adventures of Barry McKenzie (1972), Alvin Purple (1973), and Petersen (1974) first stormed onto the scene. Their eponymous “urban heroes” satirized contemporary Australian “vernacular, characteristically vulgar behavior and masculine habits” (8). This unsophisticated interpretation of the meaning of Australianness was based on filmmakers’ own insecurity and bitterness, at the time. It would take them a couple more years to develop the necessary skills to properly reflect upon their own identity.
In contrast, more matured history films form the second phase of this process. As dramatizations of historical events, these films displayed a strong grip on their past: The Getting of Wisdom (1977) and My Brilliant Career (1979) are firmly situated during the last decade of the nineteenth century; Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) and The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (1978) are characterized by the chaos at the turn of the century; Gallipoli (1981) depicts the battles of World War I; The Irishman (1978) and Caddie (1976) are set in the roaring twenties; and The Devil’s Playground (1976) and Newsfront (1978) take place in a new reality after World War II. In these instances, Australian filmmakers are not necessarily nostalgic or critical of these formative periods, as much as they are aware of their lingering effects. These tumultuous times have shaped the Australian psyche and can only be reckoned with if they are confronted with a clear set of mind.
Besides these ambitious period pieces, there also emerged a growing wave of exploitation films. The origin of this phenomenon can be clearly traced back to the introduction of the R rating in 1971. Australian cinema was liberated by this landmark achievement, but also immediately started to abuse its newfound freedom. Graphic depictions of sex, drugs, and violence became a major selling point of low-budget movies. Filmmakers primarily gave in to these cheap thrills in order to attract curious theatergoers, but it also helped them to become more deeply entrenched in genre conventions. By transcending previous code limitations, genre films finally illustrated the heart of their subject matter. Thus, the Ozploitation craze included horror movies (Night of Fear (1972), Patrick (1978), and Thirst (1979)), thrillers (End Play (1976), Long Weekend (1978), and Roadgames (1981)), dystopian fiction (The Cars That Ate Paris (1974), Mad Max (1979), and The Chain Reaction (1980)), and crime films (Stone (1974), Money Movers (1978), and Touch and Go (1980)).
In general, Australian New Wave films are heavily influenced by two competing styles of filmmaking (Haltof 8). On one side, classical Hollywood cinema presented directors with a systematic approach to narrative progression, cinematic framing, and editing technique. These principles had already been shown to be immensely popular and were therefore closely followed by directors who wanted to replicate their success in Australia. George Miller, for instance, studied Hollywood action films, westerns, and road movies to arrive at his equally successful Mad Max series (8–9). But on the other side, European art cinema rejected all of these classical conventions in favor of a more truthful representation of the main subject. The first experimental phase of the French New Wave demonstrated this radical break with tradition that soon enchanted all of Europe. Elvira Madigan (1967), for example, had the unconventional approach to contrast a tragic love story with the lush fields and forests of the Swedish countryside. Peter Weir used this beautifully shot film as an aesthetic model for his mysterious portrayal of nature in Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) (8). However, these two sides were not entirely exclusive. Many directors also combined aspects of both styles in their work. My Brilliant Career (1979), for instance, is as much inspired by John Ford, as it is by Agnès Varda.
From a box office point of view, the New Australian Cinema produced films of commercial success and international acclaim that were able to compete at home against Hollywood productions. To be more concise, the domestic box office grossed $4,720,000 for Alvin Purple (1973), $1,356,000 for Sunday Too Far Away (1975), $5,120,000 for Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), $2,645,000 for Storm Boy (1976), $1,576,000 for Newsfront (1978), $5,355,490 for Mad Max (1979), $3,052,000 for My Brilliant Career (1979), and $11,740,000 for Gallipoli (1981) (“Australian Films”).
However, there was also a flipside to these box office receipts, because all the aforementioned successes were actually the rare exceptions. Even though 1975 marked the breakthrough year for Australian cinema, it also indicated a changing tide. That same year, the Whitman Government restructured the Australian Film Development Corporation as the Australian Film Commission, which fatally “was given a free hand and was exempt from political control” (Stratton 15–16). After five years of unconstrained operation, the AFC had given out so many grants that they returned only about 38% of their investments. In fact, almost half of the “about fifty feature films” that they supported “were complete write-offs representing total losses” (16). The South Australian Film Corporation did not fare much better, either. They also handed out their money way too freely, so that by 1978 they reaped nothing but commercial failures (17). A spiraling budget inflation and a declining theater attendance certainly did not help (17). Almost every Australian film released in 1979 was box office bomb, except for Mad Max and My Brilliant Career. This “convinced investors that [only] newcomers, backed by experienced technical teams, could” succeed financially, anymore (284). As a result, established directors and personal scripts were dropped in favor of closely monitored commercial films with international appeal (289).
This “reactionary thinking” that abandoned true Australian talent and reduced Australian films to “the lowest common international denominator” ultimately brought in the collapse of the Australian Film Revival (290–291). At the time, Fred Schepisi exclaimed that trying to fund “an Australian film would be so difficult as to make the effort hardly worthwhile” (284). In consequence, he soon retreated to the United States, as did Bruce Beresford, Richard Franklin, and Peter Weir. Gillian Armstrong, Phillip Noyce, and George Miller still had some success in Australia, but they also looked abroad for funding. Tim Burstall, Donald Crombie, and Henri Safran stayed firmly in Australia, but saw very few of their projects greenlit. “This left the way clear for the newcomers,” who were, however, put under tremendous pressure to stay within budgets and appeal to a broad range of audiences (284). The Australian film industry had certainly changed.
All in all, it was a long road, but also one that paved the way for decades to come. The Australian Film Revival established federal and state funding bodies, the Australian Film and Television School, and the Australian Classification Board. New Wave films reinvented Australianness, were internationally celebrated for it, and thus redefined the country’s reputation. The 1980s were still riding on this success, so that the effects of the collapse did not appear in the box office numbers, until a decade later (“Australian Films” Graph 2). Moreover, due to the accomplishments of the Australian Film Revival, the domestic production rate has been steadily increasing and Australian films have been able to compete against their American counterparts (Graph 4, 10). Certainly, the following decades still developed local talent that produced great Australian cinema. Art films have become a rare sight, though. But if you look for them, you can still find them:
Thank you, Lucas and Tina, for allowing me to write this admittedly not very speculative blog post and for being so lenient about deadlines.
Work Cited
“Australian Film and Television Chronology: The 1970s.” Australian Screen Online, aso.gov.au/chronology/1970s/. Accessed 2 Mar. 2022.
Hitchens, Peta L., et al. “The Welfare of Animals in Australian Filmed Media.” Animals, vol. 11, no. 7, 2021. MDPI, doi.org/10.3390/ani11071986.
Malcolm, Derek. Foreword. The Last New Wave: The Australian Film Revival, by David Stratton, Angus & Robertson Publishers, 1980, pp. xiii–xiv. Internet Archive, archive.org/details/lastnewwaveaustr0000stra.
Pike, Andrew, and Ross Cooper. Australian Film, 1900–1977: A Guide to Feature Film Production. Revised ed., Oxford UP, 1998.
Shirley, Graham, and Brian Adams. Australian Cinema: The First Eighty Years. Angus & Robertson Publishers / Currency P, 1983. Internet Archive, archive.org/details/australiancinema0000shir.
Calling all Kiwis and music lovers! And no, I am not talking about the fruit, but rather about Aoteoroa/ New Zealand, since this blog entry focuses on the music of this country’s biggest reggae rock fusion band Six60.
The single “Don’t Forget Your Roots“ of the five-member band from Dunedin was released in 2011 and reached number 2 on the New Zealand Singles Charts. In the past decade, this song has become somewhat of a ‘Kiwi anthem’.
The 2011 release, however, is not where the evolution and importance of the song ends. In September 2019, Six60 released a new Māori version: “Kia Mau Ki Tō Ūkaipō / Don’t Forget Your Roots“ in the collection Waiata / Anthems of re-recorded New Zealand pop songs to promote Te Wiki o te Reo Māori (Māori Language Week).
In the chorus of this song, Six60 reminds the listener of how important it is to remember our own roots, since they include our family and friends, but also our inner self – what we truly are: “the ones who made us – brought us here”. It deals with the idea of Indigenous heritage and identity and why you should be thankful and proud of it. Neglecting these roots easily leads to them being lost.
To further highlight the importance of what is said in the chorus, Six60 introduces a man (Johnny) and a woman (Jesse), who both are detached from their roots in Aotearoa after leaving their home which “armed them with power”. This results in them being lost in two ways: 1. They lack Māori values and morals and 2. the connection to their roots and their whānau (family), who are the only people that truly matter, becomes tenuous. Overall, both experience a disconnection from their origin. They are displaced and have lost their sense of belonging by leaving their homeland. The concept of loss applies to the man and woman as individuals, but also to their community – “He/She lost the faith of all those who mattered so…” Additionally, Six60 conveys a combination of nostalgia and homesickness with the simple words: “Don’t forget your roots…”
But only if no return is intended.
Representing Māori culture through music and language
Even though the band members all have Māori roots, they did not grow up with the language or culture, yet feel deeply connected to it. Their intention of releasing the song in Māori was to learn more about their culture and understand their origin – their roots. They wanted to provide a song of familiar lyrics that communicates their culture using Te Reo.
But why is music so important to remember your roots?
Well, wherever you are, in New Zealand or overseas, the distinctive sounds used in songs such as “Kia Mau Ki Tō Ūkaipō“ can conjure up images of home. Translating popular songs from English to Māori can deepen empathy and provides a solution for the absence of communication between Māori and non-Māori by encouraging discourse. Embracing Māori culture, the waka, the whānau – community and music can convey heritage and is a start to help non-Māori engage with the language and culture. At the same time, it is dangerous to base one’s understanding of a foreign culture solely on one song, since Maori offer a diverse culture with many traditions and also contradictions.
My personal connection to the song goes back almost to its initial release. I first visited a Six60 concert in 2012 in German. When the band sang “Don’t Forget Your Roots”, those who were Māori in the audience, all far away from home, started a haka. It first got me thinking about the connection between music and culture. Whenever I listen to the song now, it also reminds me of my time spent abroad and the people I met.
And as the Covid-19 pandemic continues, friends and family remain apart from one another as we understand the importance of connecting, which includes doing it through Te Reo Māori.
At a concert in 2020, Six60 further combined the song’s new version with a performance of the haka, making the concert uniquely New Zealand by giving the crowd a taste of the country’s distinct Indigenous culture. Now they do it at every single concert worldwide on tour to reconnect with their homeland. Additionally, singing the song is a reminder for them that even if they are on the other side of the world, when they return to Aoteoroa the following quote:
i haere Māori atu, i hoki Māori mai
I left as a Māori, and I have returned as a Māori
applies to them.
To me this performance combined with the haka is filled with a celebration of the Māori culture since the Māori performers get the opportunity to proudly present their traditions and language on a big stage – it cuts through that fear of not being able to express and give Māori back their sovereignty by pushing the unspoken tension between Māori and non-Māori to the side and saying: here is a place for all to gather, unite and sing. Including Te Reo Māori and the haka, therefore, can enrich New Zealand’s music scene and empower national athletes, but some songs also engage worldwide audiences. Embracing the language should be as simple as not forgetting one’s roots … or family.
In an interview, the front singer of Six60 Matiu Walters stated that he noticed more understanding of the culture and an acceptance of songs in Māori especially in New Zealand, which has been a good thing to see. He further suggests that it is something the band helped push by redoing their song in Māori. The translation followed the dream to make Māori music in future not only usable for a political purpose or for social currency but also for the daily and ordinary life.
This is exactly what the band is doing with their new song “Pepeha“, which deals with their personal experience of learning about their actual pepeha – the way of introducing yourself in Māori. It tells people who you are by sharing your connections with the people and places that are important to you. By writing the song, the band was able to acknowledge and further explore their heritage. It helped them connect to their whakapapa and whenua. A pepeha shows their connection to the physical and spiritual place they call home. This anthemic waiata links significant things – prestige, love, and family – with their environment and to their ancestors.
Matiu Walters said they wanted to try to write a pepeha for all New Zealanders, whether you were born there, or you moved there and decided to make Aotearoa your home.
He further stated that the goal of their music is to always transcend any categories and have it all “feeling-based” since it’s what they like about music: It makes you feel a certain way and you can succumb to that feeling and forget about everything else, all the small things in life and just go along with the song.
However, there are a couple of critical voices on the band’s use of music and Te Reo as a way of public reconnection arguing that songs such as “Pepeha“ disregard the sanctity of cultural practices and do not consider the right translation nor provide the listener with the deep meaning Māori terms can carry.
Would you agree with the critics? Let me know in the comments!
