Wednesday, March 28, 2012

FIRST TERM OF PREP 2012 – a parent’s perspective.



LEAVES on the trees tremble. Birds are starting to chirp away up high. A vague dusky kind of light settles over the suburbs. It’s too early. I don’t usually leave the house at a quarter past seven in the morning- I have never had to take somebody to before-school care in the past , either.


This year my eldest daughter has started Prep, and as I take her to school- or rather, she takes me, bounding along on her bike- I feel incredibly proud and grown up and important. The whole of the busy street can see me as I stroll behind her, holding my work bag in my right hand, and carrying her heavy purple backpack over my left shoulder. I’ve seen these fathers’ before and not taken much notice. But now I can see how it makes you feel special and good inside.


S didn’t want to think about Prep in the holidays. So we didn’t push it. It wasn’t until there was about a week to go that I said to my wife ‘we have to start talking about school or it will come as too much of a shock to her.’ There were some concerns at kindergarten. Quite a few uncertainties about where she belonged. So we made a point of bringing it up in as positive a fashion as possible during the remaining week of the holidays. “I can’t believe you are about to start school. You will have such a great time and meet so many new friends.”


The first few days, even the first couple of weeks, shocked us. It was a much smoother transition than we could have hoped for. Not everything was perfect at school, but she liked the teacher, there were some kids to play with, and the ‘buddy’ was warm and generous with her time. In fact during the majority of the whole of the first term S has pretty much enjoyed school. We can tell because she wants to talk about it- most nights- even if her stock answer to ‘how was your day?’ is initially always ‘ok.’


It hasn’t been a walk in the park in every aspect, however. I work full time and my wife works Mondays and Tuesdays. Before school care and after school care on those days has been difficult. The regular pattern has begun with a sleepless night on the Sunday. Tears and more tears after that. Is she seeing if sobbing and a distressed face might change her parents’ mind? Sleep doesn’t come until around 9:00 PM on those nights. And then there’s the next morning. An anguished “I DON’T WANNA GO TO BEFORE AND AFTER SCHOOL CARE!” reverberates around the hall. Grandma drags a reluctant child, but she gets there eventually. Even if her day goes ok, there is a repeat of this on the Monday night and then the Tuesday morning the next day.


This is where I come into it, the apprehensive father. Last Tuesday morning was a good example. Mother had already left and S was anxious the moment she woke up. The pain on her face suggested that ‘doll doll’ had accidentally been thrown out in the rubbish. The clashing of steel and rubbish bins outside was not enough to drown out her miserable cries.


Somehow she managed to get herself dressed but she didn’t eat a thing. I put the preventative ‘nit spray’ in her hair, gathered her backpack, and we were out the door far too early. Walking down Bruce Street, me lumbering a long way behind the back of her bike, S suddenly gets off her bike and says ‘Daddy, I think I’m going to vomit. I have pains in my tummy.” We sit on a kerb for a bit, thoughts of the consequences of going back home flooding through my mind. A few minutes later, thankfully, we are back on our way. By this time, however, along with all the other heavy things, I am now wheeling her bike.


Upon entering the makeshift kitchen area of the school, the lovely women carers take one look at her face, and launch into a repair job, wild excitement about the hour ahead in their voice. Poor S is cynical and doubtful, and worse still, the journey has taken so long that her father has to immediately leave. The air outside is fresh and invigorating. Miraculously, when her mother picks her up at the end of after-school care at the end of the day, she is kind of smiling and not quite ready to leave yet.


Not every day is like this, however. Sometimes those non before-school and after-school days aren’t too bad. One night recently she told me when I got home ‘I smiled at some of the kids today, Daddy.’ I have been teaching her a mantra: ‘make sure you remember to smile and be friendly.’


On some occasions that journey to school on a Tuesday morning has been the highlight of my week. It was the first couple of times when I felt the most proud. She is bounding ahead, the purple streamers streaming out at right angles from her handlebars in the wind. Her purple-uniformed back is arching as she is striving along Bruce Street enjoying the morning ride, eager to show her father her new surroundings. I am walking behind her, watching her, absolutely enjoying this new experience of following my beautiful purple clad daughter. Now I know what it feels like to be the father of a child at school.


Now there’s only a week to go and the first term of her school life is about to draw to a close. And now we have another reason to be proud. She found out today that she has become the nominated rep for her Prep grade’s SRC.

                  



Wednesday, March 14, 2012

SOLACE: An Irish First Novel


           
I READ SOLACE these past days and found myself  reasonably involved, but all the time thinking about its flaws, its self-conscious style, the way that it smacks of first novel writing. I love the writing of authors like Zoe Heller, M J Hyland and Colm Toibin, but in every case their first book was flawed and didn't fully hint at the great writers they would become. Perhaps it will be this way with Belinda McKeon and following this one will be something as good as Notes on a Scandal, The Heather Blazing or Carry Me Down. Mmmm, I'm not sure.

The author is writing about contemporary Ireland, the Ireland in which the economy is or has gone down the tube and property prices have fallen away. Mark (like the author), has grown up on a farm in Co. Longford (apparently the most depressed county in the whole of Ireland) and has emotional ties with his parents, who are subtly hinting at wanting him to be at home helping them run the farm, which is difficult because Mark also needs to be near his university in Dublin working on his thesis, and after meeting a lawyer named Joanne Lynch wanting to be with her. An unexpected baby ensues, followed by a family tragedy. Mark's friends, including a loyal guy named Mossy, are not very convincingly sketched. The details of Mark's thesis, about a local writer of some note, crop up a lot and are fairly dull. Joanne is working on a case about family disintegration that is reasonably interesting because it involves some workplace bullying. The tragedy is sad and interesting, but the full emotional impact is lost because the writer has decided to jump past it and refer to it only as a slightly hazy past event.

Still, there are some really interesting ideas in Solace. I found the sense of responsibility Mark feels in being young and caught out as the sole parent of a young child beautifully realised. He is in the library trying to find books and time has escaped him and suddenly five minutes with the gracious librarian has turned into an hour with the now gruff librarian minding for too long a wilful kid.  The child is called Aoife and is lovely but wild, a bit like that other wild single parent child, Pearl, in The Scarlet Letter.

McKeon also provides excellent insight into ageing, specifically Mark's slowly fading farmer father, out toiling at the Longord farm, and constantly texting and calling Mark for reassurance because, like the widower in Les Murray's The Widower in the Country, he is lost with the sudden death of his wife. He has inexplicably bought two expensive tractors and his confidence and self assurance of yesteryear has now deserted him.

Perhaps the author knows a thing or two about babies or small children, and ageing fathers, and even sudden loss. And certainly farms. The details about farm life are thoroughly convincing, as are the insights into the mindest of those who live in small farming communities. But it is the young, urban bar life, and the reckless university days that are less convincingly drawn, and the thesis that preoccupies Mark, as well as Joanne's dreary lawyer life.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Shame: An Unhealthy Obsession



I FOUND Steve McQueen's 'HUNGER' to be such an interesting, powerfully made film, starring a man of considerable charisma, Michael Fassbender, so naturally I wanted to see their next collaboration. We all know about Bobby Sands' compelling obsession, an obsession that ultimately killed him. This time Fassbender has created another obsessive character by the name of Brandon whose obsession happens to be sex. He cannot function, it seems, without it. There are some absorbing scenes that are clearly a trademark of McQueen's directoral style. As with 'Hunger', we have long, extended shots without editing that seem so natural and remarkable.

The best example I can think of is when a pent-up Brandon is running across a huge expanse of New York City's streets, finally ending up at a street that has Madison Square Garden around the corner. The camera is on the other side of the road as he races along, with each intersection magically clear of traffic so he doesn't have to slow down. A good deal of elaborate reconnisance must have gone into this one.

Another beautiful extended shot that goes for several minutes is when the camera rests upon Brandon's sister's face- Sissy- as she sings a moving endition of 'New York, New York' in an expensive-looking bar. Her face is compelling and her emotions are turbulent as she sings the song so slowly and so seductively. I waited for the credits to discover that it really is Carey Mulligan's voice over the soundtrack.

My other favourite shots in the film include a chance encounter between Brandon and a beautiful woman whilst they are travelling on the subway. He can't take his eyes from her and she boldly returns his stare; a bedroom scene of passion bathed in a lovely, golden light; and unusual shots of Brandon and his sister talking on the couch, with the camera behind their heads so we can only glimpse their expressions from time to time in profile (see below):



I didn't enjoy 'Shame' as much as 'Hunger', probably because the subject matter interested me less. But it was worth seeing for the creative ideas of the director and the compelling acting. The ending of the film shows us just how ultimately dangerous and unfulfilling obsessions of any kind will become.



Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Literary Haunts of Yesteryear

MOST mornings, a little self- consciously, I am standing  in a busy Melbourne street, waiting for the bus that is invariably late and grasping, a little uncomfortably, my heavy work books. I am often thinking about England.

I wrote a kind of review of some of the literary haunts I visited when I lived in England a number of years ago. I wrote the review when I got back to Melbourne, when the memories of England haunted me even more strongly than they do now.

Britain is full of literary treasures, not the least being the famous abode of many great novelists and poets. Now is not the best time of the year to motor around the British countryside. Put it off for a few months when the weather picks up and travel to some wonderful places where writers gained immense inspiration from their unique surrounds.



You might begin your journey in the south of England, and visit the National Trust property at Rodmell, Sussex known as Monk’s House. This was the property of Leonard and Virginia Woolf from 1919 until 1941, the time of Woolf’s apparent suicide. The river Ouse runs behind the property, and it was on a stretch of this river that Woolf’s body was found three weeks after she went missing. The centrepiece of the house must be Virginia’s bedroom, a small room with a single bed and a fascinating fireplace painted by her sister, Vanessa Bell, which features a small boat heading towards a lighthouse. This image played a significant part in Woolf’s literary career, an image straight from her 1927 masterpiece To The Lighthouse. Of less interest is Virginia’s study, altered after her suicide, but still containing her desk and writing paper. The garden is another showpiece. It contains a bust of both Leonard and Virginia, and offers some insight into the view Virginia would have had on countless days of writing and contemplation in her garden, including the fateful day in March of 1941 when she wandered toward the river and placed  heavy stones in her pocket.


Travel directly west to another part of England and you come across important literary associations of a very different kind, to Thomas Hardy, who spent most of his life in Dorset, and is chiefly associated with two houses only a few miles apart: Higher Bockhampton near Stinsford, where Hardy was born in a thatched cottage in 1840, and Max Gate, where Hardy moved with his wife Emma, both at the age of forty-five, at the time of The Mayor of Casterbridge. One of the rooms in Higher Bockhampton was the source for Hardy’s earliest writing, culminating in Far From the Madding Crowd, and the invention of Wessex, fostering his marvellous geographic imagination. The house is open to the public and is a treat to walk around, double-bent much of the time with its low white-washed ceilings and seven little rooms and stairs. There is a vivid sense of little being altered, and as a monument to Hardy’s early career it is deeply respectful.



Max Gate holds a different sort of interest. The upstairs section is closed, but the bottom part contains quite a lot of memorabilia, including Hardy’s desk and private book collection, as well as a photocopied scrapbook, all available for perusal. It makes an interesting visit, even with half the house closed off to private owners, and the fact that somebody in their wisdom removed Hardy’s study from Max Gate and put it on display at the county museum in Dorchester. A man who was tending the house when I was there recalled his delight when a big, burly man a number of years ago dropped in and asked a number of fascinating questions. After he left he realised this was Ted Hughes. You might wish to try and locate the famous picture of Hardy standing next to his bicycle, taken from within the grounds of his carefully nurtured garden.


Travelling further into the heart of England, directly west of London, is the border of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, and more specifically Kelmscott, the little Cotswold town famous for the beautiful, grand home let by William Morris, a man of many talents, including those of artist, writer, craftsman and socialist. Morris resided here in his self-contained manor on the upper Thames from 1871, during the latter part of a richly fertile life. His co-tenants were his wife, the Pre-Raphaelite darling Jane (Burden) Morris, and her lover at the time, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the famous painter with the equally famous poet sister, Christina. It is an impressive looking home made of stone, although not really a manor, and looks just like Morris’ drawing of it for his posthumously published book News From Nowhere. The house is full of reprints of Morris’ wallpaper and curtains, and every effort has been made to keep the furniture and look of the principal people’s bedrooms. You can see for yourself the wall hangings which gave Rossetti nightmares, and the room in which he painted some lovely pictures of Morris’ wife. Morris cared a great deal about animal life and his natural surroundings, and there is much to be appreciated of the setting of Kelmscott Manor today. Morris’ simple gravestone is an added feature of the town, lying in the garden of the local churchyard. Plenty of Morris purchases on offer, and highly recommended.




Dylan Thomas is another writer who is buried in the town he spent quite a bit of his life in. Laugharne is in the western part of South Wales, and it was here that Thomas found the inspiration to write famous works such as ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’ and ‘Under Milkwood’. It is also the town that features the modest Brown’s Hotel, another feature of Laugharne that has become heavily associated with the poet. Thomas lived with his wife Caitlin, and their three children, in what has commonly become known as ‘the boat house’, for the last four turbulent years of his life. He had earlier rented a cottage in a different section of the town. The boat house is a fairly small dwelling consisting of three bedrooms and a small living area, with a balcony or verandah running around its side. It is elevated elegantly from the ground, nestled into the side of a sea wall. There is a steep incline running from the top of the cliff, into the Thomas’ garden and their front door below. Thomas and his wife apparently grew to loathe the house and its lack of space. Hence Thomas found salvation in a simple writing shed less than a hundred yards along the cliff path. Here he could work on such things as Under Milkwood without constant interruptions from things around him. The boat house is well worth visiting for the glimpse it offers into the life of a well known poet who would become a lot more famous.


Travelling eastwards again, back into England and towards the centre of the country, the motorway takes you into the Midlands, and the birthplace of a writer who is associated with the place of his birth perhaps even more so than Thomas Hardy. A great admirer of Hardy’s, D H Lawrence spent all of his formative years in Nottingham, before becoming a school teacher in Croydon, near London. The Lawrence family grew up together in Eastwood, nine miles north-west of the centre of Nottingham, changing houses on a number of occasions, each said to be in a slightly superior position. The only one of the four houses Lawrence lived in until the age of 23 that is open to the public is now known as the Birthplace Museum. Inextricably linked with the beginning of Sons and Lovers, the house in Victoria Street contains some examples of original furniture that belonged to the Lawrence family, and anything different that has been added has been done so tastefully and with pleasing consideration to historical accuracy. Inside the modest brick dwelling one finds the original kitchen range, a spacious living-room, bedrooms and a large attic. The front window is oblong in shape and larger than those of similar houses nearby. Lawrence’s mother made the most of this economic advantage by displaying her linen and children’s clothes to passers by. Inside, one thinks of the verbal battles that took place between middle-class mother and miner father, although it should be noted that the family left for a semi-detached house around the corner when Lawrence was only two. Eastwood seems proud these days of its world famous son. The birth place museum has a wide array of Lawrence memorabilia for sale, as well as an audio visual display well worth a look. The attendants are more knowledgeable than in most places of its type. In the main street of Eastwood stands the local library, which houses a vast display of Lawrence-related literature, including a cabinet of first editions. There is also a thin blue painted line circumnavigating the town that visitors can wander along, which encompasses Lawrence’s primary school, the other three houses he lived in, and even the pub that features in Sons and Lovers, where Lawrence was sent by his mother to retrieve his often times drunken father.




There are more reasons to visit Yorkshire other than to visit Haworth, but the Bronte Parsonage is one of the best. It should be remembered when visiting this unique house that the Bronte sisters- and Emily in particular- didn’t have a lot of experience of the world outside of Haworth. The famous moors surrounding Haworth, the surviving character of the town itself, the life of the girls inside the parsonage- these are the elements that shaped the imagination of three unique individuals. Haworth itself, a grim darkly polluted village town of many years ago, has become more prosperous and commercial today as one might expect. The aspects of character that remain are the quaint little shops with original signs, the blackened stone walls of many buildings, the cobbled lanes and main street that descends into the middle of town past the cemetery, and the Black Bull Inn that has passed into folklore as the pub where the girls’ brother, Bramwell, spent many a session drinking. A short drive out of town, and well sign posted, is the crumbling stone foundation known as ‘Top Withens’ which is said to be the inspiration for the Earnshaw home in ‘Wuthering Heights’. Now getting to the Parsonage itself. Unfortunately it has been renovated and made visitor friendly with new wallpaper and heating and furnishings to make the connection with the Bronte family when visiting more difficult. However, besides a couple of extensions, the exterior of the house remains very similar to what it was in the days of busy composing. The setting is eerie and imposing, sombrely overlooking the graveyard (one must remember to what extent death touched this family’s lives). A servant the children were very fond of was buried in this graveyard, but the Bronte children themselves, with the exception of Anne, are buried anonymously in the church overlooking the graveyard. Inside, the children’s study is still a special place, very small but full of associations with the little children composing stories in their tiny booklets and playing with toys fed to them by their father to fire their imagination. Patrick Bronte’s bedroom is in original condition and the living room has been faithfully recreated. One of the show pieces of the house is the green chaise- longue that Emily is said to have died upon in 1848 at the age of thirty. One of the most rewarding aspects of the house is contained within the added on sections, and that is the Bronte memorabilia that has been spectacularly created. In glass cabinets you will find examples of the little books, locks of hair, original letters and manuscripts and drawings, and clothing worn by the family, much of it belonging to Charlotte, who lived the longest. Allow yourself a couple of hours of searching throught the biographical displays, before you venture out again into the crisp Haworth air.

Monday, March 5, 2012

EDWARD BURNE-JONES: 'The Last Pre-Raphaelite'



THE new biography of Edward Burne-Jones was reasonably captivating. The biographer, Fiona MacCarthy, wrote a better book several years ago about Burne-Jones' close friend, William Morris.This is probably because William Morris was a more interesting, perhaps more complex person who delved in many things in his life, including Iceland, poetry, Socialism and the arts. I have no doubt that Burne-Jones was very complex too, yet it doesn't come across as captivating in print. Burne-Jones was a brilliant Victorian artist, in the late Pre-Raphaelite period, well known and eventually knighted for his exquisite paintings, stained glass amidst other creative forms. His personal life was complex in that he seems to have fallen out of love with his wife, Georgina Macdonald, at a fairly early period in their marriage, and spent an inordinate amount of time wooing and writing passionate letters to others, especially women much younger, even 'girls.' Some of the women in Burne-Jones sexual and romantic imagination appeared in his pictures, no doubt much to the chagrin of his wife. One of these was the Greek model, Maria Zambaco, probably an innocent liason which caused him a lot of private pain. There were others that Burne-Jones became very close friends with, like Frances Horner and May Gaskell.

Maria Zambaco

The best bits of the book for me were the references to many beautiful pictures, including one at the National Gallery of Victoria- Portrait of Baronne Madeleine Deslandes- and other more famous pictures like The Golden Stairs, Arthur Asleep at Avalon, King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid, The Wheel of Fortune and The Beguiling of Merlin, which I once saw at the Lady Lever Gallery near Liverpool, UK.



Burne-Jones also had in his association many interesting people, as in the aforementioned William Morris, Rudyard Kipling and family, Oscar Wilde, Henry James, and of course painters like Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Burne-Jones was lucky enough to meet and get to know and travel with his greatest hero, art critic John Ruskin. Burne-Jones was obsessed with Italian life and Italian art, and the great cathedrals of the world in Italy and France. These bits make enjoyable reading.

Unlike Vincent Van Gogh, painting at a similar time in a different European country, Burne-Jones achieved fame and made money in his lifetime. Fair enough, too.

The Wheel of Fortune

The Golden Stairs

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Bits....

I FINALLY saw ‘Hidden’ (French ‘Cache’) the other day. Great French actors- Daniel Auteuil and Juliette Binoche, and great director- Michael Haneke. The film reminded me of 'The White Ribbon' in ways, although it was less grand, less epic in stature. Still, that really good idea that interests the director- it doesn’t really matter who it is committing the crimes, it is the idea of them being committed in the first place, and the reactions to the people that are being violated- these are the most important things- very unlike Hollywood and Agatha Christie, in this regard.



Haneke was commenting on the French psyche, elements of French history, and the way in which exterior events can turn the world of middle class families upside down. Something as simple as a video recording of the front of your house- left on your doorstep and running for two hours- is enough to make you scared, jumpy. When another video recording leads you back to a murky and uncomfortable incident from your childhood, then you really start asking questions, of yourself and in particular your past motives and actions.

David Stratton once said in a review of this film that you should see the film twice. I can understand that, because I missed something crucial at the end, in the film’s closing several minutes. It occurs on the steps of a school just before the end credits close in, and it’s telling, I think.

‘Hidden’ is a great title for the film- there are many layers to the ideas of ‘hidden’, including commentary on the main couple’s marriage. It reminded me of Hitchcock- I think the director owes a great debt to him- even though we don’t get the neatly tied up ending. Daniel Auteuil reminded me a lot of Gabriel Byrne, especially Gabriel Byrne in the role he plays in ‘Jindabyne.’ I could see the ‘Jindabyne’ role in this film- this man would have acted in similar ways.

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OVER the summer we heard a lot of Angus and Julia Stone and their 2010 album, ‘Down The Way.’ It was played in the car constantly. Even S and A really enjoyed parts of it, humming and singing the album’s single and catchiest tune, ‘Big Jet Plane.’ It’s a very commercial album in lots of ways and easy to get to know quickly. There are some strong songs and others are sweet but a bit too sweet- I think the expression is ‘saccharine’, or sentimental. Some people would find a lack of variance in the tone of each song frustrating. Others would say the songs aren’t demanding enough and are easily forgotten. I think there is some truth in this. Julia Stone sometimes inhabits a little teeny-weeny voice which can be annoying. I think Angus Stone is the stronger singer/ writer of the two. There is more variation in his work, it seems more multi-layered. Both seem to have trouble really letting go. None of the songs are belted out- I know it isn’t that sort of record- but sometimes the feeling seems repressed. There is one exception though, in perhaps the album’s strongest song. In the lyric near the end of ‘Draw Your Swords’ he is starting to let go, slightly reminiscent of Paul McCartney on ‘Why Don’t We Do It In The Road’, but at the same time not quite there.

Lyrically the album isn’t terribly much, but the song ‘Santa Monica Dream’ has a nice sense of place:

‘Rob's in the kitchen making pizza

Somewhere down in Battery Park

I'm singing songs about the future

Wondering where you are

I could call you on the telephone

But do I really want to know?

You're making love now to the lady down the road

No I don't, I don't want to know



I'm somewhere, you're somewhere

I'm nowhere, you're nowhere

You're somewhere, you're somewhere

I could go there but I don’t.’


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I WENT to Toorak College to see ‘Fireman Sam.’ It is in Mount Eliza, it is huge, incredibly well resourced and costs in its senior years about $20,000 a year. A nice Year 10 student showed me around the VCE section. They have a huge student canteen and an even bigger staff one opposite, a bit more formal looking. I had such mixed feelings here. I could see what a great school it would be for the students- small class sizes and everyone around you intelligent and so on. But I couldn’t stop thinking about all the ordinary people in ordinary schools and how everyone here is probably the same, except for the student who showed me around who is much poorer and is on a scholarship. I haven’t been able to reconcile my feelings about this place at all.



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I am having awful trouble with my left calf. As a result I am riding a bike a lot more. I quite like it, and it can be tiring, but I don’t feel the way I do when I have finished a long run. And I don’t dare allow Van Morrison to blast through the iPod like I do when I’m running.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

WOLF CREEK- mature horror

WOLF CREEK (2005) seems to me to be a superior ‘horror’ film because it is well written and intelligently directed. Many films of this genre buckle to the predictable formula that sees ‘horror’ surface in the first 5 minutes of the film. Filmmakers want to seduce audiences early and are perhaps too uncertain to make the audience wait. In Wolf Creek, the film is already half over before any real tension has surfaced.

There are many interesting contrasts in the script. It begins in a wonderfully relaxed mood. The beach, at Broome in WA, looks magical, and the unfortunate backpackers in the story seem to relish it. The two lead women, Liz and Kristy, are English, after all. The only Australian and only male of the trio, Ben, seems to be a genuinely lovely guy. It is true that he is hedonistic and far too cocky, but he is young and carefree and having the time of his life. His attitude, it seems, is that he lives in some sort of Paradise, and it is doubtful that anything could ever really go wrong. It turns out that he, and the two English women, are naïve in the extreme. They don’t really know Australia at all- certainly not the outback at least, with its thousands of lonely miles where it is unusual to see cars on the road, let alone people. It is the vastness and the isolation that will end up making them vulnerable, however in the first half of the film they drive closer and closer toward an unhinged and malevolent maniac who takes full advantage of their sweetness and their trust and their naivety.

One wonders if, when making the film, John Jarratt’s evil character placed a dampener on the trio’s sense of fun. It is only a film after all, that is true, but this situation isn’t farfetched. An equally memorable villain, played by Ben Kingsley, in the film ‘Sexy Beast’, created a lot of tension on the set when he was introduced into the film a good half hour after it started. So here are the trio, sitting in their car that ‘coincidentally’ won’t restart, and the seemingly good Samaritan, John Jarratt saunters up in dark with torchlight, ironically announcing ‘You scared the shit out of me!’ After a meal and a night’s sleep and some general fireside hilarity, that’s when the evil starts. The backpackers could not have been more vulnerable. The wonderful, warm vistas of Broome beach have given way to a murky and unsettling place of broken down cars, drums, corrugated iron, guns, rope, and various other junk which makes up the compound of the crazed killer.

One of the cleverest aspects of the script for Wolf Creek is the way in which the audience are given plenty of time to get to know and warm towards the backpackers. Ben sings corny serenades in the car on his guitar. Kristy and Liz kid around often but also sit quietly and have the authentic solemn look of trying to enjoy themselves despite the absence of creature comforts, like fresh clothes, warm showers and sheets and usable mobile phones. One of the most touching scenes in the film is when Ben finds Liz on her own sitting by some rocks, and awkwardly and bashfully kisses her. Afterwards they both laugh like gawky adolescents. It is great to see some moments of real charm in a film of this genre, and besides just one small tense moment that occurs in Emu Creek ten minutes earlier, Wolf Creek is almost half an hour old at this point and it looks for all the world like a rollicking road movie, a tame version of Thelma and Louise. We are enjoying the innocence and playfulness of Ben, Kristy and Liz. When unspeakable horrors occur to them later, we are therefore genuinely moved and shocked.

I’ve come back to Wolf Creek a few times since I saw it the first time at the beginning of January. It continues to grow on more as a mature film. I hear that the famous US film critic, Roger Ebert, walked out on it. We share a love for Mike Leigh and Paul Cox- but not, it seems, for Wolf Creek.