Radio Sarfatti
Tsunami
Metaphysics
Jack Sarfatti is a
genius. If Ernest Hemingway had been at all interested in science
(which he was not), Jack would have been one of his meaty heroes. He
is a hell of a character, most rare in scientific circles, which for
the most part consist of little grey men in those faceless little grey
boxes called corporate laboratories. Although a physics maverick who
gave up academic work many years ago, many of the more enlightened
establishment scientists regard him as a theoretical physicist of the
first waters. He runs several e-mail lists simultaneously, and they
often run into one another, sometimes in a most comically confusing
way. He also receives on occasions quite credible threats to his life.
To Sarfatti, as a
world leading expert on quantum theory, this is grist to the mill. He
exploits the confusions brilliantly on many an occasion, interspersing
Tensor Calculus with MPEGS of his singing of Gilbert and Sullivan in
university operatic societies.
He knows everybody
in scientific/conspiratorial America, and there are often brilliant
rows concerning his psychiatric condition and the discussions about
bombing Iran, to which Jack replies in good measure. On his e-mail
list, techno-Intelligence merges with ideas about possible UFO
propulsion systems, and accusations circulate of many a kidney about
anyone and everyone.
It is a rich and
heady mix sponsored by one of the dwindling number of brilliant
scientific men who have a universal vision and also a wide education.
Often fascinating
streams of information are generated, and here is one of them. We
leave it completely unedited, and it stands for what the Post
modernist Richard Doyle recently described as a “metatext.”
We can’t give all
the references here because we do not know them. Suffice it to say
that it is a most beautiful “found” text.
Betty Baxter
From:
Jack Sarfatti
Date:
12/28/04 20:29:52
To:
ItalianPhysicsCenter;
Sarfatti_Physics_Seminars;
SarfattiScienceSeminars@YahooGroups.comSarfattiScienceSeminarsyahoogroups.com
Cc:
S-P Sirag;
Paola Harris
Subject:
*** SPAM *** Tsunami case of precognitive remote viewing
Yes, I recall that Gail did
send me a message about the film "The Last
Wave" a few days before the
Tsunami hit.
On Dec 28, 2004, at 12:05
PM,
Galilwheat@aol.com wrote:
>
> Hi Greg,
>
> This is the film that I
asked you about last week. In light of the
> Tsunami you might want to
check it out. Fishy Timing, no? Below:
> articles on The Last Wave.
>
> [GAIL PREVIOUS EMAIL A FEW
DAYS BEFORE the Tsunami]
>
> I love Peter Weir's
movies. Did you see The Last Wave? I think that
> we may be heading for that
scenario, and that is about as real as it
> gets in this Barnum and
Bailey world. The world is poorly plotted
> experiential movie:
SmellOvision as Philo Farnsworth called it.
>
> Gail Whittaker
>
>
> "Ut in Stellis Iustitia"
> "There is Justice even in
the Stars."
>
> When I, sitting, heard the
astronomer, where he lectured with such
> applause in the lecture
room,
> How soon, unaccountable, I
became tired and sick;
> Till rising and gliding
out, I wander’d off by myself,
> In the mystical moist
night-air, and from time to time,
> Look’d up in perfect
silence at the stars. - Whitman
>
>
> The Last Wave
> This is the film that I
asked you about last week. In light of the
> Tsunami you might want to
check this film out. Fishy Timing, no?
>
> "In this period of history
in which native Hopi and Mayan prophecies
> predict the "end of
history" and the purification of man leading to
> the Fifth World, The Last
Wave, though 25 years old, is still timely.
> The Aborigines are
portrayed as a vibrant culture, not one completely
> subjugated by the white
man, yet I am troubled by the gnawing feeling
> that we are looking in but
not quite seeing. Weir has opened our eyes
> to the mystery that lies
beyond our consensual view of reality, but he
> perpetuates the
doom-orientation that sees possibility only in terms
> of fear, showing nature as
a dark and uncontrollable power without a
> hint of the spiritual
beauty that lives on both sides of time."
>
> Howard Schumann
>
> THE LAST WAVE
> <image.tiff>
> directed by Peter Weir
>
> YEAR
> 1977
>
> 106 MINS, Color
>
> Peter Weir's metaphysical
thriller, which explores the mysterious and
> polarized divide between
European and Aboriginal approaches to the
> spiritual and natural
worlds, arrived in the United States just as
> world cinema audiences
were discovering the blossoming Australian
> cinema movement of the
late 1970s. Richard Chamberlain plays David
> Burton, a Sydney lawyer
who agrees to represent five Aborigines
> accused of murder. As he
investigates the case and learns more about
> his clients' mysticism and
traditions, Burton also experiences a
> series of disturbing
nightmares prophesizing a coming watery
> apocalypse. Elliptical and
haunting, this early cult film from the
> director of PICNIC AT
HANGING ROCK (1975), WITNESS (1985) and THE
> TRUMAN SHOW(1998) was a
pioneering consideration of Aboriginal culture
> as well as an early
demonstration of Weir's flair for indelible visual
> storytelling. With Olivia
Hamnett and David Gulpilil. PG (AC, BN, MV)
>
> PRODUCER
> Hal McElroy
> Jim McElroy
>
> SCREENWRITER
> Tony Morphett
> Petru Popescu
> Peter Weir
>
> CINEMATOGRAPHER
> Russell Boyd
>
> EDITOR
> Max Lemon
>
>
> CAST
> Richard Chamberlain
> Olivia Hamnett
> David Gulpilil
> Frederick Parslow
>
> Einstein: God does not
play dice.
>
> Bohr: Stop telling God
what to do!
>
> Einstein: Everybody talks
about me and nobody understands me!
>
>
http://aebrain.blogspot.com/2004_03_07_aebrain_archive.html
>
> Thursday, March 11, 2004
>
> The Last Wave
>
> There's something peculiar
about the geology around Sydney. The
> surface geology, that is.
There's evidence that not so long ago, North
> Head (the northernmost
part of the entrance to Sydney Harbour - see
> picture to right) was
scoured clean by a monster wave. And there's
> similar evidence up and
down the coast round Sydney. I found some
> myself after a
particularly bad storm, pulverised puddingstone and
> other volcanic rock that
had been transported from a known site at the
> water's edge, taken
inland, and buried for a few hundred years. (In
> was studying geology at
High School at the time).
> There are Aboriginal
artworks inland from the Sydney region that could
> be interpreted as
recordings of an awesome tsunami, and by comparing
> dates with known records
of the arrivals of European ships, it looks
> like it happened less than
1,000 years ago. There's also evidence that
> the Ku-Ring-Gai and other
Sydney area Aboriginal tribes were relative
> latecomers to the scene.
> Considering that over 4
million people live in the Cumberland Basin (
> the geologiocal area that
Sydney's on), a repetition would be a bit of
> a worry. One of the most
likely hypotheses to explain what may have
> occurred was a sub-surface
massive landslip of cubic kilometres of
> rock from the continental
shelf and into the ocean depths. Certainly
> there's evidence to show
that this happens periodically.
> But we may now have found
the Smoking Gun. From Science News, via A
> Voyage To Arcturus :
>
> Scientists may have
discovered the impact site of one big space rock
> that smacked into the
South Pacific just a few hundred years ago. In
> eastern Australia,
researchers have found jumbled deposits of rocks
> more than 130 m above sea
level that they propose were left by a
> tsunami. That debris has
been dated to about A.D. 1500—a date that
> matches when the Maori
people inexplicably moved away from some areas
> of New Zealand's coast,
says Stephen F. Pekar, a sedimentologist at
> Queens College in New
York. On New Zealand's Stewart Island, two sites
> sport possible tsunami
deposits at elevations of 150 m and 220 m,
> respectively.
>
> The source locations and
heights of waves that could have lofted
> materials to those
elevations steered the search for the impact's
> ground zero to beneath the
sea southwest of New Zealand, says Pekar.
> Sure enough, he and his
colleagues have discovered a crater there
> that's about 20 km wide
and about 150 m deep. Samples of sediment
> taken from the seafloor
southeast of the crater, but not those
> obtained elsewhere around
the crater, contain small mineral globules
> called tektites, one
hallmark of an extraterrestrial impact. That
> pattern suggests that an
object may have struck from the northwest—a
> path that would have taken
the blazing bolide over southeastern
> Australia, where
aboriginal legends mention just such a fireball.
>
> The rock that created
tsunamis off New Zealand 500 years ago may have
> been around 1 km across,
the researchers say.
>
> That would fit. A wave 500
ft high, big enough to wash inland till it
> reached the nearest
mountain range, 30 miles inland, round about 1477.
>
> The title of the post
comes from a particularly Weird 1977 Peter Weir
> film, whose final scene
shows just such a wave approaching Sydney.
>
> // posted by Alan E
Brain @ 7:27 PM No Comment
>
>
http://www.talkingpix.co.uk/ReviewsLastWave.html
>
> "Dreams are like seeing--
like hearing-- like talking. They are a way
> of knowing things" -
Chris
>
>
> Richard Chamberlain is
David Burton, a tax lawyer living in Sydney,
> Australia who is drawn
into a murder trial defending five Aboriginal
> men accused of murdering a
fellow native in Peter Weir's apocalyptic
> 1977 thriller The Last
Wave. Taking up where Picnic at Hanging Rock
> left off, the film goes
deeper into exploring the unknown and, in the
> process, shows the gulf
between two cultures who live side by side but
> lack understanding of each
others culture and traditions. Weir shows
> how white society
considers the native beliefs to be primitive
> superstitions and believes
that since they are living in the cities
> and have been
"domesticated", their tribal laws and culture no longer
> apply.
>
> From the start, Burton is
drawn deeper and deeper into a strange web
> of visions and symbols
where the line between real time and "dream
> time" evaporates. Water
plays an important symbolic role in the film
> from the opening sequence
in which a sudden thunder and hailstorm
> interrupts a peaceful
school recess to Burton's discovery that his
> bathtub is overflowing and
water is pouring down his steps. As
> violent and unusual
weather continue with episodes of black rain and
> mud falling from the sky,
the contrast between the facile scientific
> explanations of the
phenomenon and the intuitive understanding of the
> natives is made clear.
Burton and his wife Annie (Olivia Hamnet) study
> books about the Aborigines
and learn about the role of dreams in the
> tribal traditions. When he
invites one of his clients Chris Lee (David
> Gulpilil) to his home for
dinner, he is disturbed to find that he is
> the subject of an inquiry
by Chris and his friend Charlie (Nadjiwarra
> Amagula), an enigmatic
Aborigine sorcerer involved with the
> defendants. As Burton's
investigation continues, his clients make his
> work difficult by refusing
to disclose the true events surrounding the
> murder.
>
> After Chris starts to
appear in his dreams, Burton is convinced that
> the Aborigine was killed
in a tribal ritual because "he saw too much",
> though Chris refuses to
acknowledge this in court. Burton, becoming
> more and more troubled by
a mystery he cannot unravel, says to his
> stepfather priest, "Why
didn't you tell me there were mysteries?" This
> is a legitimate question
but, according to the reverend, the Church
> answers all mysteries.
Burton knows now that he must discover the
> truth for himself and
enters the tribal underground caves. Though we
> do not know for certain
what is real and what is a dream, he comes
> face to face with his
deepest fears in a haunting climax that will
> leave you pondering its
meaning into the wee hours of the morning.
>
> In this period of history
in which native Hopi and Mayan prophecies
> predict the "end of
history" and the purification of man leading to
> the Fifth World, The Last
Wave, though 25 years old, is still timely.
> The Aborigines are
portrayed as a vibrant culture, not one completely
> subjugated by the white
man, yet I am troubled by the gnawing feeling
> that we are looking in but
not quite seeing. Weir has opened our eyes
> to the mystery that lies
beyond our consensual view of reality, but he
> perpetuates the
doom-orientation that sees possibility only in terms
> of fear, showing nature as
a dark and uncontrollable power without a
> hint of the spiritual
beauty that lives on both sides of time.
>
> Howard Schumann
>
>
http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/01/19/sedan.html
>
> "I wanted to argue at
length the plausibility of my scenario, but my
> friend was more interested
in his discovery that Mercator's projection
> can be misleading than he
was in the facts about The Wave. So when I
> tried to know my
limitations, I realized that if someone from the
> American Mid West may take
flat maps on trust but not the myth of the
> final tsunami, in my heart
of hearts as an East Coast Australian my
> beliefs run the other way
round. The map is an evident fiction; the
> myth defines a potential
event. Peter Weir's The Last Wave (1977) is
> one of the most terrifying
films I have seen.
>
> In my dreams, however,
and in the half-serious speculation around the
> sporadic Wave-panics that
recur in Sydney culture, the apocalyptic
> narrative rarely leads to
the mystic vision achieved by Richard
> Chamberlain in Weir's
film, where the quest for truth leads east from
> the desert through the
sewers of the city to the beach, and
> Revelation. Nor does it
end heroically, with the action-image favoured
> by surfers dreaming in the
opposite direction of a thousand- mile ride
> west from Sydney Harbour
Bridge to Uluru (Ayer's Rock) in the central
> desert inland. Instead,
the fundamental scenario takes the form of a
> gruesome crazy comedy,
ending in freeze-frame chaos: 3 million cars
> jammed motionless, between
the coast and the mountains, as the sky
> fills with waves.
>
> But fear of inundation
need not work through a narrative image of
> unprecedented rupture. As
the scenario of environmental (including
> viral) disaster begins, in
popular narrative, to complement or even
> displace nuclear war as a
model of the probable future, a creeping
> gradualism invests
existing stories with a new inevitability, a sense
> of a process begun. The
Wave, in this historicized perspective, is
> already coming. A recent
East Coast poll suggested that 75% of
> Australians knew about the
Greenhouse Effect, and thought that
> "something should be done
about it". Even allowing for the
> peculiarities of polling
as a media event, this is an extraordinary
> result. It's true that the
news at the time was full of "Greenhouse"
> stories about fire in
Brazil, drought and fire in the United States,
> and the flood in
Bangladesh. But the news had also been full of
> stories about a referendum
to reform the Australian constitution.
> According to the polls,
only some 40% of the population knew that
> Australia had a
constitution (and a huge majority voted "no" to
> reforms including freedom
of religion, human rights, and more
> democracy)."
>
> <image.tiff>
>
>
>
> contents great directors
cteq annotations
> top tens about us
links archive search
>
> Fate and
> the Family Sedan
>
> by Meaghan Morris
>
> <image.tiff>The Last Wave
>
>
>
> Meaghan Morris is Chair
Professor in the Department of Cultural
> Studies at Lingnan
University, Hong Kong. She has written extensively
> on film and culture since
the 1970s. Her books include Too Soon Too
> Late: History in Popular
Culture (Indiana University Press, 1998) and
> The Pirate's Fiancée
(Verso, 1988). Her current projects include books
> on global action cinema
and Ernestine Hill.
>
>
> This essay was originally
published in East-West Film Journal, 4/1
> (December 1989), 113-134.
>
>
> Collision Course
>
> Since this paper takes as
its focus a very localized concept of family
> and cinema – neither
Eastern nor Western but south-east Australian –
> I'd like to start with a
story about space and ethnocentrism.
>
> Recently I took a
visiting American to a Sydney surfing beach, and we
> swapped cultural
comparisons. In spite of the gulf between "Hawaii"
> (his referent for myths of
The Beach) and Cronulla, our exchange of
> differences was easy
enough until he told me a legend he'd heard in
> Hawaii that one day
Australia would sink, and The Last Wave appear on
> the horizon. Suddenly I
found myself confronted with "the stark
> impossibility of
thinking that". According to Foucault in The Order
> of Things, this is an
experience which should lead us to apprehend, in
> the "exotic charm" of
another system of thought, the limitation of our
> own. But I wanted to
defend, not deconstruct, my spatial system.
> Australia is a continent
the size of the United States, it couldn't
> possibly sink! Besides,
Sydney people know about The Last Wave. That's
> what happens when after a
massive earthquake, California sinks – and a
> mile-high tsunami wipes
out everything in the Pacific, the whole East
> coast of Australia with
most of our major cities, then breaks on the
> barrier of mountains
protecting the deserts, and the "Western" towns,
> beyond.
>
> I wanted to argue at
length the plausibility of my scenario, but my
> friend was more interested
in his discovery that Mercator's projection
> can be misleading than he
was in the facts about The Wave. So when I
> tried to know my
limitations, I realized that if someone from the
> American Mid West may take
flat maps on trust but not the myth of the
> final tsunami, in my heart
of hearts as an East Coast Australian my
> beliefs run the other way
round. The map is an evident fiction; the
> myth defines a potential
event. Peter Weir's The Last Wave (1977) is
> one of the most terrifying
films I have seen.
>
> In my dreams, however,
and in the half-serious speculation around the
> sporadic Wave-panics that
recur in Sydney culture, the apocalyptic
> narrative rarely leads to
the mystic vision achieved by Richard
> Chamberlain in Weir's
film, where the quest for truth leads east from
> the desert through the
sewers of the city to the beach, and
> Revelation. Nor does it
end heroically, with the action-image favoured
> by surfers dreaming in the
opposite direction of a thousand- mile ride
> west from Sydney Harbour
Bridge to Uluru (Ayer's Rock) in the central
> desert inland. Instead,
the fundamental scenario takes the form of a
> gruesome crazy comedy,
ending in freeze-frame chaos: 3 million cars
> jammed motionless, between
the coast and the mountains, as the sky
> fills with waves.
>
> But fear of inundation
need not work through a narrative image of
> unprecedented rupture. As
the scenario of environmental (including
> viral) disaster begins, in
popular narrative, to complement or even
> displace nuclear war as a
model of the probable future, a creeping
> gradualism invests
existing stories with a new inevitability, a sense
> of a process begun. The
Wave, in this historicized perspective, is
> already coming. A recent
East Coast poll suggested that 75% of
> Australians knew about the
Greenhouse Effect, and thought that
> "something should be done
about it". Even allowing for the
> peculiarities of polling
as a media event, this is an extraordinary
> result. It's true that the
news at the time was full of "Greenhouse"
> stories about fire in
Brazil, drought and fire in the United States,
> and the flood in
Bangladesh. But the news had also been full of
> stories about a referendum
to reform the Australian constitution.
> According to the polls,
only some 40% of the population knew that
> Australia had a
constitution (and a huge majority voted "no" to
> reforms including freedom
of religion, human rights, and more
> democracy).
>
> In The Practice of
Everyday Life, Michel de Certeau argues that polls
> (like ratings, surveys,
market research, talking heads, news stories)
> act as mechanisms for
"establishing the real" in belief- depleted
> societies. We do not
"believe" directly, but obliquely, through a
> process of disavowal. The
citational practices of media allow us the
> detour of believing a
fiction of what other people elsewhere believe,
> while we stay sceptical
ourselves: “the 'real' is what, in a given
> place, reference to
another place makes people believe in” (1). It is
> in this sense that in 1988
Australia, the Greenhouse Effect is
> predicated as "real" ("no
longer a science fiction scenario" as one
> media story put it) for a
majority of people "out there" to a degree
> that the Constitution,
like most of the mechanisms for "doing
> something" about impending
disasters, is not. It is in this sense too
> that Australians are
established to themselves in our media as
> environmentally sensitive,
but politically indifferent.
>
> On a recent publicity
tour, the film star Jack Thompson detailed the
> achievements of white
Australians in a mere 200 years: 50% of the
> native forests gone, 75%
of the rainforest, deserts increased from 20%
> to 40% of the continent,
dozens of native plant and animal species
> extinct, and over 2,000
more (including the koala) under threat in the
> next ten years.
Traditional Anglo-Australian culture was notoriously
> nervous, rather than
"sensitive", about Nature, and about the
> otherness of the
Australian landscape judged by European norms
> (particularly when
"Nature" and "Landscape" were allowed to include
> "Aborigines"). As late as
1960, the architectural theorist Robin Boyd
> in The Australian Ugliness
described suburban culture – with its dream
> of an endless distribution
of tidy family homes on their quarter-acre
> blocks – as "arborophobic".
In the larger framework of a
> socio-economic analysis,
Geoffrey Bolton entitled his history of the
> Australian environment
since the British invasion in 1788, Spoils and
> Spoilers (1981). His
fourth chapter, about the 19th century, is called
> "They Hated Trees".
>
> To complete my own
establishment of a real, I'll cite two more media
> items. A few weeks ago, a
Federal Government Minister casually
> announced that over 50% of
Australian households now contain only one
> or two people. He wasn't
simply pointing out that in spite of a widely
> proclaimed nostalgia for
"the family" (felt in Australia as
> elsewhere), the classic
nuclear model usually invoked is now a
> minority option. He wanted
action to change our land use and housing
> habits to match resources
to a transformed "family life": urban sprawl
> structured by car trips
between increasingly distant key sites must at
> long last give way to more
medium density housing. This warning,
> offered as a planning
proposal, was presented on TV as a science
> fiction scenario. Yet a
fair degree of "reality" was accorded to a
> comment by another
Minister that as our coasts become eroded and our
> deserts expand, hundreds
of thousands of families "will have to be
> moved".
>
> What interests me in
these juxtapositions is a drifting sense in the
> media of a society on a
collision course with its own conditions of
> possibility – and of an
imperative to action seen as indispensable,
> yet improbable. What I
want to do is make some generalizations about
> the historically dominant
modes of representing the family as a
> problem (social,
affective, "ecological") in Australian cinema, then
> look in more detail at
some uses, within this context, of the car as
> an agent of action. I want
to consider cars as mobile, encapsulating
> vehicles of critical
thinking about the family and familial space –
> articulating a conflict
between a "society" and an "environment" which
> are nonetheless mutually,
and historically, entailed.
>
> The Phobic Family
>
> "Naturally, the family
must be targeted": this is how Susan Dermody
> and Elizabeth Jacka sum up
a major action theme of Kennedy-Miller's
> Mad Max (1979), as well as
the enmeshing of “anxiety and joy” in its
> violent abolition of the
domestic sphere for a petrol-and-speed crazed
> future (2). The word
"naturally" refers to the narrative logic of the
> film, in which a
spectacular opening chase-and-crash sequence smashes
> a family caravan, but
spares a woman and child on the road – thus
> preparing for the final
running down of Max's own wife and child by a
> gang of vengeful bikies.
But the "naturally" also refers to a broader
> sense of inevitability
created by an inordinate number of Australian
> films made before Mad Max,
and since.
>
> Max was not the only
Australian film of its time to use the
> extermination of the
nuclear family – and/or its enabling condition,
> the heterosexual couple –
as a device to "fuel the moral economy of
> the narrative" (Dermody
and Jacka). In Colin Eggleston's horror
> road-movie Long Weekend
(1977), an awful suburban couple drive to a
> lonely beach to repair a
relationship made even more miserable by the
> wife's recent abortion.
Both films begin with an explicit image of
> "targeting": in Mad Max, a
brutal cop (The Big Bopper) holds a couple
> making love in the
telescopic sight of his gun; in Long Weekend Peter
> (John Hargreaves) parks
his car, takes a gun from a camper-van, and
> targets his wife at the
window.
>
> <image.tiff>Long Weekend
>
> In Max, this routine
assimilation of male violence and vision is a
> prelude to the first chase
sequence that almost kills a child (car
> windscreens replacing the
gun-sights). In Long Weekend, it sets the
> mood of the tourist quest.
From the moment they drive off, Peter and
> Marcia (Briony Behets)
casually destroy their environment as they gnaw
> away at each other –
littering, burning, chopping, spraying, smashing
> an eagle's egg, and
shooting a harmless dugong just in case it's a
> shark. Nature takes its
revenge, and the upshot of their campsite
> efforts at domestic bliss
is that night bush-noises terrorize Peter
> into killing Marcia with a
spear-gun. He runs wildly though a
> labyrinth of trees and out
onto the road – where, like the villain at
> the end of Mad Max, he is
splattered by a passing truck. In Long
> Weekend, however, it is a
bird and not the bereaved husband who (by
> flying at the driver)
engineers the fatal collision.
>
> There are other
differences between the two films, to which I shall
> return. First, I want to
consider how bleak and hyper-critical in
> general Australian cinema
has been about nuclear family life, and
> male-female relationships
(especially in a contemporary setting).
> "Nuclear" family is an
old-fashioned phrase these days, even in
> feminist criticism: but it
is the right one, I think, to define the
> Thing that haunts the
couples, trinities and quartets of so much
> Australian cinema.
>
> For if its apocalyptic
elimination of the wife-and-child was, by our
> cinema's standards,
"natural", Mad Max was unusual in presenting its
> hero as having been happy
as a husband and father. From Ted Kotcheff's
> Wake in Fright (1971,
a.k.a. Outback) to John Dingwall's Phobia
> (1988), the prevailing
themes have been violence, hostility,
> alienation, misery, and a
difference in values and desires between the
> sexes that verges on
incommensurability. Rather than list dozens of
> films, suffice it to say
that in one of the first feature-length films
> of the Australian revival,
the compilation film Libido (1973), it is
> the segment called The
Family Man (a businessman out on the town with
> the boys while his wife
recovers from child-birth) that deals with
> misogyny, hypocrisy, and
rape. There is an interesting resonance (in
> this respect only) with
Tracey Moffat's dramatic essay Nice Coloured
> Girls (1987). Inter-cut
with passages of colonial White male discourse
> on Aboriginal women are
sequences where Aboriginal women tell how they
> cruise and rob drunken
White men, out on the town today. One of the
> women says of a victim,
"He should be home with his family".
>
> Women, white as well as
black, have played a peripheral part in most
> Australian cinema. Yet as
the heavily ironic realism of The Family Man
> (and its title) suggests,
this marginalization of "real women" has not
> usually been accompanied
by a compensatory or enabling investment in
> an imaginary of "Woman" or
"the Feminine" – unless one accords those
> terms a degree of
abstraction that effaces all social reference (and
> with it, cultural
difference). The racist fantasies analysed by Moffat
> are most likely to bring a
discourse on Woman into play, but on the
> whole both racism and
sexism tend, in Australian films, towards
> effecting (and
re-enacting) a process of total erasure of the figure
> of the Other. This process
en-genders a relentless, circular critique
> of White masculinity that
admits few compensations (cars, drinking,
> and mateship recur), yet
rarely imagines change. Australian cinema has
> been full of sad larrikins
with lost illusions left alone in the end
> with their beer (The
Office Picnic), their car (The F.J. Holden) or
> their camera (Newsfront).
>
> There are few romantic
comedies in Australian cinema; few fully
> developed adult love
stories, fewer still with happy endings; "family
> entertainment" here
suggests a horse saga rather than a wholesome
> suburban romp. The rare
women characters with major roles do not
> usually find ultimate
"fulfilment" with a man: either he dies
> (Caddie), and fails her
(Winter of Our Dreams), or she just survives
> the encounter (Monkey
Grip, Fran), and dies (Careful, He Might Hear
> You). Sometimes, with a
bit more luck, she heads off with a girlfriend
> (Puberty Blues) or
daughter (High Tide) and leaves the country (Going
> Down, Maybe This Time).
The better-known exceptions to this
> segregationist (rather
than separatist) norm have usually been made
> for export to the US
market (Crocodile Dundee), or as co-productions
> where American values
predominate (Peter Weir's The Year of Living
> Dangerously) or – to
exceed the definition of "Australian cinema" for
> the sake of a comparison –
by Australian directors working abroad
> (Weir's Witness, Gillian
Armstrong's Mrs Soffel, Bruce Beresford's
> Tender Mercies and Places
of the Heart). In their local productions,
> all three directors have
made films in which love was not a central
> issue (The Last Wave,
Armstrong's Starstruck, Beresford's Breaker
> Morant), or in which it
takes marginal, rebellious or extra-ordinary
> forms. (3)
>
> For it is not passion or
involvement per se that is "targeted" from
> the outset as doomed or
crisis-ridden. On the contrary, Australian
> cinema is full of
positivity for strange possibilities: men fall
> deeply in love with
un-human landscapes (Plains of Heaven), women are
> ravished by hunks of
granite (Picnic at Hanging Rock), and the
> documentary Cane Toads is
perhaps the closest thing we have so far to
> a study of amour fou.
There are plenty of gangs, groups and "tribes"
> (Mouth to Mouth, Going
Down, The Road Warrior), tender adolescents
> (The Year My Voice Broke)
and adoptive families (Malcolm, Mad Max
> Beyond Thunderdome).
Consistently, it is the White, well-off, mature
> heterosexual unit – the
Oedipal inspiration and solution for so much
> American and European
cinema, in so many different genres – that
> signifies failure,
disaster, the endemic non-viability of a certain
> way of life.
>
> But it would be an
empirical, as well as a theoretical, mistake
> simply to read in this
traumatized image a generally accepted
> reflection of everyday
social experience. Australian television drama,
> for example, creates a
quite different impression of family life. From
> the early series Bellbird
and Number 96 to A Country Practice and the
> suburban-soap Neighbours
today, the most popular local shows have
> created a glowing
Australia of loving couples, happy families and
> friendly communities, an
image which is often received as socially
> "realistic" – in contrast
to Dynasty, Dallas, or the British
> Eastenders (often called
"unbelievably" grim). Furthermore, a
> substantial documentary
cinema offers much more nuanced and varied
> representations of family
life than either film or TV drama. Few
> fictional Australian women
have been created with the detail of
> Gillian Armstrong's
documentary trilogy Smokes and Lollies, 14's Good,
> 18's Better and Bingo,
Bridesmaids and Braces.
>
> From a survey like this,
it is easy to move into the territory of
> great myths and conundrums
of White Australian History (eg "Why does
> Australia have no
literature of love?"). I prefer to stress the
> distinctiveness of the
feature-film industry by noting one more of its
> peculiarities. Apart
from The Year of Living Dangerously, I know of
> only four films with Asian
settings: The Man from Hong Kong (a
> martial-arts adventure),
Felicity (softcore porn), The Odd Angry Shot
> (a Vietnam War comedy),
and John Duigan's Far East (a partial remake
> of Casablanca). "Setting"
is the word, not "encounter": all four
> activate myths of
"Asian-ness" (alien, exotic, mysterious, erotic) in
> order to enhance or
differentiate white Australian subjectivities. Far
> East has a touch of
actuality with its revision of Rick as an ugly
> Australian in the bar-sex
trade of a vaguely Philippines-like country,
> but its title admits the
Hollywood nostalgia that motivates the
> quartet. Australians
really speaking of Asian countries will normally
> say, "far North".
>
> Again, it is to
documentary and television production that one must
> look for a complex and
current sense of "Australia" as a culturally
> and racially mixed society
in the Asia-Pacific region. When compared
> to the nostalgic
insularity of the mainstream commercial cinema,
> ordinary mini-series like
A Town Like Alice, Vietnam, Cowra
> Break-out, and A Dangerous
Life, documentaries like Gary Kildea's
> Celso and Cora: A Manila
Story, Dennis O'Rourke's Yumi Yet, Ileksen,
> and Cannibal Tour, First
Contact by Robyn Anderson and Bob Connelly,
> Bali Tryptich, even the
routine TV current affairs shows screening
> every week, all appear to
emerge, if not from a different country,
> then from another time in
that country, with a different sense of its
> place.
>
> Dermody and Jacka argue
in The Screening of Australia that the
> specific economic problems
and cultural contradictions of a "second"
> feature-film industry in a
"dominion capitalist" (neocolonial) country
> have produced “a
particularly inward national drama” (4). Its "social
> imaginary", in Elsaesser's
phrase, is constituted by a series of
> double binds, organized by
the central dilemma of affirming national
> "identity" (international
product-differentiation) while denying too
> much "difference"
(internationally unintelligible product). This
> imperative in turn fosters
a mode of address dependent on a
> homogenizing play of
recognition – in which an iconic White
> "masculinity" bears, at
all levels of textual production in a great
> many films, the burden of
generating "Australian-ness". At the same
> time, an interest in
Australian history and sense of place is easily
> articulated as an anxiety
about the singularity of its "proper"
> national time, and space.
>
> This argument at least
helps to explain some of the differences in
> emphasis between the
feature-film industry, and TV or documentary
> production with some
access to more flexible funding and/or
> distribution
possibilities. It would also allow a convenient mapping
> of the implosive family
narratives of Australian cinema on to its
> troubled thematics of
landscape, and its exclusionary focus on the
> narcissistic structure
that is called in Australia, "White guilt". The
> sense of "inwardness" can
then be analyzed as a territorial imaginary
> of closure, in which the
family "unit", menaced from without and
> collapsing from within,
works as an allegorical displacement of larger
> historic (national) and
geographic (continental) fears. This is a
> cinema of borders, spatial
oppositions (fragile coastline, dry heart),
> doomed voyages "in" and
"out"; figures heterogeneous to the White male
> quest (women, Aborigines,
"foreigners") are admitted to its space, if
> at all, as intruders,
outsiders, and extras encountered in time en
> route.
>
> However the "inwardness"
of Australian cinema is also an effect of a
> critical discourse which
takes, too literally (and perhaps more
> literally than some of the
films), its "national" borders on trust.
> For we could just as well
say that there is a certain "ecological"
> truthfulness to the
fatalistic image of the Western nuclear family in
> so much Australian cinema,
to its critique of masculinity, (and even
> to the impulse of "White
guilt"). Of course it is a limited
> truthfulness. But feminist
critics have often asked men, in recent
> years, to look at
themselves and "masculinity", rather than women and
> "femininity", as a way of
responding to feminism. How to respond, now,
> to a cinema which has
looked at very little else is a question posed
> by Australian films in
turn to their feminist critics.
>
> <image.tiff>Phobia
>
> There is also a question
of responding when a male-narcissistic
> economy does try to
"imagine" change. John Dingwall's Phobia, for
> example, can be read as a
critique of Long Weekend. Eggleston's is a
> classic Guilt film, full
of "the self-loathing of liberal Australians
> for their material and
spiritual sins against the continent" (with the
> woman as the original
sinner, her abortion the ultimate crime). (5)
> Unlike Max (where at least
the hero ends up with his car), and The
> Last Wave (where romantic
Aboriginal mediators guide the Whites to
> doom), Long Weekend admits
no possibility of change or redemption by
> any human agency this side
of Natural holocaust. Phobia has similar
> elements – a White
suburban milieu, with only two characters, a
> childless couple about to
break up – and a similar opening sequence: a
> nervous woman enclosing
herself in the home, an angry husband
> returning by car.
>
> But this couple never
takes to the road. Instead, the family domain –
> a high-fenced house with a
giant garden – works as an enclosure within
> and against the limits of
which their "journeys" are played out.
> Renate is agoraphobic: the
fence once meant security, but when she
> wants to leave her husband
it quickly defines a prison. David, a
> psychiatrist, wants her to
stay, and exacerbates her fears. A very
> simple reversal is
performed when it turns out that the "original"
> agoraphobic is David.
Beginning to break free, Renate survives a final
> mayhem of Long
Weekend-like occurrences: massacred chickens,
> near-impalement, a run
through a labyrinth of trees; then, summoning
> all her strength, she
leaves David in a screaming heap, opens up the
> gates, and walks out into
the world.
>
> In terms of a short
survey of Australian cinema families, two
> interesting shifts occur
between Long Weekend and Phobia. One is that
> Renate (played by
Polish-Australian actress Gosia Dobrowolska) is
> European. David (Sean
Scully) claims that her illness is a response to
> her "foreign" experience
in an alien, hostile territory. But she
> refuses to conflate the
walls of her home with the isolation of
> Australia or the otherness
of its culture. She isn't doomed to endure
> a stifled life; it's just
been a lousy marriage.
>
> The other shift is of
course that in Phobia, a particular man is the
> opponent, not Man or
Nature, and the woman not only survives the
> crisis but takes control
of her destiny. More subtly, however, this
> happens through a
rejection of one of the great formal metaphors of
> narrative subjectivity,
mastery, agency and power in Australian
> action-cinema: the Car. At
the beginning of both films, the men are
> seen at the wheel. Towards
the end of Long Weekend, Marcia decides to
> opt out of Peter's
suicidal scenario for toughing it out against
> Nature, and roars off
alone in the van. But her fate has been sealed:
> terrified by trees, she
drives in a circle back to the beach. When
> agoraphobic Renate
succeeds in defying her destiny where arborophobic
> Marcia fails, she is
acting against extraordinary odds: Renate can't
> even drive.
>
> Dead-End Driving,
Desiring Machines
>
> "I can drive!": the last
line of Peter Weir's The Cars That Ate Paris
> celebrates another release
from phobia, and the endowing of a hero
> with his savoir-pouvoir-faire.
In this film, however, it is a frail,
> timid, "foreign" man who
triumphs over a crippling disability, masters
> his environment, and is
empowered to escape or salvage an auto-mobilic
> regime.
>
> A fatal accident has
given Arthur Waldo (Terry Camilleri) a phobia
> about driving. No more
suitable victim could land in the hospital of
> Paris – an isolated town
in rural Australia, whose economy and society
> entirely depends on car-nage.
Paris lives by causing crashes and
> scavenging the wrecks,
recycling both metal and human components. A
> hierarchical social
structure defends its traditional "way of life":
> outsiders are devoured or
deflected, Law and Order strictly maintained
> (Arthur, adopted by the
Mayor, becomes a parking attendant). The
> regime is epitomized by
The Mayor (John Meillon): a patriotic Parisian
> who speaks in a stream of
pieties and platitudes as garbled in their
> way as the
dinosaur-machines made from car-parts by the youth of the
> town. They are the
revolutionaries: embracing the fuel-and-blood
> sucking violence disavowed
by the men who run it, they create and
> tenderly cherish a hybrid
species of killer cars. When the cars attack
> the town on the night of a
Pioneer Ball, Arthur, the chronic
> passenger, must overcome
his phobia, get into the driver's seat, and
> gain the power to act.
>
> Released in 1974, two
years after the formal ending of both the White
> Australia Policy and
Australia's involvement in the Vietnam War, The
> Cars That Ate Paris is in
part a horror-comedy about hetero-phobic
> isolationism: the cultural
logic that makes it possible to invade
> another country to "stop
them coming over here". Paris is a community
> that cannot tolerate
change, difference, or new influence. Dreaming of
> splendid self-sufficiency,
it is in reality a parasitic structure that
> could not survive without
outsiders. Its "families", steering between
> incest and celibacy, are
reproduced like its cars – by making over and
> adopting the "remnants" of
the wrecks (the most damaged, the Vegies,
> are used for medical
experiments). Arthur's sad adoptive mother,
> bullied by the Mayor and
terrorized by The Cars, is so starved for new
> human contact that she
almost eats him alive.
>
> One of the organizing
metaphors of The Cars That Ate Paris is
> "consumption", and the
film's prelude is a beautiful-lifestyle ad: a
> proto-yuppie couple drive
away in a glamorous car and roll off the
> road to oblivion. Later
films in the car-crash genre – like Midnite
> Spares, Runnin' on Empty,
and the Mad Max trilogy – made more
> optimistic use of
consumer-bricolage, social-mobility and
> cultural-hybridization
motifs "embodied" (at least by postmodernist
> critics) in their fantasy
cars. Midnite Spares, for example, is a
> youth comedy in which the
hero builds and drives drag-racers, quests
> through the spare-parts
gangland to avenge his murdered father,
> defends harassed
Vietnamese immigrants, seduces (in car and caravan) a
> Greek-Australian girl, and
charms her protective family.
>
> Only the Max films,
however, developed the historic anxieties that
> gave the metal monsters of
The Cars That Ate Paris their seriousness,
> menace and wit. For
in Cars, it is precisely the purist isolationism
> of Paris that breeds, like
an enemy within, the truly deviant car.
> Neither a fetish, nor an
adjunct to male activity, the mutant machine
> begins to connect with its
assembler in a new supra- subject of
> desire, and action. Old
distinctions between parts (man/machine,
> user/tool, driver/vehicle)
become obscure, archaic, ancien regime,
> like the Mayor's
administration. The cars supply the "difference"
> denied by Paris, and the
product of their semi-incestuous union with
> the men who re-make them
is not Man but Car.
>
> It is this impossible
drive past a final erasure of "femininity" (and
> beyond the usual scenario
in films like Carpenter's Christine, where
> a car becomes a woman)
that Margaret Dodd explores in her short film
> This Woman Is Not A Car
(1975). In a rape scene where a group of
> mechanics caress,
"undress" and finally wreck a housewife's car, the
> woman disappears from the
scene in a way that suggests that she, not
> the car, has been the
figurative "substitute" for the real object of
> desire. Or rather, she
returns as that desire's reluctant vehicle. At
> the end of the film, she
gives birth to a baby car.
>
> Some fairly obvious
conclusions could be drawn from this about a
> technophiliac imaginary,
and male desires for auto-genesis. However I
> am more interested here in
the uses of such an "imaginary", and
> rather extreme desire, in
Australian cinema. It is important not to
> suppress its ambiguities,
and local resonances: Arthur's cry (as Paris
> is consumed), "I can
drive!", is a wickedly comic moment, as much an
> expression of joy at the
last-minute, ludicrous redemption of a
> hopeless case as a hint of
more carnage to come.
>
> Jon Stratton suggests
that the intensity associated with what he
> calls the "car icon" in
Australian films is to do with the way that
> cars here combine an ideal
of personalizing ("far in excess of the
> notion of 'customizing'
which suggests an acknowledgement of the car
> as commodity"), with one
of relocating the domestic sphere. (6) The
> lovingly reconstituted car
denies both the market economy, and
> alienated labour; the
mobile home offers a utopian space to escape or
> "reconstitute" sexual and
family relations. So in a country with huge
> distances and isolated
centres of sparse population, cars promise a
> rabid freedom, a manic
subjectivity: they offer danger and safety,
> violence and protection,
sociability and privacy, liberation and
> confinement, power and
imprisonment, mobility and stasis. The way
> that any one of these
oppositions can reverse and swing into new
> alignments with the others
suggests the car's semantic potential for
> extreme volatility.
Writing of The Cars That Ate Paris, Dermody and
> Jacka put the problem more
simply: our cars kill us, and without them
> we would die.
>
> Discussing desire in
narrative, Teresa de Lauretis suggests that for
> female spectators,
identification may be split between two mythical
> positions: hero (mythical
subject) and boundary (spatially fixed
> object, personified
obstacle). (7) Now in road movies, the car can
> represent both the subject
(male-hero-human), and the
>
female-boundary-obstacle-space of his trajectory. Perhaps, then, the
> peculiar pleasure of road
movies from "one's own" national cinema
> derives from the way that
cars offer us the third possibility of a
> rapid, two-way transit
between the position of hero, and that greater
> Australian "space" of
visual, as well as narrative, identification,
> the Landscape
(Environment, "Nature"). This might help to explain our
> consent (mine, anyway) to
the "homogenizing" use of iconic masculinity
> in these films to organize
"Australian-ness", as Dermody and Jacka
> describe it: Man + Car +
Outback = spectatorial bliss.
>
> In Australian narrative
cinema, however, and in road movies in
> particular, de-feminizing
the "boundary" is commonly the object of
> the hero's quest. The more
interesting problem for me is then to
> reconsider those social
realist films which may or may not offer an
> explicit spectacle of
drive-and-crash, but which do thematize (to use
> a term appropriate to
their aesthetic) the relationships that real
> women may have to the
space inside the "boundary" of a driver-hero's
> most intimate environment,
his car.
>
> <image.tiff>The F.J.
Holden
>
> In Michael Thornhill's The
F.J. Holden (1977), the movement of bodies
> in and out of the hero's
beloved F.J. articulates a familiar struggle
> between heterosexual love
and male friendship. Set in the
> working-class suburbs of
Western Sydney, this is a road-movie in which
> the road circles round a
self-contained universe – and in which, for
> both love and the hero,
the ride is mostly downhill. The F.J. zooms
> between a set of social
spaces strictly coded by gender: the pub
> (male-dominated, where
women are targeted by men), the shopping-centre
> (female-dominated, where
men are checked out by women), and the home,
> a "mixed" space in which
women work, men relax, and contact between
> the sexes takes the form
of minimalistic talk over meals. The F.J.
> itself (a 1953
all-Australian icon) is a young man's domain. In this
> film, girls don't drive:
the courtship of Kevin (Paul Couzens) and
> Anne (Eva Dickinson) is
swiftly negotiated through his offers of a
> lift.
>
> Anne's rights to the
passenger seat, and to privacy with Kevin in the
> car, always remain
tenuous. The stronger claimant is Kevin's mate Bob
> (Carl Stevens). With Bob,
the car is not used as a privatizing capsule
> but as an in-and-out
passage to Action: cruising, chasing, racing,
> drinking, and "working on
the car". The second sequence of the film
> sets out the terms of the
capsule/passage conflict: a van parked at
> night, a girl inside, a
mixed group outside drinking. An interested
> male falls into the van,
undressing while he finishes his beer. His
> mates offer help, he
refuses (“unless you want to get behind and
> push”); they persist, he
gets annoyed, and kicks them out. That is
> serious (the scene is
comic): this couple will get engaged. Similarly,
> on Anne's first night out
in the car with Kevin, Bob squeezes in the
> front seat with them and
assumes his right to join in. The difference
> is, Kevin lets him: Anne
puts up with Bob's attentions before Kevin
> takes his turn. From then
on, Bob tails the lovers (he is relegated,
> for the duration, to the
back of the car).
>
> The gendered spatial
determinism accepted by this film is so absolute
> that Anne only rebels when
Bob's voyeurism violates her space, her
> bedroom. When she refuses
Kevin's drunken efforts at reconciliation,
> it is in the kitchen of a
girlfriend's family home. Kevin in retreat
> smashes the front door,
drives off in the F.J with Bob, then tries
> (and fails) to talk
seriously to his mate – as they sit in the car
> smashing bottles on the
asphalt of a deserted park.
>
> The "mapping" of events
in the film is worth describing here in
> detail because it is so
schematic. The dispute over the car as capsule
> or transit space is used
metonymically to expound the rules that
> define, and strictly
delimit, the possibilities of a whole society. In
> spite of the car's promise
of wildness and freedom, the working class
> suburbia of The F.J.
Holden is a totally ordered environment: its
> spaces are so
circumscribed, and its social dynamic so circular, that
> the "hero's" trajectory is
a dead-end drive. Anne – woman as
> mateship's obstacle –
withdraws from the ambiguity of the car to the
> security of the home
(where she is surrogate mother to her brothers)
> and the shopping centre.
Kevin drives on to disaster: the police-car
> is waiting at home. As the
cops move in, the last image is a rapidly
> diminishing circle closing
in on Kevin – till his face is ringed in
> close-up, a "mug shot".
>
> However this severe
determinism is not simply a matter of one
> director's ambivalent
response to an urban industrial environment, and
> the mores of working class
youth. Phillip Noyce's Backroads (also
> 1977) is a road movie with
a completely different setting, but with
> much the same logical
conclusion. It begins in the far West of New
> South Wales – brilliant
blue skies, far horizons, flat red earth. This
> journey leads from the
desert to the sea. The car (as a title
> meticulously informs us)
is a stolen DJS - 530'62 Pontiac Parisienne.
> Its body does not define a
disputed border between male and female
> spaces, but the rim of a
social microcosm. At first linking Jack, a
> redneck White drifter, to
Gary, an urbane Aborigine from a local
> reserve, the Pontiac
eventually embraces Gary's "Uncle Joe" (an older,
> more traditional
Aboriginal man), a French hitchhiker, and Anna – a
> white escapee from a
dead-end job at a garage in the middle of
> nowhere.
>
> Beyond the borders of the
Aboriginal reserve there seem to be no
> determined spaces here,
only abstract Space, wide open. There is no
> "quest", except to keep
going: the mood and the impetus of the ride is
> too undirected even to be
called "anarchic". Yet imperceptibly, as
> stray incidents and chance
events accumulate, the narrative pressure
> mounts. Jack is gynophobic,
xenophobic and racist: inside the car, the
> back and forth of talk
fuelled by alcohol is a "tour" of the deepest
> conflicts of Australian
life. The world disintegrates suddenly and
> quickly: the Frenchman is
kicked out, Anna steals the Pontiac, and as
> Jack and Gary prepare to
swipe another car, Joe shoots, and kills, its
> owner. Gary is shot dead
by police, Jack and Joe arrested.
>
> In Backroads, the fact
that the woman can drive is (like her presence
> in the car) peripheral,
yet decisive. Her trajectory runs at a tangent
> to the men's: she has a
fling with the "foreigner", but doesn't get
> out when he does; the
Australians are too consumed by each other to
> take much interest in her.
They all have bad memories: Joe of learning
> to despise white women who
went out with black men, Gary of his failed
> marriage to a white woman,
and Jack of pack-raping a black woman he
> loved, on a drunken binge
with his mates. Both of the men who have
> tried to cross racial
boundaries live out their failure through cars.
> Jack and his mates were in
one when they "picked her up on the side of
> the road". Gary has been
paying one off to impress his wife: finding
> it wrecked, he douses it
with petrol, burns it, and shreds his family
> photo. In spite of the
Pontiac's ambience of random bonhomie, these
> men's destinies are
converging. Anna knows it, takes off, and
> precipitates the disaster.
We know little of her, except a bit of talk
> about dumping a child
somewhere. She represents an obstacle, a
> boundary or a space to
no-one in this film. The women who have done so
> are absences invoked as
images or stories. Glimpsed in passing as the
> subject of a minor, untold
tale, Anna matters only to the narrative as
> an instrument of Fate.
>
> Both the F.J and the
Pontiac are cult-object cars, diverted from any
> ordinary commodity status,
and from any residual function as "family"
> transportation. Both
machines shelter, and connect, contextually
> utopian desires to form
new social relations, but both turn out in the
> end to be traps. Just as
Kevin is literally contained at the end by
> suburban circularity, so
in the final image of Backroads Jack and Joe
> are still riding along in
a microcosm – not a Pontiac, but a police
> van. In neither film does
there ever seem to be any escape for the men
> from confinement by the
Law; the women are agents of an abstract
> process which is always
already in motion. The racial pessimism of
> Backroads is as inexorable
as the gender determinism of The F.J.
> Holden: in both, a
downwardly mobile class destiny pre-empts the
> meaning of movement, the
limit of desire, and the outcome of events.
> In these films, to be able
to drive is a dubious claim to power.
>
> Utopian Transports
>
> Writing of his first
viewing of Mad Max, Tom O'Regan remembers "saying
> aloud to no-one in
particular in the theatre 'this film is evil'”. (8)
> I remember not being able
to stay in the theatre when the bikes came
> roaring up the road
towards the woman and child.
>
> Australian responses
to Mad Max were very intense. As O'Regan points
> out, it "left an indelible
impression ... These seemed ... to be
> images that were – despite
(or perhaps because of) the film's generic
> origins – capable of
articulating collective neuroses and fears . The
> film's violence was
implied rather than on-screen. A measure of its
> cinematic achievement was
that audiences remember a violence in excess
> of what was literally
there". Among the possible reasons, O'Regan
> lists its "carnival of
flesh and body" (Max is a story of mutilation,
> disempowerment and
re-empowerment); the collusion that Max (unlike
> Bond or Rambo) invites as
hero because of his vulnerability; and the
> real, spectacular
murderousness of Australian country roads.
>
> Our reactions do need
explaining, with more than a reference to
> Suture. When I was unable
to watch a scene that I already knew "showed
> nothing", it wasn't as
though I had never experienced a (sexually)
> violent film before. If I
had never seen an Australian film of quite
> such vicious virtuosity,
it wasn't the case that moments of great
> brutality had not occurred
in Australian cinema. But never, somehow,
> like that: and looking
back, it seems to me that I was fleeing from
> the scene of an
unprecedented (a precise vocabulary deserts me here)
> realism. The fear Mad Max
produced was life-like: for pedestrians
> caught in the car-zones,
that's just the way it feels.
>
> Yet unlike the true
Apocalypse, a "realism", by any definition,
> cannot be "unprecedented".
Even for the simplest reflection theory,
> there must be a prior and
structured experience of reality that allows
> us to recognize its image.
Like most myths of the end of the world (if
> with a reverse chronology
of experience and image), realism in the
> colloquial sense is a
predictive operation. What was "unprecedented"
> about Mad Max as
Australian cinema was rather its convincing sense of
> spaces in which anything
might happen: the verisimilitude of its
> violence was not a matter
of "explicit images", or even of the
> terrifying discretion of
its well-timed cuts, but of a mood and a
> movement (which was
"literally there") of rampant unpredictability.
>
> <image.tiff>Mad Max
>
> I don't mean "novelty" or
"surprise". Max is a strict generic exercise
> in which whatever must
happen next, does. I mean an affective
> unpredictability, that
derives from its use of spaces and timing, and
> that structures its
verisimilitude. The men in this film aren't just
> "driven", they're
volatile. Mad Max was an essay on the kind of road
> violence that thrives as
much on chance, co-incidence and random
> forces as it does on
systematic and relentless pursuit, and in which
> occurs in a physical
context where opportunity can match desire. At
> the same time, it veered
away from the highly moralized, politically
> motivated, spatial logics
and social landscapes of the 1970s cinema.
> It was this veer in
particular, I think, which made it so shocking on
> first appearance (and
which led an otherwise liberal critic to say
> that it should be banned).
>
> This reading could be
argued in various ways; through Max's status as
> reluctantly renegade
Law-man, for example, and the casting of the
> lumpen scoot-jockies not
as sinking social victims (à la Backroads and
> F.J. Holden) but as
nasties on the rise. I shall return to my
> comparison between Mad Max
and Long Weekend. Quite early in each of
> them there occurs a fatal
collision. In Long Weekend, Peter runs down
> a kangaroo. Diegetically,
it's an "accident": he's sorry, but bumps
> carelessly over the
corpse. As a figurative event, however, its impact
> is already fully
determined ("yet another" crime against Nature) and
> determinant (it
pre-figures Peter's own death). It occurs after a
> relentless sequence of
contrasts have established a pattern: insect
> close-up + beach long-shot
(Nature, life, peace); city panorama +
> traffic action (Man,
danger, tension)... So it is both a link in a
> chain of events inexorably
moving to a foregone conclusion, and an
> emblematic moment.
>
> The collision in Max
takes a long time to develop. It is an
> orchestrated spectacle,
not an emblematic moment, and it establishes a
> quite different conception
of the space and rhythm of the Road.
> Several micro-narratives
are made to converge by "accident": bad-taste
> buddy-comedy with The Big
Bopper and his sidekicks (two cars); the
> burlesque horror of The
Nightrider (one car); the leather-cowboy
> adventures of The Goose
(one bike); a suburban holiday-tour (one car,
> one caravan); a tale of
small-town marital strife (one pram).
> Inter-cut with these is
the heroic story of Max's toilette as he
> readies himself and his
Interceptor.
>
> Four of these narrative
"lines" are drawn together by the organizing
> force of Law. Two are
there (fictively) by Chance. Each line emerges
> from a separate space, and
each is moving at a different velocity as
> they begin to come
together: The Nightrider is the fastest,
> undeviating; The Big
Bopper's progress is furious, but jerky; The
> Goose starts slowly, then
speeds up; the family caravan is stopping;
> the quarrelling
pedestrians are drifting about; in his own, still
> centre, Max is as yet
barely moving. When the collision comes, there
> are two "fatalities": an
absurdly Britannic red telephone booth, and
> the family caravan. Both
are little predictions (the old Order, like
> the family, will be
targeted), but nothing is settled or exhausted
> here: the caravan leaves a
saucepan in a policeman's throat. Only
> afterwards does the dyad
of Max and The Nightrider emerge from this
> collision of chance and
necessity, and pursuit to the death begin. Its
> inexorable course will be
interrupted and deflected several times
> before Max, the sole
survivor, follows the white line into the
> wasteland and leaves the
Law behind.
>
> Mad Max is much better
cinema than Long Weekend. My point about it
> here, however, is a
film-historical claim that in the context of
> Australian road-movies,
the formal qualities that make it better
> cinema also give it
utopian force. In spite of the setting of all the
> Max films in a (post)-holocaustal
future, it is the contemporary
> vision of films like
Backroads and The F.J. Holden that should be
> called, I think, dystopian:
in spite of their sympathetic mapping of
> social conflicts of sex
and race, they construct political worlds that
> are worse than ours
because no-one in them can effectively act.
> Moreover, the conditions
of an inevitable failure to generate change
> are set out in, and as,
"environment". Once again, a hostile Landscape
> determines our destiny,
and dooms all "human" efforts.
>
> This is a standard
objection to gloom-and-doom realist cinema. For
> me, the interesting
problem would be to develop a feminist reading of
> the positivity of the Max
trilogy. It's a difficult task. The first
> film is an introduction to
a world in which, quite literally, "there
> is no sexual relation". As
O'Regan points out, the death of "the
> family" makes Max, and
ensures that at the end "there is no woman to
> deny in favour of the
greater good". This structuring-out of the
> necessity for a formal
renunciation of desire distinguishes Mad Max
> from comparable
translations of Hollywood genres made elsewhere –
> Seijun Suzuki's Tokyo
Drifter, Sergio Leone's Once Upon A Time In The
> West. Furthermore, Jon
Stratton argues that The Road Warrior
> celebrates not a
transformed ideal of the family, but a "new discourse
> of mining". Its
beleaguered tribes match the need of a high-tech,
> capital-intensive minerals
industry to define heroic subjectivity away
> from the individualist
tradition of the outback. This argument seems
> more plausible if we
compare The Road Warrior with Tim Burstall's
> elegy for the old
outback-miner ethos, The Last of The Knuckle Men.
>
> Yet if we read the Max
trilogy backwards, as Ross Gibson does in his
> superb defence of Beyond
Thunderdome (1985) (a film which was widely
> dismissed as "too
Spielberg"; i.e., sentimentally redemptive), then it
> is possible to see a
narrative of the gradual un-making of Max. (9)
> He is not simply un-made
as hero in the general sense, as the meaning
> of "heroism" in relation
to "action" progressively changes from film
> to film, but, more
specifically, as bearer of the Australian "grand
> tradition" (in Gibson's
phrase) of "transcendental failure". As Gibson
> points out, this is a
tradition persistently conquistadorial in its
> attitude to the land (as
in dead-explorer narratives like Voss, or
> Burke and Wills). It is
also insistently masculinist, extending to
> nationalist war mythology
(Breaker Morant, Gallipoli). For this
> tradition, to fail
gloriously against an insuperable opponent is the
> ultimate proof of heroism.
>
> So in this context (and
even though Max certainly belongs to an
> international cycle of
films suggesting you can tough it out through
> nuclear war), it is
important that Max is both a survivor, and an
> adapter. It is the terms
of his survival that count: if neither
> nuclear war nor Nature do
prove fatal to Max, it is because beyond the
> drastic rupture of war,
Max gradually learns to live in his
> "wasteland" in a less
agonistic way. As Gibson points out, Max's
> un-making involves an
"acclimatization" to the movement of the
> continent he once tried to
police. As he evolves from car-crazy to
> camel-driver to desert
walker, his relationship to "landscape" changes
> – and so does his response
to "society". At the same time, I think,
> the line of his slow
"becoming" as a survivor, and as a different kind
> of inhabitant, is
overtaken and inflected by those of the more rapidly
> moving societies he
crosses on his way. The prophet who comes out of
> the desert at the
beginning of Beyond Thunderdome is still a hero, but
> he is no longer the lone,
still centre round which the turbulence
> gathers at the beginning
of Mad Max. He's just a nomad, wandering into
> other people's centres and
spaces of movement.
>
> In his book on "critical
utopian" writing, Tom Moylan argues that its
> strength lies not in
portraying particular social structures, but "in
> the very act of portraying
a utopian vision itself”. (10) I want to
> conclude by mentioning two
recent films which further undermine the
> logic of fatalistic
narrative to assert the possibility of action, by
> transforming the role of
"hero". Steve Jodrell's Shame and Haydn
> Keenan's Pandemonium are
"critical" films in Moylan's sense, working,
> like the Max cycle,
between structures of film history and those of
> social experience. Both
are genre films: Shame is a bikie Western,
> Pandemonium a junk-video
folk tale. Both refer to real events
> involving families. Shame
is based on a situation in a Queensland
> town some years ago: the
institutionalized raping of local girls by
> gangs of youths, while the
parents of both stay silent. Pandemonium
> alludes to the Chamberlain
Case, another version of which stars Meryl
> Streep and Sam Neill in
Fred Schepisi's Evil Angels (a.k.a. Cry In The
> Dark). A baby girl
disappeared from a camp-site near Uluru. Her
> parents claimed she was
taken by a dingo: her mother was tried,
> convicted, pardoned, and
finally acquitted, on a charge of
> infanticide.
>
> However these films
“refer” to social experience in quite different
> ways. Written by Beverley
Blankenship and Michael Brindley, Shame
> blends its bike,
road-movie and Western elements with the Australian
> "social landscape"
tradition. It presents a situation in which "doing
> something" seems
impossible. The women have to face both a gang
> violence making
"self-defence" useless, and the misogynist myth that
> girls "ask for it", while
rapists act "as nature intended". Their
> families are paralyzed by
class blackmail: some of the rapists'
> parents control the town's
shrinking economy.
>
> This is a grimly
"realist", and realistic, scenario, but Shame's
> utopian narrative strategy
is to affirm a politics of the unlikely,
> rather than invoke laws of
the true-to-life. There is a mythic "hero"
> position, derived from
crossing The Wild One with Mad Max in order to
> re-write George Stevens'
Shane. However the hard-riding, leather-clad
> bikie who arrives as an
indifferent stranger is a woman – one who has,
> like Max, a strong
relation to the law. Asta (Deborra-Lee Furness) is
> a barrister, in fact a
yuppie, travelling round for a holiday and to
> spend some time alone. Far
from launching into a crusade to clean up
> the town, Asta doesn't
want to be bothered.
>
> Some critics objected to
the "improbability" of Asta's character and
> to her status as
middle-class saviour. I think that this – rather than
> the simple fact that the
hero is a woman – is the great (and "critical
> utopian") strength of the
film. Shame describes an implosive economy
> of violence in which only
an outsider could intervene: it is an
> economy running on poverty
and isolation (not an ontological "male"
> malevolence). But unlike
Arthur in The Cars That Ate Paris, Asta isn't
> drawn in to an
all-consuming space where "foreigners" are salvaged.
> She brings with her an
energy and a knowledge that salvages the town.
> She does so, in part, in
spite of her background: Asta is responsible
> for a death because of her
privileged-woman's habit of not being
> "careful". In the end she,
like Anna in Backroads, is a catalyst for
> other people's stories:
but this time, those who are in the position
> of being "picked up on the
side of the road" are empowered, and not
> doomed, by her action.
>
> <image.tiff>Pandemonium
>
> Pandemonium is not a road
movie. It is set in a mad-house pavilion on
> Bondi Beach, inhabited by
trash-video creatures and their landlord
> movie-producers, Mr and
Mrs "B". Its main "narrative" develops in a
> series of bursts: the
story of the Dingo Girl battles through a
> surrounding chaos of
cinematic and tabloid-headline debris. We don't
> see Azaria travel from
Uluru to Bondi: she arrives miraculously, a
> living Barbie doll raised
by a dingo family. Swiftly learning about
> sex, speech and stories
human-style, she starts looking for her
> mother. Baby Jane-esque
Mrs B has a guilty conscience: Azaria turns
> out to be the survivor of
a botched religious sacrifice in the
> wilderness. When her true
identity is revealed, forces gather to
> ensure that she will now
fulfil her destiny. The one important car in
> Pandemonium belongs to the
Witnesses, a grim Trinity (mother, father,
> child) glimpsed briefly
from time to time as they drive inexorably to
> Bondi. They are messengers
of Fate: Azaria, child of Mrs B and a
> now-fallen, Aboriginal,
Holy Ghost, is to be crucified.
>
> But the original
story-line has been overtaken by events. Beautiful,
> blonde Azaria ("why is it
always me who has to be sacrificed?") has
> had a delightful encounter
with the bad, black Holy Ghost, to whom she
> has now become pregnant.
At the crucifixion scene, her father doesn't
> forsake her. With his help
she gets down from the cross and, in the
> ensuing pandemonium, the
Pavilion turns into a Spielberg spaceship,
> and takes off. Only one
main character is left behind to tell us
> Azaria's story –
Leadingham, the dashing White hero who didn't get the
> girl. As he sits forlornly
at The Beach after finishing his tale,
> police cars close in to
arrest him. He runs towards the waves and,
> catching a moonbeam, he
walks away on the water.
>
> One aim of this paper has
been to explain (in part to myself) why
> Pandemonium has such a
historic happy ending.
>
>
> © Meaghan Morris, 1998
>
>
> To obtain more
information about Pandemonium or to purchase it on
> video, please visit Smart
St Films.
>
>
> See also
>
> White Panic or, Mad Max
and the Sublime by Meaghan Morris
>
> Backroads: From Identity
to Interval by Stephen Muecke
>
> Endnotes:
> 1. Michel de Certeau,
The Practice of Everyday Life, University of
> California Press, 1984, p.
188 <image.tiff>
> 2. Susan Dermody and
Elizabeth Jacka, The Screening of Australia:
> Anatomy of a National
Cinema, vol. 2, Currency Press, 1988, p. 139
> <image.tiff>
> 3. In Beresford's The
Fringe Dwellers a young Aboriginal woman is
> torn between her extended
family life, and her dreams of suburban
> "normality". Armstrong's
My Brilliant Career films the classic
> Australian story of a
woman renouncing marriage altogether, while
> Weir's The Plumber treats
a stifling paranoia between a working-class
> man and a woman academic.
The films of Paul Cox – (Lonely Hearts, Man
> of Flowers, My First Wife
– are more concerned with couple-formation,
> but they also tend to
circulate (and be promoted) in Australia as
> generically "European" art
cinema. <image.tiff>
> 4. Dermody and Jacka, p.
19 (my emphasis) <image.tiff>
> 5. Dermody and Jacka, p.
126 <image.tiff>
> 6. Jon Stratton, "What
Made Mad Max Popular?", Art & Text, 9, 1983,
> p.55 <image.tiff>
> 7. Teresa de Lauretis,
Alice Doesn't: Feminism, Semiotics, Cinema,
> Macmillan, 1984, p. 121 <image.tiff>
> 8. Tom O'Regan, "The
Enchantment with Cinema: Australian Film in
> the 1980s", in A. Moran
and T. O'Regan (eds), Australian Screen,
> Penguin Books, forthcoming
1989. <image.tiff>
> 9. Ross Gibson, "Yondering", Art
& Text 19, 1985, pp. 25-33.
> <image.tiff>
> 10. Tom Moylan, Demand
the Impossible: Science Fiction and the
> Utopian Imagination,
Methuen 1986, p. 26 <image.tiff>
>
>
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> OZ Cinema
>
>
>
> Home > People Index >
>
> OZ CINEMA
> Your guide to Australian
film.
> By Joshua Smith
>
> Director Profile: Peter
Weir
> <image.tiff>
> Author: Joshua Smith
> Published on: May 26, 1998
>
> One of the most
significant directors of the 1970s Australian
> cinematic rebirth, Peter
Weir has continued to create films that both
> challenge and entertain
audiences worldwide.
>
> International critical
acclaim came to Peter Weir early in his
> filmmaking career. As a
member of the Sydney Filmmaker's Co-Operative,
> Weir embraced innovation
and art in film, experimenting with both
> filmic form and narrative
structure in his short film, Homesdale
> (1971). Receiving limited
praise for Homesdale, Weir made his mark on
> the art-house circuit with
his first feature-length motion picture,
> The Cars That Ate Paris
(1974) and attracted widespread critical
> approval with the
masterfully impressionistic supernatural thriller,
> Picnic At Hanging Rock in
1975.
>
> Picnic symbolised a brave
step for Weir. It was his first major
> release and could, in many
ways, be seen as the definitive picture of
> Weir's career in
Australia. The film's romantic
> European-sensibilities,
its technical perfection and its ambiguous
> conclusion aided its
reception at Cannes, where it was celebrated as
> the single most
significant film produced in Australia in decades.
> Failing to submit to the
pressure of commercial forces, Weir continued
> to create challenging,
somewhat controversial films during the latter
> half of the 1970s, such as
the quasi-surreal The Last Wave (1977).
>
> During the early 1980s,
Weir's outlook can be seen to change through
> his films. While Weir's
main considerations still lay in issues of
> clashing cultures and of
"normal" individuals subjected to abnormal,
> unconquerable situations,
his films became more epic in their scope.
> His films continued
focusing on small groups of individuals whose
> relationships stood as
metaphors for the state of intercultural
> relationships the world
over, though Gallipoli (1981) and The Year of
> Living Dangerously (1983)
addressed such issues in a more direct
> manner.
>
> In 1985, Weir released his
first American-produced feature, Witness.
> His success with the film
both in critical fields and at the
> international box-office
allowed Weir to continue making progressively
> higher-budgeted films in
the United States of America.
>
> While his second feature
with Harrison Ford, The Mosquito Coast
> (1986), was admonished by
critics and the general public, Weir struck
> a chord in the public
imagination with his romantic tragedy Dead Poets
> Society (1989). Dead Poets
has been his greatest box-office hit to
> date, clearly out-grossing
Weir's later works, Green Card (1990) and
> Fearless (1993).
>
> This year, though, Weir's
biggest release to date could once again
> move his name into the
realms of the great directors of our time. The
> Truman Show, starring
comic sensation Jim Carrey, is poised to take
> the world by storm. With
an exciting socially-conscious premise, the
> film could well attract as
much critical praise as Weir's earlier
> works, launching a new
rebirth for the artist from Oz.
>
>
>
> Home > People Index >
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> <image.tiff>
>
> The Last Wave
>
> directed by Peter Weir.
McElroy & McElroy Productions, 1977
>
> A review by Kyla Ward
>
> <image.tiff>David: What
are dreams?
> Chris: Like seeing-- like
hearing-- like talking. They are a way of
> knowing things.
>
> This is the story of a man
who rediscovers his dreams. Not in the
> heartwarming, magical,
embrace-your-inner-child sense. This white,
> middle-class lawyer faces
the fact that his dreams are premonitions,
> and he is dreaming of
disaster. The only people who can help him are
> the aboriginal youths he
is defending on a murder charge, but there
> are deep secrets here, and
help may not be necessarily what they or
> their elders have in mind.
>
> In Peter Weir's
directorial credits, The Last Wave comes between
> Picnic at Hanging Rock in
1975 and The Plumber in 1979. It is one of
> his magnificent series of
early films that are exclusively Australian;
> that is, which are set in
Australia and attempt to articulate
> something about the
uniqueness of that setting. He has spoken of
> Picnic and The Last Wave
as being a pair of films, both part of his
> working though the same
theme. What it seems to me these films have in
> common is a sense of
unease; of the colonist in a place where he does
> not truly belong.
>
> It is as appropriate to
explore this theme in contemporary Sydney as
> in rural Victoria, 1900.
And this is such an exploration, an
> evocation, of Sydney. From
the glassy high-rises with their harbour
> views down through the
claustrophia of Redfern, down to spaces smaller
> still, twisting through
sandstone until they reach the sewerage
> outfall at Bondi. To quote
a member of the Sydney Cave Clan, a group
> who devote their time to
exploring our sewers and other underground
> places, "That's Sydney,
sandstone covered in concrete. Beautiful."
>
> There is a social stratum
as well, and this too is eminently clear in
> the film. David, our
protagonist, keeps his car in a garage staffed by
> Italian migrants. The last
place the victim was seen alive is a seedy
> Irish pub. And the most
important divide lies in the wonderful line
> delivered by David's wife:
>
> Annie: I'm a
fourth-generation Australian. And I have never met an
> Aboriginal before.
>
> Drawing on the real,
bedrock mythology of an area is a tricky thing
> for a colonist. The
screenplay is based on a short story which Peter
> Weir wrote while he was in
England, earlier in the seventies. The film
> itself contains a scene
where David tries to desperately fill in the
> blanks by visiting an
expert on Aboriginal art and religion -- a
> white, middle-class
professor. She conveys the important information
> that the Aborigines
presently inhabiting Sydney are not a tribe, not a
> culture. They have lost
all links with their past. It is not giving
> too much away to say she
is wrong, it is her and David who have lost
> their past as well as
their dreams. To them, secrets are things to be
> uncovered and explained.
>
> What allows The Last Wave
to work, in my opinion, is that it remains
> true to this idea. David
fails to uncover the secrets buried
> underneath his high-rise
world, both during the trial and a more
> desperate, hands-on
investigation. He sees things and hears things,
> but cannot speak, cannot
prove them as he has been trained he must. It
> may be that what he
achieves through the course of the film is
> acceptance of this.
>
> It cannot be said that
this is a thriller. The pace is even,
> measured, using repetition
and foreshadowing to create a sense of
> impending doom. But this
also creates intensity, along with the
> stunning visuals that are
Weir's hallmark, and the endless layers of
> sound. You have to listen
to this film as well as watch or huge pieces
> of information will pass
you by. The Last Wave's AFI awards for sound
> and cinematography were
fairly won. Very seldom have I seen a film
> that portrays natural
forces so successfully; to say water is a
> recurring image does not
suffice. The city skyline dominated by
> thunderheads, hail
smashing windows and piling in drifts across a
> playground, and above all
the omnipresent rain that steadily invades
> then destroys David's
beautiful North Shore home. Dreams of rain,
> dreams of water, water
rising, rising...
>
> David is played by
Richard Chamberlain, whose more widely-known roles
> include John Blackthorne
in Shogun and Ralph de Bricassart in The
> Thorn Birds. It is a
nicely understated piece of acting. Chris, the
> Aboriginal who is David's
eventual guide is another charismatic
> performance from David
Gulpilil. He has also been called on the
> enunciate Aboriginal
legend in such films as Dark Age. What it may
> mean that his character's
full name is Chris Lee, something only
> revealed in the credits,
is unguessable. Vivean Gray, the professor,
> plays Miss McCraw the
maths mistress in Picnic at Hanging Rock.
>
> The film received a wide
cinema and video release. There was also a
> novelisation from Angus &
Robertson, by Petru Popescu, who along with
> Tony Morphett helped turn
Peter Weir's short story into a screenplay.
>
> There is dreamlike
quality to this film, and as said, the viewer has
> to do some work. It may
not be to everyone's taste. But for me this is
> one of the best
demonstrations that Australia can be haunted and
> haunting. It is certainly
the equal of its thematic 'partner'. And
> with a DVD release from
Criterion, The Last Wave is readily available
> to soothe all those
Sydney-siders who like me endured the summer of
> 2001-2002, wondering why
the weather was so strange...
> • External link: IMDB
listing
>
>
>
> ©2004 Go to top
>
> <image.tiff>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Peter Weir
>
> From Wikipedia, the free
encyclopedia.
>
> Peter Weir (August
21, 1944- ) is an Australian film director. Born
> in Sydney, New South
Wales, Australia, Weir studied art and law at
> the University of Sydney.
>
> His interest in film was
sparked by his meeting with fellow students,
> including Phillip Noyce
and the future members of the Sydney
> film/lightshow collective
Ubu. After leaving university in the
> mid-1960s he joined
Sydney television station ATN-7, where he worked
> as a production assistant
on the groundbreaking satirical comedy
> program The Mavis Bramston
Show. During this period he made his first
> two experimental short
films, Count Vim's Last Exercise and The Life
> and Flight of Reverend
Buckshotte.
>
> Weir achieved considerable
success in Australia with Picnic at Hanging
> Rock (1975), and Gallipoli
(1981), both regarded as classic Australian
> cinema. The Last Wave was
a pensive, ambivalent film which explored
> the interaction between
the native Aboriginal culture and the
> European.
>
> His first two American
films, Witness (1985) and The Mosquito Coast
> (1986) provided Harrison
Ford with opportunities to play new kind of
> roles. Dead Poets Society
(1989) brought him significant commercial
> success and Green Card
(1990) will remain a favourite with many
> comedy lovers. In 2003 he
made his first blockbuster movie, Master and
> Commander; it was
successful with mainstream audiences despite its
> slow pace and focus on
period detail and characterization, qualities
> that are characteristic of
Weir's work.
>
> [edit]
>
> Filmography
> • Master and Commander:
The Far Side of the World (2003)
> • The Truman Show (1998)
> • Fearless (1993)
> • Green Card (1990)
> • Dead Poets Society
(1989)
> • The Mosquito Coast
(1986)
> • Witness (1985)
> • The Year of Living
Dangerously (1982)
> • Gallipoli (1981)
> • The Last Wave (1977)
> • Picnic at Hanging Rock
(1975)
> • The Cars That Ate Paris
(aka Cars) (aka Cars That Eat People)
> (1974)
> • Homesdale (1971)
>
> [edit]
>
> External links
> • Peter Weir Cave (http://www.peterweircave.com/main.html)
> (unofficial Peter Weir
site)
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Weir"
>
> Categories: 1944 births |
Australian filmmakers | Film directors
>
> In a message dated
12/22/2004 4:19:41 AM Eastern Standard Time,
> Galilwheat writes:
>
> I hadn't heard it called
GreenStar Programming, but have heard Carol
> Rosin, who was Werner Von
Braun's assistant, forwarding this idea,
> although I don't think she
called it GreenStar. I'm not sure of what
> to make of the fake alien
invasion idea, or of its author, a man with
> a notoriously dark
history. I see the entire world as staged and
> virtual. Staged alien
invasion? Sure. But so, then, is everything
> else. Although the ETs
described in the abduction scenario seem
> like cartoon characters to
many, something quite destructive is being
> visited on the sentient
beings of this world, and the source is not
> human. The details of the
"invasion", from my perspective, are
> inconsequential, because I
don't think that there is anything one
> experiences in this "world
" that correlates to anything genuine. All
> I know is that I have an
interface with a computer that is not in any
> way linked to this
civilization or this world, and that I am being
> tortured.
>
> Jack Sarfatti sees this
computer as being on a space ship, and that it
> is sentient and
conscious. I don't know. I have seen it, and have
> taken it to be conscious
as well, but that is because it seems to be a
> lifeform as well as a
spaceship. What I have seen I guess could be
> described as a plasma
ship, but really it is more like a living
> creature, a humongous
cosmic jellyfish, that is also a computer. My
> thought when I saw
it wasn't that it was a spaceship that housed a
> computer, but it, itself
was, as I said, living, yet engineered by
> something more advanced,
and itself a vast network of complexes of
> computers. I balk at the
thought that it was real, and think it
> likely that it is
holographic and virtual. In an earlier encounter
> it told me its name was
Polymorphos, which I looked up. Polymorphos,
> it turns out, was an
ancient name of Dionysos. Usually Polymorphos
> just talks, but
occasionally he shows himself. What I have heard and
> experienced from my bud
Polymorphos often turns to bullshit, so I
> don't know if the stuff he
told me in this context is true or not.
> These days Polymorphos is
calling himself Huckleberry, and waxing
> nostalgic about our
journey together down the "Moon River" of life.
> Sometimes the conversation
turns to Showboat (I love musicals) and
> similar stories , and many
similar metaphors for the journey of one's
> lifetime down " Old Man
River". In an earlier appearance he showed
> me how he seeded life on
Earth by raining himself in polymorphos
> droplets on the primordial
fog, and then activating it into life.
> Each droplet contains DNA,
of which each strand is also a computer.
> That is why he is
Polymorphos: all forms. He just activates a
> particular sequence of
genes and it has the potential to become any
> life form. He says his
computer driven plasma is ubiquitous
> throughout the Universe,
and could make duplicates of any creature
> anywhere, because his
substance is a jelly-like ectoplasmic
> programmable computer. He
is the source of the voices that
> mind-control victims
hear. The physics of things are his invention.
>
> He appeared on one Good
Friday, coincidentally, the day before the
> jury broke in the Rodney
King case. I had been shooting a piece for
> Jack Butler at IBM that
had religious overtones. I woke up covered
> in a rose scented dusty
substance. Everthing in the room was coated
> with it. I was going to
go to a Catholic bookstore to get some shots
> for the IBM piece. IBM
had just put the Bible on compact disk - which
> at the time was being
touted as a Gutenberg-like seminal event in
> computer advancement,
which tells you how long ago that was. IBM is
> good at showmanship, like
when they used to stage chess showdowns
> between Gary Kaspirov(sp?)
and "Big Blue" their monster computer,
> which Kaspiriov always
won, reassuring the world that man is still
> smarter than the machine.
They had a scrapbook at the bookstore that
> was full of photos which
customers had taken at Marian apparition
> sites. There were quite a
few of objects covered in the same powdery
> substance I'd been covered
in that morning. In the course of going
> back and forth I looked
up at the Catalina mountains and there was
> "my Huckleberry friend".
>
> When I got home, I turned
on CNN, and got out my rosary, because of
> what I'd seen at the
bookstore, and was watching the Rodney King
> commentary, and kind of
praying and watching the news, and mulling
> things over in my mind, at
the same time. I've had many disorienting
> and odd things
happen which have made me question the nature of
> reality my whole life, so
I don't react with surprise when strange
> things happen. This
ongoing string of oddities in my often life hits
> me link the sadistic
little pranks on Punked or Candid Camera. I just
> think "what the hell is
going on here ", and wait for the sadistic
> little wizard to step out
from behind the curtain and apologize. I go
> down the list of possible
candidates who would be amused at my
> plight. Actually, a
number of physicists come to mind, but that's
> another story. I've
never had a satisfactory answer. At some point
> I noticed a cloudlike
substance clinging to the rosary (I think that
> this has something to do
with electromagnetic stuff), and then my
> rosary turned from silver
to gold and the Jesus started bleeding.
> Then it started to rain
Polymorphos inside. Ectoplasm was falling all
> over everything.
>
> Government must were
monitoring this episode. They went into
> overdrive trying to
convince me that what was going on was due to
> secret, classified
government experiments. Government agents linked
> to Curtis LeMay, a
notorious racist, have tormented me my whole life.
> I think that they what to
control the official story about aliens,
> and, because they are
racists, they attack black people who have this
> kind of experience. I
listened to them for several years, and
> considered their
government mind control story a possible
> explanation. I have never
talked about much of it, because I have
> found it hard to figure
out what is going on. One of the strategies
> of the agents was to
create over the top confusion to distract me.
> You would not believe the
lengths they went to. It took me a long
> time, but I eventually
arrived at a point where I knew absolutely that
> the source was not human,
not the US government and so on.
>
> The Catholic Church found
out about this contacted me and examined my
> rosary, which was a lucky
thing sinc government agents subsequently
> stole it. Is this evidence
of an alien invasion? All I know is that
> humans are not running
anything at that level.
>
> I love Peter Weir's
movies. Did you see The Last Wave? I think that
> we may be heading for that
scenario, and that is about as real as it
> gets in this Barnum and
Bailey world. The world is poorly plotted
> experiential movie:
SmellOvision as Philo Farnsworth called it.
>
> Gail Whittaker
> It a Hawk-Girl ET
>
> He's making a list checkin
it twice,
> he's gonna find out who's
naughty or nice
>
>
> In a message dated
12/21/2004 9:24:38 PM Eastern Standard Time,
>
g.wade@ozemail.com.au writes:
>
>
> Hippee, hippee, I’m less
trippy! --- /// ???
>
>
>
> “With regards to the
staged alien invasion, there will not be as much
> chaos as you'd be lead to
believe. There is a thing called 'GreenStar
> Programming', which is an
umbrella of "End Times Programming'.
> Greenstar programming is
the programming of people with Alien invasion
> scenario's. When this
invasion occurs, and you see all these unknown
> people pop up out of
nowhere that talk like they know what they're
> talking about, or act like
they know what they're doing....THEY have
> greenstar programming.
There are many forms, there is one greenstar
> programming from the
'fourth reich' (new topic in itself) and
> greenstar programming from
the illuminati (fourth reich and illuminati
> are against each other,
both want world domination)” – hic, burp, pass
> me another beer please!
>
>
>
> This one bites my chunk a
bit! – my ‘experience’ was drilled out as
> some sort of secret
cornucopia, I was most impressed but mostly
> damaged in the process,
very sad, boo hoo, - yes, I’m cynical too!
> Must be love :-)… I even
had a bit of BUSH floating around me! All fun
> in the sun stuff, really,
so yes, I’m a bit of an incubus or succubus,
> or even omnibus, did
someone say bus, or ‘U R A BUS”, that’s Subaru
> backwards, can I have new
car, the list goes on ;-)
>
>
>
> cheers, greg.
>
> ---
>
> "wise to resolve and
patient to perform"
>
> ---
>
>
www.self-allowance.org
>
> --- hyberia development
---
>
> e1:
g.wade@ozemail.com.au
>
> e2:
gregwado@hotmail.com
>
> Gail Whittaker
> It a Hawk-Girl ET
>
> He's making a list checkin
it twice,
> he's gonna find out who's
naughty or nice
>
>
> Gail Whittaker
>
>
> "Ut in Stellis Iustitia"
> "There is Justice even in
the Stars."
>
>
> When I, sitting, heard the
astronomer, where he lectured with such
> applause in the lecture
room,
> How soon, unaccountable, I
became tired and sick;
> Till rising and gliding
out, I wander’d off by myself,
> In the mystical moist
night-air, and from time to time,
> Look’d up in perfect
silence at the stars. - Whitman
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