Independent Australian film, television, and culture. Criticism with its eyes open. Reporting with its receipts shown. Six years of it, and counting.

Eight years and five seasons of Cleaver Greene taught Australian television that you can keep a man unredeemed, and that audiences will follow him anyway.

Peter Weir's 1981 war film has no composed score to speak of. It has a French synthesiser record and a baroque lament, and between them they say everything the picture needs.

Bruce Beresford's 1980 courtroom drama made an English-born soldier into an Australian martyr, and the picture's argument about empire has outlived its historical certainties.

Nicolas Roeg's 1971 picture is claimed as an Australian classic, though it was made by a Londoner, financed by two Americans and sold by 20th Century Fox. Its best argument is how little it pretends otherwise.

Nick Cave and Warren Ellis wrote the music for John Hillcoat's western from motifs, not from frames, and the film's strange, hymn-like heat is the result.

Baz Luhrmann's 1992 comedy is sold as a story about dance. It is also a story about an Australian champion who has to be taught his own steps by a Spanish-Australian family in their own house.

Peter Weir's 1977 film puts a corporate lawyer in a drowned city and asks what a settler place owes to the ground and weather beneath it.

Justin Kurzel's Burma Railway miniseries won nine AACTAs and led the Logies on nominations, then lost best miniseries at both, and the juries were right both times.

Fred Schepisi's juniorate drama opened fifty years ago last month, and the most accurate verdict it ever received was an acting award shared between a thirteen-year-old and a Brother.

Michael Shanks made a Melbourne body horror film about two people fusing into one, then sanded the Australian out of it. I keep looking for the seam.
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