Australian film, international art cinema, restoration
Bronte writes long-form criticism of Australian cinema and the international art films that feed into it. She was on the ground at Cannes in 2019 and has not entirely forgiven the festival for 2020. Patient with slow films; impatient with tidy ones.
WRITING HERE SINCE JANUARY 2020
Two years after Furiosa underperformed in May 2024, the picture has clarified into the most patiently photographed film of George Miller's career, and possibly the last one he will shoot in the Hay plains.
The films got better, the audiences stayed complicated, and the critics kept writing.

The programme is strong, the Australian titles are stronger, and the question of who will be in the audience remains.

Miller's most personal film is also his most ignored, and the distance between the two says more about the audience than the director.

David Easteal bolted a camera to a dashboard and recorded six months of a suburban commute, and the result is the most radical Australian film of the decade.

Snook carries the film on performance alone, and the film knows this, which is both its strength and the reason it never finds a second gear.

Talk to Me proved Australian horror could sell globally, and the pipeline behind it is filling with directors who watched that and took notes.

From Newsfront to Dead Calm to Rabbit-Proof Fence to Hollywood thrillers, Noyce built a career out of refusing to repeat himself.

From Animal Kingdom to The Rover to War Machine, Michod's career is a study in how power corrodes from the inside.
Natalie Bailey's debut is a domestic thriller set at kitchen-table volume, and the restraint is more frightening than any raised hand.

The selection of Memoir of a Snail as Australia's Oscar entry is a bet on craft over scale, and the bet is sound.

Elliot's second feature is a hoarder's inventory of loss, rendered in plasticine and voiced by Sarah Snook, and it is the best Australian film of 2024.

Lorcan Finnegan's beach thriller gives Cage nothing but sand and hostility, and what he does with both is more controlled than anyone expected.

Luke Sparke's thriller is ninety minutes in a car with a hitman and a target, and the confinement is the point.

The 2024 programme leaned harder into difficulty than any MIFF in recent memory, and the sessions were fuller for it.

Thornton photographs faith the way he photographs landscape: patiently, without commentary, and with an eye for what the light reveals about what is missing.

George Miller spent a decade building Furiosa and the audience showed up late, but the film was always playing to a longer clock.

The Cairnes brothers built a 1977 talk show, filled it with a demon, and proved that Australian horror works best when the set is cheap and the writing is not.

Robert Connolly's sequel to The Dry is looser, colder, and more confident about what kind of film it wants to be.

The most commercially successful film ever shot in Australia is a romantic comedy that uses Sydney Harbour the way a travel brochure does, and that calculation paid off.

Mark Leonard Winter's debut feature drops Hugo Weaving into a dying town and asks how long a man will stay in a place that has stopped asking him to.

Kitty Green puts two backpackers behind an outback bar and lets the threat accumulate like bar tabs nobody plans to settle.
Jub Clerc's debut follows a Nyul Nyul teenager on a photography trip through the Pilbara, and the film is gentle enough to let her look without narrating what she sees.

Noora Niasari's debut draws from her mother's story, and the film is better for being specific rather than representative.

Garth Davis set a science-fiction film in the Australian wheat belt and made the loneliness more frightening than the technology.

Sen's cold-case noir strips the outback of colour and finds a landscape that has been waiting to testify.

The Philippou brothers built a horror film out of YouTube pacing and Adelaide geography, and the combination should not work as well as it does.

Wright's procedural gives Joel Edgerton nothing to do except wait, and then makes you understand why that matters.

Robert Connolly filmed underwater in Western Australia and found a drama that breathes better below the surface than above it.

The Australian actor's directorial debut is a Bronte biopic that cares more about weather than biography, and the instinct is right.

Gracie Otto's debut puts a real estate agent in a rhinestone jumpsuit and dares the audience to take both the costume and the sadness underneath it seriously.

The NZ/Australian comedy is performed entirely in a made-up language with subtitles, and the gap between what you hear and what you read is where the comedy lives.

Miller put two actors in a room and asked what stories are for, and the film answers with images that cost more than most Australian features.

Goran Stolevski's second feature is a 1999-set romance that earns its ache by being precise about place rather than grand about feeling.

Renée Webster built a sex comedy about middle-aged women in Fremantle and treated the premise with more seriousness than the genre usually permits.

Del Kathryn Barton's debut feature looks nothing like any other Australian film this decade, and that is both its weapon and its problem.

Anthony Hayes stripped the survival genre to one man, one hole, and ninety minutes of sun, and the restraint holds.

Robert Connolly's adaptation knows the difference between withholding information and withholding feeling.

The year gave us a portrait of a mass killer, a drought-country thriller, a sheep-farming feud, and a lucid day with a grandmother, and all four will last.

Justin Kurzel made a film about the worst thing that ever happened in this country, and he did it without giving the audience anywhere to hide.

Hazlehurst plays a woman with dementia who gets one lucid day, and the film is wise enough to spend it on repair rather than nostalgia.

The 2021 festival split itself between cinemas and living rooms, and the living rooms lost.

Justin Kurzel brought his Port Arthur film to the Croisette and the festival held its breath for two hours.

Eight directors filmed eight stories on a single Western Sydney street, and the accumulation is more than any one of them could have managed alone.

The renovation turned a film museum into a museum about looking, and the difference is worth noticing.

Watts returns to Australian cinema for a true story about a magpie and a spinal injury, and the film is better when it trusts the bird.

Jeremy Sims' remake finds its heart in the silence between two brothers who share a fence line and absolutely nothing else.

The pipeline froze in 2020, but the films that waited are beginning to move, and several of them are worth the delay.

Tilda Cobham-Hervey carries the voice and the conviction; the script carries the checklist.

Shannon Murphy's debut deserved a packed cinema and instead it got a pandemic, a VOD pivot, and an audience that found it anyway.

Kurzel's Kelly Gang film is not a biopic; it is a punk song dressed in a stolen frock, and the costume is the argument.

The year's most anticipated Australian films include a Ned Kelly punk opera, a surfing memoir, and a magpie, and not one of them will have an easy path to the screen.

Jennifer Kent's second feature is not interested in making its violence comfortable, and that is the whole point.