Diaspora cinema, Australian identity on screen, genre reappraisal
Mara writes essays. She came to film writing from a decade of literary criticism and still reaches, sometimes, for a novel before she reaches for a shot list. She lives in the inner north of Melbourne and does not explain which city that is.
WRITING HERE SINCE FEBRUARY 2020
I started writing about Australian cinema in 2020 because I thought I knew what it was. I kept writing because I did not.
Goran Stolevski's second feature is a 24 hour love story shot in suburban Melbourne. The country it photographs is one I keep going back to.
Six years of writing about Australian film has taught me that the industry's identity crisis is not a bug; it is the condition under which the best work gets made.

Purcell took a Henry Lawson story, stripped it to the frame, and rebuilt it as a story about the women Lawson's Australia was built to forget.

Blanchett produces Australian work, funds Australian stories, and has not starred in an Australian film in over a decade, and nobody quite knows how to talk about that.

The masthead runs on conviction, the readership is small, and the question of who we are writing for has not gone away.

The museum on Fed Square is the only place in this country that treats Australian screen culture as something worth keeping, and the fact that it is the only one says everything.
The comfortable films were fine, the difficult ones were better, and the gap between the two is where Australian cinema lives.

The biggest Australian actors return to local cinema for the roles Hollywood does not offer them, and the pattern says something about both industries.

George Miller spent half a billion dollars in the desert and the result is the most expensive Australian film ever made, which is also the most Australian.

The films get made in Sydney and Melbourne, the stories get set in the outback, and the actual regional cities where most Australians live barely appear at all.

The argument between cinema and streaming was never about screens; it was about who gets to decide what watching means.

Thornton made a film about two teenagers in love in Central Australia, and the tenderness is so specific it bypasses every defence you have.
The question is not whether Australian films are good enough; it is whether the industry has decided who it is talking to.

The adaptation pipeline from page to screen is the steadiest production line in Australian cinema, and the question is whether the films are earning the books or borrowing from them.

The trophies are heavy, the speeches are short, and the audience at home has already changed the channel.

The gap between a film's festival premiere and its local theatrical release is where audience interest goes to die.

The year's biggest Australian film cost half a billion dollars and the year's best cost seven million, and nobody quite knew how to hold both in the same sentence.

Elliot's characters are made of plasticine and painted with fingerprints, and the imperfection is not an aesthetic choice; it is the whole argument.

Danny and Michael Philippou learned to direct by keeping strangers watching for three more seconds, and that instinct is the engine underneath Talk to Me.

Green's camera sits where her protagonists sit: on the edge of the room, seeing everything, authorised to do nothing about it.

Niasari's film is in two languages and the subtitles carry only half of what the Farsi says, and that gap is the whole subject.

The most commercially successful film ever shot in this country is a romantic comedy that pretends to be American, and the success tells us something we do not want to hear.

From The Proposition to Sweet Country to The Nightingale, the Australian western is not a costume drama; it is a reckoning conducted on horseback.

The festival is not really about the films; it is about the decision to be in a room with other people who chose to be there too.

Sen shot in black and white because the outback already has too many colours to lie behind.

We keep making films about real violence and calling it necessary, and the question of who benefits has not been answered.

The year's strongest Australian screen work gave women permission to be angry, messy, cruel, and specific, and the camera did not flinch.
From The Family to The Clearing, Australian screen culture returns to cults because the conditions that produce them never quite go away.

The films were there, the festivals screened them, the cinemas booked them for two weeks, and then they were gone.

From The Babadook to Relic to Talk to Me, Australian horror keeps returning to the house, the family, and the thing that should not be let in.
The studios come for the crews, the tax breaks, and the light, and they leave with a film set in Chicago, or Oakland, or a planet that does not exist.

From Head On to Of an Age, queer Australian cinema shifted from fury to patience, and the loss and the gain are both worth measuring.

The reboot is not for me and that is fine, but the moment I understood that was the moment I understood what nostalgia actually costs.

The kids in Australian cinema grow up in small towns, coastal edges, and outer suburbs, and the geography is never accidental.

Kent, Murphy, Green, and Purcell made the films the industry did not ask for, and the films were better for not being asked.

Tiriki Onus went looking for his grandfather's lost films and found something about what a country chooses to remember and what it lets rot.

Wayne Blair made a crowd-pleaser about four Aboriginal women singing soul music in Vietnam, and the politics are in every frame without ever being in the dialogue.

Four of the year's most significant Australian films dealt in violence, guilt, grief, and landscape, and the domestic audience chose to watch something else.

Retreats became series, gurus became characters, and the audience who buys both did not notice the overlap.

The bird learns to fly; the woman learns to accept; and the gap between the two arcs is where the film's assumptions live.

Stephen Johnson's frontier western is a film about complicity, and it implicates its audience by making them comfortable before it makes them accountable.

The dry country is not a backdrop; it is a condition, and Australian film returns to it the way a tongue returns to a broken tooth.

Lockdown taught me to watch films on a laptop, and the cinemas reopened, and the laptop stayed where it was.

The film is about three girls walking home, and the walk is twelve hundred miles, and the country they cross does not want them to arrive.

Cinemas reopened in November and I watched three films on my laptop in December and I am not sure what that says about me.

Three women vanish into a landscape that does not want them, and I watched it from a flat with no balcony in Fitzroy.

Ray Lawrence's film is about what happens when suburban walls are too thin, and in lockdown every wall became too thin.
The productions paused, the releases dried up, and the silence where new Australian cinema should have been got louder every week.

The job is to write about what films do in a room full of strangers, and the room has been empty since March.

The Palace on Norton Street has its lights off, and I keep walking past it like it might change its mind.

Shannon Murphy's debut refuses to tidy its grief, and the mess is exactly where the film finds its nerve.
The coverage is thin, the films deserve better, and this is our attempt to close the gap.