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Wolf Creek: Rewatching classic Australian films Wolf Creek: Rewatching classic Australian films
(21 days later)
In the pre-title sequence to writer/director Greg McLean’s 2005 cult hit Wolf Creek, twentysomething partygoers busy themselves with the beach, beer and bikinis; swimming pools and shots. Bags are packed, hangovers nursed, a car is loaded and three principal characters – Sydneysider Ben Mitchell (Nathan Phillips) and British backpackers Liz Hunter (Cassandra Magrath) and Kristy Earl (Kestie Morassi) – begin their trek to the film’s eponymous location. McLean follows the Hollywood horror playbook, focusing on a small group of good looking city slickers who take to the sticks and are targeted by a sadistic loner who makes them pay, big time, for the liver-busting tomfoolery they enjoyed in the prologue. A large part of the film’s success (it earned more than $30m internationally) is in the way McLean takes a tested-and-tried genre format and fills it out with Australianisms: the weekend camping trip; sparse, unforgiving landscapes; the meaty drawl and ocker local tongue of rural and remote inhabitants. In the pre-title sequence to writer/director Greg McLean’s 2005 cult hit Wolf Creek, twentysomething partygoers busy themselves with the beach, beer and bikinis; swimming pools and shots. Bags are packed, hangovers nursed, a car is loaded and three principal characters – Sydneysider Ben Mitchell (Nathan Phillips) and British backpackers Liz Hunter (Cassandra Magrath) and Kristy Earl (Kestie Morassi) – begin their trek to the film’s eponymous location. McLean follows the Hollywood horror playbook, focusing on a small group of good looking city slickers who take to the sticks and are targeted by a sadistic loner who makes them pay, big time, for the liver-busting tomfoolery they enjoyed in the prologue. A large part of the film’s success (it earned more than $30m internationally) is in the way McLean takes a tested-and-tried genre format and fills it out with Australianisms: the weekend camping trip; sparse, unforgiving landscapes; the meaty drawl and ocker local tongue of rural and remote inhabitants.
Played with slimy, rough-as-guts charisma by John Jarratt, Mick Taylor sliced and diced his way into the blood-splattered archives of Australian exploitation films. Part Chopper Read, part sadistic lone ranger, he proved a monstrously effective bad guy; Crocodile Dundee possessed by the spirit of Leatherface. McLean abides by the mantra Spielberg set out in Jaws: don’t show the shark until audiences are well and truly invested in the story. The turning point in Wolf Creek arrives almost exactly half an hour in, with a line that clearly marks the end of act one. “Goodbye Wolf Creek,” Ben says, turning his car keys to discover the engine won’t start. Not long later Taylor, in an Akubra hat, chunky sideburns and rolled-up flannel shirt, emerges from the darkness to tow their car to his property. The trap has been set, the victims snared. It’s fifty minutes into the running time when their desperate fight for survival begins. As in most genre films, innovation in Wolf Creek comes in small details rather than broad strokes. There is a nifty “so you thought you were rescued” moment involving a good Samaritan’s sudden demise via a long range rifle, and a clever scene in which Liz discovers a collection of camcorders taken from Mick’s victims. When she watches tourists posthumously speak into their video cameras, it is made clear what was previously suggested: that Mick’s gnarly agenda is, lets say, somewhat opposed to Tourism Australia’s. Played with slimy, rough-as-guts charisma by John Jarratt, Mick Taylor sliced and diced his way into the blood-splattered archives of Australian exploitation films. Part Chopper Read, part sadistic lone ranger, he proved a monstrously effective bad guy; Crocodile Dundee possessed by the spirit of Leatherface. McLean abides by the mantra Spielberg set out in Jaws: don’t show the shark until audiences are well and truly invested in the story. The turning point in Wolf Creek arrives almost exactly half an hour in, with a line that clearly marks the end of act one. “Goodbye Wolf Creek,” Ben says, turning his car keys to discover the engine won’t start. Not long later Taylor, in an Akubra hat, chunky sideburns and rolled-up flannel shirt, emerges from the darkness to tow their car to his property. The trap has been set, the victims snared. It’s fifty minutes into the running time when their desperate fight for survival begins. As in most genre films, innovation in Wolf Creek comes in small details rather than broad strokes. There is a nifty “so you thought you were rescued” moment involving a good Samaritan’s sudden demise via a long range rifle, and a clever scene in which Liz discovers a collection of camcorders taken from Mick’s victims. When she watches tourists posthumously speak into their video cameras, it is made clear what was previously suggested: that Mick’s gnarly agenda is, lets say, somewhat opposed to Tourism Australia’s.
Wolf Creek is precisely the kind of picture commentators refer to when they talk about the need to make more Australian genre films – a production that plays within the boundaries of a codified set of conventions with which its target audience are familiar. Like many quality horror films, there is also something deeper lurking beneath the snarls of its villain and the screams of his victim. “So far no intelligent life forms,” Ben jokes into his camera early in the film. That’s precisely the kind of comment for which characters in this gorefest are literally cut to pieces. The three youngsters taste the dark side of what middle-class Americans would condescendingly refer to as Hicksville. It’a atavistic backwater community miles apart, in every sense, from the culture its visitors come from. That contempt swings both ways, and in this kind of film the fish-out-of-water city slickers inevitably cop it the worst. Mick takes great pleasure in declaring Sydney the “poofter capital of Australia”. His hatred of tourists – and Ben’s casual disregard of people who live in the places he visits for holidays – reflects a perceived animosity between smalltown and city life, between citizens of rural communities and those who regard them as backwards-thinking simpletons. Wolf Creek suggests that both camps share an irreconcilable belief that one lifestyle is superior to the other. The outback is honest and fair dinkum, less pretentious and more “real,” a salt of the earth place to be protected from the pervading evils of the big city. The big smoke, on the other hand, is productive and cultured, a place built to progress from the natural order of things to a more evolved state of being. That kind of commentary, of course, would be lost on someone like Mick Taylor. He’s probably say it was written by a poofter in Sydney. Wolf Creek is precisely the kind of picture commentators refer to when they talk about the need to make more Australian genre films – a production that plays within the boundaries of a codified set of conventions with which its target audience are familiar. Like many quality horror films, there is also something deeper lurking beneath the snarls of its villain and the screams of his victim. “So far no intelligent life forms,” Ben jokes into his camera early in the film. That’s precisely the kind of comment for which characters in this gorefest are literally cut to pieces. The three youngsters taste the dark side of what middle-class Americans would condescendingly refer to as Hicksville. It’a atavistic backwater community miles apart, in every sense, from the culture its visitors come from. That contempt swings both ways, and in this kind of film the fish-out-of-water city slickers inevitably cop it the worst. Mick takes great pleasure in declaring Sydney the “poofter capital of Australia”. His hatred of tourists – and Ben’s casual disregard of people who live in the places he visits for holidays – reflects a perceived animosity between smalltown and city life, between citizens of rural communities and those who regard them as backwards-thinking simpletons. Wolf Creek suggests that both camps share an irreconcilable belief that one lifestyle is superior to the other. The outback is honest and fair dinkum, less pretentious and more “real,” a salt of the earth place to be protected from the pervading evils of the big city. The big smoke, on the other hand, is productive and cultured, a place built to progress from the natural order of things to a more evolved state of being. That kind of commentary, of course, would be lost on someone like Mick Taylor. He’s probably say it was written by a poofter in Sydney.