Movie Review: Australia

A friend agreed to see the new Baz Lurhmann epic, Australia, with me even though she’d seen it once already. “Is it a good movie? No. Is it enjoyable? Yes,” she said. I considered her point. What makes bad movies enjoyable? What makes a movie good or bad, and which kind have I enjoyed most?

I thought back to lunchroom conversations about favorite movies. There are two ways you can go in these situations. The first strategy is to choose a well-crafted, respectable “good” film. If you choose this option, then you’re opening yourself up to the judgment of the group. Are you sitting with film noir aficionados or Tarantino fans or Scorsese snobs? Are you with a bunch of men who have annual Godfather fests? When I take the serious tack, I either go with The Wizard of Oz (it’s old enough and groundbreaking enough for its time that people usually excuse the sad truth that I’m just kind of obsessed with Dorothy’s breathy innocence) or His Girl Friday (people respect its age and its Gilmoreish banter. Plus, it lets me show off the Women Gender Studies Film Theory Fusion class I took in college, and then I seem smart). This is option one; I usually take it when I’m with people whom I assume underestimate me because of the fabulously cut top I’m wearing.

Your second option is to choose a movie that says, “My worldliness and education and wit about film give me license to go lowbrow even though we both know I can’t possible be serious because we’re both such brilliant film buffs that we ought to know better, but isn’t being childish fun on occasion?” This is kind of like a philosophy professor using a poop joke to illustrate utilitarianism. We both know better, so we wink at each other. An imaginary wink; we don’t want any of them to see.

When I choose a movie like this, I have to either smirk self-deprecatingly or describe it with grotesque enthusiasm. Legally Blonde, Bridget Jones’ Diary, Pippi Longstocking (the charmingly hideous Swedish dubbed 1969 version), The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (a made-for-TV movie starring Diane Lane as the young wife of Donald Sutherland’s sweetly deranged Confederate veteran), The Wedding Planner (I went through an inexplicable phase in high school when I watched this one every day after school while doing my French homework), How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (my friends and I never tire of saying, “It’s meeeeeeeeeee”)…

The dirty secret of this category of movies that are “so bad, they’re good” is that everyone, even the most pedestrian, shimmerless personality, can play. We all know that Pippi isn’t going to win any awards, so we can all feel comfortable in our superiority over it. The even dirtier secret is that these are the films that I own on dvd and watch when I feel homesick for them. Something about their brightness and wit stays with me and needs to be relived every few years. I quote them to my best friends, and we giggle and feel safe. I don’t know of any “good” movies that do this. It’s always the movies of ill repute, the prostitute movies, confined to the chick flick ghetto. (Sorry, the Women Gender Studies Film Fusion had to come out somewhere.)

So, where does Australia fit in? Was it good? No. The opening of the film, as Nullah, an Aboriginal/White boy, narrates Lady Sarah Ashley (Nicole Kidman)'s transition from England to Australia, shows some of Luhrmann’s signature cartoonish spark. Her outfits are fabulous, and her Britishness is comically over-the-top (she actually says “poppycock”). The interplay between Lady Ashley and Drover (Hugh Jackman) could be sprightly, but it quickly devolves into “look how girly the girl is” and “wow, isn’t he a typical man?” They first meet in a pub brawl, him whacking his opponent with her suitcases while she squeals and tries to collect her dusty undergarments. Then, on the way to her Outback ranch, she gushes over a leaping kangaroo, while he snickers when it’s suddenly shot before her eyes, mid-coo. I have to say that I was as horrified as Lady Ashley by this shot.

Such silliness is charming in other Luhrmann films. It’s appropriate for the burlesque theater folk of Moulin Rouge and even works as a modern day equivalent of Shakespeare’s bawdy humor in Romeo + Juliet. In Romeo+Juliet, the silliness twists into beauty when Mercutio curses Romeo on the beach with his dying breath, a storm rolling quickly in. The transition is flawless, and I don’t know any teenage girl who didn’t cry when she listened to “I’m Kissing You” on her Discman. But Australia never makes it close to the soul of its audience. We’re supposed to take the love story seriously, but there’s not enough meat to it. OK, I know they’re in love, but I don’t really believe that they are -- not even when the lovers, seemingly separated forever, see each other through gun smoke and mist.

OK, so it’s not good. It is so bad, it’s good? Well, no. The villain, a captain of the beef industry, practically cackles from his tower as he surveys his corporate kingdom, but the film doesn’t give us enough room to really bask in his evilness. There’s too much seriousish stuff distracting us. There’s the racist oppression of Nullah, his mother, and other Aboriginal people, there’s alcoholism, and there’s Lady Ashley’s spunky resistance against a monopolized Outback beef industry. There’s pretty scenery that could be breathtaking with the right camera work. And then, there’s WWII. Despite a reminder in the opening credits that Australia got hit worse than Pearl Harbor, the war, when it arrives, feels like a convenient cap to a story that plays like a Disney Channel movie where the heroine (maybe an Olsen Twin) isn’t going to let the bad guy get away with being a bad guy.

Is Australia a good movie? No. Is it so bad, it’s good? No. Is it enjoyable? Well… kind of. I left the theater inspired to incorporate ties, vests, and tweed into my work wardrobe. I was charmed by Nullah’s fragility; there’s something about a 10-year-old’s shoulder blades that tugs at the old heartstrings. His phrasing was sweet when he told Lady Ashley that he would “sing her to him,” even if his accent when he sang did make it sound like he was singing “mango, mango” instead of whatever whimsical word it was supposed to be. I’ve never been to Australia, and it looks like a beautiful place. As always, it’s a pleasure to watch Hugh Jackman for 2 hours. He’s cute. All in all, if someone invites me to see it again, I think I’d rather go to Brooks Brothers and buy some ties.