The international War on Terror and recent events in our immediate region, particularly Indonesia, have thrown a sudden spotlight on Australian reporting of the Asia Pacific. But Australia has a long history of journalism, travel writing and documentary filmmaking here. This paper draws on Edward Said’s writings on ‘orientalism’ to bring an historical perspective to bear on contemporary factual genres and practices. It highlights three cases, focusing on Indonesia and Papua New Guinea: the travel writing and journalism of Frank Clune in the late thirties and early forties (To the Isles of Spice, 1944), the agit-prop filmmaking of Joris Ivens and the Waterside Workers Federation (Indonesia Calling, 1948), and the explosion of documentary work that came out of Papua New Guinea, Australia’s only true colony, from the early 1970s. In conclusion, the paper offers a caveat to factual crafts and genres — in both journalism and filmmaking — that deal with these geographically close, but culturally ‘other’, Australian neighbours, whom we must learn to live with. Empires of information are always, simultaneously, empires of imagination.

Empires need more than armies and navies to exercise control over their conquests. The recent Iraq war was fought on two battlefields. The first was won with tanks and cruise missiles. The second was an even more lopsided contest between a crude third world propagandist and a sophisticated information superpower. U.S. President George Bush’s crusade for an abstracted "freedom" resonated widely among Arab countries, but perhaps as a result of their colonial experiences, not entirely in ways that he intended. Such rhetoric carries much historical baggage, and cannot easily cross cultural borders untouched, unexamined. And if the last century has taught humanity anything at all, it has surely warned of the dangers of thinking in absolutes — including calls for ‘liberty’, ‘democracy’, and ‘justice’.

In colonial times, Westerners who chose to govern ‘natives’ argued moral and intellectual superiority to rationalise their governance: on one hand to underpin the recruitment of local administrators, and on the other, hopefully, to keep the conquered submissive. Such ideas of superiority — coded as ‘civilisation’, ‘modernity’, ‘progress’, ‘development’, ‘liberty’ — are fundamental to colonial governments, which set out early in the imperial mission to build an apparatus for transmitting them both locally and globally. Far from simple, crude methods of ‘mere’ government propaganda, this apparatus is sophisticated, commonly comprising ‘modern’ administrative, educational, medical, communication and legal institutions which replace existing traditional or ‘primitive’ systems of knowledge. And this cosmos of dominance is relentlessly reinforced locally through imported cultural packages, which may include literature, movies, art, music, and fashion. More importantly, narrative genres that present themselves as ‘objective’ and ‘factual’ accounts — such as news and documentary — must also be seen as part of the same project.

This paper concerns itself with these latter, ‘factual’ genres, for the cultural packages of imperialism continue their work long after formal colonial government has ended, resulting in the old metropolitan centres maintaining post-colonial influence over their former subjects. And the sophisticated modern technologies and rhetorics of actuality, reality, neutrality and objectivity deployed by contemporary global news text and image empires are particularly difficult to avoid, analyse or verify at the local level — at their margins.

In the Victorian era of high-imperialism, culture was understood in terms of what we might call ‘high art’ today. Writing in the Introduction to Culture and Imperialism, Edward Said begins his analysis of their intimate connection by paraphrasing Mathew Arnold’s famous 1860s definition, noting that "culture", as each society’s reservoir of the "best that has been thought and known", includes a refining and elevating element, but also elements of aggressive nationalism which intimately couple identity with race:

Said goes on to argue that the while clearly the first wars of imperialism were over land, the next engagement was fought on the battlefield of culture. When it came to who named the land — who owned the land, who had the right to settle and work on it, who reaped its profits, who kept it going, who won it back, who planned its future — these were issues reflected, contested, and decided in narrative

Among the kinds of narratives that perform these naming, constructing, and blocking roles on the road to colony first, and later, post-colonial nationhood, are ‘factual’ categories such as administrative reports, travel writing, journalism and government documentary. At least until very recently these factual narrative genres have largely escaped scholarly attention.¹ Yet they play a central role in the continuing, contemporary nexus of culture and imperialism.

In Imperial Fictions: Europe's Myths of Orient, Rana Kabbani analysed 19th Century travel writing: what she found in terms of ideas and negative stereotypes about the ‘Orient’ that infuse that genre are strikingly familiar, even today. She shows that descriptions abounded of distant lands peopled by fantastic beings, as the dominant, ‘writing’ culture forged images of the 'alien' in opposition to its own self-perpetuating categories: if oneself was the norm, then the other must be different — in negative ways:

Kabanni wrote that the idea of travel as a means of gathering and recording information was commonly found in societies that exercise a high level of political power. Travellers wrote from a national perspective for consumers in their home country — and note she assigns them male gender:

In this respect, travel writers may be said to share the same schooling, constraints and incentives as foreign correspondents: in fact their roles seem to match precisely. And there is another ommunication apparatus that reaches and overarches all European travellers who sojourn and work in a strange, colonised land: structures of colonial censorship and press control, government information officers, documentary filmmaking and photography units, and official propaganda departments, an apparatus which also extends into the informal expatriate social networks — the foreign correspondent clubs, the press clubs, the ‘old hands’.

The danger is that in time, official propaganda seamlessly transforms itself into accounts of history which in reality are little more than mythology. And the longevity and reach of of this orientalist, so-called ‘factual’ reporting are remarkable for their endurance.

Journalists specialising in foreign affairs are by definition concerned with reporting on social and value systems to which they do not belong. Western news organisations place journalists in Asia precisely to seek non-Asian perspectives on Asian affairs, prioritising and interpreting foreign events in ways most Westerners can understand. Further, they seek to report the specific activities of their nationals abroad. Otherwise, sub-editors assembling newspapers and bulletins would merely rely on international news agency copy, technically excellent but generic news produced from within the Western intellectual framework. ABC foreign correspondent Peter George in his memoir, Behind the Lines, put it this way:

National values and interests are therefore explicitly embedded in foreign correspondents' news gathering practices. As Rodney Tiffin observed in his 1978 study which examined the sociology of Western reporting of Asia:

Tiffin's prism may be a hall of mirrors where journalists' prior expectations, prejudices and corporate news priorities combine not only to affect how news is filtered but also how it is created and later understood. ‘News’ is refracted as it moves through the information distribution systems, in turn creating new illusions upon which new stories are based. This process is evident in the production of newsagency copy where disparate sub-editors have no opportunity to examine a reporter's veracity, other than checking spelling and basic grammar. Once filed, an inaccurate or false story can emerge through a multiplicity of outlets, often without attribution, thereby appearing to provide confirmation, even among competing journalists, that the original story was considered true after all. Meanwhile, stories which challenge or which fall outside the reporters' and editors' belief systems are often downgraded or simply discarded.

In the case of foreign correspondents, Edward Said's argument in the earlier work, Orientalism, already suggested that Western journalists' ‘truth’ about Asia might merely be representations founded in someone else's ‘fact’, fiction and ultimately fantasy:

As European peoples embarked on empire building, the ‘West’ transcended mere geographic locations, transforming into an intellectual tradition as well as an expression of power. Orientalism, in Said's definition, is founded on and synonymous with notions of Western superiority which were used to justify colonial regimes in the ‘Middle East’, Africa and Asia. Crucially, it may still survive in contemporary writing and filming about Asia and our region, as Said argues, "In our time, direct colonialism has largely ended; imperialism, as we shall see, lingers where it has always been, in a kind of general cultural sphere as well as in specific political, ideological, economic and social practices." (1994 , p. 8).

Historically in Australian travel writing and reporting, orientalist ideas were too easily embedded in what purported to be documentary or non fiction accounts of Asia. A former Gallipoli digger, chartered accountant and later war correspondent, Frank Clune was during the forties and fifties one of Australia's best selling ‘non fiction’ authors. By 1945, he claimed to have published a dozen books and sold 100,000 copies³. He had gone to Asia in 1938 to produce a series of 15 minute radio reports, which he negotiated over a round of golf with the then General Manager of the ABC, Charles Moses. His trip to Shanghai on the eve of World War Two provided the impetus for a trilogy of books, Sky High to Shanghai (1939), All Aboard for Singapore (1941), and To the Isles of Spice (1944).

Clune consciously cast himself as an Australian adventurer abroad. In a period when by-lines were uncommon and journalists attempted to isolate themselves from the action by employing third person narrative, Clune placed himself at the centre of the story. Indeed his practice of relying on a largely unacknowledged researcher and writer to conduct the journalistic spade work would be familiar to some contemporary television presenters. Structured around journeys by steamers, air clippers and flying boats, his travelogues relied primarily on Western sources, including research drawn from libraries, information from academics, and briefings by trade advisors. However these reported views were supplemented by frequently ironic conversations with English-speaking "Asiatics", and personal observations from a self-consciously Australian perspective.

To the Isles of Spice presents as its central narrative the ‘development’ by European colonial administrators of an exotic, unexplored, tropical wilderness, in this case the Dutch East Indies. Although the book was written about a trip made by the author in 1939, it was published late in the war in 1944, when Clune was working as a war correspondent for the Daily Mirror. It featured postcard style photographs which repeated stereotypes of the ‘Oriental’ other: Balinese cock fighters, Dyak head hunters in loin cloths and, inevitably, images of sexual allure — such as a young, bare breasted girl selling drinks and fruits in exotic street scenes.

Indonesia was described as "a giant umbrella, between Australia and the rising sun", while the Dutch colonialists were depicted as determined defenders against the "Asiatic" threat from the north. Clune strongly approved of the Netherlands colonial administration and what he saw as its educated and committed officers, calling the Dutch government "the light bringer into dark places" :

To the Isles of Spice was published near the end of World War Two, at a time when the Dutch were hoping to resume the "burden" of colonial administration in the Indies. Clune should have been aware that the Dutch colonial regime had been established in exile at Wacol on the outskirts of Brisbane in 1942. In the same year, Indonesian independence movement members were transferred from a Dutch concentration camp in what is now East Irian to an Australian POW camp at Cowra.⁴ They were freed the following year after a campaign by "agitators" belonging to Australian trade unions (Lockwood: 1982, pp. 15, 26).

One of the more remarkable outcomes and catalysts in this trade union campaign was a documentary film made by peripatetic Dutch Marxist filmmaker Joris Ivens, Indonesia Calling (1948). Ivens had been politicised and energised by the experimental Russian film movement of the late 1920s, particularly the work of Dziga Vertov and the Kino Pravda (literally, ‘film truth’) group, and worked for a time in Russia making ‘heroic worker’ and ‘industrial symphony’ propaganda. ⁵ He was involved in the Spanish Civil War (Ernest Hemingway narrated one of his films there), and later spent a short spell working with Frank Capra in the United States on the war propaganda Why We Fight (1942-44) series.⁶ Finally, in 1945, Joris Ivens was appointed by the Netherlands government, Film Commissioner for the Dutch East Indies (then still under Japanese occupation)(Barnouw, 1993, pp. 131-139).

Ivens immediately set off for Australia, where by 1945 an armada of British and Dutch ships had been assembled awaiting official word to set sail and ‘liberate’ the old colony from the Japanese. The political context now becomes complex: during this waiting period in Sydney, Ivens naturally moved within Australian left wing and both expatriate and ‘native’ émigré cultural and political circles. When, in August 1945, word came that Sukarno had declared independence from within Indonesia itself, Ivens realised that what had masqueraded as a liberation fleet now in fact stood ready to blockade the islands, ‘restore order’, and nip independence in the bud. His project — both political and filmic— changed overnight: the task now became to stop the armada from sailing (Barnouw, 1993, 169-172).

Ivens mobilised contacts in the Australian Communist Party controlled Waterside Workers Union for an agit-prop cinema project, a call to all Australians to support Sukarno and the cause of freedom from Dutch colonial rule for Indonesia. As Javanese crews deserted the fleet, one ship crewed largely by Indians set sail. In a dramatic chase on Sydney Harbour, members of the Waterside Workers union hailed the crew from a small clinker boat, and appealed for them to return to port. The ship turned back, and the rest is history.

Indonesia Calling, narrated by young Australian rising star Peter Finch, remains to this day an extraordinary piece of filmmaking. Taking his cue from one of the lines of narration, Erik Barnouw has suggested that the theme of the film might be summarised as "the ship that didn’t sail", but that formulation overvalues a simple narrative device and undervalues the film’s overall rhetorical sophistication and power (1993, p. 171). Shot with unblimped, borrowed 35mm Arriflex cameras and his own old 1928 Kinemo, on black and white ‘short end’ film stock donated by local Cinesound news cameramen, and processed at night by sympathisers within the Sydney laboratories, the film combines actuality and staged scenes in what had become by now a well-crafted Ivens style.⁷ The dramatic harbour chase sequence which forms the film’s climax is one of the many unacknowledged re-enactments within the ‘documentary’ framework.

Indonesia Calling was collaged together some years after the events it narrates took place. In effect, only the film’s opening graphic sequence takes place in the present (of 1948), the rest of the film is all flashback, or rather two sets of flashbacks. The tenses here get complicated: from the ‘present tense’ of a map of Indonesia and Australia, the film next jumps to the finale of the story it will relate — a Cinesound newsreel about the departure of the Esperance Bay ship carrying Indonesian exiles of the war years back home, which took place in October, 1945. With a neat rhetorical manoeuvre in the narration — "On that October day the Esperance Bay sailed from Australia to Indonesia. But the real story behind this journey is the story of ships that didn’t sail. Let’s start at the beginning…" — the film launches into a sustained flash-furtherback narrative about the long, combined union "direct action" which stranded the Dutch fleet in ports around Australia for two months.

There is some actuality footage of key meetings and marches from this ‘Black Ban’ period — particularly sync sound speeches from union leaders and other politicians, probably smuggled to Ivens by Cinesound cameramen — but the vast majority of the material is shot on unblimped cameras, and re-staged with what is clearly a constructed, effects sound track. That is not to say it is unsophisticated, unpersuasive, or inauthentic: narration and image fit together into a strong political rhetoric. Visually, the film draws on the vernacular of heroic worker imagery familiar from both Russian and British documentary traditions, including wide shots of massed or marching workers, low-angle two-shots and singles, mid shots of raised fists, and close shots of rugged, attentive, determined faces. In the narration, repetition, verbal colour, colloquial language, and the rhythmic listing of supporting unions, ships, ports, countries becomes hypnotic, begins to take on the cadences of the Bible, and suggests the poetry of W.H.Auden laid over Night Mail (1936), one of the masterpieces of the British Documentary movement. The central theme of this narrative is standard Wobbly propaganda, summed up in commentary over the climactic harbour chase in a tiny boat:

And there is a characteristic Ivens final touch: over actuality footage of a march by returned servicemen in both civilian clothes and uniform over Sydney Harbour Bridge — borrowed by Ivens from who knows where — the narration makes connection to the dock workers and ships under the bridge ("ships that didn’t sail so that a young republic might live"), to be replaced by a chorus of male voices rising into the Internationale, sung in Bahasa Indonesia, which continues on as the marching workers and the film itself fade to black.

Along with the returning soldiers, foreign correspondents, and documentary war photographers and filmmakers, returned trailing glory from the Second World War. Many went on to found distinguished careers in the post-war years — in print, writers such as Alan Moorehead, Wilfred Burchett, Richard Hughes became household names. In documentary film, Damien Parer’s newsreel about war on the Kokoda Trail garnished Australia’s first (and last) Academy Award for documentary film.⁸ But documentary film and photography also faced crisis: as the Joris Ivens case so dramatically demonstrated, having been diverted from 1930s socialist agendas for reform of domestic inequality and injustice into nationalist demands for war propaganda, the post-war role of non-fiction genres — documentary in radio, film and photography, and indeed, any reportage from ‘foreign correspondents’ — seemed desperately unclear, uncertain and indeed unnecessary as nations began successfully rebuilding, and people turned gratefully to entertainment genres and consumerism.

Enter John Grierson, Charles Moses, ‘Nugget’ Coombs, and the ghost of John Reith. John Grierson, the ‘father of British documentary’, had never let go throughout the war years of his dream for an independent cinema that could both counter Hollywood and ‘Americanisation’, and build links within empire, a responsible citizenship, and national pride among the middle and working classes. As war broke out in 1939-40 he visited in rapid succession Canada, New Zealand and Australia to present his argument before government forums (Moran, 1991, pp. 23). As Albert Moran puts it:

Canada in 1939 (appointing Grierson himself as first Government Film Commissioner), and New Zealand in 1941, acted immediately on the report. In Australia as the war drew to a close, H.C. ‘Nugget’ Coombs (now Head of the Department of Post-War Reconstruction), Charles Moses (founder in 1926 and still Director of the Australian Broadcasting Commission), and other bureaucrats were gearing up for a new vision of post-war Australia; they convened a Commonwealth Film Conference in September 1944, and dusted off Grierson’s report. An ideology of nation-building through modern communication technologies, enunciated two decades earlier by John Reith, founder of the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), was shared by all three powerful bureaucrats, indeed in the cases of Grierson and Moses, had intimately shaped their own careers.

And thus was born both the modern ABC and the Commonwealth Film Unit (now Film Australia).⁹ Englishman Stanley Hawes, disciple of Grierson, was recruited to lead the Unit, and he set about gathering filmmaking talent from among the ranks of journalists, writers, photographers and cameramen who had previously been employed primarily in the production of war propaganda and newsreels.¹⁰ Over the early years others came in from the cold of Australia’s small intellectual, artistic, and left-wing political circles, including notably Keith Gow from the Waterside Workers Film Unit, the same group that had produced Indonesia Calling.¹¹ Over the next twenty five years, the Commonwealth Film Unit (CFU) became a crucible of filmmaking talent that nurtured the seeds of an Australian film industry. When Hawes retired in 1969 (having been at the helm since 1946), the CFU employed Peter Weir, Phil Noyce, Chris Noonan, Dean Semmler, Don McAlpine, Richard (Dick) Mason, John Morris, Gil Brealey, Donald Crombie, Damien Parer, (son of the maker of Kokoda Trail), to name only a few of the more well-known of those who would shortly revive an Australian feature film industry.

Crucially, (and unlike some of the other Government filmmaking Units seeded by Grierson around the colonies)¹², built into the Unit’s charter from the beginning was a two-fold structure: a Departmental Programme which made films on commission, directly sponsored by Government; and what became known as the National Programme, a lump sum of money with which the Unit itself could initiate film projects, under general guidelines set by a National Board. In other words, the Film Unit had the good fortune to be grounded in a similar philosophy of the public good that underpinned the whole concept of public broadcasting, and the ABC. As Moran notes: "The national programme was and is an ideological tool for supporting and propagating the idea of the nation and the national entity" (1991, 8).

Moran specifically links the idea of the national programme to a struggle and shift in power relations between the state and federal governments. But in the immediate post-war years the issue of nation was not so narrow; Australia sought to construct a new, more complex, more distinct identity in the face of strong geopolitical forces and a changing world: national security focus shifted from Britain to the U.S., an influx of refugees from Europe was coupled with an aggressive immigration programme, and in our own region the era of post-colonialism had begun, with revolution on our doorstep in Malaya, the Dutch East Indies, the French colonies of L’Indochine, and so on.

Much as America had been forced to construct a nationalist ‘melting pot’ mythology around the turn of the previous century under the pressure of immigrant ‘others’, Australia a half century later also needed to define elements of an ‘Australianness’ that would hold the whole complex mix together. This drive for a new, national identity took the form of an aggressive re-imagining and celebration of the past as anti-colonial resistance, and the assertion of a largely Anglosaxon mythology of what made us ‘Aussies’. This early, nationalist phase lasted into the early seventies, and is directly reflected in the first tentative steps of the Australian feature film industry.¹³ Only around the mid-seventies, following the Labor Party inter-regnum, was it possible to become more relaxed about assimilation, and a more complex idea of a ‘multicultural’ Australia to take hold. In 1975 the mission statement for Film Australia, the recently renamed CFU, was re-defined as "dealing with matters of national interest to Australia

and illustrating and interpreting aspects of Australia or of the life and activities of the Australian people" (Moran, 1991, p. 9). But while Australia may have been growing up, loosening the ties of Empire, and entering the post-colonial era, the nation also occupied a kind of schizophrenic, imperial role in relation to both its indigenous people and its own colonies. Australian writers, journalists and filmmakers of the period face a double bind: they are familiar with and actively engaged in defining a new, liberational, post-colonial condition for themselves, yet at the same time, as an English-speaking, European settler society, they historically imagine, narrate and desire their colonial ‘others’ through the tropes and myths of an earlier, guilt-ridden imperial mission. Nowhere was this drama played out more clearly than in Papua New Guinea.

In the Australian press some of the old orientalist thinking and reporting did not die gracefully. Peter Hastings, long-term Pacific desk reporter for the Sydney Morning Herald, remained one of the ‘old hands’ who had trouble coming to grips with the post-colonial realities of emerging independent Pacific nations. At the 1972 Sydney Film Festival launch of his nine-hour series filmed in the Papua New Guinea Highlands, Towards Baruya Manhood, director Ian Dunlop brandished from the stage one of Hastings’s articles from that very week, which described the Baruya as an inferior, "stunted" race. Dunlop’s film series, documenting the extraordinarily demanding initiation ordeals and rituals which admit adolescents into full adult status, demonstrates convincingly their strength, courage, and intelligence.¹⁴

From today’s perspective, however, and to its credit, the record over the last few decades of Australian reporting from the Asia Pacific region, particularly in the public broadcasting sector and quality broadsheets, is on the whole, responsible and thoughtful. Long-term resident foreign correspondents such as the Sean Dorney (based in Port Moresby) and Mary-Louise O’Callaghan (based in Vila, capital of the Vanuatu), and committed journalists of the calibre of Tim Bowden and Paul Kelly, have established and maintain a tradition of accurate, informed commentary from the region which not only helps educate their general Australian audiences but also influences public policy. In documentary film, the story is much the same, with a generally positive record in "the processes of beginning to see and think about Asia", as David Hanan remarks (Hanan, 1993, p. 39).

The full history remains to be written, but Australia’s only true colony, Papua New Guinea (PNG), stands out as a kind of critical site for Australian journalists, writers and documentary filmmakers, the place where they confronted their craft and its implicit ideologies of ‘writing’ or ‘observing’ the ‘other’ — the problematics of representation and orientalism discussed earlier in this paper. It has been argued that documentary film and photography led the way:

For documentary film, the best account to date is not text-based scholarship, but a compilation film, Taking Pictures, made bv Les McLaren and Annie Stiven in 1996.¹⁵ The film is a meditation on Australian filmmaking’s encounter with its colonial other, combining interviews with filmmakers and clips from their respective films. As coherent narrative or argument Taking Pictures faces an uphill battle: it is not easy to describe the PNG expatriate documentary filmmaking milieu of the early seventies. Moreover, academic scholarship, preferring print texts, is not good at the fine tracings of informal contacts and social networks.

Before looking in more detail at the themes raised in Taking Pictures, here is a catalogue of facts about this milieu: Ian Dunlop had been recruited in 1969 by French anthropologist Maurice Godelier to film the rare and recently revived Baruya initiation ceremonies; Chris Owen, permanent resident and mentor to many filmmakers, was quietly turning out films about social change and cultural survival in long-term collaboration with village communities; Dennis O’Rourke was employed by the PNG Government Film Unit (Grierson’s ghost never dies) as cameraman/director to make educational and health films; Gary Kildea, who preceded O’Rourke at the Film Unit and continued to work there from time to time, teamed up with anthropologist Jerry Leach to scrape together money for a film about cricket in the Trobriand Islands; and Les McLaren was drifting around as freelance sound recordist on any project going. Out of this period come the ethnographic classics, Towards Baruya Manhood (1972) at the more traditional pole of ethnographic film, and at the more self-reflective, post-colonial end of the spectrum, Trobriand Cricket(1978). And Denis O’Rourke launches his international career with the official government record of the movement for independence in the period between the granting of self-government (1973), official independence (1975), and the first general elections(1977), Yumi Yet(1977) — the film (the pigin title translates as ‘now together’) is a powerful call for national unity and purpose to its home audience of some 600 different groups and languages. It was immediately followed by a stirring film about these first democratic elections, Ileksen(1978), and later a raft of important Pacific region works, including Shark Callers of Kontu, Cannibal Tours, Half-Life, and so on.

Taking Pictures is both an historical compilation film and a personal narrative; Les McLaren’s voice threads its way through the film as he links each filmmaker’s interview, and each excerpt of their films, with his own personal filmmaking journey from innocence to self-consciousness, to borrow the title of Loizos’s more general history of ethnographic film (Loizos: 1993). The film sets up its theme in the pre-title sequence: black and white archival footage from the 1930s which records the first contact between remote Highland peoples and the outside world — shot by the Leahy brothers, Australian gold prospectors and explorers — then cuts abruptly to scenes in a contemporary (mid 1990s) Highlands marketplace. McLaren’s voice-over links the two filmmaking moments, and comments: "More than 60 years later, I’m another Australian behind a camera, continuing a Western tradition of enquiry and recording other people’s lives." Suddenly, his filming of the markets is interrupted by an angry local; the confrontation that follows is conducted in pigin, and subtitled as follows:

Taking Pictures goes on to trace from the 1970s to the present the history in film of the "Western tradition of enquiry and recording" in the post-colonial relationship between Australia and PNG, and the complexities of the encounter between cultures — between observer and observed. As McLaren’s voice over sums up after the market scene and the main title, "When I first went to PNG in 1970, questions of representation and the idea of filming another culture weren’t contentious. And I was idealistic about what filmmaking could achieve." Gary Kildea adds:

Ian Dunlop concurs: "They open up their culture to us, and it’s a huge responsibility to treat that material with respect." And O’Rourke remarks: "It was only with our early work that their language, and the complexity of their thought, their poetry, was revealed to be exactly the same as ours."

In the 1980s, Bob Connolly and Robin Anderson would continue this pilgrimage to Australian documentary’s Mecca, producing the extraordinary Highlands trilogy (First Contact, Joe Leahy’s Neighbours, Black Harvest), two of which were nominated for Academy Awards. Taking Pictures ends on an optimistic note about the potential for thoughtful and responsible cultural outcomes in the relationship between Australian documentarians and their subjects:

And this self-reflective, sensitive observation, writing and filmmaking about our region continues today in the work of Curtis Levy, Tom Zybrycki, David Bradbury, Denis O’Rourke, and others.

The ethical and epistemological dilemmas posed by documentary filmmaking apply equally to Australian journalism, and all other genres of ‘fact’ and ‘reporting’. Moreover, neither culture nor imperialism are fixed constellations of products and practices, but rather processes in constant negotiation with each other. And these negotiations take place neither in distant places nor far away in time: Australian culture itself, today as always, faces challenges from new imperialisms.

As Australia engages the United States in a tighter political embrace, Australian journalists and documentary makers may be asked to play their part in a familiar apparatus of imperial cultural packaging. Already global television bulletins are laced with reports implying U.S. intellectual and moral ascendancy over a post-Saddam rabble which loots and burns its libraries, universities and schools. Whether Australian media practitioners accept and reproduce propaganda-inspired caricatures may indicate whether we have learned from what may be, for us, merely a post-colonial interlude — and illusion. The challenge of ‘seeing’ our region through clear eyes and a sensitive, responsible, self-reflective lens has never been more urgent: empires of information are also, always, simultaneously, empires of imagination.

Adventures of Barry Mackenzie,The (Bruce Beresford, 1972)
Between Wars (Michael Thornhill, 1974)
Black Harvest (Robin Anderson and Bob Connollly, 1992)
Cannibal Tours (Dennis O’Rourke, 1988)
Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith, The (Fred Schepsi, Australia, 1978)
Diplomat, the (Tom Zubrycki, Australia, 2000)
First Contact (Robin Anderson and Bob Connolly, Australia, 1983)
Gallipoli (Peter Weir, Australia, 1981)
Half-Life (Dennis O’Rourke, Australia, 1985)
Ileksen (Dennis O’Rourke and Gary Kildea, PNG, 1979)
Indonesia Calling 1948 (Joris Ivens, Australia, Waterside Workers Federation Film Unit)
Kokoda Frontline, 1942 (Damien Parer, Australia, Cinesound)
Ned Kelly (Tony Richardson, Australia, 1970)
Newsfront (Phil Noyce, Australia, 1978)
Night Mail (Harry Watt and Basil Wright, U.K.,1936)
Picnic at Hanging Rock (Peter Weir, Australia, 1975)
Shark Callers of Kontu, The (Dennis O’Rourke, Australia, 1982)
Sunday Too Far Away (Ken Hannam, Australia, 1975)
Taking Pictures, 1996, (Les McLaren and Annie Stiven, Australia, Australian Film
Commission (AFC), Australian Film Finance Corporation (AFFC), Special Broadcasting
Service (SBS Independent)).
Towards Baruya Manhood Parts 1 and 2, (Ian Dunlop, Australia, Film Australia, 1972)
Trobriand Cricket (Jerry Leach and Gary Kildea, Australia, 1978)
Why We Fight series(Frank Capra, U.S.,1942-1944)
Yumi Yet (Dennis O’Rourke, Australia, 1977)

ENDNOTES

¹ Notable exceptions are Mary-Louise Pratt, Imperial eyes: travel writing and transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), and David Spurr, The rhetoric of empire: colonial discourse in journalism, travel writing, and imperial administration. (Durham: Duke University Press, 1993).

² And Said specifically addressed orientalism in terms of journalism and the media in a more recent work: Covering Islam: How the media and the experts determine how we see the rest of the world, (London: Vintage, 1997).

³Frank Clune as cited by Craig Munro, Wild man of letters: The story of P.R.Stephenson
(Carlton,Vic:Melbourne University Press,1984).

⁴ Ironically, Clune's researcher and ghost writer was also being held by the Australian authorities. Since 1936, Clune had collaborated in the production of his books with P.R. Stephenson whom he retained on a salary to transform his travel diaries and historical material into professional narratives. Stephenson, President of the pro-fascist Australia First Movement, was interned by the Australian government from 1942 to 1945 (Munro, 1984, p. 23).

⁵ Although he began his career in Holland as an experimental, ‘art’ cineaste, Joris Ivens from the early 1930s devoted his life to what we would today call political or agit-prop documentary film, working in all the world’s trouble spots. In his later years he visited Cuba, Central and South America, and into his eighties was working in China under Mao to develop a propaganda documentary film industry there.

⁶ The Why We Fight series comprises seven films made between 1942-1944. Frank Capra asserted overall control, but many Hollywood luminaries worked on the films; there are no credits on them. See Erik Barnouw, Documentary: A History of the Non-Fiction Film (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993, first published 1974) pp. 155-162.

Barnouw, E. (1993). Documentary: A history of the non-fiction film. New York: Oxford
University Press. (Original work published 1974).

Deveraux. L.(1995) Cultures, Disciplines, Cinemas, in Devereaux L. and Hillman. R. (Eds.)
Fields of vision: Essays in film studies, visual anthropology and photography. Berkeley:
University of California Press.

George, P. (1996). Behind the lines: The personal story of an ABC foreign correspondent.
Sydney: Australian Broadcasting Corporation.

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