This is a story about place and time, about empire and invasion, certainty and conundrum as much as it is about purehearted young women from a bygone era. Beginning with a foreboding image of the rock itself, brooding behind haze and segueing to the sturdy Victorian architecture of the school, we are being prepared for a few collisions.
The first of these has to do with the toy Europe that colonisation was still trying to make of Australia. The girls in the opening montage, helping each other into corsets or whispering poetry in fragile voices are going to visit an imposed tradition on a place formed millions of years before. The British empire, of which the girls are part is an unnoticeable dot on the geological timeline. One of them, Irma, whimsically observes that all those millions of years of formation was "just for us".
At the rock itself, they pass the setting of a aristocratic family so enervated by their surrounds that they are virtually reduced to decoration. At the picnic ground where the girls and their wards settle, there is a cake to be cut in a rite that feels more pagan than Christian and the post lunch drowse settles in. The watches stop and the small group of friends who split off to explore, seem drawn by unseen forces which render them into slow motion Botticelli figures. Then they vanish into the rock itself, never to return. The rock was won.
But this is English Australia at the very end of the Victorian eon that grabbed the rest of the world as though entitled. This is not a part of the world where the Eurostralians acknowledge the people who were already there. The following year, 1901, saw Australian federation and a change in the crown but as far as First Nations people were concerned these things were cosmetic. The disengagement with the land by these daughters of the urban rich and squattocracy as they bear their constricting clothing (February in Victoria can be punishing) and shade themselves with parasols, looking progressively less like conquerors of the land than intruders.
That said, the girls are not just presented as animated lace. Sarah the sponsored orphan is a scapegoat, propped by alpha girl Miranda. Her infatuation with Miranda is forgivable for her age but also allowed a kind of creepy intensity. She is barred from the picnic and pressed into learning a stifling epic poem when all she wants to recite is her own ode to Miranda. What might have been permissible teen crush or even genuine love is thus mangled into such corseted constraint that Mrs Appleyard's news that the school will have to do without Sarah due to non payment of fees drives her to suicide.
Mrs Appleyard, a kind of bunheaded precursor to Gary Oldman's Count Dracula, is a brandy soaked authoritarian who would have understood Sarah's claim of love with enough expertise to be horrified by it. Her clumsy attempt to promote it sideways by catapulting Sarah out of the picture resulted in Sarah doing that by herself. Her funereal attire appears deranged in context. The voiceover that tells us the school matriarch was found dead at the base of the rock adds a sliver of ice to an already chilling mystery.
Peter Weir soaks his film in dreamy aesthetics, slow motion, haze and a uniformly gentle pallet while eerie music plays around the sub bass of earthquake recordings. The rich interiors of the established order are rendered with such warmth that it is impossible to see them without wanting to live in them. The contrast with the threatening stillness of the rock with its conquering ants, tall ghost gums and worrying faces in the rock formations. The impenetrable crevices that the heroic males often fail to explore are vaginal but forbiddingly adamant and scratchy. This is not the nature of European art, it is the nature of prehistory, formed on a geological timeline on which the British empire is too insignificant to warrant as much as a dot. Every time we are reminded of the ethereality of Miranda in slo-mo, swirling her curls and smiling enigmatically, we are reminded of how the girls seem to move into the rock itself at the point of their departure.
The mystery of Picnic at Hanging Rock defies solutions. The chill of it arises from its impossibility despite its occurrence. The notion that the story was based on fact bled into the greater community and I can clearly recall people positing theories of what happened as though they were talking about the Marie Celeste. We are watching this very thing enacted on screen and our own urges to have it explained haunt us. Just as Irma pays for the absence of her memory when she returns to the school to bid her old classmates farewell and they set on her with screaming demands for explanation. By the final image of Miranda before the credits, by now a motif as canonical as a Florentine angel, we know that we will never know.
Picnic holds a unique place in Australian cinema. Revered for being the ignition of the Australian film Renaissance and considered the first post war homegrown classic, it has become unassailable. Weir's own director's cut went against the grain by removing material rather than bloating it, as though applying the final touches of mastery to perfection. It has even evaded the kind of damaging hyperbole that has knocked Citizen Kane off the apex position and this is not because it is seen as perfect but rather definite and evidential. We know it exists the same way we know Uluru does.
But it is just a movie. I'll argue that it's a good and durable one. Whether it's the greatest Australian film is a question I don't care about as I prefer the subjectivity that might also forward any other title to the same evaluation. But its place in the culture has determined that the audio commentary on the disc that I saw, by two of this country's leading film academics, not only jokes about deportation for any adverse opinions they might have but that they spend over half the running time talking about the film's context before venturing anything resembling a real time commentary on the action (save for a brief note at the beginning).
I chose to watch the theatrical cut for this blog as that is the one having the anniversary. Weir's cut really did tighten the film and while we might be deprived of a short subplot toward the end, scenes of emotional release and more indicative scenes of Sarah's fate, it does play a lot smoother. Rising above version squabble, though, the shorter cut does allow more shape and bulk to the maddening mystery of the girls on the rock and the weird, almost interplanetary, results of cultural collision as it played at the end of the first phase of colonialism in Australia. And, did I mention, it's still a great movie.
Viewing notes: for this blog I watched my copy of the 4K presentation of the film from Second Sight. My copy has UHD versions of the theatrical and director's cuts. I watched the theatrical or original as that was how I saw it fifty years ago, though I prefer the shorter director's cut. As far as I know there is no locally available presentation of this edit. I could find no current physical media disc of any cut and only one streamer provides the film. This odd situation where an Australian classic is not available in Australia is less unusual than you'd expect.
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