The Five Weirdest Forgotten Classics Of Australian Cinema
When we do weird, we do pretty bloody weird.
Bliss, Ray Lawrence (1985)
Harry Joy wakes from his first death, a luxe-life-induced heart attack, with the realisation that his life is, in fact, hell. In an existential wake up, the advertising executive quits his job, leaves his wife, and moves into the Hilton with a shiny-eyed, dope-dealing prostitute from the country named Honey Barbara.
Ray Lawrence went on to direct Lantana and Jindabyne, but he presented his debut, Bliss, to astounded audience walkouts at Cannes. Though some critics couldn’t find their way through the film’s subtle maze of satire, political commentary, far-out fiction and deathly dark humour, others got it for what it is: an quiet masterpiece on the hollowness of the Australian dream and, more simply, how to keep living and be good.
Bliss manages to leap beyond its immediate critique of the advertising industry, environmental alienation and the insanity of life under capitalism, bringing Peter Carey’s mega-lush novel to surreal and moving life with Barry Otto in his second-ever film role. The question Bliss presents is this: is it possible to be awake and sensitive to the insanity of world, and be happy? Is it possible to know your values and actually live by them?
That Ray Lawrence, one of our best film directors, has spent most of his life making Libra tampon advertisements is pretty tragic and says a lot about what Australia values. No joke. Bliss has that huge sense of despair and responsibility and empathy, and a shockingly original visual sensibility that reminds you that this is indeed what films can do: they can culturally innovate, they can affect your political outlook and hit your emotional core hard, and rather than being counterposed, they those things are complementary artistic goals. They’re one and the same.
In some ways, the film’s more cartoon-like, exaggerated scenes, which vary in tone and style, seem experimental and dated. But possibly the most astounding aspect of the film is its absence of cynicism and pessimism, which soil so much of twenty-first century life and culture. And almost thirty years on, the closing scene is still stand-still beautiful: a pure realisation of the film’s title.
WATCH IT: Purchase the Directors’ Cut DVD from Umbrella Entertainment. Seriously, just buy it, think of all the other crap you’ll spend $10 on this week.