JOHN CURRAN



You grew up in the United States but you have become part of the Australian film world.

I went to art school. I was always interested in drawing and primarily wanted to write and illustrate children's books. That's what I thought I was going to do. Then I got a scholarship to Syracuse University and studied illustration there. But, during that time, I realised that it wasn't what I was going to do for a living. I had that profound feeling that I liked doing this but I moved to be being more of a graphic designer when I got out of school. And through that I got into working in advertising, to making small films. I got exposed. Film-making was what I wanted to do and I felt an affinity for it.

I moved to Australia when I was 25 in an effort to get into film. It meant reinventing myself to a degree by moving and by changing careers rapidly. I thought this would be easier to do in a place where nobody had any expectations of me.

Why Australia rather than some other destination?

Because I knew I was going to go through a period of suffering, that I was going to start at the bottom of something. I come from a big family, eight kids, and had gone to New York City where some of my family are still based. I just felt the need to wipe the slate and start again and I did not want the pressure of hearing why are you doing that, not doing something you're successful at. Which is probably self-perceived, but I wanted a break, wanted some distance and I wanted to live a climate that was warm. I was sick of the east coast of the States. I didn't know anyone from Australia but, from what I'd heard about it, it seemed an ideal place. I came and visited and fell in love with it, especially Sydney.

And you found film and films in Sydney?

Coming from America, particularly in the early 80s, I was never really exposed, in the circles I ran in, to any truly independent cinema. In moving to Australia I quickly became aware of the early works of Bruce Beresford and Peter Weir. I was directed to see films, like Puberty Blues because they would help me understand the culture. Seeing these films was like hearing a totally different voice of film-making and, because it's a small town - and I was still working in advertising at this point and had access to people who had worked with these directors - all the crews worked with everyone else. I quickly started directing. That was my way into film, by directing commercials and music videos, and then developing ideas with the producer Martha Coleman who was working with me at the time.

What emerged from these ideas?

We made a short film called Down, Rusty, Down which did very well in the circuit. It starred Noah Taylor, Bob Ellis, Jonathan Hardy and Tex Perkins, and was shot in black and white, by Dion Beebe, the same cinematographer who shot Praise. It was based on events that led up to my dog being neutered, and I filmed it with humans. It's a 50 minute film, but it's about three minutes in when you realise that these guys are playing dogs, it's a gang of dogs. It's not so overtly done, more subtly handled, and that was the point. We draw the parallel between men and beasts. It did quite well and has a cult following. Noah Taylor says that he is recognised in England more from that film than any other, people saying to him, 'Hey, your'e that dog guy'.

It's at the other end of the spectrum stylistically from Praise, dealing with the same themes but they are two very opposite films.

You have said that their films say a lot about film-makers and their choices.

I think that the genesis of any film, or of any filmmaker, is the realisation that it's a love affair and you choose your ideas accordingly. Sometimes you fluke an idea but the reality is that, if you commit to an idea, you realise that it's going to take up two years of your life. For a person to view it, its $11 and two hours of their time. But the film is funded so it's also committing the company's money. It's much more of a commitment than it would be for the punter.

As you have more experience, maybe you develop more of a commercial sensibility about an idea: I like this idea because it satisfies something personal but, also, I think it will be a marketable commodity. It becomes a natural instinct that you develop. But I've been really fortunate that my exposure and my desire to become a film-maker came because of the kind of film that I was talking about, like the early works of Jane Campion. There was a tradition in the country of pursuing more personal types of themes and I was inspired more to become an Australian filmmaker than just a filmmaker. I didn't want to be an American filmmaker. I have a view of American films, as everybody does. You tend to lump them into the Hollywood-style, that neat sense of closure, the spoon-fed formula. A lot of films you see you know how they're going to end but you let them take you on this happy little ride.

What drew you to Praise?

Praise was written by Andrew Mc Gahan. Martha Coleman got the option and she developed it. I read the book and loved it. I just loved the characters. What I also liked was that it represented a view of Australian youth that I could relate to. It was probably a reaction to the last project I'd done. You know the way the last project determines the next thing you do, you tend to react. With Praise, I couldn't hide behind a lot of tricks I'd been developing as a director, absurd comedy, satire.

With Praise, the quality that I reacted to was its honesty. There was tone and style, humour and pace that comes from the character of Gordon himself, a subjective film. What I liked was the inherent style of the film, the pace of the film and the dialogue. It came from him and so had to be handled in a realist fashion and in a very honest way. That frightened me quite a bit. But, as a creative person, I am always attracted to things that scare me. Deep down there's always a reason why and it probably says something to me as a person. A lot of people who knew me and my work for whom I had written scripts were confused as to why I wanted to pursue it. It didn't have the neat closure of a thing that I would write or develop in something of my own. They didn't see the humour in it that I saw. I saw that it was into comedy, that it was really a romantic comedy. It was the kind of romantic comedy that I could live with. I don't think I'll ever do a broad romantic comedy.

I also liked the fact that it did not have a lot of easy answers to it. As a human being I recognise in myself a lot of weakness that I'm constantly coming to terms with, fighting. Most of the inner battles I have are about coming to grips with weakness, either overcoming it or accepting it, that kind of conflict.

Praise, I think, is essentially about that inner dichotomy where, on the one hand, you have the logic of knowing this pursuit could be damaging but, on the other, you're compelled to pursue it. I think, Andrew ended the film in a really clever way. He painted this love story which, at all levels, had people pursuing things that they know aren't good for them but they are compelled to pursue. The story works in that way on the level of love, of Cynthia's approach to sex, of the approach to drugs, alcohol and cigarettes. All the things that are bad for them they still pursue.

I like this view of love as a potentially dangerous thing. Because it is. You're putting yourself at risk. I like the fact that it's a sex and drugs story but the drugs are handled in a way that they support the theme of weakness. It's not gratuitous drug use and it's not romanticised. It's saying that here is something that everybody dabbles in - but why, when they know that it's all potentially harmful? Drugs are not glorified and the characters don't become addicted to drugs in a way that it drives the narrative.

The world of Praise: the old men's home which is so enclosed, Gordon allowing himself to be enclosed. When he went to the wedding, it surprises you that he goes out into the world. What drew you to these characters?

The character of Vas was in the book, an old emphesemic man who is Gordon's closest friend in the home. In the book there are more men of varying ages but in the film I pushed all the ages up. The man next door is fairly young, the wife beater, but I wanted there to be a clear delineation between Gordon and what's outside the walls of his room.

For the designer and for the cinematographer, we stripped back the room and made it very stark and like the character of Gordon, very simple. To me it was an extension of his head space.

Outside his head was the potential of his future: the old emphasemic who plays this love song and smokes too much and tends to mourn the loss of some love; we never really know but we sense a failed love in his life; on the other side, the other wall we have a Latin lover who pretends to be a lover, but it's a violent love and that's where love can go as well. In no way does Gordon have a representation of a healthy love. And that's Gordon's search. Is there an idea of a gentle love out there? The potential for that in the book and in the way we treated it in the film is Rachel, a fantasy. She is not real. This love is not something that eventuates or ever could eventuate. It's simply an idea, an ideal of perfect love. That's what keeps him going in some way. He will find that but he will not be happy until he finds it. Essentially, that is his journey. His collision with Cynthia enables him to works through that. He divests himself of the ideal and moves forward, not in any outrageous way, but just enough. He's still living in the building, he's still stuck in that environment but he's moved.

He looks out his door at the end...

Yes, there's the potential for something else coming by.

You spoke of a healthy love. In a sense, his collision with Cynthia is learning about a healthy love from someone who is, literally, an unhealthy person. It is an unusual idea visualising it and having Gordon and the audience transcend the eczema. You succeeded in taking us beyond appearances.

With a love story you can look objectively and make a judgment about these people. But, if you are going to make a judgement about their love, you have to respond to how they are together and how they feel. I think it's beautiful how Gordon and Cynthia together are non-judgmental. They accept each other's faults and weaknesses. The very important scene is when she is asleep and he looks at her skin. For me that's an opportunity for him to wince or look disgusted yet he's very tender and curious about it. That's very revealing about Gordon and we, as viewers, always have to see her through Gordon's eyes.

We threw continuity out the window from scene to scene as regards how bad her skin was going to be. It's more an emotional gauge. If her skin was bad it was because there was something intense happening in the drama. We were very careful. We shot the film very wide for the first three quarters, not a lot of close-ups of Cynthia. I only show the skin when I have to, to make a point. The point was not to make her grotesque, but to see her as Gordon sees her. So we were very careful about being real. It's evident but it's not in your face so that you're wincing. That would be completely the wrong handling of the disease.

Cynthia is such a strong personality, especially the directness with which she speaks and acts, that you're moved beyond her condition. But Gordon, how did he get to that building and why did he stay there? His comments about being a bottleboy indicate something: lack of education, not fitting in with the rest of the family. And why was the audience still interested in him after Cynthia had gone?

As a film-maker you have to have an inner logical system that has to work for you - and you can't get everything on the screen. As you get more experienced you probably do a better job of fleshing these things out. Praise is an autobiographical novel and it's an autobiographical film. To me the secret of Gordon is that he comes from a big family. I come from a big family. What I related to with Gordon is that in a big family you have older people and you have younger people and sometimes you get stuck in the middle and you get taken care of. You don't have a sense of identity. The scene where Gordon is playing cricket after the wedding defines Gordon's role in life up to that point. He's put in the outfield where he can't do any damage. You don't expect him to help. And they cover for him...

And he actually misses the ball.

He doesn't have a sense of his purpose yet and I think that everybody goes through that at some point of their life. In this country, if there's anything inherently Australian I have recognised in coming here it is in terms of youth experience, that it is easier to get a job without going to school and university is not mandatory as it is in America. Therefore, when you're 18 you have this opportunity to float for a couple of years and find yourself. And it's easier to get on the dole, or it was when Praise was written, particularly in Brisabe. There is a period of self-exploration and you go through a period where you hang in there. But you could hang in there for too long in that phase. Gordon is not propelled forward in life. He's just treading water. And this true to his character. It would have been false to end the film with him getting a job. I just wanted to see him swim a little bit, to see him moving forward a bit. It does frustrate certain people, his character.

He wasn't self-propelling, even sexually. He found Cynthia very demanding and was even glad when she was away. Yet, something was slowly happening to him. The film was stronger as regards older Australian traditions of more respectful relationships between men and women. But, the title and the religious dimensions?

Andrew's not a self-analytical person at all. Essentially, he's like Gordon. He is what he is. I've tried to call him on some of these things and I read into the book and into the script and the character of Gordon probably a lot more than he does. He just understands the character and the way he speaks, what he would do and wouldn't do. But he couldn't tell you why. I related to Andrew very quickly as a fellow-artist, Catholic, from a big family. I can pick them because they're a dying breed - you don't find many families that have eight kids any more. I think there are eleven in his, a big family. When I meet Irish Catholics from a big family, I immediately feel that there's an understanding there.

In terms of the story, Praise, I recognised in it these themes. Inherently in the way I was brought up the first exposure to myths and storytelling would have been through Sunday school. You're aware of the Christian myth structure and it develops in your sensibilities. They're all little parables, and they're all lessons. There's a journey for the character, then a payoff and a moral or lesson. You get used to that kind of storytelling and that's your experience. If I came from a family that was not religious at all, it might have been TV shows that gave me that kind of narrative grounding.

But, for me, my father was a very devout Catholic and worked with the Church. It was a big part of my youth. I do think that in my storytelling I have that kind of structure to archetypal myths and characters. I don't think I manipulated Praise into being like this but I saw that there was a spine in there so that I followed Gordon through his sense of confusion to his ultimately making a decision for self-preservation, but then a period of guilt and self-flagellation - I think Catholics do have a tendency to beat themselves up. But he worked through it. My logic system has to work for me although someone else might be saying 'I didn't see anything of that in it'. But it works for me. I didn't have an agenda for the film but I do recognise in myself my way of storytelling.

I made Vas a specific kind of character. I made the man next door a specific kind of character because they each offered opposite points of view and those potentials for darkness, tragedy. I rarely try to develop ambiguous characters. I tend to develop characters more towards an archetype, to represent good or bad, even though I might soften it so that it's not heavy-handed. I think Spielberg tends to go overboard, almost cliches in his characters.

What drove you away from the Catholic Church?

It was more the question of how did it fit into my life. There was a time when it ceased being relevant for me. For a while I was very anti-Catholic because it separated me from really relating to my father. He was so into it that he did not understand my differences with it, that there was a difference. I've come a circle now with it. I feel that I really appreciate the moral underpinning that it provided me when I was growing up and I appreciate it now as a person. I think it's more a being cynic about anything being too organised, too specific. If I could find a way for it to be relevant to me and now to my child... I do have some issues with the Church's approach to homosexuality and birth-control. There are certain things I can't come to grips with like people using the Bible and interpreting it the wrong way as opposed to what I see it as, parables and lessons and as fictitious. To be honest with you, I've come a circle where I don't have the kind of differences that I did and there's not that animosity or anger that there once was when I was a teenager

And Andrew Mc Gahan comes from this kind of background. What was he thinking when he chose the title?

Well, it works for me, the tone of the word: it has a colour and a sound and a flavour that works for the film. It's ambiguous and I like that. Essentially it could be about self-praise, or praise for a character like Cynthia. My underpinning of that word is that it does come from that kind of background for Andrew. If you're going to write a subjective story, who are you talking to? It's a confession. That's my logic for a subjective film, if you're going to be talking to an audience, telling them a story and being honest about it, what is it?

I said from the beginning in my initial director's note, 'Praise is a confession and that's the way I'm going to develop this. It's going to be honest, not pulling any punches, but it's going to come from a point of view of an essentially decent, harmless person who does not want to hurt anyone and is aware that he's hurting himself - but he's fine with that'. And there should be something noble in that. We should feel sad for him that he's self-destructive in that overt but very common human way where we tend to eat too much cholesterol, smoke too many cigarettes, drink too much. Love is self-destructive behaviour amongst all of us even in the cleanest living people. I don't know where that comes from. I don't know why it is but that is what I was curious about.

Interview: 13th February 1999