Metro 204 Scope

Page 1

scope

screen industry views

[British Academy of Film and Television Arts] quotas, Gender Matters initiatives, SBS charters, the Time’s Up movement, PC box ticking or virtue signalling [… but] because diversity is both an existential imperative and a natural fertiliser of creative innovation.

ABOVE: TOTAL CONTROL

STORYTELLING IN A TIME OF EVOLUTION: SCREEN FOREVER 2019 Rochelle Siemienowicz

‘There is really only one choice. You die with your ageing, white audience or you embrace diversity.’ That was the advice delivered by actor, writer, director and producer Rachel Griffiths in her 2019 Hector Crawford Memorial Lecture. She was speaking in Melbourne in November at the Screen Forever Conference, run by Screen Producers Australia (SPA). Griffiths arrived on the stage with some authority. She was, after all, the driving force behind the year’s highest-grossing Australian film, Ride Like a Girl, as well as being a co-creator of the acclaimed ABC political drama series Total Control. But knowing she was talking to a room full of producers – those creative businesspeople who put together deals, take risks and nurture stories from script to screen and beyond – Griffiths confessed to extreme nervousness. This was perhaps surprising for such a seasoned and outspoken performer, and, true to form, she delivered an eloquent, funny and impassioned speech, complete with colourful language and a very funny PowerPoint presentation. She drew on her own experiences as an actor-turned-director, and said that, like all producers, she faced the eternal challenge: finding an audience in a time of increased competition and decreased attention span. Given this difficult environment, Griffiths argued that it has never been so important, for those bringing stories to our big and small screens, to be clear in our purpose, unique in our branding and increasingly inclusive in our stories, not just to meet BAFTA

126 • Metro Magazine 204 | © ATOM

Her other key piece of advice to Australian producers was to pur­ sue performer-led projects and work closely with actors to generate content. She said this was more the norm in Hollywood and the UK than Australia, where actors are often ‘managed-down sock puppets’. Astonishingly, she claimed that, after twenty-five years in the industry, Darren Dale of Blackfella Films was the first producer to ask her if she had a TV show in mind. The result was Total Control. Citing successful international examples like Fleabag and Portlandia, Griffiths said actors have the advantage of being highly attuned to audiences, and care deeply about whether stories are working. Also, if they’re of significant stature, they have great con­ tacts and the clout to secure finance and attract and retain commissioners (Cate Blanchett’s involvement as both producer and actor in the ABC’s new drama Stateless was offered as an example of this). Griffiths will surely be inundated with offers from hopeful producers. They’ll know not to patronise her or waste her time. Looking back over her career, she said, ‘In the words of Helen Mirren, “I wish I’d said ‘fuck off’ a lot more!”’ Being able to say such a thing is perhaps a luxury and privilege only attainable for the already successful. Nonetheless, there can be no doubt that massive shifts in attitude mean there’s never been a better time to be a woman working in the industry. The Hector Crawford lecture was just one highlight of Screen Forever’s three days of talk, talk, talk (and a fair bit of drinking and deal making, too). SPA, the professional and lobbying organisation for Australian screen producers, has been running Australia’s largest media and entertainment conference since 1985. In 2019, there were more than fifty keynote addresses, panels and networking events. More than 900 people attended, ranging from the humblest emerging producers to representatives from mid-range production companies, Netflix commissioners, Screen Australia executives and Hollywood agents. According to SPA, more than A$100 million worth of deals got done on the conference floor. Most people were there not only to network and do business (a full ticket costs around A$1600, which keeps out tyre kickers), but also to gather intelligence, gauge the zeitgeist and be inspired. You could smell the anxiety in the room, but also some excitement, with the theme for 2019 being ‘Storytelling in a Time of Evolution’. Speakers included visionaries like Google Creative Lab’s Tea Uglow and immersive UK film and videogame maker Karen Palmer. The latter spoke of a scary but fascinating future in which artificial intelligence, neuro­ science and immersive storytelling could change human civilisation. Right here and right now, however, the big anxieties in the room were familiar: How to get a meeting with Netflix? How to reinvigorate cinema-going? How to maintain a career as a small-business creative when the work is so sporadic? And, of course, the big issue for our television makers continues to be the unregulated presence of international streaming services. SPA CEO Matthew Deaner leads the ongoing charge for regulation, and the need for these companies to be compelled to invest in Australian content.


scope

screen industry views

[British Academy of Film and Television Arts] quotas, Gender Matters initiatives, SBS charters, the Time’s Up movement, PC box ticking or virtue signalling [… but] because diversity is both an existential imperative and a natural fertiliser of creative innovation.

ABOVE: TOTAL CONTROL

STORYTELLING IN A TIME OF EVOLUTION: SCREEN FOREVER 2019 Rochelle Siemienowicz

‘There is really only one choice. You die with your ageing, white audience or you embrace diversity.’ That was the advice delivered by actor, writer, director and producer Rachel Griffiths in her 2019 Hector Crawford Memorial Lecture. She was speaking in Melbourne in November at the Screen Forever Conference, run by Screen Producers Australia (SPA). Griffiths arrived on the stage with some authority. She was, after all, the driving force behind the year’s highest-grossing Australian film, Ride Like a Girl, as well as being a co-creator of the acclaimed ABC political drama series Total Control. But knowing she was talking to a room full of producers – those creative businesspeople who put together deals, take risks and nurture stories from script to screen and beyond – Griffiths confessed to extreme nervousness. This was perhaps surprising for such a seasoned and outspoken performer, and, true to form, she delivered an eloquent, funny and impassioned speech, complete with colourful language and a very funny PowerPoint presentation. She drew on her own experiences as an actor-turned-director, and said that, like all producers, she faced the eternal challenge: finding an audience in a time of increased competition and decreased attention span. Given this difficult environment, Griffiths argued that it has never been so important, for those bringing stories to our big and small screens, to be clear in our purpose, unique in our branding and increasingly inclusive in our stories, not just to meet BAFTA

126 • Metro Magazine 204 | © ATOM

Her other key piece of advice to Australian producers was to pur­ sue performer-led projects and work closely with actors to generate content. She said this was more the norm in Hollywood and the UK than Australia, where actors are often ‘managed-down sock puppets’. Astonishingly, she claimed that, after twenty-five years in the industry, Darren Dale of Blackfella Films was the first producer to ask her if she had a TV show in mind. The result was Total Control. Citing successful international examples like Fleabag and Portlandia, Griffiths said actors have the advantage of being highly attuned to audiences, and care deeply about whether stories are working. Also, if they’re of significant stature, they have great con­ tacts and the clout to secure finance and attract and retain commissioners (Cate Blanchett’s involvement as both producer and actor in the ABC’s new drama Stateless was offered as an example of this). Griffiths will surely be inundated with offers from hopeful producers. They’ll know not to patronise her or waste her time. Looking back over her career, she said, ‘In the words of Helen Mirren, “I wish I’d said ‘fuck off’ a lot more!”’ Being able to say such a thing is perhaps a luxury and privilege only attainable for the already successful. Nonetheless, there can be no doubt that massive shifts in attitude mean there’s never been a better time to be a woman working in the industry. The Hector Crawford lecture was just one highlight of Screen Forever’s three days of talk, talk, talk (and a fair bit of drinking and deal making, too). SPA, the professional and lobbying organisation for Australian screen producers, has been running Australia’s largest media and entertainment conference since 1985. In 2019, there were more than fifty keynote addresses, panels and networking events. More than 900 people attended, ranging from the humblest emerging producers to representatives from mid-range production companies, Netflix commissioners, Screen Australia executives and Hollywood agents. According to SPA, more than A$100 million worth of deals got done on the conference floor. Most people were there not only to network and do business (a full ticket costs around A$1600, which keeps out tyre kickers), but also to gather intelligence, gauge the zeitgeist and be inspired. You could smell the anxiety in the room, but also some excitement, with the theme for 2019 being ‘Storytelling in a Time of Evolution’. Speakers included visionaries like Google Creative Lab’s Tea Uglow and immersive UK film and videogame maker Karen Palmer. The latter spoke of a scary but fascinating future in which artificial intelligence, neuro­ science and immersive storytelling could change human civilisation. Right here and right now, however, the big anxieties in the room were familiar: How to get a meeting with Netflix? How to reinvigorate cinema-going? How to maintain a career as a small-business creative when the work is so sporadic? And, of course, the big issue for our television makers continues to be the unregulated presence of international streaming services. SPA CEO Matthew Deaner leads the ongoing charge for regulation, and the need for these companies to be compelled to invest in Australian content.


LEFT: THE GOOD PLACE

GONE FOR GOOD: PUTTING A FULL STOP ON THE GOOD PLACE Liz Giuffre

There was a rush of communal emotion when the NBC/Netflix series The Good Place finished in late January. As a sitcom that was only four seasons old, it was hardly a longstanding constituent of the international televisionscape. However, the show’s ambition and cross-denominational reach made its passing loom large. Its creator, Michael Schur, had had his fingers in previous TV institutions like The Office (US), Parks and Recreation and Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and the acting suite included small-screen legends Ted Danson and Kristen Bell, as well as fabulous relative newbies Jameela Jamil, Manny Jacinto, D’Arcy Carden and William Jackson Harper. In Australia, The Good Place arrived first on Netflix, with many viewers presumably finding the first two seasons as part of a summer binge session late in 2017 (it had been available from late September that year). After that, public broadcasting got hold of it, with delayed seasons acquired by ABC Comedy and played either at odd times of the evening or via iview. By the time Season 3 was ready, we were, too, but it was tied to the commercial streamer only and drip-fed to us one miserable episode a week in real time. This situation was made worse by the season being set in Australia – or, at least, an imaginary Oz where accents were almost authentic and plays on local clichés were magnificent, like the food truck ‘We Crumb from a Land Down Under’, the appearance of a long-lost Hemsworth brother and scratchies with names like ‘Who Wallaby a Millionaire?’ and ‘That’s Not a Jackpot, This Is a Jackpot!’ The difference between the bingeable first two seasons and the weekly instalments of the last two was agony. It was also an important reminder of how television, especially beautifully scripted and acted television, can be savoured rather than spent all at once. Although television is still considered by some to be film’s poor cousin (and comedy the poorer of the poor, compared to drama), this show presented so much to be relished rather than inhaled in a ‘just one more before bed’ marathon. For the real trainspotters, there was also the official weekly podcast to help continue keeping The Good Place(s) alive, featuring interviews and behind-the-scenes details and serving as an excuse to have the wonderful Marc Evan Jackson talk directly into your earlobes.

The cross-platform execution of The Good Place was a reminder of the power of the anticipation of a finale. As a show that ended when the creators decided rather than when network heads or ratings dictated, it was a rare beast. American series in particular are not great at finales, often dragging their feet towards one more season and one more set of ratings. Think: the ‘jail cell’ ending of Seinfeld, or the epic quest for and then eventual killing-off of the titular matriarch in How I Met Your Mother. The added pressure on a series finale is that c ­ ontemporary television makers seem to be working in an environment in which even the end isn’t quite, well, The End. Revivals of series once thought dead have now started to turn up after a decade or two, showing both that networks like a tried-and-tested product and that audiences love to revisit an old favourite, whether it be Twin Peaks, Veronica Mars, Arrested Development, Will & Grace or Roseanne (later The Conners). The challenge, then, becomes how to make a conclusion that seems like it has done the show’s current run justice – but perhaps also leaves room for a possible return. The Good Place sidestepped this problem by writing a final ending into the finale. It was sad, but also beautiful, and – without giving away any spoilers – audiences will be satisfied with the option to actually leave. Other big American shows have found this kind of closure difficult, with five, six, seven or more seasons the expectation (and series like The Simpsons may outlive us all). This kind of uncertainty is not always terrible, however: when reinvention occurs, as it did with Doctor Who, there is a great luxury in being able to watch something that has been around since a viewer’s parents (or grandparents) were kids. The other extreme is to end with a deliberate cliffhanger, as Phoebe Waller-Bridge did in her deliciously short-and-sharp, awardwinning Fleabag. With only two seasons of six episodes each, the show in some ways almost seemed like it was over before it had begun. Easily bingeable in a weekend (or one big night if you’d cancelled your plans), Fleabag was a series that left you feeling like you’d only bought a small packet of your favourite dessert, yet eaten it all at once, anyway: not quite full, wanting more, but also a little worried that continuing to consume would spoil the experience. Time will tell if Waller-Bridge gives in to demands for more and undoes her perfect finale; but, in the meantime, endings like hers – and The Good Place’s eternal rest – are hard to beat.

www.metromagazine.com.au | © ATOM | Metro Magazine 204 • 127


ABOVE: GOOD GAME

ENDGAME: SIX YEARS OF REPORTING ON THE AUSTRALIAN VIDEOGAMES INDUSTRY Dan Golding

It was quite a time to be writing about videogames in Australia in 2014. My first Scope column was in Metro 180, and, looking back at it now, it feels like it was part of a different universe. The column was about a game called Ashes Cricket 2013, which had just been pulled from online stores due to some pretty big bugs. The game, put simply, did not work. Ashes Cricket 2013 was an embarrassment – it was made by Trickstar Games, and, importantly, was partially funded by the federal government, via Screen Australia. This description alone dates such a column: Australia thankfully rarely makes poor-quality, high-profile games anymore; Trickstar Games, like so many mid-size Australian game studios, no longer exists; and Screen Australia has not funded anything to do with videogames since 2014. It’s been a privilege to observe the Australian games industry from these pages for six tumultuous, invigorating and complicated years. This Scope column has been witness to industry-changing events. At the start of 2014, all of these things were yet to come: the release of Australian mobile powerhouse Crossy Road (Metro 184); ABC TV cancelling stalwart videogames-culture show Good Game (Metro 192); the arrival of the Nintendo Switch (Metro 193); the industry-changing behemoth that was Pokémon GO (Metro 190); and even Grand Theft Auto V being removed from store shelves by Kmart Australia due to the controversy that perennially follows that franchise (Metro 185). There have certainly been common themes affecting the local games industry over these six years, however, and certain subjects have cropped up in Scope more than others. Take classification, for example. Leaving aside controversies such as that following Grand Theft Auto V, when I started writing for Scope in 2014, Australia had just been through one of the biggest changes in videogame classification since the introduction of the current system in 1995. An R 18+ rating level – which had never before existed for videogames – had just been introduced (Metro 181). Today, hundreds of videogames are comfortably sold with the black R 18+ sticker, and there is no evidence that they are getting into the hands of minors as a result (something opponents of the change claimed would happen). In fact, games are still refused classification (effectively banned from sale) in Australia, such as zombie horror game DayZ in 2019. Gender and questions of workplace safety, representation and videogames culture are as dominant today as they were in 2014. In fact, it was not long after my first Scope column in 2014 that the events later known as Gamergate began (Metro 183). Gamergate started as an incident of partner abuse against a high-profile woman videogame developer, and expanded to become an all-consuming war targeting women, minorities and their allies in the videogames industry. Many talented workers left the industry following Gamergate – thanks in part

128 • Metro Magazine 204 | © ATOM

to a lacklustre response from key institutional figures – and have yet to return. Gamergate was also one of the high-profile cultural wars that preceded and served as a dry run for the kind of online warfare that led to the Trump presidency, and even included some of the same actors (bigoted online publication Breitbart and one-time alt-right darling Milo Yiannopoulos, for example). The elements to create Gamergate were already present in the videogames industry in 2014, yes, but things have never quite been the same since. Indeed, it was only recently that something approaching a #MeToo moment occurred for videogames, years after other industries (Metro 203). The question of what the government can do to support Australian videogames continues to be a vexed one. The only national funding scheme began in 2013 under Labor, and was shut down a little more than a year later by the incoming Abbott Coalition government (Metro 182). Most states (with the exception of New South Wales) continue to fund videogames in their own way, but it has been some time since videogames were part of any sort of national cultural strategy or policy. In 2016, a Senate Inquiry led by then–Greens senator Scott Ludlam returned a unanimous set of recommendations that included restoring federal videogame funding (Metro 189), and, before the 2019 election, Labor promised to do exactly that (Metro 201), though that all seems a very long time ago now. Perhaps the most recurrent issue for the Australian videogames industry has been one of labour (Metro 186, 197, 199, 202 and 203). This is surprising, to say the least. Unionisation and labour advocacy were, for the videogames industry, always taboo topics. ‘The terms of labour in the videogames industry have long been set by bosses and the status quo rather than by workers,’ I wrote in 2018. In just a few short years, those terms of labour have undergone a dramatic aboutface, and, although there’s hardly been a revolution, it’s become conceivable that we’ll see increasing unionisation in the games industry worldwide. At games-industry events, it is now fair to assume that the majority of the audience will be vocally pro–workers’ rights, just for a start. How this will change the industry is still anyone’s guess, but – at least in Australia, where the majority of work is independent rather than contracted or paid for by big business – things may not work out so simply. What do workers’ rights look like when we’re talking about an industry in which five people in a company is mid-tier? This is ‘corporate oligopoly, structured by “democratic” open-distribution platforms,’ I wrote in Metro 203. Personally, since I started writing my columns for Scope in 2014, I’ve finished a PhD, had a stint as director of the Freeplay Independent Games Festival, written a book on gender in the games industry and made music for four released games. It’s been a big six years, and it’s time for new voices here. A new d ­ ecade, and a new Scope. Thanks for reading.

••• Rochelle Siemienowicz is a writer and critic with a PhD in Australian cinema. She is a journalist for screenhub and was co-host of the ­long-running film podcast Hell Is for Hyphenates. Dr Liz Giuffre is a senior lecturer in communication at the University of Technology Sydney as well as a freelance arts commentator and journalist. Dan Golding was, from 2014 to 2017, the director of the Freeplay Independent Games Festival, and is a senior lecturer in media and communications at Swinburne University of Technology. He is also a freelance arts and videogames journalist, and the co-author of Game Changers: From Minecraft to Misogyny, the Fight for the Future of Videogames with Leena van Deventer.

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