THE PERILS OF IDENTITY IN A WESTERN WORLD
Rachel Perkins urges us to see the complexities beneath the Akubra hat.
It’s been decades since the phlegmatic cowboy first swaggered onto the silver screen, enthralling viewers with little more than the casual tip of the hat. And for so long, this ‘wild west’ archetype was a staple of American pop culture. After all, who doesn’t want to watch a denim-cladded, wild-riding protagonist traverse the plains? Yet, as any cinemagoer will tell you, the age of the horse opera (with some notable exceptions) has long been left in the dust… or so we thought.
Whether it be the ‘new-old west’ or revamps, storytellers are increasingly drawing upon a blend of old cinema tropes to explore contemporary thoughts. Following the tracks of its red dirt predecessors, Rachel Perkins’ Season One of Mystery Road (2018), is a concoction of ideas and identities.
Influenced heavily from its roots, Perkin’s six-part saga is a television spinoff from Ivan Sen’s film of the same name. However, when interwoven by an unsolved kidnapping and drug regime, ABC ’s latest binge is an exciting neo-noir western (think outback setting meets ripsnorting enigma). In a swell of secrecy, we follow the disappearance of two teenage boys under the clustered night sky of Patterson, the Kimberley’s.
As the Senior Sergeant of the investigation, Emma James (Judy Davis), calls in detective, Jay Swan (Aaron Pederson), to close the case. It’s the interactions between the two — local Emma, and pariah Jay — that have sparks flying and audiences reeling over the show.
Despite spanning multiple story threads, the discussion generated by Episode Two of Mystery Road, ‘Blood Ties’, highlights the complexity of human identity, prompting us to look beyond the simple perceptions of others and ourselves.
As an Indigenous series lead, Jay is a perfect example of the ins and outs of identity. And like most of the series characters, his persona is extremely elusive, exacerbated by racism. Portrayed as the ‘strong-and-silent-type’, he is actively in a position of command throughout the episode.
But packed full of the unflappable ‘Jay Authority’ we’ve spotted on the big screen, viewers are encouraged to see his stereotype subverted. Not trusted by the Aboriginal community, nor the police force, Jay is glued to the ethnic stigma that follows him. The ramifications of his seclusion are clear, from a shattered relationship with his wife (Tasma Walton) to blatant distrust from Emma.
In a particularly memorable segment, audiences witness this divide, completed with a diegetic sequence and pensive score. In a divulging conversation between the two, Emma pigeonholes Jay as a heedless “cowboy”, rather than the laconic, lone-wolf “hero” that other coppers — such as Constable Muller (Anthony Hayes) — see him as. Viewers observe a join between two worlds, with Jay forced to walk the line of limbo between. But ultimately, he succumbs to internal pressure, finding solace in what he is good at: his detective work.
It’s a critical moment in the episode, and not just because of the punitive wake-up call. This is a turning point in Jay’s growth and an advancement towards discovering his sense of self. Challenged head-on with external burdens of prejudice and the family feud he endures, it’s difficult to not feel sorry for Jay. It is through his narrative that Perkins stresses the strata of our individuality.
And it isn’t farfetched to view this in our everyday world, either. While Jay recedes into his profession to escape the ‘white noise’ and struggles with paternity, his arc is a timeless tale of how we should be proud of who we are. Constantly dogged with digging and discovering the truth, Jay owns his Aboriginal pedigree, carrying on with his work regardless. Pederson’s depiction of this aloofness is equally admirable as it is endearing.
Although, Jay isn’t the only character we see fold under the guise of identity. Just as we see him attempt to establish his own, we see Larry Dime (Wayne Blair) attempt to escape his past. And if Jay is a latent mirror of people trying to discover themselves, Larry too is a relatable character for audiences to connect to.
Opinions hold a pivotal role in the show; they have a tight grasp on people’s thoughts and conformity, often leading to what is known in the media as ‘fake news’. Perkins challenges us to believe this through Larry’s tragic attempts to reshape himself.
After a lengthy prison sentence for rape, he returns to Patterson. Fighting to come to terms with his criminal characterisation, Larry is persecuted by everyone, especially his nephew, Cedric (Meyne Wyatt). But to retain his innocence, he makes a futile chase for his former position at the North West Aboriginal Corporation.
In one scene, we appreciate Larry’s attempt to flee his past and form a new image. This fortitude is brought to the fore in a motionless mise-en-scène, dominated by closeup-shots (which is a nice contrast to the sprawling crane shots we are used to seeing, if you ask me). In a nod to the religious beings of our planet, Larry tells Jay, “a righteous man makes a perfect predator… [and] this is an appeal to the righteous man. That man is dead”.
The performance is nerve-jangling in its simplicity. And, as always for Blair, the devil is in the detail- Larry speaks his truth. It’s a powerful moment of cleansing (and a favourite of mine). Gone is his attempts to hide his guilt; Larry is now baring his soul.
Unfortunately, this does little to help him repel the town’s vilification. He is subsequently ambushed by a gang of ‘revheads’, who run amok at his shack, performing burnouts and whipping up a frenzy of dust. Adding salt to his wounds, Larry is labelled as the prime suspect for the abduction of his nephew, Marley (Aaron McGrath) and his mate, Reese (Connor Van Vuuren).
The truth is distorted. In a society swayed by cultural convictions, this is a key example of the difficulty of escaping projected identities. And ironically, Larry’s literal prison is now replaced by the metaphorical entrapment of social ostracism. It’s also an ageless message of how mistakes can define us. So, while Larry’s status is governed by opinions of the masses, what about us?
Whether it be a disillusioned authority figure uncovering selfhood or an outsider striving to reclaim his own, the identities which Mystery Road fosters are genuine and honest. Perkins refuses to fall prey to the stereotypes of her medium; rather, in times where the face of Australia’s psyche is constantly undergoing revision, she reminds watchers to look outside the fence line of Patterson.
So perhaps the story of the cowboy isn’t extinct… but rather living silently, through a fresh, thought-provoking purpose. We see both Jay and Larry each reprehensibly victimised, viewers taking valuable lessons out of the instalment that run parallel to their own lives. But what do you think? Is there room for this small-screen offshoot in our modern media landscape?
A problematic prisoner with good intentions and an Aboriginal investigator alienated throughout- can we recognise the intricacy of both?
