Wolfram may lack the cohesion and narrative power of Sweet Country, as it struggles to identify whose story it’s telling, but it remains a powerful and visceral big-screen experience.
Mention the word slavery, and many naturally think of the horrific transatlantic slave trade, Africa, the Americas, Plantations, Sugarcane, the Caribbean, American history and colonialism. But colonial slavery was not confined to Africa and the Americas. Despite the British abolition of the slave trade in 1807, slavery endured in Australia for decades. Islanders and Aboriginal men, women and children were actively transported and used for labour in the pearling, sugar and mining industries, with exploitation, violence, sexual assault and coercion rife. This included the forced removal of many children from their families under the guise of ‘protection.’
Writer, director and cinematographer Warwick Thornton is no stranger to tackling this history head-on, as his follow-up to the outstanding Sweet Country (2017) explores child labour, exploitation, lawlessness and family separation through a visually epic lens.
Following Sweet Country, we jump forward in time to the early 1930s, as Thornton takes us back to the spit-and-sawdust town of Henry in Australia’s Northern Territory. Here we reunite with several characters from his previous film, including station owner Mick Kennedy (Thomas M. Wright) and his Aboriginal son, Philomac (Pedrea Jackson), now a young man. But in Wolfram, the central characters are the pre-teen Max and Kid, who have been taken from their mother, Pansy (Deborah Mailman), and forced to work for Billy (Matt Nable), a rough miner who uses their slender bodies to reach underground locations he cannot access.
Little do they know that their mother, Pansy, hasn’t given up on finding them in the dustbowl they call home, and aided by a Chinese wolfram miner, she leaves hair braids in bushes for them to find as they slowly work their way toward possible freedom in Queensland.
Everything in Max and Kid’s lives changes when a snake bites Billy, and suddenly they find freedom from his control. Escaping the camp with a stolen donkey, Max and Kid set off into a deadly, lawless world of uncertainty and risk to find their mum.
Meanwhile, two violent outlaws arrive in Henry: the manipulative, controlling Casey (Erroll Shand) and his protégé, Frank (Joe Bird). Together, they know no rules except violence, manipulation, and control, and their destination is the home of Mick and Philomac, a destination Max and Kid are also heading for as they trek through the bush.
Thornton’s Wolfram is visually stunning, not just in its wide vistas but also in its brutality, dirt, and dust. You can almost smell the sweat, feel the hot, heavy air, and the flies that circle every creature and human, looking for a prime landing spot. Wolfram is, quite simply, a visual triumph. Performances are also full of depth, from Wright’s mentally frail and misguided Kennedy to Jackson’s caring and emotionally strong Philomac, our two young protagonists, and Shand and Bird’s twisted and violent outlaws, who we long to see face justice.
However, for all its beauty and power, Wolfram never quite finds its emotional heart as it struggles to focus its narrative. While this is undoubtedly Max and Kid’s story, they never quite feel centre stage. Added to this, there is a lack of focus on Deborah Mailman’s Pansy, aside from cutaways and an all-too-quick ending, which only further underscores this flaw.
As a result, we are left with a story that carries moments of dramatic power but lacks an emotional hook. There is also a missed opportunity to fully focus on the stolen children, the slavery and the coercion and control at the heart of Wolfram. While these themes are ever-present and urgent, they lack the space and time needed to reach their full potential.
Wolfram may lack the cohesion and narrative power of Sweet Country, as it struggles to identify whose story it’s telling, but it remains a powerful and visceral big-screen experience. There is a lot to love here, from the performances to the striking visuals, and the urgency of the history of oppression and violence it uncovers.
Warwick Thornton is one of the most exciting writers and directors in modern Australian cinema, and alongside his writing partners Steven McGregor and David Tranter, Wolfram has a lot to say. It is, therefore, a pity that the final film lacks a few essential ingredients that could have made it a modern Australian classic, like its predecessor, Sweet Country.
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