Long Weekend (Colin Eggleston, 1979)

Cinematically, man is made peripheral to this world. Sounds burst from the dark and leafy spaces out-of-frame: sounds of lowing, screaming, cackling, hissing wildlife. The camera takes the position of kookaburas, possums and dugongs: it perches, it slithers, it swims. The inconvenient truth about our relationship with the natural world becomes a narrative of urban(e) domesticity—with affairs to forget and the idea of nature as rejuvenating escape, daydream enabler, and relationship counselor—removed to a destroyed campsite among half-decayed trees, strewn with shopping-cart detritus. As the radios and televisions of the world spew ominous static about nukes and cockatoos, man devolves into roadkill.

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