A half-century of hatchet jobs

The cops on Australia’s culture beat

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  • Published 20250506
  • ISBN: 978-1-923213-07-4
  • Extent: 196 pp
  • Paperback, ebook, PDF

‘THIS IS A load of fucking crap’ is ‘Oz critical-speak in its purest form’, writes Angela Bennie in the swashbuckling introduction to her 2006 anthology, Crème de la Phlegm. ‘The critical sport in this country is to compose piquant variations on its theme to show that at least some intellectual effort has been made.’ Subtitled ‘Unforgettable Australian Reviews’, Bennie’s anthology is devoted to vitriolic expressions of Australian criticism, all of them published between 1956 and 2005. To classify this half-century of reviews as negative evaluations is to sanitise them. These are hatchet jobs and professional flayings. Dunks, pans, roasts, smears and skewers, puerile denunciations and all manner of righteous, poisonous, highly anxious savagery. 

Bennie borrowed that ‘load of fucking crap’ line from opera director Barrie Kosky, who was first enraged by the reluctance of Australian critics to condemn what he saw as mediocre work, and then again by the responses of those same critics to the glorious excesses of his productions. Such behaviour conforms to the general pattern observed by Gideon Haigh in his 2010 Kill Your Darlings jeremiad against the timidity and fecklessness of Australian critics: ‘Everyone is in favour of frank and fearless criticism, up to the point where a work of theirs might come off the worse for it.’ Bennie, Kosky and Haigh each convey perennial anxieties about Australian criticism: that critics are inconsistent in their application of the scalpels; that Australian audiences and artists prefer critics to confirm rather than to challenge their prejudices. We want brutal, honest critics, and we want them to tell us that the work we love is world class. This tension is, for Bennie, highly revealing.

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Pay writers like politicians

When we talk about Australian books and writers today, we often find ourselves talking about money. Like patients with chronic illness, we’ve become adept at enumerating the symptoms of our malaise. We talk about broke writers and broke publishers and broke editors. Is anyone making any money? We talk about the cost of books and the cost of paper. We talk about writers’ incomes and the salaries of publishing staff. We talk about the cost of housing and university redundancies. There simply isn’t enough grant funding to go around. We talk about who can’t afford to write. We talk about the indie publishers selling out to multinationals because the margins are too tight. We talk about the market – the market for Australian literature that’s so small, even a prize-winning bestseller doesn’t bring financial security to its author. The market can’t be trusted with our national literature – unless what we want is self-published erotic fiction, which is apparently where the money lies. We talk about the obscenity of wealthy tech corporations shitting on copyright. If tech companies won’t pay writers, who else will?

Even when we’re not talking about money – when we’re talking about our hopes for a national literature, or whose stories should be told, when we’re talking about easy reading, or books that infantilise their readers, or how to safeguard freedom of expression, or the moral principles at stake in wholesale breach of copyright – our conversations are caveated and curtailed by the money question. At our most ambitious, we talk about how to pay writers a living wage.

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