Film

A refined English woman (Kidman), saddled with an inherited cattle ranch in the former British penal colony’s wild frontier. A rugged ne’er-do-well called “Drover” (Jackman), who moves steer herds while showing off his beefcake physique. A widescreen-friendly country, “where adventure and romance is a way of life.” (Thank you, opening intertitle.) Directors like David Lean and George Stevens could craft these ingredients into something larger than cinema, much less life, and that’s what Luhrmann aims for in Australia—an old-school epic that feels bigger than the continent and longer than an actual flight to Down Under. People say they don’t make ’em like this anymore; after you’ve seen Luhrmann’s gaslight melodrama stuffed with overripe movie-movie Muenster, you’ll know why.

It’s understood that these two leads will find love; that the half-aboriginal boy (Walters) reciting the Days of Heaven–like narration (as rewritten by Kipling) will suffer injustices; that the ranch will morph from Giant’s Reata to Gone with the Wind’s Tara—until WWII ruins everything. These aren’t spoilers so much as statements of the obvious. Yet the way this ballyhoo fondue piles on the plot contrivances punctures any potential for greatness, or even semigoodness. Allergic to subtlety, Luhrmann supersizes vintage Hollywood spectacle, but he’s unable to curb his excesses in order to avoid curdling. Why simply show something when characters can then describe what just happened? Why have two climaxes when you can have nine? Are we so desperate to sate our malnourished nostalgia for movie magic that we’d settle for a facsimile so grand, lavish and empty?