Set in early 1930s colonial Australia, in and around the fictional town of Henry, Warwick Thornton’s “Wolfram” is divided into four chapters, all taking place in the same tough and sparsely populated world as his 2017 Venice prizewinner “Sweet Country.” His latest is concerned with the subject of separation: of parents and children, of siblings from siblings, and, ultimately, of people from their own humanity.
The main structuring absence in the film is Pansy (Deborah Mailman) and her distance from her two preteen children, Max (Hazel May Jackson) and Kid (Eli Hart). (The title refers to the metal tungsten, also known as wolfram, which was mined in Australia’s Northern Territories, often by indigenous Australian children).
Mailman’s small but pivotal role is emotionally restrained, and practically dialogue-free. Her key character trait is cutting pieces from her hair, weaving them into tokens, and attaching them to shrubs or fences in the wilderness: This is the only way she can leave a trace of her presence for the children from whom she has become separated. She is also caring for a young baby, which, along with many other practical considerations, restricts the possibility of escaping her situation to actively search for the older children. Her numb silence and lack of affect read as a trauma response; she is cut off in terms of her emotional response, and also in narrative terms, underscoring her isolation.
Based on the family history of David Tranter (who originated the script and shares a co-writing credit with Steven McGregor, as on “Sweet Country”), the film is essentially a survival thriller realised via the genre trappings of a Western. Accordingly, recognisable Western archetypes abound, from the saloon bar serving pungent shots of whiskey to the tinkling accompaniment of Scott Joplin, to the majority of the characters themselves.
There’s Casey, an abrasive villain, played effectively by Erroll Shand: Just when you expect him to explode, he’ll shrug, which only makes the casual nature of the violence he inflicts more plausible and horrifying. He stands for everyone who ever cynically excused their own aggression as self-defense, and is the kind of man whose misdeeds are propped up by other complicit white men. Frank (Joe Bird) is essentially Casey’s apprentice, learning first-hand how to be as sadistic and racist as the older man, while cowardly Kennedy (Thomas M. Wright) might still be able to hear faint whispers from his own conscience, but ignores them in favor of appeasing Casey.
On the side of the angels, we have Max and Kid, who ultimately team up with Pedrea Jackson’s Philomac, a young man attempting to make the best of his own rough lot in life. The siblings continually escape one bad situation for another, at one point being split up by Casey, who abducts Max, taking the view common to the period that a child found without its parents is potentially the property of the finder — a view particularly propped up by the state in the case of Aboriginal children, whom Australian government officials were then (and for a long time after) in the habit of stealing from their parents.
One of the film’s greatest strengths is its look and feel. That’s perhaps unsurprising, since Thornton once more acts as his own DP. He’s a talented cinematographer, conveying the intense heat and arid beauty of the locations with flair. Cutaway shots of the natural world might call to mind Terrence Malick’s work, but have their own energy and originality. Close-up footage of tadpoles in a creek, at just the stage where their tiny back legs are beginning to develop, underscores the fragility of young creatures in an unforgiving environment, and by extension the vulnerability of Max and Kid.
Similarly, the palette of the film has been thoughtfully imagined. You will hardly ever glimpse any blues or greens or purples in this world of tanned desert hues — tawny browns, burnt yellows, dusty oranges, and pale, sun-bleached rocky outcrops. It’s all very appropriate to render this visually beautiful but spiritually oppressive hard-scrabble world, where emphasis is placed equally on the hardness and the scrabbling.
The heartbreaking irony is that the characters here who believe they will benefit from oppressing others don’t even gain all that much. Their brutality is all in the service of clinging by their broken fingernails to a rung only slightly higher on the power ladder, while the really privileged beneficiaries of these abhorrent systems remain invisible. Call it the cruelty of small differences.
Where Thornton’s last two features had internationally recognized stars (Sam Neill in “Sweet Country,” Cate Blanchett in “The New Boy”) to assist with marketing assets, absent anyone of equivalent celebrity, “Wolfram” will be reliant on critical plaudits, awards and audience memory of the director’s past work to attract a crowd.
While the not-infrequent violence is both integral to the story world and compellingly filmed, in some ways it’s a pity. Without it, there’s a compelling argument for sharing the film with an audience the same age as Max and Kid: Thornton’s frequent use of the child’s-eye view is effective, and would be relatable for younger viewers. This is a perpetual paradox in films dealing with subjects such as child abuse, however, and is not a Gordian knot that a single film can be expected to unravel.