by Holly Morris
In New Zealand, the new system meant more women and minorities got elected into office, and thus, their power became institutionalized.
Meeting Helen Clark and digesting the banal details of electoral system theory made me recognize Adventure Divas’ movement, throughout my travels, toward dwelling on the spiritual and personal characteristics of divadom. I set out for Cuba sensitive to the individual lives and work in the context of the communist political system; by the time I left India, I was ready to trade the blockades and voter registration for a good sit with the Dalai Lama. Helen Clark has brought me back to center and reminded me that sometimes the hard work of improving the lives of women is rote, and that divadom is as much about political construct and as it is about personal potential.
The demands of production sometimes make me a user. A hateful admission, but true. This is what I am thinking as I slug back some Earl Grey on a windy front porch in Wellington with filmmaker Gaylene Preston.
Prime Minister Clark’s commitment to the arts helps make filmmakers like Preston, who is widely regarded as the maven of Kiwi film, thrive. But I’m also here because Preston is the only filmmaker ever to get Keri Hulme to talk to her at length in front of a camera. Preston used Hulme’s devotion to whitebaiting as a structure for a documentary called Kai Purakau. My tri-weekly faxes to Hulme (“We’ll be in your area in late April, might you be willing to meet?”) have finally been receiving some response, albeit spotty and noncommittal. I want Gaylene to help me understand Kiwi film and land the elusive Keri Hulme. I’m desperate. And I’m a user.
I know Gaylene knows how to get an unlikely film made. Her best-known documentary is the internationally acclaimed War Stories Our Mothers Never Told Us, which is about the generation of women who stayed home and ran New Zealand when all the men were off fighting World War II. The documentary’s success was a complete surprise, most especially to Preston herself.
“War Stories was an idea that I immediately tried to make go away for a good two years because I thought, you know, I felt it was a really bad career move. If I had a career, and I wasn’t sure I did,” she says, brushing the brown bangs off her forehead.
“After your eighth film?” I ask, figuring if that’s not a career, what is?
“Making a film about seven old ladies talking about the world isn’t exactly a good career move, you know. It was a local film that was going to have a local audience that was just for us. It wasn’t intended to travel internationally,” she said.
“I had seen these women who had told wonderful stories in our archive and I was scared someone was going to die, so I started filming without any money. The women weren’t in any way encouraged to be stroppy sheilas, but the stories they tell and the way they tell them, that’s them coming out of the closet. So I think I only make films about stroppy sheilas,” she says. “Stroppy sheilas,” Gaylene and I had determined, was the Kiwi equivalent of diva.
Gaylene’s penchant for unorthodox heroines extends into her feature films, too. Long ago I noticed that tough, un-Cinderella-like heroines people the Kiwi media-scape. Perhaps it is no coincidence that Xena, the Warrior Princess, is from New Zealand.
“You know the famous film of the heroine who somehow kind of gains autonomy. Gets independent, becomes in charge, and everything’s tickety boo. That’s the happy ending. Well, I’m challenging that,” she says, leaning forward for emphasis. “I’m likely to make a film about somebody who doesn’t know what she’s doing. I find it much more interesting, you know, than the driven, sort of focused, hero. We’re not leaving them—Thelma and Louise—we’re not doing that suspended . . . suspended,” she dramatically dismisses the idea with a sweep of her hand and a roll of the eyes, “over the Grand Canyon in a freeze frame—”
“Well, that’s the point,” I interject emphatically, as Gaylene touches on one of my least favorite moments in an otherwise acceptably adventurous (if a bit paternalistic) film. “For them to be liberated, they have to die.”
“No, nooo, not in our film,” says Gaylene, meaning the Kiwi genre. “I’m taking Thelma and Louise and they’re going to Mexico, dammit, and when they get there everybody better watch out. Because Thelma and Louise are not the women they were when they set out, and one of them is fairly mad. So we’re saying this liberation thing isn’t just . . . it’s . . . actually quite dangerous.” Gaylene nods to a common theme of subversion and madness in Kiwi art.
“But you can live through it,” I add.
“You can live . . . you can live and cause trouble!” she says, waving an index finger in the air with cheerful emphasis. “So this is what we’re up to and we’re trying to get a large audience worldwide to go along with this idea,” she concludes, and takes a sip of tea.
“You take on a new spirit and challenge with each of your projects,” I say, thinking of her diverse films, which range in topic from haunted cars to storytelling old ladies to the pro-democracy movement in East Timor.
“This is no way to run a career, if you’re thinking about it,” she responds, putting down her teacup.
“Okay,” I say, considering my precarious global gig tracking down people who sometimes don’t even want to see me. Publishing certainly offered a consistent paycheck and less smoke damage.
“Don’t do it,” Gaylene warns again, seriously.
“Okay. But, um. What was it like making a documentary with Keri Hulme?” I ask, twitching from the Earl Grey, no longer able to keep my full agenda under wraps.
“I got in touch with Keri, which wasn’t easy. She was under siege. The Bone People had just been published in Germany and she was getting a lot of unwanted attention. Anyway, I knew from anecdotal things that Keri was elusive, that we could go all the way down there [to the South Island] and find that she wasn’t there for all sorts of good reasons. That she’s shy. And she’s an artist protecting her work, actually,” Gaylene says, obviously respectful of Hulme’s curious choices.
“I’ve got this strange fax relationship going with her but I can’t figure out if she’ll actually see me . . . but—”
“Has she been drawing on her faxes?” Gaylene asks.
“A little bit,” I say, remembering an odd snail-like figure that appeared on one.
“Yeah, well, you know, that’s a good sign,” says Gaylene. “There’s something to be said for just showing up,” she adds, opening up the possibility of trespassing.
I leave Gaylene’s with a copy of her Keri Hulme documentary and emboldened by her tenacious commitment to bringing unorthodox heroines to the screen. To me, Hulme is the real live version of the unorthodox, subversive heroine Gaylene refers to. I imagine that Hulme, who is part Maori, lives (like Hinewehi Mohi) rangatiratanga—self-determination—every day, especially as it relates to her creative life.
Meeting Hulme has taken on sacred meaning. Buoyed by Gaylene’s suggestion that we just show up in Okarito, armed with some top-shelf whiskey, we pack Old Sheila onto a ferry and leave the North Island for Picton, on the South Island.
Hulme, I’ve heard, doesn’t use the telephone. Since the press has come down on her as a dilatory genius she has become even more elusive. (So she is going on eighteen years since publishing her last novel. Please, people, think Thomas Pynchon! J. D. Salinger! Henry Roth! and other such laggards.) My image of Hulme is wed to The Bone People’s protagonist, Kerewin, who is a bit of an outcast and seeks unlikely relationships to quiet her roiling soul.
That night I receive a disturbing message from Keri: “Chances of us hooking up are slim. But can fax.”
My spirits crash.
“Well, we got the prime minister, that was a coup,” says Michael to combat my fax-induced glumness.
“But we need Keri to anchor the show. If she’s not in, we’re fucked; no Keri, no show,” I sulk.
TO: JEANNIE
FROM: HOLLY
SUBJECT: PROZAC?
Jeannie—Epic effort to get Hulme but still no confirm. Situation bad. May need to extend shoot to dig up new
diva. Send Prozac.
TO: HOLLY
FROM: JEANNIE
SUBJECT: LAWSUIT
Hang in there, honey. We had a 6.2 earthquake here in Seattle. No major damage to HQ but we’ve been declared a disaster area (I could have told them that!) so we get an extension on our corporate taxes, thank goodness. Oh, the insurance guy wants to know if you put your clothes in the stove?—Mom
My fax relationship with Hulme has become a curious exercise in approach-avoidance behavior: I try to get Hulme to commit to see me, and she, sprinkling her writing with Maori and fishing references, avoids the issue. One evening Gaylene calls our cell phone.
“Keri called me,” says Gaylene. My heart sinks. “She used a phone?” I ask, knowing this must be a bad sign.
“She says her nephew is sick and she doesn’t know if she can meet you.”
“Shit. What does that mean?”
“I think she’s getting cold feet,” says Gaylene. “She needs to look you in the eye, is my guess. You can use any footage you like from my film,” Gaylene generously offers as consolation, which depresses me. I am discouraged and confused. Will she be there, or not? Will she see us, or not? The fan in me understands her elusiveness; the editor in me respects that she protects her artistic space; the producer in me is annoyed.
Teha ra ko, e Holly, Ya it’s a pity you won’t be here 5 a.m. first of September and 9 p.m. 14th of November which is the season for whitebaiting on the coast. Anyway, I’ll be heading over the hill shortly. I’ll be in touch when I get back.
—Keri
(Whitebaiting. Argh. I want to net you, not fish.)
We spend the day moping around the outskirts of Christchurch, shooting b-roll of seals and burning up too much 16mm film trying to get a shot of Sky Prancer landing in a gumboot.
“Time to throw yourself at her mercy,” says Michael, handing me yet another greasy packet of fish and chips. I stand in a hotel lobby early on a Tuesday, faxing off what could be the final groveling request. I pretend to know nothing of the phone call from Gaylene.
Dear Keri,
I’m very excited about the prospect of meeting you. Needless to say, I’d very much like to have you participate in the documentary. Maybe we could spend a little time together, talking about or doing whatever compels you most, be it discussing environmental concerns or sneaking off to go fishing. In terms of filming, I can assure you that we are low-impact, high-respect, and of course would honor any concerns you might have in terms of privacy and time. Thanks Keri.
Best, Holly
That night Hulme faxes back to the hotel.
Kia ora mi mi Holly,
Thanks for the faxes, your best chance is to catch me up on the weekends. Saturday afternoon or evening would be fine. I’m happy to talk—I’m always happy to talk—but not willing to do anything else, camera-wise. Meantime, safe travel.
Na, Keri
Yeoww! I am personally thrilled, but am professionally dismayed No cameras? What the hell? Is this woman just indecisive, or does she have two sides?
We bolt out of Christchurch the next morning and head west over New Zealand’s alps toward the west coast, which is flanked by the Tasman Sea. On the map, the tiny town of Okarito is a dot at the end of a squiggly coastal road that looks like it will take several hours to drive.
Old Sheila sputters to a stop in Okarito and we take in the town in a single glance. One church, one dock, one flock of white herons, and a smattering of small, private homes. Population: twenty-five; divas: one.
I prepare to make the half-mile walk to her house alone. Michael tucks a liter of Talisker whiskey under my arm. “Turn on the charm, or there’s no show,” he says, reverting to his natural pessimistic state, which I find oddly comforting.
I wonder if I’ll get the same response Kerewin gave the little boy who appeared at her home in The Bone People: “Well in case no-one ever told you before, people’s houses are private and sacrosanct. Even peculiar places like my tower. That means you don’t come inside unless you get invited.”
I march toward “the tower,” determined to convince Hulme to go on camera.
I am sloppy with fear and excitement, and self-flagellation: I hate myself for getting us to a point in the production where the show hangs on one conversation. I stop dead at two signs that declare: UNLESS I KNOW YOU OR YOU HAVE CONTACTED ME FIRST, DO NOT COME IN, and UNKNOWN CATS AND DOGS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT.
Scared.
Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. My heart thumps as I walk up a heavily wooded path to her front door. I weave my way through thick Dr. Seuss–like vines, which take the edge off the bright day. I bang the metal knocker on the yellow door.
“Who is it?” bellows a decidedly grumpy voice from the other side.
“Hol-ly Morris,” I squeak out.
The door swings open and there she is: Keri Hulme. All six foot one of her. “Heavy shouldered. Heavy hammed, heavy-haired,” goes the description of Kerewin. She wears a loose, thick green work shirt and dark sunglasses that make you almost not even notice the curly crop of brown hair that lies on her head, like a helmet.
“Come in, kia ora,” Keri says coolly. I enter and walk into a modest living room, anchored with books—seven thousand of them, I’ve heard—from floor to ceiling. The room is peppered with statues of snails, humorous talismans of a book deadline missed by more than a decade (and counting). Hulme gestures for me to sit in a small wooden chair as she settles into a leather high-back throne behind what (I presume from the stacks of manuscript paper) is her writing desk. She rocks back, and a little forth, in the leather chair, eyeing me; puh-puh-puffing on a small wooden pipe.
“Help yourself to coffee,” she says, gesturing subtly with the pipe. I stand and pour myself a cup.
“Would you like goat’s milk in it?” she asks.
“No, thanks,” I respond.
“Right answer,” she says.
There is a bag of coffee hanging from the ceiling, “to keep it away from the rats,” she says, “and I have a gun for them.” So I wonder what the machete is for.
The next hour passes in bits, like a dreamy blur, spliced with possibility but gloppy with tension (mine). Hulme puffs, and turns the tables, and begins to interview me with a perma-sideways glance.
K: What do you know of Waitangi?
H: Morally complicated, renaissance, rangatiratanga.
K: You work with family? Your mother?
H: Wonderful and fraught, respect and boundaries.
Keri is fully exercising her look-me-in-the-eye clause, as Gaylene foretold. I volley with my hero, traversing a delicate line of wanting to be cautious and not take conversational risks (or mispronounce Maori words) but knowing that coming off like a sycophantic fan could be just as deadly. I’m certain Keri can smell a fake. “Play it straight.” Kiwi soundwoman Jan’s last words of advice echo in my head. “One note of insincerity and you’ll be out on your can,” she had warned, aware of her compatriot’s infamous skittishness.
K: Each backpack holds a book in progress; we have earthquakes here. Must be able to run.
H: Mmmmm, practical.
K: Whitebait?
H: Translucent, magical, the high holiday of the avid angler.
K: Te kaihau?
H: Yes, I am a wanderer.
Knowing she is both media-shy and media-savvy, I explain that I have no agenda, am not after sound bites, and want a culturally aware, unplugged image of New Zealand to unfold in the show.
It is now or never.
I smile (though not too solicitously), squinch up my courage, and kick my foot in the door with a bit of invented courage: “It was unclear from your fax,” I say with a boldness meant to eclipse my fear, “whether or not you’re up for being interviewed.”
One hundred years of pause ensue, followed by a millennial stare.
Keri squints, as if examining my wairua, soul.
I stare back, careful not to avert my eyes.
“Whitebait run in September you kno
w,” she says.
“Yes, I wish I could be here,” I respond, honestly.
She breathes deeply, glances out toward the Tasman, then back at me.
“I’ll do it,” she says, finally. “But we must do it here. I won’t go anywhere with you,” she continues, dashing my hopes of our going fishing together. But she’s agreed to go on camera and that is the most vital thing.
I excuse myself, too quickly, and sprint down the road to find the crew and get this in motion before she changes her mind. But it turns out once she makes up her mind it sticks, with grace. Playing it straight—no sycophantism, no begging, no false promises—had paid off.
“Now, now, now, you guys,” I say, grinning and panting. “She’s agreed, but we have to shoot inside.”
After quick introductions, Liza and Jan scramble to set up their equipment. Worried that too many people might make Hulme spook, I’ve asked Simon and Michael to wait with Old Sheila. Liza is framing up, and I start the interview, trusting that she will roll as soon as she can. I ask Keri if there is an artistic vision or flavor unique to New Zealand. Keri keeps her black-rimmed dark glasses on and, I notice, has a habit of covering her teeth when she speaks.