More
than most Australian directors of his generation, John Duigan
deserves revisiting and reassessment; certainly, there's rather more
to him than you'd gather from his biggest critical success, the
effective but outwardly familiar coming-of-age drama The Year My
Voice Broke (1987). Duigan hasn't directed a film in Australia
for almost two decades – to be precise, since his “bawdy”
period comedy Sirens in 1993. But he's back in full force
with this terrific new study of a favorite theme, the price which
society exacts for sexual freedom.
At the centre of the film's puzzle is
Linh (Nammi Le), a bright, well-adjusted young woman in her early
twenties. By day, she studies social anthropology at Sydney
University, where her main lecturer, played with dry humour by Duigan
himself, seems to specialise in dismantling the authority of
religion. By night, as “Mai,” she's employed by the Orient
Express escort agency, covering her tracks to her housemate (Penny
McNamee) by pretending to be off to the library yet again.
Gradually, Duigan makes plain that Linh
has adopted this lifestyle for specific, practical reasons (“It's
not a career choice”). He steers clear of anything that would tilt
the film towards porn: sex is rarely shown on screen, and the few
exceptions are far from erotic. Still, we're allowed to witness
Linh's pleasure in her work – in encountering new situations, in
the three-way cameraderie she shares with her seemingly ditzy
colleague Mint (Ivy Mak) and their crusty driver Dion (David Field),
and in her vision of herself as someone capable of negotiating
dangerous territory without harm.
Le's slim physique could belong to a
dancer; as “Mai”, she's professionally required to adjust her demeanour to the occasion, but
often does so with a hint of a raised eyebrow, implying an amused scepticism beneath the submissive stance. Off-duty, her body language suggests a defensive reserve; there's an
occasionally stilted, self-conscious quality to her speech and
movements, as if both actress and character were hyper-conscious of
being “on show”.
All this is part of the film's
subject-matter, as both a fascinated portrait of its star and a
broader examination of the shifting frameworks we use to pass
judgement. Each scene poses a version of the same question: what do
these people make of one another, and what do we make of them in
turn? Sex work potentially entails becoming an “object” in one
sense (the premise of Julia Leigh's uncanny Sleeping Beauty, a
film which Careless Love seems to converse with). But it's
also a kind of improvised performance requiring constant snap
appraisals of others, who have to make choices of their own about
what roles they want to fill.
Linh is often drafted into pre-existing
scenarios, but she just as frequently functions as part of an
audience, whether at a university theatre production, a dance in an
empty nightclub, a coerced outdoor sex act, or a family picnic on the
beach. In one inspired scene, she's hired as a “birthday present”
for a rich boy, whose friends of both genders sit in the front room
sniggering at their own daring; alone with her in the bedroom, the
client hovers between options, unsure whether to play the sensitive
dag or simply take advantage of what's on offer.
If Linh's secret profession carries a
lot of baggage, this is also true of every other role she assumes:
student, girlfriend, obedient daughter. It's hinted that her
Vietnamese background, which boosts her popularity as an escort, has
also given her some practice in moving between different aspects of
her identity. When she's with her family some of her poise falls
away, and a more relaxed, youthful persona emerges – but it would
be meaningless to ask which side of her character is closest to her
“authentic” self.
Though the style of Careless Love is
dictated by its low budget, Duigan's framing and editing is always
dedicated to exploring and clarifying character relationship,
emphasising the sometimes cagey ways people respond to one another
from moment to moment. Realism is not a primary concern: an element
of unlikely melodrama is planted early on but not detonated till the
last minute, boldly allowing the narrative to jump onto a different
track.
This is another coming-of-age story,
but deliberately not a cautionary tale: Duigan takes the right to
self-determination for granted, while insisting that its consequences
are never simple. Towards the end, Le's voiceover supplies the
film's thesis statement: “Everybody thinks their own version of the
world into being.” Whatever mess she gets into, someone as clever
as Linh ought to be able to think her way out.
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