Waist-Deep in the Big Money

By RICHARD CORLISS

THE YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY Directed by Peter Weir Screenplay by David Williamson, Peter Weir and C.J. Koch

In the doldrums of world cinema in the '70s, one national film industry suddenly emerged with the vibrant squalls of a healthy infant: Australia had arrived. From an outback of inactivity a decade before, a flock of young film makers proved they could appeal to a worldwide audience while remaining true to their country's ornery uniqueness. But with success came a more daunting challenge: to remain uncolonized by the New Hollywood. The best directors have been wooed to the U.S. to make the same kinds of films but bigger, and without all those people who talk funny and drive on the wrong side of the road. Fred Schepisi (The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith) and Bruce Beresford (Breaker Morant) both emigrated to Texas to make western romances (Barbarosa and Tender Mercies). George Miller, daredevil director of the Mad Max movies, is now helming an episode of Steven Spielberg's The Twilight Zone. This is the big leagues, with a more restrictive set of rules. The successful Australian director could end up making lots of money and losing his distinct national voice.

Peter Weir, the first Australian director to make an international name for himself, has chosen to steer a course that is at once more cautious and more daring. He has taken MGM/UA's largesse to mount a more elaborate version of the theme that solders his five earlier films: the collision between British culture and anarchic nature, a conflict that virtually defines the Australian experience. The scene is Indonesia in 1965, as the Sukarno government stumbles toward a coup that will eventually end the strongman's reign. In the streets, Communist marchers sing revolutionary songs with Whiffenpoof harmonies; in the white man's clubs, journalists and diplomats slug back their Scotch and try to forget that the good imperial days have vanished into Third World arrogance. Among the Caucasians are Guy Hamilton (Mel Gibson), one of the Australian correspondents, and Jill Bryant (Sigourney Weaver), a glamorous mystery woman in the employ of the British embassy. Helping them fall in love, and more than a little in love with them both, is Billy Kwan (Linda Hunt), a dwarfish man who works as a photographer and functions as an all-knowing tipster. Nothing is simple here on the outskirts of Graham Greeneland, where conscientious Westerners sink waist-deep in the Big Muddy of moral and political ambiguity.

Weir's movies have always boasted pristine imagery and avoided visual cliches; Picnic at Hanging Rock, The Last Wave and Gallipoli are among the smartest-looking pictures in recent cinema. But in his attempt to blend his preoccupations with the plot of C. J. Koch's 1978 novel, Weir has perhaps packed too much imagery and information into his movie. The sound track is wallpapered with dialogue and Billy Kwan's pensive narration. The plot becomes landlocked in true-life implausibilities; the characters rarely get a hold on the moviegoer's heart or lapels.

What saves this meditation on the vestiges of colonialism is, ironically, its celebration of American star power. Gibson, the U.S.-born Australian star of Gallipoli and The Road Warrior, brings a cocky Yank vulnerability to his role. Weaver is almost intimidatingly beautiful from her first appearance: she rises from her swimming pool like a modern Aphrodite, tan and healthy and wearing a smile of effortlessly earned self-approval. Some day Hollywood will figure out how to make her a star. But the star-making performance here is Linda Hunt's. This tiny (4 ft. 9 in.) New York actress--puckish smile, upside-down ears, a wise, ageless face--plays a lovelorn man with convincing intensity and tenderness. If Weir just failed to bring off his subject, he was right to cast Hunt in this demanding part. May he and other Australian film makers continue to live dangerously.

--By Richard Corliss This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.