My role in Ming's Hollywood dynasty

The other night I went to the movies for the first time in many a year.
My good lady wife Devon was busy that night with a meeting of her local women’s group – she always likes to get me out of the house before it starts.
I readily oblige; not that I don’t support the broad thrust of the women’s movement, it’s just that it’s been a long time since I had any direct experience of it.
As usual, the first to arrive was Leslie – a longtime friend of Devon’s. In fact she has known her since before we were married and they have always been very close. Les – as Devon calls her – even accompanied us on our honeymoon.
But I digress.
Being at a bit of a loose end, I thought I’d take in a movie – an Australian one at that.
Paperback Hero it was called, I think. A modest little film that starred two very nice looking people.
I’m sure like most recent Australian movies it will be seen by a very wide audience as soon as it comes out on video and “premieres” on one of the many TV channels now available to us.
Sitting in the dark, with my hand grasping a rock hard choc-top, I cast my mind back to the days when I was called upon to play a leading role in the development of the local film industry.
I still remember it clearly.
On a Saturday morning in late 1954, Prime Minister Menzies and his wife, Pattie, were in Melbourne to attend a Liberal Party fund-raising morning tea in Menzies’ blue-ribbon seat of Kooyong.
As she related later, with a long and empty afternoon stretching before her, Mrs Menzies – as she then was, her husband’s well-deserved knighthood being some years away – told the Prime Minister that she had the urge to see a movie.
Little did I know then as I sat hundreds of miles away doing a crossword in my own house in Canberra, but that decision was to change my life and lead to one of the most exciting periods of my public service career.
That afternoon, the Prime Minister and Mrs Menzies attended a screening of Jedda. The film, directed by famous Australian film-maker, Charles Chauvel, has the distinction of being the first full-colour feature-length film ever made in Australia.
It is about a young Aboriginal lass who is raised by an Australian family but still feels the strong pull of her native ways.
When Menzies returned to work in Canberra on Monday, he called me into his office.
“Rufus, I have a job for you,” he said with what, in retrospect was considerable understatement.
“Pattie dragged me to see a film over the weekend which has given me an idea.”
When he told me he’d seen Jedda my mind began to race.
In those days Devon was also interested in movies – more so than me – and “dragged” me along to many a feature, so much so that I had begun to consider myself as something of a buff.
My wife’s tastes were dramatically different from my own. Her favourite films were anything starring Joan Crawford. My tastes ran to Rock Hudson.
But, I again digress.
Having read some reviews of Jedda as well as being vaguely acquainted with its subject matter, I envisaged Menzies had a task for me that involved Aboriginals in some way.
Could he be about to ask me to take a leading role in examining the then common practice of taking native kiddies and placing them with Australian families? Even more than 40 years ago the benefits of such government-sponsored and church-sanctioned programs were being questioned, albeit by some small, left-leaning but vocal fringe groups and individuals.
Could he be about to hand me the task of assessing the adequacy of Aboriginal health and welfare programs? Again, even in the 1950s some radicals – more than likely funded by the Communists – were eager to stir up trouble on that issue.
Impetuously, I interrupted Menzies and raised both issues, assuring him of my willingness to undertake any form of inquiry into such matters and to provide him with a full report endorsing the government’s actions.
He looked at me with what appeared to be genuine bewilderment, before holding up his right hand to cut me off.
“No, no, nothing trivial like that, Rufus,” he said, “I’m talking about a brand new export industry for this country – feature films.”
I was at once downcast – having misread his intentions so badly – yet exultant and full of admiration at such a bold and innovative idea.
“At the moment almost all the films we see here come from America,” Menzies continued.
“It’s appalling that our kiddies are being raised on a diet of Yankee movies, with American stars, American settings and American stories....”
I again interrupted. “And British,” I began, before again being cut off, this time by one of the Prime Minister’s devastating looks.
There was a moment of silence.
“As I was saying,” he continued, “we cannot let the Americans invade this country through our picture theatres.
“We have to fight back – fight them on their own turf, so to speak. This film, Jedda, seems to me to be the ideal starting point. I can’t see why it wouldn’t be a big hit in America; after all there are a lot of dark people in America.
“I’m sending you to America as a special trade commissioner for our film industry. I want you to scout around over there, take Jedda and a few of our other films with you, and see if you can’t rustle up a few deals.
“That chap Chauvel, he did Forty Thousand Horsemen, didn’t he?”
I told him yes, Chauvel had indeed directed that epic about the gallantry of Australia’s Light Horsemen in the Middle East during the First World War.
“Don’t tell me the Yanks wouldn’t go for that one either,” Menzies said. “They’d love Chips Rafferty. What about some of the older ones – The Sentimental Bloke, Soldiers of the Cross and Australia Calls – ahead of its time, that one.”
I tactfully mentioned to Menzies that it might be an idea to steer away from silent films, no mater how good they were.
“You’re right, Rufus, as usual,” he said.
“Take just the talkies, stuff like the Dad and Dave films, things that show the real Australia.”
The Prime Minister stood up.
“Pack your bags, Rufus, you’re off to Hollywood.”
I can tell many tales of my time in Tinseltown – happy, sad and some even tragic – but I’ll leave them for another time.
On that day in 1954 I knew one thing. I was about to play my own starring role and embark on a great adventure.
Inspired, I stood, turned, and marched purposefully towards the door, only to stop and turn back when I heard what sounded like a low, bubbling, almost trumpet-like noise.
“Damn leather chair,” Menzies said, still standing.

Rufus Badinage MBE, now retired, is one of Australia’s leading
experts on politics and public administration having worked as a
senior bureaucrat for various state and federal governments.