The Aussie women conquering Hollywood
In July, Jessica Hobbs turned into the third female director in four years to take the goliath jump from Australian television to the best director designation at the Emmys. Her signal for the finale of The Crown’s third season follows past selections for Kate Dennis (2017) and Daina Reid (2019) The Handmaid’s Story. It’s a momentous run that says as much about the shifting demographics of the industry as Hollywood’s suffering adoration for Australian talent.
“It’s significant for individuals to acknowledge how far we’ve voyaged,” says Gillian Armstrong, who turned into the first female Australian director to handle Hollywood when the significant studios came pursuing. “I’m used to saying I could have been a green frog and they would have come after me,” she says. “On this occasion that you’ve made an honor winning film that is made cash, looks expensive yet costs nothing, they’re after you.”
Yet, being a lady – well, that was an alternate issue. She should have been a green frog as far as some of the clueless male executives who attempted to charm her were concerned. They positively dealt with her like an alternate species. Armstrong recalls a (B.F)breakfast meeting to which she welcomed her accomplice because she thought he’d appreciate seeing the swanky Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills.
“Also, this person from the studio did the whole
pitch to him,” she recalls, still astonished decades later. “He was
unable to look at me without flinching. ‘We want you’ – he’s doing this asking
pitch, yet he was unable to do it to a young lady.”
When Jocelyn Moorhouse was enticed over in 1994, things
were improving. Steven Spielberg’s organization Amblin wanted to adjust the
book How to Make an American Quilt, and the task’s female producers insisted on
a lady director.
“My experience was quite astonishing,” says
Moorhouse, whose 1991 debut feature Proof, starring Hugo Weaving, Genevieve
Picot, and a youthful Russell Crowe, had gotten Spielberg’s attention. “I
was completely supported by Amblin and my producers. It was a mostly male
group, be that as it may, and I think they thought I was somewhat of a
To some extent, female directors still are. As per the
latest USC Annenberg sexual orientation and diversity study, released in
January, ladies coordinated just 12 of the best 100 movies at the North
American film industry in 2019. Yet, that is more than twofold the 13-year
normal of 4.8 percent, and by a wide margin the highest yet.
In TV, however, the dial has shifted in a significant way. The Directors Guild of America reports that ladies directors have too much of television episodes in just five years, representing 31 percent last year. Partially, that is because of the more prominent number of dramatization and satire shows, generally determined by streaming. But on the other side, it’s because of the overall push for stories, and the individuals who make them, to all the more precisely reflect society on the loose.
For previous Sydneysider Kate Woods, who took the Hollywood dive in 2009 and is generally viewed as the pioneer among this partner, it’s not just a numbers game. “I do accept ladies’ perspective is somewhat extraordinary, and that is the reason the balance is significant,” she says. “At long last, everyone will recount to a story in an unexpected way, and that is the reason in all areas of work there should be diversity in the stories that we offer back to society.”
Woods has been there sufficiently long to see the
effect of streaming and digital television on the stories that get made and the
spot for ladies – and individuals from diverse backgrounds – to let them know.
“When I first started here, there was discussion
about sexual orientation correspondence however it felt somewhat token,”
she says. “There were two or three jobs I did where you really felt like
they kinda needed to welcome you on, and they didn’t feel great about it. Also,
sometimes that wasn’t an incredible atmosphere to work in. However, that is
Also, perhaps the clearest sign of that change is that an Australian lady, Cate Shortland, has coordinated a Marvel film, Black Widow (because of open here one year from now). In advanced Hollywood, ticks of an endorsement don’t come a lot greater than that.
The screen got its hooks into Daina Reid early – the main question was which side of the camera would she be on. “I went to see Star Wars when I was 10 and I essentially knew what I wanted to do,” says the Emmy-assigned director of The Handmaid’s Tale. “I wanted it.”
Be that as it may, she’d got the performing bug, as
well. From the age of five she and her sister Kendra had gone to move classes
in suburban Perth, and by 13 the pair were regulars on the Young Talent Time
knock-off Stars of the Future.
Being inside a television studio “provoked my curiosity” by the way everything worked, says Reid, whose succinct way and easy giggle make her one of the less scary characters to sit in a director’s seat. Her work involvement with Seven prompted a degree in film and television creation, where she was told, “On the off chance that you want to be a director, go off and do acting classes.”
“So I did, and I met Judith Lucy and Frances
O’Connor – they’re still my friends today – and they tried out for the dramatization
school [West Australian Academy of Performing Arts], so I did as well, and I
got in, so I went.”
Subsequent to graduating she discovered her approach to
Jimeoin and afterward the sketch-satire show Full Frontal, where Shaun Micallef
also cut his teeth. “In any case, when that finished I thought, ‘Right,
that is me done; I’m getting back on track.’?” Next to her Full Frontal
dressing room in Melbourne was the alter suite for Blue Heelers. “So I
strolled in and said, ‘I hear you do directors’ attachments.’ They went,
‘That’s right.’ I went, ‘I want to do one.’ They said, ‘See you on
That was in 2000, and, throughout the long term that followed, Reid worked hard to get familiar with the specialty of episodic television. Heelers were trailed by The Secret Life of Us and MDA. Following 10 years behind the camera she was in charge of significant series and miniseries across all the Australian networks: Hozat and Paper Giants! Kerry Packer’s War for Nine; Offspring for Ten; Never Tear Us Apart; The Secret River for the ABC; The Untold Story of INXS for Seven; Sunshine for SBS. By 2016, she had done all that you could do in neighborhood scripted television.
“That was fantastic,” Reid thought,
“however what would I like to do straightaway? How would I push
forward?” The obvious answer was Hollywood, where her companion Kate
Dennis had moved a couple of years sooner: “I think I have to give it a
Husband Tim, a horticulturalists, and their two
adolescent kids were all for it, yet Reid was cautious. Courtesy of Dennis,
she’d just seen that family life for a Hollywood director happens between jobs
because so much TV is currently shot other side Los Angeles – especially in
Toronto and Vancouver in Canada.
“I’d stay at her house yet she could never be
there because she’d be in a more reliable place.” Reid figured she’d see
her family only as frequently by driving from Australia, and without the change
to every other person’s life.
“You accomplish your work at the condo [rented for the term of production], at that point, you go to work [on set], and afterward you go back to your loft,” she says. “It’s a really forlorn existence.”
The shows have been extraordinary – The Outsider with Ben Mendelsohn for HBO, the Greg (Recreation and Parks) Daniels comedies Space Force for Netflix and Upload for Amazon – however, Reid isn’t sure she wants to rush back, in any event not until everything finds a safe and recognizable beat post-COVID. “I would especially prefer not to be on the cutting edge.”
Besides, she’s trusting the substance explosion driven
by the rise of streaming may start to deliver dividends closer to home. “I
realize that when I’m viewing Scandi noir, for instance, I’m watching it
because it’s an incredible wrongdoing story yet additionally because I want to
see the Nordic fiords.”
The Australian landscape offers a similarly luring
purpose of contrast, Reid believes, that should be famously sellable around the
globe, whenever combined with the correct stories. “My expectation is you
can go away and accomplish something overseas and afterward return and work
here [to the same standard].
During a New York City lunch in 2005, Kate Woods was
asked by Anthony LaPaglia. He had acted in her 2000 film Looking for Alibrandi before
turning into a significant star on American TV, The telephone called his maker
and said, ‘I’ve got a director sitting before me you’re putting on the show.
Woods had cut their own teeth in the ABC’s dramatization division, where she was one of only a handful, not many ladies coordinating on some of the most respected shows of the 1990s and mid-2000s: G.P., Correlli, Phoenix, MDA. Subsequent to choosing to attempt her karma in the major leagues, she spent the first scarcely any years driving to and fro among LA and Sydney, before purchasing a single direction ticket in 2009, and going all, in on the Hollywood experience.
It was a productive move. In her busiest 12 year, she shot 11 parts, everything from Bones to Nashville to NCIS: Los Angeles. The workload, she says, “was insane.” Presently, with shorter-run shows for the link and streaming platforms overwhelming, it’s bound to be five or six episodes every year.
Woods’ accomplice is a planner – not in the industry,
which is good, yet ready to get it, which is extraordinary. “It’s a
similar activity as it were,” she says. “You’re similar to the
director of an orchestra, you have the concepts as opposed to the bare
essential of accomplishing the work.”
The shift of audiences for show away from broadcast television towards the streamers and link services has been an away from of diversity in the industry.
“Extraordinary that you really need various types of voices to let them know,” Woods says. “There are several stories that are better told by a man, or better told by a lady, and that is fine, yet I don’t really imagine that there’s discrimination anymore.”
When Catriona McKenzie found in her late teens that her introduction to the world’s dad was Indigenous and her mom was white, it was, she says, “a ton of data to take in.” She’d had cheerful and adoring adolescence as the embraced little girl of a Scottish scholarly and his better half. They were totally supportive of her desire to associate with her introduction to the world parents, however, in doing so something in her shifted.
“I wouldn’t say I was emotionally
constipated,” reflects McKenzie, right now in Montreal with her
11-year-old son Callum after a stretch in LA, “however it’s positively
very intense gathering your natural family from two totally different
socioeconomic and social places, and afterward consolidating that.”
As she went on her street to self-discovery, McKenzie selected Indigenous studies, started a Ph.D. in social sciences, and afterward dumped it to start a circus execution gathering. She started composing, went to film school, and made a short film for the Festival of Dreaming in the number one spot up to the Sydney Olympics.
“I was suddenly a director,” she says. “I had no proof about what I was doing, yet I discovered I could take all that I knew from being a scholastic [and apply it] to telling something more essential that can bigger effect a more extensive crowd.”
She went to New York to study filmmaking, On her return, she hurled herself entirely into the neighborhood industry, working consistently by her mid-30s, and had coordinated a feature, Satellite Boy, by 40.
Two years ago, she chose to plunge her toes in the
enormous lake of Hollywood, where she guided episodes of How to Get Away with
Murder, Riverdale, and the last season of Supernatural (on which, she gladly
notes, she is one of just four ladies to have coordinated across its 15 years
and 327 episodes).
Next up is The Republic of Sarah, for TV network The CW (home of Supernatural, Riverdale, and The Flash) on which she’s the delivery director. “That means that I’ll coordinate three or four episodes and produce the rest.
For McKenzie, it’s something beyond work. “I have a stage, I really want to recount to significant stories. I want to get these messages out there.” She has several Australian features being developed, including a stolen generation’s story with a twist and Pemulwuy, about the Aboriginal warrior who offered stern resistance to early white settlers, delivered by Phillip Noyce and Stan Grant.
“All that stuff that was very agonizing and
troublesome and challenging some time ago has now carried me to a point where
I’m prepared to do some energizing things,” she says. “I really want
to disclose to Indigenous stories, kind stories, to a more extensive
Occasionally on a film set, you will hear someone mumble, “we’re not relieving disease” when a decision takes longer than they might suspect it should. Be that as it may, McKenzie says, “I think actually we are restoring malignancy. It’s a social malignancy that we need to just push out the entryway. We need to make space for all these stories. We’re not entirely as a country in Australia until we can recount to these stories.”
In Australia, Jet Wilkinson sometimes discovered her
experience coordinating shows such as Neighbors, Home and Away, and All Saints
working against her. “It didn’t feel like it was considered cool enough,
so it was difficult for me to break into a specific echelon,” she says
from LA, where she is spending lockdown with her significant other and their
Be that as it may, since moving to America in 2015, she has worn her soapie years as a symbol of honor.
“I always tell individuals that is the place I originate from because they want to realize you can shoot to a schedule, even on enormous American budgets,” she says. “They want to realize you have a vision, an arrangement, and you can execute that arrangement. Furthermore, I always assure them I can because I’ve originated from Australian TV, where it’s a shoestring financial plan and we do really good stuff.”
Conceived in Vietnam in 1974 and stranded during the
war, Wilkinson was embraced by white parents in Sydney. Her youth was generally
liberated from racism, and she grew up accepting difficult work that would
prompt success. “I went out into the world not in any event, understanding
that I had all these checkboxes that I did or didn’t fill,” she says.
She has no uncertainty, however, that some of her
success in LA is because of the push for more prominent diversity in the
industry: “It resembled the moment I strolled through the entryway I
ticked all the boxes.”
Still, it has sometimes felt about box-ticking instead of any desire to change what was on screen. She recalls a casting session from her initial days there, where the script notes described a character as Ivy League, all-American, and with a splendid future. “What’s more, they said, ‘So it’s gonna be white.’?” She pushed back, and however she didn’t win that one, the experience gave her an away from what was at stake. “I want us to represent all walks of life,” she says. “So now I attempt to choose projects where I can mirror that or where I can infuse that.”
Wilkinson has episodes of 16 US shows to her name,
including How to Get Away with Murder (set in a law office claimed by a strong
individual of color) and The Chi (about adolescent life in a dark neighborhood
of Chicago). Fittingly, given her soapie foundation, she coordinated the Home
episode of Hilary Swank’s Netflix space dramatization Away.
Still, there’s just so much you can do when working on others’ shows, which is the reason she is starting projects for screens of all shapes and sizes: “Something that I stand for. At any rate, I’d desert some sort of heritage, something I thought was significant, that someone may watch and say, ‘That is going to change the manner in which I see the world.’?”
In pride of spot in Kate Dennis’ home in the Melbourne
suburb of Caulfield is a decorative headdress of brilliantly shaded feathers,
purchased at a wilderness market in Brazil when she was working on the 1991
feature film At Play in the Fields of the Lord. “It just took me around 25
years to get it surrounded,” she says over espresso in the house to which
she, her husband David, and their two young daughters as of late returned
following five years in LA.
A tall, slender, fast-talking blonde, Dennis – who was
Emmy assigned for an episode of The Handmaid’s Tale in 2017 – spent parts of
her adolescence in the Philippines and the US because of her dad’s work with a
substance organization. As a result, she says, “I’ve always, to my
weakness, had inconceivably bothersome feet”.They’ve taken her to the
Amazon, to the Swiss Alps (where she ran on Sylvester Stallone’s Cliffhanger),
to Ireland (where she composed a screenplay about forlorn farmers searching for
brides). They carried her home to Australia, where she found her first
coordinating position on incredible maker John Edwards’ dramatization series
Big Sky, which prompted The Secret Life of Us, perhaps Australian television’s
greatest talent hatchery. And afterward, with London calling, in 1997 they
removed her once more.
In the UK, Dennis got her first break at the sacred goal of TV coordinating: setting up a series from the pilot, the BBC romantic comedy Rescue Me. “You do the underlying casting, all the underlying locations, you set up the appearance of the show. Obviously, you’re conversing with the maker or showrunner about everything, you work together, yet there are a lot of introductory decisions to be made.”
Not all pilots go to series, yet in the event that they
do, the result can be significant: “You get paid a part of each episode
that goes to air ceaselessly, for the course of the show.” Set up a
Friends, as such, and you need never work again. Dennis has now set up three:
CBS dramatization Tommy, the hospital show New Amsterdam (presently in its
third season), and HBO’s runaway-lovers-on-a-train show Run.
Not all of a director’s work on very good quality shows actually involves being on set, where they settle on hundreds of decisions consistently – about lighting, camera angles, props, costume, line conveyance, execution. (One thing the director almost never does, however, is called “cut”: that is the function of the first assistant director.)
Typically, an hour of television may include a nine-day
shoot. In any case, before the cameras move, there’s the prep time frame for
rehearsal, script changes, and logistical arranging; when the cameras stop,
there’s post-creation (altering, VFX, re-recording exchange). All up, Dennis
calculates, the on-set aspect makes up “around 40% of a director’s
Doing a sought-after two-episode “block” of a
show may mean being away for six weeks at a stretch. The days are long, as well
– as long as 17 hours, including go time to and from the set – and weekends
It can put an enormous strain on family life. Most of
the 30 or so episodes Dennis has coordinated across 20 US shows have been shot
a long way from LA, which means she would be away for quite a long time,
perhaps months, at a time. Simultaneously, former barrister David stayed at
home in the hip suburb of Studio City to play, as he puts it, “the 1950s
housewife”. Also, when she was at home, Dennis says, “I’d
overcompensate. I’m exhausted. However, I return, and I’m attempting to do everything;
I’m making the lunches, I’m trying to be the super mum, and that carries on
until I go away once more.
“It’s a great deal, and it’s the fantasy,”
she adds. “So you go through waves of reasoning, ‘Gracious my god, I love
this, I’m so cheerful’, and waves of reasoning, ‘What the heck am I doing to my
Despite the fact that it was driven by the kids, the move back to Australia has been an opportunity to discover some equalization. She has an arrangement with HBO that should see her ready to continue working on Hollywood shows without living there. At any rate, that was the arrangement, before COVID. “In twelve months I could be saying, ‘Gracious God, the worst decision of my life. I was in the grade, profession wise, and now I’ve totally leveled.’ I don’t have the foggiest idea.”
As a filmmaker, Kitty Green owes her grandmother an enormous obligation of appreciation. She has her dad’s mom to thank for her first camera. “She wanted to go on the pension and she had just a smidgen a lot of cash – she’s dead now, so they can’t arrest her,” jokes Green in the small however rich Sean Godsell-designed kitchen-living region of her parents’ redesigned workers’ bungalow in Melbourne’s Carlton (a room just marginally smaller than her whole condo in New York, where she has lived for three years). “So she gave every one of us grandkids a smidgen of cash to accomplish something with. Also, with my little protuberance, I purchased a camcorder.”
Green was 11 at that point, “and that is all I wanted, I was obsessed. A lot of my friends wanted to act before it, yet I always wanted to be the one behind it. So I started making movies with fishing line and Barbie dolls and stuffed toys and things in the terrace.”
Years after the fact, the self-confessed science geek
was working as an assistant proofreader at the ABC. She’d been there six months
when her boss offered some vocation guidance. “?’Kitty, on the off chance
that you work really hard, you know, in 30 years you can still be here.’ And I
resembled, ‘Goodness god.’ So I quit.”
With her scant savings and her camera (actually no, not the same one), she made a beeline for Ukraine, home of her maternal grandma, to follow a gathering of female political activists she’d met on a previous outing. Following 14 months in the organization of Femen – best known for exposing their breasts openly – and their svengali-Esque male chief, she had the makings of her first narrative, Ukraine Is Not a Brothel, which debuted at the Venice Film Festival in September 2013.
Her grandma’s country also inspired her next film, the
short narrative Casting Oksana Bayul, which won a prize at the prestigious
Sundance Film Event in 2015. “When you succeed at Sundance everybody’s
pleasant to you and you go, similar to, ‘I have a career,’?” she says.
“Yet, it never really goes blast.”
From the outside, the explosion seemed to come when
Casting JonBenet, her eccentric narrative about the disappearance of US
youngster exhibition sovereign JonBenet Ramsey, arrived on Netflix in 2017. In
any case, while it looked expensive, the film was made for a wage by Green and
her small team, who could just bear to lease the studio where it was shot on
“We’d get the studio Friday night, we’d fabricate the set all night, and the first meeting subject would come in at 9am and we’d shoot all day. At that point, we’d manufacture a new set all Saturday night and shoot the following day. On Monday we would just be destroyed.”
Her most ongoing film, The Assistant, marks an alter of course, if not of spending plan. The critically acclaimed dramatization about a female staffer in the workplace of a diversion tycoon unmistakably demonstrated on Harvey Weinstein was shot in just 18 days on a shoestring pulled so tight that “we don’t have anything on the cutting-room floor; basically, all that we shot is in there.”
That her work so far consists of small-scale,
“ladies focused stories” to some extent reflects the budgets
accessible to her, yet besides what she wants to say. “We would prefer not
to be enclosed as individuals recounting to female stories,” she says of
her age of ladies filmmakers. “And yet, I do believe we’re bringing voices
that weren’t there previously.