Before the 1980s, we didn't have one. People just knew we were far, far away and had a lot of desert. Some more enlightened/educated foreigners might have known about the bushman/swag/larrikin legends that go all the way back to the Henry Lawson/CJ Dennis era, but we barely had a current national sense of self to promote or put forward.
If we had a profile among cineastes, it was that Australia was a weird, dark, scary and forbidding place. Movies set here were dystopian visions of dread and violence, from the implied destruction and racial unrest of The Last Wave to the apparent wormhole through space and time of Picnic at Hanging Rock. Even commercial efforts were dark – if it isn't enough Razorback was Australia's answer to Jaws, about a murderous animal stalking us, it made the outback a dark place fully of craggy, dead trees and drifting mists, where if you moved more than a few metres away from the road it was a death sentence.
Then, aided by the Tourism Commission, we changed direction abruptly. Paul Hogan invited the world (particularly Americans) down, promising them he'd stick an extra shrimp on the barbie for them, with sweeping vistas of beautiful red desert and the glory of Sydney Harbour in the background.
Soon, the world was watching us, and they fell in love with the gorgeous outback full of fluffy animals, friendly aboriginals and beautiful colours. The time was ripe for Hogan to capture such romantic longing and serve up an even bigger dose of it in Crocodile Dundee, a world away from the danger, despair and loneliness of the bush with it's romantic hues, dream-like quality and stunning natural beauty. Even the danger was photogenic, transformed into a rugged Tarzan rescue mythology as the rough and tumble hero saves the pretty damsel in her G-string swimsuit.
It was a glossy sheen that lasted for a long time and cemented the image most foreigners had of us, despite the fact that most Australians lived in the suburbs and were no more familiar with the bush or outback than they were the surface of the moon. From the time Europeans settled here Australia has been too harsh for expansion, and there have always been more rural Americans as a percentage of the population than rural Australians.
Why else did the world (particularly America) fall in love with Steve Irwin's antics than because he was a lite version of Crocodile Dundee, a lovable larrikin full of the catchphrases and vernacular they found so cute. I'd bet that even by well into the 21st century, the world had no idea how urbanised and industrialised Australia was, thinking we all ran around red, dusty deserts wearing khaki shorts, leaping on top of animals and shouting 'crikey!'
But change was brewing as far back as the mid 90s. Industries and events were jostling into position to recast Australia as a hub of culture and creativity. The Star Wars prequels and The Matrix were being shot in downtown Sydney. The Olympics proved we could put on a global event. Before long Sydney went from being just another big city to one of those global cities you see on handbags and glossy magazine ads alongside New York, London, Paris and Tokyo.
Now, two things are changing Australia's image all over again. First is that more people than ever are coming here. It might be because those tourism ads are working (though it's unlikely – see more below), but it's probably simply because travel has become so cheap in the online age and generations Y and beyond are seeing the world to an extent their parents never dreamed.
So stories are getting around – not just because foreigners are seeing the real Australia, good and bad, but because there are so many more voices to be heard. It isn't only that they blog and Facebook and post their comments into a chorus of unfiltered discussion, but Australians are too, from the lowliest culture watcher to the mainstream media (and new media) who discuss issues in our country to the world that are beyond shrimps and barbies.
And the presence of Fox Studios, the Olympics, George Lucas and the Matrix did something else – it gave us our own film industry that's joined the chorus of voices, and it's selling a very message to the world that's very different from cute animals and larrikin humour.
The industry that grew up around our sudden high creative standing has led to vibrant artistry in movies from Wolf Creek to Samson and Delilah, and neither racial intolerance nor a maniacal serial killer make good tourism commercials.
Unwittingly, this generation of moviemakers are forming our collective voice and making the official tourism picture of sandy beaches and wildflowers even less relevant.
Maybe that's why none of the tourism Commission campaigns since Hoges and his barbie in the 80s have been very well received. As sustained world attention turned on us and saw what we could do in everything from sport to movies, we gained a new confidence about our place in it. We wanted to be seen as writers, dotcom entrepreneurs and other sophisticates living in townhouses along Glebe Point Road buying chai lattes from groovy cafes, not ockers drinking tinnies of Fosters with 'Pommie Bastard' written on our T-shirts.
When the government tourism body featured a hot young girl in a bikini asking the world where the bloody hell they were, the backlash was deafening. They were obviously trying to recapture some of that 80s magic by selling us as laid back, friendly, informal and provincial, but they revealed themselves to be badly out of step with mainstream opinion. The chattering classes in the cities were aghast at being personified using such caricature. We'd moved on, and we wanted the picture of ourselves to do to same.
After only 30 years, the romantic ocker of beautiful bush and rugged, attractive living was over.
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