Directed by James Bogle, the film’s conceit is to use the seminal Australian artist’s own letters to tell his story, arcing from his comfy suburban childhood to death from heroin in a lonely Thirroul motel room in 1992.
An abundance of Whiteley’s paintings fill the film, reminding me that his work was indeed special, singular. Rather than transposing European ways of capturing land and light, he found a new visual language for the Australian landscape. Instead of the bush or the desert, Sydney’s Lavender Bay was Brett’s ground zero. As an urban, residential area of jacarandas and sapphire-blue water, it offered an energised vision of coastal Australia from local eyes. Fluid lines and vivid colour leap with dynamism from the canvasses. From that vantage, Brett’s ascent is righteous and his contributions to art history easy to identify.
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