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Chelsea Winstanley at the 2020 Academy Awards (Photo: Neilson Barnard/Getty Images
Chelsea Winstanley at the 2020 Academy Awards (Photo: Neilson Barnard/Getty Images

OPINIONĀteaMarch 12, 2021

Chelsea Winstanley: Whose lens is it anyway?

Chelsea Winstanley at the 2020 Academy Awards (Photo: Neilson Barnard/Getty Images
Chelsea Winstanley at the 2020 Academy Awards (Photo: Neilson Barnard/Getty Images

You might not think the mysterious group behind the Golden Globes, known as the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, has anything to do with Aotearoa. But some of their members have been speaking on our behalf for a long time. Academy Award-nominated film-maker Chelsea Winstanley is calling for change.

Supposedly there is a major overhaul about to take place at the Hollywood Foreign Press Association (HFPA). In the days leading up to last week’s Golden Globes, where film and television accolades are handed out by the HFPA’s 87-person membership, frustrated guilds and watch groups pointed out (not for the first time) that the organisation still had no Black members. They haven’t had any for more than 20 years.

While there were well-deserved Black winners in acting categories, notable snubs included Michaela Coel’s devastatingly good I May Destroy You, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, Da 5 Bloods, One Night in Miami and Judas And The Black Messiah.

To join the HFPA, candidates must be based in Southern California, write for publications outside the continental US and have been members of the MPAA (Motion Picture Association of America) for more than two years. They must also be sponsored by two existing members. Rumours abound that the last criteria is the hardest to overcome due to HFPA journalists fiercely protecting their territories.

Stories of corruption have plagued the institution for years, as an exposé by the LA Times recently revealed. The group was sued by a former publicist a decade ago, and again recently by a Norwegian reporter who claimed they were using underhanded tactics to exclude eligible journalists and were monopolising access. A lavish junket to Paris for 30 members paid for by the Emily in Paris producers also raised eyebrows.

The group doesn’t publish the names of their members on their website, so people have to dig around to find out who makes up the organisation. As Vox and the LA Times revealed, it’s a deeply weird group of people. Some are great entertainment journalists, but there are also failed actors, producers, a Russian socialite, a Mr Universe turned action star, many authors of books that have nothing to do with film and television, and a good chunk who don’t seem to have done any reporting in a while. All are routinely granted exclusive access that is denied to other journalists.

In response to the backlash, a statement from the not-for-profit organisation went out this week about how it proposes to address the problem.

Director Ava DuVernay, whose company Array distributed the documentary Merata: How Mum Decolonised the Screen, was quick to respond to their announcement, pointing out that an internal review of the famously secretive organisation didn’t leave people with much faith in the process.

I must admit I too rolled my eyes. I want to believe they will step up. I want to believe given all the work being done to address systemic racism and inequality globally that they will do as they say. However, it’s hard to think change will come when one of their members, Australian Jenny Cooney, says in a live television interview that “having a Black member was not anything that we focused on”.

“The fact that we didn’t have a Black members never really seemed a problem,” she told the Today Show in Australia. “I always thought diversity was about not skin colour but about nationalities and where people came from.

“And also, because we were writing for foreign publications, I never understood that… we had to go and find a Black person. It sounded very strange to me. But we always welcomed everybody, and if somebody had applied, we would have welcomed them with open arms.”

Open arms? Cooney reports for media that covers both Australia and New Zealand, alongside another white-passing Australian woman, Michele Manelis. Neither woman is from my country, Aotearoa New Zealand, and they have no direct relationship to the land or with the Indigenous people. Between them Cooney and Manelis author pieces for NZME and Stuff (only a handful in the past year), Now to Love (an aggregate of ARE Media’s magazines, such as the Australian Women’s Weekly and Woman’s Day), Mindfood and the TV Guide – the majority of them Q&As that contain no critical analysis of the films they’re writing about.

One change they could make to address the current inequality in the HFPA is stepping aside and allowing someone from Aotearoa to represent Aotearoa and report to our media with our lens. The criteria for inclusion has to change (although it’s worth noting that there have been New Zealand reporters in LA that fit the criteria. I wonder if they were welcomed with open arms?)

As an Indigenous film-maker, I’m aware that for the most part, our films are invisible to Hollywood. The closest the Golden Globes has come to nominating “Indigenous” films are 2016’s The Revenant and 1990’s Dances With Wolves, whose three Golden Globe trophies, of course, went to white men. Leonardo DiCaprio at least had the good grace to dedicate his best actor win to the First Nations people in his film and the Indigenous communities of the world.

The HFPA should allow each nation with a thriving film industry to participate and have its own member. Our Indigenous stories are far more successful than our non-Indigenous stories on the world cinema stage. I would love to read about Hollywood through an Indigenous lens.

I wonder how many Aboriginal journalists have considered the HFPA to be an option? Sami nation? Indigenous Taiwanese film community? The A’i Cofan community in Ecuador and the Kīsêdjê community in Brazil? Their First Nations cousins in Canada?

A 2017 Facebook post by Gamillaroi Torres Strait Islander film-maker Nakkiah Lui highlighted the point that Indigenous arts are harder to disseminate when reviewers are still viewing them through a colonial gaze: “Sometimes I’m a little bummed out that there really aren’t any Aboriginal/Torres Strait Islander or People of Colour critics – especially women – to review my work for publications.”

A group called Blak Critics was formed in direct response to what artists like Lui were talking about. Its focus was to “address the need for robust, critical and culturally informed dialogue around Indigenous performance, practice and methodologies, in mainstream editorials and publications and the public domain”. Together they created something the entire arts community had been missing.

Yes the HFPA’s job is to report on Hollywood. As I reflect on the fact that I get to vote in the Academy Awards this year, thanks in large part to the efforts of the Academy to open up their membership (now over 9,000 members) to have more BIPOC representation, it does not escape me that the HFPA, who host the Oscars precursor, have enormous power in influencing the economic success of a film or TV show. Since 1950, 52% of Golden Globe best motion picture – drama winners have gone on to win an Oscar. The current HFPA membership is not reflective of the world of cinema – certainly not the world in which I live in and many other Indigenous film-makers create art from.

When seven out of 10 of the most internationally successful films from Aotearoa are either helmed by Māori or about Māori, and are celebrated on the world stage, it goes without saying we have a unique voice within cinema. If we play such an important role on the world cinema stage, breaking into Hollywood like never before with film-makers like Taika Waititi, then who is that voice talking back to us? I don’t believe the current HFPA members who represent Aotearoa should be the ones to report to our media. And they certainly shouldn’t be the ones to have that exclusivity.

Hopefully the HFPA will make a stand, change its membership criteria and allow journalists from each nation to participate. Please do not give our nation’s voice to Australia – we love our Aussie cuzzies but we don’t claim to represent them, so please don’t claim to represent us.

Keep going!
The beautiful Ōtākou Marae and some of the first year Māori students (Photo: Brian Treanor)
The beautiful Ōtākou Marae and some of the first year Māori students (Photo: Brian Treanor)

ĀteaMarch 11, 2021

Welcome home: How first year Māori students find a place at the University of Otago

The beautiful Ōtākou Marae and some of the first year Māori students (Photo: Brian Treanor)
The beautiful Ōtākou Marae and some of the first year Māori students (Photo: Brian Treanor)

To open the year at the University of Otago, hundreds of first year Māori students and their families gathered at Ōtākou marae to be welcomed onto the whenua of Ngāi Tahu. Alice Webb-Liddall went along.

It was the first day of O Week and the Dunedin sun was shining on the thousands of fresh-faced students who were figuring out where to buy a cheap sheet for toga, and how to get from their college to the lecture theatres, and back again, without getting lost along the way. For many it was their first chance to leave home, the first step in an ascent to independence, and there was a palpable sense of excitement and nervousness across the campus. 

At Te Huka Mātauraka, the Māori centre, the beginning of each academic year is a crucial time. On their small corner of the campus, work was underway for weeks organising the pōwhiri that welcomes hundreds of Māori students into their new home at the University of Otago. The ceremony at Ōtākou marae on the Otago peninsula provides an opportunity for the first year students to connect with other Māori and start to find their place in the world of the university.

That warm O Week morning, hundreds of nervous Māori students gathered at Te Huka Mātauraka. The line snaked down Castle St as students waited to be filed through the offices, where they were handed t-shirts, chicken wraps, fruit and water bottles before making their way through to the courtyard to mingle and share their whakapapa with their first year cohort. “Where are you from?” fast became the question of the day. 

Reiata Phillips Hei Hei (Ngāpuhi) was one of this growing number huddled under the shade sail. Summer school set her up with a small group of friends who also attended the pōwhiri. Sitting at a table, the three friends flicked through pamphlets from various Māori groups who came through the centre that morning. Lolly bribes from the Māori students’ dental association provided a much needed, if not slightly ironic, boost of energy for some of the students who’d been up all night unpacking their rooms and making new friends.

Phillips Hei Hei was excited to experience a Ngāi Tahu pōwhiri. Her parents had flown down from the Far North to be there for the day and she hoped the hospitality would help her mum come to terms with her big move south. The first year health science student had attended kura Māori in Kaikohe, and as the first in her family to attend university had no idea what to expect.

“You try to picture something in your mind and you have expectations but I knew nobody coming down here. I was the only one from Kaikohe coming down here so I was a bit nervous,” she said.  

“At home there were roughly 13 or 14 kids in my class and some of them I knew from kohanga, so I’ve been with them throughout my whole life.”

She was nervous to move so far away from home, but had wanted to go to university since she was young and knew the University of Otago had one of the best health science faculties in the country. It was her mum who took some convincing.

“My mum brought up all of the applications for Auckland Uni and I was like ‘Oh, mum… I was looking at going to Otago,’ and she was like ‘What! That’s so far, why so far!’ so there were a few moments of her crying to me about that.” 

Staff at Te Huka Mātauraka understand the importance of this pōwhiri for not just their students but whānau as well. Most of the parents who attend the pōwhiri are seeing their children leave home for the first time, and it’s important that they know their child is going into safe hands.

Pearl Matahiki (Ngāti Porou) has been at the University of Otago, in various roles, for over 25 years. She retired in February after almost 20 years as tumuaki of Te Huka Mātauraka. This was her last O Week pōwhiri. 

When she started as a student at the university, options for Māori student support were nowhere near where they are now. Matakihi understands that for Māori students, there’s more to university than just leaving home to study. Her role has been about helping them find their place in the world as they embark on their new life at the university. 

“There are so many students who don’t know who they are and the Māori centre can help to link them up to their whakapapa; and there are also students like me who knew who we were and knew where we fit into te ao Māori but we were lost in this Pākehā world.”

The bus ride out to Ōtākou Marae is a quiet one. It takes about 30 minutes along the winding Portobello Road of the Otago Peninsula, while students sit, with minimal chatter, taking in the sea views and trying to hold back the queasiness brought on by a mixture of nerves and potholes.

Ōtākou Marae (Photo: Alice Webb-Liddall)

Nestled in the hill beside the maunga Te Atua o Taiehu is the beautiful Ōtākou Marae. One of the locations of the signing of te Tiriti o Waitangi in 1840, the marae holds deep cultural and historical significance in Te Wai Pounamu. 

Covid-19 measures meant the pōwhiri itself ran differently from how it usually would. Students were told before walking onto the ātea that there would be no harirū, and instead were asked to take one deep breath together.

Whaikōrero acknowledged their new beginnings, the journey students are about to embark on and the parents who brought them this far. The kōrero acknowledged the Christchurch earthquake, 10 years ago to the day, and gave a directive to students to truly make the most of the time they now have to learn, make mistakes and grow.

Kai was eaten, tea was sipped and the students all spent some time getting to know each other against the backdrop of the Ōtākou harbour.

The difference between the bus ride out and the bus ride back was astonishing. It was a sign that the pōwhiri had done its job, said Matakihi.

“It’s quite quiet when they come out here, but when they get back on the bus in the afternoon the sound, that’s the magic because you know that they’re going to be alright. Their parents are alright and they’re comfortable.”

Skyla Anderson-Wynn (Ngāpuhi) is also the first of her family to attend university. She was the dux at Tikipunga High School in Whangārei in 2020, and begins a conjoint Bachelor of Law and Bachelor of Arts and Commerce this year. She has only recently begun her journey into learning more about her whakapapa. 

The child of a Māori adoptee, Anderson-Wynn wasn’t brought up in te ao Māori, but has spent the last few years working towards a fuller understanding of her taha Māori. She’s never been to her marae, and knew the visit to Ōtākou would be a different experience to the Ngāpuhi pōwhiri she’d been to before. Despite the dialect and tikanga differences, she said the pōwhiri helped her find a sense of home in Dunedin.

“I enjoyed it a lot more than I was anticipating, I do get quite nervous when it comes to the harirū, but I really enjoyed when we all breathed in together, that was so significant to me because it really felt like I was breathing in the next chapter of my life.”

Skyla Anderson-Wynn (left) and Reihata Phillips Hei Hei (right) Photos: Supplied

In what promises to be a full-on year of study for Phillips Hei Hei, the pōwhiri gave her a connection to her new home. And importantly it helped her parents come to terms with having their eldest daughter 1,600km away.

“It put mum a bit at ease, she met a lot of the people from Kōhatu and the Māori centre and I think talking to them really helped her know that I was in good hands here.”

Despite almost daily messages from her whānau back up in Te Tai Tokerau reminding her of the space she’s left behind, Phillips Hei Hei can already visualise Dunedin becoming a new kind of papa kāinga for her over the next few years. She wants others who have grown up in te ao Māori to understand that university is an option, and they’re never going to be alone if they embark on a tertiary journey in a traditionally Pākehā setting. 

“Give it a go, because you never know if you don’t try. There are going to be some obstacles on the way but there’s always a lot of help and support  everywhere, and in the end if it’s something you want to do, just follow it and go hard.”

For Anderson-Wynn, being Māori is something that she’s growing prouder of by the day. She’s still learning about herself and the world she missed out on growing up in, but that process of discovery has been a rich cultural experience that’s only just begun. 

“Everyone grows up differently, but the more I talk about how much I love being Māori, the more the standard grows for how much I should know about it. If it was handed to me I probably wouldn’t enjoy it as much. It’s a journey that I’m so happy to be on.”

She’s happy that spaces like Te Huka Mātauraka exist for her to continue to explore her own story, with people who understand its importance. 

“Where I’m staying at the moment, sometimes I don’t feel like I fit in, but when I walked down to the Māori centre I felt like I was at home, ‘I haven’t met you guys but you’re my people’.”