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This week, the Education and Workforce Select Committee are hearing submissions on the Screen Industry Workers’ Bill.
This week, the Education and Workforce Select Committee are hearing submissions on the Screen Industry Workers’ Bill.

MediaMay 30, 2020

The Screen Industry Workers Bill is good for our industry – Jennifer Ward-Lealand

This week, the Education and Workforce Select Committee are hearing submissions on the Screen Industry Workers’ Bill.
This week, the Education and Workforce Select Committee are hearing submissions on the Screen Industry Workers’ Bill.

This week, parliament’s Education and Workforce Select Committee has been hearing submissions on the Screen Industry Workers Bill. Equity New Zealand president Jennifer Ward-Lealand explains why the actors’ union supports it. 

The Screen Industry Workers bill rolls back some of the worst aspects of the 2010 Hobbit Law, and we believe this will lead to a fairer working environment for actors and other screen production workers.

In 1991, the industrial relations reforms ushered in by the Employment Contracts Act effectively destroyed the collectively negotiated award system that used to set the minimum standards and wages for the acting profession. This started the shift to actors having to negotiate individually and to being employed as “freelancers” or independent contractors rather than as employees. Despite sporadic efforts over the next 20 years to negotiate collectively, actors were frequently misclassified as independent contractors, rather than as employees, on most film, television and even theatre productions.

It wasn’t until the introduction of the 2010 Hobbit Law that actors, and everyone else employed in the film industry, had the right to challenge their employment status removed. That law, shamefully ushered in on one day under urgency by the National government, said that a worker could be classified as an employee only if their employer said they were. Otherwise they would be independent contractors.

As independent contractors they could not negotiate collectively – because it would be a breach of the Commerce Act – and they certainly would not be able to take any kind of industrial action since the employment laws, which set the rules for strikes, would not apply to them. All other minimum labour standards were also removed as independent contractors have no right to minimum wages, sick leave, bereavement leave, or annual or public holidays.  

There were some interesting exclusions and inclusions in this law: those working in television were not covered by it and yet, over time, nearly everyone who works in television production became independent contractors. The gaming sector was also specifically included in the Hobbit Law, although as Mickey Treadwell pointed out in an article last week, most people in the gaming production area work nine to five and are classified as employees. Obviously some employers in the gaming sector understand this is an excellent way to retain a valuable and skilled workforce, and it is also a tribute to the organisation of the workers themselves.

Jennifer Ward-Lealand as Darcy in Vermillion (2018) (Photo: Supplied)

Given that the Screen Industry Workers Bill doesn’t shift how the gaming sector is covered, we don’t see that it will bring about any radical change to the way people are employed in the gaming production industry. But if, after the bill is enacted, employers in the gaming sector wake up one morning and decide they will only engage workers as independent contractors, this bill will at least give those workers some protection. They will be able to negotiate collectively. 

The Screen Industry Workers Bill has been criticised because it prohibits the right to strike during bargaining for a collective contract, and doesn’t restore the right for a worker to challenge their status as an independent contractor. This might be a bit harsh. Most screen production workers have not had the right to strike for the last 10 years because they have been independent contractors. This bill might actually allow them to take industrial action outside of bargaining, for health and safety reasons, for example – although this is unlikely to occur as there have been enormous efforts by the film industry to comply with the Health and Safety Act and, quite frankly, no one wants to destabilise employment relationships or lose income by withdrawing their labour. Actors in New Zealand haven’t taken any type of industrial action since the 1980s. 

Our union was part of the Film Industry Working Group that brokered the deal that forms the basis of the bill. The limitation on strike action was at the behest of the government, which wants to portray the industry as “stable” in order to attract overseas investment. Maintaining the employment status of workers as independent contractors, however, was the fervent desire of the screen technicians. We agreed to these concessions to gain consensus about the rest of the bill. From a purely pragmatic point of view, we think the ability to negotiate collectively for enforceable minimum standards and wages, and finally have some protections around bullying, discrimination and harassment, is worth it.  

The limits on the right to strike during bargaining is offset somewhat by the ability to access mediation, facilitation or arbitration overseen by the Employment Relations Authority during negotiations, and by the requirement for good faith in workplace relationships (although we think this should be strengthened).

We are looking forward to negotiating minimum wages and standards for our occupation across the screen sector and to second-tier bargaining for specific productions. We are also welcoming the parts of the bill that will restore protections to our members from bullying, discrimination and harassment, because, although it may look like a glamorous industry from the outside, it is a small world and actors can be coerced into doing things they aren’t comfortable with out of fear of developing a reputation for being “difficult” and/or being blacklisted.

We don’t think the Screen Industry Workers Bill will be a panacea for every actor’s work problem. But we do think the Hobbit Law went too far and this bill is a giant step in the direction of creating respectful working environments and fairer working conditions. 

Jennifer Ward-Lealand is an actor and the president of Equity New Zealand. She is a companion of the New Zealand Order of Merit (CNZM) and the 2020 Kiwibank New Zealander of the Year.

Keep going!
Ardie Savea of the Hurricanes speaks to media during the 2020 Super Rugby Season Launch on January 21, 2020 in Auckland (Photo: Phil Walter/Getty Images)
Ardie Savea of the Hurricanes speaks to media during the 2020 Super Rugby Season Launch on January 21, 2020 in Auckland (Photo: Phil Walter/Getty Images)

OPINIONSportsMay 28, 2020

Athletes have embraced social media with gusto. Where does that leave journalists?

Ardie Savea of the Hurricanes speaks to media during the 2020 Super Rugby Season Launch on January 21, 2020 in Auckland (Photo: Phil Walter/Getty Images)
Ardie Savea of the Hurricanes speaks to media during the 2020 Super Rugby Season Launch on January 21, 2020 in Auckland (Photo: Phil Walter/Getty Images)

In a world where players have unfettered access to fans through Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, it raises the question of whether traditional media still has a role to play. But as Scotty Stevenson explains, a player-driven model powered by social media can only go so far. 

Among the many weird and wonderful tales of the late Gordon Hunter was the story often told about him taking his own tape recorder to press conferences and media interviews. Most rugby fans know him as a fine rugby coach, but he was a detective, too; a man with one good eye for bullshit and two good nostrils for sniffing it out. You can’t spend a life fighting crime and not have trust issues. He didn’t trust the media to accurately report the things he said. He kept evidence, just in case they got it wrong. A pocketful of mumbles, such are promises. 

Mistrust of the media is nothing new in the sporting world. The frustrated coach refusing to answer questions about selections and tactics or the athlete, scarred by defeat and dreading Monday’s team review, silently seething at Sunday’s three column inches of criticism are well-trodden tropes of the professional sports landscape. Sportswriters have been banned from the clubhouse, shut out of the scrum, denied access to the players and punched in the eye. Organisations have long used access as leverage. Implicit in this tactic is the adolescent threat: write anything we don’t like and you’re out of the club. No interview for you, mate. 

It was just how the game was played. And like all games, it was a contest. And like all contests, it required people to take sides. Except, it was never that simple. More often than not the sportswriter and the sportsperson were on the same side, until they weren’t. But how could anyone ever be sure? The easiest and most convenient way to pitch the game was to simplify the rules along binary lines because sport (team sport in particular) is essentially a binary pursuit. There’s a winner and there’s a loser, which is why draws are appalling: they mess with the mathematical purity of the system, like good sportswriters do. 

The rules were redrawn by the coaches, and the alpha athletes and the administrators and the burgeoning bureaucracies under the bleachers. They were recalibrated to protect investments and brands; to secure control of the message. They were drafted in the simplest way imaginable until at the heart of all rules was the one rule to rule them all: you can’t trust the media. And fair enough, too. Why would you trust someone who spends countless hours building good relationships with athletes, coaches, administrators and the sundry staff who hang about musty locker rooms like discarded socks, all for the purpose of “getting the story”? 

Why? Because maybe it’s your story. 

During a New Zealand All Blacks IRB Rugby World Cup 2011 media session at the Spencer on Byron Hotel on October 3, 2011 in Auckland, New Zealand.

This is a tweet from Ardie Savea:

“Maybe it’s that players want to control their own news and bring it out in the way the [sic] want to. Not through a media scrum where you have journos tryna get clickbait. The new wave is coming and players are realising they have control over their story through their own channels.”

Ardie Savea is the country’s best rugby player if that can be proved solely by the fact he’s the current holder of the Kelvin R. Tremain Memorial Trophy. Ardie Savea has his own channels. Ardie Savea makes clothes, makes a podcast, makes running metres, makes the most of his time. Ardie Savea can say anything he wants at a time that’s convenient to him. He could, with all false modesty, shed like the skin from last summer’s sunburn, stand on the beach at Lyall Bay in a howling gale, inflate his giant athletic lungs and boom in climactic order at the foaming sea: 

“I am a Lion! I am a Hurricane! I am an All Black! I have Twitter and Instagram!” 

But he wouldn’t do that, because Ardie Savea is not a massive wanker. In fact, he’s an incredibly likeable guy. Ask anyone who writes about rugby. They can’t get enough of him. He’s kind, generous, quick with a smile, genuine with a question, interested in people and interesting to them. When all of that’s considered, it’ll come as no surprise to you that lots of words – adjectives mainly – have been written about him. I wonder how many of those words, wet with praise, struggling to stay upright against the overwhelming desire to be italicised, he would consider “clickbait”.

Ardie Savea’s tweet was a response to a recent story written by Paul Cully, an Australian sportswriter who now calls Dunedin home (which for some reason, always makes me picture a pineapple washing up on an iceberg). That aside, the central thrust of the story is that rugby should look at how it markets itself, especially in terms of its dealings with the media. In between a bunch of marketing academic quotes that demonstrate unequivocally why marketing will never be taken seriously in academia, Cully writes that “both players and journalists dislike the short ‘standups’, with players filling them full of clichés as journalists search for a hook, leaving neither party happy”.

It’s an accurate illustration of what coverage has been reduced to in this sanitised, corporate, risk-averse professional sports world. Headlines have become more hyperbolic to mask the eternal Weekend At Bernie’s content that follows. That is, pretty much every training ground story, no matter how hard the writer works, is essentially an act of pretending a corpse is alive. Why did Larry and Richard create the illusion? Because they wanted to spend the weekend in their dead boss’s house. Why do sportswriters go along with the ruse? Because we like spending our weekends covering sport. And, let’s be honest, after almost three decades of professional rugby, the fans have become accustomed to ignoring the stiff in the corner.

The peerless Ardie Savea wanders through the Wallabies at Eden Park (Photo: Renee McKay/Getty Images)

The American author Thomas Hauser, who wrote about boxing as so many of the great writers did, once said: “[Rocky] Marciano was an idol in a simpler era, when professional athletes were heroes and sportswriters were complicit in building legends rather than exposing them”. Truth is, sportswriters are still complicit in building legends. Ardie Savea’s rugby career has been catalogued, critiqued, commended, analysed, headlined, underlined, scrutinised, scripted and re-scripted, digested with breakfast and re-fed for dinner since he emerged from Rongotai College with “Future All Black” tattooed on his forehead. Yes, where he is now is a testament to his work ethic and ability to harness his talent. But that’s not the whole story though, is it? 

Ardie Savea has risen to the top of his game on the field but his profile off it has been enhanced, waxed, shined and polished by countless columns, features, match reports and commentaries. He’s been helped, not hindered, by a legion of sportswriters in his career, and the vast majority of them are glad he’s found a way to use his voice, even if he’s chosen to amplify his message with his own megaphone on his own channels. 

I’m not sure it has to be one or the other, really. Maybe that obsession with the binary is just too hard to shake: your media is dead, watch my media instead! Nope. I know it doesn’t have to be that, and here’s why: in the next few months, a talented kid will play a game of rugby somewhere. A sportswriter will be there, watching. This kid won’t have thousands of fans and followers, she won’t be a household name, she won’t have a podcast or a clothing line or the satisfaction of potential fulfilled. She’ll play the game of her life and that writer will seek out the coach and ask about her. And then that sportswriter will talk to teammates and family and a story will form – one that tells of some extraordinary victory against the odds, or the unknown tragedy from which hope springs anew, or the remarkable set of coincidences that set in motion the chain of events that led that player to that very moment.  And over time, perhaps her legend will grow, too. Perhaps her legend will be built from there.

In a funny way, the player-driven media model espoused by Ardie Savea and many others is no different to Gordon Hunter bringing his own tape recorder to press conferences. It all comes down to controlling the message, to making sure your side of the story is all sides of the story. It’s a perfectly reasonable development, an expected outcome of a fractured landscape. All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.

Of course, we want the inside word. We want to hear from the athletes. We want to pull back the curtain and have a look backstage. We’ve wanted that all along. As Frank Deford put it: “the one thing that’s largely gone out is what made sport such fertile literary territory – the characters, the tales, the humour, the pain, what Hollywood calls ‘the arc’”.

If only Noah had an arc. He would’ve saved a fortune on timber.