The suggestion that any single retelling of the story of the Kelly Gang might come close to ‘true’ is laughable, but by drawing attention to this fact at the outset, Carey gives himself unfettered creative licence to embellish the tale however he pleases. And while the aural-visual medium of filmmaking could never hope to recreate the unique interiority of Carey’s Kelly or the breathtaking poetry of his loquacious, first-person prose, Kurzel’s film nevertheless succeeds, positioning itself less as a direct adaptation and more as an invocation. It summons the same restless spirit as the novel, and permits itself those same grand liberties with the so-called ‘truth’.

The most interesting of the film’s many departures from veracity have to do with the period setting itself, and how malleable it becomes in the hands of Kurzel and his team. In the film’s first act, titled simply ‘BOY’, Kelly is played by Orlando Schwerdt, indentured to Russell Crowe’s twinkle-eyed bushranger Harry Power. At this point, viewers might be under the impression that they are watching a well-researched historical drama, replete with period-appropriate costumes and locations. But by the time George MacKay appears as adult Ned in the second chapter (‘MAN’), he is sporting a mullet and speaking in a broad Aussie accent, channelling the on-stage energy of Australian rock frontmen Kirin J. Callinan or Gareth Liddiard as he whips an opponent in a bare-knuckle boxing match. A roaring punk anthem fills the room, and from that point on the cunning anachronisms keep coming thick and fast. The camerawork becomes increasingly more handheld, the dialogue more free-wheeling and naturalistic. We start to notice some familiar faces in the cast: Earl Cave (son of Nick, no stranger to the lore of Northern Victoria) as Ned’s younger brother Dan; Marlon Williams (a Kiwi bluesman speaking in a put-upon American drawl); the ever-welcome Uncle Jack Charles; the beloved cabaret artist Paul Capsis; and even noted sex industry advocate Tilly Lawless.

Russell Crowe and Orlando Schwerdt in True History of the Kelly Gang (photograph via Transmission Films)

By the halfway point, as Ned is transitioning from ‘BOY’ to ‘MAN’ to myth, the film is transitioning as well – away from period drama and towards contemporary pastiche, retaining its plot but gleefully abandoning all pretence of historical accuracy. The Kelly Gang recruits wear modern-day cardigans and Blundstone boots, rocking sleeve tattoos and chunky jewellery, giving scenes the look and feel of a Brunswick share house as opposed to a nineteenth-century bush hideout. The film crackles with homoeroticism, taking Carey’s themes of transvestism and running with them full pelt, in a queer viewing of outlaw life that feels determinedly twenty-first century. The Glenrowan Inn, the site of the Kellys’ last stand in 1880, is presented as a brutalist metal structure, an angular monolith foisted against the natural backdrop, all steel walls and slitted windows, resembling a certain iconic helmet. Here the Kellys are thrown into a kaleidoscopic, strobe-lit bloodbath against a platoon of rave-ready police troopers wearing reflective rain ponchos.

Filmmakers would usually avoid such anachronisms like the plague, but in True History they are the entire point. Kurzel’s bare-chinned, androgynous, beatnik bushrangers are shown to be no different from the teens and twenty-somethings of today. When the outlaws first construct their steel-plated uniforms, they delight in lining up to be fired upon by their fellow gang members, like an episode of Jackass set in the snowy Wombat Ranges. This True History strips the Kellys of the pomp and padding of traditional history, reminding us just how young they were to have had such atrocities committed against them, and to have committed so many themselves.

Keeping this expressionistic treatment grounded are impeccable performances from MacKay (with the same bug-eyed intensity he brings to Sam Mendes’ 1917) and Essie Davis as Ellen ‘Ma’ Kelly, masterfully playing the Lady Macbeth to her would-be outlaw king. Cinematographer Ari Wegner adeptly handles the film’s escalation towards total visual anarchy, and the music by Jed Kurzel (brother of Justin) seems to spring from the blasted landscape, all percussive strings and sub-aural drones.

George MacKay in True History of the Kelly Gang (photograph via Transmission Films)

Naturally, a two-hour runtime demands that certain events and character arcs from the book be trimmed, conflated, or omitted altogether. Screenwriter Shaun Grant pulls this off nearly imperceptibly. It is only during the Stringybark Creek ambush, where Ned seals his fate and becomes the ‘big man’ his Ma always wished him to be, that his journey feels unfairly abbreviated. In Carey’s novel, Ned faces nearly three hundred pages of discrimination, injustice, and scorn before he resorts to killing in cold blood. In the film, this agonising transition is hemmed down to a handful of key sequences and a few bad role models.

This necessary streamlining also has the eerie effect of making the vast colonial landscape appear almost empty. One of the delights of Carey’s novel is its density: his Kelly’s punctuation-free stanzas allow a vast amount of action and information to pour forth, creating a hugely detailed and richly populated world. But here, there are no busy high streets, no weddings in raucous pubs, no hawkers or prospectors popping up along the old Melbourne Road. At times it feels as though the Kellys, and their adversaries, are the only living beings on Earth. The Kelly selection sits on a dry lot of land surrounded by scorched gum trees, their naked branches splitting the sky. When characters move from place to place, they ride on horseback by cover of night, illuminated by alien-green floodlights as if being divinely transported from one preordained outpost to the next, galloping helplessly towards their fates.

At one point in his journal, Kelly writes that ‘a myth is more profitable than a man’ – a keenly prophetic observation with regard to his own life and legacy. For better or worse, the outlaw Ned Kelly is perhaps the most profitable of all Australian myths. While myths might be profitable, they are also far from sacred. They demand scrutiny, interrogation, and reinterpretation if they are to remain relevant. Every generation gets its own version of the history of the Kelly Gang. With its revisionist visuals, shifting gender roles, and unflinching violence, it seems fitting that this ‘true’ history is ours.

True History of the Kelly Gang is currently screening in select cinemas, before its national release on Stan on 26 January 2020.