Tū Tonu Mai
I want to make a little something for people who were kind when I broke my leg. ‘Your quince paste’, says my mate 1B. But our quinces aren’t yet ripe and — because of this dry summer and autumn — they’re small and they’ll be a challenge to process. I don’t want to wait for them.
So. Jam, I decide. A little late for blackcurrants. Maybe raspberries?
It takes a while, but I find some (frozen!) organic raspberries. And 1B comes over to support and supervise from the kitchen table, with my Edmonds Cook Book —my only frozen raspberries recipe (no online recipes in this kitchen!). I haven’t made jam for years and years, am surprised to recognise the precise moment that the roiling mixture reaches setting point.
And then we test it, on 1B’s BYO scones. A bit sweet, we agree. And next time, how to keep the raspberries whole(ish)?
And then we talk about the loooong Los Angeles Times interview with Madeline Sami and Jackie Van Beek, writer/directors of The Breaker Upperers, (now on Netflix!). Love these bits —
‘They [Madeline and Jackie] hired several female department heads and facilitated job sharing so that working moms were part of a gender-balanced crew, including producers Ainsley Gardiner and Georgina Conder of the female-forward Miss Conception Films.
“Our producers Ainsley and Georgina were both moms, so one would do half the week and then they’d tag out,” said Sami, who has a baby daughter with musician wife Ladyhawke. “Head of makeup and head of wardrobe were job-sharing moms; we made a concerted effort to be like, ‘We can do this.’ ”
“It’s important to us that we’re inclusive and that being a mom doesn’t mean you can’t make feature films in any department,” said Van Beek, who has three kids with comedian Jesse Griffin. “Making feature films and having children shouldn’t be mutually exclusive.”
Van Beek credits her experience on What We Do In the Shadows, where producers Waititi and Chelsea Winstanley had an area set aside so she could breastfeed, with setting a welcoming tone for working mothers on set.
“I had fangs in and I was breastfeeding my baby. After that experience, I thought, it can be no other way. And if a mother is the best person for the job — make it work.’
And while the jam cools we chat about the new and women-led wave of kindness and collectivism in local women’s film-making. The wave that provides best practices for building a New Zealand filmmaking whare, like the one for literature described by Tina Makereti in Poutokomanawa — The Heartpost — ‘a kaupapa whare’, a national house, ‘for all of us…that must welcome and absorb and connect’ all the screen stories and filmmakers and audiences of Aotearoa.
Did I miss something when I wrote about it, I wonder? What did you say? she asks. I show her the post. She skims it. We run through the list, work on a summary–
‘If your dream’s only about you, it’s too small’ is a starting point for the collectivism, with parameters expressed by Ainsley Gardiner: ‘Working on [Waru] absolutely reminded me that we have to embrace what comes naturally to us. We are fierce nurturers and protectors of what is right. We can handle incredible pressure and pain. We can fight among ourselves, recover, make decisions that serve the community, and we can do so without losing anything for ourselves’.
(‘No fighting,’ says 1B. ‘That’s not kind. Leave that out.’
I’d read ‘fight’ as referring to the normal — and necessary — conflict within collectives; and to the external battles against systemic injustices, fought so much more effectively as a group: they’re necessary too. I can’t imagine that Ainsley Gardiner would advocate for physical violence. But that’s what ‘fight’ means to 1B.
As always, it takes us a while to reach a position that’s tenable for both of us. We agree that conflict is normal. It’s good. Heated arguments, with opposing positions, like this one we’re having right now. We’re at one re the battles, too. And agree that if we leave out the ‘fight among ourselves’, an essential element would be lost.
‘OK,’ she says eventually. ‘Let’s leave it in. But NO physical fights, not ever. And when I meet Ainsley, or you do, we ask her what exactly she meant.’ ‘Done.’ I say. ‘And make a note of this disagreement,’ she says. So we do that, together; and move on to the next bit.)
‘Kaupapa whare collectivism requires explicit acknowledgment of those who’ve helped and inspired you — even if you’ve never worked with or for them — and those who’ve advocated for you, mentored and nurtured you and may continue to do so; and it comes with taking on responsibilities to advocate for, mentor and nurture others yourself.
It supports self-determination and self-representation for diverse women and their communities and extends across borders as it does so. Its kindness responds to a key question, as articulated by Vai’s producer Kerry Warkia: ‘How do we take care of people holistically?’ It welcomes carers in all roles in front of and behind the camera and welcomes children and young people on set, where everyone’s fed well and looked after.
It embraces flexibility of responsibility, too. Any task can be shared, including directorial responsibilities. (Think Waru, with its eight directors; Vai with its nine; The Breaker Upperers with two; the upcoming Cousins with two; Andrea Bosshard’s three features with Shane Loader: together these productions form a critical mass and provide global leadership, we reckon.)
Above all, these projects are safe, so everyone can do their best work. Zero tolerance of psychological violation in its myriad forms. Zero tolerance of its regular associates: physical violence, sexual violence, economic violence.’
‘I haven’t read or heard about laughter,’ says 1B.
‘I haven’t either,’ I say.
But there absolutely will be fun, absolutely will be laughter, we agree. Kindness and collectivism are both fuelled by joy. ‘Make another note,’ says 1B.
We talk then about how the new wave brings results, some of them economic, some of them through critical acclaim. What We Do in the Shadows is at number 8 in the all-time Top Twenty Films at the New Zealand Box Office and has various spinoffs ; The Breaker Upperers is at number 15 and out on Netflix. Waru and Vai have been globally appreciated. Other projects that embrace kindness and collectivism, like The Great Maiden’s Blush, Hang Time and Vermilion, have added richness and texture to our feminist canon.
1B hasn’t been safe in the screen industries. She’s been bullied, by women and by men. Sexually assaulted, by men. So we talk about that. Talk about the differences between those for whom manaakitanga and whanaungatanga are default settings and those for whom they aren’t (lots of us: we joke, briefly, about my legendary defaults to awkward, irritable and irritating). We talk about how the ‘new’ practices may affect 1B’s own work.
And then she moves on.
‘Vai’s Marina Alofagia McCartney described the ‘new’ collectivism as ‘Moana cinema’, remember? At the Berlinale? She finds the clip and we listen again–
‘‘To me, [making Vai] is the opposite of the auteur theory, where the director is the author. Because we’re all [including Vai’s producers] authors…This really is the true nature of the collective. This is Moana cinema.”
‘And most of these new wave women are from Te Moana Nui a Kiwa — Māori and/or Pasifika’, says 1B. ‘Or work with Māori and Pasifika producers: at Piki Films; Miss Conception; Brown Sugar Apple Grunt. And Māoriland has a similar kaupapa, that extends to Para Kore, working towards Zero Waste (which I bet is — or soon will be — true for the moviemakers, too). The ‘kaupapa whare’ comes from Tina Makereti. Merata Mita’s in there, for sure.’
She takes another scone, butters it liberally and thoughtfully. ‘I wish I’d brought cream,’ she says.
‘Kare,’ she continues, heaping on the jam, ‘You’ve met Kōhine’s Koro? You know he’s one of the last of the old school native speakers left, an expert in te reo and in English?’
I nod.
‘He’s getting on, but he might consider a request to generate a term to acknowledge that this ‘new’ kindness and collectivism isn’t new; that it’s based right here, drawing on centuries of skilful practice of manaakitanga and whanaungatanga; of aroha; of the responsibility to tautoko and awhi; and as kaitiaki for the environment. To acknowledge that you wāhine Pākehā — and others — are blessed to benefit from practices based on this wisdom. Directly or indirectly.’
So we cover the jam jars. And I email Kōhine to ask. A little tentatively, because she’s always flat out and because yes, Koro is elderly.
Their generous response comes back in due course, via Kōhine. Here it is, with the warmest thanks to them both–
‘I got a surprise visit from Koro, who finds the low-sugar-banana-raisin-bran muffins I send to him every week ‘comforting’, which somehow was the best compliment ever; and had a chance to see if he would play some more ‘word games’ with me. The old boy has not been well and was tired but we gave it a go.
Our suggestion is quite a simple phrase–
Tū Tonu Mai
Koro, in his unique conceptual shorthand, gave a very cool and kinda poetic explanation as to why he liked this idea, so I wrote some notes.
Tū — as in ‘e tū’/’stand’, a collective group action — doing something together.
Tonu — hereafter — i.e. ‘going forward’, is an always continuous condition and this is an example of Māori logic where the past is in front of the collective while it moves backwards to the future. Besides, Koro said, putting Tonu after Tū always sounds better.
Mai — as in where we are now. The collective is making a response (standing together) and addressing an attitude or process that used to exist but doesn’t anymore, because right here where we are now conditions are changed — thanks to us standing up together. It also alludes to a unity of experience beforehand, i.e. the way of the film world for women. But now there’s an active promotion of something ‘other’ a new, revised expectation, or an ambition and approach that asserts hope for much more.
In the reverse Māori logic implied by the putting together of Tonu and Mai, Koro explained that this intentional juxtaposition of time and space reminded him of film, where, he said, images made in the past are projected in the light of our present. They come forward with a life of their own that will in turn come forward again, as the films that go on to have more life in the future.’
I call 1B, read her the email.
‘O babe,’ she says. ‘This makes me tangi. I’ll call you back.’
A week later, another email from Kōhine–
‘Koro’s bag for this week: freshly made low-sugar-banana-raisin-bran muffins and a box of heat & eat smoked tarakihi (done in the wok with manuka wood chip & star anise), spring onion, mashed potato fish cakes for the retirees’ brunch under my mate’s arm and out the door… I have a little moment to myself to scribble the extra Oh-yes-this-is-the-unspoken-assumed-idea-behind-the-idea notes Koro gave me when we were discussing the concept Tū Tonu Mai.
When I began with the earnest need to describe the collective action we were naming as one belonging to women film-makers, who wanted to embrace kindness and an inclusive, more compassionate ethic, etc, etc, Koro looked at me somewhat surprised. “What else do you expect?” he said, “Only women have the initiative, ability and the will to want to work in a new way”. D’oh! Don’t you love our dinosaurs? The old boy’s so right, of course.’
‘Āe,’ says 1B, when I call her again and read her the new email. ‘Ātaahua ana tēnei pūmahara, tēnei kōrero pono, ēnei kupu. Ka nui te aroha ki a Koro rāua ko Kōhine.’
And then, ‘Now about that quince tree and its fruit…’
