A fitting tribute to one of the luminaries of New Zealand cinema. By NINA FOWLER.

BARRY BARCLAY passed away a few weeks after The Camera on the Shore’s first rough edit was completed. After the tangi, director Graeme Tuckett applied to Te Mangai Paho for funding to “make the film again from the ground up”. The result is a compelling visual, emotional and intellectual celebration of Barclay’s life and work, with a razor-sharp yet restrained political edge.

To quote a fellow audience member, The Camera on the Show “gathers a New Zealand that is forgotten and makes it visible again”. Footage from Barclay’s films gives a unique and lyrical glimpse into 1960s and 1970s Aotearoa, fascinating even to those with no particular interest in Barclay’s work. Aficionados will be rewarded with favourite scenes from Tangata Whenua and Ngati, generous samples from early and experimental works like All That We Need and Ashes, and shots of the young Pacific Films crew at work.

The juxtaposition with Tuckett’s interviews is striking. Now in his seventies, Barclay talks with wry humour about his foray into priesthood (“I translated Waltzing Matilda into Greek”) and his ‘one and only hero protest’ against institutional racism at New Zealand on Air. Many of the interviews were shot simply with handheld camera and inbuilt mic, a technique that fits surprisingly well with the deeply personal recollections of colleagues, family and friends. Several gaps are left in the narrative, but Tuckett’s stated intention to frame rather than capture his subject suggests that he would have shown restraint even if Barclay had been available for a second round of interviews.

Barclay was both director and philosopher. Sick of intrusive, colonial camera techniques, he pioneered the concept of indigenous or ‘fourth’ cinema. As a member of Barclay’s crew put it, “we don’t take film, people give us images”. With Autumn Fires, Barclay went one step further and twisted an indigenous gaze back onto Pakeha culture. His evolution as a filmmaker illuminates the history of documentary and indigenous film in New Zealand, from hokey faux-BBC voiceover to the provocative innovation of Barclay’s work as a mature director. Regrettably, the next phase of the progression is a question left unasked. Barclay’s approach remains the exception rather than the rule, and this is precisely why his thoughts on the future of documentary in New Zealand would have made for valuable and provocative viewing.

The Camera on the Shore is a testament to the work of both Barclay and Tuckett’s team. Once-in-a-lifetime visuals and interviews have been pieced together with a deft and sensitive hand, and perceptive viewers will be rewarded with subtleties that resonate long after the credits fade.