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Wizards of Oz:
survivals, losses and finds in Australian film history

Ray Edmondson
Among the Collectors

I do not think there is any thrill in film archiving which matches the finding of an
important “lost” film. Without wanting to sound melodramatic, the comparisons which
most readily come to mind are the Egyptologist stumbling across an ancient,
unplundered tomb in the Valley of the Kings, or young Jim Hawkins and Long John
Silver striking it rich on Treasure Island. (Visions of a cackling Robert Newton drooling
over a stack of newly unearthed cans don’t seem entirely incongruous. “Arrrhh now,
Ray lad, what precious gems awaits us ‘ere, then, eh?” he exclaims, and applies the tip
of his cutlass to lever off a rusty lid …)

From the time in 1968 when I first joined the NFSA’s predecessor – the embryonic film
archive within the National Library of Australia – the archaeology of Australia’s film
history was a gradually unfolding and endlessly intriguing journey of discovery. Of the
history of the Australian industry during the nitrate era, little had then been documented.
But there was already a collection of several hundred titles, serious research was
beginning, and many of the industry’s important pioneers were still living.

As I was to discover, the network of film collectors was vibrant, active and – of course –
appropriately secretive. Many were passionate individuals whose hobbies cost them
dear. Their private 35mm cinemas – perhaps a converted garage or lounge – could not
be cheaply constructed. Their collections filled available space – sheds, garages, spare
rooms. Because of the flammability of the films, they were understandably circumspect
about advertising their enthusiasms to their neighbours or their insurance company.
Where the house was shared with a wife and children (collectors were almost always
male) they had often to extend a good deal of tolerance to Dad’s enthusiasm!
In time, I found myself welcomed into their world. I was privileged to be so treated,
because as a government-employed archivist rather than a private accumulator I
represented the suspect hand of “officialdom”. It needs to be remembered that any large
private 35mm collection was composed, at least in part, of films that were technically
“stolen property” – that is, of prints that had been officially, if not actually, junked. They
had found their way into private hands by informal means, and the commercial film
distributors from whom they had been sourced – who, among other things, were fearful
of piracy – understandably frowned on the practice. Sometimes actively so: stories of
distributor-instigated police “raids” on private collections were part of the rich apocrypha
of the collector network, which abounded in yarns of finds, one-upmanship, and
skullduggery at the expense of distributors or laboratory proprietors. (At the same time, I
suspect the “thrill” of possessing illicit materials was actually, for some, part of the
attraction of collecting.)
The stories are legion, but that of the mysterious and unnamed “Chinese Gentleman”
will illustrate. In Australia at the time, 35mm prints were usually shipped to country
cinemas by train – a programme would be booked for sequential play dates in a series
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