MISCHA BAKA

I had bumped into him earlier that day on a busy city street, recognising his dark mop of curls immediately. We had gone to film school together more than a decade ago. He was one of the few people I had stayed in contact with after university, but I hadn’t seen him in years. In that time, I had had two children and gone back to study creative writing, hoping to have more luck with prose than I’d had with film.

‘Mischa!’ I called out, and after a brief but terrifying moment of startled confusion, he beamed. We greeted each other awkwardly within the flow of pedestrians. On closer inspection, his dark curls were streaked grey. I wondered if he noticed the wrinkles that betrayed my own steady creep towards forty but, as you do with peers, I just asked, 

‘So, what have you up to?’ 

I felt the weight of the question as soon as it left my mouth – and feared it’s return. 

We both replied confidently with vague answers: he was editing a feature ‘documentary thing’; I was doing a Masters ‘and writing more than ever!’ It sounded like something but felt like nothing and I was grateful the pull of the commuters urged us to move on. But as I went to say goodbye, he suggested getting a coffee, if I’d like to chat more. 

Sitting down, Mischa asked if he could read anything I’d written and I had to admit that even though I was getting grades, I hadn’t actually published anything yet. Not like him, who had co-directed his debut feature film a few years ago! He blushed, seeming touched I’d known, but he lamented You Can Say Vagina hadn’t really gone anywhere after its initial screening. 

And then, as you do with peers, the discussion moved to other peers: ‘Did you know Rob got into Cannes with the boat smuggler film?’ ‘And Nora’s got her feature green lit by Screen Vic.’ ‘And Andrew’s been making those short docos for Vice.’ (I may not see my old school mates anymore but I know what they are doing, on social media.) 

‘What did you think of Rob’s film?’ Mischa asked. 

And it was here that the conversation stalled; Oh, I hadn’t actually gone to see it. 

Mischa had. He’d made a point of it. In fact, I suddenly realised, the reason we’d stayed in contact after university was because he’d come to see my short film premiere at one of Australia’s most prestigious film festivals. He’d also come to a small exhibition of random other things I’d made – set up in a friend’s loungeroom – when that award-winning documentary didn’t lead to bigger things. 

Mischa ( left) and Siobhan ( right) in a sound mix with Lee Yee

‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we all go and see each other’s work?’ 

I was grateful for his philosophical rather than judgemental tone, but he didn’t know the ugly question I was asking: why do I actively avoid it?

When I got home, I googled my best guess: Comparison.

‘Social comparison theory is one explanation for [the] tendency we have to make comparisons between ourselves and others.’

Scrolling past the listicles offering Seven Ways to Stop Comparing Yourself, I was excited to find a proper psychological theory (explained simply on VeryWellMind.com) 

Although we can measure some things objectively – like height or age – other things can only be understood relatively – through the process of social comparison. How people come to know themselves, I read, is largely influenced by how they compare to others. I may be ‘the funny one’ in my family but put me in another family and I might be the serious one, comparatively. This is why the top students from high school find it very disorientating when they start going to university amongst all the other school’s top students. 

And, interestingly, we seem to actively try to ‘compare ourselves to those in our peer group.’

Which makes sense because the more similar someone is, the more objective the comparison feels. If I am trying to measure my ability as a filmmaker, it makes sense that I’d compare myself against those that have had the same teachers and learning opportunities – because it seems like a level playing field. So, the reason it feels so personal when a peer starts doing better than me is because their success directly highlights my lack, comparatively. 

But I was surprised to read, doing this kind of ‘upward comparison’ can be adaptive: making you ‘motivated to improve upon your abilities.’ Motivated?! This is not how I experience it. 

I eagerly watch a new film by a famous creative I don’t know, but when a colleague announces their screening at a top tier festival, I feel…yuck. The sensation is so sharp and disturbing in fact that I don’t even consider clicking on the link – I just ‘like’ and scroll on. 

I have enough of a struggle motivating myself to create without the reminder someone else is already doing it better. Clearly my social comparison is not the healthy, adaptive type (briefly mentioned at the bottom of the article with a link to ‘self-esteem’), which is why I’ve always found solace in the popular advice to Forge Your Own Path! Run Your Own Race! For me it’s adaptive to avoid their brilliant work, right?

But, if I’m honest, it’s not just the ‘successful’ work I avoid, it’s the other stuff too – the small, local screenings or self-publications. Because (I’m embarrassed to admit) I assume it’s not that good. And why would I want to go see sub-par work? 

That would be called ‘downward comparison’ and apparently it can be adaptive too: you might not be the best, the theory goes, but at least you are doing better than them. And this can motivate you to ‘keep self-improving’. But when my peers share work that isn’t threateningly successful, I scroll by just as fast. Sure, I’m ‘grateful’ but no need to go see the thing. 

That night, Mischa messages me: 

I would love to commission you to write a creative review on a screening Siobhan and I having. The kind of thing that would be published in a magazine or blog – if we were famous.

 

I pace the kitchen floor, rambling at my husband as he methodically scrubs the dishes. He’s a healthcare worker and doesn’t really understand the creative industry but I tell him about Mischa’s request because I’m excited but conflicted: excited to be approached for a ‘real’ piece of writing but scared I don’t have the time with study. 

‘And because it’s a conflict of interest,’ my husband pipes in helpfully. 

Damn, I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps because I hadn’t been thinking about watching the films. 

I want to write a creative review, I tell him, that uses Mischa’s screening to explore comparison in the film industry: ‘We all think we are protecting ourselves by avoiding each other’s work but ironically we are missing out on being motivated by them.’ 

He turns to me, confused, ‘But isn’t that what artists do, share and jam and collaborate?’

He’s been watching a lot of music documentaries about the 60s. An ‘art scene’ is what he means, and I’m taken a bit aback. I want to discuss it more but I’m self-consciously aware this is the type of discussion I should have in my own scene, if I had one.

I message Mischa and say I’m interested but will have to give it some thought. He’s delighted and sends me a link to the event. 

*

The screening will be a collection of thirteen short films, duration 90 minutes: 

‘Before they co-directed their 2019 indie feature, Mischa Baka and Siobhan Jackson had made numerous short films, separately.’

(I actually know Siobhan from film school too, she was one of our main tutors, a true art-house filmmaker. I was a bit jealous when I found out she’d started collaborating with Mischa, but it made sense: she'd been his supervisor when he’d stayed on to do an extra honours year and supervised him again when he’d returned to do his masters.) 

The screening will be held at Thornbury Picture House. ‘One night only – $5 entry.’ There’s a lot more to read on the page but I’m struggling to concentrate – I just can’t get past the website’s amateur layout: chunks of text in different fonts with important lines bolded indiscriminately in blue or red or purple. At the top, the header is a collage of low-budget film images with the words ‘PURE SHIT’ scrawled in red over the top. PureShitAustralianCinema.com has brought up another reason I avoid seeing my peers’ work, what if it’s shit? 

 

It’s deeply uncomfortable watching a film try hard but fail, particularly if I know the person. I feel bad for them. And then what do I say to them after? 

Better to avoid and say I haven’t seen it. That’s better for everyone.

I have seen two of the thirteen short films – one I loved, one I didn’t. The rest are unknowns, but the lack of festival credits and the description as ‘refreshingly unique’ makes me nervous. 

I take a closer look at the website. 

In the long Mission Statement, I learn that ‘Pure Shit’ is actually meant to be tongue-in-cheek: ‘Named after Bert Deling’s incendiary 1975 feature…a great, iconic film, symbolic of a free and inventive cinema.’ Set-up and run by independent filmmaker Bill Mouloulis, the website aims to ‘promote the unique and artistic Australian films made outside the mainstream media with its institutionalised mechanisms and market philosophies.’ 

It’s a far more serious and passionate mission than I’d been expecting, with links to articles like ‘Upending the Canon’ and ‘Obscure But Worthy Films’. Looking at the website now I understand the amateur aesthetic as defiantly punk. 

Back on the screening page, I scroll down to the chunk of prose I’d dismissed. It’s a review of the films by Bill: 

‘Mischa Baka's work is quite distinct from Jackson's…Baka loves the human body and elicits great natural but physical performances from his actors (à la Cassavetes). The editing in these films is always surprising and innovative…’ 

He’s looked at the films individually and as a body of work. He’s described both their work with earnest attention. He’s written about them as if they were famous. And, for the first time, I feel excited to see the films. 

But, I also wonder, why does Mischa need me?

Which is what I ask him when we meet up. 

I’d warned him over email that I couldn’t ethically do a commissioned review and I pitched the idea of taking a slightly different meta angle. But, sitting in a quiet café now, watching him finish a hot chocolate while I prattle on about myself for five-minutes, I admit it’s not really what he asked for.

‘And,’ I add, ‘have you see Bill’s write-up for the screening? It’s wonderful and already does what you want.’ I go on to tell him how I love Pure Shit and how it’s challenging the too narrow, mainstream idea of ‘great cinema’. 

Mischa smiles and says he loves Bill’s ideals too, and all that he’s doing to elevate unrecognised films and filmmakers. ‘But,’ he says, ‘some of the things he screens really are shit,’ and he laughs nervously. ‘But I kind of like that too.’ 

 Now I’m confused about what he wants when he says ‘famous’. Mischa thinks. 

‘What I loved about film school,’ he finally says, ‘was that we all knew each other’s work so well: its concerns, its style, its failings. In the hallways, we pulled them apart and discussed them the way we might talk about an American block buster.’ He laughs nervously again, ‘Or perhaps I’m just pining for the old-days and can’t grow up and join the industry.’ 

I can see he fears my judgement, but I’m actually struck by how different our reasons were for going back to study: He’d gone back for the attentive community, I’d gone back to get better at storytelling, to master storytelling, to get so skilled that I would make something good enough to be accepted into an attentive community. But I knew what he meant. I loved those serious hallway conversations too, I could do that. 

*

The night of the screening and I’m feeling very nervous. Although I know it won’t be a massive turnout, it’s hit me there be will people I know, and then the inevitable question: ‘So, what have you been up to?’ 

As I change my outfit for the third time, I run through my accomplishments, but they feel small. Excuses start to creep in: I’m tired. I’m not prepared. The weather might turn. 

If I didn’t have to go, I probably wouldn’t. 

I get there early. The cinema lobby is beautiful: dimly lit with art deco lighting, a small bar, teal velvet seats and varnished wood. I find a spot in the corner and pull out my notebook. As people arrive, I jot down my observations and my nerves settle with my reviewer’s hat squarely on. The people gather in groups and the small room fills with a hum of conversation. But, I realise, I can’t see anyone I know. None of our peers have come. 

Some bells trill – the screening will be starting soon – and I quickly scribble the film titles in my notebook with room for notes when I’m bumped from behind.

‘Oh, excuse me!’ says a cheery, middle-aged woman that I recognise immediately. It’s my old screenwriting teacher. But when I say enthusiastically greet her I can tell she can’t remember me. 

‘Kelly Hucker,’ I say, ‘I had you in 2010.’ 

‘Oh yes, of course,’ she says uncertainly but I steal myself for what’s coming next. But she doesn’t ask what I’ve been up to, which feels worse. The screening bell trills again and I’m grateful to in.

Waiting in our seats ,there is a nervous tension, or maybe it’s just me. Mischa and Siobhan came in last and are sitting in the front row. A man gets up and introduces the films – this must be Bill. It’s a short welcome, upbeat and grateful for everyone coming out to watch ‘this amazing body of work.’ 

We erupt into applause, and someone whistles as the lights dim. But the screen remains blank. From the darkness, Siobhan calls out: ‘Just a warning, they might not be that amazing!’ 

A big, warm laugh fills the space. I know that laughter, it’s one of relief. Usually I’d appreciate this lowering of expectation too, if I was worrying about them, or me, but I’m not. 

The screen starts to flicker and the music rises. My notebook remains unopened on my lap. 

After the screening, I stand in the lobby and try to get down some of my racing thoughts, but I can’t help overhearing the conversation from the group of young people standing beside me. They are university students – Siobhan probably invited them. They stand in a circle, arms crossed, and exchange reflections on the films. The one with the donkey, they all agree, was great, strong performances and cinematography. But the one about the insecure father, ‘I don’t know if he had control over that one, it felt forced.’ And they all nod in agreement. The responses are astute, one’s I agree with, but the cool tone and analytical confidence is something I also recognise too. And with that they’re off, heading for the exit and straight past Mischa and Siobhan. It makes me feel…yuck but there is no time to dwell – because I am bursting to talk to them. Desperate to discuss the films, the parts that stirred me and inspired me and confused me. I had forgotten how much I loved film, the possibility to see the world through someone else’s eyes. 

And as we talk and argue and compliment and dismiss and re-evaluate, the crowd thins out. Soon there is just the three of us. What my husband might call an ‘art scene.’