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The Currency Press’s series ‘Australian Screen Classics’ is off to a good start. With playwright Louis Nowra’s Walkabout, thorough in its production, analysis and reception mode, novelist Christos Tsiolkas’s The Devil’s Playground, a study in personal enchantment, an Age film reviewer Adrian Martin’s The Mad Max Movies, an action fan’s impassioned response to the trilogy, the series makes clear that it will not be settling for a predictable template.

For anyone who has not seen Nicolas Roeg’s Walkabout (1971) for some years, Nowra’s study will evoke it with clarity and, because the book is also at times provocative, make another viewing essential. Nowra makes his intentions clear from the outset: he plans to trace ‘the process from the novel, to the preparation, to the filming and then, reception of the film’, and the structure of the book follows this blueprint. His admiration for the film is palpable, though this doesn’t stop him from criticising effects he finds too obvious.

As one who has lived in Western Australia for the greater part of her life and currently works in the arts,  my interest was piqued by the claim of the editors of his collection that Western Australia may bid farewell to the defensive term ‘Cinderella State’, once adopted in relation to its arts and culture. Traditionally perceived in the cultural imagination as ‘behind’ its east coast counterparts, Western Australia has struggled with the entrenched perceptions of many in eastern cultural centres: an edenic state with its beach culture, sun and outdoor lifestyle, somehow not quite in step with the rest of the country, and possessing a slight but discernible cultural ineptitude. As one contributor to this collection states, Western Australia has been viewed as ‘an isolated enclave sitting on the edge of a void’; insularity and parochialism have regularly been invoked when describing the most remote city in the world.

These two new textbooks on welfare and in-equality admirably reflect the strengths of the Australian teaching and research tradition in these areas. Inequality in Australia bristles with discussions of evidence and empirical data, key points for discussion, boxes with further elaborations, and lists of suggested readings. It takes note of the most important debates about how people actually experience inequality, and emphasises the importance of theory without abandoning a commitment to describing lived experience in concrete terms. Like all compelling sociologies, it connects the incidents and commonplaces of everyday life to concepts such as power, privilege and domination without demeaning the capacities of human actors and without suggesting that we may as well surrender ourselves to ‘hegemonic forces’.

What should you expect from a companion? Resolute reliability? Occasional inspiration? Whimsical, even capricious distraction? I decided to start with my own pet subject, ethology, one that has a solid presence in the scientific discourse of the second half of the twentieth century, with contributions from Franz de Waal, Jane Goodall, Desmond Morris and Steven Rose, as well as from the three Nobel laureates recognised in 1973.

I lifted the hefty Oxford Companion to the History of Modern Science and found no section headed ‘ethology’. So I went to the front of the book seeking the less technical ‘animal behaviour’. No luck there, either. So to the index. Nothing. What about under ‘psychology’? But there is no such heading! Can psychology be too recent a discipline to qualify? Or insufficiently scientific? Only behaviourism and phenomenology sneak into this category.

During his lengthy career as editor of the Daily Express, Arthur Christiansen visited Rhyl, one of those grim towns that passes for a seaside resort in the English north. Strolling along the promenade with his wife, he was fascinated by the people: ‘Their flat, sallow northern faces, their Sunday-best clothes, their curious capacity for enjoying themselves without displaying any signs of emotion, moved me – people in the mass always do.’ Returning to London, he wrote a bulletin describing ‘the composite Englishman’ whose interests and perspectives his reporters should always have in mind. Christiansen called him ‘THE MAN ON THE RHYL PROMENADE.’

Damien Kingsbury witnessed the 1999 violence in East Timor as a UN observer, and uses the experience of being confronted with the Indonesian military’s campaign of violence there to introduce what is the most frank assessment of the Indonesian military we are likely to see outside of confidential intelligence reports. The fact that Kingsbury has experienced the fear the Indonesian military instils in places like Aceh and Ambon makes this analysis of the role of the military there so important. It is not so much the explicit writing of that experience, but the questions it makes him ask about the Indonesian military and the con-struct of the Indonesian state, that make this piece of academic writing stand out.

In his ‘Letter to Menoecus’, the Stoic philosopher Epicurus famously argued that the notion of euthanasia is an oxymoron – death can be neither good nor bad for who dies. How could a complete void be rationally welcomed or feared? In her study of the ethical, legal and political issues raised by suicide and euthanasia, Miriam Cosic reveals how, to many, the concept of a good death is far from incoherent. Many people feel that the question of whether death can ever be a good thing is for them alone to answer.

The 1990s will be remembered as the time when Australia slid into that morbid state of ‘new inequality’ that Will Hutton, writing about the British experience under Margaret Thatcher, called the ‘30/30/40 society’. In July 2003 the Australian Bureau of Statistics confirmed that income inequality had increased substantially during the 1990s. Whether a preoccupation with the ‘shrinking middle’, as Michael Pusey has recently argued, is therefore all that important is questionable. In Australia, one in four jobs are now part-time, and many are precarious. Persistent and long-term unemployment has contributed to the fact that one in three Australians are now relying substantially on government benefits. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that what Mark Peel in this new book calls ‘poverty news’ is back on the front page. By poverty news, Peel means the way Australia’s media has increasingly reported the problems occasioned by ‘welfare cheats’ since the late 1980s. Peel’s book challenges us to ask how we should think about poverty.

The heart of this book is an account of one year in the life of its author. In 1963, at the age of fifteen, Robert Hillman left his hometown of Eildon, in Victoria, and took a position as a junior in the ladies’ shoe department of the Myer Emporium in Melbourne. He didn’t last long. Before he knew it, he had booked a passage on a ship to Ceylon. He had a dream, not a plan. The dream was of a soft landing on an idyllic island of perfect women who would tend to his every need and desire. It was a dream of Eden, of a world before the Flood. In this case, the image is apposite. In 1954 Eildon had been submerged by the waters of a new dam. This project had brought Americans and money to the town; once they departed, the new Eildon was a shiny but emotionally threadbare place. The world after the flood was a punishing place for young Robert. He wanted to return to paradise.

In the aftermath of the Iraq War, any book on the history of public relations and politics seems almost quaint. That’s not a criticism, because the events and ideas Bridget Griffen-Foley analyses in Party Games: Australian politicians and the media from war to dismissal highlight just how quickly and utterly PR has insinuated itself into the life of politics. Still, it is hard to resist a cynical smile as you read of the then Liberal Party president, R.G. Casey, noting in 1947 that ‘he had learned from an American friend of a new profession called “Public Relations”’. Showing the sort of political prescience that underpinned Robert Menzies’ success, Casey became convinced of the ‘need to create a “favourable atmosphere” to advance one’s causes or interests’. Fast forward to the likes of Alastair Campbell, the head of strategic communications for the Blair government, or even our own Peter Reith, and the naïveté of the immediate post-World War II period seems positively disarming.