Spirit of Akasha

“I said to a few people, I don’t know if that is even possible,” he says from his home in Uki, a sleepy hamlet in the rainforest belt of the NSW north coast. “How do you? I mean, you can’t replicate it.”

The idea of re-creating Morning of the Earth is sacrilege to many. Directed by Albe Falzon and released in 1972 against the backdrop of Vietnam War conscription and the cultural revolution of the 60s, it provided inspiration for would-be dropouts, creatives, surfers and anyone else looking for a path that skirted the mainstream. Filmed along the NSW north coast, southern Queensland, Indonesia and Hawaii, it not only showed the world’s best surfers, such as 1966 world champion Nat Young and underground hero Michael Peterson performing their hitherto unseen dance atop the waves, but offered a snapshot of a way of life that would become one of this nation’s most defining.

The era was heavily influenced by the new type of boards being produced. Shorter than the cumbersome Malibus that had dominated until then, the new designs allowed surfers to establish a sublime rhythm on a wave, transforming surfing into a form of expression, if not quite an art. The new style provided a rush like no other and, as Morning of the Earth revealed, the most dedicated surfers extended their newfound aquatic freedom to their lifestyle on land, living in tree houses in Yamba, NSW, growing their own food and experimenting with drugs – marijuana and LSD, mostly. Inevitably there were casualties. Peterson, arguably the greatest surfer of the Morning of the Earth generation and an avid substance user, would later serve time in Brisbane’s notorious Boggo Road jail before being diagnosed with schizophrenia. He died in 2012, aged 59, having spent more than two decades as a recluse on medication.

Morning of the Earth helped create the environment that produced one of Australia’s greatest cultural exports: the surf industry. Brands such Quiksilver, Rip Curl and Billabong went on to become multinational corporate behemoths. Surf culture was linked to national identity. But the self-expression, colour and creativity that had been so tastefully revealed in Morning of the Earth was quickly lost in the corporate rush to turn the culture into a fashion statement and surfing into a sport. Heroes were no longer hippies in search of spirituality but logo-clad competitors with an appetite for publicity, power and contest money. The drugs changed too – mind expansion was out, replaced by the supercharged highs of cocaine and methamphetamine. And the places that once provided the sacred rites of passage for any surfer, such as Hawaii and Bali, were overrun by disrespectful wave hogs. There was a backlash in the form of intimidating surf gangs and plenty of violence to go with it.

Falzon was among the first to see the good days were numbered. “I could see it was going to be this tsunami coming and I wanted to get out of the road,” he says. He split to Tibet, then Jamaica before settling on a farm on the NSW mid-north coast where he meditates daily and lives a life much like that of his former film subjects.

Can the spirit of 1972 be revived? Falzon initially was sceptical. He turned down the first few approaches from Warner Bros. When the studio persisted, he replied that Kidman, whose films Litmus (1996) and Glass Love (2006) are also underground classics, should be director. However, like Falzon, Kidman was reluctant to tamper with the original’s legacy.

“I couldn’t see the point, to be honest,” Kidman says. “I respect that [original] film and Albe’s work so much and the musicians that were a part of that film, so the last thing I wanted it to turn into was something that just got butchered. I’ve seen that happen before.”

The pair eventually agreed to do the project as long as Warner Bros gave them complete creative control. To their surprise, the studio did, and handed them a budget of about $500,000, with Falzon as producer and Kidman as director. “It’s very rare when people front you money that they will give you complete artistic control,” Kidman says. “But that’s what they did.”

The result, Spirit of Akasha, is part homage, part sequel and part pastiche of the original. The duo hired several leading oceanic filmmakers to produce their own segments of the film. Some turn their focus to the aesthetics of the sea, others choose to work with the biggest names in surfing, or focus on the lesser known characters who still pursue the stripped-back existence of the 70s.

The starting point is to find where, in surfing’s expanded and corporatised landscape, the spirit of the 70s lives on. In eastern philosophy, Akasha is the place in which “all ideas, all life and all creation originate”, the filmmakers’ website says.

As with the original film – which, devoid of a narrator, relies on a dreamy, abstract style to make its impression – Kidman struggles to describe his movie: “It’s just all these people giving back to what the original thing was.”

Among those “giving back” is three-times world champion Mick Fanning. “I was honoured,” Fanning says. “The whole spirit of the original is inspiring and the soundtrack is still one of my favourites.” One of the highlights of the movie is of Fanning riding boards designed by Peterson before the latter died.

Fanning and Peterson, both of Coolangatta on the Gold Coast, were good friends. Peterson emerged from his seclusion in the last couple of years of his life and was lucid enough to design a couple of old-style single-fin boards. They were made by Simon Jones of Byron Bay, a close friend of Falzon’s and the man behind the Morning of the Earth surfboards.

Sadly, Peterson didn’t live to see Fanning ride one of the boards, but the sequence of him doing so is a filmic testament to the links between surfing generations. Fanning adopts the fluctuating rhythms of 70s surfing and adds a modern master’s speed, expression and power. Similarly, Californian Tom Curren (world champion in 1985, 1986 and 1990), who came closer than any other pro surfer to emulating Peterson’s compact, understated style, rides one of the single fins. He offers glimmers of the artful body positioning and innate sense of rhythm that once made him one of the most beautiful surfers in history.

One of the big changes to surfing since 1972 is the crowded sea. More people are jockeying for a finite number of waves, especially near urban areas. Tempers flare and surfers forget the reason they are in the water in the first place. This is a profound affront to Kidman.

To offset it he sought one of the most stylish, graceful and happy surfers in the world: five-times world women’s champion Steph Gilmore of Kingscliff in northern NSW. Her performance on a vintage single-fin is unquestionably the best of the film. The lines she draws across long, backlit green walls not only evoke Morning of the Earth originals more than any other surfer in the film, but are also a forceful reminder of just how incongruous violence and intimidation are to surfing. The original film had no women surfers, reflecting a culture that confined girlfriends to the beach, gazing out at their men.

But while champions are happy to pay homage to Morning of the Earth, the sequel would not be authentic if it didn’t feature surfers who continue to maintain the underground vibe. Heath Joske, a bushie-bearded amateur surfer from Valla on the NSW mid-north coast, made a Morning of the Earth-style statement in 2012 when he performed a “soul arch” during a semi-pro contest at Jeffreys Bay, South Africa. To do a soul arch, the rider glides with his pelvis thrust forward and shoulders thrown back, sometimes with an arm raised to accentuate the bodily curve. It’s an almost arrogantly joyous gesture that, in a competition, can only be done by forsaking a point-scoring manoeuvre.

Kidman was moved by Joske’s style and included him in the film as a reminder of surfing’s broad canvas. “There are so many different ways you can surf and that’s something we’re trying to show,” Kidman says.

Part of the attraction of the original film was the tropical locations that were yet to be overrun by hordes of surfing tourists. These days, the spirit of adventure has been pushed into colder waters, such as Ireland. Kidman hired Mickey Smith, who has been filming surfers in near-freezing water for 15 years, to capture the Morning of the Earth spirit as it lives on among the Irish. Where the original surfers sought golden beaches and tropical sunsets, their successors find nirvana off harsh, rocky cliffs and coastlines.

Just as the surfers were a hard act to follow, so too were the musicians. The original soundtrack featured G. Wayne Thomas, Tamam Shud and Brian Cadd, among others, and was once named one of the best 100 Australian albums of all time. Kidman and Warner Bros were up to the task, however. Atoms for Peace (featuring Thom Yorke of Radiohead and Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers), Pond, Andrew VanWyngarden (of MGMT), Angus Stone, Xavier Rudd, Ben Howard, Dirty Three and Kidman’s own band, the Windy Hills, are just some of the contributing musicians. In every case except for Atoms for Peace and an unreleased Brian Wilson/Andy Paley track, the music was commissioned, composed and recorded for the film.

Kidman is reluctant to discuss the cultural significance of his creation, other than to say that, despite the digressions and diversions surf culture has taken during the past 40 years, the purity of the experience remains intact.

“We went to see if the spirit of Morning of the Earth was still in surfing and, um, I think it is,” he says. “That was a really interesting part of making the film, you know, seeing if it was there. People think it’s slated for the 70s but I think you can still live with that idealism or romance within your life today. We found that in a lot of the subjects and a lot of the musicians and what they created.”

This piece originally ran in The Australian.