We Were Dangerous

Bluesky

What does it mean, to be dangerous? To a rebellious teenager in Fifties new Zealand/Aotearoa, it means getting in fights, throwing things, shouting, maybe even running away. These things make an impression on other kids, but adults have seen them all before and know from experience that they can be broken. The most difficult person to reform, the matron (Rima Te Wiata) tells us, is a girl who doesn’t think that she needs to be reformed. A confident girl who wants knowledge and freedom, not marriage and protection, is something that has been seen as dangerous in many a time and place.

Nellie (Arana James) and Daisy (Manaia Hall) are categorised as delinquent for two reasons: they’re unashamedly Māori, and they’ve persistently failed to obey the rules of the white society. They’re not particularly wild kids, but they’re not good at paying attention, and they joke and mess about. It’s for this reason that they’ve been sent to the Te Motu reform school, whose mission is to Christianise, ‘civilise’ and assimilate. It’s their behaviour, in turn, that sees the school relocated to an island where they might be more easily controlled. This development happens to coincide with the arrival of white girl Lou (Nathalie Morris), rumoured to be a ‘sex pervert’ (actually a lesbian), and the three soon become fast friends.

There’s a good deal in the first half of Josephine Stewart-Te Whiu’s lively drama that recalls classic schoolgirl fiction, with its emphasis on friendship, discovery and getting into scrapes. Our young heroines are bursting with energy, emotions run high, and they’d rather run around, joke and dance than focus on their lessons. The wider context of all this only gradually becomes apparent: that certain sorts of dancing are forbidden because the school wants to eliminate the Māori girls’ ties to their cultural heritage; that Daisy can’t focus in class because she can’t read, and nobody is trying to teach her, this supposed education being more focused on preparing the girls to be wives, nannies or domestic servants.

Shown as it is from the perspective of the girls, the film does not assume much familiarity with the history of colonisation, but permits us shocking glimpses, from the cruel physical punishments enacted on recalcitrant rebels, to the medical procedures revealed to be the reason why some girls just disappear. All this is made more tragic by the involvement of the matron, who is Māori herself but ashamed of that part of her identity, gratefully surrendering herself to the ways of the Empire. Te Wiata’s performance, complete with clipped pseudo-English accent, hints at a troubled woman who has fund peace in obedience and who is, on some deep level, fearful of girls whose own convictions are so strong that they could lead her to doubt so that she takes refuge in a sort of defensive meanness that is inscrutable to them.

The darkness in the film is carefully balanced by comedy, as Stewart-Te Whiu reaches beyond the increasingly familiar grim dramas tackling these aspects of indigenous history to find something else – a celebration of resilience which itself has the potential to be dangerous. The girls’ determination to resist, and the ingenuity with which they do so, lead to a thrilling final act which hints at a brighter future. There is still a long way to go to find real justice, but indigenous joy is a powerful thing.

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