Discover the secret ending to Picnic at Hanging… | Little White Lies

In Praise Of

Dis­cov­er the secret end­ing to Pic­nic at Hang­ing Rock

21 Jun 2018

Words by Georgina Guthrie

Persons, dressed in white garments, resting in wooded area.
Persons, dressed in white garments, resting in wooded area.
The unre­solved con­clu­sion to Peter Weir’s film is much more sat­is­fy­ing than the posthu­mous­ly pub­lished final chapter.

Strange coin­ci­dences were a promi­nent fea­ture of Joan Lindsay’s life. She couldn’t wear a watch, because they stopped around her. She had visions and vivid dreams – one of which revealed itself over a series of con­sec­u­tive nights: on Valentine’s Day, the pupils of an exclu­sive female board­ing school go on a sum­mer pic­nic in the Aus­tralian bush. Four school­girls leave the grounds to explore the area, but only two return. The oth­ers dis­ap­pear with­out a trace. Lind­say imme­di­ate­ly set her dream to paper, and two weeks lat­er, her nov­el Pic­nic at Hang­ing Rock’ was complete.

The book was well received. Edi­tor San­dra Forbes wrote back to Lind­say: I real­ly enjoyed read­ing this, it seems to have the right blend of truth” and fic­tion. There was just one thing. Might the sto­ry ben­e­fit from a lit­tle more ambi­gu­i­ty?’” She sug­gest­ed delet­ing the final chap­ter. Joan con­sent­ed, and chap­ter 18 was removed.

It proved an astute choice. Pic­nic at Hang­ing Rock’ became one Australia’s most trea­sured nov­els, a suc­cess that owed much to its blend of dark nos­tal­gia and a haunt­ing mys­tery that goes unsolved. The omis­sion of chap­ter 18 not only fuelled the inter­est sur­round­ing the nov­el, but became the foun­da­tion upon which the Aus­tralian film indus­try built itself. As Lindsay’s lit­er­ary agent John Tay­lor lat­er admit­ted, It is high­ly unlike­ly that there would have been a rush to buy the film rights in 1972 if chap­ter 18 had not been delet­ed. As any­one can see, the chap­ter is quite unfilmable.”

Thou­sands begged to know the answer to the mys­tery, but for the sake of her pub­lish­ers and the film­mak­ers Lind­say remained qui­et. And on 4 Feb­ru­ary, 1975, film­ing began – using a script that stayed true to the nov­el, minus its secret final chap­ter. The film’s pro­duc­er, Patri­cia Lovell, instant­ly felt uneasy in the vast, ancient land­scape, adding: All our watch­es seemed to be play­ing up. Mine stopped at 6pm on the rock… to ask the time became quite a joke.”

The film was an inter­na­tion­al box office hit. Adored by audi­ences and crit­ics alike, it marked a mile­stone in Aus­tralian cin­e­ma. Its suc­cess was part­ly down to the fact it was so deeply root­ed in British-Aus­tralian cul­ture. Pro­duced, writ­ten, direct­ed by and star­ring Aus­tralians, it dealt with the mythol­o­gy of the land­scape and the gulf between its inhab­i­tants’ Euro­pean-Vic­to­ri­an val­ues and their mys­te­ri­ous new home. Its sun-dap­pled light­ing and warm, lush hues belied the film’s del­i­cate­ly chill­ing core, while the mys­te­ri­ous end­ing – or lack there­of – left a ques­tion mark that lin­gered in the viewer’s mind, exact­ly as the nov­el had done so a decade before.

Direc­tor Peter Weir was big on detail. Accord­ing to the Nation­al Film and Sound Archive of Aus­tralia, the but­ter­fly belt buck­le on Miranda’s dress was cho­sen because, like a but­ter­fly, her life is beau­ti­ful yet brief. The head­mistress’ rigid­ly-sculpt­ed hair­style and heavy, dark-coloured clothes implied Vic­to­ri­an repres­sion, where­as the lay­ered chif­fon of the girls’ dress­es was intend­ed to evoke impul­sive sen­su­al­i­ty and tran­si­to­ry beau­ty. Yet despite this detailed sym­bol­ism, what endures above all is the film’s dream-like atmos­phere. The sto­ry is not a math­e­mat­i­cal sum to be worked out; it’s about a feeling.

The slow-motion, dou­ble-expo­sure shots of Miran­da climb­ing the rock, com­bined with the ethe­re­al pan­pipe sound­track, whis­per­ing voic­es and chit­ter­ing cicadas mes­merise and lead the spec­ta­tor away from the pos­si­bil­i­ty of a solu­tion. Tra­di­tion­al nar­ra­tive even­tu­al­ly peters out, giv­ing way to a hyp­not­ic, oppres­sive­ly lush sen­su­al­i­ty that forces the view­er to sub­mit to the spec­ta­cle, rather than analyse its log­ic. In a 1976 inter­view with Sight & Sound, Weir revealed: I could have placed more empha­sis on the out­post of Empire in the bush, the invaders in an alien land­scape, the repres­sive nature of this lit­tle piece of Empire; but as the atmos­phere result­ing from the dis­ap­pear­ances became my cen­tral inter­est, these themes dis­ap­peared from view.”

It’s easy to lose your­self in the story’s mythol­o­gy as facts and fic­tion melt into each oth­er, resist­ing inter­pre­ta­tion. There are no prime sus­pects; no wit­ness­es or ali­bis. Nei­ther book nor film delve into who did what beyond a series of police inter­views that only high­light the hope­less­ness of the search. A scrap of embroi­dered lace cling­ing to a rock. Dis­card­ed stock­ings that remain undis­cov­ered. Stopped watch­es and watch­ing ani­mals. For­got­ten encoun­ters among the dusty boul­ders, and the author’s insis­tence that the sto­ry just came to her in in her sleep. Each sug­ges­tive frag­ment sits alone. Noth­ing con­nects, and clues peter out into noth­ing­ness, elu­sive as a fad­ing dream.

Lind­say even­tu­al­ly decid­ed that chap­ter 18 should be pub­lished posthu­mous­ly in response to the onslaught of enquiries demand­ing to know the answer to the novel’s mys­tery – and in 1987, three years after her death, the chap­ter was final­ly pub­lished as The Secret of Hang­ing Rock’.

Per­haps unsur­pris­ing­ly, rather than clos­ing the mys­tery, it opens up anoth­er, deep­er one: the last chap­ter sees the miss­ing math­e­mat­ics mis­tress reap­pear, a semi-clothed clown-woman’ who the girls don’t seem to recog­nise as their teacher. She speaks in prophet­ic state­ments, then trans­forms her­self into a crab and enters a time warp. Two girls will­ing­ly fol­low her into the por­tal, one remains and returns to the school with no rec­ol­lec­tion of the fate­ful afternoon.

Whether or not the film would have ben­e­fit­ted from a super­nat­ur­al end­ing is hard to say. Weir’s treat­ment of the atmos­phere of the place cer­tain­ly opens the film to an oth­er­world­ly slant. But in a 2006 inter­view, the direc­tor admit­ted that even he had no knowl­edge of the con­tents of chap­ter 18. “[Lind­say] wouldn’t tell me. But it’s what I love about it. I’d hate to know real­ly in a way, to have some sort of neat answer to what hap­pened – you know, if she fell down a hole or something.”

Lind­say was always sur­prised at the amount of time and thought peo­ple invest­ed in explain­ing the mys­ter­ies with­in her nov­el. That peo­ple were dri­ven to write floods of let­ters demand­ing to know the answer, even writ­ing their own the­o­ries in an attempt to uncov­er a solu­tion. But when the book is put down and the cam­eras have stopped rolling, all that’s left is how deeply the expe­ri­ence is embed­ded in your memory.

And as Pic­nic at Hang­ing Rock proves, an unre­solved mys­tery lingers because you’re giv­en the free­dom to make it your own; to use the silences to form your own answers, and to con­tin­ue won­der­ing what hap­pened long after the words and pic­tures have disappeared.

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