How Top of the Lake dissected masculinity to… | Little White Lies

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How Top of the Lake dis­sect­ed mas­culin­i­ty to become a mod­ern TV classic

26 Jul 2017

Words by Lewis Gordon

A person with short brown hair holding a handgun in a forest setting.
A person with short brown hair holding a handgun in a forest setting.
The first sea­son of Jane Campion’s crime dra­ma offers a pow­er­ful cri­tique of patri­ar­chal values.

The haunt­ing seren­i­ty of the New Zealand land­scape might be the first thing you notice about Top of the Lake. It cer­tain­ly lingers in the mind though, the still­ness of the water, the grandeur of the moun­tains and the lush­ness of its forests. Viewed from a dis­tance, it’s some­times a dense, form­less space, the mut­ed blues and greens smudg­ing into each oth­er. But get close enough and details reveal them­selves, like the moss and lichen cov­er­ing every stone, trunk and branch in its ancient wood­lands. This almost myth­ic land­scape frames the action of what, at first glance, appears to be a typ­i­cal detec­tive sto­ry but quick­ly reveals itself to be a sting­ing take­down of how cor­ro­sive, patri­ar­chal val­ues can cor­rupt communities.

There’s a sense of tem­po­ral ver­ti­go as Jane Cam­pi­on, the show’s writer and direc­tor, jux­ta­pos­es pri­mor­dial wilder­ness with small town life, a jump from the deep time of geo­log­i­cal epochs to the cloy­ing inten­si­ty of the present. It’s right there in Top of the Lake’s open­ing scene, where the cen­tral mys­tery is unveiled. We see Tui Angel Mitcham (Jacque­line Joe), 12 years old and preg­nant, cycling down to the water­front, utter­ly dwarfed by her sur­round­ings. Ful­ly clothed in her school uni­form, she walks into the black and freez­ing water in an attempt to ter­mi­nate her preg­nan­cy. It’s a naïve, child­like response – a crude solu­tion – but it’s also strik­ing­ly pre­scient. Tui might not ful­ly under­stand the world around her but she has a keen grasp of its con­se­quences. Short­ly after, she goes into hiding.

Detec­tive Robin Grif­fin (Elis­a­beth Moss) is the one who leads the inves­ti­ga­tion into Tui’s rape and dis­ap­pear­ance. Back in town to vis­it her moth­er suf­fer­ing from can­cer, she’s also escap­ing a rela­tion­ship she’s unsure of com­mit­ting to back in Syd­ney. Cru­cial­ly, Robin has his­to­ry with this com­mu­ni­ty. She is the lens through which we view the effects of the per­ni­cious mas­culin­i­ty the male char­ac­ters ped­dle; both an out­sider look­ing in and an insid­er haunt­ed by past events.

One of the show’s great strengths is the way in which Cam­pi­on deft­ly explores not only the var­i­ous per­mu­ta­tions of these trans­gres­sions but the forums in which they take place. No space is spared influ­ence from the show’s two cen­tral antag­o­nists, the vit­ri­olic Matt Mitcham (Peter Mul­lan) and sleaze incar­nate Detec­tive Al Park­er (David Wen­ham). These men’s grub­by fin­gers extend across the entire­ty of Lake­top, tran­scend­ing its spa­tial lim­i­ta­tions to infil­trate the psy­ches of all those who fall vic­tim to them.

Mitcham, the arche­typ­al patri­arch, runs a drug oper­a­tion out of the base­ment of his iso­lat­ed wood­land home. He ensnares local women to work for him with the promise of free rent, estab­lish­ing a net­work of depen­den­cy that moves beyond employ­ment and into the home: nasty coer­cion fronting as favour. Detec­tive Park­er, mean­while, spends almost the entire­ty of the show either under­min­ing Robin in the work­place or attempt­ing to mud­dy their pro­fes­sion­al rela­tion­ship with crude nice guy come-ons. Even­tu­al­ly, Robin reveals Park­er to be at the cen­tre of a pae­dophile ring involv­ing politi­cians and for­eign busi­ness men, a bleak reminder of how deep and wide these sys­tems of oppres­sion spread.

There is some respite, though, from the omnipo­tent gaze of men. Sta­tioned next to the lake is Par­adise, a women’s com­mune estab­lished by GJ, the show’s mys­tic guru fig­ure. With long, grey hair she deliv­ers philo­soph­i­cal life truths to the bruised and bat­tered women who have fol­lowed her there. Cam­pi­on ini­tial­ly frames the camp irrev­er­ent­ly, play­ing them for absurd laughs with their sto­ries of falling in love with lit­er­al ani­mals (not mere­ly ani­mal­is­tic brutish men). But the impor­tance of Par­adise grows in stature as the episodes progress, the site reveal­ing itself to be a place of refuge and sanc­tu­ary away from clam­our and vio­lence of men.

It’s here that Top of the Lake’s most heart­break­ing and pow­er­ful moment takes place, a crys­talli­sa­tion of the swirling strands of sto­ry and majes­tic imagery that gives the show its heft. Fol­low­ing the trag­ic death of Jamie, the boy who has been help­ing Tui through her preg­nan­cy, the women of Par­adise hold a vig­il. As they per­form a stark­ly beau­ti­ful cov­er of the Bjork track, Joga, the women, along with Jamie’s moth­er, stand togeth­er, an act not just of remem­brance but of sol­i­dar­i­ty, too. And when Matt Micham turns up, he’s rou­tine­ly hound­ed off the site, Jamie’s moth­er let­ting off a bar­rage of ver­bal and phys­i­cal vio­lence. In a pri­or episode we see Robin turn vio­lence back on the men of Lake­top but this is the first time an insid­er, utter­ly embed­ded into the mech­a­nisms of the com­mu­ni­ty, rejects Mitcham and his spu­ri­ous offers of generosity.

Oth­er cel­e­brat­ed shows like The Sopra­nos and Mad Men have delved into the com­plex­i­ties of mas­culin­i­ty, often crit­i­cal­ly but also, at times, sym­pa­thet­i­cal­ly. Top of the Lake sweeps that view­point aside, dis­sect­ing the arro­gance and immoral­i­ty of men in an unflinch­ing, com­pelling man­ner. But more than this, it shows women find­ing a way out of the often abu­sive clutch­es of mas­culin­i­ty. In spite of every­thing, there is hope hid­den amid Laketop’s dark waters and tow­er­ing moun­tains. And when Tui final­ly tran­scends the vio­lence she’s been sub­ject­ed to, she does so with a shot­gun in hand and her fangs drawn.

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