Seabird Brooks is the last man on earth with a functioning VHS player. Gifted a stack of classic surf vids from friends who long ago gave in to technology’s incessant march, he has been asked but one thing in return: ‘Watch these and let the world know they still exist.’ But time is running out. The thing is on its last legs. He frantically sifts through dusty tapes, curses the stoned grommets who failed to rewind them back in 1996, scribbles unreadable notes and hoots involuntarily, all to bring you weekly insights into yesteryear.
Welcome to the Nostalgia Review.
Looking back, the 90s has to be considered the absolute Golden Era for surf films. Sure, the 70s and 80s had their masterpieces, but never before had there been so many talented filmmakers documenting so many talented surfers. Taylor Steele was doing his Momentum thing, Sonny Miller was making brilliant films for Rip Curl, Don King and Jeff Hornbaker were at the top of their game, and Jack McCoy’s technical prowess and psychedelic vision helped produce a string of classics for Billabong.
Of those classics, 1995’s inaugural Billabong Challenge has to be one of the best. The concept was radical. Take eight of the world’s best and dump them in the West Australian desert with fifty grand up for grabs and a two-week waiting period. It might not sound that gnarly now but back then, when shitty beach-breaks constituted most of a competitive surfer’s diet, it helped forge a blueprint for the Dream Tour to follow. And what a cast! Sunny, Occy, Slater, Machado, Johnny Boy, Powelly, Margo and local charger Paul ‘Antman’ Paterson. Guys with iconic styles and personalities to match. Add in Wayne ‘Rabbit’ Bartholomew as contest director (the ASP executive appointment a few years later must’ve been clearly influenced by his performance here) and you’ve got a film starring some of the most legendary names in the sport.
Although every surfer worth his salt recognised the boys were stationed up at Gnaraloo, it’s cool to see that the largely forgotten practice of leaving a break unnamed and unshamed was in full force. Actually, the whole film provides a fascinating snapshot into professional surfing at the time. There were no fancy WSL structures here, just a ramshackle collection of tents and Falcons stacked six boards high, with everyone living in each other’s pockets through whatever weather the desert threw at them. The whole scene is so raw and real-looking you can almost hear the flies buzzing and feel the dust in your hair. The guys fish and play guitar and ping-pong and get on each other’s nerves as they wait restlessly for the right conditions to arrive.
McCoy is at his creative best, too. The deep, earthy tones of a didgeridoo capture the soulful desert vibes and then contrast quickly with a freesurfing session set to a grinding Beastie Boys number. Always a master of striking the right balance between surfing and lifestyle, he uses the procession of lay days not only to build the contest to an epic climax, but also to profile each surfer through the words of their fellow competitors. The boys are relaxed and candid, showing a level of sincerity rarely seen among today’s tour athletes and image-conscious freesurfers. Land and water angles are shot in 16mm, and combined with McCoy’s penchant for weaving a touch of the surreal into his editing, the whole thing is rendered quirky and beautiful.
Then there’s the surfing. From Kelly’s legendary performance at a wave that subsequently came to be known as ‘Slater’s Right’ to the running of the contest at pumping Gnaraloo on the final day of the waiting period, it’s nigh impossible not to froth on what you’re seeing. Sure things have evolved since then in terms of athleticism and progression, but there’s something about the lines those guys were drawing on long, narrow boards that’ll forever remain timeless. So much style, such clean displacements of water. Go order a 6’3 pintail now! Throw in some channels! In a ninety-minute final set to a Yothu Yindi banger, Rob, Kelly, Johnny Boy and a reinvigorated Occy fresh from his couch sabbatical trade four-to-six foot barrels at Gnaraloo, with the ultra-stylish, ultra-afroed Machado eventually outpointing Kelly for the twenty grand winner’s cheque. The joyful, beer-laden presentation that takes place in the tents that night sets the perfect close to what has been an epic forty-five minutes of television worship.
It would’ve been so easy to let the competitive angle dominate the Billabong Challenge, but thank god McCoy and co thought better. What we were gifted instead was a film that left more surfers inspired to get off the beaten track than to pick up a contest rashie. And for that reason alone it’s a classic.
Yeeew!
