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September 4, 2026 — 12:12pm
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When Stella Miles Franklin’s first novel My Brilliant Career was published in 1901, it had mixed and often patronising reviews from the (mostly male) critics. But the readers who loved it were young Australian girls like herself, growing up on remote homesteads and dreaming of a better life.
Jill Roe’s biography of Franklin quotes from their letters. Pearl Wilson of Jenolan Caves thought it “the very best Australian tale I have ever read”. Stella Simpson of St Kilda, Melbourne, wrote: “I am an Australian girl like yourself and I have had the same longings and I think exactly the same things as you do, and how I have revolted against being a girl.”
No doubt these letters delighted Franklin, who based her novel on her own experiences and her frustrated desire to be a writer. “Oh, how I hate this living death which has swallowed all my teens, which is greedily devouring my youth, which will sap my prime, and in which my old age, if I am cursed with any, will be worn away!” cries Sybylla Melvyn, Franklin’s alter ego.
The little bush girl’s inexorable fate is to be gussied up for marriage, preferably to some young fellow with enough means to pay off the debts threatening to ruin her family. But with her poetical and creative spirit struggling to emerge, the last thing she wants is to have her life controlled by a man.
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In its day, My Brilliant Career was praised as a realistic picture of bush life. Now it is revered as a groundbreaking feminist novel and we have seen stage and screen adaptations. I was a fan of the book, and I loved the 1979 movie, with unforgettable ragamuffin Judy Davis and Sam Neill, starring as Sybylla Melvyn and Harry Beecham respectively.
In Netflix’s new adaptation, creators have done something different with the story. While they stick to the broad narrative, they have made some important and lively changes.
Rugged hero Harry Beecham, as played by Christopher Chung, is half Chinese (not so unusual in those days, when Chinese gold seekers did sometimes marry European women) and there is a new subplot involving strong Aboriginal women resisting the prejudices of the day, just as Sybylla resists the pressure to be a good girl and marry well. And yes, the love that dare not speak its name also pops up.
Franklin’s Sybylla is happy to have cheeky, flirty friendships with men she likes, but meets any sexual approach with outrage and horror. She repels the English jackaroo Frank Hawden’s advances, and when Harry tries to kiss her, she panics and beats him off with a whip.
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Philippa Northeast’s Sybylla in the modern adaptation has no such qualms. She is an earthy hoyden who pees in the garden, lets desire take her where it may, and when she writes about her ecstasy in her diary, it gets her into big trouble.
The climax of the book is a splendidly melodramatic scene of marriage rejection. Harry and Sybylla are engaged, but when he gets jealous, she gives him a tremendous serve, throws away her ring, says she will never marry him, then feels guilty and wants to be forgiven. Years later he pleads with her again, and again she says no. I felt a bit sorry for Harry.
There is a similar scene in the 1979 film, one of the best since Lizzy Bennet turned down Mr Darcy. I was looking forward to such a scene in the new adaptation, but to my surprise and disappointment, it is all terribly civilised, over in the blink of an eye.
Purists might complain that the adaptation is just a fashionable show that ticks all the boxes, with 1900s bands playing Rod Stewart and Blondie songs, but we do need a different story for the 21st century: more diverse, sexier, and if anything, even more rambunctious than the original.
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As a comment on Reddit said: “The last thing we need is another historical show all about straight white people in 1900 Australia, with not a single Aboriginal or Chinese Australian (or queer person) to be found.”
Franklin went on to write many more books, including the sequel My Career Goes Bung, as well as becoming an activist and a champion of Australian literature. She founded and funded the premier award for our fiction. Another award for women writers, the Stella Prize, is named in her honour. But My Brilliant Career ends on a sombre note, with no hope of any career on the horizon, as Sybylla bids her readers a good night.
In their different ways, both the 1979 film and the modern adaptations are more optimistic. My guess is that if Franklin were around today, she would heartily approve. Do not let your career dreams go bung, girls.
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Jane Sullivan is a books columnist and reviewer for The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age.AdvertisementAdvertisement