Ten Canoes (2006)

Ten Canoes (2006) is a landmark, a cinematic circle back to the origins of storytelling on this continent. Directed by Rolf de Heer in close collaboration with the Yolŋu community of Ramingining, and guided by senior custodian Peter Djigirr, it stands as one of the most culturally significant works in Australian film history. But beyond its importance, Ten Canoes is also wildly engaging, surprisingly funny, visually gorgeous, and told with a confidence that only comes from stories lived, owned, and passed down across millennia.

The film unfolds like an old campfire tale: one story tucked inside another, time slipping effortlessly between the mythic and the immediate. David Gulpilil’s narration — sly, warm, and knowingly cheeky — leads us through a cautionary tale of jealousy, desire, kinship obligations, and the consequences of ignoring proper law. Rather than exoticising Aboriginal culture, the film lets us into it with generosity and humour. This is not anthropology. It’s storytelling straight from its source.

Shot in luminous black-and-white for the “present” and rich, earthy colour for the ancestral story, Ten Canoes feels timeless. The images — men paddling through wetlands in bark canoes, smoke lifting through paperbark trees, bodies moving with unthinking connection to country — are hypnotic. Ian Jones’ cinematography captures Arnhem Land not as a backdrop but as a living, breathing participant.

What’s remarkable is how unforced everything feels. The performers — all first-time actors — are natural, playful, and deeply at ease. The dialogue crackles with everyday humour, teasing, and the kind of banter shared by people who’ve known each other forever. Even the moral of the story arrives with a wink rather than a lecture.

De Heer and Djigirr’s collaborative approach means the film isn’t a director imposing a vision; it’s a community presenting its own. The result is cinema that feels both intimate and monumental. Ten Canoes reminds us that the world’s oldest continuous cultures weren’t just custodians of land, but also masters of narrative — intricate, clever, human stories long before the idea of “cinema” existed.

In a national film landscape that has too often sidelined First Nations voices, Ten Canoes is a breakthrough. It’s a celebration of Yolŋu law, humour, and history — and an invitation for audiences to listen, laugh, and learn. Nearly twenty years on, it remains a triumph of co-authorship, cultural respect, and pure storytelling craft.

Put simply: Ten Canoes is essential Australian cinema — a gift, a lesson, and a joy.