Film Review: Ned Kelly (1970)
In the forging of Australia’s national identity, few figures loom as large—or as controversially—as Edward “Ned” Kelly. The bushranger, executed in 1880 at just 25, remains a polarising symbol: a violent criminal to some, a rebellious folk hero to others. His legend, rooted in anti-colonial defiance and class struggle, has inspired countless novels, paintings, and films, cementing him as a perennial touchstone of Australian myth-making. Yet the 1970 film Ned Kelly, directed by British auteur Tony Richardson, serves as a cautionary tale of how even the most culturally resonant stories can falter when ambition outpaces execution. Marred by tonal indecision, miscast leads, and a muddled artistic vision, the film squanders its subject’s mythic potential, reducing a seismic chapter in Australian history to a curiously forgettable footnote.
Ned Kelly’s cinematic significance predates The Godfather or even Citizen Kane. The 1906 silent film The Story of the Kelly Gang—now largely lost—holds the distinction of being the world’s first feature-length narrative film, underscoring Kelly’s centrality to Australia’s cultural psyche. By 1970, however, Richardson’s take arrived burdened by outsized expectations. Promoted as a national event, the film was touted by Australian media as a defining moment in the country’s artistic maturation. Yet this fervour made its eventual failure all the more crushing. Critics savaged it, audiences largely ignored it, and both director Richardson and star Mick Jagger later disowned it. What went wrong? The answer lies in a perfect storm of misguided choices, beginning with the casting of a rock god in the role of a folk martyr.
Casting Mick Jagger—then at the zenith of Rolling Stones fame—as Ned Kelly was a gamble that never paid off. While Jagger’s magnetic stage presence made him a global icon, his acting chops were untested, and his waifish physique and Cockney-inflected delivery clashed with the rugged, Irish-Australian archetype. Dressed in a comically oversized beard and armour, he resembles a glam-rock parody of Kelly rather than a convincing portrayal. That said, Jagger isn’t devoid of moments that hint at what might have been. In a scene where Kelly leads his gang in a raucous rendition of the bush ballad “The Wild Colonial Boy,” Jagger’s raw energy and rebel persona align perfectly with the character’s mythos. Such flashes of synergy, however, are drowned out by his overall stiffness, particularly in dramatic exchanges with co-stars like Allen Bickford (as Joe Byrne) or Geoff Gilmour (as Steve Hart). The role demanded a brooding physicality—think Mel Gibson in Mad Max—but Jagger, all angular gestures and pouty defiance, feels tragically miscast.
The film opens with a stark black-and-white prologue: Kelly’s execution in Melbourne Gaol, his last words (“Such is life”) uttered with weary resignation. It’s a promising start, evoking the grim fatalism of a Greek tragedy. The plot then flashes back to chart Kelly’s transformation from ex-convict to outlaw, framed as a clash between oppressed Irish-Australian settlers and corrupt British authorities. Richardson, adapting a script by Australian historian Ian Jones, vacillates between genres like a director unsure of his audience. One moment, the film leans into Western tropes—horse chases, shootouts, a Robin Hood-esque ethos—while the next, it veers into arthouse pretension. This identity crisis peaks during the Glenrowan siege, where Kelly’s makeshift armour (a historical fact) is rendered absurd by choppy editing and a lack of dramatic buildup. The intended climax—a failed rebellion meant to spark populist uprising—lands with a whimper, not a bang.
Further muddying the waters is the film’s soundtrack, penned by American songwriter Shel Silverstein and performed by country stars Waylon Jennings and Kris Kristofferson. While their folk ballads aim to evoke a Greek chorus, their twangy American accents clash violently with the Irish and British dialects of the cast. The result is a jarring auditory dissonance, as if two entirely separate films are competing for attention. Richardson’s justification—that Kelly’s stepfather, George King (Bruce Barry), was American—feels strained, a post-hoc rationalisation for a tone-deaf creative choice. The score’s sole virtue lies in Silverstein’s lyrical wit (“He wanted to live, but the times wouldn’t let him”), but even this can’t salvage its fundamental incongruity.
Upon release, Ned Kelly was dismissed as a well-intentioned misfire. Critics lampooned Jagger’s performance, the uneven pacing, and Richardson’s failure to reconcile historical gravitas with countercultural flair. The director, already renowned for Tom Jones (1963), later admitted the project was “a disaster,” while Jagger retreated from acting for years. Yet the film isn’t without merit. Cinematographer Gerry Fisher captures the Victorian outback in sweeping, sunburnt vistas, and the script occasionally touches on potent themes: the brutality of colonial class hierarchies, the cyclical nature of violence, Kelly’s doomed quest for legitimacy. Had Richardson committed to either a gritty biopic or a stylised mythos—rather than waffling between both—the film might have transcended its flaws.
The 1970 Ned Kelly is less a bad film than a frustrating one—a collage of intriguing ideas hamstrung by indecision and hubris. Jagger’s casting, while commercially savvy, epitomises its core issue: a prioritisation of spectacle over substance. Unlike later adaptations (notably 2003’s Heath Ledger-led version), it never reconciles Kelly’s duality as both killer and icon. For cinephiles, it remains a fascinating relic of 1970s auteurism gone awry; for Australians, it’s a missed opportunity to immortalise a legend. Ned Kelly deserved a film as bold and unyielding as his armour. Instead, he got a confused, half-hearted elegy—proof that not all outlaws age into heroes, and not all legends survive their retellings.
RATING: 4/10 (+)
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