The most contradictory and poorly understood politician I ever met was in a mood that can only be described as foul.
It was 1997, and Jeff Kennett had flown in from a trip to Singapore, had not slept overnight, had spent the day working in his office and that night was due to attend a function at the Melbourne International Arts Festival in his capacity as Minister for Nearly Everything, which included the arts. The Premier wasn’t happy with me. Or anyone.
The circumstances were volatile. As part of the festival the National Gallery of Victoria (NGV) was about to exhibit a work by American photographer Andres Serrano called Piss Christ, which depicted a Jesus figure on a small plastic crucifix submerged in a glass of the artist’s urine. The photograph caused meltdown. Melbourne’s Catholic Archbishop, George Pell, sought a Supreme Court injunction to prevent the gallery exhibiting the work on the grounds that it was blasphemous, indecent and obscene at law, a stance supported by leaders of other Christian churches and the Jewish and Muslim communities.
Publicly, Jeff said he disliked the photograph but supported the gallery’s right to show it. On 10 October the exhibition was opened, with the artist in attendance. There followed a blizzard of angry talkback, seething editorials, prayer meetings outside the gallery and an attempt by two youths to vandalize the work. Two days after this, Dr Timothy Potts, director of the NGV, announced that out of concern for the safety of his staff, the work would be withdrawn from the exhibition. The artist called Potts a ‘spineless loser’ and the NGV’s trustees ‘cowards’.
As president of the Melbourne International Arts Festival, my feeling was that removing the photograph was a mistake, that it contravened artistic freedom and caved in to moral panic. Not only that but also it was embarrassing. What sort of festival rips works off walls? It played on notions of timidity and a cultural cringe. As president, I thought we had a duty to discharge a festival that was bold and innovative, not censorious. We were running the Melbourne International Arts Festival, and that meant we saw ourselves on the world stage. And, we hoped, so did others. When the calls came for the photograph to be removed, sure enough it was reported on BBC, CNN and in the British newspapers that in Melbourne, Australia, art was being censored.
I made some of these points in a letter of complaint to the chairman of the NGV, saying that Serrano’s work had been removed without our knowledge. Jeff took exception to one of the members of his institutions, the Melbourne International Arts Festival, writing what he saw as an aggressive letter to a member of another of his institutions. Our position was that we had been charged by the Victorian Government with running this festival and that we shouldn’t be undermined.
Ian Roberts, general manager of the festival, went over to Jeff’s table and squatted down next to him. ‘Thank you, Premier, for making the effort to come directly here from your trip,’ Roberts said.
Jeff looked down at Ian. ‘Roberts, you’re gone—finished.’
Ian was understandably taken aback by this. And Roberts was far from finished. Indeed, Ian was one of the best arts administrators I have worked with. He didn’t deserve the spray from Jeff. He was just in the way at the wrong time. It illustrated both the tense political climate and that Jeff’s tongue could cut tracing paper if he wanted it to.
Jeff was quite dictatorial in his approach. He was the alpha-male leader, not the bring-them-along-with-you conciliator. In his early days as Premier, his Minister for the Arts was Haddon Storey. Good man, Haddon. But often Jeff would forget to invite him to the meetings, and Haddon would come in towards the end of a meeting wondering what was about to happen in his portfolio.
Jeff was forceful in his views, but I found if I was equally forceful back to him with what I thought was an appropriate argument he would accept it and move on, as I looked around the table to find five terror-stricken aides. I’d seen Jeff be absolutely savage. I think in his early days as Premier an aggressive approach was probably the quickest and best way to fix the very real difficulties Victoria faced.
This was one side of Jeff. At other times he could be charming and charismatic. I always admired his energy and his enthusiasm. Working with Jeff was never boring. I said to him once: ‘You must understand that I support you, but I hate half the people in your party. And I support the Opposition but I hate half the people in their party.’
‘Well, as for my party,’ he said, ‘I agree. I’m the same.’
I thought, he’s not so bad after all.
I would often have good, aggressive meetings with him. When I went to brief him I would take a seven-point cheat sheet around the subject. Jeff was on to me about this. He would try to read my notes upside down. So I thought, ‘Bugger this.’ So at the next meeting I produced two copies of my notes and gave him a copy. Point taken.
Jeff loved a fight. In the first couple of years of his time as Premier, the Kennett Government was getting a lot of heat from the Age and the Sunday Age. The newspapers were scrutinizing the government like no other media was, reporting the government in a critical way unlike the kinder treatment he was perceived to be getting from the Herald Sun. I admired the tough reporting of the Sunday Age in particular, and even though it was described by some partisans as ‘un-Victorian’, I saw it as an good example of the press doing what it should: holding a government to account without fear or favour. Everywhere I travelled in business circles, there was a lot of talk about the Sunday Age being out of line at a time when the Kennett Government was trying to drag the state out of its rustbelt torpor and give it back its pride. I didn’t have a problem with some of Jeff’s bold initiatives but, by the same token, I didn’t think a newspaper needed to be a cheer squad. Enough people were scared of Jeff: it was refreshing that the Sunday Age wasn’t. Editor Bruce Guthrie took this robust approach when he moved from the Sunday Age to the Age in 1995.
All this meant the heat was coming down on Guthrie as editor of the Age. He was a former Melbourne Herald journalist and US West Coast correspondent who was known as a feisty and fearless editor. He needed to be. Kennett was dismissing and ridiculing the Age and the Sunday Age regularly, mainly on his weekly interview on 3AW with Neil Mitchell. He would often question why people would bother buying the Age. It was classic Jeff: blunt and a little bit brutal. He was a good hater when he wanted to be.
Kennett versus the Age was a rolled-gold feud, almost as virulent as the one he had going with The 7.30 Report after an interview with the program’s then presenter, Mary Delahunty, among other incidents. I dealt with the Age all the time, and I had helped arrange a sponsorship arrangement with the Melbourne Festival. Jeff told me he wanted to take all the ads out of the Age and put them into the Herald Sun. I refused. ‘Jeff, our job is to sell tickets,’ I said. Jeff looked at me, not happy. ‘Don’t argue,’ he said. Now I knew Jeff was autocratic, but I’d never heard him tell anyone not to argue. The Age kept the ads.
Bruce Guthrie was eventually removed by the Fairfax board. I always admired Guthrie’s toughness and integrity at a time when weaker men might have caved in.
I got to know Jeff more deeply when he came here to ask for some support for the promotion of the depression initiative, Beyond Blue, of which he was chairman. He was organizing a $2 million advertising campaign and was seeking better prices to place the ads. He also sought support for Juvenile Diabetes, which was a cause about which his wife Felicity felt passionately. They were wonderful, involved people. Felicity was such a rock for him. It got to a point where Jeff’s profile meant that they needed less advertising because he got a lot of free coverage, but still I wanted to help. I told Jeff I would ensure that he got $2 million worth of advertising free.
‘But we will pay. We can pay a little bit,’ he said.
I told him: ‘You shouldn’t. The money should be used to do other things, and I don’t want you worrying about this year to year. I commit now to doing it for three years.’ We did it because we thought we should and we could.
Jeff was always much misunderstood by a media and a public who wanted to see him one way, and one way only. In the days during and after his election defeat in 1999, I saw several sides of Jeff, some of them quite contradictory. He was seen as a bully, and could be a bit, but there is more to him than that. He is also one of the kindest people you would ever meet. After he left office, I had many conversations with him that I wish people knew about. His parents were unwell, and every day he would go to the nursing homes where they lived and take them on drives to revisit places that had been important to them. He didn’t make a fuss of it; it was just the appropriate thing to do. It was the dutiful Jeff, the good son, a long way from the man who terrorized people whom he thought deserved it.
I saw Jeff very often after he lost office. In the days and weeks after the independents decided to give their support to Labor and Jeff knew he’d lost power he was shaken. The changing of the guard took place during the Melbourne International Arts Festival in December 1999. We were sending invitations out to shows. The ‘A’ Team is always the Government, and they go to the show in the State Theatre, and the ‘B’ Team, the Opposition, go to the Concert Hall. So at the beginning of the festival, it was Jeff Kennett and the Government at the State Theatre, then, by the time the festival finished seventeen days later, it was Steve Bracks and his government at the closing night party.
The symbolism was huge. At the opening night the Premier would always make a speech at the after party. It was in a shed down on the Yarra, and we’d gone down there by boat. When it was time for Jeff’s speech, he wouldn’t go on. Jeff was well known for making great speeches off the cuff and really engaging the crowd, but on this night he didn’t want to go on. He was just deflated. He hadn’t lost the election yet—his fate was still in the hands of the independents—but the first bad signs had come through.
The changing of the guard was a fascinating time in Victorian politics. Jeff was a tough bull-in-a-china-shop Premier, leading with the chin, cocky and strong, and with a self-confidence that made him appear immune from criticism. Steve appeared humble, moderate, measured and, in those first few weeks, as if he were learning the ropes. I was able to help him in at least one area in his new job, and it was a piece of advice I would give to any premier: don’t call an election during the Melbourne Festival. It is always box-office death for us.
When Steve Bracks assumed power, my first words to him were: ‘Premier, here’s how it works. We have done very well with the Melbourne Festival, and I fully understand that you as the Premier will be able to take full credit for it, and all of the applause should be yours. If on the other hand it goes badly, I would understand that you would sack us and you would blame us entirely for everything. That was the deal I had with the last Premier; hopefully that’s the deal I have with you.’
Bracks smiled. ‘Fair enough.’
We were away with the new guy, less colourful, less confrontational, but just as efficient and easy to work with as his fiery predecessor. I made good friendships with Jeff and Steve—both very good men.