The Kangaroo

A marsupial specter haunts the scorched back-lots of early Hollywood, bounding through Harris Dickson’s fever-dream western The Kangaroo like a pagan god who’s mistaken celluloid for the Dreamtime. The film, long thought lost until a nitrate fragment surfaced in a Slovenian salt-mine, follows a nameless bushranger who dons a blood-stitched kangaroo pelt after witnessing his kin lynched by a cabal of mining barons. From that moment on, man and marsupial fuse: he hops across the blistered frontier, doling out hop-fuelled vengeance—ears pricked to every tremor of injustice—while a choir of kookaburras provides a deranged Greek chorus from the gum trees. The narrative fractures into shards: a widow who bleeds gold dust, a constable whose reflection refuses to appear in water, a stagecoach that drives itself in ever-tightening circles until time folds into a Möbius strip. Cinematographer Lucjan Metz bathes every frame in ochre and arsenic-green, so the Outback itself seems to sweat poison; intertitles arrive in rhyming slang, half Jacobean, half barroom. In the final reel, the protagonist—now more totem than man—ascends a rust-red escarpment at twilight, hurls his pouch into the void, and watches it inflate into a second moon that bathes the landscape in marsupial shadow. Fade to ivory. No closing title. The audience is left clutching their own ribcage, unsure whether a heartbeat or a thump echoes back.