Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator

If you like documentaries that feel like they were filmed while everyone was nursing a massive sunburn, you’ll probably find something to love here. It’s definitely not for the high-gloss crowd who want polished narration and drone shots. You’ll probably hate it if you need a fast pace or a clear narrative arc; this movie just kind of exists, like a humid afternoon that won't end.
Honestly, watching Catching Crocodiles feels a bit like being trapped in a boat with people who haven't spoken to anyone but each other for three months. The silence is heavy. The heat is almost palpable through the screen.
There’s a specific kind of boredom in this film that I didn't hate. It’s not trying to entertain you every five seconds with a jump scare or a dramatic orchestral swell. It just shows you the mud. It shows you the rope. It shows you the teeth.
F.W. Thring is at the center of this, and he carries himself with that old-school, rugged exhaustion you don't really see anymore. He isn't performing for the camera; he’s just doing his job. Occasionally, he looks at the lens like he’s wondering why the hell anyone would want to film this at all.
It made me think about Olsen's Big Moment, but in the most bizarre way possible. They’re both about people dealing with things way bigger than them, though one has a lot more slapstick and a lot less potential for getting bitten in half.
There’s a scene where they’re just waiting for a trap to snap, and the camera lingers on a patch of weeds for a weirdly long time. It’s almost meditative, or maybe just lazy? I couldn't decide. I think I liked it.
You can tell when the crew was tired. The framing gets a bit loose, the focus wobbles, and you get these shots of the horizon that last just a beat longer than they should. It’s human. It’s flawed.
I don't think this film cares if you stay awake or not. It’s just showing you the Gulf of Carpentaria, whether you’re ready for the humidity or not. 🐊

IMDb 5.8
1930
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