Anna Broinowski - Aim High in Creation! - A One-of-a-Kind Journey Inside North Korea's Propaganda Machine

The city has subtly transformed in the two months we’ve been away. The Cheshire Cat Kim Jong Il portraits have gone, replaced by freshly painted murals of Kim Jong Un, rocking his “youth ambition” hair. In the distance, behind the gleaming tenements, cranes are erecting a new building. The slogans are new too: Generalissimo Kim Jong Il is eternally with us! Let us follow our Young Comrade General Kim Jong Un One Thousand Miles! Our van, on the other hand, is the same as before: battered but clean, with no discernible branding and no air-conditioning. Pyongyang’s pretty boulevards flash past in the stifling 113-degree heat, and I feel oddly grateful for my Kim Kardashian perfume. It was an ironic gift from my ex: props for having secured an access-all-areas shoot inside the most anti-capitalist industry in showbiz. He and I are still battling over money, but as parents, we’ve built a fragile peace. I have a flash of him guiding our laughing daughter through Maroubra’s crashing surf, hugging her new boogie board. And I’m flooded with thanks that through all our torment, he’s remained a kind and loving dad.

The van cruises under the glittering flame of the Juche Tower and onto Tongdaewon Street. The Mad Men extras are out in full force today: crew-cut men in beige stroll along baking pavements with lacquered women in twinsets cooling themselves with pink silk fans. Nic and I sit wedged between our North Korean minders, sweating. I twist open my perfume and give my neck a surreptitious spritz. Sun Hi, who’s been studying me closely ever since we got in the van, squeals with delight. “Oh!” she says, gazing at the word Kim on the bottle. “You have a perfume named after the Dear Leader!” Nic and I share a look. How do you explain Kim Kardashian to someone who has never heard of reality TV?

“Would you like to try?” I ask Sun Hi.

She giggles and dabs a little on her wrist. “That’s nice!” she says blissfully, and before the driver can stop her, she squirts him behind his ear. He makes a big show of being thoroughly affronted, as his macho status demands. Then he wafts the air theatrically towards his nose, and orders Sun Hi to squirt him again. She does so with gusto, and everyone laughs. If this is how a North Korean film crew behaves, I’m sure we’re going to get on. I’m also sure that if they knew of the trashy celebrity culture that spawned the Kardashians, they wouldn’t be laughing.

“Senior Comrade Pak likes your film script,” says Ms. K. For the past month, Ms. K has emailed me every two days telling me to hurry up and deliver. The pressure of writing for her has made working for a Western producer feel like a cakewalk: each time I reply to Ms. K to buy more time, I know my emails are being examined not just by her, but also by every Party official and cadre connected to Korfilm. I wonder what they’ve made of my bizarre attempt to reproduce the key tropes of the North Korean propaganda movie in the middle of Sydney. I have faithfully included a suffering working-class heroine, people randomly bursting into song, sentimental nature metaphors, two chaste star-crossed lovers, and an evil capitalist who comes to a sticky end. The only thing I’ve left out is a speech celebrating the Dear Leader.

“Did you like the script?” I ask Ms. K, wondering if she has an issue with the glaring absence of Kim Jong Il.

She gives me her most enigmatic smile: “Thank you for working very hard on it.”

Ms. K, pragmatically, is leaving the feedback to others. She’s scheduled plenty: starting with a three-hour “artistic criticism session” with North Korea’s top filmmakers. If my script is the hamfisted turkey I suspect it is, I’m sure that Mr. Pak and the People’s Artists Ms. K has thoughtfully assembled will waste no time bashing it into shape.

A majestic pelican floats in a pond. Karen (40s), in overalls, plants flowers.

KAREN (voice-over) : The pelican is a noble bird. Celebrated from ancient times as a symbol of motherly sacrifice, the pelican will gouge her own chest to feed her blood to her young. Once, I had to be like the pelican…

The pelican flies into the sky. Zoom in to Karen, watching in wonder. Gentle music surges.

Karen sews a button onto the jacket of her railway-worker husband Al (48). At the table, their pretty daughter Sally (20) does maths on an iPad.

AL:You’ll get square eyes.

KAREN:Now, now, leave her alone.

AL: Not my fault she got your brains and my looks… She’ll scare off the boys!

Sally glares at Al. Karen kisses her daughter softly.

KAREN:Ignore him, hon. Love you.

Karen follows Al, giggling, down the corridor. Sally, despite herself, smiles.

Al grabs his guitar from the porch and strolls with Karen through the village, singing.

AL: Why do I love this village, why do I love this town? Come with me and I’ll show you the way, show you what I see now. Laneways of smiling faces, backyards, we skip away, to the beautiful park we dream of, easy like a summer’s day.

They round the corner. Karen is suddenly playing a piano accordion. The Flower Seller, the Grocer and the Pharmacist wave at them happily, joining in the chorus.

SHOPKEEPERS: We love this village, we love this village. We love this village, we love this town!

Karen and Al reach the train station. Karen waves Al off, then stops. A gleaming new sign is stuck on the wall: NEW FUEL FOR THE VILLAGE: GAS!

KAREN (troubled) :Gas…?

Sally does a perfect tae kwon do pattern. Students spar in the background. Mitch (30s), slick hair, gleaming new outfit, watches.

MITCH:“Heaven Earth” pattern with axe kick. Nice. Teach a humble white-belt?

Sally studies Mitch, instantly attracted. Hiding it, she shows him the pattern.

SALLY:Where are you from?

MITCH:Up north.

SALLY:To do what?

MITCH:It’s complex. You won’t understand unless you’re an engineer. What do you do?

Mitch reaches out, gently, to move a wisp of hair from Sally’s face. She almost lets him touch her—then—WHACK! She grabs his arm, throws him on her back and dumps him on the mat.

SALLY (coolly) :I’m an engineer.

Mitch gazes at Sally, in love.

A Needle Energy banner sits on a stage—showing a small gas well, surrounded by flowers. Riccard, Needle’s suave South African CEO, addresses Karen, Al, Sally, and Villagers.

RICCARD:CSG. Clean. Sustainable. Green. Smaller than a tennis court, a Needle well delivers natural gas straight to your home—raising its value as you sleep! To make your transition a happy one, please welcome community liaison officer, Mitch Pounder.

The Villagers clap. Sally looks up, delighted, as Mitch takes the mic.

MITCH:Thanks, boss. Ladies and gents, I’ve only been here a short time. But I’ve already fallen in love with your wonderful village—and the beautiful people who live here.

Mitch looks flirtatiously at Sally. Sally blushes. Karen puts up her hand.