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

I watch him go, cursing the dedication of Christian missionaries—who, even with the threat of imprisonment, persist in coming here. Thanks to the photobomber’s desire to spread the Word, I’ve just lost a perfectly good interview.

Nic climbs through a narrow porthole into the engine room, and I hand her the Sony, trying to stay out of Ri’s lights. Inside the cramped cabin, the oldest Dresnok, dressed as the captain of the USS Pueblo , is attempting to act. “Sir, trust me. With a little coaxing, we can snatch it out of their hands,” he says, with all the animation of a satnav guide.

“Cut!” yells Ri. “Are you only going to do a good job if I swear at you? Do it with malice.” Ri makes Dresnok stand and sits in his chair, doing a brilliantly sinister line read. Demonstrating is taboo in the West—directors are meant to help actors find the truth inside themselves, not force them to mimic. But when you’re Commander of the Creative Group, clearly anything goes. Dresnok nods like a nervous puppy, and returns to his position. His second take is as stilted as the first. Ri waits for the cinematographer to rewind his mini DV. It’s a crappy one-chip, guaranteed to look horrible on the big screen. I suspect Ri’s using it for our benefit: lame proof that North Korea’s gone digital. “Sir, trust me,” Dresnok’s words wind back, and Ri studies the monitor. Then he looks up: “You look good, but you can’t act.” Dresnok slumps with shame, and the crew burst out laughing. Ri grins at me, enjoying himself.

Later, as Ri’s crew wrap their lights, I approach Dresnok with the friendliest smile I can muster. “Hello, is it true that you live here?” I say, and he surveys me with cold hatred: “Yes, I am living here.” It’s the same clipped accent I’ve heard in every North Korean doco I’ve watched—from the Air Koryo safety video to the saccharine biopics on Kim Jong Il. Perhaps Dresnok is the voice’s original source—North Korea’s go-to narration guy. It’s bizarre, hearing a six-foot, blue-eyed blond speak like this. It’s like talking to an android—or Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” I persist, and Dresnok’s jaw clenches. “I am busy. Talk to the boss,” he snaps. And stalks off.

None of which fills me with optimism, when Sun Hi runs up with the happy news that Ri has just cast me as Dresnok’s wife. Western women are a rare commodity in Pyongyang—and after my dubious efforts on the Pueblo , Ri has written me a cameo. My scene is to be shot in two days’ time. That’s exactly forty-eight hours to work up a convincing level of adoration for the dead-eyed Dresnok.

“What’s rule three again?” Nic asks innocently, ribbing me. “Isn’t it Emotions must be well defined? ” Sun Hi is already flipping open the manifesto. “You must study very hard,” she says, overwhelmed by the task ahead of us. “All night, if necessary. To work with Senior Comrade Ri is a great honour.” Nic stifles a giggle. I shoot her daggers. And start reading.

TEAM GAS AND I ARE SITTING on the steps of Kim Jong Il’s fake Swiss chalet. Goats graze in the meadow as the North Korean cast of The Gardener gathers around my laptop. On screen, Brian Monk, his sunny features unnaturally strained, studies the Origin Energy gas wells bordering his farm in Chinchilla: “When they first moved in, we thought it was just a test well. But then we saw five more go in, and realised this was a full-scale industrial drill. The methane has leaked out from the soil and is bubbling up in the Condamine River. They say the drills are no bigger than a tennis court—but you get the tape measure out—that’s no bloody tennis court!” Brian looks at the huge compound of flaming pipes beyond the razor wire. Then he pulls out his wallet: “They’ll spin you the spin because of this. Money. That’s all it is. There’s something wrong when multinationals can come here and take what they want, and my grandkids can get sick.”

The North Korean actors nod in sympathy as the footage cuts to Brian’s seven blond grandchildren playing in a desolate, scrubby paddock. “We first noticed something was wrong with the bore when the kids took a bath,” Brian says. “The youngest started screaming, and when they got out, the kids’ legs were covered in raw red burns. They also get skin rashes and headaches, and asthma-type symptoms.” Brian’s daughter-in-law cradles a toddler on her hip. He has red weals around his mouth. “We can’t keep giving them Panadol,” she says, exhausted with worry, “but every time we go to the doctor, he says we’ve all got the flu.”

Brian takes us to a makeshift camp of caravans ringed in the dirt: “We come here when the wind blowing off the gas wells gets too strong. Little Jason has developed epilepsy, and they say fracking causes it, but we just don’t know! We can’t sell: no one wants a farm surrounded by gas fields. We’re stuck. This is really our lift-off point,” he says, gazing hopelessly at the caravans. He starts to cry. “It’s hard, having to leave your own life.”

The clip ends with Brian’s son Dave standing over the bore—simmering with rage. “They sent in an inspection officer, but he wouldn’t let us light the bore in front of him. He said it was against ‘industry regulations.’ The acceptable level of methane in water is 2 percent. You decide for yourself.” Dave pulls out a boxy instrument as Brian touches a match to the bore. The water explodes in flames. Dave’s instrument beeps like crazy, and the dial shoots into the red.

I shut the laptop and look at my North Korean actors. They look back in disbelief. “So the drills pollute the water, and then they cannot grow any food,” Ms. Yun says quietly. The men stare at the meadow, trying to digest what they’ve seen. They seem bewildered that any government could let this happen.

“What advice would you give my actors?” I ask.

The two youngsters speak first. The athletic Miss N wants Kathryn Beck to play the gardener’s daughter “with a strong sense of inner justice and love for her home town,” and neat-as-a-pin Mr. Lee, as Sally’s boyfriend Mitch, advises Matt Zeremes to “avoid chasing fame and fortune, and instead act as a true patriot for his country.” I thank Mr. Lee, wondering what Matt, a hard-working father of two, would make of Lee’s assumption that he only acts for fame. Mr. Lee looks reverently at his elder, the famous movie villain Ri Yon Chol.

With his broad, hard face, Ri Yon Chol makes a very convincing evil miner—the perfect foil for delicate Ms. Yun as my North Korean gardener. “If you play a villain, you need experience,” Ri Yon Chol growls. “That’s all I have to say. We’ve all read the script. Let’s do it.”

“We need to wait for Mr. Pak,” I answer carefully. “He will direct you, to show me how it’s done.” Ri Yon Chol darkens, but the other actors look pleased. The venerable Pak clearly has their respect, despite the fact he’s already fifty minutes late. I pull out my Inner West Argus , and Ri Yon Chol grabs it hungrily, poring over the photos of the Newtown flea markets, the high-rises going up in Erskineville, and a local mum who’s made it big on MasterChef .

“Your train stations are not tidy,” Ri Yon Chol notes disapprovingly, pointing out a picture of the rubbish-strewn platform at St Peters, with hipsters and goths slouching on graffiti-smeared benches. I have to agree that compared with the Yonggwang metro station, commuting standards in my ’hood are distinctly Third World. “What’s going on?” asks a teasing voice, and there’s Pak, forging his way through the bushes towards us, briefcase in hand. His cheeks are pink with alcohol. I bow, and he bows even lower, and we stand there giggling and out-bowing each other, the same way we clinked glasses the first time we met.