The Iron Outlaw

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

The damp earth clings to the heavy boots

Sunlight breaks through the pale gum roots

Campfire smoke in the timber air

They boil their tea unaware we are there

We watch them resting in the green

The clearest target ever seen

[Pre-Chorus]

We draw the iron from the silent shade

The heaviest toll that the bush has paid

[Chorus]

Blood on the bark where the shadows fall

No turning back from the shotgun call

Three men down in the dirt and the weed

The colony pays for the uniform greed

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

The cabbage tree hat hides a desperate eye

We asked for justice but they chose to lie

Now a crimson sash under moleskin folds

A heavy percussion that the outlaw holds

The smoke clears out across the damp red clay

Three silver buttons shining where they lay

[Bridge]

The magpie scatters from the canopy high

The ringing of shots in the empty sky

We cross the line that the lawmen drew

From local thieves to a reckless crew

[Chorus]

Blood on the bark where the shadows fall

No turning back from the shotgun call

Three men down in the dirt and the weed

The colony pays for the uniform greed

[Outro]

The stringybark weeps for what we made

The crimson sash is heavy in the shade

[End]

01 · Stringybark (Point of No Return)

Mournful 19th-century Celtic fiddle drones and ambient native Australian bird calls building → dark brooding 122 BPM tech house with heavy 909 sub-bass and a gritty low male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Mournful 19th-century Celtic fiddle drones and ambient native Australian bird calls building into dark brooding 122 BPM tech house with heavy 909 sub-bass and a gritty low male vocal.

🎬 The Story: On October 26, 1878, a Victorian police camp at Stringybark Creek is ambushed by the wanted men they are hunting. Three officers are killed when they refuse to surrender, pushing the thieves past the point of no return.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

Paper gets nailed to the rural town posts

Hunting us down like we turn into ghosts

Warrant is signed and the bounty is high

Shoot us on sight beneath the gray sky

My brother rides tight at my right hand side

With stolen rifles and a bitter pride

[Pre-Chorus]

Spurring the horses across the cold creek

We are the vengeance the hunted ones seek

[Chorus]

Run for the mountains and swallow the fear

The law of the empire is meaningless here

Wanted alive or dead in the dirt

Pounding the dust in a stained cotton shirt

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

Deeper we ride in the fog and the cold

Leaving behind every lie we were told

Chased by the hounds of the squatter estate

We gallop away from a terrible fate

Every selector leaves a lantern bright

To guide the outlaws through the freezing night

[Bridge]

They push us too far and they give us no choice

Now the crack of the gun is our only true voice

Hooves on the stone beating out the new law

The sharpest rebellion the colony saw

[Chorus]

Run for the mountains and swallow the fear

The law of the empire is meaningless here

Wanted alive or dead in the dirt

Pounding the dust in a stained cotton shirt

[Outro]

Keep riding hard and keep riding fast

We are the outlaws right down to the last

[End]

02 · The Outlaw Act

Frantic rhythmic clawhammer banjo and galloping acoustic percussion building → aggressive driving 128 BPM tech house with hissing hi-hats and a fast shouting male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Frantic rhythmic clawhammer banjo and galloping acoustic percussion building into aggressive driving 128 BPM tech house with hissing hi-hats and a fast shouting male vocal.

🎬 The Story: In November 1878, the colonial government passes the Felons' Apprehension Act, officially declaring the gang outlaws. They flee deep into the impenetrable Wombat Ranges as an enormous manhunt sweeps the territory.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

Stepping right in with a smile on the face

We lock up the sergeants and take up their space

Dressed in the blue that we stole from the jail

Pouring the pints at the old Royal Mail

The teller cages are a brass display

We bag the notes at the end of day

[Pre-Chorus]

Hostages drinking while standing in line

The bank manager shakes but the weather is fine

[Chorus]

Round on the outlaw and raise up your glass

Watch the grand rules of the colony pass

Polite with the pistol and sharp with the tongue

A dangerous song that is suddenly sung

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

Strolling the bar in a tailored blue coat

We tally the gold and we dictate the note

They came here in terror but stay for the cheer

A civilized robbery drowning in beer

Thirty hostages drinking our brew

Nothing to fear from this criminal crew

[Bridge]

A theatre of rebels performing the play

We capture the town in the middle of day

Buying the silence and stealing the show

Showing the empire exactly where to go

[Chorus]

Round on the outlaw and raise up your glass

Watch the grand rules of the colony pass

Polite with the pistol and sharp with the tongue

A dangerous song that is suddenly sung

[Outro]

Pour one more pint and leave the vault bare

The king of the outlaws is dancing right there

[End]

03 · The Royal Mail

Clinking glass pints and the wooden thwack of a colonial lagerphone building → a bouncy sarcastic 124 BPM house groove with a charismatic swaggering male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Clinking glass pints and the wooden thwack of a colonial lagerphone building into a bouncy sarcastic 124 BPM house groove with a charismatic swaggering male vocal.

🎬 The Story: On February 8, 1879, the gang executes a daring bank robbery in Jerilderie, turning the event into a massive public stage. They lock the local police in their own cells and buy rounds of drinks for hostages at the Royal Mail Hotel.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

Pacing the floor in the dimly lit back

Words hit the paper to plan the attack

Eight thousand words of the bitterest truth

Robbing the mothers and starving the youth

The first friend sits down at the wooden desk

We put the empire to the ultimate test

[Pre-Chorus]

The ink is the venom we bleed on the page

A lifetime of sorrow converted to rage

[Chorus]

Write it all down let the parliament read

The hunger the soil and the squatter grand greed

Print the manifesto and broadcast the crime

The ticking of vengeance keeping the time

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

My mother is locked in the hard labor cell

I am dragging the officers with me to hell

The dip pen is scratching the absolute vow

The poor Irish selector is mobilizing now

The sergeant trembles in the corner chair

He hears the tiger pacing in the lair

[Bridge]

The printers refuse and the papers go dark

They put a huge price on the outlaw fresh mark

Diplomacy dies in the shadow of gold

We turn to the weapons and break from the mold

[Chorus]

Write it all down let the parliament read

The hunger the soil and the squatter grand greed

Print the manifesto and broadcast the crime

The ticking of vengeance keeping the time

[Outro]

Sign it in ink and sign it in blood

The words are the storm and the coming flood

[End]

04 · Jerilderie (The Dictation)

Rhythmic scratching of a steel-nib pen on parchment over silence building → dark minimal 118 BPM tech house with an oppressive heartbeat kick and a furious spoken-word male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Rhythmic scratching of a steel-nib pen on parchment over silence building into dark minimal 118 BPM tech house with an oppressive heartbeat kick and a furious spoken-word male vocal.

🎬 The Story: While holding the town, an 8,000-word anti-colonial manifesto is furiously dictated to a gang member. The document demands justice for poor selectors, but the authorities suppress it and refuse to print it.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

Deep in the gully where no one can find

We leave the old ways of running behind

The plough that once broke up the colonist dirt

Is heating to orange to swallow the hurt

We drag the heavy mouldboards from the field

The farming plough will be our iron shield

[Pre-Chorus]

Swing the great hammer and beat on the log

Sparks flying up in the black mountain fog

[Chorus]

Beat the cold iron and bend it to shape

There is nowhere to run and there is no escape

Forging the armor to stand in the fire

Building a monster of bulletproof ire

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

Ninety seven pounds of the thick heavy plate

A helmet to challenge the merciless fate

Sweat on the forehead and soot on the skin

This is the moment the ending begins

A flat topped cylinder to cover the head

A singular slit to aim at the dead

[Bridge]

Farming equipment is turned into war

We brace for the army approaching the door

The anvil is ringing a dangerous bell

We forge our own bodies a heavy steel shell

[Chorus]

Beat the cold iron and bend it to shape

There is nowhere to run and there is no escape

Forging the armor to stand in the fire

Building a monster of bulletproof ire

[Outro]

The ploughshare becomes the iron skin

The bloody revolution will finally begin

[End]

05 · Ploughshares to Iron

Heavy metallic blacksmith anvil strikes and roaring fire hisses building → industrial 126 BPM tech house with distorted percussion and a fierce roaring male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Heavy metallic blacksmith anvil strikes and roaring fire hisses building into industrial 126 BPM tech house with distorted percussion and a fierce roaring male vocal.

🎬 The Story: Retreating to a hidden forge in the Strathbogie Ranges in early 1880, the gang transitions from outlaws to an armored insurgency. They construct crude, bulletproof armor by beating stolen agricultural steel plough mouldboards over log anvils.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

Midnight is freezing and cutting us deep

We stand on the tracks where the heavy rails sleep

Mud on the crowbar and rain in the eye

The special train engine is scheduled to die

The sleepers rot above the steep ravine

We engineer the deadliest machine

[Pre-Chorus]

Heave on the iron and fracture the wood

Dropping the sleeper right where it stood

[Chorus]

Tear up the rails where the deep ravine falls

Listen to hear when the locomotive calls

Trap is now set for the men in the blue

A terrible wreckage is coming right through

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

The ravine is dark and the drop is severe

We work in the storm to abolish the fear

Prying the spikes from the dense jarrah ties

Hiding the gap from the engineer eyes

Lightning illuminates exactly the break

We risk our own souls for the terrible stake

[Bridge]

The whistle is blowing a dozen miles out

They roll to their ruin without any doubt

The army is coming with rifles in hand

We dictate the terms of this desperate land

[Chorus]

Tear up the rails where the deep ravine falls

Listen to hear when the locomotive calls

Trap is now set for the men in the blue

A terrible wreckage is coming right through

[Outro]

Leave the rails broken and wash off the mud

Wait for the crash and wait for the thud

[End]

06 · Tearing the Tracks

Suspenseful screeching fiddle and thunder claps building → relentless 125 BPM tech house mimicking a chugging steam train with a desperate breathless male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Suspenseful screeching fiddle and thunder claps building into relentless 125 BPM tech house mimicking a chugging steam train with a desperate breathless male vocal.

🎬 The Story: In anticipation of a massive police reinforcement train, the gang ventures out in freezing rain to rip up the railway lines over a steep ravine. They plan to derail the locomotive and ambush the survivors.

Ravine railway as underground club (Part B)location

Glenrowan weatherboard inn, club-litlocation

Police special train carriage interiorlocation

Fog cutting on the approach linelocation

Beat sheet — the real board (50 shots)

Characters

the Outlaw — Anglo-Irish colonial Australian man, pale weather-reddened skin, 25 years old, 5 feet 11 inches, broad shoulders, thick muscular build, dark brown hair to the collar, untrimmed square dark beard, deep-set grey eyes. Wears moleskin trousers, heavy brown leather riding boots, a wide-brimmed plaited ca
the brother — Anglo-Irish colonial Australian man, pale freckled skin, 20 years old, lean wiry build, dark straight hair plastered flat by rain, clean-shaven with a thin moustache. Wears a worn tan canvas jacket darkened by water, moleskin trousers, and a dusty brown slouch hat with the brim sagging. Rope burns o
the second gang friend — Anglo-Irish colonial Australian man, ruddy pale skin, 21 years old, rugged stocky horseman's build, thick scruffy ginger-brown beard, small hard eyes. Wears a heavy oilskin duster coat to the calf, a wide-brimmed dark felt hat, leather gaiters and spurred boots. A coil of hemp rope over one shoulder
the first gang friend — Anglo-Irish colonial Australian man, pale sharp-featured face, 23 years old, tall and slim, neat dark hair, a trimmed goatee, intelligent watchful eyes. Wears immaculately tailored stolen Victoria Police dark blue tunic with silver buttons, dark trousers with a stripe, polished black riding boots, n
the police sergeant — Anglo-Irish colonial Australian man, pale lined face, middle-aged, heavy build, thick grey-brown mutton-chop whiskers, cropped hair. Wears the Victoria Police dark blue tunic with two rows of silver buttons, a peaked forage cap, dark trousers, black boots. Carries a heavy double-barreled percussion
the schoolteacher — Anglo-Irish colonial Australian man, pale thin face, thirties, slight narrow build, thinning sandy hair, round wire spectacles beaded with rain. Wears a faded brown tweed three-piece suit soaked dark, no hat, and clutches a bright red silk scarf in one hand. Anxious, breath visible is NOT described;

Shots

#1 · 5 s — Tall wide view of a single 1880 railway track of wrought-iron double-headed rails on jarrah sleepers curving along the lip of a steep ravine, freezing night rain lashing down hard. The outer rail hangs a yard from the drop into black gully dark; dripping eucalyptus and tree ferns wall the inner side. Light is a weak grey overcast sky-glow, everything slate and iron-black. The camera holds still; only the rain falls.
#2 · 5 s — Very close view along the top of a wet wrought-iron rail, its silver wear strip catching grey sky-glow, a rusted dog spike and a fishplate bolt in the foreground sunk in churned mud, rain striking the iron in hard bursts. Dark jarrah sleeper grain fills the lower frame, ballast stones scattered. Cold grey overcast light from above, no other source. The camera creeps slowly forward along the rail.
#3 · 5 s — Medium view at the edge of dripping stringybark forest: the first gang friend stands beside the two tethered horses holding the brass bull's-eye lantern low at his hip, its small orange flame the only warm light, his eyes fixed on the lantern's beam where it touches the wet rails in the foreground. Rain runs off his tunic. The horses stand with heads low. Grey overcast night, the camera holds still.
#4 · 5 s — Low view from the mud beside the track: the second gang friend crouches with both hands wrapped around the forged iron crowbar, its chisel tip wedged beneath the rail foot, and drives his whole weight down on the bar in one slow straining heave, boots sliding in slick mud. Rain pours off his hat brim onto the iron. Weak grey sky-glow from above, lantern-orange faint on the rail. The camera holds still.
#5 · 5 s — Medium view across the track: the brother stands astride a sleeper and brings the navvy's pickaxe down from above his head into the dark jarrah in one full swing, wet splinters bursting from the timber. Ballast and mud around his boots, tree ferns black behind him. Grey overcast night rain, the pick's iron head catching a faint lantern-orange. The camera holds still as the blow lands.
#6 · 5 s — Three-quarter view from track level: the Outlaw stands over the rail with the forged iron crowbar's claw hooked under a dog spike and leans his whole body down onto the bar in one long slow press, the spike rising out of the sleeper as the wood splits. Rain sheets off his hat and coat, the crimson sash dark with water. Grey sky-glow above, lantern-orange on his hands. The camera holds still.
#7 · 5 s — Very close view at sleeper level: the Outlaw's muddy riding boot braces on the jarrah while the crowbar's claw, gripped above frame, levers a rusted dog spike up out of its hole in one slow pull, splinters lifting with it, muddy water filling the gap. Rain pocks the puddle. Cold grey light from above with a faint orange lantern edge on the iron. The camera holds still.
#8 · 5 s — Medium wide view along the track: the Outlaw squats at the end of the loose iron rail, both hands under it, and shoves it sideways off the sleepers in one heave so it drops into the mud with a wet thud, torn spikes still hanging from it. Tree ferns and dripping bark behind him, the ravine's black drop at the frame's edge. Grey overcast rain, lantern-orange faint on the wet iron. The camera holds still.
#9 · 5 s — High view down the ravine wall from the track edge: the loose iron rail slides nose-first down the slick mud slope away from the camera, dragging loose stones and torn fern fronds with it, and disappears into the black gully below. Rain falls straight down through the frame. Cold grey sky-glow catching the rail's silver wear strip as it goes. The camera holds still on the empty slope.
#10 · 5 s — Medium view of two men standing in profile at the torn track, rain streaming: the brother nearer the camera lifts the brass bull's-eye lantern in one slow raise to shoulder height so its orange beam reaches down the rails into the fog, the second gang friend a pace further along leaning on the crowbar, both faces fixed on the lit rails. Dripping eucalyptus behind. Grey overcast night. The camera holds still.
#11 · 4 s — Close view from slightly below: the Outlaw stands still in the downpour and tilts his face up to the black sky, rain striking his beard and running into his collar, lips together and jaw set, eyes on the clouds above the ravine, a small bright catchlight held in each eye. A hard white lightning flash lights the clouds and the wet ridge behind him for an instant, his face staying lit and readable, then the sky drops b
#12 · 5 s — Tall wide view of the ravine railway curve under a pitch-black sky: the rain has become straight vertical streaks of electric-blue and neon-crimson light pouring down onto the wet rails and splintered sleepers, a strobing blue pulse freezing the scene in flashes, a crimson glow rising from the ravine floor, tree ferns cut as hard black silhouettes. The mud carries a faint violet sheen. The camera holds still as the l
#13 · 5 s — Low wide view from the ballast: the Outlaw stands with the loose iron rail hoisted across his thighs, both hands under it, and lifts it in one slow straining heave to waist height, the rail's top edge lit electric blue. A crimson lightning flash lights the fern wall and sky behind him while his face stays lit by the blue strobe with a catchlight in each eye. Streaks of coloured light rain fall around him. The camera
#14 · 5 s — Medium view along the track: the brother at the near end and the second gang friend at the far end both grip the same loose iron rail and drag it one slow pace toward the camera, boots sinking into mud that glows a hard violet from below. Their faces are half black shadow, half electric-blue strobe; crimson light streaks fall between them. Splintered sleepers litter the ground. The camera holds still.
#15 · 5 s — Close view at the ravine lip beneath a hanging broken sleeper: wet mud and fist-sized stones break loose from under the jarrah and slide away from the camera down the black slope, dropping out of sight into the gully where a crimson glow pulses far below. An electric-blue strobe freezes the falling stones in flashes. Vertical streaks of coloured light rain cross the frame. The camera holds still.
#16 · 5 s — Low view from below the broken rail ends: the Outlaw stands above the jagged torn iron with his boots planted on the last sound sleeper, body still, eyes fixed on the broken rail end in the lower frame. Rainwater lit neon-red drips from the torn iron into the black below. A blue strobe pulses across his coat and crimson sash, the sky behind him pitch black. The camera pushes in very slowly.
#17 · 5 s — Close three-quarter view at knee height: the second gang friend jams the forged iron crowbar's chisel tip under the rail foot in one hard downward thrust, mud spraying off the bar. The iron shank flashes electric blue in the strobe and goes black between pulses; crimson light streaks fall onto his hat brim and duster. Rotted sleeper wood crumbles around the rail. The camera holds still.
#18 · 5 s — Medium view from track level: the brother stands holding one end of a torn-out jarrah sleeper upright against his chest, then opens both hands so it drops straight down into the violet-glowing mud with a heavy splash, exactly where it had lain. His face flickers between black shadow and electric-blue strobe; crimson light streaks fall behind. Torn dog spikes glint in the ballast. The camera holds still.
#19 · 5 s — Tall wide view along the track to the break: two torn rail ends jut over the ravine with nothing beneath them, sleepers hanging by single spikes, a twenty-foot gap of black air before the rails resume on the far side. Electric-blue strobe freezes the wreckage in flashes, crimson glow pulses up from the gully, coloured light rain falls straight down. Ferns stand black at the edges. The camera drifts slowly forward tow
#20 · 5 s — Medium view at the black forest edge: the first gang friend stands beside the two horses and raises the brass bull's-eye lantern slowly to shoulder height, its orange flame the single warm point against electric-blue strobe pulsing through the fog, his eyes fixed on the far rails where they vanish into grey. Crimson light streaks fall across the horses' wet backs; they stand with heads low. The camera holds still.
#21 · 5 s — Very low view along a loosened rail: the Outlaw's heavy riding boot comes down on the rail head and presses once, slowly, so the whole length rocks on its torn spikes with a dull iron clank, muddy water squeezing from beneath the sleeper. Electric-blue strobe runs along the wear strip; crimson light pools in the mud. His coat hem and crimson sash hang into the top of frame. The camera holds still.
#22 · 5 s — Close profile view: the brother stands at the very edge of the ravine, slouch hat dripping, lips closed and still for the whole take, his eyes on the black gully floor far below where a crimson glow pulses; his gaze moves slowly down the slope to the glow and holds there. Electric-blue strobe strikes the back of his head and shoulder, neon-red light paints the front of his face from below. Coloured light rain falls b
#23 · 5 s — Close view at ground level: the forged iron crowbar stands upright, planted chisel-down in violet-glowing mud beside a torn sleeper, rain lit electric blue and neon crimson streaking straight down past its black shank. The strobe flickers fast, the bar going from blue flash to pure silhouette and back. Splinters and a torn dog spike lie at its base. The camera circles very slowly around the bar.
#24 · 5 s — Medium view from behind and beside the second gang friend at the ravine lip: he draws one arm back and hurls a rusted dog spike out over the drop in a single overhand throw, the spike flashing blue in the strobe as it flies away from the camera into the crimson-lit black. His duster swings with the throw. Coloured light rain falls straight down. The camera holds still.
#25 · 5 s — Wide view from the far wall of the ravine across the black gulf to the railway curve: a crimson lightning flash reveals the torn-up track, scattered rails and the gap over the drop, then the frame falls to near black until an electric-blue flash reveals it again. Black fern silhouettes line the lip. Coloured light rain streaks the whole frame. The camera holds still between flashes.
#26 · 5 s — Close three-quarter view: the Outlaw stands still and draws the back of one hand slowly down through his soaked beard, wiping rain away, his eyes fixed on the far ridge of the ravine in the upper frame, lips together. Electric-blue strobe strikes one side of his face, neon-crimson glow lights the other from below, the rest of the frame black. Light rain streaks fall behind him. The camera holds still.
#27 · 5 s — Medium view inside the swaying wooden carriage: the police sergeant sits on the green leather bench with the heavy double-barreled percussion shotgun across his knees, one hand resting on its walnut stock, his eyes fixed on the rain-black window beside him, lips pressed shut. Varnished cedar panelling, a rack of Martini-Henry rifles by the door. Crimson light from the brass gas lamp above, cold blue pulsing through t
#28 · 5 s — Wide view straight down the fog-filled railway cutting: the 1879 R-class locomotive drives FORWARD toward the camera along the rails, nose leading, its single oil headlamp a hard white disc in the fog, the driver visible in the cab window with one hand on the cab's brass lever. Telegraph poles stand at irregular spacing along the cutting. A blue strobe pulses in the fog, crimson haze low on the track. The camera hold
#29 · 5 s — Medium view from across the track: the Outlaw raises the forged iron crowbar chisel-down and drives it in one hard downward stroke into the gap between rail and sleeper, mud bursting up around the iron. Electric-blue strobe lights his face and hands through the stroke, catchlight in each eye; a crimson flash lights the ferns and sky behind him. Splintered jarrah and the violet mud around his boots. Coloured light rai
#30 · 5 s — Close view at rail height: the second gang friend bears down on the crowbar's claw hooked under a dog spike and the spike springs free of the jarrah in one jerk, flipping into the mud. His bare wet hands and the bar's black shank flash electric blue; a crimson glow catches the torn wood fibres. Light rain streaks fall behind. The camera holds still.
#31 · 5 s — Tall wide view down the length of the torn track toward the gap over the ravine, the sky pitch black above: a crimson lightning bolt forks across the top of frame and the whole wrecked curve blazes red, then an electric-blue strobe takes over, freezing the vertical streaks of coloured light rain. Scattered rails and sleepers lie in violet mud. The camera pushes slowly forward toward the break.
#32 · 5 s — Low three-quarter view: the brother kneels in violet-glowing mud with the forged iron crowbar's claw hooked under a dog spike and hauls back on the bar in one slow pull, the spike grinding up out of the dense jarrah. His slouch hat drips; electric-blue strobe hits his wet jacket shoulder, crimson glow underlights his face from the mud. Coloured light rain falls straight down. The camera holds still.
#33 · 5 s — Medium wide view from inside the black tree ferns: the Outlaw walks toward the camera heel-to-toe, bent at the waist, dragging the loose iron rail behind him by one end into the scrub, the rail furrowing the violet mud. Electric-blue strobe strikes his back and hat; crimson glow from the ravine edges the rail's wear strip. Coloured light rain falls between the fern fronds. The camera holds still.
#34 · 5 s — Close view along the rail head toward the break: the frame sits nearly black, only faint crimson glow on the torn iron end, then an electric-blue lightning flash whites out the whole frame and shows the gap over the ravine in hard detail, splinters, hanging spikes, black air beneath, before the frame drops back to near black. Vertical coloured light rain visible only in the flash. The camera holds still.
#35 · 5 s — Medium view at the horses: the first gang friend stands beside the dark bay gelding and slides the Martini-Henry Mark II rifle out of its leather saddle scabbard in one slow upward draw, the blued barrel catching electric-blue strobe, his eyes on the rifle's breech in his hands. The grey mare stands behind with head low. Crimson light streaks fall through the black stringybarks. The camera holds still.
#36 · 5 s — Distant wide view across fogged black bush to a far ridge: the 1879 R-class locomotive and its two carriages roll FORWARD along the ridge-line track from one side of the frame to the other, nose leading, a white plume of steam from its whistle rising against pitch-black sky, the headlamp a small hard point, lit carriage windows a row of warm dots. A blue strobe pulses in the fog below. The camera holds still.
#37 · 5 s — Medium view down the carriage aisle: the police sergeant rises from the green leather bench in one slow movement, the heavy double-barreled percussion shotgun held across his chest, his eyes on the carriage door at the far end of the aisle, mouth shut under the whiskers. The brass gas lamp sways above him, crimson; the windows pulse cold blue with rain streaking black. Rifle rack by the door. The camera holds still.
#38 · 5 s — Medium wide view along the carriage of Anglo-Irish colonial police troopers in dark blue tunics: one by the window wipes rain-fog from the glass with his cuff, one across the aisle loads a cartridge into his Martini-Henry's open breech, one asleep against the panelling with his cap over his eyes, one further down checks his boot lace with his back to the camera, no two bodies in the same pose. Crimson gas lamp above,
#39 · 5 s — Low view from the ballast at the torn rail end: the Outlaw stands planted on the last sleeper and raises the forged iron crowbar in both hands slowly above his head until it is horizontal against the pitch-black sky, lips together, eyes on the far side of the gap, catchlight in each eye. Electric-blue strobe lights the raised bar and his face in flashes; a crimson lightning flash lights the sky and fern wall behind h
#40 · 5 s — Wide view down the fog-filled cutting: the schoolteacher runs toward the camera between the rails, heel-to-toe, mouth closed, one arm held straight up with the bright red silk scarf streaming from his fist, spectacles beaded with rain. Electric-blue strobe pulses through the fog around him; the crimson haze low on the track matches his scarf. Telegraph poles stand at irregular intervals along the cutting. The camera
#41 · 5 s — Close view of the second gang friend's face under his dripping felt hat brim: his eyes fix on a tiny red point of light far down the track at the top of the frame, his beard dripping, lips pressed shut, one hand slowly tightening on the crowbar shank at the frame's bottom. Neon-crimson light pulses across his face, electric-blue strobe catches the rain on his hat. Black behind him. The camera holds still.
#42 · 5 s — Low view from between the rails: the 1879 R-class locomotive drives FORWARD straight at the camera along the cutting, nose leading, its oil headlamp flaring white, a few orange sparks at the locked driving wheels as the brakes bite, the driver visible in the cab window hauling on the brake handle. Blue strobe in the fog, crimson haze on the ballast. The camera holds still.
#43 · 5 s — Close view at chest height: the Outlaw holds both hands out palm-up into the falling rain and slowly spreads his fingers as the mud streams off them, his eyes on his own palms, lips together. The rain falls as electric-blue and neon-crimson streaks onto his skin; his crimson sash and black coat fill the frame behind the hands. Pitch black beyond. The camera holds still.
#44 · 5 s — Medium view from track level: the brother stands over the torn rails and opens one hand so the forged iron crowbar falls from his grip, lands chisel-first and topples flat into the violet-glowing mud with a splash. His slouch hat drips, his eyes stay on the fallen bar, mouth closed. Electric-blue strobe freezes the falling iron; crimson glow from the ravine edges his jacket. Coloured light rain falls straight down. T
#45 · 5 s — Medium wide view from the track edge: the first gang friend walks away from the camera into the black stringybark forest, leading the dark bay gelding and the grey mare by their reins, all three moving heel-to-toe and hoof-forward along their own heading, the horses' heads nodding low. Electric-blue strobe pulses on the wet tunic and the horses' rumps; crimson light streaks fall between the trunks. The camera holds s
#46 · 5 s — Wide view of the low weatherboard inn in winter fog: corrugated-iron verandah roof dripping, small-paned windows pulsing electric blue from within, a neon-crimson glow leaking from the stove flue, fog pressing in grey on every side, mud track in the foreground. The rest of the frame pitch black. Rain falls as coloured streaks past the verandah posts. The camera drifts very slowly forward toward the door.
#47 · 5 s — Close view along the cedar bar counter: the massive cylindrical iron helmet rests on the polished wood, hammer dimples and rust across its surface, its single narrow eye-slit lit from behind by a neon-crimson glow from the stove mouth so the slit burns red. Dark bottles stand on the shelf behind. Electric-blue strobe from the window pulses across the helmet's flat top. The camera pushes in very slowly on the slit.
#48 · 5 s — Medium view across the bar: the Outlaw sits on a stool at the cedar counter with the iron helmet in front of him and lowers one hand slowly onto its rusted flat top, his eyes fixed on the helmet's narrow eye-slit, lips together, jaw set. Neon-crimson glow from the stove lights the near side of his face; electric-blue strobe from the window flashes across his coat and crimson sash. Bottles dark behind. The camera hold
#49 · 5 s — Tall wide view of the torn track at the ravine, no one present: the fallen crowbar lies flat in violet mud beside a hanging sleeper, broken rail ends jut over the black drop, coloured rain falls straight down in blue and crimson streaks. The electric-blue strobe pulses slower and slower, the crimson glow from the gully steady. Black fern silhouettes frame the edges. The camera holds still.
#50 · 4 s — Wide view from the far wall of the ravine across the black gulf: the frame sits almost entirely black with only faint crimson glow at the gully floor, then a single neon-red lightning flash reveals the torn track and the gap over the drop for one instant, broken rails and hanging sleepers hard-edged, before the frame falls back to pitch black. Coloured rain visible only in the flash. The camera holds still.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

Sixty souls gathered inside of the inn

The concertina plays a melody thin

It is two in the morning and raining outside

Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide

They awkwardly dance on the floorboards bare

While I watch the rain with a heavy stare

[Pre-Chorus]

Hostages spin while the outlaws just wait

A terrible patience is sealing our fate

[Chorus]

Watch from the window and look through the glass

Waiting to see the steel engine mass

The crimson sash tight and the heavy gun primed

The ending of outlaws is perfectly timed

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

We hold them together to witness the fight

The music is forcing the edge of the night

Drink down the fear in the weatherboard room

Dancing in circles surrounding the doom

The schoolteacher smiles with a nervous shake

Looking for a chance for his own escape

[Bridge]

The tension is bending the physical shape

Every shadow that moves is a ghost on the hill

The silence is heavy and ready to kill

The hours drag like an iron chain

[Chorus]

Watch from the window and look through the glass

Waiting to see the steel engine mass

The crimson sash tight and the heavy gun primed

The ending of outlaws is perfectly timed

[Outro]

The rhythm of the boots upon the floor

The army of the law is at the door

[End]

07 · The Glenrowan Wait

Slow drunken acoustic concertina melody and rainfall sounds building → eerie melancholic 120 BPM deep house with a muffled kick drum and a tense whispered male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Slow drunken acoustic concertina melody and rainfall sounds building into eerie melancholic 120 BPM deep house with a muffled kick drum and a tense whispered male vocal.

🎬 The Story: The gang takes over the Glenrowan Inn, holding over sixty locals hostage while waiting for the train to arrive. As hours drag into the early morning, the tension becomes agonizing and the terrified hostages are forced to dance.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

The teacher is running right into the dark

Sliding through mud with a desperate spark

The train is approaching with billowing steam

A singular headlight cutting the dream

His breath is ragged in the pitch black night

Running toward the beam of the single light

[Pre-Chorus]

He holds up the lantern and wraps it in red

To save all the soldiers from joining the dead

[Chorus]

Wave the red silk in the black of the night

Stop the iron wheels with the flickering light

The brakes start to scream and the heavy sparks fly

The ambush is broken beneath the black sky

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

The locomotive screeches and stops on the line

The officers pour from the carriages fine

The broken track sits just a few yards away

The secret is out at the breaking of day

The red silk flutters in the blinding beam

Tearing the fabric of the outlaw scheme

[Bridge]

The element lost and the element gone

The army surrounds us before it is dawn

The teacher has traded the outlaws for grace

The ultimate battle is taking its place

[Chorus]

Wave the red silk in the black of the night

Stop the iron wheels with the flickering light

The brakes start to scream and the heavy sparks fly

The ambush is broken beneath the black sky

[Outro]

The warning is given and the trap is undone

The army is coming with nowhere to run

[End]

08 · The Red Scarf

Distant train whistles and rapid acoustic strumming building → peak-time high-adrenaline 128 BPM techno with frantic hi-hats and an urgent panicked male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Distant train whistles and rapid acoustic strumming building into peak-time high-adrenaline 128 BPM techno with frantic hi-hats and an urgent panicked male vocal.

🎬 The Story: The schoolteacher manages to escape the inn and sprints to the railway line in the dark. Wrapping a bright red scarf around a lantern, he flags down and stops the approaching police train just before the broken tracks.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

The morning is white with a terrible fog

The officers firing from behind every log

The inn is a splintering wooden debris

But stepping outside is a sight they all see

Enclosed in the rusted iron plough of the farm

A metal golem carrying a weapon on his arm

[Pre-Chorus]

A towering monster steps out of the mist

With iron wrapped tightly from shoulder to wrist

[Chorus]

Walk through the bullets that spark off the chest

The iron ghost rising to take on the test

A helmet of metal with one narrow slit

He takes every shot and refuses to quit

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

The sergeants are trembling and calling his name

They shoot at the demon but nothing is tame

He raises the pistol and fires it slow

A golem of sorrow with nowhere to go

Blood on my hands and blood on my thighs

I fire the revolver right into their eyes

[Bridge]

The breastplate is ringing with a terrible clang

The final stand of the criminal gang

They think he is magic and born from the hell

The terrible toll of the ringing iron bell

[Chorus]

Walk through the bullets that spark off the chest

The iron ghost rising to take on the test

A helmet of metal with one narrow slit

He takes every shot and refuses to quit

[Outro]

Walk through the fire and walk through the lead

The ghost of the mountain soon to be dead

[End]

09 · The Iron Ghost

Atonal metallic clangs of bullets hitting iron over chilling wind building → epic sludgy 115 BPM tech house with massive distorted sub-bass and a terrifying booming male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Atonal metallic clangs of bullets hitting iron over chilling wind building into epic sludgy 115 BPM tech house with massive distorted sub-bass and a terrifying booming male vocal.

🎬 The Story: With the ambush foiled, the police surround the inn and a massive shootout begins. At dawn, the gang leader emerges from the thick morning fog completely encased in rusted iron armor, terrifying the officers.

[Male Vocal]

[Intro]

[Verse 1]

The inn is on fire and burning up high

The smoke is an orange that covers the sky

He sways in the armor entirely drained

The weight of the iron is heavily strained

The troopers circle in the smoking mud

Calling for an end to the spilling of blood

[Pre-Chorus]

They see that his legs have no metal at all

The double barrel fires to trigger the fall

[Chorus]

Down in the mud as the fatal words ring

The end of the outlaw the colony king

They tear off the helmet and stare at the face

A tragic rebellion consuming the space

[Drop]

[Verse 2]

He bleeds in the grass with a cynical smile

He stood to the empire for more than a mile

The brothers are burning right inside the walls

The history remembers exactly who calls

The crimson sash stained with a darker new red

The legend is born when the man becomes dead

[Bridge]

Such is the life of a man driven wild

A legend constructed to comfort the child

The gallows are waiting but justice is done

He looks to the gray of the morning pale sun

[Chorus]

Down in the mud as the fatal words ring

The end of the outlaw the colony king

They tear off the helmet and stare at the face

A tragic rebellion consuming the space

[Outro]

Look at the sky as the camera pulls wide

Nothing is left of the tears or the pride

[End]

10 · Such is Life (The Fall)

Soaring emotional 19th-century fiddle solo and solemn acoustic guitar building → euphoric tragic 124 BPM melodic house with warm synth chords and a passionate fatalistic male vocal.

🎶 The Sizzle: Soaring emotional 19th-century fiddle solo and solemn acoustic guitar building into euphoric tragic 124 BPM melodic house with warm synth chords and a passionate fatalistic male vocal.

🎬 The Story: Realizing his legs are unarmored, the police shoot the gang leader in the thighs, bringing him down. He is captured alive as the inn burns to the ground, eventually facing the gallows and uttering his famous final words.

the Outlaw (armoured, helmet on)character

Glenrowan clearing and burning inn, winter dawnlocation

the black void with the neon fire pillar (Part B)location

Beat sheet — the real board (64 shots)

Characters

the Outlaw (armoured, helmet on) — Irish-Australian man, 25, pale weathered skin, 5 feet 11 inches, broad shoulders and a thick muscular build, dark brown hair plastered to his brow, an untrimmed square dark beard. He wears the full 97-pound rusted iron suit forged from plough mouldboards: a riveted breastplate and backplate joined a
the Outlaw (unmasked, fallen) — The same Irish-Australian man, 25, pale weathered skin, dark brown hair soaked flat with sweat and mud, an untrimmed square dark beard matted with blood, a split lip and a purple bruise swelling the cheekbone, a trickle of blood from the hairline; a grim closed-mouth smile with lips together. He sti
the police sergeant — Anglo-Australian man in his fifties, ruddy weathered skin, thick gray mutton-chop whiskers joining a heavy moustache, stern narrow eyes under a dark peaked forage cap. Victoria Police dark blue wool tunic with a row of polished silver buttons and sergeant's chevrons, dark trousers tucked into black
the brother — Irish-Australian man, 20, pale skin smudged with soot, lean wiry build, dark hair falling over a sharp jaw, a thin patchy beard. Worn brown canvas jacket over a collarless gray shirt, moleskin trousers, scuffed boots, a dusty felt slouch hat with a sagging brim. Expression hard and watchful.
the first gang friend — Anglo-Australian man, 23, tall and lean with sharp cheekbones, clean-shaven pale face, neatly combed dark hair. He wears immaculately tailored stolen Victoria Police dark blue tunic with silver buttons, fitted dark trousers and polished black riding boots, a white collar showing. Carries himself upr
the second gang friend — Irish-Australian man, 21, rugged sunburnt skin, thick scruffy ginger-brown beard, heavy brow, strong horseman's build. Heavy oilskin duster coat the colour of wet bark, a wide-brimmed dark felt hat, a gray flannel shirt, cord trousers and worn riding boots with spurs. Holds a Martini-Henry Mark II r
the schoolteacher — Anglo-Australian man in his thirties, slight and narrow-shouldered, pale nervous face, thin sandy hair receding, round wire spectacles. A faded brown tweed three-piece suit, a loosened collar and tie, muddy shoes, and a bright red silk scarf clutched tightly in both hands against his chest.
the mother — Irish woman in her fifties, weathered pale skin lined by sun and wind, fierce gray-blue eyes, graying dark hair pulled back tightly into a bun. A coarse high-necked dark cotton dress buttoned to the throat, a gray wool shawl around her shoulders held closed with one fist, worn black boots. Stands ri

Shots

#1 · 5 s — Wide view from across the Glenrowan clearing: the weatherboard inn completely engulfed, towering orange flames rolling out of every window and through the collapsing shingle roof against a pale gray winter dawn sky. Wet black mud and trampled grass in the foreground, a split-rail fence half fallen, fog hanging across the far trees. Firelight is the only warm thing in the frame, washing the fog orange. The camera hold
#2 · 5 s — Closer view of the inn's front verandah: square timber posts burning along their full height, weatherboards curling and dropping in glowing flakes onto the muddy step, a painted tin sign above the door reading 'GLENROWAN INN' blistering and browning in the heat. Orange fire roars behind the broken doorway, a sash window bursts outward in a spray of glass. Firelight flickers hard across wet mud in the foreground, cold
#3 · 5 s — Low view along the single railway line at Glenrowan at dawn: two wet iron rails gleaming faint orange, timber sleepers black with damp, ballast stones, thick pale fog swallowing the track thirty yards ahead, a small weatherboard station shed as a gray shape in the mist. Glowing embers drift across the frame from the fire out of view, landing and dying on the wet rails. Cold gray light with a faint orange cast from on
#4 · 5 s — View into the damp eucalyptus forest at dawn: tall straight mountain ash trunks rising out of frame, a dense understorey of tree ferns with wet drooping fronds, moss thick on a fallen log, cold mist lying at knee height. Fine gray ash drifts down slowly through the trees and settles on the fern fronds, and a faint orange glow tints the mist from one side. Cold green-gray palette. The camera holds still, only the ash
#5 · 5 s — Wide view across the muddy clearing: the Outlaw in his iron armour stands alone in the open, the burning inn roaring forty yards behind him, fog drifting between. He stands planted with legs wide, the iron helmet level, a Colt 1851 Navy percussion revolver hanging in one bare hand at his side, the other hand hanging empty. Firelight flickers orange across the rust of the breastplate, cold gray light on everything els
#6 · 5 s — Medium view of the Outlaw from the waist up as he sways slowly from one foot to the other, the heavy iron breastplate and shoulder guards rocking with him, the helmet tipping a few degrees and recovering. Fog drifts behind him lit orange by the inn out of view, wet mud reflecting the fire. Fine rain-mist beads on the rusted iron. One slow continuous sway, nothing else moving. Cold gray daylight on one side of the arm
#7 · 5 s — Low wide view along a fallen stringybark log at the edge of the clearing: five Anglo-Irish colonial troopers in Victoria Police dark blue tunics behind it, irregularly spaced. One sights down a Martini-Henry Mark II rifle, one thumbs a cartridge into the breech, one wipes fog from his eyes with a sleeve, one lies flat with his cap fallen off, and one has stood half upright against orders, peering ahead with his rifle
#8 · 5 s — Close view of the Outlaw's iron helmet filling the frame: the pitted brown-orange rust, four pale bullet dents, the riveted seam, moisture beading and running down the iron, the narrow horizontal viewing slit a black band with a glint of the fire reflected inside it. The helmet rocks very slightly with his sway. Behind, soft orange fire glow through gray fog. Cold gray light on the near side of the drum. The camera p
#9 · 5 s — Medium view of the police sergeant rising slowly from a crouch behind a charred tree stump at the clearing's edge, the double-barreled percussion shotgun held across his body in both hands, hammers back. Fog drifts around his boots, wet black mud, the orange glow of the fire lighting one side of his whiskers and the silver buttons of the tunic. His eyes are fixed on the armoured figure out in the clearing ahead of hi
#10 · 5 s — Medium view inside the burning inn: the brother stands at the cracked sash window with one hand flat on the hot frame, flames climbing the peeling wallpaper behind him and licking across the pressed-tin ceiling, overturned stools and a smashed kerosene lamp on the glowing floorboards. Orange fire is the only light, raking hard across his soot-smudged face and the brim of his slouch hat. His eyes are on the gray clear
#11 · 5 s — View straight up from the clearing at the sky: a vast column of smoke boiling upward, its underside lit deep orange by the fire beneath, its upper mass spreading into the pale gray dawn sky like a bruise. Glowing embers rise through it and wink out. The tops of two stringybark trees frame the edges, their leaves lit orange. The column rolls slowly and continuously. The camera holds still.
#12 · 5 s — Low wide view from mud level: the Outlaw's full figure sways slowly in the open clearing, the iron apron skirt swinging at his upper thighs, moleskin trousers and mud-caked riding boots bare of any iron below it, the revolver drooping in his bare hand. Puddles in the foreground hold his reflection and the orange fire glow, fog thick behind him, the burning inn a blaze of orange through the gray. One slow continuous s
#13 · 5 s — Close view of the Outlaw's iron shoulder guard and the arm below it: the rusted plate riveted to the breastplate, mud and moisture streaking the iron, the dark wool coat sleeve running down to a bare mud-streaked hand holding the Colt 1851 Navy revolver, which sinks slowly lower until the barrel points at the mud. Orange firelight flickers across the rust from behind, gray fog beyond the shoulder. One slow continuous
#14 · 5 s — Wide view across the clearing: six Anglo-Irish colonial troopers in Victoria Police dark blue tunics advance slowly toward the camera through the fog, heel-to-toe, chests leading, irregularly spaced in a loose crescent. One carries his Martini-Henry rifle at the hip, one at the shoulder, one has lost his cap, one limps and lags behind, one has drifted too far ahead and crouches. Black mud sucking at their boots, oran
#15 · 5 s — Ground-level view of the Outlaw's legs from the knees to the hem of the iron apron skirt: mud-caked heavy leather riding boots sunk to the ankle in black mud, moleskin trousers dark with wet, the rusted iron apron ending above the thigh with cloth below it. A puddle in the foreground holds orange fire reflections and ripples as the boots shift their weight once. Fog at ground level, cold gray light, firelight flicker
#16 · 5 s — Medium view of the police sergeant from the waist up and down the barrels: the double-barreled percussion shotgun pressed to his shoulder, both browned barrels angled low toward the ground ahead, his cheek on the walnut stock, eyes on the armoured figure's legs out in the clearing. He squeezes the trigger: a flat orange muzzle flash from both barrels, the shotgun kicking his shoulder. Fog behind him lit orange. One a
#17 · 5 s — Wide view of the Outlaw in the open clearing as his legs fold beneath him and he falls straight backward, the full iron suit slamming flat into the deep wet mud with a splash of black water, the helmet striking last, the revolver flying from his gauntlet. Mud sprays and settles. Fog drifts behind, the burning inn roaring orange through the gray. One continuous fall, then stillness. Cold gray light, fire glow across t
#18 · 5 s — Low wide view across the mud: the Outlaw lies flat on his back in the iron armour, half sunk, mud water still rippling around the breastplate, the helmet tilted. Four Anglo-Irish troopers in dark blue tunics already stand a few paces beyond him in the fog, rifles lowered, irregularly spaced, one hanging back; one shifts his weight, another lowers his rifle muzzle further. Orange firelight from the inn slides across t
#19 · 5 s — Close view from mud level of the fallen Outlaw's helmet and shoulders: two Anglo-Irish troopers kneel in the mud at either side, their gloved hands gripping the rim of the iron helmet, and together they wrench it upward and off in one heave, lifting it clear of the frame and out of view. Mud water drips from the iron. Orange firelight from the inn flickers across the wet rust, gray fog behind. One continuous lift. Th
#20 · 5 s — View from directly above the fallen Outlaw's head and shoulders in the mud: the helmet gone, his bruised and bloodied face bared to the gray sky, hair plastered flat, lips together in a grim closed-mouth smile, eyes open and fixed on the smoke column above the camera. Mud water pools around his ears, the rusted breastplate edge at the bottom of the frame. Orange firelight flickers across one cheek, cold gray daylight
#21 · 5 s — Low view up from the mud at the police sergeant standing over the camera's position, the double-barreled percussion shotgun lowered in both hands, barrels pointing at the ground. His whiskered face is set hard, eyes fixed on the fallen man at his boots. Fog drifts behind him, the burning inn an orange smear in the gray, embers drifting down past his shoulders. He stands still. The camera holds still.
#22 · 4 s — Wide view of the burning inn as its shingle roof gives way and collapses inward in one long slump, a huge shower of orange sparks and a burst of flame rolling up into the pale gray sky, the weatherboard walls buckling, the verandah posts toppling. Black mud and puddles in the foreground throw the flash back, fog at the edges of the clearing. The sparks hang and drift down. Firelight is the only warm light. The camera
#23 · 5 s — Wide view in a pitch-black void: where the inn stood, a towering pillar of fire rises into total darkness, its flames neon-crimson and shot through with electric-blue tongues, flickering and stuttering on and off like a faulty neon tube. A strobing electric-blue moon pulses overhead, throwing hard blue edges across the wet black earth of the floor and leaving everything else in deep shadow. Cyan reflections ripple on
#24 · 5 s — Wide view across the glowing cyan mud field: the Outlaw lies flat on his back at the centre, arms open, the rusted breastplate and apron skirt catching the electric-blue strobe from above, his bare bruised face tipped to the black sky. Puddles around him hold electric-blue reflections, tufts of grass tipped with blue light, a neon-crimson glow on the far horizon. Deep black shadow between the glowing patches. He lies
#25 · 5 s — Close view of the iron helmet lying on its side in the glowing cyan mud, its flat top half buried, the narrow horizontal viewing slit facing the camera with neon-crimson light pulsing inside it as if the fire were still within. Electric-blue strobe from above picks out the rust pits and bullet dents in hard flashes, then drops the drum into black between pulses. Cyan light seeps up through the mud around its base. Th
#26 · 5 s — View from directly above the Outlaw's face as he lies in the glowing cyan mud: bruised cheekbone, split lip, blood at the hairline, lips together in a grim fatalistic closed-mouth smile, eyes open and fixed on the camera's position in the black sky, a steady point of light in each eye. His face is held in constant neon-crimson light from one side and steady cyan glow from the mud under his jaw; the electric-blue stro
#27 · 5 s — Medium view of the police sergeant standing motionless in the black void, the double-barreled percussion shotgun lowered across his thighs in both hands. Steady neon-crimson glow from the fire pillar lights his whiskers and silver buttons on one side, a steady cool cyan from below on the other, a point of light in each eye. The electric-blue strobe flashes only across the wet black earth and puddles around his boots.
#28 · 5 s — Wide view in the void: the brother stands as a dark silhouette against the towering neon-crimson and electric-blue fire pillar, his slouch hat held down at his side in one fist, the other hand hanging empty, canvas jacket edged in crimson. The blue strobe overhead pulses across the wet black earth and the cyan reflections stretching between him and the camera; his soot-streaked face stays in steady dim crimson rim gl
#29 · 5 s — Medium view of the mother standing rigid in the black void, the gray wool shawl gripped closed at her throat in one fist, her other hand flat against her skirt, her face lit steadily from one side by the neon-crimson pillar with a point of light in each eye. Her eyes are fixed on the fire pillar at the far edge of the frame, jaw set, lips together. The electric-blue strobe pulses only across the wet black earth and c
#30 · 5 s — Low side view through tufts of blue-tipped grass at the Outlaw lying in the cyan mud: his bare mud-streaked hand presses slowly down onto the torn moleskin at his thigh, dark blood welling black-red between his fingers under the electric-blue strobe. The rusted apron skirt edge above, mud-caked boot below. Neon-crimson glow on the horizon behind him. One slow continuous press of the hand. Deep black shadow around the
#31 · 5 s — Medium view inside the neon inn: the first gang friend stands upright beside the cedar bar counter, one hand resting flat on the bar, the other at his side, immaculate in the stolen dark blue tunic, the walls behind him splitting with neon-crimson fire that flickers like a faulty neon tube, electric-blue light knifing through the cracks between weatherboards. Embers glow cyan on the floor around his polished boots. H
#32 · 5 s — Medium view inside the neon inn: the second gang friend stands at the far end of the cedar bar, his duster coat edged in neon-crimson, and lowers his Martini-Henry Mark II rifle slowly down onto the bar top in one continuous motion. Crimson fire glitches up the wall behind him, electric-blue strobe stabs through the broken sash window and catches his beard and felt hat brim. Cyan embers on the floorboards. Black shad
#33 · 5 s — Wide view in the black void: seven Anglo-Irish colonial troopers in Victoria Police dark blue tunics stand in a loose uneven ring on the wet black earth, irregularly spaced, the electric-blue strobe flashing them into view and back into black. One leans on his Martini-Henry rifle, one wipes his face with a sleeve, one has sat down in the mud, one stands with his back to the camera facing the crimson pillar, one has w
#34 · 5 s — Low wide view across the cyan mud: the Outlaw pushes himself slowly up onto one elbow, the rusted breastplate lifting out of the mud with water running off it, his bruised face raised toward the towering neon-crimson fire pillar on the horizon behind him. Electric-blue strobe flashes across the iron, cyan glow from the puddles under him, black sky above. One slow continuous rise onto the elbow, then he holds. The cam
#35 · 5 s — Close view of the neon inn's weatherboard wall from inside: the boards splitting and curling, neon-crimson fire glitching through the widening gaps like a faulty neon tube, electric-blue light stabbing between the planks from outside, the peeling wallpaper blackening and lifting. Cyan embers glow on the floorboards at the bottom of the frame. Pitch-black shadow everywhere the neon does not reach. The camera pushes in
#36 · 5 s — Close view of the faded crimson sash where it crosses the Outlaw's chest at the gap between the rusted breastplate and his belt: the worn silk creased and muddy, a darker wet red stain spreading slowly through the weave from one edge, the green-and-gold fringe trailing into cyan mud. A faint ruby glow begins to rise from within the silk. Electric-blue strobe flashes across the iron above it. One slow spreading stain.
#37 · 5 s — Wide view in the black void: a short length of railway track runs across the wet black earth, and the schoolteacher stands on the sleepers holding his bright red silk scarf raised in both hands above his head, the silk hanging still. The electric-blue strobe flashes his spectacles and tweed into view and back into black, the neon-crimson pillar glowing at the far edge of the frame. Cyan reflections on the rails. He h
#38 · 5 s — Close view of the Outlaw's eyes and brow as he lies in the cyan mud: eyes open and fixed on the black sky above the camera, a point of light in each, wet lashes, the bruise purple on the cheekbone, blood dried at the hairline, mud in the hair. His face is held in steady faint neon-crimson from one side and cyan from below the jaw; the electric-blue pulse plays only in the mud at the frame edges. Lips together and sti
#39 · 5 s — Medium view of the mother seated on a rough bark-hut stool in the black void, the gray wool shawl across her lap, her two hands slowly folding it once over itself in a single continuous motion. Her face is lowered toward the shawl, lips together, jaw set. Electric-blue strobe from above flashes across her gray hair and the coarse dark dress, neon-crimson glow faint at the edge of the frame, cyan reflections on the we
#40 · 5 s — Wide view in the black void: the colonial gallows stands on the wet black earth, its heavy hardwood beam and two uprights a hard silhouette against the towering neon-crimson and electric-blue fire pillar behind it, the hemp noose hanging perfectly still from its iron ring. The blue strobe flashes the trapdoor platform and rail into view and back into black. Cyan reflections ripple at the base of the uprights. The cam
#41 · 5 s — Low view up at the Outlaw standing on the gallows platform beneath the hardwood beam, the hemp noose hanging still beside his shoulder, his bruised face raised toward a thin pale gray disc of sun hanging in the black sky directly above the beam. The rusted breastplate catches the electric-blue strobe, neon-crimson glow on the timber behind him. He stands motionless, lips together. The strobe slows. The camera holds s
#42 · 5 s — Wide view across the glowing cyan mud field: the Outlaw lies flat on his back at the centre, arms open, the rusted breastplate and apron skirt catching the electric-blue strobe from above, his bare bruised face tipped to the black sky. Puddles around him hold electric-blue reflections, tufts of grass tipped with blue light, a neon-crimson glow on the far horizon. Deep black shadow between the glowing patches. He lies
#43 · 5 s — Low view at mud level: the double-barreled percussion shotgun lies in the glowing cyan mud, browned barrels half sunk, the walnut stock catching the electric-blue strobe, both hammers down. Behind it the police sergeant's black boots and dark blue trouser legs stand planted, mud to the ankle, the rest of him rising out of frame. Neon-crimson glow on the puddle surfaces. Nothing moves but the strobe. The camera pushes
#44 · 5 s — Medium view in the black void: a single Anglo-Irish colonial trooper in a Victoria Police dark blue tunic stands with his back to the camera, raising the iron helmet slowly overhead in both hands toward the towering neon-crimson fire pillar ahead of him, the helmet's narrow viewing slit catching crimson. The electric-blue strobe flashes across his shoulders and the rusted drum. Wet black earth with cyan reflections u
#45 · 5 s — View from directly above the Outlaw's face as he lies in the glowing cyan mud: bruised cheekbone, split lip, blood at the hairline, lips together in a grim fatalistic closed-mouth smile, eyes open and fixed on the camera's position in the black sky. Pulsing neon-crimson light from the fire pillar washes across his face in slow waves, alternating with hard electric-blue strobe flashes, cyan glow from the mud under his
#46 · 5 s — View from above the Outlaw's chest as he lies in the cyan mud: the crimson sash across the gap in the rusted breastplate glows from within with an intense ruby light, brightening steadily until the silk itself is lost in the glow and red light spills up over the iron, his beard and the mud around him. The electric-blue strobe is swallowed by the red. One steady continuous brightening. The camera holds still as the fr
#47 · 5 s — View from directly above the Outlaw lying in the cyan mud, the ruby glow of the sash blazing at the centre of his rusted breastplate, arms open, bruised face up to the camera. The camera rises straight upward steadily, the figure shrinking, the cyan puddles and blue-tipped grass spreading around him, the electric-blue strobe flashing across the whole field, black at the edges. He holds still throughout. One continuou
#48 · 5 s — View straight down from high above the cyan mud field as the camera continues to rise: the glowing field a pale cyan patch in a vast black void, the neon-crimson fire pillar a glitching red column at its edge, a tiny ruby point at the centre where the man lies, a scatter of dark specks that are troopers standing irregularly around it. The electric-blue strobe pulses across the whole patch. One continuous steady upwar
#49 · 5 s — View straight down into a perfectly black void as the camera keeps rising: far below, a small smear of cyan and a flickering red-and-blue glow, the last of the fire pillar and the glowing mud, shrinking steadily toward a single point of light at the centre of the frame. Black fills everything else, edge to edge, with faint cold blue haze around the shrinking glow. One continuous steady upward rise.
#50 · 5 s — A perfectly black frame with a single tiny point of light at the centre, red at its core with a faint electric-blue halo, pulsing faintly and slowly in a steady heartbeat rhythm, each pulse a little dimmer than the last. Deep black fills the frame edge to edge, with the faintest cold blue haze around the point. The camera holds still.
#51 · 5 s — A single glowing crimson ember drifts slowly upward through a pitch-black frame, tumbling gently, its light faint and warm, a thin electric-blue glint along one edge. Black fills the frame edge to edge around it. The ember rises steadily from the bottom of the frame toward the top in one continuous slow drift. The camera holds still.
#52 · 5 s — Wide view in the black void: the mother stands at the foot of the colonial gallows, small beneath the heavy hardwood beam, the gray shawl gripped shut at her throat, her face raised to the hemp noose hanging still above her. The electric-blue strobe pulses slowly across the timber and her gray hair, the neon-crimson pillar now a faint red glow on the horizon, cyan reflections on the wet earth. She stands motionless.
#53 · 5 s — Low view across the glowing cyan mud: the brother kneels on one knee and lowers a wide-brimmed woven cabbage tree hat slowly down onto the mud in front of him with both hands, releasing it, the hat settling on the glowing surface. His head is bowed toward the hat, slouch hat brim hiding his eyes. Electric-blue strobe pulses slowly across his canvas jacket, faint crimson on the horizon behind. One slow continuous plac
#54 · 5 s — Close view of the bright red silk scarf lying crumpled across two timber railway sleepers and a wet iron rail on the black earth of the void, one end trailing into a cyan puddle. The electric-blue strobe pulses slowly across the scarlet silk and the rail, faint neon-crimson glow catching the rail's edge. A slight stir moves one corner of the silk. Deep black around the track. The camera pushes in slowly.
#55 · 5 s — Close view of the neon inn's floorboards: a wide-brimmed dark felt hat lies on its crown among cyan-glowing embers, its brim catching and burning with neon-crimson flame that flickers and glitches, the cedar bar counter a black shape above. Electric-blue light cuts through a crack in the wall across the floor. The hat burns slowly and steadily. Pitch-black shadow around the lit patch. The camera holds still.
#56 · 5 s — Medium view of the police sergeant standing alone in the black void, breaking the double-barreled percussion shotgun open across his forearm in one slow continuous motion, the barrels tipping down, his eyes on the open breech. The electric-blue strobe pulses slowly across his whiskers and the silver buttons, the neon-crimson pillar now a faint red glow far behind him, cyan reflections on the wet earth. Everything els
#57 · 5 s — Medium view of the iron helmet standing upright on a low mound of glowing cyan mud in the void, its flat top catching the slow electric-blue strobe, the narrow horizontal viewing slit glowing steady electric-blue from within. Rust pits and bullet dents in hard relief, mud drying on its base. Black void behind, a faint crimson glow at the horizon. Nothing moves but the pulse of the strobe. The camera pushes in slowly
#58 · 5 s — Medium view from above the Outlaw lying in the cyan mud, head and shoulders, the rusted breastplate edge at the bottom of the frame, his bruised face up to the black sky, lips together in the faint closed-mouth smile, eyes open. The electric-blue strobe has slowed to a long, soft pulse, cyan glow from the mud under his jaw, the faintest ruby glow still in the sash. He holds still; only his eyelids lower slowly, once.
#59 · 5 s — View from high above the Outlaw lying flat in the cyan mud, arms open, the rusted armour dark against the glowing surface, the sash across his chest a soft ruby glow that dims slowly to a faint dull red over the shot. Puddles hold slow electric-blue pulses, blue-tipped grass around the edges, black beyond the glowing field. He lies perfectly still. One slow continuous dimming of the ruby light. The camera holds still
#60 · 5 s — Wide view in the black void of the fire pillar collapsing: the towering neon-crimson flames shrinking steadily down toward the wet black earth, the crimson draining out until only a low bed of electric-blue embers glitches and flickers where the inn stood. The strobing moon overhead pulses slower and dimmer. Cyan reflections fade on the ground. One continuous steady shrinking of the fire. The camera holds still.
#61 · 5 s — Wide view of the colonial gallows alone in the black void, the hardwood beam and uprights dark, the hemp noose hanging perfectly still and empty from its iron ring, the trapdoor platform bare. The electric-blue strobe pulses slower and slower, each flash dimmer, the gallows sinking toward black between pulses. Only a faint cyan sheen remains on the wet earth. The camera holds still.
#62 · 5 s — Wide view of the Glenrowan clearing in cold gray winter dawn: the inn reduced to a black charred skeleton of posts and a fallen chimney, a thin haze above it, thick pale fog across the muddy clearing, the wet rails gleaming faintly, a pale gray disc of sun hanging low in the fog above the ruin. Black mud and puddles in the foreground, the split-rail fence fallen. Desaturated grays and greens, the fire gone. The camer
#63 · 4 s — Close view of the black mud where the armoured man fell: the deep impression of the breastplate and shoulders filled with gray rainwater, boot prints trailing away, and a torn thread of faded crimson silk with green-and-gold fringe lying across the impression, its colour the only warmth in the frame. Cold gray dawn light through fog, a faint ripple crossing the puddle. The camera pushes in very slowly toward the silk
#64 · 4 s — A perfectly black frame with a single faint point of light at the centre, dull red with the last trace of an electric-blue halo, pulsing once, then again more weakly, then fading steadily to nothing so that the frame is entirely black, edge to edge. The camera holds still.

01 · Stringybark (Point of No Return)

02 · The Outlaw Act

03 · The Royal Mail

04 · Jerilderie (The Dictation)

05 · Ploughshares to Iron

06 · Tearing the Tracks

Characters

Shots

07 · The Glenrowan Wait

08 · The Red Scarf

09 · The Iron Ghost

10 · Such is Life (The Fall)

Characters

Shots