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Connies A Nostalgic Symbol Of Lost Community Spirit

The proposal aired in last week’s Sunday Age to reinstate conductors to Melbourne’s trams was greeted with unsurprising enthusiasm. But the nostalgia for connies probably has little to do with the mechanics of tram ticketing and more to do with a general unease about 21st-century relationships.

Admittedly, the reported $12 million a year that it would cost to reintroduce tram conductors sounds a hell of a lot cheaper than the $850 million Victorians have already had to pay for the myki automated ticketing system. For public transport users, myki is at the moment no more than a figment of the imagination. And as the price of implementing myki keeps going up, it just ends up sounding more and more fanciful, like space elevators or underwater cities.

Bear in mind that once myki has its bugs ironed out, its high-tech cards available for purchase, a colourful and energetic promotional campaign blaring out of every Victorian television and it is finally – finally – switched on, myki will still cost a hefty $55 million a year to operate. With a bill like that on the way, is it really any surprise that people are getting nostalgic for the humble old connie?

After all, this nostalgia could also be sound economics. Conductors are as good a way as any to collect transport fees. Every possible ticketing system – Metcard, myki or conductors – should be evaluated on its merits and compared with alternatives. As the State Government pushes blindly ahead with myki despite its enormous cost and a three-year delay, there seems little indication that anybody has done that.

But it probably isn’t the cost of conductors, or the ballooning cost of myki that makes so many people miss the connies. As blog comments, reader contributions and subsequent opinion pieces have made clear, what people are most nostalgic for is human contact on the tram.

This is a feeling that would be easy to mock, but I won’t. Being frustrated by firms automating and depersonalising services isn’t Luddism – it is not the same as going on a machine-breaking rampage or fearing a robot rebellion.

Instead, the apparently widespread desire to return to the days of the connies seems to come more from a feeling that individuals are being left adrift in an ocean of overly complicated superannuation options, phone plans and credit-card loyalty schemes. Unfriendly businesses are common. On many customer service hotlines, the only way callers can escape the automated system and speak to a live human being is by becoming aggressive and abusive. If anything is damaging our collective psyche, it is probably unresponsive telephone hotlines.

Of course, we should not overestimate how much people are secretly yearning for human interaction. Many, if not most, people would prefer to do internet banking at home rather than traipsing off to their branch to deal with a disgruntled teller. And it’s far easier to pay bills online than read out your credit card number to a call-centre employee over the phone.

Similarly, not everybody likes the thought of having to track down a conductor on a crowded tram before their morning coffee has kicked in. It’s not entirely obvious, as Catherine Deveney contended in The Age on Wednesday, that reinstating the connies would be like finding your favourite watch that went missing 20 years ago, or discovering a long-lost dog on your doorstep.

Think back to the heyday of government-owned public transport – not all conductors were rays of sunshine motivated by nothing more than a love of commuters. Sometimes they had bad days. Not every conductor loved every minute of their job. And some of them were – to put it mildly – miserable gits. A small minority, certainly. But it might be worth recalling that not every commuter-conductor relationship spun off into a lifelong friendship.

Sure, the ideal conductor helps parents with prams, directs tourists to interesting landmarks, and knows regular travellers by name.

But there isn’t really any reason why fellow passengers can’t lift prams or aid lost tourists. There are dozens of people on the average tram.

Rather than hoping that conductors will somehow rebuild Melbourne’s community spirit, why not look at what’s holding that spirit back? We will probably discover it is much more than dissatisfaction with ticketing machines.

Protecting Kids From TV Swearing Is Not Canberra’s Job

One of the most appealing features of Australian democracy is our enthusiasm for parliamentary committees. Committees are to politicians what Bob the Builder DVDs are to three-year-olds – if a politician is busy with a committee inquiry, then they can’t get up to any mischief.

So it was easy to be happy when it was reported earlier this year that swearing on television shows – which most people would agree is one of the top issues facing Australia today, perhaps second only to jaywalking – was to be investigated by a federal Senate committee.

Sure, it’s an embarrassing waste of taxpayers’ money to have politicians spend their days discussing the need for politeness when responding to complaints about TV programs. But doing so is a lot better than if they spent that time thinking up new taxes. Senators have to do something – let them deliberate over which words shouldn’t be said on TV.

But the final 80-page report released late last month (it took nine senators four months to write) isn’t limited to platitudes and speechifying. It recommends that all new televisions sold in Australia be compelled to offer a “parental lock”, which prevents children from watching programs above a certain classification.

On the surface, this seems like a good idea, doesn’t it? Adding a parental lock to new televisions isn’t likely to cost consumers too much more money.

But is good parenting impossible without help from Canberra?

The parental lock is very similar to a program implemented in the US after a surge in controversy about violence on TV. All TVs sold in that country have to have a V-chip installed that allows parents to block certain shows. (Journalists joked that if the sex-obsessed Republicans had introduced the measure it would have been called the S-chip.)

But while 70 to 80% of American parents claim that they are “seriously concerned” about their children watching inappropriate TV programs, their concern doesn’t extend to actually using the V-chip. In 2004, a Kaiser Family Foundation survey found that only 15% of parents had even tried switching it on. As a consequence, some US politicians have argued that the V-chip should be set at its most restrictive level as its factory default.

It’s easy for parents to claim in a telephone poll that they worry about their kids mimicking the rude words heard on TV. But you have to wonder just how seriously concerned those parents are if it is too much effort to switch on a function that their TV already has built into it. If the US experience is anything to go by, the parental lock will be a flop. And Australian television is already much tamer than TV in the US.

After all, just as you don’t have to buy your children junk food even if they really want it, you don’t have to let your children watch rude programs.

One of the more bizarre reasons the nine senators thought that parents needed help from the Federal Government was because televisions were increasingly being placed in kids’ bedrooms, far from the watchful eye of adults. But perhaps concerned parents could consider simply moving the offending TVs somewhere children don’t sleep.

Indeed, monitoring what TV programs children watch isn’t actually that hard. And for those parents that feel they need some technological help, there are numerous TVs and set-top boxes that already offer parental locks. Is it that hard for parents to inquire about these features when they first buy their TV?

Parents who want to shield their children from the rougher parts of pop culture can easily do so with off-the-shelf technology and simple common sense.

But nevertheless, politicians of all stripes pander to moralising conservative lobbyists for whom the real issue isn’t that their children could hear rude words on TV, but that there are rude words on TV at all. As usual, politicians aren’t actually thinking of the children. Politicians are thinking of marginal electorates.

Perhaps some perspective is needed. Parents and governments won’t have failed if the next generation of Australians lead happy and productive lives, but curse like drunken pirates. Society won’t crumble. The Senate committee should have asked everybody to take it easy – Canberra isn’t a parenting aide.

Politics, not sport, is the purpose of the Olympic Games

Available here in PDF.

On the March 26 1938, six months after he died, Pierre de Coubertin’s corpse was exhumed from its grave in Lausanne, Switzerland.

His heart was cut out and transported to Olympia in Greece. The heart of the founder of the modern Olympics was then reburied in a ceremony attended by his long-time friend, Nazi bureaucrat, and organiser of the 1936 Berlin Games, Carl Diem.

The tomb of Coubertin’s heart has remained a spiritual centre of the Olympic movement. The tomb was the first destination of the Beijing torch relay — after the torch was lit with the sun’s rays and a parabolic mirror by an official Olympic ‘Holy Priestess’, of course. And late last year the tomb was the site of a ritualistic olive tree planting, to symbolise the Olympic movement’s appreciation of the environment, and to demonstrate the support of Coca-Cola for the Games.

These bizarre rituals, performed around the decomposing body organ of a dead Frenchman, are emblematic of the sometimes odd, sometimes deeply disreputable, and always lumbering and heavy-handed symbolism that has soaked the Olympic Games for a century. The torrent of symbols, emblems and rhetoric that accompanies the Olympics is supposed to convince us that the Games have a moral and ethical stature beyond reproach.

But all this pageantry obscures the Olympics’ essential purpose — first and foremost, the Games are designed to shine glory upon the nations that hold them. National politicians and government use the Olympics to achieve their individual or national goals.

Certainly, the politics lying behind each Olympics may often be diffuse, but it is overt. Sport may be the style of the Olympics, but nationalism and geopolitics are the content.

The ideology of ‘Olympism’

For such a long-running institution, the Olympic Games to a remarkable degree still reflect of the idiosyncratic vision of the founder of the International Olympic Committee (IOC), the
French baron Pierre de Coubertin.

Coubertin was born into a Catholic and Royalist family in 1863, but in the turbulent ideological climate of the French right-wing in the Third Republic, his political views quickly diverged from the traditional. From a modern perspective, his politics were quirky, even contradictory; he described himself as a democrat, yet at the same time nominated the ‘triumph of democracy’ as one of the four political innovations which humanity could have gone without. But he was in many ways typical of his era—a conservative aristocrat whose political and moral views had much in common with the left-wing progressives of the time.

While conservatives like Coubertin rejected the utopian dreams of their socialist counterparts, they shared with progressives and socialists an antipathy towards individualism, a belief in the power of experts, a deep faith in the state, and an obsession with proto-totalitarian concepts like ‘moral hygiene,’ ‘national fitness’ and eugenics.

In sport, the conservative progressivist Coubertin found an outlet where he could express all of his political and moral views. While many were searching for national meaning after the French defeat in the Franco-Prussian War in 1870, Coubertin argued that ‘sports can provide the virile formula on which the health of the state can be founded.’

But most importantly for the development of the Olympic ideology, Coubertin complemented this nationalist ethos with a staunch internationalism. Coubertin founded the Olympic movement with a doctrine of ‘universalism’, which as it appears in the most recent Olympic Charter is described as ‘any form of discrimination with regard to a country or a person on grounds of race, religion, politics, gender or otherwise is incompatible with belonging to the Olympic Movement.’ But as John Hoberman writes in The Olympic Crisis: Sport, Politics and the Moral Order:

What this has meant in practise is that the IOC has turned a blind eye to any sort of political crime committed by a member of the Olympic movement. In September 1978, the President of the IOC Lord Killanin, made this claim: ‘I am not for one moment saying we have any right to tell what governments should do in the interests of their own country…’ Such a disclaimer is made to preserve the ‘universality’ of the movement. What is thereby forgotten is that another side of universality is the failure to discriminate.

It is this failure to discriminate that led the Olympic movement to proclaim its support for ‘universal fundamental ethical principles’ while at the same time throwing its support behind the three largest dictatorships of the twentieth century — Nazi Germany, Soviet Russia and now Communist China. Certainly, this is slightly unfair to China — in 2008 its human rights record is poor, but is markedly better than it was during the Great Leap Forward — but the country is still a dictatorship with at least 4000 domestic political prisoners.

This would, however, have been fine by Coubertin, who dismissed ethical questions with a trite affirmation of moral equivalence. In an interview during the 1936 Berlin Games, he argued that:

It is good that each nation of the world be granted the honour of putting on the Games and of celebrating them in their own manner, in accordance with its own creative powers and by its own means. In France they are disturbed by the fact that the Games of 1936 were illuminated by a Hitlerian force and discipline. How could it have been otherwise?

This doctrine of ‘universality’ above all other considerations was also the lynchpin upon which the Soviet bloc was able to hang their claims that the communist world was being unreasonably ignored by the IOC.

After all, for Coubertin, a nation’s political system is merely a reflection of its culture. For the Olympic movement, totalitarianism is not an aberration, but an accepted part of the international cultural patchwork. As a consequence, there is very little in the Olympics’ doctrine of universalism that suggests any allegiance to ‘fundamental ethical principles’.

Pagentry and politics

For the cities and corporate sponsors of the games, Olympism and its doctrine of universality are not much more than a philosophy of convenience; a pre-packaged ideology ready to be adopted when the Olympics come to town. Few outside the IOC share Coubertin’s views on the moral neutrality of political systems, or, indeed, the IOC’s view that politics has nothing to do with the Olympic ceremony.

Instead, for the host nations, the games represent an easy opportunity to conduct domestic and international politics without the distraction of being accused of doing so. Even the athletes, standing on the winners podium, draped in their national flag and singing their national anthem, must realise that politics, not sport, is the dominant Olympic event.

For much of the life of the modern Games, politics was defined by the Cold War, which divided participating nations into clearly delineated factions. The nationalistic passions inflamed by this international and ideological rivalry became the primary characteristic of the Games in the second half of the twentieth century.

Australians may remember Melbourne 1956 through sepia-tinged nostalgia, but the political circumstances of those Games were controversial and impassioned. They were held in the inter-
national atmosphere created by the Suez crisis and the Soviet invasion of Hungary. The then President of the IOC, the American Avery Brundage, in an attempt to separate the Melbourne Games from the fragile international situation, argued desperately that ‘the Olympic Games are contests between individuals and not between nations.’

The President of the Netherlands Olympic Committee, which boycotted the Games responded bitterly: ‘How can sports prevail over what has happened in Hungary? How would we like it if our people had been atrociously murdered, and someone said that sports should prevail?’

His questions are surely more morally clear than any of the vague platitudes contained in the lavish Olympic Charter.

The IOC’s pleas for calm had little effect on the political aggression displayed during the contests. A water polo match between Hungary and the Soviet Union was a violent blood bath, but Hungary managed a 4-0 victory.

The attitude described by an American contestant at Helsinki (the site of the 1952 Olympics) was characteristic of many of the Olympics during the early Cold War period:

[Russians] were in a sense the real enemy. You just loved to beat ‘em. You just had to beat ‘em. It wasn’t like beating some friendly teams like Australia. This feeling was strong down through the entire team, even [among] members in sports where the Russians didn’t excel.

Not only has the international political context of the Games undermined its claim to the moral high ground, but the Olympics have themselves been affiliated with state violence. As Hoberman writes, ‘the world of sport has given rise to more bizarre, violent, aberrant, and even criminal behaviour than its faithful public is disposed to recall.’ The most notorious
example of this was the Tlatelolco Massacre, which occurred just ten days before the 1968 Mexico City Games, where the Mexican government fired upon a demonstration of 5000 students demanding greater human rights. Some estimates of the death toll at Tlatelolco range up to 300 people.

And quite apart from the failure of the IOC to influence China’s poor human rights practices in the lead up to Beijing, critics of the communist regime can point to mass home evictions to make way for construction. One left-leaning human rights group, the Centre on Housing Rights and Evictions, claims that there have been over 1.25 million Chinese forced to resettle, although the group has not made their report public, apparently to protect their sources. The Chinese government only acknowledges 6,000 homes seized, all with adequate compensation. Nevertheless we know that like many other previous host cities, Beijing has launched a program to ‘clean up’ the city of beggars, hawkers and prostitutes before the tourists arrive.

Much of the pageantry of the modern Games was developed by the totalitarian hosts. Nazi propagandists invented the torch relay in order to ferry Western journalists around idyllic German villages, in support of the Nazi’s rural ideology.

And the opening ceremony to the Moscow Games was reportedly the most expensive ever held, a gigantic billboardfor the social superiority of Soviet communism, setting the stage for the lavish ‘cultural’ ceremonies of the coming decades.

The Olympics offer totalitarian or otherwise oppressive governments an opportunity to repurpose the publicity accorded to sport for the benefit of the state and its ideology. The official website of the Chinese Olympic Committee is unambiguous about Beijing’s ideological content, advertising its National Fitness Program, which has been hard at work since 1995 ‘promoting mass sporting activities on an extensive scale, improving the people’s physique, and spurring the socialist modernisation of our country’.

The same website laments the attempted politicisation of the Beijing Games by ‘some Western forces’ and ‘separatists’.

For democratic states, the political purposes may be different, but they are still clear. In Sydney 2000, the government emphasised Australia’s tourist potential. Politicians wanted their country to be seen as more than just a ‘good source for raw materials—a perpetual cry of Australia’s economic interventionists.

Economic distractions

Part of the reason we be can sure that it is politics that is at the centre of governments’ relationship with the Games is because they cost a great deal but provide little economic benefit. Politicians eager to host the Olympics talk up their financial and social benefits — rhetoric which the IOC is more than happy to encourage.

The Olympic movement has had a turbulent economic history. For most of its history, the Games have been overwhelmingly supported by government finances, with corporate sponsorship and the sale of television rights playing a supportive role. This model of Games funding reached its zenith with the Munich 1972 and Montreal 1976 Olympics. But the City of Montreal ended its closing ceremony with a deficit of 2.7 billion dollars (in 2000 terms) which it only managed to finally pay off in 2006.

After Moscow 1980, the next Games held in a democratic nation were the Los Angeles Games of 1984, and following a significant protest movement, the citizens of LA refused to provide any public funds for staging the Olympics.

In 1984 there were no formal organisational links with the city, and the United States Olympic Committee managed to skirt IOC regulations which would have otherwise compelled them to provide public funds. As a consequence, the 1984 Games were the first to be fully paid by the private sector, with only minimal infrastructure upgrades and sport facilities provided by the city.

Successive games have managed to slowly reinvolve public financing, and the Sydney Games set a new standard in government involvement, when the NSW government and Commonwealth provided US$1 billion (in year 2000 dollars). For Beijing 2008, the Chinese government’s habit of trying to take credit for private investment makes it hard to properly account for the taxpayer’s contribution, but the Belgian analyst Gilbert Van Kerckhove conservatively estimated a figure of roughly $5-6 billion.

But what for? Supporters of the Games can cite a myriad of potential benefits of staging the Games. Few of them stack up. Tourism is the most common perceived benefit from the Olympics. Tracking the long term impact of the Games on a city’s tourist market is tough. In The Economics of Staging the Olympics, Holger Preuss argues that it is impossible to prove that the Sydney Games increased Sydney’s tourist market, as the impact of September 11 on the world’s tourist market muddies the evidence.

But September 11 occurred more than twelve months later and had worldwide, not Australia specific, impacts. Furthermore, as Preuss concedes, local tourism markedly decreased during the Games period. As an example, Sydney Zoo saw a 300 per cent decrease in tourism. Certainly, many studies — often commissioned by governments seeking to defend their policies — proclaim long term tourist increases to be in the hundreds of thousands.

But the causal link between a city hosting the Games is far from established. Calgary, site of the 1988 Winter Games, saw a 12 per cent decrease in tourism immediately following the Games, and a 10 per cent decrease the following year.

An increasingly common benefit claimed from the Olympics is infrastructure improvement. As the argument goes, staging the Games allows a city to conduct widespread infrastructure upgrades, avoiding the normal political bargaining required to achieve even modest investments. From this perspective, the hosting of the Olympics is merely an excuse to conduct the normal business of municipal government, allowing the city to upgrade its airports, road and rail networks and telecommunications services.

Undoubtedly, hosting the Olympics sparks a frenzy of big infrastructure projects. But a study by a group of RMIT University economists demonstrated that while overall the market did not respond to the announcement that Sydney was to host the Games, the only sector that did respond positively was the construction industry. Building firms — and politicians interested in basking in the bright light of political glory—are the only unambiguous beneficiaries of the Olympics, outside the athletes themselves.

But infrastructure disasters are common in the history of the Games — many projects, like the Montreal-Mirabel International Airport, while initially praised, are quickly revealed to be little more than boondoggles.

At their best, the Olympics are a government supported circus provided by politicians from democratic countries who want the world’s media to flock to their most attractive city. But at their worst, the Olympics have have provided totalitarian regimes with pre-packaged marketing programs, allowing them to paper-over serious human rights issues while they pretend to be enlightened members of the international community. The moral authority that the International Olympics Committee continues to claim has been repeatedly shattered by the experience of 100 years of the Olympic Games.

Have bad movies edged out good?

A review of Sleaze Artists: Cinema at the Margins of Taste, Style, and Politics.

It may not come as a surprise that Hostel: Part II, the 2007 movie which depicts nearly an hour and a half of brutal, explicit and uninterrupted torture, is part of a rich cultural lineage.Hostel II is part of a new movement of neo-exploitation cinema, and its direct artistic ancestors date back nearly half a century.

So have ‘bad’ movies like these edged out ‘good’ movies?

Few cultural fields illustrate the blurring between ‘highbrow’ art and ‘lowbrow’ craft more than the movies. As Jeffrey Sconce points out in the new edited collection of essays on trash cinema Sleaze Artists: Cinema at the Margins of Taste, Style and Politics, movies were never an elite art; condemned to be practiced and enjoyed only by the cultured few. Instead, movies have always existed only to entertain, and as such, have always been a ‘vulgar medium’ designed to appeal to the unwashed masses.

But there is vulgar, and then there is vulgarSleaze Artists explores the depths of trash, exploitation and grindhouse cinema of the last forty years. Not only do the films discussed inSleaze Artists have no artistic pretentions; they barely even have entertainment pretensions. For the cinema underground, the first priority is to titillate.

The essays in Sleaze Artists are diverse, as is typical for an academic collection, with contributions covering gay military films, boredom as a motif in the Italian underground, the quasi documentary elements of the postwar nudie film, and an account of the production and distribution of a gothic horror movie that couldn’t find an obvious market. The authors are an assortment of professors and cultural studies academics from the United States; if they were Australians, our first reaction would be to decry a university system that redistributes taxpayers’ money to tenured lecturers just so that they can watch all eleven Friday the 13thfilms, but as they are Americans we can just marvel in amusement. So it is easy to write that many of the essays in Sleaze Artists are fascinating. After all, it’s not our taxes.

As an example, an interesting chapter by Kay Dickinson looks at the strange partnership between Italian horror of the 1970s and early 1980s and the often very beautiful soundtracks which accompanied them. In this, the archetypal example is the infamous 1980 film Cannibal Holocaust. The gruesome violence of this film-the director, Ruggero Deodato, was forced to prove in an Italian court that he had not actually killed anybody during filming, and the film shows the actual slaughter of half a dozen live animals-is matched with an unpredictably lush synthesizer jazz score by the composer Riz Ortolani. Dickinson nominates the dissociative and unnatural quality of the synthesiser itself as a conscious artistic decision by the filmmaker to unnerve the viewer-as if seeing a live turtle dissected on screen was not unnerving enough.

Tania Modeleski’s chapter on the 1960s director Doris Wishman is one of the few in Sleaze Artists that shows the necessarily ambiguous relationship modern audiences have with exploitation cinema. Modeleski, a Californian academic with an interest in feminist film criticism, is deeply ambivalent about her subject. Doris Wishman produced some brutal films. Her female protagonists get raped, abused and forced to murder. Every bruise is carefully fetishisticly recorded for the silent male audience.

For Modeleski, that a female director produced the most misogynistic films of the genre is a distinct challenge. Most of the essays in Sleaze Politics seek to normalise their films and their audiences-to make the unusual seem pedestrian. Furthermore, a focus of the cultural studies movement over the last few decades has been not just to make marginalia the focus of legitimate academic study; it has been a conscious effort to detect ‘transgressive’ artistry and politics in the cultural underground. Movies are carefully parsed and examined to discover ironic visions worthy of the twenty-first century arts faculty in even the most forgettable cookie cutter exploitation genres. If you pick up a copy of any schlock horror film in a bargain DVD bin, the advertising on its case will proclaim its ‘subversive’ nature. In most cases, this subversiveness is absent and rarely more than wishful thinking. After all, modern audiences, trained on Quentin Tarantino-esque postmodernism, like to think everything is ironic.

But Wishman’s ‘roughie’ films are too grotesque to support such a reading; there is no self-conscious and knowing winks in her depictions of female abuse. Her protagonists may have lesbian encounters, but Modeleski is unable to interpret these as in any way ‘feminist’-instead, they are shown as just more abusive relationships down the rabbit hole of female degradation. Some of Wishman’s films simply cannot be reformed under the banner irony and subversiveness-they are too repulsive to be squeezed into the feminist narrative, despite Wishman’s gender. (This has not, however, stopped some critics from trying.) Modeleski concludes mundanely that Wishman needed the money, and simply adhered to the conventions of the genre she worked in.

The American movie critic Pauline Kael once provocatively wrote that she found Wild in the Streets, an unassuming and cheaply made film about hippy teens taking over the American government, far more interesting than Stanley Kubrick’s achingly important and serious 2001: A Space Odyssey, made in the same year. The final essay, ‘Movies: A Century of Failure’ takes this observation as its jumping off point, and tries to work out just what the appeal of underground or otherwise unsuccessful films is. How have embarrassingly bad movies-like Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck’s wildly unpopular 2002 romantic comedy Gigli, or 2004’sCatwoman, which reduced the Oscar winner Halle Berry to a lifeless, latex wearing sex object-managed to ascend the cultural ladder and gained cult status? How has the 1950s director Ed Wood, whose films are barely able to sustain a timeline, let alone a plot, become a modern film legend? Whenever Wood’s Plan 9 From Outer Space is again nominated as the worst film ever made, it assures that he will be watched and discussed for far longer than some of the middle of the road directors today. And it is likely that Showgirls, the 1995 film that was little more than an excuse to display the former teen actress Elizabeth Berkley naked, will, having now achieved cult status, be seen for decades.

Jeffrey Sconce argues that film going is, at least for those who ask for great things from the movies, almost always one of disappointment-rarely do movies live up to their expectations. Films are always too formulaic, characters are always too poorly drawn, and direction is always too flat to maintain our interest. And so, the pleasure of unexpectedly finding an inexplicably bizarre film on late night SBS or buried at the rental store becomes a far greater thrill than can be provided by the majority of material produced in the Hollywood machine. The frustration with ‘bad’ cinema became a search for ‘so bad it’s good’ cinema.

But, as Sconce writes, disappointment is never too far away, even if we are actively searching out movies that are cringe-inducing sub-par. After all, how could a film with the title ofSatan’s Cheerleaders (the poster for which adorns the cover of Sleaze Artists) ever live up to the expectations encouraged by its title? Ditto for Zombie HolocaustSanta Claus Conquers the MartiansTwo Thousand Maniacs! or Nude for Satan. Could Death Bed: The Bed That Eats ever be as good as it sounds?

It would be easy to conclude that the cinema described in Sleaze Artists is no longer on the cultural margins, but has now firmly entered the mainstream. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriquez self-consciously replicated the underground aesthetic in Grindhouse-their double billed feature which included a road revenge flick Death Proof and the Texas zombie homagePlanet Terror. The video store clerk, proudly schooled in the most obscure exploitation and horror films, is a nearly extinct cliché; displaced by online forums dedicated to bad cinema and the steady archiving of cinema’s miscellany onto DVD.

And our relationship with underground films has even changed in the meantime. In the early 1990s, the American television show Mystery Science Theater 3000 specialised in uncovering some of these B-grade science fiction films and subjecting them to relentless ridicule. Nearly two decades later, our response to yesterday’s cultural leftovers is less likely to be ridicule than ironic respect. Not just the high-profile self conscious mimicking of Tarantino, but scores of films are released each year that resurrect themes and techniques of the underground. The famously dated zoom shot was once an amusing anachronism, but it now appears in many contemporary productions with barely a hint of irony. Contemporary horror franchises likeSaw and Hostel which feature extended torture scenes are nearly indistinguishable from the video nasties popular two decades ago, although more professionally produced.

The English Conservative MP Charles Walker described 2007’s Hostel II not inaccurately when he said that ‘from beginning to end, it depicts obscene, misogynistic acts of brutality against women-an hour and a half of brutality’; a description which could just as easily apply to a Doris Wishman film. Grindhouse cinemas may have closed down and videos been replaced by DVDs and internet file-sharing, but movies whose first priority is to shock are shown in chain theatres across the globe, not in small off-Broadway adults only theatres.

But standards have changed. Modern audiences may accept-it would be inaccurate to write ‘are comfortable with’-special effects depictions of sadistic violence at the cinema but they would not accept the very real slaughter of a very real turtle, as occurs in Cannibal Holocaust. Similarly the masochistic brutality seen in the video nasties are absent in modern homages to exploitation. Even the semi-pornographic undressing scenes which were awkwardly squeezed into the typical underground 1970s horror film have no contemporary equivalent. The moral content of mainstream exploitation in the twenty-first century and postwar underground exploitation may seem superficially similar, but there are major differences; there are new ethical and moral lines which modern filmmakers do not cross.

For these reasons, it is important to avoid the typical conservative reaction to seemingly immoral-or disconcertingly amoral-culture. It is certainly not clear that the mainstreaming of trash is a sign of a cultural decay. Highbrow cultural production exists comfortably beside trash, and more often than not they share the same audiences. Furthermore, there exists no convincing argument that immorality and criminality at the movies transposes to immorality and criminality in the real world. For the most part, violent crime is in decline across the western world.

Filmgoers are not that easily influenced. Individuals who watch the movies invariably apply their own moral standards to the movies, rather than the movies imposing morality upon viewers.

Jeffrey Sconce’s final essay may be melancholic, but it is not uniformly negative about the film industry. And the dominant emotion after having read Sleaze Artists isn’t one of regret for the decline of moral standards. The underground can certainly be ugly, but it is vibrant. For every Oscar winner, there are one hundred middle brow romantic comedies, and ten Nude for Satans. If we ignore our cultural trash, we ignore a large part of our culture.

IPA Review Editorial, July 2008

Last year, the IPA Review had its sixtieth birthday, making it the oldest continuously published political magazine in the country since the demise of The Bulletin. And this year we were awarded the Sir Anthony Fisher International Memorial Award for best magazine by the US-based Atlas Economic Research Foundation.

The mission of the Atlas Foundation is, in the words of its former President, John Blundell, ‘to litter the world with free market think tanks’. To do so, it supports new and existing think tanks by providing logistic and intellectual advice. Much of its work is focused on encouraging free market activists in parts of the world where our message is so alien that operating a think tank has as many legal and safety challenges as intellectual ones.

The Fisher prizes are awarded by a distinguished panel of judges which includes Atlas President Alejandro Chafuen and George Mason University Professor Tyler Cowen, as well as economists and political scientists from the Heritage Foundation, the Mont Pelerin Society, the leading German think tank Institut der deutschen Wirtschaft, and the Institute for Humane Studies, among others.

The IPA Review, long established as a central part of Australia’s political culture, has now been recognised by this influential free market group as doing something genuinely important for the cause of liberty. Australia is neither on freedom’s frontiers or a monument to its greatest successes, but internationally the health of Australian liberty is important.

It is hard to think of another country that has been so completely colonised by green dogma as Australia-we should hope, for the sake of the world’s poor, that our environmentalists aren’t too focused on exporting their anti-growth ideologies elsewhere. How our governments respond to the controversies over climate change, or the Nanny State, or over-regulation, is keenly observed by foreign politicians and activists.

Just as we dig through the impacts of the policies of foreign governments, so do policymakers and critics outside our borders. As Australian governments implement more and more regulations which inhibit individual choice and liberty, we can be sure that aspiring Nanny-Statists in other countries will be watching closely.

Why is the IPA Review important? Australia is a small country. As we lack the size of our English-speaking friends – the United States and Great Britain – we can never be entirely confident that the voice of liberalism will always be heard. As Richard Allsop points out in his review of two recent political biographies in this edition, the Australian public went almost forty years at the beginning of the twentieth century without hearing the cause of political and economic liberty defended in the federal parliament. When it was heard, it was a rare curiosity; widely dismissed as an ideological anachronism. Liberalism’s supporters in the public arena were just as scarce.

In 2008, there is among the educated public a much greater awareness of the existence – if not an understanding of the importance – of liberalism’s political and public policy views. Liberalism’s opponent today is not socialism, as it was when the IPA Review was founded in 1947; liberal philosophy now stands against an arguably more challenging adversary – soft ‘market-orientated’ managerialism, which professes an appreciation of competition and commerce, but is in fact dedicated to limiting it.

Today’s left do not carry utopian Marxist tracts that contain fully elaborated plans for revolutionary government. But now the left clutches cherry-picked studies from the fields of psychology and behavioural economics. We are told that markets are irredeemably irrational, that we need to increase taxes in order to fully account for ‘social costs’ and externalities, and that only a Nanny State can look after us. The left has replaced the socialist objective with a rigid utilitarianism that has no interest in any philosophical or moral discussion about the appropriate limits of government action. They are nonchalant about the impact their policy prescriptions will have on individual freedom. And they are positively hostile to the concept of personal responsibility – people are too irrational to take responsibility for their own actions, and if they did, there would be too many ‘social costs’ for the government to possibly tolerate.

The need for a voice of liberalism in 2008 is just as strong as it was in 1947. The Sir Anthony Fisher International Memorial Award recognises the vital role the IPA Review has in defending liberty in Australia.

Regulation And The Regulatory Burden

 

IN MANY AREAS of government policy, the fingerprints of the prime minister are clearly visible. When we consider the highest-profile issues of the John Howard years-foreign policy, immigration, federalism and the culture wars, just to name a few-the influence of senior Coalition ministers on the government’s policies are obvious.

However, this is not necessarily the case when we look at regulation, changes in the regulatory burden, or developments in the structure of economic management. Certainly, individual regulatory reforms can be identified and attributed to individual policy actors. The Howard government oversaw a vast array of regulatory changes, as well as the extensive inquiries and reports which accompany them.

But it is less interesting to debate who initiated what regulatory inquiry than to step back from the policy minutiae and consider how the federal government interacts with the economy, and how it has changed over the last decade.

This approach allows us to properly attribute blame or credit where it is due. After all, assessing the Howard government’s record in the field of regulation poses slightly counter-intuitive challenges. For instance, we have to decide how much influence we are willing to grant the government over the operation of its own bureaucracy. We have to ask how inevitable regulatory increases are and how much the pattern of regulatory growth is a function of the historical circumstances faced by individual governments.

LIBERALISATION and privatisation have been a feature of almost all Western democracies since the early 1980s. Australia’s reform movement had been one of the more ambitious projects around the world, joining the United Kingdom and New Zealand as the most extensive. By 1996, the Australian state which John Howard inherited had undergone more than a decade of nearly continuous economic reform.

The contemporary Australian state is a radically different beast from Australia’s mid-century welfare state. W.K. Hancock’s “vast public utility” is no more, having shed its own vast state enterprises. State and Commonwealth governments have systematically privatised a list of small and large scale enterprises traditionally operated by government – banks, airports, telecommunications and energy utilities, laboratories, even radio stations. Labour market reform, in a general direction of liberalisation, has been a recurrent feature of the last two decades.

In Australia, to the extent that this ambitious program of liberalisation and privatisation has been carried out, it has been largely successful in reversing the slow economic decline of the second half of the twentieth century. But contrary to the belief held by many on both the left and right of the political spectrum, this dramatic change in systems of political economy has not been as didactic as a shift from the welfare state to a liberal – or “neo-liberal” – model of the political economy. Leviathan has certainly not faded away-instead, amongst the reforms, liberalisations and privatisations of the last few decades, government has increased its expenditure and taxation.

But for our purposes, the most striking attribute of the last few decades is how Australian governments have matched privatisations and liberalisations with regulatory expansion, rather than retreat. Governments have shifted away from the direct provision of services, to the regulation of those services.

When public utilities have been sold to the private sector, they have been placed under the jurisdiction of specialised statutory authorities whose role it is to direct and regulate those industries for public, rather than private, purposes. Often these measures have been matched by the development of regulatory mechanisms designed to introduce competition into industries where the cost of entry is seen to be prohibitively high – the mandatory third-party access provisions of the Trade Practices Act and allied legislation allow firms to access the infrastructure of their competitor. Part of the reason that newly privatised enterprises have been highly regulated is the political controversy which accompanies privatisations. When supporters of public ownership complain that the “social benefits” of public ownership are not possible in the private sector, governments respond by forcing those benefits by regulatory design. Retail price controls in telecommunications, which have limited pricing flexibility, are an example of how this occurs.

The old protectionist or “infant industry” legal structures which applied to specific sectors of the economy, such as monopoly marketing boards and government cartelisation, have now yielded to economy-wide competition regulation. Indeed, competition regulation has developed into its modem form parallel to the reform period.

A great deal of the growth in regulation under the modern regulatory state is social, rather than economic. Environmental regulation has a long history – Solon the Great proposed in the sixth century that Greek agriculture be banned from steep slopes to prevent soil erosion – but its marked rise from the early 1970s was encouraged by the 1972 Stockholm Conference on the Human Environment. This resulted in the establishment of national environmental agencies in many developed nations, including Australia. During the Howard years, environmental regulation was an area of particular growth, despite the solemn pronouncements of the Coalition’s green critics. The Natural Heritage Trust, the Australian Greenhouse Office and the Environmental Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act all represent significant increases in government intervention for environmental purposes. Consumer product safety, particularly in the transport sector, and occupational health and safety regulations have also seen significant increases.

Financial regulation has followed an uneven path, but here too recent decades have seen significant regulatory expansion. The “four revolutions” of financial deregulation in the early I980s-the end of official control of the exchange rate, and of exchange control over capital flows, the entry of foreign banks, and interest rate deregulation-precipitated the broader reform movement in Australia, and resulted in far greater Australian participation in global financial markets. Certainly, these reforms rapidly changed Australia’s banking sector from one of the most regulated in the world to one of the least. But this deregulation was closely followed by an increase in financial and securities regulation after a number of corporate failures, loans crises and much public criticism of the perceived excesses of the “corporate cowboys” of the time.

In the late 1990s, the Wallis Inquiry into the financial system increased the regulatory burden across many sectors, and a number of prominent corporate collapses in the first years of the twenty-first century provided the impetus for more again. Furthermore, participation in global financial markets has been accompanied by participation in global regulatory regimes, such as the GIO’s Basel II Framework.

It is perhaps not too much of a stretch to say that, at least for those industries which before the reform period were relatively free of government intervention, many of the developments under the aegis of the regulatory state consist of an encroachment of government into the private sphere, rather than the other way around. Writing about the parallel developments in the United Kingdom in regulation and privatisation, the regulatory analyst Michael Moran has characterised the last two decades as a period of “hyper-innovation”. This characterisation is just as apt for Australia. The institutional certainty of Australia’s mid-twentieth-century political economy has been replaced by a continuous process of regulatory and legislative reform.

As we could expect, this remarkable increase in government regulation has had a significant impact on the efficiency of the Australian economy and general levels of prosperity. However, the focus on the economic and social impact of regulation masks its full significance: there has been a fundamental shift in the relationship between government and society; in the mechanisms by which policy is conducted; and the institutions where political power resides. As we shall see, during the Howard era regulatory agencies expanded and consolidated to match this enormous regulatory growth. The power these independent agencies have over the Australian economy warrants their considerable scrutiny; and to a large degree their growth is attributable to economic reforms under the Howard government.

Indeed, this is the central story of regulation under the Coalition.

THE COALITION GOVERNMENT may not have initiated the growth of the regulatory state, but the period in which it governed saw the largest regulatory expansion in history. For our purposes, regulation is the attempt to define the boundaries of economic activity for economic, social or environmental reasons. Regulation is designed to modify or limit economic behaviour, but not to outlaw it. It can be produced by explicit legislation, by subordinate legislation, by a wide variety of class orders, instruments, codes of conduct or guidelines. Where the government restricts economic or social activity, regulation can be found.

Legislation is wider in scope and content than regulation, but it can serve as a useful proxy. The growth in Commonwealth legislation since Federation, measured by the number of pages of Acts of Parliament passed per year, clearly illustrates a dramatic increase in legislative activity over the past few decades. For instance, if we mark the year 1980 as the beginning of the reform period in Australia, through to 2006, there was more than five times the number of pages of legislation passed than there had been in the eight decades before this period.

It is striking how little legislative activity was required at the time of Federation to unify the country – 358 pages, spread over two years – compared with how much it took to manage the Commonwealth in 2006 – a massive 6786 pages. Certainly, the changing nature of Australia’s federal structure has expanded the jurisdiction of the Commonwealth legislature, but there have been similar increases in state legislative activity – not decreases, as would be expected if there had simply been a shift in responsibility from the states to the federal government. Indeed, state legislation has been marked by significant growth.

And what data is available indicates that subordinate legislation-which is commonly described as “regulation”-is growing at a similar pace as legislation. Subordinate legislation in the Commonwealth and the states parallels the increase in total legislation over the last four decades. Changes in government have little effect on the relative increase in legislative activity. As a consequence, John Howard’s government was the highest legislating government in Australia’s history. Based on his performance so far, it is not hard to guess that Kevin Rudd’s government might be even more active.

A similar analysis is possible by looking at the data on regulation: the Howard government oversaw the largest regulatory expansion since Federation. Certainly, simply counting the pages of regulation and legislation is a highly imperfect method of assessing total regulatory burden, but in the absence of a superior alternative it has been widely recognised as the most effective. Other factors can increase the number of pages without increasing the regulatory burden. For instance, one potential cause of the increase in pages of legislation is the move during the 1980s to plain English drafting-as opposed to the traditional legislative language inherited from England in the nineteenth century-as well as the use of double-spacing. Formatting changes can also alter the words-to-page ratio.

Nevertheless, there is little to suggest that the plain English drafting reform or formatting changes are the sole, or even primary, cause of increasing pages of legislation – page increases both preceded these changes and continued after they had filtered through the various tiers of government. Technical changes in the manner in which legislation is drafted cannot explain modem legislative and regulatory excess.

For the firms and individuals affected by regulatory and legislative increases, the impact is cumulative. Individuals not only have to act in accordance with the legislation and subordinate legislation passed in any given year-they also have to contend with the entire body of law as amended. Some of this legislation and regulation replaces existent law; but it is clear that it is growing – if not at the same heady pace that legislation and regulation in general is being passed.

And anecdotal evidence supports the empirical evidence for the growth in regulation. The 2006 taskforce on Reducing the Regulatory Burden on Business noted that a particularly striking example of the level of regulation was the 24,000 different types of licences administered by three levels of government. Telstra notes that the amount of regulatory instruments applicable to its business has grown since 1997 from twenty to 348, and that the number of reports required by the Australian Competition and Consumer Commission has been increasing by two or three per year. This is particularly striking because the regulatory framework governing telecommunications has been relatively stable during that time.

MUCH OF THE INCREASED regulatory burden is not sector-specific, but is related to workplace law. The Australian Construction Industry Forum has argued that the Howard government’s changes to industrial relations and changes to state and federal occupational health and safety law are a significant addition to the regulation facing their industry, as well as taxation changes. Indeed, the Income Tax Assessment Act, often used as a barometer of legislative and regulatory growth, has grown from 120 pages in 1936 to a bookshelf-crushing 7000 pages.

The Insurance Council of Australia attempted to describe the level of regulation affecting its industry by noting its effects on business structure and practice. Regulatory compliance now compromises between 10 and 25 per cent of board and senior management workload. One large insurer estimated a much higher work load, at least 40 per cent of senior executive time, and up to 60 per cent of board time. One small insurer estimated that this had grown five times above the amount five years ago, and ten times over the last decade. Another insurer estimated that compliance expenses as a percentage of operating income had more than doubled in the last five years. Another estimated that the staff numbers in regulatory compliance committees had grown 20 to 30 per cent in the two years up to 2005. A PricewaterhouseCoopers analyst has noted that for the insurance industry over the last five years the cost of complying with the prudential regulatory framework has increased significantly.

The Credit Union Industry Association notes that the burden on both their credit union membership and other banks and building societies has increased since the Wallis Inquiry in 1997, and attributes this to the mandatory implementation of Basel II, recent financial services reforms, changes to prudential standards, and the adoption of international accounting standards. A practical example of this increase is provided by the Business Council of Australia: a total of 227 pages of documentation needs to be given to a customer before they can open a simple cheque account with an overdraft limit and a home loan, roughly five times the amount in 1985. The Australian Bankers Association reports that one bank has doubled its annual compliance expenditure levels every five years since 1994-95, with a similar growth in staff dedicated to regulatory compliance.

There has been little quantification of the extent of local government regulatory activity, but, there are indications that it is increasing. The Australian Chamber of Commerce and Industry writes that there was a marked upswing of local government regulation as a constraint to investment between 2003 and 2005.

MANY ANECDOTAL IMPRESSIONS of the regulatory burden understate the economic impact of regulation by focusing inordinately on-the paper-burden cost rather than the total regulatory cost. The paper-burden cost includes the cost of employees dedicated to regulatory compliance, and external legal, economic and financial consultants, and they typically constitute one-third of the total cost of regulation.

Thus, the contemporary political focus on “red tape” presents the problem of over-regulation in a narrow light. The structure of regulation is so central to the business models and profitability of some’ firms that regulatory governance and compliance is an “all-of-firm” question. For these firms, it is not necessarily possible to separate regulatory compliance costs from business costs. The anecdotal estimates above, which focus predominantly on easily measured paper-burden costs, are, for many industries, likely to be dramatic underestimations.

The full cost of regulation is much greater than the visible cost of compliance. Certainly, the distribution of costs caused by regulation varies by industry. In the food sector, the primary cost of regulation is a paperburden cost. But for much of the economy, the paperburden cost is dwarfed by the restrictions imposed by the regulations. For instance, the “chilling’ effect” of access regulation dwarfs the paper-burden cost of those regulations by holding back infrastructure investment.

As Gary Banks has argued, “regulations not only create paperwork, they can distort decisions about inputs, stifle entrepreneurship and innovation, divert managers from their core business, prolong decisionmaking and reduce flexibility”. These effects are, on average, far more significant than the red tape which is required by regulators to assess compliance. Focusing only on paper-burden costs is like focusing on the time spent filling out a tax return rather than the amount of tax paid. Political platitudes to lower the red-tape burden offer little promise if they are not part of a general push to decrease overall regulatory intervention in the economy. And like its predecessor, this is a point that seems unfortunately lost on the new Labor government.

Firms now operate in a much more uncertain regulatory environment than before the reform period. This is particularly concerning because investment decisions are contingent not only on the regulatory environment in which they are made, but also on an estimate of the regulatory environment of the future. If that future environment is plagued by uncertainty – investors do not know what “reform” their industry can look forward to in the future – it will be factored into the decision to invest or not.

Firms can delay investments and, through political activity, try to influence future regulatory frameworks in which that investment might be more profitable. Where investments are irreversible, investors face two options: invest now, or defer investment until the uncertainty is resolved.

This is not merely a consequence of uncertainty about what actions legislators may take in the future – it can also be because of uncertainty about the actions of regulators. For instance, ambiguous statements about the manner in which, or extent to which, regulations will be applied can exacerbate this uncertainty.

A 2001 study into the relationship between American anti-trust law and investment found strong links between levels of regulatory uncertainty and lower levels of investment-the much-cited measures of “business confidence” may be partly proxies for regulatory certainty. A local example was recently given by the CEO of Pipe Networks, a telecommunications backhaul provider, when he argued in April 2007 that regulatory uncertainty in the telecommunications industry meant that investment in backhaul had been, at least for the moment, effectively shut down. Indeed, many submissions to the Howard government’s Taskforce on Reducing the Regulatory Burden on Business cited uncertainty about future regulations-and uncertainty about how recently-imposed laws and regulations would be interpreted by the judiciary as a major impediment to business operation.

Political regimes which have broad uncertainty about potential government intervention across the economy experience concrete effects. And uncertainty scales with dramatic effect. The historian Robert Higgs has found that “regime uncertainty” – of which uncertainty about possible future regulatory decisions was a key part – was the major factor in prolonging the Great Depression in the USA. The anti-business rhetoric of President Roosevelt and his supporters concerned investors enough to withhold investment, even when the actual investment climate was not particularly punitive.

Regulatory hyper-innovation, regardless of the character or nature of the regulatory change, can, in and of itself, discourage productive activity. Recognition of this effect should compel caution before pursuing continuous rapid economic reform-particularly if the economic reform in question is of a reregulatory rather than deregulatory nature. Regulatory uncertainty in economy-wide areas like corporate governance has the potential to massively disrupt economic growth. The effect of uncertainty on economic activity is even more concerning when the nature of what is considered proper compliance to those regulations is vague.

THE HOWARD YEARS also saw major expansion in regulatory agencies. This trend is a reflection of the regulatory increase, but it is also a significant change in the structure of government and economic management, indicative of a rise of a sector of government that is both independent and non-democratic. One of the biggest, and yet least appreciated changes to government under the Coalition has been the elevation of regulatory agencies to the centre of the political and economic system. With their new-found role, they have found themselves in possession of a significant amount of political power relative to the executive and legislative branches of government. If we are to understand the Howard government’s performance in the regulatory sphere, we have to look at how institutional and legislative reforms have changed the power structure and activities of these regulatory agencies.

There are approximately sixty Commonwealth regulators and national standard-setting bodies. There are a further forty federal ministerial councils setting and administering regulations. While hard to estimate, the federal regulatory agencies employ over 34,000 people, with a combined budget of well over $4.5 billion.

The Victorian Competition and Efficiency Commission identified sixty-nine regulatory bodies in that state, with a combined budget (excluding the Metropolitan Fire Brigade, Country Fire Authority and Parks Victoria) of over one billion, and a staff of 6895. The Productivity Commission extrapolates these figures to come up with an estimation of 600 regulatory agencies across the country. Taking into account government departments with regulatory functions, ministerial councils, inter-governmental bodies, and the range of quasi-official agencies and boards, it is easy to imagine that at the end of the Howard years, at least $10 billion was spent annually on regulating the Australian economy.

Using numbers of staff as a proxy of agency size, many agencies have seen significant recent growth: For instance, the Australian Fisheries Management Authority has nearly doubled in size in the last decade, from a staff of 100 to 186. Food Standards Australia New Zealand has increased from 100 in June 2000 to 146 in 2006. The Australian Pesticides and Veterinary Medicines Authority has increased in that same period from 113 to 133. There is a large variety of regulatory agencies dedicated to regulating specific industries, like the federal Civil Aviation and Safety Authority or the Australian Fisheries Management Authority.

But occupying a central role in Australia’s regulatory system are a few key economic regulators with economy-wide scope. Rather than being confined to narrow jurisdictions, these agencies typically do not only regulate a wide variety of industries, but are also multi-dimensional in scope. That is, Australia’s major economic regulators regulate for both economic and social outcomes, as well as technical regulation like standards-setting.

These regulators are not built around the institutions that they administer, but are rather built around “functional’ lines. The Australian Securities and Investment Commission (ASIC) is responsible for consumer and investor protection, the Australian Prudential Regulatory Authority (APRA) is responsible for prudential regulation, that is, market failure associated with information asymmetries in financial contracts; and the Australian Competition and Consumer Commission (ACCC) is responsible for policing anti-competitive behaviour economy-wide. The financial services sector powerfully illustrates how reform to regulatory institutions under the Howard government has led to significant increases in the regulatory burden.

The 1997 Financial System Inquiry (the Wallis Inquiry) was only the third major inquiry into the Australian financial system since Federation, after the 1936 Royal Commission and the Campbell Inquiry in 1981. After the “four revolutions” which followed the Campbell Inquiry, the financial market and its structure went through a dramatic overhaul, with the introduction of new institutions such as foreign exchange firms, recognised bond dealers and new types of trusts and management funds, as well as entrance into foreign exchange markets and new secondary mortgage markets. In the decade between 1985 and 1995, the number of commercial banks in Australia increased from thirteen to forty-nine.

THE PURPOSE of the Wallis Inquiry was to assess the appropriateness of the regulatory framework which had been constructed during the period of financial deregulation in the light of these changes. The “modest trend” towards agency consolidation internationally was noted in the inquiry’s discussion paper – the inquiry predated the now prototypical example of an “all-in-one” regulator, or “mega-regulator”, the United Kingdom’s Financial Services Authority (FSA).

Governance and power concentration were factors for the participants of the inquiry when recommending the ideal regulatory structure. The inquiry rejected an FSA-style mega-regulator due to the need for efficiency and specialisation. And the inquiry was concerned with regulatory governance, noting that the single regulator may become “excessively powerful”.

But nevertheless, the Wallis Inquiry’s final recommendations as adopted by the government consisted of major agency consolidation into two main organisations, the Australian Prudential Regulatory Authority (APRA) and the Australian Securities and Investment Commission {ASIC). This model was popularly known as the “twin peaks” model, from a 1995 article which recommended delineating financial regulation according to function-prudential (APRA) and disclosure (ASIC). Advocating this agency consolidation, Treasurer Peter Costello said before the Wallis Inquiry:

The regulatory framework is hopelessly out of date. You have superannuation funds that are now in home lending and are essentially running banks and you have banks coming into superannuation – you have got different institutions offering the same product, different regulators regulating the same product because they are offered by different institutions. Why do not we cut all that away and say whatever the nature of the financial institution we will have a regulator covering prudential and a regulator covering consumer protection and we can sweep a whole lot of that away?

While the “twin peaks” model amalgamates regulatory functions in a less extreme manner “than the United Kingdom’s FSA, it was nevertheless a significant consolidation. By drawing the vast bulk of regulatory functions away from the Reserve Bank of Australia (the bank did gain some roles of the Australian Payments System Council), the new model eclipsed the international consolidations described in the inquiry’s discussion paper. It is not inaccurate to refer to the new tri-regulator model as a system of “mega-regulators”, even if the FSA provides a more “pure” example of such an institution. In both the Australian and international context, the result of the Wallis Inquiry’ was the creation of two functionally-structured mega-regulators with economy-wide jurisdiction.

APRA, as a functional regulatory agency, has assumed prudential regulation of finance-based industries. It required eleven pieces of legislation, which constituted over 4000 pages, including four new acts and two omnibus acts. In total, APRA’s foundation amended and repealed more than seventy existing acts. APRA absorbed the entire Insurance and Superannuation Commission (ISC), as well as roughly seventy staff from the RBA who had bank regulation roles. The prudential regulator has since experienced rapid growth, from a staff of roughly 400 at the time of transition to 570 in 2006. The annual federal appropriation for APRA has grown 55 per cent in that time. On top of the legislation which founded APRA, the prudential regulator has overseen more than sixty-six major regulatory changes since 2000.

For the insurance industry, the creation of APRA represented a significant increase in regulatory activity covering the sector. Under the ISC, the insurance industry had been regulated relatively lightly. In the view of the new consolidated regulator, this light-handed regulation was unsatisfactory. APRA’s Executive General Manager of Policy, Chris Littrell, argued: “Until 2001 the Australian general insurance industry was characterised by an unsatisfactory culture of reluctant regulatory
compliance by some entities, even among our largest companies.”

Indeed, following the HIH insurance collapse, Littrell argued that eliminating this cultural clash was one of the early tasks that the regulator faced:

As an integrated supervisor, APRA is in a position to observe the managerial differences between our regulated sectors. Banks in general are run by people who are or have been risk managers, and by people who understand that regulation has its good points. In Australia at any rate, many insurance companies have been dominated by salesmen, who ‘often viewed regulation as something to be avoided. Having come up the career ladder by dealing with actuarial restrictions, they tended to treat regulatory requirements as another annoyance to overcome, rather than a guide to good practice.

While HIH’s collapse and the subsequent royal commission heralded the beginning of a major wave of regulatory increases in the insurance industry, its genesis was the foundation of APRA itself, which coupled the insurance industry with the much more highly regulated banking industry. Indeed, plans to increase regulation of the general insurance industry preceded the 2001 collapse of HIH. The Financial Services Reform Act 2001 classified most insurance as a “financial service” – with the notable exceptions of reinsurance, health insurance and government insurance-and therefore required an Australian financial services licence. Financial product advice, dispensed by intermediaries not directly providing insurance, also required licences under the 2001 Act to do so. The Act also imposed significantly increased product disclosure requirements, and capital and corporate governance requirements.

The Association of Superannuation Funds of Australia, in its submission to the Reducing Regulation Taskforce, stated that since the establishment of ASIC and APRA, supervisory levies paid by superannuation funds had increased dramatically. Indeed, APRA’s expenses relating to superannuation have grown, even though the number of superannuation funds has decreased significantly.

For the banking sector, a great deal of the regulatory change after the foundation of APRA was concerned with the transfer of regulatory authority from the still-existent RBA towards the new prudential regulator. But the most significant regulatory change has been adopting the Basel II Capital accords.

The implementation of Basel II under the auspices of a mega prudential regulator has, for many organisations, had the effect of a dramatic increase in regulatory burdens. Basel II constructs an internationally consistent framework for banking capital requirements and accounting standards. For large, internationally active banks, implementing Basel II has much important significance. However, for smaller domestically-based authorised deposit-taking institutions, Basel II provides little benefit. For credit unions, whose involvement in international markets is low, the cost of implementing the framework is precipitously high. Similarly questionable benefits have accompanied APRA’s uniform adoption of the International Financial Reporting Standards, which affects major, internationally active Australian banks and small domestic co-operatives like the St Mary’s Swan Hill Co-operative Credit Society alike.

APRA’s activities illustrate clearly the perils of uniformly applying regulations that are designed for a specific class of institution.

UNDER THE TWIN PEAKS model of financial regulation, ASIC regulates company and financial services law for consumer, investor and creditor protection. Where APRA regulates for the viability of financial institutions, ASIC’s many briefs include regulating conduct and disclosure, administering corporations law and consumer protection. To do so, it administers eight separate laws, including the
Corporations Act 2001, Australian Securities and Investments Commission Act 2001, and the Insurance Contracts Act 1984.

ASIC was drawn from the Australian Securities Commission, and in 1998 absorbed the consumer protection responsibilities in insurance and superannuation of the ISC. It also drew consumer protection responsibilities in finance from the Australian Competition and Consumer Commission, replicating Section 52 of the Trade Practices Act in the ASIC Act. Further, ASIC absorbed the consumer protection responsibilities of the Australian Payments Systems Council and financial sector industry codes of conduct. In 2005-06, ASIC had regulatory responsibility for 1.5 million corporations and 4415 financial services businesses.

ASIC’s growth has been the most marked of the economic regulators. Since 1999, the regulator’s annual real appropriations have increased by 76 per cent. Its staff has grown from 1221 to 1471.

ASIC has overseen a rapid and comprehensive overhaul of corporate governance law under the Corporate Law Economic Reform Program (CLERP). The rapid, comprehensive change in corporate law under the continuous process of CLERP, as well as the Wallis Inquiry-era reforms which inaugurated ASIC, have been matched by the regulators use of legal instruments to modify the Corporations Act 2001. Since 2002, ASIC has issued more than 380 class orders, which materially alter the terrain of corporate law. Indeed, the Association of Superannuation Funds of Australia argues that ASIC’s reliance on instruments like class orders has been a major cause of the increased complexity of corporate regulation in the last decade.

The gains from the expanding reach of regulatory intervention in the structure of the firm are uncertain. Prominent corporate collapses have been a regular feature of Australian economic history since before Federation. There is, however, little evidence to suggest that the dramatic increase in corporate, securities, financial and banking regulation that followed the wave of corporate collapses in the late 1980s has had any significant impact on subsequent collapses.

There is a very real likelihood that the excessive restraints placed upon corporate form and function, particularly at the executive and upper management level, can have a detrimental effect on entrepreneurial activity. Regulatory micromanagement places a significant burden upon innovative practices and structures. It also induces substantial costs upon firms. For instance, regulatory measures which attempt to foster “compliance culture” by imposing personal legal liability for business decisions upon executives reduce the incentive to take up those senior management positions, and raise the salaries of those who do.

As with all tax and regulatory burdens, firms try as far as possible to pass these costs on to the consumer. It is indicative that an August 2006 CPA Australia survey found a strong perception that the overwhelming beneficiaries of CLERP 9 auditing processes reforms were regulators and auditors.

The other major federal economic regulator is the Australian Competition and Consumer Commission, which has also seen significant growth in staff and resources. However, compared to ASIC and APRA, the ACCC’s regulatory regime was relatively stable during the period of the Howard government, further reinforcing the view that regulatory agencies and bureaucracies grow regardless of any obvious “need’ to do so. Telecommunications and media regulation saw a major change in 2003 when the Australian Communications Authority and the Australian Broadcasting Authority merged to form the Australian Communications and Media Authority. Furthermore, the Reserve Bank, the Australian Taxation Office, and the Australian Customs Service all exit the Howard decade with substantial regulatory powers.

HOW MUCH of the blame for this remarkable increase in the regulatory burden and high levels of regulatory uncertainty can be laid at the door of the prime minister’s office? The phenomenon described above is, unlike some other ways we can measure government activity, diffuse. It is not a phenomenon that is subject to system-wide review by the senior ministry, unlike, for instance, government spending, which is constantly subject to the scrutiny of the budget process. For this reason, one of the perennial tasks of regulatory watchdogs like the Productivity Commission and VCEC is simply to estimate the size of the regulatory state. Given the paucity of published information, these agencies can only guess at how many regulatory agencies there are across the country, let alone determine how much we spend on them.

The origins of regulation vary significantly. Some do, unquestionably, originate in cabinet-level policy decisions. Populist regulations which cover issues like pornography on the internet or teen drinking are just as much political strategy as regulating, and are consequently of interest to senior government ministers. But these regulations are only a small portion of the total regulatory burden-internet filtering may be a high profile regulation, but is ultimately a drop in the pool compared to the gigantic array of rules which the government administers.

Furthermore, the prime minister’s office is not directly responsible for minor changes to the finer points of financial service regulation, consumer product regulation, or occupational health and safety laws. Indeed, even those regulatory frameworks which are high-profile are ultimately defined by individuals well down the chain of government delegation from the cabinet. For example, while the WorkChoices reform program may have had its origins in the senior ministry, the complexity of its regulatory and legislative framework is largely attributable to thousands of minor decisions made by a diverse array of lawyers, regulators and advisers who actually drafted the nearly 2000 pages of regulation and legislation. The government may have signed off on the final WorkChoices bill, but they did so because their more informed and technocratic subordinates convinced them that deregulation meant re-regulation.

Similarly, it is not fair to blame the Howard government for the substantial regulatory burden emanating from the states, or for the petty regulations imposed by local government, both of which constitute a substantial part of the regulatory landscape. The federal government can exert a degree of pressure on the other levels of government to reduce regulation, as it did under periodically during the Howard era, but doing so rarely does more than continue to erode our crippled federalism.

If we are to discover a major source of much of the regulatory increase over the past few decades, it is also necessary to cast our eye over the regulatory agencies themselves. Regulators are delegated substantial amounts of discretionary power to make decisions regarding the structure of their jurisdiction’s regulatory framework, which gives them significant political power. These regulators are systematically biased towards an ever more expansive interpretation of their proper role in the economy and, compounding this, the “cat-and-mouse” nature of regulatory negotiation and compliance leads regulators to lobby for legislative enhancements to their coercive powers. The powers and independence with which regulators have been vested means that they operate in a substantially separate sphere to the executive branch of government. To a surprising degree, regulatory agencies are autonomous actors in Australia’s political system. The capacity for the government to restrain their decisions, and therefore the degree to which we should consider the government responsible for their excesses, is limited.

Nevertheless, it would be easy to conclude, on the basis of the growth of regulation and the extremely modest efforts made to reduce the regulatory burden, that the Howard government’s performance in this field was a failure. But we cannot measure governments against our ideal visions of free market economies-the economic study of politics which has developed over the last half-century has repeatedly emphasised the structural barriers to free market reform, and it is an all-too-common intellectual failure of right-of-centre politics to ignore these in debate. As Adam Smith noted in The Theory of Moral Sentiments, perfection is rarely the correct yardstick:

When a critic examines the work of any of the great masters in poetry or painting, he may sometimes examine it by an idea of perfection, in his own mind, which neither that nor any other human work will ever come up to; and as long as he compares it with this standard, he can see nothing in it but faults and imperfections. But when he comes to consider the rank which it ought to hold among other works of the same kind, he necessarily compares it with a very different standard, the common degree of excellence which is usually attained in this particular art; and when he judges of it by this new measure, it may often appear to deserve the highest applause, upon account of its approaching much nearer to perfection than the greater part of those works which can be brought into competition with it.

Following Smith, if we acknowledge the structural impediments to regulatory reform, we must ask how successful the Howard government was relative to other governments. It is easier to be sympathetic to the Coalition when we recognise that no Australian government has ever passed less legislation than its predecessor- regulation appears inevitably to escalate over time.

But that does not mean regulation cannot be restrained. One of the great successes of the Reagan administration was to slow the rate of legislative and regulatory expansion significantly, particularly after the excesses of the Carter years. Data from the Federal Register – which records rules, proposed rules and notices of the federal government – shows clearly that unlike in Australia, during the 1980s the United States saw a notable slowdown in the rate of regulatory growth.

Certainly, slower regulatory growth is not deregulation. There were more pages in the Federal Register at the end of the Reagan administration than at the start. But the US experience does seem to indicate that growth can be restrained, if not entirely resisted.

So what are the lessons of the Howard era? John Howard was always a passionate supporter of the reform agenda, if not always a passionate reformer. But there is little to suggest that his government was aware of the significance of regulation as a restraint on economic growth, at least until its last few years, when its deregulatory rhetoric became louder. When the Prime Minister’s Taskforce on Reducing the Regulatory Burden reported its findings, the government provided in-principle support for its recommendations but little action.

It is easy for a government to profess its distaste for over-regulation – after all, is there anybody who actually likes “red tape”? – but it is much harder for governments to nominate specific regulations which they have the political will to cull. The regulatory burden is more than the sum of its parts. Individual regulations still have to be removed individually. And when governments try, they come up against the institutional and political interests which have formed around those regulations. For this reason, a program for economy-wide deregulation has to be piecemeal, but systematic.

So if our wishes for deregulation are ever to be indulged, advocates of a free economy and free society have to hope for a political movement that shares our goals. Ronald Reagan may be our closest contemporary who worked to slow, if not reduce, regulation, but history does provide one example of a grand regulatory purge. The English Whigs and early Liberals are one of those rare examples in history that conducted a wide scale regulatory and legislative purge. The English had a long history of mercantilism and state power to recant. It has been estimated that, of the 18,110 Acts which had been passed between Henry III and 1873, four out of five were fully or partly repealed. Both the Reagan administration and the great English liberalisation shows us that deregulation is possible, but doing so requires a formidable dedication to reducing the power and size of government.

This was a dedication the Howard government lacked. In its absence, there was no institutional or philosophical bulwark against regulatory growth, whatever the origins of those regulations. The eleven years of Coalition rule merely illustrates the enormous challenge of reducing the regulatory burden.

Free Speech Means The Right To Obscene Speech, Too

The French philosopher Voltaire never actually said the words he is best known for: “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” His biographer invented the saying to explain Voltaire’s views on free speech. Still, it’s a great line.

But how many people agree with it? How many people would be willing to go to the barricades for racist, sexist or obscene speech – the sort of stuff that exists only in the deep bowels of the internet? Probably very few.

But if we are concerned about free speech at all, we need to defend some people saying some pretty terrible things.

When debating politics, few people would favour locking up their opponents, no matter how ill-informed or distasteful their views may be. There’s a big difference between strongly disagreeing with somebody’s opinion and insisting that they are banned from expressing it.

The solution to bad speech is simply more speech – one cannot successfully rebut an argument without first allowing that argument to be expressed.

This is the reason that David Marr’s Quarterly Essay – which argued that the Howard government was somehow suppressing dissent – was so popular last year. Political censorship is abhorrent. Almost everybody is happy to let others rant and rave about any political point they like – monarchy, capitalism, foreigners stealing our jobs, the phallocentric patriarchy etc. So there is legitimate anger when the government tries to silence even the most ridiculous opinion about politics.

Nevertheless political censorship is so rare that it is hardly a pressing issue in Australia. Commentators trawl the papers trying to charge the government as an opponent of political dissent. Every possible infringement – real or, more often, imagined – gets highly publicised.

But if we really want to defend free speech in 2008 – if we believe that free speech is a right that we are born with, not a limited gift given to us by politicians – sometimes we may need to make common cause with extreme pornographers, racists, misogynists and other very dislikeable individuals.

Last Tuesday, a 38-year-old Brisbane man, William Reimers, received 12 months probation for possessing five fictional stories about child abuse that he had downloaded from the internet.

Unlike Bill Henson’s famous photographs, there is no ambiguity about the purposes of these stories. With titles like “Daddy’s Best Little Girl”, they were clearly not art. Reimers was charged under laws that consider descriptions of children in sexual activity as child pornography.

Cate Blanchett and her 2020 team will be unlikely to rush to the defence of somebody downloading dirty stories from the internet. But in many ways, Reimers’ arrest is more worrying than the controversy surrounding Henson. Where there are legitimate concerns about Henson’s artistic practice – at what age can somebody “consent” to nude photography? – there are no such concerns with Reimers.

The stories he collected were entirely fictional. In fact, as far as we know, nobody was harmed at any time while they were written, put on the internet, downloaded, or read. And there doesn’t appear to be any indication that the stories were incitements to commit violence. Sure, the stories were the products of a sick mind. But would the arguments presented in the case against Reimers also apply to non-fictional – and non-erotic – descriptions of child abuse? This is a slippery slope.

Having to defend people with repellent views and beliefs is the grimy side of standing up for civil rights. In the US, which has a richer tradition of liberty than Australia, doing so is widely recognised as part of the job. The American Civil Liberties Union has defended not just the uncontroversial rights of religious liberty, immigrant rights and gay rights, but also the rights of neo-Nazis and the Man-Boy Love Association to express their views. Nobody in the union would agree with the views of these groups, but they defend their right to express them.

If we think that the right to free speech stops where perversion starts, then we allow judges and politicians to impose their views of morality upon the rest of us. A right which is limited by the opinions of a conservative legislator is no right at all.

Not Fascist At All

Shane Cahill’s cheap attempt to brand the war-time Institute of Public Affairs as sympathetic to Japanese fascism (‘This fascist mob’, Overland, 189) fails on every count.

The first indictment Cahill presents is drawn from a letter written by an anonymous Air Force officer to the IPA, and a subsequent investigation of the IPA by the Commonwealth Security Service (the precursor to ASIO). This letter condemned the IPA as ‘more vile and sinister than any Jap’ for opposing the Curtin government’s proposal to continue economic regulations after the war. The officer also argued that opposition to Curtin’s policies was a gross abuse of freedom of speech.

The CSS investigation – instigated after a copy of the letter was sent to the Deputy Prime Minister – predictably found nothing of interest. Nevertheless, Cahill describes the CSS file in the most conspiratorial of terms, implying that a higher power spiked the investigation before it could uncover some nefarious secret. Perhaps the conspiratorially-minded might be more interested in how an anonymously written, angrily ranting screed sent to the Labor government managed to spark a serious security investigation. After all, the IPA was Labor’s political opponent.

Cahill’s second indictment tries to condemn the IPA with the old Communist Party canard that the United Australia Party and some senior business leaders were fascist admirers and appeasers, and points to two founding members of the IPA who were also listed as supporters of the pre-war Japan-Australia Society.

The accusation that membership in the Japan Australia Society signaled an otherwise unstated sympathy for totalitarianism is an old one, appearing most recently in Rupert Lockwood’s War on the Waterfront and Drew Cottle’s The Brisbane Line. But neither of these books can produce any documentary proof, relying almost entirely on oral recollections; and, more suspiciously, both claim that the necessary supporting documents have been destroyed in two unrelated fires.

Instead, during the Depression Japan was Australia’s second most important trading partner. The society should be seen as a reflection of that economic relationship, rather than a signal of ideological sympathy for fascism – at least in the absence of contrary evidence. Trade with Japan in the 1930s no more indicates support for fascism than trade with Cuba in 2008 indicates support for communism.

Nevertheless, it is on this feeble evidence that Cahill bases his argument. But the wartime IPA’s support for democracy and the finer points of democratic theory was impeccable, in contrast to the many on the Left who embraced the Nazi-Soviet Pact when it was seen to be in the best interests of international communism.

Looking Forward, the IPA’s first major publication, contained a defence of the sovereignty of parliament against the executive branch. It also argued that a planned economy – which it unmistakably opposed – required a dictatorial government. It is hard to argue that the early IPA was sympathetic to totalitarianism; after all, this was the stick it used to beat its ideological opponents.

But perhaps more revealing, the Harris Family radio show transcript contained in the same CSS file that Cahill investigated clearly contradicts his argument. The Harris Family’s dialogue is just as critical of totalitarianism as it is of excessive government regulation. Papa Harris sums up: ‘we people of Australia will never forego our free democratic rights for an illusory politician’s paradise’. If, as Cahill clumsily infers, the IPA council was trying to sow the seeds for Japanese-style fascism in Australia, sponsoring a radio show that condemns totalitarianism and centralised government seems to be a strange way to go about it.

Shane Cahill’s piece goes to show that demonisation is as common a tool in political debate as it was when the IPA was founded. His disingenuous manipulation of the historical record seems little more than an excuse to carry the word ‘fascist’ in an article about the Institute of Public Affairs. And, by trying to equate an organisation that opposes government interference into the economy and society with fascist totalitarianism and militaristic nationalism, Cahill does little more than reveal himself as someone happy to abuse history to take a cheap partisan shot.

Don’t Strangle Communications Networks

The marriage of politics and commerce is a destructive one. This is a lesson the Labor Party should be learning as it tries to work with the telecommunications industry.

Despite Communications Minister Stephen Conroy’s promise that his broadband plan would cut through the barriers holding back a national fibre-optic network, the grand soap opera that is telecommunications policy doesn’t look as if will be ending any time soon. Bidders for the Government’s tender are required to lodge a bond by Friday and provide their full proposals by late July. But Telstra’s rivals have been claiming the carrier is not providing enough information about existing infrastructure. And the G9 consortium is pushing hard for a five-month delay in the tender process so it can get its proposal together.

There has been aggressive and highly public criticism of the tender process, the cost of the bond required to tender and the regulations that will govern this still hypothetical network.

Telstra, AAPT and Optus have even been holding talks to negotiate a broadband settlement, as if they were great world powers preparing a ceasefire agreement. After a decade of government subsidies, regulatory gamesmanship and legislative inaction, the Australian telecommunications industry has never been so highly politicised. But while the fibre-optic network debate has dominated headlines for more than a year, the real action in broadband is elsewhere.

Compared with the lumbering environment of rent seeking created by the regulations that apply to our fixed-line network, Australia’s mobile networks are a paradise of laissez-faire entrepreneurship. In the mobile sphere, there is the rapid innovation and the large-scale investment federal governments have long desired.

Optus modestly announced earlier this month that it was expanding its 3G mobile network to challenge Telstra’s Next G mobile broadband network.

Both Telstra and Optus plan to upgrade the speed of these mobile networks to 42 megabits per second – significantly faster than the fastest wired broadband available at the moment – in the next two years. Both these networks will dramatically exceed the Labor Party’s broadband promise, which it says will provide a 12Mbps internet connection. And it plans to use $4.7 billion of taxpayers’ money to do so.

This pattern of innovation and investment in mobile networks while highly regulated fixed-line networks are bogged down in politics and regulation is repeated throughout the world. In many developing nations, entrepreneurs are bypassing state-owned and corrupt monopoly carriers to build mobile networks instead.

The consequence, widespread mobile ownership, is fundamentally changing these emergent economies for the better. Small producers can easily communicate with their suppliers and customers thanks to the ubiquitous communications networks that the state-run carriers were too incompetent to provide.

The situation in developing nations and Australia is disconcertingly similar. Recall that part of the reason Telstra originally decided to build its Next G network was out of frustration with poor regulations affecting fixed-line services. But just because Australia’s mobile networks are relatively unregulated at the moment, this doesn’t mean the regulatory wolf isn’t howling at the door. The political games played earlier this year over the shutdown of Telstra’s CDMA mobile network illustrates how comfortably the Government can threaten this energetic commercial environment.

Back in the late 1990s, Telstra received $400 million from Canberra to help extend its CDMA network into otherwise uneconomical rural and regional areas. For everyone involved at the time, this seemed like a win-win deal. The government was able to claim it was providing something akin to the universal service that Telstra is compelled to provide for the home phone network. And Telstra received hundreds of millions of dollars to expand its market share. But, at the time, Telstra owned the GSM mobile service as well as CDMA.

When Telstra announced in 2007 it was going to replace both with the snazzy new Next G service, the embattled Coalition government altered the CDMA licence to require Telstra to keep it open until the new network provided equivalent coverage. The result is that the Next G network, and likely any future mobile network that Telstra would choose to replace it, is subject to an unspoken but very real universal service mandate.

Regrettably, having been vested with the power to set the terms and conditions of the spectrum licences that all mobile networks require to operate, politicians cannot resist manipulating Australia’s telecommunications for their own political purposes.

But hopefully the federal Government can draw the right lessons from the success of Australia’s mobile networks. Where politics is absent, there is innovation and investment.

If the federal Government wants Australia to have world-class broadband and mobile networks, it needs to get the politics out of the telecommunications industry.

Don’t Close The Door On Our Envied Bar Culture

Premier John Brumby probably wasn’t expecting a backlash this big.

Nearly 30,000 distressed drinkers have signed just one of the many Facebook petitions opposing the 2am lockout — the Victorian Government’s new policy that will ban entry to bars, pubs and clubs in the inner city after 2am. And more than 6000 people have promised to angrily party on the steps of Parliament when the ban goes into force on June 3.

The lockout is being vigorously debated in street magazines and online music forums that would never think to debate the finer points of more “traditional” policy concerns such as means-tested baby bonuses or first-home buyers’ grants.

There is good reason for these protesters to be upset about the 2am lockout. It is a dramatic restriction on our freedom to go to our favourite venues that, in turn, want to have us as customers. The Government is obviously worried that the word “curfew” sounds a little too much like they fear a coup d’etat.

But even if you’re not convinced that we have been endowed with an inalienable right to party, the 2am lockout is still bad public policy.

Certainly, a lockout has precedents across the country. Mooloolaba on the Sunshine Coast has a lockout at 1.30am, Mackay locks patrons out at 2am, and Newcastle introduced a 3am lockout in March this year. In Victoria, Ballarat, Bendigo and Warrnambool all have lockouts in place.

In many of these cities, police claim that late-night violence has been reduced. But Brisbane has had a 3am lockout since 2005, and the Royal Brisbane and Women’s Hospital told a documentary film crew that it had seen no reduction in total assaults since the ban was enacted. The correlation between bar-hopping and violent assault may not be as simple as the Government would like.

In the absence of a clear model of cause and effect, the policy aims to restrict the behaviour of a huge number of Melburnians in the questionable hope that doing so will set off a chain reaction that ends in the pacification of a few violent idiots. But wishful thinking and guesswork rarely result in good policy.

The evidence from other cities reveals that violent behaviour late at night is clustered only around a few hot spots. In Wollongong, 67% of violent incidents are attributable to just six pubs. Identifying and closely policing these places would be a far more effective strategy to combat the violence than a lockout could ever be.

Unfortunately, haphazardly targeting all late night venues is clever politics. Whipping up fear in the community about violence in the street has always been an effective strategy to build political support. And imposing a lockout doesn’t require the Government to devote any extra resources to the problem. Lockouts don’t affect the state budget at all — the burden of administering the lockout falls squarely on the venues.

Furthermore, changes to liquor licences and lockouts target a group of people who do not have a strong electoral voice. Young people are not known for their skills as lobbyists.

While the 2am lockout has received the most media attention, it is only one part of the Government’s assault against late-night venues. Consumer Affairs Victoria quietly announced earlier this month a “freeze” on granting liquor licences that plan to trade after 1am.

This means that, at least for the next 12 months while the freeze is in place, there will be no new bars, clubs or pubs opening in the inner suburbs that can pour a late-night beer.

And any already operating venue that needs to alter its licence in some minor way — to build an outdoor smokers’ area, for instance, since smokers will no longer be able to go outside pubs after 2am without being locked out — will only be able to apply for a new licence that is loaded with the 1am limit.

Like many regulatory increases, these sorts of burdens disproportionately hurt small businesses, which do not have the resources to lobby for exemptions or the financial slack to adjust to the new regulations.

It all adds up to a major attack on Melbourne’s hole-in-the-wall bar culture — a culture that only a few months ago Sydney was enviously eyeballing.

It would be sad if in the future we had to fly to NSW to find the nightlife we have so long been enjoying at home.