When The Kettering Incident was released in 2016, the show prompted a common response from critics: this was Tasmanian Gothic, but it was something else as well. Set and shot almost entirely in Tasmania, the series follows Anna Macy, a doctor played by Elizabeth Debicki, who returns to her hometown of Kettering, after spending fifteen years in London. As the series unfolds, we learn that Anna left Kettering after her best friend, Gillian, disappeared while camping with her in the forest. Although Anna claimed that she saw strange lights and passed out before waking to find Gillian gone, many of the town's residents believe she had something to do with the disappearance. Across eight elliptical episodes, the series takes us through a range of Tasmanian Gothic tropes that escalate so rapidly and converge so dramatically that they quickly seem to exhaust the genre itself.

In one of the foundational formulations of Tasmanian Gothic, Jim Davidson characterized this particular mode of the Gothic as peculiarly occupied with the double valency of presence. Tasmanian Gothic, Davidson argues, is above all concerned with a ‘landscape containing presences […] more correctly styled absences’ (316). These negative presences – of the original Indigenous populations, of the particular cruelty of the Tasmanian colonies, of the endemic flora and fauna – were mobilized in the Tasmanian Gothic mode to articulate ‘disjunctions between past and present’ (Davidson 310). Davidson's comments suggest that Tasmanian Gothic is a structure of feeling as much as a discrete literary style or movement.

THE CANON

While many directors are considered to be part of the canon of American cinema, few directors have been so preoccupied with that canon, and with the idea of film canons, as Paul Schrader. In an interview conducted with George Kouvaros, Schrader notes that “film itself, in fact, is one of the things that destroyed the notion of the canon. When people talk about a film canon, it's kind of a contradictory phrase.” Schrader later explains that this is because the canon is a high cultural concept, whereas film is typically seen as a low cultural medium. However, Schrader argues, this does not mean that the idea of a film canon is untenable. Instead, he advocates for a selective film canon, akin to the academic canon of literature:

Schrader recommends starting with the “de facto” canon of film and then refining it into an “academic” canon of film. However, his use of the expletive “fucking” conveys an inherent contradiction to this project. By aligning a vernacular expletive with the idea of the film canon, Schrader suggests that the cultural capital of a film canon denies the demotic address of film.

Schrader's main published work, Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, provides a possible resolution of this situation. Here, Schrader advocates a rigorous criterion for what constitutes transcendental film. He also uses openly canonical language, observing that “directors are represented by the films discussed rather than by their body of work. Not every slow director is included. Transcendental style occupies a bit of a space just inside the ring.” Within Schrader's account, canonicity is defined by director, but even canonical directors do not consistently live up to their directorial vision. This assertion draws upon the language of auteur theory, as formulated in English by Andrew Sarris, who insisted upon the “technical competence” and “distinguishable personality” of the director as a key “criterion of value.”

Schrader does not explicitly use the term auteur in Transcendental Style.