When the gritty ABC two-parter Blue Murder aired in 1995 it became instantly notorious. Police corruption in Sydney was under intense scrutiny and the real-life gangster at the heart of the miniseries – Neddy Smith – was embroiled in court cases for some of the depicted murders, which meant the show was banned in New South Wales for six years.
Even withstanding the gangland threats they were receiving, the actors knew Blue Murder would be huge. For its 30th anniversary, Guardian Australia speaks to some of its stars: Richard Roxburgh (as the crooked cop Roger Rogerson), Steve Bastoni (drug squad detective Michael Drury) and Lo Carmen (sex worker Sallie-Anne Huckstepp) – as well as detective-turned author Duncan McNab, who wrote two books about Rogerson’s reign.
A love story
Initially, one episode focused on Smith and the second on Drury. But soon the director, Michael Jenkins – who died in 2024 – had other ideas.
Steve Bastoni: As we started the rehearsal process Jenkins became more intrigued by Rogerson, so Rogerson started to emerge as the lead character. From the actor’s vanity point of view, I was going: “Well, fucking hang on, this is MY episode.”
Richard Roxburgh: Michael Jenkins said: “It’s a love story” [something Rogerson later took umbrage at]. One’s a hitman and [the other’s] one of Australia’s most decorated police officers. Michael really loved the waltz of the two men and the strange darkness of it.
Bastoni: Jenkins had said to me: “What do you think of Richard Roxburgh?” and I’d just finished working with him on Police Rescue – he had a guestie on it. I said: “Look, I’ve seen him on stage and he’s brilliant, but I’ve only seen a little bit of him on screen and I’m not sure that he could do it.” But Jenkins could see it.
Roxburgh: I believe my part was offered to Bryan Brown and he said no. I was a jobbing theatre actor but they took a punt and I started having a lot of chocolate milkshakes. We couldn’t afford to do a double chin on the ABC budget so I had to make my own.
Inside the underworld
The screenwriter, Ian David, partly based Blue Murder on Smith’s autobiography, Neddy, as well as conducting interviews. Episode one opens explosively, with Smith (Tony Martin) ambushed by cops then beaten with a phone book by Rogerson.
Roxburgh: Tony’s an ox. He said: “Mate, just go for it.” There was a lot of trust between us.
Duncan McNab: Tony’s portrayal of Neddy was extraordinary. He captured the coldness, the brutality and the physicality. I was in David Jones and Tony Martin’s coming up on an escalator. I did a double take: Fuck, what are you doing out of jail? It was utterly disturbing that everyone was captured so accurately … [underworld figure] Graham “Abo” Henry has never forgiven Peter Phelps [who played him]. His great complaint was not the fact that he was portrayed as a sex offender and a drug dealer. It was: “Mate, I’d never go out of the house in tracksuit pants.”
Much of the action centres around Kings Cross in Sydney in the late 70s to mid-80s. Cue the dirty sax soundtrack.
Lo Carmen: I moved to Kings Cross when I was 12. My dad, from working in piano bars and nightclubs, had quite a few dealings with the vice squad and I was brought up to know that if anything ever went wrong I should grab a bouncer from one of the strip clubs rather than the police. That was 1982 and the streets were lined with girls leaning in doorways who were always really sweet to me. That’s why I felt a camaraderie with Sallie-Anne, because she may well have been one of those girls that would be friendly to me on my way to and from school.
In 1981 Huckstepp was interviewed by Ray Martin on 60 Minutes about Rogerson shooting her heroin dealer boyfriend Warren Lanfranchi, exposing the corruption in the NSW force.
Carmen: I was given a videotape with news footage, a segment of the Ray Martin interview and a bit of a documentary that showed her walking in Kings Cross. I did feel in later years that I didn’t get as full a picture of her as I would have liked. I think she had a bigger sense of humour and was a lot sharper. My respect for her grew exponentially until I felt such a sense of injustice for her – that her incredible sacrifice in whistleblowing was not more widely recognised. She was still thought of in the public eye as having brought it on herself.
McNab: It all goes back to the extraordinary bravery of Sallie-Anne Huckstepp, and also her mate, Lyn Woodward, who was poised to give damaging evidence about Rogerson before she disappeared in 1981, presumably murdered. Lyn was one of the forgotten heroes of all this.
Recreating the truth
The series was often shot on location – in the houses and places where the crimes had occurred. In episode two Drury is shot twice through his kitchen window.
after newsletter promotion
Bastoni: I got to spend quite a lot of time with Mick. The first thing he did when I went to his house, he walked me over to the sink, and he goes: “You want a cup of tea? … I got shot through this window.” I felt a big obligation to him. We kept in touch for quite a while afterwards.
McNab: I was a journalist by the time Blue Murder came out but in that murky period it covers I was a detective. I was in internal affairs the morning Drury’s dying deposition arrived [it was thought Drury wouldn’t survive]. My boss just shook his head and said: “It couldn’t be Roger. He’s too good a bloke.” My thoughts at that point were: “Fuck, I’ve got to get out of here … but I might take a copy of the deposition when no one’s looking.” I was one of a couple of people who managed to drop a copy to the National Times.
Rogerson was an enigma: both the charming neighbour who would play the organ in church and a calculating killer.
Roxburgh: Michael’s most important note for me was “don’t blink”. I’d be sitting there with my eyes watering, then I’d watch it back on the split and realise, Oh, OK. Because as soon as you blink, you’re human. We were filming in Roger’s actual house. I always remember the weird experience of having a shower in his house with its pink tiles and looking down the drain, thinking: “He’s been in the nude in here, with blood washing down there.”
Carmen: The actors were lovely and warm but could quickly become incredibly intimidating. It feels pretty realistic when somebody’s hands are around your throat and you’re being lifted off the ground, and just knowing that we were filming it in the actual place where Sallie-Anne had been murdered added a layer of truth.
Roxburgh: Michael ran it like an anarchic military coup. We’d go out west and we’d take over a pub that had to open at six o’clock, and the stunties would be riding motorbikes through the bar.
Bastoni: Michael liked it when actors cut each other off and talked over each other. No one was doing that at the time because you wanted to get clean sound. He was a real ground-breaker.
A chequered legacy
By the time the series was set to air, Smith was the principal witness at a NSW Icac inquiry and a royal commission into police corruption. He claimed that senior NSW detectives had given him a “green light” to commit crime from 1981.
Bastoni: I was at the Saloon Bar in Camperdown during filming and someone sidled up, bought me a beer and said: “Michael Drury was a crook.” I said: “Internal affairs investigated him for over 10 years and found nothing on him, so why should I take your word for it?” He goes: “Well, a lot of people would be very disappointed if he wasn’t portrayed that way … Do you know how easy it would be for me to follow you into the toilet and put a bullet in your head?”
Later I found out that this guy was a friend of Rogerson’s. I drove a 72 Mercedes and from that moment on I’d actually check under the car. I was paranoid to the point where I had to go to a doctor and get some medication because I couldn’t sleep.
Roxburgh: I got messages on my cell phone. It sounded like a pig squealing and being machine-gunned inside a wheat silo.
McNab: It was Roger’s stock in trade to threaten people. When I wrote the first book I wrote to him in prison, wanting an interview, and I got a beautiful letter back. So I wrote the book and, a couple of weeks after it was published, I got a phone call in which he called me all manner of horrible names, and something along the lines of having me whacked.
Years later, when he was in jail for the last one, his wife rings me and says: “Roger, would love you to visit him in jail.” I said: “Last time Roger and I spoke he threatened to kill me.”
“Oh, that was only a joke.”
Smith’s court proceedings meant the show was banned in NSW for six years, resulting in a demand for bootleg VHS tapes.
Bastoni: The bootleg was sold in pubs all over Sydney as a two-pack VHS for about $400. Everyone wanted to see it. Richard Roxburgh and I once shared a beer at the Tatler Bar about 10 years later. He’d had a great career, worked with Baz Luhrmann and a bunch of people. He was hugging me and he goes: “That’s the best fucking thing we’ll ever do in our lives.” I wasn’t quite ready to hang up the cue but he saw it for what it was: something that would have far-reaching impact.