If you’ve not heard of Prima Facie I’ll assume you’re not into theatre. It’s the novelisation of Suzie Miller’s play by the same name. The play won a swag of awards, and was also turned into a National Theatre Live film. All the praise is warranted – it’s extraordinary.
It tells the story of Tessa, who has worked her way up to being a top criminal defense barrister despite the odds (notably, she is a woman in a male-dominated area of law, and she did not have the privileged upbringing enjoyed by most of her peers). Tessa loves her job and although much of her work is focused on defending men accused of rape and sexual assault, she believes in the law and its systems. However, when Tessa is raped by a coworker, she finds herself on the other side of the cross-examination, and quickly understands that the law was not written for victims, and that she is the one on trial.
I was keen to read the novelised version simply to see what Miller would do. I would have happily read the play script alone (the play is monologue so would have transferred neatly to a stream-of-consciousness style) but figured there would be more to the novel. And there was – Tessa’s backstory is expanded, giving context to her passion for criminal defence. There’s also the addition of characters; flashbacks to Tessa’s years in law school, which highlight her sense of being an outsider; and numerous examples of social class in Britain, which is amplified in the microcosm of the law, where Tessa’s peers are bestowed family wig tins and know everyone in chambers from college, summers together, and family connections.
So, is the story enhanced by being novelised? No. It loses a lot of its power and momentum but that said, it is still a very, very important story, regardless of the format within which it is told.
I was reading Prima Facie at the same time as the Lehrmann v Network Ten trial was being broadcast. Of course, the Lehrmann case demonstrates everything Miller already knew about the legal system when she wrote Prima Facie. I was also reminded of Bri Lee’s memoir, Eggshell Skull. All of these stories highlight the fact that for victims of rape and sexual assault, it is unlikely that they will see ‘justice’ through the justice system.
After a grueling cross-examination, Tessa reflects –
…could we not start with asking the accused, ‘What did he do to determine consent existed in the first place?’
How do we turn the legal system from ‘innocent until proven guilty’ into one that aligns with an ‘affirmative consent’ model? There are no answers within the pages of the novel, but characters, like real-life cases, give a face to the issues, and often that makes it harder to ignore.
Bri Lee’s memoir highlighted the inadequacies of the Australian legal system in terms of rape and sexual assault convictions, and Miller’s novel demonstrates the same for the British system. It’s estimated that between one in five and one in three women have been sexually assaulted, and that only one in 10 rapes are reported to police. Of the assaults that make it to trial, the conviction rate is less than 2%. Both stories also show how legal action invariably retraumatises sexual assault survivors. And herein lies the brilliance of Miller’s narrative: if Tessa – who knows the system, and knows precisely how she will be cross-examined, can’t win, then who can?
We need to keep discussion around these issues going if there’s to be hope for real change. And if a novelised version of an outstanding play does that, excellent. Read it (and go see it, next time it comes to the stage).
4/5