"Blanket sentiments that some men said and did some unpleasant things, that some of the women were likely wronged by their female contemporaries without the specifics of who, doesn’t serve these women, or the audience."

A week or so ago, much noise was made, correctly, about the 1993 world champion Pauline Menczer who was “the victim of maybe world sports’ most brutal and blatant sexism. A world champ who could not raise a dime in sponsorship, who received a trophy that would not make the grade for the second-hand shop at the dump. Lesbian, when that was taboo, lacking the physical accouterments that were classically assumed to stimulate the desire of a presumed male audience and thus moreorless discarded by the companies that largely funded the sport. Bad old days.”

The film Girls Can’t Surf, which has just hit cinemas Australia-wide, “follows the journey of a band of renegade surfers who took on the male-dominated professional surfing world to achieve equality and change the sport forever.”

Pauline, obvs, an important element of film.

Reviews, universally, excellent.

“Astounding.”

“A story as shocking as it is awe-inspiring.”

“The force of their impact maintains a thrilling interest that persists through its subjects’ hardest moments dealing with homophobia, anorexia, and domestic violence. It’s in passages devoted to these elements that the film reaches its emotional peak.”

One reviewer has taken the film to task, however, describing it as “ultimately shallow”.

Writing for news.com.au, a Murdoch-owned online outlet, reviewer Wenlei Ma ain’t so kind.

Girls Can’t Surf frequently hit on issues and events that made a pro surfing career near impossible but then dodges it as fast it can.

Jodie Cooper’s revelation that she was outed as gay against her choice by the women on tour with her and the homophobia that followed was ultimately glossed over, without any reckoning for the individuals responsible. Ditto Pam Burridge’s recounting of her battles with anorexia.

When the documentary touches on the successful attempt to have the female representation on the governing body reduced from two seats to one, there’s no accounting for who on that board voted in favour of the resolution.

It’s also hinted that many of the women didn’t like or support each other at the time and maybe wouldn’t even take a call from them now, but that’s all between the lines.

Maybe there were legal entanglements that prevented director Christopher Nelius from naming names, or maybe the filmmakers were trying to play nice and keep everyone in the surfing community on side.

But blanket sentiments that some men said and did some unpleasant things, that some of the women were likely wronged by their female contemporaries without the specifics of who, doesn’t serve these women, or the audience.

Girls Can’t Surf wants to be celebratory and empowering, and that is fine, but it’s also what makes it ultimately a shallow documentary that feels like the introductory summary of a book with many chapters to follow.

If only it was as fearless as the women riding those monster waves.

All relevant observations, I would suggest.

Or no?

“The places I liked always became marred by murder.”

In February last year, you’ll remember, a woman was charged with the unlawful stalking of three-time world champ Mick Fanning, breaking into his Hamptons-themed three-storey house with intent and two counts of stealing.

Sarah Foote, a thirty-nine-year-old from Ballina, “an obsessed mother” according to one newspaper, was accused of following Fanning between January 29 and February 4, the break-in of Mick’s pretty beachfront joint in Bilinga allegedly happening on Feb 2.

Fanning saw the mysterious strawberry blonde at the top of the stairs, asked her to beat it, which she did.

Foote was accused of sending four letters (“Rambling hand-written letters with accusations of pedophilia, declarations of love for Fanning and thoughts of wanting to kill him”), three by post, one personally delivered.

Each included hand-drawn love hearts, a self-portrait by Ms Foote, and one contained a beaded bracelet.

Some excerpts:

“For some reason (which I have (sic) a stab in the dark (pardon pun) at), we got on so much better when I thought you were someone else,” she wrote.

“Nasty voices … your voice gets nasty too sometimes …”

“I occasionally want to kill you … to end our occasional miserable bullshit … I wouldn’t want to end our best times though. Because I have so much love for you and I would like to see what’s in store for future for us two.”

“You really are a strange man.”

“What is wrong with you? Or for that matter, what is right with you?”

“I can be a real bitch.”

“The places I liked always became marred by murder.”

“I have smelt a murdered corpse in Rockhampton. She was very stinky, worse than any road kill I have ever smelt.”

“I met a kiddie killer, she smothered her baby. Only spent a year in a psychiatric hospital, then was released only to murder another child.”

“IDK when we will incarnate again together in this world.”

“I love you.”

“I also like looking at your photos. Especially in your book … I know that you know what I just did.”

The crown prosecutor said Foote now “acknowledges going to his house was going a bit far.”

The judge hit Foote with a fifteen-month prison sentence with immediate release on parole.

Friends of Foote, meanwhile, have rallied around their pal.

“Fucking asshole rich dude with his expensive lawyer and douche bag reporters shaming you like this,” wrote one. “So so sorry this is all happening sweet heart. Hope u ok. Stay strong, and big hugs and hankies from me…”