Steve Irwin: 1962-2006
by Stephen Himes

Many devotees of Animal Planet's The Crocodile Hunter had two conflicting thoughts upon hearing of the tragic death of Steve Irwin: The initial shock that comes when such an ebullient and familiar personality passes on too soon, giving way to the sad sense of inevitability that the bloke would find to the business end of the animals he loved.

Until Irwin's misguided stunt in which he fed a crocodile while holding his six-month-old baby boy, Irwin was a ubiquitous and largely uncontroversial pop culture fad. His conservation crusade led him to Jay Leno and Larry King, into the multiplex and malls of America, where you could buy Crocodile Hunter videos and T-shirts and talking Steve-o dolls. Steve Irwin was a brand.

A shrewd self-promoter, Irwin always assured his audience that the animals were the stars of the show. Of course that's not true, but Irwin was not necessarily cultivating his myth by false modesty. Aside from the natural drama of his antics, Irwin's appeal was his unvarnished persona and unalloyed enthusiasm. Paul Hogan could never recreate the pure joy of Steve Irwin relocating a crocodile or his heartbreak at finding a beached sea turtle. His act is impossible to buy if you don't buy his sincerity — and how can you not buy a man wearing that mullet who's moved to inconsolable tears when his 100-year-old crocodile dies?

Sure, Steve Irwin fed the beasts of ego and exploitation when he wrestled 16-foot-crocs, but does this negate the impact of his conservation and environmental good works off-camera? That's the question that makes Steve Irwin a compelling character, beyond grabbing black mambas by the tail to show to the camera. He was the Queensland government's most successful rogue crocodile relocator and influenced its conservation policies — in one of the world's most fertile regions for unique species of flora and fauna. He also went on Oprah and named a koala for her. In short, Steve Irwin was an embodiment of the modern mass media crusader.

Some obituaries of Irwin have referenced Timothy Treadwell, a self-proclaimed "protector" of bears in Alaska. Treadwell was also a compelling personality, entertaining enough to be a guest of David Letterman and profiled by Dateline NBC. Most wildlife experts considered Treadwell a nut whose Alaska trips were less about conservation and more about his personal demons. Werner Herzog treated his life as just that in his documentary Grizzly Man, where Treadwell's personal videos of his "communing" with the grizzlies revealed a "window to the soul" of a failed actor and drug addict with break-up issues.

Ultimately, Steve Irwin's journey was outward, not inward. Irwin's stream-of-consciousness dialogue with the camera wasn't some window into a tortured soul. He's more like Bono or Angelina Jolie or Oprah, who employ their star power in the service of charity. Celebrity crusaders are often tarred as liberal-guilty sellouts, and the motif of the hypocritical, rich, dinner-going do-gooders has a long literary history. Sure, Steve Irwin's Australia Zoo brought in over $4 million a year, but he gave back in the form of money and education about his causes (such as conscious consumerism), using his influence to promote Australia's Quarantine and Inspection Service, which keeps foreign diseases from affecting Australian wildlife. Proceeds from his zoo cover the administrative costs of his Wildlife Warriors Foundation. He bought large chunks of land in Australia, the United States, and Fiji for the purpose of preservation and to prevent clear-cutting. This, along with his unusual method of spilling enthusiasm directly into the camera, creates the impression that this crazy man actually believes what he says.

But as Irwin's celebrity billowed, so did the public scrutiny of his actions. He called Australian John Howard "the greatest leader in the world" and accepted a large sum of public money to do a commercial. But Irwin responded in Bono-like fashion: "I can't afford to be one way or the other. I just have to run straight up the middle, mate. I have to get on with whoever's in power." And he might have disturbed some penguins in Antarctica.

Indeed, Steve Irwin came under fire from some environmental groups, but the scrutiny seemed misplaced — directed at his celebrity and his stunts rather than his works. If there's one thing the environmental lobby lacks, it's an image to sell to the public. Environmental groups are notoriously inept with the media: Only this summer has Green warrior Al Gore found his voice for an issue he insists he's had a decades-long passion for. Too often, the preaching of hardcore environmentalists comes off like hyperbole — when greens attack big business, they lack the genuine rapture of Steve Irwin wrangling a bird-eating spider.

Thus, the method to Steve Irwin's madness. Ever since John Stainton first filmed Steve's wedding, the camera has been a virtual Irwin family member. Steve even invited the crew along to film Terri giving birth to Bindi Sue. It's like Steve had an imaginary playmate as a child and he's finally found that friend again. Before The Osbournes, there were the Irwins, Terri shining the flashlight as Steve rescues a kangaroo that's been hit by a pickup, all filmed from a few feet away. Marlon Perkins merely led expeditions that we observed at a distance; Jacques Cousteau was a master educator and ambassador but more explorer than daredevil; Jeff Corwin has special tongs to pick up poisonous snakes. While those shows are ostensibly educational, they're not as compelling as Steve Irwin — no other nature showman had the layer of personality to be compelling in and of himself.

Moreover, when the audience feels the rush he gets from wrangling a king cobra, it's as if he's challenging us to love life as much as he does. To put a finer point on it, there's an erotic charge in each episode of "The Crocodile Hunter." Steve Irwin genuinely gets off on what he's doing. He walks over to a snake or a spider or a whatever, pokes it with a stick, arouses it, grabs it, and dances with it as they tease each other. The concentration of his face builds the tension, and where lesser daredevils like Jeff Corwin let go when things get too dangerous, Steve hangs on until he's done telling us everything he knows about its habitat, coloration, eating habits and whatnot. The release comes when Steve releases the animal back into the wild, glowing with excitement, and raises his arms over his head in ecstasy, "Whoo-hoo! The black mamba! Isn't she a beauty!" If Al Gore would have shown that kind of genuine passion, he would be president right now.

Perhaps the defining image of the Crocodile Hunter phenomenon comes from one episode when Monty the Croc chomps a remote boom camera in his habitat at Australia Zoo. Steve never blamed nature for biting back at him, even while he was trying to show off his beauties for us at home. Irwin lived this paradox to the moment died, when a normally docile stingray pierced his heart with a 20-cm serrated barb. His last act was pulling the barb from his chest, the omnipresent camera capturing his struggle. Steve Irwin romanticized endangered species for us, and he died a romantic's death with suitable dark poetry. In romantic tragedy, the hero is always killed by what he loves. Steve Irwin had his heart pierced by the Australian wildlife he loved and fought for.

— Stephen Himes (stephenhimes@hotmail.com)