SBS, NITV and NIDA partner to empower the next generation of screen creatives
SBS, National Indigenous Television (NITV) and the National Institute of Dramatic Arts (NIDA) have announced a new three-year partnership to provide practical and structured pathways for emerging creatives and support the transition for students into the screen industry.
The NIDA Pathways with SBS and NITV partnership will offer students invaluable industry experience, expertise and opportunities, supporting historically under-represented creatives and reinforcing a shared commitment to building a diverse and inclusive screen industry that reflects contemporary Australia.
SBS, NITV and NIDA will work together to deliver opportunities for students to foster meaningful industry connections, enhance their experience and skillset, along with mentorship from the SBS Scripted and NITV commissioning teams.
Head of Scripted, SBS, Nakul Legha, said: 'Getting a foot into the screen industry can be tough for emerging creatives. SBS is incredibly proud to launch the NIDA Pathways partnership, which creates structured programs to develop practical skills and offers a meaningful entry point into the industry for NIDA students, particularly those from under-represented backgrounds.
'At SBS, we are steadfastly committed to elevating and developing the next generation of new voices for Australia's screen sector. We look forward to working with NIDA and NITV to keep putting this commitment into action.'
Head of Commissioning and Production, NITV, Dena Curtis, said: 'Being able to directly connect First Nations students with industry experts gives them the opportunity to explore, learn and build on their skillset and gain real-world production experience in a culturally safe environment.
'NITV are proud to support the development of emerging First Nations talent, they are the future of First Nations storytelling.'
NIDA CEO, Liz Hughes, said: 'NIDA is a place where stories grow for emerging creative practitioners involved in all aspects of production. SBS, uniquely renowned for celebrating Australian stories from all communities, is the ideal partner as this project is a great opportunity to create a pathway for people in the early stages of their career.
This partnership between NIDA, SBS, and NITV is a powerful step towards creating a more inclusive and representative screen industry.'
In each year of the partnership, SBS and NITV will collaborate with NIDA, Australia's premiere national dramatic arts educator and innovator, across a range of opportunities for students that will provide practical pathways into the sector.
Activities will include an annual creative pitch workshop run by the SBS Scripted and NITV teams, culminating in one student receiving the opportunity to spend time in an SBS writers' room; a First Nations production placement program, giving First Nations NIDA students an opportunity to work on SBS and NITV productions; an annual industry talk presented by SBS and NITV, covering essential topics such as crafting effective pitches, leveraging your degree in the industry and understanding what makes content appealing to international audiences; and speed networking sessions to connect emerging talent with industry professionals.
The TV Lunch with SBS Scripted, a monthly one-hour lunchtime event connecting early to mid-level screen creatives with the team behind SBS Originals will feature a special session with NIDA's Head of Writing, Joe Hepworth, on Friday 2 May. Click here for more details.
Read more about the initiatives delivered by SBS and NITV designed to elevate under-represented emerging talent here.
For a pdf copy of this release, click here.
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Sydney Morning Herald
40 minutes ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
Why Mountainhead's ‘tech bro' satire rings eerily true
Four obscenely wealthy men, standing on a white mountain top, faces lit with snow glare. One uncaps a bright red lipstick and begins to perform what is clearly a long-standing ritual: writing their net worth on their bare chests. The wealthiest, Venis, is actually the richest man in the world, 'the king of cash, the marquis of Moolah, the North Star of net worth'. He seems to be a hybrid of Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg (though, at $US220 billion – 340 billion Australian dollars – he's not quite as wealthy as them) and is crowned with golden laurels. The second, Randall, played by Steve Carell, 'the Grand Old Duke of dough', with $US63 billion, is given a captain's hat. The third, Jeff, on $US59 billion, a sailor's hat. The fourth, Hugo (Jason Schwartzman), hangs a ladle around his neck to symbolise his nickname, 'Soups' for 'Soup Kitchen', as he is the poorest of the group. And when I say poor, I mean 521 million US dollars. Struggletown. Misery, and certainly, as his character showed, deep insecurity. Mountainhead is satire, but director Jesse Armstrong, the creator of the brilliant Succession, knows how to write rich people. As Venis walks through snow-laden trees with Carell, he grins and yells: 'It's so beautiful you could f*** it.' These men, Armstrong says, are notable for 'supreme confidence in their analytical abilities' and 'arrogance'. I kept thinking throughout about how tech analyst and podcaster Kara Swisher says the term tech bro is short for 'technically broken'. Amoral, self-concerned and making decisions about things they have no expertise in – how often we fall prey to the false idea that because someone makes a lot of money, they know about all other things, like how to run the world without destroying it. 'Do you believe in other people?' Venis asks Randall, who replies: 'I think one needs to.'
The Age
40 minutes ago
- The Age
Why Mountainhead's ‘tech bro' satire rings eerily true
Four obscenely wealthy men, standing on a white mountain top, faces lit with snow glare. One uncaps a bright red lipstick and begins to perform what is clearly a long-standing ritual: writing their net worth on their bare chests. The wealthiest, Venis, is actually the richest man in the world, 'the king of cash, the marquis of Moolah, the North Star of net worth'. He seems to be a hybrid of Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg (though, at $US220 billion – 340 billion Australian dollars – he's not quite as wealthy as them) and is crowned with golden laurels. The second, Randall, played by Steve Carell, 'the Grand Old Duke of dough', with $US63 billion, is given a captain's hat. The third, Jeff, on $US59 billion, a sailor's hat. The fourth, Hugo (Jason Schwartzman), hangs a ladle around his neck to symbolise his nickname, 'Soups' for 'Soup Kitchen', as he is the poorest of the group. And when I say poor, I mean 521 million US dollars. Struggletown. Misery, and certainly, as his character showed, deep insecurity. Mountainhead is satire, but director Jesse Armstrong, the creator of the brilliant Succession, knows how to write rich people. As Venis walks through snow-laden trees with Carell, he grins and yells: 'It's so beautiful you could f*** it.' These men, Armstrong says, are notable for 'supreme confidence in their analytical abilities' and 'arrogance'. I kept thinking throughout about how tech analyst and podcaster Kara Swisher says the term tech bro is short for 'technically broken'. Amoral, self-concerned and making decisions about things they have no expertise in – how often we fall prey to the false idea that because someone makes a lot of money, they know about all other things, like how to run the world without destroying it. 'Do you believe in other people?' Venis asks Randall, who replies: 'I think one needs to.'
The Advertiser
an hour ago
- The Advertiser
Standing firm on Aussie talent in the streaming era
Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped."
