His destructive pace and power changed the game for ever, but behind the fame and ineffable exterior of this gentle giant was a life of chaos and emotional discord
There’s an inevitable air of melancholy overhanging this profile of New Zealand rugby star Jonah Lomu; we all know how the story ended for this magnificent human specimen, who died in 2015 aged 40 as a result of a longterm kidney disorder. Lomu, of course, became a legend of the game after breaking into the All Blacks side – the ferociously high-achieving New Zealand national team, for anyone outside the rugby-appreciating universe – at the scarcely believable age of 19; his special combination of a tank-like physique, electric pace and ability to slalom at high speed gave him an almost unstoppable force in what is arguably the toughest contact sport of all. Lomu had the bulk and power of a forward (I liked the detail that he was sometimes drafted into the back of the scrum when they needed “more power”) but he was set loose on the wing, where he was twice the speed and three times the size of everyone else, and where his destructive instincts could wreak havoc.
Well, modern rugby appears to have learned the Lomu lesson; everyone has bulked up – so its arguable whether he would have the same impact today. But as this film underlines, there was a lot more to Lomu’s story than steamrolling the hapless English backline; he had a complicated relationship both with his Tongan heritage and his superstar status, the combination of which seemed to overwhelm him. Interestingly, this film (directed by Gavin Fitzgerald and Vea Mafile’o) initially appears to push the by-now customary idea that Lomu’s Indigenous heritage was an ineffable source of strength, wisdom and insight; however it soon becomes clear that this wasn’t entirely the case.
Born in New Zealand to Tongan immigrants, as a kid Lomu was sent to Tonga to live with an aunt for several years; this seems to be the trigger for an early sense of displacement. On returning to New Zealand he clashed with his preacher father Semisi over the latter’s strict religious observance even as he became a schoolboy rugby star; it’s a real Chariots of Fire moment when Lomu asserts that his sporting gifts are God-given. The father’s disciplinarian toughness turned into domestic violence; Lomu was kicked out of the house at 15 after stepping in to defend his mother. Later on, Lomu’s marriages – all three – were to women of whom his family disapproved; and it becomes clear that some part of Lomu actively resented the constrictions of tradition. Meanwhile, rugby union’s sudden conversion to out-and-out professionalism – in part spurred by Lomu’s stellar showing at the 1995 World Cup – meant that the ins and outs of management took their toll, with much jostling over the big money that Lomu could command. And the third element in Lomu’s plangent progress arrived at almost the exact moment his career hit its height: a diagnosis of nephrotic syndrome, the kidney disorder that would eventually fatally compromise his health.
All these factors come together in the extraordinary final sequence: Lomu’s memorial service at Auckland’s Eden Park which, we understand, was riven by behind-the-scenes tension and discord, disputes over funerary rituals, wife and mother exchanging frozen smiles, Indigenous-language chants roaring from the stands. If Lomu himself remained an enigma – as he readily admitted, talking about himself was not his forte – the chaos and emotion that swirled around him to the end makes fascinating viewing.
