Over the course of a year in the early 1970s, Paul Hogan went from being a rigger on the Sydney Harbour Bridge to a national celebrity, thanks to TV appearances on A Current Affair and an ad campaign for Winfield cigarettes.
Hogan was already in his early 30s. He'd left school at 15, married Noelene Edwards when they were both in their teens and had three boys by the time he was 22.
A daughter followed a few years later, all squeezed into a Housing Commission cottage in Chullora Heights.
Paul Hogan was grounded; fully formed. He'd lived a life — albeit an unremarkable one — and was not about to take his sudden change of fortune for granted.
With A Current Affair producer John Cornell steering his career, Hogan started making serious money. In late 1972 — a year after his first appearance on A Current Affair — he moved the family to the affluent suburb of Mosman.
For Hogan it was success beyond his wildest dreams. But for the rest of his family it was an uncomfortable transition. It's difficult being the child of a celebrity but far more so when fame comes late and out of the blue.
"We were entrenched in the western suburbs and I loved it there," says Hogan's third child Todd. He was 10 when the family moved, his brothers 11 and 12.
"I had a great childhood there and just remember that we were going to move away from all our mates and go and live in Mosman, which is some place I'd never heard of and didn't particularly want to go to."
Like all Hogan's children, Todd guards his privacy jealously. He has never given an interview before and lives a quiet life in New Zealand. Now 57, he is friendly and softly spoken, with a gentle, open face.
Todd acknowledges the benefits of his father's sudden success. "The standard of living went up —the house was nicer, there ended up being swimming pools and there were trips overseas, rather than to The Entrance, and stuff like that," he tells ABC's Australian Story.
But you sense he would have traded all that in a heartbeat for a life of obscurity.
"It attacks your self-esteem when no one's interested in what you're doing, when they're constantly asking you about what someone else is doing," he says.
"Everything became, 'Oh, is he really your father?' It's not a normal question and so that irked me, and usually people who brought it up I sort of gave short shrift to."
Todd still vividly recalls his first day of school after the family moved to Mosman.
"I got hauled up by the teacher and made to stand in front of everyone and told I wasn't going to be specially treated. So obviously I was already being specially treated. I hated that."
It's all a long time ago and Todd can laugh now, acknowledging these do seem like "first-world problems". But it's clear the scars remain.
"The joke from my brother is that we're "the Hogansons", because it will be, 'This is Todd, he's Paul Hogan's son' or 'This is Brett, he's Paul Hogan's son'."
What a career: 'I'm proud of Dad'
Paul Hogan himself acknowledges the toll his sudden fame had on the family.
"It was hard for all my kids, thrust into a limelight that they didn't invite," he says. "So as much as we could, we left it at the gate."
Delvene Delaney, who worked with Hogan in the 1970s and '80s and remains a close friend, observed the family as they dealt with his sudden fame. She says both Paul and Noelene maintained a very normal household.
"Even though Noelene would love to go to the Logies and all those special events, they didn't seek the limelight. It was more about family."
From Mosman, the family moved to Seaforth before finally settling into a newly built home in Belrose in Sydney's north. It was a sprawling place with a pool, and the quiet, unassuming suburb provided much-needed privacy
Peter Faiman, who directed The Paul Hogan Show and Crocodile Dundee, laughs fondly when he recalls the move.
"It was not perfectly designed but had lots of big spaces and the kids just sort of settled into it. They were an ordinary family in a big house. It was a bit like the Beverly Hillbillies," he says.
While Paul shielded the children from the media — seldom talking about them publicly and rarely letting them be photographed — Noelene maintained a sense of normality at home.
"She was terrific," Todd says. "She was Carol Brady, I suppose. You know, it was chops on Monday, sausages on Tuesday — we all knew what was coming.
Dean Murphy, who has directed all Hogan's projects since they met in 2003, sees the Hogan children as the kids of a rigger on the bridge rather than the world-famous comedian.
"They're still very much that very grounded family from the suburbs in Sydney," he says.
"They've always all had very real jobs and they see this silly showbiz thing as something that Dad does."
As the years have passed and lingering childhood resentments fade, Todd has begun to see "this silly showbiz thing" in a different light.
"As you become more comfortable in your own skin you can look back and say, 'God, what a career. What a great career he had', and be proud of him," Todd says.
"I'm amazed by it. But I wouldn't tell anybody that until I was probably about the age I am now. I don't think I've told anyone that before, actually."
Watch Parts 1 and 2 of Australian Story's A Fortunate Life on Youtube or iview.