Curiously, the situation in Australia is upside down as usual.
Rather than confirming photographers's "rights" the last definitive decision from the State's Attorneys General Conference (2005) was that "No one in a public place has the right not to be photographed". The Attorneys General are not friends of photographers but they are friends of authorities who want to conduct continuous surveillance of people in public places. Their decision serves to deflect the possibilty there will be a High Court challenge to the legality of such surveillance.
A parallel concept put forward was that in a free country where people take up the right to move without permission (no papers, no ID) in public that right is attended by an obligation to behave properly. An objection to being photographed in public could be construed, prima facie, as an attempt to conceal some impropriety. Those who don't accept the bargain can stay in their private space where the law offers many protections against intrusion.
Personally I'm not mollified by the smooth drone of legal officials and lean more to the concerns that Joe Hardesty raises. There are genuinely nasty photographers who don't balance their right to photograph with their obligation to behave decently. Here is a classic example:
The famous photographer Cartier-Bresson insisted on working alone so no one could see what he did but there was a famous exception. In 1947 the poet John Brinnin accompanied Henri Cartier-Bresson on a trans-America trip and kept a diary. The diary notes Cartier-Bresson talking to an interviewer:
"It requires close attention and studying to make pictures. When I see a thing that is ugly or pitiful sometimes I can photograph and other times I am not able to hold my camera. I will not take this picture of a person in distress. It would be like interfering at a sickbed. You must honor all persons. You must be compassionate and forget you have in your hand this instrument that records such misery."
Immediately adjacent to the above is the following entry by a disturbed John Brinnin:
"28 April 1947. Memphis. At a dime-store lunch counter a young man in overalls falls to the floor. Arms and legs flailing, his eyeballs white, he drools puffy matter from the corners of his mouth, subsides into a catatonic clench.
Cartier grabs his camera, dances about to catch him from all angles, and is interrupted only when a doctor and a nurse come hurrying in. As he returns to the counter to finish his breakfast of ham, eggs, grits, and honey, cinnamon rolls, and coffee, I wait outside."
I, like John Brinnin, recoil from the self-centred, exploitative, cynical activities of camera-cowboys. If H.C-B came at me with an attitude like that I would gladly deck him and sent him to hospital with a note pinned to his jacket telling them they could find a Leica ... where?