The Anarchist Cinema

232 Pages·2019·4.911 MB·English

by  James Newton

First published in the UK in 2019 by
Intellect, The Mill, Parnall Road, Fishponds, Bristol, BS16 3JG, UK
First published in the USA in 2019 by
Intellect, The University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th Street,
Chicago, IL 60637, USA
Copyright © 2019 Intellect Ltd
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without written permission.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the
British Library.
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Print ISBN: 978–1–78938–003–3
ePDF ISBN: 978–1–78938–004–0
ePub ISBN: 978–1–78938–005–7
Printed and bound by TJ International UK.
Contents
Acknowledgements
Introduction: Anarchy, Anarchism, and the Cinematic Context
Chapter 1: Unruly Cinema
Chapter 2: Jean Vigo and the Anarchist Film
Chapter 3: Anarchy and Anarchism in the St Trinian’s Movies
Chapter 4: The Women in Prison Film and Anarchist Analysis
Chapter 5: Anarchism, Activism, and the Cinema Space
Conclusion: The Anarchist Cinema and Beyond1
Filmography
References
Index
Acknowledgements
There are a number of people who helped contribute to the very long
and fluctuating process of making this book, and who have assisted
in so many ways. The following people are referred to:
The team at Intellect, who are responsible for making the
process as smooth and pain free as possible.
Peter Stanfield, whose cool head and relaxed manner never
failed to give me confidence that I would get the project (in its
earliest incarnation) finished.
Chris Pallant, for his continual encouragement and good
humour, and for being on-hand to respond to the many silly
questions that sprang into my head throughout the various
stages.
Mattias Frey, who made some (very) sharp observations at an
early stage that helped to crystallize my thinking.
Nigel Mather, for locating hard to find sources in various
libraries out of the goodness of his heart.
My work colleagues Andy Birtwistle, Ken Fox, and Ben
Rowley. Also, thanks go to my colleague Nick Furze, who did
a great job in identifying the many typos in my draft.
The following, for kindly taking the time to answer my queries
about their work and their creative processes: Deirdre O’Neill
at Inside Film, Steve Presence, Shaun Day at Reel News,
Fabrizio Federico.
And, of course, for non-scholarly support I am indebted to my
parents, and also to Jenna Sharpe. Without them, I wouldn’t
have stood a chance.
Introduction
Anarchy, Anarchism, and the Cinematic Context
Dr No is the headiest box-office concoction of sex and sadism
ever brewed in a British studio […] just as Mike Hammer was the
softening up for James Bond, so James Bond is the softening up
for… what? A fascist cinema uncorrupted by moral scruples? The
riot of a completely anarchist cinema?
(Whitehall, 1962)
Given it has been a central feature of mainstream film culture for
nearly sixty years, James Bond may seem an unexpected
starting point for a book examining the relationship between
anarchism and the cinema. Yet Richard Whitehall’s review of Dr No
(Terence Young, 1962) uses the term ‘anarchist’ in a casual and very
telling manner, starkly demonstrating a misunderstanding of the term
and a derisive attitude towards it as a theoretical concept. One could
swap the words ‘anarchist’ and ‘fascist’ around and the emotional
impact of the sentences would remain. That they are conflated in this
instance is remarkable, given that fascism’s association with
nationalism, tradition, and corporatism, as well as its links with
totalitarianism, makes it the political opposite to anarchism’s desire
to eradicate hierarchical social structures and its opposition to the
State.
What Whitehall is doing is bringing together two political concepts
that he considers to be illegitimate.1 He is linking them through their
ill repute. ‘Anarchism’ and ‘fascism’ are being used as loaded and
emotive terms to increase the damning impact of his review. Neither
description accurately applies to an interpretation of Dr No, but the
illicit content that so irritates Whitehall, its amoral attitude towards
sex and violence, is what encourages his association to these
powerful political philosophies. By claiming that ‘morally the film is
indefensible with its lovingly detailed excesses, the contemporary
equivalent of watching Christians being fed to the lions’, Whitehall
places it, and by extension anarchism, firmly outside of a
mainstream of moral thought – one built on a set of traditionally
conservative values.
In this instance, the critic is acting as a moral authority, as a
policeman of taste and value. An anarchist cinema, in keeping with
political anarchism, should by necessity bristle against such an
authority and attitude. Of course, Whitehall is not making a case for
a detailed delineation of an anarchist or fascist cinema; he is writing
a film review, and his words should not be treated as a serious
dissection of political philosophy. No doubt someone studying a
‘fascist’ cinema might find the quote equally difficult or inappropriate.
But despite its pejorative use, the review signals a subversive energy
associated with anarchism.
Peter Marshall finds in the 1965 edition of Roget’s Thesaurus the
word ‘anarchist’ synonymous with ‘the vandal, iconoclast, savage,
brute, hornet, viper, ogre, ghoul, wild beast, fiend, harpy and siren’
(Marshall, 1993: v). The origin of these descriptions stems from the
association of anarchism to the method of ‘propaganda by the deed:
the violent terrorist action of certain anarchists in the 1890s, who
believed that such acts would encourage the oppressed masses to
rise up against their oppressors. Roderick Kedward describes this
very short but violent epoch in their history as ‘the most spontaneous
and dramatic of the anarchists’ answers’ (Kedward, 1971: 13), one
that created a perception of the movement which continues to
reverberate. The clearest and most visible aspect of the relationship
between anarchism and cinema is one of such misconception.
Richard Porton points out that reviews of The Dark Knight (Nolan,
2008) ‘referred to Heath Ledger’s Joker as an “anarchist”, even
though this character, who blithely threatens large swaths of the
population with annihilation, is merely branded an “agent of chaos”
within the film’ (Porton, 2009). More recently, The Purge: Anarchy
(James DeMonaco, 2014) uses the word in its subtitle to refer to a
government-initiated absence of law and order – where citizens are
allowed to unleash their most criminal urges for one night of the year
only; ‘anarchy’ as synonym for a period of violence and terror. On-
screen, the anarchist is an agent of uninformed, random chaos or
terror, and ‘anarchy’ stands for that which is aimless and lacking a
moral or ethical base.
The Anarchist Cookbook (Jordan Susman, 2002) is similarly
scornful, despite a more blatant attempt to examine the lifestyles of
radical activists. The film follows Puck, a young man living in a squat
with a selection of anarchists and other assorted drop-outs. They are
influenced by a charismatic nihilist to join forces with other extremist
groups who, in reality, would stand in opposition to much of anarchist
thought, neo-Nazis included. Ultimately, Puck not only betrays them
all to the FBI, for which he receives a life-changing sum of money as
a reward, but also falls in love with a Republican woman and ends
up denouncing his previous lifestyle. One of the groups is exposed
as a pederast, and they are shown to have a muddled focus and
inconsistent ideas, as demonstrated by their readiness to join forces
with nihilists and Nazis. Those in the squat refer to themselves as
‘The Family’, alluding to the confusion of peaceful rhetoric and
extreme violence of Charles Manson’s murderous followers.
Despite its depiction of an anarchist lifestyle, and on-screen
discussion about the nature of radical politics, the ideological stance
of The Anarchist Cookbook means it cannot be considered an
anarchist film because it ultimately forms part of the range of
misrepresentations of anarchism that have littered popular culture
since the nineteenth century. Porton draws a comparison between
the representation of anarchism and how the formation of
stereotypes of ethnic groups focuses on ‘a “binarism” that thinks only
in terms of positive and negative images’ (Porton, 1999: 10). This
imagery, ‘associated with irrationality and violence’ (1999: 11), can
be found in films ranging from those of ‘Edwin S. Porter and D. W.
Griffith to the apparently more sophisticated films of European
cineastes such as Claude Chabrol and Bernard Tavernier’ (1999:
13).
There is, however, a far more complex connection between
anarchism and the arts than that of issues surrounding
representation. For Kedward, this connection stems from a natural
affinity originating in their mutual aspiration for individual freedom
(Kedward, 1971: 108) – a connection also found in the influence of
anarchist theory on art movements such as surrealism and Dada
(Marshall, 1993: 252). But is the anarchism in cinema found in the
intellectual avant-garde, and in art films that undertake a serious
examination of anarchist theory? Or should any prospective
anarchist cinema embrace some of the negative criticisms, such as
the suggestion that it is ‘puerile and absurd’ (Marshall, 1993: xiv),
two qualities the surrealist and Dadaist movements would no doubt
celebrate?
This book explores these questions, and examines the intricate
relationship that exists between anarchism and cinema. Within these
pages, I take three approaches: first, I propose that the relationship
between anarchism and cinema is often hidden, because the
‘anarchist’ content of a film is not always revealed through easily
interpretable signifiers. Second, my aim is to deepen the relationship
by exploring the possibilities of an anarchist approach to film
analysis and interpretation. To do this, attention is turned to films
containing ‘a profound anarchist sensibility’, a phrase borrowed from
Marshall’s historical analysis (1993: xi). I look to how their
representations, visual style, and underlying ideology can be
enhanced and uncovered by an anarchistic approach to analysis,
where one is fluid, using an array of interpretive methods. This work
builds on the first aim by looking at a wider selection of films, and
broadens the scope to include where anarchism has filtered through
into the study of cinema. The third aim is to examine the ways
anarchism has influenced, altered, and politicized the organization of
cinema in terms of production, exhibition, and distribution. This
extends beyond textual film analysis and onto an examination of the
anarchic forms cinema can take as a cultural space. I discuss how
anarchism has informed the processes of production and exhibition,
with a particular emphasis on the recent developments in digital film
culture that have led to an increase in inflections of an anarchist
cinema at a grassroots level.
Working through these aims reveals how anarchism has often
been a veiled trend in cinema, lurking at the margins of film culture. It
is hidden in the shadows and in the separation between films,
filmmakers, and audiences. When it reveals itself, it can serve as a
valuable critique of cinema’s dominant, repressive norms. Analysis
of the anarchism in cinema demonstrates forms of oppression, and
looks at film as a method of resistance. My aim is to establish ways
in which the art form can be subversive and anarchic, bringing
together film, cinema, and film studies in a politicized way, inspired
by the ethos and methods of political anarchism.