Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Screen - Volume 15 Issue 1
Screen - Volume 15 Issue 1
- I
By LENNY UPTON
Introduction by
Stan Brakhage
Postscript by Malcolm Le Grice
You don't need a 1000 camera, a huge budget,
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'What a relief to have, at last, the first book I can
fully recommend to any filmmaker... I so much
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filmmaking' - S t a n B r a k b a g e , in t h e
introduction t o Independent
Filmmaking
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Diamonds are Forever
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Decameron
Canterbury Tales
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Editorial
For some time past Screen has been very largely concerned with
the, introduction and investigation of the advances in semiotics
which have been accomplished over the last fifteen years in France.
Of pre-eminent interest has been the application of semiotic concepts to the analysis of film in the work of Christian Metz. The
impetus of semiotics can perhaps best be grasped through the
consideration of a quotation from Roland Barthes's book S/Z. In
this analysis of a short story by Balzac, Barthes puts forward the
thesis t h a t ' it is necessary in the same movement to disengage the
text from its exterior and from its totality'. The semiotic project
can thus be seen as the fracturing of the experienced unity of the
text (literary or cinematic). Rather than an authorial statement
about human nature (totality) or a reflection of the particular
society in which it was produced (exterior), the semiologist regards
the text as the contradictory interplay of different codes.
But it would be wrong to think that this precludes the possibility
of any kind of analysis of the place of the text within the social
process. This analysis remains an implicit work to be undertaken
after the disengagement of the various codes. If certain semioticians
(Todorov, for example, and to a certain extent Metz himself) would
support the scientistic thesis that semiotics is justified by its own
results, there are others who would firmly reject any suggestion
that this disengagement and analysis of codes can be divorced from
a final integration of these codes into wider social processes. So it
could be suggested that semiotics is simply a tool that prepares the
ground for sociology. But this would be wrong insofar as sociology
can be understood as the study of society where society is understood as an object that can be studied. Sociological explanation
constitutes what it explains as either one factor in a closed set of
interrelated functions,' society \ or as the expression of an essence
or social subject. In such explanation, the autonomy, and hence the
reality, of what is explained is abolished in a co-presence of
elements to one another and to a central subject, society. As a
result, history is either reduced to the pure contingency of a
chronology or to a teleological development of decadence or progress. It is this notion of progress that is attacked as social-democratic by Franco Fortini in the now classic article ' The Writers'
Mandate and the End of Anti-Fascism' which we publish in this
issue of Screen. Revisionism interpreted Marx's theory of historical
materialism, the science of social formations, as a sociology. It is
to historical materialism, not to sociology, that we must look for
an extension and a critique of semiotics.
But what exactly do we understand by historical materialism -
of danger which is the present and in investigating these contemporary moments to understand the history of English cinema. These
concerns highlight the outstanding value of Barr's text which, even
if one may have certain disagreements with its theoretical framework, accomplishes a most important work of discovery in laying
out the actual conditions of production in English cinema in the
post-war period.
Cultural tradition
But neither the movie business as a whole nor individual films
operate outside the general cultural terms prevailing at a given
time. It is not simply necessary to write a history of English cinema
internally but also to understand this history within a more general
history. In other countries it might not be necessary for theoreticians of film to accomplish this task - it might be left to others to
provide a general historical analysis of cultural phenomena which
the film theoretician could use and modify within his own specific
area. This is hardly the case in England. If Perry Anderson's
Components of the National Culture2 provides an indispensable
starting-point for an analysis of the historical conjunctures which
produced the specific cultural situation in England - it is only a
starting point. Franco Fortini's text on ' The Writers' Mandate and
the End of Anti-Fascism' is, in its first two sections, exactly this
kind of cultural analysis. As such it is valuable to us for two
reasons. Firstly it complements the last issue, on Roberto Rossellini,
by offering an analysis of the contradictory political status of NeoRealism (it may be read as giving deeper and wider perspectives on
the article by Mario Cannella in the last issue),3 and also provides
some of the groundwork for the next issue, which is to centre on
Brecht. But apart from this it offers us both a model and some of
the necessary perspectives for understanding our own situation in
England. At some stage it will be necessary to go back to the
'thirties in an effort to understand how the particular alliance of
revolutionary, social-democratic and nationalist forces in the fight
against Fascism and the growth of Stalinist influence in the 'thirties
combined to ' innoculate England against Marxism '. This work will
obviously be long and arduous, but one might isolate two areas of
potential emblematic significance for such a work. Firstly one can
think of the history of T H Wintringham. Jailed for sedition in
1925 (the only intellectual among twelve Communists to suffer a
similar fate), Wintringham was very active on the left throughout
the 'thirties and fought in Spain. By 1940, however, he is publishing articles in such journals as Picture Post which draw on his
experiences in Spain for advice as to what to do in the event of
air-raids. Secondly one might think of Leavis's closing statement
on the decade, written for Scrutiny in 1940, where among many
other battles he considers lost he can at least claim one victory
with certainty: Marxism had been driven from the theoretical field.
To write the history of intellectual activity in the 'thirties and
during the War and post-war period and to link that history to
the history of British film production is one of the more pressing
needs of film theory.
Formalism, Difference and Value
The third section of Fortini's text (the Thesis for artists ' Beyond
the Social Mandate') raises in some sense much deeper problems.
Having analysed and rejected both forms of the claim for the social
mandate (on the one hand Lukacs and the Communist Parties in
the West who allocated a certain cultural space to artists where
they would fulfil the demands of the revolutionary proletariat on the other, the surrealist Trotskyists who in their development
of revolutionary artistic forms claimed to be creating the revolutionary art of the future and thus interpreting the mandate before
it had actually arrived), Fortini advances several theses. Most
interesting for our purposes is his dual attack on Barthes and his
final affirmation of poetry (opposed in his text to literature) as the
investigation of a fundamental contradiction beyond the class
struggle. ' But there is an exalted lesson which poetry can give to
the class of negation and to those who lead it: it can introduce the
healthy suspicion that the class struggle that is fought to abolish
classes leads to a higher and ineliminable contradiction, the one
we have referred to, between a limitless capacity of self-determination of life and its limitless infirmity. This is something that is
exceptionally important, essential indeed, in that it can help to free
the revolutionary movement from its infantile optimism, its elementary and ever recurrent trust in progress. Perhaps the greatest thing
which poetry can teach it today is the way to grasp the extent of
the nothingness that accompanies positive action.'
From this position, Fortini attacks Barthes on two (contradictory) fronts. Firstly he attacks Barthes as a semiotician for formalising poetry out of the basic contradiction. Lacking a theory of
value, the semiotician is. forced, according to Fortini, to reduce all
literature (good and bad) to a set of codes, which, Fortini thinks,
gives literature too great a specificity and divorces it from its
essentially disruptive power. Here we should bear it in mind that
this criticism was written in 1967. The post-war stabilisation of
imperialism still seemed sound, and a technologistic ideology of
information seemed to confirm the disappearance of class struggle
from the surface of capitalist societies, the ' end of ideology'. And
at that time semiotics still showed a fairly unified face. The criticism that it simply reduced every discursive practice to a number
of relatively impoverished codes had a certain force. But only a year
later the end of ideology itself came to an abrupt end, thanks to
the Chinese Cultural Revolution, the Tet offensive and the high tide
which reminds one all too easily of the Romantics' notion of the
artist as the creative genius who, alone, can grasp the essential
truth of the world. And this recourse to what is undoubtedly a
bourgeois ideology has as a result, as is very often the case in the
formulation of a revolutionary position, a fall into a certain ultra
leftism. For, falling back on to the poetic insight of the individual,
Fortini is driven to deny almost any form of social art. The only
artistic form possible becomes the lyric poem written on the edge
of the revolutionary battlefield. Obviously, within Fortini's position,
there is no room for such a social production as a film.
But this is to mistake the possible methods of combating,
through film, as well as through other highly socialised arts, the
predominant forms of understanding in a society, and, at the same
time, accomplishing this through an investigation of the symbolic
world (in the strict sense used above). For the cinema this is above
all a struggle against the fetishistic position of the spectator fixed in his position securely by the reality of the image. Much of
Godard's work can be seen in this perspective, and it will be necessary to attempt to undertake the very difficult task of investigating
the relation between this non-social space of difference and the
directly social concerns of the political cinema.
It is obvious that this kind of position, which could roughly be
categorised as Barthes's, is in contradiction with the more scientistic semiotics of Todorov and Metz. It is in this kind of critical
perspective that one might read the very interesting article by
Ren6 Gardies on Glauber Rocha's films (Gardies is a pupil of
Metz's). Despite its evident interest there are two questions to be
asked about i t Firstly, to what extent does it fall under Fortini's
criticism of reducing film to impoverished codes which are unable
to distinguish between what is simple repetition and what is radically new? Secondly, even within its own terms, to what extent is
the apparatus actually productive to what extent does it simply
formalise, in-an uninteresting way, the insights gained into Rocha's
films which can be stated within traditional critical discourses?
Towards Brecht
In Tout va bien, the film-maker played by Yves Montand says at
one point that all the implications of Brecht's preface to Mahagonny
have yet to be drawn out. It is Brecht, along with Eisenstein, who
stands as one of the great examples of those who have both been
actively involved in the revolutionary politics of this century, but
have also been fascinated by the problem of the sign - of the
processes of signification. It is no accident that Barthes's first love
was for Brecht, for as he has said in an interview, ' What is exemplary about him for me is neither his Marxism nor his aesthetics
(although both have a great importance), but the conjunction of
the two: that is to say a Marxist rationale and a reflection on
io
Notes
1. Walter Benjamin: "Theses on the Philosophy of History' in
Illuminations, trans Harry Zohn, London 1970, p 257.
2. Perry Anderson: ' Components of the National Culture ', New Left
Review No 50, July-August 1968, pp 3-57.
3. In this context, it is important to remember that Fortini's theme of
the writer without a homeland is specifically opposed to the thesis
that a Communist culture would be the true Italian national culture,
a thesis that derives from the PCI's reading -of Gramsci's Prison
Notebooks.
Introductory Note
The following extracts are taken from an analysis which chose as
its principle to consider the films of Glauber Rocha as one single
plurifilmic text, and as its object, to establish the system of that
text. The term system has been defined as ' a coherent and integrated body . . . in which each element is situated and takes its
value in relation to the other elements' (Christian Metz, Langagz
et Cindma). The works of the author of Langage- et Cm&ma, which
mark a radical turning point in the field of film analysis, have
guided this undertaking.
We have tried to ensure that the propositions advanced on the
work under consideration flow, not from more or less happy intuitions or more or less well-founded assertions, but from a
methodical and systematic analysis. The films of Glauber Rocha
have therefore, as far as possible, been subjected to the sieve of
an exhaustive examination based on a number of specific methods.
An example of the applications of such methods is reproduced here
in order to elucidate an instrument of cinematic enquiry which
may prove useful to others.
A further word to situate these extracts more satisfactorily. They
constitute the substrata or foundation of an attempt to bring to
light the laws which govern the films of Glauber Rocha, considered
in their relationship to a single system. The system itself, as it has
emerged from these studies, will be presented in a work to be published shortly by Editions Seghers in their Cin&ma d'aujourd'hui
series.* This will of course be divested of any methodological apparatus and of a large part of the specialised vocabulary which
appears here.
To facilitate understanding of the text which follows, we give
below a brief paraphrase of the results of the method, ie the major
articulations of the Rochean plurifilmic system.
The general system is itself, in the words of Christian Metz, a
' system of systems'. We shall therefore clarify the components
and laws of these broad units before proceeding to a synthesis at
the level of their overall integration into a single system.
1. At the base there is a cultural substratum whose function it is
to authenticate the revolutionary struggle.
2. The struggle is massively signified by two instances: the politi* Editorial note: this study has now appeared as no 79 in the series.
12
14
Revolutionariei
Firmino
(Aruan)
Police
The
Instrument] of
power
Firmino
Group o
fishermen
obeying the
Master
3 fishermen
Cota
Cod
(Antonio-dasMortes>
Antonio-dasMortes
Tho priest
Sebastian
Manuel
Corisco, Dada
Manuel, Rosa
Beatos
Moraes
Black
(Paulo)
(Felicio)
(The Claimant)
(Rebel Group)
Gcronimo - the
reporter
Paulo Martins
Sara tlie bishop
Alvaro - Silvia
The Captain
Meneur
(Geronimo)
A man of the
people
Felicio
Group 2 and
Group 1 and
The exptint
Vieira
Fuentes
Diaz
Terra em Transe
Antonio-dasMortes
The professor
The priest
(Antonlo-dasMortes)
Mata Vaca
Matos
Laura
Coirana
Beatos
(The priest)
(The teacher)
Colonel Horacio
The explint
Antonio-dcu-Slorles
Der
Leone
Zumbi.
Pablo
Samba
Demonstrators
and soldiers
The" German
The Portuguese
The American
Two partisans of
common sense
The enlightened
priest
The enlightened
priest
African dancers
Zumbi
Marleno
Zobu
The violent
The. people
Dispossessed!
Possessors:
-holders of
property ,
-holders or
powef
Barravetito
Cortadas
The shepherd
The
Revolutionaries
Dona Solcdad
The Indian
The gypsy
prostitute
The monk and
the doctor
Blind beggar
Gypsy troupe
(Wind beggar)
Dulcinea
Diaz II
The explint
Cavcsas
16
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Reformist
action
Arrival of
Mata Vaca
Horacio appeals
to Antonio
Antonio fights
for Antonio*
ths duel
Coirana mortally Antonio's
wounded
intercession
on behalf
o the people
Horacio appeals
to Mata Vaca
Action of
possessors
exploitation or
aggression
Mystified or
non-conscious
action
Coirana wants
to avenge
cangaceiro.
and people
Antonio comes
to a revolutionary
awareness
Revolutionary
action
Rivalry
Matos Laura
failure of
projected alliance
with Antonio
Horacio - Mata
Vaca
=Antonio Beatos
=Horacio Antonio
Alliance
=Antonio
changes sides
Betrayal
Miscellaneous
Horacio walks
towards the
fight with
Mata Vaca
Mata Vaca
massacres the
Beatos
Another struggle
to bo fought
The fight
Victory: Antonio
and the. Teacher
kill Mata Vaca
Antao pins down
Horacio
They prepare
for the fight
Antonio brings
back the Teacher
who attains
revolutionary
awareness
=Antonio
Teacher - Saint
The Teacher's
flight: betrayal,
cowardice
Laura abandons
Matos and kills
him
Burial of Matos
Horacio is
warned o
Matos - Laura
alliance
H
*>
20
21
22
into mythemes and their distribution in such a way that they lend
themselves to a double reading - horizontal (in order of diachronic
sequence) and vertical (a-historical synthesis of the units corresponding to one type of relation).
Six categories of relations suffice to account for the quasitotality of the action. A very small number of facts fall outside
them. Their irreducibility is the mark of the presence of other
discourses' within the film: ie on the level of the general textual
system.
The operational relationships are as follows:
1. The reign of the dragon and its misdeeds.
2. The revelation of a St George.
3. Propitiatory discourse which is a form of anticipated combat.
4. St George (or the Dragon) prepares for combat.
5. The combat.
6. Its outcome, which is itself subdivided into three: St George
defeated (6a), victorious (6b), betrayed (6c).
Table V transcribes the mythic narrative. Table IV (Variants of
the Myth) is intended to give a synoptic representation of the
variants of the myth. Each variant is given in the form of a
sequential series of mythemes (column four - the numbers correspond to the mythemes listed above: for example, i = t h e my theme:
the reign or appearance of the dragon; 2=the revelation of a
St George, etc). It can thus be clearly seen that:
1. The constant mythic roles - St George and the Dragon - are
taken, in turn, by characters who differ from one variant to the
next. In addition, such heroes become St George or the Dragon
according to the viewpoint by which the narration is shaped. Thus
when Antonio speaks of his battle against the cangaceiros (variant
II), he represents himself as St George, but when it is Coirana who
evokes the killer of the cangaceiros, he confers on him the place
of the dragon.
2. Each variant of the myth is translated by a different sequence:
one may be extremely incomplete, having recourse to no more
than two (variant 0) or three mythemes (variants I and II), another
will emerge complete (variant HI) while another will in fact reduplicate a particular mytheme (in variant IV, mytheme 2 figures
four times: first revelation of true role and duty for Antonio;
second revelation: Antonio is elected, he receives powers from
the (woman) Saint; awakening of consciousness in the Teacher).
Each sequence of figures regroups and orders the mythemes which
the narrative presented in an entangled, intricately interwoven way.
Observations: I and II are two representations of the same referential event: the past fight against a cangaceiro. One shows it
through the image in the title shots of the film, the other through
speech via Antonio's monologue.
Saint and A n t a o
Antonio
VI
vn
American Domination
IV
V
Beatos
Antonio - Horacio
Antonio
then the Teacher
Coirana
in
II,
cangaceiros (shot 2)
The Dragon
Antonio
Saint George
I the past
O the symbolic
emblem
Variants
2-2
2-2
3-3
6b
6b
6a
6a
6b 6a
6b 6a
6b
6.
(end)
Intercession o!
behalf o tee
beatoS
Numhei
Event
oj the external to
variant the myth
Society, killers ot
cangaceiros
First revelation of
the rolo and duty
for Antonio
Appearance ot
Coirana
Revelation of a
St George
Reign or appearance
of the dragon
Dlscoursa o
Antonio
Discourse of
Coirana,
The challenge
Coirana in Town
preaches violence
and Antonio
approaches
4
Propitiatory discourse
on the dragon {or
St George (or the
St George') and on dragon) prepares lor
the fight
his fight
Saint reproaches
Antonio
The duel
Coirana
mortally
wounded
Xvs
Shot of Antonio
Xvs
killing a cangaceir
6
Outcome of the fightl
St Georee
tie'
vie*
be*
fcaled torious trayed
(o) ' (6)
(c)
X
The fight
Prc-titlo Iconographic
shot
vn
VI
<cnd)
IV
Intrigues o
Laura and
Matos, failure
Death and
burial o
Matos
American
domination
Awakening of
consciousness la
tho Teacher
Antonio is elected:
leccivcs the powers
o tho (woman)
Saint
Second revelation
Conversation
Antonio - tho
Teacher.
Antonio and
Horacio walk
towards each other
Antonio goes in
search o tho
professor
+ sung
commentary
26
Besides establishing its specific rules, the study of the choreography thus, also pursues another goal - to show how the overall
system of the text functions. In addition to the horizontal readings practised so far, we will now make a vertical cut. Taking
choreography as an example, we will try to traverse the codes.
So far, every system has of necessity been treated in isolation. It
goes without saying, however, that it could not function in this
way - each system defines itself in dose relationship with others.
The meaning it produces in obedience to its own laws merges
with the meanings produced by the other systems. The total
signification always presents itself as the product of multiple signifying chains at work in the text.
It follows from this that there can be no sum total (other than
a virtual or ideal one) which could be rendered in its entirety by
a reading, but an open text which offers numerous paths of access.
Each of these routes cuts a particular trace across the numerous
movements operating simultaneously in the film. By taking choreography, we have sought to delimit the course of one such trace.
From the following tables (Tables VI and VII) it is possible to
see the diversity .of meanings covered by each occurrence of a
given figure. A signifier of expression thrusts through the various
superimposed layers and brings up the core sample which bears
evidence of the composite nature of the soil.
Carrying out a reading of this kind is like rifling the pages of a
book: at first it offers to the eye only the opaqueness of its cover;
then it suddenly opens up a flurry of pages. Where the spectator,
carried away by the movement of the film, saw only a fight between Firmino and Aruan, a more attentive decoding will touch
on the traces of a joust between two political adversaries, the sign
of a singular combat, even a love rivalry, under a precise cultural
inscription - the capoeira, a dance from the afro-brazilian folklore
of Bahia. The piling up, accumulation and stratification of codes
The following are two extracts from tables which point up this
plurality. They are concerned with two of the choreographic figures
encountered in the films of Rocha; circular movements and walking. We shall then attempt to interpret the overall role of-these
figures in the general system.
S/Z, Editions du Seufl, Paris, 1970.
traversed
Dramatic
-code of actions
-hermeneutic code ^ f
Mythic
Political
-referent
Cultural
-textual
Codes
Fight (duel)
completion of first
part of action
Dragon vs Saint
George
Characters:
Image: long takes
black Antao with
circle o bcatcs
costume of god of war Characters: behaviour,
long takes
dress, scarf, challenge
(sequence shots)
resounding singing
Victory
Victorious completion
o principle action.
Defender of exploiters
against champions of
exploited
capoeira)
Combat (duel)
Rivalry of profiteers
(5)
(4)
struggle
Marlene-Xobu
Duel
Antonio-Coirana
Image: movement
inscribed in extremely
complex figure shown
in long take
Characters: dress,
speech, spear
oratorical duel
Confrontation of two 1
political conceptions
Africa's political
solutions
(5)
Extremists-Moderates
discussion
Victories
end of a first phase
Enslavement
1, Colonial
2. Economic
1. Conquest of South
America
2. Establishment of
Capitalism
(0
Diaz 11 around
1. the itica, then
2. the white
00
to
Towards a future
paradise-
Mythical
Dramatic
-code o actions
Achieving awareness
Flight
Refusal to fight
Role of intellectuals
Duration o shot:
Duration o the shot:
Duration of scene
extremely long
extremely long
Image: long shots
Image: travelling aerial Sound: sound of lorries Image: long shot,
shot increasingly wide
Scrtao is crossed
+ songs.
ancle
from the background
Music: songs
to extreme close up
Opening a future
(extra-narrative)
Role o Brazilian
intellectuals
Political
Cultural
-textual
-referent
Codes traversed
Final race of
Manuel and Rosa
(2)
Arrival of Saint
George .
Shepherd climbing
a hill
(beginning 6)
Duration of shot:
extremely long
Image: long shot, vast
hill climbed from
background to foreground (ending in
close up)
Music: importance of
power of singing
Characters: dress,
weapons
Duration: long
Image: vast hill
climbed in long shot
Sound: silence
Characters: dress, age
weapon (false)
Revolutionary Africa
on the march
Column of soldiers
climbing a hill
(end 5)
30
31
SOCIALIST REVOLUTION
AGENDA PUBLISHING COMPANY
396 SANCHEZ STREET
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 94114
NAME
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33
34
among the heirs of the Italian left seems to have been the concoction of acceptable ' avant-garde ' formulae, particularly where
this involved exhuming models which had formerly been subjected
to the death penalty. The twenties (in the Soviet Union, Germany
or France) are brought back into favour - not for the sake of giving
a new interpretation to the great and often very great artistic and
poetic achievements of the age, but in order not to fall back into
the language of peaceful co-existence and in order to show 'that,
before the mis-alliances of social realism, one did at least know
how to keep up one's station.
The same sort of responsibility as the Italian intellectuals of the'
'30s had towards the generation that was about to leave school
and enter the war, can be attributed to those intellectuals who,
between 1945 and 1956, either could not or would not look back
over the immediate past period of class struggle and remained
satisfied with the assertion of their own anti-fascism.
When the history of Italian Stalinism comes to be written, and
the story is told of the repression that took place, between 1944
and 1948, to the detriment of a non-conforming revolutionary
culture which was, however uncertainly and confusedly, nevertheless beginning to take shape; and when it is made clear to what
extent the intellectual weakness of the survivors of Fascism (that
is, ourselves) was objectively complicit with moral weakness and
with the cultural policies of Stalinism, polemicising with it from
the right and thus from radical-liberal rather than Marxist positions
when this has been done, we might acquire a less mythical vision
of certain projects, such as neo-realism in the cinema, the Politecnico and so on. But it can be shown even now how the post-war
horizon was as it were blocked, at first spontaneously and then
artificially, by the immediate past of Fascism and the shattering
vista of ruin and massacre which it provoked. It was a form of
self-defence, as much as a political calculation by a leadership,
that drove the intellectual left (authors, publishers, journalists,
ideologues) to find mediated antecedents in yesterday, in the antifascist tradition. The boundaries of that viewpoint (as evinced, for
example, in II Politecnico) were the Popular Front in France, the
Spanish Civil War, the New Deal. Beyond that there stretched
twenty indeterminate years, from 1917 to 1937. And, to confine
these observations to the position of writers, might it not be the
case that the whole discussion on commitment and non-commitment had as protagonists basically a generic anti-fascist left under
Communist Party guidance (a left for which even between 1950 and
1955 someone like Lukacs could appear as a dogmatic extremist,
a man who wanted literature in chains) and the idealist and
Catholic tradition? There is no need for me to recall how many of
us joined forces in those days, united in presenting a complex,
varied, open, critical and generally all-purpose ' left' formula, in
which however one spoke ' parutn d& Deo, nihil de principe ' - or
rather little about the princes and not at all about Stalin.
What follows is intended as notes for a discussion.
2. During the period of what Lukacs has called ' ideological decadence ' (roughly, the second half of the last century) the intellectuals of the bourgeoisie split into several parts: organic and
apologetic intellectuals (such as Taine), progressive scientists (Darwin), artists and writers who confine themselves to an objective
contestation of the capitalist reality represented in their work
(Maupassant), and the artists of opposition (Rimbaud). But the
bourgeoisie does not on the whole revoke the mandate it had entrusted to writers in the past. The function of a voice of universal
conscience, characteristic of the Enlightenment, is perpetuated
among the intellectuals of the age of democracy. Although this
function is, in fact, a mystification, the socialist movement sets
itself the task of making it a reality. All the equivocations over the
' progressive' character of naturalism and scientism derive from
the continued acceptance within European social democracy of the
mandated role of the man of letters and the artist, inherited from
the ascendant bourgeoisie. Between 1890 and 1915, in the inconclusive struggles of nationalities against super-national empires
and in the struggles in Germany, France, Italy and Spain against ,
authoritarian and anti-democratic involution, socialist intellectuals
continue to nourish themselves on the illusion of a continuity of
progress, beginning with the French Revolution and carried on in
Italy by the Garibaldian and Mazzinian tradition and later by
socialism (De Amicis, Cavalotti, Bettini, Rapisardi) and in France
by the democratic tradition of Victor Hugo. For, however great
the tensions and conflicts, the national alliance was, basically, not
yet broken, and could be so only in those countries where the
bourgeoisie was very weak and pre-bourgeois survivals correspondingly strong - in Russia, or among the oppressed nationalities and,
to a lesser extent, in Italy. In practice the intellectuals and writers
who were or felt themselves in conflict with society in those twentyfive years did not even pose for themselves the problem of
* separation', that is to say the problem of the ' Party', except
in Eastern Europe.
In Russia the power of 80 years of intellectual and working-class
struggle was such that when, at the end of the century, a Social
Democratic party was formed, the division does take place, along
with a debate on the participation and commitment of the intellectuals, and there are splits among the latter (brilliantly portrayed
by Gorky in Klim Samghin) of an intensity unknown in Western *
Europe even at the time of the Commune and whose contemporary '
equivalent here took the typically ' backward ' form of the Dreyfus
affair. What was going on in Italian literature and culture as reflected in the journals of the period is an eloquent testimony to
this. As for the so-called ' historical avant-gardes ',2 particularly
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in the '90s, whether they belonged to an aristocratic and aestheticising ' right' or to an anarchic and destructive ' left', they had
in common a rejection of the cultural terms of the discourse of
socialism, precisely because of the way it presented itself as this
humanitarian, rationalist, optimistic and exhortatory tradition. The
' break' (in the form of avant-garde ' decadentism') with the
realistic and naturalistic-veristic traditions of the European bourgeoisie, was a mystified and ideological anticipation of a revolutionary ' break' which did not take place, but it is also the
authentic expression of the shattering of a reality which social
democracy saw not as broken but as subject to continuous change.
It is no accident that the historical avant-garde of Paris (and also,
in differing degrees, those of Munich and Vienna and certain circles
in Moscow and Petersburg) adopted the habits and life-styles of
the anarchist underworld, living, as the phrase goes, on the fringes
of society. The aristocratic avant-gardes, people like Gide, Musil
and Blok, were not all that different from Apollinaire, Picasso and
Mayakovsky, living among voyous and apaches in the colourful
' anar' world. What is unimaginable, in the Western Europe of
the two decades before the First World War, is a relationship between writers and the workers* movement comparable to.the one
we find existing world-wide, following the exainple of the Soviet
Union, in the two decades from the October revolution to the
outbreak of the Second World War.
3. The problem of a ' spiritual homeland' (the phrase again is
from Lukacs, and follows the admission that with Stalinism the
Soviet Union could no longer perform that role for intellectuals
in the West) is not only that of a real separation from the national
bourgeois community, but also that of the achievement of an integration with the proletariat and thus with the vanguard or avantgarde3 of that proletariat, the Party.
This problem was posed for Western writers (and even then
only for a minute number of them) only after the experience of
the First World War and immediate post-war period. In other terms,
what happened in Russia was that the overwhelming character of
the armed revolution and the civil war created the conditions in
which, at least temporarily and in spite of factional conflicts, the
heirs of progressive humanism, the decadents and the avant-garde
innovators managed for some years to live together in a common
acceptance of revolutionary reality. In the West however the livingtogether took place between capitalist society and social-democratic
and revolutionary formations, with the result that for a longish
time - roughly up to the great crisis of 1929 - the theme of the
relations between revolutionary organisations (and ideologies) and
artistic and literary avant-gardes (and their ideologies) takes an
entirely new form. Immediately an ambiguity sets in - one that
was destined in the end to assume tragic dimensions. For such a
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41
42
44
war and therefore see as the real enemy their own regime and
not Hitler.'
One cannot help observing at this point that, between 1934 and
1935, Stalin carries out, and gets the parties to carry out,-precisely
those policies that Lukacs was calling for, except that by the time
he does it Hitler is already in power. It is equally the case that
the policies of the Popular Fronts, coherently pursued throughout
the decisive years from 1935 to 1939 and throughout the Spanish
war, concluded, as I see it, in a series of defeats, the greatest of
which was precisely the outbreak of %var in 1939.
Given all that has been said above about the main tendencies
within the revolutionary literary camp between 1918 and 1933, the
interpretation given by Lukacs, particularly in his recent writings,
of the politics of anti-fascism is obviously extremely important.
These tendencies can be reduced to three. The first sees revolutionary culture as the actuation of the best of bourgeois humanism
and aspires to reconnect itself with that humanism across the gap
formed by something called ' decadence ', which can take the form
of avantgardism, psychologism, aestheticism or naturalism and
can therefore constitute fissures both on a synchronic and a diachronic plane. The second is represented by the ' historical avantgardes ' who proclaim a rupture with all the cultural forms of the
immediate past, rescuing only a long list of precursors and initiates,
culminating in surrealism. The third tendency is one which corrects
both the first and the second, and tries to link up with a tradition
which is both beyond bourgeois humanism and outside the European tradition. Now it is more than likely that there exist a whole
series of relations between the way one sees one's own position in
the present (ie in the revolutionary working-class movement), the
way one sees one's attitude towards the past (ie tradition) and
the way one is to interpret an historical event of the magnitude
of fascism.
Here the a posteriori justification given by Lukacs of the Popular
Fronts proves when tested against what happened in the field of
cultural policies to be riven by the same contradictions as those
of which he accuses Stalin. What Lukacs should be saying is that
the Popular Fronts were a necessity imposed by the struggle against
fascism but that they did not succeed in avoiding the final throw
of the dice in the form of the outbreak of war, and above all that
the intellectual convergences of the time proved of limited value
in the struggle against fascism and were largely negative in their
effects on the struggle for Socialism. Instead, however, we are
given a picture of the events as revolutionary victories.
As late as 1933, through the mouth of Dimitrov, fascism is
considered as the armed organisation of the bourgeoisie, and
Nazism, in Trotsky's words, is seen as ' Thiers riding an armoured
car'. But when the ' sectarian' theses of the KPD are replaced
by the slogans of the Popular Front, the antithesis fascism/antifascism, precisely because there is no longer any internal movement within the Party and it can only move as a single aggregate,
comes to occupy the entire historical horizon. As a result the writer
and intellectual are not faced just with the problem of a political
alliance with social-democratic or liberal forces prepared to join
in the fight against fascism, but with that of seeking intellectual
convergence (whether because of opportunism or bureaucratic convenience: either way there are phrases in the texts of thirty years
ago which reek of outright lies). But where are these convergences
to be found if not in a definition of fascism as ' enemy of civilisation ' - including bourgeois civilisation? If fascism is indeed linked
to capital, but in a pathological and monstrous way, with all the
characteristics of an enemy of the human race, and if from 1935
on the fear of frightening away writers and intellectuals ' of good
will * with Marxist slogans comes to dominate political choices
(and it is a fear which is still expressed to this day), then the
only ground on which a meeting is possible is that of the most
insipid social-radical humanism, the same cultural ground which
produced aesthetes and decadents in art and literature. Lukacs
is thus reluctantly driven into the illusory pursuit of the last veins
of the gold of ' great realism '. Innovators, avant-gardists and the
like become acceptable only if they are prepared to continue, under
the shade of the Popular Fronts, the same innocuous gestures of
revolt they had carried out under the shade of governments of
national unity or of the right.
Thus the truth that the fundamental historic conflict between
capitalism and socialism takes different forms at different times
has been unjustifiably extended to define the tasks, functions and
responsibilities of the revolutionary writer. If at this point we
recall the phrase of Goethe's which Lukics himself quotes in his
recent comment on the Sino-Soviet debate, adding that there can
be no ' co-existence' between ideas and t h a t ' it is of the essence
of high-level cultural objectifications to demand absolute dominion
within their own sphere *, we are brought back once again to the
central tragic point of half a century of struggle: that up to now
it has been impossible for the party of the proletariat and of the
revolution to articulate within itself and in an organic way the
tension between the order of truths of the short term and those
of the long term, between the superstructural area of political will
and that other superstructure which is that of the writer and poet
and touches on the ' truth' of history, philosophy and science:
with the outcome that we all know.
n. Palais de la Mutualite, 1935
The First International Congress for the Defence of Culture, otherwise known as the Congress of Anti-Fascist Writers, held in Paris
in 1935, seems now like just one of those politico-cultural con-
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but how voluntary one does not know, of Gorky) was to consign
Soviet literature for a quarter of a century into the hands of the
bureaucracy. It is interesting to note that in the June number of
Commune there appeared an article signed by P Youdin and A
Fadeev [P Yudin and A Fadeyev] entitled ' Socialist realism, fundamental method of Soviet literature', and followed by the ' Projected statutes of the Union of Soviet Writers'.
The second half of 1934 gives evidence, as we have already
mentioned, of the continuing success of the new ' front' formulae.
In August, for example, socialist and communist Italian emigres
proclaim their pact of unity of action. On September 18th the
USSR is admitted to the League of Nations and, with the new line
in Soviet foreign policy, there are the beginnings of a rapprochement between the Soviet Union and France which will lead to
Laval's visit to Moscow early in 1935 and the signing of the mutual
assistance pact on May 2nd of that year.
On June 10th, eleven days before the opening of the Congress,
Trotsky, expelled from France by the Daladier government as a
gesture to the new alliance, leaves the country and writes in an
open letter to the French workers:
Two years ago L'Humanite used to write every day ' the fascist
Daladier has brought the social-fascist Trotsky to France to help
organise armed intervention against the Soviet Union'. Today
these gentlemen, as you know, have just created, with the aid of
the ' fascist' Daladier, an anti-fascist' popular front'.
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50
contempt and pity, for example the attempts by Mme Paz and by
Plisnier to sabotage the unity of writers from thirty-five
countries under the pretext of defending the counter-revolutionary
Victor Serge.
Naturally the vast majority of contributions, coming from nonMarxist writer-intellectuals, came down on the side hoped for by
the Communist organisers and supported precisely those interpretations of the fascist phenomenon which Brecht for his part rejected. The official party representatives rubbed the point home.
Vaillant-Couturier even uttered this extraordinary statement: ' In
the struggle between barbarians and culture, culture is faced with
the problem of winning over the majority *. And shortly afterwards: * We offer to everyone a minimum programme for the
defence of culture compatible with everything that can survive
there of old-world influence. . . . Patience is the greatest revolutionary virtue \ 1 7 Tristan Tzara, who was obviously brought in
to chop the hated Breton, declared in his speech that the intellectuals were threatened by two extreme positions, one of which
was the ' ivory tower' while the second was devoted ' in the
name of some sort of revolutionary leftism of a clearly anarchoidealist character, to criticising every detail of social action and
thereby to rejoining circuitously the enemies of the revolution."
Tzara goes on, matching blackmail with threats:
' The poet who places his work above his own life, places himself
in the camp of reaction. But the poet who, though he may be
ready to give his life for the revolution, nevertheless only
succeeds in putting spokes in its wheels under pretexts which
range from dSmode" aestheticism to poet-revolutionary philosophy,
such a poet, I say, must be driven out of the revolutionary
community that is being formed.'18
There were very few contributions to the debate which were not
either generically humanistic or else aligned either on the communist tactical position or in open reaction and opposition to it.19
Among these few we should mention (besides those of John
Strachey and Georges Friedmann) that of the thirty-year-old Paul
Nizan, which seemed ten years ahead of those of his elders.20
Polemicising with Julien Benda, Nizan affirms that humanism is
great only when it is unfaithful to purity. The civilisation which
the communists aim to create is both a continuation of existing
civilisation and a break with it. It accepts from the Western tradition everything which challenges the world and sets itself forward as a demand for totality. For his part Nizan rejects such
humanist mythology:
'Our attitude is neither a continuation nor a break: it is a set of
choices.'
And:
' the problem of the writer is situated within a humanism which
involves both the conquest of the earth on the part of all mankind
and the conquest of the highest degree of consciousness and
humanity by each of them. In the words of a letter written by.
a Petersburg worker to the editors of lskra: " We have written
to lskra asking it to show us riot only where to begin but how
to live and how to die." '..." In this world where each one
of us is a prey to solitude and war, the affirmation of communal
values is possible only among those, who are engaged together
in a common struggle
[I emphasise this phrase of Nizan's,
since it is here that he comes closest to the position of Brecht.]
. . . A day will come when men will be able to accept their
destiny
But today we are still speaking only the name of
humanism that is limited because it rejects the world and because
it contains an element of hate and in which the only value
prefiguring our future is the voluntary fraternity of men committed
to changing life.'
In this context Brecht's intervention21 can be considered in two
lights. On the one hand it is the expression of a moment of disagreement with the new line of the communist movement, but it
is also and more importantly the objective expression of a condition of the revolutionary writer (symbolised by exile in the house
in Denmark) different from that expressed in the opposition
between ' socialist humanists ' and Trotskyist ' avant-gardes '.
At the opposite extreme from the frontist bloc was, in fact, the
position of the surrealists as expressed in the speech of Breton
read out to the Congress by Eluard (and as we shall also find it,
a couple of years later in the declaration of the Fe'de'ration de Vart
r&volutionnaire indipendante signed by Trotsky, Breton and Diego
Rivera). The surrealists treated as pre-historic characters like
Gorky, Barbusse, Rolland and Mann and considered themselves
the most coherent anti-fascist writers. Their thesis was that of
an anti-capitalist, anti-fascist, anti-stalinist struggle to ' change
life * (in Rimbaud's phrase), and thus a revolt against the fatherland, religion, the family, police, etc. They therefore came out
against what they considered to be an abandonment of the Leninist slogan to ' turn imperialist war into civil war' and against everything in Stalin's Russia that smacked of restoration of the family,
hierarchies, the army, etc. On the significance of these theses I
have written at length elsewhere.22 What interests us here is the
non-existence in their position of any mediation (whether theoretical or practical, ideological or political) between an analysis which
is taken as a once and for all given (the discourse on ' property
relations ' or revolutionary prolegomenon) and a literary or artistic
practice understood as an immediate appropriation of the future
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about culture.
Let us have pity for culture, but let us first have pity for
humanity. Culture is saved only when humanity is saved.
Let us not be carried away to the extent of asserting that
people exist for culture, not culture for people. That would be
too like the practice of the markets, where ilie people are there
for the cattle, not the cattle for the people.
Comrades, let us reflect on the roots of evil.
A great doctrine, which is seizing hold of ever greater masses
of people on our planet, which is still a young planet, says that
the roots of all evil lie in our property relations. This doctrine,
like all great doctrines, has seized hold above all of those masses
who suffer most from existing property relations and from the
barbaric methods by which these relations are- defended. And it
is being realised in a country which covers one sixth of the surface
of the world and where the oppressed and the propertyless have
seized power. There no destruction of foodstuffs takes place and
no destruction of culture.
Many of us writers, who are experiencing the atrocities of
Fascism and are outraged by them, have not yet understood this
doctrine and have not yet discovered the root of the brutality
that outrages them. For them the danger exists of treating the
horrors of Fascism as unnecessary horrors. They hold to their
property relations because they believe that the horrors of Fascism
are not necessary in order to defend them. But the maintenance
of the dominant property relations does require cruelty. Here
the Fascists are not lying. They are telling the truth. Those of
our friends who are as outraged as we are by the horrors of
Fascism, but wish to maintain existing property relations or are
indifferent whether they are maintained or not, cannot carry on
the struggle against this spreading barbarism long enough or
strongly enough because they cannot specify and help to bring
about the social conditions that will make barbarism superfluous.
Those on the other hand whose search for the roots of evil has
led them in the direction of property relations, have plunged
deeper and deeper, through an inferno of deeper and deeper
lying atrocity, until they have reached the place where a small
section of humanity has anchored its pitiless dominion. It has
anchored it in that form of individual property which involves the
exploitation of their fellow men and which they defend with
tooth and claw. In the process they are quite willing to sacrifice
a culture which no longer helps to defend them and is no longer
any use to defend them, and to sacrifice utterly all those laws
of human co-existence for which a despairing humanity has
struggled so long and so bravely.
Comrades, let us talk of property relations.
This is what 1 wanted to say about the struggle against the
spread of barbarism, so that it would be said here too, or so that
I too should have said it.'
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tive but none the less capable, just by being there, of contesting
reality. Even in this hypothesis there is implicit the denial of the
recognisability or visibility of a social function - other than that
of a master of ceremonies or of a shaman.
How can it be denied that in our culture the literature of
denunciation and the literature of a break with the society around
us have become a genre like verse tragedy or historical ballads?
Such literature may use the methods of sarcasm or invective or
lament. It may make people cry, it may make them laugh. But
what can the adult listener then do with his tears or his laughter?
At most it becomes a light-weight, provisional weapon. In any case
what interests us most here is the fact that the literature of denunciation, militancy or protest can no longer have any serious
relationship with the organisations of the working-class parties,
associations or movements. What is more, in relation to the new
and growing (though still barely visible) forms of working-class
politics, literature cannot but remain extraneous. For in so far as
literature sets itself up as ' poetry' or ' form' or ' value ' its
essential stance remains a confirmation of the dominion of the
owners of consciousness, the owners of the Divine. The relation
between literary expression and revolutionary movement is a relationship of the type pointed to by Marx when he called the
proletariat the heir of classical German philosophy. The revolutionary class, as matrix of future society, is the- bearer of poetic
truth, but precisely because of this that truth cannot but be hidden
from it, at least in part, in the society of the present. Moreover,
poetry is not joking. It does really allow the future to be consumed
in effigy, the god in mortal form, the ear in the wheat stalk. In
extremis it can deny the future itself and turn it into the ' eternal'.
It is pointless then to try and distinguish between denunciation,
demands, appeals to the new, etc, either at the level of contents
or at that of forms. Might the issue be that of protecting the
relationship between political and social progress and the progress
of expressive forms? This is the illusion of the avant-gardes and
was also Trotsky's. Certainly stylistic innovation is in a relation
to social transformation, but it is a relation expressed in the ' long
term'. At whatever level one takes the poetic object, the degree
of translatability of the work from its own order of existence to
that of knowledge-for-praxis has become minimal. I say has become because this has not always been the case. But the more
the area of active social mystification expands, the harder becomes
the application of poetic truth as a tendency towards universality.
The old much derided claim, that capitalism is necessarily the
enemy of art, can be interpreted in this way: poetry belongs necessarily to an order of values analogous to the one to which the
capitalist order is a systematic, organised and inevitable obstacle.
Once the social mandate of which Mayakovsky wrote has come
to an end poetry must either retreat entirely into the sphere of
the private world or else perform some worthy tasks set for it
by ideology. At the very best, thanks to a duality inherent as a
vital tension within it, it can do both. This is the case with much
of Brecht's later and often quite extraordinary lyrics which, taken
in one aspect, perform an ideological task, but, in another, remain
rigorously private. The presence of historical allusions only makes
this tension more complete.
2. What would be the strongest objection that could be made to
what has been said so far? The objection undoubtedly of someone
who denounces as a spiritualistic and aristocratic residue the
separation reasserted here between literature as fact and poetry
as value and denies the existence of any qualitative difference
between forms of communication other than territorial or regional
differences. In response to such an objection there is not much to
be said. If anything one might counter that reasoning of this kind
casts doubt on the very notion of a qualitative leap and therefore
on that of revolution itself. Certainly the use of poetry as a value
has been a class use and it carries the ugly marks of its most recent
historical employers, bourgeois and capitalist culture. It is also
true that in its formal quality of a stripper of illusions, poetry has
continued to pose demands on reality and not merely covertly
confirm it. But everything that I have been saying about the history
of half a century of relations between poetry and revolution makes
it impossible for me to relapse into the illusory idea of a poetry
that is ' other'. It is inevitable that revolutionary action, once
liberated of its Aeneas complex (that is to say its concern to rescue
the idols of the burning city), should adopt the position of certain
Russian revolutionists of the last century (' better a pair of boots
than the works of Shakespeare') or the negativity of Tolstoy,
repetitions of the more coherent stance of the militant bourgeoisie
of the eighteenth century which can still be heard in the memorable ' Digression' which begins the second volume of Manzoni's
Fermo e Lucia?*
3. In fact the consumption of poetry as value continues and can
only be achieved within existing cultural modes. To think that one
can escape the ambiguities of this usage by simply denying poetry
as value is equivalent, as I said above, to denying the very possibility of revolution. For the current reduction, which is empiricist,
of all poetry as value to the level of literature as fact does not
belong to the violences of history of the type exemplified above
but is a pure and simple ' fall in value'. It does not bracket one
truth in order to emphasise another, but it keeps alive, on corporatist criteria, one sector of expression precisely through the
devaluation of this form of expression to the status of a sector.
The fact that all over the communist movement proletarian poetry
of an immediately persuasive and emotive type continues to be
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reification - a ghostly and reflected confirmation, thus, of formalist theories. But the humanist tradition, exemplified for Lukacs by
Goethe and Hegel, introduces in Marxism, as the end of communism, the ending of alienation (or rather its suspension), the
return of man to himself, in other words the capacity, individual
and collective, to do more oneself, to be self-determining, to form
past, present and future. This ' superhuman' capacity, however,
not only excludes any ' squalid pride' but is a suspension of the
man we are only to the extent that it is a deeper level of our fundamental contradiction. Now the praxis-consciousness which is the
desired end of Marxist' history' is nothing other than the ' dream
of a thing' which men have always had with them: it is, in other
words, the faculty of life-forming activity, the ordering of life in
function of the goal, which is precisely the. specific quality of works
of art. The ' formalisation' of life is the victory over the merely
practical living to which we are subjected by alienated labour. And,
to emphasise the point: what is aestheticism (or for that matter
any individual ethical-religious ' edification ') if not the illusion of
being able to reach a premature privileged formalisation of one's
own life?
I say aestheticism because the work of art or poetry is not (and
this is entirely to its credit) anything more than the metaphorical
prophecy or prophetic metaphor of that formalisation. The formalist notion of poetry - ie that it is the organisation of an am. biguous lie in order to tell an ambiguous truth - finds its historical
legitimation in the harshening petrification of the human condition.
Unfortunately the sectarians of the doctrine use it in a conservative
way, locating poetry as a ' section ' of a universe entirely composed
of ' forms'. What one should in fact do is take the formalist
methodology literally so as to restore to poetry its circumscribed
and therefore tragic dignity. In this conception - at least for those
who presuppose a finality of history - poetry is the point of intersection of clock time and historical time (or, as the religious would
say, the profane and sacred orders). Poetry, like the fragments of
meteoritic iron which are still iron and which rest on the earth
but ' signify" a different origin, is made manifest as fractions of
' orientated time'.
7. In what sense is the work of poetry a prophetic metaphor of
the formalisation of life? The elements which make up the work
of art stand in definite relations to each other and establish between themselves a system of tensions, ranging from the simplest
to the most complex. Although one might say the same thing about
any living reality, it is not a question of affirming a homology with
other systems (as for example in the vitalistic concept of art a la
Richards, where art is the ' presence of a model \ legitimate
though this might be). What has to be affirmed is rather that the
definitive manifestation of the tensions internal to the work of
art is its formality .and that this formality can indeed be felt in
the work as such but it is not imitable or reproducible in the real
life of the single individual but only in the context of a human
society and its modes of association. Consequently, although there
is an insuperable gap between the formality of poetry and the
formality of the real life, and although the experience of the latter
is sufficiently served by the normal, impoverished, imperfect formative activity of our life as it is, art and poetry continue to reiterate
their project of a definitive ' imitation" of themselves which
bursts the bounds of our present formative capacities. The silent
pointing to an absence is the declaration of a demand that these
capacities be extended, not quantitatively but in a qualitative leap.
8. In confirmation of the correctness of the analogy proposed
here: Both in poetry as value and in life as form are present
simultaneously both the richness of meanings and possibilities and
their radical insufficiency. The working class is coerced into the
practical expenditure of its own life, into the performance principle, into immediately useful labour. In so far as it is the revolutionary class, or ' true' negation, it acts objectively to abolish the
informality of its own existence and of existence in general, and
thus to ' formalise * life. On the one hand this means discovering
and practising the inexhaustible richness of life, the potential of
restoring history: but on the other hand it also means, in order to
dominate the existent, the need to discover it as such, as illegitimacy, precariousness, insignificance, * useless passion'. In the
same way the formal nature of poetry puts forward both the
potentially infinite richness of its modes and on the other hand
its own futility and instability (even linguistic): the essential being
of poetry is always as an ode to dust.
9. So the class which is necessity (and the movement which represents it) cannot institute the same kind of normal relations with
poetic formalisation as can its bourgeois antagonist, which is a
class which claims to be and in fact is in possession of itself and
is therefore form. Poetry, can be enjoyed principally only by the
dominant class, not just for the vulgar empirical reasons which
spring to mind but because the opposite could be the case only
in another (or a future) world. The light of poetry is the metaphorical light of integral formality and as such exceeds infinitely
the real but partial formalisation represented by the dominant
class. Hence (and this belief is rooted in the epochs and ideologies
which identify progress with the extension to the dominated of the
formative capacity of the dominant class) poetry seems to have as
its ideal destination the dominated and oppressed. But it only
seems so. For in practice they can enjoy it only in so far as they
share, to a greater or lesser degree, in the culture of the dominators
and can share for a moment their illusion of universality - and
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the greatest thing which poetry can teach it today is the way to
grasp the extent of the nothingness that accompanies positive
action.
11. The possessing class can experience all poetry as poetry of
the present. The stripping of illusion is in fact the clearest confirmation of its existence. It is an operation, formerly performed
by magic and religion and now by ' a r t ' which, by exposing the
(partial) void confirms de facto the (partial) fullness of power. The
proprietor in us which fosters the illusion that we own ourselves
needs to believe that poetry is the formation of models according
to the proprietor's own modelling powers. A power, which, within
class limits, is real enough. But that feature of poetry which really
transcends class limits is converted into ' religion ' or confined into
a specialism. Conversely the dominated class - or that part of us
which knows only raw existence and penury - will continue, as it
does at present, to consume poetry. It cannot help doing this,
because its face is turned towards ' culture ' as a potential promise
of form. Dominant culture is continually offered to it as its possible essence. But it will be forced necessarily to experience poetry
as not contemporary, as a formalisation of the existence of others.
The alternative is to minimise and indeed to pass over entirely the
formal nature of poetry precisely because of the_ way it puts itself
forward as a deceit, a vain idol. Is this perhaps not the explanation
for the spread of the didactic-emotive use of poetry, generally, on
the ' left'? And of the necessary devaluation, on the ' left', of
poetry as value to literature as fact? And yet this devaluation is
the correct response of revolutionary negation to poetry, and it
is only unfortunate that the leadership of the workers' movement,
precisely because of its leadership role, takes over from ' culture '
the notion of poetry as value and applies it as a label to the
didactic-emotive literature which for obvious and valid reasons
they are committed to supporting. Thus past Soviet and present
Chinese propaganda are right to talk of the novelty of this sort
of literary production compared with that of pre-revolutionary
times, but are wrong when they use the same category to define
them. Meanwhile, paradoxically, an inverse process is also taking
place. The formal use of poetry and its role as a metaphorical extension of existence is taken up, albeit in a degraded form, in what
is transmitted by the Elites to the culture industry. The culture
industry preaches the formal use of poetry, its quasi-religious
function, while the ideologists of the Elites themselves want poetry
to be just literature and formalisation to be a property of all
human activity and preach a secularist conception of art (and life)
whose practical role is that of a magical and superstitious drug,
a surrogate satisfaction for the thirst for irreality and emptiness
without which the possessor class cannot enjoy the taste of power
and dominion.
65
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that the poetic function is fulfilled within it. I say ' as if it existed '
because it is implicit that today the problem for the intellectual
or * man of culture' (for whom as such the party should have no
place) is not that of recreating or reforming the Party, still less
that of making it a prefiguration of communist society, but is one
of recognising the party when and where it takes shape, wherever
and if ever this happens, which may be in any part of the world:
but this must be done without making mistakes in interpreting the
stars or in calculating the time of one's starting point.
15. Is it possible that the 'proletariat', the 'working class', the
' revolutionary class ' do not exist and have never existed and are
only images of something else to which we cannot or will not
give a name?
It is possible. And although such an admission would not necessarily deprive of value the homology we have proposed between
poetic formalisation and the tendency towards formalisation of
human reality through history, which could always materialise in
other ways, it would however deprive us of value, leaving us naked
and silent and not merely dead but unborn. For Christianity the
formalisation of life takes place in association with Grace and
outside of time. Whereas the historicism of today denounces as
illusory the idea of an end of history and even the idea of a
qualitative leap in history and therefore of the end of the ' prehistory ' which is our own.
There is a risk here, and it must be run; an ancient wager, and
it must be accepted. If' this history ', the history which surrounds
us, has no aim or end, then non-existence is already closing in to
receive and to annihilate the form we give to a poem, a form
scarcely less imperfect than the one we are attempting, with a few
comrades, to give to the enlightened area of our life. Then honour
will have been nothing, without truth. But the opposite may hold:
that honour forces towards itself,1 and contains, truth.
Notes
Those in square brackets are translator's footnotes. Those not in brackets
are by the author. Some original footnotes have been omitted and others
have been abbreviated. References to Italian translations of German
works have been automatically replaced by references to the English
edition, where such exists.
1. [// Politecnico was a magazine started by the novelist Elio Vittorini
after the war which tried to introduce a new open thematic into
communist culture. It folded when the PCI withdrew support and
even tolerance for the attempt.]
2. [' Historical avant-gardes' is a rather useful term, current in Italy,
for what tends in English to be generically referred to as modernism,
ie the avant-garde movements concentrated in the years 189Q-1920
and on either side of the period, which are now part of history but
whose self-definition is in terms of a (now past) present and future.]
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16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
The school will take some important genres of broadcast T.V. for
study and explore procedures for understanding broadcast
programmes using CCTV systems for programme making and
exercises. There will be considerable practical work on the school
and students will use a range of portable and studio T.V.
equipment.
Tuition fees: 30
Residential accommodation will be available on application.
For further details please contact: Netta Swallow, Short Course
Unit, Polytechnic of Central London, 35 Marylebone Road,
London, N.W.1.
write for a
i
'A
'''rite your name & address here, cut <& poat this coupon or write a separate lestar
name
ddress
Sown
county
films
and filming
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tively inconspicuous: and the fact that the series was shot almost 79
entirely with available light, so that people did not find themselves
plunged into an extraordinary environment of glaring and shifting
lamps, was paramount in permitting them to behave naturally.
But again, it is disarmingly easy to equate ' naturally' with
* normally' - to allow ourselves to believe that because .people
seem relaxed in the presence of the camera they are behaving
exactly as they would if it were not there. These distinctions,
though crucial, are rarely made. It needs only one extra person to
enter a room - let alone a whole film crew - for the pattern of
behaviour to be completely altered. The extent of this alteration
will vary from one situation to another; but in all situations it can
only be estimated by guesswork. Of course, it can be argued that
what happens in the presence of a camera is as much a reality
as what happens in its absence, and that one's only responsibility
to truth is to ensure that the viewer knows the people know they
are being filmed. (In case anyone is inclined to claim that this can
be taken as obvious, I should point out that some viewers have
already asked whether the Space Between Words was not shot with
concealed cameras, despite the evidence that the cameraman is
clearly moving around among the desks of a classroom and filming
from eye-level.) It was in recognition of this argument that the
American wing of the cinema-verit& movement, represented by the
Drew-Leacock team, went to great lengths to ensure the accidental
presence of technicians and mike-booms in picture: but the fact
that this technique rapidly degenerated into cliche is proof enough
that it was alien to the nature of documentary. Even those occasional glances at the camera a more discreet way of making the
same point are scarcely an integral element of film style. They
may never happen to occur, or may all happen to be cut out in
an editing process dictated by other requirements: and this will
neither enhance nor diminish the truthfulness of what we are
seeing.
If this sort of shooting can be called objective it is only in the
trivial sense that it is less predetermined than ever by the intentions of an individual - the director. But the cameraman cannot
be looking everywhere at once; and his choice of angle will reflect
his moment-to-moment judgment of what is important. A sound
recordist, faced with an unruly classroom, must choose between
using a wide-angle mike to pick up the ambient noise or a narrowangle mike to pick up what people are saying. Alternatively, he
can choose to mix between several mikes, thus either sacrificing
his mobility or increasing the number of technicians required to
carry booms. At one noisy moment in the School film the teacher
leaned forward to say to a boy, ' I can't hear you. I can't hear
you.' The cameraman zoomed in, but the recordist was not able to
adjust his position quickly enough. The result was that, although
the teacher was in close-up, her words were almost drowned out;
8o
and the effect, in the finished film, was to throw emphasis upon
her difficulties. Our professional honesty would have deterred us
from simulating such an effect in the dubbing theatre. Yet was it
truth or falsehood?
Most people, if pressed for their definition of the ' objective '
view of an event, might define it as that view which would be
obtained by an invisible observer with no preconceptions. But what
qualities are we to attribute to our hypothetical observer? Can he
watch from all directions? Can he perceive the overall pattern of
the action together with the minute, telltale gestures, simultaneously and with equal attention? If he has no preconceptions,
can he have any criteria of relevance or even of interest? And if
he were to transfer all his observations to film, how long would
it take us to look at it? Eternity would not exhaust it. The objective observer is a chimera.
Criteria of relevance are, of course, central to the editing
process. I was recently obliged to look through some material
which had been omitted from the very first assemblies of the
Space Between Words films. It was an acutely boring experience:
not because nothing was happening on the screen (there is never
nothing happening); but because the camera was failing at these
moments to reveal anything interesting about it. Despite his infatuation with the * real time' experience and hence with the
eventual extinction of his office - the editor finds himself, willynilly, making cuts; firstly to overcome camera run-outs and
wobbles; then to eliminate longueurs and repetitions; next to clarify
points of confusion created by the earlier cuts; and finally, with
resignation, to allow the film to take on that form to which it
seems to aspire. And if at times he begins to feel that editing is
less a creative act than a mutilation visited upon some defenceless
simulacrum of life, he is nevertheless forced by the logic of his
craft to acknowledge the distinction between film and reality:
that film is about something, whereas reality is not. (Andy Warhol's 24-hour look at the Empire State Building has the purely
philosophic value of defining a limit. Like Duchamp's urinal, it
needs not to be seen but merely to have been done.)
The way in which a ' slice of life' takes on the quality of being
' about' something can be illustrated by another example from
School. The last two days of shooting afforded us two conversation sequences (neither, incidentally, used in the transmitted programme): in the one, the teacher on whom we had mainly
concentrated said that a course of seminars conducted by the
American educationist had greatly enlarged her understanding and
increased her confidence; in the other, she said that the course
seemed to have undermined her previous technique without puttaing anything better in its place. There was nothing particularly
surprising about this. People's moods change, and they appear to
contradict themselves. But for us the problem was how to end
the film: and behind our jokes about using the happy ending for
the American version lay an awareness that the note on which we
chose to end would reverberate back through the programme and
would express a view of the significance of the teacher's experience,
whilst to juxtapose both possible endings would merely express
confusion.
A further point emerges from this example: that, for all the
differences of approach and method, the way cinematic elements
function in these films is not dissimilar from the way they function
in other films. In Family there is a sequence in which, after a
gradual increase in emotional stress between the mother and the
son, the father is shown withdrawn in concentration upon mending a child's toy. This shot is perfectly genuine, in the sense that
it happened at the point which it occupies in the film. Yet it owes
its remarkably moving effect not to its genuineness but to its poetic
appropriateness. A shot of a father mending a toy could be taken
in any family, at practically any time, with or without marital
tension. And a Pudovkin could have perceived the possibilities of
the shot and used it in just this way.
People have an eye for reality. In the films on which I worked
there are one or two cutaways - as opposed to synchronous listening shots - which strike a false note for me, and which seem to
do so for others. Yet the fact remains that a ' genuine ' shot works
not because it is genuine but because it appears genuine. The
Space Between Words films can be analysed with much the same
critical vocabulary as can other films. The differences quarantine
themselves in the area where moral uncertainty resides - that of
the film-makers' subjectivity. The problems are in one respect
worse than those which the BBC's booklet evades, for the Mitchell
style left no-one in doubt that what he was seeing was poetry.
It is we, not the audience, who must take the responsibility if
dubious conclusions about the real world are based upon the false
premises of our errors.
Cinema-v&riti is not an elixir of truth. A film based upon no
criteria of significance would be an amorphous mess; and criteria
presuppose attitudes and judgments. How are these judgments
made? In practice, on the Space Between Words series, they were
made over the course of lengthy discussions between the technicians involved: the camera and sound crew, who could assess
the relationship of what they had shot to the event as a whole;
the director and researcher, who were frequently not present during the shooting (since they wished to keep intrusion and distraction to a minimum, and were in some cases fully employed in
trying to discover what would happen next), but whose many conversations with those concerned gave them an overall understanding of the situation; and the editor, who could judge the potential
of the rushes unprejudiced by prior knowledge of what they were
supposed to reveal. In addition, the films were frequently checked
81
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themselves with relative ease to slot-lengths fixed for the convenience of programme planners: their constituent elements can,
if sometimes with resentment, be dismantled and reassembled in
a different form. But a film in the style of Space Between Words
requires a finite time to reveal the significance of its subject; and
what we lose by shortening it is not just the significance of what
is cut out, but the enhanced comprehension which this shed on
what is left in: so that the film is not merely shortened but impoverished. Each film has its optimum length, defined by the point
at which the increasing enrichment of cross-references is overtaken by the repetitiousness of diminishing returns.
However, if we set aside these practical considerations, we may
allow ourselves the fantasy of a television service in which every
aspect of our social lives would be reflected in a public mirror less
distorting than any to which we have been accustomed, and in
which the sheer volume of such programmes would do a good
deal to cancel out the lingering effects of prejudice in any one
film-maker. Indeed, it is not impossible that the portable video
unit might eliminate entirely the ethical problems which currently
beset the BBC. New problems would of course arise. The pessimistic side of this fantasy is the vision of a world in which people
would be held to account for their unguarded utterances and the
element of performance would therefore invade all our activities
and relationships, with spontaneity retreating into the hermetic
isolation of the inner life. But which would then be the artifice
and which the reality? And is this or is it not an inevitable consequence of a more open society - whatever its technological detail
- in which matters of public significance would be released from
the confinement of private grudge? To put it at its simplest, would
not many people rather act out their predicament before a one"
camera than state this case at a public meeting?
This brings me to my final point, which I deliberately sidestepped at an earlier stage. Among the people who were not consulted in the shaping of the films were the participants. This conforms with time-hallowed practice, which is usually defended on
the grounds that the judgment of those who appear in a film would
be vitiated by pride, vanity, modesty or embarrassment. Perhaps
it would; and perhaps to argue our way beyond such impediments
would take longer than current production shedules allow; and
perhaps the attempt, through open discussion with the crew, to
reach agreements between conflicting parties on what constituted
a truthful account of a given event would bear more resemblance
to a psychiatric encounter session than to a civilised chat between
colleagues, and the film would end in ribbons. But perhaps that is
a better use for some films than transmission, and perhaps our
budgets should allow for it. There is something to be said for an
art which is grounded, as therapy, in a real situation; and since
television is a collaborative art, it may as well be collaborative
85
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great instrument of projection, the BBC. ' The projection of England ' is the precise phrase Reith's biographer attributes to him in
his account of the BBC's pressure (unsuccessful) on the government
to finance broadcasting to foreign countries in the period leading
up to the war4. Reith, Balcon and (as a realiser of Tallents's vision)
Grierson make up a trio of powerful figures in the creation, and the
colouring, of distinctively British media. Their decades of seminal
influence come successively: Reith's in the '20s, Grierson's in the
'30s, Balcon's in the '40s. The BBC, documentary, and the patriotic
feature film all find a central function together in wartime, and
will face more or less urgent problems of adaptation to the postwar world.
A parenthesis: the relations, direct and indirect, between these
three men and their institutions seem to me worth exploring in
more detail than is possible here. Reith and Grierson, as Scots of
formidable personality, have a certain affinity, but so do Reith and
Balcon with their strong puritanical influence and their commitment to ' British' values and to the Empire: Reith took an active
interest in Empire broadcasting and Balcon sent Ealing production
units to Australia and Africa. Both men had a crucial encounter
with Churchill, narrowly preserving their own sphere of activity
against Government censorship: Reith at the time of the General
Strike, Balcon early in the war.9 They had a brief but cordial
association in the early '50s when Reith chaired the National Film
Finance Corporation. And at this same period Balcon, as NFFC
nominee, was chairman of Group 3, whose joint head of production was Grierson. Finally, to clinch this sense of important cultural
continuities, when the Studios at Ealing were sold it was not
unaptly the BBC who bought them.
During Balcon's 20 years in control of Ealing production, almost
100 feature films were made. These created a collective impression
which survives: apart from Hammer and perhaps Gainsborough,
Ealing is the only British film studio or company whose name
would be widely recognised, abroad as well as at home. The epithet
' Ealing ' is used to signify certain qualities. Robin Wood described
Maurice Hatton's Praise Marx and Pass the Ammunition as ' a
kind of Ealing La Chinoise *.' Seth Holt intended Nowhere to Go
(1958, one of the very last Ealing productions) to be ' the last
Ealing film ever made *.7 How does one start to pin down what
is implied in such allusions? In his apparently quite scholarly
volumes The Great Movie Stars, the films which David Shipman
attributes in the text to Ealing include these: The Card, Morning
Departure, To Paris with Love, The Long Memory, Father Brown,
White Corridors.' None of them is in fact an Ealing film, though
most were worked on by people who were at Ealing at some other
period; but neither Neame nor Baker (directors of the first two
titles) made any film at Ealing. This blurring of distinction between
Ealing, quasi-Ealing and non-Ealing films is not uncommon, in the
[
|
;;;
if
90
studying the way the studio was to operate, and then the output
itself.
Only two men directed films at Ealing both before and after
Balcon took over: Anthony Kimmins and Thorold Dickinson. The
directors used by Balcon fall into two distinct groups: short-term,
and long-term. Then there is a third group of men_who come in
briefly in the later years of Ealing.
Table One Eating Directors: short-term
Features for Balcon
at Ealing
Span oft
Director
Walter Forde
Robert Stevenson
Anthony Kimmins
Penrose Tennyson
Marcel Varnel
Sergei Nolbandov
John Paddy Carstairs
Thorold Dickinson*
Number
6
3
2
3
2
2
1
1
years
Previous work of
relevance
Harry Watt
Charles Crichton
Robert Hamer
Henry Cornelius
Alexander Mackendrick
Basil Dearden
Charles Frend
Alberto Cavalcanti
Director
1930s
1941
1941
1942
1941
1941
1944
1946
1942-56
1942-57
1942-46
1942-58
1944-57
1945-51
1949
1949-55
Jobs at Ealing
Editor/Producer
Editor/Writer/Producer
Writer/Producer
Sketch artist/Writer
Producer;
Director of shorts
Producer/Writer
before directing
GPO Unit
Editor
Editor (and GPO Unit)
Editor + documentaries
Writer + work on
wartime shorts for COI.
* This figure does not include the three films of which Hamer
directed sections without being credited; nor does it include The
Scapegoat (1958), produced by Balcon for MGM just after the
MGM/Ealing association formally ended: it was ' serviced' by
Ealing.
5*
13
12
21
92
The continuity is remarkable. These first two lists cover everyone who directed a feature at Ealing in the first decade under
Balcon. Between 1942 and 1951, no-one came in as a director
from outside Ealing. All the long-term directors, Watt excepted,
graduated from other studio jobs, and in the course of their Ealing
careers only Crichton and Hamer made any film outside Ealing
(one each). The apparent odd man out on this list, Cornelius,
is a revealing case. After graduating in the accepted way from
other work and directing a successful comedy (Passport to Pimlico) he left to work independently. A few years later he brought
Balcon the outline of Genevieve with a request to make it at Ealing.
Balcon writes that he ' knew at once that it could not miss ' (and
it was indeed destined to become an enormous financial success)
- but:
' Our own schedule of films was arranged and if I took Corny
back it would mean displacing another director, an idea which
would not have proved popular for good and valid reasons.
Although Corny was immensely popular with his ex-colleagues
at Ealing he had left of his own volition and, by the way, it was
very rare for anybody to leave Ealing.'10
That beautifully deadpan ' by the way' is eloquent of the values
of Balcon, and Ealing. Genevieve was made at Pinewood, for Rank.
Table Three -Ealing Directors: second decade
Director
Films
Jobs at Ealing
Number Date(s) Joined Ealing before directing
Sidney Cole
1949
Ralph Smart
Thorold Dickinson
1
1
1950
1952
Anthony Pelissier
Leslie Norman
1952
1954-58
1942*
1946T
Editor/Producer/
Writer
Producer/Writer
see Table
One
1946
Editor/Producer/
Writer
i
1944
Michael Truman
Editor/Producer
1955
1
Pat Jackson
1956
(ex GPO/Crown
Film Unit)
1
1942
Michael Relph
Art director/
1957
Producer
1
1958
Seth Holt
Editor/Producer
X944
* Cole had edited some films at Ealing under Dean, and was
associated, then and later, with Thorold Dickinson. After his
single assignment as director (a section of the omnibus film
Train of Events), he continued as an Ealing producer until 1951.
f Smart worked on Ealing's three Australian films, directing the
third of them (Bitter Springs).
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Ealing under Balcon until 1941, by which time two more ' music- 95
hall personalities' had been brought in, Will Hay and Tommy
Trinder. It would be hard to argue that the use of, particularly,
Trinder in a long list of films was in any sense more interesting or
* cinematic' than that of Fields and Formby. Indeed, the regional
and location elements in that pair's films, and the close community
feeling often evoked, can be related to some of the characteristics
of ' mature ' Ealing and Ealing Comedy.
Theatre: Certainly, theatrical modes and material had been
dominant, as Dean acknowledges in retrospect. Balcon's programme
would be differently worked out. From an interview in 1961:
* Ealing films were always made from original scripts, never from
plays.
" We had a rule about it ", explained Sir Michael. " We felt that
a film was the better for being original - we refused all
adaptations from plays." ' "
It is another distinction whose edge needs blunting. . . . Balcon
did make some- films from plays at Ealing, even though they comprised less than 10% of the output. In any case Ealing continued
to make use of theatre-oriented actors, and the fact that most of
the directors did not come from the theatre was no guarantee that
this bias would be automatically cancelled. And for the location
emphasis at Ealing which partly offsets this, there is at least some .
precedent in Dean's output, both his own earliest films and those
of others whom he promoted (Carol Reed; some Fields and Formby
material).
2. Balcon
The above is meant not as a denial of Balcon's influence, but as a
reminder that he did not create Ealing from nothing. He can be
compared with the incoming manager of a football club who finds
staff, players, board, plant, already there and a certain tradition,
a record, that cannot be cancelled overnight and may be useful.
Like a reforming manager Balcon keeps certain people, makes
short-term signings, and plans for the long-term (see the director
tables); and he introduces methods of his own.
Balcon had been producing films since 1922. A really full inquiry into the antecedents of Ealing would involve going over his
career comprehensively, but in default of this Balcon's own summary of his mid-'3os work is a useful reference:
' In my five years in charge of the Gaumont-Gainsborough
production it could be said, for simplicity, that our product fell,
in the main, into half a dozen groups:
1. Hitchcock films 2. The Jessie Matthews musical films
3. The Anglo-German films
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98
99
ioo
the ' Britain ' which is being rescued; and from its ending.
A prime value is understatement. An American signs on with
the ship for the return journey and, before sailing, tells his bar
companions what he thinks of England (and of English beer), and
what he will do to the bosun when he meets him. The man next
to him, who happens to be the bosun, responds with good humour,
saving up his revelation, and his quiet moment of-triumph, for
later. It is the device, exactly, of Leslie Howard's (non-Ealing)
Pimpernel Smith (1941) which exploits our enjoyment, throughout
the film, of our secret knowledge that Smith/Leslie Howard/
Britain, meek and ineffectual as he seems, is,.under his disguise,
the resourceful Pimpernel, undermining the German machine. The
bosun's style is shared by the rest of the crew. They get on with
their jobs without dramatising them. ' Any more for the Skylark? '
asks the Captain as the lifeboats are lowered. The middle-aged
stoker does his share of the work, concealing the illness that will
kill him: ' It's all right, bosun, I'd rather finish my spell'. The
crew is democracy in action. They take the two major decisions
by vote, first to risk boarding the smoking tanker and then to sail
it to England rather than (with less danger) back to America.
Again, understatement is the keynote of the discussion: for instance from the bosun:
" I look at it this way. We set out to take this petrol to England,
and we've got it half-way already. Doesn't seem much sense in
turning round and taking it back again '.
The senior officer from this particular lifeboat accepts his formal
authority over the ship, but modestly, without imposing it.
The presentation of the men's life is akin to that in Jennings's
films of wartime. Darts, cups of tea, communal singing, self-sacrifice, grief for the dead, affectionate memories of home:
' Wednesday. Early closing. Wednesdays when I'm home the
missus shuts up shop got a little newsagent's and tobacconist's
and we go off to the pictures. When we come out we go and
have a wet Ooh, what wouldn't I give to be having a pint in
the old Elephant now! '
Of course this will all soon be ripe for parody (and it will be a
major problem for Ealing, as for Jennings, to move forward from
this point after the war ends), but in this film, in 1943, the tone
is movingly sustained. The style of the film is at one with the style
it is celebrating, in contrast to the crudely presented stereotypes
of so many war films that descend from it.
The ending is at first sight curious. The men dock the ship
by their own efforts, and then find themselves awarded salvage
money, 14,000 of it. The final scene is in court, with a judge
confirming the award. It is a surprise to find this stress on personal rewards for a wartime action: was it perhaps put into the
film with some embarrassment, simply because it happened in
reality? But it works at a profounder level.
It is clear that the thought of reward has occurred to none of
the crew. By the time they enter harbour, we know that the reward
legally depends on their not accepting help from tugboats in
bringing them in; but neither they, nor the tugs who are offering
it, know this. When they refuse help it is not for mercenary reasons
but as a final assertion of independence, voiced by the senior
officer:
' We've come more than a thousand miles on our own. I reckon
we can manage the rest.'
The reward is for not seeking reward (following, again, a ' mythic'
logic), and for the spirit of independent initiative which inspired
the journey home. It endorses the spirit of ' going it alone', and,
in this, it underlines the ambivalence of the film's attitude to
America. The American newcomer's gradual absorption into the
crew, accepting and being accepted, enacts the theme of Anglo/US
cooperation: but he is just one individual American who ends by,
in effect, being converted into a Briton (he is presented by the
court with the ship's Ensign). The emotional pull of going it alone
easily wins. San Demetrio was made after America entered the
war, but the actual incident preceded it: the effect is already
of looking back to a more romantic small-scale banding-together,
and is like that created by the similar time-lag effect in Fires were
Started, which looks back from the days of a national fire-fighting
organisation to a time of smaller local units. It too was made
in 1943.
As, too, in Fires were Started, we sense an analogy between the
enterprise which the film shows and the enterprise of making the
film.25 As the judge sums up and congratulates the men, the camera
pans over their faces - which are the faces of Ealing actors. The
actors like the men they portray, the film crew like the ship's
crew, are rewarded with cash for doing a work of patriotism; and
are justified. The last speech belongs to the judge:
' I would not like to leave this case without thanking everybody
concerned for having given me the best working day of my life*
in listening to the very modest recital of some gallant gentlemen
concerning a memorable achievement.'
At * the shot changes from a close-up of the judge to a medium-
shot of the leading crew members, on which the film ends. ' The
very modest recital . . .'; the final words sum up what the film
and these actors have given us, and perfectly express the tone
101
102
pany's plant from a factory in the path of the German advance, 103
is nearly held back by bureaucratic complacency and when he does
go his own amateurishness gets in the way. These are more than
devices to create dramatic conflict. The amateurism goes deep and
is hard to separate from the factors in British life that are presented as attractive. Indeed two of the films (one can except Next
of Kin) leave an ambivalent feeling, as if reluctant to think their
lessons through. If the life-style is so seductive, and has not after
all had to be radically transformed in order to muddle through,
why do anything other than sink back into the old ways with
relief as soon as the war ends?
Balcon's aspirations' were more positive. In a special British
Production number of Kinematograph Weekly early in 1945 he
looked ahead to the postwar challenge.28 His article, entitled * Let
British Films be Ambassadors to the World', is a powerful piece
of rhetoric which takes up the familiar idea of national projection.
' Never, in any period of its history, has the prestige of this
country, in the eyes of the rest of the world, mattered so much
as it does now
Clearly the need is great for a projection of the true Briton to
the rest of the world. The man in the street in New York, Moscow,
Paris, Brussels, Athens and Rome must know something more
of our country than the immediate foreign policy of its present
Government.
For it is characteristic of Britain that while its Governments and
policies can be altered at the will of the people, the people
and the background which has shaped them remain...
The world, in short, must be presented with a complete picture
of Britain and not with enlarged fragments from the canvas:
Britain as a leader in Social Reform in the defeat of social
injustices and a champion of civil liberties; Britain as a patron
and parent of great writing, painting and music; Britain as a
questing explorer, adventurer and trader; Britain as the home of
great industry and craftsmanship; Britain as a mighty military
power standing alone and undaunted against terrifying aggression.
We do not set ourselves up as a master race if we remind the
world that Britain has this background; we merely seek a place
of recognition among nations who have too long been presented
only with the debit side of our account...'
A major way of achieving such recognition is by making films.
A later paragraph adapts the vision into a more sober blueprint
for a film programme:
' Every shade of opinion should be represented, and the scope
of the film should go far beyond the purview of the Government
documentary. Fiction films which portray contemporary life in
104
standing alone: perhaps surprisingly, only three war dramas are 105
made after 1944, in The Captive Heart (1946) and later The Cruel
Sea (1953) and Dunkirk (1958). Contemporary life in Britain in
different sections of our society: most directly in It Always Rains
on Sunday (1947). Outdoor background of the British scene: most
directly in The Loves of Joanna Godden (1947). Films reflecting
the post-war problems of individuals: perhaps most directly The
Captive Heart and Frieda (1947). In the nature of things one
would not expect the impetus of 1945 to be sustained in an unchanging form, nor, in any case, does Balcon's article have the
status of a document of policy. There does seem to be a quite
sudden turning-point in 1948 when the last three of these aspirations become softened and conventionalised, absorbed into the
two main channels of Ealing film-making which emerge around
this date: Ealing Comedy, and the small-scale contemporary
drama, most of the latter series being directed by Basil Dearden.
The comedies [Kind Hearts and Coronets apart) are all set in post1940 Britain, and most are shot fairly extensively on location, as
are some of the dramas.
Most reactions to Ealing are based on the post-1948 films and
view them, and these developments, as a whole - either taking
pleasure in the very modesty of the output, its ' British * sense
of humour and its understatement, or writing it off in similar
terms as coy and provincial.
But there are distinctions to be made within the Ealing films
which undermine any such blanket response.
Two directors often picked out, and rightly, are Robert Hamer
and Alexander Mackendrick; but the distinctions are more than a
matter simply of grades of ' talent'. To begin to explore them,
and the role of Ealing as an institution, one needs to return to
the mid-*4os.
In the same week of January 1945 that saw Balcon's article in
Kinematograph Weekly, shooting began at Ealing on Dead of
'Night. Using four directors in a short-story omnibus film, it offers
useful material for comparison; but beyond this, it is an interesting expression of Ealing at- a transitional point, when the climax
of the war effort had passed and the Ealing cycle of war films was
over.
Craig, an architect, drives to a house to meet a client. The
man takes him along a corridor: as they walk, the camera tracks
left with them until it brings into frame a door and, in the room
behind it, a group of people to whom Craig is introduced. They
are a varied selection of individuals who happen to have gathered
there. Craig feels he has dreamed this meeting before in all its
details, and tells them so. They take up this idea and recount in
turn their own experiences of the uncanny: the stories constitute
the episodes of the film. In between there is discussion, led by
the dominating figure of a psychiatrist.
106
108
films and, significantly, the senior officer of the group who brought
home the San Demctrio. In a central scene in that film he discusses
with the Engineer the bravery of the stoker who has collapsed
after struggling through his spell of duty:
109
no
112
Hue and Cry (1947), Passport to Pimlico (1949), The Magnet 113
(i95o),T/te Lavender Hill Mob (1951), The Titfield Thunderbolt
(1953) and Barnacle Bill (1957).
Clarke worked, with others, on The Blue Lamp, and the climax
of Hue and Cry has much in common with it. The villains (of whom
the leader, ironically, is Jack Warner) are cornered by a group of
boys, who however need more help. A friend contrives to get access
to a newsreader's microphone, and appeals over the air for boys
to go to the right places and join in. So the climax of the film is
of an anonymous benevolent crowd rushing in spontaneously
on the side of the good.
Hue and Cry was not a genre film at the time. ' Ealing Comedy '
only began to be labelled as such in 1949 when Passport to Pimlico, Whisky Galore and Kind Hearts and Coronets were released
in quick succession. The group scripted by Clarke are quite distinct
from those directed by Hamer (Kind Hearts) and Mackendrick
(Whisky Galore, The Man in the White Suit, The Maggie, The
Ladykillers), though Mackendrick's have some elements in common. The popular image of Ealing Comedy that has survived relates primarily to the Clarke branch of it: it is from him that the
elements of whimsy, of ' laughing at ourselves * and of communal
benevolence chiefly derive. AH three come together in the exemplary moment in Passport to Pimlico when a court listens to Margaret Rutherford's evidence that a certain small corner of London
is, legally, a part of Burgundy. The local policeman (everybody's
friend) scratches his head and exclaims ' Blimey, I'm a foreigner'.
This mode becomes increasingly strained, especially in the last
two of the six films, which deal with a picturesque railway line
(The Titfield Thunderbolt) and a seaside pier (Barnacle Bill). The
dream of perpetuating wartime solidarity and linking a whole
society together by friendly feeling has been commuted to the
celebration of groups of jolly eccentrics - and of the communities
that cohere around them.
Clarke's most faithful interpreter is Charles Crichton, director
of Hue and Cry, The Lavender Hill Mob, and The Titfield Thunderbolt. At least two of his other Ealing films (Another Shore, Man
in the Sky) have scenes of near-mystical feeling for crowds, and
he seems altogether the director most fully on Clarke's wavelength,
as his Dead of Night episode would already imply. His narrative
style (literal, but with careful montage set-pieces) and handling
of locations and actors all maintain an appropriate balance between artificiality and a token naturalism.
Charles Frend, director of The Magnet and Barnacle Bill and of
another Ealing Comedy in Run for your Money (1949), is less at
ease in the genre than Crichton. None of these films gained an
equivalent public response. Frend has an apparent sobriety, even
melancholy, in his temperament which never adjusts to comedy
(cf the flatness of the comedy scenes in other films by him: Scott,
celebrated in San Demetrio are indeed less inspiring when carried 115
over into more open situations and more actively demanding
enterprises; the amateurism half-deplored in the cluster of other
wartime films reasserts itself, but fails to muddle through to
victory. It is a failure nevertheless which the film quietly hugs to
itself. Scott was a Royal Performance film, and some of the press
cuttings are indicative of a national mood of this time which it
expressed and satisfied. From the Sunday Dispatch:
' Such a film as Scott is welcome at a time when other races
speak disparagingly of our " crumbling Empire " and our " lack
of spirit ". It should make those who have listened too closely to
such talk believe afresh that ours is the finest breed of men
on this earth. And so it is.' 87
Captain Ericson in The Cruel Sea is more professional, but the
film makes such an extraordinary fuss about this quality in him
as to imply amateurism to be the everyday norm. It builds up to
a climax in which his ship depth-charges a U-boat and seems to
have hit it. But previous experience suggests a doubt: the oil
which has come to the surface may be a decoy. As Ericson insists
that the search continues, he is met by mute hostility from ratings
and officers alike - it just does not seem to be reasonable of him
to take thorough precautions. Hung onto this is a portentous discussion with a fellow-officer in which Ericson sets out his philosophy that war kills all human feelings. Yet it is a soft standard
which, as here, equates the elementary professionalism we are
shown (in Ericson's decision, and in the unremarkable work of the
men who conduct the search) with inhuman ruthlessness. Ericson
is vindicated, but without affecting the implication that all on
board, him included, will revert with relief once the crisis is over
to the norm of an easy-going amateurism, where people don't have
to get cross with one another, only with clearly-defined villains.
. . . To this extent The Cruel Sea and its Ealing contemporary The
Titfield Thunderbolt are closely related.
This spirit goes deep into Ealing and British cinema. Balcon,
it will be recalled, had also wanted to project ' Britain as the
home of great industry and craftsmanship'. It seems to have been
an almost impossible theme for British films to present, however
obliquely. There is a cluster of films around 1950, it is true, which
deal with the search for scientific breakthrough and communicate.
some excitement in the search. I happened to see on successive
days, without planning them as a group, The Man in the White Suit
(Ealing, Mackendrick, 1951 - discovery of an everlasting cloth),
White Corridors (Pat Jackson, 1951 - a new medical serum) and
The Sound Barrier (David Lean, 1952 - aircraft research). They
compare interestingly with the concurrent group of American titles
picked out by Paul Mayersberg as centring o n ' inventions to change
n6
the world ': he relates those to the then urgent preoccupation with
the atomic bomb.38 Whether or not the films all partake of some
common global influence, there was a certain ' exploratory * spirit
evident in a few British films of this date (cf too Bernard Miles's
Chance of a Lifetime, 1950) which was soon to evaporate. Indeed
the stagnation which soon reasserts itself is already evident in the
films themselves, being masterfully analysed in The Man in the
White Suit.
What happens in the '50s is that the films turn in on themselves.
They deal with closed situations and institutions: they become
increasingly rigidified in style and circular in structure returning
to their starting-point.
This is a generalisation that applies broadly to Ealing, but
hardly less so to the British cinema as a whole, for which the
middle '50s say 1952-58 are an extraordinarily dead period.
Relating films to social history is a difficult project: one either
deals with the history, and the relationship, in a decently rigorous
way, or risks being merely facile. All I will do in this context is
observe that '50s Britain seems likely abundantly to reward a
thorough analysis on these lines, which would test and extend the
insights thrown out by Lambert, Durgnat and Pirie, and relate the
films to the kind of reading of 20th century Britain offered in, for
instance, The Collapse of British Power (Correlli .Barnett), Industry
and Empire (Eric Hobsbawm) and some of the essays in the New
Left volume Towards Socialism. Their tracing of the processes by
which, on a broad social/economic front, convulsive wartime
' awakenings' are followed by renewed stagnation, suggests a
number of detailed points of contact . . . but this is already to
start being facile. At least, though, one can endorse in principle
the attitude announced in the very title of Durgnat's book, A
Mirror for England. Although (or perhaps because) the films of the
first post-war decade, when the mass audience still existed, lack
the sophisticated way with metaphor of their successors,* they can
be read as statements or evidence about the times. If the school in
If 'is England', so is that in The Happiest Days of Your Life:
if the hospital in The National Health ' is England', so is that
in White Corridors: if the house in The Servant "is England', so
is that in The Ladykillers. And if, in the 1950s, Ealing films and
their ambitions contract, it is not that Ealing has decided against
' projecting Britain ', but that it projects a changed conception of
Britain.
A figure of more weight in the British cinema, as it develops,
than the explorer, inventor, artist of Balcon's hopes is the small
shopkeeper: both in the sense in which Napoleon called England
* cf Lindsay Anderson's description of // as 'a metaphor, if you like,
of life in Britain today - the image of the school as a reflection of a
certain British tradition, or if you like of a hierarchical society'.
Sight and Sound, Summer 1968, p 131.
117
Ealing itself was a ' little old' institution, determined to keep 119
going as before. The policy was to preserve continuity above all.
As shown in the printed tables, the same directors from the war
years continued to dominate. Most of those who came in as new
directors were Ealing-trained, and (Holt excepted) made films after
an established Ealing pattern. Likewise, new writers kept -to the
house tradition, including William Rose, author of Touch and Go,
Davy and Man in the Sky as well as of Mackendrick's The- Maggie
and The Ladykillers.*
A feature of the last set of Ealing films is their now patently
strained community spirit, as though the feeling behind it had .
thinned down to a tired nostalgia - nostalgia both for the wartime spirit and for the type of film which celebrated it in the past.
Hence the attempts to repeat past successful formulae. The last
dozen films include: Touch and Go: (' neighbourhood ' comedy).
The Feminine Touch: hospital as community (directed by Pat
Jackson from outside Ealing, presumably in the hope of another
White Corridors). The Long Arm: on the police (cf The Blue Lamp).
Man in the Sky: aircraft factory as community. Barnacle Bill:
echoes of several earlier comedies, notably Passport to Pimlico.
Davy: music hall (cf the wartime Champagne Charlie). Dunkirk.
All these are hollow in comparison with predecessors and few
made any impression on audiences.
Also in this dozen are The Ladykillers and Nowhere to Go. They
represent two of the other possibilities that were open. Mackendrick, as elsewhere, uses ' Ealing material' but treats it with an
extra dimension of intelligence and reflection. But Ealing had only
one of him and he left after this film for America. Holt's is the
4
anti-Ealing' film, a genuinely fresh approach. But by the time
he got this chance Ealing was finished. The most interesting speculation about what might have been, at Ealing, is: what might Holt
have done if given films to direct in the early 1950s, at the same
age when, in the previous decade, others were making their start?
Balcon himself however was, and is, fatalistic about the decline.
When the traditional Ealing formulae were no longer working it
was time to finish.39 So far from regretting that in his second
decade at Ealing he was not more successful in renewing the supply
of creative people, he regrets that the continuity could not be even
more complete than it was.40 Ealing did not want to adapt. The
form and content of the films are here, once more, closely related
to the experience of the studio.
To be concluded.
120
Notes
I am extremely grateful to Sir Michael Balcon for his kindness in talking
to me at some length about his work at Ealing, and for checking certain
facts, in advance of the writing of this article; this should not be taken
to mean that he has any responsibility for inaccuracies in what I have
subsequently written.
All page references to ' Balcon' which are not further-identified refer
to his autobiography A Lifetime of Films. Publication details of this
and most other sources referred to are given in the Bibliography.
Dialogue quotations in the text are based on notes from film viewings,
although some have been checked against post-production scripts where
these are available.
1. Balcon, p 185.
2. Balcon, conversation.
3. Balcon, p 123.
4. Andrew Boyle: Only the Wind will Listen p 287.
5. Balcon, pp 133ff; Asa Briggs: The Birth of Broadcasting pp 360ff.
6. Movie 18, Winter 1970-71, p 37.
7. Screen, November/December 1969, p 9.
8. David Shipman: The Great Movie Stars: see the essays in volume
two on Petula Clark, Alec Guinness, John Mills.
9. Screen, Summer 1972, pp 48ff: notes on Balcon, Watt, Hamer, Mackendrick, Frend, Crichton, Cavalcanti.
10. Balcon, p 168.
11. Lindsay Anderson: Making a Film, p 14.
12. Balcon, conversation.
13. Thorold Dickinson: The Year's Work in the Film, 1950, p 9.
14. Balcon interviewed by Julian Holland, Evening News, January 9,
1961.
15. Balcon, p 62.
16. See Balcon pp 123ff, the book Penrose Tennyson by CT, and
material by and about Tennyson in several issues of the ACT
Journal.
17. Screen, Summer 1972, p 45.
18. See Elizabeth Sussex: The Golden Years of Grierson, in Sight and
Sound, Summer 1972; also Alan Lovell and Jim Hillier: Studies in
Documentary, and the Bibliography contained in it.
19. Monja Danischewsky: White Russian, Red Face, p 134; see also
Balcon, pp 130f.
20. Balcon, chapter 8, pp 132ff.
21. Basil Dean: Mind's Eye, p 110.
22. Balcon, p 113.
23. Balcon. p 148.
24. Ealing publicity material on The Loves of Joanna Godden (in the
BFI Library), a second film on which Hamer took over during
Frend's illness; also verbal evidence.
25. On Fires were Started, see Daniel Millar's article in Sight and
Sound, Spring 1969.
26. Harold Nicholson: Letters and Diaries vol 2, 1939-1945, p 119.
27. Gavin Lambert in Screen, Summer 1972, p 64.
28. Kinematograph Weekly, January 11, 1945, p 163.
29. Richard Roud: Britain in America in Sight and Sound, Winter
1956-57.
30. Balcon, p 158.
31. Daily Mail, March 14, 1956.
32. BBC Television documentary on Ealing: Kind Hearts and Overdrafts, transmitted Autumn 1970.
33. Danischewsky: White Russian, Red Face, p 132.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
121
122
In Acts of the Apostles the varying spatial relationship of Rossellini's dramatic art attains a wider dimension. A more broadlyspaced structure enables the film to encompass long narrative tracts
and thoughtful pauses introducing fresh upheavals: echoes of past
history reach us, not as passive observation, but, in Rossellini's own
style, as a living chronicle of the times.
At the beginning of Acts of. the. Apostles, as the slave walks
along with the Roman citizen, the camera ranges over the city of
Jerusalem, showing its day to day customs, the way of life of the
Jewish community, and the shops and houses' of the different
districts. The events of Christ's trial and death are recalled. This
is an encounter with reality, filmed direct as an affirmation of living
cinema. In Rossellini's films reality is discovered throughout the
action, in the return to showing an historical dimension, in the
matter-of-fact, true to life quality of a felt need for expression.
Events make history of myths, fantasy and legend if they can be
presented as events, if they become matter-of-fact, divested of their
meta-historical quality.
The events are given a new turn by the varying length of the
sweep of narrative, which is broken up into five episodes for
television. The alternating methods of presentation give the viewer
new pause for thought and involve him in following the thread of
the different episodes.
Rossellini, taking the rediscovery of dialectical reasoning as his
motto, makes Luke's book the starting point for discovering reality
and going on to negate it by a dialectical method of observation
which may be identified as akin with ' critical Marxism'. In this
sense the story, the human relationships and conflicts with tradition and politics within it, become at once both credible and incredible. The more ambiguous the light in which they are shown,
the less is the room for judgment, and the conditions are created
for free access to the events. This attitude is not of course kept
up throughout the whole of the action; at times the film hovers
on the brink of a kind of theological transcendentalism which does
not fit its overall structure. At such points ideological capitulation
and unthought-out mythical positions become apparent. The read-
124
125
SCREEN INDEX
1973 (Volume 14)
126
APRA, ADRIANO
Ideas of Authorship v 14 n 3 p 45
On Cukor v 14 n 3 p 101
CANNELLA, MARIO
v 14 n 1/2 p 129
CINETHIQUE
on Langage et Cinima
v 14 n 1/2, p 189
DROVE, ANTONIO
A Panorama of History - Interview with Rossellini, with Francisco Llinas, Miguel Marias and Jos Oliver v 14 n 4 p 83
GARNHAM, NICHOLAS
v 14 n 3 p 109
HUMPHRIES, REYNOLD
Letter v 14 n 3 p 123
KRISTEVA, JULIA
v 14
Letter v 14 n 3 p 125
METZ, CHRISTIAN
v 14 n 3 p 92
OLIVER, JOS
Semiotics
v 14 n 1/2 p 15
WILLEMEN, PAUL
Biographical Notes
v 14 n 1/2 p 227
WILLIAMS, CHRISTOPHER
Bazin on Neo-Realism
v 14 n 4 p 61
127