The Anarchist Cinema

James Newton

Description

The Anarchist Cinema examines the complex relationships that exist between anarchist theory and film. No longer hidden in obscure corners of cinematic culture, anarchy is a theme that has traversed arthouse, underground and popular film. James Newton explores the notion that cinema is an inherently subversive space, establishes criteria for deeming a film anarchic, and examines the place of underground and DIY filmmaking within the wider context of the category. The author identifies subversive undercurrents in cinema and uses anarchist political theory as an interpretive framework to analyse filmmakers, genres and the notion of cinema as an anarchic space.

Acknowledgements

Introduction: Anarchy, Anarchism, and the Cinematic Context

Chapter 1: Unruly Cinema

Chapter 2: Jean Vigo and the Anarchist Film

Chapter 3: Anarchy and Anarchism in the St Trinian’s Movies

Chapter 4: The Women in Prison Film and Anarchist Analysis

Chapter 5: Anarchism, Activism, and the Cinema Space

Conclusion: The Anarchist Cinema and Beyond

Filmography

References

Index

Sujets

• Arts visuels
• Arts visuels
• Cinéma
• Cinéma
• Cinéma
• Cinema
• Women's Studies
• Political Ideologies
• POLITICAL SCIENCE
• St Trinian's
• Película fotográfica
• The Big Bird Cage
• Women in prison film
• St Trinian's School
• Cinematography
• General officer
• Activism
• Anarchism
• Art
• General
• Cultural Studies
• Electronic
• Digital
• Jesús Franco
• Film
• Jean Vigo

Informations

• Publié par: Intellect Books
• Date de parution: 20 février 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781789380057
• Langue: English

Extrait

First published in the UK in 2019 by
Intellect, The Mill, Parnall Road, Fishponds, Bristol, BS16 3JG, UK
First published in the USA in 2019 by
Intellect, The University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th Street,
Chicago, IL 60637, USA
Copyright © 2019 Intellect Ltd
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the
British Library.
Copy-editor: MPS Technologies
Cover designer: Aleksandra Szumlas
Production manager: Faith Newcombe
Typesetting: Contentra Technologies
Print ISBN: 978–1–78938–003–3
ePDF ISBN: 978–1–78938–004–0
ePub ISBN: 978–1–78938–005–7
Printed and bound by TJ International UK.
Contents

Acknowledgements
Introduction: Anarchy, Anarchism, and the Cinematic Context
Chapter 1: Unruly Cinema
Chapter 2: Jean Vigo and the Anarchist Film
Chapter 3: Anarchy and Anarchism in the St Trinian’s Movies
Chapter 4: The Women in Prison Film and Anarchist Analysis
Chapter 5: Anarchism, Activism, and the Cinema Space
Conclusion: The Anarchist Cinema and Beyond1
Filmography
References
Index
Acknowledgements

There are a number of people who helped contribute to the very long and fluctuating process of making this book, and who have assisted in so many ways. The following people are referred to:
The team at Intellect, who are responsible for making the process as smooth and pain free as possible.
Peter Stanfield, whose cool head and relaxed manner never failed to give me confidence that I would get the project (in its earliest incarnation) finished.
Chris Pallant, for his continual encouragement and good humour, and for being on-hand to respond to the many silly questions that sprang into my head throughout the various stages.
Mattias Frey, who made some (very) sharp observations at an early stage that helped to crystallize my thinking.
Nigel Mather, for locating hard to find sources in various libraries out of the goodness of his heart.
My work colleagues Andy Birtwistle, Ken Fox, and Ben Rowley. Also, thanks go to my colleague Nick Furze, who did a great job in identifying the many typos in my draft.
The following, for kindly taking the time to answer my queries about their work and their creative processes: Deirdre O’Neill at Inside Film, Steve Presence, Shaun Day at Reel News, Fabrizio Federico.
And, of course, for non-scholarly support I am indebted to my parents, and also to Jenna Sharpe. Without them, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Introduction

Anarchy, Anarchism, and the Cinematic Context
Dr No is the headiest box-office concoction of sex and sadism ever brewed in a British studio […] just as Mike Hammer was the softening up for James Bond, so James Bond is the softening up for… what? A fascist cinema uncorrupted by moral scruples? The riot of a completely anarchist cinema?
(Whitehall, 1962)
G iven it has been a central feature of mainstream film culture for nearly sixty years, James Bond may seem an unexpected starting point for a book examining the relationship between anarchism and the cinema. Yet Richard Whitehall’s review of Dr No (Terence Young, 1962) uses the term ‘anarchist’ in a casual and very telling manner, starkly demonstrating a misunderstanding of the term and a derisive attitude towards it as a theoretical concept. One could swap the words ‘anarchist’ and ‘fascist’ around and the emotional impact of the sentences would remain. That they are conflated in this instance is remarkable, given that fascism’s association with nationalism, tradition, and corporatism, as well as its links with totalitarianism, makes it the political opposite to anarchism’s desire to eradicate hierarchical social structures and its opposition to the State.
What Whitehall is doing is bringing together two political concepts that he considers to be illegitimate. 1 He is linking them through their ill repute. ‘Anarchism’ and ‘fascism’ are being used as loaded and emotive terms to increase the damning impact of his review. Neither description accurately applies to an interpretation of Dr No , but the illicit content that so irritates Whitehall, its amoral attitude towards sex and violence, is what encourages his association to these powerful political philosophies. By claiming that ‘morally the film is indefensible with its lovingly detailed excesses, the contemporary equivalent of watching Christians being fed to the lions’, Whitehall places it, and by extension anarchism, firmly outside of a mainstream of moral thought – one built on a set of traditionally conservative values.
In this instance, the critic is acting as a moral authority, as a policeman of taste and value. An anarchist cinema, in keeping with political anarchism, should by necessity bristle against such an authority and attitude. Of course, Whitehall is not making a case for a detailed delineation of an anarchist or fascist cinema; he is writing a film review, and his words should not be treated as a serious dissection of political philosophy. No doubt someone studying a ‘fascist’ cinema might find the quote equally difficult or inappropriate. But despite its pejorative use, the review signals a subversive energy associated with anarchism.
Peter Marshall finds in the 1965 edition of Roget’s Thesaurus the word ‘anarchist’ synonymous with ‘the vandal, iconoclast, savage, brute, hornet, viper, ogre, ghoul, wild beast, fiend, harpy and siren’ (Marshall, 1993: v). The origin of these descriptions stems from the association of anarchism to the method of ‘propaganda by the deed: the violent terrorist action of certain anarchists in the 1890s, who believed that such acts would encourage the oppressed masses to rise up against their oppressors. Roderick Kedward describes this very short but violent epoch in their history as ‘the most spontaneous and dramatic of the anarchists’ answers’ (Kedward, 1971: 13), one that created a perception of the movement which continues to reverberate. The clearest and most visible aspect of the relationship between anarchism and cinema is one of such misconception.
Richard Porton points out that reviews of The Dark Knight (Nolan, 2008) ‘referred to Heath Ledger’s Joker as an “anarchist”, even though this character, who blithely threatens large swaths of the population with annihilation, is merely branded an “agent of chaos” within the film’ (Porton, 2009). More recently, The Purge: Anarchy (James DeMonaco, 2014) uses the word in its subtitle to refer to a government-initiated absence of law and order – where citizens are allowed to unleash their most criminal urges for one night of the year only; ‘anarchy’ as synonym for a period of violence and terror. On-screen, the anarchist is an agent of uninformed, random chaos or terror, and ‘anarchy’ stands for that which is aimless and lacking a moral or ethical base.
The Anarchist Cookbook (Jordan Susman, 2002) is similarly scornful, despite a more blatant attempt to examine the lifestyles of radical activists. The film follows Puck, a young man living in a squat with a selection of anarchists and other assorted drop-outs. They are influenced by a charismatic nihilist to join forces with other extremist groups who, in reality, would stand in opposition to much of anarchist thought, neo-Nazis included. Ultimately, Puck not only betrays them all to the FBI, for which he receives a life-changing sum of money as a reward, but also falls in love with a Republican woman and ends up denouncing his previous lifestyle. One of the groups is exposed as a pederast, and they are shown to have a muddled focus and inconsistent ideas, as demonstrated by their readiness to join forces with nihilists and Nazis. Those in the squat refer to themselves as ‘The Family’, alluding to the confusion of peaceful rhetoric and extreme violence of Charles Manson’s murderous followers.
Despite its depiction of an anarchist lifestyle, and on-screen discussion about the nature of radical politics, the ideological stance of The Anarchist Cookbook means it cannot be considered an anarchist film because it ultimately forms part of the range of misrepresentations of anarchism that have littered popular culture since the nineteenth century. Porton draws a comparison between the representation of anarchism and how the formation of stereotypes of ethnic groups focuses on ‘a “binarism” that thinks only in terms of positive and negative images’ (Porton, 1999: 10). This imagery, ‘associated with irrationality and violence’ (1999: 11), can be found in films ranging from those of ‘Edwin S. Porter and D. W. Griffith to the apparently more sophisticated films of European cineastes such as Claude Chabrol and Bernard Tavernier’ (1999: 13).
There is, however, a far more complex connection between anarchism and the arts than that of issues surrounding representation. For Kedward, this connection stems from a natural affinity originating in their mutual aspiration for individual freedom (Kedward, 1971: 108) – a connection also found in the influence of anarchist theory on art movements such as surrealism and Dada (Marshall, 1993: 252). But is the anarchism in cinema found in the intellectual avant-garde, and in art films that undertake a serious examination of anarchist theory? Or should any prospective anarchist cinema embrace some of the negative criticisms, such as the suggestion that it is ‘puerile and absurd’ (Marshall, 1993: xiv ), two qualities the surrealist and Dadaist movements would no doubt celebrate?
This book explores these questions, and examines the intricate relationship that exists between anarchism and cinema. Within these pages, I take three approaches: first, I propose that the relationship between anarchism and cinema is often hidden, because the ‘anarchist’ content of a film is not always revealed through easily interpretable