The Anarchist Cinema

By James Newton

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Intellect Books
• Release date: Feb 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789380057

James Newton

James Newton is a retired Chef who has had a great career catering for the rich and famous. He has worked all around the world in some of the most exotic locations. Now in his series of ecookbooks he brings together the know how of how to cook regional and international dishes from the places he has visited.From the USA, South American, the Caribbean, Morocco, Middle East, Greece, Italy, UK, Spain and many more discover traditional dishes like the ones you liked on vacation.

Book preview

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)

Given it has been a central feature of mainstream film culture for nearly sixty years, James Bond may seem an unexpected starting point for a book examining the relationship between anarchism and the cinema. Yet Richard Whitehall’s review of Dr No (Terence Young, 1962) uses the term ‘anarchist’ in a casual and very telling manner, starkly demonstrating a misunderstanding of the term and a derisive attitude towards it as a theoretical concept. One could swap the words ‘anarchist’ and ‘fascist’ around and the emotional impact of the sentences would remain. That they are conflated in this instance is remarkable, given that fascism’s association with nationalism, tradition, and corporatism, as well as its links with totalitarianism, makes it the political opposite to anarchism’s desire to eradicate hierarchical social structures and its opposition to the State.

What Whitehall is doing is bringing together two political concepts that he considers to be illegitimate.¹ He is linking them through their ill repute. ‘Anarchism’ and ‘fascism’ are being used as loaded and emotive terms to increase the damning impact of his review. Neither description accurately applies to an interpretation of Dr No, but the illicit content that so irritates Whitehall, its amoral attitude towards sex and violence, is what encourages his association to these powerful political philosophies. By claiming that ‘morally the film is indefensible with its lovingly detailed excesses, the contemporary equivalent of watching Christians being fed to the lions’, Whitehall places it, and by extension anarchism, firmly outside of a mainstream of moral thought – one built on a set of traditionally conservative values.

In this instance, the critic is acting as a moral authority, as a policeman of taste and value. An anarchist cinema, in keeping with political anarchism, should by necessity bristle against such an authority and attitude. Of course, Whitehall is not making a case for a detailed delineation of an anarchist or fascist cinema; he is writing a film review, and his words should not be treated as a serious dissection of political philosophy. No doubt someone studying a ‘fascist’ cinema might find the quote equally difficult or inappropriate. But despite its pejorative use, the review signals a subversive energy associated with anarchism.

Peter Marshall finds in the 1965 edition of Roget’s Thesaurus the word ‘anarchist’ synonymous with ‘the vandal, iconoclast, savage, brute, hornet, viper, ogre, ghoul, wild beast, fiend, harpy and siren’ (Marshall, 1993: v). The origin of these descriptions stems from the association of anarchism to the method of ‘propaganda by the deed: the violent terrorist action of certain anarchists in the 1890s, who believed that such acts would encourage the oppressed masses to rise up against their oppressors. Roderick Kedward describes this very short but violent epoch in their history as ‘the most spontaneous and dramatic of the anarchists’ answers’ (Kedward, 1971: 13), one that created a perception of the movement which continues to reverberate. The clearest and most visible aspect of the relationship between anarchism and cinema is one of such misconception.

Richard Porton points out that reviews of The Dark Knight (Nolan, 2008) ‘referred to Heath Ledger’s Joker as an anarchist, even though this character, who blithely threatens large swaths of the population with annihilation, is merely branded an agent of chaos within the film’ (Porton, 2009). More recently, The Purge: Anarchy (James DeMonaco, 2014) uses the word in its subtitle to refer to a government-initiated absence of law and order – where citizens are allowed to unleash their most criminal urges for one night of the year only; ‘anarchy’ as synonym for a period of violence and terror. On-screen, the anarchist is an agent of uninformed, random chaos or terror, and ‘anarchy’ stands for that which is aimless and lacking a moral or ethical base.

The Anarchist Cookbook (Jordan Susman, 2002) is similarly scornful, despite a more blatant attempt to examine the lifestyles of radical activists. The film follows Puck, a young man living in a squat with a selection of anarchists and other assorted drop-outs. They are influenced by a charismatic nihilist to join forces with other extremist groups who, in reality, would stand in opposition to much of anarchist thought, neo-Nazis included. Ultimately, Puck not only betrays them all to the FBI, for which he receives a life-changing sum of money as a reward, but also falls in love with a Republican woman and ends up denouncing his previous lifestyle. One of the groups is exposed as a pederast, and they are shown to have a muddled focus and inconsistent ideas, as demonstrated by their readiness to join forces with nihilists and Nazis. Those in the squat refer to themselves as ‘The Family’, alluding to the confusion of peaceful rhetoric and extreme violence of Charles Manson’s murderous followers.

Despite its depiction of an anarchist lifestyle, and on-screen discussion about the nature of radical politics, the ideological stance of The Anarchist Cookbook means it cannot be considered an anarchist film because it ultimately forms part of the range of misrepresentations of anarchism that have littered popular culture since the nineteenth century. Porton draws a comparison between the representation of anarchism and how the formation of stereotypes of ethnic groups focuses on ‘a binarism that thinks only in terms of positive and negative images’ (Porton, 1999: 10). This imagery, ‘associated with irrationality and violence’ (1999: 11), can be found in films ranging from those of ‘Edwin S. Porter and D. W. Griffith to the apparently more sophisticated films of European cineastes such as Claude Chabrol and Bernard Tavernier’ (1999: 13).

There is, however, a far more complex connection between anarchism and the arts than that of issues surrounding representation. For Kedward, this connection stems from a natural affinity originating in their mutual aspiration for individual freedom (Kedward, 1971: 108) – a connection also found in the influence of anarchist theory on art movements such as surrealism and Dada (Marshall, 1993: 252). But is the anarchism in cinema found in the intellectual avant-garde, and in art films that undertake a serious examination of anarchist theory? Or should any prospective anarchist cinema embrace some of the negative criticisms, such as the suggestion that it is ‘puerile and absurd’ (Marshall, 1993: xiv), two qualities the surrealist and Dadaist movements would no doubt celebrate?

This book explores these questions, and examines the intricate relationship that exists between anarchism and cinema. Within these pages, I take three approaches: first, I propose that the relationship between anarchism and cinema is often hidden, because the ‘anarchist’ content of a film is not always revealed through easily interpretable signifiers. Second, my aim is to deepen the relationship by exploring the possibilities of an anarchist approach to film analysis and interpretation. To do this, attention is turned to films containing ‘a profound anarchist sensibility’, a phrase borrowed from Marshall’s historical analysis (1993: xi). I look to how their representations, visual style, and underlying ideology can be enhanced and uncovered by an anarchistic approach to analysis, where one is fluid, using an array of interpretive methods. This work builds on the first aim by looking at a wider selection of films, and broadens the scope to include where anarchism has filtered through into the study of cinema. The third aim is to examine the ways anarchism has influenced, altered, and politicized the organization of cinema in terms of production, exhibition, and distribution. This extends beyond textual film analysis and onto an examination of the anarchic forms cinema can take as a cultural space. I discuss how anarchism has informed the processes of production and exhibition, with a particular emphasis on the recent developments in digital film culture that have led to an increase in inflections of an anarchist cinema at a grassroots level.

Working through these aims reveals how anarchism has often been a veiled trend in cinema, lurking at the margins of film culture. It is hidden in the shadows and in the separation between films, filmmakers, and audiences. When it reveals itself, it can serve as a valuable critique of cinema’s dominant, repressive norms. Analysis of the anarchism in cinema demonstrates forms of oppression, and looks at film as a method of resistance. My aim is to establish ways in which the art form can be subversive and anarchic, bringing together film, cinema, and film studies in a politicized way, inspired by the ethos and methods of political anarchism.

Anarchy and Anarchism

Peter Marshall ties together multiple strands and traditions of anarchism from its ancient origins, from the beliefs of certain sects of Christianity or among the ancient Greeks, up to the contradictions between his designation of the ‘classical anarchist thinkers’ (Marshall, 1993: 189), such as Mikhail Bakunin, Peter Kropotkin, or Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, modern anarchists such as Paul Goodman, and the ‘left-wing Marxism’ (1993: 579) of Noam Chomsky. These disparate thinkers and traditions are united by core principles, the fundamental tenet of which is an opposition to the twin bodies of State and government and the bureaucratic institutions that organize on their behalf, including the police and military. Inscribed in this opposition is a hostility to authority and, in particular, hierarchical power.

Springing from these core principles are varieties in schools of thought. These include anarchist communism, described by Alexander Berkman as ‘voluntary communism’ (1977: 11), a contrast to the State-supported version in places like the Soviet Union; anarcho-feminism, which proposes that patriarchy as well as the State should be dismantled; and anarcho-syndicalism, which focuses on political action through organization by workers in industrial places. Alongside these variations, which emphasize collective action, there are individualist anarchists whose theories derive originally from the writings of Max Stirner. Despite contradictions between the needs and desires of the individual and those of the collective, Porton writes that ‘it is difficult to deny that the anti-clericalism and disdain for conventional moral strictures’ exhibited by Stirner has a kinship with the collectivism in the ‘polemical wrath’ of Bakunin and the ‘assault on hidebound sexual morality’ mounted by Emma Goldman (Porton, 1999: 4–5).

On occasion, I will be using the term ‘libertarian’, which has, ‘particularly outside America’, been synonymous with ‘anarchist’ ‘since the 1850’s [sic]’ (Anarchist FAQ Editorial Collective, 2009). When referring to a libertarian idea, sensibility, or person, I mean that which shares an opposition to the State and a commitment to the promotion of liberty. This is not synonymous with capitalist libertarianism such as that proposed by Murray Rothbard, where the powers of government might be restricted but only to allow laissez-faire market forces to flourish in its place. This tendency of thought, sometimes described as anarcho-capitalism, is present among some American Republican politicians, especially those inspired by the writings of Ayn Rand. Recently, libertarianism has been associated erroneously with the emergence of the so-called Alt-Right, a loose alliance of groups and individuals whose philosophies range from centre-ground conservative to those resembling National Socialism. Libertarianism has been accused of being an ‘insidious pipeline’ that can lead some to extreme right-wing positions (Lewis, 2017). Those espousing the values of unfettered capitalism, or those who could move so quickly from wishing for a limited government to instead demanding authoritarian State interference, could hardly be more distinct from the values of the traditional anarchist. Marshall isolates such variations from conventional anarchist ideas by designating them as right-wing libertarians, as opposed to the left-wing libertarians whose egalitarian beliefs fly closest to anarchism.² Of the differences between them, he writes that an anarchist would completely reject the State, while

[a] libertarian on the other hand is one who takes liberty to be a supreme value and would like to limit the powers of government to a minimum compatible with security. The line between anarchist and libertarian is thin, and in the past the terms have been used interchangeably. But while all anarchists are libertarian, not all libertarians are anarchists. Even so, they are members of the same clan, share the same ancestors and bear resemblances.

(Marshall, 1993: xiii)

Anarchism, then, is in a state of flux, combined of multiple thoughts and strands that nevertheless have the same end goal. George Woodcock poetically compares it to

water percolating through porous ground – here forming for a time a strong underground current, there gathering into a swirling pool, trickling through crevices, disappearing from sight, and then re-emerging where the cracks in the social structure may offer it a course to run.

(Woodcock, 1962 [1970]: 15)

Marshall writes that ‘anarchy has denoted both the negative sense of unruliness which leads to disorder and chaos, and the positive sense of a free society in which rule is no longer necessary’ (Marshall, 1993: xiii). This dichotomy of disorder and of freedom indicates where to look for the anarchism within cinema.

Anarchism stands in opposition to capitalism, the State, and hierarchy in an expression of a chaotic threat to the hegemonic order, while at the same time presenting ideas for a free society. Some films analysed in this book, which are mostly concerned with the anarchic potential of the collective rather than the individual, present the full scope of these ideas. Some only express one aspect. All, however, display the ‘anarchist sensibility’ (1993: xi), even if that is not a conscious intention on behalf of the filmmaker.

Cinema and Radical Politics

Because the anarchism in cinema is a hidden trend, only very rarely referenced in critical literature, it is necessary to look to where anarchist ideas might be present, but concealed, in historical discussions around radical politics and cinema.

It was in the wake of the riots and strikes in France of May ’68 that film studies began a process of politicization. Sylvia Harvey charts how film as an institution, as a material practice, and as an academic discipline responded to the upheavals of the time, chiefly by focusing on a rethinking of cinema’s relationship to society. The founding of the Estates General of the French Cinema by film professionals, critics, and students was an attempt at re-ordering the hierarchy of cinematic culture (Harvey, 1978: 6). The divisions between producers and consumers were called into question, and films were rehoused from cinemas and into places of work or study. Harvey explains that ‘the searching out of such non-traditional projection sites […] could also be seen as an aspect of the desire to produce a new kind of context for the reception of a particular film, and thereby also a new sort of relationship between audience and spectacle’ (1978: 25). This re-organization of the cinematic space, the re-interpretation of what is meant by the term ‘cinema’, is the natural extension of examining the politics of the traditional production and consumption model. She continues: ‘it was not enough simply to change the content of films, but that the whole socio-economic structure in which they operated had also to be changed’ (1978: 28).

This upheaval produced a re-examination of film as a cultural product and fitted into existing Marxist theories of cultural production, particularly in relation to the base and superstructure model. Marx’s (and Engels’) view that the material base affects the superstructure of society was re-thought during twentieth-century cultural studies because it suggested a ‘too simple and direct correspondence’ (1978: 88) between them. For Louis Althusser, the ideology of a society (found in the superstructure) is not a reflection of the base in simple terms, but ‘has to be understood as a system in its own right, not as merely homologous with or reflexive of the base’ (1978: 100). Only when this is noticed can ideology be used to consciously lie about or cover the base conditions, or conversely, be used to expose the reality of the material base of society. It is this, the possibility of using ideology ‘for changing society’, which is ‘of particular interest to radical film theorists’ (1978: 101).

Two positions were developed in Marxism regarding the relationship between ideology in cultural production that reflects the dominant classes, and the ‘subordinate class’:

The first assumes that the dominant ideology is completely in control of the subordinate class, and the mechanism of control is guaranteed by the mode of production, by the economic base. The second suggests that the subordinate class ‘escapes’ the control of the dominant ideology by virtue of its own specific life experience.

(Harvey, 1978: 97)

By clarifying what she calls these ‘extreme’ positions, Harvey exposes the shortcomings of both. The first assumes all cultural production is inherently imbued with a capitalist ethos, and therefore true resistance or opposition is impossible. The second makes the assumption that all forms of cultural practice emanating from the working classes is necessarily in opposition to the ruling class. The middle ground between the two arguments, that ‘cultural forms are potentially in a relationship of resistance to those of the ruling class’ (1978: 97, emphasis original), posits that resistance can only spring up at specific moments and in conjunction with broader forms of opposition amongst the classes.

The dominance of Marxist thought behind these developments works to marginalize anarchism within film studies, despite the ‘anarchist sensibility’ of the Situationist groups that inspired the rebellion of May ’68. Peter Marshall calls the entire episode the ‘greatest outburst in libertarian energy since the Second World War’ (Marshall, 1993: 445), and notes how the slogans scrawled and sprayed on public walls during the period retained an anarchist flavour, with the most obvious being the appropriation of Bakunin’s phrase ‘the urge to destroy is a creative urge’ (1993: 307). Harvey recognizes this libertarian influence, but describes the sloganeering as reflecting ‘both the strengths and weaknesses of the May movement’ (Harvey, 1978: 12); the strengths being the sincere attempt to provide a ‘radical analysis’ of capitalist society, and the weakness lying in ‘its idealistic, often anarchistic, utopianism’ (1978: 12). The nature of the weaknesses remains unclear, unless it is Harvey’s assumption that the flaws are inherent, and that a description of something as ‘anarchistic’ is sufficient enough to explain its faults.

The focus on Marxism as a way to interpret such moments indicates the extent to which it is the ‘dominant current within socialism’ (Kinna and Pritchard, 2012: 3), as well as in political film studies. While anarchism and Marxism is characterized by ‘mutual borrowings in history, theory and practice’ (2012: 1), an anarchist analysis of cinema would distinguish itself from Marxist cultural analysis by focusing on that which critiques State-sponsored hierarchies. Marxist film criticism may interrogate the problems of existing authorities and states, but is not necessarily critical of the idea of the State itself.

If we revisit the post 1968 developments in film culture, we find the origin of the categorization of political films in the Jean-Louis Comolli and Paul Narboni article, ‘Cinema/ideology/criticism’, from Cahiers de