Waiting on the CounterForce

Citizenfour, Snowden, and the Surveillance State

by CARL BOGGS

Ex: http://www.counterpunch.org

A viewing of the film Citizenfour, real-life drama of Edward Snowden’s first days on the run from the National Security Agency (NSA), is bound to elicit one visceral response: chilling. We see in Laura Poitras’ splendid documentary not only Snowden’s by-now familiar personal saga, but the specter of modern technological domination at its most frightening. The film, by way of Snowden’s revelations and commentary, poses searing questions about the impact of surveillance technology on American society and, in turn, on the future of democratic politics anywhere.

Snowden’s journey is well-known enough: hasty departure from Hawaii, where he worked as a technician for the NSA, to Hong Kong as whistleblower in possession of vast information related to the agency’s worldwide eavesdropping activities, then on to Moscow where he finally gains residential status. Poitras’ film centers on eight tense days Snowden spent at a hotel in Hong Kong, where his stunning revelations are turned into dramatic footage along with a series of reports by Glenn Greenwald and others for the London Guardian on U.S. surveillance programs, which have become more intrusive than generally believed. With these programs, Snowden comments, “we are building the biggest weapon for oppression in the history of mankind,” adding that, despite accumulated evidence of domestic NSA espionage, protest in the U.S. is barely visible: Congress, the White House, mass media, and public remain virtually silent in the face on escalating threats to privacy and freedoms.

The Snowden narratives depict a system, NSA at the center, of nonstop secret monitoring and tracking of American citizens, with no accountability and little justification beyond stale references to “national security” and the need to detect and monitor terrorists. In the film we see a post-9/11 technological labyrinth that vacuums up billions of electronic transactions daily and locates millions of people through cellphone and other GPS coordinates. In partnership with corporations like Microsoft and Verizon, the NSA routinely shares data with the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), CIA, and IRS, all ostensibly to spy on terrorists, drug traffickers, and assorted criminals. One result of all this data processing is an exhaustive watch list, currently identifying more than a million “threats”, funneled through the shadowy Terrorist Identities Datamart Environment (TIDE), maintained by the shadowy Terrorist Identities Group (TIG)..

With its sprawling acres of supercomputers, the NSA has been the largest and most intrusive spy agency since 1952, its “black” operations initially driven by the Cold War – a history thoroughly chronicled by James Bamford in a series of books (most recently The Shadow Factory). Thanks to the exhaustive work of Bamford and such whistleblowers and William Binney and Snowden, we currently know far more about this presumably super-secret, or “deep state” realm of the American power structure than will ever be officially acknowledged. The subtitle of The Shadow Factory, written in 2008, is “The Ultra-Secret NSA from 9/11 to the Eavesdropping on America”, indicating that Snowden’s domestic revelations were not as pathbreaking as often depicted. (Unnecessary disclosure: I worked three youthful years for the NSA as a Russian linguist – but never part of any war effort.)

In Citizenfour we learn that in 2013 alone the NSA collected 124.8 billion telephone data items and 97.1 billion pieces of computer data on unsuspecting people around the world, including theoretically off-limits domestic targets. Such “metadata” collection is of course the stuff of totalitarian scenarios that match or exceed the worst Orwellian nightmares. The film (and Snowden’s accounts in general) raises questions about the fate of individual privacy, political freedoms, and democratic governance in an era of ever-expanding (and elusive) surveillance technology.

The first question goes directly to the predicament of democracy itself, already under siege. When government agencies can create eavesdropping resources well beyond the reach of laws, policies, and conventions, what public leverage can ordinary people hope to secure over the machinery of state and military power? Can nonstop mega-data collection and processing, carried out by intelligence organizations with little regard for its consequences, ever be compatible with democratic politics? Can the “deep state” of modern communications, more far-reaching with each technological innovation, serve anything but elite domination?

A second – equally crucial – question turns on the already-deteriorating character of public discourse: feeble resistance to technological authoritarianism in the U.S. is palpable and alarming. Congress has done nothing to tame the juggernaut, while the Obama administration remains essentially content with dancing around the issue, obsessed with Snowden’s notoriety (and imputed criminality).   Despite what has been revealed by Snowden – and Bamford and Binney before him – few dare to speak out, surely fearful of being derided as “soft on terrorism”.   Further, NSA programs are so “deep”, so shrouded in mystery, that hardly anyone seems able to penetrate the technological fortress sufficiently to fathom what is taking place. And of course NSA work is in highly-classified, including even its budget (estimated at possibly $20 billion yearly).

Transparency and accountability are meaningless concepts when it comes to the NSA playbook. We have seen how those recently in charge of agency operations – General James Clapper and Keith Alexander – have blatantly lied to Congress about the extent of NSA domestic spying, as shown in Citizenfour. Unlike baseball players denying they took performance-enhancing drugs, Clapper and Alexander could stonewall everything in broad daylight with legal impunity, protected by their status within the warfare state. In November, meanwhile, Vermont Senator Patrick Leahy offered up a bill to limit NSA access to domestic phone records, a tepid reform that nonetheless failed to muster enough votes to cut off debate.   The USA Freedom Act, as it was called, was too extreme for Senate Republicans, whose freedom-loving rhetoric got hopelessly lost in the maze of surveillance priorities. They insist that meta-data collection is required to combat terrorism – though, as Bamford convincingly shows, domestic espionage activities have actually done little to track or intercept domestic terrorism.

Third, abundant evidence shows that surveillance order rests on a tight partnership of government, corporations, and the military – a power structure extending far beyond the familiar “Big Brother”, understood strictly as a matter of state controls. The now infamous PRISM program, undertaken by George W. Bush in 2007, relies on extensive data-mining shared by the NSA and such corporations as Microsoft, AT&T, Google, Verizon, Yahoo, and Apple. Telephone and computer information is often simply turned over to the NSA, usually without much legal fuss – a system of cooperative ventures, or integrated power, endemic to a militarized state-capitalism.

Freewheeling NSA surveillance poses yet another question: can “deep”, all-consuming, globalized eavesdropping, in the hands of an aggressive ruling elite, be brought under popular control by even the most well-intentioned reforms?  Progressives have long embraced the hope of a democratic Internet and related media infused with a high degree of electronic populism, yet in reality the American power structure holds immense advantages in technological, material, and institutional resources over any challenger. The NSA itself can easily trump lesser organizations and movements, suggesting that the prospect of counter-forces strong enough to take on the juggernaut would seem to be dim – at least while the existing power apparatus remains intact. There is the linked problem of whether NSA technology can even be sufficiently grasped to carry out meaningful reform. Snowden and Binney appear to know their way around the fortress, but how many Snowdens and Binneys do we have?   There is one certainty here: those at the summits of power, those who manage the apparatus, have no desire to relinquish the God-like power they wield through their arsenal of supercomputers and hundreds of global listening posts. Quite the contrary: their messianic goal is precisely to expand that power, pushing it to its outer limits without the slightest regard for Constitutional or other political limits.

This brings us back to Snowden and his political relevance. In Citizenfour we encounter a beleaguered Snowden, a person unsure and fearful, anxious about the future, understandably in limbo about the potential consequences of his risky actions. Snowden had obviously done much reflection in the weeks and probably months leading up to his decision to flee, although the political ramifications could only be rather murky. Solutions to broadening NSA surveillance were not likely to be on the immediate horizon. A fearsome thought emerges: could the technology now be so sophisticated, so “deep”, that effective reforms will no longer be viable — that something of a turning point might have been reached?   Could the apparatus have taken on a life of its own, impervious to the actions of Congress, political intervention, popular movements? Could Snowden’s revelations, for all their spectacular media impact, be overwhelmed by the sheer pace of technological change.

In strictly political terms, Snowden is actually more forthcoming in his recent Nation interview (November 17, 2014) conducted by Stephen F. Cohen and Katrina Vanden Heuvel.  In both the documentary and the Nation, Snowden is quick to affirm that he is not especially comfortable dealing with politics, that he is “no politician”, being far more adept at technology. Indeed computer work nowadays appears to consume the bulk of his time in Moscow. In a candid moment, however, Snowden tells Cohen and Vanden Heuvel that, contemplating the surveillance onslaught, people “have the right of revolution – it’s about revolutionary ideas”, adding: “It’s about direct action, even civil disobedience”. He identifies the Occupy movement, though now rather moribund, as something of an inspiration. No less than the future of democracy, in the U.S. and worldwide, is at stake.

At another point in the Nation exchanges Snowden seems ready to embrace social movements as the most efficacious counter-force, possibly the only hope. He tells Cohen and Vanden Heuvel that “we cannot be effective without a mass movement”, but immediately adds “the American people today are too comfortable to adapt to a mass movement.” Unfortunately, he laments, the education system is designed primarily for “indoctrination”, hardly the source of a reflective, critical, galvanized public needed to take on the surveillance state. As for Snowden himself, not being a “politician” leaves him with a daunting challenge – “to focus on technological reform, because I speak the language of technology”.

Could such reform, however ambitious, furnish a solution to the rapidly-expanding system of technological domination we face?   Snowden’s own prior comment – that “we cannot be effective without a mass movement” – no doubt provides the best answer. At one moment in the film Snowden concedes that technological constraints placed on the fortress within the U.S. (or any single country) will be checkmated unless those constraints become systemic and global, which poses new layers of obstacles.   Snowden knows better than most that communications technology by its very nature is both ever-changing and unbounded, recognizing no temporal boundaries; its very logic is to adapt and expand, resisting barriers (if any) set by mortal politicians. This is emphatically true for “deep” entities like the NSA, which fiercely asserts both its power and secrecy. It follows that U.S.-centered reforms, even in the unlikely event Congress overcomes its fear and lethargy, is destined to be neutralized even before any legislation is signed into law. Despite his remarkably bold and courageous moves, therefore, Snowden’s political options – and indeed those of everyone else – have clearly yet to be articulated, unless his idea of “revolution” is to be taken seriously.

In the end, government and military elites perched atop the surveillance order will happily continue business-as-usual until overthrown by more powerful, resource-laden counter-forces. Their privileged status is much too embedded in the fortunes of the security state and war economy, which depends as never before on endless flows of electronic information, personal tracking, and institutional controls.

CARL BOGGS is the author of The Hollywood War Machine, with Tom Pollard (second edition, forthcoming), and Drugs, Power, and Politics (forthcoming), both published by Paradigm.     

Hiroshi Teshigahara, La Femme des Sables, (Japon, 1964)

 

Hiroshi Teshigahara, La Femme des Sables, (Japon, 1964)

Ex: http://cerclenonconforme.hautetfort.com

La deuxième des quatre œuvres issues de la collaboration de Teshigahara avec l’écrivain Kobo Abe, La Femme des Sables, est son long métrage le plus célèbre. C’est aussi certainement celui qui laisse l’impression la plus forte et la plus durable.

 

Si l’on peut rester de marbre devant Le Traquenard ou Le Visage d’un Autre, à cause notamment de certaines longueurs franchement pénibles, d’un style parfois curieux et d’un propos relativement décousu, le flot d’images surréalistes et envoûtantes de La Femme des Sables, en revanche, constitue une expérience esthétique fascinante, et ce malgré un director’s cut de 147 minutes bien tassées.

 

Visuellement, cette œuvre  regorge de trouvailles : superpositions de plans, alternance entre les gros plans d’insectes, de grains de sable ou du grain de la peau humaine, et de longues étendues désertiques animées par le vent ou par les traces laissées par un être humain… La photographie en noir et blanc est franchement splendide, et du point de vue de l’atmosphère générale, le terme « hanté » ne semble pas usurpé.

La trame du film elle-même est plutôt originale : un citadin, instituteur de son état dans une mégapole japonaise et entomologiste amateur, se rend dans le désert à la recherche de spécimens rares, dans l’espoir de voir son nom passer à la postérité dans une encyclopédie. Après une longue marche, il s’allonge sur le sable et laisse ses pensées vagabonder. Il songe aux papiers, aux archives, aux dossiers, aux permis, à la masse effroyable de paperasse qui donne à chacun un sentiment ambigu : celui d’appartenir à une société et d’être reconnu par celle-ci, tout en étant au fond qu’un nom parmi tant d’autres – un grain de sable parmi les grains de sable.

Il s’assoupit, et à son réveil il se laisse convaincre par un inconnu de se laisser guider jusqu’à un village au beau milieu du désert où il pourra se restaurer et passer la nuit.  Arrivé au village, notre homme découvre une maison de bois passablement délabrée, encaissée au fond d’une fosse de sable. Le voyageur descend par une échelle de corde à la rencontre de son hôte, une femme vivant seule dans cette tombe à ciel ouvert. Au cours du repas, l’homme plein d’orgueil et sûr de sa supériorité de citadin, prend  son hôte de haut lorsque celle-ci lui parle de son quotidien et des étranges phénomènes dont elle est régulièrement témoin.

L’homme se rend compte au cours de la nuit que la femme vit d’un labeur peu commun : elle entasse des kilos de sable dans de grandes caisses de métal, que des paysans hissent depuis le sommet de la fosse à l’aide d’un treuil. On pense tout d’abord qu’il s’agit d’une méthode fastidieuse destinée à éviter que la maison ne finisse par être intégralement ensevelie ; on apprend plus tard que ce sable est revendu à des entrepreneurs peu scrupuleux qui mettent en œuvre ce matériau peu coûteux et dangereux dans leurs constructions.

La condescendance du voyageur vis-à-vis de la femme qui le nourrit et l’héberge est bien vite vengée : le matin venu, l’homme  s’aperçoit en effet que l’échelle de corde a disparu… Il ne tarde pas à comprendre qu’il  est tombé dans un piège et que sa survie dépend de l’aide qu’il voudra bien apporter à la femme des sables dans sa tâche absurde et sans fin. L’homme passe de la révolte et de l’espoir à la résignation, puis au dépassement de sa condition tout au long de ce film en forme de quête initiatique.

 

Le film tourne autour de la notion d’identité : la place que l’homme occupe dans la société, instituteur au sein d’une grande ville, semble largement suffire à son épanouissement ; pourtant son incursion d’entomologiste amateur en quête de renommée et les réflexions qu’il se formule au cœur du désert, au sujet de ce qui fonde l’identité en tant que citadin, sont deux éléments qui montrent bien que notre homme redoute déjà au fond de lui de n’être rien d’autre qu’un grain de sable dans le désert. Lorsqu’il se retrouve confronté à une villageoise recluse au fin fond du désert pourtant, son statut officiel lui fournit une assurance mâtinée d’orgueil qui se mue vite en condescendance ; plus tard encore au cours de sa captivité, il nourrit toujours l’espoir d’être secouru, il place tous ses espoirs dans la certitude que le monde moderne auquel il appartient finira par le rattraper, qu’on viendra le chercher, que tout rentrera dans l’ordre pour lui.

A mesure que le film se déroule, toutes les craintes de l’homme s’avèrent fondées. Il comprend qu’il n’a jamais rien acquis d’autre qu’une identité de façade, intégralement administrative et sans réalité charnelle. Sa solitude cauchemardesque trouve un écho direct dans cette image du prisonnier au fond d’une tombe de sable. De nombreux plans du film viennent alimenter l’analogie, parfois en exacerbant le caractère futile des tentatives d’évasion : l’homme est semblable aux insectes qu’il collectionne, s’agitant vainement pour s’extirper de cette fosse où il lui faut maintenant apprendre à vivre.

Toute la futilité et l’absurdité de la condition humaine sont mises en évidence de façon tragique ; le labeur quotidien, infiniment renouvelé, infiniment absurde, rappelle bien évidemment le mythe de Sisyphe. Il ne faut pas s’en étonner : l’ouvrage de Kobo Abe semble en effet largement redevable à la philosophie existentialiste. La conclusion de la Femme des Sables est d’ailleurs fidèle, en substance, à celles que Kierkegaard, Sartre ou Camus ont pu formuler dans leurs travaux :  Teshigahara nous suggère en effet à la fin de son long métrage que l’homme doit trouver sa liberté intérieure en acceptant sa condition, en collaborant avec la femme des sables et en se livrant à une activité intellectuelle.  

Au-delà de cette lecture philosophique, qu’il ne faut bien évidemment pas se sentir obligé de partager, il reste un petit bijou du cinéma japonais des années 60, à l’ambiance particulièrement soignée, et dont la beauté formelle n’est certainement pas la moindre des qualités.

Lydéric / C.N.C.

Note du C.N.C.: Toute reproduction éventuelle de ce contenu doit mentionner la source.

Tout le monde il est gentil, tout le monde il est raciste

«Qu’est-ce qu’on a fait au bon dieu»

Le film qui fait rire jaune l’idéologie antiraciste

Jean Ansar
Ex: http://metamag.fr

 

Il y a toujours eu des divorces profonds entre la critique et le public de cinéma. La critique qui représente toujours l’idéologie dominante se prend pour le guide intellectuel du public. Elle aime les films prétentieux, engagés et donneurs de leçon. Elle raffole des films afghans qui font 45 entrées. Le public, lui, aime le cinéma spectacle de divertissement ou intelligent ce qui est souvent le contraire d’ailleurs d’intellectuel.

C’est pourquoi la critique des pères la pudeur et des nouveaux dévots et bigotes de l’antiracisme idéologique a mal accueilli tout au début le film de Philippe de Chauveron avec un Christian Clavier désopilant, fin dans son jeu et dont c’est le grand retour. Mais la France, elle, se tord de rire sans complexes ni retenus. La critique s’incline, mais tente de détourner le sens du film, de le politiser et même de l’instrumentaliser.

 

En fait, ce film prouve que l’on peut rire à gorge déployé d’un racisme bon enfant à la française. C’est le premier point et c’est le plus important. Les Verneuil, petits bourgeois catholiques de province, ont 4 filles. Les 3 premières épousent coup sur coup un arabe, un juif et un chinois. La petite dernière, elle, une révélation d’une beauté à la française, s’éprend  enfin d’un catholique comme papa et maman, seulement il est noir. Cela fait beaucoup et c’est pour cela que l’on rit de bon cœur. D’autant plus que papa et maman ne se sentent pas racistes. Papa est gaulliste et ils font du racisme comme monsieur Jourdain fait de la prose. Pourtant ils sont sympathiques. Certains passages sont même émouvants. Cela ne peut pas passer pour une certaine gauche. Surtout que dans ce film, tout le monde il est gentil mais tout le monde il est raciste. Le Chinois par rapport à l’arabe et au juif et l’arabe par rapport au juif et au chinois et  le juif par rapport à l’arabe et au chinois et les 3 par rapport au noir.

Quand au père du jeune ivoirien, pas immigré lui, il est encore plus raciste que le papa français et assume son racisme anti-blanc, ce qui n’empêchera pas les deux pères, la veille du mariage, de devenir les meilleurs amis du monde. Ce film est objectivement une réussite. Il est cependant trompeur.

La France dépeinte n’existe plus 

Ce racisme sans conséquences n’est plus d’actualité. C’est une France où l’on accueille l’autre avec méfiance et bienveillance mais où l’autre ne tente pas d‘imposer, de dominer. On est très loin des « racailles » de banlieue même si elles sont présentes, car le jeune algérien marié à une fille Verneuil est avocat et on le voit défendre, commis d’office, ceux qu’il qualifie de « capuches sans cerveaux ». Une France avec une diversité marginale et exotique et pas, comme c’est le cas, une diversité de peuplement et de substitution  de populations et de mode de vie. La comédie est exploitée par les antiracistes politiques pour prouver que le pays a changé et que finalement, il faut accepter dans la bonne humeur d’être tous des Verneuil, des familles «Benneton » comme le dit, lors d’une messe, un  habitant de la localité.

Comme Intouchables, autre immense succès populaire, le long métrage de Philippe de Chauveron pourrait être interprété comme la métaphore d'une France vieillissante et rance qui aurait besoin des enfants de l'immigration pour se régénérer. Mais il est beaucoup plus « non politiquement correct ». Ce ton  fait que ce film avec ses formules hilarantes serait impossible aux Usa.

Dans le Figaro, Alexandre Devecchio voit bien ce qui fait peur à l’idéologie dominante. « Le film dit, sur le ton de la comédie, ce qu'Eric Zemmour et Alain Finkielkraut ne peuvent plus exprimer sans déclencher les foudres des justiciers auto-proclamés de l'antiracisme? Et si l'impressionnant succès du film était justement dû à son absence de tabou ? Le réalisateur nie avoir voulu réaliser un film politique. Mais derrière son apparent formatage, Qu'est-ce qu'on fait au bon Dieu? est peut-être la comédie la plus anticonformiste jamais produite par TF1. » Certains seraient déjà d’ailleurs dans le collimateur des censeurs auto proclamés.

De son coté  Le Monde constate. « Le film de Philippe de Chauveron, fait actuellement exploser tous les compteurs du box-office français. Accueil critique ? Inexistant, aucune projection de presse n’ayant précédé sa sortie. Bouche-à-oreille ? Exceptionnel, à tel point que les deux plus gros succès du cinéma français, Intouchables (19,44 millions d’entrées) et même Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis (20,48 millions) ne paraissent pas hors d’atteinte. Visible sur Internet, l’efficace bande-annonce laisse présager le pire : 1,58 min de clichés raciaux ou racistes, on ne sait trop, en tous genres. Quel est donc ce film qui fait salle comble aussi bien à Paris qu’en régions ? Un ersatz cinématographique des thèmes chers au Front national ? L’affaire est plus compliquée. »

Ils ne pensent qu’à ça le front national. Le film participerait à la banalisation de ses thèmes. C’est un peu vrai, il permet de ne pas se sentir coupable de penser comme Clavier. Et ils craignent au Monde ce succès populaire. « Curieux film, laissant présager le pire dans sa première moitié, que l’on finit parfois par trouver drôle, y compris à son corps défendant. Derrière le message de tolérance qu’il entend délivrer – vive la différence, vive les mariages mixtes – se profile pourtant quelque chose de plus ambigu, une manière, certes comique mais tout de même, de vouloir banaliser sinon le racisme, du moins les propos racistes. »

En France on rit encore de bon cœur du racisme bon enfant des identités diverses et des clichés qui ont la vie dure. La critique est mal à l’aise, le public raffole… une fois de plus les fausses élites ne comprennent rien au peuple et veulent lui imposer ses choix et ses goûts… en vain. Le racisme de la prétention des fausses élites est en échec et lui ne fait plus rire personne depuis longtemps.

300. Naissance d’une nation

300. Naissance d’une nation

par Thomas Ferrier

Ex: http://thomasferrier.hautetfort.com

 

La suite attendue du film « 300 » de Zach Snyder, intitulée « l’Avènement d’un Empire » (Rise of an Empire), est récemment sortie sur nos écrans. A la musique, Tyler Bates a cédé la place à Junkie XL, qui nous propose une bande originale brillante, finissant en apothéose en mêlant  son dernier morceau à une mélodie de Black Sabbath.

Comme dans le premier film, c’est un récit qui nous est proposé, jusqu’à l’extrême fin. La reine spartiate Gorgo raconte ainsi la vie de Thémistocle, le héros athénien du film, jusqu’à ce que ses troupes interviennent d’une manière décisive à Salamine. Les nombreuses invraisemblances et les libertés prises avec l’histoire sont ainsi justifiées. Il faut les admettre pour profiter pleinement du message optimiste du film.

L’ouverture avec un Xerxès décapitant Léonidas mort correspond au récit traditionnel. Quant à la « naissance » du dieu-roi, concept contraire à la tradition zoroastrienne, grande oubliée du film, la jeunesse de Xerxès, assistant impuissant au parcours d’une flèche de Thémistocle perforant l’armure de Darius, son père, est narrée, ainsi que la manipulation dont il est la victime par Artémise, jouée par Eva Green, mégère inapprivoisée avide de sang vengeur.

A l’incendie de Sardes par les Athéniens, qui sera le véritable déclencheur de la guerre avec les Perses, le scénariste a préféré « accuser » Thémistocle, personnage tragique, à la fois responsable des malheurs de son peuple et vainqueur ultime de ses ennemis.

A la grandeur sobre et un peu égoïste de Léonidas dans le premier film, Thémistocle est un idéaliste, rêvant d’une Grèce rassemblée et même d’une nation grecque. Le voici émule avant l’heure d’Isocrate. Son discours sur la nécessaire unité de la Grèce au-delà des querelles de cités rappelle celui des véritables européistes, partisans d’une Europe-Nation. Gorgo est davantage souverainiste, estimant que Sparte a « assez donné », mais elle saura faire son devoir et venir en renfort. C’est ainsi que Spartiates et Athéniens unis écrasent la marine perse, tandis qu’Artémise meure dans les bras de son ennemi.

Et même le traître du premier film, le bossu Ephialtès, sert à sa manière la Grèce en invitant Xerxès à attaquer Thémistocle, alors qu’il sait que ce dernier a prévu un piège dans lequel les Perses vont s’engouffrer. Les Spartiates, à l’instar des Rohirrim menés par Gandalf dans « Les deux tours », arrivent à la rescousse, avec à leur tête une nouvelle Valkyrie, une Gorgo marchant l’épée dressée. Même si la Sparte historique traitait ses femmes avec une quasi égalité, on ne verrait pourtant jamais une femme au combat.

Si le message du premier film était celui opposant 300 Européens au monde entier, la dimension cosmopolite de l’armée perse a été adoucie. A l’exception d’un émissaire perse, vu dans le premier film, les généraux et soldats perses pourraient passer pour des Iraniens. En revanche, le message du second est offensif. Après la résistance, la reconquête. Certes, au bord de l’abîme, tout comme l’Europe ne s’unira qu’à proximité du tombeau, selon Nietzsche. La reconquête et l’unité. Tous les Grecs combattent désormais ensemble. Historiquement, c’est bien sûr faux. Thessaliens et Grecs d’Asie mineure étaient dans l’armée perse, et Thèbes jouait double jeu. La mort héroïque de Léonidas, habilement exploitée par Thémistocle, sert de mythe mobilisateur. La Grèce a eu ses martyrs. L'Europe n'a pas encore eu les siens.

Le message politique de Thémistocle, appliqué à la Grèce mais qui pourrait tout aussi bien l’être à l’Europe, est fort. La ruine d’Athènes, incendiée par Xerxès, est également un moment décisif du film. Bien que nous sachions que Salamine fut une victoire grecque, la dimension tragique de leur combat apparaît nettement. Monté sur un cheval de guerre qui saute de bâteau en bâteau comme s’il était Pégase, Thémistocle pourfend les ennemis de son épée, jusqu’à combattre et vaincre Artémise, tandis que Xerxès s’éloigne, sentant l’ombre de la défaite.

Le film est un hymne à l’unité de l’Europe, ce qui est bien surprenant pour une production américaine, au cœur même de l’assemblée d’Athènes. En pleine crise, la Grèce se retrouve à nouveau comme préfiguration de l’Europe de demain, qui reste à bâtir. Une Grèce qui lutte pour la démocratie autour d’Athènes, aidée d’une Sparte qui pourtant n’y croit guère. L’alliance d’Athènes et de Sparte, c’est l’alliance de l’Union Européenne et de la Russie face à un empire qui menace ses libertés, un empire qui a reçu l’aide de renégats (Artémise, Ephialtès) qui agissent contre leur propre peuple.

Thomas FERRIER (LBTF/PSUNE)

Hercule, un Jésus européen ?

Hercule, un Jésus européen?

par Thomas Ferrier

Ex: http://thomasferrier.hautetfort.com

« Hercules, the legend begins » est enfin sorti sur les écrans français après avoir connu un terrible échec commercial, il y a deux mois, aux Etats-Unis. On pouvait donc craindre le pire, malgré une bande annonce des plus alléchantes. Après avoir vu ce film, que j’ai pour ma part beaucoup apprécié, je m’interroge sur le pourquoi de cette descente en flammes et de ce qui a déplu à la critique.

Bien sûr, dans cette Grèce du XIIIème siècle avant notre ère, il y a de nombreux anachronismes comme des combats de gladiateurs ou encore la conquête de l’Egypte. Si de beaux efforts graphiques ont été faits, on se trouve dans une Grèce de légende, à mi-chemin entre la Grèce mycénienne et la Grèce classique. Et de même, la légende du héros, avec les douze travaux, est absente ou malmenée, alors que de nouveaux éléments s’ajoutent, comme une rivalité entre Héraclès et son frère Iphiclès. Tout cela a pu surprendre un public habitué à ces classiques.

Et pourtant de nombreuses idées audacieuses se sont glissées dans ce film et le rendent passionnant. Ainsi, la vie d’Hercule s’apparente par certains aspects à celle de Jésus. De nombreux films américains, à l’instar de Man of Steel, la comparaison implicite est patente. Dans « Hercules », elle est voulue mais détournée. Alcmène s’unit à Zeus sans que le dieu apparaisse, se manifestant par une tempête accompagnée d’éclairs. Cela ne vous rappelle rien ? De même, Hercule est fouetté et attaché par les deux bras dans une scène rappelant la crucifixion. Mais il en sort vainqueur, brisant ses liens, et écrasant grâce à deux énormes blocs de pierre attachés par des chaînes à ses bras tous ses ennemis. Enfin, il devient concrètement roi à la fin de son aventure, ne se revendiquant pas simplement « roi de son peuple » mais roi véritable.

Bien sûr, ce « Jésus » aux muscles imposants mais sobres, à la pigmentation claire et aux cheveux blonds, n’a pas la même morale. Fils du maître de l’univers, dont il finit par accepter la paternité, Zeus en personne, il tue ses ennemis, jusqu’à son propre père adoptif, combat avec une férocité qui en ferait l’émule d’Arès, et semble quasi insensible à la douleur. Une scène le présente même recevant sur son épée la foudre de Zeus qu’il utilise ensuite comme une sorte de fouet électrique pour terrasser les combattants qui lui font face.

Par ailleurs, la « diversité » est réduite à sa plus petite expression, limitée à des mercenaires égyptiens, crédibles dans leur rôle. Les Grecs en revanche sont tous bien européens, avec des traits parfois nordiques. Il n’est pas question comme dans « Les Immortels » ou « Alexandre » de voir des afro-américains en armure ou jouant les Roxanes. En revanche, on retrouve davantage l’esprit de Troie, l’impiété en moins. En effet, cette fois les athées ont le mauvais rôle à l’instar du roi de Tirynthe Amphitryon. Hercule lui-même, qui ne croit pas dans l’existence des dieux pendant une bonne partie du film, finit par se revendiquer explicitement de la filiation de Zeus et la prouver. En outre, Hercules rappelle par certains côtés le premier Conan, puisque le héros est trahi et fait prisonnier, puis s’illustre dans des combats dans l’arène d’une grande intensité, bondissant tel un fauve pour fracasser le crâne d’un ennemi, mais il reste toujours chevaleresque, protégeant les femmes et les enfants.

A certains moments, le film semble même s’inspirer des traits guerriers qu’un Breker donnait à ses statues. Kellan Lutz n’est sans doute pas un acteur d’une expression théâtrale saisissante mais il est parfaitement dans son rôle. Si les douze travaux se résument à étrangler le lion de Némée, à vaincre de puissants ennemis mais qui demeurent humains, et à reconquérir sa cité, son caractère semi-divin, même si le personnage refuse tout hybris, est non seulement respecté mais amplifié. En ce sens, Hercule apparaît comme un Jésus païen et nordique, mais aussi un Jésus guerrier et vengeur, donc très loin bien sûr du Jésus chrétien. Fils de Dieu, sa morale est celle des Européens, une morale héroïque.

Toutefois, bien sûr, certains aspects modernes apparaissent, comme la relation romantique entre Hercule et Hébé, déesse de la jeunesse qu’il épousera après sa mort dans le mythe grec, et le triomphe de l’amour sur le mariage politique. C’est bien sûr anachronique. Mais « la légende d’Hercule » ne se veut pas un film historique.

Enfin, la morale est sauve puisque dans le film, Héra autorise Zeus à la tromper, alors que dans le mythe classique elle met le héros à l’épreuve par jalousie, afin de faire naître un sauveur. Zeus ne peut donc être « adultère ». Cela donne du sens au nom du héros, expliqué comme « le don d’Héra », alors qu’il signifie précisément « la gloire d’Héra », expression énigmatique quand on connaît la haine de la déesse envers le héros. Pour s’exprimer, Héra pratique l’enthousiasme sur une de ses prêtresses, habitant son corps pour transmettre ses messages. C’est conforme à la tradition religieuse grecque.

Les défauts du film sont mineurs par rapport à ses qualités, graphiques comme scénaristiques, mais ce qui a dû nécessairement déranger c’est qu’il est trop païen, trop européen, trop héroïque, qu’il singe le christianisme pour mieux s’y opposer. Le fils de Dieu est marié et a un enfant (à la fin du film). Le fils de Dieu n’accepte pas d’être emmené à la mort mais triomphe de ses bourreaux. Le fils de Dieu devient « roi des Grecs ». Enfin le fils de Dieu apparaît comme tel aux yeux de tous et n’est pas rejeté par son propre peuple. Ce film ne pouvait donc que déranger une société américaine qui va voir des films où Thor lance la foudre, où Léonidas et ses « 300 » combattent jusqu’à la mort avec une ironie mordante, mais qui reste très chrétienne, très puritaine et hypocrite.

Thomas FERRIER (LBTF/PSUNE)

Taxi Driver

Feminism versus Marriage

Feminism versus Marriage in Virginia Van Upp’s Honeymoon in Bali (1939)

By Andrew Hamilton 

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com

Feminism is a major destructive force. Anti-male, anti-family, and anti-white, it is today a key ideological pillar of the ruling class. It is therefore necessary to look to the past in an attempt to identify healthy folkways associated with male-female relationships, sex, marriage, and family.

A 1939 romantic comedy called Honeymoon in Bali (1939) starring Scottish (or part-Scottish) American actor Fred MacMurray and English-born half-Irish (father), half-French (mother) actress Madeleine Carroll (born Marie-Madeleine Bernadette O’Carroll), sheds light on the conflict between feminism and marriage in 1930s America from the perspective of a successful, high-level female executive, Hollywood screenwriter Virginia Van Upp, who lived the feminist dream.

MacMurray is best known as the dishonest insurance salesman in Double Indemnity (1944), the star of several 1960-era Disney comedies, and the affable, pipe smoking dad in the TV series My Three Sons (1960–1972). Madeleine Carroll’s romantic appeal can be seen to best advantage in two movie classics, Alfred Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps (1935) and The Prisoner of Zenda (1937).

Honeymoon in Bali bore the alternative titles Husbands or Lovers (in the UK) and My Love for Yours (on video). Prior to release the working title—revealingly—was Are Husbands Necessary? Paramount, the studio that produced the film, later used that title for an unrelated 1942 movie starring Ray Milland and Betty Field.

Bali was based on short stories by Grace Sartwell Mason ^[2] in the Saturday Evening Post and the novel Free Woman (1936) by New York City WASP writer Katharine Brush, whose work was often compared to that of F. Scott Fitzgerald. At her death at age 49 in 1952, the New York Times characterized Brush’s fiction as “entertaining, brittle, superficial and in revolt against sentimentality and other qualities of the Victorian period.”

The real force behind Honeymoon in Bali, however, was Paramount Pictures screenwriter Virginia Van Upp. Though little-known today, she was an influential behind-the-scenes figure in the Jewish movie colony. (The Chicago-born Van Upp was apparently of Dutch descent.)

Van Upp’s mother had been an editor and title writer for silent movie producer Thomas H. Ince, the son of English immigrants. Ince was a seminal figure in the history of motion pictures. A visionary who died at age 42, he pioneered the studio system and shaped the art, craft, and business of motion picture producing as much as D. W. Griffith did that of directing.

Virginia, who was born in 1902 and began as a child actress in silent films, worked her way up from script girl, cutter, reader, and casting director to screenwriter at Paramount in the mid-1930s. As executive producer of Columbia Pictures in the 1940s, she was second-in-command to Jewish studio boss Harry Cohn, which made her one of the most powerful women in Hollywood. The scriptwriter of Cover Girl (1944) and producer of Gilda (1946), she was responsible for making Rita Hayworth a star. According to Cohn’s biographer Bob Thomas, “Miss Van Upp did not want to assume the heavy duties of executive producer because she had a husband and daughter. But she succumbed to Cohn’s overwhelming persuasion.”

Besides her energy, talent, and work ethic, a major reason for Van Upp’s success was her instinctive grasp of the need for teamwork and compromise, meeting schedules and deadlines, turning a profit, and making a product people would pay to see—in other words, the nitty-gritty of getting things done in the real world, consistently turning out film after film that would entertain millions of viewers and eventually provide endless fodder for critics and academics to analyze. Many Hollywood writers and directors never entirely mastered this essential skill, as Van Upp’s uncredited cleaning up of director Orson Welles’ sloppy and over-budget The Lady from Shanghai (1948) demonstrated.

It is only because Bali undoubtedly reflected Van Upp’s sensibility about male-female relationships to a high degree that it is worth examining. Unfortunately, the film itself is unexceptional, even as entertainment. It is a routine Hollywood programmer, nothing more. Using the 1- to 4-star scale employed by Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide, I rate it **1/2 (average). (The Movie Guide rates it ***—above average. Under its system, even that half-star is significant.)

That said, a black blogger, a former TV host on cable’s VH1, caught the movie by accident recently (I watched it because I knew Van Upp had written it) and had a response to it as strongly positive as mine was to Van Upp’s romantic comedy The Crystal Ball (1943). So colorblind and lacking in racial rancor was his review ^[4] that I thought the writer was white until I saw his picture beside the article after finishing it.

Van Upp first came to my attention after watching The Crystal Ball (I closely study movie credits), a much better Paramount romantic comedy she authored starring half-Jewish actress Paulette Goddard, Welshman Ray Milland (who had a colorful background as an expert marksman and rider in an elite unit of the British Army, the Household Cavalry, before becoming an actor), and English beauty Virginia Field, whose mother was a cousin of General Robert E. Lee.

To my mind, The Crystal Ball was exceptionally well-written and acted—very funny, highly enjoyable entertainment. I consider it better than many more famous romantic comedies of the period, including The Lady Eve and The Male Animal.

Honeymoon in Bali contains the usual quota of character conflicts. To cite one example, Carroll has a rival for MacMurray’s attention, a young woman played by Osa Massen, a light-hearted, “horribly rich” European Balinese girl who attempted suicide after MacMurray rejected her lovelorn advances when she was 17. I mistakenly assumed from Massen’s accent and appearance that she was German. In fact she was Danish. She was profiled in the book Strangers in Hollywood: The History of Scandinavian Actors in American Films from 1910 to World War II (1994).

However, the primary theme of the movie is the internal conflict Carroll experiences between her desire to continue her unfettered lifestyle and professional career as the successful manager of a Fifth Avenue department store in New York City, and her desire to marry a romantic stranger, a businessman from Bali (MacMurray).

Madeleine Carroll’s internal conflict between her desire for independence and the feeling that she should subordinate herself to a man (with the latter impulse ultimately winning out), parallels similar themes in the Broadway play and movie The Women (1939) by Clare Boothe Luce, about which I have previously ^[5] written. Luce, too, came down strongly on the side of marriage and family. (Interestingly, “family” there consisted merely of a husband, wife, and one biological child—a notably truncated conception of family. That story, like Van Upp’s, was really focused on the dyadic husband-wife relationship rather than family in the true sense.) Yet, like Van Upp, Luce maintained an independent professional life immeasurably superior to the vast majority of American men, making her something of a heroine among mainstream feminists.

I noted that the Norma Shearer character in The Women embodied Luce’s family-oriented values. I also said that only one other female in the cast came off sympathetically—Miriam Aarons, played in the movie by Paulette Goddard. Aarons was a somewhat hardboiled but independent-minded and sympathetic character with a Jewish name, but no discernible Jewish characteristics. (Luce was a shameless philo-Semite, which was enormously beneficial to her professionally, as I’m sure she knew perfectly well.)

What initially escaped me was that Aarons also represented Luce. Rather than establishing an internal conflict within a single character as Van Upp did in Bali, Luce split herself in two as it were, presenting her nurturing values in the form of Shearer’s character, and her harder-edged, feminist-oriented sensibility in the person of Aarons.

In Bali, Carroll’s conviction that career success and non-marriage represent the superior option are expressed throughout the film. She insists that she is perfectly happy and doesn’t want to get married. A disdainful running counterpoint to Carroll’s philosophy is provided by her second cousin and best friend, Smitty (actress Helen Broderick), a successful “old maid” novelist (as Carroll/Van Upp calls her).

After MacMurray responds to Carroll’s statement that she doesn’t believe in marriage by asserting that women “need the protection of a man,” she snorts, “The protection of a man! I know of more women taking care of no-good husbands and loafing brothers.”

In a key piece of dialogue she continues, “I earn a salary that makes most men’s look sick. I’m the boss. I have a charming apartment run by a competent maid, and I’m the boss there too. I have plenty of escorts—whenever I want them . . .” MacMurray: “I suppose you’re the boss there, too.” Carroll, ignoring him: “. . . and I haven’t a single encumbrance to worry me, and the most precious thing of all—absolute personal freedom. [Emphasis added.] Now for what reason under the sun do I need a husband?”

^[6]

Are husbands necessary? Contemporary Italian-American TV producer Alison Martino relaxing at home. A baby boomer, her show business family/career background is similar to, if far less illustrious than, Van Upp’s.

The only “positive” she raises—in order to reject it—is “love,” averring, “I don’t intend to fall in love, either. Love muddles you up . . . it throws you.”

She’s referring to fleeting, evanescent romantic love, which is as rooted in egoism as are the other values she enumerates. Over time, it vanishes under the pressure of everyday life. There must be a stronger foundation than “love”—whatever it may be—to sustain a successful, long-term marriage and family.

Carroll informs her friend Smitty that MacMurray is “lazy, not very good-looking, makes $50 a week, and ruins my disposition. I’m as cross as a bear when I’m around him.” Of course, she’s already in love at that point. But outside of a romance novel or movie such as this, a marriage between two such different people who hardly know one another represents a crapshoot. Such a union requires romantic “love” to carry far more weight than it can possibly bear. MacMurray’s paltry “$50 a week” and “laziness” alone would eventually kill the deal.

Only a tiny portion of the story at the end actually takes place in Bali, an island province of Indonesia. The main setting is New York City. “Bali” functions as a delusive, exotic, Rousseauian-, Shangri-La-, Margaret Mead-style utopian backdrop signifying fantasy happiness someplace else.

Of course, factors other than Van Upp’s personal views impinged upon the story. For example, producers must have had an influence. The director, too, though in this case Van Upp was undoubtedly the primary auteur, not Edward H. Griffith, a competent but undistinguished director. An eagle eye on box office appeal would also have played a role. Finally, important elements of the tale must have been derived from the underlying stories by Mason and Brush. Nevertheless, everything was filtered through Van Upp’s sensibility. To the extent that the original stories were a factor, they nevertheless represented white women’s views also. At least partially representative of the population, they, like the movie, fed back into the populace, altering and shaping, consciously and unconsciously, the values and beliefs of readers and moviegoers.

In real life MacMurray was 31 and Madeleine Carroll 33 when the movie was made, so they were not spring chickens in terms of marriage or reproductive fitness. If Carroll’s character is assumed to be the same age as the actress—which is implied by her status and career accomplishments—the couple would have had to work fast in order to have two or three children before her fertility window closed ^[7]. A large family would have been out of the question. (In demographic terms, two children per couple represents replacement of themselves; it does not signify replacement of the population as a whole, much less population expansion, due to people who die young or otherwise fail to marry, reproduce, or have more than one child.)

While the film is laser-focused on landing a husband (thus, a male companion in the context of marriage), the idea of a traditional large family with many children, or any children at all, for that matter, is downplayed. The only child in the picture is a small orphan girl the couple eventually adopt—and she’s primarily consigned to the care of the help, both in New York and Bali.

Thus, the idea of “family” remains implicit at best. Indeed, it is probably subordinate to the idea of companionate marriage ^[8]. Even as they age, the two principals remain “young” and attractive and do not embrace, or advance into, the maturity, responsibility, and unglamorousness of motherhood and fatherhood. It is interesting that ’30s moviegoers readily accepted this extension of youth into relatively mature adulthood.

When Carroll first meets MacMurray and learns he is from Bali, she is deeply intrigued by the unusual sexual relationships this suggests. Much of their exchange on this subject is conveyed indirectly by subtle and sophisticated innuendo, including facial expressions.

Are Balinese girls really that pretty? she asks. Yes. There aren’t many white women out there, are there? No. Do you marry the Balinese girls? A flat “No,” accompanied by a decisive shake of the head. I suppose some of the (white) men . . . (have sex with the Balinese girls). Yes (indirectly). “Do you have a girl out there?”

MacMurray replies that he has five: one to do the cooking, one the housecleaning, one to care for his clothing . . . and one to dance for him. “But that’s only four,” she protests. He responds with a significant look. (The fifth is for sex.) This does not put Carroll off, but makes him more intriguing in her eyes. Later, after she abandons New York to follow MacMurray to Bali, narrowly averting his impending marriage to Osa Massen, she learns that he’s a decent chap after all—he only has one woman, an elderly Balinese servant who keeps house for him. But, of course, she didn’t know that when she abandoned career and country to pursue him.

This raises the interesting presence of a conspicuous alpha male/beta male distinction in Van Upp’s film.

MacMurray, of course, is the alpha male, a fact conveyed by a variety of different methods. From the outset he pursues Carroll aggressively, unabashed by her status, position, or superior wealth, yet somehow remaining aloof and seemingly indifferent to her at the same time. In a key scene, after pursuing her to the Bahamas when she flees his marriage proposal, he forces himself upon her, kissing her against her will as she struggles, saying, “You’re lying that you don’t love me. You’re afraid you’ll have to give up Morrissey’s and go back to being Miss Nobody. I’m only doing this because you don’t want me to. It’s the only way I know to hurt you, and it’s killing you, and I’m laughing,” before thrusting her contemptuously to the sand and departing. Keep in mind that this was written by a woman—indeed, a highly successful career woman. (A white conservative lady who saw the movie opined on her blog ^[9] that MacMurray’s character was “too aggressive.”)

The beta rival for Carroll’s affection is Eric Sinclair, played by Welsh American singer-actor Allan Jones, a professional opera singer who has known Carroll for many years. His attitudes toward marriage are much different from MacMurray’s. He believes a woman can have marriage and a career both, as Carroll tells MacMurray while the three are returning to her apartment in Eric’s chauffeur-driven car. “He even believes,” she adds, “that if a [married] woman wanted to have her own apartment, and he [the husband] his own apartment . . .” her voice trailing off lamely because the words sound so foolish when spoken aloud. Eric thinks MacMurray’s view of marriage “sounds a bit barbaric.” (At another point in the film, though, he wonders, “What’s this guy got? What’s his technique?”) When MacMurray escorts Carroll to her door, she scolds him, saying, “That was rude of you, trying to hold my hand in another man’s car.”

When Carroll eventually proposes marriage to Eric under the mistaken impression that MacMurray has married rival Osa Massen, and Eric accepts (note the irony of the woman proposing to the man), she receives contrary advice from a plebeian window washer at Morrissey’s (Armenian actor Akim Tamiroff) whose counsel she sometimes heeds. Tamiroff is decisive in his preference for MacMurray over the highly cultured Eric:

“The first gentleman may be a fine gentleman, but he’s no gentleman for you. Your kind of a woman needs a guy, not a fine gentleman. The second one, he’s a guy. The first gentleman will let you be the boss, and a woman ain’t supposed to be the boss. Your kind of a woman needs a boss man.”

To top it off, Eric ultimately steps gallantly aside after he has won the lady’s hand (“He’s the nicest man I know,” Carroll praises him at one point) in order to facilitate MacMurray’s and Carroll’s hooking up.

Two religious passages play a key role in the plot.

First, MacMurray calls off his marriage to Massen at the last minute because of a chance remark by a priest the day before the wedding:

The Balinese never marry except for love, and once they are married only death parts them. Marriage is such a wonder to me. The thing that happens between a man and a woman to make them want no one on this earth but each other. It is a frightening thing, really, because it is their responsibility to keep that fragile bond intact and living. In every union there is a mystery, a certain invisible bond which must not be disturbed.

Marrying Massen, whom MacMurray does not love, would be a mistake because of the absence of this invisible bond. Apart from being right about the “fragile bond,” this is an overly romantic view of marriage.

Madeleine Carroll’s epiphany comes after she falls ill and is hospitalized in New York. The doctors couldn’t discover what was wrong with her. But finally “a wise man” informed her that long ago it was said that “It is not good for man to live alone”—and that this meant women, too. (Though not mentioned, this is a paraphrase of Genesis 2:18—I always pay attention to whether someone is quoting the Old or the New Testament, and how much from either.)

She confesses to MacMurray, “He said that however carefully a woman may have organized her life, that a husband and children were necessary to make her complete. It’s like going about with one arm . . . you’re missing something. But you don’t always know how important those things are until you’ve let them go by. Then you have to pay, any woman does, with an awful loneliness.” The unidentified wise man further explained that this loneliness had been lying in wait for Carroll for a long time, and closed in on her after MacMurray left, making her sick.

End of a Career

Van Upp’s departure from Columbia and moviemaking in 1947 was the result of an unspecified falling out with studio boss Harry Cohn, a legendary jerk. (Of Cohn’s impressively-attended funeral in 1958, comedian Red Skelton joked, “It proves what Harry always said: give the public what they want and they’ll come out for it.”)

Under Cohn Columbia was run like “a private police state,” which, Nineteen Eighty-Four-style, included listening devices concealed on every sound stage through which Cohn could, and did, secretly monitor conversations on any set at will. This kind of mentality and behavior obviously lifts one race far above others. It doesn’t require exceptional imagination to comprehend the immeasurable advantage and tremendous power conferred, particularly when combined with unscrupulousness and criminality. Yet whites will not grasp this and many other simple realities, no matter how much evidence they have about Communism, Zionism, or Jewish behavior generally. The victims in such cases are bound to lose unless they take adequate compensatory measures to protect themselves and then strike back.

According to Bob Thomas’ King Cohn: The Life and Times of Harry Cohn (1967), the producer was an admirer of Mussolini prior to the latter’s link-up with Hitler. Cohn met the dictator in Italy, where he received an award after releasing the successful and flattering documentary Mussolini Speaks (1933). (This has never been released on DVD. You can watch a 10-minute clip from the film here ^[10]. The narrator is radio newsman Lowell Thomas.) Bob Thomas includes a short chapter in his book entitled “A Visit to Il Duce, and How It Affected the Cohn Style.”

Cohn also maintained connections with organized crime, including Chicago’s John Roselli and Jewish gangster Abner “Longie” Zwillman. Like many Jews he used violence or the threat of violence to obtain and keep money and power. (It was mob money from Zwillman that enabled Cohn to buy out a partner during his early years, giving him full control of the studio.)

Married twice to white women, Cohn regularly demanded and received sexual favors from white actresses in exchange for employment. Like so many Hollywood executives of the time, he was a forerunner of today’s ubiquitous “adult film industry” pimp-pornographers.

With respect to Van Upp, Bob Thomas observed that Cohn “needed to find one area of vulnerability [in order to dominate and control her]. It wasn’t drinking. It wasn’t any secret in her personal life [note the Jew’s systematic probing for vulnerabilities and deliberate, callous exploitation of human frailties—another unflattering reason why the race is dominant]; she was happily married to a radio director, Ralph Nelson. [Nelson was her second husband; they had a daughter together, but divorced in 1949.] It wasn’t even money, the temptation with which Cohn had snared many a victim.”

Instead, he used his authority as studio head to attempt to extort sex from her. Van Upp spurned his unwelcome advances, convinced, according to Thomas, that Cohn was “a verbal rapist” who had no intention of going through with the affair. Even so, she demanded that her contract as executive producer include a clause prohibiting her boss from engaging in “verbal rape.” Appalled at how this would look, after a two-hour argument Cohn finally agreed to a handshake deal instead. (He had not lied to her in the past.) The issue never came up again.

By 1947 Van Upp had wearied of overseeing Columbia’s entire motion picture output and “felt the need to resume her marriage.” She therefore took an extended leave of absence, but by the time she returned, “Cohn’s need for her was over” (Thomas, King Cohn).

It is easy to see how the feminist/anti-feminist themes that dominate Honeymoon in Bali overlap with actual tensions in Van Upp’s life between her role as a highly successful businesswoman and her desire to be a wife and mother. Of course, such a desire was more widespread in Van Upp’s day than ours. Today such values have largely been eliminated from the white population, as many bizarre pronouncements by women, men, and authority figures make agonizingly clear. The economic prerequisites necessary for successful family formation so often emphasized by Benjamin Franklin also militate against the family, as do hostile laws and police behavior courtesy of the state.

 

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Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/11/feminism-versus-marriage-in-virginia-van-upps-honeymoon-in-bali-1939/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Honeymoon_in_Bali_film_poster.jpg

[2] Grace Sartwell Mason: http://www.bradfordera.com/news/article_7e49db5a-d7f0-5949-8389-306e7beb5935.html

[3] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Virginia-Van-Upp-R.-with-Rita-Hayworth-Glenn-Ford.jpg

[4] his review: http://bobbyriverstv.blogspot.com/2013/08/fred-macmurray-gets-bali-high.html

[5] about which I have previously: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/02/clare-boothe-luces-the-women-2/

[6] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/TV-Producer-Alison-Martino-West-Hollywood-home1.jpg

[7] before her fertility window closed: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/07/population-age-structure-fertility/

[8] companionate marriage: http://www.thefreedictionary.com/companionate+marriage

[9] opined on her blog: http://laurasmiscmusings.blogspot.com/2009/12/tonights-movie-honeymoon-in-bali-1939.html

[10] here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1ZJVgB8POg

Mesrine : L’instinct de mort

Chronique de film:

Mesrine : L’instinct de mort / L’ennemi public n°1, des films de Jean-François Richet (France, 2008)

Ex: http://cerclenonconforme.hautetfort.com/

 

Le « Grand Jacques »… Non, nous n’évoquerons pas ici Jacques Doriot mais un autre Jacques qui fut parfois nommé tel de par son singulier parcours criminel : Mesrine, l’homme qui fut, dans les années 1970, celui après qui couraient toutes les polices de France et fut alors désigné « ennemi public n°1 ». Il y a 5 ans, le cinéaste français Jean-François Richet consacra au légendaire bandit deux films de grande qualité dont nous allons parler maintenant. Ce n’est pas la première fois que Mesrine est honoré au cinéma (il l’a déjà été plusieurs fois) mais l’on constate que l’intérêt - la fascination ?-  est toujours vif envers certaines grandes figures du banditisme de ces années-là, pensons par exemple à Albert Spaggiari… Pourquoi ? Car dans notre époque morne et aseptisée, l’audace et les prises de risque qui furent réelles de la part de ces hommes qui détroussaient les riches et les banques font parfois que l’on a tendance à voir en eux de grands rebelles qui osaient décider de ce qu’était leur liberté et de s’opposer d’une certaine façon à la société de leur temps. Quoi qu’on pense de leur parcours, il laisse rarement indifférent.

 

L’Instinct de mort traite des débuts de Jacques Mesrine dans la criminalité tandis que L’ennemi public n°1 se base sur son parcours dans les années 1970. Du début des années 1960 à sa mort le 2 novembre 1979, ce sont donc la vingtaine d’années de carrière de Mesrine dans le banditisme qui sont ici évoquées en deux films durant, en tout, près de 4 heures. Malgré cette longueur, il est évident que tout ne pouvait être dit sur Mesrine mais les choix réalisés ont été heureux et les inévitables éléments de fiction accolés aux faits habilement choisis.

 

Jacques Mesrine, qui servit comme soldat durant la guerre d’Algérie, rentre en France en 1959. Originaire d’une famille bourgeoise de Clichy, il ne tarde pas à réaliser que la vie de monsieur-tout-le-monde n’est pas pour lui et intègre un groupe de truands plus ou moins affiliés à l’OAS avec qui il réalise ses premiers coups. Ceci n’est que le début d’une longue fresque criminelle où Mesrine va défrayer la chronique, tant en France qu’à l’étranger (au Canada notamment) et alterner avec différents complices, parfois hauts en couleurs eux aussi, attaques à main armée (sur des banques, maisons de haute couture, casinos…), kidnappings de riches personnages, périodes de prison et spectaculaires évasions d’établissements de haute sécurité (la Santé à Paris par exemple). Entretenant son image d’ « ennemi public n°1 », Mesrine écrit en prison mais surtout utilise la presse pour magnifier son personnage, faire différentes revendications et critiquer voire menacer le Système et son arsenal judicaire. Incapable de freiner ses ardeurs, il va même jusqu’à torturer et laisser pour mort un journaliste de Minute qui l’avait calomnié. Recherché, traqué par toutes les polices de France, il est froidement abattu le 2 novembre 1979 à Paris, porte de Clignancourt par les hommes du commissaire Broussard, qui lui courait après depuis des années.

 

Le scénario décrit plus haut suit donc Mesrine d’une manière chronologique en s’arrêtant évidemment sur les évènements les plus marquants de sa vie. Le personnage est quant à lui traité d’une manière assez objective à mon sens même si l’on sent bien une certaine sympathie pour lui de la part du réalisateur… Mesrine nous est montré comme un homme ne doutant jamais de lui-même ou de ses choix de vie : seule importe pour lui sa liberté d’action qu’il n’hésite jamais à défendre de la manière la plus violente possible. Extrêmement charismatique, il joue beaucoup de ce trait de personnalité envers les autres, en particulier les femmes, mais a des relations parfois difficiles avec ses associés effrayés par sa trop grande impulsivité. Assoiffé d’une liberté totale, il ne peut la conjuguer avec une vie dite normale, ce qui le pousse à des relations tendues avec ses proches, notamment ses parents ou la mère de ses enfants dont il ne s’occupa que très peu. Bon vivant, il aime les femmes, l’alcool, le jeu, la gastronomie mais surtout l’action. Cette action vaut pour elle-même et pour ce qu’elle rapporte tant sur le plan financier que médiatique. Comme il est dit plus haut, Mesrine soignait la mise en scène de son personnage et cherchait grandement la notoriété médiatique (elle ne se démentit pas pendant des années… et même encore aujourd’hui). 

 

 

 

Ce personnage haut en couleurs est joué à la perfection par un Vincent Cassel qui semble réellement habiter son personnage : mimiques, attitude générale, tout y est. Il est accompagné par de très bons seconds rôles, en particulier Gérard Depardieu campant Guido, un vieux truand aux sympathies OAS, et la jolie Ludivine Sagnier qui prend le rôle de Sylvia Jeanjacquot, dernière compagne du criminel. Et quant à Jean-François Richet, réalisateur connu pour ses sympathies d’extrême-gauche mais surtout pour le tristement célèbre Ma 6T va crack-er ? On trouvera à différents moments du film des indices sur les opinions de celui-ci, notamment dans les propos qu’il met dans la bouche de Guido ou du journaliste de Minute étant donné que ces hommes n’ont forcément pas ses idées… Toutefois, force est de constater que les délires politiques assez flous qu’a pu avoir Mesrine dans ses derniers mois sont habilement présentés pour ce qu’ils sont : des élucubrations peu sérieuses d’un truand voulant se muer en révolutionnaire d’extrême-gauche… Bref, hormis le très fin soupçon de politiquement correct que l’on trouvera en cherchant bien, Richet a réalisé avec ses deux Mesrine des films policiers de tradition française comme on savait les faire avant. Des films qui certes contiennent de l’action mais se basent avant tout sur les personnages et l’ambiance d’une France qui a bien changé. Il rejoint en cela Olivier Marchal qui a, lui aussi, réalisé de très bons films ces dernières années. Si le cinéma français actuel est plus que déplorable, il reste tout de même certains réalisateurs qui sauvent l’honneur, notamment dans le genre policier. Richet fait désormais partie de ceux-là.

Rüdiger

Note du C.N.C.: Toute reproduction éventuelle de ce contenu doit mentionner la source.

Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World

Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World

By James Holbeyfield 

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Bavarian director Werner Herzog’s Antarctic odyssey Encounters at the End of the World ^[2] was released in 2008. It is not a work of fiction, with all the inspirational, mythological, and crystallizing power of high art; it is a documentary. It is not even, overtly at least, on the grandiose IMAXimal scale at the top of the funding ladder for conventional documentaries. But it is a film by Werner Herzog, and when a white man of Herzog’s artistic caliber has spoken, we do well to listen.

And on the very subject of Herzog’s speech, from the film’s start I was struck by the utter appropriateness of his physical voice, and I then realized that this had been true of his other films I have seen since he entered his “follow your fancy” phase of documentaries; movies that surely have the most favorable ratio of directorial talent to production budget of any in recent history.

Of course as an American, one is easy prey to certain variants of European-accented English; perceptions of discriminating taste in the received pronunciation of Oxbridge or perceptions of scientific precision in a German accent. But it was a real revelation to consider that, after three generations of blond, ice-cold, German-accented pure evil emanating from Hollywood, Herzog’s distinctly German harmonics and cadence seem to me a very appealing combination of soothing avuncularity and quiet passion.

Next, I was struck by the challenge to character that Antarctica must offer. The film opens with what seems the ultimate in gen-Y rootlessness: the gaping cargo hold of a US Air Force C-17 on wing from New Zealand to McMurdo. Travelers are snuggled under massive, lashed-down equipment like hipsters scattered about the summer decks of the Alaska State Ferry. But that must be deceptive; presumably one does not get to McMurdo, even as a janitor or barkeep, simply by buying a ticket. There must be some screening going on, probably explicit and definitely some implicit self-screening, involving the personality and character of the people who apply.

Once landed “in town,” Herzog wastes little time in showing disdain for the place. That is understandable; he must immediately have felt that he didn’t come to the end of the world to hang around its dreary, entirely artificial, service sector, necessary though dormitories, gyms, restaurants, cinema, fuel tank farms, watering holes and even an ATM are, in modern Antarctica as in modern everywhere. Still, Herzog recognized the unfairness of that attitude, and furthermore recognized a potential opportunity that he should be the last director on earth to lose; sprinkled through the film, he more than makes up for this disdain for the artificial quality of McMurdo, by inserting many neatly focused character vignettes that capture the “ultimate wanderer” nature of many McMurdo denizens.

Among them is Scott Rowland, a Colorado banker turned ice-bus driver, whose eight-ton vehicle is nicknamed “Ivan the Terra-bus.” There is William Jirsa, a linguist and computer analyst who ironically now finds himself in the one continent without native languages. And among several others, there is equipment operator and offbeat philosopher, Bulgarian Stefan Pashov, who interprets the particular role of the full-time travelers/part-time workers, the “cosmic dreamers” who are drawn to McMurdo, via a quote from Allan Watts. “Through our eyes, the universe is perceiving itself. Through our ears, the universe is listening to its harmonies. We are the witnesses through which the universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence.”

Most of the film is devoted to portraying slices, many of intoxicating visual richness, from various scientific projects in Antarctica, including studies of glaciology (“the iceberg I’m studying is not only larger than the one the Titanic hit, and larger than the Titanic itself, it’s larger than the country that built the Titanic”), seals, invertebrate ecology, a volcano, the South Pole, a neutrino detector, and yes, even a touching scene with some penguins, despite Herzog telling us, early on in the film, that he informed the National Science Foundation “I would not come up with another film on penguins.” (This last presumably referred to avoiding any accusations of trying to piggyback onto the blockbuster — for a documentary — March of the Penguins ^[3], first released in 2005.) And from what I have seen, most of the commentary on the film has been content to concentrate on its interesting science and visual wealth.

However, I think it is an inescapable conclusion that Herzog had an even larger theme in mind as this film came into being, one that would eventually determine its entire narrative direction. Not for nothing did Werner Herzog title this movie Encounters at the End of the World. To me, and evidently to Roger Ebert ^[4], to whom the film is dedicated, it is quite clear that, in addition to the obvious spatial meaning of his title, with Antarctica objectively existing at one end of our spinning planet, Herzog meant it temporally as well. In other words, Herzog recognizes that exploration and research on Earth’s last continent can be symbolic of, at the very least, the deceleration of human progress in the modern world, and perhaps of outright stagnation or even reversal. Werner Herzog definitely has some insight into Kali Yuga.

Herzog visits the remains of Shackleton’s ship, now a sort of museum. He alludes to the triumph of Amundsen and the tragedy of Scott in their epic race to the Pole. Though he does not find these Antarctic pioneers praiseworthy in every single respect, noting a degree of arrogance in the last-gasp imperialism of the contest, particularly for the Britons, Herzog is quite deliberate in distinguishing the achievements of these giants of the quite recent past to the pursuits of today’s continental Americans. To me, it is extremely telling that, to make the strongest contrast with the heroic achievements of the early Antarctic explorers directly, Herzog chose scenes, filmed in America, of a very fit and very chipper man, riding the tiger I suppose in his own way, by attaining literally hundreds of odd titles in the Guinness Book of World Records, including such novelties as Marmite eating and marathon somersaulting (his goal was to set at least one record on every continent, and that included Antarctica, thus the connection).

At this point it must be said, for white nationalist purposes at the very least, that this chipper man, born Keith Furman ^[5] in Brooklyn, is rather obviously a Jew; indeed so far as I can tell, the only Jew in the whole film. And I want to be clear that I do not concentrate on his Jewishness purely out of malice; in fact I can only wish I were as fit, motivated, and possessed of good habits as Mr. Furman appears to be, even if I would certainly wish any such assets on my part to lead in a quite different direction.

But I do feel two quite important points emerge from the fact of this Jewish presence. The lesser one is that it is impossible to believe that Werner Herzog, who has spent four decades in the movie industry after all, could have been completely blind as to the non-random ethnicity of this character. In investigating Antarctica, he pays high tribute to the spirit of the early explorers, explicitly Imperial European and implicitly Aryan as they were, and wishing to reach for the most striking possible contrast in post-modern heroics, a mere century after Scott and Amundsen, he settles on a Jewish holder of a world record in hula hoop racing while balancing a milk jug on the head ^[6]? No, no, it is quite impossible that Herzog was entirely unaware, that it was all fluke.

But regardless of the degree of intent on Herzog’s part, the larger point is that a Jew is, in fact, an excellent symbol for this particular species of last man. A Jew has to be content with somersaulting twelve miles on a rubberized track, a century after a team of Aryans has each man-hauled ^[7] hundreds of pounds on sledges, for ten hours a day over four months across crevassed Antarctic glaciers in weather down to forty degrees below and worse, without the benefit of modern fabrics and materials, only to die in the end so nobly that one does not wish to depress one’s comrades further and so tells them one is “just going outside ^[8] and may be some time”; as if to the park for a stroll. A Jew has to be content with building eyesores of the month ^[9] instead of the Hagia Sophia ^[10]. Content with filming Holes ^[11] instead of The Tree of Life ^[12]. Content with writing up a Portnoy instead of an Isabel Archer. Content with dreaming up theories of repressive mothers ^[13] instead of creating the evolutionary synthesis ^[14]. And on and on in like fashion.

One could try to argue that all this is cherry picking, sour versus sweet, except that the Jews have actually been proud of this unmitigated trash, and have convinced entire generations of the gullible that much of it represented the next big thing, the more advanced development in each field of endeavor; whereas in fact, to put the matter in Wagnerian terms, their accomplishments often are mere clumsy, ludicrous imitations of our own.

So where does this brand of nihilism lead us? Where did it lead Herzog? Not nearly as far as we would like, I’m sure. Still, I think there are a few messages. One is that we can never be certain about the future, and about the possibility of reaching for the stars. My own negativism inclines me toward Scott Locklin’s view ^[15] more than transhuman inevitability ^[16]. But Locklin and I could both be wrong. There may be more opportunities for future Amundsens and Edisons out there than we guess. Certainly I found the greatest boyish enthusiasm, ironically metaphysical, out of all the many enthusiastic white scientists portrayed in this film, to be that of the most cosmic one, physicist Peter Gorham, the neutrino researcher.

And even if it turns out such opportunities really are in decline, is that exactly the end of the world? You young white nationalists, some no doubt stewed in the internet for hours a day over almost as many years as I have been, some unwilling to travel with hipsters because they vote Democrat, and unwilling to join the Army because they die for Israel, and unwilling to roughneck the oil rigs because there they have no higher purpose; at least some of you should join these eccentrics of Werner Herzog.

So far as I could tell, again without going to foolish extremes, not one of some twenty people Herzog introduces us to by name in Antarctica is a Jew, although the jury is still out on Clive Oppenheimer, whose internet footprint does display at least a tendency to self-aggrandizement. Even brunette, accented Regina Eisert appears by googling to be German, though in the film she is wearing a snood over her hair reminiscent of those now worn by some married Orthodox Jewish women, but not so very long ago worn by white women throughout much of Europe.

The reason I’ve done this spot of googling is not so I can seethe inwardly over who is a Jew and who is not, but to demonstrate that, even at the service level, never mind the scientific level, never mind the level of a Shackleton, the cold natural beauty, the cool natural science, and the sheer adventure of Antarctica still make it the kind of place that calls to our people, and pretty much only our people. In contrast to this openness to experience, Furman’s visit to Antarctica consisted of 90 minutes pogo-sticking down a runway ^[17]. These people, adapted to the white brain instead of to a piece of this beautiful earth, truly know the price of every continent and the value of none.

So calling all suitable young Aryans! Some of you should apply for McMurdo, go work in Alaska, bide awhile in North Dakota or even Siberia. I have little doubt that most of Herzog’s Antarctic subjects would be Obama voters in America, but I’m saying that their actions are more implicitly Aryan than some of ours. And many of us are just as eccentric as they are, even if our eccentricity does not run to trying to save endangered languages or hitchhiking through Africa.

But if anyone does go, it would be well to shut up about whiteness for awhile. One has a better chance to be convincing later if one is first quiet and strong in such places, which are never for blowhards. Try to prove your character to yourself; it doesn’t have to be the character of Robert Falcon Scott, it just has to get better and tougher. And at the very least, you will have traveled, had some interesting experiences in unusual or difficult spots, and, if you need to earn a grubstake, it seems fair to say that barkeep pay in McMurdo must be a lot higher than in N’Awlins ^[18].

 

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Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/03/werner-herzogs-encounters-at-the-end-of-the-world/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/encounters_at_the_end_of_the_world_2007_580x435_710896.jpg

[2] Encounters at the End of the World: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001DWNUD8/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B001DWNUD8&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[3] March of the Penguins: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000N3SSA8/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B000N3SSA8&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[4] Roger Ebert: http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080707/PEOPLE/657811251

[5] Keith Furman: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashrita_Furman

[6] hula hoop racing while balancing a milk jug on the head: http://www.ashrita.com/records/all_records

[7] man-hauled: http://artofmanliness.com/2012/04/22/what-the-race-to-the-south-pole-can-teach-you-about-how-to-achieve-your-goals/

[8] just going outside: http://www.englishclub.com/ref/esl/Quotes/Last_Words/I_am_just_going_outside_and_may_be_some_time._2690.htm

[9] eyesores of the month: http://www.dezeen.com/2011/11/17/dresden-museum-of-military-history-by-daniel-libeskind-more-images/

[10] Hagia Sophia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hagia_Sophia

[11] Holes: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_OyXJF_PLAKM/TT-J-wdleuI/AAAAAAAAAFc/NOIARFtXlZI/s1600/1999+boys+of+d+tent2.jpg

[12] The Tree of Life: http://www.twowaysthroughlife.com/

[13] theories of repressive mothers: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freud#Psychosexual_development

[14] evolutionary synthesis: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julian_Huxley

[15] Scott Locklin’s view: http://takimag.com/article/the_myth_of_technological_progress/print#axzz2M4aOvuQE

[16] transhuman inevitability: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ray_Kurzweil

[17] 90 minutes pogo-sticking down a runway: http://www.ashrita.com/records/record_descriptions/pogo_stick_jumping

[18] N’Awlins: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kXpwAOHJsxg

Youth Without Youth

Youth Without Youth

By Trevor Lynch

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

Youth Without Youth ^[2] (2007) is Francis Ford Coppola’s stunning film adaptation of a novella of the same name ^[3] by Mircea Eliade ^[4] (1907–1986), the Romanian scholar of comparative religion and Iron Guard sympathizer. I highly recommend this beautiful, mysterious, endlessly captivating movie. In style, it is classic; in substance, it is eternal.

Filmed on location in Romania, Switzerland, India, and Malta, Youth Without Youth looks, feels, and sounds like a European movie from the 1950s. The color is sumptuous and the cinematography astonishingly detailed, almost tactile. The pacing and editing are generally languid and sinuous, although they are often intercut with annoying, herky-jerky interludes, to farcical effect. The special effects date from the silent age and are entirely effective. The score ^[5] by Osvaldo Golijov (who describes himself as an East European Jew born in Argentina) is in the lush, late Romantic idiom, although it avails itself of Oriental and “modernist” styles when the film requires it.

Since this movie is long gone from the theaters, I have no compunction about summarizing the whole story. Youth Without Youth strikes me as a retelling of the Faust myth, particularly Goethe’s Faust. As in Faust, the main character is a scholar who late in life despairs that his life’s work is a failure but who is given miraculous gifts, including restored youth, by which he might continue his quest for knowledge.

Youth Without Youth begins in Piatra Neamț, Romania in 1938. Dominic Matei (played by Tim Roth), a former teacher in a provincial college or lycée, has just turned 70. He is experiencing the onset of senility and despairs of finishing his life’s work, an investigation into the origins of language and consciousness that has stalled before the dark abysses of prehistory. He decides to kill himself and chooses a particularly horrible death: strychnine.

He travels to Bucharest on Easter weekend to take the poison far from home, where nobody will know him. But as he approaches his final destination, he is caught in a sudden downpour and struck by lightning, which incinerates his clothes and burns every inch of his body.

Astonishingly, he is not killed. He is taken to a hospital, where he is bandaged from head to toe and watched over by doctors who fully expect him to die. But to everyone’s surprise, he slowly recovers, and when the bandages are removed, they find a man in his 30s. Dominic Matei has been miraculously regenerated. He also discovers that his memory and other mental faculties have not just been regenerated but enormously enhanced, eventually developing into powers of telepathy and telekinesis. He can learn other languages telepathically and “read” books simply by holding them for a few seconds and concentrating on them.

Furthermore, he encounters a “double”: an entity that looks exactly like him but who is wiser and more powerful and who can thus offer him guidance and protection. (The double first appears in mirrors and dreams before being seen in the real world. We learn that he is not an illusion when another character sees him as well.) The double functions as a guardian angel, a daimon, a spiritual guide. Perhaps he can do this because he is Dominic, but a Dominic whose powers are fully actualized. As an interlocutor, however, the double has a Mephistophelean quality, for he clearly rejects Dominic’s Western ethical humanism in favor of a Hindu-like non-dualism and transhumanism, and the double urges Dominic to do and accept things he finds abhorrent.

As with Faust, Dominic’s new form of existence can, apparently, be prolonged indefinitely under the right conditions. But as with Faust, it can also end. When Faust feels satisfaction, he dies, and his soul if forfeit. Dominic’s double tells him he is free to accept or reject his gift and free to use it for good or for evil.

Word of Dominic’s astonishing transformation spreads around the world. He is placed under constant surveillance by the Romanian Secret Police, who are in a heightened state of alert because they are doing battle with the Iron Guard. (Corneliu Codreanu had been arrested in April, 1938 and was murdered that November.) They even suspect that Dominic may be an Iron Guard leader hiding in the hospital under a false identity. (There is, of course, something autobiographical about the character of Dominic Matei, for Eliade too was a scholar of language and myth who was suspected, rightly, of Iron Guard connections. Eliade also wrote the novella in old age, when time is short and the mind is given to nostalgia and fantasies of regeneration.)

The Gestapo also take an interest in Dominic because he seems to confirm the theories of a German scientist, Dr. Joseph Rudolf, who hypothesizes that high voltage electrocution might spark the evolution of a higher form of humanity. Matei’s doctor and host, Professor Stanciulescu (Bruno Ganz), realizes Dominic’s powers when he sees two roses from his garden materialize in Dominic’s room with the help of the double. Thus the Professor refuses to allow the Germans to take Matei, citing medical grounds. They threaten to return with a German doctor who will do their bidding. Thus Stanciulescu arranges false papers so that Matei can leave Romania for Switzerland.

Coppola’s treatment of the Germans is one of the few places the movie rings false and silly. He seems to think that Romania was under German occupation in 1938 or ’39, which never happened. The Germans, of course, are portrayed as fanatics and martinets, and their leader even gives the Hitler salute to Professor Stanciulescu. I have not read the novella, but it is impossible to believe that such farcical inaccuracies are found in the original.

Dominic Matei spends the Second World War in neutral Switzerland, where he leads a life that is part Mircea Eliade, part James Bond. He continues his research into the origins of language and consciousness. He also develops new powers, including abilities to create false identities and beat the house in casinos, which is how he supports himself.

One night, Dominic is confronted in an alleyway by the Nazi scientist Dr. Rudolf. Rudolf explains to Dominic that he must return with him to Germany, because only with his help can Rudolf construct a bridge from man to superman, which is the only way that mankind can survive the coming nuclear apocalypse. Rudolf wishes to preserve the high culture of the West: music, art, philosophy, and science. He claims that Dominic was sent by some sort of providence to help save mankind. He promises to admit him to the godlike presence of Adolf Hitler. But Dominic refuses to cooperate with the Nazis. Rudolf pulls a gun and tries to abduct Dominic. When a female Romanian agent of the Gestapo tries to defend Dominic, Rudolf shoots her. The double, who evidently wants Dominic to go with Rudolf, tells him that he has no choice in the matter. But Dominic does have a choice: he telekinetically forces Rudolf to shoot himself, then he escapes.

 

Dominic is also convinced that the Second World War will not be the last. He anticipates that mankind will be almost annihilated by nuclear warfare, and he fears that “post-historical man” will succumb to despair. Thus be begins to tape a record of his transformation, depositing the tapes in a bank vault. He hopes that they will somehow survive the end of history and be deciphered by men in the future, giving them hope that humanity might evolve. Of course he has no assurance that the tapes will survive, but believes it anyway, because without this belief, his life would have no meaning.

The second half of the movie begins in 1955, when Dominic encounters a young German woman on vacation in Switzerland (Alexandra Maria Lara). Her name is Veronica, but she is the very image of Laura, Dominic’s former fiancée, who a lifetime ago had broken off their engagement because he was too involved in his work. She then married another man and died in childbirth a year later. The double confirms that Veronica is the reincarnation of Laura. (She is roughly analogous to Gretchen in Goethe’s Faust.)

Veronica’s car is struck by lightning, and her companion is killed. When Dominic finds Veronica, she is speaking in an ancient Indian dialect and claims that her name is Rupini, a woman of the Kshatriya caste, a descendant of one of the first families to convert to Buddhism, who had left the world behind to meditate in a cave.

Veronica/Rupini becomes an international sensation, because she seemingly provides proof of reincarnation. (Veronica herself later suggests spirit possession as an alternative hypothesis.) Veronica/Rupini demonstrates knowledge that Veronica did not and could not have learned during her lifetime. Dominic becomes her caretaker. He summons leading orientalists to study her case, and eventually she is flown to India, where she finds Rupini’s cave, complete with her mortal remains. Then Rupini’s peronality disappears and Veronica’s re-emerges. She and Dominic fall in love. Veronica tires quickly of being a world celebrity, so she and Dominic flee India to a private villa on Malta.

On Malta, Dominic discovers he has to power to induce trances in which Veronica regresses to past lives, speaking Ancient Egyptian, then Akkadian and Sumerian, then unknown protolanguages which Dominic eagerly records and transcribes. He recognizes that Veronica might be the vehicle he needs to pierce the veil of prehistory and reach the origins of language and consciousness. The double confirms this.

But with each trance, Veronica becomes increasingly drained and begins to age rapidly. Dominic realizes that if he continues to induce regressions, she will wither and die, so he has to choose between Veronica and the completion of his life’s work. He tells Veronica that they must part. If they stay together, she will die. If they part, her youth and beauty will be restored.

In 1969, when he is 101 years old, Dominic sees Veronica and her two children get down from a train. Heartbroken, he surreptitiously photographs her. He returns to his home town in Romania. In the mirror of his hotel room, he has a conversation with his double. The double reveals that he is indeed the harbinger of a new race, which will arise from the electromagnetic pulse released by an approaching nuclear holocaust. Most of mankind will perish in the process, but a superhumanity will emerge. Disgusted at the sacrifice of man to create the superman, Dominic smashes the mirror, rejecting his gift. The double, gibbering some unknown language, disappears.

Dominic then goes to his old haunt, the Café Select, where he hallucinates an encounter with friends from the 1930s. During the conversation, he rapidly ages, then stumbles out into the night. The next morning, he is found frozen to death in the snow.

But the end is ambiguous, for at the very end of the film, we hear Veronica’s voice ask Dominic, “Where do you want me to put the third rose?” which then appears in his hand. So is Dominic Matei really dead? He has been all but dead before, remember. So is this just another start? Will he keep coming back until he learns his lesson and his mission is fulfilled? Or is he really dead, but under the protection of Veronica, like Faust whose soul is saved in the end by the intercession of the Eternal Feminine?

Youth Without Youth is a movie about transcending the human condition: backwards, toward the pre-human origins of language and consciousness, and forwards, toward the advent of the superhuman. Dominic Matei is given the power to do both.

He could have arrived at the origin of human language and consciousness through Veronica’s trances, but he was unwilling to sacrifice her to his quest for knowledge.

He is already superhuman, but he could choose to help prepare the way for superhumanity. He had a chance to assist Dr. Rudolf, but he rejected it because he thought that Hitler was the devil himself. In the end, he rejected his own superhumanity simply because he was repelled by the idea that superhumanity would emerge from the destruction of humanity.

In both cases, the path to transcendence of the human realm was blocked by Dominic’s humanistic ethics, the idea that every human being has a dignity or worth that forbids its sacrifice for higher values. Thus Youth Without Youth explores the same fundamental conflict that animates Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight Trilogy ^[6]: the ethic of egalitarian humanism versus the ethic of superhumanism, of the individuals who raise themselves above humanity either through a Nietzschean rejection of slave morality and a Heideggerian encounter with mortality and contingency (the Joker) or through the initiatory knowledge of the League of Shadows. (As I argue in my review ^[7] of The Dark Knight Rises, the two forms of superhumanism are compatible, but Nietzsche, Heidegger, and the Joker only grasp a small part of a much greater truth.)

Youth Without Youth is, in short, a deeply serious film: a feast for the intellect as well as the senses. A commercial and critical flop when it was released in 2007, Youth Without Youth is in truth one of Francis Ford Coppola’s finest films.

 

---

Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2013/03/youth-without-youth/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/youth-without-youth.jpg

[2] Youth Without Youth: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0014I4TR2/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0014I4TR2&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[3] novella of the same name: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0226204154/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0226204154&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[4] Mircea Eliade: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eliade

[5] score: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000WVPXD6/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B000WVPXD6&linkCode=as2&tag=countercurren-20

[6] The Dark Knight Trilogy: http://www.counter-currents.com/tag/lynch-dark-knight/

[7] review: http://www.counter-currents.com/2012/07/the-dark-knight-rises/

Depardieu veut faire un film sur la Tchétchénie

Depardieu veut faire un film sur la Tchétchénie

Ex: http://www.oragesdacier.org/ 

L'acteur, qui vient d'acquérir la nationalité russe, prend très à cœur son rôle d'«ambassadeur» d'une «nouvelle Russie». 

 

Gérard Depardieu ne parle pas encore russe mais semble pourtant prêt à tout faire pour devenir un citoyen modèle. Pour cela, l'acteur n'a pas peur de s'attaquer à un gros morceau de la politique ouralienne, la Tchétchénie. Il vient ainsi d'annoncer sa volonté de tourner un film sur cette région du Caucase qui fut secouée dans les années 1990 et 2000 par deux guerres entre indépendantistes et forces russes et aujourd'hui officiellement pacifiée. Mais la rébellion s'est islamisée et a gagné tout le Caucase russe où sont régulièrement commis des attentats contre les forces de l'ordre. 

 

L'idée a éclos au cours du gala organisé dimanche par le président tchétchène, Ramzan Kadyrov, pour célébrer la visite de Depardieu dans sa capitale. «Je veux tourner un film ici, montrer qu'on peut faire un grand film à Grozny», a affirmé Depardieu, selon le communiqué diffusé par la présidence tchétchène. Apparemment fasciné par le spectacle qui s'est joué sous ses yeux, la star a fait part de ses impressions: «Je suis sûr que ce sont des gens heureux qui vivent ici. Pour chanter et danser comme le font les Tchétchènes, il faut être vraiment heureux». Lui semblait l'être tout du moins comme en atteste cette vidéo extraite de la soirée.

 

Pas sûr que tout le monde partage son ressenti. Notamment les organisations de défense des droits de l'Homme qui accusent Kadyrov de couvrir de multiples exactions, enlèvements et assassinats attribués aux forces de l'ordre. 

 

Lundi, Depardieu a également été consacré citoyen d'honneur de la Tchétchénie et s'est vu offrir un appartement de cinq pièces, a indiqué M. Kadyrov sur sa page sur Instagram. 

 

Le Bolchoï plutôt que les César

 

À 64 ans, Gérard Depardieu ne fait donc aucune concession lorsqu'il revêt son nouveau rôle, celui d'ambassadeur de la culture russe. Vendredi, à défaut de participer à la soirée des César, l'acteur s'est rendu au Bolchoï, le théâtre de Moscou. Il y a notamment discuté d'un projet de série télévisée sur les héros russes avec le ministre de la culture Valdimir Medinski . «Beaucoup de choses ici sont liées aux noms de compositeurs, chanteurs, danseurs - Tchaïkovsky, Prokofiev, Nijinski», a commenté l'interprète d'Obélix, selon l'agence Itar-Tass. 

 

Le même soir, il s'est d'ailleurs auto-proclamé «ambassadeur» d'une «Russie nouvelle». Pour appuyer sa démarche, tous les détails sont soignés. Il vient ainsi d'être officiellement domicilié à Saranks, la capitale de la Mordovie. Le lieu exact de sa nouvelle adresse? Rue de la Démocratie.

Source

 

Sly le révélateur

Sly le révélateur

par André WAROCH

Le succès colossal d’Expendables II est l’occasion de faire le bilan de la carrière de Sylvester Stallone, et d’essayer de comprendre l’évolution de son image telle qu’elle fut livrée, selon les époques, par les médias occidentaux et particulièrement français. Et de ce qu’elle révèle de la psychologie profonde de nos « élites », ces fameuses élites médiatiques « qui-nous-disent-ce-qu’on-doit-penser » et dont il serait plus exact de dire que leur fonction, plus subtile, est de nous signifier lesquelles de nos pensées peuvent être exposées au jugement public, et lesquelles doivent rester entre quatre murs. Puisque que c’est de ce contrôle idéologique et culturel impitoyable de la population, c’est de cette censure permanente de l’agora que découle, en fin de compte, leur domination politique.

Remontons jusqu’au milieu des années 80. Stallone semble être devenu le roi du monde. Coup sur coup, Rocky IV et Rambo II se sont installés au sommet du box-office planétaire. Toutes muscles dehors, l’acteur, bannière étoilée au vent, y affronte et terrasse les communistes, que ceux-ci soient russes ou vietnamiens. Ce patriotisme, sincère, naïf et assumé, qui trouve toujours un écho favorable dans l’Amérique profonde, va néanmoins lui mettre à dos cette classe médiatique. Sa carrière, à partir de là, va décliner irrémédiablement.

De plus, alors que la menace soviétique s’éloigne puis s’éteint, un pan essentiel de la culture de droite aux États-Unis s’effondre comme un Mur de Berlin virtuel. Les films de Sly (et accessoirement ceux de Chuck Norris, qui met sa carrière cinématographique en sommeil au début des années 90) apparaissent subitement appartenir à une autre époque, exalter un combat sans objet. Peu à peu, Schwarzenegger, plus calculateur, plus cynique, va s’imposer comme le nouveau roi des acteurs-athlètes, alternant savamment films d’action de facture « classique », œuvres de S.-F. ambitieuses, et comédies dans lesquelles il va, avec beaucoup d’à-propos, s’auto-parodier volontairement. Pendant ce temps, Stallone va s’entêter dans des films « de droite » qui vont marcher de moins en moins bien et attiser les quolibets.

Mais plus qu’aux États-Unis, c’est en France, alors, que le nom de Stallone commence à déclencher immanquablement des ricanements aussi mauvais que pavloviens. Car l’image qui s’impose alors de Sly est celle d’une « montagne de muscles sans cervelle ».

Il est inutile de chercher une quelconque origine « populaire » dans ce phénomène. De manière très cynique, on pourrait presque dire que, d’une certaine manière, le « peuple », dès cette époque, a disparu dans ce pays, remplacé par « l’opinion publique », c’est-à-dire l’agora censurée.

La haine que les élites médiatiques éprouvent pour l’idéologie dont Stallone est le vecteur, n’a que peu à voir, finalement, avec sa lutte contre le communisme soviétique avec lequel elles ont rompu depuis déjà longtemps. Il est, à ce titre, très intéressant d’examiner, vingt-cinq ans plus tard, le casting de stars d’Expendables II : Stallone, le véritable maître-d’œuvre du projet, est accompagné et secondé, dans l’ordre de leur notoriété, par Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Willis, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Chuck Norris et Dolph Lundgren. On se croirait dans un congrès du Parti républicain. Si Norris et Willis ont toujours apporté à ce dernier leur soutien public, Schwarzenegger a carrément été élu gouverneur républicain de Californie. Quant à Stallone, s’il ne s’est jamais engagé officiellement pour tel ou tel parti, il suffit de voir le film Cobra réalisé en 1986, dans lequel il incarne un Dirty Harry bodybuildé, pour comprendre quel est son positionnement concernant ces questions clivantes à Hollywood que sont la peine de mort et la lutte contre le crime.

Cette sur-représentation d’acteurs de droite déclarés est absolument extraordinaire quand on connaît l’état politique du cinéma américain, dont les comédiens sont de gauche à 90 %, et fait de ce film une riposte à Ocean’s Eleven qui regroupait d’autres stars plus récentes, plus efféminées, plus bourgeoises, plus « intellectuelles », et ayant bien sur massivement soutenu, par la suite, l’élection du Messie Obama.

La seconde remarque concernant ces six noms est la suivante : trois d’entre eux sont européens.

Pour le formuler autrement : pour faire les films qu’ils avaient envie de faire, des films d’action, des films d’aventure, des films de S.-F., des films d’arts martiaux ou des films de guerre, le Suédois Lundgren, l’Autrichien Schwarzenegger et le Belge Van Damme ont ressenti le besoin impérieux de s’exiler aux États-Unis. Tout comme l’Anglais Ridley Scott, qui a réalisé en 2000, pour le compte des studios hollywoodiens, le film Gladiator, véritable plongée dans les racines romaines et antiques de l’Europe.

Je ne résiste pas au plaisir de citer un grand penseur de la dégénérescence de l’Europe, Guillaume Faye, dans son maître-livre L’archéofuturisme paru en 1998 :

« Le succès des superproductions hollywoodiennes s’explique par leur caractère imaginatif et épique, par leur rigorisme dramaturgique, l’ultra-professionnalisme de la production et de la distribution, une technicité parfaite… Ce qui rattrape largement la fréquente indigence des scénarios ou des bombardements de clichés infantiles et sirupeux. Hollywood fait du “ Jules Vernes filmé ”, et souvent avec des scénarios écrits par des Européens dégoûtés de l’absence de dynamisme de la production européenne.

Les Français et les Européens ont perdu le sens de l’épopée et de l’imagination. Qu’est-ce qui nous empêcherait de les retrouver ? Qui nous l’interdit ? Pourquoi aucun Européen n’a-t-il eu l’idée de traiter (à notre manière, sans doute plus intelligente, et tout autant dramaturgique) les thèmes de E.T., Jurassic Park,  d’Armageddon ou de Deep Impact, de Twister, de Titanic ? »

En France, le dernier à avoir pu rivaliser sur le terrain du film d’action avec les Américains a été Jean-Paul Belmondo. Entre 1975 et 1983, il a triomphé dans des films musclés, à grand spectacle, truffés de cascades. La question se pose alors de savoir pourquoi « Bébel » n’a pas eu d’héritier. Et au-delà du simple film d’action de « musclé », il faudrait parler évidemment, comme le souligne Guillaume Faye, de la fin du cinéma épique populaire en Europe, dont Belmondo était en fait une survivance.

En France, à quel genre de films sont consacrés aujourd’hui les plus gros budgets du cinéma ? À des comédies, Astérix et Taxi en tête, qui sont, en fait, des parodies des grands films épiques d’autrefois. Comme si les Français et les Européens n’étaient plus capables d’autre chose, quand ils essaient de sortir du cinéma intellectuel, nombriliste et pseudo-élitiste, que de dérision.

Alors pourquoi les Européens n’ont-t-ils pas pu faire Gladiator ? Et plus révélateur encore pour nous, pourquoi Christophe Lambert n’a-t-il pu incarner Vercingétorix que dans un film américain (même si celui-ci se révéla être un navet infâme) ? Vercingétorix, symbole du patriotisme français, qui tenta de repousser par les armes l’invasion étrangère ? Poser la question, c’est apporter la réponse.

Imaginons un film sur ce héros national tourné en France : à quoi pourrait-il ressembler, à part à une comédie grotesque tournant en ridicule les mythes nationaux (ce qu’a été Astérix) ?

Il y a bien une autre option, évidemment, c’est le film de repentance : les soldats gaulois, racistes et moustachus, se montreraient injustement cruels avec les immigrés italiens, mais le chef arverne, révolté, prendrait fait et cause pour les opprimés. Son homosexualité latente s’éveillerait ensuite à l’occasion d’une nuit d’amour avec un jeune éphèbe de Rome arraché des griffes des beaufs celtiques. La bataille finale d’Alésia montrerait tout de même Vercingétorix luttant contre l’ennemi étranger, mais accompagné de son nouveau fiancé ayant trahi la cause de César par amour, ainsi que de quelques Noirs et Arabes dont on expliquerait qu’ils ont traversé les mers pour défendre la liberté et le progressisme contre les fascistes romains, même si l’histoire officielle (de toute façon raciste) n’en garde pas trace.

Le retour fulgurant, avec les deux Expendables, de Sylvester Stallone et de ses collègues sur le devant de la scène, alors qu’on les croyait morts et enterrés depuis quinze ou vingt ans – mis à part Bruce Willis – ne peut pas être interprété idéologiquement : après tout, le film d’action ne s’est jamais arrêté aux États-Unis. Ce qui s’était essoufflé, c’est le sous-genre « héros musclé et surpuissant » qui avait été remplacé justement, entre autres, par la série des Die Hard avec Willis.

On voit bien, à la vision de ce film, ce qui peut unir entre eux ces acteurs  qui ont vraiment l’air de s’entendre comme larrons en foire : ils assument, sans aucun état d’âme, la violence inhérente au monde des hommes. On n’essaie pas de comprendre, encore moins d’excuser son ennemi : on l’anéantit. La rupture est alors inévitable entre ces « hommes de toujours », comme dirait Philippe Murray, et la nouvelle Europe des hommes d’après.

En 2005, Arnold Schwarzenegger, en tant que gouverneur de Californie, refuse de gracier un condamné à mort. Il est exécuté le lendemain. Alors, en Autriche, à Graz, ville natale de « Schwarzie », on s’insurge. Car, quelques années auparavant, on avait débaptisé le  stade de Graz-Liebenau pour lui donner le nom de la star. Éclairé sur sa véritable philosophie, le conseil municipal, soudain outré, s’apprête à voter une procédure pour de nouveau débaptiser l’enceinte, quand Schwarzenegger, de lui-même, retire à la ville le droit d’utiliser son patronyme. Le bâtiment reprend alors son ancienne appellation. Le conseil n’a pas suivi les recommandations de l’opposition des Verts, qui souhaitait donner au stade le nom du condamné à mort, Stanley Williams, chef de gang, condamné pour quatre homicides.

Les « élites » médiatiques européennes et américaines partagent peu ou prou la même idéologie, la même vision du monde, et se considèrent investies de la mission sacrée d’imposer cette vision à la planète entière, et d’abord en Occident, puisqu’elles y ont déjà pris le contrôle des canaux de communication. Aux États-Unis, toutefois, leur domination est entravée par le conservatisme très fort, et lui aussi d’essence religieuse, de la population de base. L’expression convenue des « élites déconnectées du peuple » est beaucoup plus pertinente s’agissant du cas américain que pour ce qui concerne l’Europe, où il ne s’agit que d’un argument démagogique servi par l’opposition pendant chaque campagne électorale. Si l’on veut bien reprendre cette expression au pied de la lettre, on pourrait même dire que c’est le contraire qui est vrai : les peuples européens n’ont jamais été autant connectés aux « élites », buvant ses paroles comme un nourrisson boirait le lait empoisonné d’une mère perverse. Ils n’ont jamais autant été privés de l’idéologie alternative et des ressorts psychologiques qui leur permettraient de se mobiliser et de s’organiser pour défendre leurs intérêts. Les peuples européens sont comme un fruit qu’on a pressé pour en vider tout le suc, tout le contenu vital.

Plus que toute autre chose, c’est le caractère immensément populaire des films et de la personnalité de Sylvester Stallone, qui, depuis trente ans, lui vaut la haine des « élites » occidentales.

André Waroch

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Article printed from Europe Maxima: http://www.europemaxima.com

URL to article: http://www.europemaxima.com/?p=2769

Parade 1885

Parade 1885

Olympia 1936

Olympia 1936 - Die Olympischen Spiele 1936 in privaten Filmaufnahmen

 14,95 EUR

Bestellung/Order/Commande: http://www.polarfilm.de/
Art.Nr.: 7169

(incl. 19 % UST exkl. Versandkosten)

Die Olympischen Spiele des Jahres 1936 nehmen in der Sportgeschichte eine besondere Position ein. Bis heute wird ihre Deutung kontrovers diskutiert. Ausgetragen vom 6. bis 16. Februar in Garmisch-Partenkirchen und vom 1. bis 16. August in Berlin und Kiel (Segelwettbewerbe) waren sie die ersten Olympischen Spiele, die in einer Diktatur stattfanden.Ereignisse wie diese wecken Begehrlichkeiten: Durch große finanzielle undpersonelle Förderung versuchte das nationalsozialistische Regime seinevorgebliche Friedfertigkeit zu demonstrieren und das Renommee des DrittenReiches im Ausland zu verbessern.Zunächst von Boykottforderungen bedroht, erlebten sie einen Teilnehmer- und Zuschauerrekord mit zahlreichen sportlichen Höchstleistungen. In hohem Maße staatlich gefördert, wurden diese Olympischen Spiele zum bis dahin größten Sportfest der Welt. Unter den Zuschauern befanden sich auch zahlreiche Filmamateure, die im Gegensatz zu den Wochenschauen ohne besondere politische Intention nur für den privaten Gebrauch drehten. Ihre Filmaufnahmen, die einzigen, die keine staatliche Zensur durchlaufen mussten, sind daher einzigartige Zeitdokumente.Für die Dokumentation Olympia 1936 sind diese bisher nie öffentlich gezeigten Amateurfilme zum ersten Mal zu einer facettenreichen Dokumentation über die Olympischen Spiele des Jahres 1936 zusammengestellt worden.

Laufzeit: 126 Minuten
Bild: 4 : 3
Ton: Dolby Digital Stereo
Sprachen: Deutsch
Untertitel: keine
Regionalcode: PAL 0
EAN-Code: 4028032071696
FSK: ab 16 Jahren

Hommage à Schoendoerffer...

Hommage à Schoendoerffer...

Le numéro de mai 2012 de la revue Le spectacle du monde est en kiosque. 

Le dossier est consacré à un hommage au cinéaste Pierre Schoendoerffer, récemment décédé. On pourra y lire, notamment, des articles de Michel Marmin ("Le cinéaste des valeurs perdues"), de Bruno de Cessole ("L'heure des héros fatigués"), de Jérôme Leroy ("Willsdorf ou la gloire du sous-off"), de Marc Charuel ("Soldat de l'image") et de Philippe Franchini ("De l'Indochine au Vietnam"), ainsi qu'un entretien avec Jacques Perrin ("Pierre aura été un modèle pour beaucoup").

Hors dossier, on pourra aussi lire des articles de  François Bousquet ("Drieu dans la Pléiade", "Virginia Woolf au féminin") ou de Jean-François Gautier ("Claude Debussy, génie tutélaire"). Et on retrouvera aussi  les chroniques de Patrice de Plunkett et d'Eric Zemmour ("La fin des modérés").

Un affront fait à Hergé!

Un affront fait à Hergé

Lu dans “La Tribune de Genève”, le 3 novembre 2011:

“Neuchâtel, 26 octobre.

A propos des aventures de Tintin au cinéma

Ce Tintin version Hollywood contredit la technique de la ligne claire des albums. On est bien loin de la bande dessinée. Tintin, Haddock, les Dupond/t n’ont aucune ressemblance avec les personnages originaux. C’est un affront à Hergé. Ce Tintin, c’est une version à l’américaine, faite par un Américain, ça n’a rien à voir avec des bandes dessinées. C’est une question d’argent pour Spielberg, un point c’est tout! Pauvre Tintin”.

Michel Roy.

A Prophecy for the Future of Europe

A Prophecy for the Future of Europe

By John Morgan

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

 

The 2009 French film A Prophet, directed by Jacques Audiard, is one of the best prison/crime films (it contains elements of both) I have seen in a long time. In its gritty realism, it is a throwback to the greatest prison films of bygone eras. I’m thinking of classics like A Man Escaped, Escape from Alcatraz, Papillon, or even the 1985 Runaway Train.

These disappeared after the Tarantino age was ushered in with Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, and after that, prison and crime films, with their slick, fast-paced cinematography, jumbled morality and glamorous characters, came to resemble long music videos more than dramas. (The 2004 British film Layer Cake is a prime example of this type of film.)

A Prophet, however, shows criminals and prison life as I imagine they are really like: dirty, ugly and unpleasant, inhabited by people who have to be both brutal and cunning just to survive from one day to the next. In this sense, the film is a great success, and that alone would make it worth viewing. Many other people have sung its praises as well, and it won the Grand Prize at the Cannes Film Festival in 2009.

There is another layer to A Prophet, however, and that is primarily what I would like to discuss here. It is also the story of the rise of a criminal mastermind from nothingness to absolute power, similar to the paradigm we’ve seen before in The Godfather films and Scarface. Mixed with this is a none-too-subtle parable about the position of immigrants in France, and, by extension, Europe, in both the present and the future.

Alarm bells should immediately ring when Wikipedia quotes a French interview with director Audiard about the film in which he said that he was “creating icons, images for people who don’t have images in movies, like the Arabs in France,” even though he added to this that it “has nothing to do with [his] vision of society.” I’m sorry, Monsieur Audiard, but I don’t believe that you simply wanted to make a movie about Parisian criminals.

My discussion requires that I give a quick summary of the film’s plot, so if you haven’t seen the film and don’t want to know the story before doing so, turn back now. The film begins as 19-year-old Arab Malik El Djebena is being thrown into a prison in Paris. The prison is run by two gangs of inmates: one consisting of the Muslims; and the other, which is much more successful and wealthy, run by Cesar Luciani, a Corsican crime boss who is still running his empire from inside the prison, along with his Corsican cohorts.

Malik, weak and defenseless, is at first easy prey, and he is attacked and robbed by fellow Muslims shortly after his arrival. Typically, the Corsicans will have nothing to do with the Arabs, but an Arab prisoner arrives who they know intends to testify against them. Not having any allies in the Muslim section of the prison, they recruit Malik by offering to give him protection in exchange for murdering the witness.

Malik carries out the assassination, and thereafter becomes a servant to the Corsicans, who protect him but treat him with contempt and hold him at a distance. At the same time, the other Muslims regard Malik as a traitor for working with them, and as a result he is kept safe but isolated.

This situation continues for some time until most of the Corsicans are freed, leaving Cesar with only a handful of followers. After this he is forced to rely to a much greater extent on Malik, but gives him occasional, brutal reminders not to think that he can live without Cesar’s continued protection. Still, Malik’s life begins to improve considerably, and he is able to have many goods brought to his cell from the outside, including White prostitutes. Eventually, because of his good behavior in the eyes of the prison authorities, he is allowed to begin taking day-long leaves out of the prison, and Cesar uses him as a messenger to negotiate deals with his own bosses in Paris, becoming even more indispensable to him.

Meanwhile, Malik finally befriends one of the Muslim prisoners, Ryad, who finishes his sentence and helps Malik, in spite of Cesar’s threats, to set up a hashish smuggling operation which begins to win Malik contacts among the Muslim inmates. We later learn that Ryad is dying of cancer, but he continues to help Malik to build his network in return for Malik’s promise that he will care for Ryad’s wife and family after he dies.

Malik continues to become more and more important to Cesar’s operations, and simultaneously begins to win the respect of the Muslim gang leaders both inside and outside the prison, as they recognize that Malik occupies a unique position, being the only person to straddle both sides of the underworld. Things come to a climax when Cesar, suspecting that his Italian boss is plotting against him, asks Malik to arrange for the Don’s assassination during one of his leaves outside the prison.

Malik agrees, and initially the Arabs and the Corsicans plan to carry out the attack together, but the two groups despise each other and cannot cooperate. On the day of the attack, Malik deserts the Corsicans, and he and Ryad successfully carry out the hit on their own. Knowing that the remaining Corsicans in the prison will now turn on each other, Malik deliberately returns from his leave late and is thrown into solitary confinement – for forty days and forty nights. By the time he emerges, all of the Corsicans apart from Cesar himself have either been killed or sent to other prisons.

In the last part of the film, Malik is returned to the prison population, and we see him come out into the yard, which has traditionally been split between the Corsicans and the Muslims, only now, Cesar sits by himself. Malik is welcomed by the Muslims as their new leader, and he takes his place at the center of their group.

Cesar signals for Malik to come and speak with him, but Malik ignores him. Getting desperate, Cesar finally attempts to cross over to the Muslim side, but some of them stop him and beat him up before he can reach Malik. Realizing he has lost, Cesar staggers back to his side of the yard.

Shortly thereafter, Malik completes his sentence, and on the day he is released, he is met by Ryad’s wife and children. As he walks home with them, we see several vehicles pull up behind them, discreetly keeping their distance, and we realize that it is Malik’s new security detail. The film ends, the transfer of power now complete.

The subtext of this story should be easy to read without much analysis. If we view the prison as a microcosm of Europe, Cesar and the Corsicans represent the White European establishment, while Malik and the other Muslims represent the disenfranchised immigrants. Malik suffers repeated humiliation at the hands of the Whites, and even does their dirty work, but he is really just biding his time. He slowly builds his power base, and after he gains their trust, he uses it against them, and manages to displace them in the prison that formerly belonged to them.

There is even a giveaway line in the middle of the film, when Cesar remarks to Malik that at one time the Whites were in the majority in the prison, but that they are rapidly becoming outnumbered by the Muslims. Indeed, if present trends continue, the story of A Prophet is very likely going to be the story of Europe in the twenty-first century. Muslim immigrants will tolerate the system as long as they have to, but as soon as they have the strength and are in a position to do so, they will surely shove their hosts aside and suck whatever remains of Europe dry, leaving the descendants of the original inhabitants of Europe to simply watch and mourn while it happens – those who don’t switch sides, that is.

As Greg Johnson has expressed it, the new masters of Islamic Europe will be like teenagers who steal a car: they’ll take it for a joy ride, drive it until it crashes, and then move on to the next car. Why? Because, fundamentally, it’s not theirs. Why should they be concerned with what happens to the culture of Homer, Goethe, and Baudelaire?

While it is very possible that this tale was born from the imaginations of ethnomasochistic French liberals, I don’t find much in this parable with which to disagree. Whatever their motivations, the filmmakers have caught the essential truth of what is happening in Europe today.

It is worth noting that one of the measures of Malik’s success is his screwing of White whores, and there is also a quick shot of a White woman embracing a Black man on a Paris street during one of Malik’s leaves. The ability of non-Whites to dominate White women through sex, thus robbing us of future progeny which we can call our own, is among the trophies of their success, as we’ve been seeing for a long time in our own country.

And, interestingly, it is not any of the Muslims who deliver the death blow to the White power base in the prison. Rather, the Whites do themselves in, rather as we have seen continuously among the European nations over the past century. Non-Whites will just need to step in once the Whites have finished killing themselves off.

Similarly, in the film, the process begins when Cesar admits an outsider to serve his own purposes, believing that he can keep him under control, just as the elites of the United States and Europe began to admit non-White immigrants in large numbers out of economic expediency and with little thought that the future might bring something altogether different from what they imagined. So, again, I challenge Audiard’s claim that his film has nothing to say about European society. Furthermore, this film could easily be remade in America with a Latino in the main role, and the message would remain the same.

One criticism the film has received from some quarters is in its treatment of Islam, and in particular the references to Malik as a prophet. I myself, given the film’s title, had assumed that eventually, Malik was going to undergo some sort of religious awakening, but it never happens. At no point in the film does he evince any interest whatsoever in his Muslim heritage.

We get occasional glimpses of more devout Muslim inmates in the background, and at one point Malik brings some of his hashish profits to a mosque (only because he didn’t think it was worth the risk to keep it himself, we learn). On another occasion, high on heroin, he sees another inmate spinning in the style of the whirling dervishes and chanting the names of Allah, and imitates him, working himself into ecstasy. But it never goes beyond this, and Malik’s actions could hardly be described as those of a good Muslim.

Still, the film draws a number of deliberate parallels between Malik and the lives of the Prophets of Islam. Malik, we learn, is illiterate, just as Muhammad was. Malik is kept in solitary confinement for forty days and nights, just as Moses and Jesus had fasted and prayed for the same length of time in isolation before being granted divine revelations. Muhammad also received many revelations through dreams, and Malik himself has a dream of deer running across a road. When he is in a car driving through a forest with a Muslim gang leader, he recognizes the area from his dream and warns the driver seconds before he hits a deer, henceforth becoming known as “a prophet.”

But if he’s not a religious leader, in what way is Malik a prophet? Is it really just a tasteless joke, as some critics have claimed?

I would say no, and the reasons for this have to do with my own views on Muslim immigration into Europe, and not Muslim immigration into the United States, I hasten to add, which I do not view as a threat of the same order. Many Rightists conflate Muslim immigration into Europe and America as if they are the same thing, but the fact is, they are not. The truth is that Muslims in the United States comprise less than 1% of the population, while Hispanics account for over 16%, and they are coming into the country at a much faster rate, both legally and illegally, than Muslim immigrants are. This is beside the fact that the majority of Muslims in Europe are poor and uneducated, while Muslims generally come to the United States to receive education and enter the middle class. The situations are simply not comparable. So, personally, I think those who believe that we have to protect ourselves from shariah law before it overtakes America, and who are trying to pass legislation to this effect, are wasting their time. The threat of immigration to America is real, but comes from different sources.

As a traditionalist, I respect Islam in its genuine forms, primarily Sufism, as a manifestation of the supreme, metaphysical truth. Unlike many of my political colleagues, my own problem with Muslim immigration has little to do with the religion itself, and I think A Prophet successfully illustrates my own thoughts on the matter.

There are some traditionalists, particularly followers of the teachings of René Guénon or Frithjof Schuon who have converted to Islam themselves, who view Muslim immigration into Europe as a positive thing, since they believe that Europe, having lost its own sacred traditions, will be resacralized by being reintegrated into a spiritual culture, regardless of the fact that it is a foreign tradition.

Even Ahmed Huber, the Swiss German banker who, rather like Malik, occupied a unique place where the worlds of Islamic fundamentalism and the European Right met, contended that, eventually, Muslim immigration into Europe would give rise to a unique form of “European Islam.” Muslim scholars, including the Scots convert Shaykh Abdalqadir as-Sufi and the Swiss Egyptian Tariq Ramadan, have likewise predicted the rise of such a thing.

On the surface, this might seem like a good idea, since it is undeniable that Europe is in desperate need of a return to spirituality. Unlike Guénon or Schuon, however, I believe that a religion has to be connected to one’s racial and cultural makeup, and the mere fact of a system of beliefs being associated with the Primordial Tradition is insufficient by itself. A “European” Islam would remain as inherently anti-European, no matter how many concessions it makes, as Christianity has always been, and surely its impact would be just as destructive as the last attempt to alter the spiritual foundations of our people was.

However, even this is not the main issue for me. The fact is, as we see in A Prophet, the culture of the majority of Muslims in Europe is not the high-minded Sufi Islam of Martin Lings or Seyyed Hossein Nasr (two prominent contemporary traditionalists). Mostly, it does not even rise to the purely exoteric, black-and-white level of political Islamism.

The culture of Muslims in Europe is a ghetto culture, a culture of the lowest form of materialism, which is the only thing that can emerge from generation after generation of poverty, ignorance, resentment, and petty violence, all the while being encouraged in this by their cheerleaders among the ethnomasochistic liberal elites. It is no more “Islamic” in the true sense than the culture of urban Blacks in America is reflective of African culture.

There will be no restoration of spirituality or traditional values, European or Muslim. What I imagine would emerge from their triumph would be something like the city of Detroit over the past half-century, in which the underclass came to power only to set about stripping down and selling off anything of value with no thought for the future, quickly reducing the entire area into a depressing wasteland that is beyond recovery, and bearing only the faintest traces of having once been something better.

This is the true prophecy that Malik offers us: a vision of the brutal rise of a criminal-minded underclass which is interested in nothing but its own survival and material enrichment, and one which will have little regard for the welfare of its former overlords. I do not blame immigrant populations for being this way. They come to the West to seek a better life, which is only natural, and it cannot be denied that their lives here have been rough and humiliating.

However, we cannot let understanding of their plight to any degree lessen our resolve to protect what is rightfully ours. As John Michell once wrote, every people is given a space in which to realize itself. Europe, at least for the time being, still has its space, and the Muslims have theirs (apart from Palestine). There should be no shame in asserting ourselves, even though many of us, under the influence of negative and culture-destroying ideologies, have come to feel shame about it.

Therefore it remains to be seen if Europe will actually resign itself to having reached the end of its natural life cycle, or if it still retains enough vitality to bring about a restoration of some sort. But the hour is getting late, and there is much to be done. And Malik and his cohorts are already dreaming of their prophecy with their eyes wide open.

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Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2011/09/a-prophecy-for-the-future-of-europe/

Hollywood startet Massengehirnwäsche-Kampagne

Hollywood startet Massengehirnwäsche-Kampagne als Vorbereitung auf die nächste Freisetzung von biotechnisch hergestellten Viren

Ethan A. Huff

Die Unterhaltungsindustrie ist kein unbekanntes Wesen für staatliche Propagandafeldzüge, darin bilden die jüngsten Hollywoodfilme keine Ausnahme. Schon ein kurzer Blick auf den Trailer für den neuen Film Contagion lässt erkennen, dass es sich hier wohl eher um eine massive Gehirnwäsche-Kampagne handelt, die die Amerikaner psychologisch auf die nächste absichtliche Freisetzung eines biotechnisch hergestellten Virus vorbereiten – während die Zuschauer gleichzeitig auf subtile Weise darauf programmiert werden, die Vorstellung zu akzeptieren, im Falle eines Ausbruchs einer großen, verheerenden Seuche wäre eine Impfung die einzige Lösung.

 

 

Diese Taktik ist natürlich nichts Neues. Lässt man die Themen der großen Filme, die in den letzten Jahrzehnten auf den Markt gebracht wurden, noch einmal Revue passieren und vergleicht sie damit, was jeweils nicht viel später in der realen Welt geschah, dann zeigt sich mit geradezu gespenstischer Deutlichkeit, dass Hollywood eng mit den Absichten und Plänen der Kräfte verbunden ist, die heute die verschiedenen Regierungen der Welt, die US-Regierung nicht ausgenommen, in der Hand haben.

Viele – wenn nicht gar alle – Filme, die heute herauskommen, sind, so scheint es, nichts weiter als psychologische Manipulationsversuche, um entweder die Menschen geistig so abzustumpfen, dass sie eine bestimmte politische Agenda übernehmen, oder um ihr Denken buchstäblich für kommende Katastrophen zu konditionieren.

 

Mehr: http://info.kopp-verlag.de/hintergruende/enthuellungen/ethan-a-huff/hollywood-startet-massengehirnwaesche-kampagne-als-vorbereitung-auf-die-naechste-freisetzung-von-bio.html

Lars von Trier & the Men Among the Ruins

Lars von Trier & the Men Among the Ruins

By John Morgan 

Ex: http://www.counter-currents.com/

The flap caused in May 2011 at the Cannes Film Festival by Danish film director Lars von Trier is no doubt destined to share the same fate as other racial-toned public outbursts from celebrities in recent years, when the lies hiding the realities of modern life in the West are momentarily torn back so that the tensions lying underneath are savagely revealed. I am thinking, of course, of such incidents as the Michael Richards “nigger” incident at a comedy club in 2006 or Mel Gibson’s drunken “Jew” outburst to a policeman during the same year, among others.

Like all sensational news stories, they flare up briefly (but brightly) and then vanish without a trace into the enormous dustbin of forgotten tidbits of popular culture – until they are needed by some group to remind everyone of what an awful human being the perpetrator is. The celebrity in question apologizes profusely, supplicates himself and begs for forgiveness, and then usually does some sort of penance in terms of public service, religious counseling and/or rehab. We’re all well familiar with the drill by now.

Of course, other than the fact that they are committed by celebrities, there is nothing particularly significant about any of these incidents, especially considering that similar remarks are made by millions of ordinary people every day. And I myself don’t usually see much value in analyzing them for deeper significance. However, in the case of von Trier, I think it’s worth taking a closer look.

For those who don’t keep up with the doings of the European film world, von Trier was at Cannes in May to present his latest film, Melancholia. I have been unable to see it yet, but it’s an end-of-the-world story which apparently contains a lot of Wagner and influence from German Romanticism. Being an admirer of both, it certainly sounds worth viewing.I generally prefer von Trier’s earlier work, which was quite thoughtful and haunting, as opposed to his more recent films, which tend to delve too much into degeneracy and effects designed purely to shock the audience, and even outright pornography. Perhaps Melancholia will be an exception.

During a press conference, von Trier was asked about the influence of German Romanticism on the film, and he went off on a long and rambling digression ^[2] which included, among other topics, statements about his sympathy for Hitler and Albert Speer and during which he even claimed to be a Nazi. He also stated that he had “thought he was a Jew and then found out that he was a Nazi,” a reference to the fact that he had grown up believing that his father was a Jew only to be told as an adult that this man was not his actual father, and that his biological father was, in fact, a German Catholic. He was quick to disassociate himself from any perceptions of racist connotations in his remarks, saying that he had nothing against Jews (although he referred to Israelis as a “pain in the ass”).

The Festival, eager to prove its credentials within the ranks of the police of political correctness, overreacted as quickly as possible, declaring him persona non grata, despite ever-increasingly fawning apologies and retractions from von Trier in subsequent statements to the press. (Amusingly, he attempted to pass the whole thing off as his misunderstood “Danish sense of humor.”)

I do emphasize that von Trier’s remarks should not be taken at face value. This is not the first time that he has created a stir through outrageous behavior at Cannes, and it’s entirely possible that this was a publicity stunt to generate interest in the film that may or may not have backfired (von Trier has not seemed particularly upset by Cannes’ reaction). Even if his remarks were not preplanned, it’s unwise to read too much into off-the-cuff statements made by artists.

One is reminded that even Salvador Dali once praised Hitler as a “Surrealist innovator,” which caused him to be rejected by André Breton and the Surrealist establishment – not that it did much to hurt Dali’s reputation. Artists, by nature, understand the world in poetic terms, and through analogy or empathy with the extremes of existence. Thus to read any sort of genuine political conviction into von Trier’s words would be a serious mistake.

Still, when I read about the affair, I couldn’t help but to remember his one film – my personal favorite of all his works – that actually does deal with the subject of Nazism and Germany in considerable depth – his 1991 film Europa ^[3]. The film was initially renamed Zentropa for its North American release, to avoid having it confused with the Holocaust film Europa, Europa which was also in circulation at the time. Zentropa is the name von Trier continues to use for his own production company to the present.

(I should warn readers that my discussion requires that I describe certain elements of the plot, and if like me you prefer to not know the plot of a film prior to viewing it, then you might wish to do so before reading the rest of this essay.)

 

Europa is about a young American man born of German immigrants, Leopold Kessler, who travels to occupied Germany in late 1945, just a few months after the end of the war – an idealist and pacifist who, having deserted the American military during the conflict, now sees it as his mission to “show a little kindness to Germany” in order to “make the world a better place.”

His uncle reluctantly finds him a job as a sleeping car conductor for the Zentropa Railways, a venerable old company which, like the rest of industrialized Germany, suffered near-total devastation during the war, and which now struggles for acceptance by kowtowing to the victorious Allies. While working on the train, Leopold meets Zentropa’s heiress, Katharina Hartmann (Hartmann was the name of von Trier’s biological father), and they quickly fall in love, drawing Leopold into the heart of the ongoing conflict between the Germans and their American occupiers.

Europa is a brilliantly understated work. When one compares it to the clumsily obvious Hollywood films of today, it is a masterpiece of subtlety. Von Trier dared to set it in the same ruined landscape as two cinema classics which were actually made while the ruins of the Axis were still smoldering – Roberto Rossellini’s 1948 film Germany Year Zero, which is about a young boy trying to survive in the ruins of Berlin (there is even a passing reference to it when Europa’s unseen narrator, Max von Sydow, refers to 1946 as “Year One”), and Carol Reed and Orson Welles’ 1949 film The Third Man, which examines the criminal underworld of occupied Vienna. Even though Europa was made more than 40 years after these films, it holds its own and clearly draws from these predecessors.

As in Germany Year Zero and The Third Man, the particular events of the war and the Third Reich are never openly referenced or discussed – you will never hear the word “Hitler,” for instance – but they permeate every scene, so much a part of the background that they become as silent, yet omnipresent, as the camera itself.

In true noir fashion, Europa is filmed mostly in black-and-white, and every moment of the film takes place at night. The film was also unique for its time in that some scenes show color and black-and-white simultaneously, an effect achieved in the pre-digital 1991 through the use of back-projections.

For the purposes of this essay, however, I do not wish to focus on the film’s artistic brilliance and technique so much as its story. The plot hinges upon Leopold being unintentionally and meekly thrown into the middle of a conflict between the Werewolves, the American occupation forces, and the Hartmann family, which dutifully supported the Nazis during the war – including, we are told, in transporting Jews to the concentration camps – and is now attempting to ingratiate themselves with the occupiers.

Simultaneously, we get glimpses of the struggling German population, unconcerned with political matters as they simply try to find a way to survive in the devastated land. The results of Allied bombing are shown to have been truly horrific. Snow falls inside a church that has had its roof blown off. Nearly every wall in Germany seems to have holes blasted in it. It is the Germany of Savitri Devi’s Gold in the Furnace ^[5] and Defiance ^[6], which describe her experiences in Germany in the immediate post-war era, when life for ordinary Germans was a daily humiliation, and when the legacy of the National Socialist period was still fresh and German attitudes had not yet settled into the imitative political correctness that prevails there today.

The Werewolves were a paramilitary force developed during the final months of the Third Reich that was intended to fight the Allies from behind enemy lines, in uniform, as they advanced through Germany. They were named after a group of German guerrillas from the Thirty Years’ War in a novel of the same name by Hermann Löns.

In desperation, however, Propaganda Minister Goebbels began making radio broadcasts in which he claimed that the Werewolves were an underground insurgency comprised of ordinary Germans who would fight using guerilla tactics while blending in with the population. In fact, this was a myth, and while such claims succeeded in making the occupiers even more suspicious of the Germans than they otherwise might have been, most historians agree that the Werewolves never amounted to anything significant, and that they evaporated following Germany’s surrender. (According to the records of the Western Allies, not a single Allied soldier was killed as a result of enemy action following the surrender.)

Only one historian, Perry Biddiscombe, has written two books (Werwolf!: The History of the National Socialist Guerrilla Movement, 1944–1946 ^[7] and The Last Nazis: SS Werewolf Guerrilla Resistance in Europe 1944 ^[8]– ^[8]1947 ^[8]) in which he shows evidence that elements of the Werewolves continued to create mischief for the Allies for several years after the war, although even he admits that this never amounted to a genuine threat. Biddiscombe does try to show, however, that the Werewolves represented the reemergence of a genuinely radical form of National Socialism which had been suppressed following their accession to power in 1933, and which also laid the groundwork for what would later become neo-Nazism.

The Werewolves depicted in Europa are those of Goebbels’ imagination. They seem to possess a nationwide network, and the Americans are clearly very worried about them. During the course of the film they carry out two spectacular attacks. The first is a highly fictionalized version of the assassination of Franz Oppenhoff, who was appointed by the Allies to be the mayor of Aachen following its occupation, although in reality he was killed by Werewolf operatives in March 1945, while the war was still going on, rather than in the aftermath, as shown here.

In another interesting twist, von Trier changes the mayor’s name to “Ravenstein,” implying that, rather like the Southern states which were forced to accept Black judges in the period following the Civil War, the Allies are attempting to humiliate the Germans by imposing Jewish political leaders upon them. Oppenhoff was actually not Jewish.

Leopold eventually learns that the woman he loves, Katharina, is also a Werewolf (as well as a practicing Catholic), and she becomes their mouthpiece in the film. She tells Leopold that the Werewolves are “only fighting for their country, as most of the world has been doing,” and describes how it was the humiliation of her father by the Americans that drove her to join them. Given the way that the American occupiers are shown, it’s difficult not to sympathize with her words.

American soldiers are seen throughout the film, although there is only one who we get to know in any detail: Colonel Harris, who is trying to save his friend Max Hartmann’s reputation as well as recruit Leopold into spying on the Werewolves. He is arrogant and contemptuous of the German people, as Americans are frequently viewed through European eyes, and brags about having “bombed [the Germans] to pieces.”

The Americans are shown dynamiting the dockyard cranes of I. G. Farben – ostensibly to prevent the return of German military might, but in reality simply to remove German competitors.  We see American soldiers breaking up a funeral and attempting to seize the coffin because it is in violation of curfew. We see the Americans administering the infamous Fragebogen (questionnaire), the test designed to determine how complicit with the Nazis a particular individual has been (or “to test the guilt of the country,” as Max von Sydow tells us), and which must be reviewed and approved by “a member of the resistance or a Jew” – not something that was historically true, as far as I know, but which von Trier adds to increase the sense of the humiliation being inflicted upon the defeated. (In a wonderful bit of irony, von Trier himself plays the Jew who is forced to review the Fragebogen for the Americans in order to be pardoned from a prison term for stealing food.)

While it cannot be said that the Werewolves are shown in a positive light, they certainly end up looking heroic in opposition to the Americans, who are repeatedly shown to be deeply sinister and cruel. Given the fact that the United States continues to maintain military bases in Germany even today, it appears that von Trier wishes his audience to view Germany – and, by extension, Europe, as the film’s title suggests – as a nation suffering colonial domination by America. As such, the Germany of Europa is symbolic of the fate of Europe since 1945, with the Nazis cast in the unlikely role of anti-imperialist resistance fighters (and this is precisely how Strasserites, the Left wing of the Nazi movement, always saw it). The implications of this are intriguing

America’s role in Europa is entirely in keeping with the views of Francis Parker Yockey, Julius Evola, Jean Thiriart, and later, the thinkers of the European New Right: Coca-Colonialism, in which Europe is being deprived of its independence and identity in order to be converted into an outlet for American economic interests. This, for me, is the most fascinating aspect of Europa. While Leftist opposition to American influence in Europe is a common trope, I can think of no other film which depicts it from a Right-wing perspective. In this sense, the film is entirely in keeping with an Identitarian or traditionalist worldview.

A particularly powerful scene follows the death of Ravenstein, when one of his assassins, a young boy, finds himself alone, holding a small pistol while he faces two American soldiers armed with rifles. A moment later, we hear the gunfire that kills him. For me, this is a poetic representation of traditional Europe’s fate in the post-war world – weak, and practically unarmed, trying to stand up single-handed to the enormity of American might.

Then there is the Hartmann family. Max Hartmann, the head of the family as well as of Zentropa itself, and a practicing Catholic, supported the Nazis during the Third Reich. He seems to remain unashamed of his past, but at the same time he recognizes the need to gain the support of the Americans, and as a result is forced to swallow his German pride.

This must have been the tragic plight of most Germans after the war, not wanting to believe that all of their sacrifice and struggle had been in vain but at the same time recognizing that they had been left at the mercy of their conquerors. Unfortunately, that has led to the tyranny of self-deprecation and ethnomasochism (to use Faye’s term) that dominates today, and which, as the great German film director Hans-Jürgen Syberberg has pointed out, has caused Germans to find themselves missing a past, since everything in their culture from before 1945 has been judged complicit in the crimes of the Nazis.

I would not view Europa as a call for the defense of the German identity, however, since von Trier also assumes a somewhat mocking tone in his portrayal of the Germans, who all exhibit a mania for duty, procedure, and precision which often crosses over into the ridiculous, as the common stereotype of the German character would have it. There is also a brief shot of Jewish inmates being transported to a concentration camp, as if to remind us not to sympathize too much with the Germans’ plight. Still, overall, the Germans, while occasionally seeming absurd and off-putting, are ultimately depicted sympathetically, especially in contrast with Leopold’s bumbling ignorance of the world around him.

This brings us to Leopold himself. Leopold wishes to remain aloof from everything apart from his own idealism. He has no sympathy for either the Nazis or the power games of the occupiers, but imagines that he can be a force for good, untouched by the corruption around him. Ultimately, he is destroyed by his own inability to take a side, and creates yet more devastation.

Leopold represents the type of American idealism which led to the public’s initial support for the Iraq War: he wishes to do good, and imagines that he can remain incorruptible, but simply ends up being used as a tool by powers he doesn’t understand, a situation made possible by his inability to understand the complexities of the world outside America. He is a victim of the “mental AIDS” described by Guillaume Faye in his book Why We Fight ^[9], embracing a forced optimism which blinds him to the existential threats all around him.

Yet Leopold’s primary problem is not his ignorance. As von Trier shows us, Leopold’s ultimate crime is that he is unwilling to take sides. In one scene, a Catholic priest tells Leopold that for God, the most important thing is that individuals fight wholeheartedly for a cause. When Leopold points out that, in war, this is a difficult position, since both sides believe equally in their cause, the priest responds that the only sin that God cannot forgive is the sin of the unbeliever, quoting the Bible to support his contention (Revelation 3:16: “So then because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth.”).

This statement, undoubtedly stemming from von Trier’s own conversion to Catholicism, forms the underlying theme of the entire film: it is unbelief that is the real plague leading to the downfall of Europe and the West. Not just unbelief in the cause of defending the traditions of our people, but belief in the divine, which is an essential element of any genuine restoration of Western, or any other, culture. Belief is what links us to the transcendent, and allows us to view our lives in a context which goes beyond the petty and transient political squabbles of our day and the mere fulfillment of our material desires.

Without this perspective, like Leopold, we may be well-intentioned but are ultimately doomed to destruction. “It seems to me that you are the only criminal,” Katharina tells Leopold when he points out that he’s not working for the Americans or the Nazis. This is why, at the film’s conclusion, Leopold lashes out angrily against the world in what is actually his only independent action in the entire story, by exploding a bomb placed by the Werewolves on his train – not to further the Werewolves’ objectives, but simply out of selfish anger and frustration.  Ironically, he then brings about the very kind of destruction that he had sought to rectify in coming to Germany – as well as his own death.

If I were to summarize why Europa should be of interest to Rightists and traditionalists, it would be with this point: for the believers in Tradition to survive in the age of Kali-Yuga, or the age of degradation, we must wake up to how the materialistic powers-that-be wish to exploit us, and then embrace a belief which will empower us to resist the forces of nihilism that surround us. Otherwise, we will be complicit in it.

Europa is not primarily about Nazis versus Americans, or even about American cultural imperialism. It is a morality tale about a modern man struggling against nihilism, who loses. It is not enough to only engage in the temporary problems of our time, whether they be political or racial or whatever. We must also embrace the transcendent, the sacred, in some form, and it only with this power that we can withstand the continuing onslaught of the postmodern world, and find our ethical bearings in a world that is rapidly transforming all around us – and not for the better. The final shot of the film – of a drowned corpse floating past a partially-ruined city – is symbolic of European man today: the moving dead, dwelling in the ruined and occupied legacy of ancestors who were far greater than they.

I feel that I have only scratched the surface of Europa, which will surely yield even more depth under intense scrutiny, but my primary purpose in writing this is to encourage Counter-Currents readers to experience what has become a very rare thing – a genuinely European work of art, and one which reaffirms rather than undermines European identity and belief in the sacred, as opposed to Hollywood’s typical dreck and its present-day imitators in Europe.

Again, I do not believe that this film is proof positive that von Trier is a Nazi sympathizer, or even necessarily “of the Right,” but it seems clear that the outlook in this film makes some crucial points, whether inadvertently or not, and he must feel some of the same revulsion at the state of modern Europe that Identitarians and traditionalists do – even if he refuses to take a public stand against it.

Europa ^[3] has been released on DVD by the Criterion Collection, and is easily obtainable through Amazon.com ^[3] and other outlets.

---

Article printed from Counter-Currents Publishing: http://www.counter-currents.com

URL to article: http://www.counter-currents.com/2011/07/lars-von-trier-and-the-men-among-the-ruins/

URLs in this post:

[1] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Europa2.jpg

[2] long and rambling digression: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LayW8aq4GLw

[3] Europa: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001GCATWK/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=countercurren-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=B001GCATWK

[4] Image: http://www.counter-currents.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Lars-Von-Trier21.jpg

[5] Gold in the Furnace: http://www.counter-currents.com/2010/06/gold-in-the-furnace/

[6] Defiance: http://www.counter-currents.com/2010/06/defiance/

[7] Werwolf!: The History of the National Socialist Guerrilla Movement, 1944–1946: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0802008623/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=countercurren-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399369&creativeASIN=0802008623

[8] The Last Nazis: SS Werewolf Guerrilla Resistance in Europe 1944: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0752429671/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=countercurren-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=0752429671

[9] Why We Fight: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1907166181/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=countercurren-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=1907166181

Clefs pour comprendre Katyn

Clefs pour comprendre Katyn

par Jean-Gilles MALLIARAKIS

Ex: http://www.insolent.fr/

On projette donc le très beau film "Katyn" ce 14 avril (1) sur la chaîne franco-allemande Arte. Au-delà de l'œuvre de Wajda elle-même (2), de son scénario, tiré d'un roman mais aussi de l'expérience personnelle du cinéaste dans la Pologne communiste d'après-guerre, il faut considérer l'Histoire. Celle-ci accable non seulement Staline personnellement mais, d'une manière plus générale, le communisme international. Au premier rang en occident le parti le plus servile, le parti français, le parti de Maurice Thorez et de Jacques Duclos partage 100 % de la culpabilité de son maître. Et il faut y ajouter une circonstance aggravante. Car, après la Pologne en 1939, abandonnée par les radicaux-socialistes en charge à Paris de la conduite de la guerre, le sort de la France suivit en 1940.

Et si le débarquement anglo-américain, épaulé par 14 autres nations alliées, a permis en 1944 la libération territoriale de l'Hexagone, au contraire, l'Europe orientale dans son ensemble demeura jusqu'en 1991 contre son gré sous la botte de l'URSS copartageante, en vertu d'accords dont Moscou fut l'initiatrice.

Doit-on dire qu'il ne faut "jamais l'oublier" ?

Hélas, pour garder un événement en mémoire encore faut-il en avoir eu connaissance. Or l'Histoire officiellement enseignée dans le contexte de la république jacobine reste sur ce sujet très discrète. Embargo jusqu'à la chute du communisme, modestie depuis.

Rappelons donc que le 23 août 1939 fut signé à Moscou un prétendu pacte de non-agression. Il était signé par Joachim von Ribbentrop, qui sera pendu à Nuremberg en 1946 et le commissaire du peuple Viatcheslav Mikhaïlovitch Molotov. Celui-ci dirigera encore la diplomatie de son pays après la guerre et mourra dans son lit en 1986. Il se nouait alors une véritable alliance officielle entre Hitler et Staline. Le premier était resté à Berlin, alors que le second se congratulait avec le ministre des affaires étrangères du Reich. Elle ne fut aucunement rompue par Moscou mais par l'Allemagne. Staline le soulignera encore dans son discours du 3 juillet 1941. Le "génial" dictateur communiste figure hilare sur la photo de famille prise à Moscou pendant que son ministre paraphe le traité. Pendant la nuit était convenu un protocole (alors] secret, précisant le partage non seulement de la Pologne mais de toute l'Europe à l'est de la Vistule.

Or ce document sera complété et aggravé par l'entrée en guerre effective de la l'URSS contre sa malheureuse voisine le 17 septembre et la chute de Varsovie le 19. Le film de Wajda commence donc par cette jonction historique de la Wehrmacht et de l'Armée rouge, "scellant dans le sang", l'expression est de Staline lui-même, la complicité des deux agresseurs.

Mais pour comprendre Katyn, c'est-à-dire le massacre des élites polonaises par la barbarie communiste, il faut aussi comprendre la marque spécifique que celle-ci donna à son ensemble de crimes.

C'est l'URSS en effet qui chercha et imposa la disparition de l'État polonais. Le 28 septembre elle finalisera son projet en faisant signer à Ribbentrop un avenant déplaçant la ligne de démarcation entre les deux empires, bloquant, pour ce qui allait devenir le 8 octobre 1939, le "Gouvernement général" de Pologne, toute perspective d'accès à la mer. Ceci permit à l'empire stalinien naissant de compléter sa propre mainmise sur les pays baltes, en rétrocédant au Reich une portion de territoire.

"L'alliance Staline Hitler" (3) avait été pensée, théorisée et appliquée à Moscou avec beaucoup de méthode, jusqu'à sa rupture en juin 1941 du seul fait de l'Allemagne.

La prophétie de Toukhatchevski de 1920 : "la révolution mondiale passera sur le cadavre de la Pologne" se réalisa donc 20 ans plus tard avec la collaboration des nazis. Vaincue sur la Vistule, l'Armée rouge obtenait sa revanche sur le tapis vert.

Pendant toute la période 1940-1990 Moscou œuvra pour conserver ses acquis.

Soulignons que la conférence de Yalta de février 1945 aboutit à cet égard à une "déclaration sur l'Europe libérée" permettant à l'URSS de conserver tous les avantages territoriaux de la période 1939-1941, et donc de déplacer à son profit les frontières de 1938 – au nom desquelles l'occident était entré en guerre. Prétendre qu'il ne se serait rien passé en cette occasion relève de la désinformation : les Alliés se sont accordés pour entériner la "situation politique nouvelle" résultant de la "libération par l'Armée rouge". Les accords de Potsdam d'août 1945, entre Truman, Bevin et Staline ont consolidé ce principe, après la disparition de Roosevelt et la victoire des travaillistes aux élections britanniques.

Dans ce cadre un gouvernement communiste fut imposé au peuple-martyr. On appelle cette formule la "Pologne nouvelle", appuyée par la canaille, précisément contrôlée par les organes dits "de sécurité" du système soviétique. Ceux-ci ont travaillé soigneusement à l'éradication de la "Mémoire" : celle du peuple polonais s'est maintenue, en dépit d'une répression abominable à l'encontre des récalcitrants.

Hélas en Europe occidentale, et singulièrement en France, les mêmes réseaux ont rencontré beaucoup plus de complaisances auprès des beaux esprits bien connus.

JG Malliarakis

Apostilles

1. le 14 avril à 20h40 Rediffusion le 19 avril à 01h30.
   http://www.arte.tv/fr/semaine/244,broadcastingNum=1260026,day=6,week=15,year=2011.html
2. à la sortie de laquelle en France nous avons consacré deux articles → L'Insolent du 8 avril 2009 "Katyn un film magnifique de Wajda" Je voulais ce matin évoquer Katyn en commençant par le film de Wajda projeté cette semaine encore dans 13 salles seulement de notre hexagone. → et L'Insolent du 9 avril 2009 "Katyn le poids historique du mensonge et du crime" Le film de Wajda évoqué hier s'inscrit dans un certain contexte mémoriel et politique. Comme le déclare le cinéaste lui-même : "il ne pouvait être réalisé plus tôt, tant que la 'Pologne populaire' existait".
3. Sous ce titre paraîtra un ouvrage de l'auteur de ces lignes retraçant le contexte de la politique soviétique pendant toute l'entre deux guerres. Il comprend en annexe, et expliquant, plus de 80 documents diplomatiques, caractéristiques de cette alliance. Il sera en vente à partir du 15 mai au prix de 29 euros. Les lecteurs de L'Insolent peuvent y souscrire jusqu'au 30 avril au prix de 20 euros, soit en passant par la page spéciale sur le site des Éditions du Trident, soit en adressant directement un chèque de 20 euros aux Éditions du Trident 39 rue du Cherche Midi 75006 Paris. Tel [phone].

Puisque vous avez aimé l'Insolent

Aidez-le par une contribution financière !

Battle of Waterloo - Charge of the British Heavy Cavalry

Battle of Waterloo - Charge of the British Heavy Cavalry

Walsh, le génie sauvage du cinéma

Walsh, le génie sauvage du cinéma

par Nicolas Bonnal

 

Ex: http://www.france-courtoise.info/

Comparer un film de Walsh à un film hollywoodien ou cannois actuel, c’est comme comparer un Dostoïevski à l’un des 667 ouvrages de la rentrée littéraire ; autant dire impossible. Essayons modestement d’expliquer pourquoi c’est impossible en quelques lignes, à l’aide des quelques DVD qui nous tombent entre les mains.

Walsh a vécu 90 ans, c’est un catholique hispano-saxo-celte, il a réalisé des centaines de films, il a été un des grands acteurs du muet, il est devenu borgne comme Ford, Horatius Coclès ou le dieu Odin précédemment cité, il est le plus grand maître du cinéma d’épopée, d’action, et d’amour noble, il est Homère avec une caméra.

_*^*_*

La quête solaire du héros walshien est souvent suicidaire, comme on dirait aujourd’hui : le héros walshien va au bout d’un destin de fou, il est tragique et épique à la fois. C’est Errol Flynn cherchant la mort dans la peau du général Custer, alors qu’il est l’ami des Indiens et qu’il a combattu les intrusions du gouvernement fédéral. C’est Humphrey Bogart cherchant l’impossible liberté dans les montagnes rocheuses de High sierra, alors qu’il est miné par son destin de loser solitaire, gangster raté et récupéré par la mafia au pouvoir. C’est Joel McCrea dans Colorado territory, qui reprend le même sujet, mais aux temps du western, quand il est encore possible de se croire au temps des Grecs, flanqué de montagnes et de chevaux, de vrais indiens et de faux dieux...

Cet héroïsme s’accompagne d’une flamboyance féminine incomparable ; la femme walshienne est sublimée par l’amour fou que lui inspire son héros de compagnon ou de mari, souvent bien plus âgé (la fille est Antigone et Iseut à la fois) ; ils sont comme un couple nietzschéen près pour une danse lyrique avec la mort : voir la fin sublime, incomparable de Colorado territory, lorsque Virginia Mayo accompagne McCrea pour son règlement de comptes final avec le sheriff et ses tueurs. La nature est encore le témoin neutre et silencieux de la brutalité humaine, non le macrocosme où celle-ci s’accomplit.

_*^*_*

Walsh est le cinéaste de deux appétits inconciliables ; celui de l’individu doté de courage et d’esprit tragique, et celui de la société ou de l’Etat moderne, de plus en plus monstrueux, de plus en plus froid. Le montage technique du cinéaste, qui renvoie aux oubliettes le montage numérique d’aujourd’hui, marque cette accélération de la folle efficacité étatique, sa froide et noire science du malheur : voir les plans de sirènes et de radios dans High sierra, les télégraphes et les journaux dans la Chevauchée fantastique, la maîtrise spatiale et routière dans The Big Heat, son plus terrible chef-d’oeuvre.

Si l’on veut comprendre en effet ce qu’est un dictateur, on verra ou reverra ce film de 1949, plus nerveux et stressant qu’aucun spectacle actuel, au moins dix fois : on comprendra ce qu’est le dictateur en voyant ce passage muet où James Cagney apprend en prison que sa mère est morte et assomme en hurlant la moitié du personnel du pénitencier ; on comprendra en voyant ce passage où il tire sur le coffre d’une voiture parce que son prisonnier, enfermé dedans, lui demande de l’air pour respirer ; où, lorsqu’il apprend que son meilleur ami et lieutenant est un flic infiltré, professionnel glacial et post-humain, un « expert » avant l’heure, il devient et se lance dans la folle conquête du monde, une centrale thermique en l’occurrence, sur laquelle il explose littéralement, tout en riant aux armes.

_*^*_*

Dans une de ses dernières oeuvres, Walsh offre une vision décalée, conservatrice, provocatrice, anarchiste de droite de l’esclavage et de la guerre de Sécession. A la brutalité des yankees, voleurs, violeurs, assassins, bien sûr prédicateurs, Walsh oppose le monde de la féodalité sereine et traditionnelle du Sud, qui font que les esclaves sauvent le bon maître dans le respect des règles du devoir, de l’honneur et de la charité. Ce sont eux qui le libèrent et de ses fautes passées et du monde moderne qui arrive. Clark Gable (c’était l’acteur US préféré d’Hitler, qui aurait dû se reconnaître dans James Cagney...), sublime, mûr et seigneurial d’un bout à l’autre y est inoubliable, notamment dans la scène où il liquide, en guerrier froid et désabusé, la mythologie vague du duel.

Walsh est dans un monde épique, serein, solitaire, aérien, il est avec les dieux de l’Olympe, il est avec les neuf muses ou avec les scaldes scandinaves, il est au panthéon avec Virgile, avec Hugo, auquel on l’a souvent comparé. Il maîtrisait comme personne un art d’industrie, de masse, promis le plus souvent à la plus creuse distraction, promu par lui à la plus haute distinction.

New Dany Boon film plays on France-Belgium prejudice

Ex: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-12325795

New Dany Boon film plays on France-Belgium prejudice
By Hugh Schofield BBC News, Paris

Benoit Poelvoorde and Dany Boon In the film, the two enemies endlessly insult each other's homelands

Making fun out of national stereotypes is not exactly standard comic fare
these days, so a new comedy out this week in France represents something of
a gamble for its star and director Dany Boon.

Set at a customs post on the French-Belgian border, Rien a Declarer (Nothing
to Declare) is the long-awaited follow-up to Boon's 2008 blockbuster
Bienvenu chez les Ch'tis (Welcome to the Sticks), which was seen by 20
million people and now ranks as the most popular French film ever.

The new film stays on Boon's home turf of the French far north, where the
locals are known as Ch'tis, drink Ch'ti beer and speak the Ch'ti dialect.

But if Bienvenu chez les Ch'tis was about the cultural misunderstandings
that arise when a French southerner blows in, Rien a Declarer plays on
another set of stereotypes - about Belgians.

Trailer:
http://www.wat.tv/video/bande-annonce-rien-declarer-355kx...

"I wanted to do a film about racism, but I wanted to make it funny" Dany
Boon Director

The year is 1993 and, following the creation of the EU's Schengen
passport-free travel zone, customs posts are to be dismantled along the
Franco-Belgian border.

Dany Boon plays customs officer Mathias, whose opposite number on the
Belgian side seethes with a virulent and irrational hatred of all things
French.

Belgian officer Ruben is played with panache by Benoit Poelvoorde, the actor
who recently vowed to let his beard grow until a government in Brussels is
finally formed.
Old-fashioned humour

Boon and Poelvoorde are condemned to work together when the authorities set
up new bi-national mobile patrols.

There is a thwarted love affair - Mathias with Benoit's sister Louise - a
drugs syndicate and plenty of ribaldry, before finally peace descends in
another feel-good finish.
Belgian actor Benoit Poelvoorde (L) and French director Dany Boon Boon (r)
says he wanted to make a film about racism, but wanted to make it funny

"When I was an arts student, I used to have to cross the border into Belgium
and the guards gave me a hard time because of my long hair," Boon said in an
interview with the BBC.

"Then recently I was back on the border, and these small villages which used
to be dominated by the customs now just stand empty. It was so evocative -
like those dust-blown streets in the Wild West."

Boon's cinema is based on the familiar and the comforting. Experimental it
is not. This is why, to an outsider's eye, much of the humour seems
extraordinarily old-fashioned.

The Poelvoorde character is motivated by a level of exaggerated
ultra-nationalism last seen in mid-19th Century Prussia. In other glaring
anachronisms, he goes to confession in church, and is driven to homicidal
frenzy by the thought of his sister marrying a Frenchman.

Underlying his behaviour are the old national cliches - that the French
think the Belgians are all thick, while the Belgians find the French
arrogant and smug. The jokes abound.

Boon defends himself against charges that he is pandering to the stereotypes
by describing his film as a satire on racism.
Still from Rien a Declarer The film follows the fictional dismantling of
customs posts along the Franco-Belgian border

"I wanted to do a film about racism, but I wanted to make it funny. The way
to do that, it seemed to me, was to focus on a French-Belgian situation.
French and Belgians are basically the same - the same language, the same
skin, the same religion - so the racism is utterly ridiculous.

"If I tried to make a comedy about a real racist situation - say with North
Africans - then it would be too sensitive to work."

Some might say Boon is having his cake and eating it - playing for easy
laughs and being high-minded at the same time.

But in France, the only question that matters is whether Rien a Declarer can
live up to the success of its monumental predecessor, the Ch'tis.

For the critics, the answer so far has been a resounding "Non".

Le Figaro described the film as "empty, lazy and tired", while Liberation
said it was a "reactionary fairy tale". Even crueller was Les Inrockuptibles
magazine, which said it was the sort of film wartime leader Marshal Petain
would ask to see on his deathbed.

It is true that the France as portrayed in Rien a Declarer is a kind of
de-globalised never-never-land where people behave according to
uncomplicated, reassuring patterns.

But then exactly the same could be said of Bienvenu chez les Ch'tis, and
that was the biggest French hit of all time.

The fact is that today's French are suckers for anything that will make them
forget their chronic sense of gloom.

Boon says he is upset by the critiques, but has a way of staying sane.

"I just get out the early reviews of les Ch'tis, and remind myself how the
critics got that one wrong too."

Werner Herzog - Finding ecstatic truth

Werner Herzog — Finding ecstatic truth in the most extreme circumstances, embracing the world that is both brutal and chaotic

Werner Her­zog, Con­quest of the Use­less: Reflec­tions from the Mak­ing of Fitz­car­raldo, Trans. By Krishna Win­ston (Ecco, 2009)

by Lawrence Levi

 Ex: http://www.new-antaios.net/

 

 

 

 

 

 

“One of the most revered film­mak­ers of our time, Werner Her­zog wrote this diary dur­ing the mak­ing of Fitz­car­raldo, the lav­ish 1982 film that tells the story of a would-be rub­ber baron who pulls a steamship over a hill in order to access a rich rub­ber ter­ri­tory. Later, Her­zog spoke of his dif­fi­cul­ties when mak­ing the film, includ­ing cast­ing prob­lems, reshoots, lan­guage bar­ri­ers, epic clashes with the star, and the logis­tics of mov­ing a 320-ton steamship over a hill with­out the use of spe­cial effects.”

“Orig­i­nally pub­lished in the noted director’s native Ger­many in 2004, Herzog’s diary, more prose poetry than jour­nal entries, will appeal even to those unfa­mil­iar with the extrav­a­gant 1982 film. From June 1979 to Novem­ber 1981, Her­zog recounted not only the par­tic­u­lars of shoot­ing the dif­fi­cult film about a fic­tional rub­ber baron—which included the famous sequence of a steamer ship being maneu­vered over a hill from one river to another—but also the dream­like qual­ity of life in the Ama­zon. Famous faces swim in and out of focus, notably Mick Jag­ger, in a part that ended up on the cut­ting room floor, and the eccen­tric actor Klaus Kin­ski, who con­stantly berated the direc­tor after step­ping into the title role that Jason Robards had quit. Fas­ci­nated by the wildlife that sur­rounded him in the iso­lated Peru­vian jun­gle, Her­zog details every­thing from the omnipresent insect life to pira­nhas that could bite off a man’s toe. Those who haven’t encoun­tered Her­zog on screen will undoubt­edly be drawn in by the director’s lyri­cism, while cinephiles will rel­ish the oppor­tu­nity to retrace the steps of one of the medium’s mas­ters.” — Pub­lish­ers Weekly

“As the book makes abun­dantly clear, this isn’t the jun­gle pro­moted by orga­niz­ers of eco-tours: It’s a place of absur­dity, cru­elty and squalor; of incom­pe­tence and grotes­query; of poi­so­nous snakes and insects from a fever dream; of Indi­ans armed with poi­soned arrows and Indi­ans who craftily use the media. Haz­ards abound: greedy offi­cials, deranged actors and drunken helpers… What tran­spires in the jun­gle, com­bined with his native astrin­gency, moves [Her­zog] to a cur­dled poetry, to ecstasies of loathing and dis­gust… Much of Herzog’s focus here is intensely phys­i­cal, but he is also an imag­i­na­tive cul­tural observer.” — San Fran­cisco Chronicle

“…the befogged inter­nal swirl of Herzog’s mind becomes an improb­a­bly apt van­tage point from which to view the his­tory of Fitz­car­raldo. For all his mad­den­ing opacity…Herzog ren­ders a vivid por­trait of him­self as an artist hyp­no­tized by his own deter­mined imag­i­na­tion.” — Mark Har­ris

“The jour­nal entries that make up this dis­arm­ingly poetic mem­oir were penned over the course of the two and a half years it took Her­zog to make his film Fitz­car­raldo, for which he won the best direc­tor award at Cannes in 1982. Herzog’s earthy and atmos­pheric descrip­tions of the Ama­zon jun­gle and the Natives who live there among wild and domes­ti­cated ani­mals in heavy, humid weather con­jure a civ­i­liza­tion indif­fer­ent to the rhythms of moder­nity. The impos­si­ble odds that con­spired to stop pro­duc­tion of the film and the sheer obsti­nacy it took to attempt it in the rain for­est instead of a stu­dio par­al­lel the plot of the film itself: with the help of local Natives, Fitz­car­raldo pulls a steamship over a steep hill to access rub­ber so he can earn enough money to build an opera house in the jun­gle. Her­zog has made over 50 films dur­ing his pro­lific career.” — Donna L. Davey

“The acclaimed director’s diary of his time mak­ing Fitz­car­raldo (1982). From the begin­ning, the film faced more chal­lenges and uncer­tain­ties than most of Herzog’s other movies, and he com­posed a lengthy list that ended with the grim fore­cast that it could “be added to indef­i­nitely.” Film­ing had to start anew after Jason Robards, the orig­i­nal lead and an actor Her­zog came to scorn, aban­doned the project halfway through due to ill­ness, and Mick Jag­ger, set to play the lead character’s assis­tant, had to drop out to go on tour. When film­ing restarted, it was with Ger­man actor Klaus Kin­ski, a rav­ing, unhinged pres­ence in these journals-his volatil­ity so alarmed the locals that they qui­etly asked the direc­tor if he wanted Kin­ski killed. Then there were the night­mar­ish logis­tics of the famous scene where a steamship is dragged over a small hill in the jun­gle, from one river to another. Her­zog insisted that, as the cen­tral metaphor of the film, the event must be recorded with­out any com­pro­mise. (Much of the behind-the-scenes drama is recorded in Les Blank’s doc­u­men­tary Bur­den of Dreams.) Herzog’s jour­nals effec­tively map the director’s dis­lo­ca­tion and lone­li­ness, but they also high­light his unique imag­i­na­tion and the pro­found effect the remote Peru­vian loca­tion had on him. The writ­ing is haunted by what Her­zog came to see as the mis­ery of the jun­gle, a place where “all the pro­por­tions are off.” He slept fit­fully, when at all, and there is a hal­lu­ci­na­tory qual­ity to the journals-the line between what is real and what is imag­ined becomes nearly invis­i­ble. Recorded daily, with occa­sional gaps and frag­ments, Herzog’s reflec­tions are dis­qui­et­ing but also urgent and compelling-as he notes, “it’s onlythrough writ­ing that I come to my senses.“A valu­able his­tor­i­cal record and a strangely styl­ish, hyp­notic lit­er­ary work.” — Kirkus Reviews

“The film­ing of Werner Herzog’s 1982 epic, Fitz­car­raldo, in the Ama­zon­ian depths of Peru seemed myth­i­cally doomed from its incep­tion, some­thing chron­i­cled that same year in the doc­u­men­tary Bur­den of Dreams. The tit­u­lar char­ac­ter, fueled by the vol­canic ego of Klaus Kin­ski, wants to build an opera house in the wilds of Iqui­tos but first must get a 300-ton steam­boat over a moun­tain. The Ger­man director’s per­sonal jour­nal from the marathon two-year shoot offers another angle, and it’s no sur­prise his entries are exquis­itely detailed. Most of his films toe the same fine line – obses­sion and insan­ity – so nat­u­rally, he car­ried Fitzcarraldo’s bur­den.
It’s not explicit if, years later when he decided to trans­late and pub­lish this, Her­zog took a revisionist’s scalpel to his time in Peru. In the pref­ace, he states it wasn’t a day-to-day diary of film­ing but rather “inner land­scapes, born of the delir­ium of the jun­gle.” Through­out Con­quest, Her­zog is repeat­edly dis­gusted by the jungle’s per­ver­sity and silent, seething “mal­ice,” yet strangely amused by its dirty jokes.
Those highs and lows coil as one. For his dry reflec­tions (“When you shoot an ele­phant, it stays on its feet for 10 days before it falls over”) and pangs of jun­gle hatred, there are equally beau­ti­ful scenes, as when Her­zog thinks he feels an earth­quake: “For a moment the coun­try­side quiv­ered and shook, and my ham­mock began to sway gen­tly.” Her­zog and Kinski’s tumul­tuous friend­ship is touched on, but not as deeply as in the great 1999 doc­u­men­tary My Best Fiend. Her­zog mostly ignores the actor’s pro­jec­tile inso­lence on set, though he does move him to a hotel when per­turbed natives offer to kill him.
Else­where, a man chops off his own foot after a snakebite; a Peru­vian gen­eral snaps and declares war on Ecuador; Her­zog slaps an albino turkey; birds “scream” rather than sing, and insects look pre­his­toric; planes crash and limbs are split open. He sounds amaz­ingly calm within these fevered inner land­scapes – per­haps writ­ing was ther­apy – but knows pre­serv­ing his­tory is impor­tant to myth. The crew, vic­to­ri­ous, finally gets the boat over the moun­tain, and Her­zog gets in one last joke. “All that is to be reported is this: I took part.” — Audra Schroeder

“A crazed epic about a rub­ber baron who drags a steamship across an Ama­zon­ian moun­tain range, Werner Herzog’s Fitz­car­raldo (1981) set the bar absurdly high for cin­e­matic real­ism. (There would be no spe­cial effects used.) Per­haps even more hair-raising were the sto­ries that emerged from that shoot, includ­ing Peru­vian bor­der dis­putes, manic rages from actor Klaus Kin­ski and an unfor­tu­nate cin­e­matog­ra­pher for­got­ten overnight on a roar­ing rapids. Les Blank’s doc­u­men­tary of the mak­ing of the film, Bur­den of Dreams, is arguably supe­rior to Fitz­car­raldo itself.
Now comes a third nar­ra­tive, direc­tor Herzog’s pri­vate jour­nals, first pub­lished in Ger­many in 2004 and finally arriv­ing state­side. Con­quest of the Use­less (from a line of dia­logue in the film) adds sig­nif­i­cant details to the big­ger pic­ture, but also stands alone as a com­pellingly gonzo piece of reportage. Shrewdly omit­ting the better-known mis­ad­ven­tures, Her­zog focuses on his own deter­mi­na­tion and lone­li­ness. And why not? It’s a diary. We start in the cush sur­round­ings of Fran­cis Coppola’s San Fran­cisco man­sion, circa the release of Apoc­a­lypse Now. Her­zog toils on his script in the guest room while Sofia plays in the pool. A month later, he’s in Iqui­tos, Peru, observ­ing ani­mals as they eat each other.
As a read, Con­quest flies along—but not because it’s espe­cially plotty. Rather, it gath­ers its kick from the spec­ta­cle of a celebrity direc­tor escap­ing the late-’70s famescape into his own obses­sions. Meet­ings with Mick Jag­ger are far less wild than Herzog’s mor­dant curios­ity at the steamy rain for­est and his vivid descent into what he calls the “great abyss of night.” When a local Peru­vian fears the camera’s theft of his soul, Her­zog tells him there’s no need to worry, but pri­vately admits he’s lying.” — Joshua Rothkopf

“I am fas­ci­nated by Werner Herzog’s philo­soph­i­cal approach to life, and what he refers to as ecsta­tic truth. His early film­mak­ing roughly cor­re­sponds to the New Ger­man Cin­ema, a move­ment which sought to acti­vate new ways to rep­re­sent and dis­cuss cul­ture and real­ity. Ecsta­tic truth, as an idea, remains true to this bold and pro­gres­sive ambi­tion, hop­ing to cap­ture a sense of real­ity that goes beyond straight­for­ward empir­i­cal facts, or the con­tem­po­rary con­ven­tions of Euro­pean cin­ema.
Instead, ecsta­tic truth is a kind of spir­i­tual affir­ma­tion that exists between the lines, or behind the super­fi­cial gloss of the on-screen images; and yet it is not spir­i­tual in any the­o­log­i­cal sense, nor does it adhere to any cul­tural set of beliefs. To bor­row a phrase from the title of Alan Yentob’s BBC doc­u­men­tary on Her­zog, it is a truth ‘beyond rea­son’: highly sub­jec­tive and deeply per­sonal.
For me, what is most inter­est­ing about Herzog’s work is that he seeks to find a sense of ecsta­tic truth in the most extreme cir­cum­stances. Per­haps this is the only place it can be found, if it is to exist at all. His films are often struc­tured around char­ac­ters who are in some way at odds with the world, strangers in a uni­verse divested of mean­ing and sur­rounded by ‘chaos, hos­til­ity and mur­der’. It sounds like a very fatal­is­tic, Ger­manic philo­soph­i­cal approach, but I think that to dis­miss it as neg­a­tive or nihilis­tic is to miss Herzog’s point.
The con­cept of ecsta­tic truth ties into a loose cul­tural idea of spir­i­tual enlight­en­ment and indi­vid­ual empow­er­ment, but it is with­out sen­ti­ment or naive ide­al­ism. It is a way of look­ing at the world as both bru­tal and chaotic, but embrac­ing those qual­i­ties in nature for what they are. It accepts that humankind can­not dom­i­nate or con­trol nature as such, but is enthu­si­as­tic about the engage­ment. On the set of Fitz­car­raldo, deep in the jun­gle, Her­zog speaks of the ‘obscen­ity of the jun­gle’, stat­ing that even ‘the stars look like a mess’, and yet, in spite of this, he con­tin­ues to love and admire the nature that sur­rounds him — per­haps ‘against [his] bet­ter judg­ment’.
Ecsta­tic truth does not imply secu­rity or sta­bil­ity, there are no great dis­cov­er­ies and no guar­an­tees of empir­i­cal knowl­edge: in this sense it is a nec­es­sary con­quest of the use­less, a jour­ney with no sign­posts or des­ti­na­tions. It is a con­tin­ual task, under­taken not for the ben­e­fit of mankind but for the ben­e­fit of one­self. And I think that there is some­thing per­versely roman­tic and aspi­ra­tional about Herzog’s approach; in many ways it feels rem­i­nis­cent of Niet­zsche roam­ing the wild moun­tains and find­ing peace in the wilder­ness.
To seek one’s indi­vid­ual sense of truth among the ele­ments is surely as noble a project as any, and many of Werner Herzog’s films seem to be pur­su­ing exactly that kind of philo­soph­i­cal aim: it is an attempt to cre­ate one’s place in the uni­verse, or, as Her­zog puts it, to con­tin­u­ally search for ‘a deeper stra­tum of truth’ about one­self and the wider world.” — Rhys Tran­ter

“The 64-year-old Ger­man film­maker Werner Her­zog has long been as famous for his state­ments about film and cul­ture as he has been for his actual movies. In speech and in writ­ing, he inclines to apho­rism rather than argu­ment, issu­ing dicta with a her­metic self-containment bor­der­ing on the inscrutable. The 300-page Her­zog on Her­zog (2002) reads this way, as does his 12-point “Min­nesota Dec­la­ra­tion”, an impromptu man­i­festo deliv­ered at the Walker Arts Cen­ter in Min­neapo­lis in 1999. Herzog’s apho­risms teeter between the vision­ary and the bizarre, as these two points of the “Dec­la­ra­tion” attest:

‘5. There are deeper strata of truth in cin­ema, and there is such a thing as poetic, ecsta­tic truth. It is mys­te­ri­ous and elu­sive, and can be reached only through fab­ri­ca­tion and imag­i­na­tion and styl­iza­tion.
10. The moon is dull. Mother Nature doesn’t call, doesn’t speak to you, although a glac­ier even­tu­ally farts. And don’t you lis­ten to the Song of Life.‘
Her­zog has become an object of cin­e­matic fas­ci­na­tion in his own right. Direc­tor Les Blank has made two doc­u­men­taries star­ring his col­league: Bur­den of Dreams (1982) fol­lows the mak­ing of Herzog’s Fitz­car­raldo, and Werner Her­zog Eats His Shoe (1980) fea­tures Her­zog cook­ing and devour­ing a leather boot while deliv­er­ing pro­nounce­ments on the near-extinction of imag­i­na­tion, the need for artis­tic dar­ing, and the dif­fer­ence between fact and truth. The col­lec­tive word count of Herzog’s pro­nounce­ments about art and cul­ture prob­a­bly exceeds the words spo­ken by his char­ac­ters onscreen (despite a pro­lific 55-film career). A mas­ter of ele­gant strange­ness, Her­zog has prof­ited by this canny abil­ity to expound and prac­tice an artis­tic phi­los­o­phy.
Once again, Her­zog has man­aged to have his shoe and eat it, too. In Con­quest of the Use­less: Reflec­tions from the Mak­ing of Fitz­car­raldo, Her­zog pub­lishes the diary he kept from 1979 to 1981 while shoot­ing (or, more often, wait­ing to shoot) his acclaimed film about a bom­bas­tic anti-hero in the Brazil­ian jun­gle. Thanks to Les Blank’s Bur­den of Dreams, the plagued his­tory of Fitz­car­raldo already holds a noto­ri­ous place in film­mak­ing mythol­ogy: assis­tants died; actors became injured and ill; some of the local extras plot­ted to kill hot-blooded star Klaus Kin­ski. Typ­i­cally, Her­zog took these inci­dents as cos­mic por­tents, telling Blank: “The trees here are in mis­ery. The birds here are in mis­ery – I don’t think they sing; they just screech in pain.” The essence of the jun­gle is “for­ni­ca­tion and asphyx­i­a­tion and chok­ing and fight­ing for sur­vival and grow­ing and just rot­ting away”.
A dar­ling of cineasts and prize com­mit­tees, Werner Her­zog is savvier than the humor­less neu­rotic he some­times plays on-screen and in his jour­nals. He is fully aware of the car­toon­ish­ness of his morose Weltan­schau­ung, but seems to rel­ish sit­u­at­ing him­self at the junc­ture of com­edy, melo­drama, and nihilism. Of Con­quest of the Useless’s 320 pages, this sort of vague cos­mo­log­i­cal pes­simism prob­a­bly accounts for some 50. The book finally shifts from being very funny (though we are never sure whether Her­zog is an accom­plice or an object of our laugh­ter) to slightly dull.
That said, Con­quest of the Use­less is a sin­gu­lar book, so strong at many points that it could be read and appre­ci­ated by some­one who had never seen a sin­gle Her­zog film. In Werner Her­zog Eats His Shoe, Her­zog says: “Our civ­i­liza­tion doesn’t have ade­quate images… That’s what I’m work­ing on: a new gram­mar of images.” With­out them, he says, we are doomed to “die out like dinosaurs.”
In con­trast with this “new gram­mar of images”, Her­zog sets the false images offered by tele­vi­sion and adver­tise­ments. These “kill us” and “kill our lan­guage” because they lull instead of pro­voke, work­ing within a famil­iar spec­trum of won­der, desire, and repul­sion. Herzog’s films can be inter­preted as anti­dotes to this dead­en­ing com­pla­cency, and the count­less strange moments in Con­quest of the Use­less as yet another cura­tive, this time through the medium of lan­guage.
The book’s images of grotesque sur­re­al­ism arrive abruptly amidst more mun­dane descrip­tions of weather or squab­bling actors. In a sud­den, pecu­liar flash they sug­gest whole worlds abut­ting Herzog’s, yet with utterly dif­fer­ent codes of behav­ior, stores of knowl­edge, and inter­pre­ta­tions of real­ity. In “Iqui­tos” a tiny boy named Modus Vivendi earns a liv­ing play­ing the vio­lin at funer­als. Chil­dren steal a bit of sound tape from Herzog’s crew and tie it between two trees, so tight that the wind makes it “hum and sing.” At fes­ti­vals men shoot each other with bows and arrows, the recip­i­ent catch­ing the shaft midair before it hits its mark. A large moth sits on Herzog’s dirty laun­dry and “feasts on the salt from [his] sweat.” In the crew’s ship­ment of pro­vi­sions they order kilos of arrow-tip poi­son, which serves as local cur­rency. “For a spoon­ful of this black sticky mass, you can get your­self a woman to marry, I was told in a respect­ful whis­per by a boat­man as he cleaned his toes with a screw­driver.” Such sur­prises exem­plify the new­ness to Herzog’s “gram­mar of images”, a new­ness that is not sim­ply indica­tive of their shock value but illus­tra­tive of a vora­cious curios­ity about how other beings sur­vive, and some­times enjoy, their pas­sage through the world.
In Con­quest of the Use­less, Her­zog may have stum­bled across the genre to which his writ­ing is best suited. The jour­nal form pro­vides an inher­ent struc­ture, in which sea­sons change, per­son­al­i­ties clash and rec­on­cile and clash again, and bud­gets dwin­dle. All Her­zog has to do from time to time is log the cur­rent con­di­tions of all these fac­tors, and the drama writes itself. This sin­gle lin­ear struc­ture is steady and com­pre­hen­si­ble enough to accom­mo­date a great deal of eccen­tric­ity and diva­ga­tion, and the reader never feels mired in the wash of sur­real imagery and quasi-philosophic mus­ing. With entries aver­ag­ing three or four para­graphs, few feel over­stuffed with detail.
When Her­zog sim­ply shows what’s there, the result is breath­tak­ing, and even a reader unac­quainted with Herzog’s work could imag­ine why Fran­cois Truf­faut called him “the great­est film direc­tor alive”. What spoils some of these images, how­ever, is Herzog’s occa­sional habit of gloss­ing or inter­pret­ing them for us. This can result in cringe-worthy pur­ple prose: “In its all-encompassing, mas­sive mis­ery, of which it has no knowl­edge and no hint of a notion, the mighty jun­gle stood com­pletely still for another night, which, how­ever, true to its inner­most nature, it didn’t allow to go unused for incred­i­ble destruc­tion, incred­i­ble butch­ery.”
Fit­ting this “gram­mar of images” into an argu­ment or phi­los­o­phy is often mis­guided. Herzog’s attempts at artic­u­lat­ing a con­vinc­ing credo fail, but his ren­der­ing of the world’s strange par­tic­u­lars achieves the “ecsta­tic truth” which for him is both the aim and the con­tent of art. Her­zog schol­ars will per­haps read Con­quest of the Use­less with the goal of sup­ple­ment­ing their under­stand­ing of his aston­ish­ing films. Doing so risks over­look­ing the value of Con­quest as a work of art itself. The plea­sures of the word are dif­fer­ent from the plea­sures of the cam­era. Herzog’s strange and orig­i­nal voice, by medi­at­ing a place and mood through lan­guage rather than footage, pro­vides yet another new gram­mar by which imag­i­na­tion speaks.” — Laura Kolbe
“This is what “a beau­ti­ful, fresh, sunny morn­ing” was like for Werner Her­zog dur­ing the Sisyphean mis­eries that plagued the shoot­ing of his Ama­zon­ian epic “Fitz­car­raldo” (1982): one of two newly hatched chicks drowned in a saucer con­tain­ing only a few mil­lime­ters of water. The other lost a leg and a piece of its stom­ach to a mur­der­ous rab­bit. And Mr. Her­zog real­ized, for the umpteenth time, that “a sense of des­o­la­tion was tear­ing me up inside, like ter­mites in a fallen tree trunk.”
These and other good times have been immor­tal­ized in “Con­quest of the Use­less,” Mr. Herzog’s jour­nal about his best-known film­mak­ing night­mare. Already pub­lished in Ger­man as the evoca­tively titled “Eroberung des Nut­zlosen” in 2004, this book, trans­lated by Krishna Win­ston, seem­ingly reca­pit­u­lates some of Les Blank’s film “Bur­den of Dreams,” the 1982 doc­u­men­tary that cap­tured the “Fitz­car­raldo” shoot in all of its mag­nif­i­cent, doomy glory. When he spoke to Mr. Blank, Mr. Her­zog used the phrase “chal­lenge of the impos­si­ble” to describe his heroic, arguably unhinged strug­gle to com­plete his film.
But “Bur­den of Dreams” never pen­e­trated Mr. Herzog’s rogue thoughts, at least not in the way his own mes­mer­iz­ingly bizarre account does. That’s under­stand­able: Mr. Blank could con­cen­trate on such exter­nal diver­sions as haul­ing a steamship over a hill in the Ama­zon rain for­est, which was the pièce de résis­tance of Mr. Herzog’s “Fitz­car­raldo” sce­nario.
The obser­va­tions to be found in “Con­quest of the Use­less” are much more pri­vate and piti­less, as Mr. Her­zog finds evi­dence of an indif­fer­ent uni­verse wher­ever he turns. With the same bleak elo­quence that he brings to nar­rat­ing his non­fic­tion films (and what voice can match Mr. Herzog’s for mourn­fully con­tem­pla­tive beauty?) this book describes the exot­ica of the jun­gle. Obsessed with the bird, ani­mal and insect worlds as a way of avoid­ing the human one, Mr. Her­zog keeps a steady record of the per­verse spec­ta­cles he encoun­ters.
It’s always per­sonal: fire ants rain down upon him spite­fully. Hens treat him dif­fi­dently. A cobra stares him down. Amaz­ingly Mr. Her­zog becomes so emo­tion­ally involved with a “vain” albino turkey that in a moment of pique he slaps the bird “left-right with the casual ele­gance of the arro­gant cav­a­liers I had seen in French Mus­ke­teer films.” Per­haps that offers some mea­sure of just how intensely and anthro­po­mor­phi­cally Mr. Her­zog can inter­act with his sur­round­ings.
Even inan­i­mate objects (“has any­one heard rocks sigh?”) become part of the drama rec­ol­lected in these pages. So a broom “is lying on the ground as if felled by an assas­sin.” A book leaves Mr. Her­zog feel­ing so lonely that he buries it. No event from day­break (“the birds were plead­ing for the con­tin­ued exis­tence of the Cre­ation”) to night­fall (“the universe’s light sim­ply burns out, and then it is gone”) is any­thing but fraught. In this con­text one man’s plan to haul a steamship over­land between two rivers becomes as rea­son­able as any­thing else.
As “Con­quest of the Use­less” reveals, Mr. Her­zog is as canny about the film world as he is about the nat­ural one. And he knows that he needs both to sus­tain him. Still, he sounds hap­pi­est while liv­ing in self-imposed exile from those who con­trol his film’s finan­cial des­tiny. And he is scathing about any col­lab­o­ra­tors who do not share his love of risk-taking.
Jason Robards, orig­i­nally cast in the title role, becomes an object of scorch­ing deri­sion because he seems fear­ful of the jun­gle. To Mr. Her­zog, cow­ardice is a par­tic­u­larly despi­ca­ble sin.
The book speaks bit­terly about the “appalling inner empti­ness” of Mr. Robards in ways that make it no sur­prise that Mr. Her­zog soon replaces him. And “Fitz­car­raldo” also loses Mick Jag­ger, for whom Mr. Her­zog has far higher regard, once it becomes clear that mak­ing this film will take years. In a diary that spans two and a half years and details assorted calami­ties, Mr. Her­zog even­tu­ally becomes more com­fort­able when his old neme­sis, the tantrum-throwing mad­man Klaus Kin­ski (who starred in Mr. Herzog’s “Aguirre, the Wrath of God”) steps in.
Although “Con­quest of the Use­less” pro­vides a hyp­notic chron­i­cle of the film crew’s daily progress, it inevitably heats up when Mr. Kin­ski arrives. No malev­o­lent taran­tula in the rain for­est can match this vol­cani­cally hot-tempered actor for enter­tain­ment value. And the Kin­ski pres­ence brings out the best in Mr. Herzog’s invec­tive. Com­plain­ing con­stantly about his star’s diva­like behav­ior — Mr. Her­zog pre­dicts there will be trou­ble when the steamship becomes more impor­tant to the film than its lead­ing man is, and of course he’s right — Mr. Her­zog is nonethe­less invig­o­rated by col­lab­o­ra­tive con­flict.
Still, he per­fectly under­stands a dis­creet ques­tion asked by some of the local Indi­ans: Does Mr. Her­zog want this rav­ing, scream­ing, fit-pitching actor taken off his hands? In other words, should the Indi­ans kill him? By this point in “Con­quest of the Use­less” that inquiry seems plau­si­ble: Mr. Her­zog has described the con­stant deadly peril of jun­gle life, at one point cit­ing the deaths of two Indi­ans within three pages. And the loss of one shriek­ing blond Euro­pean might not be such an aber­ra­tion.
But Mr. Her­zog would, as ever, pre­fer a sur­pris­ing obser­va­tion to an obvi­ous one. He decides that the Indi­ans must find the Her­zog tenac­ity much scarier than the Kin­ski oper­at­ics.
Any book by Mr. Her­zog (like “Of Walk­ing in Ice,” his slen­der vol­ume about a 1974 walk from Munich to Paris) turns his devo­tees into cryp­tog­ra­phers. It is ever tempt­ing to try to fathom his rest­less spirit and his deter­mi­na­tion to chal­lenge fate. Among the oddly reveal­ing details in “Con­quest of the Use­less” is Mr. Herzog’s descrip­tion of the gift from him that most delighted his mother: sand, which she liked to use for scrub­bing. As he suf­fers through the tra­vails described in this book, he is very much his mother’s son.” — Janet Maslin

“Werner Her­zog is famous for his cin­e­matic depic­tions of obses­sives and out­siders, from the El Dorado-seeking Spaniard played by Klaus Kin­ski in his 1972 inter­na­tional break­through, “Aguirre: The Wrath of God,” to Tim­o­thy Tread­well, the doomed bear-worshiper of his 2005 doc­u­men­tary, “Griz­zly Man.” Herzog’s own rep­u­ta­tion as an obses­sive, not to men­tion dare­devil and doom­sayer, was solid­i­fied by “Bur­den of Dreams,” a doc­u­men­tary chron­i­cling Herzog’s tri­als while film­ing “Fitz­car­raldo” in the Peru­vian jun­gle in 1981.
“Con­quest of the Use­less: Reflec­tions From the Mak­ing of ‘Fitz­car­raldo’ ” com­prises Herzog’s diaries from the three ardu­ous years he worked on that movie, which earned him a best direc­tor award at Cannes in 1982 yet nearly derailed his career. It reveals him to be witty, com­pas­sion­ate, micro­scop­i­cally obser­vant and — your call — either mani­a­cally deter­mined or admirably per­se­ver­ing.
“A vision had seized hold of me…”, he writes in the book’s pro­logue. “It was the vision of a large steamship scal­ing a hill under its own steam, work­ing its way up a steep slope in the jun­gle, while above this nat­ural land­scape, which shat­ters the weak and the strong with equal feroc­ity, soars the voice of Caruso.“
Around this vision Her­zog fash­ioned a script about an aspir­ing rub­ber baron who yearns to bring opera to the Ama­zon, a dream requir­ing him to haul a steamship over a moun­tain from one river to another to gain access to the rub­ber. When Her­zog meets with 20th Cen­tury Fox exec­u­tives to dis­cuss his plan, he says they envi­sion that “a plas­tic model ship will be pulled over a ridge in a stu­dio, or pos­si­bly in a botan­i­cal gar­den.“
“I told them the unques­tioned assump­tion had to be a real steamship being hauled over a real moun­tain, though not for the sake of real­ism but for the styl­iza­tion char­ac­ter­is­tic of grand opera,” he writes, adding, “The pleas­antries we exchanged from then on wore a thin coat­ing of frost.“
As “Bur­den of Dreams” made clear, “Fitz­car­raldo” turned into a metaphor for itself: Her­zog and his pro­tag­o­nist shared the same impos­si­ble goal. The jun­gle shoot became famous for its calami­ties, includ­ing Herzog’s arrest by local author­i­ties; the depar­ture of the orig­i­nal star, Jason Robards, after he fell ill with dysen­tery; a bor­der war between Peru and Ecuador; plane crashes; injuries; prob­lem­atic weather; and an increas­ingly dejected crew.
“Con­quest of the Use­less” fills in the gaps of that account and shows what makes Her­zog so com­pelling as an artist, par­tic­u­larly in his non­fic­tion films: his acute fas­ci­na­tion with peo­ple and nature.
In the city of Iqui­tos, he writes: “Every evening, at exactly the same minute, sev­eral hun­dred thou­sand golon­dri­nas, a kind of swal­low, come to roost for the night in the trees on the Plaza de Armas. They form black lines on the cor­nices of build­ings. The entire square is filled with their excited flut­ter­ing and twit­ter­ing. Arriv­ing from all dif­fer­ent direc­tions, the swarms of birds meet in the air above the square, cir­cling like tor­na­dos in dizzy­ing spi­rals. Then, as if a whirl­wind were sweep­ing through, they sud­denly descend onto the square, dark­en­ing the sky. The young ladies put up umbrel­las to shield them­selves from drop­pings.“
The book is also filled with ter­rif­i­cally funny and pre­cise ren­der­ings of the crea­tures that inhabit the film crew’s two jun­gle camps — ants, bats, taran­tu­las, mos­qui­toes, snakes, alli­ga­tors, mon­keys, rats, vul­tures, an albino turkey and an underwear-shredding ocelot. “For days a dead roach has been lying in our lit­tle shower stall, which is sup­plied with water from a gaso­line drum on the roof,” Her­zog writes in an entry dated “11 July 1979.” “The roach is so enor­mous in its mon­stros­ity that it is like some­thing that stepped out of a hor­ror movie. It lies there all spongy, belly-up, and is so dis­gust­ing that none of us has had the nerve to get rid of it.“
He can spend a full page describ­ing a day­long rain­storm and its after­math, pro­vid­ing sim­ple, telling details: “The trop­i­cal humid­ity is so intense that if you leave envelopes lying around they seal them­selves.” He offers mem­o­ries from his unusual early life (he grew up in a remote Bavar­ian moun­tain vil­lage) and engross­ing recaps of weird sto­ries peo­ple tell him. The effect is spell­bind­ing.
He can be scathing — the “peo­ple in Satipo were like vomit — ugly, mean-spirited, unkempt, as if a town in the high­lands had expelled its most degen­er­ate ele­ments and pushed them off into the jun­gle” — and sen­si­tive, as when cin­e­matog­ra­pher Thomas Mauch tears open his hand and under­goes surgery with­out anes­the­sia: “I held his head and pressed it against me, and a silent wall of faces sur­rounded us. Mauch said he could not take any more, he was going to faint, and I told him to go ahead.” (What Her­zog does next to soothe Mauch is both hilar­i­ous and mov­ing.)
Her­zog replaced Robards with Kin­ski, his lead from three pre­vi­ous films, who pre­sented a new set of prob­lems. As Her­zog showed in his extra­or­di­nary 1999 film about Kin­ski, “My Best Fiend,” the guy was intol­er­a­ble. Her­zog is stoic in the face of Kinski’s hours of “unin­ter­rupted rant­ing and rav­ing,” call­ing him an “absolute pest” in an “Yves St. Lau­rent bush out­fit.” Rep­re­sen­ta­tives of the Indi­ans who serve as extras matter-of-factly offer to kill him.
Her­zog, of course, isn’t exactly easy­go­ing. He comes across as impa­tient and wants to do every­thing him­self, right now. And his admi­ra­tion for nature is over­shad­owed by his non­stop dec­la­ra­tions about its malev­o­lence — the sun is “mur­der­ous,” mists are “angry,” the jun­gle has “silent killing in its depths.” (In “Griz­zly Man,” he says that “the com­mon char­ac­ter of the uni­verse is not har­mony but hos­til­ity, chaos and mur­der,” so we know his sen­ti­ments haven’t changed.)
As the months in the jun­gle pass, delir­ium sets in. “There are widely diver­gent views as to what day of the month it is,” Her­zog writes. The engi­neer hired to help guide the ship over the ridge quits. But Her­zog car­ries on, and the tone of the diaries shifts from dreamy to night­mar­ish: “No one’s on my side any­more, not one per­son, not one sin­gle per­son. In the midst of hun­dreds of Indian extras, dozens of woods­men, boat­men, kitchen per­son­nel, the tech­ni­cal team, and the actors, soli­tude flailed at me like a huge enraged ani­mal.“
For decades Her­zog has declared his resis­tance to intro­spec­tion; he claims not to know the color of his eyes, since he detests look­ing into mir­rors, and is out­spo­ken about his con­tempt for psy­cho­analy­sis. So his vul­ner­a­bil­ity here is note­wor­thy. “At night I’m even lone­lier than dur­ing the day,” he writes. “I lis­tened intently to the silence, pierced by tor­mented insects and tor­mented ani­mals. Even the motors of our boats have some­thing tor­mented about them.“
It’s hard to know how to read such hyper­bolic sen­ti­ments, espe­cially given his dry wit. When, after months of try­ing, he finally gets the ship over the ridge, bring­ing “Fitz­car­raldo” near com­ple­tion, how does he feel? The book’s sar­donic title says it all.”

Lars von Trier's Antichrist

 

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist in Connection with Fantasy Literature: the Lack of True Reception in Mass Media

by David Car­rillo Rangel

Ex: http://www.new-antaios.net/

I orig­i­nally intended to deal with fan­tasy lit­er­a­ture but I realised it would be too risky with­out men­tion­ing the prece­dents of myth, sym­bol and uni­ver­sal arche­types. I also intended to write about utopia and about the duplic­ity inher­ited from folk­lore and fairy tales. Alto­gether it might be a lit­tle bit too much. There­fore, I would rather talk about film crit­ics’ igno­rance, for it seems they have not read many books and show a gen­eral lack of human­is­tic knowl­edge, regard­less of how many films they might have seen. Lars von Trier’s lat­est and con­tro­ver­sial film is finally out in DVD[1] and those crit­ics dare to pre­scribe about which is already a part mass cul­ture and post­moder­nity with­out being able to see all the details. So, I will be deal­ing here with that film, Antichrist, because it is def­i­nitely linked to all the top­ics I men­tioned at the begin­ning. Obvi­ously, I can­not deal hear with an exhaus­tive analy­sis for lack of space, but any of you can later inves­ti­gate through Google and see what lies beneath the image of the three beg­gars that embody the final part of the film.

I will not explain the argu­ment since you would only need to watch the movie, but, indeed, I can assure you it is not all about women’s evil. May be, it is more about the per­cep­tion of evil in women that dom­i­nated West­ern cul­ture dur­ing cen­turies –let us not for­get that some time in his­tory they were even claimed to lack a proper soul-. We have got clear exam­ples of this in Eve, the first one, the one who suc­cumbed to the Ser­pent in the Gar­den of Eden; in witches, burnt alive; in nuns and all the heretic tra­di­tion within the West­ern world. You have got plenty of bib­li­og­ra­phy about these that you can read on your own.

I will now try to focus in the most con­tro­ver­sial points in the film. Many reviews give Willem Dafoe’s char­ac­ter as a psy­chi­a­trist when, in fact, he is a psy­chol­o­gist. He rejects all med­ica­tion to fight the sense of guilt the mother is feel­ing when con­fronted with the trauma that acts as a cat­a­lyst for the devel­op­ment of the plot. The psychologist’s strate­gies dif­fer to med­ica­tion try­ing to put order in mad­ness. Mad­ness which we can relate to drunk­en­ness, dream and states of altered con­science. In fact, there is a bridge, which is a key in the devel­op­ment of the plot and bridges, as you all might know, always sym­bol­ise a pas­sage between two dif­fer­ent worlds. Nobody seems hardly to remem­ber that in Medi­ae­val Europe, Church pro­moted the build­ing of such bridges. Nowa­days the bridge remains impor­tant as a fun­da­men­tal sym­bol of union between to sep­a­rate lands. In Fran­cis Ford Coppola’s Apoc­a­lypse Now the tough­est fight is the one when a bridge was being built at day and destroyed at night, in a seem­ingly per­pet­ual fash­ion. One beyond that point, the main char­ac­ters are able to get into the sacred –the objec­tive of their quest-.

Claude Lecou­teux[2] stud­ied the dou­ble world as per­ceived dur­ing the Mid­dle Ages whereas Régis Boyer[3] did the same regard­ing Scan­di­navia. That sym­bol, its mean­ing related to anguish, should not go unno­ticed. More­over, von Trier admit­ted him­self the influ­ence gath­ered from Strind­berg[4]’s Inferno, the result of a depres­sion and the con­tact with Emanuel Sewendeborg’s phi­los­o­phy. It has also gone unno­ticed the ded­i­ca­tion to Andréi Tarkovski –whose film, Mir­ror and Sac­ri­fice, we should cross-compare with Antichrist-.

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[1] Antichrist, Cameo edi­tion, with another DVD con­tain­ing all the  Extras.

 

[2] Lecou­teux, Claude (2004), Hadas, bru­jas y hom­bres lobo en la edad media, His­to­ria del Doble, José J. de Olañeta, Palma de Mal­lorca

[3] Boyer, Régis (1986), Le Monde du Dou­ble, La magie chez les anciens Scan­di­naves, Paris, Berg

[4] Strind­berg, August (2002), Inferno, Barcelona, El Acantilado

There is a very sig­nif­i­cant take: the attic where SHE keeps her notes from her the­sis about gyno­cide –mur­der of women-. All the images appear­ing there are real.

In the first chap­ter of Inferno, we are pre­sented with a scene sim­i­lar to Goethe’s Faust but in Inferno Lucifer is the son of Light and Christ is Lucifer’s son. Strind­berg is sug­gest­ing that Cre­ation is no more than a fancy game to enter­tain gods and that these crea­tures sooner or later will have to return to dust, which is, pre­cisely, Lucifer’s task. This inter­pre­ta­tion makes us think about the Cathars and the anni­hi­la­tion of the world by halt­ing its repro­duc­tion cycle. Lars von Trier is not imply­ing that women are evil, he is refer­ring to a mys­ti­cism pushed to its lim­its, where sal­va­tion relies on anni­hi­la­tion. That is the mean­ing of the last take: Epi­logue.

 

Gen­i­tal muti­la­tions that appear here have been widely crit­i­cised. How­ever, the fact that SHE beats his crotch with wood, the fact that HE ejac­u­lates blood and HER final muti­la­tion are not gra­tu­itous. In fact, von Trier leaves noth­ing to chance; he gets really involved in each of his works in over­whelm­ing way. You need only to take a look at the extras that come with the DVD. How could we believe that such direc­tor would cre­ate a chain of uncon­nected events? Lack of under­stand­ing is part, in fact, of the mys­ti­cism von Trier wants to trans­mit. Behind mad­ness, stands a fright­en­ing lucid­ity. Sac­ri­fice is needed. Von Trier stated that he delib­er­ately made the stran­gling take long on pur­pose, since stran­gling hides many links to past tra­di­tions when there was mur­der­ing in order to set free, suf­fer­ing in order to get freedom.

And what is the rela­tion between all this and fairy tales or Fan­tast lit­er­a­ture? The Eden of the film is a fan­tas­tic place, sim­i­lar to Nar­nia, Mid­dle Earth or YS. In those worlds, spe­cially in the ones devel­oped by Ursula K. Leguin -The Left hand of Dark­ness, for example-, one can philo­soph­i­cally spec­u­late about the pos­si­bil­ity of becom­ing another, that is, a lab­o­ra­tory of Utopia.

Von Trier makes an exten­sive use of ele­ments that appear in Fan­tasy lit­er­a­ture but he sets them within a dif­fer­ent con­text –this is sim­i­lar to Avant-garde Literature-. One might claim he has not been able to reflect that clearly, but in our cur­rent mar­ket there is a very thin line sep­a­rat­ing ethics and reflec­tion from end­less ben­e­fits. Against the pre­dom­i­nance of light stu­pid­i­s­a­tion trough prod­ucts like Avatar -that aims only at com­mer­cially viable ecol­ogy– only those with real tal­ent are strong enough to sur­vive. This way, there is not really a need for expla­na­tion; the story unfolds itself, this is what post­mod­ernism is all about. But this one takes plea­sure from aes­thet­ics and thinks beyond cathar­sis –feel­ing good about being in the world-.

I believe we ought to search for our own hermeneu­tics, I mean, not the inter­pre­ta­tion of the artis­tic object but our­selves. We are more than a mass, and we should be more, con­sid­er­ing all the tech­nol­ogy we have at the reach of our hands. We should, then, defeat mass cul­ture for it can­not reach far­ther that gen­er­alised moral­ity; it can­not go beyond crit­i­cis­ing any trace of provo­ca­tion; when provo­ca­tion is merely a cause of think­ing. For our own sake, we have for­got­ten nature, gar­dens and forests: Spir­i­tu­al­ity. One that needs not adscrip­tion to any reli­gion but which all human beings require in order to sur­vive their own order.