History Lessons (Pt. 2): Notes on Steven Soderbergh's "Che"
by Dave McDougall
MUBI
CHE: PART TWO (GUERRILLA)
Part Two of Che begins with images of Bolivian miners. These are not portraits of revolutionaries, but of the need for revolution.
Domino theory, or, the threat of a good example: Again we return to maps. This time they are of South America as a whole, each country labelled as if in a future trajectory of revolution. Then, all countries together, turning shades of red. Again the maps historicize the situation, and walk us through strategies for takeover. Now the Cuba map from the overture of Part One clicks: these maps represent not just a geography, but a plan of attack. Now we know what we’re in for in Bolivia – and perhaps, elsewhere. The battle for Bolivia is thus a bigger wager than that of an exported national revolution – it is a test of the historical inevitability of communism in Latin America.
History, again: we watch a television showing Fidel reading Che's letter of resignation. Our view is slanted, our images doubly framed. History is viewed from afar, obscured, sideways. History makes icons out of people, symbols out of leaders, decorations out of actions. History is framed.
To Read the Rest of the Visual Essay
Showing posts with label Steven Soderbergh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steven Soderbergh. Show all posts
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Dave McDougall: History Lessons (Pt. 1) -- Notes on Steven Soderbergh's Che
History Lessons (Pt. 1): Notes on Steven Soderbergh's "Che"
by Dave McDougall
MUBI
CHE: PART ONE (THE ARGENTINE)
What is a political image? How does it work, and what are the elements that make it work? This is a difficult enough question for the still image; but how is it that political moving images work? Relatedly, how can we unarchive the politicality of images as separate from their political sheen—or, put differently, how can we authenticate the politicality of the moving image?
MAPS
Spend a few minutes watching the BBC series Maps: Power, Plunder and Possession or take a quick trip to the British Library this fall, and confirm what you might already know: maps, in their chief purpose, are tools of conquest and control. Maps are weapons that structure military campaigns and show geographic realities, and geography can determine history.
A film that entrenches itself in the logistics of the struggle for control, then, ought to situate itself in a context in which this control can be codified, visualized: mapped.
To Read the Rest and to Access Video Clips
by Dave McDougall
MUBI
CHE: PART ONE (THE ARGENTINE)
What is a political image? How does it work, and what are the elements that make it work? This is a difficult enough question for the still image; but how is it that political moving images work? Relatedly, how can we unarchive the politicality of images as separate from their political sheen—or, put differently, how can we authenticate the politicality of the moving image?
MAPS
Spend a few minutes watching the BBC series Maps: Power, Plunder and Possession or take a quick trip to the British Library this fall, and confirm what you might already know: maps, in their chief purpose, are tools of conquest and control. Maps are weapons that structure military campaigns and show geographic realities, and geography can determine history.
A film that entrenches itself in the logistics of the struggle for control, then, ought to situate itself in a context in which this control can be codified, visualized: mapped.
To Read the Rest and to Access Video Clips
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Victor Wallis: Interpreting revolution: Che: Part I and Part II
Interpreting revolution: Che: Part I and Part II
by Victor Wallis
Jump Cut
Seeing Che (parts one and two, dir. Steven Soderbergh, 2008) and then reading about it prompts reflections on the larger political project that inspired its protagonist. One wonders to what extent the scope and thrust of that project – socialist revolution in Cuba and beyond – can be conveyed to audiences of a new generation through a focus on that particular individual.
Not surprisingly, the reviews of Che are politically predictable. Commentators who parrot the dismissive labeling of Cuba’s revolutionary regime as a totalitarian dictatorship are scornful of the film – their hostility only magnified by its length. They cannot get beyond noting – not mentioned in the film – that Guevara ordered executions of Batista henchmen in the aftermath of the 1959 victory. Any notion of situating those decisions in relation to the prior regime’s conduct – and the intense mass repudiation it aroused – would no doubt be viewed by them as mere apologetics. They reject the revolution on principle (just as U.S. officialdom after 1979 denounced the Nicaraguan revolution even though it abolished the death penalty), and no film that gives a respectful treatment to one of its leaders can be expected to change their minds.
What gives Che Guevara an appeal that eludes such gatekeepers is his unique trajectory from the perils of guerrilla warfare to a position of power and renown, and then back again to clandestinity, danger, and eventual capture and assassination. The two phases of this trajectory – shown in Parts I and II of the present film – are inseparable in defining who Che was. Revolutionary leaders in power, no matter how faithful to the ideals that inspired them, are always vulnerable to the charge that they value their position of authority more than they do their original commitment to social justice. Che’s withdrawal from state functions was the most conclusive proof that no such accusation could be leveled at him. It was at the same time a tribute to the larger vision that enabled him to think that way.
Che’s legacy thus beams an aura of integrity that reaches beyond those who share his politics or who know much about his life. However much his iconic status may have been degraded by commodification (the ubiquitous T-shirts), the aura underlying it is one that will continue to perturb defenders of privilege. Among the messages it conveys is that no amount of economic, political, or military might can withstand the moral force of a mobilized population. Corollary to this, and implicit in Che’s practical optimism, is the idea that while corrupt regimes have much to hide, their revolutionary challengers thrive on bringing every dilemma and every social antagonism to the surface.
The task, therefore, for anyone wanting to build on Che’s example – a goal embraced by this film’s producers– is not to feed into a legend of heroism but rather to develop an awareness of both the objective hurdles and the positive human qualities that are involved in dismantling structures of oppression. This is a tall order, certainly a challenge to any attempt at reenactment. As predictable as the hostility to Che shown by commercial taste-makers are the reservations, qualifications, and overall ambivalence expressed about the film by so many of those who on political grounds might have been expected to welcome it.
Much of such criticism emanates from a misplaced literal-mindedness. One reviewer, for instance, laments the fact that the film’s Fidel (Demián Bichir), although a skilled actor, lacks Castro’s physical stature and charisma. Such details do not seem to bother those who care about the film’s basic subject-matter, which does not end with the personal traits of even its main protagonist. In a post-screening appearance in Cambridge, Mass., producer and lead actor Benicio del Toro was asked about the film’s reception in Cuba. Remarking on the Cubans’ positive response, he told of an Afro-Cuban veteran of the revolution present at the Havana screening who was portrayed in the film by an actor with blond hair and blue eyes. Asked whether this bothered him, the veteran replied that it was of no importance in terms of the film’s authenticity.
To Read the Rest of the Essay
by Victor Wallis
Jump Cut
Seeing Che (parts one and two, dir. Steven Soderbergh, 2008) and then reading about it prompts reflections on the larger political project that inspired its protagonist. One wonders to what extent the scope and thrust of that project – socialist revolution in Cuba and beyond – can be conveyed to audiences of a new generation through a focus on that particular individual.
Not surprisingly, the reviews of Che are politically predictable. Commentators who parrot the dismissive labeling of Cuba’s revolutionary regime as a totalitarian dictatorship are scornful of the film – their hostility only magnified by its length. They cannot get beyond noting – not mentioned in the film – that Guevara ordered executions of Batista henchmen in the aftermath of the 1959 victory. Any notion of situating those decisions in relation to the prior regime’s conduct – and the intense mass repudiation it aroused – would no doubt be viewed by them as mere apologetics. They reject the revolution on principle (just as U.S. officialdom after 1979 denounced the Nicaraguan revolution even though it abolished the death penalty), and no film that gives a respectful treatment to one of its leaders can be expected to change their minds.
What gives Che Guevara an appeal that eludes such gatekeepers is his unique trajectory from the perils of guerrilla warfare to a position of power and renown, and then back again to clandestinity, danger, and eventual capture and assassination. The two phases of this trajectory – shown in Parts I and II of the present film – are inseparable in defining who Che was. Revolutionary leaders in power, no matter how faithful to the ideals that inspired them, are always vulnerable to the charge that they value their position of authority more than they do their original commitment to social justice. Che’s withdrawal from state functions was the most conclusive proof that no such accusation could be leveled at him. It was at the same time a tribute to the larger vision that enabled him to think that way.
Che’s legacy thus beams an aura of integrity that reaches beyond those who share his politics or who know much about his life. However much his iconic status may have been degraded by commodification (the ubiquitous T-shirts), the aura underlying it is one that will continue to perturb defenders of privilege. Among the messages it conveys is that no amount of economic, political, or military might can withstand the moral force of a mobilized population. Corollary to this, and implicit in Che’s practical optimism, is the idea that while corrupt regimes have much to hide, their revolutionary challengers thrive on bringing every dilemma and every social antagonism to the surface.
The task, therefore, for anyone wanting to build on Che’s example – a goal embraced by this film’s producers– is not to feed into a legend of heroism but rather to develop an awareness of both the objective hurdles and the positive human qualities that are involved in dismantling structures of oppression. This is a tall order, certainly a challenge to any attempt at reenactment. As predictable as the hostility to Che shown by commercial taste-makers are the reservations, qualifications, and overall ambivalence expressed about the film by so many of those who on political grounds might have been expected to welcome it.
Much of such criticism emanates from a misplaced literal-mindedness. One reviewer, for instance, laments the fact that the film’s Fidel (Demián Bichir), although a skilled actor, lacks Castro’s physical stature and charisma. Such details do not seem to bother those who care about the film’s basic subject-matter, which does not end with the personal traits of even its main protagonist. In a post-screening appearance in Cambridge, Mass., producer and lead actor Benicio del Toro was asked about the film’s reception in Cuba. Remarking on the Cubans’ positive response, he told of an Afro-Cuban veteran of the revolution present at the Havana screening who was portrayed in the film by an actor with blond hair and blue eyes. Asked whether this bothered him, the veteran replied that it was of no importance in terms of the film’s authenticity.
To Read the Rest of the Essay
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