US ambassador to Libya killed in violence over anti-Islam film

The reaction to a nonsensical and offensive film has sparked protests in Bengazi and Cairo.

With the US ambassador to Libya killed in Bengazi and a protest of 2,000 in Cairo raising an Al-Qaeda-associated flag above the US embassy on the anniversary of 9/11, it is clear the reaction to a small video published online yesterday has got out of hand.

The YouTube clip of a film named "Innocence of Muslims" has been reported in the (rumour-filled) Egyptian press to have been the work of Koran-burning Florida Pastor Terry Jones and Coptic Egyptian Christians, who make up about 10 per cent of the population in Egypt. It was in fact produced by an Israeli filmmaker named Sam Bacile. "Islam is a cancer," he told the Wall Street Journal. "The movie is a political movie. It's not a religious movie."

The film itself is comic in its ridiculous condemnation of Islam, almost a satire of far-right Christians’ worst stereotypes about the Middle East. It features a cast of orange-looking Americans with large stick-on beards attacking Christians and burning down their houses.

Scenes of the Prophet’s life take place against a static computerised desert backdrop and include historical incongruities such as plastic-looking weapons taken from a range of periods and women combining their hijabs with low cut mini-dresses.

The film accuses Muhammad of paedophilia, extortion, womanising, drinking wine, being gay (“Is the master dominant or submissive?” a follower asks, while Muhammad replies “both - remember the night at the gym?”), terrible grammar “how pleasurable is our Islamic ways”, and generally portrays him as being a murderous brute. A 102-year-old woman with an extremely strong New York accent claims “never have I seen such a murderous thug as Muhammad”, before being dragged away attached to a camel's leg.

Other figures from the Koran, such as Bilal, make an appearance. Although a freed slave of Ethiopian descent, known to be a companion of the Prophet famed for his beautiful voice, he is here presented as a large overweight white man with strange markings on his face.

The film has caused conspiracy theories to fly. Was it a plot by Morsi to provoke the US on the anniversary of 9/11? A Salafi plan to spread sectarian tensions? Protests are rumoured to intensify in Cairo today, with the violent football fans the Ultras Ahlawy heading down to the embassy. Sheikhs in Egypt are already calling for the revocation of citizenship of Copts living abroad.

All over a film that is so ridiculous it seems like a parody of itself. Much like the Danish cartoon controversy, something trivial has highlighted extreme underlying tensions and insecurities. They say that the offensive cartoon caused widespread anti-government protests in Libya. The film may also have brought to the surface tensions which will be harder to bury.

“Man + X = Islamic Terrorist” one character in the film philosophises in a characteristically nonsensical scene. What is X, we are left to wonder. By this film's estimation, the most obvious conclusion would be fake tan, a cheap beard, and some strong glue.

A still from "Innocence of Muslims".
Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko
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Ruin porn: the art world’s awkward obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture

Deserted fairgrounds, disused factories and forgotten military bases may look cool, but are we fetishising the remnants of such a cruel history?

Armenia, where one side of my family is from, was one of the first members of the USSR, annexed by Russia in 1922. A few years ago, when I visited this little country that perches precariously in the south of the Caucasus, I was struck most by its Soviet architecture.

Although its landscape is a hotchpotch of medieval Orthodox churches, a smattering of Persian-era domes, and brutalist concrete, it was the latter that particularly stuck out. From unfelled statues of Stalin to giant tower blocks spelling out the letters “CCCP” from a bird’s-eye view (well, half spelt-out – construction stopped partway through, with the fall of the Soviet Union), I’ve never forgotten it.

Perhaps it was so compelling because such stark physical symbols make recent history all the more tangible. A history still profoundly affecting the country of my ancestors (and all post-Soviet and communist states). But also, it just looked really cool.


Mixed air corps, Mongolia. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Eric Losito

It’s a bit passé now to mock the hipster obsession with reclaimed industrial detritus, exposed pipes and bare concrete. An aesthetic – that of a post-industrial wasteland, but a chic one – which has gripped western cities for years, and crept worldwide.

But it could be this tendency to find disused stuff visually intriguing, and a morbid fascination with cruel regimes, which has led to the art world’s obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture. A whole wave of artists and photographers have been poking around the eastern bloc’s architectural graveyard in recent years.

Late last year, we saw the hugely popular disused Soviet bus stop series by photographer Christopher Herwig, echoing photographer Sergey Novikov’s equally absorbing collection of abandoned Soviet cinemas from 2013.

Following Russian filmmaker and photographer Maria Morina’s “Atomic Cities” project four years ago, London-based artist Nadav Kander explored the “aesthetics of destruction” in his exhibition, Dust, in 2014, snapping “radioactive ruins” of secret cities on the border between Kazakhstan and Russia. The same year, Moscow photographers Sasha Mademuaselle and Sergey Kostromin travelled to the disputed region of Abkhazia, capturing fragments of its deserted infrastructure.


Fighter aviation regiment, Mongolia. Photo: Eric Losito
 

And photojournalist Anton Petrus’ now iconic pictures of Chernobyl’s abandoned amusement park have long been an internet favourite, as have numerous haunting images of Pripyet – the city famous for lying deserted following the nuclear disaster.

Jamie Rann, a lecturer in Russian at Oxford University, has written that the quality and technical accomplishment of most of this photography make the style more “ruin erotica” than “ruin porn” (the tag being used by some critics), but argues: “The enormous online popularity of this genre . . . combined with their voyeuristic, almost exploitative feel, certainly has something porny about it.”

The latest exploration of Soviet society’s skeletons can be found at the Power & Architecture season at London’s Calvert 22 Foundation. In an exhibition called Dead Space and Ruins, we see abandoned military bases and formerly mighty monuments, forgotten space ports freezing in the tundra, the ghost of an entire unused, unfinished city in Armenia lying derelict.



The unfinished "ghost city" built in Armenia to house earthquake survivors (water added by artist). Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Vahram Aghasyan

The works are beautiful, but do they feed in to this zeitgeisty lust for Soviet ruins?

One of its curators, Will Strong, laments this trend. “I was keen that this didn’t become like a kind of ‘ruin lust’, ‘ruin porn’ thing; this slightly buzzwordy term that there is at the moment, this kind of fetishisation of dead space,” he tells me.

“This history is incredibly loaded, and it did not end in 1991. To sort of fetishise it in the very bourgeois western way of, ‘oh yeah, look at all this wonderful Soviet architecture, isn’t it fantastic?’ Obviously a lot of people who lived in that time hated it . . . a lot of people were very miserable under these regimes, so it’s important not to forget that.”


Gym at the Independent Radar Centre of Early Detection, Latvia. Photo: Eric Losito

He adds: “It’s more a point of reflection on how buildings were designed, what their legacy is, what their narrative is, and who the people are who live with that story. This show looks at the aftermaths of when utopia hasn’t been delivered.”

This view is echoed by the Moscow artist, Danila Tkachenko, whose work is featured in the exhibition. “It is rather a metaphor for the future, not the past,” he says. “It represents an image of a possible future. When there is a visualisation of this issue [utopia], it evokes a response in people; they see this utopia in their lives . . . There is disappointment in all utopias.”


The world's largest diesel submarine, in Russia's Samara region. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko

His Restricted Areas series explores great behemoths of European communism left to lie forgotten in the tundra of remote regions in and around Russia and Kazakhstan: the world’s largest diesel submarine, like a beached whale in the snow; a giant satellite, thatched with antennae, built to communicate with Soviet bases on other planets some day; the deserted flying saucer-like communist headquarters in a region of Bulgaria. The structures hover in blank, white space, making the photos appear black-and-white.


Deserted observatory, Kazakhstan's Almaty region. Photo: Danila Tkachenko
 

Anton Ginzburg is an artist who grew up in St Petersburg in the Eighties as the Soviet Union was disintegrating. He believes studies like his film, Turo, of disused modernist constructions in the post-Soviet bloc, appeal to people’s connection to history. After all, picking through the architectural carcasses of former societies isn’t exactly a new thing:

“Russian culture is still haunted by its Communist past, and constructivist architecture is a decaying shell for its ghosts. It is an active reminder of the recent history,” he reflects. “Perhaps [its appeal] is a mixture of memento mori, with its thrill of beauty and destruction, along with a Romantic tradition of contemplation of Greek and Roman ruins.”

(Anton Ginzburg Turo teaser from Visionaireworld on Vimeo.)

The Power & Architecture season is on at the Calvert 22 Foundation, London, from 10 June-9 October 2016. Entry is free.

Anoosh Chakelian is deputy web editor at the New Statesman.