The Stuart Hall Project celebrates the cultural crusades of an important historian

Jonathan Brick on a new film about Stuart Hall, the lecturer and academic born in Jamaica who found a home in British academia but not Britain itself.

Stuart Hall lectured at the University of Birmingham and presented BBC programmes on behalf of the Open University. He also founded what would become the New Left Review. His views were informed and personal, and he constantly spoke and wrote about social change and international affairs in the postwar, postcolonial world.

John Akomfrah has used both his own appreciation for Hall and exhaustive footage and stills of him for this cinematic eulogy. Hall is shown to be a man of clear, thoughtful expression when given a platform to respond to big global events. Akomfrah has previously worked on films about Louis Armstrong and Malcolm X, and The Stuart Hall Project is an exploration of politics underscored cleverly by Hall’s beloved Miles Davis. Hall says the trumpeter “changed my soul” and forced him to move away from Jamaica.

“I was an outsider from the time I was born,” Hall says, calling himself a “twenty-first century man”, representative of the group of people who have mixed heritage. He is a man of many origins, “three shades darker than my family.” Hall seems in control of his own destiny from a very young age, as a reaction to his sister’s mental breakdown when she fell in love with a white doctor.

Hall ends up at Oxford, alluding to the “profound shock” of his new country. He was a black man in a Britain becoming more used to seeing former citizens of colonies arriving for jobs or education. By the end of his twenties, he says that he does not “belong anywhere any longer”. He chuckles when he spells out that he is a man of “many ‘routes’”.

With Homer and Joyce as literary guides, he throws himself into socialism, and into publishing magazines dedicated to discussing it, forming proofs on his knees. His fellow academics are important to him, but he has no real role models for his work. Cultural criticism, after all, sprouted in his era as a response to social change in Britain; one key term Hall uses is “interpenetration” which leads to cultural globalisation.

The BBC’s Panorama interviews him at The Partisan cafe, where he iterates that he is “angry”. He wrote pieces called ‘The Deep Sleep of England’ for the Universities & Left Review, in which he responded to Soviet struggles in Egypt and Hungary. We later see a still of him marching against the H-bomb, and hear him recall three years at CND meetings, calling on Britain to set a unilateral precedent for the UN.

The meetings gave him an appreciation of industrial northern Britain, which he shares in his broadcasts. Hall also speaks for those who simply had to escape their birthplace, with Akomfrah using footage of ships on sea. Throughout, the footage matches the narrative perfectly, and the layer of Davis’s modal jazz gives it an artful quality.

Akomfrah uses chapter headings such as ‘A Public Intellectual’ and ‘The Neo-Liberal Problem Space’ to construct his filmic essay and frame Hall’s recollections. Cuba and Ghana are examples of nations whose people fought to be “free not to be unequal.” In his adopted country, however, Hall reckons British politics cannot whip up its people; the old class society became a mass society and belatedly joined the new century.

The rock revolution, which Hall says brought adolescence into the public arena for the first time, leads to the stirrings of 1968, the rise of a “genuine underground” in “anti-adult” protests. By this time Hall is a professor, also pioneering film criticism as a subject for teaching. He lectured for the BFI and wrote the book The Popular Arts (1964); astutely, he recalls how drawn he was to films where the protagonist was on the move.

Hall experienced the racism of Birmingham’s denizens when he married a white woman. For “coloured” kids, as Hall terms them, “the vice of colour seems to entwine with aptitude and intelligence.” He seems more resigned than angry at this, as he describes the “muted optimism” for assimilation.

As Enoch Powell is shown marching off to work, Hall accuses the country of amnesia, provoking fear and alienation in the new arrivals. Thus the dream of assimilation is “buried on both sides.” Identity is writ large in his discussions, a “conversation” that can “never be traded away.”

He shows no real love of Britain in the film, choosing to praise concepts and ideals instead. When feminism makes itself known in the 1970s, he admires the “conviction in the head” held by its advocates. By the end of that decade, he had noted the lack of “particularity” in things, and is pessimistic both for the welfare state and Britain’s “multicultural drift”. As the film shows, sometimes it takes a relative outsider to bring home cultural truths, and Hall has been one of the most perceptive on the left to do so.

The Stuart Hall Project screens at the Curzon Renoir and the ICA from 6 September and BFI Southbank from 13 September

The Stuart Hall Project.
SIPA PRESS/REX
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"By now, there was no way back for me": the strange story of Bogdan Stashinsky

Serhii Plokhy’s The Man with the Poison Gun is a gripping, remarkable Cold War spy story.

On the morning of 12 August 1961, a few hours before the supreme leader of East Germany, Walter Ulbricht, announced the sealing of the border between East and West Berlin, a funeral took place for a four-month-old boy at the Rohrbeck Evangelical Cemetery in Dallgow. Numerous KGB agents and officers of the East German ministry of security were in attendance, but the boy’s parents were missing. Instead, Bogdan Stashinsky and Inge Pohl were preparing their imminent escape from Soviet-occupied territory and into the West. They had intended to flee the following day, but the funeral provided a moment of opportunity when their surveillance was relaxed. If they wanted to go, they had to go now.

“The KGB operatives present at the child’s funeral were puzzled by the parents’ absence,” a Soviet intelligence officer later wrote. “By the end of the day on 13 August 1961, it was clear that the Stashinskys had gone to the West. Everyone who knew what tasks the agent had carried out in Munich in 1957 and 1959, and what could happen if Stashinsky were to talk, was in shock.”

Those “tasks” were the state-sponsored assassinations of Lev Rebet and Stepan Bandera, two exiled leaders of the Ukrainian anti-communist movement who had been living in Munich. Stashinsky, one of the KGB’s top hitmen, and the focus of Serhii Plokhy’s gripping book, had been given the task of tracking and killing them with a custom-built gun that sprayed a lethal, yet undetectable poison. It was only after Stashinsky’s defection to the Central Intelligence Agency, and then to the West German security services, that the cause of Rebet and Bandera’s deaths was finally known.

For decades, the KGB denied any involvement in the assassinations, and the CIA has never been entirely sure about Stashinsky’s motives. Was he telling the truth when he confessed to being the assassin, or was he, as some still claim, a loyal agent, sent to spread disinformation and protect the true killer? Plokhy has now put to rest the many theories and speculations. With great clarity and compassion, and drawing from a trove of recently declassified files from CIA, KGB and Polish security archives, as well as interviews conducted with former heads of the South African police force, he chronicles one of the most curious espionage stories of the Cold War.

Stashinsky’s tale is worthy of John le Carré or Ian Fleming. Plokhy even reminds us that The Man With the Golden Gun, in which James Bond tries to assassinate his boss with a cyanide pistol after being brainwashed by the Soviets, was inspired by the Stashinsky story. But if spy novels zero in on a secret world – tradecraft, double agents, defections, and the moral fallout that comes from working in the shadows – Plokhy places this tale in the wider context of the Cold War and the relentless ideological battle between East and West.

The story of Stashinsky’s career as a triggerman for the KGB plays out against the backdrop of the fight for Ukrainian independence after the Second World War. He was a member of the underground resistance against the Soviet occupation, but was forced to become an informer for the secret police after his family was threatened. After he betrayed a resistance cell led by Ivan Laba, which had assassinated the communist author Yaroslav Halan, Stashinsky was ostracised by his family and was offered the choice of continuing his higher education, which he could no longer afford, or joining the secret police.

“It was [only] a proposal,” he said later, “but I had no alternative to accepting it and continuing to work for the NKVD. By now, there was no way back for me.” He received advanced training in Kyiv and Moscow for clandestine work in the West and became one of Moscow’s most prized assets. In 1957, after assassinating Rebet, he was awarded the
Order of the Red Banner, one of the oldest military decorations in the Soviet Union.

Plokhy’s book is about more than the dramas of undercover work; it is also an imaginative approach to the history of Cold War international relations. It is above all an affective tale about the relationship between individual autonomy and state power, and the crushing impact the police state had on populations living behind the Iron Curtain. Stashinsky isn’t someone of whom we should necessarily approve: he betrayed his comrades in the Ukrainian resistance, lied to his family about who he was and killed for a living. Yet we sympathise with him the more he, like so many others, turns into a defenceless pawn of the Communist Party high command, especially after he falls in love with his future wife, Inge.

One of the most insightful sections of Plokhy’s book converges on Stashinsky’s trial in West Germany in 1962 over the killings of Rebet and Bandera, and how he was given a reduced sentence because it was deemed that he had been an instrument of the Soviet state. The decision was influenced by German memories of collective brainwashing under the Third Reich. As one of the judges put it: “The accused was at the time in question a poor devil who acted automatically under pressure of commands and was misled and confused ideologically.”

What makes Plokhy’s book so alarmingly resonant today is how Russia still uses extrajudicial murder as a tool of foreign policy. In 2004 Viktor Yushchenko, the pro-Western future president of Ukraine, was poisoned with dioxin; two years later Aleksandr Litvinenko, the Russian secret service defector, unknowingly drank radioactive polonium at a hotel in London. The Russian journalist Anna Politkovskaya survived a poisoning in 2004 after drinking tea given to her by an Aeroflot flight attendant (she was murdered two years later). The collapse of the Soviet Union did not bring the end of the Russian threat (Putin, remember, is ex-KGB). As le Carré noted in a speech in the summer of 1990, “The Russian Bear is sick, the Bear is bankrupt, the Bear is frightened of his past, his present and his future. But the Bear is still armed to the teeth and very, very proud.”

The Man with the Poison Gun: a Cold War Spy Story by Serhii Plokhy is published by Oneworld (365pp, £18.99)

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge