Mikheil Gelovani as Stalin.
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How do you make a film about a dictator?

Beyond propaganda, trying to get under the skin of despots and dictators is a near-impossible task.

Until very recently filmmaking was so expensive and logistically difficult an undertaking that it was out reach for most people, which made it the domain largely of corporate and industrial interests. Until not long before that – ie, the advent of VCRs – the distribution and exhibition of films was closely restricted, sometimes by censorious forces though more often by commercial ones. Not surprisingly, then, it has always had a propaganda appeal and usefulness, for politicians and leaders of all stripes, both democratic and otherwise. The Bolsheviks were the first to harness the cinema to this end and, in the silent era at least, managed to produce probably the most artistically brilliant propaganda films of all time. In World War II, Hitchcock, Hawks, Capra and Humphrey Jennings were among various directors on the Allied side who lent their hand to propaganda work.

During peacetime western democracies have generally stepped back from film production efforts and allowed Hollywood and other national cinemas to craft an obliging national narrative, which the studios were only too happy to do. In recent decades, as David Sirota’s history of 1980s US pop culture Back to Our Future documents, the Pentagon has taken a much more hands-on approach to “soft propaganda” efforts, actively providing military hardware to Hollywood films if the script meets the military’s approval – a far cry from the days when Francis Ford Coppola turned to Ferdinand Marcos to hire helicopters and other props for Apocalypse Now, something for which Coppola has always been given a surprisingly easy ride by western liberals.

Dictatorships have been more eager to use film for propaganda purposes, none more so than that most cinephile of tyrants Joseph Stalin. Early on in his “tenure” as Soviet leader, he was sensitive to the power of the moving image – he ensured that all references to Trotsky were cut from Eisenstein’s October, produced for the tenth anniversary of the 1917 Revolution. Stalin was an admirer of Tarzan, Chaplin and George Formby and on the home front he was the ultimate cinema impresario, outranking even his cultural tsar Andrei Zhdanov. He protected Eisenstein, despite thinking him a Trotskyist “or even worse” and even allowed a former gulag prisoner, the actor Aleksei Dikiy, to play him in a number of films in the early 1940s.

Stalin actually preferred Dikiy, a consummate Russian thespian, to the more regular interpreter of the Stalin role, his fellow Georgian Mikheil Gelovani, who played him in thirteen films. Gelovani was better able to capture Stalin’s Pori accent, something the Soviet leader did not find so gratifying. Nowhere would the old cliché “tough at the top” be more apt than in the case of Gelovani and Dikiy, who must surely have forever wondered if their next role would be their last. They both outlived Stalin, though just by a few years, and fell from favour only after his death – when Khrushchev decided Stalin was persona non grata in 1956, his fictional representations met the same fate as Trotsky’s had three decades earlier, disappearing from films of which he had been the animating spirit.

Mikheil Gelovani in “The Fall of Berlin

Andrei Dikiy in “The Battle of Stalingrad” (dubbed in German)

One of the more famous of the Stalin films is The Fall of Berlin, a two-parter from 1950, directed by another Georgian Mikheil Chiaureli (a regular Stalin auteur), in which Gelovani’s Stalin is a benevolent patriarch who tends his garden and personally plots the military conquests of what Russians still call “The Great Patriotic War” (almost every Stalin film seems to have a scene where Uncle Joe studies intently a military map). The film features other leaders – Churchill and Roosevelt are portrayed as scheming and gullible respectively at Yalta – particularly Hitler, played quite persuasively (albeit in Russian) by Vladimir Savelyev. The scene where he berates Field Marshal von Brauchitsch for the Wehrmacht’s failure to take Moscow looks back to Chaplin’s The Great Dictator – the presence of an enormous globe next to Hitler could only be mockingly intentional – and forward to the heavily-memed scene in Oliver Hirschbiegel’s Downfall (2004), where Hitler loses the plot upon realising its all over.

Bruno Ganz in “Downfall

“Moloch” (Aleksandr Sokurov)

The various portrayals of Hitler remind us of the incongruously comic nature of many tyrants. Bruno Ganz’s Führer is a captive of the ridicule that has been poured on his historical avatar from a safe distance since Hitler first came to prominence. For all the venom of his tantrums, Ganz’s Hitler is an underwhelming presence when isolated from the horrors he visited upon the world. Even a film director as forbiddingly recondite as Aleksandr Sokurov made a Hitler film in which the most evil man of the 20th century is a gormlessly clownish madman with the occasional tendency to megalomania; the film is Moloch (1999) and its attempt at “humanising” Hitler necessarily falls short of the mark, not least when, almost in passing, Sokurov suggests that Hitler was kept in the dark about the Holocaust by the Nazi top brass. Steven Spielberg made the cardinal error of featuring Hitler in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, all the more so by casting Michael Sheard in the role. The Aberdonian Sheard might have played Hitler five times in his career but in 1989, for British audiences at least, he was far too identifiable as the morose Deputy Headmaster Bronson in Grange Hill to really embody the menace of the head of the Third Reich.

But trying to get under the skin of despots and dictators is a near-impossible task. To all but those who witnessed them in the flesh, they remain totems of history – their acts are their real representation. The horrors of Auschwitz speak far more to Hitler’s character than a reenactment of him at Wannsee or him spending a weekend at the Eagle’s Nest (as in Moloch); there is little point in trying to understand Stalin beyond what happened to his victims from the 1930s to the 1950s. For this reason few major filmmakers have ever bothered with the big villains of world history – there is more shade to be drawn from lesser iniquitous figures such as Richard Nixon and George W Bush, as Oliver Stone has done – and biopics of dictators tend to be the preserve of the TV movie (Robert Duval’s performance as Stalin in a 1992 production, where he mumbles like an unholy cross between John Wayne and Rasputin, almost makes you pine for Dikiy, Gelovani and the Mosfilm propaganda of old).

Filippo Timi in Vincere (Marco Belocchio)

One of the few fiction films that succeeds in delivering a nuanced portrait of a dictator is Marco Bellochio’s excellent Vincere (2009) where Filippo Timi is terrifyingly credible in conveying the will-to-power of a young Mussolini, though Bellochio’s film is mainly interested in his first wife Isa Dalser, forcibly committed to a lunatic asylum and erased from history by Il Duce. Other Latin dictators, of which there were many, have rarely featured on screen in fiction films though there have been numerous ones about the regimes they led – exceptions are two films in recent times with the bloodthirsty Dominican tyrant Rafael Trujillo, In the Time of the Butterflies (2001, played by Edward James Olmos) and a 2005 adaptation of Mario Vargas Llosa’s The Feast of the Goat, where Tomas Milian played the role. There have been a number of films with Mao in them, most notably Martin Scorsese’s Kundun (1997) and the recent Chinese blockbusters The Founding of a Republic (2009) and The Founding of a Party (2011) but few that focus primarily on him.

Occasionally there is a fanciful eye cast on the private circles of dictators through the intermediary of a western character, such as in The Last King of Scotland (2006), about Idi Amin, and more recently, The Interview that provoked the ire of Pyongyang, which may or may not have been behind the subsequent hacking of Sony Pictures. It’s not the subtlest send-up of Kim Jong-un (though one hardly expects that of a Seth Rogen film) but it does at least have the merit of shrewdly undercutting the witless bonhomie of the foreign observer when James Franco’s self-absorbed talkshow host Dave Skylark turns on Kim only when he discovers he has been lied to using a well-stocked “Potemkin supermarket”.

“The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceauşescu” (Andrei Ujică)

The greatest film about a dictator though is one that made full use of the very films the dictator’s own regime commissioned and shot. Andrei Ujică’s The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceauşescu (2010) is not so much a documentary as an impressionistic collage of Ceauşescu’s public and private life, in official propaganda films made for public consumption and in remarkably high-quality home movies of the dictator and his family at play in the snow and in their summer retreat. A number of world-historical figures from the Comintern (Brezhnev, Gorbachev, Honecker, Jaruzelski, Mao and Kim Il-sung) and the west (De Gaulle, Nixon, Carter, the Queen) flit in and out in a three-hour-long pageant that is devoid of either commentary or explanatory captions. It is unexpectedly enthralling stuff fashioned out of the most lifelessly serviceable material; it expands, contracts, resonates and bulges with signs and meanings that far exceed the newsreels’ official intentions.

Ujică’s method (which he has used for three films) borrows from the one Lutz Becker employed for his film about Hitler’s rise to power The Double-Headed Eagle (1973), but the Ceauşescu film is more mesmerising, probably because the subject matter carries less historical weight. The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceauşescu ultimately gets no closer to its human subject than most other films about dictators but it is canny enough to see the figurehead and his regime for the hall of mirrors that they are. Ceauşescu’s grip on power was as well-orchestrated as it was violently enforced and the film views him through the prism of official iconography that is subversively shorn of official rhetoric – the effect is as disorienting and liberating as watching a football match with just the sounds of the crowd and no commentary.

The hall of mirrors began to shatter one day in December 1989 when Ceauşescu was shocked to hear a crowd booing him as he addressed them from a balcony – it was like the Wizard of Oz’s curtain being breached. A few days later, on Christmas Day, he and his wife Elena were facing a kangaroo court after their capture. These scenes, shot on grainy video, bookend the film, and the pair are as contemptuously imperious as they have long been wont to, not being able to adjust to the new reality quickly enough. They met their end shortly afterwards, in a manner not dissimilar to Mussolini in 1945, shot by firing squad. In a film culled from polished official archive footage there can be no greater metaphor for the precipitous collapse of a once-powerful regime as being inexpertly filmed by the rabble using equipment that Ceauşescu, before his fall, would never have allowed them to get hold of.

Oliver Farry is an Irish writer, journalist and translator living in Paris.

Nicola Snothum / Millenium Images
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The end of solitude: in a hyperconnected world, are we losing the art of being alone?

In the end, Solitude feels a bit like an amiable cop-out. 

Michael Harris is a Canadian writer who lives in a big city and whose life is defined and circumscribed, as so many Western lives are now, by digital technologies. He finds it hard to leave his phone at home in case he misses anything. He worries about his social media reputation. He uses apps and plays games, and relies on the internet hive mind to tell him which films to watch or where to eat. Here is what happens when he goes on holiday to Paris:

Disembarking from the train from London, I invited a friendly app to guide me to a hotel near the Pompidou . . . The next morning, Yelp guided me towards a charming café in the Marais. There, wizard-like, I held my phone over the menu and waited for Google Translate to melt the words into English. When the waiter arrived, I spoke into my phone and had it repeat my words to the grinning garçon in a soft, robotic French. Later, at the Louvre, I allowed a Nintendo-sponsored guidance system to track my steps up the centuries-old Daru staircase as I squinted confusedly at its glowing blue you-are-here dot . . .

Terrifying, isn’t it? Well, I thought so as I read it, and Harris thought so afterwards. It was situations like this, during which he realised that his life was controlled, confined and monitored by distancing technologies, that led him to wonder whether solitude – the act and the art of being alone – was in danger of disappearing.

Harris has an intuition that being alone with ourselves, paying attention to inner silence and being able to experience outer silence, is an essential part of being human. He can remember how it felt to do this, before the internet brought its social anxiety and addiction into his life. “I began to remember,” he writes, “a calm separateness, a sureness I once could live inside for an easy hour at a time.”

What happens when that calm separateness is destroyed by the internet of everything, by big-city living, by the relentless compulsion to be with others, in touch, all the time? Plenty of people know the answer already, or would do if they were paying attention to the question. Nearly half of all Americans, Harris tells us, now sleep with their smartphones on their bedside table, and 80 per cent are on their phone within 15 minutes of waking up. Three-quarters of adults use social networking sites regularly. But this is peanuts compared to the galloping development of the so-called Internet of Things. Within the next few years, anything from 30 to 50 billion objects, from cars to shirts to bottles of shampoo, will be connected to the net. The internet will be all around you, whether you want it or not, and you will be caught in its mesh like a fly. It’s not called the web for nothing.

I may not be the ideal reader for this book. By page 20, after a few more facts of this sort, I had already found myself scrawling “Kill everyone!” in the margins. This is not really the author’s fault. I often start behaving like this whenever I’m forced to read a list of ways in which digital technology is wrecking human existence. There are lots of lists like this around at the moment, because the galloping, thoughtless, ongoing rush to connect everything to the web has overcome our society like a disease. Did you know that cows are now connected to the internet? On page 20, Harris tells us that some Swiss dairy cows, sim cards implanted in their necks, send text messages to their farmers when they are on heat and ready to be inseminated. If this doesn’t bring out your inner Unabomber, you’re probably beyond help. Or maybe I am.

What is the problem here? Why does this bother me, and why does it bother Harris? The answer is that all of these things intrude upon, and threaten to destroy, something ancient and hard to define, which is also the source of much of our creativity and the essence of our humanity. “Solitude,” Harris writes, “is a resource.” He likens it to an ecological niche, within which grow new ideas, an understanding of the self and therefore an understanding of others.

The book is full of examples of the genius that springs from silent and solitary moments. Beethoven, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Einstein, Newton – all developed their ideas and approach by withdrawing from the crowd. Peter Higgs, the Nobel ­Prizewinner who discovered the Higgs boson particle, did his best work in peace and solitude in the 1960s. He suggests that what he did then would be impossible today, because it is now virtually impossible to find such solitude in the field of science.

Collaboration, not individuality, is fetishised today, in business as in science and the arts, but Harris warns that collaboration often results in conformism. In the company of others, most of us succumb to pressure to go with the crowd. Alone, we have more chance to be thoughtful, to see differently, to enter a place where we feel free from the mob to moderate our unique experience of the world. Without solitude, he writes, genius – which ultimately springs from different ways of thinking and seeing – becomes impossible. If Thoreau’s cabin in the woods had had wifi, we would never have got Walden.

Yet it is not only geniuses who have a problem: ordinary minds like yours and mine are threatened by the hypersocial nature of always-on urbanity. A ­civilisation can be judged by the quality of its daydreams, Harris suggests. Who daydreams now? Instead of staring out of the window on a train, heads are buried in smartphones, or wired to the audio of a streaming film. Instead of idling at the bus stop, people are loading up entertainment: mobile games from King, the maker of Candy Crush, were played by 1.6 billion times every day in the first quarter of 2015 alone.

If you’ve ever wondered at the behaviour of those lines of people at the train station or in the street or in the café, heads buried in their phones like zombies, unable or unwilling to look up, Harris confirms your worst fears. The developers of apps and games and social media sites are dedicated to trapping us in what are called ludic loops. These are short cycles of repeated actions which feed our brain’s desire for reward. Every point you score, every candy you crush, every retweet you get gives your brain a dopamine hit that keeps you coming back for more. You’re not having a bit of harmless fun: you are an addict. A tech corporation has taken your solitude and monetised it. It’s not the game that is being played – it’s you.

So, what is to be done about all this? That’s the multibillion-dollar question, but it is one the book cannot answer. Harris spends many pages putting together a case for the importance of solitude and examining the forces that splinter it today. Yet he also seems torn in determining how much of it he wants and can cope with. He can see the damage being done by the always-on world but he lives in the heart of it, all his friends are part of it, and he doesn’t want to stray too far away. He understands the value of being alone but doesn’t like it much, or want to experience it too often. He’ll stop checking his Twitter analytics but he won’t close down his account.

At the end of the book, Harris retreats, Thoreau-like, to a cabin in the woods for a week. As I read this brief last chapter, I found myself wishing it was the first, that he had spent more time in the cabin, that he had been starker and more exploratory, that he had gone further. Who will write a Walden for the Internet Age? This book is thick with fact and argument and some fine writing, but there is a depth that the author seems afraid to plumb. Perhaps he is afraid of what he might find down there.

In the end, Solitude feels a bit like an amiable cop-out. After 200 pages of increasingly disturbing facts about the impact of technology and crowded city living on everything from our reading habits to our ability to form friendships, and after warning us on the very last page that we risk making “an Easter Island of the mind”, the author goes back home to Vancouver, tells his boyfriend that he missed him, and then . . . well, then what? We don’t know. The book just ends. We are left with the impression that the pile-up of evidence leads to a conclusion too vast for the author, and perhaps his readers, to take in, because to do that would be to challenge everything.

In this, Solitude mirrors the structure of many other books of its type: the Non-Fiction Warning Book (NFWB), we might call it. It takes a subject – disappearing childhood; disappearing solitude; disappearing wilderness; disappearing anything, there’s so much to choose from – trots us through several hundred pages of anecdotes, science,
interviews and stories, all of which build up to the inescapable conclusion that everything is screwed . . . and then pulls back. It’s like being teased by an expert hustler. Yes, technology is undermining our sense of self and creating havoc for our relationships with others, but the solution is not to stop using it, just to moderate it. Yes, overcrowded cities are destroying our minds and Planet Earth, but the solution is not to get out of the cities: it’s to moderate them in some way, somehow.

Moderation is always the demand of the NFWB, aimed as it is at mainstream readers who would like things to get better but who don’t really want to change much – or don’t know how to. This is not to condemn Harris, or his argument: most of us don’t want to change much or know how to. What books of this kind are dealing with is the problem of modernity, which is intractable and not open to moderation. Have a week away from your screen if you like, but the theft of human freedom by the machine will continue without you. The poet Robinson Jeffers once wrote about sitting on a mountain and looking down on the lights of a city, and being put in mind of a purse seine net, in which sardines swim unwittingly into a giant bag, which is then drawn tightly around them. “I thought, We have geared the machines and locked all together into interdependence; we have built the great cities; now/There is no escape,” he wrote. “The circle is closed, and the net/Is being hauled in.”

Under the circumstances – and these are our circumstances – the only honest conclusion to draw is that the problem, which is caused primarily by the technological direction of our society, is going to get worse. There is no credible scenario in which we can continue in the same direction and not see the problem of solitude, or lack of it, continue to deepen.

Knowing this, how can Harris just go home after a week away, drop off his bag and settle back into his hyperconnected city life? Does he not have a duty to rebel, and to tell us to rebel? Perhaps. The problem for this author is our shared problem, however, at a time in history when the dystopian predictions of Brave New World are already looking antiquated. Even if Harris wanted to rebel, he wouldn’t know how, because none of us would. Short of a collapse so severe that the electricity goes off permanently, there is no escape from what the tech corporations and their tame hive mind have planned for us. The circle is closed, and the net is being hauled in. May as well play another round of Candy Crush while we wait to be dragged up on to the deck. 

Paul Kingsnorth's latest book, “Confessions of a Recovering Environmentalist” (Faber & Faber)

This article first appeared in the 20 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, May's gamble

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