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Socialism's comeback

At the beginning of the century, the chances of socialism making a return looked close to zero. Yet now, all around Europe, the red flag is flying again.

 

"If socialism signifies a political and economic system in which the government controls a large part of the economy and redistributes wealth to produce social equality, then I think it is safe to say the likelihood of its making a comeback any time in the next generation is close to zero," wrote Francis Fukuyama, author of The End of History, in Time magazine in 2000.

He should take a trip around Europe today.

Make no mistake, socialism - pure, unadulterated socialism, an ideology that was taken for dead by liberal capitalists - is making a strong comeback. Across the continent, there is a definite trend in which long-established parties of the centre left that bought in to globalisation and neoliberalism are seeing their electoral dominance challenged by unequivocally socialist parties which have not.

The parties in question offer policies which mark a clean break from the Thatcherist agenda that many of Europe's centre-left parties have embraced over the past 20 years. They advocate renationalisation of privatised state enterprises and a halt to further liberalisation of the public sector. They call for new wealth taxes to be imposed and for a radical redistribution of wealth. They defend the welfare state and the rights of all citizens to a decent pension and free health care. They strongly oppose war - and any further expansion of Nato.

Most fundamentally of all, they challenge an economic system in which the interests of ordinary working people are subordinated to those of capital.

Nowhere is this new leftward trend more apparent than in Germany, home to the meteoric rise of Die Linke ("The Left"), a political grouping formed only 18 months ago - and co-led by the veteran socialist "Red" Oskar Lafontaine, a long-standing scourge of big business. The party, already the main opposition to the Christian Democrats in eastern Germany, has made significant inroads into the vote for the Social Democratic Party (SPD) in elections to western parliaments this year, gaining representation in Lower Saxony, Hamburg and Hesse. Die Linke's unapologetically socialist policies, which include the renation alisation of electricity and gas, the banning of hedge funds and the introduction of a maximum wage, chime with a population concerned at the dismantling of Germany's mixed economic model and the adoption of Anglo-Saxon capitalism - a shift that occurred while the SPD was in government.

An opinion poll last year showed that 45 per cent of west Germans (and 57 per cent of east Germans) consider socialism "a good idea"; in October, another poll showed that Germans overwhelmingly favour nationalisation of large segments of the economy. Two-thirds of all Germans say they agree with all or some of Die Linke's programme.

It's a similar story of left-wing revival in neighbouring Holland. There the Socialist Party of the Netherlands (SP), which almost trebled its parliamentary representation in the most recent general election (2006), and which made huge gains in last year's provincial elections, continues to make headway.

Led by a charismatic 41-year-old epidemiologist, Agnes Kant, the SP is on course to surpass the Dutch Labour Party, a member of the ruling conservative-led coalition, as the Netherlands' main left-of centre grouping.

The SP has gained popularity by being the only left-wing Dutch parliamentary party to campaign for a "No" vote during the 2005 referendum on the EU constitutional treaty and for its opposition to large-scale immigration, which it regards as being part of a neoliberal package that encourages flexible labour markets.

The party calls for a society where the values of "human dignity, equality and solidarity" are most prominent, and has been scathing in its attacks on what it describes as "the culture of greed", brought about by "a capitalism based on inflated bonuses and easy money". Like Die Linke, the SP campaigns on a staunchly anti-war platform - demanding an end to Holland's role as "the US's lapdog".

In Greece, the party on the up is the Coalition of the Radical Left (SYRIZA), the surprise package in last year's general election. As public opposition to the neoliberal econo mic policies of the ruling New Democracy government builds, SYRIZA's opinion-poll ratings have risen to almost 20 per cent - putting it within touching distance of PASOK, the historical left-of-centre opposition, which has lurched sharply to the right in recent years. SYRIZA is particularly popular with young voters: its support among those aged 35 and under stands at roughly 30 per cent in the polls, ahead of PASOK.

In Norway, socialists are already in power; the ruling "red-green" coalition consists of the Socialist Left Party, the Labour Party and the Centre Party. Since coming to power three years ago, the coalition - which has been labelled the most left-wing government in Europe, has halted the privatisation of state-owned companies and made further development of the welfare state, public health care and improving care for the elderly its priorities.

The success of such forces shows that there can be an electoral dividend for left-wing parties if voters see them responding to the crisis of modern capitalism by offering boldly socialist solutions. Their success also demonstrates the benefits to electoral support for socialist groupings as they put aside their differences to unite behind a commonly agreed programme.

For example, Die Linke consists of a number of internal caucuses - or forums - including the "Anti-Capitalist Left", "Communist Platform" and "Democratic Socialist Forum". SYRIZA is a coalition of more than ten Greek political groups. And the Dutch Socialist Party - which was originally called the Communist Party of the Netherlands, has successfully brought socialists and communists together to support its collectivist programme.

It is worth noting that those European parties of the centre left which have not fully embraced the neoliberal agenda are retaining their dominant position. In Spain, the governing Socialist Workers' Party has managed to maintain its broad left base and was re-elected for another four-year term in March, with Prime Minister José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero promising a "socialist economic policy" that would focus on the needs of workers and the poor.

There are exceptions to the European continent's shift towards socialism. Despite the recent election of leftist Martine Aubry as leader of the French Socialist Party, the French left has been torn apart by divisions, at the very moment when it could be exploiting the growing unpopularity of the Sarkozy administration.

And, in Britain, despite opinion being argu ably more to the left on economic issues than at any time since 1945, few are calling for a return to socialism.

The British left, despite promising initiatives such as September's Convention of the Left in Manchester, which gathered representatives from several socialist groups, still remains fragmented and divided. The left's espousal of unrestricted or loosely controlled immigration is also, arguably, a major vote loser among working-class voters who should provide its core support. No socialist group in Britain has as yet articulated a critique of mass immigration from an anti-capitalist and anti-racist viewpoint in the way the Socialist Party of the Netherlands has.

And even if a Die Linke-style coalition of progressive forces could be built and put on a formal footing in time for the next general election, Britain's first-past-the-post system provides a formidable obstacle to change.

Nevertheless, the prognosis for socialism in Britain and the rest of Europe is good. As the recession bites, and neoliberalism is discredited, the phenomenon of unequivocally socialist parties with clear, anti-capitalist, anti-globalist messages gaining ground, and even replacing "Third Way" parties in Europe, is likely to continue.

Even in Britain, where the electoral system grants huge advantage to the established parties, pressure on Labour to jettison its commitment to neoliberal policies and to adopt a more socialist agenda is sure to intensify.

This article first appeared in the 08 December 2008 issue of the New Statesman, After the Terror

Manhattan in the 1970s. Photo: Getty
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How Woody Allen's Manhattan became Donald Trump's New York

Trump took everything that Allen hated about California - charity galas, golf, awards fever, architectural bad taste - and brought it to New York.

The transformation of faded, fire-ravaged, job-bleeding ‘third-world’ New York (signature headline: “President to City: Drop Dead”) into a safe, clean, smug, wealthy, first-world-problems kind of place (presiding logo: “I ❤ NY”) is popularly associated with the work of three men, Ed Koch, Donald Trump, and Woody Allen.

In their different ways, they embodied – when they didn’t help to engineer – all manner of civic, fiscal, economic, municipal, cultural, and spiritual change. 1978 was the turning-point. That year, Koch became mayor and went about healing the crises that had occurred under the previous incumbent, Abe Beame. Trump, exploiting the city’s new tax incentives, bought the decrepit old Commodore Hotel – later the Grand Hyatt – and began negotiating the sale of the Bonwit Teller flagship store, just south-east of Central Park, the future site of Trump Tower. In that same year, Allen – who was born in Brooklyn in 1935, the year that Trump’s developer father, Fred, began to concentrate his business in that borough – co-wrote, directed, and starred in Manhattan, which was released the following April.

The film, which has just been reissued in a 4K print, is an attempt to salvage New York from its scuzzy 1970s manifestation, and an exercise in what the cinematographer Gordon Willis called “romantic reality”. In glistening widescreen black-and-white, abetted by a Gershwin score, Manhattan presents the borough as an assemblage of highlights: Bloomingdale’s, John’s Pizzeria, the Dalton School, Hayden Planetarium (actually a set), 30 Rock, MOMA, the Guggenheim, Elaine’s, the Russian Tea Room, and so on. Sitting in the park at Sutton Place, in sight of the Queensboro Bridge, Allen's character Isaac Davis says, “This is really a great city. I don’t care what anybody says. Really a knockout.” (The moment required some airbrushing. The crew had to find a bench from somewhere and on the original poster the image was tinkered with, to reduce the size of the buildings in the background.)

The case-against had been made, or at least heard, two years earlier, in  Allen’s first proper New York film, Annie Hall. At one point, Alvy Singer (Allen) says that his friend Rob (Tony Roberts), who loves Los Angeles and thinks Alvy ought to move there, should be doing Shakespeare in the Park. “I did Shakespeare in the Park," he replies. "I got mugged.” In Manhattan going to Shakespeare in the Park is invoked as just another pleasant thing to do and the only threat to safety is the occasional rain storm. Nobody troubles to talk up LA. (The reasons that praise for that city falls on deaf ears in Allen’s work include its lack of seasons, its love of prizes, its congenital faddishness, and the necessity to drive.)

The film’s opening is a montage of over thirty images (pedestrian excitement, New Year’s fireworks, a pre-Trump skyline), garnished with Gershwin, and set to a voiceover of Isaac contemplating possible first paragraphs for a novel. It’s also the sound of Allen airing his conflicted feelings. The first begins, “He adored New York City. He idolised it all out of proportion.” He proceed to dismiss draft versions as too corny, too angry, too preachy. He eventually settles on one that begins, “He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved” and ends “New York was his town and it always would be.” But in every version, there is some acknowledgement of Isaac's romanticism – the rosy tint of his perspective.

On Manhattan's release, the New Statesman film critic John Coleman, used it as an occasion to knock Annie Hall and Interiors (1978), in the process eliding some very large differences. He described the films' shared setting as “elitist, snob-cultural New York chic, full of encounters in OK restaurants between people with time on their hands and themselves on their minds”. Coleman was following a critical agenda set by Joan Didion in the New York Review of Books (“the sense of social reality in these pictures is dim in the extreme”). However, Didion was a self-confessed apostate from New York worship – leaving the city was the subject of her essay “Goodbye to All That” – so maybe she was just the person to miss the point entirely? James Wolcott, looking back in his memoir Lucking Out – in some ways a riposte to Didion's neuroses – calls the film's opening “a balm for every bruise that New York had taken in the seventies, a relieved sigh from the trenches signaling that perhaps the worst was over, somehow we had come through”.

Allen made no attempt to defend the city against a more general, less time-specific charge – what might be considered the "Manhattan libel".  As Alvy Singer puts it, “The rest of the country looks upon New York like we’re left-wing Communist Jewish homosexual pornographers.” He speaks for his creator when he adds, “I think of us that way, and I live here.” In Allen’s view, New York was not just decaying but decadent, heaving with snobs as well as lowlifes, its integrity under threat from above and below. Sitting with Annie on a park bench, he pokes fun at the passersby, among them a cigar-chewing mafioso and “the winner of the Truman Capote lookalike contest” – in fact, Capote himself. The film stages encounters with both kinds of bad New Yorker, who are placed in implicit contrast with a pair of European film-makers who, to Allen, embodied the right balance of refinement and modishness, sophistication and popular appeal. Waiting outside a cinema to see Bergman’s Face to Face, Alvy, a stand-up comic, is accosted by a pair of Italian-Americans who vaguely recognise him from television. Queueing elsewhere for a documentary, he winces as a academic from Columbia complains about the new Fellini.

In Manhattan, the gangster types are gone, but the film reinforces the idea of New York as a phoney-magnet. After bumping into his married friend Yale (Michael Murphy) with his lover Mary (Diane Keaton), Isaac complains to his girlfriend Tracy (Mariel Hemingway), a seventeen-year-old high-school student, that Yale has always been a sucker for the kind of women who involve him “in discussions of existential reality.” Though Isaac soon falls for Mary himself, a glimpse of their first date shows him throwing up his hands as they emerge from a screening of the silent Soviet film Earth, and we cut to them reentering her apartment as he says that as far as he’s concerned, a great movie is something with W.C. Fields. In the next scene, standing before a sculpture, he mockingly deploys Mary-ish terms like “negative capability”. She ends up back with Yale.

***

Allen managed to sustain his adoration of the city by associating its true nature exclusively with things and types he doesn’t loathe. It’s an incoherent vision – or at least fixed according to his unique set of peccadilloes, his narrow definition of what isn’t philistine and what isn’t pretentious, what occupies the space between the anti-rational and hyper-rational. Alvy Singer calls himself a “bigot but for the left,” but Allen's position is a little more paradoxical. He abhors mass-culture phenomena like pop music and television, but worships baseball and basketball and old movies (often watched on late-night cable). He looks with equal disdain on haute couture and academe, corruption and radicalism, accountancy and flower power. He loves museums and jazz and Chinese takeaways but is suspicious of conceptual art and rock and fast food. He likes pizza but not punk, smutty jokes but not foul language, gazing at bridges but not crossing them, psychoanalytic vocabulary but no other kind of jargon, Broadway but not modern theatre, cultural references but not high-culture seriousness (what Alvy calls “fake insights”), city parks and rivers but not the country, kooks and innocents but not hippies, the yuppie-crowded Upper East Side – “the zone” – but not Wall Street or, really, any of the downtown area. (Gershwin is a kind of ideal – a graduate of Tin Pan Alley, immersed in the French art song and Austrian modernism, who wrote jazz and "folk opera".)

At the end of Manhattan, Allen names eleven things that make life worth living – a hodgepodge that reflects his arbitrary high-low aesthetic. Seven of them are strongly associated with New York: Groucho Marx, Willie Mays, Louis Armstrong, Brando, Sinatra, the crabs at Sam Wo’s, “Tracy’s face.” Even Cézanne’s "incredible" Still Life with Apples and Pears is housed at the Met.

The gentrifying processes that occurred during Ed Koch’s administration made Manhattan-worship a more obvious pastime – and an easier position to maintain. There were fewer problems of the crime-and-garbage variety, although it’s possible Allen over-stressed the revamp. Less overly romantic than ManhattanHannah and Her Sisters (1986), which concerns the extended circle of an Upper West Side family, prompted the charge of white-washing. Even Mia Farrow’s mother, Maureen Stapleton, who appears as the matriarch, said that the film was so beautiful “it almost makes you forget all the dog poop on the streets.”

Allen has said that his 1989 film Crimes and Misdemeanors was intended as a retort to Hannah and Her Sisters, in which, he felt, he’d been too easy on the characters. (His original title was Brothers.) But there are also signs of Allen becoming tougher on his setting. Early on, Clifford Stern (Allen) and his niece emerge from a screening of Hitchcock’s Mr and Mrs Smith and confronts “awful”, rain-lashed Greenwich Village, the real city diverging from the sparkling pre-war paradise.

And if the city's economic revival had done something to bridge this chasm and return Manhattan to its pomp, it had its downside – no, not the escalating rents but the influx of vulgarians, responding to the re-found hipness. As Allen softened on artsy types, he redoubled his aversion to the airhead. In Hannah and Her Sisters, there's a young record company executive – Dusty – whose approach to art collection is entirely determined by size and colour scheme. And in Crimes and Misdemeanors, Clifford’s brother-in-law Lester (Alan Alda), a television producer with a “closet full of Emmys”, a dyed-in-the-wool Los Angeleno, is considering a move to the city, a place he describes, in one of many pseudo-epigrams, as “thousands of straight lines looking for a punchline.” (Allen’s twin bugbears, philistinism and prentension, are perfectly combined in Lester’s reference to a university course on “existential motifs in my situation comedies”.) Husbands and Wives (1992) revealed more fears of a total Californification of the city's tastes and habits, the full list of pathogens that had blown eastwards including charity galas, long speeches, astrology, aerobics,  golf, health food, cocktail dresses, awards fever–and architectural bad taste.

The chief representative of these changes – the vulgarian-in-chief – was Donald Trump, another immigrant from the outer-boroughs (Queens, in this case) who as a boy had made saucer-eyed visits to Manhattan. To the adolescent Allen, New York was the place depicted by Hitchcock in Mr and Mrs Smith, the formula he lovingly re-created in the film within The Purple Rose of Cairo (1986): tuxedos, evening gowns, white telephones, theatre trips. For Trump, it was the Midtown bustle and neon that made New York feel like “the center of the world.” Allen, starting out, aspired to be like S.J. Perelman, or Groucho. Trump emulated his developer hero Bill Zeckendorf. Fred Trump did most of his work in the outer boroughs. (He even inspired a song by another Woody, Guthrie, who was appalled by the segregation policies in Trump senior's housing projects.) But in The Art of the Deal, Trump recalls that he had “loftier dreams and visions” and couldn’t shake his determination that Manhattan was where the action was – or would be. He claimed that though the city was at a low – “suffering from a crisis of confidence” – it didn’t keep him “up nights”.  Things “ultimately” had to turn around. In the meantime, “I saw the city’s trouble as a great opportunity for me.”

In 1971, the year he became head of his father’s company, Trump Management, Donald Trump moved into a run-down flat on the Upper East Side – with the coveted 10021 zip code – which he jokingly called his penthouse. Meanwhile, Allen was living barely three blocks away in a penthouse duplex that Dick Cavett likened to the hero’s home in the 1930s New York film The Man Who Played God. But Trump soon caught up in the grandeur stakes, nabbing the penthouse triplex atop the Trump Tower, and a Park view from 57th and Fifth rather than 74th and Fifth. Allen was chauffeured round the city in a cream Rolls-Royce, Trump in a silver Cadillac (with his initials on the number plate). With Ed Koch being perennially single, Trump and Ivana competed with Woody and Mia as the leading couple of 80s Manhattan – both relationships lasted the whole decade before hitting the buffers in similar tabloid style – but they represented altogether different versions of the new New York. 

There’s a brief, almost perfunctory moment in Manhattan where Isaac notes a group of construction works pulling down an old building. “Can’t they have those things declared landmarks?” Mary asks, and Isaac reflects that the city’s “really changing”. The next film Allen made in modern New York, Broadway Danny Rose (1984), was supposed to have a 1940s setting, but Allen said that he couldn’t find “a half block” of Times Square that hadn’t been “junked up”. In Hannah and Her Sisters, an architect whose own work strains to respect the atmosphere and proportions of the surroundings does a tour of local charms which ends with a concrete, hole-punched slab on the Beaux-Arts-heavy East 62nd Street, an edifice that the journalist Joe Klein described as resembling a cheese grater. “What’s permitted in this city is just terrible; it’s a crime,” Allen said, the year the film came out. (In Annie Hall, architectural inconsistency is strongly associated with Beverly Hills: “French next to Spanish next to Tudor next to Japanese.”) By the time of Husbands and Wives, he had a character who worked for the Landmarks Trust. A magazine editor played by Liam Neeson tells her, “I don’t believe in capital punishment except for certain New York developers.” (Preparing the way for the Tower, Trump had refused to preserve – in fact, cosigned to the jackhammer – the bronze grillwork and a pair of art-deco fifteen-foot-high bas-relief of goddesses dancing over Fifth Avenue.)

Trump had received a name-check in Crimes and Misdemeanors when Lester says into his dictaphone: “Idea for series: a wealthy, high-profile builder who’s always trying to realise grandiose dreams à la Donald Trump, to be shot in New York.” Though the idea is supposed to reveal Lester’s frivolity and self-absorption – he's mid-conversation at the time – it’s telling that even he shows a hint of scepticism. 

Then came Celebrity (1998), the satire which to date remains Allen's final statement on modern New York. The film is a reply to Manhattan, its use of black and white and an opening onslaught of New York locales seeming darkly ironic – as if this hell-hole is worthy of monochrome and montage! Although the central character, the journalist Lee Simon (Kenneth Branagh), seems to be writing the same book as Isaac in Manhattan, this time the city fails to come through. At one point, a mad young movie star (DiCaprio) takes Lee to the Trump Marina in Atlantic City for a boxing match and a foursome. Later, Lee’s ex-wife, a teacher-turned-TV host, wanders around a fashionable restaurant, Le Bijou, making small talk for the camera with an estate agent to the stars, a disgraced senator, a gossip columnist – and Trump himself. It was an inspired manipulation of available resources. Le Bijou was really Jean-Georges, which is based at the lobby level of the Trump International Hotel and Tower–an attack on New York in the 90s could hardly do without one of his branded buildings – and Trump often demanded an appearance in films that made use of his buildings. (Ed Koch’s cameo, in the short film Oedipus Wrecks, came at Allen’s request.) Here Trump reports plans – invented, but only just – to erect a "very, very tall and beautiful building" on the site of St Patrick’s Cathedral. The new fame-and-lifestyle obsession is aligned with the desire to dislodge a priceless monument in favour of a shear-wall phallus.

Manhattan could only have been made during a very short period.  It’s a snapshot of a city in transition, at just the point when the horrors of the 70s were beginning to fade and the horrors of the 80s – by Allen’s lights – had yet to declare themselves. For the next twenty years, even as he yearned to idealise New York, Allen couldn't ignore the new realities, and Celebrity marked the point at which the scales tipped. Since then he has sought alternative routes to a romanticism of place, setting his films against an unspecific, attractive New York movie-backdrop (Anything Else, Melinda and Melinda), venturing to Europe (London, Barcelona, Paris, Rome), and travelling back in time. Starting with Zelig (1983), he has paid half-a-dozen visits to New York’s hallowed past. After all, the decades of greed, kitsch, and indifference to history furnish varied opportunities for nostalgia. His next film, Wonder Wheel, concerns a Coney Island amusement park, and takes place in the late 1950s – just moments before Fred Trump started work on Trump Village, the twenty-plus-storey apartment complex that overshadowed Steeplechase Park and dwarfed its prize ride, the Parachute Jump, the so-called Eiffel Tower of Brooklyn.

Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.

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