Still a messiah?

Forty years after his death, Che Guevara has little to offer as a guide for making revolution. So wh

In 1968, when the photographer Don Honeyman was experimenting with Alberto Korda's iconic image of Che Guevara, he discovered something curious. Honeyman had been experimenting with a process of solarisation as a way of making fashion images more exciting and had been asked by a poster company to try the same thing with Korda's photograph of Che - said to be the most reproduced photo in the world. But he was having trouble duplicating the look of the image as it had first been published in Europe by the revolutionary press.

"I worked over the image for several days," Honeyman wrote, "but couldn't seem to get the same idealistic gleam in Che's eyes. I finally compared the first Che with the second, and discovered that some canny designer, presumably at [the original Italian printers], had made Che slimmer and his face longer, by about one-sixth. It was so effective that I, too, stretched him, and it worked like a charm. It doesn't really do to have a revolutionary who's too plump."

There is something fitting about the world's most iconic revolutionary image having been manipulated. Che's legacy, 40 years after his death in a failed attempt to ignite revolution in Bolivia, rests heavily on an image so powerful and so plastic that it still serves both as a generalised inspiration to rebel and as a vehicle for the sale of everything from ashtrays to T-shirts.

The photograph was taken in March 1960 at the funeral of the victims of an explosion on board the French freighter La Coubre in Havana harbour, in which 81 people had died. The Cuban leadership suspected sabotage by the CIA and the funeral, attended by Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre, among others, became an anti-American rally. Guevara did not speak, and came into view only briefly for Korda, who was recording images of the event from the crowd. Korda had started out as a fashion photographer, but was then Fidel's personal photographer. He managed two shots with his Leica before Guevara disappeared from view.

The pictures were not published in the reports of the event, but Korda pinned them up in his studio in Havana, and in 1967 gave two of them to the Italian publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, who was planning to publish Che's Bolivian Diary. Within six months Che had been assassinated in Bolivia and both Feltrinelli and the Cuban government published the first posters.

Even in death, Che was lucky with his photographers. Freddy Alborta, the only professional photographer allowed to see his body shortly after his execution in Bolivia, wired a haunting photograph of the corpse, lying on a table, surrounded by military men. The image is Christ-like and has been compared both to Andrea Mantegna's Lamentation Over the Dead Christ and to Rembrandt's Anatomy Lecture of Dr Nicolaes Tulp. But it was Korda's lucky shots that ensured Che Guevara was not for gotten. Korda's photograph, suitably doctored, took on a life of its own, creating an irresistible combination of celebrity and rebel glamour that gave Che an influence in a world that had long forgotten the details of his exploits.

Through the image, the complexities of Che's life and thought are reprocessed into an abstraction that can serve any cause. It was later used in a fake Warhol, a fake that Warhol authenticated, on condition that the revenues go to him. Che's transformation from revolutionary martyr to pop celebrity, with all that it implied in ubiquity, was complete. Forty years on, it is still going strong: when the Victoria and Albert Museum in London mounted an exhibition last year of the history of the Korda image, the curators assembled objects from more than 30 countries, used in contexts as diverse as Madonna's album American Life and Ricky Gervais's Politics DVD to Jean-Paul Gaultier's sunglasses campaign. It has been painted as graffiti in Bethlehem, carried in demonstrations from Palestine to Mexico and borrowed by such artists as Pedro Meyer, Vik Muniz, Martin Parr and Annie Leibovitz. It has been used to represent causes as diverse as world trade, anti-Americanism, teenage rebellion and Latin American identity. It has sold dolls, French wine, model cars, cigarette packets, stamps, Swatch watches, Austrian skis, ashtrays, mugs, keyrings and nesting Russian dolls. Nor is it under capitalism only that Che's image stimulates sales: souvenir shops in Cuba are festooned with Che tourist tat, and in Bolivia, where the left-wing president, Evo Morales, has installed Che's image constructed from coca leaves in his presidential suite. Tourist agencies even offer package tours to the spot where he died.

Emotional appeal

Che's durability owes little to his revolutionary achievements, though his revolutionary credentials are authentic. He was radicalised as a young man by the US-backed coup in Guatemala that overthrew the elected government of Jacobo Árbenz and he played a central part in the Cuban revolutionary struggle. After the revolution he served as finance minister, but grew increasingly alienated from the Castro brothers. He went to the Congo to support revolution there before setting out on the fatal Bolivian adventure, hoping to spread revolution across the subcontinent. Ernesto Guevara was certainly a revolutionary, but so were many others whose names have long been forgotten and whose records inspire more critical assessment.

Che's appeal is emotional. His death in Bolivia as a relatively young man created Che as secular Christ, the man who took upon himself the sins of the world and gave his life for the cause of the oppressed. His memory remains available to the oppressed; his image continues to inspire the hope of change and the virtue of rebellion, enhanced rather than diminished by his defeat. Christ, too, was defeated on earth and, again like Christ, Che's death conveys a promise of redemption through inspiration. He is the rock-hero biker revolutionary, the martyr to idealism, a James Dean in fatigues. When Pope John Paul II celebrated mass in Havana's Revolution Square, the giant image of Che that hangs there served as a revolutionary counterpoint.

But beyond his quality of universal icon of rebellion, what survives of Che's life's work? The promotion of Marxism and violent revolution? Forty years after his death, it is hard to imagine what an octogenarian Che would have felt about his younger self or about the world that he did not live to see. Would his personal and political asceticism have survived in an age in which rampant consumerism has captured the mass imagination? Would he have been distressed or gratified that the USSR, embraced by Fidel Castro against his objections, had collapsed? In 1964 he called Russia a "pigsty" because of the conditions in which it kept the workers. Would he have been any more gratified by the conditions of Cuban workers, nearly 50 years after the revolution? Would he have been encouraged by the rise of China, whose revolution he praised, or appalled at China's new character as a state-managed market economy?

In Cuba his image serves the mythology of the revolution that is used to glamorise a sclerotic state structure: old men in freshly laundered fatigues preside over a dollarised economy, heavily dependent on tourism, in which young women turn to prostitution to buy the consumer goods their counterparts in Miami take for granted.

In wider Latin America, his legacy is mixed. The perceived failure of the neoliberal reforms of the 1990s has intensified opposition to the Washington consensus and produced a series of left-wing victories at the ballot box that guarantee his name is honoured - as in 2006, when Daniel Ortega's Sandinista movement, now a party of dubious revolutionary credentials, was elected to power and the party faithful wore Guevara T-shirts to the victory party. Hugo Chávez, the populist leader of Venezuela, who is known for his eagerness to wear the clothes of the Cuban revolution, often dons a Che T-shirt. Some of his ideas, too, are back in vogue with Latin America's new left: pan-Americanism, support for the region's popular movements, nationalisation and centralisation of government. The various "expressions of the popular will" that he favoured over ballot-box democracy - neighbourhood courts and the Committees for the Defence of the Revolution - have found new expression in Venezuela and Bolivia.

But even here, Che might have felt a little unease. He was critical of much of the Latin American left for its rejection of the armed struggle, and grafted his Stalinism on to the tradition of revolutionary petit bourgeois nationalism in Cuba exemplified by José Martí, much as the Sandinistas were to use Sandino as an inspiration in Nicaragua. Yet many of those now most enthusiastic about his memory came to power through the ballot box. Only in Colombia, where he remains an inspirational figure for the dissident Farc, would he recognise true heirs.

Politically, there is no movement that could be called Guevarist. In Peru, Fidelistas and Guevarists are in opposing camps, as they are in Panama and Mexico. For contemporary intellectuals of the left, Che's legacy, with its romanticism and heroisation of the guerrilla, is problematic. For instance, Jorge Castañeda, the Mexican writer and sociologist, wrote in his biography of Che that Che's ideas had nothing to offer present generations. For Castañeda, his "refusal of ambivalence" and his unwillingness to understand life's contradictions were relics of a damaging era in Latin America. In an age in which the absolutes of Marxism and market capitalism were judged to have failed, Che had nothing to say.

Nor has his popularity in the west translated into any coherent politics. Che's image is still carried by the left, but is also adopted by thousands who have only the vaguest idea of his life, beyond the Hollywood version of The Motor cycle Diaries. In London, a small torchlit rally held in Trafalgar Square to commemorate the 35th anniversary of his death gave a flavour of the portmanteau character of Che's image. In the heroic prose of the participants, "banners and placards were held high" and "chants and speeches rang out from the megaphone across Trafalgar Square to the listening ears of the demonstrators and the passing public and readings from Che's writings were read out". Speakers came from Rock Around the Blockade, Fight Racism! Fight Imperialism!, Victory to the Intifada, the Colombia Solidarity Campaign, the Africa Liberation Support Campaign and the people's movement of the Philippines.

To this assorted list, as to oppressed peoples elsewhere, Che has little to offer as a guide to making revolution. What he does have is the messianic image of sacrifice for the sins - or sufferings - of others. Regardless of his failures and contradictions, or the obsolescence of his methods and ideology, the potency of that image, with its symbolic, religious quality, continues to inspire.

As the Portuguese writer José Saramago wrote, in characteristically mystical terms: "Because the photo of Che Guevara was, before the eyes of millions of people, the image of the supreme dignity of the human being. Because Che Guevara is only the other name of what is more just and dignified in the human spirit.

"He represents what sometimes is asleep in us. It represents what we have to wake up to know and to learn to know even ourselves, to add the humble step of each one of us to the common road of all of us."

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2007 issue of the New Statesman, Election fever

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The love affairs of Stan Laurel: "If I had to do it over again things would be different"

A romantic who craved stability, the English comedian Stan Laurel led a Hollywood love life as chaotic as his films’ plots

The comedian Stan Laurel was, even by the standards of his time, a prodigious correspondent. The Stan Laurel Correspondence Archive Project contains more than 1,500 artefacts, and these are only the documents that have so far been traced, as many of his early missives appear to have been lost. He was, quite literally, a man of letters.

His punctiliousness about correspondence can be ascribed, at least in part, to his natural good manners, but letters were also a means of filling his long retirement. He outlived his screen partner Oliver Hardy – “Babe” to his friends – by almost eight years but refused all offers of work during that time. Instead, heartbreakingly, he wrote sketches and routines for the duo that would never be performed. It was, perhaps, a way for Laurel to speak with Babe again, if only in his head, until he followed him into the dark on 23 February 1965.

Though Laurel and Hardy have never been forgotten, they are currently undergoing an energetic revival. Stan and Ollie, a film dramatisation of their later years, starring Steve Coogan as Stan Laurel and John C Reilly as Oliver Hardy, is scheduled for release in 2018. Talking Pictures TV is to start showing the duo’s long features from September. Sixty years since Oliver Hardy’s death on 7 August 1957, the duo will soon be rediscovered by a new generation.

They were such different men and such unlikely partners. Laurel was born Arthur Stanley Jefferson in 1890, in Ulverston, then part of Lancashire, the son of AJ, a theatre manager, and Margaret, an actress. He made his stage debut at the age of 16 and never again considered an alternative profession, eventually leaving for the United States to act on the vaudeville circuit before finally ending up in the nascent Hollywood. Norvell Hardy, meanwhile, came from Harlem, Georgia, the son of a slave overseer who died in the year of his son’s birth, 1892, and whose first name, Oliver, Norvell took as his own.

Hardy, who had worked as a singer and as a projectionist, became a jobbing actor, often being cast as the “heavy”because of his bulk. Laurel, by contrast, was groomed for stardom, but it repeatedly slipped through his fingers. Unlike Chaplin’s Tramp, or the boater-and-glasses-wearing Harold Lloyd, he had no persona. Only when Hal Roach paired him with Hardy did he finally find a mask that fitted, and thus a professional marriage slowly grew into a friendship that would endure until Babe’s death.

Laurel was the creative engine of the partnership, creating storylines and gags, intimately involving himself in the directing and editing of each film, but Hardy was the better, subtler actor. Laurel was a creature of the stage, trained to act for the back rows; Hardy, by contrast, had watched countless films from his projectionist’s perch and knew that the smallest of gestures – the raising of an eyebrow, a glance flicked in the audience’s direction – would be writ large on the screen. Laurel recognised this and tailored his scripts to his partner’s strengths.

Thus – and unusually for such partnerships – they never argued with each other about either screen time or money, despite the notorious parsimony of their producer Hal Roach, who paid them what he could get away with and would not let them negotiate their contracts together in order to weaken their bargaining position. Indeed, apart from one contretemps about the degree of dishevelment permitted to Babe’s hair, it seems that Laurel and Hardy never argued very much at all.

And then Babe died, leaving his partner bereft. What was a man to do but remember and write? So Laurel, always a prodigious correspondent, spent much of his retirement communicating with friends and fans by post. It helped that he had a curious and abiding affection for stationery. During one of the many interviews he conducted with John McCabe, his first serious biographer, Laurel revealed a wish to own a stationery store. Even he didn’t seem sure exactly why, but he admitted that he was quite content to while away entire afternoons in examining grades of paper.

Since letters were Laurel’s primary source of contact with the world, much of his writing is quite mundane. He deals with repeated inquiries about the state of his health – “I’m now feeling pretty good,” he informs a Scottish fan called Peter Elrick on 8 June 1960. “I suffered a slight stroke in ’55, fortunately I made a good recovery & am able to get around quite well again, of course I shall never be in a condition to work any more.” He notes the passing of actors he has known (to Jimmy Wiseman on 29 January 1959: “That was a terrible thing about [Carl] ‘Alfalfa’ Switzer wasn’t it? All over a few dollars’ debt he had to lose his life. I knew him very well as a kid in Our Gang films…”), answers queries about his films and his late partner (to Richard Handova on 21 March 1964: “Regarding the tattoo on Mr Hardy’s right arm – yes, that was an actual marking made when he was a kid – he always regretted having this done”) and often writes simply for the pleasure of having written, thus using up some stationery and enabling him to shop for more (“Just a few more stamps – hope you’re feeling well – nothing much to tell you, everything is as usual here,” represents the entirety of a letter to Irene Heffernan on 10 March 1964).

In researching my novel about Stan Laurel, I read a lot of his correspondence. I had to stop after a while, because the archive can overwhelm one with detail. For example, I might have found a way to include Oliver Hardy’s tattoo, which I didn’t know about until I read the letter just now. But of all the Laurel letters that I have read, one in particular stands out. It was written to his second wife, Ruth, on 1 July 1937, as their relationship was disintegrating. It is so striking that I quote it here in its entirety:

Dear Ruth,

When Lois divorced me it unbalanced me mentally & I made up my mind that I couldn’t be happy any more. I met & married you in that frame of mind, & the longer it went on, the stronger it became. That’s why I left you with the insane idea Lois would take me back.

After I left you, I found out definitely that she wouldn’t. I then realised the terrible mistake I had made & was too proud to admit it, so then I tried to find a new interest to forget it all, & truthfully Ruth I never have. I have drank just to keep up my spirits & I know I can’t last doing that, & am straining every effort to get back to normal.

You’ve been swell through it all, except the few rash things you did. I don’t blame you for not being in love with me, but my state of mind overrules my true feeling. If I had to do it over again things would be a lot different, but not in this town or this business. My marital happiness means more than all the millions.

Why has this letter stayed with me? I think it’s because of the penultimate sentence: “If I had to do it over again things would be a lot different, but not in this town or this business.” Hollywood brought Laurel a career, acclaim and a personal and professional relationship by which he came to be defined, but all at a price.

Stan Laurel was a complicated man, and complicated men lead complicated lives. In Laurel’s case, many of these complexities related to women. His comic performances and lack of vanity on screen often disguise his handsomeness, and monochrome film cannot communicate the blueness of his eyes. Women fell for him, and fell hard. He amassed more ex-wives than is wise for any gentleman (three in total, one of whom, Ruth, he married twice), to which number may be added a common-law wife and at least one long-standing mistress.

Had Laurel remained in Britain, serving an apprenticeship to his father before assuming control of one of the family’s theatres, women might not have been such a temptation for him. At the very least, he would have been constrained by a combination of finances and anonymity. Instead, he left for the United States and changed his name. In 1917, he met Mae Dahlberg, an older Australian actress who claimed to be a widow, despite the existence elsewhere of a husband who was very much alive and well. Laurel and Mae worked the vaudeville circuit together and shared a bed, but Mae – who lacked the talent to match her ambition – was eventually paid to disappear, as much to facilitate Laurel’s wedding to a younger, prettier actress named Lois Neilson as to ensure the furtherance of his career.

Yet it wasn’t long into this marriage before Laurel commenced an affair with the French actress Alyce Ardell, one that would persist for two decades, spanning three further nuptials. Ardell was Laurel’s pressure valve: as marriage after marriage fell apart, he would turn to her, although he seemed unwilling, or unable, to connect this adultery with the disintegration of his formal relationships.

The end of his first marriage was not the result of Laurel’s unfaithfulness alone. His second child with Lois, whom they named Stanley, died in May 1930 after just nine days of life. For a relationship that was already in trouble, it may have represented the final, fatal blow. Nevertheless, he always regretted leaving Lois. “I don’t think I could ever love again like I loved Lois,” he writes to Ruth on Christmas Eve in 1936. “I tried to get over it, but I can’t. I’m unhappy even after all you’ve done to try to make me happy, so why chase rainbows?”

But chasing rainbows was Stan Laurel’s default mode. He admitted advertising his intention to marry Ruth in the hope that Lois might take him back. Even after he and Ruth wed for the first time, he wrote letters to Lois seeking reconciliation. It set a pattern for the years to come: dissatisfaction in marriage; a retreat to Alyce Ardell’s bed; divorce; another marriage, including a year-long involvement with a notorious Russian gold-digger named Vera Ivanova Shuvalova, known by her stage name of Illiana (in the course of which Laurel, under the influence of alcohol, dug a hole in his garden with the stated intention of burying her in it), and finally contentment with another Russian, a widow named Ida Kitaeva Raphael, that lasted until his death.

These marital tribulations unfolded in full view of the media, with humiliating details laid bare. In 1946, he was forced to reveal in open court that alimony and child support payments left him with just $200 at the end of every month, and he had only $2,000 left in his bank account. In the course of divorce proceedings involving Illiana, his two previous wives were also briefly in attendance, leading the press to dub Lois, Ruth and Illiana “triple-threat husband hazards”. It might have been more accurate to term Stan Laurel a wife hazard, but despite all his failings, Lois and Ruth, at least, remained hugely fond of him.

“When he has something, he doesn’t want it,” Ruth told a Californian court in 1946, during their second set of divorce proceedings, “but when he hasn’t got it, he wants it. But he’s still a swell fellow.”

Laurel’s weakness was women, but he was not promiscuous. I think it is possible that he was always looking for a structure to his existence and believed that contentment in marriage might provide it, but his comedy was predicated on a conviction that all things tended towards chaos, in art as in life.

Thanks to the perfect complement of Oliver Hardy, Laurel was perhaps the greatest screen comedian of his generation – greater even than Chaplin, I would argue, because there is a purity to Laurel’s work that is lacking in Chaplin’s. Chaplin – to whom Laurel once acted as an understudy and with whom he stayed in contact over the years – wanted to be recognised as a great artist and succeeded, but at the cost of becoming less and less funny, of leaving the comedian behind. Stan Laurel sought only to make his audience laugh, and out of that ambition he created his art.

“he: A Novel” by John Connolly is published by Hodder & Stoughton on 24 August

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2007 issue of the New Statesman, Election fever