It is a truism that history is written by the victors, not the
vanquished, but the events in Spain from 1936-1939, known to the
mainstream left as merely the Spanish Civil War and alternately referred
to by anarchists and libertarian Marxists as the Spanish Revolution and
counterrevolution, make convenient recourse to such platitudes even more
problematic than usual. Many Americans earned of the Spanish crisis
through novels such as For Whom the Bell Tolls and Man's Hope, as well as
crusading documentaries such as The Spanish Earth. The struggle to preserve the endangered Republic and defeat Franco was depicted as a
clear-cut struggle between liberal democracy and malevolent fascism. Even
if fascism proved victorious, the war of words and images appears to have
been won by the left. The novels by Hemingway and Malraux extolling the
Republican side, and Ivens's similarly stirring film, are fondly
remembered; only a few desultory remarks by Evelyn Waugh and Ezra Pound in
support of Franco can be cited as memorable examples of profascist
sentiment among distinguished members of the intelligentsia.
In recent years, however, a wealth of scholarship, unearthed by
historians without an axe to grind as well as by committed anarchists and
independent Marxists, has punctured the popular assumption, still shared
by most well-intentioned liberals and leftists, that the defense of the
Spanish Republic was merely a conflict between evil fascists and noble
standardbearers of the Popular Front. Even many historians who do not
Press RETURN to see next screen. Type PS to see previous screen. share Murray Bookchin's anarchist convictions would, nonetheless, now
agree with his assertion that "it is not a myth but a sheer lie - the
cretinous perversion of history by its makers in the academy - to depict
the 'Spanish Civil War' as a mere prelude to World War II, an alleged
conflict between 'democracy and fascism.'" Anarchists such as Bookchin,
the Marxist writers Pierre Broue and Emile Timine, and the non-aligned
historian Burnett Bolloten, who devoted fifty years of his life to
debunking received ideas concerning the Spanish Civil War, came to
essentially the same conclusion: the upheaval of 1936-1939 was
distinguished by both Western Europe's only noteworthy political and
social revolution led by workers and peasants and a bloody period of
repression in which the Communist Party, aided and abetted by the NKVD,
sought to smear the left opposition as objective allies of the fascists
and finally succeeded in crushing the dramatic urban and agrarian
collectivization spearheaded by the CNT-FAI (Confederacion Nacional del political adjunct, Federacion Anarquista Iberica).
Yet if George Orwell's lucid account of his experience as a soldier
on the Aragon front, Homage to Catalonia, had not attained the status of a
minor classic, the vantage point of the anti-Stalinist left might have
been doomed to even greater obscurity. Although Franz Borkenau's roughly
contemporaneous, and more comprehensive, The Spanish Cockpit offered a
strikingly similar perspective, the allure of Homage to Catalonia was its
ability to encapsulate the fervor of a non-Communist, but unassailably
radical, left within the form of a compelling narrative. Although Orwell's
book is a fine example of autobiographical journalism, it is also a
deceptively straightforward work of literature which resembles an
eighteenth-century Bildungsroman - a narrative of self-education and moral
edification. In fact, Homage to Catalonia's literary achievement is ultifaceted enough that its paradoxical resemblance to both a picaresque
novel and a secular conversion narrative takes nothing away from its moral
and political astuteness. In almost classically comic picaresque fashion,
Orwell finds himself fighting for the POUM (Partido Obrero de Unificacion,
the anti-Stalinist Marxist party, allied in a marriage of convenience, but
not of ideology, with the CNT), despite the fact that he came to Spain
convinced of the soundness of the Communist Party line. In addition,
Orwell, who, despite his veneer of self-deprecation, is undeniably the
'hero' of this work of nonfiction, emerged from his crise de conscience to
become the twentieth century's archetypal version of an intellectual
liberated from the chains of cant - the man who, according to Lionel
Trilling, defined "our sense of the man who tells the truth."
Ken Loach's new film, Land and Freedom, shares much of Homage to
Catalonia's moral earnestness, even if screenwriter Jim Allen's (Loach's longtime collaborator) frequently creaky narrative structure has little in
common with the lucid compression of Orwell's reportage. Loach and Allen
attempt to find a fictional equivalent for Orwell's saga of Stalinist
betrayal, but their story is tethered to a thesis that much too often
holds an admirable political stance hostage to wooden dramaturgy. This is
not to say that Land and Freedom will not prove revelatory for many
viewers unfamiliar with the convoluted internecine warfare of the Thirties
or that Loach and Allen's film is not often extremely moving in spite of
itself. This eminently well-intentioned film merely demonstrates that it
is extremely difficult to transform an event as intricate and riven with
contradictions as the Spanish Revolution into a populist epic.
Throughout the film, a tenuous attempt to contrast the current
climate of political despair with the Thirties' arduous, if more
optimistic, ideological battles can be discerned. An opening shot of a Liverpool council estate's bleak stairwell, in which circled anarchist
'As' are clearly visible, sets the tone for the film, while a brief
militant poem by the nineteenth-century British socialist William Morris,
read by the hero's granddaughter at the end of the film, cements Loach and
Allen's insistence that the radicalism of the past cannot be reduced to
mere nostalgia. This implicit rejection of contemporary cynicism is
nothing if not admirable, but the filmmakers devise an exceptionally
unwieldy narrative ruse to convey, and to a certain extent simplify, the
complexities of the past. AFter the death of POUM veteran David Carne (Ian
Hart), his young granddaughter, Kim, discovers a cache of letters (stored
with a mound of Spanish earth and a healthy supply of Communist and
Trotyskyist newspaper clippings) written by Carne to his fiancee Kitty,
which will soon coalesce into the film's voice-over narration. Carne's
sojourn in Spain is also inseparable from this intellectual journey - a
circuitous trek from the platitudes of Communism to the equally intransigent militancy of the anti-Stalinist left.
The interwoven flashbacks that follow form a kind of pilgrim's
progress that stolidly mirror Orwell's intellectual trajectory in Homage
to Catalonia, although Land and Freedom's substitution of a working-class
hero for a middle-class intellectual is certainly not coincidental. Before
long, David, whose grasp of internal Spanish politics is less than
rudimentary, signs on with a POUM militia after failing to locate the
indigenous Communists. Loach provides an excellent sense of the
camaraderie and egalitarianism that flourished among the international
recruits, and his decision to include a considerable amount of subtitled
Spanish dialog, while casting French, German, Spanish, Italian, and
American actors, serves as a useful reprimand to the ironing out of
linguistic and national differences usually encountered in the commercial
cinema.
The film rightly recognizes that the democratic structure of the POUM
and the CNT militias differed radically from the Communist controlled
"Popular Army." As an anarcho-syndicalist newspaper observed in 1936, "a
CNT member will never be a disciplined militiaman togged up in a braided
uniform, strutting with martial gait through the streets of
Madrid...rhythmically swinging his arms and legs," and the international
assortment of militants encountered by David in the militia - a defiantly
upbeat young Spanish woman named Maite (Iciar Bollain), Bernard (Frederic
Pierrot), an ardent French defender of the radical faith, and the
passionate anarchist Blanca (Rosana Pastor) - remind us that
antiauthoritarianism can sometimes be reconciled with the travails of war.
Nonetheless, in his eagerness to replace the mainstream left's saga
of heroic unity with an equally heroic narrative of ultraleft unity, Loach, perhaps understandably, overlooks many of the ideological quarrels
that separated the Marxist POUM from the anarchist CNT. Relations between
the CNT and the POUM were often chilly, even if, due to subsequent tragic
events, the destinies of anti-Stalinist Marxists and anarchists eventually
became intertwined. Although it is certainly true that CNT members
occasionally joined POUM militias, the naive viewer would have no way of
knowing that, in December 1936, the CNT, to the dismay of its more radical
members, reluctantly supported the Communist move to expel the POUM from
the Catalan government. Of course, the anarchist movement itself was split
by the rank and file's outraged response to its leaders' decision to
accept ministerial positions within the central Popular Front government.
It may seem pedantic to chide Land and Freedom for sins of omission, not
commission; after all, a fiction film of less than two hours which strives
to fuse historical exegesis with adventure and romance will inevitably
lack the leisurely scope of a lengthy documentary. But the film is flawed not by lack of detail or outright historical distortion, but by a yearning
to render a messy past seamless and comforting.
The perils of sentimentality are especially evident in the cinematic
treatment of Blanca, a character who must carry the cumbersome double
burden of representing both the anarchists in a film which devotes far
more screen time to the POUM (a rather lopsided strategy, since the
CNT/FAI membership was far larger than that enjoyed by the relatively tiny
Marxist party) and the contributions of Spanish women to the war effort.
After her lover, a POUM member and ex-IRA partisan named Coogan is killed
in battle, Blanca functions as both David's transient love interest and an
ideological guide who must introduce the fairly dense Liverpudlian to the
culture of the antiauthoritarian left.
The Spanish Revolution certainly mobilized the energies of scores of impassioned anarchist women; in addition to fighting with men during the
early phase of the war, their advocacy of abortion rights and denunciation
of the economic exploitation of prostitutes was truly ground-breaking in
the light of Spain's rigid Catholic tradition. Blanca, however, is less a
flesh and blood female militant than a symbol who almost seems designed as
an anarchist equivalent of La Pasionaria, the Communists' most famous
female activist. Her prominent red and black scarf provides visual
evidence of her anarchist affinities, but the audience is never made aware
of the nuances that might differentiate her from her Marxist comrades.
Blanca is also the catalyst who sets David on his irrevocable path to
anti-Stalinism. After their romantic interlude in Barcelona, she chides
him for his decision to abandon the militia for the Communist line and the
Popular Army.
Soon after, David witnesses the Communist siege of the city's telephone exchange, a stronghold of the CNT. This pivotal incident in May
1937 became one of the war's most mulled-over events, part of an explicit
'counterrevolution within the revolution' (commonly known as the Barcelona
May Days) marked by street fighting between Communists and anarchists. The
May Days are only sketchily alluded to in Land and Freedom but, in any
case, David acquires a fuzzy knowledge of Stalinism in action. His
eventual decision, moreover, to tear up his CP membership card appears,
perhaps inevitably, more a result of his love for a beautiful anarchist
than the end-product of genuine political sophistication. There is nothing
especially wrong with this admixture of love and war, but it is painful to
admit that Loach's punctuation of lovemaking with anti-Stalinist
polemicizing infuses fire film with an inadvertent tenor of high-flown
kitsch.
Yet it is possible to temporarily suspend any doubts concerning Loach's compromised synthesis of radicalism and Hollywood-style bathos
during an extensive recreation of a Spanish village's decision to publicly
debate the merits of agrarian collectivization. Andres Nin, the murdered
(reportedly on orders from Moscow) leader of the POUM, maintained that the
Spanish experiment in self-management was a "proletarian revolution more
profound than the Russian Revolution itself," and the grassroots,
participatory ethos of the Spanish collectives stands in stark contrast to
the bureaucratic morass created by the Soviet Union's disastrous effort to
impose collectivization on an unwilling peasantry. Land and Freedom's
fictional village eventually votes in favor of collectivization, but the
film is noteworthy for giving equal weight to opponents of the CNT line,
particularly a seemingly reasonable American named Gene Lawrence (Tom
Gilroy). Although Lawrence is nominally a member of the POUM militia, he
is essentially an articulate exponent of the standard Communist argument
that the war must be won before revolutionary goals can even be pondered.
His warning that the anarchists "must moderate their slogans" sums up the
cautiousness, occasionally sincerely pragmatic and often the product of
unadorned cynicism, promoted by the Popular Front. This sequence, mixing
the contributions of professional and local, nonprofessional actors, is
the film's best example of Loach's earnest debt to the social realist
tradition. Lisa Berger, a filmmaker and researcher who helped plan the
sequence, observed that she was responsible for finding:
[P]eople who could argue for collectivization, without looking like
city intellectuals, others who could be opposed, and others who could see
the point, but weren't really convinced, based on real lived experience
working in the countryside. The first group was comprised of young people
who are currently active in the CNT in Castellon, Valencia, and Sagunto,
some of whom are studying the issues of war vs. revolution in the
university and are well-versed in the arguments used in 1936. The men who were opposed to collectivization were the real mayor of the village where
these scenes were shot...and a local farmer who Ken and I had lots of
conversations with to know what he would say.
Barry Ackroyd's fluid cinematography accurately captures the debate's
vigorous fluctuations, and it is regrettable that this extremely engaging
meld of fiction and documentary could not have been sustained for the
entire film.
To Loach's credit, the final sequences of his film give audiences an
accurate idea of the Stalinists' accelerated repression of their left-wing
rivals which led by 1937 to the imprisonment of thousands of CNT and POUM
partisans. Nonetheless, Land and Freedom's tragic denouement -which
features Lawrence's flamboyant reemergence as a Communist apparatchik as
well as the pointblank shooting of its anarchist heroine and her subsequent martyr's burial - must be deemed more a string of dubious
contrivances than a satisfying thematic resolution. It is difficult not to
be at least somewhat moved by these final sequences, but it is equally
difficult not to feel that they are crassly manipulative.
While at times it seems like aging leftists do little else but re-
fight the Spanish Civil War from their armchairs, it is instructive to
learn that Land and Freedom has struck a responsive chord with Spain's
young people, many of whom know little of their own turbulent history.
Unfortunately, even the freewheeling post-Franco Spanish cinema has been
extremely reluctant to tackle some of the thornier issues of the Civil War
period. Whatever the weaknesses of Loach's film, he has done a great
service in disinterring an episode from Spanish - and left-wing - history
that has suffered from malign cinematic neglect for far too many years. -
Richard Porton
Richard Porton teaches film at the College of Staten Island (CUNY)
and Yeshiva University and has written on film for numerous publications.