2
clarified and articulated. And it refers to the medial circuits of dissemination through which these texts and films travelled and were (mis)translated in order to multiply the ways and places in which cinema could be
‘instrumentalised’, to use Getino’s term, as a tool of radical social change
in processes of decolonisation and revolution. Lastly, the term cinégeography designates the afterlives of the militant image, the digital platforms, formats, applications, files, torrents and burns through which it
continues to circulate as a fourth-, fifth- and sixth-generation travelling
image; a fragmented sonimage that operates as a material index of social
relations, capable, at unexpected moments and in tangential ways, of reanimating intense moments of upheaval.
The notion of geography deployed by this special issue draws upon
Irit Rogoff’s notion of ‘relational geography’ in which objectivities and
subjectivities that may at first appear antagonistic or isolated are
brought into close proximity through a practice of mapping that
acknowledges its own partiality. Relational geography, according to
Rogoff, does not operate, as does classical geography, from:
… a single principle that maps everything in an outward-bound motion
with itself at the centre. Instead, it is cumulative, it lurches sideways, it is
constructed out of chance meetings in cafés, of shared reading groups at
universities, of childhood deprivations that could speak to one another,
of snatches of music on transistor radios, of intense rages, of glimmers of
hope offered by ideas that enabled imagining a better world.3
3. Rogoff proposes a practice
of mapping that is
‘composed of aggregates of
intensities, of insurgencies
that link and empathise
and spark off each other,
of generational loyalties
that cross boundaries,
histories and languages’.
Irit Rogoff, ‘Engendering
Terror’, in Geography and
the Politics of Mobility, ed
Ursula Biemann, Generali
Foundation, Vienna, 2003,
p 56.
Ciné-geography indicates an interdisciplinary practice of mapping the
affinities, proximities and affiliations of ciné-cultures that emerged from
and participated in the conflictual and connective militant politics of anticolonial struggle and revolutionary decolonisation in the late twentieth
century.
What is assembled here are episodes from contemporary research
that aspires to track the trajectories between specific films, that draws
points of contact between film-making practices, that excavates certain
theoretical concepts in order to reconstruct the ciné-political geographies
that these concepts and practices helped to produce. The contributions
return to the multiple formulations of the militant image in order to
explore the aesthetic strategies that were made thinkable and possible in
these singular historical conjunctures. Returning to the archives of this
moment obliges contemporary thinkers to confront the accreted condescension that the present, in all its accumulated superiority, bears
towards the recent yet distant pasts of Tricontinental militancy. Such a
project involves a series of encounters with practices and formulations
that are often deemed embarrassing and foolhardy, if not altogether
discredited by contemporary historiography.
The inherited effect of such cautions and warnings against revisiting
Tricontinentalist culture has been, until recently, to steer contemporary
research away from this field. Accordingly, the construction of this
special issue has continually confronted its editors with the extent of
their ignorance. It has obliged them to face their lack of knowledge of
militant ciné-production, its demands for democratisation, its circuits of
distribution and exhibition, its modes of discussion, its passion for pedagogy, its styles of communist friendship. Such ignorance can be partly
attributed to the sustained pedagogies of what might be called the
3
4. For the philosophical
formulations of
neoliberalism see Michel
Foucault, ‘The Model of
Homo Oeconomicus’, in
The Birth of Biopolitics:
Lectures at the College de
France 1978–79, Palgrave
Macmillan, Basingstoke,
2008, pp 267–89. For its
political strategies see
Naomi Klein, The Shock
Doctrine: The Rise of
Disaster Capitalism,
Penguin, Harmondsworth,
2008. For its specifically
British variant see Andy
Beckett, From Pinochet in
Picadilly: Britain and Chile’s
Hidden History, Faber &
Faber, London, 2003. For
its contemporary British
impact, see Mark Fisher,
Capitalist Realism: Is There
No Alternative?, Zero
Books, Hampshire, 2009.
5. See Peter Hallward, ‘The
Will of the People: Notes
Towards a Dialectical
Voluntarism’, Radical
Philosophy, 155, May/June
2009, pp 19–20.
6. See Documenta 11:
Platform 5, exhibition
catalogue, Hatje Cantz,
Ostfildern-Ruit, 2002, and
Okwui Enwezor, ed, The
Short Century:
Independence and
Liberation Movements in
Africa 1945–1994, Prestel,
Munich and London, 2003.
See also artist Mathieu
Kleyebe Abonnenc’s
installation display of the
Tricontinental journal and
design of a new poster for
the continuous screening of
Sarah Maldoror’s debut
film Monangambee (1969)
at ‘Manifesta 8: The
European Biennial of
Contemporary Art’,
Murcia, 2010. On the
graphic design and militant
imagery of Tricontinental,
see Babak Radboy,
‘Revolution by Design’,
Bidoun: Arts and Culture
From the Middle East,
Library 22, Autumn 2010,
pp 162–77. Other cultural
and artistic projects that
have contributed to this turn
include Petra Bauer and Dan
Kidner’s screening
programme ‘Visions,
Divisions and Revisions:
Political Film and Film
neoliberal project, which in all of its multiple forms has sought to
consign the idea of militancy to the trash icon of history in the name of a
contemporaneity that Alain Badiou has recently described as one of
Restoration.4 Simultaneously, successive philosophical critiques of the
general will have critiqued, often convincingly, the capacity of voluntarism that informed the modes of collectivity through which Tricontinental militancy assumed its force.5
What defines the present moment, then, is the ambition to understand the militant image as a form of newness that is distinct from that
of contemporaneity. This aspiration, carried out against the normalisation of neoliberalism and in full recognition of the critiques of the will
mounted by contemporary philosophical thought, participates in and is
informed by the artistic turn towards research into militant cultural
production that emerged in the wake of the exhibitions ‘Documenta 11’
and ‘The Short Century: Independence and Liberation Movements in
Africa 1945–1994’ curated by Okwui Enwezor.6 In their scope and their
scale, these exhibition projects proposed platforms and constructed
contexts that amounted to nothing less than a revision of the historiographies of the present; from these multiple perspectives, it became possible
to articulate modes of admiration for the ways in which militant filmmaking actualised the potentialities of the visible and the audible against
the odds.
The aspiration specific to this special issue should therefore be situated
within the recent histories of critical encounters with militant cinematic
practices. In ‘A Closer Look at Third Cinema’ Jonathan Buchsbaum
argued that an Anglo-American context of arrested translation had separated the initial formulation of Third Cinema from its contexts of Argentinian political practice.7 Within the emergent discipline of Englishlanguage film studies, translators, editors and critics had, with the best of
intentions, isolated Solanas and Getino’s essay from its subsequent revisions, thereby underdeveloping it as a theoretical concept while simultaneously elevating it to a point of ossification. In a journal such as
Afterimage, the English translation of ‘Towards a Third Cinema’ was
framed and introduced as a ‘manifesto’ even though Getino and Solanas
had taken pains to describe their statement as just one of a series of texts
that attempted to theorise a practice that was inherently speculative. By
reconstructing the continual revisions carried out across a series of collaboratively written texts, published in response to and in anticipation of the
political urgencies of Argentina from 1968 onwards, and by resituating
‘Towards a Third Cinema’ within this context of sustained volatility,
Buchsbaum restored the idea of the manifesto as a conditional speech act
to the extent that the very idea of the manifesto could be rethought as the
‘sketch of an hypothesis’ that Solanas and Getino initially suggested.
Conjunctural complexity implies the renewed scrutiny of received
historiographies of theoretical readings of translated texts as formulated
during the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s. Much of the scholarship on militant
film carried out in the 1980s and 1990s could be characterised by its desire
to extend the precincts of Third Cinema towards previously overlooked
national cinemas such as those of the Philippines or Nicaragua. The
search, then, was for films, film-makers and film-making practices that
could be appointed heir apparent to Third Cinema. The purpose was to
ensure succession into the present. The quest to locate contemporary
4
Theory in the 1970s and
1980s’ in the group
exhibition ‘A History of
Irritated Material’, Raven
Row, 2010, Florian
Zeyfang’s co-curatorial
project ‘4D–4Dimensions,
4 Decades’, conceived for
the 8th Habana Bienal and
anthologised in Lisa
Schmidt-Colinet, Alex
Schmoeger, Eugenio Valdes
Figueroa and Florian
Zeyfang, eds, Pabellón
Cuba: Art, Architecture and
Film in Cuba after the
Revolution, b_books,
Berlin, 2008, The Otolith
Group’s curatorial project
‘The Ghosts of Songs: A
Retrospective of the Black
Audio Film Collective’,
2007, anthologised in
Kodwo Eshun and Anjalika
Sagar, eds, The Ghosts of
Songs: The Film Art of the
Black Audio Film
Collective, Liverpool
University Press, Liverpool,
2007 and the publication by
Sarah White, Roxy Harris
and Sharmila Beezmohun,
eds, A Meeting of the
Continents: The
International Book Fair of
Radical Black and Third
World Books Revisited:
History, Memories,
Organisation and
Programmes 1982–1995,
New Beacon Books and
George Padmore Institute,
London, 2005. Films that
have contributed to this turn
include November (2004),
directed by Hito Steyerl and
The Otolith Trilogy (2003–
2009) by the Otolith Group.
See Marius Babias and
Sophie Goltz, eds, Hito
Steyerl, Neuer Berliner
Kunstverein/Buchhandlung
Walther König, Cologne,
2010 and Emily Pethick and
Anna Colin, eds, A Long
Time Between Suns,
Sternberg Press, Berlin,
2009. This contemporary
tendency was prefigured in
works by the artist Renée
Green such as ‘Partially
Buried in Three Parts’
(1995–1997). See Nicole
Schweizer, ed, Renée Green:
Ongoing Becomings,
Retrospective 1989–2009,
JRP Ringier, Zürich, 2009.
7. Jonathan Buchsbaum, ‘A
Closer Look at Third
equivalents for Third Cinema has preoccupied English-speaking film studies since the 1980s when the demise of many Leftist and anti-imperialist
mass movements around the world coincided with the possibilities that
were opening up in Britain with the advent of Channel Four.8
In 1982 Teshome Gabriel’s Third Cinema in the Third World: The
Aesthetics of Liberation9 reworked Solanas and Getino’s notion of Third
Cinema by mapping it onto Frantz Fanon’s theorisation of the three
stages of cultural production during the process of decolonisation.
Gabriel’s notion of Third Cinema was taken up at the 40th Edinburgh
International Film Festival from 11 to 13 August 1986 which hosted
‘Third Cinema: Theories and Practices’, a ‘three day conference addressing theories and practices associated with the notion of Third Cinema’.10
This event marked the resurgence of Anglo-American film scholarship’s
engagement with Third Cinema. Gabriel’s rereading enabled Third
Cinema to operate as a category generous enough to allow essayistic
film-maker theorists from Britain such as Black Audio Film Collective,
Screen journal critics such as Paul Willemen and scholars based in the
American academy such as Gabriel himself to insist upon its potential as
a concept even as it was open to revision and qualification.11 By the
1990s, the term Third Cinema tended to refer to films directed by a
range of Third World film-makers such as Jorge Sanjinés, Ousmane
Sembène and Souleyman Cissé. The notion of Third Cinema was reconfigured so that it now encompassed films that articulated what might be
understood, in Deleuzean terms, as a ‘collective utterance’ expressive of
the local communities in which the films were made, even though their
production practices were far closer to an auteurist model of filmmaking than to the militant collectives such as Newsreel that Solanas
and Getino had cited.
One way of characterising this special issue would be to note its
preoccupation with the production of historical distances rather than
with the investment in contemporaneity to be found in previous decades
of scholarship. By constructing a historical distance from the certitudes
of the present, the geography of those conjunctures becomes apparent. In
‘One, Two… Third Cinema’, Buchsbaum returns to the simultaneous
publication of ‘Towards a Third Cinema’ in Spanish, French, English
and Italian in Tricontinental 13, October 1969. The multilingual form of
the Tricontinental journal was understood as an intervention into the
languages of colonial Europe in order to forge new solidarities with
Third World internationalism. Through a comparative analysis of the
differences between the original Spanish version, its English version and
subsequent Spanish revisions that were not translated into English, each
of which re-elaborated its previous formulation, what emerges is the
biography of a concept, a mapping of a volatile discursive terrain that
was ‘changing in subtle ways in response to the rapidly changing political
situation on the ground in Argentina’.
Mariano Mestman’s essay, ‘Third Cinema/Militant Cinema: At the
Origins of the Argentinian Experience (1968–1971)’, situates Cine
Liberación’s newly translated essay ‘Militant Cinema: An Internal
Category of Third Cinema’ (1971) within the volatile milieu of the era,
providing a sense of how Cine Liberación, the collective formed by
Getino, Gerardo Vallejo, Nemesio Juárez, Solanas and others, positioned
themselves in relation to other collectives of the time and in relation to
5
Cinema’, Historical
Journal of Film, Radio and
Television, 21:2, 2001, pp
153–66.
8. As Michael Chanan points
out, Channel Four had a
remit to produce so-called
minority-interest
programmes that provided
new opportunities for
broadcasting films and
videos from the Third
World while its formal
recognition of the
Workshop Declaration,
which included the
experimental and militant
film-making workshops
formed in the 1970s as well
as the then newly
established Black and
Asian film and video
collectives, allowed for a
brief efflorescence of
cultural practice that might
be characterised as one of
Third Television. See
Michael Chanan, ‘The
Changing Geography of
Third Cinema’, Screen,
38:4, 1997, p 384.
9. Teshome Gabriel, Third
Cinema in the Third
World: The Aesthetics of
Liberation, UMI Research
Press, Ann Arbor,
Michigan, 1982
10. An event documented and
disseminated by David
Wills in ‘Edinburgh Film
Festival, 1986’, Framework
32/33, 1986, and
subsequently anthologised
in Jim Pines and Paul
Willemen, eds, Questions
of Third Cinema, British
Film Institute, London,
1989.
11. See Jim Pines, Preface, ibid,
p viii, in which Gabriel is
argued to have ‘effectively
globalised’ the concept of
Third Cinema. See also
Paul Willemen, ‘The Third
Cinema Question: Notes
and Reflection’, ibid, p 15.
12. Most recently and
influentially by Ella Shohat
and Robert Stam in
Unthinking Eurocentrism:
Multiculturalism and the
Media, Routledge, London,
2003, pp 260–71.
13. See ‘Traitement du
Lumpenprolétariat par le
cinéma d’avant-garde’,
the fluctuating political context. The essay clarifies the specific form of
Solanas and Getino’s support for Perón’s National Justicialista Movement, the Peronist theses formulated in Part 3 of La hora de los hornos/
The Hour of the Furnaces that were often criticised by European and
American supporters of Third Cinema.12 ‘Militant Cinema: An Internal
Category of Third Cinema’ looks back to the second half of 1969 and the
start of 1970, when students from film schools in Santa Fé, Buenos Aires
and La Plata formed screening groups to project The Hour of the
Furnaces (1968) in political meetings. These groups connected to each
other and, in doing so, formed circuits of distribution, exhibition and
discussion that were in turn documented in the pages of catalogues of
alternative distributors that informed the decisions concerning the kinds
of films that were screened and discussed throughout Europe. What
emerges from Mestman’s text is a detailed picture of the ‘instrumentalisation of film in the process of liberation’.
It is this ‘instrumentalisation of film in the process of liberation’
that Getino elaborates in ‘Militant Cinema: An Internal Category of
Third Cinema’. To instrumentalise militant cinema was not to organise
a screening but to organise a ‘film event’, a screening with discussion
situated within the context of a political event. For Getino, the
‘moment of communication (the film-event) is a terrain still new, but
full of possibilities’ that required ‘organisers who know how to liberate
the screening space, developing the critical feature of collective decision
and participation’.
The ‘cine-acción’ or ‘cinema event’ was theorised as an encounter
capable of catalysing the latent potentialities of the spectator, presumed
passive, into the active ‘protagonist’ of the cine-event; this protagonist
bore the same relationship to cinema as the militant actor to political
process. What is striking is the unguaranteed and tentative nature of this
process. Getino admitted that there ‘still persists during the projections of
militant cinema the attitude that one is “in front of a film” and not a
political event’. Instrumentalisation, as it was formulated in 1970 in
Argentina, is quite distinct from contemporary understandings of the
term; here, it denotes an entire range of practices that amount to what
Jacques Rancière calls the ‘principle of representation’ specific to the militant ciné-culture of the era. The forms that this culture could take become
evident in the inventory provided by Getino that describes the aesthetic
approaches and collective uses of the strategic cinema essay, the tactical
cinema essay, informational cinema or the cinema of denunciation and
pamphlet cinema or the cinema of agitation.
Getino’s inventory points to the forms and functions of the militant
image. The theorisation, excavation and programming of its unknown
terrain have been the project of the film theorist Nicole Brenez, whose
research has informed the editorial thinking of this issue from the
outset.13 In the essay ‘À propos de Nice and the Extremely Necessary,
Permanent Invention of the Cinematic Pamphlet’ (2005),14 Brenez
formulates a genealogy for the form of the ciné-pamphlet or the documentary tract that is specific to militant cinema throughout the twentieth century; this genealogy is elaborated into the tradition designated
the Grand International Revolutionary Style.15 Brenez’s thinking is
exemplified by her essay ‘Edouard de Laurot: Engagement as Prolepsis’,
which introduces and recontextualises the overlooked films and essays
6
Séguier, Paris, 2007,
‘Cinémas d’avant-garde’,
Cahiers du cinéma, 2007,
‘For an Insubordinate (or
Rebellious) History of
Cinema’, accessed at
Framework: the Journal
of Cinema and Media at
http://
www.frameworkonline.co
m/Issue50/502nb.html
14. Accessed at rouge.com on
11 October 2010, at http://
www.rouge.com.au/7/
propos_de_nice.html
15. See Nicole Brenez, ed, Abel
Ferrara, Adrian Martin,
trans, University of Illinois
Press, Urbana and
Chicago, p 54.
16. See Cinéaste, IV:3, winter
1970/1971. De Laurot
featured on the front cover
of Cinéaste, IV:2, autumn
1970.
17. See John Mowitt, Re-takes:
Postcoloniality and Foreign
Film Languages, University
of Minnesota Press,
Minneapolis, 2005.
18. See http://
www.rouge.com.au/7/
propos_de_nice.html
19. Klein’s portrait of Eldridge
Cleaver, filmed in Algiers
in 1970, can be
productively situated in
relation to his essay-film on
the First Pan-African
Festival of Algiers analysed
by Olivier Hadouchi in this
issue.
20. Three films that elaborate
upon the implications of
the ‘guerrilla imaginary’ in
specific ways are Harun
Farocki’s Some Problems
of Anti-Authoritarian and
Anti-Imperialist Urban
Warfare in the Case of
West Berlin or: Their
Newspapers (1968) Robert
Kramer’s Ice (1969) and
Ivan Dixon’s The Spook
that Sat by the Door
(1973). See also Martha
Rosler’s series of collages,
Bringing the War Home
(1967–1972).
of the film-maker, critic and theorist Edouard de Laurot. Brenez points
out that ‘Towards a Third Cinema’ entered American film discourse in
1971 through its publication in a special issue of Cinéaste on Latin
American Cinema.16 ‘Towards a Third Cinema’ was not an isolated
manifesto but existed in dialogue with texts written by de Laurot,
under the name of Yves de Laurot, and by the Bolivian film-maker
Jorge Sanjinés. While John Mowitt has recently re-engaged with
Sanjinés’s films,17 de Laurot’s formulation of cinéma engagé, articulated
in his 1965 manifesto and exemplified in films such as The Wager
(1965) made by the Cinéma Engagé collective, has disappeared from
contemporary critical discourse despite its prominent role within East
Coast ciné-culture.
Brenez traces the development of de Laurot’s Sartrean aesthetic of
engagement through an analysis of the film Black Liberation (1967),
an expressionist evocation of the Black Panther Party for Self Defense
that envisioned New York transformed by a ‘field of manoeuvres
belonging to the urban guerilla’.18 Black Liberation’s dramatic scenography stood in counterpoint to subsequent documentaries on the Black
Panthers directed by the Newsreel Collective such as Off the Pig
(1968) and Mayday (1969), Agnès Varda’s Black Panthers (1968) and
William Klein’s Eldridge Cleaver (1970),19 each of which sought to
capture the contingencies set in motion by the volatile presence of a
revolutionary movement. Brenez goes on to situate de Laurot’s essay
‘Composing as the Praxis of Revolution: The Third World and the
USA’ (1970–1971), re-published here for the first time, within the
context of five theoretical texts written by de Laurot and published by
Cinéaste between 1970 and 1971. Throughout his essay, de Laurot
draws on examples from the screenplay of Listen, America! (1968),
his recently completed film that advocated a clandestine ‘Second
Front’ composed of covert groups, inspired by Che Guevara’s ‘foco’
theory of revolution by means of guerrilla warfare and modelled on
the North Vietnamese peasant whose collective presence could combat
American imperialism ‘from within’. The ‘guerrilla imaginary’ of
Listen America! drew on the newly formulated homology between the
revolutionary struggle of Third World nations against the American
military industrialist empire and the struggle of ‘urban guerrillas’
located within the metropole of the ‘principal enemy’. As theorised by
the Black Panther Party for Self Defense, this homology was widely
taken up within militant circles, providing the point of departure for
the formation of the Weather Underground, whose bombings and
communiqués provided the inspiration for the screenplay of Listen,
America!20
De Laurot’s ‘Composing as the Praxis of Revolution: The Third
World and the USA’ focuses upon the artistic methodology of prolepsis
as a political discourse. For de Laurot, prolepsis is to be understood as
the ‘power to perceive futurity within the present’. For cinema to project
the power of the ‘imaginary desirable’, which can only emerge through
conflict with what exists, cinema must be understood relationally as a
‘rapprochement’ between film production and revolutionary praxis. The
collectivity of production and the collectivity of becoming revolutionary
are to be understood as phases in a ‘dialectical mode of composition’
whose aim is to bring ‘figures on the screen’ into existence through the
7
21. Hito Steyerl, ‘The
Articulation of Protest’, 09
2002, http://
www.eipcp.net/transversal/
0303/steyerl/en
22. SLON stands for the Société
de Lancement des Œuvres
Nouvelles or Society for
Launching New Work.
23. See Catherine Lupton,
Chris Marker: Memories of
the Future, Reaktion
Books, London, pp 109–47.
24. In December 1967, Marker
and Mario Marret filmed a
second strike by workers at
another Rhodiaceta textile
factory in Lyon that
formed the basis of the film
A bientôt, j’espère/Hope to
See You Soon (1968). At a
screening for workers in
April 1968, workers who
criticised the film were
encouraged to constitute
themselves as a cinecollective called Groupe
Medvedkine de Besançon,
in order to decide on film
form for themselves. See
Lupton, op cit, pp 115–19.
25. Although the Cinetracts
were anonymous, the styles
of Marker, Jean-Luc
Godard, Alain Resnais,
Jean-Pierre Gorin, Philippe
Garrel and Jackie Raynal
remain clearly discernible.
26. See Sylvia Harvey, May ’68
and Film Culture, British
Film Institute, London,
1978, pp 27–33. Alberto
Toscano argues that for
Marker and his ‘comrades
in the collective and worker
led cinema groups, like the
Groupes Medvedkine and
the production unit SLON,
the destructive creation of
new forms… is inseparable
from the generation of new
communist social relations’.
Alberto Toscano,
‘Destructive Creation, or
the Communism of the
Senses’, in Grant Watson,
Gerrie van Noord and
Gavin Everall, eds, Make
Everything New: A Project
on Communism,
Bookworks/Project Arts
Centre, Dublin, 2006, p 127
27. SLON’s Maspero: Words
Have a Meaning/On vous
parle de Paris: Maspero, les
mots ont un sens (1970)
confrontation with the present understood as a condition of lacunae. It is
from this perspective that de Laurot criticised The Hour of the Furnaces
for its depiction of peasants victimised by imperialism in contrast with
the proleptic principle that evokes ‘what will be as already existent-yet
metaphorically’.
What links and divides de Laurot with Getino and Solanas, with
Chris Marker, William Klein and Thomas Harlan is the aspiration to
formulate what Hito Steyerl calls a ‘montage of the political’21 through
the production of what Vertov named ‘optical connections’. In ‘The
Elephants at the End of the World: Chris Marker and Third Cinema’,
François Lecointe traces Marker’s participation, as facilitator, producer
and editor, within the co-operative structure of SLON,22 the militant
collective that aimed to challenge the organisational hierarchy of the
French film industry.23 The title of Loin du Vietnam/Far from Vietnam
(1967), SLON’s first film, pointed to the distant proximities forged
between the ‘here’ of France and the ‘elsewhere’ of the Vietnamese
Liberation Front’s armed struggle against the USA. Far from Vietnam
was premiered at the Rhodiaceta textile factory in Besançon, SouthEastern France, in October 1967; this decision stemmed from the close
relationship forged between the technicians who worked on Far from
Vietnam and the workers at Rhodiaceta during the filming of their
month-long strike and occupation in February and March 1967.24
Footage from the Rhodiaceta strike was integrated into Far from Vietnam, directly inserting industrial militancy into the context of antiimperialism. Lecointe traces the new modes of production, exhibition
and distribution enacted by the Nouvelle Société/New Society series
directed by the Groupes Medvedkine workers’ collectives, SLON’s On
vous parle/Speaking to You (1968–1973) counter-information films
and the anonymous series of silent black-and-white sixteen-millimetre
negative stock Cinetracts released during the general strike of May
1968,25 all of which constituted specific modes of cine-communist alliance.26 SLON’s films, like the Petite Collection Maspero book series
that commissioned and published translations of Võ Nguyên Giáp’s
People’s War People’s Army (1961), Ernesto Che Guevara’s Socialism
and Man in Cuba (1965) and Mao Tse-tung’s Selected Writings I, II,
III (1967), among others,27 thus helped to transpose what Kristin Ross
described as the ‘geography’ of the ‘vast international and distant
struggle’ of ‘the North/South axis’ onto the ‘lived geographies, the
daily itineraries, of students and intellectuals’ in Paris from the early
1960s through to the late 1970s.28
Olivier Hadouchi’s re-reading of William Klein’s essay-film PanAfrican Festival of Algiers (1969) in his article ‘African Culture Will
Be Revolutionary or Will Not Be’ demonstrates how the militant
essay-film both enables and embodies a geographical reconfiguration
and realignment. Hadouchi points out that Klein’s film holds much in
common with The Hour of the Furnaces; both films: ‘… synthesise,
rethink, radicalise and dialecticise that which came before in terms of
militant cinema in relation to a given situation and space, in this
case, Africa and Latin America, in order to inscribe it within a new
history that is both cinematic and political.’ The tactics of détournement – of subverting and inverting colonialism’s visual apparatus of
maps and newsreel – combine with images and sounds of African
8
documented François
Maspero, the editor,
publisher and bookstore
owner. See Bruno
Guichard, Julien Hage and
Alain Léger, eds, François
Maspero et les paysages
humains, A plus d’un titre,
2009, pp 161–200,
pp 211–51 for the
catalogue of Cahiers
Libres, 1959–1982.
28. Ross, op cit, pp 84–90
29. Amílcar Cabral, A Arma
da Teoria: Unidade e Luta
1, PAIG and SARL, 1976,
p 225
30. Amílcar Cabral was
secretary general of
PAIGC, the African Party
for the Independence of
Guinea and Cape Verde,
founded in 1963, which
engaged in armed struggle
against the Portuguese
until 1974. Antonio
Agostinho Neto was leader
of the MPLA, Popular
Movement for the
Liberation of Angola,
founded in 1961, which
engaged in armed combat
with the Portuguese until
1975. FRELIMO, the
Front for the Liberation of
Mozambique, was founded
in 1962. It was initially led
by Eduardo Mondlane,
then, after his death in
1969, by Samora Machel,
who became President
when Mozambique gained
independence in 1975.
31. See Ros Gray, ‘Translating
the African Revolution:
Portugal’s Revolutionary
Process’, in Translating the
Image, ed Irit Rogoff,
Hatje Cantz, Berlin, 2011.
32. ‘Throughout the 1960s
wars of liberation raged
across the colonies of
Angola, Mozambique and
Guinea-Bissau and huge
numbers of Portuguese and
African men were drafted
into the colonial army to
defend Portugal’s imperial
claims. The Portuguese
army met fierce and
committed resistance from
people’s armies whose
tenacity and eventual
success defied their lack of
military resources.
Increasingly, the fascist
regime was out of kilter
armed struggle to present a new vision of militant decolonisation
across the Continent.
Klein’s involvement serves as another instance of the conjuncture
exemplified by Far from Vietnam, in which the European avant-garde
came to serve a combative mode of anti-imperialism. Like Far from
Vietnam, the film is a collective project and a polyvocal text. Images
and sounds from previous and ongoing armed struggles punctuate the
argument that unfolds regarding the militant turn taking place across
the Continent in opposition to the versions of Negritude then being
promoted as official cultural policy in Léopold Sédar Senghor’s Senegal, which involved cooperation with France, the former colonial
power. The Pan-African Cultural Festival of Algiers was one of a series
of events and gatherings across the African continent during the late
1960s and 1970s that articulated a new idea emerging from the lusophone armed struggles in which liberation was conceived in terms of
an ‘act of culture’ in the words of Amílcar Cabral.29 The Pan-African
Festival of Algiers forges a political connection between the recent
memory of Algeria’s battle for independence, the struggle against neocolonialism by independent African nation-states and the resistance of
peoples still dominated by colonial and white-minority rule in Angola,
Mozambique, Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde, Rhodesia, Namibia and
South Africa.
During the 1960s, PAIGC, MPLA and FRELIMO,30 representatives
of whom are seen in The Pan-African Festival of Algiers alongside
members of the Black Panther Party, formed people’s armies that had, by
the end of the decade, and against tremendous odds, begun to challenge
over 400 years of Portuguese colonial rule. The armed struggles in
Angola, Guinea-Bissau and Mozambique began in the early 1960s as
former British and French colonies were gaining independence. The political philosophies formed in the contexts of lusophone military struggle
resonated with Fanon’s insight that independence was not, in itself, sufficient to guarantee liberation for African peoples: instead, a revolution
was required that would be initiated within each subject and would catalyse new and revolutionary forms of African modernity. In this conception, culture had a reciprocal relationship to revolution: it was a
manifestation and an articulation of the new kinds of singular and collective subjectivities that were emerging through anti-colonial struggle.
Culture had the potential to act as an agent of the social transformations
that produced these new forms of subjectivity. The ideals that galvanised
the lusophone liberation struggles were thus radically anti-essentialist
and internationalist. African liberation, Cabral proposed, would contribute to world culture by emancipating humanity from oppression.
From this perspective, José Filipe Costa’s essay ‘When Cinema Forges
the Event: The Case of Torre Bela’ returns to analyse the radical desires
unleashed by the independence movements in lusophone Africa.31 Torre
Bela (1977) is a film made in Portugal by Thomas Harlan during the
Carnation Revolution that documented peasant workers, many of whom
were illiterate and had not participated in political activity, seizing control
of the estate where they worked and transforming the estate into a cooperative. The anti-colonial wars throughout lusophone Africa precipitated, to a large extent, the Carnation Revolution throughout Portugal.32
On 25 April 1974, the army, worn down and radicalised by nearly fifteen
9
both with international
moves towards
decolonisation and
growing discontent within
its army’s rank and file.
Many young soldiers in the
Portuguese army came to
identify more with the
oppressed peoples they
were fighting against than
the small-minded and
obsolete ideology of
Salazar, whose government
had underdeveloped rural
Portugal and left many of
its people impoverished
and illiterate. Their
experiences in Africa
radicalised them and the
army became a breeding
ground for revolt.’ Ros
Gray, ibid, p .
33. See José Filipe Costa, O
cinema ao Poder!, Hugin,
Lisbon, 2002
34. José Fonseca e Costa and
Luís Galvão Teles, ‘O
cinema em Portugual na
queda do Fascismo’,
Cinéfilo, 33, 25 May 1974.
Reprinted in Maria João
Madeira, ed, 25 de Abril no
Cinema: Antologia de
textos, Cinemateca
Portuguesa–Museu do
Cinema, Lisbon, 1999,
pp 28–9
years of colonial conflict, seized power and ousted the fascist colonial
regime, thereby ushering in a period of violent instability. For a time, the
Communist Party seemed to be in the ascendant. For a few hundred days,
it seemed, at times, as if something thought to be impossible in the late
twentieth century might actually happen: a Socialist revolution at the very
western tip of Europe.
During this revolutionary period, cinema became a sphere of intense
radical activity as film-makers took charge of the national film archive
and experimented with different forms of collective organisation.33 It
was a moment when many avant-garde Portuguese film-makers
perceived themselves as being in solidarity with the liberation movements: they too were oppressed by the ‘cultural and political colonialism’
of foreign distribution monopolies; they too needed to harness cinema to
a national revolutionary project.34 Harlan’s crew was one of many
groups of foreign film-makers that sought to document the revolution.
They worked alongside the Portuguese ‘production units’ and filmmaking co-operatives formed with the aim of making cinema respond to
the needs of the Portuguese masses by destroying the folkloric image of a
peasantry whose quiescence had enabled a quasi-feudal system of rural
labour to persist into the late twentieth century.
Against the tendency to read Torre Bela in terms of its seeming ‘immediacy’, Costa’s analysis unpicks the affective power that distinguishes it
from other militant films produced during the Carnation Revolution.
What Costa, in an affirmative sense, calls ‘manipulation’ operates at
multiple levels of the film’s making. He reveals the extent to which Harlan,
who had previously been in Chile during Allende’s popular government
and later attempted to film in revolutionary Mozambique, was a key
player in enabling the occupation to take place and securing the support
of the army. As such, Torre Bela embodies the desire that the film-makers
not only document the revolution but also, through cinema, become
participants in revolution.
In contemporary Portugal, the ascendancy of neoliberalism means that
the logic of revolutionary legitimacy that underpins the seizure of private
property is both controversial and disquieting. Fragments of Torre Bela
circulate through the contemporary Portuguese mediascape, frequently
appearing uncredited in current affairs programmes, its colours altered to
grainy black and white so as to evoke the veracity of newsreel. Functioning
as if it could be a transparent window onto the past, Torre Bela seems to
offer a tantalising glimpse of a euphoric moment of revolutionary tumult,
one at times deemed by official Portuguese institutions to be a national
embarrassment.
As the revolutionary process in Portugal came to an end in 1976 and
the political situation ‘normalised’, the projects of nation-building in the
former colonies were only just beginning. Many of the radical filmmakers, photographers and journalists who had gathered in Portugal
relocated to Guinea-Bissau, Angola and Mozambique. A number,
including Harlan, were drawn to Mozambique, and it was here, in the
late 1970s and early 1980s, that the aspiration to make cinema an agent
of revolutionary change began most fully to be realised.
One of the many foreign film-makers who demonstrated a sustained
commitment to Mozambique was Margaret Dickinson, who made the
documentary Behind the Lines (1971) about FRELIMO’s armed strug-
10
35. The INC was in many
ways the culmination of
hopes to decolonise the
moving image – its
production, distribution
and exhibition – that began
to be formulated during the
armed struggles for
independence in lusophone
Africa during the 1960s as
film-makers across the
Continent organised
themselves and called upon
the new nation-states to
challenge the imperialist
hegemony of the moving
image. See Ros Gray,
Mamadou Diouf and Jinny
Prais, eds, ‘The Vanguard
of the World: Building the
Cinematic Presence of the
African Revolution’, in
Building an African
Presence in the World in
the Twentieth Century,
Cambridge University
Press, forthcoming 2011.
36. See Manthia Diawara’s
chapter ‘Film Production in
Lusophone Africa: Toward
the Kuxa Kanema in
Mozambique’, in his book
African Cinema: Politics
and Culture, Indiana
University Press,
Bloomington, 1992 and his
chapter ‘Sonimage in
Mozambique’, in Gareth
James and Florian Zeyfang,
eds, I said I love. That is the
Promise. The Tvideo
Politics of Jean-Luc
Godard, b_books, Berlin,
2003. For more recent
research see Ros Gray,
‘Ambitions of Cinema:
Revolution, Event, Screen’,
doctoral thesis, 2007,
University of London, and
forthcoming publications.
Margarida Cardoso’s
documentary Kuxa
Kanema: The Birth of
Cinema (2003) is also very
informative and evocative,
and includes an impressive
range of archival material
and interviews with key
figures. Dragustin
Popovitch made
Nachingwea (1975),
Venceremos (1968) and Do
Romuva ao Maputo (1975);
Robert Van Lierop made A
Luta Continua (1971) and
O Povo Organizado
(1976); Celso and Luccas
made 25 in 1975. The
project led by Rouch is
gle. After independence, Dickinson worked at the Instituto Nacional de
Cinema (INC), which was set up in 1975. Dickinson’s article on her
experience of training film-makers in 1976 is reprinted here with an
introductory essay that contextualises her dedication to decolonisation
in relation to the contexts of British ciné-politics and the anti-apartheid
movement. By the time of independence, the majority of Mozambicans
had no prior experience of the moving image, but cinema was recognised
as having a key role in the formation of a national identity constituted
during the armed struggle. The INC’s mission was thus ‘to deliver to the
people an image of the people’.35
Dickinson’s work in Mozambique should be understood in relation to
and in distinction from the projects of other film-makers such as the
Yugoslav Dragustin Popovitch, the African-American Robert Van Lierop,
the Brazilians José Celso and Celso Luccas, the French Jean Rouch and
Jean-Luc Godard, the Cuban Santiago Álvarez and the Mozambican-born
Brazilian Ruy Guerra, all of whom made repeated visits to Mozambique
during the late 1970s. While Popovitch, Van Lierop, Celso and Luccas
were among those who made films about the armed struggle and the
moment of independence, Jean Rouch was involved in training students
at Eduardo Mondlane University to make ‘film-postcards’ on Super-8,
which were intended to have a function in community development.36
Godard, by contrast, was invited to conduct research that resulted in a
speculative proposal to create a liberated form of television production by
training local communities to make films on video. The project was
rejected and the trauma of this experience seems to have obliquely
informed his disquieting video essay Changer d’Image/To Alter the Image
(1982). Álvarez was part of a Cuban delegation that made a film and
trained staff at the INC as part of the Cuban film institute ICAIC’s
programme of support for African film-makers.37 Guerra first returned to
Mozambique in 1976; by the time he made Mueda: Memória e massacre
(1979) he had become a key adviser to the INC and had a huge influence
over its policies during the early 1980s. Various visions of what a liberated,
revolutionary moving image might look like thus circulated through
Maputo during the heady early years of independence.
Dickinson situates her own contribution to the INC in the context of
the connection that progressive film-making activists made between their
struggle within the British film industry and the struggle to decolonise
film-making in Africa. In both of these spheres of militant activity,
nationalising the film industry was understood to be the most effective
strategy for combating the global dominance of American commercial
cinema. As Dickinson explains, the INC survived a boycott by the
MPEA due to its new system of acquisition that was devised to break
Mozambique’s position of dependency on American film distributors in
order to build a collection of international socialist films that could be
used to teach Mozambican audiences about the struggles of oppressed
peoples elsewhere.
But it was in her role as a teacher that Dickinson became involved in
one of the INC’s most socially transformative projects. Under Portuguese
colonial rule, Mozambicans were given only menial roles in private
production companies. FRELIMO’s decision to reverse this situation
indicates the extent to which, in the first few years of independence, the
Mozambican government was committed to a total overhaul of cinema in
11
discussed in Jacques
d’Arthuys et al, ‘Une
Expérience de Super 8 au
Mozambique’, in Cahiers
du cinema, 300, 1979.
37. Cuba’s support for
Mozambique continued
through the opportunities
it offered to Mozambican
film-makers such as João
Ribeiro and Orlando
Mesquita to train at the
ICAIC or Instituto Cubano
de Arte e Industria
Cinematográficos in the
1980s.
38. RENAMO, the antiCommunist Mozambican
Resistance Movement/
Resistencia Nacional
Mocambique, was founded
in 1975 with the support
first of the Rhodesian
secret services and later the
South African government,
and led by Afonso
Dhlakama.
39. Since 2008, the films of
Jorge Sanjinés, Groupe
Dziga Vertov, Groupes
Medvedkine, Joris Ivens,
Harun Farocki and
Santiago Álvarez have all
been released as DVD
boxed sets or as double
DVD sets.
40. Hito Steyerl, ‘In Defence of
the Poor Image’, http://
www.e-flux.com/journal/
view/94
line with the social transformation taking place across the country. The
project to teach film-making to young people with no prior practical or
intellectual knowledge of cinema was controversial within the INC, and
the end of the project coincided with a move away from the early years of
radical experimentation towards a drive to make the INC a more efficient
and professional institution through which the State could harness
cinema as a tool of information and mobilisation as a precursor to the
arrival of television in Mozambique. Through the 1980s, however, the
FRELIMO government became increasingly compromised by RENAMO
attacks that were sponsored by Rhodesia and by South Africa in retaliation for FRELIMO’s support of the African National Congress.38 The
death of President Samora Machel in 1986 was followed in 1989 by
FRELIMO’s formal renunciation of Marxist-Leninism, which paved the
way for multi-party elections and the government’s embrace of the free
market.
Dickinson marks the end of the INC with the fire in 1991 that partly
destroyed its building and film archive. In the period prior to the conflagration, the Mozambican government set about demolishing the socialist
structures it had attempted to build in order to satisfy international conditions for receiving financial support. At the INC, a new system of management promoted those with higher levels of education to managerial
positions, precipitating a racial crisis. One of neoliberalism’s first strategies was therefore to reverse the social transformation initiated by the
militant pedagogy of the INC in order to restore the previous hierarchies
in the name of modernisation.
Today in Mozambique, neoliberalism maintains order through a
combination of saturation and amnesia. While commercial cinemas and
television screens are dominated by foreign images, the surviving films
made by the INC exist in an ambiguous relation to contemporary political conditions. The archive survives but is largely inaccessible. No longer
maintained by the State, withdrawn from the public, beyond the reach
of those who might wish to view and to restore them, the militant
images circulate informally in poor copies, surfacing on rare occasions
for specialist audiences.
Does this circulation characterise the afterlife of the militant image?
The films examined in this issue were supported, sponsored, produced,
exhibited, distributed, conserved and archived by institutions such as
ICAIC and the INC that exemplified the policy of nationalised experimentation. After 1981, neoliberal free-market imperatives began to
restructure cinema, dismantling state support in favour of privatisation,
deregulation and competition. Hito Steyerl’s recent essay ‘In Defence of
the Poor Image’ productively examines the archives of the militant image
within the digital economy of audiovisual capitalism, bringing to this
familiar account a focus upon the implications of this materiality. The
poor image, according to Steyerl, can be read in terms of a constellation
of specific social forces, as a partial enactment of Julio Garcia Espinosa’s
manifesto For an Imperfect Cinema, written in 1969 and published in
1970. In the absence of state organisations able to maintain a distribution infrastructure or a sixteen millimetre or thirty-five millimetre
archive, militant images are anthologised as DVD boxed sets39 and
simultaneously circulate outside State structures as poor images on illegal file-sharing platforms.40 The artists, film-makers, curators and theo-
12
rists currently researching the modalities of the militant image
continually negotiate the uncertainties of this compromised, clandestine
condition. The re-animation of militancy in contemporary artistic
compositions and configurations, often emerging from the informal and
institutional spaces of contemporary art, answers to a demand to re-read
the present from the perspective of a past that persists into the contemporary world and necessarily reconfigures its relation to history.
This special issue is necessarily partial; it brings together different
research projects, conducted under specific conditions, each of which is
dedicated to mapping a terrain that has been, and continues to be largely
occluded. It seeks to bring together certain episodes from what Steyerl
calls the ‘historical genealogy of nonconformist information circuits’ in
order to begin to retrace its relational geographies, its transpositions, its
parallel distribution circuits and its given situations and spaces. In doing
so, it aims to participate in the turn towards revising and rethinking the
capacities and potentialities of the militant image.
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