“All I’m really interested in at the moment is trying to say to people, ‘Look, one of the great problems of our time is that there seems to be no other alternative to the political ideas of our time.’”
∼ Adam Curtis, British filmmaker, July 17, 2012
In the midst of a cultural battleground ignited by an open letter with more than 450 Jewish creatives, executives and Hollywood professionals denouncing the Oscars speech by Jonathan Glazer, the Western world finds itself embroiled in a storm of conflicting ideologies.
As the world grapples with the turmoil of wars, the significance of the Oscars looms large. Beyond the glitz and glamour of the Academy Awards night, the moments captured on stage serve as revealing reflections of our collective consciousness. How can we remain vigilant in scrutinising the formation and framing of our global tragedies amidst this cultural tumult?
Writer/director Glazer’s film Zone of Interest, recipient of an Oscar for Best International Film, confronts this very question. Described by Glazer as a depiction of how “genocide becomes ambient to their lives”, the film draws inspiration from Martin Amis’s eponymous novel, unfolding a narrative set beyond the confines of Auschwitz during the Holocaust.
The implications of the recent Oscars win extend beyond Glazer’s film, with other key winners including Oppenheimer for Best Feature and 20 Days in Mariupol for Best Feature Documentary.
In an era where cinematic narratives intertwine with the complexities of global politics, film awards serve as battlegrounds of ideas and interpretations. It is within this cinematic landscape that the cultural wars of our time unfold, reflecting and shaping the narratives that shape our understanding of the world.
Red pins
Outside the Dolby Theatre, various advocacy groups, including the Los Angeles branch of Jewish Voice for Peace, gathered, brandishing placards and vocalising demands for a ceasefire in Gaza. Their demonstration spilled onto the streets, causing traffic disruptions and the Oscars were notably delayed as the host announced in his opening. Inside, amidst the glittering crowd, a bold red pin featuring a hand cradling a black heart caught the eye as it adorned the attire of celebrities. This striking accessory was distributed by a coalition of advocates and artists – Artists4Ceasefire – united in their opposition to Israel’s ongoing war on Gaza. Embodying a shared commitment to an immediate and enduring ceasefire, the release of hostages and the swift dispatch of humanitarian aid to Gaza’s civilians, the pin served as a tangible emblem of collective resolve. It was expected that a Vanessa Redgrave may show up!
In 1978, actress Redgrave claimed the Oscar for her performance in the film Julia. Yet, while on the stage, she didn’t merely accept her award; instead, she launched a fervent critique against Zionism and the threatening Zionist factions. Her impassioned speech not only defended her documentary on the Palestinians’ plight but also challenged the prevailing narrative surrounding the Israeli occupation.
Yet, the silence of reticent souls donning the red pins at the Oscars was more disturbing. The pivotal moment came during the acceptance speech delivered by Glazer, accompanied by producers James Wilson and Len Blavatnik, as The Zone of Interest clinched the award for Best International Film.
The writer-director of The Zone of Interest stated that in his film centred around Auschwitz, he aimed to shed light on the extreme depths of dehumanisation. He went on to emphasise, “Today, we firmly reject the appropriation of our Jewish identity and the Holocaust in the context of a conflict that has caused immense suffering to countless innocents,” referring to the Middle East conflict. Clearly moved, Glazer added, “Including the victims of the October 7 attacks in Israel and the ongoing assault on Gaza.” His remarks sparked immediate controversy, with many expressing outrage over his rejection of his Jewish identity. The circumstance of Blavatnik, the billionaire producer hailing from a Jewish family in Soviet-era Ukraine, possesses a slightly more uncommon hue. Increased backlash and distancing from Glazer have become the order of the day.
As politics eclipse aesthetics in contemporary film culture, Christopher Nolan’s Oscar victories for Oppenheimer underscore a troubling trend. The film emerges as a modern-day chamber of echoes, akin to TikTok’s trendsetting nihilism. At first glance, the #corecore videos present a disjointed tapestry, interwoven with a collective yet elusive message. With amateurish edits of found media, propelled by a frantic pace, and underscored by somber, melancholic melodies, each clip carries the unmistakable hashtag: #corecore.
Enjoying Oppenheimer on its own merits seems implausible; rather, the current political tumult drives many to embrace Nolan’s historical fiction as a means of grappling with contemporary madness. This uninspiring portrayal of history reflects a shift where audiences prioritise political affirmation over artistic merit and narrative integrity in tandem with the #corecore aesthetics of TikTok. Not only this, the motives behind the Atomic Energy Commission hearings on Oppenheimer mirrored the interrogation of TikTok CEO Shou Chew by the US House panel, complete with its shallow and nebulous echoes of mid-20th-century McCarthyism, reminiscent of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s fervent anti-communist inquiries in the 1950s.
With an epidemic of loneliness in the US, as if to affirm the pervasive self-doubt among millennial Americans, Oppenheimer offers a poignant mirror to society’s collective psyche. Arguing that Oppenheimer panders to the much embedded nihilism of this generation, Armond White, the American critic, said, “Nolan’s penchant for geeky intellectualism serves as a convenient facade, affording his followers a semblance of intellectual depth they may not truly possess. It is Nolan who is now “Death, the annihilator of worlds”, detonating a bomb on our cultural ethos scoring a nihilistic victory!”
Hiroshima Mon Amour
In Oppenheimer, the devastation of Hiroshima, one of the cities ravaged by the “little boy”, as the atomic bomb was referred to, remains unseen. Instead, in unveiling the dark side, Alain Resnais’s debut fictional film, Hiroshima Mon Amour, serves as a cinematic counterpoint. Made in 1959, it has secured its place as a seminal work in the slate of films, representing the French New Movement, a celluloid intercession on trauma, memory and the enduring echo of war.
In contrast to Nolan’s stylistic exploration, Resnais adeptly utilises a nonlinear narrative to capture the fluidity of memory and the enigmatic essence of truth. Defying his own proclivities for a non-fiction narrative, given his anxiety about drawing parallel with Night and Fog (1955), the much acclaimed documentary delving into the horrors of the Holocaust, he transcended the conventional storytelling, ably aided by writer Marguerite Duras, to offer a meditation on the human condition.
A still from ‘Hiroshima Mon Amour’.
It was a search for the moral imperative of the moment. An atypical story where each scene tells its own story, with a French actress and a Japanese architect and their intertwined destinies in the scarred landscape of the city and history. Through glimpses we are allowed into her personal hell that has memories she can’t shake off . This is compounded as the sinuous tale unfolds, it continually eludes a definitive focal point around which emotion, morality and ethics can coalesce. As Éric Rohmer, another French filmmaker, observed, it revolves around the “anguish of the future” in the shadow of a monumental tragedy, enduring struggle against forgetting.
Memory war
In the eloquent words of Dostoevsky, the concept of heroic figures amid war swiftly dissipates, overshadowed by the harsh truths of conflict. However, within Western societies and their political theatres, it is the gruesome imagery of warfare as a spectacle – captured in videos, reels and news broadcasts – that commands attention. The urgency of crisis dissipates into a distant haze, softened by the monotonous cadence of fingers swiping across screens.
Amidst the turmoil of the port town of Mariupol’s besieged streets, in 20 Days in Mariupol, a trio of Associated Press (AP) journalists – video journalist Mstyslav Chernov, photographer Evgeniy Maloletka and field producer Vasilisa Stepanenko – found themselves thrust into the heart of conflict. Initially there to cover the unfolding situation, they soon became trapped in the chaos of an active war zone. Rather than seeking escape, they sought refuge within the crumbling walls of an abandoned hospital. There, amidst the eerie stillness, they embarked on a solemn mission: to bear witness and chronicle the brutal siege unfolding outside their makeshift sanctuary.
As Chernov’s camera meticulously unveils the raw devastation gripping Mariupol, it captures scenes of profound distress, offering only sparingly censored footage in its wake. Amidst this visual narrative, his stoic narration serves as a guiding light, furnishing additional context for select clips and recounting poignant details from interviews that eluded the lens. Thus unfolds a tale not only of the heinous war crimes perpetrated in Mariupol and the unwavering resilience of its people but also of the complex and perilous journey of a journalist endeavouring to articulate the city’s harrowing saga.
If we pan away from Chernov’s work, not long ago we saw in Igor Lopatonok’s documentary Ukraine on Fire, Oliver Stone takes audiences on a visually compelling journey through the tumultuous events that defined a decade in Ukrainian history. From the initial spark of the Euromaidan protests to the climax of the Revolution of Dignity and the subsequent shifts in regime, Stone’s narrative captures the raw emotion and political fervour that gripped the nation. Likewise novelist Andrey Kurkov provides his firsthand perspective, infusing the narrative with literary sensibility and emotional resonance. Through Kurkov’s insights, viewers gain a deeper understanding of the personal experiences and societal upheavals that shaped Ukraine’s trajectory during this critical period.
Amidst the unfolding drama, a pivotal moment emerges in the form of a conversation between then-Assistant Secretary of State Victoria Nuland and US Ambassador to Ukraine Geoffrey Pyatte. This diplomatic exchange, tinged with political significance, highlights the intricate power dynamics and international interests at play amidst Ukraine’s internal struggles. Entrapped in these reportages of history, deeper issues are brushed aside, overshadowed often by the exaltation of democracy while the essence of democracy eludes us, slipping away from the very demos it purports to serve.
Filmmaking inherently embodies a process of reconstruction, wherein history and lived experiences are reshaped and immortalised on screen, blurring the lines between reality and fiction. How could Wong Kar-Wai’s In the Mood for Love be overlooked, with its poignant capture of Hong Kong’s urban landscape through his lens, preserving the city’s essence before it slips away into the recesses of memory?
This calls to mind the Peter Handke episode with Emir Kusturica’s Underground during the Balkan Wars of 1990s. In 1995, after the Dayton agreement, Handke, a Nobel laureate, had visited Serbia and came out in support of Kusturica’s film which was heavily contested for its depiction of the Yugoslav Wars and the Bosnian War. Many read it as Handke’s endorsement of Serbian war politics, offering a narrative tailored for Western palates during the tumultuous Yugoslav Wars. It reduces the intricate conflicts of the Balkans to a facile stereotype: “The Balkan people—imbibers, lovers, and warriors.” Bankrolled predominantly by Serbian State TV, it operated as a potent instrument of Slobodan Milošević’s military propaganda machinery.
A film’s conclusion cannot mark the end of a war, and it remains unclear if Chernov holds the solution to the weighty inquiry: How can cinema ignite fury against war and injustice without further desensitising us? Or does it offer us a prosthetic memory? As 20 Days in Mariupol secured the award for Best Documentary, listening to the Oscar acceptance speech of its director, Chernov, delivered in his unflappable voice, one cannot help but ponder his concluding remark: “because cinema shapes memories, and memories form history.”
However, the crucial question at hand is this: can memory rescue us from the clutches of history?
A World Not Ours
As polemological filmmaking experiences a resurgence, probing the depths of human conflict and war, it’s a reflection of our continued grappling with unresolved 20th-century dilemmas. About a decade ago, Mahdi Fleifel, a Danish-Palestinian filmmaker based in London, made A World Not Ours, a documentary capturing life in a Palestinian refugee camp in South Lebanon, borrowing the title from a novel by the author and activist Ghassan Kanafani.
These persistent issues, still haunting us, demand introspection while we navigate the constraints imposed by Western powers and their cinematic lenses.
“For violence has nothing to cover itself with but lies, and lies can only persist through violence. And it is not every day and not on every shoulder that violence brings down its heavy hand: It demands of us only a submission to lies, a daily participation in deceit—and this suffices as our fealty,” wrote Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn in his essay ‘Live not by lies‘.
Yet without a steadfast commitment to fostering collective expression, we risk passively witnessing the rise of controlling cinematic narratives and prosthetic memory. These narratives not only sow discord but also solidify oppressive ideologies, leaving us feeling like mere spectators in our own story, with genocide becoming ambient in our everyday lives.
Narendra Pachkhédé is a critic and writer who splits his time between Toronto, London and Geneva. A version of this article was published in The News on Sunday Magazine.
