“Historical explanation then becomes an enterprise in which the refinements of concepts and theories are a constant necessity, not only because of the availability of fresh evidence from new sources but also because of greater precision in our understanding of the categories which we use to analyse these sources. It is a bi-focal situation where the frame of reference provided by the analysis of ideology remains the distant view while the historian’s use of a theoretical explanation of the data indicates the closer reading.”
– Romila Thapar, eminent Indian historian, in Early India: An Overview.
In certain aspects, historians are like scientists, systematically collecting, recording and analysing data from our past; and then, forming theories which, after some corroboration and peer reviews in journals, finally, end up in our history books.
History is not just a string of narratives – stories – as we normally think it to be (and I had laboured under this limited view for many years). Like science, it is a systematic gathering and dissemination of knowledge, with newer and newer versions replacing old records and theories – so we can have a more accurate picture of our past.
[Citation: Quote reproduced from the chapter Early India: An Overview from the book Cultural Pasts: Essays in Early Indian History by Romila Thapar, pg. 88.]
09 January 2008
07 January 2008
History and interpretation
I’m not sure if conflicts in interpreting history are any less in number than the actual conflicts (i.e. wars, revolutions, civil unrests, etc.) history has recorded through the years. In both cases, conflicts have been – and still are – fought on establishing one’s right over another. Only one is less bloody than the other. But, it is true that differing interpretations have led to political, religious, racist and ethnic violence.
In India, we are no strangers to such conflicts. In fact, at times, this has been worrisome and even scary. And yet, interpreting history cannot be avoided. So, how should one approach the subject of history and its interpretation?
To find answers to this question, I turned to eminent Indian historian Irfan Habib. Here is an extract from one of his articles from The South Asia Citizens Web:
“That different views on medieval India should be influenced by the individual historian’s subjective views of the contemporary world is only to be expected; these must, however, first meet the criterion of support from historical evidence. In fact, so long as new views appear and provoke a fresh or extended exploration of the historical documentation, one can only welcome the tendency not to take the given history on trust. But historical evidence must always remain the touchstone.
A major problem today is that only a small and declining number of people in India have access to Persian, in which language so much of the source material of medieval India is to be found. Not only does this large body of material need to be studied, but the collection of documents in all languages has also to be encouraged, as well as local antiquarian and archaeological work.
With every passing day the evidence on paper, metal or brick or stone is being destroyed. If the hand of destruction is to be stayed, the people’s interest in the country’s past needs to be aroused. In this effort all those who, without necessarily being professional historians themselves, have yet a care for all aspects and phases of our heritage, can play a most crucial part.”
[Citation: Quote from History and interpretation – Communalism and problems of historiography in India by Irfan Habib; reproduced from The South Asia Citizens Web. Irfan Habib’s full article can be found here.]
In India, we are no strangers to such conflicts. In fact, at times, this has been worrisome and even scary. And yet, interpreting history cannot be avoided. So, how should one approach the subject of history and its interpretation?
To find answers to this question, I turned to eminent Indian historian Irfan Habib. Here is an extract from one of his articles from The South Asia Citizens Web:
“That different views on medieval India should be influenced by the individual historian’s subjective views of the contemporary world is only to be expected; these must, however, first meet the criterion of support from historical evidence. In fact, so long as new views appear and provoke a fresh or extended exploration of the historical documentation, one can only welcome the tendency not to take the given history on trust. But historical evidence must always remain the touchstone.
A major problem today is that only a small and declining number of people in India have access to Persian, in which language so much of the source material of medieval India is to be found. Not only does this large body of material need to be studied, but the collection of documents in all languages has also to be encouraged, as well as local antiquarian and archaeological work.
With every passing day the evidence on paper, metal or brick or stone is being destroyed. If the hand of destruction is to be stayed, the people’s interest in the country’s past needs to be aroused. In this effort all those who, without necessarily being professional historians themselves, have yet a care for all aspects and phases of our heritage, can play a most crucial part.”
[Citation: Quote from History and interpretation – Communalism and problems of historiography in India by Irfan Habib; reproduced from The South Asia Citizens Web. Irfan Habib’s full article can be found here.]
04 January 2008
The problem of interpretation
History is replete with instances of political dogmatism (e.g. Communism in Russia and China), diktats from religion (e.g. The Crusades, Islamic jihad), cultural and social acceptance of a certain country or a certain period (e.g. the caste system in India). In spite of available hard facts, and human reason making sense of these facts, interpretations can change everything.
For instance, by most records, Vasco da Gama is considered a hero in Europe for having sailed across the seas to discover a route to India, bringing back with him riches in spices, cloth and gold. However, in India, Vasco da Gama is looked upon as an invader; an exploiter of Indian hospitality and wealth.
Which interpretation is true? Which interpretation of Vasco da Gama’s discovery of India will you believe in? Which interpretation should be published in the history books for all to read?
Perhaps, there is a middle path which presents a neutral picture of what happened in history; a path which recounts history in a narrative that best explains what truly happened.
Apparently, there is such a path – a ‘best histories’ path. I did not know about ‘best histories’ until a year ago. It was pointed out to me by a friend from Australia, Robert Edwards, who is some sort of an authority in history. The following paragraphs are quotes from Robert’s emails to me, when we discussed the issue of interpreting Vasco da Gama’s feats:
“The best histories tend to try to marry the two perspectives (or five, or ten!) into a narrative that tells each of the two, and tries to reconcile them.
For example, ‘To Europeans, and in particular the Portuguese, Vasco da Gama was a great maritime explorer who discovered India and established the spice trade between Europe and the Asian Subcontinent. However, to Indians, he was an invader who exploited the people of India and paved the way for their further exploitation and subjugation by the ensuing waves of European conquerors.’ might be a more balanced way of telling the story of Vasco da Gama, which puts the two narratives together.
Credit can be given where credit is due, so you could say that ‘while Vasco da Gama was an intrepid explorer of parts of the world that were previously unknown to Europeans, an excellent mariner with great bravery, he was also responsible for cruel deprivations and the exploitation of existing problems between Indian groups to establish trade by force with his Portuguese masters.’ or something like that. You need to be able to discuss the bad aspects of someone’s feats, provide all perspectives. This would be the right way to do it, rather than just a celebratory piece about how wonderful da Gama was.
While historians may agree on the hard facts, such as the date of the Treaty of Versailles, the date that Vasco da Gama arrived in India (depending, of course, on the calendar you use), it takes a lot of arguing to agree on the interpretation of those facts.”
[Thank you, Robert.]
For instance, by most records, Vasco da Gama is considered a hero in Europe for having sailed across the seas to discover a route to India, bringing back with him riches in spices, cloth and gold. However, in India, Vasco da Gama is looked upon as an invader; an exploiter of Indian hospitality and wealth.
Which interpretation is true? Which interpretation of Vasco da Gama’s discovery of India will you believe in? Which interpretation should be published in the history books for all to read?
Perhaps, there is a middle path which presents a neutral picture of what happened in history; a path which recounts history in a narrative that best explains what truly happened.
Apparently, there is such a path – a ‘best histories’ path. I did not know about ‘best histories’ until a year ago. It was pointed out to me by a friend from Australia, Robert Edwards, who is some sort of an authority in history. The following paragraphs are quotes from Robert’s emails to me, when we discussed the issue of interpreting Vasco da Gama’s feats:
“The best histories tend to try to marry the two perspectives (or five, or ten!) into a narrative that tells each of the two, and tries to reconcile them.
For example, ‘To Europeans, and in particular the Portuguese, Vasco da Gama was a great maritime explorer who discovered India and established the spice trade between Europe and the Asian Subcontinent. However, to Indians, he was an invader who exploited the people of India and paved the way for their further exploitation and subjugation by the ensuing waves of European conquerors.’ might be a more balanced way of telling the story of Vasco da Gama, which puts the two narratives together.
Credit can be given where credit is due, so you could say that ‘while Vasco da Gama was an intrepid explorer of parts of the world that were previously unknown to Europeans, an excellent mariner with great bravery, he was also responsible for cruel deprivations and the exploitation of existing problems between Indian groups to establish trade by force with his Portuguese masters.’ or something like that. You need to be able to discuss the bad aspects of someone’s feats, provide all perspectives. This would be the right way to do it, rather than just a celebratory piece about how wonderful da Gama was.
While historians may agree on the hard facts, such as the date of the Treaty of Versailles, the date that Vasco da Gama arrived in India (depending, of course, on the calendar you use), it takes a lot of arguing to agree on the interpretation of those facts.”
[Thank you, Robert.]
03 January 2008
Inventing history
As we step into 2008, we look at the events of the past year and the years before that as history. We take it for granted that that’s what really happened in history. But, how much of it is true? How much of it can we rely on as not an invention of the facts?
Historians, too, rely on their imagination while documenting history.
Finding and deciphering fragments of past data, most of which is destroyed, is a difficult task. As far as prehistory and ancient history go, even dating fossils and artefacts accurately is a problem. Historians have no choice but to use their imagination to piece together what they think history is (or was).
That’s not all. When historians rely on available records – even in cases of eye-witness reports – there is an issue of ideologies and prejudices to overcome, or neutralise. This includes the historian’s own ideology/prejudice, as well as the ideologies/prejudices of the people (and the period) prevalent at the time.
There is also the issue of version – or point of view – of history which is determined by those in power. Those in power – emperors, kings, sultans, political parties, etc. – write history in their own voice of authority. They record history and publish history books, making their version of history the definitive one.
For instance, in India, history was not recorded (i.e. was not available in writing – I’m not too sure about this; there must’ve been some recorded history) for thousands of years… almost until the time the Moslems came into the country in the 12th century. Since the Moslems were (and still are) great at documenting history, much of Indian history has a Moslem bias, which present-day historians are trying to set straight.
Later, when the British arrived in India in the 18th century, something similar happened and much of modern Indian history was written – and re-written – by the British with a colonial bias. Once again, present-day Indian historians are trying to set those records straight. So, you can imagine the confusion and debate in constructing actual Indian history!
The point is, there’s always an element of invention in writing history. I feel this makes history interesting. However, ‘inventing’ history can be a dubious exercise. We don’t want to build civilisations on lies. As new evidence emerges, historians have a responsibility to set the records straight. Rewrite the history books, if that’s what needs to be done, to give us a more correct picture of what really happened in history.
Historians, too, rely on their imagination while documenting history.
Finding and deciphering fragments of past data, most of which is destroyed, is a difficult task. As far as prehistory and ancient history go, even dating fossils and artefacts accurately is a problem. Historians have no choice but to use their imagination to piece together what they think history is (or was).
That’s not all. When historians rely on available records – even in cases of eye-witness reports – there is an issue of ideologies and prejudices to overcome, or neutralise. This includes the historian’s own ideology/prejudice, as well as the ideologies/prejudices of the people (and the period) prevalent at the time.
There is also the issue of version – or point of view – of history which is determined by those in power. Those in power – emperors, kings, sultans, political parties, etc. – write history in their own voice of authority. They record history and publish history books, making their version of history the definitive one.
For instance, in India, history was not recorded (i.e. was not available in writing – I’m not too sure about this; there must’ve been some recorded history) for thousands of years… almost until the time the Moslems came into the country in the 12th century. Since the Moslems were (and still are) great at documenting history, much of Indian history has a Moslem bias, which present-day historians are trying to set straight.
Later, when the British arrived in India in the 18th century, something similar happened and much of modern Indian history was written – and re-written – by the British with a colonial bias. Once again, present-day Indian historians are trying to set those records straight. So, you can imagine the confusion and debate in constructing actual Indian history!
The point is, there’s always an element of invention in writing history. I feel this makes history interesting. However, ‘inventing’ history can be a dubious exercise. We don’t want to build civilisations on lies. As new evidence emerges, historians have a responsibility to set the records straight. Rewrite the history books, if that’s what needs to be done, to give us a more correct picture of what really happened in history.
30 December 2007
For the sake of popularity
In school, I hated history. I had to memorise names of people and places and dates, which I never could, and ended up getting low marks in exams. I found history books boring, with the same old stuff written in every book year after year, and every book carrying the same old badly-printed black & white pictures. Those days, in India, good history books with colour photos were few and expensive. So, I dropped history as soon as I could and decided to take up science. Much later in life, and I don’t know how it happened, I began to take an interest in history, and even anthropology.
The fact about historians opening up to make their work more ‘fictional’ is an interesting happening. I’m not totally against this. In fact, remembering my history classes in school, I believe it’s a happy circumstance to be in. I feel this ‘opening up’ reaches out to more people and attracts them to a subject which is considered boring. And, I’m not one to complain about this. I remember my excitement when I read Jacob Bronowski’s ‘The Ascent of Man’ some 20 years ago. It was a wonderful presentation on the history of science; and, perhaps, that’s when my interest in history began.
Science has always adopted various routes in popularising difficult-to-understand subjects and new discoveries. Books (both non-fiction and sci-fi) and documentary films on, say, the theory of evolution, particle physics and nanotechnology are just a few good examples of this approach. Mind you, this doesn’t mean good hard work by historians and scientists should be discredited for being too factual and uninteresting – and, therefore, unpopular. Nor does it mean fiction should overrule historical and scientific facts for the sake of popularity.
The fact about historians opening up to make their work more ‘fictional’ is an interesting happening. I’m not totally against this. In fact, remembering my history classes in school, I believe it’s a happy circumstance to be in. I feel this ‘opening up’ reaches out to more people and attracts them to a subject which is considered boring. And, I’m not one to complain about this. I remember my excitement when I read Jacob Bronowski’s ‘The Ascent of Man’ some 20 years ago. It was a wonderful presentation on the history of science; and, perhaps, that’s when my interest in history began.
Science has always adopted various routes in popularising difficult-to-understand subjects and new discoveries. Books (both non-fiction and sci-fi) and documentary films on, say, the theory of evolution, particle physics and nanotechnology are just a few good examples of this approach. Mind you, this doesn’t mean good hard work by historians and scientists should be discredited for being too factual and uninteresting – and, therefore, unpopular. Nor does it mean fiction should overrule historical and scientific facts for the sake of popularity.
29 December 2007
History is not 100% fiction
There seems to be a debate in historical circles surrounding the idea that history is fiction. Particularly those historians who are influenced by the deconstructionist movement believe that a historical narrative is not much different from fiction. That, at the end of the day, what historians do is put together whatever evidence there is and try to make sense of it in a narrative form. Which is exactly what good storytellers do.
That’s why, these days, we see some change in the way that history is presented to us. Whereas in the past, history books were seen as having undisputed authority over the past (and were written in an authoritative tone), nowadays, we see historians openly working through their prejudices and ideologies and presenting history in a narrative form which is (given a little licence here and there) as entertaining as a story.
Of course, some writers of fiction – and filmmakers too – try to take this idea farther. They believe fiction is a better vehicle than history because they can get into the time and into the period with more depth than historians can. Because they – i.e. writers and filmmakers – can use their imagination, empathy, skills and techniques (of the trade) to create a better picture of the events, people and their lifestyles of that period.
Do I agree with this? Yes, I do. But then, I don’t assume that this fiction is 100% history. Nor do I assume that history is 100% fiction.
I understand that writers and filmmakers – as well as historians, biologists, physicists or fiction authors – bring something of themselves and their beliefs into their work. I understand that filmmakers and writers of historical fiction use their creative licence to present to us a more colourful and entertaining version of history than what we may have found in our history books earlier. And that’s where it all stands.
That’s why, these days, we see some change in the way that history is presented to us. Whereas in the past, history books were seen as having undisputed authority over the past (and were written in an authoritative tone), nowadays, we see historians openly working through their prejudices and ideologies and presenting history in a narrative form which is (given a little licence here and there) as entertaining as a story.
Of course, some writers of fiction – and filmmakers too – try to take this idea farther. They believe fiction is a better vehicle than history because they can get into the time and into the period with more depth than historians can. Because they – i.e. writers and filmmakers – can use their imagination, empathy, skills and techniques (of the trade) to create a better picture of the events, people and their lifestyles of that period.
Do I agree with this? Yes, I do. But then, I don’t assume that this fiction is 100% history. Nor do I assume that history is 100% fiction.
I understand that writers and filmmakers – as well as historians, biologists, physicists or fiction authors – bring something of themselves and their beliefs into their work. I understand that filmmakers and writers of historical fiction use their creative licence to present to us a more colourful and entertaining version of history than what we may have found in our history books earlier. And that’s where it all stands.
28 December 2007
Isn’t history another story?
The criticisms showered by historians on historical films (see my previous posts) is an interesting subject. Mostly, criticisms are directed at inaccuracies in representation of facts, as well as the interpretations and enhancements that film directors make liberal use of ‘as technique’ to tell their stories. Hence, I find Oliver Stone’s allusion (about himself as a historical filmmaker) to a dramatist along the lines of William Shakespeare a fascinating analogy.
William Shakespeare had taken ample liberties in writing his historical plays (Richard III, Henry V, etc.) and his tragedies (Macbeth, Hamlet, etc.) – changing facts, dramatising history and historical characters (even inventing a few) to make his plays more attractive to his audience. Nobody finds anything wrong in this, of course. After all, this is literature; this is fiction. And, we all like a good story, well told.
But, isn’t history fiction too? Isn’t history a narrative constructed by men and women to serve a particular academic/cultural/social purpose and, therefore, holding much in common with literature of the fictive kind?
Yes, it is true that what historians construct are based on material evidence from the past (archival sources, archeological pieces found at digs, etc.). But they also have to construct a narrative out of these diverse sources. And, while they try to be objective like scientists, these narratives are inevitably biased by their ideas, ideologies, opinions, and their desires to tell a good story.
In that case, are historians really all that different from authors and filmmakers who do historical research in order to construct a good era-based fiction? And present history to us as another story?
William Shakespeare had taken ample liberties in writing his historical plays (Richard III, Henry V, etc.) and his tragedies (Macbeth, Hamlet, etc.) – changing facts, dramatising history and historical characters (even inventing a few) to make his plays more attractive to his audience. Nobody finds anything wrong in this, of course. After all, this is literature; this is fiction. And, we all like a good story, well told.
But, isn’t history fiction too? Isn’t history a narrative constructed by men and women to serve a particular academic/cultural/social purpose and, therefore, holding much in common with literature of the fictive kind?
Yes, it is true that what historians construct are based on material evidence from the past (archival sources, archeological pieces found at digs, etc.). But they also have to construct a narrative out of these diverse sources. And, while they try to be objective like scientists, these narratives are inevitably biased by their ideas, ideologies, opinions, and their desires to tell a good story.
In that case, are historians really all that different from authors and filmmakers who do historical research in order to construct a good era-based fiction? And present history to us as another story?
17 December 2007
Contesting history
Commercial filmmakers of history – such as David Lean, Oliver Stone, Ridley Scott, Mel Gibson, among others – have always attracted controversy and criticism. They have been accused of distorting historical records, reconfiguring history to mean something else altogether. As a film viewer, this criticism has always bothered me.
As a film viewer, I know commercial filmmakers of history are not historians. They have never claimed to be so. I look to historical films for knowledge and inspiration, as much as for entertainment. Anybody who offers an interpretation of the past, breaking down myths, is welcome by me… so long as the depiction is not a total fantasy.
I had read somewhere that Oliver Stone views himself as a historical dramatist in the tradition of William Shakespeare and the Greeks. If I’ve understood it right, Stone says, like Shakespeare’s history plays like ‘Richard III’ and ‘Henry V’, his historical films like ‘JFK’ and ‘Platoon’ are a mix of fact and fiction.
In his films, Oliver Stone attempts to reveal larger truths by challenging the mainstream, i.e. generally-accepted, views of history. His films offer a meaning of the past, contesting traditional/official narratives of historians, critiquing dominant ideologies, in an effort to unravel some of the darker, questionable aspects of our past.
After all, history is not only about kings, queens, presidents, soldiers/warriors, wars, conspiracies and collapse of empires. History is also about ideology, corruption, abuse of power, breakdown of order, freedom, loss, uncertainty, fear, anxiety, confusion, despair, exhaustion, racism, brutality and regard/disregard for humanity.
We, as film viewers (and that includes historians), are often uncomfortable with some of the narratives and conclusions that filmmakers like Stone, Scott and Gibson advocate. They make us think not only about our past, but also about who we are. I remember being deeply moved by ‘No Man’s Land’, a film by Bosnian director Danis Tanovic, which questioned the meaninglessness of war. The film left me somewhat helpless.
Films like ‘No Man’s Land’, Scott’s ‘Kingdom of Heaven’ and Stone’s ‘Platoon’ not only represent history, they also influence our perception of life and question our moral standing.
As a film viewer, I know commercial filmmakers of history are not historians. They have never claimed to be so. I look to historical films for knowledge and inspiration, as much as for entertainment. Anybody who offers an interpretation of the past, breaking down myths, is welcome by me… so long as the depiction is not a total fantasy.
I had read somewhere that Oliver Stone views himself as a historical dramatist in the tradition of William Shakespeare and the Greeks. If I’ve understood it right, Stone says, like Shakespeare’s history plays like ‘Richard III’ and ‘Henry V’, his historical films like ‘JFK’ and ‘Platoon’ are a mix of fact and fiction.
In his films, Oliver Stone attempts to reveal larger truths by challenging the mainstream, i.e. generally-accepted, views of history. His films offer a meaning of the past, contesting traditional/official narratives of historians, critiquing dominant ideologies, in an effort to unravel some of the darker, questionable aspects of our past.
After all, history is not only about kings, queens, presidents, soldiers/warriors, wars, conspiracies and collapse of empires. History is also about ideology, corruption, abuse of power, breakdown of order, freedom, loss, uncertainty, fear, anxiety, confusion, despair, exhaustion, racism, brutality and regard/disregard for humanity.
We, as film viewers (and that includes historians), are often uncomfortable with some of the narratives and conclusions that filmmakers like Stone, Scott and Gibson advocate. They make us think not only about our past, but also about who we are. I remember being deeply moved by ‘No Man’s Land’, a film by Bosnian director Danis Tanovic, which questioned the meaninglessness of war. The film left me somewhat helpless.
Films like ‘No Man’s Land’, Scott’s ‘Kingdom of Heaven’ and Stone’s ‘Platoon’ not only represent history, they also influence our perception of life and question our moral standing.
14 December 2007
Are film directors dishonest?
“The only reason to make a historical film is because it illuminates the present.”
– Ken Loach, British filmmaker
David Lean’s ‘Lawrence of Arabia’; Ken Loach’s ‘Hidden Agenda’; Steven Spielberg’s ‘Amistad’; Shekhar Kapoor’s ‘Elizabeth’; Ridley Scott’s ‘Kingdom of Heaven’; Mel Gibson’s ‘Apocalypto’… these are a few among many films which have been hounded and criticised by historians for their inaccurate depiction of historical facts.
Why is there so much bad blood over inaccuracies in films that depict historic periods? Do historians feel that film directors are inept, or simply dishonest, in making historical films? How accurate should a historical film be?
I don’t have the answers to these questions, but I do have a question of my own: Should film directors compromise a good story in order to depict historical facts accurately?
My teenage niece (who was looking on as I was writing this blog post) tells me that a good story, any day, is better than rigidly sticking to the facts. She tells me that film directors usually add a twist of their own to make a good film with a good story more appealing to the viewers.
How big a twist should directors add to their films? I guess, to the extent the film does not compromise its entertainment value. After all, we watch films for entertainment, not for lessons in history. There’s no point in making a historically accurate film if the film becomes unwatchable.
More so because film is art. And art is more liberal in its interpretation and presentation.
However, once again, the issue of ‘fact or fiction’ raises its ugly head: Should film directors be allowed to change real (historical) events, or real characters for that matter, in the name of art? And, moreover, should such decisions be justified by them – or by film viewers like us?
– Ken Loach, British filmmaker
David Lean’s ‘Lawrence of Arabia’; Ken Loach’s ‘Hidden Agenda’; Steven Spielberg’s ‘Amistad’; Shekhar Kapoor’s ‘Elizabeth’; Ridley Scott’s ‘Kingdom of Heaven’; Mel Gibson’s ‘Apocalypto’… these are a few among many films which have been hounded and criticised by historians for their inaccurate depiction of historical facts.
Why is there so much bad blood over inaccuracies in films that depict historic periods? Do historians feel that film directors are inept, or simply dishonest, in making historical films? How accurate should a historical film be?
I don’t have the answers to these questions, but I do have a question of my own: Should film directors compromise a good story in order to depict historical facts accurately?
My teenage niece (who was looking on as I was writing this blog post) tells me that a good story, any day, is better than rigidly sticking to the facts. She tells me that film directors usually add a twist of their own to make a good film with a good story more appealing to the viewers.
How big a twist should directors add to their films? I guess, to the extent the film does not compromise its entertainment value. After all, we watch films for entertainment, not for lessons in history. There’s no point in making a historically accurate film if the film becomes unwatchable.
More so because film is art. And art is more liberal in its interpretation and presentation.
However, once again, the issue of ‘fact or fiction’ raises its ugly head: Should film directors be allowed to change real (historical) events, or real characters for that matter, in the name of art? And, moreover, should such decisions be justified by them – or by film viewers like us?
12 December 2007
Taking liberties
I am inspired by a comment on my blog. [Thanks Madhuri] The comment stated: “Fiction set against the backdrop of a history often gives a much better perspective of that history than a historical discourse/report.”
I agree. That’s the wonderful thing about fiction, particularly historical fiction. Whether a book or a film, the filling in of the details by the author/filmmaker adds colour and makes everything more interesting. Normally, responsible authors and filmmakers stick close to what is known and fill in the details between documented facts. However, on many occasions, authors and filmmakers present an alternative which disagree – or, is in conflict – with documented facts.
These interpretations of facts, these liberties that authors and filmmakers often take, can confuse readers and audiences. Although there is freedom of speech (in most countries in the world) that allows this, conservative schools of thought say that inaccurate representations of facts in the guise of fiction can be misunderstood by people. That fiction can often become fact. That, historical inaccuracies, particularly when well presented, can often change what we believe to be the truth.
A case in point is Oliver Stone’s 1991 Hollywood film ‘JFK’ about the controversy behind US President John F Kennedy’s assassination. Director Oliver Stone had used a cinematic technique in his film ‘JFK’, mixing actual B&W newsreel footage with his personal version of the mystery behind the Kennedy assassination by depicting these (i.e. the make-believe) portions in colour. On seeing the film, many viewers actually believed Stone’s version to be the real thing.
Thus, Oliver Stone’s ‘JFK’ created a huge controversy, and came under attack from the media as well as historians. As people lined up to see ‘JFK’ (which did rather well in the box office and later won two Academy Awards), the US media and several historians went overboard criticising the historical inaccuracies in Stone’s film. They all said that, in ‘JFK’, Oliver Stone has tricked his audience.
Criticism aimed at Stone derided him for taking liberties in interpreting historical facts; using pseudo-documentary footage to represent fiction as fact; using the fictional character ‘X’ (a colonel in the US Air Force played by actor Donald Sutherland) to explain/justify Stone’s myth of a conspiracy; and, more importantly, implying a conspiracy in the Kennedy assassination involving President Lyndon B Johnson and other senior US government officials.
Of course, Stone defended himself. In an interview with Mark C Carnes in ‘Cineaste’ (Fall 1996) Stone says: “…we as dramatists are undertaking a deconstruction of history, questioning some of the given realities. What you call ‘sneaky’ is, to me, an ambivalent and shifting style that makes people aware they are watching a movie and that reality itself is in question. JFK was the beginning of a new era for me in terms of filmmaking because it’s not just about a conspiracy to kill John Kennedy. It’s also about the way we look at our recent history.”
And, I think, therein lies the truth (and the beauty) that authors and filmmakers pursue in their craft.
[Citation: ‘Past Imperfect: History According to the Movies (interview with film director Oliver Stone)’, by Mark C Carnes, Cineaste v22 n4 (Fall 1996)]
I agree. That’s the wonderful thing about fiction, particularly historical fiction. Whether a book or a film, the filling in of the details by the author/filmmaker adds colour and makes everything more interesting. Normally, responsible authors and filmmakers stick close to what is known and fill in the details between documented facts. However, on many occasions, authors and filmmakers present an alternative which disagree – or, is in conflict – with documented facts.
These interpretations of facts, these liberties that authors and filmmakers often take, can confuse readers and audiences. Although there is freedom of speech (in most countries in the world) that allows this, conservative schools of thought say that inaccurate representations of facts in the guise of fiction can be misunderstood by people. That fiction can often become fact. That, historical inaccuracies, particularly when well presented, can often change what we believe to be the truth.
A case in point is Oliver Stone’s 1991 Hollywood film ‘JFK’ about the controversy behind US President John F Kennedy’s assassination. Director Oliver Stone had used a cinematic technique in his film ‘JFK’, mixing actual B&W newsreel footage with his personal version of the mystery behind the Kennedy assassination by depicting these (i.e. the make-believe) portions in colour. On seeing the film, many viewers actually believed Stone’s version to be the real thing.
Thus, Oliver Stone’s ‘JFK’ created a huge controversy, and came under attack from the media as well as historians. As people lined up to see ‘JFK’ (which did rather well in the box office and later won two Academy Awards), the US media and several historians went overboard criticising the historical inaccuracies in Stone’s film. They all said that, in ‘JFK’, Oliver Stone has tricked his audience.
Criticism aimed at Stone derided him for taking liberties in interpreting historical facts; using pseudo-documentary footage to represent fiction as fact; using the fictional character ‘X’ (a colonel in the US Air Force played by actor Donald Sutherland) to explain/justify Stone’s myth of a conspiracy; and, more importantly, implying a conspiracy in the Kennedy assassination involving President Lyndon B Johnson and other senior US government officials.
Of course, Stone defended himself. In an interview with Mark C Carnes in ‘Cineaste’ (Fall 1996) Stone says: “…we as dramatists are undertaking a deconstruction of history, questioning some of the given realities. What you call ‘sneaky’ is, to me, an ambivalent and shifting style that makes people aware they are watching a movie and that reality itself is in question. JFK was the beginning of a new era for me in terms of filmmaking because it’s not just about a conspiracy to kill John Kennedy. It’s also about the way we look at our recent history.”
And, I think, therein lies the truth (and the beauty) that authors and filmmakers pursue in their craft.
[Citation: ‘Past Imperfect: History According to the Movies (interview with film director Oliver Stone)’, by Mark C Carnes, Cineaste v22 n4 (Fall 1996)]
11 December 2007
Artful writing
Journalists report facts. They don’t cook up stories from their imagination. Cooking up stories is a novelist’s prerogative. Journalists state facts in impersonal tones, leaving out all emotion from their writing. They don’t personalise events as they happen, or happened. They never use ‘I’ in their narratives. That creative licence belongs to the novelist.
The journalist who turns to write novels requires a reversal of role – a change in discipline, a switching of personalities. The new path can be treacherous for those who are reluctant to leave their former profession behind. For, a journalist’s world is that of reality, while a novelist’s is that of fiction.
However, going by the number of journalists who have become novelists – some even managing to maintain both professions simultaneously – perhaps, the transformation isn’t difficult for the talented. Ernest Hemingway is a wonderful example of this model. Although Hemingway was in Spain to report on the Civil War (which he did, of course; and even joined forces with the militia against the fascists), he is better remembered by us for his novel ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’, a fictional narrative from his experiences there.
However, Hemingway had kept his journalism and his fiction separate – unlike Javier Cercas, author of ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ (please read my previous post), who seems to artfully mix the two. In his book, Cercas, also a journalist- novelist like Hemingway, narrates a particular event from the Spanish Civil War and its investigation 60-odd years later by a journalist-novelist. In fact, in the book, the journalist-novelist character is also called ‘Javier Cercas’.
This writer’s trick/technique can be a little confusing (I remember novelist Paul Auster had used ‘Paul Auster’ as a character in his novel ‘City of Glass’ some 20 years ago which could have been Paul Auster himself), but what amazes me about Cercas is his skill in weaving in and out of fact and fiction with the greatest ease, using the ‘I’ as a sort of self-reflexive technique to narrate the story. So, in ‘Soldiers of Salamis’, we (the readers) often find it difficult to distinguish the reality from the fiction.
Is this artful writing or just a writer’s trick to make the fiction seem real? Perhaps, it’s a bit of both. In an interview with Richard Lea in Guardian Unlimited some six months ago, Cercas explains himself about his writing style (and I quote from that article, ‘Really intense tales’):
His self-reflexive technique, he explains, came out of a series of experimental columns for the Spanish newspaper, El Pais, which continues to this day. “I began to write some weird stuff in El Pais, using the ‘I’,” he says, “and then I became aware that this ‘I’ was fictional, even in a newspaper. They were experimental, crazy columns, and I began to write in a different way, that some people describe as ‘self-fiction’.”
So the books aren’t true tales? “Of course not,” he smiles. “These narrators in the books are not myself, even though in the case of Soldiers of Salamis the name is my name.” According to Cercas, the first person voice is the natural starting point for fiction. To reach the third person was a “conquest” for him, but having achieved that stage of detachment he realised that the first person offers the writer many possibilities.
“The idea of putting oneself in the novel, more or less explicitly, is not new,” he observes. “There’s a whole bunch of writers that use this kind of ‘I’.” He mentions Cervantes, Borges, Roth.
Javier Cercas’ interview with Richard Lea is an amazing read by itself – and I recommend reading it in full. Here’s the link.
[Citation: ‘Really intense tales’, Richard Lea, Guardian Unlimited, 15 June 2007]
The journalist who turns to write novels requires a reversal of role – a change in discipline, a switching of personalities. The new path can be treacherous for those who are reluctant to leave their former profession behind. For, a journalist’s world is that of reality, while a novelist’s is that of fiction.
However, going by the number of journalists who have become novelists – some even managing to maintain both professions simultaneously – perhaps, the transformation isn’t difficult for the talented. Ernest Hemingway is a wonderful example of this model. Although Hemingway was in Spain to report on the Civil War (which he did, of course; and even joined forces with the militia against the fascists), he is better remembered by us for his novel ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’, a fictional narrative from his experiences there.
However, Hemingway had kept his journalism and his fiction separate – unlike Javier Cercas, author of ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ (please read my previous post), who seems to artfully mix the two. In his book, Cercas, also a journalist- novelist like Hemingway, narrates a particular event from the Spanish Civil War and its investigation 60-odd years later by a journalist-novelist. In fact, in the book, the journalist-novelist character is also called ‘Javier Cercas’.
This writer’s trick/technique can be a little confusing (I remember novelist Paul Auster had used ‘Paul Auster’ as a character in his novel ‘City of Glass’ some 20 years ago which could have been Paul Auster himself), but what amazes me about Cercas is his skill in weaving in and out of fact and fiction with the greatest ease, using the ‘I’ as a sort of self-reflexive technique to narrate the story. So, in ‘Soldiers of Salamis’, we (the readers) often find it difficult to distinguish the reality from the fiction.
Is this artful writing or just a writer’s trick to make the fiction seem real? Perhaps, it’s a bit of both. In an interview with Richard Lea in Guardian Unlimited some six months ago, Cercas explains himself about his writing style (and I quote from that article, ‘Really intense tales’):
His self-reflexive technique, he explains, came out of a series of experimental columns for the Spanish newspaper, El Pais, which continues to this day. “I began to write some weird stuff in El Pais, using the ‘I’,” he says, “and then I became aware that this ‘I’ was fictional, even in a newspaper. They were experimental, crazy columns, and I began to write in a different way, that some people describe as ‘self-fiction’.”
So the books aren’t true tales? “Of course not,” he smiles. “These narrators in the books are not myself, even though in the case of Soldiers of Salamis the name is my name.” According to Cercas, the first person voice is the natural starting point for fiction. To reach the third person was a “conquest” for him, but having achieved that stage of detachment he realised that the first person offers the writer many possibilities.
“The idea of putting oneself in the novel, more or less explicitly, is not new,” he observes. “There’s a whole bunch of writers that use this kind of ‘I’.” He mentions Cervantes, Borges, Roth.
Javier Cercas’ interview with Richard Lea is an amazing read by itself – and I recommend reading it in full. Here’s the link.
[Citation: ‘Really intense tales’, Richard Lea, Guardian Unlimited, 15 June 2007]
09 December 2007
A mix of the real and the imagined
I’m ashamed to say that, apart from an abridged version of Cervantes’ ‘Don Quixote’, poems and plays of Federico Garcia Lorca (during college), and (much later) some works of Camilo Jose Cela and Manuel Rivas, I’ve taken little interest in Spanish literature. Here, by ‘Spanish literature’ I mean literature from Spain, with European flavour, which excludes (Spanish) literature from Latin America.
Of course, I’ve read Ernest Hemingway, George Orwell and Graham Greene recounting their experiences in Spain, particularly about the Spanish Civil War and General Franco’s Spain. But, besides these tales, and some of Greene’s post-Franco observations, my knowledge of the Spanish Civil War and post-Civil War Spain is next to zero. Hence, it was with some trepidation that I picked up Javier Cercas’ 2001 novel ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ and read it.
I say ‘trepidation’ because, thanks to Hemingway, Orwell and Greene, I’ve had an Anglo-American observer’s point of view of Spain and the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). I did not know what to expect from a Spanish writer giving a Spanish insider’s ‘true tale’ view of what, historically, I knew nothing (and still know very little) of. The book ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ mentions many real-life people – in fact, it is based on a historical figure from that period – and was a little confusing for a neophyte like me.
Fortunately, the book (I have a Bloomsbury 2004 paperback edition) had two important sections at the back which helped. First, (Anne McLean’s) Translator’s Afterword, which gave a short political history of Spain during the Civil War. And second, Notes, which was a glossary of important people and terms from that period. These two sections are worth reading and consulting from time to time, and help tremendously in understanding the context of the tale.
The reason I categorise ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ as a ‘book’ and not a novel is because Cercas’ tale is not entirely fictional. It has such a clever mix of the real and the imagined that, at times, it seems like a true account of what may have happened during the Spanish Civil War (the past) and what Cercas himself may have gone through during his research for the book (the present context). Alas, some of all this is fabricated by the author and is, therefore, fiction. Cercas, apparently, labels it as a ‘true tale’.
‘Soldiers of Salamis’ is an account of Rafael Sanchez Mazas, a real-life character in Spain’s history. Sanchez Mazas was a fascist who played a lead role in the Falangist Movement and, later, became a minister in General Franco’s government. The story here is about Sanchez Mazas’ capture by the Republican Army during the Civil War, his failed execution by a firing squad, his miraculous escape when a Republican militiaman finds him and lets him live, his hiding in the forest under the protection of ‘forest friends’, his rescue when Franco’s army drives away the Republicans, his memory of this entire episode during his ministry in Franco’s government, and his compassion thereafter.
This tale forms the centre – the middle, really – of the book and is flanked by two important sections. The first section of the book is the story of a journalist/author, also named Cercas, who researches and writes this tale. The last section of the book is about this journalist’s pursuit of and meeting with an aged, but colourful, character called Miralles, who may have been the Republican militiaman who had spared Rafael Sanchez Mazas’ life and let him escape (after the firing squad fracas) during the Spanish Civil War… thereby changing Spain’s history of forever.
But ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ is much more than this. The book raises several questions on war, history, the recording of history, heroes and heroism, courage, loyalty, integrity and human compassion. But most of all, it is a discussion on truth, the quest for the truth, and how we remember our past. It is a discussion on how personal narratives in history, if left unchallenged or unverified, can be (mis)taken as the truth.
In a review of this book in The Independent, Boyd Tonkin mentions that Javier Cercas had described ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ not as a novel but as a ‘true tale’, ‘cut from the cloth of reality, concocted out of true events and characters’. Perhaps, ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ is exactly that. For those who enjoy historical fiction, this is a perfect story.
[Citation: ‘Boyd Tonkin salutes a commanding novel of war’s myths and memories’, The Independent on Sunday, 14 June 2003]
Of course, I’ve read Ernest Hemingway, George Orwell and Graham Greene recounting their experiences in Spain, particularly about the Spanish Civil War and General Franco’s Spain. But, besides these tales, and some of Greene’s post-Franco observations, my knowledge of the Spanish Civil War and post-Civil War Spain is next to zero. Hence, it was with some trepidation that I picked up Javier Cercas’ 2001 novel ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ and read it.
I say ‘trepidation’ because, thanks to Hemingway, Orwell and Greene, I’ve had an Anglo-American observer’s point of view of Spain and the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). I did not know what to expect from a Spanish writer giving a Spanish insider’s ‘true tale’ view of what, historically, I knew nothing (and still know very little) of. The book ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ mentions many real-life people – in fact, it is based on a historical figure from that period – and was a little confusing for a neophyte like me.
Fortunately, the book (I have a Bloomsbury 2004 paperback edition) had two important sections at the back which helped. First, (Anne McLean’s) Translator’s Afterword, which gave a short political history of Spain during the Civil War. And second, Notes, which was a glossary of important people and terms from that period. These two sections are worth reading and consulting from time to time, and help tremendously in understanding the context of the tale.
The reason I categorise ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ as a ‘book’ and not a novel is because Cercas’ tale is not entirely fictional. It has such a clever mix of the real and the imagined that, at times, it seems like a true account of what may have happened during the Spanish Civil War (the past) and what Cercas himself may have gone through during his research for the book (the present context). Alas, some of all this is fabricated by the author and is, therefore, fiction. Cercas, apparently, labels it as a ‘true tale’.
‘Soldiers of Salamis’ is an account of Rafael Sanchez Mazas, a real-life character in Spain’s history. Sanchez Mazas was a fascist who played a lead role in the Falangist Movement and, later, became a minister in General Franco’s government. The story here is about Sanchez Mazas’ capture by the Republican Army during the Civil War, his failed execution by a firing squad, his miraculous escape when a Republican militiaman finds him and lets him live, his hiding in the forest under the protection of ‘forest friends’, his rescue when Franco’s army drives away the Republicans, his memory of this entire episode during his ministry in Franco’s government, and his compassion thereafter.
This tale forms the centre – the middle, really – of the book and is flanked by two important sections. The first section of the book is the story of a journalist/author, also named Cercas, who researches and writes this tale. The last section of the book is about this journalist’s pursuit of and meeting with an aged, but colourful, character called Miralles, who may have been the Republican militiaman who had spared Rafael Sanchez Mazas’ life and let him escape (after the firing squad fracas) during the Spanish Civil War… thereby changing Spain’s history of forever.
But ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ is much more than this. The book raises several questions on war, history, the recording of history, heroes and heroism, courage, loyalty, integrity and human compassion. But most of all, it is a discussion on truth, the quest for the truth, and how we remember our past. It is a discussion on how personal narratives in history, if left unchallenged or unverified, can be (mis)taken as the truth.
In a review of this book in The Independent, Boyd Tonkin mentions that Javier Cercas had described ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ not as a novel but as a ‘true tale’, ‘cut from the cloth of reality, concocted out of true events and characters’. Perhaps, ‘Soldiers of Salamis’ is exactly that. For those who enjoy historical fiction, this is a perfect story.
[Citation: ‘Boyd Tonkin salutes a commanding novel of war’s myths and memories’, The Independent on Sunday, 14 June 2003]
08 December 2007
Interweaving fact with fiction
History, particularly personal history, is a great source of information for writers of fiction. Many writers, like Milan Kundera about whom I’ve been blogging recently, base their stories upon their own experiences, using a great deal of material, sometimes verbatim, from their own lives.
They interweave fact with fiction, creating make-believe worlds which appear to us truer than real life. In the hands of a skilful writer, fact, along with a dose of the writer’s imagination becomes fiction. Yet, to us, this fiction appears as fact. The reality of the story is what we believe in.
On this subject, I recently read an old review of one of Asian-American author Amy Tan’s books, ‘The Opposite of Fate’. The review, by Clea Simon, in the San Francisco Chronicle from 7 December 2003, describes how this make-believe world of the author can appear to her/his readers.
“Amy Tan has built a career exploring mother-daughter relationships, particularly the tensions between a Chinese immigrant and her American-born children. Because Tan is Asian American and has continued to revisit these themes in her fiction, her fans have made the easy assumption that she writes from experience. These fans, she notes in her new collection of essays, ‘The Opposite of Fate’, often take for granted that she has lifted fiction directly out of fact, going so far as to congratulate her on her chess mastery (she doesn’t play chess) or asking after the children that her apparently fictional stand-ins enjoy (and she doesn’t have children).”
Of course, the writer of fiction views the process differently (and I quote again from the article): “But while the author does acknowledge that art grows from life, it is how it changes on the journey into fiction that makes the telling worthwhile.”
[Citation: ‘Amy Tan explores the interweaving of fate, fact and fiction’, Clea Simon, San Francisco Chronicle, 7 December 2003]
They interweave fact with fiction, creating make-believe worlds which appear to us truer than real life. In the hands of a skilful writer, fact, along with a dose of the writer’s imagination becomes fiction. Yet, to us, this fiction appears as fact. The reality of the story is what we believe in.
On this subject, I recently read an old review of one of Asian-American author Amy Tan’s books, ‘The Opposite of Fate’. The review, by Clea Simon, in the San Francisco Chronicle from 7 December 2003, describes how this make-believe world of the author can appear to her/his readers.
“Amy Tan has built a career exploring mother-daughter relationships, particularly the tensions between a Chinese immigrant and her American-born children. Because Tan is Asian American and has continued to revisit these themes in her fiction, her fans have made the easy assumption that she writes from experience. These fans, she notes in her new collection of essays, ‘The Opposite of Fate’, often take for granted that she has lifted fiction directly out of fact, going so far as to congratulate her on her chess mastery (she doesn’t play chess) or asking after the children that her apparently fictional stand-ins enjoy (and she doesn’t have children).”
Of course, the writer of fiction views the process differently (and I quote again from the article): “But while the author does acknowledge that art grows from life, it is how it changes on the journey into fiction that makes the telling worthwhile.”
[Citation: ‘Amy Tan explores the interweaving of fate, fact and fiction’, Clea Simon, San Francisco Chronicle, 7 December 2003]
07 December 2007
Fate of the individual in modern society
A theme that often connects Czech writer Milan Kundera’s novels, and his short fiction, is the fate of the individual in modern society. It appears in almost all of his major works such as ‘The Joke’, ‘The Book of Laughter and Forgetting’ and ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’. Although these novels deal with the fate of the individual in a modern Communist society, I feel, the theme is equally applicable to any modern society.
However, Kundera’s use of this theme is not new. The fate of the individual in modern society is a common theme among fiction writers. Gustave Flaubert, Leo Tolstoy, Joseph Conrad, Virginia Woolf, D H Lawrence, James Joyce, and not to forget Franz Kafka, among many others, have all traversed this territory much before Kundera. But what I like about Kundera is that he presents his case, and his characters, in a light-hearted manner, interweaving fact with fiction.
Although Kundera’s writing lectures us on modern Czech history, this history is presented as the context in which his characters shuffle around and live their lives. This is the place that his characters occupy – a place created by Kundera’s imagination and the factual recorded history of Czechoslovakia. Added to this is Kundera’s play with philosophy, which he presents to us, almost as a discourse, through his ‘narrator’.
Kundera’s stories, and the characters within them, unfold in a sort of step-by-step manner – in an interweaving of fact and fiction and philosophy, within which his characters struggle to discover themselves and find joy (if only for a short while). All in all, a pretty interesting construction for a novel, don’t you think?
However, Kundera’s use of this theme is not new. The fate of the individual in modern society is a common theme among fiction writers. Gustave Flaubert, Leo Tolstoy, Joseph Conrad, Virginia Woolf, D H Lawrence, James Joyce, and not to forget Franz Kafka, among many others, have all traversed this territory much before Kundera. But what I like about Kundera is that he presents his case, and his characters, in a light-hearted manner, interweaving fact with fiction.
Although Kundera’s writing lectures us on modern Czech history, this history is presented as the context in which his characters shuffle around and live their lives. This is the place that his characters occupy – a place created by Kundera’s imagination and the factual recorded history of Czechoslovakia. Added to this is Kundera’s play with philosophy, which he presents to us, almost as a discourse, through his ‘narrator’.
Kundera’s stories, and the characters within them, unfold in a sort of step-by-step manner – in an interweaving of fact and fiction and philosophy, within which his characters struggle to discover themselves and find joy (if only for a short while). All in all, a pretty interesting construction for a novel, don’t you think?
05 December 2007
Meaninglessness
Relationships are not single-dimensional entities. Every relationship is made up of two or more persons, naturally engendering two or more points of view. There is no single truth, or happening; only versions of it.
This idea takes central meaning in most of Czech writer Milan Kundera’s fiction. His post-Czechoslovakia novel, ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’, completed in Paris (where he had moved with his wife sometime after the Soviet invasion) and published sometime in the mid-1980s, is a classic example of his thinking and his writing style. In most literary circles, at least from Western eyes, ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’ is acknowledged to be Kundera’s most famous work.
The narrative in ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’ is simple, telling the stories of two couples: Tomas and Tereza, Sabina and Franz.
The longer of the two stories is about a divorced womanising Czech neurosurgeon Tomas and Tereza, an ordinary country girl working in a restaurant. Tomas and Tereza marry, and Tereza becomes a talented photojournalist. When the Soviets invade and take over Czechoslovakia, the couple defects to Switzerland. However, on discovering Tomas’ infidelities, Tereza returns to Czechoslovakia. Tomas follows her, giving up a promising career.
In Czechoslovakia, Tomas is forced to leave his job at a hospital when he refuses to retract from an article he had written, which contained anti-Soviet sentiments. So, he takes up a menial job as a window cleaner, while continuing with his womanising. Tereza becomes a housewife, staying home with their dog. Later, to deter Tomas from his infidelities, as well as to escape from the State secret police, the couple moves to the country to live simple happy lives, until their death in a car accident.
The shorter story is a relationship between Sabina, a Czech émigré artist in Switzerland, and Franz, a married Swiss lecturer. Not only do the two persons in this relationship have different backgrounds, they have different minds as well – and the relationship is fraught with misunderstandings. They eventually part ways: Franz to live with a female student and then die a nonsensical death at a protest march in Thailand; Sabina to live to a ripe old age in the United States.
Although the narrative in ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’ is simple, Kundera continues to explore his favourite theme of different points of view that relationships encompass. He examines relationships from different angles, presenting different perspectives of the persons involved in the relationships. So different can be the perspectives in a relationship, Kundera believes, that he introduces a makeshift vocabulary of misunderstood expressions in the novel.
And, in quintessential Kundera style, he uses a narrator in the story to present another point of view, explaining matters to us rather philosophically. For, Kundera believes, since people experience relationships differently, they interpret relationships in their own respective ways… leaving very little margin for understanding each other. The concept of ‘lightness’ in this context is, perhaps, nothing but meaninglessness.
This idea takes central meaning in most of Czech writer Milan Kundera’s fiction. His post-Czechoslovakia novel, ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’, completed in Paris (where he had moved with his wife sometime after the Soviet invasion) and published sometime in the mid-1980s, is a classic example of his thinking and his writing style. In most literary circles, at least from Western eyes, ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’ is acknowledged to be Kundera’s most famous work.
The narrative in ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’ is simple, telling the stories of two couples: Tomas and Tereza, Sabina and Franz.
The longer of the two stories is about a divorced womanising Czech neurosurgeon Tomas and Tereza, an ordinary country girl working in a restaurant. Tomas and Tereza marry, and Tereza becomes a talented photojournalist. When the Soviets invade and take over Czechoslovakia, the couple defects to Switzerland. However, on discovering Tomas’ infidelities, Tereza returns to Czechoslovakia. Tomas follows her, giving up a promising career.
In Czechoslovakia, Tomas is forced to leave his job at a hospital when he refuses to retract from an article he had written, which contained anti-Soviet sentiments. So, he takes up a menial job as a window cleaner, while continuing with his womanising. Tereza becomes a housewife, staying home with their dog. Later, to deter Tomas from his infidelities, as well as to escape from the State secret police, the couple moves to the country to live simple happy lives, until their death in a car accident.
The shorter story is a relationship between Sabina, a Czech émigré artist in Switzerland, and Franz, a married Swiss lecturer. Not only do the two persons in this relationship have different backgrounds, they have different minds as well – and the relationship is fraught with misunderstandings. They eventually part ways: Franz to live with a female student and then die a nonsensical death at a protest march in Thailand; Sabina to live to a ripe old age in the United States.
Although the narrative in ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’ is simple, Kundera continues to explore his favourite theme of different points of view that relationships encompass. He examines relationships from different angles, presenting different perspectives of the persons involved in the relationships. So different can be the perspectives in a relationship, Kundera believes, that he introduces a makeshift vocabulary of misunderstood expressions in the novel.
And, in quintessential Kundera style, he uses a narrator in the story to present another point of view, explaining matters to us rather philosophically. For, Kundera believes, since people experience relationships differently, they interpret relationships in their own respective ways… leaving very little margin for understanding each other. The concept of ‘lightness’ in this context is, perhaps, nothing but meaninglessness.
04 December 2007
The volatility of relationships
“Marriages collapsed for all sorts of reasons, but presumably you never really knew why unless you were involved in one.”
The above quote from William Trevor’s novella ‘Reading Turgenev’ (in ‘Two Lives’) may explain why I, at 48 years of age, am still at a loss as to why my parents decided to separate after 29 years of married life. In those 29 years, something had gone wrong in their relationship, perhaps even brewed over many years, before my parents came to the conclusion that they were no longer compatible as a married couple, and decided to part ways.
This reality, this happening, this incompatibility in marriages and man-woman relationships has always haunted me. Although I have felt alone in my inability to understand it, I have often found similar sentiments in contemporary literature. For, I have found, much of today’s literary fiction deals with this very theme of incompatibility in marriages and in relationships between men and women. In fact, in the works of two of my favourite authors, this is a common occurrence.
Many novels and short stories of Irish author William Trevor are apt examples of this theme. Perhaps more so are the novels of Czech writer Milan Kundera. Whereas Trevor adopts a gentle style in his narrative (such as in ‘Reading Turgenev’), presenting bittersweet love stories or mismatched couples, Kundera’s novels (such as ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’) are hard-hitting existentialist tales built on egos and ignorance.
While Trevor narrates stories of ordinary people in unhappy marriages, in passive acceptance of the situations they are in, Kundera clinically lays bare every relationship, comparing and blending the philosophical aspects with the carnal. When Trevor offers us relationships marred by infidelities or deceit, we are wooed as much by the romance as we are by the grief experienced by the protagonists. With Kundera’s novels, where infidelities and misunderstandings abound, we are sucked in (and sometimes repelled) by the rigours of the man-woman relationships.
While Trevor’s novels and short stories appeal to our softer senses, touching upon tender emotions in a quiet manner, Kundera’s appeal is a churning of cold rationality with the raw sexuality that his characters experience.
Perhaps, marriages, and man-woman relationships, are a combination of all these traits and experiences – and are, therefore, more volatile than what they seem from the outside. Only those involved have knowledge of their relationship’s strength or frailty.
The above quote from William Trevor’s novella ‘Reading Turgenev’ (in ‘Two Lives’) may explain why I, at 48 years of age, am still at a loss as to why my parents decided to separate after 29 years of married life. In those 29 years, something had gone wrong in their relationship, perhaps even brewed over many years, before my parents came to the conclusion that they were no longer compatible as a married couple, and decided to part ways.
This reality, this happening, this incompatibility in marriages and man-woman relationships has always haunted me. Although I have felt alone in my inability to understand it, I have often found similar sentiments in contemporary literature. For, I have found, much of today’s literary fiction deals with this very theme of incompatibility in marriages and in relationships between men and women. In fact, in the works of two of my favourite authors, this is a common occurrence.
Many novels and short stories of Irish author William Trevor are apt examples of this theme. Perhaps more so are the novels of Czech writer Milan Kundera. Whereas Trevor adopts a gentle style in his narrative (such as in ‘Reading Turgenev’), presenting bittersweet love stories or mismatched couples, Kundera’s novels (such as ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being’) are hard-hitting existentialist tales built on egos and ignorance.
While Trevor narrates stories of ordinary people in unhappy marriages, in passive acceptance of the situations they are in, Kundera clinically lays bare every relationship, comparing and blending the philosophical aspects with the carnal. When Trevor offers us relationships marred by infidelities or deceit, we are wooed as much by the romance as we are by the grief experienced by the protagonists. With Kundera’s novels, where infidelities and misunderstandings abound, we are sucked in (and sometimes repelled) by the rigours of the man-woman relationships.
While Trevor’s novels and short stories appeal to our softer senses, touching upon tender emotions in a quiet manner, Kundera’s appeal is a churning of cold rationality with the raw sexuality that his characters experience.
Perhaps, marriages, and man-woman relationships, are a combination of all these traits and experiences – and are, therefore, more volatile than what they seem from the outside. Only those involved have knowledge of their relationship’s strength or frailty.
22 October 2007
The value of relationships
I live in an apartment building of sixteen flats. My neighbours don’t seem to be very friendly. I’ve wished them on several occasions, but they’ve never wished back. I’ve opened the gate for their cars a couple of times when the security guy was not around and I was passing by, but they’ve never thanked me. Once when there was an electric power problem in the building, I came home at night to find that no one had bothered to switch on my ‘mains’ connection while they all enjoyed full electricity in their flats.
Gauging my neighbours’ response and rudeness as, perhaps, a big-city Mumbai syndrome, I’ve kept more or less to myself. So, imagine my surprise yesterday, when a neighbour of mine approached me out of the blue and asked me for a favour. Apparently, a wedding was soon to take place in her family and the neighbour wanted to shift some for her furniture to my flat, temporarily, for a week. She said, “Since you’re single, living alone, you’re bound to have extra space in your flat.”
In seconds, a montage of her husband ignoring my ‘good mornings’, her son not thanking me for opening the gate for his car on a rainy night, and her shutting the door on my face when I requested for help during the electric power problem danced through my mind. I replied, politely, that I had no space to accommodate her furniture in my flat. She got up and left, commenting that this was a dastardly (as I looked like a nice person) and a very un-neighbourly behaviour. She said, “Neighbours are expected to be nice to each other.”
In life, as it is in business, we often expect a return from others (our family, friends, colleagues and customers – not to mention neighbours) without, first, building a relationship with them. We handle our lives, our work and our businesses, one transaction at a time… without a sense of a rapport, a bond, a continuity. We expect others to accommodate us simply because we need something, right then and there. We, what we want, what we have to say, what we have to sell is all that matters.
The trouble with a transaction-based life, or business for that matter, is that we treat them in isolation. And, in the process, we consider others’ position, feelings and the need for affiliation irrelevant. The value of a transaction is not determined by itself, in isolation, but by what comes before and after it. It is determined by the relationship that governs and guides it.
Gauging my neighbours’ response and rudeness as, perhaps, a big-city Mumbai syndrome, I’ve kept more or less to myself. So, imagine my surprise yesterday, when a neighbour of mine approached me out of the blue and asked me for a favour. Apparently, a wedding was soon to take place in her family and the neighbour wanted to shift some for her furniture to my flat, temporarily, for a week. She said, “Since you’re single, living alone, you’re bound to have extra space in your flat.”
In seconds, a montage of her husband ignoring my ‘good mornings’, her son not thanking me for opening the gate for his car on a rainy night, and her shutting the door on my face when I requested for help during the electric power problem danced through my mind. I replied, politely, that I had no space to accommodate her furniture in my flat. She got up and left, commenting that this was a dastardly (as I looked like a nice person) and a very un-neighbourly behaviour. She said, “Neighbours are expected to be nice to each other.”
In life, as it is in business, we often expect a return from others (our family, friends, colleagues and customers – not to mention neighbours) without, first, building a relationship with them. We handle our lives, our work and our businesses, one transaction at a time… without a sense of a rapport, a bond, a continuity. We expect others to accommodate us simply because we need something, right then and there. We, what we want, what we have to say, what we have to sell is all that matters.
The trouble with a transaction-based life, or business for that matter, is that we treat them in isolation. And, in the process, we consider others’ position, feelings and the need for affiliation irrelevant. The value of a transaction is not determined by itself, in isolation, but by what comes before and after it. It is determined by the relationship that governs and guides it.
18 October 2007
On loyalty
I’ve often come across managers in the corporate world who talk about loyalty. They insist on it. They expect it from their team members and their consumers unconditionally. And, what are they prepared to give in return? If anything at all, it’s bad behaviour. These managers are usually mean and oppressive – and insecure to the core of their hearts.
People in corporate organisations, like their consumers in the wider world, and the rest of us, balk at mean and oppressive behaviour. What we look for everywhere is a relationship – a connection, a kinship. A giving and accepting. An opening of hearts. An exchange of information and appreciation… empathy and even kindness. Such relationships are based on trust, not on bad behaviour.
Yet, many corporate managers fail to understand this. They demand loyalty without, first, building a relationship with their team members or their consumers. Is it any wonder that loyalty eludes them?
People in corporate organisations, like their consumers in the wider world, and the rest of us, balk at mean and oppressive behaviour. What we look for everywhere is a relationship – a connection, a kinship. A giving and accepting. An opening of hearts. An exchange of information and appreciation… empathy and even kindness. Such relationships are based on trust, not on bad behaviour.
Yet, many corporate managers fail to understand this. They demand loyalty without, first, building a relationship with their team members or their consumers. Is it any wonder that loyalty eludes them?
16 October 2007
That elusive thing called loyalty
I have more faith in dogs than I have in human beings. Dogs offer their love and loyalty unwaveringly, and unconditionally… well, perhaps, for some food and a place to sleep. Humans are more demanding. They simply want more and more. With such precepts driving human behaviour, how can brand marketers ever expect loyalty from their consumers?
The task of garnering consumer loyalty makes most brand marketers shudder. Just when they think they’ve succeeded in getting consumers to stay loyal to their brand, consumers wander off, lusting after a competitive brand. Infidelity is quite common between consumers and brands; forcing many marketers to believe loyalty is either a myth or, at least, an elusive target.
What drives the consumers away? No one knows for sure. It could be a change in the product formulation, the packaging, or the advertising. It could be a price increase, or an attractive promotion by another brand. It could be the overall shopping experience, or the insensitivity of the sales staff. It could be the availability of a technologically superior product, or the novelty of a new brand entering the marketplace.
When my clients complain to me about a drop in consumer loyalty, I bowl them a googly. I ask them: should consumers be loyal to the brand or should the brand be loyal to its consumers? You see, because we are here to sell our brand, we become a little self-centred and myopic in our selling. The brand means everything to us.
We expect consumers to stay loyal to our brand, without finding out ways to make the brand more meaningful to consumers over the long run. Our best efforts end up in offering discounts and points to consumers, expecting consumers to stay loyal against cash pay-offs. The costs of such pay-offs are heavy, cutting into business profits. In such business models, as profits dwindle, so do cash pay-offs to consumers, eroding consumer loyalty.
The thing to remember is, loyalty is not a one-time execution of a marketing plan. It is life-long – and deserves such commitment from the brand marketers. Keeping consumers loyal over the years is the real big challenge. Being sensitive to consumer needs and wants over the years, and maintaining brand salience in accordance with changing consumer lifestyles against competitive forces, hold the key to consumer loyalty.
The task of garnering consumer loyalty makes most brand marketers shudder. Just when they think they’ve succeeded in getting consumers to stay loyal to their brand, consumers wander off, lusting after a competitive brand. Infidelity is quite common between consumers and brands; forcing many marketers to believe loyalty is either a myth or, at least, an elusive target.
What drives the consumers away? No one knows for sure. It could be a change in the product formulation, the packaging, or the advertising. It could be a price increase, or an attractive promotion by another brand. It could be the overall shopping experience, or the insensitivity of the sales staff. It could be the availability of a technologically superior product, or the novelty of a new brand entering the marketplace.
When my clients complain to me about a drop in consumer loyalty, I bowl them a googly. I ask them: should consumers be loyal to the brand or should the brand be loyal to its consumers? You see, because we are here to sell our brand, we become a little self-centred and myopic in our selling. The brand means everything to us.
We expect consumers to stay loyal to our brand, without finding out ways to make the brand more meaningful to consumers over the long run. Our best efforts end up in offering discounts and points to consumers, expecting consumers to stay loyal against cash pay-offs. The costs of such pay-offs are heavy, cutting into business profits. In such business models, as profits dwindle, so do cash pay-offs to consumers, eroding consumer loyalty.
The thing to remember is, loyalty is not a one-time execution of a marketing plan. It is life-long – and deserves such commitment from the brand marketers. Keeping consumers loyal over the years is the real big challenge. Being sensitive to consumer needs and wants over the years, and maintaining brand salience in accordance with changing consumer lifestyles against competitive forces, hold the key to consumer loyalty.
09 October 2007
Differential marketing
“All consumers are NOT created equal. Some are vastly more profitable than others, and the marketers who succeed in an increasingly brand-hostile and technology-driven environment will be those who know how to capitalize on the difference.”
Although this quote came from Garth Hallberg’s book All Consumers Are Not Created Equal from way back 1995, I’m sure its philosophy is applicable today. Perhaps, even more so, as there are many more brands in the marketplace today than there were in 1995, a great many of which are technology-driven. To many marketers, today’s markets are truly hostile places for their brands.
As most experienced marketers know, old mass-market strategies of ‘one strategy fits all consumer segments’ are ineffective today. Consumers are now showing their true colours – each colour demanding full attention from the brand marketer. A move towards customised strategies to win over individual consumers seems to be the only answer.
Needless to say, the job for marketers has become difficult and less reassuring… setting them off in a quest to find (a) why consumers buy what they buy; (b) why consumers are more flexible in their preferences for brands – and less brand loyal; and (c) how a brand could profit from such an overwhelming marketplace.
One way to do this is to adopt neuromarketing techniques by putting (representative samples of) consumers under MRI scanners while exposing them to various brand messages, designs and colour options. If the pre-frontal cortex of the brain (which is apparently responsible for eliciting/controlling excitement and happiness) lights up, there is a likelihood that consumers will respond favourably towards brands that carry similar messages, designs and colour options… generating future sales.
But, besides being expensive and inconclusive (no one is sure if its results are accurate), neuromarketing is cumbersome to implement. For starters, it needs an MRI lab – with high-end medical equipment and trained technicians. In India, this type of investment is a far cry from what market research agencies are prepared for. No wonder neuromarketing has yet to find a place among Indian marketers.
That’s why I’ve always felt that Garth Hallberg’s philosophy of treating consumers differentially through ‘differential marketing strategy for brand loyalty and profits’ is an excellent idea for Indian marketers.
Differential marketing, a carryover from DM (direct marketing) and a precursor to today’s CRM (customer relationship management), is both a meaningful and a profitable marketing practice. It is information-based, with a good deal of data analysis and mapping at its processing centre. It relies on data generated from consumer sales and is, therefore, based entirely on facts from consumer response to brands (as opposed to experiments in neuromarketing). You can’t get any more accurate than that.
Differential marketing is not difficult to implement and can be adopted easily by small businesses. It requires small investments in information technology, a few data-entry operators, a programmer at the most… apart from a scientific-minded marketer. If consumer data-capture mechanisms are in place, the job is really half-done.
Alas, Indian marketers have been slow in responding to differential marketing as most of them don’t have adequate consumer/brand data in their hands. Even if they did, they don’t seem to be applying enough analytical techniques to mine information from their data banks – a fact that surprises me as we have some of the best marketing talent in the world. Instead, many Indian marketers have jumped directly to CRM, burning their fingers in huge investments with little returns.
Indian advertising agencies have shunned the differential marketing philosophy entirely. As usual, they have preferred to rest on their creative laurels rather than on accountability for building consumer relationships with brands. Even Garth Hallberg’s own agency in India, Ogilvy & Mather, has been reluctant in using this philosophy.
Although this quote came from Garth Hallberg’s book All Consumers Are Not Created Equal from way back 1995, I’m sure its philosophy is applicable today. Perhaps, even more so, as there are many more brands in the marketplace today than there were in 1995, a great many of which are technology-driven. To many marketers, today’s markets are truly hostile places for their brands.
As most experienced marketers know, old mass-market strategies of ‘one strategy fits all consumer segments’ are ineffective today. Consumers are now showing their true colours – each colour demanding full attention from the brand marketer. A move towards customised strategies to win over individual consumers seems to be the only answer.
Needless to say, the job for marketers has become difficult and less reassuring… setting them off in a quest to find (a) why consumers buy what they buy; (b) why consumers are more flexible in their preferences for brands – and less brand loyal; and (c) how a brand could profit from such an overwhelming marketplace.
One way to do this is to adopt neuromarketing techniques by putting (representative samples of) consumers under MRI scanners while exposing them to various brand messages, designs and colour options. If the pre-frontal cortex of the brain (which is apparently responsible for eliciting/controlling excitement and happiness) lights up, there is a likelihood that consumers will respond favourably towards brands that carry similar messages, designs and colour options… generating future sales.
But, besides being expensive and inconclusive (no one is sure if its results are accurate), neuromarketing is cumbersome to implement. For starters, it needs an MRI lab – with high-end medical equipment and trained technicians. In India, this type of investment is a far cry from what market research agencies are prepared for. No wonder neuromarketing has yet to find a place among Indian marketers.
That’s why I’ve always felt that Garth Hallberg’s philosophy of treating consumers differentially through ‘differential marketing strategy for brand loyalty and profits’ is an excellent idea for Indian marketers.
Differential marketing, a carryover from DM (direct marketing) and a precursor to today’s CRM (customer relationship management), is both a meaningful and a profitable marketing practice. It is information-based, with a good deal of data analysis and mapping at its processing centre. It relies on data generated from consumer sales and is, therefore, based entirely on facts from consumer response to brands (as opposed to experiments in neuromarketing). You can’t get any more accurate than that.
Differential marketing is not difficult to implement and can be adopted easily by small businesses. It requires small investments in information technology, a few data-entry operators, a programmer at the most… apart from a scientific-minded marketer. If consumer data-capture mechanisms are in place, the job is really half-done.
Alas, Indian marketers have been slow in responding to differential marketing as most of them don’t have adequate consumer/brand data in their hands. Even if they did, they don’t seem to be applying enough analytical techniques to mine information from their data banks – a fact that surprises me as we have some of the best marketing talent in the world. Instead, many Indian marketers have jumped directly to CRM, burning their fingers in huge investments with little returns.
Indian advertising agencies have shunned the differential marketing philosophy entirely. As usual, they have preferred to rest on their creative laurels rather than on accountability for building consumer relationships with brands. Even Garth Hallberg’s own agency in India, Ogilvy & Mather, has been reluctant in using this philosophy.
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