Jonah Goldberg’s new book Liberal Facism sounds like it ought to be an interesting, though not entirely revolutionary, proposition: the charting of fascism throughout the twentieth century to demonstrate that it is in fact a left-wing, rather than right-wing phenomena. He is honest enough to admit in his introduction that his purpose is a partisan one, yet manages at this point in the proceedings to suppress his Republican allegiances to at least a tolerable level.
It all starts promisingly enough with a chapter on Mussolini and Italian fascism full of facts and occasional humour, perfect for the lay-historian.(Did you know that Mussolini was the editor of a socialist newspaper before he became a dictator? Or that Churchill had dubbed him the ‘world’s greatest lawgiver’?)
One even feels one can forgive him his slightly tangential rants. His rather irrelevant comparison at one point between Mussolini’s style and that of Yasser Arafat-‘though Arafat was undoubtedly far more murderous’-comes as a bit of a surprise.
Sadly this all-too-brief spurt of vaguely intelligent writing begins to unravel as soon as one reaches Chapter two: Hitler. Goldberg makes a half-decent attempt at showing that the Nazi Party, as a ‘popular movement’, held similar aims and values as those of communism: the provision of health care, the nationalisation of industry, etc. He even makes the very important point that anti-Semitism, or even racism, is not a fascist ideal, but rather the result of a paranoid dictator. Yet despite all this, his contentious references to similarities between the Left and National Socialism all too often come across as childish mud-slinging rather than reasoned argument. The absolute classic example comes during his discussion of the green policies pursued by the Nazis contrasted with those pursued by those on the Left today-again, does this prove that environmentalists are all closet Nazis?
By the time we reach American politics, the true focus of Goldberg, the whole thing has reduced to a rambling account of spurious similarities between the administrations of left-leaning American administrations and fascism. (Was the Wilson administration the first truly fascist state?)
Yet even were this the case the question ‘so what?’ is the blindingly obvious response which he never addresses. Having begun his introduction de-contaminating fascism as an ideological idea he now labels every administration he disagrees with as ‘fascist’, the implication being that this makes it automatically wrong.
Overall then this pseudo-intellectual ‘history’, though at times entertaining, ends up sounding like the tired, regurgitated rants one all too often associates with American conservatism. Regardless of which side of the political playing field you find yourself on, the sheer cringe-worthiness of this book, coupled with its utterly flawed logic and ultimate pointlessness, makes this an awful and simultaneously depressing read.
He mounts up fact upon fact without laying any foundations, with the result that the book ends up going nowhere. At 400+ pages this reviewer would rather just go and argue with some animal rights activists instead: its cheaper, quicker, and just as much of a waste of time.
Liberal Facism
Odds and Sods and Death and Dogs
Paul Freestone’s tender and humorous photographs find beauty in the mundane and subtly blur the boundaries between the human and the natural, the grotesque and the lovely, ‘flotsam and jetsam’ and ‘all that glitters’. The images capture the thought process of the artist in those few seconds when he looks, sees and shoots; they embody an act of observation by a sharp, droll mind, and, by lifting that observation out of the way of everyday life, allow the viewer to see things anew. Before our eyes a crushed cigarette packet takes on new aesthetic possibilities, and death is framed as something which is neither horrendous nor a calamity, but simply part of what might be an unexpectedly beautiful world.
Of particular interest are the artist’s depictions of the relationship between man and dog, a relationship that Paul believes long ago transcended the boundaries of the functional and embedded itself deep within the human psyche. Shot “old school” on black and white film which was later developed by the artist, there is an intense compassion to them which allows their characters to transcend assumptions or judgements, and offers them up for reconsideration, when we might usually pass them by. Looking at them, I cannot help but be reminded of Philip Pullman’s representation of the human soul as an animalistic creature tied to the person by an unbreakable bond of co-dependence and desperate love; these dogs are intrinsic parts of their owners and vice versa, and the bright black eyes reflect who these people are, where they have been, and where they place themselves in this world. Paul holds up the relationship of the homeless man and his dog, sleeping in a doorway, against that of the Crufts pair, preened and smiling, and if anything finds the later wanting.
There is nothing pretentious or spectacular about these photographs, and they might be passed by as easily as the things they depict; they simply offer details up for our consideration, giving us the chance, just for a moment, to review our perspective on the world. Paul mentions Elliott Erwitt and Bill Brandt amongst his influences, but although his images approach theirs in their grimy black and white and their quality of social commentary, they are somehow more candid in their un-staged symmetry – frank and unassuming. The exhibition continues until the 13th of February at the North Wall Arts Centre (Mon-Sat, 11am-4pm); go and see it. Take your dog.
Doubt
It is rare that the subtle intensity of a good theatrical production is translated effectively onto the silver screen, yet John Patrick Shanley’s film adaptation of Doubt arguably equals, and quite possibly surpasses, the play upon which it is based.
This can be almost, but not entirely, credited to the four leading actors – Meryl Streep (Sister Aloysius), Philip Seymour Hoffman (Father Flynn), Amy Adams (Sister James) and Viola Davis (Mrs Miller). Not only do they all fit their roles seamlessly, but their interaction with each other is close to perfect. Undoubtedly Streep’s performance is electrifying to watch, but her character is somewhat larger when put in direct comparison with the meek Sister James.
Similarly, her contrast with Father Flynn only emphasises her own strong character- their final confrontation is almost frightening to watch. The editing of the film emphasises this difference between the traditional ascetic lives the nuns lead, and the more reckless, social side that Father Flynn chooses- Doubt also makes a very clear reference to the authority and power enjoyed by the male hierarchy of the Church, and how unashamedly corrupt some parts of it can be.
Out of all the cast, I personally found Viola Davis’ relatively brief portrayal of Donald’s mother to be absolutely spellbinding. Every word she said was so real; whenever she was on screen I could not take my eyes off her. It is hardly surprising, then, that every member of the cast of Doubt received an Oscar nomination this year, and yet the film didn’t. But despite it being undeniably carried along by the cast, there is a lot to be said for the cinemaphotography of Roger Deakins – not only are there certain scenes which are so well-arranged they look almost like paintings, but there is an exquisite attention to detail. From the rich green of Sister Aloysius’ office to the stark whiteness of the snow against black in the final scene, colour is used so well that one wonders why more films don’t follow Dewakins’ example.
Doubt deals with so many issues that are still relevant today- race, religion, the power figures of authority hold over the young and innocent, forbidden homosexuality, and maybe most prevalent of all, the role of women.
The film does at times drag a little, and it feels a little repetitive, but it’s many redeeming features make is a thoroughly worthwile watch. But be prepared, it’s in now way light-hearted and during the last scene, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Black Comedy
There’s something damn peculiar going on in this room’, Colonol Melkett shouts abruptly, after having had his chair removed, his drink switched, his host crawling around madly on the floor and his sight rendered useless.
And for someone, as I was, familiar with Peter Shaffer’s work only through the distinctly sombre ‘Amadeus’ and ‘Equus’, this one-act play was indeed something peculiar, hilarious and brilliantly refreshing – a play about darkness that certainly enlightened me to an entirely different dimension to one of our most beloved playwrights. This is a delightful farce of bourgeois snobbery, taking a satirical swipe at how a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses mentality leads engaged couple Carol and Brindsley to ‘borrow’ a neighbour’s chic furniture in order to impress a German millionaire and Carol’s formidable father. A fuse blows; unexpected guests, including the owner of said furniture, arrive; nonsensical brilliance ensues.
The script is a treat and is handled superbly by Jonathan Fisher, whose adept direction maintains that the shambles on stage stays tight and together: with so many characters and props, so many different things happening simultaneously, it could easily have ended up one big childish mess. As it is, everywhere you turn there is a sight to savour.
It is almost impossible to find fault in the acting talents of this company. David Ralf took off slowly as protagonist Brindsley, but quickly evolved into a wonderful Fawlty-esque anti-hero, who fuses manically comic desperation with just a soupcon of fragility; Brindsley is a man who clearly wants too much in life. As individuals they shine; as an ensemble they glimmer with professionalism, and though space confines me to only a few specific mentions, I must applaud Hannah McGrath’s performance as the sozzled baptist’s daughter Miss Furneval, who delivers every line with cheeky panache. And kudos has to go to Joe Paddison for what can only be described as the most awful German accent you are ever likely to hear; seriously, his melange of eastern European, Norwegian and, bafflingly, Chinese twangs puts ‘Allo ‘Allo and Peter Sellers to shame on the silly-foreign-accent front.
This production of Black Comedy illuminates Shaffer’s script, shining a light not just on the comedy but also on the strain of keeping up appearances, on God, on life, and on Shaffer’s homage to ‘that magic dark room where everything happens the wrong way round’ – the theatre itself.
The Entertainer
John Osborne’s historic follow-up to ‘Look Back In Anger’ charts the life of Archie Rice, son of smash-hit music hall comedian Billy Rice. Archie follows into his father’s profession, but is third-rate, an alcoholic, and performs his shows in an atmospherically hollow seaside resort. The play is historic in a dual sense; we glimpse not just the decline of the music-hall tradition, but of imperialist Britain.
Rebecca Threllfall’s production succeeds at some levels. The dramatic tension between the naturalism of the family scenes and the open theatricality of Archie’s ‘live’ performances works a treat, as does the live brass band during those performances. Cudmore is at times terrific in the title role, and as he reeled off his ailing array of jokes, I became aware of something important; we become more nostalgic for the age of the music hall through the witness of its death, than we do or would have done had Osborne depicted its success. This is Threllfall and Cudmore’s key achievement. The rest of the cast is mostly strong; there are occasiona vivid moments from Phoebe Thompson as his wife, Phoebe, and from Theo Merz as their nonchalant son, Frank.
And yet several choices jarred. There was a strong propensity to drive over and through moments of action which do not bear directly upon plot or a character’s emotional core, when in fact these banalities of family life are there to be revelled in, à la BBC sitcom, ‘The Royal Family’. Instead, Threllfall’s cast confuse pace with speed. The banalities should be enjoyed, they need more time, and more trust in the moment and Osborne’s language. That’s when we are really drawn in; in a sense both Cudmore’s Archie and Thompson’s Phoebe search for the audience in important moments when we should be searching for them.
The ‘big’ moments of the play should be thrown away. As it is, these moments are too obviously grandiose. We are aware of them as moments and not as truths. Elsewhere, it is Osborne’s mundane, earthy, coarse language that separates his kitchen-sink realism from the well-spoken, middle-class world of Rattigan. Often characters play lines and not words. Granted, the family scenes must be naturalistic, and there is a very strict fourth wall in place, but at the moment it seems the characters are restricted by their very quest for this naturalism. The specificity of the language is in turn sacrificed, in particular by Cudmore and Thompson. Whilst the snippets of seedy sea-side music hall comedy succeeds, the inanity of the family scenes do not, and when Mike Rice is reported dead, the profundity of feeling that should be reached is not. Hardly a banality, even this moment is sped over, and the truth of it is lost.
Once the play starts its run proper, I feel it important to say that these criticisms could have been ironed out and this may well turn into an excellent play. Go and see it.
Poor Blues tied up in Notts
Oxford were left disappointed following a keenly-contested title decider against Nottingham 1st’s on Saturday. Two goals apiece from Toogood and Kelly had seen Oxford triumph over Nottingham 2nd’s 5-1 the previous week, and they were in high spirits going into the game. Nottingham 1st’s meanwhile were placed two points ahead of Oxford meaning that they only need to avoid defeat in order to seal the title.
Two changes were made from the line-up against Nottingham 2nd’s, Zagajewski and de Walden replacing Kelly and Desai. Oxford started the brighter of the two sides in a nervous opening, with Zagajewski racing past both the full-back and centre-back before crossing, narrowly failing to find Toogood in the area. This however was a rare chance in a first half-hour played out largely in the middle of the park. The first major chance of the game fell to de Walden, after neat work between McCrickerd and Toogood, but the striker’s shot fell agonisingly wide of the post.
This seemed to act as a wake up call to Nottingham and they began causing trouble, particularly with the link up play between their strikers. However it was Oxford’s hesitation in defence which cost them the first goal, failing to clear a ball which rebounded to a Nottingham striker who had the simplest of touches to open the scoring. Things were to get much worse only a few minutes later, full-back Farr bringing down the opposing winger inside the box to give Nottingham the opportunity to double their lead. Despite Whylly guessing correctly and getting a strong hand to the penalty, he was unable to prevent a second goal and Oxford trailed 2-0 at half-time.
Knowing that three goals were required to win Oxford pressed higher up the pitch and began taking more chances as they looked to claw back the deficit. To Nottingham’s credit however they were more than up to the task, and their centre-backs were dominant in the air, not allowing Oxford any time on the ball. Chances were few and far between, and despite the introduction of Desai and Hall, Oxford they never looked like winning the game. However the Blues showed spirit in refusing to give up, and right up until the final whistle were searching for goals, Toogood and de Walden having efforts blocked within the last 5 minutes. It was not to be however, and as the final whistle blew, Nottingham celebrated wining the league title, leaving Oxford to reflect on an ultimately disappointing performance.
The Blues will now concentrate on their build-up to Varsity on Sunday 29th March, with the squad keen to right last year’s wrongs. Before this they still have the BUSA Trophy to look forward to in which they will be considered a serious contender to progress to the latter stages.
Ferocious Town too strong for Gown
On Wednesday night, the Blues boxers came to blows with a rival even older than Cambridge: the non-University community of Oxford. Yet, this was no lawless brawl. It was a contest fought according to the Marquess of Queensberry rules and it took place in the elegant surroundings of the Oxford Union’s Debating Chamber. More commonly the scene of oratorical duelling, it was witness to a brutal battle of the physical kind.
The bloodshed and passion on show in the ninety-seventh Town vs. Gown match proved that the old rivalry is still very much alive. Indeed, the University fighters demonstrated astonishing spirit, and their resistance in the face of heavy-hitting opponents was astounding.
Such mental qualities were not enough. The superior technique and experience of the boxers from a variety of Town clubs was too much for the Blues. In the end, it was a resounding victory for the Town, as they won eight out of the twelve bouts.
Yet it all started brilliantly for OUABC. Chen came out energetically and started faster than his taller opponent Caldwell, getting inside the Townsman’s long reach and landing punch after punch, his hands too fast for his opponent. Chen maintained his relentless attack in the second and Caldwell was unable to cope with his quick combinations, constantly being forced backwards. Caldwell finally responded in the third, occasionally holding Chen off with his longer reach, but it was too late. The judges’ decision in favour of Chen was a mere formality.
It was the perfect start, and the crowd responded by lifting the atmosphere in the Debating Chamber to a level that a Union debate could never match. Graham, OUABC’s second fighter, entered the ring to a wave of cheers, but he was unable to turn the encouragement to his advantage. He was completely dominated and knocked down by his opponent Andrews before the first round had concluded. As he remained on his knees, bewildered and bloody-nosed, and looking desperately to his corner for advice, the referee ended the contest in favour of Andrews. OUABC weren’t to take the lead again.
As the boxers entered the ring for the third bout, it was the sprightly Town fighter, Pownceby, who attracted the cheers. The Town supporters were out in force and had clearly been buoyed by Andrews’ victory. Unlike the preceding fight, this one went the length and was a tight contest. Pownceby began quickly and aggressively, but OUABC’s Blick was a match for him, moving his feet quickly and repeatedly holding the Townsman off with a powerful left jab. Yet in the third round Pownceby edged it, as Blick slowed and failed to keep his opponent at a distance. The judges ruled a majority decision for Pownceby, sparking wild celebrations from his fans.
Town had taken the lead, and at no point were they to relinquish it. The fourth bout was almost a copy of the second. McKeller was simply too good for Pearson, the Blue, and having been put down by an early right hand, it was clear the OUABC man was out of his depth. The referee ended the contest, once more in the first round, with Pearson looking dazed and relieved.
OUABC needed to fight back, and in the fifth bout it looked like they might. Nicholls looked to be matching Wilcock, but with little to choose between the two fighters the judges ruled in favour of the Townsman, and it looked as if the University’s hopes were slipping away as they fell behind four bouts to one.
But everything changed with the introduction of OUABC’s Vicent Vitalle, for the fight of the night. Both he and Corrigan, his opponent, came out swinging, with little regard for their own safety. Ferocious punches were received by both fighters, but Vitalle was the more aggressive. Time and time again he battered his way through Corrigan’s defences, yet Corrigan fought back equally bravely and aggressively. After the intensity of the first round it seemed implausible that both men would last through the next two. But when the final bell sounded, barely heard due to the levels of noise from the crowds, both men were still standing, albeit swaying heavily. The judges ruled in favour of Vitalle, and it looked like a fight-back from OUABC might have been on the cards.
But it wasn’t to be, even with the University’s best boxer, Garman, next in the ring. He met his match in the form of the brilliant Mike Todd, who beat the Blue on a unanimous judges’ decision. Once Jones had lost another heavy slugfest, Oxford hopes of retaining the title looked slim, and although Maric offered a glimmer of hope with his victory in the ninth fight, it was all over when Pickering was convincingly beaten in the tenth. Elford picked up the University’s fourth victory of the evening in the eleventh bout, with a persistent attacking performance, but it was a mere consolation.
Stryding to success
Four years ago, Archie Lamb and Jack Foster dropped out of their sixth form college in Norwich and built a record label around London grime MC Tinchy Stryder. Last week, Stryder’s latest single ‘Take Me Back’ entered the UK charts at number 3.
At a time when the music industry is struggling to cope with very modern pressures, the story of Takeover Entertainment is genuinely refreshing: opening with two teens who took a huge risk for their love of music, it looks likely to close with the pair and their label achieving more success than they could have thought possible back in 2006.
‘It’s definitely a big shock,’ Lamb tells me, but shocked is an emotion that hardly fits with the confident impression he makes. It is clear from talking with that young man that the remarkable success of Takeover Entertainment is rooted in the talent and determination of its founders. He asserts that Stryder’s next single ‘is a number-one,’ and states that ‘the aim with Tinchy is to have a platinum album by the end of the year.’ That’s confidence. There is no air of uncertainty in his voice. apparently he has no understanding of how things should work, but given that his confidence has not been misplaced so far, it would be foolish to question it here.
Such an audacious DIY bid to establish themselves in a notoriously unfriendly industry must have seemed naive. Certainly Lamb and Foster’s parents were dubious as to the boys’ prospects, but they nonetheless helped to fund the project, using money they had expected to use to finance university educations for their sons.
The boys started promoting ̉student parties while they were still at school, and were soon making ‘real money’ from promoting grime nights in Norwich with a host of London-based urban artists. They met Stryder at one of these nights and Lamb affirms that they struck up a good relationship straight away.
‘He’s a really nice person, a lot of people from his environment would have rubbished us straight away; we’re middle-class white boys after all.’ Lamb clearly recognises that his personal background is something of an oddity in the UK grime scene. His father, Norman Lamb, is a Liberal Democrat MP and shadow Secretary of State for Health. The Lib-Dem frontbencher’s unlikely involvement in grime was the subject of an article in the Guardian newspaper last week. He has been fully supportive of his son’s chosen career, remortgaging his house in order to invest £10,000 in the label. That investment looks likely to be repaid sooner than he might initially have reckoned given the enthusiasm with which Stryder’s debut album is awaited by many.
The younger Lamb is clear on what is unique about his 22-year old artist. ‘The UK scene needs a non-threatening grime artist,’ he says. ‘It’s not about being a thug with him and he can really write songs.’ Stryder succeeds in writing music that combines the trademark sound of the grime scene he started out in with a pop-R&B slant which is the key to his work’s accessibility. The success of Take Me Back came as no surprise to those that have followed Stryder’s rise over the last few years.
Current single, the excellent ‘Take Me Back’ is out now, with the album is expected later this year. Stryder has been well supported by BBC Radio 1, Kiss FM and many other TV and radio stations, and his fanbase is growing exponentially.
Clearly Lamb and Foster believed in Stryder; investing their futures in his potential was a move that must have required great faith. That faith is being rewarded. Stryder has been hailed as the ‘Prince of Grime’ and looks set for big things. Takeover recently acquired the support of Universal Records, whose influence will doubtless further Stryder’s career. His success is heartening, based as it is on the mutual belief and bold determination of the three then-teenage protagonists of this story.
Takeover has big plans for the future beyond Stryder. ‘There are big things in the pipeline for this year,’ Lamb claims in a predictably positive manner.
Given the cynical nature of the music industry, the unlikely success of two ‘middle-class white boys’ with parliamentary connections and a willingness to take a chance and do something they believed in is a relief. The leap of faith they took is laudable, and their rise to the status of industry moguls looks certain. One can hardly begrudge them their success; blind optimism is rarely so justly rewarded.
Zulu Dawn?
Michael Caine’s first starring role saw him riding through the veld on a cheetah in Zulu. As Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead, he is the very epitome of British imperial heroism: resplendent in his starched red tunic, a cloud of arid African dust trailing behind him, one hand raised in a rallying battle cry. He fearlessly cuts a swathe through the heat of the battle, leaving only the destruction of the enemy in his wake. Glorious. And it is this glorious figure in the 1964 film that has perforated and subsequently come to define the Anglo-Zulu war of 1879 in the British popular imagination. A conflict of epic proportions, the war saw valiant British soldiers fended off infinite hoards of barefoot Zulu warriors in a swashbuckling defence of Queen, country and empire.
It was certainly this patriotic spectacle that was prominent in my expectations as my family and I drove three hours from Durban to visit the battlefields of the conflict. I must admit, the thought of seeing the glory of the British Empire was somewhat submurged under the dread of wandering the Natal landscape in the sorching heat and leaving behind the azure sublimity of Cape Town. Such preconceptions could not have been more misguided.
Over the next few days, thanks to this visit to the battlefields and a series of accompanying lectures, my view of the Anglo-Zulu war, and indeed my view of the future of South Africa, was transformed. This transformation is wholly due to the formidable influence of David Rattray, the founder of the lodge in which we stayed – ‘Fugitive’s Drift’, which lies on the site of the British retreat from the battle of Isandlwana. Obsessed with what he considered to be the untold story of the battles of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift, Rattray dedicated his life to the retelling of the Anglo-Zulu conflict.
The story in itself is astonishing. The battle of Isandlwana on January 22nd 1879 was arguably the most humiliating defeat in British colonial history; mere hours later, at Rorke’s Drift, 139 British soldiers successfully defended their garrison against an intense assault by 3000 Zulu warriors. Eleven Victoria Crosses were awarded to the British defenders, the most ever received in a single action by one regiment. Faced with the juxtaposition of these two battles, I was immediately struck by how these events conveyed at once an indictment of man’s inadequacy and a tribute to his bravery. The lectures crafted by Rattray, however, take this story to another level.
First of all, they go some way towards redefining heroism – the heroes of Rattray’s story are not the swashbuckling Michael Cains of Zulu, nor even the battle-hardened warriors of history text-books. Rather, they are the cooks and bottle washers whose courage coursed from their comradeship. The story dwells on the actions of Hook the Cook, who ran back time and again to rescue the patients from the blazing infirmary at Rorke’s Drift, dragging them to safety by the light of Zulu fire. Another one of Rattray’s unconventional heroes that emerges is Charlie Herford, a peripheral participant whose writings Rattray used to recount the Rorke’s Drift battle. Herford was an eccentric young officer whose passions and talents lay with entomology (the study of insects) rather than military leadership. As a result, when he suddenly disappeared in the heat of battle, he was presumed dead. Moments later, he reemerged clutching a rare beetle he had spotted and captured in a matchbox.
These effervescent anecdotes, which infuse the story both with humour and depth, stem from Rattray’s ability to speak both English and Zulu fluently. He was able to use a hitherto untouched mass of oral history sources passed down to him from the grandchildren of Zulu survivors who work the land as farmhands and goatherds. This affinity with the Zulu community is crucial, however, in allowing Rattray’s lectures to view the conflict sympathetically from both sides. It provides a refreshing comparison to the gung-ho version of the struggle that had informed the empire’s children for more than a century. For whilst the lectures in no way mitigate the extraordinary display of courage at Rorke’s Drift, they present Isandlwana as a Zulu triumph, rather than a British failure.
Indeed, one of the concluding themes of these lectures is the spirit of reconciliation, which the battlefields themselves seem to represent. The battlefield of Isandlwana is filled with dozens of gleaming white cairns marking the mass graves of the British soldiers. Whilst it might seem natural that the Zulus who still live in this area might resent the constant traipsing of British tourists over their land, the battlefields remain almost exactly as they were 130 years ago. Indeed, in this time, there has not been one single act of desecration or vandalism of these graves. On the contrary, the relationship between Zulus and British appears to be one of mutual respect. On the 125th anniversary of the battle of Rorke’s Drift, the Zulu priest of the Church on the original site of the battle, upon hearing of the visit of British war veterans to Natal, insisted that a church service be held to celebrate the bravery displayed on both sides. Indeed, Rattray himself, being both Anglophile and Zulophile, seemed to embody the very essence of this reconciliation.
However, it is perhaps idealistic to believe in the reality of this appeasement. Indeed, Rattray himself, having done the most to bring about harmony between Zulus and British, was the victim of his own efforts. Two years ago he was killed by Zulu intruders who entered his house demanding money. Whilst the legacy of the story he created and the values that he espoused live on, it is impossible not to be disillusioned by this murder. It seems to highlight the lawlessness engulfing South Africa, where 20,000 people are murdered every year. Following his death, a spokesman for the Democratic Alliance, the opposition party in South Africa said ‘people like David Rattray used their lives contributing to the body of knowledge that is in this country, whereas the criminals contribute nothing but an evil vacuum that sucks in our best and brightest.’ In this culture of violence, it seems that Zuma’s anthem ‘Bring me my machine gun’ is still being trumpeted.
Zulu Dawn?
Michael Caine’s first starring role saw him riding through the veld on a cheetah in Zulu. As Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead, he is the very epitome of British imperial heroism: resplendent in his starched red tunic, a cloud of arid African dust trailing behind him, one hand raised in a rallying battle cry. He fearlessly cuts a swathe through the heat of the battle, leaving only the destruction of the enemy in his wake. Glorious. And it is this glorious figure in the 1964 film that has perforated and subsequently come to define the Anglo-Zulu war of 1879 in the British popular imagination. A conflict of epic proportions, the war saw valiant British soldiers fended off infinite hoards of barefoot Zulu warriors in a swashbuckling defence of Queen, country and empire.
It was certainly this patriotic spectacle that was prominent in my expectations as my family and I drove three hours from Durban to visit the battlefields of the conflict. I must admit, the thought of seeing the glory of the British Empire was somewhat submurged under the dread of wandering the Natal landscape in the sorching heat and leaving behind the azure sublimity of Cape Town. Such preconceptions could not have been more misguided.
Over the next few days, thanks to this visit to the battlefields and a series of accompanying lectures, my view of the Anglo-Zulu war, and indeed my view of the future of South Africa, was transformed. This transformation is wholly due to the formidable influence of David Rattray, the founder of the lodge in which we stayed – ‘Fugitive’s Drift’, which lies on the site of the British retreat from the battle of Isandlwana. Obsessed with what he considered to be the untold story of the battles of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift, Rattray dedicated his life to the retelling of the Anglo-Zulu conflict.
The story in itself is astonishing. The battle of Isandlwana on January 22nd 1879 was arguably the most humiliating defeat in British colonial history; mere hours later, at Rorke’s Drift, 139 British soldiers successfully defended their garrison against an intense assault by 3000 Zulu warriors. Eleven Victoria Crosses were awarded to the British defenders, the most ever received in a single action by one regiment. Faced with the juxtaposition of these two battles, I was immediately struck by how these events conveyed at once an indictment of man’s inadequacy and a tribute to his bravery. The lectures crafted by Rattray, however, take this story to another level.
First of all, they go some way towards redefining heroism – the heroes of Rattray’s story are not the swashbuckling Michael Cains of Zulu, nor even the battle-hardened warriors of history text-books. Rather, they are the cooks and bottle washers whose courage coursed from their comradeship. The story dwells on the actions of Hook the Cook, who ran back time and again to rescue the patients from the blazing infirmary at Rorke’s Drift, dragging them to safety by the light of Zulu fire. Another one of Rattray’s unconventional heroes that emerges is Charlie Herford, a peripheral participant whose writings Rattray used to recount the Rorke’s Drift battle. Herford was an eccentric young officer whose passions and talents lay with entomology (the study of insects) rather than military leadership. As a result, when he suddenly disappeared in the heat of battle, he was presumed dead. Moments later, he reemerged clutching a rare beetle he had spotted and captured in a matchbox.
These effervescent anecdotes, which infuse the story both with humour and depth, stem from Rattray’s ability to speak both English and Zulu fluently. He was able to use a hitherto untouched mass of oral history sources passed down to him from the grandchildren of Zulu survivors who work the land as farmhands and goatherds. This affinity with the Zulu community is crucial, however, in allowing Rattray’s lectures to view the conflict sympathetically from both sides. It provides a refreshing comparison to the gung-ho version of the struggle that had informed the empire’s children for more than a century. For whilst the lectures in no way mitigate the extraordinary display of courage at Rorke’s Drift, they present Isandlwana as a Zulu triumph, rather than a British failure.
Indeed, one of the concluding themes of these lectures is the spirit of reconciliation, which the battlefields themselves seem to represent. The battlefield of Isandlwana is filled with dozens of gleaming white cairns marking the mass graves of the British soldiers. Whilst it might seem natural that the Zulus who still live in this area might resent the constant traipsing of British tourists over their land, the battlefields remain almost exactly as they were 130 years ago. Indeed, in this time, there has not been one single act of desecration or vandalism of these graves. On the contrary, the relationship between Zulus and British appears to be one of mutual respect. On the 125th anniversary of the battle of Rorke’s Drift, the Zulu priest of the Church on the original site of the battle, upon hearing of the visit of British war veterans to Natal, insisted that a church service be held to celebrate the bravery displayed on both sides. Indeed, Rattray himself, being both Anglophile and Zulophile, seemed to embody the very essence of this reconciliation.
However, it is perhaps idealistic to believe in the reality of this appeasement. Indeed, Rattray himself, having done the most to bring about harmony between Zulus and British, was the victim of his own efforts. Two years ago he was killed by Zulu intruders who entered his house demanding money. Whilst the legacy of the story he created and the values that he espoused live on, it is impossible not to be disillusioned by this murder. It seems to highlight the lawlessness engulfing South Africa, where 20,000 people are murdered every year. Following his death, a spokesman for the Democratic Alliance, the opposition party in South Africa said ‘people like David Rattray used their lives contributing to the body of knowledge that is in this country, whereas the criminals contribute nothing but an evil vacuum that sucks in our best and brightest.’ In this culture of violence, it seems that Zuma’s anthem ‘Bring me my machine gun’ is still being trumpeted.
