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Paul Gough
A Question of Authenticity: 'Faking Death
in no-man's land'
A version of this article first appeared
in Caffeine
newspaper.
There is a stock image that seems to summarise the brutalised method
of fighting on the Western Front in the Great War of 1914 - 1918.
Used widely by television news programmes at appropriate anniversaries
it is a segment of footage from the 1916 official film known as
The Battle of the Somme. It depicts a dozen infantrymen in
a trench, one man bearing a cane moves from the rear and then leads
them over a low earth parapet; two immediately fall back, and, as
the scene changes to a low camera shot of a misty, barren landscape
strewn with barbed wire, some 15 men move away at a steady pace,
two of them fall suddenly to the ground, as the others recede into
the murky distance.
Eighty years on its impact is still impressive. On the film's release
in late summer 1916 this sequence caused a storm: 'Oh God ! They're
dead', cried a woman in the audience, 'I beg leave respectfully
to enter a protest against an entertainment which wounds the heart
and violates the very sanctity of bereavement' wrote the Dean of
Durham rather more long-windedly. The piece of film is, however,
undoubtably a fake. In 1922 the film was screened to a panel of
experts who expressed their suspicion of the attack sequence; its
origin was linked to a film shoot convened before the battle by
one of the two front-line cameraman on the Somme battlefield, Geoffrey
Malins. He appears to have organised a phoney attack at a Trench
Mortar School well behind the lines, and one film historian later
unearthed a soldier who confessed to having taken part in the staged
event and had 'died' for Malins.
The faked few minutes of film have done too much to divert attention
to some of the authentic footage in the film. Seconds after the
'attack' there is a panoramic shot of soldiers moving at walking
pace across the shallow slopes of a ridge as they head towards the
German line and straight into enemy fire, this 'action' footage
is followed by a long shot of a badly wounded soldier being carried
off the battlefield and hauled down a narrow trench. It is an extremely
arresting image - the deadweight of the wounded soldier, the agony
of the rescuer, the poignancy of the event and its conclusion, hammered
home by a suprisingly frank inter-title caption: 'British Tommies
rescuing a comrade under shell fire (This man died 30 minutes after
reaching the trenches).'
Authenticity was of little importance during the war. As the first
ever feature length British battle documentary The Battle of
the Somme was intended as a piece of propaganda, and succeeded
beyond all expectations. Edited and released before the battle even
came to an end in November 1916, the film was showing simultaneously
in 30 London cinemas in autumn of that year. Its very structure
lent credence and shape to what was often a formless experience
- the first half of the war shows preparations for the attack, troops
marching in column strength, ammunitions piled high, soldiers at
rest and being addressed by senior commanders, then the attack (located
at the fulcrum of the film), followed, in the second half, by troops
and guns occupying captured ground, wounded Allied soldiers being
taken to the rear, German prisoners under armed escort, footage
of the desolation of the battleground, and some glimpses of captured
German booty. The film concludes optimistically with a sequence
of cheering British troops marching once more to the front - a piece
of film that was actually shot 3 days before the battle but, like
many elements in the film, tacked on to lend meaningful narrative
to a dislocated historical moment.
A similar pressure lay on the official stills photographers and
some of the official war artists who were required to record the
war. Weighed down by large and awkward large format plate cameras
and wooden tripods the few official photographers on the Western
Front were hampered both technically and beaurocratically. Photographers
were under specific instructions to produce images 'for publication-exhibition
in neutral and allied countries for propagandist purposes' and their
work, once rushed back to London had to run the gauntlet of the
military censors in Intelligence before publication. Technical difficulties
and censorship aside, many photographers also found the static conditions
on the battle front hugely non-photogenic.
Frank Hurley, official cameraman with the Australian forces had
a large reputation as a photographer on Shackleton's ill-fated second
expedition in the Antarctic, but he found the Western Front even
more barren:
'Everything is on such a wide scale. Figures
scattered, atmosphere dense with haze and smoke - shells that
would simply not burst when required. All the
elements of a picture were there, could they but be brough together
and condensed.'
The diffuse character of the war, its lack of focal points, its
vastness and its anonymity were the antithesis of the photographic
mode which, even with the inadequate techniques of the day, was
primed to capture events and character. Hurley chose the unthinkable.
In the darkroom he combined negatives, piecing together a composite
version of the reality of trench warfare. It was a mistake. The
official Australian historian, Charles Bean, admonished Hurley alleging
that he had transgressed the boundaries of fact and in collaging
an 'event' had broken a soverign rule of documentary reportage.
Much the same argument would emerge in the wake of the Bosnian conflict
when the official artist Peter Howsen was accused of departing from
his brief with his painting of a rape - an event only known to the
artist by hearsay and not seen with his own eyes. For the official
picture retinal (or lens-based) veracity has always been prioritised
over interpretative or synthetic experience.
Hurley's indescretion was not unique. The Canadian photographer
Ivor Castle was suspected of staging fake action pictures on the
Western Front. By judicious cropping he could transform an innocent
image into something more aggressive, and, like Hurley, he superimposed
shrapnel clouds and bomb-bursts into otherwise clear skies; the
Flanders landscape having proved a conveniently flat and uncomplicated
setting for his staged 'combats'.
The trench war has remained ripe for media manipulation. During
the making of the epic 1960's TV series The Great War film footage
was indiscriminately reversed where necessary to give the impression
that the Germans advanced right-to-left across the screen while
the Allies always appeared in the left hand side. Such 'regrettably
cavalier' use of raw material led to the Imperial War Museum asking
for a disclaimer to be used at the start of each episode, it also
explains the proliferation of left-handed infantrymen. One might
argue that the social memory of the war is still being distorted
in such works as Blackadder goes forth with its onus on befuddled
generals and sadistic chateaux-officers; fortunately much recent
historical analysis has contested the received wisdom of these caricatures.
Of all the art forms comissioned for propaganda, painting would
seem to be the most difficult to monitor. In the Great War all official
artists had to submit their work to the military censor, Major A.N.Lee,
whose signature appears frequently alongside the artists on their
drawings and sketches. War artists laboured under the same restrictions
as the photographers: their work had to mirror events seen but not
fabricated. Many of the younger artists, with some front-line experience
behind them, took extraordinary risks to witness the dangers. Christopher
Nevinson gained a reputation for visiting dangerous front-line positions
and much of his work gains from such gritty experiences. Although
the ruling on eye-witness accounts seems severe the government agencies
had to draw the line to prevent London based 'war' artists dictating
the visual iconography of the war. Fleet Street had hordes of studio
artists who produced 'battle' pictures for the illustrated press.
Though skilful and wonderfully picturesque their front-line imagery
is a travesty of the actualities. The tradition of the 'special
artist' roaming the front in the lee of advancing British Empire
troops had run aground by the turn of the century when the host
of 'specials' and journalists had been tightly controlled by the
Japanese during the Japanese-Russo War, and these restrictions became
even more extreme after 1914. Refused entry to the war zones the
few 'specials' of the First World War - Frederic Villiers, Fortunino
Matania - took to contriving anecdotal sketches that verge on the
surreal: portable trenches, glass bottles suspended on strings to
provide guide ways across No Man's Land, a soldier kissing farewell
to his wounded horse. Like their academic counterparts, whose vast
canvases of battles, graced the Royal Academy of Arts in the war
period, a lexicon of heroism and noble stature quickly evolved:
the raised arm, the forehead swathed in bandages, the jutting chin
and stoic expression, immaculate uniforms and neat trenches perpetuated
a lie that was parodied by some of the younger war artists (Nevinson
refused to paint such 'castrated Lancelots' ) but, significantly,
dictated the visual terms of corporate grief. Most figurative war
memorials erected in the 1920s and 30s were taken from a strict
code of heroic posture. And although they can imply the loss of
an ideal, they tell us little about the violence and wretchedness
of wars. To do so, such monuments would be fragmentary and disjunctive,
not whole and unified.
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