Tuesday, 13 December 2016

Report from the SEX FACTORY - PART ONE

Report from the SEX FACTORY

Lindsay Anderson was born in colonial India. After an education at an English public school he did classics at Oxford. After accolades as critic, in documentaries, an Oscar and director at the Royal Court he focused on cinema and the Palme D’Or at Cannes. In effect the ageless wunderkind.
After a screening of my documentary on apartheid SA, Lindsay decided to orchestrate my career. A father figure was birthed.
My volatility with his abrasive mien, made a frightening combination.  Another editing assistant remarked − Lindsay was quite sane except when he’s with you…!!!
In 1967 I worked on a TV series The Prisoner. Lindsay sneered at my writer’s credit. He wanted me to edit a BFI film on rebellion against apartheid by first time director Stephen Frears. The Burning won awards and The Prisoner became a cult − as my iron god with clay feet had predicted. Lindsay wanted me to cut commercials. I wasn’t up for advertising.
You might become a better person – Lindsay reflected – but you won’t become a better editor. I went onto If.... as assistant editor.
Over the years we argued nonstop. He slugged me. He kicked my broken leg. We stopped seeing each other and we got back together which became the pattern.
In the winter of 1974/75 features were in a slump. I got offered a porn film in Holland. I needed money to buy comics which put me in an awful quandary.
I expected Lindsay to applaud my refusal. He did not − it’s a chance to have something real and away from trashy comics. Read trivia and you’ll produce trivia. The clincher landed below the belt – are you frightened of sex? That touched a raw nerve.



Ian Rakoff

In childhood my older sister and I were horrified by what we saw displayed inside the Natural History Museum in Cape Town. The reality was so shameful that it was brushed under the carpet as fastidiously as holocaust denial. What was alluded to was that the figures came from moulds and were not flesh and blood.
In adulthood I had a telephone conversation with my sister in the States. Her voice changed to a whisper when I recalled those child sized Bushmen in glass cabinets. She corroborated my worst suspicions − at least that was how I interpreted her tone. The figures behind the glass were not clay models. They were stuffed human beings. They were Victorian taxidermy. No wounds were evident on the skin. The victims had staves hammered up their anuses and were left to die slowly. Some considered the Bushmen vermin; others wayward children − more animal than human. They were hunted and slaughtered freely. The museum paid extra for unblemished corpses.
There was little about the Bushmen in our schoolbooks. Yet they were the oldest humans on the continent. In ancient times the impala and springbok herds migrating across southern Africa numbered millions, and the Bushmen were equally present.
Last year an Oxford archeologist lectured on rock art of the Bushmen at the British Museum. I asked about the tableaux of the hunter-gatherers and their families in the Cape Town museum. The speaker knew exactly what I referred to, and he dismissed what I had to say; not even apartheid was that venal. I had not said that the genocide occurred during colonial times and predated apartheid.
I was astonished by the glib explanation. I thought of Roosevelt’s reaction on being told about Auschwitz. He refused to believe it – in the beginning. 
What did appear in our schoolbooks claimed that the tragedy that befell the Xhosa people in 1857 was self-inflicted. If ever there was a Hitler conceit in SA history this was it. The whitewashed version in our history books blamed the Xhosa for the National ‘Suicide’ of the Ama-Xhosa. This was like saying that millions in concentration camps in the 2nd World War killed themselves.
Sir George Grey, governor of the Cape devised the deception. Under the leadership of Chief Kreli cattle and the grain were plentiful. The people were thriving and it was the fallow years during which no warfare could be contemplated. But Sir George had informed the Foreign Office staff that an uprising from the Ama-Xhosa needed to be thwarted.
This was what Sir George concocted. Three men were disguised as goat spirits. The smell of butchered goat was awful and their Xhosa was far from fluent. What color the spirits were was hidden. What mattered was to find the young mystic, give her the message from the ancestors and burn the goatskins.  
Nongqawuse won her acclaim by ridding fields of marauding birds. She had a powerful voice and the bearing of greatness. Her sweet manner made for many friendships. Though only fifteen she had a considerable reputation and following. Walking home she heard her name called. In the shadows of a cliff she saw what resembled three goat-spirits. They told her the Ama-Xhosa were to slaughter their cattle and destroy their crops. The cattle would come alive and so would their ancestors. The sun would rise in the west and they would drive the white man into the sea.
The adolescent girl said no one would believe her. She would come back the next day with her uncles and aunts. After the second visit the family returned to the umuzi to indaba. Why was there a strong smell of goat? Since when did spirits smell? Why was the Xhosa spoken so poor? Specific dates were not common to Xhosa. Nonetheless, their Paramount Chief should be notified.
By the time Nongqawuse reached the imuzi of Kreli she had a gigantic following. The Chief was not convinced but the fervor of the fanatical throng was unstoppable. Kreli stocked up with food withdrew to his stronghold to wait it.
Accordingly, across the land the people slaughtered their cattle and burnt their crops. The next day the sun rose as it always did. The cattle did not come back to life as prophesied, and the crops did not return, nor did the ancestors, and there was nothing to eat anywhere. Soon they were starving and eating human flesh.
The population was decimated by the time Sir George set up soup kitchens; too little, too late and too far away. The power of the Xhosa was broken. However, the Foreign Office in London was appalled by Sir George’s conduct. His correspondence from the Cape Colony was removed from the official records and he was recalled. Subsequently he was posted to New Zealand where he did something similar to the indigenous Maoris.
As ever the sun never did set on the British Empire.  
I  R

Saturday, 10 September 2016

Humour, Comedy & Laughter - obscenities, paradoxes, insights & the renewal of life

Recently published by Berghahn Books, Oxford.

My chapter, number 4, is titled Comic Strips and the Making of the American Identity. A journey of race and gender prejudice in the culture of comics.

You can find out more at www.berghahnbooks.com.

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

Arthur Louis - Knocking on Heaven's Door

My friend Arthur passed away. He was one of the kindest, sensitive and gentle people I have known. In many ways he was held back in life by an uncommonly benign sentiment. He was also a considerable talent. Always close to, but never quite at the top.

The Serials: From Harlem to Dickens & Trollope

This is the title of my forthcoming posting on the V&A website.

Bringing the culture of the comic books in close harmony with the mutual grammar of cinema, proving how blurred the line dividing the two can be. It is also a response to a request from J.B. of the NAL wanting me to be more of an art historian and less of a social historian. Coincidentally the same request came from the Learning Department at the V&A.


Confessions of Collector – Misdemeanours of a Comic Book Addiction

The Color of Bone - a glimpse of what's to come in this anthropological fiction

A four-part anthropological fiction
Ian Rakoff
The Color of Bone

In a pre-colonial era our antecedents held equality and dignity above individualism. These values were passed on through tradition and custom interpreted by a sangoma − the keeper of the bones. This esteemed personage was the embodiment of a belief in ubuntu.

The southern lands of the continent were vast. People and animals migrated and roamed extensively. This early part of humanity, the Nguni, did not impose any permanence on the land unlike the people north of the Limpopo who built homes with stones to last countless generations.

To be continued... 

Comics & the Making of the American Identity

It ends with a definition of the American identity, it's somewhere between Donald Duck and Muhammad Ali. And, this, more or less, is how I make my entree to academic publishing. Nuff said.

“An interesting and unique read… Each scholarly contribution makes a creative effort to cross the traditional boundaries of anthropological theories and methods with other closely related disciplines. It is an excellent example of anthropological cross-disciplinary engagement with psychology, philosophy, aesthetics, film, and theater and music theory.” · Jana Kopelentova Rehak, University of Maryland, Baltimore County

Anthropological writings on humour are not very numerous or extensive, but they do contain a great deal of insight into the diverse mental and social processes that underlie joking and laughter. On the basis of a wide range of ethnographic and textual materials, the chapters examine the cognitive, social, and moral aspects of humour and its potential to bring about a sense of amity and mutual understanding, even among different and possibly hostile people. Unfortunately, though, cartoons, jokes, and parodies can cause irremediable distress and offence. Nevertheless, contributors’ cross-cultural evidence confirms that the positive aspects of humour far outweigh the danger of deepening divisions and fuelling hostilities.

Lidia Dina Sciama is former Director of the International Gender Studies Centre (formerly the Centre for Cross-Cultural Research on Women), University of Oxford, where she is currently a Research Associate. She is the author of A Venetian Island: Environment, History and Change in Burano (Berghahn 2003).

Series: Volume 8, Social Identities