All three of the articles we read for this week deal with the relationship history has within the cinematic world. All consider the complex issue of the validity and accuracy of history within the world of filmmaking and what role historians should play to increase this accuracy. For Davis, the answer is an accompanying book that complements the film, explaining historical detail that was not portrayed in the film. For Rose and Corley, the answer lies in historians learn and become well versed in the cinematic trade, rather than leaving it up to filmmakers such as Ken Burns. Finally, Toplin believes historians would do better to realize that scholarly history and “cinematic history” are not always the same and that that difference is not always merely a lapse of judgment on the filmmaker’s part.
After reading the three articles, I began organizing my thoughts for this blog by asking myself what I personally thought about historical accuracy in the cinematic medium. And I came to the conclusion that my beliefs for historical accuracy were dependent on the type of cinematic genre being considered. I agree with Davis’ assertion that a historical film should open discussion much like a historical book, but I do not believe that the film needs to be absolutely accurate. There is quite a difference between the documentary and the Hollywood blockbuster as far as my own standards for historical accuracy goes. Thus I found myself agreeing with Rose and Corley’s review of Ken Burns. As a documentary filmmaker, Burn holds a responsible to present history in a concise and entertaining way but one that is also accurate. Burns claims that historians’ work has become esoteric and abstruse and his mission is to save history for the general public. Why, then, does he often leave out important historical events or developments that are crucial to the particular story he is telling? Why, then, does he essentially feed lines to the historians that he interviews, cutting them off if they diverge too much from what he wants to hear? According to Rose and Corley, Burns claims “artistic license” with his work, thus explaining the discontinuities that may arise between the historical record and his documentary. I don’t believe, however, that Burns has much right to claim such if his medium is the documentary. By its very nature, documentaries are suppose to capture life as it truly was, not how Burns would like it to be.
That said, I also believe Toplin is right when he claims that cinematic history is yet one more genre of moviemaking. Movies like the Patriot, Braveheart, or Pearl Harbor are not necessarily devoted to historical accuracy from the get go. Do I believe that they should be able to run free with history? Absolutely not. I do not believe, however, that they hold the same responsibility as Ken Burns’ documentaries do. When I go to see The Patriot, I do not necessarily go to see a completely accurate portrayal of American colonial life. I do, however, expect to see an eventful, interesting story complete with all the genre stereotypes mentioned by Toplin. When I go to see a Ken Burn’s documentary, however, I do expect to get an accurate portrayal of whatever the topic is and take what he says as truth. Historical plausibility and understanding in blockbusters are, as Davis put it, the goal, but are not necessarily required for me to enjoy the movie. I am willing to overlook the fact that the red robes worn in The Return of Martin Guerre are not accurate although the public trial vs. private trial was a major misstep. Maybe Davis’ suggestion of a companion book is a good suggestion, providing history that the film was not able to address although I’m not sure that too many people (unless they are history nerds like we are) would actually go out and make an effort to read this books.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Review: Touch and Go and A Shared Authority
Before this reading assignment, I had never heard of Studs Terkel. (well, I take that back. The very first time was hearing about his death on Halloween. But, knowing I was about to read his memoir, I didn't do any research at the time, assuming I would find out more about him later) Even into Chapter 5, I was still wondering why we were reading his story and what relevance it would have to our class. Then I read Chapter 22, “Didn't Your Name Used to Be Dave Garroway?” For me, the most important words in the entire book were written in that chapter. “Oh, to be remembered – isn't that what this is all about?” (Page 216). His understanding of this simple thought is the reason why I believe Studs Terkel was such a good oral historian and just overall a unique human being. He understood that Oral History hinged on the idea that the person telling the story and explaining their actions needed to be remembered just as much as the person reading or listening to their stories needed the information that could be obtained. Terkel understood both of these needs, having experienced it himself in the back of a taxi cab, and knew that the “this” he references in his quote provides the basis for oral history as a whole: for people people to be remembered long after they are forgotten or gone.
I have to say, it really was unfair to assign Frisch's A Shared Authority the same weekend as Terkel's book. I'm afraid I had a hard time giving it a fair chance when comparing it's academic set up to Terkel's informal, often zany travels into his memories. In A Shared Authority, the relationship between pure history and public history, specifically oral history, is explored using many essays and articles that he had written that were published in other places. As mentioned earlier in the semester, this authority is shared between historians who write and examine history and everyday people who live and tell history. When does oral history become a subject of historical fact and when does it become a collection of “what might have happened?” Using Terkel's book Hard Times, he makes the distinction by adopting Terkel's believe that oral history is a collection of truths as the people telling the stories knew it, not as historians know it. They truly believe what they are saying and therefore their stories are valid within the historical framework regardless of whether it checks out to be accurate or not. Often oral historians, such as Terkel, place their importance on what the interviewees had to say rather than whether or not they are telling the unblemished truth. Overall I think Frisch's work informs us on the development of public history between the authority of that which makes up the “history” aspect of oral history and those that provide the “oral” part.
That said, I leave you with this interesting thought. In his book, Frisch asks the question “Who, really, is the author if an oral history?” (Page xx). Should it be the historian or the subject? In his memoir, Terkel mentions “I take my questions out as often as I can in order to create something of a soliloquy.” (page 177) Only when his question adds to the information given by the subject does he leave it in. Terkel allows the person himself to tell his own story, whatever it may be that he needs to get out. Thus the reason for Terkel's brilliant success as an oral historian. That and the fact that he is such a “hapless retardee in matters mechanical,” that the ordinary person feels superior to him. I will definitely be looking up Terkel's work in the future and I mostly certainly am now mourning the loss of a brilliance I have just discovered.
I have to say, it really was unfair to assign Frisch's A Shared Authority the same weekend as Terkel's book. I'm afraid I had a hard time giving it a fair chance when comparing it's academic set up to Terkel's informal, often zany travels into his memories. In A Shared Authority, the relationship between pure history and public history, specifically oral history, is explored using many essays and articles that he had written that were published in other places. As mentioned earlier in the semester, this authority is shared between historians who write and examine history and everyday people who live and tell history. When does oral history become a subject of historical fact and when does it become a collection of “what might have happened?” Using Terkel's book Hard Times, he makes the distinction by adopting Terkel's believe that oral history is a collection of truths as the people telling the stories knew it, not as historians know it. They truly believe what they are saying and therefore their stories are valid within the historical framework regardless of whether it checks out to be accurate or not. Often oral historians, such as Terkel, place their importance on what the interviewees had to say rather than whether or not they are telling the unblemished truth. Overall I think Frisch's work informs us on the development of public history between the authority of that which makes up the “history” aspect of oral history and those that provide the “oral” part.
That said, I leave you with this interesting thought. In his book, Frisch asks the question “Who, really, is the author if an oral history?” (Page xx). Should it be the historian or the subject? In his memoir, Terkel mentions “I take my questions out as often as I can in order to create something of a soliloquy.” (page 177) Only when his question adds to the information given by the subject does he leave it in. Terkel allows the person himself to tell his own story, whatever it may be that he needs to get out. Thus the reason for Terkel's brilliant success as an oral historian. That and the fact that he is such a “hapless retardee in matters mechanical,” that the ordinary person feels superior to him. I will definitely be looking up Terkel's work in the future and I mostly certainly am now mourning the loss of a brilliance I have just discovered.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Remaking America Review
In his book, Remaking America: Public Memory, Commemoration, and Patriotism in the Twentieth Century, John Bodnar explores America's public memory and the varied interests that seek to control this memory. For Bodnar, ultimately public memory is a reconciliation between vernacular and official cultural expressions. Vernacular expressions are the ethnic, local, and ordinary acts made by usually a small group and are often dominated by those who support official acts of expression. Official on the other hand, deal mainly with the support of the nation-state and place emphasis on that which supports American memory rather than individual ethnic memories.
One of his more interesting chapters was Bodnar's discussion of ethnic communities. He seeks to explore how ethnic communities, such as Norwegians in the Midwest and Mennonites in Kansas were able to reconcile their vernacular memories with their official memories. Before World War I, the Norwegian community chose a public memory that focused mostly on their personal pioneers, i.e. the first generation to come to America. These people were seen as contributing more to the Norwegian identity than George Washington, a leader within American public memory. After World War I however, Norwegians felt the need to emphasize their devotion to the United States and therefore placed great importance on events that tied both vernacular and official expressions together. Commemorations such as the centennial anniversary of the Restaurationen in which many Norwegians first came to the United States, showed other Americans their commitment to the official memory and legitimized their vernacular memory. For Bodnar, although ethnic memory still remained important, over time it was accepted only once patriotic memory stood above memories and objects from the “motherland.”
Overall I believe Bodnar did a good job explaining America's struggle to reconcile vernacular and official memory. The only complaint I had about the reading was that it was a bit dry and therefore hard to really get into and understand. Bodnar's writing style was not my favorite and did not seem to bring this struggle to life for me. Ultimately however, Bodnar supports his argument well and convincingly shows that public memory is much more complicated than originally thought. This memory can come at a price often paid by ordinary citizens and often results in ethnic culture being placed behind national memory.
One of his more interesting chapters was Bodnar's discussion of ethnic communities. He seeks to explore how ethnic communities, such as Norwegians in the Midwest and Mennonites in Kansas were able to reconcile their vernacular memories with their official memories. Before World War I, the Norwegian community chose a public memory that focused mostly on their personal pioneers, i.e. the first generation to come to America. These people were seen as contributing more to the Norwegian identity than George Washington, a leader within American public memory. After World War I however, Norwegians felt the need to emphasize their devotion to the United States and therefore placed great importance on events that tied both vernacular and official expressions together. Commemorations such as the centennial anniversary of the Restaurationen in which many Norwegians first came to the United States, showed other Americans their commitment to the official memory and legitimized their vernacular memory. For Bodnar, although ethnic memory still remained important, over time it was accepted only once patriotic memory stood above memories and objects from the “motherland.”
Overall I believe Bodnar did a good job explaining America's struggle to reconcile vernacular and official memory. The only complaint I had about the reading was that it was a bit dry and therefore hard to really get into and understand. Bodnar's writing style was not my favorite and did not seem to bring this struggle to life for me. Ultimately however, Bodnar supports his argument well and convincingly shows that public memory is much more complicated than originally thought. This memory can come at a price often paid by ordinary citizens and often results in ethnic culture being placed behind national memory.
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