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Lawrence of Arabia Poster, Film of 1962. One of the classic films of British colonialism, Lawrence of Arabia depicts T. E. Lawrence as the fallible westerner, whose good intentions for Arab independence allowed his confidence to turn into arrogance and bloodlust.
By the 1960s, with the demise of most of the European empires, Western filmmakers had begun their passage into cinematic collective guilt, cultural self-condemnation, and moral instruction. La bataille d’Alger (The Battle of Algiers, 1966), an Italian film directed by Gillo Pontecorvo (b. 1919) about the anticolonial uprising against French colonialism in the capital of Algeria from 1955 to 1957, brought the bitter history of colonialism and anticolonialism to life in French cinemas and everywhere else. This documentary-style film won awards in Venice, London, and Acapulco largely because of its obvious political perspective, a defense and justification of the National Liberal Front (FLN), the Algerian insurrectionary organization. Bosley Crowther, writing the review for the New York Times, observed that Pontecorvo’s film was essentially about valor, ‘‘the valor of people who fight for liberation from economic and political oppression. And this being so, one may sense a relation in what goes on in this picture to what has happened in the Negro ghettos of some of our American cities more recently’’ (Crowther 1967/2004, p. 82).
French audiences, along with other Europeans and Americans, were outraged by the provocations, torture, and killings that The Battle of Algiers attributed solely to the colonial police and the French army. The terrorism of the FLN is explained by the planting of a bomb by the police in a crowded apartment building. Although the police and the army committed many abuses and crimes in the war, this particular event was a fabrication of the filmmaker. The insurrection began in August 1955 when the FLN launched a campaign to murder every French civilian and official in the country. FLN death squads killed men, women, and children, and immediate French reprisals led to mass arrests and more murders. This war, a bloodbath of atrocity and reprisal that began in 1955 and continued until the cease-fire of 1962, killed more than eighty thousand French settlers and soldiers and many hundreds of thousands of Muslim Algerians. Neither The Battle of Algiers nor the more commercial American film Lost Command (dir. Mark Robson, 1966) provided any kind of nuanced or even historically reliable and complete picture of this tragic war.
By the 1960s and 1970s, the sins of European colonialism were being compounded with those of the American war in Vietnam in British and American films. Tony Richardson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968), a film about the British war against Russia in the Crimean Peninsula in the 1850s, abandoned the heroics of both the 1854 poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809–1892) and Michael Curtiz’s 1936 American film on the same subject. In Richardson’s version, the doomed Light Brigade is a symbol of everything wrong with Victorian England: jingoism, elitism, ideological blindness, and strategic bungling.
Zulu Dawn (dir. Douglas Hickox, 1979), the prequel to 1964’s Zulu, depicted the Battle of Isandhlwana of 1879, which was the worst defeat of the British army in Africa. This anti-British epic contrasted the peaceful yet heroic Zulu (as suggested by the title) with the arrogant and stupid British. Director Hickox (1929– 1988) and screenwriter Cy Endfield (1914–1995) compared the British in Africa to the Nazis. Prior to the British invasion of Zululand, the colonial governor is made to say, ‘‘Let us hope that this will be the final solution to the Zulu problem’’ (quoted in Roquemore 2000, p. 373).
American westerns by the 1970s presented the white man as the savage antihero and the Indian as the respectable and courteous husband, brother, citizen, and leader. Little Big Man (1970), directed by Arthur Penn (b. 1922), tells the story of Jack Crabb, the sole survivor (perhaps) of George Armstrong Custer’s ‘‘Last Stand’’ in the 1876 Battle of the Little Bighorn in Montana Territory. Penn demystifies a vain and neurotic Custer and sadly allows the audience to see the extinction of the Cheyenne (who call themselves ‘‘human beings’’) through the story and eyes of Jack.
The propagandistic Soldier Blue (dir. Ralph Nelson, 1970) focused on the U.S. Cavalry’s 1864 Sand Creek massacre in Colorado. The murderous glee of most of the racist soldiers was reflected in the outrage of the one appalled hero. This film, like Little Big Man, made visual references to the Vietnam War and American ‘‘atrocities,’’ such as the infamous My Lai massacre of March 1968. The ultimate triumph of this cinematic revisionism was Kevin Costner’s Dances with Wolves (1990), a three-hour epic about the Lakota Sioux that portrayed the Indians as peaceful, sophisticated, and above all civilized people in contrast to the violent, incompetent, and barbaric white soldiers. This beautiful atonement for Hollywood’s too many ‘‘Injun’’ insults won seven Academy Awards, including Best Picture. The ‘‘evils of civilization’’ and the ‘‘conquest of paradise’’ themes continued to be explored through fabulous cinematography 1492: Conquest of Paradise (dir. Ridley Scott, 1992) and The New World (dir. Terrence Malick, 2005).
One of the most important themes in colonial studies, as well as in colonial films, is the allure of the ‘‘other’’ or the exotic, that is, the attraction or enticement of colonial culture and the temptation of ‘‘going native.’’ The usual or ‘‘normal’’ assumption that the other culture is offensive, savage, unsophisticated, and generally uncivilized is reversed when a hero or heroine adopts not only the outward signs and customs of the foreign and colonial culture, but in the most personal, physical, and emotional manner ‘‘becomes’’ the other. We see this with Costner’s Lieutenant John Dunbar, who easily abandons his soldierly, white, and American identity in order to become ‘‘Dances with Wolves,’’ the husband of ‘‘Stands with a Fist’’ and a member in good standing of one band of the Lakota Sioux. One of the classic films of British colonialism, indeed one of the classic films of all time, David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia (1962), is the story of an eccentric British officer, T. E. Lawrence (1888–1935), who joined forces with Arab tribesmen during World War I and became a legendary man of the desert. Peter O’Toole’s Lawrence was, like his Arab allies, a magnificent warrior, both courageous and enigmatic. Lean also shows Lawrence as the fallible westerner, whose good intentions for Arab independence allowed his confidence to turn into arrogance and bloodlust. Although Lean and scriptwriter Robert Bolt had no difficulty presenting the Turks as vicious enemies, their portraits of the Arabs were as attractive yet indistinct as the desert cinematography. The vain and weak Prince Feisal who led the tribes of the peninsula was played by Alex Guinness as cagey, educated, and wise.






