The Politics of Fiction
As seen in the last part, fiction can instil inappropriate fears. But fear isn’t a special case. Whatever the subject, there’s always the risk a story will leave us with inaccurate information about the world. It’s a recurring quandary with fiction. It’s great that it can tell us about things we wouldn’t otherwise encounter, but not so great when what it tells is isn’t true. Sometimes it might be better not to know at all.
Clearly, if your entire knowledge of Jewish people comes from Nazi propaganda films you’d be better knowing nothing at all. Likewise, if your entire knowledge of Libyans is based upon the salivating sub-humans depicted in Back to the Future complete ignorance would be preferable.
Sad to say, for many children and adults in the Thirties and the Eighties such characterisations were all they had to go on. Consequently when they heard the words ‘Jewish’ or ‘Libyan’ it was those sort of images that sprang to mind. Consequently, when it came to gassing and bombing these people, there was less outcry. Malevolent sub-humans elicit little public sympathy, and that was how fiction had helped to paint them.
Fictional depictions are sucked into vacuums in our knowledge. If a mind has no information on a subject other than through a fiction, it will tend to store and utilise that fiction as it would fact.
For example, watching Quincy is the closest I’ve come to knowing an American pathologist. No surprise, when I hear the term ‘American pathologist’ it is Jack Klugman’s face and pleasant demeanour that spring to mind. I’ve little else stored on the subject.
Alternatively, if I hear the term ‘aging beach stud’ then naturally I’ll picture Mr Hasslehoff. But this time my mind will also factor-in a bit of Robert Mitchum, in Cape Fear, and perhaps some of the older characters in surf-movies like Big Wednesday. As it happens, I have actually been on some Californian beaches, so those memories of reality will also inform my reading. Nevertheless, in this particular case the fictions remain the majority input. They’re the defining images in my mind.
Colourful as it can be, this reliance on fiction for facts leaves us vulnerable to misrepresentations, no more so than in the sphere of politics. Depending on which narratives you consume you can be left with a very different impression of events: If your entire knowledge of the American frontier comes from watching John Wayne movies you’ll be left with a particular view of that period. If it comes from Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee you’ll be left with a very different set of images. Heroic horseback duels between righteous Europeans and noble savages would turn to images of genocide.
If your entire knowledge of Vietnam ‘war’ comes from watching ‘Nam movies, your opinion of what happened will be tightly circumscribed. You might think of it as a brave adventure, you might think of it as a tragedy that befell young American manhood. But you certainly won’t see it as the US battling to derail democracy in Asia.
Doubtless, such depictions have helped keep the true horrors out of the public mind, and on track.
Or take the concept of the British spy. Ask anyone on Earth to name a British secret agent. It won’t be Guy Burgess or David Shayler. James Bond is far better known, a far bolder image in the public eye than any real spy.
For all the fun of the films, this misunderstanding has been an boon for state-criminals, a priceless diversion from reality. When we should picture murky individuals, sneaking, lying and squealing, instead we picture immaculate evening attire, casinos, Ferraris, Dry Martinis and beautiful women. When we should be protesting the destruction of countless democracies instead we picture a dashing hero, keeping Moscow or whatever at bay. Perfect war propaganda, without any government coaxing.
Star Trek was a stunning piece of cold-war propaganda. The whole premise is America’s infinite benevolence, and its right to police the universe. As power passed from Europe to the States, Star Trek spelled out the change: Now we could see the future, and that was American too. If anyone was going to build intergalactic ships it was them. If anyone was going to patrol the universe it was them. Still difficult to imagine it any other way.
Perhaps the most subtle political messages come at the level of the individual characters. To what ever extent our politics is influenced by friends and acquaintances, something similar applies for fictional characters. Realist fiction is out to seem like reality, to make us feel we are witnessing real people and real events. Unavoidably, part of that reality is the political complexion of each character. Without any necessary authorial intent, fictional characters tell us what we are, as political animals.
Much as I know that Dirty Den was a scoundrel and a lover and a small businessman, I can also assume he voted for Margaret Thatcher. Hilda Ogden on the other hand was a stubborn old prude, a classic working class Tory, while trade unionist Bobby Grant on Brookside was firmly on the Labour left.
So, what’s the pay off? Of all the people who influence us politically, what net influence do our fictional acquaintances exert?
In this sense it seems hard to deny that spending time consuming popular fiction is spending time in the company of deeply apolitical people. Soap characters, in particular, are a pitifully disconnected bunch. Aside from election days, the subject simply isn’t approached. To the extent that we are politically motivated by those around us, soap ‘friends’ are the last people to inspire a revolution.
This certainly isn’t a call for more left-wing soap characters, rather to point out how unworkable that would be. It’s not really what fiction is about. Popular fiction is about entertainment, not hard work. Soaps and big movies can’t waste time constructing politically progressive characters. They have to stick to the simple things, things we all know best – birth, sex, power, death. There’s no room for revolutionary ideology in Hilda Ogden’s mouth, there’s simply no call for it.
The very form of fiction makes it better suited for conveying reactionary messages. After all, fiction is always re-presentation - it comes alive by reminding us of things we’ve already encountered, not by suggesting abstract plans for the future. Novelties abound, of course, but they must always reference the familiar or things just wouldn’t make sense. However subtly delivered, stereotyping is unavoidable – how else could we relate to the characters?
Fiction always has to remind us of real people, real events. It may point to the future but it always has two feet in the past. For this reason alone no fiction can really be politically neutral. Whatever writers and devotees might believe, all fictions convey the political perspective of the period - often little more than the accumulated bigotry of the period.
As usual, it’s easy to see after the event. These days decent folk wince at early Hollywood depictions of race. We can see it now, but clearly a lot of people didn’t at the time. It seems safe to assume that many of our current crop of racial stereotypes are similarly narrow-minded, and will have future liberals wringing their hands about what terrible people we all must have been.
While progressive fiction is a possibility it’s always going to be in a minority. Orwell’s novels contain priceless political insight, but they really are bucking the trend. The mass of popular fictions perpetuate conservative readings. Most of the fiction we consume is for pleasure, and pleasure rarely means profound.
