Showing papers in "Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television in 2003"

Dual Nationality Film Productions in Europe after 1945

Abstract: A Frenchman, M. Fourré-Cormeray, is credited for the idea of a treaty giving film dual nationality. On 29 October 1946, MM. Fourré-Cormeray and Proia (Director of the French Film Centre and Chairman of the Italian Film Organisation respectively) signed the first ‘experimental’ co-production agreement between France and Italy [1]. Even though this first formal agreement allowed for the co-productions of 10 films in Italy and five films in France, within a year, only nine films were made according to its terms, all of them shot in Italy. Among them were the films of French directors Jacques de Baroncelli (Rocambole) and Christian-Jaque (La Chartreuse de Parme). By 1947, Italian director Alessandro Blasetti had started work on Fabiola, a spectacular melodrama about the persecution of the Christians in Rome. Under the helm of Salvo d’Angelo, the Italian company Universalia had embarked on the production of this colossal production. Starring French actors Henri Vidal, Michèle Morgan and Michel Simon, and, Italian actors Gino Cervi, Elisa Cegani and Massimo Girotti, Fabiola was one of the most expensive films shot in Europe in the immediate post-war period. At the time, Salvo d’Angelo hoped ambitious films such as Fabiola would contribute to the establishment of a common market for French and Italian films [2]. Other early post-war attempts at creating a ‘European cinema’ include an idea launched in 1947 by French writer and film director Marcel Pagnol for an International Congress of Latin Cinema ‘to set up a common material and moral defence against the quantitative and qualitative assault of American cinema’. At the time, Pagnol spoke against ‘a cinema that speaks Italian (or French, or Spanish) but thinks American’. As for Universalia, the Italian company claimed to incarnate the very ‘expression of Latinness and spirituality of the cinematographic world’ with its biblical epic Fabiola but also with other grandiose projects such as Cristoforo Colombo (with the participation of several Latin-language countries) and a biography of Saint Ignazio of Loyola [3]. However, even though France, Italy and Spain shared linguistic and cultural affinities, the economic and political context of the time made it unlikely for a common Latin European space to emerge. Besides, as film historian Barbara Corsi rightly points out: ‘for this [Latin] European cinema, the standard of quality reflected more the great works of literature or music and of certain historical heroes than originality or intrinsic merit. As such, this classic formula for European cinema was bound to lose to the more dynamic contemporary American cinema’ [4]. Nevertheless, the hopes of Fabiola’s producer for a single market for French and Italian films moved a step closer two years later when France and Italy signed the co-production agreement on 21 February 1949. On both sides of the Alps, film producers had called for measures to protect their film

Memory reclamation of cinema going in Bridgend, South Wales, 1930–1960

Abstract: For a large part of its history the field of film studies has ignored a rather important component of the film industry, its audience. Whilst studies have been completed on film production, distribution, exhibition, and the films themselves, academics have continually disregarded the people at which all this was aimed. The discrepancy is currently being rectified with reception studies gaining increased attention. Nevertheless, many years of reception history have been lost, and the sources used to conduct work into the contemporary reception of films and cinema going habits of previous decades are dwindling. Sources that can be used to research past reception include newspapers and magazines, which contain reviews of films and the critical opinions of them at the time. However, if one wants to gain an insight into the views of the public, the demographics of the mass audience at which these films were marketed and shown to, and their cinema going habits, then another approach is needed. Unless access to contemporary diaries is available, a project of memory reclamation must be undertaken. Indeed, as Jackie Stacey states, ‘if film history is to engage with ethnographic methods of audience analysis, as well as detailing cinema attendance statistically, then memory has to be a central consideration’ [1] as ‘memories provide not only a flavour of cinemas and cinema going, but also a sense of the social context’ [2]. This type of research can take the form of an oral history project where the researcher can interview people, or written work such as questionnaires and letter correspondence. Memory reclamation has become an important research method within film studies, and several academics have produced book length studies of audience reception and cinema going habits using memory as their primary source. At its most basic, memory reclamation has been presented in such books as Enter the Dream House by Margaret O’Brian and Allen Eyles, and lan Breakwell and Paul Hammond’s Seeing in the Dark. Both of these works perform an important function in recording people’s hitherto undocumented memories to ‘recreate going to the pictures when film was the great social habit’ [3], but they neglect the fact that memory is a ‘text to be deciphered, not a lost reality to be discovered’ [4]. Studies that do take this into consideration include Helen Taylor’s Scarlett’s Women and Star Gazing by Jackie Stacey, two works that utilise similar methods for memory reclamation. Both authors wrote to national, female oriented magazines asking women with memories of Gone With the Wind (Dir: Victor Fleming, 1939) in Taylor’s case, and of female stars in the 1940s and 1950s for Stacey, to write to them. After receiving letters, and the subsequent questionnaires issued by Stacey, the two academics concentrated on interpreting their respondents’ memories, both in quantitative and psychoanalytic ways. Perhaps the largest and most ambitious project of memory reclamation has been

The Spanish remember: movie attendance during the Franco dictatorship, 1943–1975

Abstract: One of the aspects of the social influence of film is the new relationship that the audience establishes with the information and with current affairs in general [1]. Some countries collected field studies, statistics, and questionnaires from the early days of filmmaking, which show film’s predominant position as a means of communication in certain periods. This, however, is not the case in Spain. In order to verify this aspect in Spain, researchers have to resort to a wide range of indirect sources: industrial rates, charity taxes, general and feature press articles, and so on. These sources provide abundant information, although fragmented and not always reliable. Since 1968, Spain has had the records of the Estudio General de Medios (General Study of Means), created for advertisers, information neither precise nor of the necessary scope to qualify as a definite source during Franco’s regime [2]. It is even more difficult to research the influence of film newsreels officially broadcast first by a dictatorship and subsequently by an authoritarian regime, as is the case with NODO, the official Franco newsreel. Opinions with respect to the actual influence of NODO are contradictory: some view NODO as very important because of its obligatory character and its monopoly in the field. Others claim that it hardly had any real influence. Its propaganda, they argue, was so obvious that no one could really be convinced by its contents. It is more probable that more widely distributed newsreels would have a greater influence than others seen less often. By no means, however, would this general assumption be valid in each and every case. This article, therefore, attempts to make a evaluation of the circumstances in which NODO was distributed in the context of Spanish filmmaking, as well as the cultural, political, social, and economic circumstances of the particular period researched. This evaluation centers on the assumption that the Spanish people remember elements of these processes. The study is based on oral accounts. The analysis, therefore, basically has two main focuses of attention. The first one is a broad study of movie-going in general, with the presentation of film as entertainment in a society under a dictatorial regime, the various types of movie-going, the different tastes in movies, and the social profile of the audience. The second one more specifically refers to the perception of NODO, since during the 1940s and 1950s, this was Franco’s most important audiovisual means of propaganda [3]. The result of the analysis will provide a better understanding of the influence of film in Spain in those years, following the reconstruction by the collective memory as viewed from the present.

Marshall plan publicity and propaganda in Italy and Ireland, 1947–1951

Abstract: (2003). Marshall plan publicity and propaganda in Italy and Ireland, 1947–1951. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 4, pp. 311-328.

The Geography of Cinemagoing in Great Britain, 1934-1994: A comment

Abstract: The spectacular decline of cinemagoing in post-war Britain is well recorded, with both film and social historians commenting on the phenomenon and attributing most blame to the arrival of television and the closure of cinemas [1]. In the process they have provided a clearer picture of the class, age and gender elements in the changing cinema audience, demonstrating how it moved from one composed disproportionately of young working class females to one made up largely of young middle class males [2]. However, one aspect of the decline which has not been fully investigated is the geography of the shrinking audience for film. Knowledge of the geography of cinemagoing in the peak of attendances between the early 1930s and the early 1950s is well recorded, and frequently cited by historians, thanks to the work of Simon Rowson and Browning and Sorrell [3]. Furthermore, recent research by Jeffrey Richards, Annette Kuhn and especially John Sedgwick has deepened our understanding of what was popular and how this varied by age, class, gender, geography and type of cinema [4]. Sedgwick’s work in particular has emphasised the importance of film choice to the mass popularity of cinemagoing in the 1930s and the maintenance of habitual attendance among young workers in the industrial areas. The work of the early statisticians and contemporary historians has relied heavily on the Board of Trade returns required under the various Cinematographic Acts which continued to be collected up to 1984 [5], though to date little use has been made of this data for the period after 1952. The aim of this paper therefore is to employ this source, along with advertising industry data for the period up to 1994 [6], to examine the regional element in cinema decline. For 50 years following the arrival of cinema in 1896, attendances grew spectacularly. When the first thorough investigation of attendance was carried out by Simon Rowson in 1934 he calculated that there had been over 900 million admissions in the year and the figure continued to increase, to a peak of 1635 million in 1946. This rapid and consistent growth was followed by an almost equally rapid and consistent decline. By 1960 attendances—at 501 million—were less than one third of the immediate post-war peak, continuing their precipitous fall to 200 million in 1970 and 101 million in 1980 before bottoming out in 1984 when just 54 million tickets were sold. From then a minor and fragile recovery began which saw steady annual growth up to 1994, when the highest level was achieved since 1978 [7]. The trends in cinema attendance moved together with developments in the field of film exhibition. There were 4448 permanent cinemas in 1935, rising to a peak of 4967 in 1938 before settling at around 4650 for the next 15 years [8]. Furthermore, these figures mask important trends in the exhibition industry. The combination of the coming of sound and the imposition of a protective tariff on British films in the later 1920s stimulated a boom in cinema building

Compact Generation: Vcd markets in Asia

Abstract: It is official. Taipei’s taxi drivers have now entered film exhibition. When I climbed into a Taipei city cab, in early 2002, I was startled to see Bilbo Baggins stumping his way through the Shire. Attached to the dash just above the meter was a mini-LCD screening Lord of the Rings on VCD, video compact disc. ‘Why was the driver screening this film’ we asked, and ‘wasn’t it dangerous to drive and watch movies at the same time?’ The cabbie said that he preferred long movies because business was so bad that he often went more than two hours between fares. Radio and music CDs did not fill the time so he had managed to doctor his CD player to make it play VCDs. In addition, he did not regard it as dangerous because he only watched the films while waiting for customers; when driving he merely listened, and left the movie running for the amusement of his fares. It was a good time-killer, both for him as well as his customers. It took their minds off the traffic. It certainly did. A cabbie running pirated Hollywood blockbusters on VCD epitomizes East Asia’s mediascape: the presence of alternative, miniature technologies that are portable and cheap; an indifference to time-sensitive corporate distribution channels; and the complete interchangeability of audio, visual and cinematic forms of entertainment: time-killers, all. East Asian consumers manifest a casual, insouciant attitude toward multinational media diffusion and particularly towards Hollywood. While happily enjoying the fruits of Hollywood, East Asian and especially Chinese consumers are detached from the narcissism of LA-based entertainment with its box-office and celebrity obsessions. Hollywood has a powerful global reach, but East Asian consumers are only in it, not of it, like Bilbo Baggins on the streets of Taipei.

Cinema and British Imperial Civil Aviation, 1919-1939

Abstract: The development of commercial aviation in the British Empire, 1919–1939, coincided with growing use of private and commercial film to record imperial events. Film was also used to display the Empire to Britons, to persuade them of its validity, and to attract their support by way of sentiment, purchases, settlement and defence. In the twilight of Empire, British flight and film were exploited as modern tools of imperial conservation. Not least, film was used to portray the actual and potential benefits that progressive aeronautical technology offered for imperial trade and intercourse. The surviving cinematic images capture the business of imperial aviation, but are also a valuable archive of colonial places, life and attitudes. At the end of the First World War, Britain’s maritime Empire had attained unprecedented geographical size. Its nearest part was 1500 miles from London; its furthest was 12,000 miles. Linking together this far-flung imperial territory became more difficult following the devastation of Britain’s merchant marine during the War. The situation would be less dire if new aeronautical technology could be used instead. Great Britain ended the War with the world’s largest military air force and a huge reserve of trained pilots and surplus aircraft. Between the two world wars successive British governments set a target of upgrading aviation to link, serve and legitimate Empire. A few demobbed air force pilots were the intrepid pioneers of long distance imperial air routes in the 1920s. There followed a decade of technical, economic, and political struggle to launch intercontinental civilian air services. In the 1930s, Britain’s sole civil imperial airline slowly began to offer passenger and freight connections between London and the Middle East, India, Australia and Africa. Reporting successful civil air progress in the Empire was a matter of factual record as well as propaganda. Starting in the 1920s, newspapers and specialist aeronautical magazines logged and mapped the first daring flights undertaken across stretches of ocean and land. Aircraft-naming ceremonies and route inaugurations were photographed and reported. The public relations agenda was to develop interest in flight and to keep Britain’s technical profile high in the presence of vigorous European aeronautical competition. Less publicly, oral dissemination of aviation developments, and debate about aviation policies, occurred at meetings arranged by professional societies. Operating with a rather longer lead time, book publishers retained a strong role. Lectures to schools and public audiences, poster displays, and exhibitions were also used to galvanise interest in the new form of imperial transport. Signifying advances in all forms of communication, the most modern form of Empire interaction was increasingly spoken about in radio broadcasts and shown on lantern slides and cinematic film.

Would you like to be Queen for a day?: finding a working class voice in American television of the 1950s

Abstract: (2003). Would you like to be Queen for a day?: finding a working class voice in American television of the 1950s. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 4, pp. 375-386.

Taming Russia's Wild East: The Central Asian historical-revolutionary film as Soviet Orientalism

Abstract: (2003). Taming Russia's Wild East: The Central Asian historical-revolutionary film as Soviet Orientalism. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 3, pp. 259-270.

Pseudonyms, Sapphire and Salt: 'Un-American' contributions to television costume adventure series in the 1950s

Abstract: The mid-to-late 1950s witnessed the appearance of a number of costume adventure series on Britain’s then new commercial TV channel, ITV, on local and national network TV in America, and, indeed, on TV stations and networks in many other parts of the world [1]. An increasingly important component in what Brian Taves has identified as the third of four major cycles of costume adventure in the period prior to the 1990s [2], these series included The Adventures of Robin Hood (which was initially broadcast in Britain from 1955 to 1959 and on CBS in America from 1955 to 1958), The Adventures of Sir Lancelot (which was initially broadcast in Britain and on NBC in America in 1956 and 1957), The Buccaneers (which was initially broadcast in Britain and on CBS in America in 1956 and 1957), Sword of Freedom (which was initially syndicated to local TV stations in America in 1957 and 1958 and broadcast in Britain between 1958 and the early 1960s) [3] and Ivanhoe (which was initially broadcast in 1958 and 1959 in Britain and initially syndicated in America in 1958). Feeding off precedents established in the cinema, they themselves sometimes gave rise to cinema spin-offs [4]. In these ways they served to mark the increasing traffic between film and television, and in particular film and television genres, in the 1950s [5]. Along with the international nature of their success and the trans-Atlantic nature of their status as cultural products—Ivanhoe was a runaway production by an American TV company, the others, British productions co-funded by US distributors—this is one of their many points of interest [6]. Yet another is the input of ‘un-American’ Americans, particularly as writers of scripts. Since the publication in 1980 of Larry Ceplair and Steven England’s book, The Inquisition in Hollywood, it has been known that Ring Lardner Jr and Ian McLellan Hunter, both of them blacklisted as Communists or as Communist sympathizers in the late 1940s and early 1950s, wrote scripts for Robin Hood. It has also been known that a key role was played here by producer Hannah Weinstein and by her company, Sapphire Films [7]. Since then, a number of publications have added to the list of blacklisted writers, the series to which they contributed, and our knowledge of the part played by Sapphire and Weinstein [8]. It is now known, for instance, that Norma Barzman, Robert Lees, Maurice Rapf and others wrote scripts for Robin Hood too [9], that Lardner and Hunter wrote scripts for The Adventures of Sir Lancelot and The Buccaneers in addition to the scripts they wrote for Robin Hood [10], and that Waldo Salt wrote scripts for Robin Hood and Ivanhoe as well [11]. It is also known that all these scripts were either written psuedonymously or were allocated a psuedonymous credit at some point during the process of production.

Reconstructing Boundaries: Gender, war and empire in British cinema, 1945-1950

Abstract: In Against the Wind (1947), a British film released soon after the Second World War, the fate of Max—who is shown working for the British-led resistance in Belgium—is sealed by two women [1]. The film is careful to establish that Max (Jack Warner) does not identify as British before he is revealed as a traitor. He is shown telling his fellow resistance workers that ‘My mother was Belgian, my old man was a Yank and his father was German’. Both his own non-Britishness, and that of the Irish woman, Bridie (Sheila Carty), to whom he sells his secrets, are emphasised during their clandestine meeting. He calls her ‘Shamrock’ while she tells him that: ‘A man without some sort of country is a poor sort of mongrel’. It is through his association with Bridie, who is passing his information to the Nazis, that Max’s treachery is discovered by the British authorities. The discovery comes too late to stop him being dropped by parachute in Belgium, and the information about his treachery has to be passed on from Britain to the wireless operator in Belgium. As soon as she decodes the message, this wireless operator—Michele (Simone Signoret)—shoots him. The two women who seal Max’s fate might be taken as emblematic of the way in which women’s active involvement in the Second World War began to be portrayed in its immediate aftermath. Bridie in Against the Wind, the Irish woman from a neutral country who spies against Britain, is a figure who is much more extensively developed in I See a Dark Stranger (1946), embodying the active woman as a threat to the British nation [2]. Michele, the continental woman whose country is occupied by the Nazis, and who works loyally for the resistance under British leadership, is a figure much more extensively developed in Odette (1950), embodying female heroism [3]. None of these films feature active British women, and Against the Wind and Odette do not feature British women at all. They thus suggest not only a double coding of femininity in representations of women’s war-time roles—heroic service, a threat to the nation—but also the extent to which the active British woman disappeared from view once the war was over. In so far as the idea of women’s active involvement in the Second World War survived in imagery produced after 1945, it was frequently represented through the figure of a non-British woman. Antonia Lant comments that: ‘War devolves on geographical territory, exploding and rebuilding national boundaries, but it simultaneously shapes the landscape of gender, eroding and sculpting boundaries between the sexes’ [4]. In much of Europe Nazi invasion and occupation involved widespread collapse of pre-war national boundaries, while the erosion of gender boundaries was particularly apparent in the common fate of many European women and men: transportation to enforced labour or death in German camps. In British territory, pre-war boundaries were also extensively

Leni Riefenstahl's 'Gypsy Question'

Abstract: (2003). Leni Riefenstahl's 'Gypsy Question' Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 1, pp. 3-10.

The Cosmopolitan and the Patriot: The brothers Mikhalkov-Konchalovsky and Russian cinema

Abstract: Zhili-byli ... Thus begins a Russian fairytale. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there lived two handsome and talented brothers, Andrei and Nikita. The boys led a charmed life in a far-off land, with their mother, the beautiful princess Natalia, and their father, Sergei, a commoner but a most wondrous spinner of tales. Natalia’s family was an ancient and esteemed one, and the boys grew up surrounded by artists, writers, and musicians. These were dangerous times in the kingdom, and enemies lurked everywhere. Luckily Sergei, who had become a trusted councilor to the King, had the power to shield his family from harm—and from the harsh realities of life outside the manor walls. Andrei and Nikita loved the movies more than anything else and dreamed of becoming famous directors. Their father helped them go to the right schools and introduced them to powerful people. And so their wishes, happily, came to pass. They became great artists, and their films were seen not only by their countrymen, but also by audiences all over the world. This fairytale is true. Andrei Konchalovsky (b. 1937) and Nikita Mikhalkov (b. 1945) were born in the Soviet Union at the height of the Stalin era [1]. Their mother, Natalia Konchalovskaia, was a writer from a noble family, the daughter and granddaughter of two of Russia’s most famous painters, Pëtr Konchalovskii and Vasilii Surikov [2]. Their father, Sergei Mikhalkov (b. 1913), still alive at this writing, was the USSR’s bestknown writer of children’s books, a poet who composed the lyrics to the Soviet national anthem, much despised as a cynical opportunist who had survived by sacrificing others [3]. Theirs was a family joining the Russian gentry with the new Soviet aristocracy— and through times good, bad, and worse, the Mikhalkov–Konchalovskys wanted for nothing. Both brothers attended the prestigious All-Union State Institute of Cinematography in Moscow (VGIK), studied with Mikhail Romm, and became major international film directors. But there their paths diverged. An examination of the very different careers of Andrei Konchalovsky and Nikita Mikhalkov illuminates not only issues critical to our understanding of the artistic intelligentsia in late Soviet and post-Soviet society but as important, the effects of ‘globalization’ on Russian cinema. Globalization and the impact of globalization on non-English language national cinemas is, of course, the central issue in international film studies today. Closely related to this debate is the dominance of the cinematic style dubbed ‘global Hollywood’, that is, the international dominance of the Hollywood style of narrative filmmaking regardless of the country (or countries) involved in the production. This issue is particularly poignant in contemporary Russian cinema, because global Hollywood’s hegemony had been staved off by the Soviet state’s highly centralized, com-

Aunties and uncles: the BBC's children's hour and liminal concerns in the 1920s

Abstract: (2003). Aunties and uncles: the BBC's children's hour and liminal concerns in the 1920s. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 4, pp. 329-339.

Film Exhibition in Seattle, 1897-1912: Leisure activity in a scraggly, smelly frontier town

Abstract: In 1900, America’s population totaled 75,994,575, of which 80,671 lived in the scraggly, smelly frontier town of Seattle [1]. Built by logging, fishing, railroading, and pacifying the natives who first settled the area, Seattle fought to thrive as a metropolis. A mud-infested city perpetually ‘under construction’, corrupt as the next town and remote in the spokeswheel of industrializing cities, Seattle sported a feisty, touchy air of arrogance and a by-the-bootstraps pride that underlay its vision as a future great metropolis. Seattle wanted to be important, and cultural influence fit into that desire. The city therefore provides a useful case study of the growth of nickelodeons,

Variations on a Theme of Elgar: Ken Russell, the Great War, and the television 'life' of a composer

Abstract: A boy sits astride a white pony, the land spread below him receding to a misty horizon. The light is behind the pony and boy, obscuring their features but blending them together and silhouetting them against the sky. In the middle distance, given just enough spatial definition to suggest the expanse of air in which they move, dark clouds are edged brilliantly by a distant sun. There is music too. A galloping string theme has accompanied the boy’s ride to the top of the hill, and the moment when he reins in his mount corresponds with a passage of brief repose, if not full resolution, within the music. This is a scene etched in the memory of countless lovers of the music of Sir Edward Elgar, whose Introduction and Allegro it is that we have heard. The boy is supposed to be the young Elgar, and if the biographical record gives little to support the notion that he ever rode a pony on his beloved Malvern hills, it remains an iconic moment within Ken Russell’s 1962 BBC television life of the composer [1]. Like that remarkable vista caught from the Malverns forty years ago, every cloud has a silver lining; and biographically accurate or not, it is scarcely surprising that the image adorns the cover of the DVD edition of the film recently reissued by the British Film Institute [2]. This appeared in time to complement Russell’s return to the life of Elgar with a television program shown on ITV’s ‘South Bank Show’ in 2002 [3]. The forty years that separate Russell’s two television ‘lives’ of Elgar have witnessed a revolution in attitudes to Elgar, and it would scarcely be an exaggeration to suggest that his 1962 film did much to bring about these changes—its key place within the biographical account is attested by commentators like Michael Kennedy and Jeffrey Richards [4]. Even though largely unsought, Russell’s role in shaping modern perceptions of Elgar deserves exploration by those interested in the relationship between television and biographical interpretation, and in the way that composers’ lives are staged on screen. Music is notoriously difficult to write or talk about, its ultimate rationale being that it hints at the verbally incommunicable. Does the medium of television, with its opportunities for sound as well as pictures, offer any better alternative? How, especially in the light of Jerome Kuehl’s review essay of The Great War in this issue, are such crucial events as the First World War located and explored within the life of a composer? Such questions lie at the heart of Russell’s two filmed lives of Elgar. The director, it need hardly be said, has long enjoyed a controversial reputation. One wonders what Elgar, that most socially conservative of men, would have made of him. And, while a thoughtful commentator on the life, Russell’s priority was never strict biographical

Dying for a laugh: post-1945 Japanese service comedies

Abstract: (2003). Dying for a laugh: post-1945 Japanese service comedies. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 4, pp. 291-310.

Humphrey Jennings’ Heart of Britain (1941): a reassessment

Abstract: (2003). Humphrey Jennings' Heart of Britain (1941): A reassessment. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 2, pp. 133-151.

Nazi Germany's Fritz Hippler, 1909-2002

Abstract: (2003). Nazi Germany's Fritz Hippler, 1909-2002. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 2, pp. 91-99.

The Auxiliary Cruiser Thor's Death and Transfiguration: A case study in Nazi newsreel propaganda in the Second World War

Abstract: In Germanic belief, Thor, the god of thunder, is the protector of the gods, a deity constantly involved in battles with giants [1]. During the Second World War, the German propaganda machine created its very own myth about ‘Thor’—in the shape of an auxiliary cruiser named for the god of thunder that, ironically, was accidentally destroyed by fire in a Japanese harbour. German propagandists never informed the outside world about the destruction of the Thor. Moreover, nearly a year after its disappearance, Nazi newsreels ran stories alleging that the so-called auxiliary cruiser was still preying on allied ships. This case study, which describes a hitherto ignored example of German military propaganda, not only focuses on newsreel reports but also takes other communication media into account.

Hollywood in an Israeli Kibbutz: Going to the movies in 1950s' Afikim

Abstract: In a general assembly, taking place in a kibbutz named Afikim in 1951, one of the members complained, ‘we have no cultural accomplishments’; instead of celebrating serious and important occasions, such as Herzl Day in memory of the great Zionist leader, ‘all we have is cinema’ [1]. This article deals with the cultural role of movie going in a kibbutz during the early years of the Israeli state. It does not focus on specific movies, but rather describes their general consumption patterns and their social reception. It tries to understand how this popular form of entertainment fit in with kibbutz collective society, its socialist ideology and its national pioneering image. Afikim, a particularly large and wealthy kibbutz, can serve as an illustrative—though not an altogether representative—case study of movie going in 1950s kibbutzim. The reconstruction of its everyday life is based on Israeli newspapers and periodicals, a few interviews, and records such as assembly protocols and the Kibbutz bulletin, stored in Afikim’s historical archive.

Leni Riefenstahl's Career Reassessed

Abstract: (2003). Leni Riefenstahl's Career Reassessed. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 3, pp. 279-283.

The Great War on DD Video

Abstract: (2003). The Great War on DD Video. Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television: Vol. 23, No. 3, pp. 285-287.