In case you were wondering what might have befallen us if the Confederacy had gotten its hands on the Super-Soldier Serum, here it is. I’m guessing the next installment will have Horace Hunley as Tony Stark and Belle Boyd as Black Widow.
Tag Archives: historical memory
If even half of her controversial autobiography is true, then Loreta Janeta Velázquez led one of the most fascinating lives of the nineteenth century. She’s the subject of Rebel, a new documentary airing Friday, May 24 to open this season of Voces on PBS.
According to her 1876 book The Woman in Battle, Loreta was born in Cuba in 1842 to a prominent Spanish official. Sent to New Orleans as a young girl, she displayed a rebellious personality from a young age, dressing in boys’ clothes and eloping with an army officer at the age of fourteen. Deciding to see something of combat, she was one of hundreds of women who disguised themselves as men and fought in the Civil War. Calling herself Harry T. Buford, she experienced some of the war’s most famous battles, including 1st Bull Run, Fort Donelson, and Shiloh. After her exploits as a soldier, she took up spying, enjoying a remarkable career as a double agent.
That, at least, is the story she told in her memoir. How much of it is true has been a subject of debate ever since its publication. Jubal Early, who met her in Virginia after the book’s publication, denounced her as a fraud. Some historians have likewise found her claims hard to swallow, although researchers have found enough documentation to verify a few parts of her story.
Rebel doesn’t spend much time separating fact from fiction. Instead, it focuses on the outline of her story as she told it herself, using it to examine the role of Hispanics in Civil War America, gender in the nineteenth century, and contested historical memories. The concern here isn’t really whether her account is true, but why its accuracy was a matter of such concern to her contemporaries. The program suggests that her autobiography offered a challenge to the society in which she lived, not only because she stretched the truth but also because of who she was—a Hispanic woman involved in the business of war and espionage who was determined to go public with her exploits. It’s a fascinating story, and I enjoyed watching it.
I’ve taken as one of my creeds novelist L.P. Hartley’s oft-quoted statement: “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” As I’ve said before, I love it when historical films manage to convey this “otherness” of the past. The tricky part is that audiences are supposed to identify with a movie’s protagonists, and it seems like underscoring the differences between historical characters and moderns would only make that more difficult. So how do you depict the “otherness” of a historical film’s protagonists without undermining an audience’s sympathy for them, especially when that otherness consists of attitudes and practices that are morally repugnant here in the twenty-first century?
The easiest approach is to cheat and eliminate the otherness altogether. If your hero is a prominent landowner in eighteenth-century South Carolina, you’re going to have to deal with the fact that men of his stature, place, and time tended to be slaveholders. The makers of The Patriot sliced through this Gordian knot by making Benjamin Martin a remarkably forward-thinking guy.
It’s a simple solution, but it also leaves a lot to be desired. Whereas the movie shows the British dragoons tearing free blacks away from their homes, the reality was in many cases the reverse, with many slaves escaping their Patriot masters to make a bid for freedom behind British lines. Ironically, Benjamin Martin’s fictional military exploits are similar to those of a real South Carolina officer named Thomas Sumter, who paid his recruits with slaves confiscated from Tories.
The makers of 300, by contrast, didn’t try to gloss over the unsavory aspects of their historical protagonists. The Spartans leave weak infants to die of exposure, they savagely discipline their own children to turn them into hardened soldiers, they cherish the idea of death on the battlefield, and they slaughter their wounded enemies and desecrate their bodies. And the audience is expected to accept the characters for what they are—even to celebrate them for it.
The movie not only gives us the Spartans in all their ruthlessness, but makes us empathize with them. You probably wouldn’t want to live among them, and you certainly wouldn’t want to be a wounded Persian falling into their hands, but it’s fun to root for them for a couple of hours. This solution seems more historically honest than the approach taken in The Patriot, and it works pretty well when you’re telling a story in which there are obvious good guys and bad guys.
Of course, 300 tells the story entirely from the Spartans’ perspective. Can filmmakers tell the story of some historic event holistically—that is, from a variety of perspectives—while conveying the past’s “otherness” and still make audiences empathize with all the characters involved? Can they do on film what David Hackett Fischer did in his book Paul Revere’s Ride, approaching “both Paul Revere and Thomas Gage with sympathy and genuine respect” even though the main characters act in opposition to each other? I think one movie that handles this really well is John Lee Hancock’s 2004 film The Alamo.
As this scene demonstrates, the movie presents the Alamo’s defenders as heroic. Indeed, for some critics, they come across as too heroic. A number of reviewers accused the filmmakers of whitewashing the story. What struck me about the movie when I saw it, however, was its remarkable frankness about the protagonists’ shortcomings. Early scenes establish that David Crockett, Jim Bowie, and William Travis have all experienced some sort of disappointment or disgrace, and Texas represents a second chance for them. A short but sympathetic side plot involves a very young solider marching in Santa Anna’s army. Most notable, though, is how upfront the film is about the relationship between its heroes and their slaves—fittingly so, since the peculiar institution was one of the points of debate between the Texians and the Mexican government.
In one scene, Travis assigns two slaves named Sam and Joe the task of digging a well within the fort’s walls. ”Ain’t bad enough we got to fetch ‘em the water,” Sam complains, “now we got to find it for ‘em too.” Later, Sam tells Joe that when the Mexicans storm the mission, he should worry about saving his own life and let his master to fend for himself. (Travis did indeed own a young slave named Joe, who was wounded when the Alamo fell and escaped to freedom one year after San Jacinto.) These scenes establish that the enslaved members of the garrison have their own interests at stake, interests at odds with those of the protagonists with whom we’re supposed to identify. Contrast this with earlier depictions of black characters in Alamo movies, which tend to employ the familiar “faithful slave” narrative.
At the same time, though, the film’s revisionism doesn’t extend to demonizing the Alamo’s white defenders. We sympathize with Sam and Joe’s predicament even as we admire the courageous last stand of the men holding them captive. As prejudiced slaveholders of another time, Bowie and Travis seem foreign to us, but we also become invested in their confrontation with their own impending death.
As I said, the movie’s approach didn’t go over well with everybody. The essay linked above, for example, notes that “the realistic portrayals of Joe and Sam may be to the credit of the filmmakers, but ultimately the film does little to question the ideological values inscribed onto the Alamo battle, which have gone largely unchallenged for the last 175 years, even if it does alter aspects of the story prevalent in its cinematic representations.” In other words, the 2004 version is more frank about its main characters’ slaveholding, but it somehow manages to leave their bravery and heroism intact. The movie leaves these contradictions unresolved. It’s messy, complicated, and ambiguous, as history often turns out to be. It didn’t work for many critics and historians, but from a purely historical standpoint, I was impressed. Your mileage may vary.
Anyway, The Patriot and 300 grossed $113 million and $456 million respectively, but The Alamo flopped. Maybe audiences prefer their historical heroes to be as straightforward as possible.
The Old Dominion has embraced Honest Abe, at least according to this article.
The writer claims that Tredegar’s sculpture of Lincoln and Tad is “the only statue of Lincoln in the South, where many people still refer to the Civil War as the War of Northern Aggression.” I must beg to differ. In fact, if you visit my alma mater here in East Tennessee, you’ll find three of them: a standing Lincoln at the main entrance, a copy of Paul Manship’s larger-than-life “Hoosier Youth” in the museum atrium, and a depiction of Lincoln as a lawyer in front of the library.
There’s also a Lincoln statue at the state capitol in West Virginia, and Kentucky has more Honest Abes than you can shake a stick at.
One more quibble. I’ve lived in the South for more than thirty years, and I’ve only heard one person refer to the Civil War as “the War of Northern Aggression.” The guy who said it was a reenactor; ironically, I was at an event in a state that never joined the Confederacy. Most of my fellow southerners aren’t nursing a grudge over a war that ended before their great-grandparents were born.
If you’re one of those lovably eccentric wackos who finds learning about humanity’s collective heritage to be worthwhile, you could be the next Honey Boo Boo:
Are you a curious person, and obsessed with history? Can you recite facts inside and out, and name-drop (and even date-drop) with the best of them? Do your friends at trivia night, dare we say it, label you as the history buff? Maybe you’re not a full-blown “buff” but if you like history and get psyched at the idea of even visiting a museum, or actually read those placards on your tour, then we want to meet you…virtually for now though.
Send us a video (YouTube, Vimeo, iPhone…whatever! Just send it to us) of you around your house, your office, your family, your town. Let us know what makes you interesting, and why your brains (and mug) should be featured on a history based reality TV show for all to see. On that note, email a photo too, and everyone of all ages is welcome to apply.
People who actually read exhibit placards! How delightfully zany!
The city of New Rochelle, NY has confiscated a Gadsden flag that flew outside a local armory due to “unspecified complaints” to the city manager and a request by the city council. This happened just after the city manager told a group of veterans the flag could remain in place. The situation is reminiscent of last year’s brouhaha over the Gadsden flags at Gettysburg.
As many commentators have pointed out, the Confederate battle flag is a symbol with multiple meanings because of the various groups that have appropriated it over the years. Depending on the context, it can stand the Confederacy, the South in general, rebelliousness, racism, segregation, or the “redneck” stereotype. If you’re going to display the CBF, you have to keep this multiplicity of meanings in mind; the meaning you intend to convey might not be the same one understood by the people who exposed to it.
In the case of the Gadsden flag, though, I think the case is a little different. The Tea Party adopted the Gadsden flag, but unlike the CBF, the Gadsden flag hasn’t been stewing in its more modern political connotations for decades. It remains primarily a symbol of the Revolution and America’s commitment to liberty and self-defense, and for that reason I don’t see anything wrong with flying it outside an armory. But that’s just my opinion.
Reference to the USSR? Check. Use of the felicitously vague label “progressive”? Check. War attributed to tariffs? Check. The Greeley letter quoted in blissful ignorance of the chronology surrounding the decision for emancipation? Check. Quote from the Charleston debate? Check. Lerone Bennett citation? Check.
Bonus points for conflating the slavery debate as the cause of the war with abolition as a Union war aim from the get-go…”Moreover, if, according to the progressive version of history, abolition of slavery was the cause of the Civil War, why didn’t Lincoln free the slaves right off the bat?”
…and for overlooking the wee matter of the Battle of Antietam: “Why did he wait for many months — and do it only when the war took a bad turn for the Union, and, more important, when the superpowers of the day, Great Britain and France, were about to recognize the Confederacy and come to its aid?”
I just got this message from a filmmaker named Alexander Fofonoff:
I am in my last year at NYU Tisch for film, and about to embark on my thesis film. It is a 19th century post civil war period piece that deals with how returning soldiers dealt with not only the transition from war to peace, but a national transition, how to accept half the country that’s been considered an enemy for the last four years, and what price is paid for that acceptance.
I recently launched an indiegogo campaign, in an attempt to have my project crowd-funded (small donations from a lot of people).
Last month a new Canadian basketball team announced that they’d be calling themselves the Ottawa TomaHawks (with a capital “h”). The name wasn’t a reference to the weapon, but to a two-handed dunk. Critics argued that the name demeaned Native Americans, and the franchise dropped it only a day after making the announcement.
I can understand why the word “tomahawk” might be considered offensive, since it connotes the old stereotype of Indians as warlike, murderous savages. Still, tomahawks weren’t a strictly Indian instrument. In fact, the tomahawk is a perfect symbol of the fusion of Old and New World elements that characterized colonial America. Both the word and the weapon itself are of Indian origin, but the metal-headed tomahawks you see in pictures, movies, and museum displays weren’t available until European technology arrived in the Americas. Both whites and Indians alike made use of them, and killing wasn’t the only thing they were doing with them, since metal-headed axes were common trade items. It’s a Native American instrument altered by Europeans and used by both Indians and whites as a weapon, tool, and commercial product.
When I see a tomahawk in a museum or at a reenactment, I don’t think about warlike Indians; I think about how two cultures encountered each other in the Americas, and how both changed in the process.
But if a substantial number of people of Indian descent found the team’s name offensive, then changing it was the right thing to do. It’s not always about political correctness; sometimes it’s just a matter of basic consideration for the feelings of others. Common decency shouldn’t have to be a political issue.
Now, here’s the sort of thing that’s perfect for stirring up debate in the historical blogosphere:
A new bill proposed in the Georgia legislature would prohibit local governments from hiding or removing statues of Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee or other Confederate army heroes indefinitely.…
Rep. Tommy Benton, R-Jefferson, introduced the proposal at the request of the Sons of the American Revolution and the Sons of Confederate Veterans.
The bill, if passed, would require that monuments be kept in a prominent place. It would also make it illegal to “deface, defile, or abuse contemptuously” any memorial dedicated to the Confederate army.
“We’re not saying they can’t move them,” Benton said. “We’re just saying they can’t just put them in a field somewhere.”
You can read the proposed bill yourself by clicking here. It’s pretty short, so go ahead and give it a look.
Of course, I’m in favor of throwing the book at anybody who mutilates or damages historic monuments and markers, but I would assume Georgia already has vandalism laws to cover that sort of thing. As for the bill’s more novel provisions to stop such monuments from being “relocated, removed, concealed, obscured, or altered,” I’m not sure what to think.
My inclination in disputes over older monuments is usually to let them be and keep them in good condition, since they have intrinsic historic value. But I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have a state law prohibiting local government agencies from moving monuments except in cases of construction projects, since the bill (if I understand it correctly) makes no distinction among monuments “dedicated to a historical entity” based on their age or significance.
What do you guys think?