May 4-5, 2024: Communist Culture in the 21st Century

[In honor of May Day/International Workers’ Day, this week I’ve AmericanStudied some compelling cultural representations of communism in American history and identity. Leading up to this weekend post on contemporary communist culture!]

On two parallel yet very different types of 21^st century cultural commentary on communism.

First things first: it’s impossible to separate the question of how communism is portrayed in 21^st century American cultural works from our period’s resurgent Russophobia. To say this as clearly as I can, critiques of Putin (and thus of Putin’s Russia) are more than justified, and any attempt to stop such critiques with accusations of Russophobia is dead wrong. But we have to be able to engage both the world and ourselves with nuance, and there’s no doubt that those specific and justified critiques have the potential to morph into far more overarching and problematic prejudice (as is also the case with justified critiques of the Chinese government and the potential for sinophobia, an even more longstanding American prejudice of course). Even though communism is a separate subject from Russia, for a century now the two have been entirely intertwined in American history and narratives alike, and so it’s important to acknowledge that continued, complex connection in discussing current cultural representations of communism.

Moreover, two of the last decade’s most interesting American cultural depictions of communism have used famous historical periods in the Soviet Union as the lens through which to do so (although interestingly, and certainly tellingly, both have been in English and have used casts of mostly non-Russian actors). The satirical film The Death of Stalin (2017) makes that mid-20^th century Soviet and world historical event into an over-the-top farce, and one which I would argue is designed to appeal to American (or at least Western) narratives about the ludicrous layers of bureaucracy and power struggles that (from this perspective at least) really defined the supposedly communist and egalitarian Soviet state. Cultural works are open to interpretation, and I’m sure one could analyze Death of Stalin as equally a commentary on the U.S. government (perhaps especially in the age of our own cult-like leader). But for this viewer, the film’s most farcical elements, combined with the mostly non-Russian actors enacting them, seem to play into those existing critiques of Soviet communism as hypocritical, fraudulent, and ultimately failed.

There’s an even more stringent and serious critique of the Soviet state at the heart of another recent cultural work, the HBO miniseries Chernobyl (2019). Without spoiling every storytelling beat in a series I believe everyone should watch (although of course we all have a sense of what went down at Chernobyl!), I’ll note that the show’s final minutes have a great deal to say about the Soviet Union’s reliance on propaganda and lies, and how much those elements directly contributed to (indeed, in many ways caused) this global catastrophe. Yet Chernobyl is not a satire, and that difference from Death of Stalin is much more than just about tone or genre—at its heart, this show is about a core group of courageous and good people doing their best to do the right thing, and genuinely working together (at the direct risk and ultimate expense of their own lives) to protect their comrades and (quite literally) save the world. To my mind, that’s a pitch-perfect description of the ideals of a communist society, ideals that their government consistently betrayed but that these figures fought and died for—and ideals from which the U.S. in 2024 could learn a great deal.

Next series starts Monday,

Ben

PS. What do you think? Communist cultural works, present or past, you’d highlight?

May 3, 2024: Communist Culture: Woody Guthrie and Steve Earle

[In honor of May Day/International Workers’ Day, a series on some compelling cultural representations of communism in American history and identity. Leading up to a special weekend post on contemporary communist culture!]

On communist protest anthems and artists, then and now.

In one of my earliest blog posts, I nominated Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land” (1944)—ideally the version with all the verses, but I was willing to settle for the more commonly accepted shortened version—as a new national anthem. I have been interested to see that both of my sons have learned and performed the song (in that shortened version) in their elementary school music classes, as I vaguely remember doing in my own. Because the truth is that, even without the usually excluded verse about the “No trespassing” sign that has nothing written on the back, “This Land” offers what we would have to call a communist vision of America: as a place that is fundamentally shared by all of us, owned not as private property or competitive resource but as a communal space that “belongs to you and me.” By 1944, communism had already come to be closely associated with (if not entirely tied to) the Soviet Union, and thus to an explicit alternative to American identity, making Guthrie’s song a subtle but (to my mind) definite protest anthem.

Far, far less subtle is Steve Earle’s song “Christmas in Washington” (1997), which in its chorus implores, “Come back Woody Guthrie/Come back to us now/Tear your eyes from paradise/And rise again somehow.” Earle’s song is about the need for new protest anthems at the turn of the 21^st century, as well as representing an attempt to offer precisely such a new anthem, and besides the request of Guthrie’s ghost Earle’s speaker also calls for the return of a pair of early 20^th century communist activists: “So come back Emma Goldman/Rise up old Joe Hill/The barricades are going up/They cannot break our will.” Which is to say, while protest songs can of course take any number of different political and social perspectives, Earle ties both his and Guthrie’s protest anthems much more specifically to communism—not, again, in the Soviet sense, but rather in an emphasis on radical activisms (both labor and social) and their concurrent arguments for social and economic equality.

Earle’s song is even less likely than the full version of Guthrie’s to become a new national anthem (and, to be clear, much less powerful than Guthrie’s as well, especially in the much-too-specific late 1996 setting of its opening verse). But one significant benefit of playing the two songs back to back is the reminder that Guthrie wasn’t just a unifying American voice—he certainly wanted to be and (I would argue) was that, but he did so through offering a radical, protesting perspective, one that it is no stretch to call communist. Which, like all of the week’s texts and artists in their own interconnected ways, would remind us that communism has not been just some external threat to the United States—that it has also, and far more importantly, been a multi-century thread and presence in our own society and identity, an American community and perspective deserving of the extended attention and analysis that these cultural works help provide.

April Recap this weekend,

Ben

PS. What do you think? Cultural representations of communism you’d highlight?

May 2, 2024: Communist Culture: The Blithedale Romance

[In honor of May Day/International Workers’ Day, a series on some compelling cultural representations of communism in American history and identity. Leading up to a special weekend post on contemporary communist culture!]

On the novel that significantly shifted an author’s career—and yet its continuity with his two prior masterpieces.

Nearly a century before Richard Wright published his autobiographical essay “I Tried to Be a Communist” (1944), Nathaniel Hawthorne published a semi-autobiographical novel that could have been titled the exact same thing. Between April and November 1841, Hawthorne lived at George and Sophia Ripley’s West Roxbury, Massachusetts utopian experiment Brook Farm; the experiment brought together many other prominent Transcendentalists, including Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Fuller, and Bronson Alcott. Hawthorne’s experience with the Brook Farm community (which continued for another six years or so after his departure) was mixed, as reflected both in the letters he wrote while there to his future wife Sophia Peabody and in his subsequent description of the period as “essentially a daydream, and yet a fact.” And just over a decade later, he would portray a strikingly similar utopian community in The Blithedale Romance (1852).

Blithedale was Hawthorne’s third romance in three years—following The Scarlet Letter (1850) and The House of the Seven Gables (1851)—and marked a significant shift from the prior two. I would categorize both of them as historical romances: Scarlet quite overtly, as it is set more than two hundred years prior to its publication date; and Gables in its central use of the Salem Witch Trials, a history which Hawthorne calls in the novel’s famous Preface “a legend prolonging itself, from an epoch now gray in the distance, down into our own broad day-light, and bringing along with it some of its legendary mist.” Blithedale, on the other hand, is not only set in its own historical moment but centrally focused on engaging with, challenging, and at times satirizing that moment’s philosophies and ideals, most especially those of both Transcendentalism and communism. Perhaps to aid in that sense of present grounding, Hawthorne likewise shifts from the earlier novels’ third-person narrators to a semi-autobiographical (if also quite complex) first-person one, Miles Coverdale, who narrates for us his own experiences of the Blithedale utopian community.

But if Blithedale is interestingly distinct from the two novels that preceded it, I would nonetheless argue that reading it in relationship to those historical romances helps us analyze how Hawthorne chooses to depict his socially realistic topic. After all, both earlier novels likewise featured realistic historical subjects—community in Puritan New England and the causes and legacies of the Witch Trials—but portrayed them through what Hawthorne described, in that Gables Preface, as the Romance’s “right to present that truth under circumstances, to a great extent, of the writer’s own choosing or creation” (in contrast to the Novel, which he argues “is presumed to aim at a very minute fidelity … to the probable and ordinary course of man’s experience”). Literary historians have long sought to pin down which Blithedale character is which historical figure—Zenobia is Fuller! Hollingsworth is Ripley! and so on—but Hawthorne’s definition of the Romance would lead us in a different direction: to consider instead how he bends the historical realities of that place and time into a new, more Romantic shape, “manages his atmospherical medium” to present “the truth of the human heart.” Like both prior novels, that is, Blithedale ultimately presents the human heart of its histories—an important achievement indeed.

Last cultural communism tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? Cultural representations of communism you’d highlight?

May 1, 2024: Communist Culture: Doctorow and Coover

[In honor of May Day/International Workers’ Day, a series on some compelling cultural representations of communism in American history and identity. Leading up to a special weekend post on contemporary communist culture!]

On two distinct but complementary postmodern historical novels.

As I wrote in this post on American hypocrites, Tony Kushner’s play Angels in America (1991-1993) includes one of the most searing and tragic depictions of McCarthyism: Kushner’s portrayal of Roy Cohn, and most especially of Cohn’s literally and figuratively haunting conversations with the ghost of Ethel Rosenberg, whose conviction and demise a young Cohn helped ensure and who becomes in Kushner’s imagining the last “person” to speak with Cohn before his own death from AIDS. And Kushner isn’t alone is capitalizing upon Ethel Rosenberg’s literary and symbolic qualities, as the famous communist (whether guilty of espionage or not, she certainly was that) and her husband also occupy a complex and central place in two of the most significant late 20^th century American historical novels: E.L. Doctorow’s The Book of Daniel (1971) and Robert Coover’s The Public Burning (1977).

Scholar Linda Hutcheon developed a new category, “historiographic metafiction,” to describe postmodern historical novels, works that put history and fiction in complex and often playful interrelationship and that do so in self-aware and –reflective ways. Both Doctorow’s and Coover’s novels fit aspects of this category, but in very different ways: Doctorow’s novel is narrated by the son of a fictionalized version of the Rosenbergs (known in his novel as the Isaacsons), and it is the narrator Daniel’s awareness of his own project, audience, and historical significance that makes the book truly postmodern; whereas Coover’s novel’s most prominent characters include not only Ethel Rosenberg but also Richard Nixon (who serves as one of the text’s main perspectives) and Uncle Sam (who is a folksy and vulgar chorus of sorts, appearing periodically to comment on the action). Needless to say, despite their shared subject matter, only one of the novels produced a significant controversy upon its publication.

Yet if we consider that shared subject matter, and more exactly the question of how fiction can help us engage with difficult and divisive historical subjects more generally, it seems to me that Doctorow’s and Coover’s books complement each other quite nicely. Coover’s is biting and angry, lashing out at the kinds of hysterias and extremes that McCarthyism exemplified (whether the Rosenbergs were guilty or not) and that Uncle Sam’s America has always included. Doctorow’s is intimate and tragic, considering the legacies of such histories on the individuals and families, as well as the communities and nation, that experience them. Coover focuses on the most public moments and figures, Doctorow on the most private effects and lives. Together, they help us remember that every American history and issue, even the Cold War boogeyman of communism, became and remains a part of our communal and human landscapes as well.

Next cultural communism tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? Cultural representations of communism you’d highlight?

April 30, 2024: Communist Culture: Dos Passos and Wright

[In honor of May Day/International Workers’ Day, a series on some compelling cultural representations of communism in American history and identity. Leading up to a special weekend post on contemporary communist culture!]

On two strikingly parallel yet also importantly distinct 1930s to ‘50s American arcs.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, despite our longstanding collective national antagonism toward communism there have been both moments and communities in which the political philosophy has had substantially broader and deeper appeal. In the 1930s, two such factors came together to help produce a sizeable and vocal cohort of writers and intellectuals who embraced communism: the Great Depression’s heightening of wealth inequalities and social stratification seemed to highlight the limitations and even destructive capabilities of unchecked capitalism, leading a number of American writers and artists to imagine and depict alternative social and communal ways of living; and those economic woes, coupled with the continued destructive forces of segregation, lynching, and other communal ills and threats, led many African Americans similarly to seek an alternative to the dominant American systems.

Those responses happened (and thus differed) within multiple communities, but they can be succinctly illustrated by two individuals, writers whose most significant novels bookend the 1930s in American literature and culture. John Dos Passos had been publishing fiction since the mid-1920s, but it was the trilogy that came to be collected as U.S.A. (1938)—The 42^nd Parallel (1930), 1919 (1932), and The Big Money (1936)—that exemplified both his stylistic experimentation and his socialistic philosophies. Richard Wright launched his career with the short story collection Uncle Tom’s Children (1938) but truly entered the literary stratosphere two years later with Native Son (1940), the best-selling and hugely controversial novel that features both one of American literature’s most eloquent defenders of communism (in the lawyer Max) and a character (protagonist Bigger Thomas) whose tragic and brutal arc makes numerous, purposefully ineloquent but nonetheless compelling arguments for the philosophy.

In the 1940s to 50s, both writers famously broke with those philosophies and with the Communist Party: Wright in one pivotal moment, the essay “I Tried to Be a Communist” (1944); and Dos Passos more gradually, in a series of public statements and positions that culminated in his qualified support for Joseph McCarthy (among other turning points). Yet I would also argue that their shifts represent two quite distinct personal and national narratives: Dos Passos genuinely seemed, in response to World War II, the Cold War, and other factors, to change in his political and social perspectives; whereas to my mind Wright’s perspectives remained largely unchanged, and he came instead to see, as does for example Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, the Communist Party as an imperfect and indeed failed vehicle through which to seek such political and social change. Such a distinction would of course become even more important in the 1960s, when a new generation of African American activists found anew a compelling alternative in American socialism.

Next cultural communism tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? Cultural representations of communism you’d highlight?

April 29, 2024: Communist Culture: “The Palace-Burner”

[In honor of May Day/International Workers’ Day, a series on some compelling cultural representations of communism in American history and identity. Leading up to a special weekend post on contemporary communist culture!]

On the masterpiece of a poem that destroys easy “us vs. them” narratives.

I made the case for my favorite American poet, Sarah Piatt, in one of my first posts, and did so in large part through her best poem, “The Palace-Burner” (1873). There are a lot of factors that make “Palace-Burner” one of the great American poems, including its exemplification of Piatt’s frequent use of a unique and multi-layered perspective that I named in my first book the dialogic lyric, an individual speaker’s perspective filtered through conversation and the shifts and evolutions it always produces. But at the top of the list for me would be Piatt’s incredibly sophisticated representation—through the lens of a mother and young son discussing a newspaper picture of a female rebel from the 1871 Paris Commune—of what I called in this post three crucial and interconnected levels to empathy: “connecting to seemingly distant others, working to understand those to whom we’re close, and examining our own identities through those lenses.”

This wasn’t necessarily the case in the 1870s (although given the immense popularity of Horatio Alger novels in the period, maybe it was), but over the century and a half since I would say that there have been few world communities with which Americans have had, collectively, a more difficult time empathizing than communists. Of course there are significant exceptions, both in terms of time periods during which that philosophy has seemed more appealing (such as the Great Depression, about which more in tomorrow’s post) and in terms of American communities who have been sufficiently disenfranchised from our dominant national narratives to see the wisdom of such alternatives (such as African Americans in the mid-20^th century, on whom likewise more tomorrow). But when it comes to our overarching, dominant narratives, communism has been one of the most consistent “them’s” to our constructed “us” for a long while; we can see both sides of that equation, for example, in our consistent need to define the Soviet Union as “godless” in contrast to equally constructed images of the United States as a “Christian nation.”

There would be various possible ways to complicate and revise that kind of “us vs. them” narrative, including highlighting the many originating and influential forms and moments of American socialism and communism. But Piatt takes another, and to my mind particularly compelling, tack: creating in her poetic speaker a woman who seems thoroughly removed from not only communism but political conversations in general (especially in the “separate spheres” mentality that continued to reign for most middle-class American families in the period); and then giving that speaker the opportunity to consider whether and how she and a foreign communist woman might have anything in common. Neither the speaker nor the poem come to any easy or comfortable answers—empathy is neither of those things in any case—but they ask the questions, and that seems to me to an impressive model for all of us.

Next cultural communism tomorrow,

Ben

PS. What do you think? Cultural representations of communism you’d highlight?

April 27-28, 2024: April 2024 Recap

[A Recap of the month that was in AmericanStudying.]

April 1: Satire Studying: African American Satire: An April Fool’s series on satire starts with a link to my recent Saturday Evening Post Black History Month column.

April 2: Satire Studying: Innocents Abroad: The series continues with the double-edged satire at the heart of Mark Twain’s first big hit.

April 3: Satire Studying: The Interview: What’s problematic, and what’s important, about a hugely controversial cinematic comedy, as the series pokes on.

April 4: Satire Studying: TV Satires: Four news and sketch comedy shows from which we can learn a lot (but which I originally posted in 2017, so add more recent nominations please!).

April 5: Satire Studying: The Big Short and Vice: The series concludes with value and limits of satire when it comes to contemporary, contested events.

April 6-7: Emily Lauer on Comics Analysis & Editing as Public-Facing Scholarship: My newest Guest Post from a familiar friend of the blog—Emily Lauer with her record-setting 4^th Guest Post!

April 8: I Am AmericanStudying Sidney Poitier: Vaughn Joy on No Way Out: A series on the 60^th anniversary of Poitier’s groundbreaking Oscar win kicks off with a FilmStudier I really love on Poitier’s cinematic debut.

April 9: I Am AmericanStudying Sidney Poitier: The Blackboard Jungle: The series continues with a Poitier character who’s very similar to a 1980s favorite, and one important distinction.

April 10: I Am AmericanStudying Sidney Poitier: The Defiant Ones: Two different genres through which to contextualize Poitier’s 1958 prison break film, as the series roles on.

April 11: I Am AmericanStudying Sidney Poitier: Two 1967 Classics: Standout speeches and sweet sendoffs in Poitier’s pair of pitch-perfect 1967 films.

April 12: I Am AmericanStudying Sidney Poitier: Lillies of the Field: The series concludes with what was historic about Poitier’s Oscar-winning role, what wasn’t quite, and what’s importantly outside that framing.

April 13-14: I Am AmericanStudying Sidney Poitier: 21C Heirs: A special weekend follow-up on noteworthy performances from five of our best contemporary Black actors (not including Denzel and Morgan who could each get whole posts for their work alone).

April 15: Mythic Patriotisms: The 1776 Project: For Patriots’ Day this year I wanted to trace some histories and layers to one of the main categories in my book Of Thee I Sing, starting with a post on how a project dedicated to “patriotic education” embodies the worst of mythic patriotism.

April 16: Mythic Patriotisms: The National Anthem: The series continues with two layers of mythic patriotism found in the lesser-known later verses of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

April 17: Mythic Patriotisms: “Self-Made”: How an iconic American narrative is mythic patriotic in both meanings and effects, as the series pledges on.

April 18: Mythic Patriotisms: Defining America’s Origins: The multiple mythic patriotic layers to an origin story that centers on the Pilgrims/Puritans.

April 19: Mythic Patriotisms: Love It or Leave It: The series concludes with the 1960s constructions of a phrase that sums up mythic patriotism’s exclusions.

April 20-21: Mythic Patriotisms in 2024: There’s never been a moment with more overt mythic patriotism than our own, and for this weekend follow-up I both analyzed that presence and asked for connections to chances to talk more about these topics!

April 22: Climate Culture: Cli Fi: An Earth Day series on cultural works about the climate crisis kicks off with a stunning recent novel that extends the long legacy of cli fi.

April 23: Climate Culture: The Day After Tomorrow and Don’t Look Up: The series continues with the necessity but limitations of disaster movies, and an important recent variation on the genre.

April 24: Climate Culture: “The Tradition”: Two complementary ways to read a climate change moment in Jericho Brown’s powerful 21^st century sonnet, as the series rolls on.

April 25: Climate Culture: “The Ghost Birds”: What’s specific and what’s universal in Karen Russell’s amazing 2021 short story.

April 26: Climate Culture: Climate Songs: The series and month conclude with five examples of pop music perspectives on the climate crisis, including Midnight Oil’s great album Resist (2022).

Next series starts Monday,

Ben

PS. Topics you’d like to see covered in this space? Guest Posts you’d like to contribute? Lemme know!