by Dennis Giles and Haluk Sahin
Cut, no. 27, July 1982, pp. 35-37
Turkey is distinct among Third World countries in that it was never ruled by a colonial power. During the last two centuries of its existence, the Ottoman Empire was dominated by the West economically, but it never became a cultural or political colony. The political experience of the Turkish Republic is also rather distinct. In contrast to much of the Third World, multi-party democracy has become the rule — not the exception — of Turkish government since 1946, interrupted only briefly by military regimes (1960-61, 1971-73, 1980-).
The 1960s saw a rapid transformation of both the economy and social life. This was echoed by a vigorous intellectual debate concerning the directions and goals of both the economic base and the ideological formations (e.g., politics, literature, cinema) of Turkish society. The decade was dominated by a massive influx of international capital, a rapid increase in urbanization, and a political enfranchisement of the masses according to the liberal terms of the 1961 Constitution. Between 1960 and 1970, urban population increased by 5 million. Most of these migrants lived as squatters in shantytowns (Gecekondus) surrounding the old city centers.(1)
During this period of economic boom, social mobility and the rise of labor unions, the ruling Justice Party and its leader Demirel attempted to represent the interests of a bourgeoisie divided between those who favored big industry — international capital — and the "numerically vast sector of petty capitalists. The latter were unorganized, politically volatile, “savage” in their pursuit of profits, and exploited the shanty towns to gain their pool of unskilled labor.(2) Faced with the inescapable reality of rapid social change, the Turkish intelligentsia debated the strategies and tactics of “development," utilizing Marxist models (among others) to comprehend the upheaval of economic and cultural life.(3) Both the left and the Islamic right expressed dissatisfaction with models of development imported/ imposed from the Western industrial societies, as well as with the ideologies which accompanied Westernization. Each political and cultural wing sought to define the role of the artist in the task of reflecting and criticizing the social realities of development. How, they asked, should one speak to and for the economically marginal inhabitants of the crowded shantytowns fighting for the crumbs spilled from the central city? How could the artist express both the dilemma and the revolutionary potential of the masses while yet inspiring them to become a legitimate political force?
In the arena of cinema, the question of the ideological role of the artist was first articulated by the loosely organized National Cinema group, which effectively dominated the practice of serious Turkish film in the late 1960s/ early 1970s. In opposition to the program of National Cinema, a group of critics affiliated with the Turkish Cinematheque called for a radical cinema committed to social change. Unlike the practicing filmmakers of the National Cinema group, the members of this Revolutionary Cinema movement were at first outsiders to the industry, with no real access or control over the actual production of cinema. The conflict between these two groups extended to cinema a larger debate among intellectuals concerning the Turkish historical experience and economic structure.
Marx had pointed out that the ancient, feudal, and capitalist modes of production were basically European phenomena, that they were not necessarily applicable to non-European societies. In Asia, Marx found an ancient and enduring production, characterized by the absence of private land ownership. Although he never analyzed this Asiatic mode of production in detail, Marx suggested that in comparison with Europe, the historical process in Asia (and the Ottoman Empire) had developed along very different lines.(4)
The National Cinema group found its case articulated in the Asiatic mode of production thesis. It supplied them with a Marxian defense against the inroads of two centuries of Westernization into Turkish life, as well as a means to repudiate sixty years of Western cinema. The National group argued that since Turkey's past mode of production was so different from the West, its current structures were bound to be different as well. If Turkey did not go through a feudal stage, the concepts of capitalist class analysis could not be applied as a blueprint for social analysis and change. Further, since different modes of production give rise to different ideological forms, Turkish culture was inherently different from Western cultures. It had been a mistake to try to implant Western cultural institutions in the Turkish soil.
Turkish culture was different, and it had to be judged in its own terms. Turkish cinema had to go its own way. Therefore, Turkish filmmakers need not adopt Western norms of performance as their own measure of success. European models of filmmaking were no more transplantable than European models of revolution. A national Turkish cinema was to emerge through the articulation of specifically Turkish experience, not through the importation of models from either the capitalist or socialist West. In fact, it could be argued that such a cinema had already emerged. Authentically Turkish films enjoyed the overwhelming support of the people. Turkish filmmakers understood the people's aspirations and spoke to them in their own language. According to the argument, their films were products of a national cinema, in part because they were financed by domestic capital, in part because this cinema was "progressive," despite the absence of overtly political themes.(5)
The Revolutionary Cinema movement took issue with both the Asian mode of production thesis and its cultural implications, arguing that it was irrelevant whether or not the Ottoman legacy could be explained in terms of feudalism. Whatever the past pattern of land ownership, a Western division of social classes had emerged in contemporary Turkey, and the current mode of production could legitimately be called capitalist. Because the observed socio-economic structure was not a peculiarly Asiatic formation, Marxist models of history did apply to Turkey of the 1960s. In contrast to the passive reproductive conception of film implied by the National Cinema group, the Revolutionary group saw cinema as an action upon the world — as a weapon against the status quo. The revolutionary filmmaker should accept his responsibilities as a spokesman for the rising working class, using his talents towards the goal of revolutionary social change.
The theses of Revolutionary Cinema were articulated largely in words rather than images — until an insider — the actor-director Yílmaz Güney gave his support to the movement. With UMUT (HOPE, 1970) Güney became, at a blow, the effective leader of the Revolutionary Cinema group, lending his prestige and box-office clout to the course. UMUT was hailed as the first and primary work of Revolutionary Cinema, serving as a model for future production. UMUT became something of a cause celebre when the Turkish censorship board banned it soon after release. Güney was forbidden to take the film to Cannes in 1971, but a print was nevertheless smuggled out to the Director's Fortnight screenings. It was not until 1977 that this increasingly controversial film gained widespread attention in Europe during Güney retrospectives at San Remo and the Berlin Forum of Young Cinema.(6)
Yílmaz Güney was first a star, second a filmmaker. Before the sudden appearance and disappearance of UMUT, Güney was already well known as a writer and political activist. But his most celebrated cultural role was that of "The Ugly King" (Cirkin Kiral) of the Turkish screen. In contrast to handsome matinee idols, Güney displayed a rough persona, something similar to Belmondo, John Garfield and the early Brando. Today he remains probably the most popular star of Turkish cinema, and in addition, has gained the aura of a political martyr. From prison, Güney coordinates the production activities of his followers in the Revolutionary Cinema movement, publishes political texts and screenplays. In short, he has achieved an almost mythical status in both the cinema and popular culture of Turkey.(7)
A non-Turkish viewer may be puzzled as to why UMUT (HOPE) is celebrated as an exemplary work of revolutionary cinema. The protagonist not only lacks political consciousness, but once given the choice, he explicitly rejects participation in the incipient social movement of his fellow workers, pursuing instead a fantastic treasure promised by a Muslim priest. Indeed, UMUT could easily be viewed as a film of evasion, since it presents the story of a victim-hero. The protagonist is a confused, finally insane victim of false "hope" — who consistently avoids social or political action. Fleeing material reality, the hero seeks refuge in fantasies. When viewed side by side with the biting historical analysis of Fernando Solanas and Octavio Getino’s THE HOUR OF THE FURNACES or the practical lesson on how the people can recover their land in Jorge Sanjinés and the Ukamau Group's THE PRINCIPAL ENEMY, this cornerstone of revolutionary Turkish cinema seems only a cautionary, pre-revolutionary tale. In a 1978 review, Variety compared the film to Vittorio DeSica's BICYCLE THIEF and John Huston's TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE.(8) And so we are faced with an enigma. Why is UMUT "revolutionary”? Why did the Turkish government consider it dangerous? Why did this relatively apolitical exposure of false consciousness become a strategic text in the development of new cinema in Turkey? Why consider it both destructive of the ideology of Western cinema and constructive of the possibility of militant cinema?
As a film which analyzes an apolitical consciousness while suggesting an alternative in class action, UMUT clearly departs from the recognized models of militant cinema. Provisionally, these films of revolutionary action may be divided into two general categories:
1) Historical reconstructions, through which today's revolutionaries can (a) re-experience the events which forged the new world and/or (b) learn from the mistakes of their fathers (Eisenstein's OCTOBER, Littin's THE PROMISED LAND)
2) Didactic, tactical films which demonstrate how a contemporary situation can be materially changed by organized political action (Ukumau's THE PRINCIPAL ENEMY).
But UMUT represents a type of political cinema which analyzes the deficiencies and contradictions of reality "before the revolution" and diagnoses the disease of the socio-economic system. The revolutionary solution may be explicitly proclaimed in an emotional call to arms (Godard's BRITISH SOUNDS), or it may be implied by the demonstration that all other options are closed. Many militant films which stress action over analysis tactically begin as diagnoses of pre-revolutionary deficiencies (THE PRINCIPAL ENEMY). And, like militant films, diagnostic cinema can deal in either present or past experience. Tomás Gutierrez Alea's THE LAST SUPPER, for example, reevaluates the relations between master and slave in a Cuban plantation to show today's Cubans why their revolution was necessary, why the old order was doomed by its own internal contradictions.
In UMUT, Yílmaz Güney exposes the economic conditions which drive his hero to seek a mirage. But the film deals not so much with the inequalities of the existing order as it foregrounds and criticizes the hero's attempt to escape this order. UMUT critiques the protagonist's desire to transcend the material conditions of life. Instead of directing his protagonist towards political action, Güney scripts the story of a mystical delusion. UMUT flees reality in order to show the futility of all such evasion. Only when one realizes that there is no escape, no instant transcendence, can one act concretely, politically, on reality itself.
UMUT was Yílmaz Güney's response to the socioeconomic upheaval in Turkey and the debate over the role of the artist and the intellectual. The film rejects both the cultivated optimism of socialist realism and the purist solution of militant cinema for the already militant. Instead, Güney chose to film an empathetic critique of a fictional representative of the marginal masses trapped in seductive ideological promises of escape from economic reality. In UMUT, Güney implies that neither cinema nor the masses can be effectively militant unless they see through the ideology which deflects their vision from material truth. Güney argues that before any political action can be organized to change the economic system, the would-be actors must abandon the idea that they possess a self profoundly different from other selves, that they pursue a destiny which is uniquely their own as individuals. Precisely because their war is waged in isolation, victims of economic exploitation can achieve little in their struggles to "beat the system" or profit by it. A swarm of discrete individuals is both politically and economically ineffective until it coalesces into a comradeship based on the recognition of common problems, common enemies. Until individuals recognize themselves as members of a class, real change in an individual's life situation will be dependent on a change in one's luck — on chance. The primary strategy of UMUT is to demonstrate that people who fight alone have no alternative but to place their trust in luck and magic. UMUT critiques pre-revolutionary reality, exposing the myth of the individual destiny to an audience who can be led to the positive choice of class action. They are invited to do this by witnessing the spectacle of a blind hero who sees no options but to follow his luck to its inevitably hopeless conclusion.
The first half of UMUT is an almost neo-realistic depiction of the hero's hopeless position within the social and legal world. Cabbar (played by Güney himself) has moved into the Southern Turkish city of Adana from a nearby village. He tries to support his mother, wife, and five children through his work as a carriage driver. But in the first scene of UMUT, passengers from a train choose every possible mode of transport except Cabbar's derelict carriage. His horses are emaciated; the city is full of motorized taxicabs. He hears rumors that the city will ban horse-drawn carriages completely because they dirty the streets. Not only is Cabbar pushed, little by little, outside the economic system (like DeSica's protagonist in THE BICYCLE THIEF), but as a man of marginal economic value, he is also deprived of his “rights. When a car kills his horse, the police refuse to listen to Cabbar's complaints against the driver. When Cabbar protests, they expel him from the outpost of justice.
As his station in life declines, Cabbar places his trust in lottery tickets — the promise of instant wealth. A friend, Hasan, urges the hero to give up the lottery for "a sure thing.” Hasan knows a priest who knows where a fabulous treasure is buried. They need only collect the priest, and then dig it up. Cabbar declines to participate in the project; he is still content with his lottery dreams. But when his horse is killed, Cabbar's precarious life collapses completely. Unable to attain relief from the law, he tries to borrow money from his previous bosses and landlords. They bluntly refuse his requests. Creditors close in to strip the corpse clean, claiming his carriage. In desperation, Cabbar and Hasan attempt to rob a black GI stationed at the U.S. base. But they are incompetent thieves; the GI contemptuously beats them in a one-sided fight.
Faith in supernatural "luck” remains an integral element of feudal ideologies in the Third World. Anthropologist George Foster points out that the treasure-hunt is a kind of supernatural lottery in which one places one's destiny wholly in the hands of fate:
As Cabbar gets repeatedly turned down by the secular luck of the lottery, Hasan's sacred buried treasure provides his last hope. In order to pay the visionary priest, Cabbar sells his wedding ring and his remaining possessions.
Following preparations, Cabbar, Hasan and the priest set out to recover the treasure. According to the priest, it will be buried beneath a dead tree between two bridges. They dig hole after hole, yet no treasure materializes. As Cabbar grows desperate, the priest equivocates: the treasure is slippery, will change its form to avoid capture. All nature is now converted into signs. Nothing is what it is. Every material thing is but a provisional incarnation of the immaterial treasure. Cabbar chases insects, snakes — any real thing which might embody his fantasy. Although the final image of HOPE may be rejected by an art film audience as crude symbolism, it works like the most striking images of so-called primitive popular art. (10) That is, it condenses previous experience into a moral at once explaining and judging the acts of the hero. This kind of image asks to be simultaneously seen, felt and thought, like the condensed scenes from the lives of the saints in medieval painting. In the most barren of landscapes, beside one of his futile holes, we see Cabbar blindfolded, turning. He spins like a whirling dervish, or a child in the game of blindman's bluff, still in search of the mystical solution — the impossible treasure. The image works as both obvious and hypnotic, coiling and abolishing the narrative line in the tight circle of madness.
Cabbar's fate offers a warning to the spectator. As in a Hitchcock film, this film asks us to empathize with the victim-hero only to make us realize that the hero is indeed guilty, responsible for his own fate, that he had made the wrong choices. The viewer first suffers with the hero, becomes implicated in his destiny, then stands outside the film to judge him. The scene of explicit judgment is, of course, the scene where Cabbar whirls, blindfolded, in the arid, pitted landscape. Cabbar still stands as the spectator's representative, our brother, but a brother gone wrong. The viewer sees that there is no treasure, that Cabbar pursues a fantasy. The blind image comes precisely at the moment at which Güney asks the audience to take off their blindfolds, to reject the mystical solution. The moment at which Cabbar wanders most lost in illusions becomes the very moment at which his more critical brothers and sisters can begin to see and to hope.
Güney has said that he considers revolutionary cinema not as a blueprint for action, but as a guide to thinking. In HOPE, he tries to demystify an archaic ideology, one which helps to reproduce the material system of oppression. He attempts to show ideology as ideology to those who would take Cabbar's situation as the natural state of affairs. As Louis Althusser has stated, consciousness of an ideology, as ideology, is the moment in which ideology explodes, revealing the reality it had obscured. (11)
We might best understand Cabbar's predicament in terms of his transitionality and marginality. He is an uprooted peasant from a semi-feudal region. He was thrown into a city which is on the eve of industrialization, trying to eke out a living through a job doomed to extinction as a result of technological change. His semi-feudal past and the dominant ideology of the new capitalist class pull him in contradictory directions. Yet he remains without the class-consciousness of the urban workers. Should he believe the priest and go after the treasure? Should he place his hope in lottery tickets? Or should he join other carriage owners who are making preparations for organized resistance? This last option stays closed to Cabbar. Güney places his hero at the crossroads, in the historical sense of the word, but Cabbar sees no choices. He literally remains blind to the political road. Güney could have suddenly endowed Cabbar with political consciousness, made him the leader of the organized resistance, then led him to success or failure. But the director preferred to leave his hero blind. As Marx wrote in one of his earlier works,
Cabbar, by virtue of the marginality of his social location, could not meet this demand. So Güney pursues Cabbar's illusions to their bitter end. The director refuses to short-circuit the narrative by awakening his protagonist hero to a revolutionary consciousness. Güney makes Cabbar an exemplary figure in the cautionary sense of the word.
What is the role of women in UMUT? The film is dominated by male protagonists: Cabbar, his friend Hasan, and the priest. But the men are shown to be fools; the priest is perhaps a charlatan, at best deluded. It would be easier (and more within the norms of Western film) for Güney to adopt Huston's strategy in SIERRA MADRE of filming an exclusively masculine band of free-spirited adventurers cut off from the domestic context, forming temporary alliances with equally free women who share their values. Instead, in several short scenes, the film exposes the troubled relations within a semi-feudal family undergoing marginalization, and does so in order to further condemn Cabbar's blindness.
Cabbar's family members are double victims of (1) their socio-economic position, and (2) Cabbar's delusions of the instant fix — the lottery, the treasure, and the Supernatural answer. Within the shanty that the family calls home, wife and children stand as the would-be voice of common sense. Güney clearly shows that they do not participate in Cabbar's delusions, that they literally do not see what he sees (the promise of treasure). Yet wife and children seem cowed, bullied into accepting the adult male delusion as their lot — their luck — in life. Within this traditional yet disintegrating family, there is no place for effective opposition to masculine will. Güney pointedly marks the place where sanity could reverse the progress of illusion but marks also the if only of the tragedy — if only the woman (and the children) were not placed a priori outside the realm of possible truth; if only they could intervene to convert the monologue of male delusion into dialogue; if only …. At this point in UMUT, Güney pauses to imply the alternatives, the potentialities, just as he earlier presented Cabbar, lost in his own preoccupations, blindly trudging past a workers' demonstration.
UMUT's strength is that it shows the roads not taken as options to the solitary path of its victim. According to the classical definition, UMUT is more tragedy than melodrama because the protagonist chooses his destiny. But it moves beyond the two bourgeois super-genres by revealing that Cabbar's enemy is both external (melodrama) and internal (tragedy). The antagonist becomes both social-economic conditions in general and the hero's refusal to turn and face the social world, opting instead for the impossible cure of secular or sacred lotteries. Yet while Cabbar refuses to institute a dialogue, or better, a dialectic between himself and his wife, family or fellow workers, Güney refuses to lose himself and his audience strictly within the narrow consciousness of the tragic or melodramatic hero. The film clearly gives alternatives; the narrative offers a dialectic to the protagonist and the spectator. If the one trapped inside the film is blind to possibilities, Güney hopes that the Other outside the screen may see the options and begin to enact them. As for the wife and children: they see, but their social role condemns them to silence.
Those who look for stylistic unity as a mark of film value will be disappointed by UMUT. Scenes dominated by a subjective camera closely identified with the protagonist veer abruptly into the seemingly objective shots of street life associated with Italian Neorealism. Expressionist techniques and overtly pictorial photography (the cult of the beautiful image) often negate a fundamentally non-interventionist conception of cinema. Güney's later films demonstrate great technical proficiency (according to the Hollywood model of “well-made" cinema) and a unified approach to the subject. But not all display the same kind of political analysis.
The film which follows UMUT is a revenge melodrama: BABA (FATHER, 1971). A poor man (Güney) goes to prison for the crime of a wealthy man's son in return for the financial well-being of his family. Sentenced for twenty-four years, the hero is released years later only to find that the monster he protected has seduced his own wife, that his son has become a hitman for the mob, and that his daughter has become a prostitute. Vowing revenge on his wealthy antagonist, the Güney character is shot by his own son. Although a diagnostic cinema lurks in the background of the melodrama (the prison scenes, the sensitive analysis of prostitution), BABA tells a private, not a public story. Like all middle-class melodramas, it presents an affair of individuals — a victim hero against a Satanic antagonist. Although social contradictions are implicit in every confrontation between victim and villain, they are overwhelmed by an intense but restricted personal conflict. Compared to UMUT, BABA clearly stands as a commercial project. Through the well-worn conventions of melodrama, Güney denounces the buying and selling of justice while allowing his audience to dismiss the whole experience as mere entertainment — as catharsis. BABA never appeals to the spectators to examine the causes of the plot, but binds them emotionally inside it. During this stage of his career, Güney does not drive in a straight line towards a new cinema forged in the workshop of reason. He sometimes steps back to take his bearings, filming a relatively safe project which serves the institution of cinema.
In contrast to BABA, ARKADAS (THE FRIEND, 1974) constitutes the second turning point in Güney's career. It is a repudiation of the “Ugly King" star, as well as a companion piece to UMUT. Güney explained that he "wanted to destroy the Yílmaz Güney myth completely in this film." It is a process he originally began in UMUT. Yílmaz Güney no longer acted the infallible, invincible hero of his previous melodramas. Rather than the crisis drama of right vs. wrong, he wanted to film “people in the flow of life."(13) In THE FRIEND, the star's dramatic role is seductive yet ultimately destructive. ARKADAS is a critique of the malaise of Turks cut off from their cultural roots in the process of embourgeoisement. In a film that has been compared to Pasolini's TEOREMA (14), Güney acts a mysterious conscience, or alter ego, for a member of the new class who has sold out his youthful ideals. ARKADAS dramatizes the traumatic return of the repressed into a closeted, sybarite existence. Unlike the blind victim of UMUT, Güney's character here represents the insidious voice of reality, which collapses that carefully constructed fantasy life of the evasive protagonist. He portrays a catalytic figure — a dark angel whispering memories of the good world that was lost. After Güney pressures his rich friend to abandon the exclusive suburb for a brief visit to a peasant village, the businessman apparently commits suicide, unable to bear the contradiction between his own empty life and the people's values whom he has rejected.
THE FRIEND was filmed after Güney had been released from jail, during a general amnesty, after 26 months of imprisonment. His conviction had been for "aiding and harboring terrorists." After he had only three months of freedom, the authorities forced Güney to return to prison for an 18-year sentence. He was convicted of killing a judge while shooting a new film, ENDISE (ANXIETY) near his hometown, Adana. Continually protesting his innocence, Yílmaz Güney is now (1981) serving the seventh year of his term on an island in the Sea of Marmara, not far from Istanbul. From prison, he continues to script and oversee films, including the acclaimed SURU (THE HERD) and DUSMAN (THE ENEMY), directed by sympathizers. He has also published novels, prison memoirs and screenplays. Behind bars, Güney remains one of the influential figures of the political left in Turkey, as well as the most influential actor/ writer/ director in Turkish cinema.
Güney looms as a mythical figure for the politically militant leftist youth and the masses sympathetic to his progressive ideals. His romantic star aura has increased, if anything, with his imprisonment. He has achieved the stature of a folk hero.(15) Yet this hero of the romance of the left was also the first major figure of Turkish cinema to question the romantic solution offered by a singular hero acting in isolation from an economic and social class struggle. And Güney was the first to deny the validity of magical solutions to material problems. UMUT not only provided the first major work of Revolutionary Cinema in Turkey, but more importantly, it provided an example for other filmmakers' praxis. The effect of his his work is as Walter Benjamin wrote in "The Artist as Producer":
1. Çaglär Keyder, "The Political Economy of Turkish Democracy", New Left Review, 115 (May-June 1979), p. 26.
3. A penetrating analysis of the developments and disputes within the Turkish left is in Ahmet Samim's "The Tragedy of Turkish Left," New Left Review, 126 (March-April 1981), pp. 60-85.
4. For information about the Asiatic mode of production, see, e.g., Shollomo Avineri, Karl Marx on Colonialism and Modernization (New York: Doubleday, 1969), pp.5-30.
5. The most articulate defense of the National Cinema thesis is in Halit Refig, Ulusal Sinema Kavgasi (The Struggle for National Cinema) (Istanbul: Hareket Yayinlari, 1971).
6. The European reception of Güney's films up to 1976 is documented in Dunya Basininda Yílmaz Gitney (Yílmaz Güney in The World Press), ed. by Turhan Gürkan (Istanbul: Güney Yayinlari, 1976).
7. Giney's career has been the subject of numerous books in Turkish, including Altan Yalçin, Yílmaz Güney Dosyasi (The Dossier of Yílmaz Güney) (Istanbul: Güney Vayinlari, 1977) and Mehmet Ergün, Bir Sinemaci Ve Anlatici Olarak Tílmaz Güney (Yílmaz Güney as a Filmmaker and Narrator) (Istanbul: Dogrultu Yayinevi, 1978). For an interesting account of Güney's life in prison, see Elia Kazan, “A View From a Turkish Prison," The New York Times Magazine (February 4, 1979).
8. Variety (August 2, 1978), p. 20.
9. George M. Foster, Tzintzuntzan: Mexican Peasants in a Changing World (Boston: Little, Brown, 1967), p. 151.
10. Ergün, p. 132.
11. Louis Althusser, Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1971), pp. 127-186.
12. Marxist Social Thought, ed. by Robert Freedman (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1968), p. 230.
13. Yedinci Sanat (September 1974), p. 3.
14. Variety, op. cit., pp. 16-17.
15. Ronald Holloway, "Güney, Folk Hero, Now in Jail," Variety (July 19, 1978), p. 22.
16. Walter Benjamin, "The Author as Producer," in Reflections (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1978), p. 233.