For Infidelity: Reconsidering Aesthetic Anachronism

Jane Potthast

Being faithful to the original can require removing it from its context. It’s a necessary and paradoxical reversal.

The Great Gatsby

Director: Baz Luhrmann
Cast: Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobey Maguire, Carey Mulligan, Joel Edgerton, Isla Fisher, Jason Clarke, Amitabh Bachchan, Elizabeth Debicki
US Release Date: 2013-05-10

The premise of this essay subverts itself by way of its very utterance; to claim that the reinterpretation of certain aesthetical elements ought to remain true to its historical context is to be unfaithful to our contemporary one. This is postmodernity— be it the tail end or the thick of it, and we are postmodern— dealing with our various and qualified baggage of isms associated with it. And amongst these ‘isms’ is the notion that history itself becomes a conceptual problem that is not only viewed with a deep epistemological skepticism, but is nearly eradicated all together through the simulacra of images— the emptying of meaning through an endless chain of depthless signifiers.

For some time now our culture has been dealing with the rupturing of temporality through loss of set historical signifier, signs that distinguish the past from the present. This process is enacted through pastiche: ‘the random cannibalization of all the styles of the past, the play of random stylistic allusion’— essentially, ‘a world transformed into sheer images of itself.’* Baz Lurhman’s deliberate intermingling of temporal features in The Great Gatsby (2013) is either a symptom, or a product, of the age of pastiche.

The second of the ‘isms’ that would destabilize this essay proposal by way of subverting its own desire for historical accuracy, would be that postmodernism eradicates cultural hierarchy. The semantics of the question reveal a certain moralistic tone directed towards art. First, it claims a selective fidelity— that is, it has an issue with not being faithful to the music of the jazz age (in reference to Baz Lurhman’s new The Great Gatsby film), but raises no issue with adaptation as a practice, which is an inherent aesthetical infidelity. It is impossible to be faithful to a text once it is introduced onto screen, because visual signifiers inevitably create new meanings.

However, the question does not find this problematic, but rather condemns certain choices within this proposed fidelity system. So if adaptation is fair game for directors, but making contemporizing choices is not, but rather, as the question states, creates ‘wasted opportunity’— then this implies there are certain mediums, and genres within that medium, that ought to be treated with more respect than others.

In the case of this proposal it is music that is superior to both text and film because it demands faithfulness where the other mediums do not, and it is jazz that is superior to hip-hop, because it is the choice to use hip-hop that has wrought the words ‘wasted opportunity’, intrinsically linking hip-hop to waste. Yet postmodernism famously blends and destroys all that would be high and low, and seeks rather to diminish any ontic separation or binaries.

However, regardless of this essay topic’s self-subverting quality, it still creates an interesting space for the consideration of adaptive fidelity. Examining deliberate anachronism, particularly in film adaptation, reveals that being faithful to the original can require removing it from its context. Through eradicating or neglecting historical background, anachronistic adaptation is able to free the themes from the text by demonstrating the universality that made the artwork so valuable in the first place; it is a necessary and paradoxical reversal.

For example, in using hip-hop rather than jazz, Luhrman better expresses the excessive nature of the ‘20s. Jazz would not have been an adequate signifier to express the debauchery of the age because the current viewer now does not associate jazz with these features, and more important to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s story than jazz music is the thematic commentary and critique of an excessive society. Thus, the choice to use hip-hop is a justified one, for that which jazz music might imply to the generation of its era— parties, moral and aesthetic experimentation, fame, money, violence— in short, decadence, is in our current culture associated with hip-hop. And so hip-hop becomes the more faithful signifier in communicating those things that are necessary to the story of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (1925).

However, to understand the paradoxical play of anachronism and fidelity on a more substantial level, it is better to look at a few film adaptations that are more complex than the recent The Great Gatsby, and further removed from their original context. The most obvious of these are Shakespearean adaptations, and the reason for this is because these are the most deeply laden with universalities in our entire body of Western literature. I will invite the reader to a consideration of the concept of historical removal as a subversive fidelity through brief summaries of Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood (1957), and Lurhman’s Romeo and Juliet (1996).

Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood is an adaptation of Macbeth set in a temporally ambiguous feudal Japan. The director not only removes the play from its Scottish context, but the film contains no verbal trace of the original. Thus, there is the obvious infidelity of exchanging Shakespeare’s famous English for Japanese, but even still Kurosawa makes no attempt at translation. On the contrary, the Shakespeare script is replaced with minimal dialogue only spoken to move the action along. But this is deliberate; Kurosawa compensates for the removal of language through spatial articulation, he translates the original language into the cinematic space.

It is not my intention to enter into detailed analysis, but on watching the film, the viewer will notice that the troubled relationship between free will and fate, the cyclical rise and fall of power, and the psychological pain of moral disintegration, are conveyed through scenery and cinematography. As a result, the viewer is reminded that the themes present in Shakespeare are not confined to one culture or language. Indeed, no culture has a distinctive right to the assigning or interpreting of meanings. Furthermore, Kurosawa is aware of a Western, English speaking pride in Shakespearean language, and through removing the context and language, he forces us to recognize that the play’s lasting significance lies outside of words, calling us back to the original themes of the text.

Lurhman’s Romeo and Juliet enacts a different process to Kurosawa’s. Rather than removing the language, it questions the function of Shakespeare’s script in the assigning of meanings, drawing specific attention to the original text through reincorporating it into modern forms. Consider the opening scene of the film: a reading of Shakespeare’s prologue plays over a collage of newspaper articles, cinematic crime/thriller credits, a TV news program, and the flashing of black and white text across the screen.

This erratic blending and cutting of images and words is one of the only ways we can understand a story now, this is how information is delivered to us— in a schizophrenic chain of signifiers and sensationalism. Lurhman uses this to his advantage, loads these devices with the language of the original, placing it in a context that we can understand— in a context that can hold our modern attention spans—which removes issues of comprehension. The result is that he represents a story that has been buried beneath the continuous and ongoing shrine of its own fame, and destroys it in order to keep it intact. We are brought closer to the tragedy of the original story, because we can now re-relate to it. The eradication of formal historical context reveals the text’s unchanging pathos.

These are simplistic summaries to complicated hermeneutics, and I don’t mean to down play all the qualities and implications in the removal of context or language, especially not in the two films I mentioned. However, the notion of infidelity as restoration is one that, once considered, can provide deeper considerations of the adapted text, and remove the confines that our personal imaginations project onto original works.

Authors don’t create or determine meaning; they make it available. The self-subverting quality of the proposal demonstrated this by way of undermining its own claim for historical accuracy— it demonstrated an inability to be faithful to context while still inviting the exploration of meanings.

*Fredric Jameson, ‘Excerpts from Postmodernism, Or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism’ (1991) in A Postmodern Reader ed. Patricia Waugh (London: Routledge, 1992), p. 320.

Jane Potthast recently graduated from University of London with a MA in Comparative Literature. She enjoys writing fiction, reading modernist literature, and extracting meaning from everything. You can contact her at

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Joining Salim Shaheen, the most popular and prolific actor-director-producer in Afghanistan on his 111th no budget feature, Kronlund documents the week-long shoot and the events surrounding it. She crafts an insight into a larger than life persona, yet amidst the comedy and theatricality of Shaheen and his troupe of collaborators, she uncovers the heavier tones of the everyday reality of war and patriarchal oppression. If The Prince of Nothingwood will popularly be remembered for celebrating the creative spirit of its star, it is equally an important communication on Afghanistan, it's culture and its people. Alongside the awareness of the country cultivated by mainstream media news outlets, Kronlund's film offers an insight into a country that can humanise the prejudice and xenophobic tendencies of a western perspective towards Afghanistan.

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Why filmmaking as a means of expression? Was there an inspirational or defining moment?

Not really, no. I have always done documentary. I used to write scripts and TV series but I only make documentaries myself for radio and television. For this story, I figured out after a while that it deserved a bigger ambition and a bigger screen and that's why I don't very much believe in inspiration. To be honest, I made this film because I had to do something. I didn't have a big project where I thought: I want to make this. I went there and I found a little money and at the end the ambition and the inspiration came along the way. But there was not an urgent necessity to make this film. It fits with a lot of things that I'm interested in, like popular culture -- What does art stand for and why do we go to the cinema? What is the purpose? This is a question I'm interested in, but inspiration, not so much.

Has The Prince of Nothingwood provided you with the answers to those questions?

It has, and I hope it helps people to think about this question. It tells you that there is an urgent need to make images, to make films, even during war,and even if you don't have the money. And even if the films are not very good, they will find somebody who will like them. So something is going to happen, and I think that's very touching. I don't like Shaheen's films, I hardly watched them -- I paid somebody to watch them. But I'm very moved by all these people that do like his films, and it makes you think about the value of art and the purpose of why we make cinema. I used to study aesthetics in London, so it was one of the questions I had and while the film is lighter than this, that's what was in mind.

The film uses Shaheen as a doorway, beginning as a story about one man which becomes a story about Afghanistan, its people and culture.

Yeah, but it's not so much about Afghanistan and it's not my purpose is to say things about the country. There's one guy like him in Iran who makes cowboy movies in the Iranian desert and there's also a guy like that in Tunisia. I mean you have this person with an urgent need to film whatever they have under their hand and since it's war, then it tells you something about the war. But it's not so much interested in him.

There was a lot of editing, 148 hours that you haven't seen [laughs]. Making a documentary is really telling a story and I don't have any idea of objectivity -- it is my point of view on Shaheen. Some people say to me that they would like to show his films, that they really want to see his films, and I say: "You don't see how much I have edited. I show you the very nice parts of his films." People think he's a great filmmaker and that's the story I wanted to tell -- but I could have told another story.

To my mind, objectivity is a human construct, a falsity that does not exist.

Except mathematics maybe, and sometimes physics.

The purist opinion of documentary as objective is therein built on a faulty premise. From the subjective choices of the filmmakers that bleed into the film to the subjectivity of the subjects, it's not purely objective. Hence, it calls into question the traditional dividing line of the objectivity of documentary and the subjectivity of narrative fiction.

Totally! It's the editing, and why you chose this guy, how you film it and what you show, or what you don't show. It's not only subjectivity, it's storytelling. Not many people ask me about this, they take it for granted that it's the real Shaheen. But I'm not lying, I'm not saying things that aren't true, but I am telling a story, a fictional story out of what I filmed. I took scenes that happened one day and I put them with another story that happened three months later and that's why we had seven months of editing with three editors. So it was a lot of work.

One of the striking aspects of the film are the light and comedic moments offset by a darker and heavier sensibility, which include moments when, for example, Shaheen talks about arranged marriages.

We made 70rough cuts and there was one version we tested and you couldn't believe you were in Afghanistan. People would say: "Oh this is too funny. You don't see Afghanistan, it's just a bunch of crazy guys." I then said: "Let's put in a little more darkness." You then have to strike a balance and to me, if it's not perfect, I'm happy.

Shooting the film in a dangerous and volatile part of the world, was the approach that once you had enough footage you then looked to shaping the film in the edit?

It's not when you feel you have enough, it's finding a balance between security and artistic concerns. That's it. You have a plan and you have an agenda. There are things you want to do, but it has to be balanced with security concerns. The real story I was going to tell about Shaheen I found in the editing room and in the end, I only kept five days of the shoot. The whole film takes place in Bamyan (Province), nothing in Kabul, although I had weeks and weeks of footage there that I had to take away.

There's a moment when Shaheen asks if you are scared, which sees him verbalise our silent recognition of your boldness and courage to bring this story to the screen.

It's very difficult and it's not like you are walking in the street and there's a bomb. This is not what's difficult. The difficulty is to cope with your fear and to have rules and to follow or to not follow those rules. There are many foreign people that never go out at all in Kabul -- it is forbidden. You have British diplomats who do not even drive their car from the airport to the embassy -- they will take an helicopter that costs £2,000 each way. Then you have foreign people who walk in the street without a scarf -- these girls get kidnapped.

In between these you have Shaheen, who is telling me all the time that I'm too scared, because it's a man's value to be brave and he's a brave guy, there's no question about that. He was in an attack two weeks ago. There was a bomb in a Shia Mosque and he helped to carry out the bodies. So there's no kidding about the fact that he's a brave guy and he has to be because he's been fighting to make his films. But you are in the middle of this and I'm not a brave person at all and I don't think being brave is a very important question. It is, but I'm not brave, I'm very scared and so in the middle of all of this stress it's enough just to manage to not go crazy, or to not drink too much [laughs].

Salim Shaheen and Sonia Kronlund (courtesy of Pyramide Films)

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