Show and Tell: the ethical issues behind documentary films

Originally published in The Oxonian Globalist

Alexandra Sutton explores the ethical issues behind humanitarian documentaries, and questions their ability to facilitate change

Whose voice are we hearing? Photo by Jonathan Smith.

The humanitarian documentary is a double-edged sword of communication and narrative. It serves both to inform and to raise awareness, but it does so through a medium which is necessarily subjective, emotionally manipulative and most importantly, aesthetically produced. So, when it comes to documentaries which focus on human rights issues and campaigns, there appears to be a serious ethical problem in their nature. This problem then forces the question – what do these documentaries actually achieve?

The dichotomy between communication and narrative can be broadly broken down into the idea of “show and tell”. Do these documentaries show us problems, or do they tell us about them? The answer is almost inevitably “tell” – the most powerful documentaries tend to be ideological in their foundations, not only alerting people to serious human rights issues, but exploring the reasons behind them and positing the possibilities for change. This is by no means a bad thing – whether a documentary is led by one strong voice, or features a panel of insightful talking heads, it is often enlightening to have problems which may seem initially very alien relayed to you by those who know the subject.

Although it is arguable that ideology should be the motivating force behind documentary, that argument is contigent upon what we believe the documentary can and should achieve. For example, the basic concept of a documentary would be “to document”, to simply chronicle information and then relay it, leaving room for personal interpretation and reflection. However, humanitarian documentaries, which are heavily stylised and persuasively emotive, aim to create food for thought without actually leaving any room to taste it. A notorious exemplar of this is Invisible Children’s much debated Kony 2012 short film. With its heartbreaking images and moving soundtrack, it struck a chord with the public (not unlike charity adverts) and immediately went viral, before being quickly denounced as flawed, partially false and worryingly evocative of militant propaganda.

Why then were so many people taken in by it? Perhaps it was the aesthetic qualities of the video, perhaps it was the rush of virtual activism (or “slacktivism”, if you will), or the extremely simplified message of Good vs. Evil. However, the most revealing form of persuasion was actually the most unsettling: Kony 2012 made people feel good. Much of the appeal is inherently self-centred – it told us that we could achieve great things by doing very little, that we were an empowered generation of connected social media activists, and crucially, that we in the liberal West had the power to solve the problems of everyone else. It was all about us.

The assumption that documentaries are actually all about the viewer isn’t necessarily wholly negative; learning about and attempting to understand human rights issues requires empathy as well as sympathy. It’s just that the documentaries rarely present situations that we can even attempt to empathise with. As soon as we start trying to, the films risk becoming ethically flawed, and frequently Western-centric – both in terms of moral values and presentation.

For example, recent documentaries such as Girl Rising and Half the Sky – both about women’s rights in India, Pakistan and Africa, amongst other countries – relay personal, first person narratives through the medium of celebrity monologues or interviews. Girl Rising calls for female education and empowerment, but good intentions are dampened by the film’s execution – liberties are taken with the girl’s stories, and their voices are essentially drowned out by a Western imposition of morality, and the famous faces we implicitly trust to deliver said moral judgment. The difficulty with this imposition is that it requires us place a value judgement on cultural norms. In these documentaries, the general solutions are wound up with Westernisation, suggesting that countries should not only assimilate our societal structures, but assimilate the cultural values that go along with them. The question is, where does this end? What happens in countries where religion and state are one and the same? In this respect, the documentary can become overtly political, and once again lose sight of the nuances in these issues, and in each nation. Obviously, there are elements of Western society that are objectively beneficial, and among these education is chief. However, human rights issues cannot be diluted into abstract “pillars of society”; these ideals are fundamentally subjective as culture and morality are not easily separated.

Half the Sky is similarly concerning, in which several Hollywood women meet female victims of persecution and attempt to relate to them. The actresses epitomise the flaws in these kinds of films – the interviews blur into psuedo-docu-drama, and in the attempt to connect with the women, the film ends up alienating them even further. Their very real histories of oppression and trauma are glossed into a simplified story female troubles the world over.

However, idealistic though it may be, behind the majority of these films are people who are intending to achieve something positive. In many cases this goes beyond raising awareness, to actually facilitating change. For example, They Go to Die, a film about the links between tuberculosis and the South African mining industry, led to an All Party Parliamentary meeting in the UK to discuss the issue, and the film received a Global Health Award. The person behind the documentary, Jonathan Smith, was not a filmmaker, but rather a student of the Yale School of Public Health. Smith approached the issue by using his academic background of health and social policy, but rather than letting social theory dominate the film, he let the victims of the mining industry explain the issues themselves. Equally, the award-winning documentary on sexual assault in the US military, The Invisible War, led to an almost immediate directive ordering all sexual harassment cases to be handled by senior officers, issued by Secretary of Defence, Leon Panetta. According to the New York Times, the film has been credited with both encouraging victims to come forward, and galvanising procedural changes within the military itself.

Documentaries such as these appear to operate on both a deeply personal level, whilst effectively working to make definitive change. Although they may be a rarity, it is certainly encouraging. Despite the fact that humanitarian documentaries can be extremely flawed in their composition, the argument ultimately boils down to the way we perceive change. Is change restricted to formal, legislative action, or can it also refer to a change in attitude? Raising awareness is the germ of change, even if that change is a gradated one, beginning with a person who watches a documentary at home, and is inspired to seek out answers by themselves. However simplistic it may seem, any narrative that at least raises a few questions, or sparks interest in a previously unknown topic, can only be a positive thing. When the glossy veil of film is stripped away, the human rights issues at their core still remain – as long as we become aware of that, the documentary may still have the power to make a difference.

Thoughts on Festivals

Festivals are weird, aren't they? On the one hand, they are a beautiful concept; people coming together to share music, take a break from day to day life, meet people and experience a different outlook on things. On the other hand, they are completely bloody stupid; 15,000 people chucked together in a field, laced with an increasing variety of intoxicating substances, poor sanitation and insufficient wet wipes. It's like paying £150, not to mention shaving a few months off your life expectancy, to be kettled.

However, it is this bizarre juxtaposition that makes the festival such a fascinating human ritual. Rarely do you experience a totally heavenly, or a totally hellish weekend. There are glimpses of both, from the euphoria of seeing your favourite band play against the back drop of a sentimental sunset, to watching a stranger be put into the recovery position and left, alone and vulnerable, at the side of the stage. It's unnerving. It's also exhilarating. 

This unique feeling of exhilaration found at certain festivals is also what fuels (and perpetuates) a lot of the madness. At this point I should say that I have been to several smaller, family friendly folk festivals (Shrewsbury and Cropredy, you paragons of goodness) but here I am referring to the larger and slightly wilder institutions such as Leeds, Reading, Latitude, Boomtown and the like. Everyone has their own festival nightmare tale, be it tents on fire, belongings stolen, or in some very sad cases, serious illness and even death. The majority of these incidents, alongside the wonderful experiences, are the results of a series of choices. So, just what is it that makes festival behaviour and the choices we make at them such a seemingly idiosyncratic phenomenon?

Well firstly, it isn't that idiosyncratic. In any large group of people there can be hints of the old mob mentality model - in a highly concentrated festival environment this can either lead to a pseudo-dystopian every-camper-for-themselves nature, or, rather more cheerfully, an inflated sense of camaraderie, company and body glitter all over everything. The way people behave at a festival can usually be traced to everyday human traits, it's just that in an enclosed space, a short time period and an extremely stimulating environment, everything becomes heightened. For example, when I attended Boomtown Fair this year, I was aware of its reputation at "The UK's Maddest City", but I was surprised to realise that the catchy tagline was, if anything, an understatement. It was bloody mental - anarchy exemplified, tucked away in a pleasant Winchester field. Waiting beyond the sniffer-dog-guarded gates was a sensory assault; too much colour, too much noise, too much alcohol and, if the citizens of this festival town were anything to go by, too many drugs, but it sucked you in within seconds and spat you out in an alternate reality.

I think for many people, that's what the modern festival is; a disordered, alternate reality, free of the constraints of everyday society - a diluted 21st century answer to Bacchanalian revelry. It's about more than music, it is about the character you can be come when you're there, and the boundaries you can push that just wouldn't be acceptable anywhere else. Or at least, that is the romanticised ideal. Often there are darker aspects. Amidst the colour and the music and the realm of the "free-spirit" (a part-time role that can be discarded come the next working Monday), you'll find a few people staggering about, a few people lost, and occasionally a few lay on the floor that won't be able to get up again. During this year's Boomtown Fair, me and my pals saw a man collapse during a gig, and though people stood around and helped as much as they could, there was a sense that, well, there was no sense - people had become totally desensitised to some of the more disturbing sights. Half an hour later and the gig was cancelled, the crowds were herded away and an ambulance had carted the man off. I felt a bit weird, but I carried on into the night and had a great old time. I'd gotten over seeing someone have a potentially life-threatening collapse in an hour or two because the rest of the festival was still so exciting. The next day rumours spread, two, three, possibly four dead, bad batch of ketamine, etc. It was an eye-opener to say the least.

It turned out that not all the rumours were false, and that one girl did die at the festival. Obviously, it could have happened in a variety of other situations, but it gets you thinking. Are more risks taken? Do people behave differently? On the whole, I would say yes. From opportunistic theft, to risk of injury, to dressing more outlandishly, people are affected by the environment. There are seemingly less consequences and almost no visible authority, and people thrive off it. Now, this isn't a morality tale and I'm not suggesting that festivals are completely unsafe. In many ways the change in character can often be liberating, exciting and above has the appeal of being temporary. Indeed for many people the festival experience genuinely is a way of life, and catching a glimpse of that every summer is a wonderful thing.

For me, the festival will always be an intoxicating vignette; vibrant, immersive, but above all fleeting. I have had some of my most important experiences, conversations and memories at festivals, and I genuinely don't think they would have happened were it not for the particular chemistry of that environment. For better or worse, it is something to see, so for all the behavioural analysis one can muster, I think the best thing to do is take a step back now and then, talk about it, think about it, then get back in the mud and the music and the dirty, glorious nature of it all. On reflection, I'll be doing just that. 

Bradley Manning, Nigella Lawson and my Mum

This is a super speedy off the cuff blog post about something my Mum said the other day. Groundbreaking stuff! It was a fairly innocuous comment, but it left me with some questions. Whilst flicking through the newspaper, she came across a photo of a pre-divorce Nigella Lawson looking pretty glum. To be fair to Mum, Nigella looked extremely world weary, with a furrowed brow and teary eyes. Then came the comment:

"Oh, look at Nigella's sad face," said Mum.

This would have been a perfectly acceptable comment, were it not for the picture of Bradley Manning on the opposite page. Manning looked haggard, thin, ill even, staring into nowhere and awaiting a predicted sentence of around 136 years. The juxtaposition of the two lives (sensitive work by The Daily Mail, as ever) is almost farcical. Both images arguably depict lives falling apart, but the difference in context is almost unimaginable. A divorce, and a whole life taken away in the name of 'justice'. Despite that, for my Mum, it was Nigella's expression that drew out an expression of sympathy. I was outraged, and spouted an ill-advised holier-than-thou remark about the fact that she seemed to care about something that, to me, wasn't important. I couldn't understand how the sheer tragedy of Manning's story had been bypassed for a gritty paparazzi shot of a celeb.

Once I stopped being so melodramatic, I realised that the whole thing was just an example of the way in which everyone feels sympathy and sadness differently - a relatively simplistic epiphany, really. Mum clearly had much more sympathy, even empathy, with a woman her age having a difficult time over marital or familial issues, not unlike many people my Mum may know, or be friends with. It's nigh on impossible to empathise with someone who is probably going to be in prison for the rest of his life, sentenced with a number of years impossible to complete. The situation almost becomes abstract, so far away from anything the average person normally encounters, and involving systems well beyond my understanding at least. It's reminiscent of Stalin's much quoted words about deaths and statistics. Manning will essentially a death sentence - he has certainly already lost a chunk of his life, but the attachment of a potential 136 years to his charge is almost unimaginable. Many of us will have witnessed a messy divorce, few of us will understand the consequences of the Bradley Manning trial, or the alleged "cruel, inhuman and degrading treatment" he suffered during his year in solitary confinement. 

I feel bad for Nigella, obviously, but I can't really explain what I feel for Bradley Manning. Perhaps I reacted emotively to his image out of a sense of obligation - I've followed the case, I disagree vehemently with his treatment, I feel a strong sense of injustice. However, I think it is more than that. I cannot understand how someone in his position must be feeling, but a photo of anyone in his situation is enough to inspire some educated guesswork - lonely, afraid, tired. We've probably never had cause to feel like Manning does, but any level of basic human empathy Without the context of their stories, both images could easily evoke these emotions, and in the case of me and Mum, they did. I suppose that means it all comes down to what you know, what you believe and what you experience. I'm fairly sure that Mum feels bad about Manning, but she's well within her rights to think of Nigella first, even if I berate her from my high horse for doing so. Sympathy is relative, and empathy unpredictable. And I am still confused by Mum.

Bradley Manning
Credit: Daily Mail















Nigella Lawson
Credit: Daily Mail

Retrospective: Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, Before Midnight

Trilogies are an important part of the film lover's repertoire. They become a feature length blur of ideas and feelings; each installment influences the way the others are interpreted. and together they almost form a cinematic personality. This personality is what generates the bizarre sense of loyalty and connection people have with films - we invest in them and care for them, in exchange for a glimpse of something escapist and idealistic. Culty art-house type trilogies include Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colours series or Satyajit Ray’s Apu films, but for me, the finest of them all has just been decided by the release of the final installment in Richard Linklater's 'Before' trilogy.

In 1995, Ethan Hawke, Julie Delpy and Richard Linklater began what would be a 18 year project, spanning three countries, three films, and influencing countless young romantics with a taste for introspection and a fondness of talking about it. Jesse is your typical young American, full of ideas and brimming with bravado, Celine is a flighty Parisian student, a classic Manic Pixie Dream Girl with a melancholy twist. They meet on a train, engage in pseudo-philosophical verbal acrobatics and spend a day and a night getting lost in Vienna. Their meet-cute is whimsical, their characters seemingly clichéd, and in any other context their patter could be vastly irritating. But somehow, Linklater, Delpy and Hawke have created an environment in which the characters can soulfully filibuster the big questions in life whilst outwardly attempting to answer them, in a way that is charming, tender, and most importantly, interactive.

The intricacy and wonder of the series lies in this attempt at an interactive viewing process. It begins simply; they are young and in love - you want to be young and in love. They wander around Europe spouting extremely interesting and insightful nonsense about the world under a canopy of consistently good weather - you also want this. It is romantic, it is dreamlike, but it is not wholly unrealistic. Who wouldn't want this? On a superficial level, the films allow you to superimpose yourself into the dream. However, it is the acknowledgment of flaw, condition and sheer bloody humanity that make the characters seem so real, so tangible. The characters are a Gatsby-like embodiment of self-performativity - they let you understand them exactly as you want to; each person is moved in a different way, and each viewing inspires different emotion. As the series progresses, the characters grow a little older and a little more weary, with a middle installment of 30-something cynicism, until we reach Before Midnight, which as Linklater suggests is a "harder pill to swallow", where love has become a "brutal kind of beast." The very nature of the films, produced over such a long period of time, necessitates the growth of the characters and the growth of the audience. Equally, the production cultivates the type of obsessive analysis that Jesse and Celine are inclined to themselves - nine years is a long time to wait for the next film, and to attempt to predict its outcome.

I don't want to reveal that outcome, as you should all sit down and watch the trilogy immediately, but I'll happily say that Before Midnight is a beautiful piece of cinema. Like its predecessors it is talky and indulgent, and so appeals to those, like myself, who often feel like talking makes them indulgent, which is something one should probably talk about. What makes them so magical is the way one can go on interpreting them, understanding them, obsessing over them. Shameless attempts to draw out similarities between yourself and the characters are inevitable, but they also inspire some of the best conversation and the best experiences, once you get past the semi-pretension of it all. Linklater has created something intensely personal, and his love of story and talk of all kinds (small, big, poetic...) has spawned a fan-base who have experience their own versions of the tale as a result of that intimacy. I for one can't wait to weep over Before Sunset in my thirties, and re-experience Before Midnight as a gin soaked forty year old. Both create visions of a potential future that for Jesse and Celine began 18 years ago in a serene 80-second unbroken shot, and for us lowly mortals began the first time we peeped at their intimacy.

What Lee Halpin's death should teach us about homelessness

This is an article I published in conjunction with a homelessness discussion event at my university. The event included the excellent short film The Truth About Stanley, and talks from formerly homeless ambassadors of Crisis, which is both a charity and an advocacy group. 

In April this year, 26 year old Lee Halpin was found dead in a derelict hostel. Halpin had been sleeping rough for three nights, and it is believed that he succumbed to hypothermia. However, it wasn’t just the news of a tragic death that caused this story to hit the national press. It transpired that Lee Halpin was not in fact a homeless person, but an aspiring journalist attempting to sleep rough in Newcastle for a week, in order to make a film for the Dispatches’ “Fearless Journalism” competition. The prize was a 12 month internship. Halpin used the platform to raise awareness about the rising homelessness rates, and the repercussions of welfare cuts. “I will sleep rough, scrounge for my food, interact with homeless people and immerse myself in that lifestyle as deeply as I can”, says Halpin in a YouTube video, now seen by over 180,000 people. Halpin’s ambition to raise awareness was a truly admirable one, and in death his message has reached a huge audience. However, this story goes well beyond the death of one man, however tragic. It raises uncomfortable questions about problems at the core of our society; namely the public attitude towards homelessness, and the provision of welfare for the country’s most vulnerable sectors.

Living in Oxford, we are faced with homelessness every day. The disparity in the city is undeniable – Oxford has the highest housing costs outside of London, and the fourth highest homelessness rate. Alongside the number of people sleeping rough on the street there are the “hidden homeless”, those living in hostels, temporary accommodation and shelters. Oxford City Council’s ‘No Second Night Out’ initiative and the excellent work of local charities goes some way to offering immediate help, but with cuts to welfare provision and the impact of the bedroom tax, the problems can only get worse. Crisis report a 31% rise in the average number of people sleeping on the streets per night, and this increase suggests that the £6bn cut to Housing Benefit has eroded the safety net meant to defend the vulnerable against the economic downturn. These figures are genuinely frightening, but the ripple effect of these reforms can only really be understood when we pay attention to each individual we see on the street.

Percentages and politics aside, homelessness is humanised. Lee Halpin’s investigation hinged upon engaging with homeless people, and experiencing the dangers that they face every day. When we step out of the door and see a person on our street, how do we react? In most cases, we either walk away, or uncomfortably offer our coppers before shuffling off to Tesco. Both acts are quick, even easy, but neither really helpful. Local charities warn against giving money to homeless people, as it can perpetuate substance abuse, or prevent the individual from seeking out institutions that offer more permanent solutions. The act of giving money is often a manifestation of guilt. In the very human desire to form a connection – money is the simplest way to do so.

Of course, the wish to interact is no bad thing, but how inclined is the average person to actually talk to a homeless person? Sadly, I’d say it’s unlikely. Public attitudes towards the homeless are highly disconcerting; presumptions as to the causes of homelessness are easy to make, and extremely reductive. For example, a recent incident in London saw the police confiscate the food and possessions of a group of homeless people. When asked to comment, CI John Fish stated that “the public rely on police to reduce the negative impact of rough sleepers.” These people are not victims; they are not even human. They are a “negative impact.”

What CI Fish neglects to realise is that rough sleepers are the public. Homelessness is not just vagrancy, the lack of a roof, or the violation of squatting laws. It is a condition of isolation, of complete social alienation, and as Crisis put it, it constitutes loss of a “legal and social dimension.” The experience is destructive, difficult to escape, and even harder to recover from. The average age of death for a homeless person is just 47 years old. Lee Halpin was far younger than that, but the sad irony of his story is the fact that we heard of it in the first place. If the body of your average, 47 year old homeless man was discovered in a derelict hostel, would news of it have reached the national newspapers? Would anybody notice, or even care?

It all comes down to that question. Who cares for the homeless, and who is responsible for them? On a day-to-day basis, we are. Get involved with the Oxford Homeless Action Group, with Crisis or Oxford Pathways. If the issue moves you, do something! Halpin wanted to engage with homelessness as a “frontline journalist”, but for what it’s worth, I believe we should all be on the frontline when it comes to this issue. All it takes is a walk down the street and the problem is right there, embodied by every man and woman who sits in a doorway, and on the fringes of society.

NB: Since this article was published I have spoken to several homeless people and  looked further in to the aforementioned "No Second Night Out" policy. The homeless people spoken to commented that the system is extremely flawed, and as such I will be trying to find out more information as to why this is.

Dear Dr Status Update...

A few days ago the BBC ran a news story about Facebook's latest technical glitch. "Millions exposed" as "personal details" were made available on the site, officials apologise, damage limitation, will never happen again, all that jazz. In the grand scheme of things the problem was a minor one, but there's something inescapably ironic (and really quite revealing) about the BBC's choice of words. Exposure of details. Personal exposure. Isn't that exactly what Facebook is? Isn't every newsfeed or timeline a systematic exposure of personal details? You say where you're going, what you're doing and who you're with. More than that, you say what you feel and what you think. By its very nature, even as a basic mode of communication, Facebook necessitates the exposure of personal details.

Before this gets a bit too dramatic/despairing/downright depressing, I should make a confession. A disclaimer, if you will. I have absolutely no control over my Facebook habits, I'm aware that I don't particularly like them but they exist nonetheless. However, Facebook and other social media sites such as Twitter and Instagram are asking  more and more of their users. The world is a increasingly public one and we are inevitably becoming a more public people. Much has been written on the way social media influences our interactions with others, but what does the personal exposure mean for the ways in which we view ourselves?

Social media has moved far beyond communicative purposes. Blogs such as Tumblr, Myspace and somewhat embarrassingly, this Blogspot, offer a chance to create a whole identity and a space where that identity can be projected and its voice can be heard. Status updates have become the modern equivalent of diary entries - a digital record of our activities and opinions, not unlike a written journal. These snippets and fragments of life can seem fairly innocuous; nothing much can be read into "On my way to Nandos", or "BEST NIGHT EVER LAST NIGHT!". However, it's not exactly what is said, but the fact that anything is said at all. To be hyper-cynical/go all Stewart Lee about it, recording your every move in a public forum is akin to creating a kind of contained celebrity - in the mini-world of your Facebook friends, your actions and thoughts are valuable and worthy of record. Even if you have just nipped down the pub with your mates. #nothingspecial.

To avoid this sounding like an ill-advised bout of self-righteousness, I have an example that both encapsulates the idea of a life lived on Facebook, and reveals how easily one can be sucked into it. In a case of mistaken identity, I once added a complete stranger as a 'friend'. She accepted (which itself was weird) and I never got round to deleting her (probably weirder). Three years later and she's become a bizarre stock figure in my cyber-life. I've witnessed the birth of her two children, her relationship woes, her day to day activities and her plans for the future, all of it posted online like a personal scrapbook. It is sheer voyeurism and nosiness; the modern day version of peeping over your neighbours fence, but with far more juicy results. The uncomfortable truth is that a good proportion of us probably have someone like the poor woman who accepted my friend request, or maybe we actually are that person.

An extension of Diary-Facebook is Therapist-Facebook. We're not just asked where we are and what we're doing, but how do we feel and why? If you're having trouble expressing it to Dr Status Update, there are even handy little Myspace relics which depict a variety of emotions.

This attempt to concretise the whole range of human emotion is pretty grim, and symptomatic of the whole problem with Facebook therapy and Facebook diary entries - it forces a complete removal of complexity, subtlety and nuance. More than that, it manufactures introspection whilst paradoxically removing any sort of personal insight, as this most personal process is laid bare for the world to see. And, of course, for them to comment on.

Whatever your opinion on social media, there is surely an undeniable loneliness, even poignancy in the system. It's not a perfect diagnosis, but there are definitely hints of it in even the most normative status updates. Wishing the world "Goodnight.xxx", or letting people know exactly where you are ("Home sweet home!") is like an attempted affirmation of one's place within a network of human connection. It says, "I am here and so are you". There seems to be some value in that, even if it's just a basic indication of the human desire to interact, to take interest, even to be nosy. However, the online attempt to reveal all generally reveals that there isn't in fact that much to reveal in the first place  - such is the hermeneutic circle-jerk produced by any attempt to analyse  Facebook. Ah, so it is.

Articles which influenced this attempt at one- 

"From memory to sexuality, the digital age is changing us completely."

"Internet anonymity is the height of chic."