The Trotsky: a claim to community

A distinction between an earlier and later Charles Taylor might split between Charles Taylor the political activist versus Charles Taylor the intellectual.[1] Certainly the nature of the writing going on in a political tract like The Pattern of Politics (1970) is at removes from intellectual forays into the malaise of modernity or to the crisis of the self and identify. I won’t attempt to square what an earlier Taylor says with a later Taylor.

But Taylor’s politics were local enough in the 1960s to make a book he wrote during that time pertinent to what I want to say about The Trotsky, a film shot entirely in Montreal and engaged in its own way with “radical” Canadian politics. I do not seek to apply a Taylorian reading to the film than to suggest that the film itself is a reading of this particular political text of Taylor’s—that the movie ingests and thereby depicts some of its most pertinent lessons.

So even if a later Taylor does not square with an earlier Taylor, what The Trotsky attempts is to make something like the politics of polarization matter once again, which is to say it attempts to reclaim some of the lessons put forward in The Pattern of Politics. One could also say this film attempts to reclaim the dialectic, in particular the notion which holds conflict between clearly opposing viewpoints as the lynchpin of social change. How the film reinterprets the dialectic will be considered here.

The premise of the film, that a Montreal teenager, Leon Bronstein (Jay Baruchel), believes himself to be the living embodiment of Leon Trotsky reincarnated suggests it is not beyond the pale to think about things like having another’s soul occupy one’s body, and from there, to consider whether the ontological reality of film facilitates a discussion of reincarnation (another’s soul trapped in a body eerily present to us) or rather, something like the reverse (a different body occupying another’s soul).

I raise these examples in consideration of the ontological differences between what Cavell calls, simply, the “actor” (stage actor) and the “performer” (screen actor).

The [stage] actor’s role is his subject for study, and there is no end to it. But the screen performer is essentially not an actor at all: he is the subject of study, and a study not his own. (That is what the content of a photograph is—its subject.) On a screen the study is projected; on a stage the actor is the projector. An exemplary stage performance is one which, for a time, most fully creates a character. After Paul Scofield’s performance in King Lear, we know who King Lear is, we have seen him in the flesh.

An exemplary screen performance is one in which, at a time, a star is born. After The Maltese Falcon, we know a new star, only distantly a person. “Bogart” means “the figure created in a given set of films.” His presence in those films is who he is, not merely in the sense in which a photograph of an event is that event; but in the sense that if those films did not exist, Bogart would not exist, the name “Bogart” would not mean what it does. (28)

If it’s true that an actor on screen, when he plays a character, imbues that character with something of his persona, so that there is no Rambo, say, without Sylvester Stallone, and, subsequently, no role for Sylvester Stallone to play without invoking or imbibing a bit of Rambo in it, then the creation of a film star means the creation of a persona, which functions something like a sign, with its own cluster of clues and associations.

The individuality of the screen actor is either lost or heightened, depending on how you view things. Lost in that there is no appearance or presence the actor can (now or ever) have without calling to mind the medium he works in. Heightened in that something of what he is is (fundamentally) more open to the senses; the screen actor is more transparent to us, which, also, can be a way of cloaking things. But sometimes, once we appear on screen, just as once we utter language, we are committed persons.

(To rehash ground already travailed by Cavell, let me say that theatre actor, say, Ian McKellen, does not transfigure who we understand Richard III to be. McKellen interprets the character; another could interpret differently, but we imagine the character, Richard III, to be a stable entity. But the screen actor does not interpret his role. He inhabits it so there is no role without the actor. Conventionally speaking, one does not “interpret” Rambo.)

It is not unwise to suppose that a film director is aware of his inheritance in the actors and actresses he has sovereignty over, particularly Jacob Tierney, a man well versed in the histrionics of what we might nowadays call 1960s (Canadian) “counterculture,” auteuring a film explicitly aimed at the youth of Canada.

Whether or not Pierre Trudeau is a galvanizing figure for today’s youth or not, those who are curious to know him are likely to know him through Colm Fiore. I don’t mean that Fiore’s persona trumps Trudeau’s. Indeed, Fiore interprets Trudeau the way a stage actor interprets a character; he does not invent him; others will come along with different interpretations. But for a generation at least (or for a generation of Canadian youth interested in 1960s Canadian counterculture), and perhaps simply by appearing to us as Trudeau on screen, Fiore’s persona will invoke or be caught up with Trudeau (though not vice versa). Fiore is, in a sense, a reincarnation of Trudeau.

In casting Fiore as a rather ineffective (mostly comedic) villain in The Trotsky, I believe Jacob Tierney is offering a critique of Trudeau in this film, so a critique of the Liberal brand of consensus-politics that undercuts the rough and tumble world of adversarial intellectual pursuit—known (and derided) most famously as that darling artifice beloved (not solely) by Marxists: the dialectic. I am not exactly saying that this movie redeems the intellectual worth of this historical trope (which has largely gone out of favour). Perhaps it begs the (philosophical) question of where exactly its worth (if any) lies: in the affirmative declaration of philosophical strength or the passive acceptance of forces (precisely) out of our control. I will come back to this.

We can begin, in good form, by looking more closely at the character played by Colm Fiore, who I believe acts as an inheritance for Jacob Tierney, bringing with him a cultural currency that could be put to good use considering the manner of film Tierney is making. The question then is, does Tierney, in fact, put this inheritance to good (or any) use? Is he aware that he has cast a version of Trudeau in his film?

Appealing to “vulgar” intentionality stifles aesthetic criticism so even if you (or Tierney) answers no, I am going to argue that Tierney, at the very least, forces us to consider what type of leader Trudeau is and then, not by presenting Colm Fiore in this film as a version of what Charles Taylor calls Trudeau in his book (i.e., the NYL, or “New Young Leader”), but by presenting another version of the NYL in Leon Bronstein—say a polar opposite version to Trudeau, one who is more genuinely what we expect an NYL to be, beyond the (mere) image.

First, here is Charles Taylor’s critique of Trudeaumania:

The vast literature of Trudeaumania is mainly concerned with the surface changes which are easily accomplished and easily identified. It focuses almost narcissistically on the dramatic shifts in image which accompany the rise of a new star … One of the main roles of this new leader is to represent or “personify” something. Trudeau stands for all the changes of contemporary Canada represented by a certain group of people: the young, successful innovators of the post-war era …

Diefenbaker provides the archetype in many people’s minds of the old-style politician who is attuned to yesterday’s issues and uses a rhetoric which has no meaning to the urban young. But Diefenbaker is only one kind of old-style political figure. There is another type of politician who is also thought to be obsolete. This is the wheeler-dealer … the consensus-maker who operates, by means of ambiguous statements and compromises to avoid offending the largest number of people possible. Politicians like [the consensus maker] are thought to specialize in the skilled parliamentary answer, which, while seeming to address itself to the question, really says nothing. Their past-mastery of the policy of minimum action somehow answers the cry for movement but actually leaves as much as possible undisturbed. Lately, these political arts have fallen almost entirely into disrepute. The young believe this way of operating is a formula for lack of action.

Against this the NYL – the New Young Leader – is said to be attuned and responsive to the issues which preoccupy young urban dwellers. He is said to have the courage to dispense with the double-talk and circumlocution of the Old Guard who, as Harbron says, “couch every public statement and every private thought in cautious verbiage.”

All this may have little relation to reality, but it is the myth rather than the reality of the NYL that we are examining here; and this myth firmly rests on the consensus view of politics. Those who promote the NYL make up the highly successful new élite. Harbron’s “lawyers, professors, businessmen, some of Ottawa’s junior bureaucrats” are not at all at odds with the structure of our society. What they look for in the NYL is the crystallization and expression of a consensus.

This is why his goals must remain without real content. He expresses “changes,” “innovation at our highest political level,” everything except a clear program of reform, which he contemptuously dismisses as “old fashion promises.” But this is more than mere equivocation, because the role of the leader is to remain flexible and pragmatic, to respond to the problems as they arise. To do this, the embodiment of the supposed new technological élite must be an exponent of the main thesis of consensus politics: that politics is the domain of problems and solutions, and not of the confrontation of fundamental opinions. He must embody the end of ideology.

What is wrong with the old wheeler-dealer is not that he creates a consensus with his careful schemes and hedgings, but rather that he is an ineffective agent of it. He is “hung up” on the consensus-making problems of yesteryear, so that he can neither see clearly the problems of today nor grasp the imaginative solutions which are needed. He suffers from taboos and inhibitions which may have been politic in the past but which have become obstacles today. He is, therefore, carefully soothing the susceptibilities of an aging and declining constituency instead of appealing to a new and growing one.

At the same time, if the NYL is courageous in eschewing the language of equivocation, he speaks out not to break the consensus but to present more effectively the goals that are hidden in the gobbledygook of the traditional politician or bureaucrat. In short, the NYL is supposed to be discovering and articulating the demands of the society. He “personifies all the exciting changes in our society.” But does he?

From the standpoint of a politics of polarization, this kind of reasoning is utter nonsense. What is totally missing in the argument is any inkling that there are important and fundamental structural conflicts in our society which make any claim to consensus specious. It is impossible for one person to represent the demands of the whole. (6-8)

Now obviously Colm Fiore’s character (Henry Berkhoff) in The Trotsky is not a version of the NYL, not meant to be nor to recall the image of Pierre Trudeau (Colm Fiore’s persona aside). What Henry Berkhoff is meant to convey is certainly something of the “old-style political figure,” if not exactly a “wheeler-dealer,” then certainly someone who is out of touch with the youth, employing old style remedies to curb (what he perceives to be) age-old problems.

He sics his “demonic concubine” Ms. Davis on students on day one of classes; her old school British-marm-accent is over the top and complements the rather arbitrary and quaint charges she levels at students. Muddy shoes and no-shirt-tuck seem to be offenses taken from a bygone era. Harping on piercings is a bit more fitting, if somewhat clichéd. But if clichés involve a lack of imagination, then clichéd speech and acts are in order here because what Tierney is trying to get across is precisely the blandness of bureaucracy, the lack of confrontation.

Henry Berkhoff doesn’t have a vision of what he wants his school to be. Instead, he operates (as he sees it) in a vacuum between boredom and apathy. The reason he denies that the problem with youth today could be one of boredom (favouring instead the interpretation of apathy) is because if this were so, the onus would be on him to conjure up or conceive of a vision that would pull students out of boredom. Whereas the “fight” against apathy is not a fight at all, not confrontational. Nothing is at stake.

Berkhoff is able to implement a supposed program of discipline and punishment not by virtue of his (or Ms. Davis’s) iron will but because, for students, there is no alternative. Leon refers to them both as “fascists,” which may simply allude to the fact that all Berkhoff does is offer up the same prescriptive dogma from a time gone by. He is more a disciplinary relic than an adversarial man. He himself does not inspire conflict, the sort required for real change to happen. Only Leon Bronstein does this.

Listen to Berkhoff’s hackneyed phrasings as he admonishes Leon for his display of solidarity with Skip:

This has been a troubled arts school for many years now. Pot, sex, graffiti, piercings. You see what I’m getting at? I am here to discipline the students, usher in a new era of responsibility and obligation to this place. Now you can certainly make that harder for me. Heck, you already have. But you won’t stop me. So the choice is yours. You can spend your final year of high school in a war you can’t win against a man who’s lived far longer and knows far more than you. Or you can just float by and wreak havoc next year on someone’s poor unsuspecting university. What’s it going to be?

To which Leon replies: “I think the choice is obvious.” If this sounds confrontational, it is because Leon has made confrontation his prerogative. Berkhoff is happy to let things just “float by.” According to Taylor, it is not by virtue of (differing) philosophies that we distinguish the old-style wheeler dealer from the NYL, but by virtue of effectiveness. That is, the NYL is simply the better consensus maker, more in tune with the “correct” forces in society to be placated. Placation, however, like the old-style politician, is still his prerogative. So Colm Fiore in this movie is not Pierre Trudeau personified (i.e. “persona”-fied), but something like Pierre Trudeau exposed. That is, both Trudeau and Berkhoff came into power on the promise of radical change; both offer up instead “the same old shit.”[2]

So in what way is Leon Bronstein a more genuine NYL? In one sense he isn’t an NYL at all. Taylor uses the term pejoratively; part of what makes a NYL is precisely his disingenuousness. A “genuine” NYL is a contradiction in terms, one that couches political measures or manoeuvres designed to maintain the status quo in the guise of supposedly radical change.

But no one in this film is offering radical change except Leon Bronstein, and he certainly does not couch his feelings. (Berkhoff is not a radical, hence no need for couching.) As far as the political landscape depicted in the film goes, the liberal consensus-maker is squeezed out. If the film is indeed a critique of so-called “consensus-politics,” it is so by virtue of omission because no character in the film actually embodies the ethos of the liberal politician. The value of such omission is that is allows polarization to happen, to have the stakes presented (clearly) as well as the possibility of choice.

How to make the case then that the film offers a critique of a character it does not even depict? One way might be to say that the liberal consensus model of politics, however effective (or ineffective), is certainly not the stuff of drama—that conflict (necessarily) is. Posing the question this way is an indirect way of critiquing the liberal brand of consensus politics, particularly if one expects the stuff of politics to be dramatic—that is, to involve real stakes. So why should conflict work so well on film but not in life?[3]

There are obvious psychological reasons, like the fact that when watching film, we are absent from the conflict whereas in life, the possibility of being harmed – physically, psychically – is prevalent. But effective consensus politics is more than simply a means of papering over the treacheries of real life. The need to believe is pertinent—that is, must be exploited by the liberal politician. This is what Taylor reminds us the “cult of the NYL” taps in to—the people’s “yearning to be in contact with something meaningful” (112), and then, their desire to participate in the structures surrounding this so-called “significant reality,” principally through the act of voting (113).

Here are two ways Leon Bronstein breaks with the traditional model of the NYL. First, Leon himself does not seek out connection with a significant reality. He already knows he is the reincarnation of Leon Trotsky. The movie does not depict him claiming, or even doubting/disinheriting this inheritance, but merely the consequences of his knowing. This is a significant departure from the traditional model of the NYL who himself does not believe in anything. He may mediate a connection to some higher reality, but he takes no trouble to articulate what this reality consists of; whereas Leon Bronstein’s point of departure is precisely his belief.

Nor is it is not true that Leon wins others to his cause. In fact, the film’s final conversion of Leon’s fellow school mates is not initiated by Leon, but by Tony, his chief lieutenant. Attempting to convince a sceptical gathering of fellow students that it is in their best interest to express solidarity with Leon, Tony does not berate them with dogma; he merely forces them to face the abyss and then to choose. If Leon and Tony eventually inspire others to believe in the meaningfulness of another reality, it is not because they has given them the tenets of Marxism to behold, but because the students become convinced of the value (either banally or profoundly) of a voice—symbolized in this film with the achievement of a Union, i.e., a political mechanism that allows students to have a say in the day-to-day running of affairs that should concern them. So only someone clear in his/her own convictions (Tony too is admirably clear in his desire simply to prove Berkhoff wrong) can pave the way for conviction in others—not conviction to take up another’s cause, but to participate and to speak out for oneself.

Second, I take it of utmost significance that the film does not portray the act of voting and is selective in its commentary on what sorts of rebellion are in order, which is to present other means of claiming oneself and one’s community. The film does depict the signing of a petition, which proves ineffective; also, a school walk-out, equivalent perhaps to a strike, which also peters out.

Is Tierney commenting on the effectiveness of petitions and strikes by showing us their futility in this film? Does this mean we should forgo petitions and strikes to achieve the change we want? This film is saying that rebellion, or acts of rebellion, can also be standardized, can become clichéd, hence rendered ineffective. Simply to take up a ready-made remedy is not an effective means for change; what is required is the conviction behind the remedy so that standing up in acts of defiance is not a political act with any meaning unless accompanied by convictions. And the best way to prove one’s convictions, to avoid the blasé rebellion that comes with staged political acts would be to take up more arresting measures, as though there is no reason to be taken seriously otherwise, which means we have no voice otherwise. This is dangerous territory, particularly when one begins taking hostages (i.e., breaking the law) in the name of one’s convictions.[4]

The dramatic hostage-taking of Berkhoff, accompanied by frenzied text-messaging to get students to rally in solidarity with Bronstein’s crazy act of defiance – and then, in spur-of-the-moment fashion – not only says something about the value of improvisation but also, about the types of rebellion that are, perhaps not in order, but (now?) necessary.

I turn now to a consideration of the dialectic, and how I take this film to inherit and transfigure what is meant by the term. Leon provides a brief aside (to Alexandra) on how he views the “Great Dialectic,” or “the Grand Narrative,”[5] before going on to paraphrase Eagleton’s distinction between moral and moralistic thinking.[6]

The dialectic must “breathe” in the new century, he says, “by allowing for things which Karl Marx, frankly, had no opinion on.” This is less a disinheritance of Marxism than a reminder that Marx cannot save us, that the rational application or understanding of his theories is not now what is lacking. Indeed, rather than provide heavy handed pedagogic interpretation of how Leon understands the functioning of the dialectic, the film, marvellously, depicts it—that is, allows us to see it, in the form of cue cards pinned up on Leon’s wall.

THE “GRAND NARRATIVE” OF LEON’S LIFE APPEARS TO US SANS HUMAINS.

THE CAMERA BEGINS ITS VERTICAL PAN.

THE DIALECTIC PASSES …

… BEFORE OUR EYES.

The content of the cards is less the remarkable feature than the fact that Leon Bronstein has the gumption, or feels required to, detail and display his convictions if not for all to see then, at the very least, for himself. How are we to interpret this display?

One way would be to say that just because everything is all clear in the mind of Leon Bronstein, it is merely a matter of convenience or formality for him to make his inner thoughts and aspirations outer, that without the cue cards Leon would be no less confident of the trajectory of his life. But another interpretation would be that the cards act as cover for the possibility that he is still capable of losing his way or his thread, so despite giving himself over to the “Grand Narrative,” some type of existential dread compels him to compose reminders and to detail checkpoints. Do these cards act as a symbol of his faith or his lack of faith? Are we to believe, as Leon seems to, that his fate is hermetically sealed, or is there room, indeed, for improvisation (even too much improvisation)?

There is certainly ample evidence that Leon feels the dialectic of his life could go awry, most notably the two dream sequences—the first in which he is cut loose by his mother and father, the second, by his ostensible surrogates, Frank McGovern (his mentor/attorney) and Alexandra, his desired object of affection. That Leon appears unchanged, as a baby, in both, suggests that he feels no less vulnerable with his new found family than his old one.

The fear is of betrayal certainly, but what Leon fears is that he has not the will nor ability nor voice to transform his new found family, that they will, instead, regress to reoccupy tired moralistic roles and positions of a time gone by. In such a case, having failed in his mission to convert them, Leon will most definitely feel cut loose, as though he is the weak link in the chain of events that is supposed to happen (which then, of course, doesn’t—all thanks to him). These dream sequences remind us that Leon is a free individual.

Yet this sense of simultaneous belief and non-belief is one source of anguish and frustration with the dialectic for some because being certain of the ends but wary of the means ought to put the ends in question to begin with. The dogmatic refusal to do so is what others find frustrating.[7]

This is what Alexandra feels when she levels her brutal charge against Leon, that he feels things because he thinks he’s supposed to. But it is also true that Leon manages to seduce her by feeling precisely the way he does and certainly not by manipulating Alexandra, but by being about as open and honest about his intentions as anyone possibly could be.

Alexandra is not worried that she is being taken for a ride but that Leon is taking himself for a ride, playing out a mere fantasy in which she happens to be entwined. But to claim one’s desire is necessarily to act out a sort of fantasy, and a union of souls is a union of fantasies, hence a discovery of fantasies—an other’s and one’s own.

How or what mediates these fantasies is always difficult to know beforehand. It would be far more sinister if Leon held his beliefs close to his chest, or was simply unaware of them, instead playing out the game of seduction in more conventional fashion without first being honest with himself.

But this arguably describes the dialectic of most romantic pursuits. What is exceptional about Leon is that he has already discovered his fantasy; he is begging Alexandra to consider what hers is and whether it is compatible with his. What he offers her is the power to choose (too directly some might say), but in the end, in this case anyhow, it works (not for Leon and Alexandra, I mean, but for us).

So what (exactly) is our source of attraction to the Trotsky? Is it because he has all the answers? Hardly. Even Leon has the temerity to doubt his own conclusions. Is it because he doubts? The most immediate reason to me is because he dares to infuse the otherwise rational functioning of the dialectic with romance, which may make him less authoritative in some people’s eyes, but certainly more human in our eyes. That is, he demands that the dialectic act first and foremost in accordance with, or in response to, his feeling and intuition. This infusion of romance is key to this film’s interpretation of the dialectic, particularly in lieu of the following commentary on Hegel by Professor Dart:

Hegel highlighted that the Enlightenment tradition was superior to the Classical tradition, but the Enlightenment had a tendency to fragment in three directions. There was the rationalist wing of the Enlightenment that turned to science, reason and the empirical way as the yellow brick road into the future. There were the romantics that dared to differ with the rationalists, and the romantics held high the way of poetry, the arts and intuition.

Then, there were the humanists. It was the humanists that attempted to see the best in the romantics and rationalists yet question their limited approaches to knowing and being. It was the humanists within the Enlightenment that attempted to synthesize the best of the rationalist and romantic traditions and raise both to a higher level through such a synthesis.

This bit of prose captures nicely the interpretive tripartite I have been setting up, if we take Leon as stand-in for the “romantic,” Berkhoff, the old-style politician, as stand-in for the “rationalist” in his pursuit of pragmatic, though unimaginative, solutions. And because we noted earlier that the film manages to squeeze out the Liberal consensus-maker, it seems, then, that the film has abandoned some measure of its possible humanity, or what Dart takes the humanist function to be—precisely the negation or subduing of conflict, and then (according to Dart) in the name of facilitating the unfolding of the dialectic, i.e., by letting forces clash (thesis vs. antithesis) and finding a third way (synthesis).[8]

Yet this third way consensus making must choose the manner in which the unfolding must take place and for someone armed only with a rational understanding of how the dialect functions, it is easy to see, right off the bat, where the asymmetry lies. But how to articulate (or formulate, say in non-rationalist manner), how the romantic aspect of the dialectic functions?

It seems clear to me that one can only bring one’s convictions, can only perform this aspect of the unfolding, and here is from where Leon’s charm is primarily derived. As mentioned earlier, Leon Bronstein is something like what a NYL is supposed to be, and this because he is armed only with his convictions, has not surrendered to the dialectic but claims it as his own. He isn’t taking charge of history. He is allowing another more significant reality to work its way through him and so is participating in that reality, not by virtue of rational weighing of costs and benefits, but through sheer belief, the stuff that stirs passions. The NYL is obviously supposed to do this, but under the auspices of technocratic wisdom. Leon Bronstein has abandoned the technocratic, rationalistic portion of the dialectic and made the romantic side his raison d’etre.

In concluding, I’ll begin with some words from Jacob Klapwijk’s careful survey of the dialectic in the twentieth century, Dialectic of Enlightenment, first published in Dutch in 1976 but only recently appearing in English (2010). Klapwijk unapologetically defines the “dialectic as an expression of belief” (91) and notes how Horkheimer and Adorno “claim that ‘freedom in society is inseparable from enlightenment thinking’” (qtd. in Klapwijk, 91) without recourse to “rational justification” (91)—that is, as an axiomatic starting point.

Klapwijk deals intimately with the internal contradictions of the rationalist approach where a rational understanding of the historical process of unfolding is supposed to liberate us, but instead, traps us, because a world left to its own rational process of unfolding leaves little room for its subjective interpretation. He elaborates further:

We have seen that the word ‘dialectics’ has many [often contradictory] meanings. There is no reason to reject the notion of dialectic in itself. But we are forced to conclude that within the Hegelian and Marxist traditions the word has grown into a hidden faith regarding the inevitable course of history. History is characterized as developing via oppositions and at this moment necessarily leading to an ominous reversal of [the promise of] reason.
Some readers may perhaps feel that this is the point at which to break off the discussion with these “dogmatic Marxists.”

But, for one thing, there is the question of whether a philosophical discussion ought to ever reach that point. And, apart from that, we should ask whether the desire to cut the discussion off does not equally betray a dogmatic prejudice, a belief in the so-called self-sufficiency of reason and in the closed logical nature of scientific debate. Leszek Kolakowski, a Polish Neo-Marxist … has disputed this self-sufficient status of reason. He once remarked that scientific reason is constantly turning into a myth within Marxism, the myth of “immaculate reason” and “scientific ideology.” This is indeed a glimmer of new light within Marxist circles. The only question is whether philosophy outside Marxist circles is also willing to criticize this pretended self-sufficiency.

Thus I do not think the Frankfurt School philosophers should be reproached for the fact that their critical theory depends on an attitude of faith and ultimate commitment. The reproach is that their theory has not been sufficiently critical to acknowledge this pre-theoretical starting point. Thus theoretical reason pretends to be a force all its own, and faith in the dialectic becomes a self-evident dogma, although it is ignored.

And in fact, strange though it may sound, this hidden dogma begins to show mythical traits, just like Kolakowski noticed. For if myth, in the original sense of the word, is a belief in the mysterious forces of nature that are imbued with an immanent spirit, where does that leave the modern belief in the hidden advance towards an automated world driven along by “the immanent logic of history”? (94-95)

It is more than coincidence that Taylor labels the cult of Trudeaumania “mythic” (8). Considered against the above, the belief in liberal consensus-politics betrays a mythic devotion to technocratic wisdom—taken in positive light, perhaps, by those outside of Marxist circles, and in a negative light by those within them. Both deny the role of faith in their respective accounts for the dialectic however. The only “third way” that remains is a return to belief.

“Every human being,” Klapwijk says, “is obliged to face a choice—one that impinges prior to any philosophical reflection—namely the unavoidable need to choose between what I would like to call a mythical faith and a personal faith” (96). He notes also that “there is reason to be fearful,” but “also reason to be confident” (97). The mythical faith is the blind adherence to the rational unfolding of history. A personal faith requires a belief that the betterment of human beings is possible through the dialectic, even if the means of achieving this are beyond rational calculation or articulation.

What The Trotsky shows is that Canada is not a nation (like America) to be discovered, but a nation to be claimed—not by looking to a shared past to find clues to guarantee our survival, but by pursuing common goals and interests in the present, hence to share in an imagined future together. This is also the philosophical undercurrent of Taylor’s The Pattern of Politics, which expresses this internal dialectical tension of Canada:

The mere belated acceptance of difference is not enough to provide the real basis of unity in this country. It will remove some of the sources of friction, but it will not create a strong sense of common fate and common belonging – in other words, an identity that will also unite Canadians. Divided as we are by language, culture, tradition, provenance, and history, we can only be brought together by common purposes; our unity must be a projective one, based on a significant common future rather than a shared past …

The seeming paradox of our situation is that really meaningful unity can only be attained by another kind of division. But this is no real paradox. People of different regions, backgrounds, languages, and cultures can only come together around some common project; and if this is meaningful, and not some magic consensus-dream in which everyone can project what he wants, then it is bound to inconvenience somebody and thus raise opposition. The great transcontinental railroads were, in their day, great bones of contention. (131, 34)

If it is our lot as Canadians to express ourselves in common purpose, what we require is a common voice and the political apparatus to achieve this. Furthermore, we require the faith and courage necessary to withstand not only the myriad number of clashes and confrontations, but the subsequent burden of choice, which means we will, sometimes, choose incorrectly. Logic or planning or what have you might fail us; but we cannot waver in our belief.

Some will say that this film is too light to command the sort of seriousness I am demanding of it here. But it is precisely the lightness of the film that makes its message effective. That is, there is no redeeming the more humane qualities of the dialectic through seriousness, lest the author or auteur in question be labelled an ideological firebrand by (liberal) intellectuals. One way to cut through the sort of cynical critical hit-jobs in making a case (once again) for the value of the dialectic, to make a claim for seriousness, is precisely by denying a claim to seriousness, by appealing, say, to the whims and imagination of youth.

The film is as serious or as light as those viewing the film are willing to make it. Should we be taking a film like The Trotsky seriously? The film has its convictions to be sure; part of what makes the film appealing is its ability to state them. How else (nowadays) to issue the sort of clarion call left-leaning critics have been issuing as early as the 1940s (Horkheimer and Adorno) or, in Canada, the 1970s (Charles Taylor)?

Comedy might be one way. Seriousness is no longer given; it too has to be claimed. Part of what this film demands is participation—a claim to community. The Trotsky is as likely to fall by the wayside as it is to spark a revolution. If it has (up to this point) fallen by the wayside, can a critical effort such as this one add anything at all to the film’s promise?

Notes

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[1] This is the tack taken by Ronald Beiner in his critique of Taylor. Though he does not explicitly use the terms “earlier” or “later,” he does make a useful distinction: “Taylor himself counts as a social critic only when he writes a book like The Pattern of Politics, not one like the Sources of the Self.” Beiner says Taylor, in Sources of the Self, abandons a stance of “wide justification” in his refusal to justify his belief in the dialectic, thus (merely) providing a “deep[er] description” of its unfolding. What allows Taylor to be a more effective social critic in The Pattern of Politics, Beiner notes, is his direct engagement with “fellow citizens within the horizon of the concerns shared by [his] specific national community.” While Beiner takes Sources of the Self to task for posing as philosophical thought without engaging in social criticism, he does not discuss whether The Pattern of Politics should be read as serious philosophy, as an example of the “wide justification” he desires. See Beiner 453.

[2] This is obviously an interpretation, Taylor’s to be precise, for certainly the film does not attempt to salvage or smear the legacy of Trudeau. Famous Canadian Hegelian David MacGregor offers a rival interpretation. Commenting on The Pattern of Politics, he says “Charles Taylor dismissed "Trudeaumania" as an American copycat operation, more form than substance. Trudeau would never “rattle the teacups" of the establishment, the philosopher claimed. Twenty years later Taylor would accept the invitation of the Business Council for National Issues to trash ‘Meech rejectors’ and other wayward souls while Trudeau’s principled opposition to the Meech-Charlottetown garroting of Canada would upset the teacups of bankers and corporate leaders across the country.” Yet the tension noted by MacGregor’s is still between image and substance, merely with the roles reversed. What The Trotsky does ask us to consider is this duality—between image and substance. See MacGregor.

[3] It would not be crazy to suppose that the trajectory of the movie should work towards curing Bronstein of his ailment, so that the movie’s climax should revolve around his conversion back to reality, to a world where answers are not so easily forthcoming and where the simple pragmatism of the Berkhoff’s of the generally characterizises the lay of the land. This film makes a case for what Raoul Eshelman calls “performatism,” for performing one’s conviction—here in order to achieve not personal but political ends. Eshelman claims that the “performative” work of art claims its founding principles or narrative slant right off the bat; the unfolding of the narrative work merely documents the consequences of these choices. Certainly Leon Bronstein’s belief provides the ontological apparatus for the internal logic of this film to unfold. See Eshelman.

[4] Here I am heartened by a segment of Cavell’s reading of Capra’s Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. The simultaneous comic value and horror of Deeds’s willingness to punch the lights out of others prompts the following timely reflection, words pertinent also, I would say, to the simultaneous comic value and horror we feel when Leon takes his principal hostage: “Exercising the right to speak not only takes precedence over social power, it takes precedence over any particular form of accomplishment; no amount of contribution is more valuable to the formation and preservation of community than the willingness to contribute and the occasion to be heard…it leaves your voice your own and allows your opinion to matter to others only because it matters to you. It is not a voice that will be heard by villains. This means that to discover our community a few will have to be punched out, made speechless in their effort to usurp or devalue the speech of others—one interpretation of Deeds’s repeated violence, punching men in the jaw. It is a fantasy of a reasonably well ordered participatory democracy. It has its dangers; democracy has; speech has.” See Cavell, Cities 207.

[5] The “Grand Narrative,” then, as an account, simply, of how things came to be. The idea behind studying the dialectic, of course, is that with enough patience and endurance, one can begin to uncover or unearth the “logic” of the times gone by (geist), hence decode how it is that the dialectic is set to unfold in future.

[6] Eagleton’s distinction is between rigid, implacable dogma (moralism) and the sort of morality that comes via a layered and subtle engagement with “an intricately woven texture of nuances, qualities and fine gradations.” See Eagleton 144.

[7] A prominent critic in this vein is Karl Popper, whose Poverty of Historicism (1957) takes dead aim at Marxists, in particular their insistence that “all history is the history of class struggle.” Posed as a hypothesis, Popper notes, the idea is compelling. But ultimately, as theory, the premise is untestable. Though in the book he opts for a political agenda of “piecemeal social engineering,” he still advocates the “necessity of adopting a point of view” though always with a mind to its potential falsification. See Popper 58, 140.

[8] This terminology may be a bit purple or imprecise. I use it figuratively.

Works Cited

Beiner, Ronald. "Hermeneutical Generosity and Social Criticism." Critical Review 9.4 (1995. Print): 447-64.

Cavell, Stanley. Cities of Words. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Belknap Press, 2004. Print.

—. The World Viewed. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1971. Print.

Dart, Ron. "Charles Taylor And The Hegelian Eden Tree: Canadian Philosophy And Compradorism." Web. 1 May 2007. Vive le Canada. 2 August 2011 <http://www.vivelecanada.ca/article/235045487-charles-taylor-and-the-hegelian-eden-tree–canadian-philosophy-and-compradorism>.

Eagleton, Terry. After Theory. New York: Basic Books, 2003. Print.

Eshelman, Raoul. Performatism, or, the End of Postmodernism. Aurora, CO: Davies Group, 2008. Print.

Klapwijk, Jacob. Dialectic of Enlightenment: Critical Theory and the Messianic Light. Eugene, Oregon: Wipf & Stock, 2010. Print.

MacGregor, David. "Canada’s Hegel." February 1994. Literary Review of Canada. Web. 28 July 2011 <http://reviewcanada.ca/essays/2001/02/01/canada-s-hegel/>.

Popper, Karl. The Poverty of Historicism. 1957. London: Routeledge Classics, 2002. Print.

Taylor, Charles. The Pattern of Politics. Montreal: McClelland and Stewart Ltd., 1970. Print.