DEBORAH A. CARMICHAEL
Borrowing from the literary world, documentary film should, perhaps, be renamed ‘creative nonfiction’, dispelling the myth that this cinematic form, box-office stepsister to the feature film, is somehow more true to life or historically accurate than a Hollywood creation. The adage that seeing (and hearing) is believing remains a cultural certitude that is hard to discredit, even with the daily onslaught of Photoshop images. Just as the suspension of disbelief required by fiction films is readily accepted, skepticism or mistrust of the documentary film is often deactivated. The popular definition of documentary film remains ‘a film or TV program presenting the facts about a person or event’ or ‘a motion picture that shapes and interprets factual material for purposes of education or entertainment’.
1 ‘Facts about a person or event’ ignores directorial decision-making, and ‘purposes of education or entertainment’ overlooks any persuasive intent, or John Grierson’s often-quoted definition of documentary film as ‘the creative treatment of actuality’ (Grierson in Ellis and McLane 2005: ix). Bill Nichols attests to the ‘fuzzy concept’ of defining documentary film, while mapping common characteristics (2001: 21). He differentiates the threefold ‘forms of alliance’ between ‘filmmaker, subjects or social actors, and audience or viewers’. The omniscient guide speaks ‘about
them to
you’ (2001: 13–14). This is probably the most common technique used in nonfiction film, relying on monologue using an off-screen, voice-of-god narrator to explain the images while emphasising the filmmaker’s point of view. The quintessential example of this god-like voice can be found in the government-sponsored Pare Lorenz works,
The Plow That Broke The Plains (1936) and
The River (1938). In these films, the stentorian voice of Thomas Chalmers, formerly a star baritone for the Metropolitan Opera, poetically interprets the visual record from environmental problem to New Deal solution. The vocal strength and familiarity of this narrator lends convincing credibility to the films’ arguments. For other documentarians, speaking ‘about
them to
you’ puts the filmmaker on-screen, front and centre, narrating the images and action, as a knowledgeable observer/participant with special insight and experience to interpret the significance and meaning of what has been filmed. Michael Moore, cultivating an ‘average Joe’ persona, relies upon his guiding screen presence to explicate his point of view. In either case, the filmmaker is actively inserting an oratorical voice of persuasion, a monologue of propaganda.
Emile de Antonio, in his first movie venture, Point of Order (1963), shifts this alliance with his audience, allowing them to make meaning from rediscovered footage of the 1954 Army-McCarthy Senate hearings. Instead of directly speaking about them or us through an authorial/authoritative monologue, de Antonio reintroduced his 1960s audiences to the events of 1954 by compiling and editing footage he had ‘scavenged’. In a 1982 interview he explains his relationship to his audience and his choice to omit narration:
I wanted people to perceive for themselves what had happened. I wanted people to have an active role. That’s what I’ve done in all my films. I don’t explain. If I have to explain it, I don’t want it in the film. I feel that audiences are much smarter than critics. (De Antonio in Linfield 2000: 115)
This novice filmmaker believed that the dialogue of the hearings supported his political message without editorial comment. The give and take of the often heated debate between Joseph McCarthy, the members of the Special Subcommittee on Investigations of the Committee on Government Operations, as well as attorneys representing the United States Army provided the evidence de Antonio selected for his audience. While situated in the 1920s Soviet tradition of political rhetoric similar to that of Esfir Shub who relied upon editing and compilation of actuality footage, de Antonio used intertitles sparingly, borrowing a familiar structure from dramaturgy to organise
Point of Order.
2 Beginning with a prologue to introduce the events and the cast of characters, de Antonio divides his film into acts that correspond with the key conflicts chosen for what appears to be a chronological narrative, an objective retelling from found news footage. The kinescoped events he chose to manipulate through his novice editing come from a
hearing, and de Antonio hoped to affect what his audience heard by reorganising the testimony. By reordering the contentious bickering among the participants, the dialogue takes on increased effect. Thomas Waugh has described
Point of Order as ‘visually austere’, and de Antonio’s films as ‘fundamentally aural’; ‘His films are essentially sound films, or more specifically, films of verbal language and dialogue’ (1976).
Point of Order offers a unique example of the effective use of dialogue in documentary film to communicate meaning without monologic instruction or cinematic montage.
Released in an era when the importance of
cinéma vérité was being widely heralded as a more truthful form of documentary production, aided by the new technology of more portable film cameras,
Point of Order emphasises the importance of what is spoken by whom. Using historical footage and context, de Antonio could convey his political message without seeking out people or voices to support his ideology. Despite the emphasis on film as a visual medium, it is clear that without hearing what the participants have to say, there is little to make sense of in a
cinéma vérité film or, even, in reality television. Just as de Antonio hoped to expose McCarthy’s ‘technique’ or his ability to manipulate audiences with his fiery rhetoric,
Point of Order exposes the centrality of oral rhetoric as the controlling communicative technique in documentary film. If not controlled by voice-over narration, meaning is shaped by editorial choices in who is given the ability to speak within the film. Shaping archival television programming of the Army-McCarthy Hearings, de Antonio’s film demonstrates the importance of the spoken in both cinema and television. Although the hearings were being seen by many thousands each day, the dialogue, the give and take between participants, provided the newsworthiness of democracy in action. Today, television remains the primary distributor of documentaries and ‘reality’ television purports to have a
vérité, providing relevant examples of the filmmaking precedents de Antonio established in
Point of Order. Regardless of the setting, whether exotic tropical location or family home, the action of these programmes would not provide meaning without the often contentious dialogue between ‘characters’ on these shows. The visuals of any newscast must be set-up and narrated. As stunningly beautiful as the visuals of Ken Burns’
The National Parks (2009) may be, it is the story he provides and the voices he selects that give meaning and drama to the series.
The drama of
Point of Order comes from the dialogue, and skilful editing communicates a meaning that was probably hidden to the majority in the original audience (estimated at twenty million). The original ABC footage of the charges and countercharges aired from 22 April to 17 June 1954 with a total of 188 hours of testimony. Although all four networks – ABC, CBS, NBC and DuMont – had originally planned to cover the hearings from gavel to gavel, the lure of more profitable daytime programming prevailed with CBS and NBC opting to air late night, edited highlights (see Doherty 1998). Broadcasting the important moments in the testimony was probably a wise decision. Unlike daytime soap operas or footage on the evening news, there was no action to engage the television viewer. Filmed with two stationary cameras, movement was limited to the entrances and exits of the principals in the proceedings or the occasional move from table to visual aid. The participants in these hearings were well aware that
what they said was what was important, often speaking directly to the camera, and their constituents. The participants relied upon verbal theatrics to impress the audience. Joseph N. Welch, special counsel for the United States Army, in describing the proceedings, noted that ‘a good many irrelevancies were enthusiastically pursued’ (Welch in Bazelon 1964: 11). Playing to the camera, not only Senator Joseph McCarthy but others on the hearing committee often directly addressed the viewing audience. McCarthy’s nemesis, Stuart Symington, responded to repeated badgering, saying, ‘The American people have had a look at you for six weeks. You’re not fooling anyone’ (Special Senate Investigation [SSI] 1954: 2911). McCarthy repeatedly questioned Symington’s ability ‘to perform’ in front of the television cameras: ‘I wonder if all the lights don’t confuse my good friend from Missouri’ (SSI 1954: 1718). McCarthy frequently referred to the viewing audience as ‘the great American jury’, and inserted into the record that he was receiving favourable mail at a rate of three to one (SSI 1954: 1696). Citizens in attendance, although charged as each day’s testimony began that ‘no audible manifestations of approval or disapproval’ be made on threat of removal from the hearing-room, often found the proceedings audibly laughable. De Antonio makes use of that laughter to ironic effect, displaying McCarthy’s inability to control the proceedings. The senator from Wisconsin was accustomed to being in control, using his inflammatory speeches to incite outrage over the ‘red menace’ lurking within both the government and the military, speaking from a podium as a demigod, and not in dialogue with those he had accused.
Point of Order documents McCarthy’s weakness in verbal exchange, exposing his declining power through the film’s dialogue.
Although Joseph McCarthy is the pivotal ‘character’ in the film, in the opening section, the prologue to this Cold War history lesson, de Antonio intrudes on the film only briefly to set the theatrical scene, suggesting that the testimony was not really about one army private’s connection to McCarthy and his chairmanship of the Senate permanent investigations subcommittee (Government Operations Committee), but rather a larger issue of American politics. Each ‘cast’ member introduces himself with carefully gleaned snippets from the weeks of hearings, as names are displayed at the bottom of the shots (see Bazelon 1964: 15–20).
3 Here the dialogue edited from the hearings is used to expository purpose.
ROBERT T. STEVENS, SECRETARY OF WAR: One of the best things that had ever happened to me in my life was my opportunity for service in the United States Army in two World Wars.
Stevens is quickly identified as a loyal, experienced veteran. Attorneys representing the Army seem ill-prepared to face McCarthy under the glare of television lights and fierce questioning.
JOHN G. ADAMS, COUNSELOR FOR THE ARMY: I’ve never filed a brief. I’ve never drawn a complaint. I’m strictly a Washington-type lawyer.
JOSEPH N. WELCH, SPECIAL COUNSEL FOR THE ARMY: I came down from Boston in the guise of a simple trial lawyer. I supposed I’d try to think up some questions to ask witnesses and, if I didn’t like the answer, ask another one.
Based on his self-description, Adams, the Beltway insider, appears to be far outside his level of expertise. The quote from Welch subtly establishes the strategies this counsel will use during the hearings. ‘Guise’ can be read as merely a self-conscious reference to his role as outsider, yet used as a disguise; the words foreshadow his clever ensnarement of his adversary, McCarthy. The chairman, who fails to maintain control throughout the film, registers his reluctance to serve.
SENATOR KARL E. MUNDT: Presiding over these hearings is a responsibility which I do not welcome.
His reasons are left ambiguous; does he regret being put on centre-stage in the acrimonious dispute between the Army and McCarthy? Or, does he regret the challenges to one of his own, a fellow senator? The Chief Counsel for the Sub-Committee is firm and succinct.
RAY H. JENKINS: To the best of my ability I am pursing this investigation in order to develop the facts.
With Jenkins establishing a concern for the truth, Senators McClellan and Symington continue the tone of serious attitude. However, McClellan echoes Mundt’s reluctance, while Symington emphasises his support for the military. Already, the battle lines between Symington and McCarthy have been established.
JOHN L. McCLELLAN, U.S. SENATOR, ARKANSAS: We are performing a public duty, a public trust, one of the most disagreeable ones I’ve ever had to perform in the course of my public service.
STUART SYMINGTON, U.S. SENATOR, MISSOURI: I have no interest in life that surpasses my great concern for the vitality of our armed forces.
The next dramatic personae are aligned with McCarthy. Because they are taken out of context, the statements feel odd and uncomfortable, as if the Communist hunters are already isolated before the hearings even begin. With Schine directly following Symington, the senator’s concern for the military directly connects with the ‘hostage’ ostensibly at the centre of the conflict.
PVT. G. DAVID SCHINE, U.S. ARMY: I am a Private in the United States Army. I have received many orders that are quite unusual for a Private in the Army to receive.
ROY M. COHN, CHIEF COUNSEL FOR SEN. MCCARTHY: Roy Cohn is speaking for Roy Cohn to give the facts. I have no counsel.
The juxtaposition of Schine and Cohn, with the veiled insinuations of homosexual behaviour referenced during the hearings, underscores the ‘unusual’ working relationship these two have had as they hunted for ‘the facts’ to uncover Communists or their sympathisers throughout the government, but particularly in the military. This connection already brings McCarthy’s integrity into question, as he is next to speak, and to speak at length on the importance of his work and the constant watchfulness necessary to root out Communism across the country.
McCARTHY: The average American can do very little insofar as digging Communists, espionage agents, out of our government, is concerned. They must depend upon those of us whom they send down here to man the watchtowers of the nation.
McCarthy continues by attacking academia in response to a question by Jenkins from Part 59 on 9 June (SSI 1954: 2444). The senator speaks with his expected bombast but his remarks are disconnected from the previous introductions of the film’s players, with many deletions from his full answer. McCarthy is already set up as a ranting zealot, out of touch with the reality of the focus of the hearings. His usual incendiary speechmaking is ill-suited to the structured process outlined in Robert’s Rules of Order.
Once the principal players have been identified, de Antonio shifts to what appears to be day one of the hearings, as chairman Mundt calls the proceedings to order. Symington appears to immediately take the floor, after which Stevens, Adams, Jenkins and Cohn respond in turn to an unspoken question, which is contrary to allotting time for examination and cross-examination of each individual. Although it was Chairman Mundt’s role to introduce the charges, Symington begins:
I suggest that in the interest of these Hearings, the charges are often forgotten. The charges were, did Senator McCarthy and two members of his staff use improper pressure for Mr. David Schine with the Army? The countercharge was that there was blackmail on the part of the Army and the use of Mr. Schine as a hostage. Uh, those are the charges that have been made. (Bazelon 1964: 22)
The past tense indicates that this reminder came much later in the hearings, but giving the senator this early role establishes a frame to the conflict with Symington taking the lead here, and in the final minutes of the film. His reiteration of the charges also sets up a distinction between the Army’s measured charge of ‘improper pressure’, in contrast to McCarthy’s language of ‘blackmail’ and ‘hostage’. Through the course of the film, condemned by his own speech acts, Senator McCarthy’s stature deteriorates from his aggressive public persona to pleading for recognition in an emptied hearing-room. In addition, this framing prepares for political, partisan disagreements that follow.
Early in Point of Order, de Antonio allows McCarthy long, rambling harangues, reminding the 1960s audience of the fiery rhetoric for which the senator was famous, but without speech in hand, responding to the questions and comments of the committee, his oratory falters.
McCARTHY: The thing that I think we must remember is that this is a war which a brutalitarian force has won to a greater extent than any brutalitarian force has won in the history of the world before. For example, uh, Christianity, which has been in existence for two thousand years has not converted, convinced nearly as many people as this Communist brutalitarianism has enslaved in 106 years. (Bazelon 1964: 21)
This conclusion to a lengthier invective demonstrates his less-than-convincing abilities in extemporaneous speechmaking. As edited, these comments get no response, and the hearing moves forward with charges and countercharges of faulty charts and special treatment for Private Schine. While McCarthy’s attacks at first have some effect, he is given fewer and fewer opportunities to speak at length as the film progresses. He shifts his challenges from unidentified Communist infiltrators and sympathisers to the powerful figures of J. Edgar Hoover and President Eisenhower. McCarthy is consistently stymied by written records, official documents and letters as they are debated during the hearings his authority is diminished.
In the sequence entitled ‘A Letter from J. Edgar Hoover’, a letter is introduced to suggest tainted evidence is being offered. In the exchanges questioning the authenticity of this letter, Welch employs his outsider status, as he orchestrates his plan to discredit McCarthy. Before the senator can begin to outline the contents of the letter, Welch suggests that Hoover be contacted.
WELCH: The mere fact that we have an impressive looking, purported copy of such a letter doesn’t impress an old-time lawyer. I would like to have Mr. J. Edgar Hoover say that he wrote the letter and mailed it. Then we’d know what we’re dealing with. (Bazelon 1964: 69)
McCarthy is trapped into admitting that the letter did not come from FBI or Army files, providing Welch the chance for pointed humour: ‘I have an absorbing curiosity to know how in the dickens you got hold of it.’ The letter is passed among the panelists, but none dare to read it; it is marked ‘Personal and Confidential’. A justice department representative introduces yet another letter:
COLLIER (reading): Mr. Hoover has examined the document and has advised me that he never wrote any such letter. And because the document constitutes an unauthorized use of information which is classified as confidential, it is my opinion that it should not be made public. Sincerely yours, Herbert Brownell, Jr. Attorney General. (Bazelon 1964: 72–3)
McCarthy has been backed into a corner, for to establish the legitimacy of the letter he must reveal how he obtained it and from whom he received it. He must name names and betray the confidence upon which he has staked his career as a Communist hunter. McCarthy frequently claimed that he based his investigations on the patriotism of whistle-blowers. Welch presses him on the oath the senator took to tell the truth at the outset of the hearings. With Welch and McCarthy at loggerheads – McCarthy vowing to protect his sources and Welch pressing him if he should take Fifth Amendment protection – McCarthy is trapped; his verbal skills fail him when forced to participate in dialogue, rather than diatribe.
In questioning presidential executive privilege, the senator finds himself entrapped by a serious dilemma. To successfully defuse the charges levelled by the military, he needs to be able to discredit the Army witnesses, but to too strongly challenge the President is dangerous behaviour. Executive privilege shuts down the surly disagreements about who said what, when and to whom, stalling attempts to entrap those testifying for the Army. Calling for the separation of powers between the executive, judicial and legislative branches as ‘essential to the successful working of our system’, Eisenhower’s letter of 7 May 1954 to the Secretary of Defense, introduced into the hearings by attorney Adams, orders:
You will instruct employees of the department that in all of their appearances before the Subcommittee […] they are not to testify to any such conversations or communications or to produce any such documents or reproductions. (Bazelon 1964: 63)
This executive order threatens McCarthy’s ability to bully and embarrass the military during the televised hearings. The senator loses one of the tools he has used so successfully – his skill at twisting words to his purposes. His opponents now have the strength of silence imposed by the President.
McCARTHY: Mr. Chairman, I, must admit that I’m somewhat at a loss as to know how to – what to do at this moment […]. At this point I find out there’s no way of ever getting at the truth. The iron curtain is pulled down so we can’t tell what happened […]. The question is, how far, how far can, and I’m not talking about the present occupant of the White House, but we got a tremendously important question here, Mr. Chairman. That is, how far can the President go? (Bazelon 1964: 63)
McCarthy finds himself contra the President of the United States and the leader of his political party. That the President would intervene in the proceedings implies his displeasure in the hearings and McCarthy, setting up the senator for public humiliation. One of McCarthy’s tactics to counter Eisenhower’s letter is to attack Army counsel as if they had chosen to take the Fifth Amendment, virtually implying that they are avoiding prosecution even though the hearings are not a trial. In addition, McCarthy suggests that the President is misguided and needs to be schooled on his duties to the American people, while the senator reminds his audience that he campaigned as a Republican.
McCARTHY: Someone for his own benefit should contact the President immediately and point out to him perhaps, that he and I and many of us campaigned and promised the American people we would no longer involve, engage in government by secrecy, white-wash, and cover up; and I think that these facts should be brought to the President because the American people will not stand for this. (Bazelon 1964: 64)
McCarthy probably misjudged his audience here; Eisenhower was elected with strong support throughout the nation, with the exception of the Southern United States. This dialogue between panel and senator reduces McCarthy’s public stance as ‘super patriot’, leaving his loyalty to the president in question, and casting doubts on his methods and motives.
Instead of being the attacker, McCarthy begins to react as victim, relinquishing his usual rhetorical strategies. As Joseph Welch carefully jousts with the senator, McCarthy’s responses become less and less effective. In an exchange over a cropped photograph, Welch opens on the offensive, stating that ‘a doctored or altered photograph’ had been introduced into evidence ‘as if it were honest’. Using a tactic taken from McCarthy’s playbook, Welch produces the original photo: ‘I have in my right hand … the original, undoctored, unaltered piece of evidence’, echoing the senator’s effective rhetoric as he stumped the country (Bazelon 1964: 47). ‘I hold in my hand’ became a regular phrase as McCarthy travelled America charging the presence of Communists in government. The number of Communists varied from speech to speech, but the phrase, and the never-released list were omnipresent.
McCarthy, clearly unprepared for this assertion, defends himself by complaining. The exchanges are clearly not chronological:
McCARTHY: Mr. Chairman, I am getting rather sick of being interrupted in the middle of a sentence. If I may say—
SYMINGTON: Order, order. Point of order.
McCARTHY: Oh, be quiet, Mr. Chairman.
A stunning comment, but Symington is not the chairman. Chairman Mundt does allow McCarthy to continue, returning to Welch’s accusation.
McCARTHY: Mr. Chairman, may I suggest, I’m getting awfully sick of sitting down here at the end of the table and having whoever wants to, interrupt in the middle of a sentence. Now, Mr. Welch made a statement. I raised a point of order that it was not, not a proper point of order. It was not a proper point of order to be raised, and when Mr., Mr. Welch, under the guise of a point of order, said this was a group picture, I suggested that the Chair make the record clear, that Mr. Welch was not speaking the truth.
JENKINS: Mr. Chairman, Mr. Chairman, I’m sorry to interrupt the Senator from Wisconsin. I agree with the Senator from Wisconsin that Mr. Welch did not make a point of order. I further make the statement that the Senator from Wisconsin is not making a point of order. I think that should be made perfectly clear to both Mr. Welch and Senator McCarthy. (Bazelon 1964: 47–8)
This dialogue functions on several levels. First, McCarthy becomes a whiner, grumbling about his treatment as witness, with less control than he was accustomed to enjoy as committee chairman (he temporarily stepped down for these hearings) or the power he could wield with his fiery public-speaking. Secondly, Jenkins’ comments underscore the prevalence of calls for ‘point of order’, a challenge that rules of parliamentary procedure have been broken. As the film illustrates, this challenge was often used incorrectly. And, finally, McCarthy directly questions Welch’s veracity, setting up the cat-and-mouse game they play. Following this sequence, numerous participants are questioned or interject comment, although this is outside the structure of the hearings as televised. De Antonio skilfully uses reaction shots to mask the editing of many days of testimony. Welch’s sarcasm, producing audience laughter, draws a final attack from McCarthy in this section of testimony.
McCARTHY: How long must we put up with this circus? If the Counsel, the Counsel is trying to elicit information, good. If he’s looking for a laugh from an audience, then don’t talk about physical defects of my chief counsel [Cohn]. It’s so, so indecent, so dishonest […]. Let’s get down to the issue, Mr. Welch. Each minute, Mr. Chairman, may I point out, each minute we waste here is wasting a vast amount of manpower, very important manpower I think. The manpower of eight senators and the heads of our military establishment. (Bazelon 1964: 61)
This charge of indecency sets up Welch’s later, famous charge regarding McCarthy’s behaviour. Here Welch has questioned Roy Cohn’s eyesight as he interpreted the cropped photo, and the senator has reacted. Throughout Point of Order, the passage or waste of time is emphasised, as in this section. McCarthy stresses the urgency of locating and removing Communists from the military. Welch challenges him to use his list of names by sundown. The time that Schine spent away from his Army duties aiding Cohn on committee work is a belaboured issue, including charts from earlier testimony. Times of meetings and phone calls are debated heatedly, as de Antonio skilfully manipulates the order of these hearings, controlling the time that each ‘character’ appears on-screen, and controlling what gets said, thereby emphasising the emptiness of these debates.
As the hearings progress, McCarthy’s power and credibility decline dramatically. His attacks become less judicious, and more personal. As the senator’s exchanges decline in authority, Welch, the Washington outsider, gains control of the hearing-room dialogue. In what can be defined as the climax of Point of Order, McCarthy is bushwhacked by Welch, who has carefully anticipated the final (in the film) attack to which the senator would sink. McCarthy launches a long and vicious attack on a young man working for Welch’s law firm, and accuses Welch of being, in effect, a Communist dupe who unwittingly harboured this subversive. Rather than interrupting the senator, Welch allows him his rant, followed by the most memorable exchange of the film:
WELCH: Senator, you won’t need anything in the record when I finish telling you this. Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness. (Bazelon 1964: 93)
Welch continues to explain at length that Fred Fisher had briefly been a member of an organisation labelled by McCarthy as a Communist front, noting that he hoped to spare his young associate public injury at the hands of the senator, admitting that although ‘a gentleman’ he cannot forgive McCarthy for this slur. McCarthy presses harder, and Welch responds:
WELCH: Let us not assassinate this lad further, Senator. You’ve done enough. Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you no sense of decency? (Bazelon 1964: 95)
Welch refuses to continue this tense dialogue, asking Mundt to call another witness. The audience applauds loudly. De Antonio recognised the power of this dialogue, using the footage verbatim and unedited. Welch, like McCarthy, understood how to work the crowd. A New York Times article the next day, 10 June 1954, reported that ‘Mr. Welch retired briefly to a near-by restroom during a recess. He appeared to be wiping his face. “I’m close to tears”, he told reporters […] “I never saw such cruelty”’ (‘Calls Fisher a Fine Kid’). Some have asserted that those tears were a continuation of his hearing-room performance. In any case, the senator had been publicly chastised before the American ‘jury’ he had so frequently addressed.
Throughout the hearing-room exchanges, de Antonio’s editing not only illustrates the decline and fall of Joseph McCarthy, but also establishes a directorial point of view regarding his views on the government as a whole. In one exchange of questions and cross-examination, the footage selected displays ill-prepared army representation, and a nonsensical senatorial reaction. During examination of John G. Adams, counsellor for the Army, by Ray H. Jenkins, chief counsel for the subcommittee, Adams mentions an investigation of a southern Army base for possible homosexual activities. Instead of concern that these servicemen could be targets of Communist blackmail, committee members rush to assure the audience that this base was not in Tennessee (Jenkins’ home state), or Arkansas (Senator McClellan’s state).
McCLELLAN: Point of order, point of order, let’s exclude Arkansas too. (Bazelon 1964: 31)
Most absurdly of all, Chairman Karl Mundt interrupts: ‘The Chair would like to raise a point of order on behalf of South Dakota – might also be considered the South’ (Bazelon 1964: 32). McCarthy appears to enter the fray, thanks to effective editing, continuing the inanity with discussion of Private Schine’s special boots, which he allegedly did not shine himself, a fur-lined hood, and:
McCARTHY: Another charge was that he could’ve walked in behind a jeep that was parked, he walked in front of the jeep. Do you think that anyone on the Committee called and asked permission for him to walk in front of the jeep? Now can’t you and I both agree, Colonel [Blount], that the average person, back in this audience even, looking at this – the television audience, and they are the jury in this case – can’t help but get a completely false impression from these phony charts [outlining Schine’s special treatment] – and that this is completely dishonest, Colonel. Isn’t that true? (Bazelon 1964: 33–4)
The editing has quickly shifted McCarthy’s attacks from Adams to Stevens to Blount, although each testified at different times, and at length. The exchanges indicate the Army witnesses are unable to respond to McCarthy’s rapid-fire and well-rehearsed questions. Although the military men perform poorly and look foolish, the weight of the senator’s reputation for disarming his opponents lends sympathy for them. The distance of time, from 1954 to 1963 to present day reinforces a cultural perception of McCarthy as demagogue, leaving the Army members less disgraced. Stevens, and others, often seem confused or unfocused, but to see de Antonio’s political agenda requires the suspension of beliefs formed over time. Forming meaning from the dialogue is affected by mainstream attitudes, underscoring a misjudgement in de Antonio’s editing decisions or demonstrating that he fell victim to his inexperience in shaping the many hours of testimony into a 97-minute feature-length film. For de Antonio, the goal was to discredit all sides, but the prevailing vilification of Joe McCarthy almost a decade after the senate investigation, especially in light of the post-hearings censure by the senate, deflected criticism of the entire political system. Responding to his critics, who felt the strength of his case against McCarthy conversely made the Army appear sympathetic, de Antonio asserted:
Stevens [Secretary of the Army] comes out looking like a lunk, a coward, a weakling, and the army generals and colonels come out as clods. As for the senators, it is plain in the film that not once do they ever attack McCarthy on the substantive grounds, on real issues involving the Bill of Rights, for instance; they finally broke McCarthy because he had gone beyond the rules of the Senate ‘club’. (De Antonio in Weiner 1971: 9)
A careful examination of the dialogue does indeed reveal the ineptitude of other participants, but the power of the film’s ending weakens his argument.
The final sequence pits Symington against McCarthy, who accuses the senator from Missouri of false records, taunting him to go under oath, calling him ‘sanctimonious Stu’. Symington rejoins: ‘You ought to, you ought to go to a psychiatrist.’ Symington then lays out conditions, which McCarthy refuses to sign.
McCARTHY: I’m glad we’re on television. I think that millions of people can see how low that a man can sink. I repeat, they can see how low an alleged man can sink. He’s been asked here to come before the Committee and give the information which he has in regard to this investigation. He retorts by saying that he wants all of the old smears investigated. (Bazelon 1964: 99)
Symington prods him to sign, and McCarthy shifts to a tactic similar to that of Welch.
McCARTHY: I would like to ask him [Symington], now even though he’s not under oath, whether he has any information at all of any kind to justify this attempted smear against these fourteen young men who have done such an excellent job on covering Communists. (Bazelon 1964: 103)
Clearly McCarthy is losing control as Symington continues to goad the senator. A recess is called for, one of many breaks in the hearings to return to the Senate floor for a general vote. Point of Order ends with McCarthy shouting at the backs of the departing committee members.
McCARTHY: I want to make this record, and Mr. Reporter, will, Mr. Reporter, will you take this down […]? I have asked Mr. Symington point blank to tell us whether he knew of any such subversive. He runs away. He won’t answer the question […] and before this is over, the American people will have a better picture of it. I guess we must go and vote now. (Bazelon 1964:105)
McCarthy is left alone, shouting into his microphone. As the credits roll, the hearing-room is empty and silent.
In a 1986 interview with Jean W. Ross, de Antonio commented on this ending:
I manipulate the material and then I let history judge if I have lied or not. For instance, there’s something that the film critics don’t see very much. The film ends with everybody walking out on McCarthy. If you look carefully at those images, you’ll see that the same people have different shirts on, because I made a collage of the endings of different days of the hearings. (De Antonio in Ross 2000: 137)
Unless someone is paying particular attention to wardrobe, the events appear to be a faithful, chronological telling of the Army-McCarthy Hearings, recording actual dialogue among witnesses and attorneys, with the volatile senator interrupting at will.
Point of Order is sometimes heralded as a skilful example of
cinéma vérité, but as de Antonio has argued, ‘The real truth is not all those discrete phenomena that lie about us in the world, but the imposition of order over them. The whole idea of
cinéma vérité is bogus’ (2000: 91). Some of the final scene was not taken from the kinescope footage; it too was ‘bogus’. De Antonio revealed that the shots of the court reporter were not part of the original televised hearings: ‘I bought that’ (De Antonio in Jackson 2004). He explained:
If anybody saw the film and notices, there’s one shot that is very beautiful and clear just like a regular movie shot. It’s of the courtroom stenographer and it’s an outrageous cut. And that’s because in all my films I like to put my foot in it, too, and say ‘Look, this is a film, and this isn’t real, even though it’s a document – it’s no more real than anything else’. […] I always put in a scene like that in every film, some piece that doesn’t quite belong to help remind the audience that the experience or what they are experiencing is me, my truth. It’s my world view. (De Antonio in Zheutlin 2005: 59)
Although
Point of Order ends with an apparently broken Senator Joseph McCarthy, he and his aides were cleared of the charges levelled by the Army in August 1954. In December of that year McCarthy was censured by his fellow senators leading to his decline, particularly with Democrats regaining control of the legislature. De Antonio’s first film effort received critical acclaim, a successful, limited run in selected theatres, and eventually an airing on ABC; but all these accomplishments ultimately signify a reception contrary to the filmmaker’s goals.
4 Although a close reading of
Point of Order demonstrates that de Antonio saw all those with power as deceptive, from the lunks in the military to the senators posturing for hometown constituents to the skilled acting of a Boston attorney, as in life, the strength of McCarthy’s verbal exchanges positioned him as the villain of the film. With the footage edited into a classic, dramatic narrative, audiences and critics comfortably identified
Point of Order as a cautionary tale of the rise and fall of a demagogue. De Antonio’s political message was necessarily muffled by the dialogue he selected; much of the buffoonery of other participants ended on the cutting room floor. McCarthy condemns himself; a discerning audience might also condemn other agents of power. Ultimately de Antonio’s dialogue with his audience may be too demanding. As he opined:
I think documentary is a much more sophisticated medium than fiction films … It’s a more sophisticated process of communication, therefore you automatically don’t reach the off-the-street traffic, the guy who simply wants to go to a movie … My films are different: they’re hard, they make demands on the audience. (De Antonio in Weiner 1971: 13)
Point of Order may be a demanding film, but it remains a valuable example of compilation film drawn from archival footage, and is particularly effective in examining the use of dialogue as both a dramatic mechanism and an oral reformulation of history. In examining the edited use of spoken interchange in this film, one can better decode meaning and motivation created by voices in combination with visual documentation. Emile de Antonio’s work underscores the importance of understanding how dialogue functions in documentary films; how a filmmaker can shape perceptions through not only voice-over, but also in what the ‘actors’ may say about themselves.
notes
1 The ‘factual’ definition comes from
dictionary.com. The slightly more accurate description comes from the
Britannica Online Encyclopedia.
2 Randolph Lewis notes that at the time of production, de Antonio was unfamiliar with Shub’s work (2000: 44).
3 Unless noted as extracted from Senate documents, quotations from the film are taken from the Bazelon transcription authorised by de Antonio.
4 The New York Film Festival declined to include
Point of Order in its program, describing it as ‘a TV show’ (see Tuchman 1990).
bibliography
Bazelon, D. T. (ed.) (1964) Point of Order: A Documentary of the Army-McCarthy Hearings, Produced by Emile de Antonio and Daniel Talbot. New York: W. W. Norton.
‘Calls Fisher a Fine Kid (1954) New York Times, 10 June, Proquest Historical Newspapers. Accessed 29 March 2010.
De Antonio, T. (2000) ‘An In-Depth Interview with Emile de Antonio’, in D. Kellner and D. Streible (eds) Emile de Antonio: A Reader. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 87–96.
Ellis, J. C. and B. A. McLane (2005) A New History of Documentary Film. New York: Continuum.
Lewis, R. (2000) Emile de Antonio: Radical Filmmaker in Cold War America. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press.
Linfield, S. (2000) ‘Irrepressible Emile de Antonio Speaks’, in D. Kellner and D. Streible (eds) Emile de Antonio: A Reader. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 113–23.
Nichols, B. (2001) Introduction to Documentary. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press.
Ross, J. W. (2000) ‘Emile de Antonio’, in D. Kellner and D. Streible (eds) Emile de Antonio: A Reader. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 136–42.
Special Senate Investigation (1954) Charges and Countercharges Involving: Secretary of the Army Robert T. Stevens, John G. Adams, H. Struve Hensel and Senator Joe McCarthy, Roy M. Cohn and Francis P. Carr. Hearing Before the Special Subcommittee on Investigations of the Committee on Government Operations. United States Senate, Eighty-Third Congress, Second Session, Pursuant to Senate Resolution 189. Washington DC: US Government Printing Office.
Tuchman, M. (1990) ‘Freedom of Information’, Film Comment, 26, 4, 66.
Weiner, B. (1971) ‘Radical Scavenging: An Interview with Emile de Antonio’, Film Quarterly, 25, 1, 3–15.
Zheutlin, B. (2005) ‘The Politics of Documentary: A Symposium’, in A. Rosenthal and J. Corner (eds) New Challenges for Documentary. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 227–44.