When Two Tribes Go to War - an appreciation of the classic 1964 film, Zulu

Here's an article I've written about my favourite Sunday afternoon movie for the next issue of The Salisbury Review. Pressure of space meant I had to leave out my only criticisms of this glorious film, namely the unconvincing nature of some of the hand-to-hand fighting (apparently you can kill a Zulu by waving a bayonet a foot away from his chest) and the lack of acting technique displayed by some of the extras. The latter defect can be explained by the fact that the vast majority of them didn't know what a film was. The producers organised a special open-air screening of an old Audie Murphy Western to bring them up to speed - but I seem to remember the acting in some of those was pretty bad, so the Zulus may have learnt the wrong lessons from the exercise. To start, here's a reminder of this true cinematic gem (and, if you spot any howlers in the article below it, please let me know):

If you’re in the mood for a rip-roaring, jingoistic, pro-Empire, pro-war film about a tiny handful of plucky British redcoats triumphing against a horde of blood-crazed primitives, you should avoid the 1964 box-office hit, Zulu. Despite its reputation, there’s barely a patriotic statement in the whole of its 139 minutes, nor any suggestion that the Empire was A Good Thing. Zulu is far more subtle, complex, and politically-nuanced than many of its conservative admirers suppose. As for leftist detractors who dismiss it as an old-fashioned, overtly racist celebration of colonialism, they couldn’t be more wrong.

Zulu’s lack of flag-waving - and the constant drip of anti-war sentiment - shouldn’t surprise us. Its American director and co-writer, Cy Enfield, had been blacklisted by Hollywood for his communist sympathies, while his British co-writer, John Prebble, was a former Communist Party member who went on to write Culloden, a book and television drama which (along with subsequent works on the Highland Clearances) were highly critical of the British Crown and its agents. That leaves the mystery of how two lefties came to produce a film many conservatives - myself included - feel is on “our” side: it regularly features on lists of “Best Conservative Films”.

Partly, it’s the sheer quality of the film-making: the acting, direction, writing and cinematography are all first-class. I’m always surprised by how visually sumptuous it is: the dusty grandeur of the Drakensberg Mountains, the lustrous brown of Zulu skin, and the startling red and white of the soldiers’ uniforms combine to stun the eye. The director paces the film expertly: the build-up to the first assault is almost leisurely. While cranking up the tension to an almost unbearable level  - by the time the fighting starts, we are as convinced as the British soldiers that they’re all about to die - this approach also enables the film’s four main characters to emerge fully.

Stanley Baker’s Lieutenant John Chard represents modernity - he’s a clear-headed engineer, who takes charge simply because he’s the right man for the job, only to reveal at the end that this is the first time he’s seen action (“I came here to build a bridge”). Lieutenant Gonville Bromsgrove, a callow, puffed-up, leopard-hunting fop played by Michael Caine in his first starring role, resists Chard at first - after all, most of the men at Rorke’s Drift are under his command, and he comes from a long line of generals. But, in his heart, he knows he isn’t up to the challenge: he starts by being resentfully supercilious, but, by the time Chard is wounded, bellows ”We need you!” Caine’s performance initially barely rises above unconvincing caricature - he admitted that no British director would have chosen him to play a toff. Fortunately, that makes his transformation into an effective second-in-command wholly believable. By the time we reach the scene where Bromsgrove and Chard rapidly echo each others’ command, “Fire!” “Fire!” - one of the most thrilling sequences in all cinema - they have in effect become a single leader with a single purpose.

While Baker and Caine deal with the theme of the traditional, class-based order giving way to a new ability-based, utilitarian hierarchy, it’s the two prominent “other ranks” figures who deliver the film’s other main messages. Private Henry Hook is that 1960s stock anti-hero figure, the malingering, rule-breaking rogue whose unconventionality proves invaluable when the chips are down. Played with louche, truculent charm by James Booth, Hook finds himself leading a desperate defence of the hospital, where he and his retreating comrades battle Zulus hand-to-hand in tiny, cluttered, smoke-choked spaces. Before that, when he is still refusing to take part in the battle, Hook inadvertently reveals the ethos which explains the soldiers’ crazy courage. Another of the hospital’s inmates is a delirious, fever-stricken sergeant, whom Booth furiously denounces for once getting him 28-days field duty without pay on a (justified) charge of theft. “Do you know what he did?” Booth shouts, angry and confused. ”He sent money to my missus! What did he do that for?” It’s loyalty to comrades - rather than to queen, country, class or regiment - that ultimately motivates men like Booth.

For me, though, the main message of Zulu is embodied by Colour Sergeant Frank Bourne. Played quite superbly by NIgel Green, Bourne is fixed, permanent, an archetype. On the one hand, he represents Blighty: phlegmatic, disciplined, fair, sensible, tough, infinitely decent. On the other - and more importantly here - he is Duty personified. As they await the first Zulu assault, a young soldier, trembling on the edge of panic, asks the age-old question, “Why us?” To which the stern but kindly Bourne quietly responds, “Because we’re here, lad. Just us. Nobody else.” Here we have the central, deeply unfashionable theme of the film: the over-riding importance, when all the blether has achieved nothing, of buckling down and simply doing one’s damned duty. I suspect this is ultimately why Zulu resonates so powerfully with conservatives.

What’s most surprising about Zulu is the almost complete absence of baddies. The only real contender for the role is Reverend Otto Witt, a sanctimonious, cowardly Swedish missionary played with gusto by Jack Hawkins. When the psalm-spouting old peacenik downs a bottle of brandy and starts undermining morale, Stanley Baker has him locked up. After the initial Zulu attack, Baker orders the pastor and his hysterical daughter to be bundled onto a wagon and sent on their way. As the Reverend Witt exits, he shrieks “You’re all going to die!”-  like some demented Remainer determinedly ignoring the will of the British people.

The charge of racism is routinely levelled at Zulu, and it apparently enjoys a certain vogue among white supremacists. They must all be confusing it with some other film. In an early scene, Reverend Witt and his daughter witness a mass wedding ceremony presided over by King Cetshwayo (played by his great-grandson, Chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi). As the Swedes leave, one of the warriors humiliates Miss Witt by grabbing her as she mounts their buggy. The King barks an order, and the offending Zulu is instantly run through with a spear: the Zulus have their own code of conduct, and the penalty for failing to follow it is evidently rather severe. (When Miss Witt is similarly manhandled by a British soldier, it’s treated by his mates as a lark.) Any suggestion that the Africans are barbarians is immediately dismissed: “I think they have more guts than we have, boyo.” They can run 50 miles in a day and fight a battle at the end of it. Their discipline is frightening: when the first Zulu “assault” amounts to nothing more than warriors halting some way off and allowing themselves to be shot before retreating, a Boer scout explains that the King is sacrificing his men in order to count the British guns. Even their singing ability is praised - “They’ve got a very good bass section, mind.”  Throughout the film, the Zulus are treated with enormous respect.

How can Zulu not be patriotic, given that its most famous scene - the one that makes us cry - involves Welshmen singing “Men of Harlech” to counter the demoralising effect of the African warriors’ minatory chanting? This strikes me as more tribal than national - these are two warrior tribes stiffening their resolve by singing the songs of their people. And when the Zulus eventually decide to retreat, they first raise their voices to salute the courage of the rival tribe’s warriors - "fellow braves" as one Boer put it - before slowly disappearing over the hill: the ceremonial honouring of valour invariably touches conservative hearts.

Zulu is a reminder that conservatives and leftists once shared many basic assumptions and attitudes. One shudders to imagine what a New Left remake of Zulu would be like.