… The subaltern cannot speak because subalterns, to the extent that they are in a subaltern position, cannot speak. Yet those who pretend to listen to them really speak on their behalf. Gayatri Spivak The 162 minute documentary, Décolonisation, broadcast on (French-German channel) Arte this past January 7th, was hailed by critics as a “landmark series” to kick off the year. It is the creative effort of directorial duo, Karim Miské and Marc Ball, in collaboration with the historian Pierre Singaravélou. Divided into three acts, Décolonisations follows a chronological arch that spans from 1857-2013. (The first installment, entitled “Learning,” covered the period 1857-1925 in which the first figures of the decolonial struggle began to appear. The second, “Liberation,” focuses on the years 1926-1954, the wars of independence. The third, “The world is ours” (1958-2013), evokes post colonial times.) Framed by its creators as film that showcases the perspective of the colonized, Décolonisations is actually a collage of images and biographies whose meaning the uninitiated greater public is likely to find overwhelming, if they can even manage to remember the name. Though it means to situate itself within the theoretical framework of subaltern studies, the documentary nevertheless fails to make the voices of the historically marginalized heard. In fact, the filmmakers superimpose their own voices and prove incapable of avoiding the very Eurocentrism they attempted to avoid.

Innovative aesthetic choices that subvert classic documentary filmmaking A project that took several years to complete, Décolonisations is an ambitious film. At first glance, the way it unfolds like a medley of images and animations driven by a multi-genre soundtrack—ranging from rock to so-called world music by way of Afropop is especially striking. These creative tropes betray a desire to appeal to a broad audience, especially a younger crowd. However, some choices can be jarring: the film juxtaposes archival images and animation without identifying the former as such, thus triviliazing their impact. Indeed, despite their claim of having analyzed miles of archival records, the filmmakers provide no precise information about the documents they consulted in making the film. They say nothing of the stories that might have helped better identify the heroes, heroines, and places evoked throughout. For more background on the film’s sources, audiences will have to wait until March 5th, when the supplemental publication marking the end of the project will be released at a cost of 29.90 Euros. Unlike conventional documentaries wherein sequences are often placed between interviews of experts, the filmmakers in this project opted for a fluid approach. To make this work, the film features continuous voice over narration accompanied by a blend of archival footage and animation supported by a pulsating soundtrack. Rather than enhance the viewing experience, this approach can be confusing and overwhelming for the viewer, who has to move from one historical event to another, one territory to the next without transition. As a result the struggles portrayed seem piecemeal, and without proper context, the viewer is left with more questions than answers. In each of its episodes, Décolonisations delivers images of humiliated, maimed and brutalized bodies of the colonized. In this it necessarily evokes the discussion about the violence of images generated recently by Sexe, Race & Colonies (Editions La Découverte, 2018). While we can agree that these photographs and footage are tangible evidence of the cruelty and ferocity of colonization, it makes no sense to reproduce this violence by exhibiting them at will. Otherwise, it is nothing short of voyeurism. There are ways of addressing violence without perpetrating it, for example through reading texts or through animation, which the film otherwise uses efficiently. Had this been done, the film could have been shown in middle and high schools—but it cannot in its current form.

A Eurocentric gaze In press conferences, the filmmakers have insisted their film adopts the point of view of the colonized. Like Ranajit Guha and his followers, their work relies on the archives of the colonial authorities, sources generally generous with comments on the subaltern. Yet, as Gayatri Spivak has noted, while this method of historical query is legitimate and justified, it tends to speak for the subaltern rather than allowing subaltern voices to be heard. The filmmakers’ decision to use voice-over narration illustrates this issue. The three filmmakers co-wrote the monologue read by actor Redad Kateb (grand-nephew of Algerian writer Kateb Yacine), which by using the collective pronouns “us” and “we” claims to embody the voice of the colonized. In Episode 1 he recites: In cartoons, there is always that moment when a character speeds past the edge of a cliff. Unless they look below, they usually don’t fall. Same with the colonizer. He thinks he’s conquered us with his cruelty, his love and his civilization. He thinks he’s instilled fear in us and that he will always be able to defeat us. In search of his image, he looks at us without seeing us. Meanwhile, under his nose, tenaciously and methodically, we are working for his downfall. And if we have to die in the process, then so be it, others will continue the struggle. Yet this narrative is not a compendium of sources produced by the subaltern, but indeed a literary text written by the filmmakers. It is likely they opted for this approach to compensate for lack of documentation—notably oral—from the colonized themselves. Still, in so doing the filmmakers end up, perhaps against their will, taking the place of the subaltern and attributing their own view of history to the colonized. This view is of course situated; it emanates from three French intellectuals, who have familial and/or professional connections to certain regions in Africa and Asia. Their outlook is legitimate and relevant, but it could have been made explicit. That said, they cannot claim the monologue represents the voice of the colonized.