PHILIP
J CUNNINGHAM
“Leica”
is at risk of becoming a taboo word in China, and not just for the
over-sensitive censors, but for ordinary Chinese netizens as well. The brand name has not
been entirely
blocked yet, and links to its discredited “Tiananmen” video still show up on
Baidu search, at least at the time
of writing, but authorities and anti-authoritarians alike seem to agree
that it touches on a sensitive topic in an insensitive way.
A
number of journalists, photographers and eyewitnesses to the Tiananmen uprising
of ’89 have joined the chorus, echoing Beijing in its displeasure, though for starkly
different reasons. As someone who bore witness to the joyous demonstrations and
terrifying crackdown that followed, I count myself among those troubled by the Leica
ad.
The
problem is not that the Tiananmen protest being invoked; far from it, most
veterans of the peaceful uprising applaud efforts to keep the memory alive and look
forward to the day when crowds can gather in peaceful commemoration at
Tiananmen Square.
Rather it
is the commercialization of the tragedy of June 4, 1989--using it to sell a
product-- that leaves a bad after-taste. Leica’s treatment of this definitive event
in modern Chinese history is tone-deaf and exploitative; it’s like using the
Kennedy assassination to sell Coke, or perhaps closer to the point, the
collapse of the Twin Towers to sell cameras. Even in countries where censorship
is minimal and advertising reigns supreme, it is callous to re-enact tragedy to
boost business.
Leica’s
ad agency is unapologetic. It certainly enjoys the right to make edgy adverts
and tacky promos, and, in the same spirit of freedom, people have the right to
boycott Leica products if they don’t like what they see.
Leica’s
PR department, sensing trouble, quickly soft-pedaled involvement in the promo,
saying it was not “official,” but why did they sponsor it, then? What were they
thinking?
It
looks like Leica wanted to have their cake and eat it, too. On the one hand,
the lens-maker has an exclusive and lucrative deal with Huawei, China’s
flagship phone manufacturer, to integrate its camera technology into their
popular product, and indeed the Leica brand appears on the back of Huawei
phones. On the other hand, Leica would appear to be distancing itself from both
embattled Huawei and China, both increasingly subject to US circumscription, by
producing a subliminally racist piece of corporate propaganda that is guaranteed
to rile.
Suffering
apparent flashbacks to a brutal confrontation in Africa, Leica’s fictional
photographer treats the most distressing moment in modern Chinese history like
a wild safari; what counts are the heroics of getting the “kill” shot.
Although
Tiananmen Square had its share of gonzo journalists parachuted in, most of the working
press tried not to make themselves part of the story. The Leica angle perversely
suggests that heroics of snapping a photo is the story. It focuses on the journalist’s
cultural ignorance and elevates it to a point of pride:
“I don’t
understand what you are saying,” says the American cameraman. “I don’t speak
Chinese.”
Certainly
that was true for most journalists in Beijing at the time, but it was no badge
of honor not to know the language, not then, not now.
How
much power would the words, “I don’t speak English” (voiced gruffly in a
foreign language) carry if a foreign visitor with a camera got in a
confrontation with a US policeman or military personnel?
Worse
yet is the promo’s closing line. When the “hero” zeroes in for the kill shot of
the man in front of the tank the narrator says:
“We
smile to ourselves and proudly whisper, I am a hunter.”
Cringe.
This
not only incenses the censors of Beijing but hurts the pride of news collectors
who were actually there in Beijing in 1989 and saw things quite differently. It
wasn’t a hunt, it was a heartbreaking story. Though one could detect a world-weary
hint of pride in the professional cameramen, and they were all men, what with their
war stories and scars they bore from covering violent conflicts around the
globe, I was touched by their cool under fire and the compassion they brought to
the indifferent gaze of the camera.
Those
of us who stood witness to the rise and fall of people power were humbled by
it, there was nothing dashing or heroic about seeing a city besieged by its own
troops. And the essence of the story wasn’t about a man dawdling in front of a
line of retreating tanks. The June 5 photo remains visually intriguing, but it
was after the fact, a mere coda to a vanquished rebellion.
Online
critics took issue not just with the “hunter” narrative, but the casting of a
white American male in that role. In 1989, the “elite” Western press corps was
indeed mostly white and male. There were frontline exceptions to this; Melinda
Liu of Newsweek and Kate Adie of BBC both did exemplary reporting, and many
Chinese, Filipinos, Japanese and journalists from Hong Kong who did vital work
behind the scenes, or behind the veil of non-English language media.
As
gunfire emptied the streets, journalists sought shelter in the Beijing Hotel. Like
the character in the Leica ad, a Hong Kong reporter who had been confronted by
Chinese police, came running to my room where the BBC crew and a Chinese
student activist were already holed up. Some details of the re-enactment ring
true; we dimmed the lights and pulled the curtains in the room to avoid being
targeted, and we hid video tapes in the bathroom air vent. During the all night
vigil I shared with John Simpson and the cameramen, we watched from the balcony
facing the square until the room next door was hit by gunfire.
The Leica
promo is exploitative and the gist of it is wrong. The hotel doesn’t look
right, the sole Chinese character, a villainous guard, doesn’t talk right, and
the star cameraman looks like a wannbe action hero, but perhaps the most
telling slip of all is the camera. It was not a Leica but a Nikon that produced
the iconic photograph of the man standing in front of the tank.