Television Beyond

and Across
the Iron Curtain
Television Beyond
and Across
the Iron Curtain
Edited by

Kirsten Bönker, Julia Obertreis

and Sven Grampp
Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain

Edited by Kirsten Bönker, Julia Obertreis and Sven Grampp

This book first published 2016

Cambridge Scholars Publishing

Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Copyright © 2016 by Kirsten Bönker, Julia Obertreis, Sven Grampp

and contributors

All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN (10): 1-4438-9740-X

ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-9740-2
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction ............................................................................................... vii

Kirsten Bönker and Julia Obertreis

I. Transnational Perspectives and Media Events

Chapter One ................................................................................................. 2

Looking East–Watching West? On the Asymmetrical Interdependencies
of Cold War European Communication Spaces
Andreas Fickers

Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 25

Campaigning Against West Germany: East German Television Coverage
of the Eichmann Trial
Judith Keilbach

Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 55

Watching Television, Picturing Outer Space and Observing the Observer
Beyond: The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on East and West
German Television
Sven Grampp

II. Television and Popular Culture: Films and Serials

Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 96

Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West: Class and Gender
in the Cult Film Three Wishes for Cinderella (TĜi OĜíšky Pro Popelku/
Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel)
Hannah Mueller

Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 124

The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home (Socialist Federal Republic
of Yugoslavia 1972–Republic of Serbia 2007)
Nevena Dakoviü and Aleksandra Milovanoviü
vi Table of Contents

Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 148

Conceptualizing Class and the Nuclear Family when All Men
are Bastards: Dmitrii Fiks’ The Balzac Age
Theodora Trimble

Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 163

Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema?
Maria Zhukova

III. Television and the Transgressing of Language Borders

Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 196

TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia: A Brief Chronology
from the 1960s to the 1980s
Lucia Gaja Scuteri

Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 227

“Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? The Impact
of Television and Foreign Broadcasts on Society and State-Society
Relations in Socialist Albania
Idrit Idrizi

IV. The Future of Television beyond the Iron Curtain

Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 258

Fragments and Milliseconds: Afterthoughts on Television Beyond
the Iron Curtain
James Schwoch

Contributors ............................................................................................. 283

 INTRODUCTION1

KIRSTEN BÖNKER AND JULIA OBERTREIS

“This, Mr. Khrushchev, is one of the most advanced developments in

communications that we have, at least in our country. It is color television, of
course. It is, as you will see, […] one of the best means of communication that
has been developed. And I can only say that if this competition which you have
described so effectively, in which you plan to outstrip us, and particularly in
the production of consumer goods, if this competition is to do the best for both
of our peoples and for people everywhere, there must be a free exchange of
ideas. There are some instances where you may be ahead of us, for example in
the development of the thrust of your rockets for the investigation of outer
space. There may be some instances, for example, color television, where
we’re ahead of you.”2

This was at the beginning of a heated exchange between Soviet

Premier Nikita S. Khrushchev and US Vice President Richard Nixon that
took place in July 1959. The so-called “kitchen debate” on the occasion of
the opening of an American trade exhibition in Moscow has since become
a famous episode of Cold War diplomacy. It publicly promoted the
peaceful competition between the Cold War power blocs in the field of
consumer goods and interiors for the first time. In front of TV cameras
Nixon and Khrushchev engaged in a witty verbal exchange about whose

1
This volume is the outcome of an international conference that took place in
Erlangen in December 2013. We are very grateful to our co-convener and co-editor
Sven Grampp (Erlangen) for his thoughts, ideas, advice, and especially for his
contribution to this book. We would also like to thank the speakers and discussants
who enriched the conference and certainly those who contributed to this volume.
Further, we owe thanks to our student assistants, Diana Schwindt (Bielefeld) and
Jakob Rauschenbach (Erlangen), for revising the articles and preparing the printing
pattern. Last but not least, we are happy that Catherine Marshall helped us so much
with her very careful and excellent proofreading of this volume.
2
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6RLCw1OZFw, 0:20 – 1:32 min., accessed
November 03, 2015. For a transcript see
http://www.TeachingAmericanHistory.org/library/index.asp?documentprint=176,
accessed November 03, 2015.
viii Introduction

country was more successful in providing labour-saving and recreational

devices for ordinary people. Asked to describe his impressions of the
exhibit, Khrushchev said that the Soviet Union would catch up with the
United States in the coming seven years.3 As the quotation given above
shows, Nixon responded to this challenge by presenting an American
colour TV set as one of the latest technical achievements to affirm how far
ahead of Russia his country’s consumer industries were. As Nixon
mentioned, the debate with the Soviet premier was recorded on colour
videotape, produced by Ampex, one of the most advanced American
companies in audio tape technology. Khrushchev, however, interrupted
Nixon claiming that “in rockets we’ve left you behind, and also in this
technology (he referred to colour television) we’ve outstripped you.”4
Thus, Khrushchev himself deemed television as playing a major role and
to be the benchmark of the peaceful coexistence of the two superpowers.
As Western mass media widely covered the “kitchen summit”–
newspapers published photographs of the exhibition and the meeting,
American and Soviet television broadcast parts of the dispute between
Nixon and Khrushchev–, the world’s public was able to witness the
significance ascribed to (colour) television from both sides. Henceforth,
television was a prominent symbol of social, cultural, and technological
progress in both East and West. It became the object of international
negotiations and mutual observations.

The Rise of Television across the Iron Curtain:

State of the Art, Research Perspectives and Questions
This volume’s concern is to provide more empirical ground to include
socialist television into a European and global media history. It is not only
the “ping-pong communication”5 across the Iron Curtain that is an
important point of interest, but the aim of this volume is also to

3
Greg Castillo, The Cold War on the Home Front. The Soft Power of Midcentury
Design (Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), X-XIII,
XXII, 140, 160-169; William Safire, “The Cold War’s Hot Kitchen,” New York
Times, July 23, 2009, accessed February 23, 2014,
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/24/opinion/24safire.html?_r=0.
4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6RLCw1OZFw, 1:33 – 1:45 min., accessed
November 03, 2015.
5
Alexander Badenoch, Andreas Fickers, and Christian Henrich-Franke, “Airy
Curtains in the European Ether: Introduction,” in Airy Curtains: European
Broadcasting during the Cold War, ed. Alexander Badenoch, Andreas Fickers, and
Christian Henrich-Franke (Baden-Baden: Nomos-Verlag, 2013), 13-14.
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain ix

complement the Western-dominated perspective on Cold War mass media

with a specific focus on the spaces and actors of Eastern European
communication.
It is striking that the rise of television as a mass medium took place in
many Eastern and Western European countries at approximately the same
time, starting in the mid-1950s. The changes television brought about were
not only of technological, but also of societal nature. Television affected
most people’s daily life by transforming lifestyles and domestic material
culture. People furnished, for example, their apartments with the new
media technology, often placing the television set in the centre of their
living rooms.6 The most influential mass medium of the Cold War
represented the specific consumerist life styles on both sides of the Iron
Curtain–the American and the new socialist way of life.
Television also changed the public and private spheres. Contemporaries
perceived that people were retreating from the politicised public sphere
into ‘their’ private spheres, a process for which television became a
symbol. Conceptualising private, private-public and public spheres,
scholars have noticed a gradual expansion of the private sphere since the
1950s that was not least brought about by the construction of millions of
apartment houses. Recent studies have questioned the traditional binary
model and antagonistic demarcation of the public and the private. Instead,
new contributions on the Soviet 1950s and 1960s have stressed the strong
interconnectedness of the public and the private.7 These obvious changes

6
Kirsten Bönker, “‘Muscovites are frankly wild about TV’. Freizeit und
Fernsehkonsum in der späten Sowjetunion,” in ‘Entwickelter Sozialismus’ in
Osteuropa. Arbeit, Konsum und Öffentlichkeit, ed. Nada Boškovska, Angelika
Strobel, and Daniel Ursprung (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2016), 173-210; Susan
E. Reid, “The Meaning of Home: ‘The only bit of the world you can have to
yourself’,” in Lewis H. Siegelbaum, ed., Borders of Socialism. Private spheres of
Soviet Russia (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 144–170, esp. 164; idem,
“Cold War in the Kitchen: Gender and the De-Stalinization of Consumer Taste in
the Soviet Union under Khrushchev,” Slavic Review, 61, 2 (Summer 2002): 211–
252.
7
Ingrid Oswald and Viktor Voronkov, “‘Licht an, Licht aus!’. Öffentlichkeit in der
(post-)sowjetischen Gesellschaft,” in Zwischen partei-staatlicher Selbstinszenierung
und kirchlichen Gegenwelten. Sphären von Öffentlichkeit in Gesellschaften
sowjetischen Typs, ed. Gábor T. Rittersporn, Malte Rolf, and Jan C. Behrends
(Frankfurt a. M.: Lang, 2003), 37-61. See also Reid, “The Meaning of Home”;
Kirsten Bönker, “Depoliticalisation of the Private Life? Reflections on Private
Practices and the Political in the Late Soviet Union,” in Willibald Steinmetz, Ingrid
Gilcher-Holtey, and Heinz-Gerhard Haupt, eds., Writing Political History Today
(Frankfurt a.M.: Campus, 2013), 207–234; Juliane Fürst, “Friends in Private,
x Introduction

in the functioning of the late socialist societies, in public and private

communication practices and media consumption urge us to draw our
attention to the communicative mechanisms that contributed to the socio-
political stability of the socialist regimes–all these were processes in which
television became deeply entangled as the rising key medium.8
However, mass media and especially television are seldom regarded in
this context. This might come as a surprise, because Cold War American
sociologists Alex Inkeles and Raymond Bauer observed in their study of
Soviet public opinion in the 1950s that the “nature of the Soviet Union is
such that the communications behavior of citizens must be regarded as one
of the dimensions of their relations with the regime.”9 This statement
points to what we now understand as communication processes that have
been conceptualised as subjects of both media studies and of history. The
analysis of mass media, of communication structures and processes of
negotiation including various kinds of actors, platforms, and communication
channels, contribute to the history of public spheres and its different
segments (Teilöffentlichkeiten) in socialist societies. While in general
models of public spheres generated on the example of Western societies
can be applied to socialist societies as well, there were obvious differences
between them, including censorship, bans and taboos in the case of the
latter.10

Friends in Public: The Phenomenon of the Kompaniia Among Soviet Youth in the
1950s and 1960s,” in Borders of Socialism: Private Spheres of Soviet Russia, ed.
Lewis H. Siegelbaum (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 229-249, esp. 244.
8
Alexei Yurchak, Everything was forever, until it was no more: The last Soviet
generation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006); Lewis H.
Siegelbaum, Introduction, in Borders of Socialism: Private Spheres of Soviet
Russia, ed. Lewis H. Siegelbaum (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 1–21,
esp. 3; Ekaterina Emeliantseva, “The Privilege of Seclusion: Consumption
Strategies in the Closed City of Severodvinsk,” in Ab Imperio: Studies of New
Imperial History and Nationalism in the Post-Soviet Space (2011) 2: 238–259, esp.
238–244; Bren, Paulina. The Greengrocer and His TV: The Culture of
Communism after the 1968 Prague Spring (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
2010); Mary Fulbrook, The people’s state: East German Society from Hitler to
Honecker (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005); Kirsten Bönker, “‘Dear
television workers…’: TV consumption and Political Communication in the Late
Soviet Union,” in Cahiers du monde russe 56 (2015), 2-3: 371-399.
9
Alex Inkeles and R. Bauer, The Soviet Citizen: Daily Life in a Totalitarian
Society (New York: Atheneum 1968), 165.
10
Jörg Requate, “Öffentlichkeit und Medien als Gegenstände historischer
Analyse,“ in Geschichte und Gesellschaft 25 (1999): 5-32; Michael Meyen,
“Öffentlichkeit in der DDR. Ein theoretischer und empirischer Beitrag zu den
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xi

Censorship was undoubtedly stronger and more invasive in socialist

states than in democratic countries. Nonetheless, the etatist concept of
government-related television channels in de Gaulle’s France or similar
ideas of restrictive media politics in the Federal Republic of Germany in
the 1950s and 1960s suggest that bipolar models which contrast the
“dictatorial” East with the “democratic” West are too undifferentiated and
should at least be carefully refined.11 They did, however, with a slight
relaxation during the 1970s, more or less dominate research on mass
media in socialist Europe at least until the early 1990s.12 The totalitarian
approach is based on a dichotomous model of party-state versus
population. Contemporary Western social and media scientists have made
considerable efforts to explore especially the Soviet system of political
communication during the Cold War that had been exported to the Eastern
bloc states. These investigations highlighted the regime’s monopoly on
mass media, reducing them to seemingly persuasive propaganda channels.
In the early Cold War, the press and the radio in particular were perceived
as instruments of thought control and brainwashing.13

Kommunikationsstrukturen in Gesellschaften ohne Medienfreiheit,” in: Studies in

Communication / Media (SCM) 1 (2011): 3-69; Monica Rüthers, “Öffentlicher
Raum und gesellschaftliche Utopie. Stadtplanung, Kommunikation und
Inszenierung von Macht in der Sowjetunion am Beispiel Moskaus zwischen 1917
und 1964,” in Zwischen partei-staatlicher Selbstinszenierung und kirchlichen
Gegenwelten. Sphären von Öffentlichkeit in Gesellschaften sowjetischen Typs, ed.
Gábor T. Rittersporn, Malte Rolf, and Jan C. Behrends (Frankfurt a. M.: Lang,
2003), 65-96; Julia Obertreis, “Massenmediale Öffentlichkeit, Unterhaltung und
Politik: “Das Kabarett der älteren Herren (Kabaret Starszych Panów) im
polnischen Fernsehen,” in ‘Entwickelter Sozialismus’ in Osteuropa. Arbeit,
Konsum und Öffentlichkeit, ed. Nada Boškovska, Angelika Strobel, and Daniel
Ursprung (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2016), 143-171.
11
Jean-Pierre Esquenazi, “Télévision et espace public sous De Gaulle,” in Cahiers
d'histoire. Revue d'histoire critique 86 (2002): 49-61; Aude Vassallo, La télévision
sous de Gaulle. Le contrôle gouvernemental de l’information (1958/1969)
(Bruxelles: De Boeck Supérieur, 2005); Meike Vogel, Unruhe im Fernsehen.
Protestbewegung und öffentlich-rechtliche Berichterstattung in den 1960er Jahren
(Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2010), 39-47.
12
Mark Hopkins was one of the more leftist Anglophone social scientists who
drew on the idea of convergence between the ideological systems with regard to
communication and media mechanisms. Cf. Mark W. Hopkins, Mass Media in the
Soviet Union (New York: Pegasus, 1970).
13
Gayle Durham Hollander, Soviet Political Indoctrination: Developments in Mass
Media and Propaganda since Stalin (New York, Washington, London: Praeger,
1972); Alex Inkeles, Public Opinion in Soviet Russia: A Study in Mass Persuasion
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 1950); Paul Roth, Die kommandierte
xii Introduction

However, the extent to which social reality was conveyed and shaped
by technical mass media was hardly less than in Western countries, and it
grew in a similar way over the decades. This is why we need to integrate
mass media and their consumption into models of Socialist societies and
their public spheres, which are subdivided into segments, such as
scientific, literary, artistic, political, religious etc. The parallels within
Europe and across the Iron Curtain regarding the rapid spread of television
towers, television sets, programme development etc. are still not as
familiar to us as the better researched ideological differences in media
politics. Similar enthusiasm and anxieties in the face of the new mass
media could be observed in both Western democratic and Eastern state
socialist countries.14 Across the boundaries of the Iron Curtain, those in
power regarded television as a symbol of modernity and a rising living
standard for ordinary people. The renowned media sociologist Boris
Firsov spoke of an ‘expansion’ of TV sets during the 1960s, a time in
which the TV programme was steadily expanding.15 Party leaders who–
much like Western politicians–had kept a distance from the new medium
during the 1950s and early 1960s gradually realised the propaganda
potential of television, as Kristin Roth-Ey convincingly argues.16 After the
mid-1960s communist party members viewed the new medium as an
opportunity to bring ‘culture’ to every home, to educate the ‘new man’ and
to demonstrate technical progress in the competition with the West.
With regard to the mass media of the Eastern bloc and the post-
Stalinist Soviet Union, Western historiography, media and cultural studies
initially concentrated on the relatively easily accessible periodical press,
newspapers and journals, while television has been rarely investigated.17

öffentliche Meinung. Sowjetische Medienpolitik (Stuttgart: Seewald 1982); with

regard to the GDR rather exemplary for a strict sender-receiver model: Gunter
Holzweißig, Zensur ohne Zensor. Die SED-Informationsdiktatur (Bonn: Bouvier
Verlag, 1997); idem, Die schärfste Waffe der Partei. Eine Mediengeschichte der
DDR (Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau Verlag, 2002).
14
With regard to cultural-critical attitudes towards the new medium of television in
the Soviet Union see Kirsten Bönker, “Das sowjetische Fernsehen und die
Neujustierung kultureller Grenzen,” in Igor Narskij ed., Kultur für das Volk,
Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, 2016 (forthcoming).
15
Boris Firsov, Televidenie glazami sotsiologa (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1971), 105.
16
Roth-Ey, Moscow, 208–222.
17
Thomas C. Wolfe, Governing Socialist Journalism: The Press and the Socialist
Person after Stalin (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005); Ludmila
Pöppel, The Rhetoric of Pravda Editorials: A Diachronic Study of a Political
Genre (Stockholm: Stockholm University Press, 2007); Nikolaus Heidorn, Das
Westdeutschlandbild in der Pravda: die Darstellung der Bundesrepublik
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xiii

Historians and media scholars using historical methods long ignored the
socio-political and cultural impact of television on socialist countries in
Eastern Europe. Here as well, the major exception to this general trend is
the television of the GDR, which has already been broadly explored with
regard to its technical infrastructure, programming, development of genres,
the communication with the audience, audience tastes and uses of the
medium, censorship and journalism etc.18 In many of these respects, GDR
television is the most thoroughly researched of the socialist states so far.
Scholars focusing on the GDR, however, definitely benefit from well-
organised archives. The archives offer a wide variety of written documents
and a paradise of digital records in the Deutsches Rundfunkarchiv (DRA)
in Potsdam. Contributions to GDR television history can serve as
examples for research on other countries. Unfortunately, language skills
often seem to prevent this, at least Anglophone research literature usually
neglects the relevant German research.19
Although international media history is a growing field reaching
beyond the GDR for about a decade now, many–including German–
historians have long been and still are reluctant to include mass media and
popular culture into broader research perspectives of socio-political
history. However, we are witnessing a new scientific trend at the moment.
For some time now state socialist television other than the East German
case has captured rapidly growing attention in the fields of history and
historically working media studies. This proliferation has already led to the

Deutschland und West-Berlins in der sowjetischen Presse (Hamburg: Kovaþ,

1993); John Murray, The Russian Press from Brezhnev to Yeltsin: Behind the
Paper Curtain (Aldershot: Elgar, 1994).
18
To mention just a few studies from the broad field: Michael Meyen, Einschalten,
Umschalten, Ausschalten? Das Fernsehen im DDR-Alltag (Leipzig: Leipziger
Universitätsverlag, 2003); Heather Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism: Television
and the Cold War in the German Democratic Republic (Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 2014); Uwe Breitenborn, Wie lachte der Bär? Systematik,
Funktionalität und thematische Segmentierung von unterhaltenden nonfiktionalen
Programmformen im Deutschen Fernsehfunk bis 1969 (Berlin: Weißensee Verlag,
2003); Claudia Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen: Das DDR-Fernsehen und seine
Strategien im Umgang mit dem westdeutschen Fernsehen (Bielefeld: Transcript,
2010); Claudia Dittmar and Susanne Vollberg (eds.), Zwischen Experiment und
Etablierung. Die Programmentwicklung des DDR-Fernsehens 1958 bis 1963
(Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 2007); idem eds., Alternativen im DDR-
Fernsehen? Die Programmentwicklung 1981 bis 1985 (Leipzig: Leipziger
Universitätsverlag, 2005).
19
Heather Gumbert’s book Envisioning Socialism is in this respect a very welcome
exception to the rule.
xiv Introduction

publication of some edited volumes containing empirical and conceptual

contributions.20 Particular mention should be made of new and thrilling
results for several countries: the CSSR,21 Poland,22 Romania,23 Yugoslavia24
and the Soviet Union.25
Drawing on cultural studies and interdisciplinary approaches, recent
research analyses structures and strategies of programming, addresses
media contents, the flow and seriality of television, the development of
genres and aesthetic forms as well as gender aspects. Thus, the shaping
role of television within the field of entertainment and popular culture has
become evident. Additionally, scholars discuss its relation to ideology and

20
Badenoch, Fickers, Franke, Airy Curtains; Aniko Imre, Timothy Havens and
Katalin Lustyk eds., Popular Television in Eastern Europe During and Since
Socialism (Abingdon, New York: Routledge, 2012); idem, “Audience history as a
history of ideas: Towards a transnational history,” in European Journal of
Communication 30 (2015), 1: 22–35.
21
Bren, The Greengrocer; Irena Reifová, “A study in the history of meaning-
making: Watching socialist television serials in the former Czechoslovakia,” in
European Journal of Communication 30 (2015), 1: 79-94.
22
Patryk Wasiak, “The Great Époque of the Consumption of Imported Broadcasts:
West European Television Channels and Polish Audiences during the System
Transition,” in VIEW Journal of European Television History and Culture 3 (2014)
5: 68-68; Michael Zok, Die Darstellung der Judenvernichtung in Film, Fernsehen
und politischer Publizistik der Volksrepublik Polen 1968-1989 (Marburg: Verlag
Herder-Institut, 2015); idem, “Das polnische Fernsehen in den 1980 Jahren. Polska
Telewizja als Gegenstand und Austragungsort politischer Konikte,” in Rundfunk
und Geschichte 39 (2013), 3-4: 25-34.
23
Dana Mustata, “‘The Revolution Has Been Televised…’: Television as
Historical Agent in the Romanian Revolution,” in Journal of Modern European
History, 10-1 (March 2012): 76-97.
24
Sabina Mihelj, “Negotiating Cold War Culture at the Crossroads of East and
West: Uplifting the Working People, Entertaining the Masses, Cultivating the
Nation,” in Comparative Studies in Society and History 53 (2011), 3: 509–539;
idem, “The Politics of Privatization: Television Entertainment and the Yugoslav
Sixties,” in The Socialist Sixties: Crossing Borders in the Second World, ed. Anne
E. Gorsuch and Diane P. Koenker (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press,
2013), 251-267.
25
Christine Evans, “The ‘Soviet Way of Life’ as a Way of Feeling: Emotion and
Influence on Soviet Central Television in the Brezhnev Era,” in Cahiers du monde
russe 56 (2015) 2: 543-569; idem, Between Truth and Time: A History of Soviet
Central Television (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016); Kristin Roth-Ey,
Moscow Prime Time: How the Soviet Union Built the Media Empire that Lost the
Cultural Cold War (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2011); Bönker,
“’Muscovites’”; idem, “‘Dear television workers…’”; idem., “Das sowjetische
Fernsehen”.
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xv

the political system. Viewers no longer appear as mere passive receivers,

but rather as active participants in communication processes voicing their
preferences. In general, recent research supposes the production and
consumption of TV programmes as being negotiated between media
producers, viewers, state institutions and the regime.26
The new approaches have already borne fruit in the broader context of
recent research on the period of “developed socialism”. It is interested in
the stability and instability of the late socialist regimes and focuses on the
societal processes and practices. Consumerism, leisure time activities,
tourism, and sports in state socialist societies have become very productive
fields of research.27 They bring to light complex relations and negotiations
between state policies, activities of mass organisations, individual and
group practices. Well-known contributions to socialist popular culture
have posed the question how Western influences and the “imagined West”
were perceived and adapted in socialist societies.28 Obviously, a strict
juxtaposition between Western influences and the validity of socialist
values cannot be stated. Rather, the adoption of elements of Western
culture was able to easily coexist with established norms and power
structures. This is an important insight for television studies as well: the
consumption of Western films, of foreign radio stations like Radio Free
26
Cf. for example Meyen, Einschalten, Umschalten, Ausschalten?; Mihelj,
“Negotiating Cold War Culture at the Crossroads of East and West”; Bren, The
Greengrocer; Roth-Ey, Moscow Prime Time; Evans, Between Truth and Time;
Bönker, “‘Dear television workers…’”.
27
Cf. recently Nada Boškovska, Angelika Strobel, and Daniel Ursprung eds.,
‘Entwickelter Sozialismus’ in Osteuropa. Arbeit, Konsum und Öffentlichkeit
(Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2016); Luminita Gatejel, Warten, hoffen und endlich
fahren. Auto und Sozialismus in der Sowjetunion, in Rumänien und der DDR
(1956-1989/91) (Frankfurt/New York: Campus, 2014); Anne E. Gorsuch and
Diane P. Koenker eds., The Socialist Sixties: Crossing Borders in the Second
World (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2013); Natalya Chernyshova,
Soviet Consumer Culture in the Brezhnev Era (London, New York: Routledge,
2013); Milena Veenis, Material Fantasies. Expectations of the Western Consumer
World among East Germans (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012);
David Crowley and Susan E. Reid eds., Pleasures in Socialism: Leisure and
Luxury in the Eastern Bloc (Evanston/Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2010);
Patrick Hyder Patterson, Bought and Sold: Living and Losing the Good Life in
Socialist Yugoslavia (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 2011); Breda
Luthar and Maruša Pušnik eds., Remembering Utopia: The Culture of Everyday
Life in Socialist Yugoslavia (Washington, D.C.: New Academia Publishing, 2010).
28
Yurchak, Everything was forever; Sergei I. Zhuk, Rock and Roll in the Rocket
City: The West, Identity, and Ideology in Soviet Dnipropetrovsk, 1960–1985
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010).
xvi Introduction

Europe or BBC World, and of television programmes did not automatically

lead to a rejection of socialist culture or the socialist system of
governance.29 However, the question remains in which ways television
contributed to the decomposition of socialist rule–as a medium perceived
as state-controlled coming under fire especially during the 1980s, or as a
medium providing critical information accelerating tendencies of
erosion.30
After the fall of the Iron Curtain, media and social scientists directed
their attention to the post-socialist changes in communication, staging of
power and the democratisation processes in which mass media played a
crucial role.31 Thereby, post-socialist television, the restructuring of
ownership, political influence and changes within the profession of
journalists have gained explicit research interest.32
We are now aware that television triggered new practices of
consumption and media production, of communication and exchange.
Recent research has painted an initial picture of how television promoted
new technical infrastructures, developments, and institutions. The new
studies of television history have also indicated that Cold War television
potentially became deeply entangled in cross-border interactions and
international collaborations. A few studies have already established how
29
Cf. concerning the GDR: Michael Meyen, “Haben die Westmedien die DDR
stabilisiert? Zur Unterhaltungsfunktion bundesdeutscher Rundfunkangebote,” in
SPIEL 20 (2001) 1: 117-133; concerning the Soviet Union: Bönker, “‘Muscovites’”,
199-201.
30
James Dingley, “Soviet Television and Glasnost’,” in: Julian Graffy and
Geoffrey Hosking eds., Culture and the media in the USSR today (London/New
York: St. Martin's Press 1989), 6-25. Cf. also: Ellen Mickiewicz, Split Signals:
Television and Politics in the Soviet Union (New York/Oxford: Oxford UP, 1988).
31
John Downey and Sabina Mihelj eds., Central and Eastern European Media in
Comparative Perspective: Politics, Economy and Culture (Farnham/Surrey,
Burlington: Ashgate, 2012); as an earlier overview on Eastern Europe see: Barbara
Thomaß and Michaela Tzankoff eds., Medien und Transformation in Osteuropa
(Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2001). On Russia see: Julie A. Cassiday and
Emily D. Johnson, “Putin, Putiniana and the Question of a Post-Soviet Cult of
Personality,” in The Slavonic and East European Review 88 (2010): 681-707;
Kaarle Nordenstreng, Elena Vartanova, and Yassen Zassoursky eds., Russian
Media Challenge (Helsinki: Kikimora Publications, 2002).
32
Cf. for example: Stephen Hutchings and Natalia Rulyova eds., Television and
Culture in Putin’s Russia: Remote Control (London, New York: Routledge, 2009);
Ellen Mickiewicz, “Excavating Concealed Tradeoffs: How Russians Watch the
News,” in Political Communication 22 (2005), 3: 355-380; Sarah Oates, “The
Neo-Soviet Model of the Media,” in Europe-Asia Studies, 59 (2007), 8: 1279-
1297.
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xvii

these entanglements and interdependencies were shaped by institutional

actors like the national television services, the international broadcasting
agencies European Broadcasting Union (EBU) and Organisation
Internationale de Radiodiffusion et de Télévision (OIRT), or private
companies selling television sets.33 Television stations further set up direct
cooperation across the Iron Curtain. Helena Srubar has, for example,
explored collaborative television productions of the Westdeutscher
Rundfunk (WDR, West German Broadcasting) and the Czechoslovak
television. They co-produced children’s programmes like “Pan Tau“,
which became very popular in both East and West. This cooperation has to
be seen against the background of the West German “new eastern policy”
(neue Ostpolitik), that opened up new spaces for convergence across the
Iron Curtain. It also reflected an anti-American stance and a tendency
towards a critique of capitalism among leftist programme makers in West
Germany, who had a stronghold in the WDR.34
The cooperation across the Iron Curtain and the already mentioned
fundamental East-West parallels in spread, significance and social
implications of television practices challenge us to ask to what extent the
Cold War media culture was a shared one. Prisms of a shared media
culture were big media events broadcast all over the world, such as the
first one, the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953.35

33
Cf. the chapter of Andreas Fickers in this volume; Christian Henrich-Franke,
Regina Immel, “Making Holes into the Iron Curtain? – The Television Programme
Exchange across the Iron Curtain in the 1960s and 1970s,” in Airy Curtains:
European Broadcasting During the Cold War, ed. Alexander Badenoch, Andreas
Fickers, and Christian Henrich-Franke (Baden-Baden: Nomos-Verlag, 2013), 183-
219; Heather Gumbert, “Exploring Transnational Media Exchange in the 1960s,”
in VIEW Journal of European Television History and Culture 3 (2014) 5: 50-59;
Thomas Beutelschmidt and Richard Oehmig, “Connected Enemies?: Programming
Transfer Between East and West During the Cold War and the Example of East
German Television,“ in VIEW Journal of European Television History and Culture
3 (2014) 5: 60-67; Thomas Beutelschmidt, Richard Oehmig and Yulia Yurtaeva,
“Grenzüberschreitungen. Internationaler Programmtransfer als transkulturelle
Kommunikation zwischen West- und Osteuropa am Beispiel des DDR-
Fernsehens,” in Rundfunk und Geschichte 39 (2013), 3-4: 73-82.
34
Helena Srubar, Ambivalenzen des Populären. Pan Tau und Co. zwischen Ost und
West (Konstanz: UVK, 2008), 366-367. On the WDR cf. Christina von Hodenberg,
Konsens und Krise. Eine Geschichte der westdeutschen Medienöffentlichkeit 1945-
1973 (Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2006).
35
Henrik Örnebring, “Writing the history of television audiences: the case of the
Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953,” in Re-viewing Television History:
xviii Introduction

The interactions and interrelations between East and West cannot be

sufficiently grasped in terms of propaganda and enemy surveillance, which
included the phenomena of jamming foreign signals and the so-called
“radio battles”.36 Even propaganda, technical rivalry, and mutual media
broadcasts to enemy populations point to aspects of a shared media culture
in the context of the Cold War. Instead, we need to further develop
concepts that highlight the complex interdependencies and convergences
of the East and West, their cooperation but also as their competition,
mutual adoptions, imitations, and alienations.

Television beyond the Iron Curtain:

Research Interests and Approaches
Especially with regard to the media rivalry between FRG and GDR,
several studies have already established that the media competition about
meanings and interpretations was based on entangled communication and
mutual observation. Consequently, it also had a strong impact on the
Eastern side of the Iron Curtain.37 Therefore, the authors of this volume
take a close look beyond the Iron Curtain by focusing on state socialist
television. The contributions thus explicitly cover Albania, the CSSR, the
GDR, Russia and the Soviet Union, Serbia, Slovenia and Yugoslavia.
Furthermore, the volume compiles not only various national examples, but
also presents interdisciplinary perspectives applied by historians, media,
cultural and literary scholars. The authors choose different approaches by
focusing on structures, actors, flow, contents or the reception of cross-
border television. Some chapters explicitly cover the new cultural
practices television has made possible, as well as the negotiations on
political attitudes in the disguise of linguistic preferences and changes,
cultural specificities, of entertainment and popular culture.

Critical Issues in Television Historiography, ed. Helen Wheatley (London, New

York: I.B. Tauris, 2007), 170-190.
36
A. Ross Johnson and R. Eugene Parta eds., Cold War Broadcasting: Impact on
the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe: A Collection of Studies and Documents
(Budapest, New York: CEU Press, 2010); Michael Nelson, War of the Black
Heavens: The Battles of Western Broadcasting in the Cold War (Syracuse, NW:
Syracuse University Press, 1997).
37
Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen; Heiner Stahl, Jugendradio im kalten
Ätherkrieg: Berlin als eine Klanglandschaft des Pop (1962 - 1973) (Berlin:
Landbeck, 2010); concerning the Soviet radio station Maiak and Soviet TV see
Roth-Ey, Moscow Prime Time, chapters 3-5; concerning the CSSR see Srubar,
Ambivalenzen.
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xix

In addition, the volume takes a longǦterm perspective beyond the fall of

the Iron Curtain. It does not end with the collapse of state socialist
regimes, because many trends of the post-socialist period are directly
linked to earlier developments or pick up socialist traditions. In some post-
socialist states, recently including Poland and for a longer period now
Russia, the reǦestablishment of state hegemony over television channels
and programme contents can be observed. The Russian TV channel
Rossiia Kul’tura benefits from nostalgic trends in Russian society and
serves its audience by broadcasting popular Soviet films, serials and
features. At the same time, however, the last 25 years were a period of
growing Americanisation and globalisation in Eastern Europe with many
Western media products consumed and with the globally felt structural
changes brought about by satellites, private broadcasters and the Internet.38
The volume also aims to elaborate transnational perspectives on
convergence zones, observations, collaborations, circulations and
entanglements between Eastern and Western television. It rests upon the
long neglected fact that even during the Cold War television could easily
become a cross-border matter. It bridged not only the ideological gap
between the Cold War blocs but also cultural, social, and economic, as
well as spatial borders on both sides of the Iron Curtain, between
peripheries and centres, between local and national levels. It can be
supposed that public spheres of communication at least overlapped in
certain areas. In the long run, these spheres of communication became–
whether officially intended or not–increasingly entangled. More often than
not, television potentially created ambiguity by importing films and serials
from the other side of the Iron Curtain or interconnecting the live signals
of Eurovision and Intervision, i.e. the East and the West European
Broadcasting Unions for the exchange of TV and radio programmes.39

38
Patryk Wasiak, “The Great Époque of the Consumption of Imported Broadcasts:
West European Television Channels and Polish Audiences during the System
Transition,” in VIEW Journal of European Television History and Culture 3 (2014)
5: 68-68.
39
Lars Lundgren, “Live From Moscow: the Celebration of Yuri Gagarin and
Transnational Television in Europe,” in VIEW Journal of European Television
History and Culture, 1 (2012), 2: 45–55; Henrich-Franke, Immel, “Making Holes
into the Iron Curtain?”; Beutelschmidt, Oehmig, “Connected Enemies?“; Anna
Wiehl, “ARTE: French-German Experiments in Crossing the Borders. ‘One Media
– Three Screens’ Convergence and Interactivity at its Full Potential?,” in VIEW
Journal of European Television History and Culture 3 (2014), 6: 78-94; Mari
Pajala, “East and West on the Finnish Screen. Early Transnational Television in
Finland,” in VIEW Journal of European Television History and Culture 3 (2014) 5:
xx Introduction

Despite the attempts to jam foreign radio and TV signals, media consumers
living in the peripheries and border regions had the opportunity to watch
foreign, in many cases capitalist television programmes. Sitting in their
living rooms, they were able to transgress the national borders and even
the Iron Curtain virtually. This phenomenon has been especially
highlighted for GDR citizens watching West German television, but the
transfer was not restricted to a simple West-East model. Romanian
viewers, for example, were able to watch Bulgarian, Yugoslavian,
Hungarian or Soviet television, depending on their place of residence.40
Initial steps have been taken for the Soviet periphery with regard to
Estonia.41 One aspect of this ‘transnationalisation’ of television contents
was–except for the German case–that transnational television obviously
attributed new importance to language skills in border regions. The impact
of language, the ability to create cultural meanings to foreign media
contents and to relate them to the country’s own national or perhaps even
regional context certainly gained a different emphasis in each society. Also
societal meaning and the politicisation of the public language use may
have differed considerably according to the ethnic setting of a country.
Contemporaries seemed to have attributed high socio-political importance
to transnational television consumption in the border regions of the
Eastern bloc. Thus, watching foreign television might have been a suitable
practice not only to gain alternative or complementary information, but
also to complement the cultural capital with foreign languages. Both
aspects remind us to analyse the impact of language issues in the context
of television, strategies of promoting and the actual use of local languages
on television in multi-ethnic settings in greater detail than so far.

88-99; Yulia Yurtaeva, “Intervision. Searching for Traces,” in VIEW Journal of

European Television History and Culture 3 (2014) 5: 23-34.
40
See e.g. Michael Meyen, “Die ARD in der DDR,” in Aus Politik und
Zeitgeschichte (2010), 20: 28-34; idem, Hauptsache Unterhaltung. Mediennutzung
und Medienbewertung in Deutschland in den 50er Jahren (Münster: LIT, 2001),
229-245; idem, Einschalten, Umschalten, Ausschalten?; Hanno Hochmuth,
“Feindbild und Leitbild. Westfernsehen in der DDR,” in Vom Gegner lernen.
Feindschaften und Kulturtransfers im Europa des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, ed.
Martin Aust and Daniel Schönpflug (Frankfurt/New York: Campus, 2007), 271-
292; Dana Mustata, “Within Excess Times and a Decit Space: Cross-border
Television as a Transnational Phenomenon in 1980s Romania,” in Transnational
Television History: A Comparative Approach, ed. Andreas Fickers and Catherine
Johnson (Abingdon, New York: Routledge, 2012), 89-102, here 90.
41
Annika Lepp and Mervi Pantti, “Window to the West: Memories of Watching
Finnish Television in Estonia during the Soviet Period,” in VIEW Journal of
European Television History and Culture 2 (2012), 3: 76-86.
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xxi

Thus, television as a complex ensemble of institutions, producers, and

audiences can be a heuristic prism of transnational history that allows for
several perspectives on Cold War societies, cultures, and political arenas.
This is, however, a rather new approach: Although television has partly
been a transnational medium at least from the 1950s on, television history
has long been told in national frames and narratives. Without denying that
the Cold War nation state was the legal, political and cultural stronghold of
television, this volume aims to revise the methodological nationalism and
to contribute to the transnational television history especially from the
perspective of the long if not ignored, then at least neglected Eastern side
of the Iron Curtain. It shows how the use of the medium contradicted any
strictly dichotomous world views, how it on the contrary entangled them,
and how it yielded structural and cultural similarities of Eastern and
Western practices. An important question is also, to what extent television
might have thwarted ideas of a televisual West-East imperialism and
established new convergence zones of transnational or transcultural
encounters bridging the Iron Curtain.
In the end, the history of Cold War television should highlight several
narratives. It is not only a history of dichotomous representations and
narratives of communication spaces divided by the Iron Curtain, but also
of transnational transfers, collaboration and observation crossing the Iron
Curtain. Further, it is a history of competing “Eastern” and “Western”
television cultures fighting for cultural and political hegemony of the
respective bloc. The hegemonic position was hardly to be determined
objectively. However, both sides strove to paint a televisual picture of their
society, of their social order and values that aimed to convince the
domestic audience, the international bloc audiences, and the audiences of
the developing world. The question of persuasiveness and response is
perhaps the most challenging perspective and would call for a story of
consumer attitudes and practices on the basis of contemporary sources, as
well as oral history interviews working out retrospective stances.42 The
question of TV contents and its reception is closely related to the history of
programme exchanges and trade beyond and across the Iron Curtain. Last
but not least, the history of Cold War TV is the history of technical
development, competition, and collaboration. Cold War television
objected to the territorial logics of binary bloc thinking: As the chapters
demonstrate, it went beyond the Iron Curtain.

42
There are first studies that demonstrate the persistence of different media
cultures on different levels, as for example within united Germany or between the
former Eastern bloc states.
xxii Introduction

The Volume’s Contributions

Transnational Perspectives and Media Events
The first section of this volume is devoted to conceptual thoughts on
transnational European TV history and on media events whose analysis
helps to understand Cold War media culture. Media historian Andreas
Fickers aims to present a new view on European television history
transcending the Iron Curtain. He questions the usual East-West divide and
the binary model of a ‘capitalist’ television culture in Western Europe and
a ‘socialist’ one in Eastern Europe. Rather, his approach is a regional-
topographical one. Therefore, he focuses on cross border-transmissions
and points to the existence of “numerous zones of convergence”.
Concentrating on concrete phenomena of exchange, interactions, and
transfer, he regards these as characteristic of the “European broadcasting
landscape” in the Cold War period. Summarising the state of research on
the important spheres of exchange and sale of television productions
which could cross the Iron Curtain, Fickers clearly distinguishes between
free exchange and commercial trade. In the context of a rising global TV
market, the latter became more dominant in the 1970s and 1980s. With
regard to television and in contrast to radio, the economic benefit of
programme exchanges was very important. What concerns exchange and
trade, however, is the relationship between East and West which is,
according to Fickers, characterised by “asymmetrical interdependencies”
as the West could provide higher qualitative standards and exported more
to the East than vice versa.
Transnational and even trans-bloc media events have been common
almost since the beginning of mass TV broadcasting in Europe in the
1950s. Political and cultural events were reported simultaneously on both
sides of the Iron Curtain, often implying observations and reporting about
the reports on the other side. Despite the Cold War separation of blocs and
political influence spheres, there was sufficient cooperation on a technical
and institutional level to provide transmissions to a global TV public that
transcended political borders.
Media events are an established and comparably well-researched
subject in media studies. The in-depth analysis of specific events, most
prominently the first moon landing of 1969, shows how television as a
mass medium has developed along the lines of major events.43

43
Lorenz Engell, “Das Mondprogramm. Wie das Fernsehen das größte Ereignis
aller Zeiten erzeugte,” in Friedrich Lenger, Ansgar Nünning eds, Medienereignisse
in der Moderne (Darmstadt: WBG, 2008), 150-172.
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xxiii

Furthermore, in the context of the Cold War, media events provide an

abundance of source material to show mutual East-West perceptions and
rivalry as well as national and international institutional structures.
In this volume, two contributions closely examine the mutual East-
West observation and referencing in the example of divided Germany and
thus enrich our understanding of East-West interactions. Media scholar
Judith Keilbach discusses the Eichmann trial as a transnational media
event in the context of divided Germany. The Eichmann trial, which Hannah
Arendt made a subject of discussion, took place in Israel in 1961 after
Mossad had captured Adolf Eichmann, a former SS-Obersturmbannführer
and one of the main organisers of the Holocaust. The judges in Jerusalem
regarded him as one of the key perpetrators of the Holocaust and
sentenced him to death. In the following year, he was executed. In the
history of television, the Eichmann trial was the first trial to be televised,
and it also became a global event in the persecution of Nazi crimes.
Needless to say, reporting on the trial was very important and very critical
for both FRG and GDR. The highly contested Nazi past of the country was
fundamental for the self-understanding of both German states, and it was a
subject which mutual accusations and propaganda centred around.
Germany can be seen as a focal point of the mutual East-West propaganda
and observation. It presents a case of an unusually intense media rivalry
because of the common language and the central position of Germany in
the East-West divide.
As Judith Keilbach’s contribution shows, both sides reacted to one
another directly. The author shows in detail how these references to the
other German state were directed and enacted. To this end she analyses not
only the well-known and long-enduring GDR propaganda programme
“Der schwarze Kanal” (The black channel), but also its West German,
rather short-lived counterpart “Die rote Optik” (Red Lenses). These were
programmes which were entirely devoted to dealing with media output
from the other side. Keilbach’s contribution also embraces other GDR and
FRG political programmes as well as films. Only through this encompassing
view does the campaign character of the news coverage become evident.
In the end, however, the impact of the propaganda on both sides was rather
limited.
Media scholar Sven Grampp contributes to this perspective by
analysing the TV broadcasts of the first manned moon landing in both the
FRG and GDR in a conceptually rich text. Drawing on the notion of
observing as conceptualised in systems theory (Niklas Luhmann), the
author presents the space race as a system of second order observation
characteristic of the Cold War. Television and especially live reports
xxiv Introduction

became a central reference point in this system. Again, the German-

German split serves as an exciting focus of the Cold War. Grampp
analyses in detail several programmes of the West German major
broadcaster ARD (Consortium of public broadcasters in Germany) and the
East-German DFF (German Television Broadcaster) with ambivalent
results. In particular, the ARD coverage doesn’t fit very well into the
expected Cold War mutual accusation and enemy-description scheme,
with the Soviet side being treated by the West German journalists with
much respect and even sympathy, while the USA is subtly criticised, more
or less. Drawing on conceptions of cultural comparison and societal self-
descriptions, the author is able to show that, besides the West-East
conflict, the German national perspective also comes into play, with
references being made to the technical and engineering groundwork for the
moon landing that Germans were said to have accomplished. This serves
as a formidable example of how broadcasts, through televised cultural
comparisons, formed not only bloc, but also national identities.
The mutual observations of first and second order and the critical
references (including ignoring) to what was being observed were an
integral element of the international system. But Grampp also sees the
Cold War in a historical perspective: it was a period in the history of
international and global communications during which “a special
observation and perception scheme” was established and practiced, which
has further shaped global media culture.
The text also reflects on the relation between local and global
understanding and applies “glocalisation” as a dialectical concept: against
the backdrop of a globalising world, the search and specification of the
local becomes relevant in a new way. Combined with the approach of
cultural comparison and the established second order observation scheme,
the televisual coverage of the moon landing appears as an important
“imagination agent” in a globalised media culture.

Television and Popular Culture: Films and Serials

As mentioned above, the relation between television and popular
culture in socialist societies is a booming field of research. Western, and
especially American influences and models have been taken up and
reframed in Europe’s East and West. In Central and Eastern Europe,
serials were produced that can be classified as sitcoms or family serials.
Drawing on established cultural forms and subjects in the respective
national context, they staged the tension between emerging consumer
cultures and socialist norms and values. Gender issues were often centre
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xxv

stage in these productions, e.g. when a socialist super-woman represented

an ideal that was permanently threatened by failure.44 Remakes and
continuations of these formats and products in the post-socialist period
testify to their cult status, but also show how important the nostalgia for
the socialist past can be for current societies and media cultures.
A film that outlived the end of the socialist period and that addresses
gender relations is analysed by literary scholar Hannah Müller. The East
German-Czechoslovak coproduction “Three Nuts for Cinderella”, a
Cinderella variation from 1973 is still very popular today, not just in the
Czech Republic and Slovakia, but also in the whole of Germany, in
Switzerland and Norway. The film has gained cult status and is an integral
part of Christmas celebrations in these countries. Many families and
viewers arrange the schedule for the Christmas holidays according to its
airtime.
The author explores the fairy tale genre in the socialist period, which
was “characterised by its oscillation between educational mission and
internal criticism”, and offered some artistic freedom for producers.
Criticism of the socialist system could be elegantly interwoven with fairy
tale interpretations. Regarding its class policy message, “Three Nuts for
Cinderella” could be read by viewers in different, diverging ways: as an
anti-capitalist critique and rebellion of the working class (Cinderella’s
emancipation from the oppression by her step-mother and step-sister), as a
re-establishment of the traditional social order with Cinderella’s return to
her rightful social position in nobility, and even as critique of the existing
socialist system with her greedy, egoistic relatives symbolising the abuse
of power within this system. This variety of possible interpretations was
one reason for its positive reception across the Iron Curtain. As Müller
explains, the re-interpretation of the female protagonist, Cinderella, was
more unequivocal and equally contributed to the film’s popularity. It
presented Cinderella as a gender non-conforming young girl who
surpassed her future husband, the prince, in hunting, shooting, and horse
riding and who was unusually self-determined. This emancipation figure

44
The Czechoslovak serial “The Counter Lady” (Žena za pultem, 1977/78) is a
prominent example. Jakub Machek, “‘The Counter Lady’ as a Female Prototype:
Prime Time Popular Culture in 1970s and 1980s Czechoslovakia”, in Medijska
istraživanja/Media research 16 (2010) 1, 31-52. See for a deconstruction of this
kind of audiovisual representation of the socialist super-woman in subversive
documentary films of the 1970s produced in Leningrad: Aglaia Wespe,
Alltagsbeobachtung als Subversion. Leningrader Dokumentarfilm im Spätsozialismus
(Göttingen: V&R unipress, 2014), especially 209-239.
xxvi Introduction

attracted female viewers and could be perceived as a counterweight to role

models offered by American films.
Media scholars Nevena Dakoviü and Aleksandra Milovanoviü present
the series “Theatre at Home” (Pozorište u kuüi) that premiered in 1972 on
Yugoslav television as a prototype of the “socialist family sitcom”. The
serial was produced by TV Belgrade and the story set in Karaburma, a
middle-class district of Belgrade. The adventures of three generations
living in a small apartment were very popular while at the same time
Western productions including “Dynasty” were being broadcasted in
Yugoslavia. The socialist family sitcom developed as a combination of an
American TV format and the depiction of everyday life in a socialist
society. Typical juxtapositions played out in “Theatre at Home” were the
rural, patriarchal tradition versus the modern, urban life, and West versus
East. The sitcom is understood as a reflection of current social, economic
and cultural change in society including the advance of socialist
modernity. The spread of a (partly Western-induced) consumer culture is
reflected in the sitcom in a harmonising way, reconciling it with a socialist
social system, thereby “denying the logic of the East-West divide”. This is
interpreted as fitting neatly with Yugoslavia’s special position as it was
situated between the two blocs during the Cold War and was exposed to
Western (popcultural) influences much more than most other socialist
countries. Furthermore, the sitcom’s fate is seen as symptomatic of
socialist modernity, with its golden age in the 1970s, the turbulences of the
1980s and an unsuccessful remake in the 2000s marking the final end of
socialist modernity and denoting the breakup of Yugoslavia.
Slavicist Maria Zhukova takes us to the late Soviet Union. She offers a
fresh insight into the ‘televisionised’ changes within the popular culture of
the perestroika in the second half of the 1980s, a period known for its
rapid expansion of critical comments in all kinds of media. Examining the
blockbuster Igla (The needle), her paper analyses the film’s observation
and deconstruction of television as the most important reference medium
of late Soviet popular culture. The film was directed by Kazakh filmmaker
Rashid Nugmanovin in 1988. One of the main characters was Viktor Tsoi,
the extremely popular singer of the Soviet rock band “Kino”. Tsoi was a
hero of late Soviet rock culture who expressed the feelings of the young
generation with his songs. Nugmanov’s film shows television in at least
two very different perspectives: as a (deconstructed) powerful propaganda
machine controlling a passive audience, and as a working medium for the
rock music scene which gained in significance as a counter-culture in
those years.
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xxvii

Zhukova introduces us to a rich system of cultural and subcultural

references. The film title, “The needle”, alludes not only to drug addiction,
but also to Moscow’s TV tower Ostankino with its thin, pointed
construction. This again points to a common understanding of Soviet
television serving as a means to spread ideology and propaganda, which
was of course viewed critically by dissidents. After the 1960s, TV critics
made a connection between TV watching and drug addiction.
Soviet television is deconstructed visually in the film, as well as
audibly. TV sets are to be seen in various constellations, and collages of
TV and radio sounds convey the impression of a meaningless sonic
background. This reflects a common cultural practice: the TV was often
switched on, but not really watched or listened to attentively and served as
a mere acoustic backdrop to everyday life. Another example of the
reflection of Soviet cultural practice in the film is a sequence showing
three TV sets operating simultaneously. This alludes to the symbolism of
the Holy Trinity and the sacred status of the TV set, which was often
placed in the living room like an object of worship.
The deconstruction of Soviet television in the late 1980s, as shown in
Zhukova’s contribution, was followed by the actual disintegration of
socialist state broadcasting with the regime changes in 1990/1991. The
institutional reorganisations that went along with the latter were most
dramatic in the cases of the disintegrating multinational and federal states,
the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia, where the central broadcasting stations
lost their dominant position and national broadcasting stations emerged out
of the former republican ones. With the end of the communist era and its
official reservation towards Western productions, the import and
adaptation of Western programmes, including serials, increased, and the
much discussed processes of globalisation and glocalisation had a more
immediate impact in Eastern Europe.45
The last contribution to this section by slavicist Theodora Trimble
traces tendencies of more recent developments in Russian serials. She
analyses a Russian version of the famous US serial “Sex and the City”
entitled “The Balzac Age or All Men are Bast…” (Bal’zakovskii vozrast ili
Vse muzhiki svo…), produced by the well-known director Dmitrii Fiks

45
Cf. the following contribution in which the authors stress the importance of
regional television in Russia in the context of glocalisation: Stephen Hutchings and
Natalia Rulyova, “Introduction,” in Television and Culture in Putin’s Russia, idem
eds. (London, New York: Routledge, 2009). Existing research has concentrated on
political domination of the mass media, e.g.: Birgit Beumers, Stephen Hutchings
and Natalia Rulyova eds., Globalisation, Freedom and the Media after
Communism: The Past as Future (New York: Routledge, 2009).
xxviii Introduction

from 2004-2007. “The Balzac Age’s” characters and plot are modelled
quite closely on the American original with four female protagonists. On
second glance, however, several specific features can be detected. While in
“Sex and the City” the relation between class and family is played out,
these issues come up in the Russian serial as well but get a different twist:
The serial broaches the issue of the ongoing economic and social transition
after the fall of socialism. Class and consumer culture are represented, but
not as affirmatively as in the American counterpart. The (alleged) female
liberation tendencies are overshadowed by a reinforcement of patriarchal
values and norms. In the end, the conventional American promotion of the
nuclear family is ridiculed. The sceptical attitude that Fiks’ production has
towards the American original is, it can be assumed, typical for a very
ambivalent Russian-American cultural relationship. Furthermore, “The
Balzac Age” is a good example of how a global media product is received
and adapted in a very specific context.

Television and the Transgressing of Language Borders

The next section takes us to the Southeast of Europe and addresses the
interrelation between politics, language, and television (consumption)
under socialist regimes. The linguist Lucia Gaja Scuteri regards television
as a spoken medium: its language usage is expected to train viewers in
using the ‘correct’ language and is therefore constantly scrutinised by the
public. In her contribution, the author examines the usage of Slovenian, a
South Slavic language, as the national language of the Slovenian republic
in Yugoslavia. After the spread of television, Slovenian elites deplored the
deterioration and marginalisation of Slovenian and the dominance of
Serbo-Croatian. The Slovenian Association of Slavistics (SDS) was one of
the main players in the struggle to carve out more broadcasting time and
space for programmes in Slovenian. As the issue was picked up by
politicians, regular broadcasting of news in Slovenian was introduced in
1968. The relevance of national-linguistic politics and TV language was
acknowledged by linguists and other intellectuals, but also by the audience
and to some extent by political functionaries.
The preoccupation with Slovenian was not restricted to television, and
Scuteri considers all other mass media as well and shows that ‘language
columns’ in newspapers and on the radio, as well as on television aimed at
improving and correcting the usage of Slovenian. The author highlights the
1960s and the 1980s as two periods of intensified inter-republic tensions
and conflicts, which found their expression in language policy struggles.
She presents external initiatives related to the language used on television,
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xxix

but also shows that different departments within the television apparatus
were concerned with this issue, the most significant of which being a
“Programme Council for Language”. Its establishment in the 1980s was a
consequence of previous debates and showed that the medium itself had an
increased interest in its own language. Scuteri wisely does not attempt to
evaluate how much the TV language issue contributed to the gradual
dissolution of the Yugoslav federation, but rather stresses the co-evolution
of inter-republic conflicts and language policy debates.
However, the debates about the status and correct usage of Slovenian
persisted after the republic became independent in 1991, even if under
different conditions. There was, though, another problem in the socialist
period that Scuteri also addresses and that was not at all restricted to the
Slovenian case: the typical communist apparatchik-style language
characterised by very long sentences, little content and hollow phrases that
very much influenced language of mass media, especially in news
programmes.46 The usage of this language contributed to the dullness of
television (news) programmes in socialist regimes in general, it seems.
The unalluring contents of socialist television programmes applied to
Albania as well, a country which was a latecomer and an exception to the
rule of the synchronous spread of television as a mass medium in Europe.
The communist regime was keeping the country in isolation, not only from
Western, but also from other socialist countries and adhered to an
economic model of autarky. Historian Idrit Idrizi reminds us of the strictly
political and power-related aspects of television consumption in the
example of Albania. He draws on concepts from social and political
history and assumes an “asymmetric power relationship” between “ruling”
and “ruled” actors. Other than in models influenced more strongly by the
totalitarian approach, the power relation described here is characterised by
interaction and complexity. Idrizi draws on the German historians Alf
Lüdtke, Thomas Lindenberger, and others. With a rich source base ranging
from archival material to interviews and focussing on the late 1970s and
early 1980s, Idrizi applies this concept to Albania in an attempt to
understand socialist rule more deeply.
The way the regime dealt with foreign TV broadcasts points to
paradoxical and hypocritical aspects of communist rule. Italian,
Yugoslavian and Greek programmes could be received in different parts of
Albania, and the regime continuously ran campaigns against these foreign

46
Cf. Daniel Weiss, “Prolegomena zur Geschichte der verbalen Propaganda in der
Sowjetunion,” in Slavistische Linguistik 1994. Referate des XX. Konstanzer
Slavistischen Arbeitstreffens, Zürich 20.-22.9.1994, ed. Daniel Weiss (München:
Sagner 1995), 384.
xxx Introduction

broadcasts, evaluating Yugoslav (at least half-socialist) as even worse than

Italian (non-socialist) ones because Tito’s Yugoslavia was deemed the
main enemy of Albania. At the same time, the country’s elites did
consume foreign TV, which thus appeared as a kind of luxury good. For
them, it was interesting as the much-cited window to the world in an
isolated country. The consumption of foreign TV shows a deeply
segregated society. The majority and especially the villagers showed no
interest in the outside world which–according to Idrizi–remained outside
of their imagination, and they were also intimidated by the regime’s
counter-campaigns. The knowledge of foreign languages, which is so
important in Scuteri’s contribution, is not essential in this context. Foreign
programmes were consumed even without understanding the language. It
was sufficient to see ‘nice’ things that depicted a totally different reality
than the everyday life in Albania.
The present volume is completed by media scholar James Schwoch’s
contribution in an essayistic and very creative approach. He returns our
attention to big TV events referring to the moon landing in 1969 and the
collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989. Schwoch introduces “fragments” and
“milliseconds” as analytical tools as he explores the spatiality and
temporality of the TV experience. He points to the fact that in most of the
Cold War period receivers were fixed to certain locations (the television
set at home) while afterwards receivers became more and more mobile
and, consequently, borders played a less and less important role. At the
same time, every media user nowadays is beleaguered by data gatherers of
various kinds, a blend of state and commercial institutions and companies
that he terms “the coterie”. While the moon and the Berlin wall were
fragmented into pieces in their time, today’s media user is also fragmented
and surveyed by this quest for data. Schwoch thus reminds us of the basic
infrastructural and technical changes TV has undergone since the 1990s
(with forerunners), e.g. the introduction of satellite TV and the merging of
Internet and TV. The contribution does not end in a pessimistic vein,
though, but proposes to use defragmentation as a counterpoint to the
fragmentation problem (as in ‘cleaning’ a computer’s hard disk). The
author encourages us to go on with the collective research adventure
devoted to global TV history and closes his text and this volume with an
open end.
This open end can be understood as an invitation to continue creative,
innovative research on the issues presented in this volume. Concerning the
history of television in (post-)socialist countries and in transnational
perspectives, we are still in the exciting early phase of exploration and
accumulation of knowledge. If this volume achieves its aim of enriching
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain xxxi

this booming field of research and helps to make it more transparent and
coherent, it has fulfilled its purpose.

Bibliography
Internet Sources
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6RLCw1OZFw, 0:20 – 1:32 min.,
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I.

TRANSNATIONAL PERSPECTIVES
AND MEDIA EVENTS




CHAPTER ONE

LOOKING EAST–WATCHING WEST?

ON THE ASYMMETRICAL INTERDEPENDENCIES
OF COLD WAR EUROPEAN
COMMUNICATION SPACES

ANDREAS FICKERS

Introduction
This essay aims to reflect on the multiple exchanges and cooperations
in the field of television broadcasting between different actors from
Eastern and Central Europe and Western Europe during the Cold War
period. Based on the assumption that binary Cold War narratives of
divided communication spaces between the so-called socialist bloc
countries and the capitalist “West” have to be revised, I will focus on
different levels of cross-border interactions in specific arenas of
transnational collaboration. I argue in favour of a complex model of multi-
level historical analysis, describing Cold War European communication
spaces as a relational set of asymmetrical interdependencies. Instead of
following the classical paths of methodological nationalism or the Cold
War rationale of ideological bloc oppositions, I propose to investigate the
multiple and manifold cross-border interactions and overlapping zones of
televisual exchange and transfer as a structural and characteristic
phenomenon of the Cold War European broadcasting landscape.
In doing so, I want to argue in favour of a longue durée perspective on
transnational cooperations and collaborations in the field of broadcasting,
interpreting the Cold War phase as a continuation rather than a disruption
of transnational cultural transfers in European broadcasting, both on the
level of technical collaboration, as well as on the level of economic trade
and cultural exchanges. Questioning the Cold War specificities of
transnational transfers and exchanges in the field of European
broadcasting in terms of cross-border interdependencies also implies a


 Looking East–Watching West? 3

revisiting of common assumptions about hegemonic television cultures

both in “the West” and “the East”. The deconstruction of a supposedly
“capitalist” television culture in Western Europe and an imagined
“socialist” television culture in Central and Eastern Europe shows that the
patterns of television development in terms of programming and symbolic
engineering look much the same in all European countries. 1 Despite
diverging political and ideological framing, both technological and
economic rationalities have had similar structural impacts on the
emergence and gradual expansion of television as a medium in Cold War
Europe. When looking East, one discovers in fact quite similar patterns of
televisual developments as in the West–albeit with diverging temporalities
and spatial dynamics.
Yet despite the many similarities in television development in both
Eastern and Western Europe during the period of the Cold War, I propose
to describe the relationship between the two spheres as asymmetrical. The
balance of television programme exchanges and trade between East and
West European countries shows a clear asymmetry when it comes to the
technical quality and amount of imports and exports of television products.
While one could be tempted to interpret this imbalance in terms of
television output and export as an argument demonstrating the economic
and cultural dominance of “the West” and thereby underpinning the thesis
of the “irresistible power” of capitalism,2 this chapter aims to emphasise
the structural similarities and interdependencies of this phenomenon. Both
in Eastern and Western Europe, the “long 1970s” mark a period of
dramatic extension of national television schedules due to the launch of
second channels and/or regional television services. The resulting need for
new programmes to fill the schedules was a financial and organisational
challenge for television services all over Europe–regardless on which side
of the Iron Curtain they operated. Both in Eastern and Western Europe,
importing cheap American programmes was seen as the main remedy for
this problem, but enhancing trans-border exchanges and trade in both
directions was clearly another strategy that was followed. To grasp this
complex phenomenon of structural similarities in a context of
technological and economic imbalances, the concept of asymmetrical
interdependencies is put forward as a new analytical framework.

1
For a general overview of the current state of art in historiography of European
television see Andreas Fickers, “European Television,” in: Oxford Bibliographies
Online: http://www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/obo-978019979128
6/obo-9780199791286-0057.xml.
2
Victoria de Grazia, Irresistible Empire: America’s Advance through Twentieth-
Century Europe (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 2005).


4 Chapter One

Transnational Circulations and Zones of Convergence

The reflections presented in this essay rely heavily on previously
conducted research and network activities in the field of European history
of television. Since the founding of the European Television History
Network (ETHN) in 2004, the reflection on how to de-nationalise
television histories has made great progress. 3 The systematic debate on
how to write transnational television history from a European perspective
by Bignell & Fickers and Fickers & Johnson has identified a number of
critical issues when it comes to the practical, methodological and
theoretical challenges of such an endeavour.4 While there are concerns of
conceptual heterogeneity in the field of media and television studies as
well as linguistic limitations of research when faced with the challenge of
conducting comparative historical research, or problems of accessibility to
sources, the focus of this book encourages me to reframe these concerns in
the light of the historical context of the Cold War. Or, to put it differently,
does the Cold War context ask for a specific approach when it comes to
the historical analysis of cultural transfers or televisual exchanges in the
domain of television broadcasting?
While Cold War historiography long remained within the stable model
of a two bloc confrontation emphasising ideological differences, economic
disparities and geographical isolation, more recent scholarship has
contested this binary framework and instead emphasised processes of
political recognition, industrial collaboration and mutual cultural
transfers.5 Especially in the field of cultural diplomacy, numerous studies

3
On the founding history and basic ambitions of the network see: Andreas Fickers
and Sonja de Leeuw, “Das European Television History Network: Europäische
Fernsehgeschichtsschreibung in vergleichender Perspektive,” in Medien & Zeit.
Kommunikation in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart 20 (2005) 2, 4-11.
4
See Jonathan Bignell and Andreas Fickers, “Comparative European Perspectives
on Television History,” in A European Television History, ed. Jonathan Bignell
and Andreas Fickers (Malden MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2008), 1-54, and
“Reflections on Doing European Television History”, ibid., 229-256, and Andreas
Fickers and Catherine Johnson (eds.), Transnational Television History: A
Comparative Approach (Routledge: New York 2012).
5
Yale Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War: Raising the Curtain
(Pennsylvania: State University Press, 2003); Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin
Miklóssy (eds.), Reassessing Cold War Europe (Abingdon: Routledge, 2011);
Peter Kuznick (ed.), Rethinking Cold War Culture (Washington: Smithsonian
Books, 2010); Annette Vowinckel, Marcus Payk and Thomas Lindenberger (eds.),
Cold War Cultures: Perspectives on Eastern and Western European Societies
(New York: Berghahn Books, 2011); Simo Mikkonen, Pia Koivunen (eds.),


 Looking East–Watching West? 5

have analysed what Susan Reid has defined as “zones of convergence”6

between Western and Socialist ideologies, for example in the fields of
music, exhibitions or media.7 Building on such literature and confronting it
with recent approaches in the field of European history of technology,8
Alexander Badenoch, Christian Henrich-Franke and myself have tried to
develop a conceptual framework for the study of European broadcasting
from a transnational and multi-level perspective. 9 This approach is
characterised by the double dynamics of tensions between transmission
and reception zones on the one side, and the tensions between different
dimensions of European broadcasting on the other: the material or
technological dimension, the institutional dimension, the economic
dimension and the cultural or symbolic dimension. This double dynamics
allows us to describe and analyse the complex processes of circulation and
appropriation of communicative products as phenomena of a constant
renegotiation of communication spaces. In paying special attention to
technologies and infrastructures of transnational broadcasting in Europe,
for example, by looking at transmitter power, networks of relay stations,
international cable connections, or satellite systems, we aim to emphasise
the pivotal role of broadcasting technologies in the shaping of overlapping
zones of reception (for example, in national border regions). New
technologies of production, recording, transmission, and reception–be it
short wave radio, television signals or geostationary satellites in the orbit–
have constantly challenged regimes of transnational regulation and


Beyond the Divide. Entangled Histories of Cold War Europe (New York: Berhahn,
2015).
6
Susan Reid, “The Soviet Pavilion at Brussels ’58: Convergence, Conversion,
Critical Assimilation, or Transculturation?” (Working Paper no. 62 of the Cold
War International History Project of the Woodrow Wilson International Center for
Scholars), accessed December 22, 2014,
http://www.wilsoncenter.org/sites/default/files/WP62_Reid_web_V3sm.pdf.
7
See, for example, Naima Prevots, Dance for Export. Cultural Diplomacy and the
Cold War (Hanover: Wesleyan, 1999); Thomas Lindenberger (ed.), Massenmedien
im Kalten Krieg (Köln: Böhlau, 2006); Sarah Nilsen, Projecting America, 1958:
Film and Cultural Diplomacy at the Brussels World’s Fair (Jefferson: McFarland,
2011).
8
See Alexander Badenoch and Andreas Fickers (eds.), Europe Materializing:
Transnational Infrastructures and the Project of Europe (Basingstoke: Palgrave,
2010).
9
Alexander Badenoch, Andreas Fickers and Christian Henrich-Franke (eds.), Airy
Curtains: European Broadcasting during the Cold War (Baden-Baden: Nomos,
2013).


6 Chapter One

governance and de facto questioned–or even ridiculed–the territorial logics

of Cold War politics.
This sensitivity to the technical dimension of transnational broadcasting
by no means aims to restore or defend the idea of technological
determinism10–quite the opposite. The multi-dimensional approach aims to
explore the dynamics between the different levels of European spaces of
communication in the making: that is the interaction between and
interconnectedness of the material, social, economic and cultural aspects
in the construction and constant renegotiation of transnational and
European broadcasting spaces. From this approach, Cold War European
communication spaces become apparent as a complex interplay of
different actants and actors in specific historical circumstances and
environments, tentatively described as arenas.11
Based on the Latourian differentiation between human and non-human
actors (called actants) 12 and inspired by Manuel Castells’ and Arjun
Appadurai’s dynamic concept of space,13 the tripartite conceptualisation of
transnational communication spaces as the result of a temporal and spatial
negotiation in concrete historical situations (arenas) offers a conceptual
framework for the study of transnational media flows during the Cold
War. While cross-border television transmissions (be it in the live mode of
Eurovision/Intervision events or in the exchange or trade of foreign
television productions) basically rely on the existence of material
infrastructures for the production, recording or live transmission of
televisual signals, such transmissions or transfers can only be realised by
the intermediary of institutional actors such as international organisations
or on the basis of bilateral agreements between different broadcasting
bodies. Institutional actors–such as the European Broadcasting Union
(EBU) or the Organisation Internationale de Radiodiffusion et Télévision


10
On this long-standing debate in the history of technology, cultural studies and
theory of innovation see Merritt Roe Smith (ed.), Does Technology Drive
History?: The Dilemma of Technological Determinism (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT
Press, 1994).
11
On the tripartite conceptualisation of actants, actors and arenas see Andreas
Fickers, “Seeing the Familiar Strange: Some Reflections about Actants, Actors and
Arenas of Transnational Media History,” in Medien & Zeit. Kommunikation in
Vergangenheit und Gegenwart 26 (2011) 4, 16-24.
12
Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network
Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2005).
13
Manuel Castells, Communication Power (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2009); Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of
Globalization (Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1996).


 Looking East–Watching West? 7

(OIRT)–can be interpreted as privileged arenas for the negotiation of

technical standards, organisational modes of cross-border collaboration
and the staging of international television events.

Hybrid Spaces and Overlapping Zones of Reception

While the importance of institutional arenas in the shaping of trans-
border communication activities will be at the heart of the argument, it
seems necessary to briefly emphasise the importance of technology and
material infrastructures. In fact, trans-border communication practices
during the Cold War can be downscaled to very specic places of media
production or consumption such as the television studio or the home, or
enlarged to more hybrid and blurred spaces such as metropolises, border
regions, or coverage zones of broadcasting frequencies. In a topological
sense, locating the ows means basically identifying important nodes in
the wider communication networks. 14 Yet one should be careful not to
establish a causal relationship between a high degree of connectivity and
social, economic or political relevance. This is especially visible when it
comes to such hybrid spaces as overlapping layers of coverage zones, for
example, between FM and medium wave and short wave broadcasting
signals. The many attempts to either foster (by means of high power
transmitter stations along the Iron Curtain) or hamper (by means of
jamming) the transnational ow of broadcasting signals from West to East
or East to West during the Cold War emphasise the fact that these ows
cannot only or adequately be analysed by looking at nodes and links.
Instead, one has to study the many strategies of circumvention practices of
subversive reception in order to account for the historical complexity and
spatial fragmentation of information and communication ows across
ideological, geographical and physical borders.


14
Paul Adams, Geographies of Media and Communication (Malden: Wiley-
Blackwell, 2009), 85.


8 Chapterr One

Fig. 1 and 2: Television traansmission zonees mapped for the Netherland ds in 1960
and Sloveniaa in 1957. In both
b cases, the maps show thhe trans-borderr reception
possibilities aas a basic phyysical characterristic of televission signal tran
nsmissions
both in Westeern and Easternn Europe.


 Looking East–Watching West? 9

The spillover of radio and television signals forces us to critically

revise the methodological nationalism which has been the credo of
television studies in the first three decades of its academic existence.15 In
this respect, border regions–a neglected theme in television history so far–
are an interesting topic for transnational media history. As arenas for the
negotiation of numerous problems related to the unwanted or invited
crossing of wireless signals traversing national or ideological barriers, they
enable us to study the material, institutional and symbolic dimensions of
transnational broadcasting from a micro perspective. As Dana Mustata has
shown in the example of Romania, cross-border television reception
became a regular yet dissident practice of Romanian television culture in
the last two decades of the Ceausescu regime.16 Similar phenomena can be
observed for many socialist border regions along the Iron Curtain, most
notably in East Germany and Yugoslavia,17 but also in Western Europe.
As the case of the first commercial television station in Europe “Tele
Saar” shows, even a region located at the French-German border could
turn into a showcase for a techno-political struggle over television
standards, models of television broadcasting organisation (private versus
public service institutions) and spheres of political influence and
propaganda. The peculiar situation of the Saarland as a German-French
borderland region–which suffered from being caught between the two
powers–turned the introduction of the new technology of television in the
1950s into a unique transnational experiment, negotiating linguistic
preferences, cultural specificities and programming philosophies in the
new medium of television.18


15
See Andreas Fickers, “Television,” in The Handbook of Communication History,
ed. Peter Simonson et al. (New York: Routledge, 2013), 239-256.
16
See Dana Mustata, “Geographies of Power: The Case of Foreign Broadcasting in
Romania,” in Airy Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 149-176; Dana Mustata, “Within
Excess Times and a Decit Space: Cross-border Television as a Transnational
Phenomenon in 1980s Romania,” in Transnational Television History, ed. Fickers
and Johnson, 89-102.
17
For the case of Yugoslavia see Sabina Mihelj, “Television Entertainment in
Socialist Eastern Europe: Between Cold War Politics and Global Developments,”
in Popular Television in Eastern Europe During and Since Socialism, ed. Anikó
Imre, Timothy Havens and Kati Lustyk (London: Routledge, 2012), 13-29. For the
German Democratic Republic see Christoph Classen, “Jamming the RIAS:
Technical Measures Against Western Broadcasting in East Germany (GDR) 1945-
1989,” in Airy Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 321-346.


10 Chapter One

In fact, the spatial approach to media ows forces us to question the

huge body of political science literature dealing with the concept of the
“public sphere(s)”.19 Instead of using a normative approach, transnational
media history should be thinking of “accessibility” in terms of a duality of
(virtual) spaces and (physical) places. In analysing the complicated nature
of such dynamic zones of convergence where political power structures,
physical reception and transmission zones, and cultural norms and values
overlap and intermingle, the media historian has to challenge the
normative and highly politicised reection about the “public sphere” and
offer a more sophisticated analysis of the ambiguous nature of local,
regional, national, transnational and global processes of circulation and
appropriation of media technologies and contents.20 As research by Trever
Hagen on subversive listening practices to Radio Free Europe in
Czechoslovakia,21 Karin Bijsterveld’s work on “eavesdropping in Europe”
and the creative use of the tape recorder for East-West communication
during the Cold War22 or Patryk Wasiak’s analysis of Polish video culture
in the 1980s23 have shown, subversive trans-border communication was a
well-established cultural practice not only of political dissidents, but of
millions of media users all over Central and Eastern European countries.
In this trans-border communication practice, Eastern European listeners
and viewers were not just passive consumers of Western media
technologies and products, but active audiences that were involved in the
symbolic construction of meaning and who helped an informal economy
flourish. While cultural studies scholars have emphasised the fact that
every act of media consumption can be interpreted as active in the sense of
the individual being actively involved in the co-construction of meaning


18
Andreas Fickers, “Tele-Saar: Europe’s First Commercial TV Station as
Transnational Experiment,” in Communicazioni Sociali 1 (2013), 6-19.
19
For a critical discussion of the concept see Alan McKee, The Public Sphere: An
Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).
20
Jan C. Behrends and Thomas Lindenberger (eds.), Underground Publishing and
the Public Sphere: Transnational Perspectives (Berlin: LIT Verlag, 2014).
21
Trever Hagen, “Calling Out to Tune in: Radio Free Europe in Czechoslovakia,”
in Airy Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 123-148.
22
Karin Bijsterveld, “Eavesdropping on Europe: The Tape Recorder and East-
West Relations Among European Recording Amateurs in the Cold War Era,” in
Airy Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 101-122.
23
Patryk Wasiak, “The Video Boom in Socialist Poland,” in Zeitschrift für
Ostmitteleuropa-Forschung 61 (2012) 1, 27-50.


 Looking East–Watching West? 11

and social relevance, 24 subversive forms of trans-border communication

during the Cold War often also meant a creative appropriation and use of
technological devices making the reception of foreign cultural products
possible as such.25

The Politics of Pragmatism in Cold War Television

Exchanges
As hinted above, recent scholarship on the history of popular
entertainment in socialist countries during the Cold War has provided us
with convincing historical evidence for multiple forms of “socialist
escapes” (such as tourism, sport, nightlife and children’s summer camps)
and processes of cross-border and transnational circulation of technologies,
programmes and media discourses. 26 Television is by no means an
exception to this. 27 What characterises Cold War television exchanges
when compared to other forms of “ping-pong communication”28 across the
Iron Curtain though is its stronger institutionalisation and economic
rationale. While most cross-border radio transmissions during the Cold


24
See Nicholas Jankowski, Denis MacQuail and Karsten Rencksdorf (eds.), Media
Use as Social Action: A European Approach to Audience Studies (London:
University of Luton Press, 1996).
25
On the active role of consumers and users of technology see Ruth Oldenziel and
Mikael Hard, Consumers, Tinkerers, Rebels: The People Who Shaped Europe
(Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013).
26
Cathleen Giustino (ed.), Socialist Escapes: Breaking Away from Ideology and
Everyday Routine in Eastern Europe 1945-1989 (New York: Berghahn Books,
2013); Anne Gorsuch and Diane Koenker (eds.), The Socialist Sixties:
Crossing Borders in the Second World (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
2013).
27
See for example Aniko Imre, Timothy Havens and Katalin Lustyk (eds.),
Popular Television in Eastern Europe During and Since Socialism (London:
Routledge, 2012); Heather Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism: Television and the
Cold War in the GDR (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2014); Peter
Goddard (ed.), Popular Television in Authoritarian Europe (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 2013). Also see the special issue of VIEW on
“Television Histories in (Post)Socialist Europe”, especially Sabina Mihelj,
“Understanding Socialist Television: Concepts, Objects, Methods,” in VIEW
Journal of European Television History and Culture 3 (2014) 5. Accessed January
12, 2015. http://www.viewjournal.eu/index.php/view/article/view/JETHC051/105.
28
For the metaphor of the “ping-pong model of interactive communication” see
Badenoch et al., “Airy Curtains in the European Ether: Introduction,” in Airy
Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 9-26, here 13.


12 Chapter One

War–both from West to East and East to West–were somehow associated

with the logic of electronic invasion and ideological propaganda, 29 the
circulation of television programmes across the Iron Curtain was
characterised by a logic of trade and mutual exchange rather than
competition and jamming.
The example of the German Democratic Republic (GDR) as recently
examined by Christian Henrich-Franke and Regina Immel, 30 Thomas
Beutelschmidt and Richard Oehmig 31 and Heather Gumbert 32 is telling
when it comes to the importance and professional dimension of
programme imports and exports in a socialist television economy. Against
classical approaches that framed the import and export of television
programmes in terms of cultural imperialism and imagined consumerism,
their work has emphasised a more profane logic of structural and
economic motivations as being the main driving forces behind the
impressive amount of transnational programme exchanges and trade. From
a structural point of view, the consolidation and systematic expansion of
television services in the 1960s meant an ever-increasing need for
television productions in order to fill the schedules. The high costs of
domestic television production combined with the constant extension of
scheduling put national television services under huge financial pressure–


29
For a critical discussion on recent scholarship in the field of Cold War radio
broadcasting see Friederike Kind-Kovács, “Cold War Broadcasting”, collective
review of the Airy Curtains in the European Ether: Broadcasting and the Cold
War and Cummings, by Badenoch et al.; Radio Free Europe's “Crusade for
Freedom”: Rallying Americans Behind Cold War Broadcasting 1950–1960 by
Richard H. Cummings; Radio Free Europe and Radio Liberty: The CIA Years and
Beyond, by Johnson; and Cold War Broadcasting: Impact on the Soviet Union and
Eastern Europe. A Collection of Studies and Documents, by Eugene Parta, H-Soz-
u-Kult, October 2013, H-Net Reviews, accessed January 11, 2015, http://www.h-
net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=40231.
30
Christian Henrich-Franke and Regine Immel, “Making Holes in the Iron
Curtain?: The Television Programme Exchange across the Iron Curtin in the 1960s
and 1970s,” in Airy Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 177-213.
31
Thomas Beutelschmidt and Richard Oehmig, “Connected Enemies?:
Programming Transfer between East and West During the Cold War and the
Example of East German Television,” in VIEW Journal of European Television
History and Culture 3 (2014) 5, accessed January 12, 2015,
http://www.viewjournal.eu/index.php/view/article/view/JETHC056/132.
32
Heather Gumbert, “Exploring Transnational Media Exchange in the 1960s,” in
VIEW Journal of European Television History and Culture 3 (2014) 5, accessed
January 12, 2015,
http://www.viewjournal.eu/index.php/view/article/view/JETHC055/101.


 Looking East–Watching West? 13

both in Western Europe and in socialist countries. This need for content to
fill schedules became even more urgent when national services launched
second channels or so called “third” or regional television services in the
early 1970s. 33 In order to cope with these growing demands for more
television output, national television services developed strategies of
rationalisation based on a threefold approach: first, to enhance output by
enriching the schedule through exchanges with other broadcasting
institutions; second, to enhance output by buying in foreign productions;
and third to sell domestic productions to Western television stations in
order to earn Western currency which–in return–facilitated the acquisition
of Western programmes.34
Exchanges of television programmes were either organised on the
basis of bi-lateral agreements or embedded in larger institutional structures
such as the EBU or OIRT. The latter set up professional networks for the
free exchange of programmes based on the idea of mutual recognition and
the rapprochement between people–television was seen as an ideal means
for the promotion of peaceful cooperation and cultural transfer in times of
ideological confrontation. Originally aimed at enhancing the gratuitous
exchange of televisual output between Western and Eastern European
partner organisations within the Eurovision and Intervision network and to
stage large television events in a joint technical, financial and juridical
effort, both networks soon started a strategic collaboration, especially in
setting up the technical infrastructure for continental and sometimes global
television events such as the Olympics.35 While this collaboration, built on

33
See Benôit Lafon, “France, a State Institution: The French Model of Regional
Television,” in Transnational Television History, ed. Fickers and Johnson, 135-
139; Edgar Lersch, “Regional Television in Germany,” in ibid., 140-144; Juan
Francisco Gutiérrez Lozano, “Regional Television in Spain: The Andalusian case”,
in ibid., 145-151; Sarita Malik, “From Multicultural Programming to Diasporic
Television: Situating the UK in a European Context,” in ibid., 152-158.
34
Claudia Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen: Das DDR-Fernsehen und seine
Strategien im Umgang mit dem westdeutschen Fernsehen (Bielefeld: transcript,
2010).
35
On Eurovision see Wolfgang Degenhardt and Elisabeth Strautz, Auf der Suche
nach dem europäischen Programm: Die Eurovision 1954-1970 (Baden-Baden:
Nomos, 1999); Andreas Fickers, “The Birth of Eurovision: Transnational
Television as a Challenge for Europe and Contemporary Media Historiography,”
in Transnational Television History, ed. Fickers and Johnson, 13-32. On
Intervision see Yulia Yurtaeva, “Intervision. Searching for Traces,” in VIEW
Journal of European Television History and Culture (2014) 5, accessed January
12, 2015, http://www.viewjournal.eu/index.php/view/article/view/JETHC053/121;
and Mari Pajala, “Intervision Song Contests and Finnish Television between East


14 Chapter One

close technical, juridical and organisational contacts and cooperation in

interwar radio broadcasting, was driven by the ideology of “technocratic
internationalism”, 36 it successfully continued–without much ado about
ideological differences–during the Cold War period. Officially declared a
means for the peaceful rapprochement between people on both sides of the
Iron Curtain in the final acts of the “Conference on Security and
Cooperation in Europe” (the so-called Helsinki Final Act in August
1975),37 the exchange of television programmes became an official part of
détente politics in the 1970s. After the start of joint meetings of the
television committees of EBU and OIRT in 1964, regular personal
contacts between television officials and engineers fostered a spirit of
collegial cooperation and occasionally turned into personal friendships.38
But despite the rhetoric of détente and peaceful collaboration applied
to legitimate cross-curtain bargaining, the bilateral and multilateral
exchanges of television programmes had primarily an economic or
financial motive. The “hunger for programming” 39 was such that cost-
saving acquisition policy was a primary target for all national television
services in Europe–on both sides of the Iron Curtain. The free exchange of
television programmes through the channel of intra or inter OIRT / EBU
exchanges was certainly the most favourable option for enriching the


and West,” in Airy Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 215–239. On their collaboration
see Ernest Eugster, Television Programming Across National Boundaries: The
EBU and OIRT Experience (Dedham, Mass.: Artech House, 1983).
36
On the interwar European collaboration in the field of radio broadcasting see
Suzanne Lommers, Europe – On Air: Interwar Projects for Radio Broadcasting
(Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012). On the concept of “technocratic
internationalism” see Johan Schot and Vincent Lagendijk, “Technocratic
Internationalism in the Interwar Years: Building Europe on Motorways and
Electricity Networks,” in Journal of Modern European History 6 (2008) 2, 196-217.
37
In section 2 (information), paragraph b (co-operation in the field of information),
the declaration states: “To encourage co-operation in the field of information on
the basis of short or long term agreements or arrangements. In particular [...] they
will favour co-operation among public or private, national or international radio
and television organizations, in particular through the exchange of both live and
recorded radio and television programmes, and through the joint production and
the broadcasting and distribution of such programmes”. For the full text of the
declaration see: http://www1.umn.edu/humanrts/osce/basics/finact75.htm.
38
See Christian Henrich-Franke and Regine Immel, “Making Holes in the Iron
Curtain? The Television Programme Exchange across the Iron Curtin in the 1960s
and 1970s,” in Airy Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 177-213.
39
A quote from Beutelschmidt and Oehmig: “Connected enemies?”. See footnote
25.


 Looking East–Watching West? 15

national television schedule, but it was by no means sufficient and the

most satisfying one in terms of both quality and quantity.
Parallel to the strategy of free exchange, the trading of television
productions, especially of television series, emerged as a crucial business
in international television around the globe.40 Television fairs, such as the
“EBU Screening Sessions”, 41 the “OIRT Teleforum”, and television
festivals, such as “Prix de Jeunesse” in Munich, the “Golden Prague”
festival, the “Prix Danube” in Bratislava or the European film festivals in
Cannes, Venice, Berlin, Monte Carlo, Portoroz or Karlovy Vary developed
into central arenas for the international trade of film and television
productions. While staged as “European” film or television fairs and
festivals, they were in fact important platforms for trading American
television productions. On both sides of the Iron Curtain, American
imports of relatively cheap television series helped to fill the schedules.
Regardless of the fact that American television was referred to as the hated
and the celebrated “other” in national television discourses, ideological
concerns did not prevent television services from importing American
children’s series, soap operas, sitcoms and comedy en masse–with the
exception of the Soviet Union remaining more or less resistant to the
“American invasion”. 42 When assessing the bi- and multilateral cross-
curtain exchange and trade of television programmes during the Cold War
one has to conclude that it was–both in terms of ideological and financial
constraints–characterised by politics of pragmatism, aiming at securing the
growing need for television programming in the most cost-efficient and
practical ways.


40
Kaarle Nordenstreng and Tapio Varis, Television Traffic – A One-way Street?: A
Survey and Analysis of the International Flow of Television Material (Paris:
UNESCO, 1974); Tapio Varis, International Flow of Television Programmes
(Paris: UNESCO, 1985); Jean Chalaby, Transnational Television in Europe.
Reconfiguring Global Communications Networks (London: I.B. Tauris, 2009).
41
See Christian Henrich-Franke, “Die EBU Screening Sessions: Wandlungen des
europäischen Markts für Fernsehprogramme 1963-1985.” in Rundfunk und
Geschichte 31 (2005), 17-25.
42
See Winand Gellner (ed.), Europäisches Fernsehen – American-Blend?:
Fernsehmedien zwischen Amerikanisierung und Europäisierung (Berlin: Vistas,
1989); Ib Bondebjerg et al., “American Television: Point of Reference or European
Nightmare?,” in A European Television History, ed. Jonathan Bignell and Andreas
Fickers (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2008), 154-183; Sabina Mihelj, “Television
Entertainment in Socialist Eastern Europe: Between Cold War Politics and Global
Developments,” in Popular Television in Eastern Europe During and Since
Socialism, ed. Anikó Imre et al. (London: Routledge, 2012), 13-29.


16 Chapter One

Asymmetrical Interdependencies in Cold War European

Communication Spaces
From a conceptual point of view, this article argues that the multiple
layers of cross-border interconnectedness described so far can be framed
as a phenomenon of asymmetrical interdependency. On both sides of the
Iron Curtain, television programming in the “phase of availability” 43
became structurally dependent on the massive integration of non-domestic
television productions into the national schedules. This structural
dependency becomes evident when looking at the statistical evidence
suggesting that an average of 40% of television content in socialist
countries in the early 1980s was based on imported programmes–43% of
that amount originating from Western Europe alone. For Western Europe,
Gellner has suggested an average share of 20% of American programmes
in national television services at the same time, while Varis has quantified
the US share of exports to Western Europe at 44%.44 For sure, one has to
be cautious when relying on statistical data and the average percentages
presented above tend to harmonise some important national differences.
But despite these methodological concerns, recent scholarship quite
unanimously reinforces the historical interpretation of the substantial role
of imports for the filling of national television schedules on both sides of
the Iron Curtain and provides empirical evidence for substantiating the
thesis of a structural interdependency between Western and Eastern
television services.
But why qualify this interdependency as asymmetrical? The main
reason for this is the fact of a considerable imbalance of means of
television production during the period under consideration. Both in
Western Europe and in Central and Eastern Europe, national television
services greatly varied in terms of their economic capabilities and
infrastructural capacities. The diachronicity in the post-war development
and expansion of television all over Europe created an institutional and
infrastructural imbalance, dividing the continent into a) leading television
nations such as Great-Britain, West Germany, France, Italy and the Soviet
Union; b) early yet medium-sized television nations such as Sweden, the
Netherlands, Hungary, Belgium, Romania, Czechoslovakia, East Germany,

43
John Ellis, Seeing Things: Television in the Age of Uncertainty (London: I.B.
Tauris, 2000).
44
For the statistical evidence see the two UNESCO studies by Nordenstreng and
Varis (1974) and Varis (1985) cited in footnote 41. Winand Gellner, “Hollywood
im Glottertal. Die Macher und Nutzer europäischen Fernsehens,” in Europäisches
Fernsehen – American-Blend?, ed. idem, 15-35.


 Looking East–Watching West? 17

Denmark, Yugoslavia and Spain, and finally c) late comer and smaller
television nations such as Finland, Greece, Portugal, Norway, Bulgaria
and the Baltic states. 45 The different temporalities of television
institutionalisation across Europe, combined with structural differences in
terms of the size of countries’ respective population and linguistic
communities, created an asymmetry between export and import nations in
the European networks of programme exchange and trade. While countries
like Great Britain, West Germany, Italy and the Soviet Union had much
greater production capacities for serving the home market (which could
then be exported to other countries in a second phase), smaller countries or
less prosperous states lacked the means for realising an encompassing
programme schedule and relied more heavily on the import of foreign
television productions. This asymmetry applies for the West and for the
East and characterises–at least quantitatively–the imbalance of programme
flows between Eastern and Western European countries.

Conclusion
The purpose of this essay was twofold: first, to demonstrate the multi-
layered “zones of convergence” that existed between Eastern and Western
European broadcasting during the Cold War; second, to emphasise the
structural similarities in the development of television broadcasting on
both sides of the Iron Curtain when looking at the phase of maturation and
expansion of national television services in the 1960s and 1970s. The
multiple forms of cross-border collaboration and cooperation in the field
of television broadcasting that existed both within and between the two
“blocs” force us to question two paradigms of television and Cold War
studies: that of methodological nationalism on the one side and that of
Cold War thinking in dichotomies on the other. Rather than
conceptualising Cold War television broadcasting in Europe in politically
framed entities of analysis that has for a long time suggested the existence
of separated spheres of communication, I argue in favour of a spatial
approach that emphasises the hybrid nature of Cold War communication
spaces and highlights the many overlapping zones of transmission and
reception. From a topographical perspective, Cold War communication
spaces are to a large degree characterised by phenomena of cross-border


45
For an overview of historical and economic patterns of European television
development see the four volumes of the Monitoring Report “Television Across
Europe. Regulation, Policy and Independence”, published by the Open Society
Institute, Budapest 2005.


18 Chapter One

spillover effects that–be it by invitation or unintended–have shaped

numerous zones of convergence. Depending on the transmission
technologies involved, radio waves carrying sound or audio-visual
information have created overlapping zones of coverage unaffected by the
reality of political or ideological frontiers. The Iron Curtain becomes even
more airy when considering other media of communication that circulated
between East and West, such as tape recorders, videocassettes and popular
magazines.
In the specific case of television broadcasting though, the circulation
and appropriation of technology, organisational expertise and programmes
was to a large degree shaped by institutional actors, such as national
television services and international organisations (EBU and OIRT).
Central arenas for managing and organising such transnational and cross-
border trade and exchange–both for Western European and Eastern
European television institutions–were international television fairs and
festivals which often created strategic opportunities for preparing bilateral
agreements or initiating co-productions as well. While the model of free
exchange of television programmes within and between the EBU and
OIRT was a specific European phenomenon inspired by interwar
experiences within the International Broadcasting Union, the business of
television programme trade was basically a global one and very much
dominated by American producers. The “capitalist model” of programme
trade and the “cultural transfer model” of free exchanges thus existed hand
in hand (with a dominance of the latter in the 1950s and 1960s and a shift
towards a global market logic in the 1970s and 1980s). The decline of
economic performance in many socialist countries after the late 1970s
certainly increased the financial pressure on national television services in
the East and could result–as in the case of Romania–in a drastic reduction
of television output.46 But as the cases of East Germany or Czechoslovakia
show, export of “socialist” television productions to Western European
countries was an alternative strategy to balance the exchange rate and a
welcome opportunity for receiving foreign currency.47 In Western Europe,
the massive import of American television content became a common
denominator for most national television services and could therefore be

46
Dana Mustata, “Geographies of Power: The Case of Foreign Broadcasting in
Romania,” in Airy Curtains, ed. Badenoch et al., 149-176.
47
See Ivan Tesár, “Television Exchange of Programmes and Television Co-
operation between Czechoslovakia and Western Europe: Experience, Problems,
Prospects,” in Europe Speaks to Europe: International Information Flows Between
Eastern and Western Europe, ed. Jörg Becker and Tamas Szecskö (Oxford:
Pergamon Press, 1989), 121-137; Claudia Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen.


 Looking East–Watching West? 19

described as a shared European experience. The Americanisation of most

national television cultures in Western Europe and in some Eastern
European countries such as Yugoslavia and Romania (here especially in
the 1960s and 1970s) is a clear indicator for the global entanglement of
television cultures in the Cold War period.
The many similarities in the patterns of transnational television
exchange and trade in Eastern and Western European countries and the
historical continuity of cross-border collaboration and cooperation in the
field of broadcasting demand a critical reinterpretation of Cold War media
narratives. “Looking East”–that is focusing my analytical attention on so
far neglected television histories of Central and Eastern European
countries–has, at least to a certain degree, left me with the heuristic
impression of “Watching West”. The transnational perspective on European
television histories thus sensitises us to the structural interdependencies,
technological interconnectedness and cultural entanglements of the
European communication space during the period of the Cold War.
Although asymmetrical in terms of technological potential or economic
balance of trade, the history of Cold War cross-border communication
should be conceptualised as a history of entanglements and interdependencies
rather than presented as a story of cultural imperialism, one-way transfers
or ideological dichotomies.

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CHAPTER TWO

CAMPAIGNING AGAINST WEST GERMANY:

EAST GERMAN TELEVISION COVERAGE
OF THE EICHMANN TRIAL

JUDITH KEILBACH

In the German Democratic Republic (GDR), television was a

competitive enterprise right from the start. Its rival resided on the other,
Western side of the Iron Curtain, in the Federal Republic of Germany
(FGR). Both television services raced to be the first to transmit
programming, competing for viewers and quarrelling fiercely over
ideological positions. This keen competition resulted both from political
tensions between the GDR and the FRG, as well as from the cross-border
transmission of television signals that allowed viewers in both states to
watch the other side’s programming.
To be sure, the relationship between East and West German television
changed significantly over time, as did the modality of their competition.
Woo-Seung Lee and Claudia Dittmar both argue that it developed from a
fierce rivalry to a peaceful coexistence.1 After initial attempts to obstruct
television signals from the West, the GDR condoned, and eventually even
openly admitted the fact that its citizens watched Western television. 2
What is more, East and West German television even started to exchange



This article was written while I was a fellow at the Netherlands Institute for
Advanced Studies in the Humanities and Social Sciences (NIAS). I am grateful to
the NIAS for providing a perfect research environment.
1
Woo-Seung Lee, Das Fernsehen im geteilten Deutschland (1952-1989).
Ideologische Konkurrenz und programmliche Kooperation (Potsdam: Verlag für
Berlin-Brandenburg, 2003); Claudia Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen. Das DDR-
Fernsehen und seine Strategien im Umgang mit dem westdeutschen Fernsehen
(Bielefeld: transcript, 2010).
2
Lee, Fernsehen , 41.


26 Chapter Two

programming from the late 1960s onwards. 3 In general, the improving

political relations between the GDR and FRG from the late 1960s on 4
clearly affected East Germany’s policy towards television, 5 as Claudia
Dittmar elaborates in great detail in her book about the GDR’s handling of
West German television.6
Historical research on television programmes in the GDR suggests that
East and West German television were engaged in a 'contrastive
dialogue'. 7 Not only did they exchange programmes, East German
television also adopted concepts, genres, and productions of its West
German counterpart. 8 Furthermore, television shows in both states also
implicitly or explicitly referred to broadcasts from the other state. A
number of programmes, like the West German DIE ROTE OPTIK (1958-


3
Thomas Heimann, “Television in Zeiten des Kalten Krieges. Zum
Programmaustausch des DDR-Fernsehens in den sechziger Jahren,” in
Massenmedien im Kalten Krieg. Akteure, Bilder, Resonanzen, ed. Thomas
Lindenberger (Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau, 2006), 235–261; Thomas
Beutelschmidt, Richard Oehmig and Yulia Yurtaeva, “Grenzüberschreitungen.
Internationaler Programmtransfer als transkulturelle Kommunikation zwischen
West-und Osteuropa am Beispiel des DDR-Fernsehens.” Rundfunk und Geschichte
39, 3/4 (2013): 73-82; Christian Heinrich-Franke and Regina Immel, “Making
Holes in the Iron Curtain? The Television Programme Exchange across the Iron
Curtain in the 1960s and 1970s,” in Airy Curtains in the European Ether.
Broadcasting and the Cold War, eds. Alexander Badenoch, Andreas Fickers and
Christian Heinrich-Franke (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2013), 177-213; Heather
Gumbert, “Exploring Transnational Media Exchange in the 1960s,” VIEW Journal
of European Television History and Culture 3.5 (2014): 50-59.
4
By signing the ‘Treaty concerning the basis of relations between the Federal
Republic of Germany and the German Democratic Republic’ in 1972, both
German states recognised each other’s sovereignty.
5
Claudia Dittmar, “GDR Television in Competition with West German
Programming,” Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television (IAMHIST) 24
(2004): 331.
6
Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen.
7
Rüdiger Steinmetz and Reinhold Viehoff, “Unterhaltende Genres im Programm
des Fernsehens der DDR,” SPIEL 20, 1 (2001): 14; Rüdiger Steinmetz and
Reinhold Viehoff, Deutsches Fernsehen Ost. Eine Programmgeschichte des DDR-
Fernsehens (Berlin: Verlag für Berlin-Brandenburg, 2008), 16; Claudia Dittmar,
Feindliches Fernsehen. Das DDR-Fernsehen und seine Strategien im Umgang mit
dem westdeutschen Fernsehen (Bielefeld: transcript, 2010), 34.
8
Sascha Trültzsch and Reinhold Viehoff, “Undercover. How the East German
Political System Presented Itself in Television Series,” in Popular Television in
Authoritarian Europe, ed. Peter Goddard (Manchester; New York: Manchester
Univ. Press, 2013), 141-158.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 27

1961) and ZDF-MAGAZIN (1969-1988) and the East German DER

SCHWARZE KANAL (1960-1989),9 even dealt exclusively with the media
output from beyond the Iron Curtain. Commenting on the other side’s
broadcasts and contrasting their ideologies and politics by spelling out
their own view of the world, this ‘ping-pong’ can be understood as a form
of “mediated interaction” between East and West Germany.10 In a time
when both states claimed to be the only legitimate representative of the
German people and political relations deteriorated in the wake of the Cold
War, disputes about political systems and bloc alignment were carried out
predominantly in the media.
Focusing on the television coverage of the Eichmann trial, this chapter
traces one such example of a mediated interaction. After the war Adolf
Eichmann, the man in charge of the logistics of the mass deportations and
the Holocaust, had escaped to Argentina where he lived under a false
name. In 1960, Mossad, Israel’s intelligence agency, tracked him down,
kidnapped him and brought him to Israel where he was put on trial.11 East
and West German media reported extensively on the proceedings in
Jerusalem thereby using the opportunity to criticise how the other German
state was dealing with its Nazi past. Several East and West German
television programmes participated in this dispute by commenting on the
other broadcaster’s trial coverage.
The chapter focuses on East German television reports about the
Eichmann trial that contributed to a media campaign against the FRG.
Through this campaign the GDR tried to influence West German policy,
which in turn caused West Germany to react – in the media. The following
study describes how East German television commented upon the West
German television coverage of the Eichmann trial. On the one hand, it
shows that East German programmes assumed that their viewers watched
West German television and, on the other hand, that their reports were


9
A translation of all titles is provided at the end of this chapter.
10
Alexander Badenoch, Andreas Fickers and Christian Heinrich-Franke, “Airy
Curtains in the European Ether: Introduction,” in Airy Curtains in the European
Ether. Broadcasting and the Cold War, eds. Alexander Badenoch, Andreas Fickers
and Christian Heinrich-Franke (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2013), 13. This model of
interactive communication contrasts linear models of communication that focus on
the social impact of mass media and emphasise their propaganda effect when
applied to discuss media in the context of the Cold War. See ibid., 14.
11
For more about Eichmann before his kidnapping see Bettina Stangneth,
Eichmann Before Jerusalem: The Unexamined Life of a Mass Murderer (New
York: Knopf, 2014). In her book, Stangneth addresses the question of who in the
FRG knew about Eichmann’s whereabouts.


28 Chapter Two

monitored by the FRG. Television was thus considered as a tool to

communicate and interact with the FRG.
The trial of Adolf Eichmann took place at a time when the tensions
between East and West Germany were at their peak. The proceedings
began on April 11, 1961, a few months before the Berlin Wall was built,
and dealt with a conflict-laden issue – the Nazi past – that had already
caused a number of disputes between the two Germanies. Furthermore,
Eichmann was tried in Israel, a state to which the FRG paid compensation
for Nazi crimes and to which the GDR took up a hostile attitude.12 The
Eichmann trial thus provided plenty of opportunities for ideological
controversies to play out between East and West Germany.
To understand the GDR’s depiction of the Eichmann trial it is
necessary to bear in mind the broader Cold War context. In that conflict of
political systems, the FRG considered the GDR an undemocratic and
illegitimate state; the FRG’s constitution even claimed to represent the
whole of Germany, including the GDR. Eventually, in 1955, the FRG
proclaimed the Hallstein Doctrine, stating it would not maintain
diplomatic relations with any country that recognised the GDR. Striving
for international recognition beyond the Eastern bloc, the GDR therefore,
on the one hand, allied with Arab countries,13 and on the other, sought to
discredit the FRG.14 In the second half of the 1950s it started, for instance,
to warn the world about West Germany’s ‘renazification’ and argued that
former Nazis were gaining power again, in order to enhance its own
reputation and establish the GDR as an anti-Fascist state.15

12
Jeffrey Herf, “‘At War with Israel’. East Germany’s Key Role in Soviet Policy
in the Middle East,” Journal of Cold War Studies 16.3 (2014): 129–163.
13
Ibid.
14
Michael Lemke, Einheit oder Sozialismus? Die Deutschlandpolitik der SED
1949-1961 (Köln, Weimar: Böhlau, 2001), 435.
15
Lemke, Einheit, 435-438; Marc von Miquel, Ahnden oder amnestieren?
Westdeutsche Justiz und Vergangenheitspolitik in den sechziger Jahren
(Göttingen: Wallstein, 2004), 27-38. Despite its efforts to be acknowledged outside
the Eastern Bloc as a legitimate German state the diplomatic recognition of the
GDR by Arab countries did not occur until 1969. However, in 1965, Walter
Ulbricht, the First Secretary of the SED Central Committee, was treated as a state
guest when he visited Cairo. The subsequent announcement of the FRG to offer
formal diplomatic recognition to Israel resulted in a cessation of diplomatic
relations between the FRG and a number of Arab countries, which eventually led
to the recognition of the GDR in 1969. See Jeffrey Herf, “Politics and Memory in
West and East Germany since 1961 and in Unified Germany since 1990,” in After
Eichmann: Collective Memory and the Holocaust since 1961, ed. David Cesarani
(London, New York: Routledge, 2005), 48.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 29

Despite their political and ideological differences, both Germanies

perpetuated the idea of a unified Germany.16 This ‘rhetoric of unity’ not
only informed the two states’ politics, it also shaped the set-up of their
television infrastructure. Claiming to broadcast for all Germans, both sides
built a technical infrastructure that allowed them to transmit their
programmes across the inner-German border in the 1950s. 17 This
infrastructure laid the technical foundations for the above-mentioned
mediated interaction. Some programmes explicitly addressed viewers
across the border and provoked a response, while other programmes
commented on broadcasts from the other side that viewers on their own
side might have watched. Keeping track of the other side's activities was
of great importance for both states. Measures included monitoring
television programming, which after the late 1950s was duly and
thoroughly recorded.18 Although the relationship between East and West
German television changed over the course of time, the reciprocal
attention to each other never ceased.
The present chapter will first describe how the television infrastructure
in both Germanies was set up competitively, aiming to reach viewers on
both sides. Before zooming in on the East German television coverage of
the Eichmann trial, it will then explain how the GDR instrumentalised the
Nazi past by launching ideological campaigns against the FRG. And
finally, based on archival records and television broadcasts, it will discuss
a number of East German programmes on the trial and relate that coverage
to West German programmes of the time.

Broadcasting across the Border

Re-introducing television in Germany was a political matter and, as
Heather Gumbert argues, the “German airwaves became a new and
unprecedented battleground” of the Cold War.19 Both German states raced


16
Lemke discusses in detail how the GDR’s claim for a unified Germany changed
over time. Lemke, Einheit.
17
Heather Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism. Television and the Cold War in the
German Democratic Republic (Ann Arbor: Univ. of Michigan Press, 2014), 24.
18
After reunification these recordings were exchanged and now complement the
respective archives.
19
Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism, 21. Television had already existed in Germany
from the mid-1930s, broadcasting the 1936 Olympic Games to public viewing
facilities (Fernsehstuben), for example. During the war, television was used to
entertain war casualties in military hospitals. See William Uricchio, “Fernsehen als
Geschichte: Die Darstellung des deutschen Fernsehens zwischen 1935 und 1944,”


30 Chapter Two

to be the first to broadcast television. This competition not only resulted

from their post-war efforts to demonstrate the (technological)
achievements of their political system, but it also had to do with the
limited availability of television frequencies.20
The GDR started constructing a television centre in Berlin-Adlershof
in June 1950.21 In the same year, the West German broadcasting station
NWDR (Nordwestdeutscher Rundfunk) was already testing its television
technology, first transmitting still images and later experimental
programmes.22 In the GDR, the test phase started in December 1951 and a
year later, on December 21, 1952, television was officially introduced with
regular public broadcasts.23 In television historiography, this hasty start to
the GDR’s broadcasting, which coincided with Stalin's 73rd birthday, is
attributed to the GDR's ambition to get one-up on the FDR and its launch
of NWDR's regular television service that was scheduled to start at
Christmas in 1952. Only four days after the GDR had gained its victory,
then, the NWDR's Deutsches Fernsehen officially started. The tentative
character of the GDR's television service, however, meant it was
considered as test programming until the experimental phase was declared
to be over in 1956.
The effort to be first to transmit regular television programming was
not only driven by reasons of prestige. During a 1951 industry fair in
Berlin, the Hamburg-based NWDR presented its television achievements
with daily test programmes and audaciously continued its transmissions
from Berlin even after the fair had ended. In 1952, the European
Broadcasting Conference in Stockholm allocated frequencies for television
broadcasting to all European countries. Since only a small number of
channels were granted to both Germanies, the GDR wanted to prevent its
frequency from being ‘hijacked’ by the FRG. The general director of the
GDR's broadcasting service urged his staff to quickly establish a television
service, “otherwise our frequency goes down the drain”.24 Without regular


in Die Anfänge des Deutschen Fernsehens: Kritische Annäherungen an die
Entwicklung bis 1945, ed. William Uricchio (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1991); Klaus
Winkler, Fernsehen unterm Hakenkreuz: Organisation, Programm, Personal
(Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau, 1996); Knut Hickethier with Peter Hoff, Geschichte
des deutschen Fernsehens (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1998).
20
James Schwoch, Global TV. New Media and the Cold War, 1946-69 (Chicago:
Univ. of Illinois Press, 2009); Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism.
21
Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism, 23.
22
Knut Hickethier and Peter Hoff, Geschichte,.73ff.
23
Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen, 61ff; Hickethier and Hoff, Geschichte, 100ff.
24
Müncheberg quoted in Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen, 65.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 31

television broadcasts, went the reasoning, other countries would occupy

the GDR's frequency: “We have to be on the air every day for a few hours,
at a fixed time of the day, to fill the frequency that was allocated to us at
the international radio conference”. 25 Due to international broadcasting
regulations and the GDR's fear of being robbed of its frequencies, East
German television thus started hastily.
In the following years, the relationship between East and West German
television became more complex and intertwined. Both the Deutscher
Fernsehfunk (DFF), as the GDR's regular television broadcasting service
was called from 1956 onwards, and the West German Deutsches
Fernsehen aimed to reach the other side's viewers by transmitting
programmes across the national border. In order to be able to do so they
both had to build strong television transmitters.26 According to a technical
director of West German television, the demand to reach as far as possible
into the ‘Soviet-occupied zone’ was “one of the decisive aspects of
planning television transmitters”.27 In East Germany in turn, the governing
Socialist Unity Party (SED) issued instructions to the DFF that they reach
the West German population. 28 This demand was met with the
construction of powerful transmitters that, according to the West German
magazine Der Spiegel, “penetrated deeply into the territory of the FRG”.29
While East and West German television thus first competed on
technical grounds over airwaves and the strength of their transmitters,
content soon became a concern as well. West German television
frequently scheduled programmes about the GDR, knowing that viewers in
the East would watch them.30 Political programmes like MITTELDEUTSCHES

25
Wolfgang Kleinert quoted in Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen, 65.
26
Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism, 24-26.
27
Hans Rindfleisch quoted in Andreas Fickers, 'Politique de la grandeur' versus
'Made in Germany'. Politische Kulturgeschichte der Technik am Beispiel der PAL-
SECAM-Kontroverse (München: Oldenbourg Verlag, 2007), 168.
28
Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen, 81.
29
Anonymous, “Programm aus dem Osten,” Der Spiegel (September 4, 1957): 48.
30
In the 1950s, the DFF considered its competition with West German television
as an incentive to produce better programmes. Cf. Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen,
, 140-180. After the Berlin Wall was built (1961) GDR citizens were asked to stop
watching West German television and the Party Youth started to climb rooftops to
turn antennae to the East. Growing anger stopped this campaign and there was
never a law that prohibited watching West German television: Hanno Hochmuth,
“Feindbild und Leitbild: Westfernsehen in der DDR,” in Vom Gegner lernen:
Feindschaften und Kulturtransfers im Europa des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, ed.
Martin Aust and Daniel Schönpflug (Frankfurt/M., New York: Campus, 2007),
278-279.


32 Chapter Two

TAGEBUCH (1956-1965) 31 and DIE ROTE OPTIK (1958-1961) informed

their West German viewers about life, politics, and the general situation in
the other part of Germany, and at the same time provided East German
viewers with alternative opinions, arguments, and views that challenged
the GDR's official media output. Moreover, during the construction of the
Berlin Wall, West German television added reruns of its evening
programming to its regular schedule, only broadcasting them the next
morning – when Eastern television did not broadcast – through the
transmitters targeting the GDR. 32 The East German DFF, in contrast,
started broadcasting TELESTUDIO WEST (1957-1965) in 1957, a show
covering life in socialist countries, reporting on achievements in the GDR,
and commenting on West German politics. The show’s opening greeting,
“Dear television friends in the Federal Republic”, left no doubt that it was
aimed at West German viewers. 33 It was strategically scheduled on
Saturdays in the late afternoon – a time when, according to Der Spiegel,
West German television “usually is filled with programmes for children or
documentary films about rodents”34. With what was identified by the West
as a “television offensive”,35 the DFF offered alternative programming for
adults in the FRG, thereby emphasizing its claim to broadcast for the
whole of Germany.
Television was thus one of the battlegrounds of the Cold War. In
Germany, the ideological conflict between East and West included a
competition for television viewers and involved technology as well as
programming. In the postwar era, the (West German) Adenauer
government and the GDR's governing Socialist Unity Party both still
stated they aspired to the country's eventual reunification and acted for the
good of Germany as a whole. In that respect it was concordant with these
political aims that both states offered a television service for all German
viewers (and improved the technological means to do so).


31
For more about this programme see Matthias Steinle, Vom Feindbild zum
Fremdbild: Die gegenseitige Darstellung von BRD und DDR im Dokumentarfilm
(Konstanz: UVK, 2003), 158-162.
32
Hickethier and Hoff, Geschichte, 135.
33
Anonymous, “Die politische Kaffeestunde,” Der Spiegel, (January 29, 1958):
43.
34
Ibid.
35
Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism, 34.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 33

Instrumentalising the National Socialist Past

In 1961, the tensions between East and West Germany were at their
zenith. The trial against Eichmann took place against the backdrop of a
number of crises between the FRG and the GDR that resulted in closing
the inner German border between East and West Berlin and the
construction of the Berlin Wall on August 13 – one day before the
hearings in Jerusalem ended. One major issue of the conflict was the
FRG's integration into the Western alliance, its membership of NATO, and
the establishment of the West German army in 1955. In the GDR this
rearmament was met with great concern. Referring to the FRG's practice
of denazification, the GDR leadership portrayed the other German state as
a continuation of the National Socialist (NS) regime and argued that
former Nazis were in power again. They warned that putting weapons in
the hands of these West Germans would pose a serious danger to the
world. When Adolf Eichmann was captured in May 1960, the trial was
thought to possibly provide the means to substantiate these accusations
against the FRG and uncover the National Socialist background of high-
ranking West Germans.
The practices of denazification differed significantly in East and West
Germany.36 After the war, all occupying forces investigated the Germans
about their participation in the Nazi Party (NSDAP). In all four occupation
zones, Nazis were legally prosecuted and punished based on their
involvement during the Third Reich. After the foundation of the two
states, however, both the prosecution of former Nazis as well as the
possibility of their amnesty and integration took different directions.
Konrad Adenauer, chancellor of the newly founded FRG, advocated the
integration of so-called ‘followers’ (who supported Nazi crimes indirectly)
and pleaded for the early release of detainees convicted by allied military
courts; not least because their know-how was needed to build a democratic
state with a functioning administration.37 This meant that individuals with
National Socialist backgrounds returned to public offices in the FRG’s
state institutions, judiciary and commercial sectors. Following their careers

36
For a detailed description see Ulrich Brochhagen, Nach Nürnberg:
Vergangenheitsbewältigung und Westintegration in der Ära Adenauer (Hamburg:
Junius, 1994) and Annette Weinke, Die Verfolgung von NS-Tätern im geteilten
Deutschland: Vergangenheitsbewältigungen 1949-1969 oder: Eine deutsch-
deutsche Beziehungsgeschichte im Kalten Krieg (Paderborn, München, Wien,
Zürich: Schöningh, 2002).
37
Although critically observed by the High Commission, the Western allies did not
intervene; see Brochhagen, Nach Nürnberg.


34 Chapter Two

during the Third Reich, they continued to work as judges, police officers
or civil servants, some becoming mayor or eventually holding other
political offices.38
In the GDR, by contrast, denazification led to a complete replacement
of the former ruling elite and a reorganisation of society. According to the
communist definition, fascism was understood to be an outgrowth of
capitalism. In addition to sentencing Nazi party leaders and officials,
landowners and aristocrats were therefore deprived of their property (and
their right to vote) in order to prevent fascism from ever happening again.
‘Nominal’ NSDAP members, who had joined the party out of pragmatic
reasons, were exempt from punishment, however. This strategy ensured
the grateful loyalty of people who had been ‘minor’ Nazis. Though some
integration of Nazis also took place in East Germany, the GDR prevented
continuity on the level of influential positions by replacing the former elite
with politically uncompromised individuals.
In the late 1950s, the GDR started to denounce what they called the
‘renazification’ of the FRG. Capitalising on the Nazi pasts of several West
German politicians and judges, the Agitation Committee of the GDR’s
Politbüro launched campaigns against them. While these accusations were
not pure inventions – National Socialist attitudes did indeed still exist in
the FRG – the concerted campaigns were also part of a strategy to divert
attention away from the GDR's domestic problems and its social and
economic crisis.39 The campaigns were coordinated by the Ausschuß für
Deutsche Einheit (Committee for German Unity), which coordinated the
research into ‘suspect’ West Germans, organised press conferences, and
ensured that television covered the stories on its news bulletins, discussion
shows, and political programmes. It published booklets and pamphlets that
listed the names of hundreds of so-called ‘Blutrichter’ (West German


38
In the early 1950s, the number of NS trials decreased significantly until in 1958
the Central Office of the State Justice Administrations was founded to investigate
National Socialist crimes.
39
Supply shortfalls and a shortage of raw materials in the late 1950s, and the
collectivisation of agriculture in 1960 had all worsened living conditions in the
GDR, which made many leave the country for West Germany. Since this
depopulation resulted in a shortage of manpower and posed a serious threat to the
functioning of the state, the SED started an ‘ideological offensive’ to prevent GDR
citizens from migrating to the FRG. Warnings about West Germany's
renazification were supposed to discourage people from leaving and at the same
time strengthen the GDR's anti-fascist legitimation. See Michael Lemke,
“Kampagnen gegen Bonn: Die Systemkrise der DDR und die West-Propaganda
der SED 1960-1963,” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 41, 2 (1993): 153-174.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 35

judges and lawyers who had imposed death penalties during the Third
Reich) and documented the careers of politicians like Theodor Oberländer
and Hans Maria Globke.
Information about the National Socialist past of these individuals came
from Eastern European archives that held administrative documents and
personnel records of different NS organisations. 40 By looking through
these archives and asking Eastern allies to search for records of West
Germans with positions of influence, the GDR’s Ministerium für
Staatssicherheit (Ministry of State Security, MfS) got hold of archival
documents that revealed a number of people’s NS affiliation and
ideological involvement. 41 These records became centerpieces of the
campaigns to warn the world about the present danger that the FRG was
supposed to pose. The documents were showcased at press conferences,
officially handed over to representatives of other countries, and published
in facsimile form, adding extra authority to the accusations.
After uncovering over one thousand West German judges who had
served during the Third Reich 42 and accusing Oberländer, Adenauer's
Minister für Vertriebene, Flüchtlinge und Kriegsgeschädigte (Minister for
Displaced Persons, Refugees, and Victims of War), of participating in the
Lviv pogroms,43 the GDR zeroed in on Hans Globke, director of Adenauer's
Chancellery. During the Third Reich, Globke was a high-ranking civil
servant at the Reichsinnenministerium (Ministry of the Interior) and (co-)
author of bills and regulations concerning the legal status of Jews. He
wrote the official legal commentary to the Reichsbürgergesetz (Reich
Citizenship Law) that was part of the Nuremberg Laws and defined who
was classified as Jewish. He also composed the regulation that all
German Jews had to be identifiable by a Jewish name, including the
order that if they did not have one, they had to adopt the middle name
Sara or Israel (Namensänderungsgesetz). After the war, Globke
exculpated himself by stating that he was not the sole author, that his legal
comment prevented the Jews from worse fates, and that he had backed the


40
Annette Weinke, “Der Kampf um die Akten. Zur Kooperation zwischen MfS
und osteuropäischen Sicherheitsorganen bei der Vorbereitung antifaschistischer
Kampagnen,” Deutschland Archiv 32, 4 (1999): 564-577.
41
For more about the collection and acquisition of files, see Henry Leide, NS-
Verbrecher und Staatssicherheit. Die geheime Vergangenheitspolitik der DDR
(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005), chapter II; Weinke, “Kampf um die
Akten,,” 566.
42
Miquel, Ahnden, 30.
43
Wulf Kansteiner, In Pursuit of German Memory. History, Television, and
Politics After Auschwitz (Athens: Ohio Univ. Press, 2006), 222-224.


36 Chapter Two

Catholic resistance.44 Although his position at the Reichsinnenministerium

and involvement in the anti-Semitic laws was not a secret, he still became
chief of West Germany's Chancellery. The fact that Adenauer supported
Globke despite his problematic background gave the GDR even more
reason to discredit the FRG as a continuation of the Nazi regime.
The GDR considered the Eichmann trial first and foremost as yet
another possibility to discredit the West German government. The
Agitation Committee sought to demonstrate that Eichmann had
accomplices with high positions in the FRG who had helped him stay
hidden until his capture. According to the GDR's line of argument,
Eichmann served as scapegoat to distract from the fact that some culprits
who were morally and politically guilty of mass murder still belonged to
the FRG's elite. Shortly after Eichmann's capture, Albert Norden, head of
the Politbüro's Agitation Committee, first asked the Ministry for State
Security (MfS) to search for incriminating records that would confirm this
theory.45 A few weeks later, after the GDR had decided to target Globke,
Norden urged the MfS to find a document that would prove that Eichmann
and Globke collaborated, indicating that the SED leadership had agreed to
have the MfS “provide or rather fabricate certain material”.46
With its campaign against Globke, the GDR strove not only to
demonstrate his responsibility for parts of the Nuremberg Laws, but also to
prove that Eichmann acted under orders that were linked to Globke’s
legislation. Incriminating evidence to that end was published in booklets
and featured in the documentary film AKTION J. The GDR even offered its
documents to the prosecution in Jerusalem. Since the GDR had no
diplomatic relations with Israel, Friedrich Karl Kaul, a lawyer who had
earlier inquired into the possibility of being admitted to the Eichmann trial
as an accessory prosecutor (this request was denied by Israel's Minister of
Justice), paid a personal visit to Jerusalem during the third week of the
trial. There he presented to the international press new documents about
Globke, the press conference was followed by a screening of AKTION J. In
his own account of the event, Kaul legitimates the press conference by
referring to the prosecution’s reluctance to illuminate Globke's role during

44
Jürgen Bevers, Der Mann hinter Adenauer. Hans Globkes Aufstieg vom NS-
Juristen zur grauen Eminenz der Bonner Republik (Berlin: Links, 2009), 69; Erik
Lommatzsch, Hans Globke (1898-1973). Beamter im Dritten Reich und
Staatssekretär Adenauers (Frankfurt/M.: Campus, 2009), 108; Anonymous,
“Globke und die Juden,” Der Spiegel (May 10, 1961): 22.
45
Annette Rosskopf, Friedrich Karl Kaul. Anwalt im geteilten Deutschland, 1906-
1981 (Berlin: Berlin Verlag, 2002), 195.
46
Zur Besprechung [no date], BArch: DY 30/IV 2/2.028/362.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 37

the Third Reich, stating that therefore “this had to be done outside the
courtroom” instead.47 However, although the invited journalists reported
briefly on Kaul’s press conference, it did not affect the general image of
the FRG significantly.
For the GDR, the Eichmann trial presented an opportunity to tie in its
campaigns by linking Eichmann to Globke. Furthermore, due to the
enormous media attention, the trial provided an international platform for
the GDR’s accusations against Globke and the FRG. This would also
inform the GDR’s television coverage of the trial.

East German Television Coverage of the Eichmann Trial

The trial coverage on East German television was aligned with the
campaign launched by the Agitation Committee. News programmes,
political magazines, and round-table discussions followed the Committee's
argumentation when they addressed the Eichmann trial. The daily news
programme AKTUELLE KAMERA, for example, involved the campaign
against Globke by using every opportunity to refer to him in its reports
from Jerusalem, as becomes clear in the following examples: the current
affairs programme calls Eichmann's lawyer Servatius “Globke's friend”
(22.04.1961) and the defendant “Globke's accomplice” (13.06.1961); it
describes the account of a witness as disproving Globke's apology
(17.05.1961); or simply reports that Globke was not mentioned during a
session (26.06.1961). Furthermore, AKTUELLE KAMERA addresses the
handover of new documents about Globke (27.04.1961), covers Kaul's
visit to Jerusalem in detail (27.04.1961 and 02.-04.05.1961), and reports
about swastika graffiti (22.04.1961) and parades of Schützenvereine
(country clubs of sport shooters) in the FRG (17.05.1961). By
participating in the campaign against Globke, AKTUELLE KAMERA thus
fell in line with the Agitation Committee. The news broadcasts used
simple rhetorical tricks to bring Globke to the fore and complemented the
items about the Eichmann trial with reports that confirmed the FRG's
renazification. Due to this policy the testimonies of Holocaust survivors
that characterised the trial 48 and shaped the coverage in many other
countries49 were mentioned only rarely. Focusing on Globke and the FRG,


47
Friedrich Karl Kaul, Der Fall Eichmann (Berlin: Das Neue Berlin, 1964), 214.
48
Annette Wieviorka, The Era of the Witness (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
2006), 56ff.
49
Jeffrey Shandler, While America Watches. Televising the Holocaust (New York:
Oxford University Press, 2000), 83ff.


38 Chapter Two

AKTUELLE KAMERA instead confined its interest in the Eichmann trial to

cues that allowed the programme to refer to Globke.
In addition to accusing Globke on the news, East German television
produced a documentary film about him that was broadcast on April 20,
1961, a week or so after the Eichmann trial opened. The Agitation
Committee commissioned Walter Heynowski, who had previously made a
documentary about Theodor Oberländer’s National Socialist background,
to make the film. The idea was to add “something visual” to the Globke
campaign.50 Tobias Ebbrecht-Hartmann argues that the resulting film, the
aforementioned AKTION J, combines two objectives: using accusatory
rhetoric, on the one hand, it adheres to the argumentation of the campaign,
while, on the other hand, it also imparts knowledge about the Holocaust
and illustrates the experiences of Jews.51 Ebbrecht-Hartmann analyses how
the film achieves this dual aim, showing that AKTION J explains abstract
anti-Semitic regulations by visualising the tangible and horrendous effects
they had on individuals.52 These traces of Jewish life, however, did remain
subject to the film's main goal – to portray Globke as a Nazi perpetrator.
Globke was also a topic in the weekly round-table discussion
TREFFPUNKT BERLIN that aired on April 12, one day after the trial opened.
At the beginning of the programme, host Karl-Eduard von Schnitzler can
hardly hide his excitement about Yuri Gagarin’s space flight of the very
same day and he praises this achievement of the Soviet Union before he
introduces the five discussants. 53 During the one-hour show, Schnitzler
and his guests discuss questions related to the Eichmann trial, such as the
jurisdiction of the court in Jerusalem, Eichmann's escape to Argentina, and
the FRG's “shamelessness” in paying Israel reparations (described as hush


50
In a concept for the film, Heynowski addresses the problem that hardly any films
or photographs and only incomplete records exist about Globke, which could make
the documentary “un-filmic”. Therefore he suggests combining these records with
comparative images and films to put them into context. See Heynowski quoted in
Tobias Ebbrecht-Hartmann, “Anklage und Archiv: Archivmaterial und seine
Anordnung in Walter Heynowskis 'Aktion J - Ein Film der Beweise' (1961), in
Reflexionen des beschädigten Lebens? Nachkriegskino in Deutschland zwischen
1945 und 1960, ed. Bastian Blachut, Imme Klages and Sebastian Kuhn (München:
Text und Kritik, 2015), 139.
51
Ebbrecht-Hartmann, “Anklage und Archiv," 146.
52
Ibid., 145.
53
The guests were Rabbi Martin Riesenburger, legal correspondent Rudolf Hirsch,
the above-mentioned lawyer Friedrich Karl Kaul, and Jochen Herrmann (deputy
chief editor of the Berliner Zeitung), and Paula Acker, both members of the
Politbüro’s Westkommission.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 39

money) for the persecution and murder of Jews.54 Calling Eichmann the
“hangman's assistant” (Henkersknecht), the discussants refer to Globke as
the “engineer of the scaffold” (Konstrukteur des Schafotts) and several
times mention a booklet that documents Globke's crimes, emphasising that
its publication was prohibited in the FRG. In a similar way to AKTUELLE
KAMERA, the Eichmann trial thus gave TREFFPUNKT BERLIN an opportunity
to talk about Globke.
One important reference point of the conversation is a televised speech
Adenauer gave the day before the trial started, in which he had expressed
his hope that the trial would unearth the “complete truth” (“wir wünschen,
daß in diesem Prozeß die volle Wahrheit ans Licht kommt […]”. 55 The
TREFFPUNKT BERLIN guests never tire of pointing out that the “complete
truth” is already well known in the GDR – meaning that everybody in the
GDR already knows that Nazi criminals are living unchallenged in West
Germany, that corporations that profited from slave labour or were
involved in the Holocaust are still intact and flourishing, and that
individuals with a National Socialist background occupy high and
powerful positions in the FRG.
TREFFPUNKT BERLIN provided its viewers with arguments that were in
accordance with the SED's official position on the Eichmann trial. At the
same time, however, the talk show guests refer several times to West
German television programmes as a matter of course. What is more, they
converse about certain programmes assuming everybody else has watched
them as well. The way they bristle at Adenauer’s statements, for example,
presupposes knowledge of the West German broadcast of April 10. They
talk indignantly about his speech but never summarise or explain its
topics, leaving TREFFPUNKT BERLIN viewers who had not watched West
German television (or read comments in SED-affiliated newspapers) to
guess at what Adenauer had said about the trial.
The discussants furthermore allude to AUF DEN SPUREN DES HENKERS,
a documentary about Eichmann by the NDR that was broadcast the night
before TREFFPUNKT BERLIN. One talk-show guest mentions in passing that
“a film on West German television” had demonstrated how big companies
had first exploited the labour force of concentration camp prisoners before
letting them die of hunger later. Talk-show host Schnitzler derisively adds

54
In contrast to the FRG's financial restitution, the GDR emphasised that it made
'true' amends by eliminating the preconditions of fascism (which the FRG did not)
and also claimed that that was what legitimately entitled the GDR to speak for the
whole of Germany.
55
Peter Krause, Der Eichmann-Prozess in der Deutschen Presse (Frankfurt/M.:
Campus, 2002), 109.


40 Chapter Two

that West German television has finally recognised the connection

between Globke and Eichmann. Apparently it was not easy for the
TREFFPUNKT discussants to keep up their general attack of West German
television, since AUF DEN SPUREN DES HENKERS took a very critical
stance on how the FRG dealt with the Nazi past. As in the case of
Adenauer’s television address, not only did the TREFFPUNKT guests
themselves watch the programme in question, they in fact assumed that
everybody else had as well. Five days later, however, DER SCHWARZE
KANAL made up for this assumption.

Der Schwarze Kanal

DER SCHWARZE KANAL (1960-1989), a weekly programme by Karl-
Eduard von Schnitzler that was notorious for its political agitation against
the FRG, addressed the Eichmann trial several times – or rather it
addressed the trial’s coverage on West German television. The organising
principle of the programme was the presentation and discussion of recent
excerpts from West German television. Schnitzler’s sardonic and
condemnatory (live) commentary framing these excerpts was meant to
expose the mendacity of West German television and refute its
arguments.56 It is striking that many of his comments were informed by
the assumption that West German journalists acted as mouthpieces for the
FRG government that supposedly kept them under direct control.57
To produce DER SCHWARZE KANAL, a department of the Staatliches
Komitee für Rundfunk (State Committee for Broadcasting) monitored West
German programming, and recorded and transcribed relevant shows. 58
Based on these transcripts, Schnitzler selected a number of fragments that
he presented in DER SCHWARZE KANAL. The East German programme thus
completely relied on West German television. Due to the presentation of
clips the programme did not presuppose that its viewers had necessarily
watched the West German programmes on which Schnitzler commented –

56
Marc Levasier, “‘Der Schwarze Kanal’. Entstehung und Entwicklung einer
journalistischen Kontersendung des DDR-Fernsehens,” in Journalisten und
Journalismus in der DDR. Berufsorganisation – Westkorrespondenten – “Der
Schwarze Kanal”, ed. Jürgen Wilke (Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau, 2007), 239.
57
Jochen Staadt, Tobias Voigt and Stefan Wolle, Operation Fernsehen. Die Stasi
und die Medien in Ost und West (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008), 26.
58
The same technique was used for the West German DIE ROTE OPTIK, which
commented on East German television. The production of these shows required a
cost-efficient means of recording television. Only after the video tape recorder was
introduced in 1956 did such technology become available.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 41

in contrast to the above-mentioned discussion on TREFFPUNKT BERLIN.

DER SCHWARZE KANAL did, however, target East German viewers who
watched West German television, but by serving as a guideline, it gave an
‘instruction manual’ of West German programmes59 and helped to uncover
their ‘real’ ideology and meaning.
Like other East German programmes, DER SCHWARZE KANAL used the
Eichmann trial as an opportunity to criticise the way the FRG was dealing
with its National Socialist past and to excoriate its backing of former
Nazis. Schnitzler suspects, for example, that if Eichmann had been on trial
in the FRG, the court would not have convicted him, given the Nazi
background of many judges (13.06.1960), and he criticises West German
television for not mentioning that other perpetrators live in the FRG
unchallenged (10.04.1961 and 18.12.1961).
In DER SCHWARZE KANAL of June 13, 1960, three weeks after Israel’s
Prime Minister Ben-Gurion had announced the capture of Adolf
Eichmann, Schnitzler used excerpts of the West German DER
INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN (an adaption of MEET THE PRESS) to
make his point.60 After a number of other items (about the anti-American
riots in Japan that made President Eisenhower cancel his visit to Tokyo,
the West’s economic extortion of Cuba, nuclear weapons in the FRG, and
an explosion on an American air-force base), he segues into discussing
West German reactions to the capture of Adolf Eichmann. At first he
criticises the fact that the West German media ignore Eichmann’s crimes
and exclusively focus on legal issues concerning Israel’s violation of
international law. 61 The roundtable discussion in DER INTERNATIONALE
FRÜHSCHOPPEN from June 12, 1960 made a good case for Schnitzler’s
accusation. Judging from the excerpts that Schnitzler presented a day later
in DER SCHWARZE KANAL, “six journalists from five countries” (the

59
Hochmuth, “Feindbild,” 289.
60
On DER INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN international journalists discussed
political events of the week every Sunday morning. For more about this
programme see Nina Verheyen, Diskussionslust: Eine Kulturgeschichte des
‘besseren Arguments’ in Westdeutschland (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,
2010), 154-206. In 1962 the GDR discovered that FRÜHSCHOPPEN host Werner
Höfer had been a member of the NSADP and had written propaganda articles
during the war. However, he was only removed from the programme in 1987, after
a critical article was published in the West German Der Spiegel (14 December
1987).
61
Israel’s intelligence had violated Argentina’s sovereignty by kidnapping
Eichmann, which resulted in protests at the Security Council of the United Nations.
Given the illegality of the kidnapping, West German media discussed the
jurisdiction of Israel. See Krause, Eichmann-Prozess, 146-166.


42 Chapter Two

FRÜHSCHOPPEN’s subtitle) conversed about questions of jurisdiction while

seated at a curved table in an unadorned television studio. Although the
West German media actually gave voice to a variety of opinions, 62
Schnitzler particularly selected excerpts from the FRÜHSCHOPPEN in which
journalists oppose a trial in Israel or question the court’s objectivity.
After a short excerpt from DER INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN in
which two journalists speculate what the world might think about their
reluctance to hold the trial in Israel, Schnitzler first mocks them for being
naive and then claims that the show’s host, Werner Höfer, is under control
of the Federal Press Office (Bundespresseamt), which is under control of
the Chancellery, which is under Globke’s control. By confusing the
Federal Press Office that provides government information to the public
and was indeed headed by Globke with the Bundespressekonferenz, i.e. the
West German association of journalists that organises press conferences
with representatives of the government and parliament, he misleadingly
alleges that West German journalists were dependent on Globke. He
implies that their reluctance comes as no surprise, since they do not want
Eichmann to “blow the whistle” on other people (in other words: Globke).
With his commentary on the next FRÜHSCHOPPEN fragments,
Schnitzler maliciously puts words in the journalists’ mouths. In one
excerpt, for instance, Höfer assures his guests that despite his critical view
of the lawsuit he has no doubts about the fairness of an Israeli court. This
is followed by a West German journalist’s remark that otherwise “they”
could have just killed Eichmann (supposedly he means Mossad), a
reasoning Höfer agrees with. Schnitzler misinterprets Höfer’s affirmation
as agreeing that he too wished Eichmann were dead so he would stay
silent. In another excerpt, an American journalist advocates an
international tribunal because – given Eichmann’s crimes against the
Jewish people – he believes it would be difficult to find an unbiased judge
in Israel, or rather to convince the public that Israeli judges can be
impartial. Schnitzler, however, first distorts this argument as anti-Semitic
and then bristles at the alleged assumption that an American judge would
be less biased than a Pole, Russian, Frenchman, German, or a Jew.
Schnitzler’s final excerpt presents him with an opportunity to
scandalise his viewers by noting that judges who had doled out death
penalties during the Third Reich were still administering justice in the
FRG. When a West German journalist claims that the Eichmann case
should be removed from the “grip of Israel’s justice” and taken over by a


62
Some argued that the Adenauer government should demand Eichmann’s
extradition, others that he should be tried by an international tribunal. See ibid.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 43

(West-)German court, Schnitzler rhetorically wonders about possible

judges. He then ‘suggests’ two men (Kanter and Hucklenbroich) who
during the Third Reich had both imposed the death penalty several times
and who continued their career in the FRG unchallenged – as did more
than a thousand other judges. According to Schnitzler, these two would
certainly be able to provide proof that Eichmann was not aware of the
criminal liability for his actions and ultimately find him not guilty. He
concludes the programme by insinuating that West German politicians and
journalists want to put Eichmann on trial in the FRG to prevent him from
turning against his former party colleagues.
A day before the Eichmann trial started in Jerusalem, DER SCHWARZE
KANAL takes up this line of argument. The programme aired on April 10,
1961 opens with an excerpt from the very same FRÜHSCHOPPEN in which
Höfer argues for Eichmann’s extradition to put him on trial in the FRG.
Looking back on the West German round-table discussion, Schnitzler
comments that Höfer’s wishful thinking did not come true and he gloats
over Eichmann’s accomplices’ fear of being exposed. Though Schnitzler
claims that Eichmann had noted during his interrogation that he would be
able to give the names of 200 of his collaborators, he concludes that it
should come as no surprise that Eichmann’s lawyer Servatius advised him
against disclosing these names, since Servatius is under Globke’s control.
While a year earlier Schnitzler had criticised West German media for
ignoring Eichmann’s crimes, he now complains about their exclusive
focus on Eichmann. In the April 10 episode of DER SCHWARZE KANAL he
attacks West German journalists for presenting Eichmann as the only
culprit, accusing them of wanting to distract from other people’s guilt.
Subsequently Schnitzler names a number of West German politicians,
diplomats, military figures and businessmen who also were instrumental in
the “Final Solution”. Schnitzler also acknowledges the existence of critical
journalists in the FRG, however. Referring to a dispute on DER
INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN a day earlier, he suggests that Höfer and
one of his guests condemned any questioning of West Germany’s handling
of its Nazi past as being damaging to the FRG, and said that they
consistently chided their colleagues and cut down any critical questions. In
view of Höfer’s reaction, Schnitzler cynically advises West German
journalists to leave Globke and others out of their stories, otherwise they
will “get in hot water” or “get their fingers burnt”.
Despite supposedly backing up critical journalists in the FRG,
Schnitzler just a week later tears into a fairly critical West German
documentary. On April 17, DER SCHWARZE KANAL focuses solely on AUF
DEN SPUREN DES HENKERS, a programme already mentioned on East


44 Chapter Two

German television in Schnitzler’s TREFFPUNKT BERLIN (12.04.1961). As

we saw earlier, the guests of the round-table discussion appreciate two
points that the West German documentary raises: the fact that it addresses
how big companies exploited the labour force of concentration camp
prisoners and that it also – as Schnitzler is quick to point out – briefly
alludes to Globke. But five days later, in DER SCHWARZE KANAL,
Schnitzler’s opinion about AUF DEN SPUREN DES HENKERS has changed
significantly. Now he presents the documentary, which examines not only
Eichmann’s life and career but also West German society’s tendency to
erase the Nazi past, as though it actually played down the Germans’ guilt
and responsibility for the mass murders. In his critique, Schnitzler purports
that AUF DEN SPUREN DES HENKERS presents Eichmann as Austrian, not
German, and argues that the documentary affirms statements that it in fact
criticises. This misrepresentation results from a wily selection of
documentary excerpts. By using fragments out of context and omitting
statements that do not fit his accusation, Schnitzler presents the excerpts in
a way that supports his claims.
This deliberate misrepresentation, as well as his feeble complaint that
the documentary does not name certain contexts and accomplices of
Eichmann, reveal how much DER SCHWARZE KANAL depended on
‘suitable’ West German programmes for its criticism. Its critical stance on
West Germany’s handling of its Nazi past, which to some extent
corresponded with the GDR’s concerns, made AUF DEN SPUREN DES
HENKERS a poor target for Schnitzler. The programme he had singled out
for comment obviously did not reproduce the position of the FRG
government. This made it difficult for him to apply his usual critique of
West German journalism and television as being Adenauer’s mouthpiece
and forced him to resort to a biased selection of excerpts that would allow
him to make up accusations that had nothing to do with the actual
documentary.
On May 15, 1961, the Eichmann trial again was the sole subject of the
DER SCHWARZE KANAL. This time Schnitzler argues that the guests of the
INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN detracted from the fact that Globke was
forced to admit his involvement in the Nuremberg Laws due to pressure
from East Germany before “taking refuge” in Portugal.63 Excerpts from an
interview with Globke on the West German political programme DIE ROTE
OPTIK (broadcast on April 28, 1961) are meant to remind the viewers of
this ‘success’. When Schnitzler introduces the clip, he notes that although
Globke initially denied any involvement in the persecution of Jews, he has


63
At the beginning of the trial Globke was on vacation in Portugal.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 45

now made a confession on West German television, his word choice

insinuating a judicial action (or show trial).64 Although the clip in question
seems to be a continuous fragment, it is in fact elaborately edited. 65 It
shows Globke admitting that he temporarily participated in formulating
the regulations of the Reichsbürgergesetz, that he authored the
Namensänderungsgesetz, that – as AKTION J already stated – the addition
of Jewish names was indeed reported to the Gestapo, and that a stamp in
the passports of non-Jewish [sic] Germans regulated their entry to
Switzerland.66
Schnitzler claims that Globke admitted his guilt on television and
blames West German journalists for distracting from this confession. In
his view, DER INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN of May 14, 1961, does
this by diluting and universalising anti-Semitism. After a short clip in
which one of the FRÜHSCHOPPEN guests states that anti-Semitism did not
just exist in Germany, Schnitzler lectures at length on the nature of anti-
Semitism as an instrument of class struggle. According to him the ruling
class has always (already in feudal times) used anti-Semitism to construct
an enemy and divert the people from their real (i.e. class) enemy. After
pointing to a number of current anti-Semitic incidents to remind his
viewers that anti-Semitism is still alive in the FRG, Schnitzler gets to his
main point, stating that since anti-Semitism is no longer acceptable, anti-
communism has taken its place. The anti-Semites of the Third Reich are
today’s anti-communists, he claims, and “today’s anti-Semitism is anti-
communism”. Phrases like “anti-communist pogroms” and “would-be-
exterminators of communists” are meant to underpin this equation.
Following this explanation, Schnitzler comments on excerpts from
DER INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN to illustrate how West German
journalists retort “worldwide accusations” by blaming the East. In one
fragment, radio journalist Klaus Bölling remarks that the GDR is shirking


64
East German newspapers attributed this partial confession to the broadcast of
AKTION J on East German television; see for example “Globke zu Teilgeständnis
gezwungen.” Neues Deutschland 29 April 1961: 2. “Teilgeständnis Globkes.”
Berliner Zeitung 29 April 1961: 2. Similarly, filmmaker Heynowski considered
Globke’s interview a reaction to his documentary; see Steinle, Feindbild, 157.
65
A shortened transcript of the interview was published in Der Spiegel 10 May
1961: 22.
66
The passports of Jewish German citizens were stamped with the letter J,
indicating that a visa was required to cross the border into a country that they used
to be able to enter without a visa. In the original interview Globke explains that
when he first heard about the plan to mark the passports of Jews he had suggested
stamping the passports of non-Jewish Germans instead.


46 Chapter Two

its own responsibility for the Nazi past and in another Höfer gets angry
about the GDR’s double standards given that iniquities also occurred in
the Eastern Bloc. Schnitzler responds to each excerpt to ‘rectify’ these
statements: in contrast to the FRG, the GDR has assumed its historical
responsibility by extirpating fascism, he replies to Bölling, and he rebukes
Höfer with a reference to the XX. Congress of the Communist Party of the
Soviet Union,67 ignoring the violent suppression of uprisings in the East to
which Höfer alluded.
Höfer’s infuriation over the GDR’s stance on the reparation agreement
between Israel and West Germany provides Schnitzler with a segue to
legitimate in detail East Germany’s refusal to pay Israel compensation.
First he argues that Israel did not exist when the crimes happened, and
then he accuses Israel of behaving aggressively in the Arab region,
immediately clarifying that his disapproval of Israel has nothing to do with
its Jewish inhabitants but with the fact that it is an imperialist state.
However, by pointing out that it was not only Jews who were bloodily
persecuted, and that persecuted non-Jewish Poles, Russians, Hungarians,
Frenchmen, and Germans did not receive any reparations from the FRG,
Schnitzler does seem to adhere to the anti-Semitic stereotype of the
money-grubbing Jew. In closing, he suspects that the FRG uses the
reparations to buy off its war criminals, i.e. to ensure Israel does not
mention their names during the Eichmann trial. Ridiculing the idea of
paying reparations, he concludes that the only way to compensate for these
crimes is by punishing and disempowering the perpetrators – as the GDR
has done.
Getting back to his argument that West German journalists counter
evidence of their fellow citizens’ guilt by accusing the East, Schnitzler
uses excerpts in which the FRÜHSCHOPPEN guests discuss the role of
Poland. In an edited clip it seems as if Bölling tells a Polish colleague that
in Poland in particular no one has the right to point their finger at West
Germany. A bit later Schnitzler clarifies this statement by presenting
fragments in which Bölling and Höfer refer to the limited Polish support
for the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Filled with indignation, Schnitzler
expresses his shame that a German would direct such criticism at Poland,
implicitly turning this topic into a taboo. He then shows his support for the
Polish journalist on DER INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN who seems to
be cornered by the West German attacks, again making a case for the legal
prosecution of former Nazis in Poland and the GDR. After all, he


67
At the congress of the Communist Party in 1956 Khrushchev denounced Stalin’s
crimes.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 47

concludes, it is due to the GDR that the FRG’s efforts to conceal

murderers like Oberländer and Globke have failed.

West German Responses

Leaving aside the misrepresentation of West German television
programmes by selecting short excerpts and showing skillfully edited
clips, there is something to be said for Schnitzler’s claim that the GDR
attracted attention to how West Germany dealt with its Nazi past. The
FRG first ignored the East German campaigns against its citizens, but
when British politicians picked up the GDR’s accusations, the FRG
government started to react, possibly fearing for its reputation amongst its
Western allies. 68 In connection with reports about trials against former
members of the NSDAP, West German media in 1958 began to report
about the Nazi past of a number of judges. 69 1959 saw the release of
Wolfgang Staudte’s (fictional) film ROSEN FÜR DEN STAATSANWALT, in
which a respectable prosecutor is uncovered as a Nazi judge, and that
same year students organised the widely discussed travelling exhibition
Ungesühnte Nazijustiz (Unpunished Crimes of the Nazi Juridical System).
The East German Blutrichter campaigns were then indeed met with a
response in the FRG.
West German television programmes also addressed the accusations.
Against the backdrop of the Eichmann trial, DIE ROTE OPTIK, a West
German counterpart of sorts to DER SCHWARZE KANAL, 70 repeatedly
discussed the Hans Globke case. On December 19, 1960, host Thilo Koch
was very outspoken about the director of Adenauer’s Chancellery.71 After
asserting his hope that the Eichmann trial will provide more information
about the culprits of the atrocities, he dismisses an East German television
programme (without mentioning its title) that pretended to already know
the outcome of the trial. Arguing that he believes many of the GDR’s
accusations against West German politicians are false and invented, he
makes a personal statement: When selecting its personnel, Koch states,
Adenauer’s Christian Democratic Party made big mistakes by ignoring

68
Miquel, Ahnden, 32ff.
69
Miquel, Ahnden, 39.
70
The organising principle of the programme was similar to DER SCHWARZE
KANAL, though Schnitzler argues that while he aimed to collide the political
systems in DER SCHWARZE KANAL, the OPTIK’S host Thilo Koch strove for
objectivity. See Schnitzler in Levasier, “Schwarze Kanal,” 238.
71
The programme was not broadcast live but pre-recorded on 28 November 1960;
see Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 621-1/144 Bestand NRD, Nr. 177.


48 Chapter Two

what these people did during the Third Reich. From what is known so far,
Koch says, Globke was indeed partly responsible for the anti-Semitic
legislation of the NS state, but it can also be proven that he did help many
German Jews. After this statement Koch explicates his frankness by
praising the democratic right to free speech.72
On April 28, 1961, DIE ROTE OPTIK also illustrates that West German
television journalists took some of the GDR claims seriously. Unsettled
about the GDR’s reports on anti-FRG demonstrations in Israel, the
producers of DIE ROTE OPTIK ask their Jerusalem-based colleagues about
the truth of these reports.73 In response, the correspondents asked people in
Israel about the trial and about their opinions on the FRG and the GDR’s
assertions. These interviews are part of the programme and follow host
Peter Schultze's comments on the GDR’s instrumentalisation of the trial
and on the anti-Zionist attitude of the Eastern bloc. Afterwards, Schultze
summarises the main accusations that AKTION J made against Globke, to
which DIE ROTE OPTIK reacts by showing documents that exculpate the
accused. Additionally, Schultze also interviews Globke. Talking with him
about a number of accusations, Schultze states that he wants to facilitate
the viewers “to form their opinion objectively”. After the interview
(which, as mentioned above, DER SCHWARZE KANAL edited for its own
ends), Schultze concludes DIE ROTE OPTIK by mentioning Globke’s
willingness to answer his questions and by stating that “the communists
will not outdo us in our search for the truth”.

Conclusion
The coverage of the Eichmann trial illustrates the ‘mediated
interaction’ between East and West German television. In a time when
their (non-)relation was shaped by denying each other’s legitimacy and
informed by the Hallstein Doctrine, disputes between East and West
Germany were carried out in the mass media. Both the GDR and the FRG
not only monitored the broadcasts of the other side but also responded to
them in their own television programmes. Furthermore, the trial coverage
points to the contestation over the National Socialist past that was part of
the ideological rivalry between both Germanies. Their increasing conflicts
that are strongly related to the political tensions of the Cold War


72
In a letter to Koch that was sent one day after the broadcast, Globke’s personal
assistant politely points out that Globke did not contribute to the Nuremberg Laws;
see Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 621-1/144 Bestand NRD, Nr. 177.
73
See Staatsarchiv Hamburg, 621-1/144 Bestand NRD, Nr. 177.


 Campaigning Against West Germany 49

eventually led to the construction of the Berlin Wall and must be

understood as a backdrop against which the Eichmann trial (and its media
coverage) took place.
In 1961, television was still a young medium. Although its different
social and political functions in East and West Germany were still
emerging, in the context of the Eichmann trial they became already clearly
apparent. In the FRG, young journalists tested Western television’s
editorial independence by asking critical questions, voicing their opinion
and criticising the government.74 By emphasising television’s function as
an open forum for discussion they attested to the right of free speech and
freedom of the press, which was at that time a prevalent anticommunist
argument.75 Television in the GDR, in contrast, was always in line with
the government due to the party affiliation of journalists and various
control mechanisms. The campaigns against the FRG demonstrate that the
Agitation Committee played an active part in programming. Not only was
the documentary AKTION J commissioned by and produced in consultation
with the Committee. It also prepared a list with suggestions for further
programmes and arranged press conferences on which the news reported.
Furthermore, the television programmes about the Eichmann trial
demonstrate the GDR’s efforts to act on the fact that its citizens watched
West German television. By countering statements that were made on
West German television, East German television provided its viewers with
guidelines on how to ‘read’ them correctly.
Although the GDR succeeded in getting West German television to
respond to its campaigns, the ultimate extent of their success, so
overconfidently proclaimed by Schnitzler, is questionable. According to
Michael Lemke, most people in both German states rejected the
campaigns or did not believe the assertions in the first place.76 What is
more, by making up false accusations, fabricating documents, and
misrepresenting facts, the GDR undermined the credibility of those West
Germans (including critical journalists) who did criticise the FRG’s
handling of the past.


74
For more about the emergence of critical journalism in the FRG see Christina
von Hodenberg, Konsens und Krise: Eine Geschichte der westdeutschen
Medienöffentlichkeit 1945-1973 (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2006).
75
For more about the ties between (television) journalism and anti-communism in
the context of the US see Bernhard (2003).
76
Lemke, “Kampagnen,” 174.


50 Chapter Two

Bibliography
Archival Sources
Bundesarchiv (BArch): DY 30/IV 2/2.028/3 (Büro Norden)
Deutsches Rundfunkarchiv, Potsdam-Babelsberg (DRA):
 AKTION J (Walter Heynowski, 1961)
 AKTUELLE KAMERA (22.04.1961, 27.04.1961, 02.05.1961, 03.05.1961,
04.05.1961, 17.05.1961, 13.06.1961, 22.06.1961)
 TREFFPUNKT BERLIN (12.04.1961)
 DER SCHWARZE KANAL (13.06.1960, 15.05.1961)
 Digitale Sendemanuskripte DER SCHWARZE KANAL: http://sk.dra.de
Staatsarchiv Hamburg: 621-1/144 (Bestand NDR), Nr. 177

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Bastian Blachut, Imme Klages and Sebastian Kuhn, 137-157.
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Fickers, Andreas. 'Politique de la grandeur' versus 'Made in Germany'.
Politische Kulturgeschichte der Technik am Beispiel der PAL-SECAM-
Kontroverse. München: Oldenbourg Verlag, 2007.
Gumbert, Heather. Envisioning Socialism. Television and the Cold War in
the German Democratic Republic. Ann Arbor: Univ. of Michigan
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—. “Exploring Transnational Media Exchange in the 1960s.” VIEW
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Heimann, Thomas. “Television in Zeiten des Kalten Krieges. Zum
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Massenmedien im Kalten Krieg. Akteure, Bilder, Resonanzen, edited
by Thomas Lindenberger, 235-261. Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau,
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Heinrich-Franke, Christian and Regina Immel. “Making Holes in the Iron
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Broadcasting and the Cold War, edited by Alexander Badenoch,
Andreas Fickers and Christian Heinrich-Franke, 177-213. Baden-
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Herf, Jeffrey. “Politics and Memory in West and East Germany since 1961
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Hochmuth, Hanno. “Feindbild und Leitbild. Westfernsehen in der DDR.”
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52 Chapter Two

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 Campaigning Against West Germany 53

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Translation of titles
AKTION J (Action J)
AKTUELLE KAMERA (Current Camera)
AUF DEN SPUREN DES HENKERS (Tracing the Hangman)
DER INTERNATIONALE FRÜHSCHOPPEN (The International Morning Pint)
DER SCHWARZE KANAL (The Black Channel)


54 Chapter Two

DIE ROTE OPTIK (Red Lenses)

MITTELDEUTSCHES TAGEBUCH (Central German Diary)
ROSEN FÜR DEN STAATSANWALT (Roses for the Prosecutor)
TELESTUDIO WEST (Tele-Studio West)
TREFFPUNKT BERLIN (Meeting Point Berlin)
ZDF-MAGAZIN (ZDF Magazine)


 CHAPTER THREE

WATCHING TELEVISION, PICTURING

OUTER SPACE AND OBSERVING
THE OBSERVER BEYOND:
THE FIRST MANNED MOON LANDING AS SEEN
ON EAST AND WEST GERMAN TELEVISION

SVEN GRAMPP

The Soviet science fiction film NEBO ZOVET (The Sky Calls) from
1959 is about an intended mission to Mars.1 Several Soviet cosmonauts as
well as the USA, represented by a boulevard journalist called Clark and
his pilot, Werst, want to embark on this journey. The American astronauts
reject the USSR’s offer to undertake this mission together and instead
hectically start the trip in secret. During their flight to Mars, which one
assumes is bound to fail, Clark reports live from the space shuttle on a
regular basis. These (trans-)globally broadcast transmissions on television
are interjected with commercials. Various items are advertised in this way,
such as a Mars-cocktail or a Pepsi cola to enjoy the live event with, but
also real estate on Mars. The Soviet cosmonauts are also watching these
live reports on TV in their space station (fig. 1a). And like them we, the
viewers of this film, are observing how outer space is being observed in
the televisual live reports. We are also watching how the Soviet cosmo-
nauts are watching the live reports, viewing it skeptically and also filled

1
For more information on the tradition of the Soviet science fiction movies includ-
ing their special fondness of the red planet Mars cf. Asif Siddiqi, The Red Rockets’
Glare. Spacelight and the Soviet Imagination (New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2010), 16-24; Cathleen S. Lewis, “The Red Stuff. A History of the Public
and Material Culture of Early Human Spaceflight in the U.S.S.R.” (PhD diss.
University of Washington, 2008), 61-64.
56 Chapter Three

with amazement about the rashly executed project which was obviously
mainly undertaken for profit and prestige.
In the American version of this film that was presented in 1962 in the
cinemas with the somewhat more martial title, BATTLE BEYOND THE SUN,
this scene is shown in a slightly different way. Firstly, even though there is
still a live report it is not done by the Americans but by an astronaut whose
origin is vaguely described as the Northern hemisphere. Secondly, there
are no commercials inserted into the report (fig. 1b). This also can be seen
as a way to observe observers: Like the Soviet film, the American produc-
ers do not want the world to be observed or at least not let the US-
American audience be observed (as it would be seen by others).

Fig. 1a-b: The same cosmonauts but different television programmes: NEBO ZOVET
(USSR 1959) vs. BATTLE BEYOND THE SUN (USA 1962)

In this film there are two aspects that interest me the most: On the one
hand the observation of observers and on the other hand the televisual live
reporting. From the very beginning recursive loops of observation were
part of the textual and visual standard repertoire of the Space Race cover-
age.2 This “Race” was one of the many contested areas of the Cold War
and took place between the USA and the Soviet Union during the 1950s
and 1960s. It culminated, at least temporally, in the question of which
nation would be the first to send a manned shuttle to the moon.3 The re-
ports on either side of the Iron Curtain were not only simply more or less

2
Cf. Sven Grampp, “Picturing the Future in Outer Space at the Dawn of the Space
Race. Disneys TOMORROWLAND (USA 1955-56) and ROAD TO THE STARS (USSR
1957)”. Repositorium Medienkulturforschung 8, 2015,
http://repositorium.medienkulturforschung.de/grampp-2015/, accessed September
4, 2015.
3
Cf. Karsten Werth, Ersatzkrieg im Weltraum. Das US-Raumfahrtprogramm in
der Öffentlichkeit der 1960er Jahre (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2005); Asif A.
Siddiqi, The Soviet Space Race with Apollo (Gainesville: University Press of Flori-
da 2003); Walter A. McDougall, Walter: …The Heavens and the Earth: A Political
History of the Space Age (New York: Basic Books, 1985).
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 57

partisan when reporting on the national space missions. More than this, the
Space Race was enacted in the form of constant foreign observation: One
was always observing how the “others” were observing – and this observa-
tion was then again made public. This was the crucial world (and space)
perception mode of the Space Race in the mass media coverage on both
sides of the Iron Curtain. On the verge of the 1960s a central reference
point soon became visible, meaning television, and more precisely: pic-
tures of the live reports to and from outer space. This was the case whether
looking at movies such as NEBO ZOVET / BATTLE BEYOND THE SUN or
documentaries, magazines, newspapers or television itself. At least in this
way television can be seen as the leading media of the Space Race: mass
media observation mostly follows the televisual pictures to and from outer
space.
In the following I will concentrate on a small extract from the mass
media staging of the Space Race, that is to say the reports on the first
manned moon landing shown on West and East German television. More
specifically, only two shows will be reviewed in detail. One of these is the
live-report of the West German channel ARD on the first manned moon
landing on the 20 and 21 of July 1969. The other programme I will exam-
ine is WEGE INS WELTALL. TENDENZEN UND PERSPEKTIVEN DER
WELTRAUMFAHRT (Ways to space. Tendencies and Perspectives of space
travel) that aired three months after the first manned moon landing on the
East-German channel DFF-2 which includes as one of its topics the first
manned moon landing. These reports were chosen for closer examination
because of their high significance when analysing recursive observation
loops of mass media programmes in the context of the Cold War.
These broadcasts are especially enlightening on the subject of mass
media observation strategies during the Cold War because they are set in a
certain geopolitical and media technological constellation: In both West
and East German television foreign observation played a significant part
from the very beginning of their televisual reports.4 The GDR as well as
the Federal Republic of Germany were watching the coverage from the

4
Cf. Heather Gumbert, Envisioning Socialism: Television and the Cold War in the
German Democratic Republic (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2014);
Claudia Dittmar, Feindliches Fernsehen. Das DDR-Fernsehen und seine
Strategien im Umgang mit dem westdeutschen Fernsehen (Bielefeld: transcript,
2010); Peter Hoff, “Kalter Krieg auf deutschen Bildschirmen – Der Ätherkrieg und
die Pläne zum Aufbau eines zweiten Fernsehprogramms der DDR”, in Kulturation,
2/2003, http://www.kultur-ation.de/ki_1_ thema.php?id=23, accessed September 4
2015.
58 Chapter Three

other side of the Iron Curtain5 and reacted with their own television reports
or even arranged their shows to anticipating possible reaction or rather
viewers from the other side.6 To put it simply, through this a ping-pong
model of interactive observations across the Iron Curtain was estab-
lished. 7 This can be more precisely examined by looking at the afore-
mentioned reports by both East and West German television of the first
manned moon landing.
Firstly, I would like to formulate three theses that I will make plausible
and more precise in the course of this paper:
Thesis 1: The ping-pong model of interactive observations across the
Iron Curtain itself is distinctly marked and takes centre stage in the reports
on the moon landing in the form of observations of the observers.
Thesis 2: The forms and functionalities of these observations of ob-
servers prove to be multifaceted in the concrete televisual practice. In the
reports on the first manned moon landing on East and West German tele-
vision one can find quite subtle connections and differentiations that are
far from the supposed clear dichotomous logic of the Iron Curtain.
Thesis 3: Without a doubt, mass media which crossed borders such as
television was used on either side of the Iron Curtain during the Cold War
as a means of propagandistic dispute.8 But this point of view can also be
turned around: Not only was mass media a decisive factor of the Cold War
but the Cold War can also be understood as “a chapter of the long term
development of mass media.” 9 Following on from this one can see the
“system competition as a special period in the trans-national expansion of
modern mass media.”10 Going even further I want to propose: Through
these mutual observations which in the context of this system competition

5
After 1960, the television office of the GDR recorded, despite a lack of resources,
every programme of the ARD that might possibly contain political content. The
Federal Republic of Germany also recorded programmes by the GDR after the
1960s by order of the federal government. (cf. Jens Ruchatz, “Unsere Medien/Eure
Medien. Zur Logik und Geschichte deutsch/deutscher Medienbeobachtung,” in
Das literarische Fernsehen. Beiträge zur deutsch-deutschen Medienkultur, ed.
Thomas Beutelschmidt et al. (Frankfurt a.M.: Lang, 2007), 155.
6
For more detailed information, cf. Keilbach’s contribution to this volume.
7
Cf. Alexander Badenoch et al., “Airy Curtains in the European Ether: Introduc-
tion,” in Airy Curtains in the European Ether. Broadcasting the Cold War, ed.
idem et al. (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2013), 13.
8
Cf. Frank Bösch, Mediengeschichte. Vom asiatischen Buchdruck zum Fernsehen
(Frankfurt am Main/New York: Campus, 2011), 221.
9
Thomas Lindenberger, “Einleitung,” in Massenmedien im Kalten Krieg. Akteure,
Bilder, Resonanzen, ed. idem (Köln et al: Böhlau, 2006), 15.
10
Lindenberger, Einleitung, 14.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 59

became prevalant for the mass media on both sides of the Iron Curtain a
special observation and perception scheme was established, rehearsed and
advanced which has now become taken for granted by the modern globally
connected media culture.11

Media Culture and the Second Order Observation

In order for these three theses to become more plausible and more pre-
cise through analysing the coverage of the first manned moon landing on
West and East German television it is important to first define the key
terms and explain my particular approach.
‘Observing’ is to be understood from a system theoretical perspective
as “distinguishing and indicating.”12 To that effect the observer performs
operations of distinguishing and identifying. Phenomena of the world are
selected whilst distinguishing from other phenomena, identified in a spe-
cific way and communicated as such. So observation is not to be under-
stood in a phenomenological manner as the perception of one individual,
but as a communicative act of distinguishing and identifying. Then again
observers also let themselves be identified and distinguished, depending
on which schemata or conventions are chosen for the particular observa-
tions, stabilised or even varied.13 Secondly, observers can be very diverse,
at least from a system theoretical perspective: people, but also social sys-
tems, for example, the system of mass media, or institutions such as televi-
sion broadcasters or, especially relevant for this paper, particular television
programmes.14
‘Second order observations’ refer to specific observations. In this ob-
servation category the observer does not (or at least not only) concentrate

11
That the system competition especially during and though the Space Race ad-
vanced globalisation is also James Schwoch’s argument: “That race was run on a
curious track: not along the older track of security and national sovereignty, but
along what then was a new track of world citizenship and extraterritoriality, now
recognized in the twenty-first century as a track of globalization.” (James
Schwoch, Global TV. New Media and the Cold War, 1946-69 (Urbana/Chicago:
University of Illinois Press, 2009), 159.) But Schwoch does not broach the issue of
the special perception scheme that then became dominant and which is my focus
here.
12
Niklas Luhmann, Theory of Society. Volume 1 (Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 2012), 34.
13
Luhmann, Theory of Society, V1, 83.
14
Cf. Niklas Luhmann, The Reality of the Mass Media (Stanford: Stanford Univer-
sity Press, 2000).
60 Chapter Three

on what is being observed (this would fall into the category of first order
observation), but how it is being observed. 15 More precisely: A second
order observer is observing how other observers are observing the world
or even more precisely: which schemata and conventions are at the basis
of these observations. Yet this second order observation only becomes
relevant as a communicative phenomenon such as when it is made public
in a television report.16
In this context certain observation strategies are especially important;
the so-called societal self-descriptions.17 Such self-descriptions are mainly
communication opportunities, books, texts, movies or even television
reports that observe and reflect holistically the fundamental operations and
functions of society. Put more simply: relations that are relevant for socie-
ty are put into a nutshell in societal self-descriptions. ‘Risk society’, ‘capi-
talistic West’, ‘Soviet satellite state’ or even ‘global society’ could be
labels for such societal self-descriptions. They try to describe crucial as-
pects of society or give a suggestion for observation of significant circum-
stances of society. The constructivist Siegfried J. Schmidt might call this
observation perspective a reflexive indication of the basic reality concepts
of society.18 In this case, societal self-descriptions always remain “imagi-
nary constructions”. 19 This is because there is no neutral point of view
from which everything can be viewed. Societal self-descriptions are al-
ways a part of what they describe and thus previously formed. So they are
a paradox: They refer to the fundamental basis of societal processes with-
out ever being able to view society as a whole. Still the following applies:
These “imaginary constructions” make it possible to “communicate about
society”.20 Without imaginary constructions from societal self-descriptions
there is no worldview, no fundamental perception of the world in which

15
Cf. Luhmann, Theory of Society, V1, 50, 58, 83.
16
A second order observation can also be a self-observation. This means a com-
municative act of self-reflection: Then the observer is observing himself as if he
were another observer. Obviously this must lead to a paradox: How could an ob-
server possibly reflectively understand the foundations of his observations when
these foundations first-off enable observations (and also the observation of one’s
foundations)? Or as Luhmann defines it referring to Michel Serres: “[t]he observer
is the non-observable” (Luhmann, Theory of Society, V1, 34). But apparently this
hardly ever stops an observer from observing himself (and other observers).
17
Cf. Niklas Luhmann, Theory of Society. Volume 2 (Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 2013), 167-179.
18
Siegfried J. Schmidt, Kalte Faszination. Medien – Kultur – Wissenschaft in der
Mediengesellschaft (Weilerswist: Velbrück, 2010), 34-37.
19
Luhmann, Theory of Society, V2, 167.
20
Luhmann, Theory of Society, V2, 167.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 61

we live. Accordingly, they receive an important though often highly ideal-

istic standardising function of self-reassurance for society and orientation
of meaning.
By the 18th century a term was established that describes a new mode
of observation of positions of society, the term ‘culture’.21 The develop-
ment of this term is especially connected to the “acknowledgement of
cultural diversity”.22 Previously ‘others’ from outside the clan, tribe, na-
tion or state were mostly defamed as barbarians or non-human beings.23
Slowly but surely a comparison-based consciousness comes, according to
Niklas Luhmann’s historical semantic studies: It becomes common place
to potentially view different human communities or societies as similar in
societal self-descriptions, making them comparable to one’s own ‘culture’.
Actually, through this reflexive observation of ‘culture contact’ an under-
standing that one might even be or have an own culture develops.24 From
this point of view culture is a problem solving strategy: “A culture is thus
a form of processing the problem that there are also other cultures. It is a
form of distinction which would be pointless without a previous culture
contact”.25 The interesting point of this concept is that culture is not as is
commonly practiced reduced to the simple sum of values of a society or to
alleged mental attributes of a group of individuals. Instead culture is un-
derstood as a communicative observation mode of comparisons through
which an understanding of different cultures (with divergent values and
reality concepts) is even begotten, then passed down or modified.
This observation mode of cultural comparison has become the most
common form of societal self-description in modern times. Often it is
apparent how difficult the term culture can be when forming societal self-
descriptions: After all, most societal self-descriptions try to make compari-
sons of cultural entities. This means: Identity foundation can happen
through binary differentiation (‘us’ vs. ‘them’). This differentiation is
often shifted topologically and/or topographically (this side vs. the other
side of the Iron Curtain, East vs. West) and infused with an asymmetric
assessment (e.g. ‘decadent’ vs. ‘solidary’). Simple examples of a typical
Cold War opposition could be: ‘Eastern Bloc’ vs. ‘free world’; ‘socialism
with a human face’ vs. ‘decadent grimace of capitalism’. Or somewhat

21
Cf. Niklas Luhmann, “Kultur als historischer Begriff,” in Gesellschaftsstruktur
und Semantik. Bd. 4, idem (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1995).
22
Luhmann, Theory of Society, V1, 106.
23
Cf. André Leroi-Gourhan, Le geste et la parole. Vol. I: Technique et langage
(Paris: Albin Michel, 1964), 16-17.
24
Cf. Dirk Baecker, Wozu Kultur? (Berlin: Nomos, 2000), 16.
25
Baecker, Wozu Kultur?, 17.
62 Chapter Three

more complicated: The US Americans are flying to the moon ‘for all man-
kind’, as it is mentioned on the commemorative plaque which is put up on
Earth, but then they erect the US American flag on the moon. First a
common aspect is established (‘mankind’) but at the same time a binary
differentiation is introduced: USA vs. the rest of the world. This leads to
an inequality: US Americans are allowed to speak and act for all mankind
(but not vice versa).26
On the other hand, the observation of cultural comparison takes place
in one’s consciousness. So one could always observe everything different-
ly and others are also most likely observing in a different way.27 Modern
societal self-descriptions are thus moving on an insecure path between
more or less explicit self-reassurances through differentiation and more or
less implicit self-doubt through the consciousness of other observation
possibilities.28 Independent of whether or not stabilisation, closure, open-
ing, uncertainty or criticism should be evoked, it is constitutive for such
societal self-descriptions to gain the access of the second order observer:
So one is also observing how others are observing in order to come to a
self-assessment under contingent prefix through foreign observation.
Media plays a vital role in this process. This is not only due to the fact
that without media no communication could even take place.29 More rele-
vant in this context is: Media has always been designed for overcoming
distances. Language imparts thoughts between people; the written word

26
For such societal self-description, it is true that: “They are not neutral instru-
ments for the description of cultural properties but rather use these inequalities
actively which they try to see as preexistent.” (Abrecht Koschorke, Wahrheit und
Erfindung. Grundzüge einer Allgemeinen Erzähltheorie (Frankfurt am Main:
Fischer, 2012), 97.) This type of comparison has in contrast to pure term schemata
the advantage that it is “more movable and many-voiced”, as well as speaking
about “often controversial, instable mixture circumstances” (Koschorke, Wahrheit,
99). In short: Such societal self-descriptions can be garnished narratively and
semantically in a very elaborate and variable way.
27
Cf. Dirk Baecker, Beobachter unter sich. Eine Kulturtheorie (Berlin: Suhrkamp,
2013).
28
This opening can surely also lead to ‘global’ societal self-descriptions: ‘man-
kind’, ‘global society’ etc. Nevertheless, when analysing these self-descriptions
more closely one sees binary differentiations are included most of the time, as the
example of the US Americans who were on the moon ‘for all mankind’ shows.
29
At least when assuming a comparatively broad media definition that includes,
for instance, all sorts of semiotic communication instruments (cf. Siegfried J.
Schmidt, “Der Medienkompaktbegriff,” in Was ist ein Medium? ed. Stefan Münker
et al. (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp 2008), 144-146 or also Luhmann, Theory of
Society, V1, 190-195).
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 63

overcomes space and time and so forth.30 Mass media is especially evident
in overcoming distances. 31 Not only can societal self-descriptions be
communicated with the help of mass media, from their make-up they can
already overcome borders, also ideological, national or even continental
ones, for example. Wireless broadcasting is a particularly impressive ex-
ample of this, and was much discussed at an early date. As early as the
1930s Rudolf Arnheim extrapolated the specialty of wireless media like
radio and television in contrast to other media capable of transgressing
distance as all-encompassing and uncontrollable:

“Whereas books, films and newspapers must first be exported, an

event which the countries from which they are exported and to which they
are imported can influence at will, wireless is equally available on either
side of the frontier. Nor is it like a letter, message, telegram or telephone
conversation which can be suppressed or stopped at the frontier; it passes
all customs-officers, needs no cable, penetrates all walls and even in house
raids is very difficult to catch.”32

Thus broadcasting overcomes per se borders. And even when mass

media programmes such as these are not as totally free, uncontrollable and
intangible as Arnheim suggests, the problem of drawing up borders and
their transgression becomes crucial in a case such as this. From the second
half of the 20th century, the idea that media form networks across borders
became not only consensual but also virulent as a collective societal phe-
nomenon and problem. The idea of an interconnected mass media system
that massively influences all other social spheres became popular. In fact,
this ‘culture industry’ media system might threaten, so warned its critics,
to completely intrude upon and manipulate all aspects of society.33 This
interconnected media is also, however, celebrated as a joyful messenger of
a new electronic age that will restructure the world as a global village.34
Consequently, from the 60s onwards in societal self-descriptions, the vo-

30
Cf. Hartmut Winkler, Basiswissen Medien (Frankfurt am Main: Fischer 2008),
163-167.
31
For closer definition see: Luhmann, Reality, 2-3.
32
Rudolf Arnheim, Radio. An Art of Sound (New York: Da Capo Press, 1936),
233.
33
Cf. Max Horkheimer/Theodor W. Adorno, “The Culture Industry: Enlighten-
ment as Mass Deception,” in Dialectic of Enlightenment. Philosophical Fragments
(German-language original 1944/47), idem, (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
2002).
34
Cf. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (New
York: McGraw Hill, 1964).
64 Chapter Three

cabulary ‘media society’35 and ‘network society’36 are often used. In such
a ‘media or network society’–and this is of primary importance here–the
observation of observations is secured as a standard operation and taken to
the extreme:

“Media is apparently observing everything and everywhere, they observe

that they are observing and how they are observing, and they observe each
other when observing.”37

That such an idea of a ‘media or network society’ along with its inter-
connected mode of observation is established is due on a basic level to
media technological reasons or at least conditions. Noteworthy here is
especially the communicative connection of the world through telegraph
and submarine cables, terrestrial and (as of the 1960s through satellites in
the Earth’s orbit) also extra-terrestrial wireless connections. 38 This net-
work was accompanied as of the 1950s by the broad establishment of
television in most of Europe and North America. It is not slogans alone
like global village that have emerged since the 1960s. These ideas have
also been implemented in media and television practices in particular. In
spite of prevailing local constraints, technical incompatibilities and disrup-
tion they have become an integral part of televisual programmes and
transnational programme exchange, which, no matter which political sys-
tem is in play, operate by crossing borders and political blocs.39 This can
be seen, for example, in live broadcasts which operate over national bor-
ders, e.g. the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953, or even over the
Atlantic, e.g. the funeral ceremony for John F. Kennedy in 1963.40 The
live reports, in particular, during the Space Race offer manifold illustrative
material: beginning with the live broadcast of the rocket launch on US

35
Cf. Martin Linder, “Das Fernsehen, der Computer und das Jahrhundert von ‘die
Medien’. Zur Konstruktion der mediasphere um 1950: Riesman, McLuhan,
Bradbury, Orwell, Leinster,” in Archiv für Mediengeschichte – 1950, ed. Lorenz
Engell, Bernhard Siegert and Joseph Vogl (Weimar: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2004),
11-34.
36
Cf. Manuel Castells, The Rise of the Network Society. The Information Age:
Economy, Society and Culture. Vol. I, (Cambridge/Oxford: Blackwell, 1996).
37
Siegfried J. Schmidt, “Medien: Die Kopplung von Kommunikation und
Kognition,” in Medien Computer Realität. Wirklichkeitsvorstellungen und Neue
Medien, ed. Sibylle Krämer (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp 1998), 68.
38
Frank Hartmann, Globale Medienkultur (Wien: UTB, 2006), 142-151.
39
Cf. for this matter the contribution of Fickers in the present volume.
40
Cf. Wilson P. Diszard, Television. A World View (New York: Syracuse Universi-
ty Press, 1967), 77-79.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 65

television, through to Gagarin’s celebration on Red Square, Leonov’s

space walk to the first manned moon landing in 1969, the latter of which
was technically able to be received all over the world and accordingly was
intended televisually to be broadcast globally.41
Already before the first manned moon landing the idea of a ‘global tel-
evision’ had been experimented with. To name an example, in 1967 the
BBC undertook a very ambitious project with the title OUR WORLD. Here
the goal was not to broadcast a great event such as a coronation of a queen
or the funeral of a president, but rather to show that global television is
basically possible. To that effect

“the declared goal was to integrate the entire globe: the cameras were to be
positioned at 42 different locations in 18 countries, and the results to be
visible in 31 countries […]. From Tunisia to Tokyo, from Vladivostok to
Winnipeg […].”42

Yet–and this is relevant for the intervention of politics in the techno-

logically possible: at short notice the participation of the socialist countries
was cancelled in order to protest against the six-day war which had started
in the Middle East during the preparation of the show. In this way, besides
the media technological aspects, political and ideological ones are always
also relevant. For television in particular, despite global experimentation,
the technical ability to cross borders and to exchange programmes it re-
mained enthroned as a national medium:

“What made the dilemmas of television culture both East and West of the
Iron Curtain particularly vexing was their link with national culture. Wher-
ever it appeared, television became a national medium par excellence, and
a vehicle for national promotion globally.”43

41
Cf. Schwoch, Global TV; Michael Allen: Live from the Moon. Film, Television
and the Space Race (New York: I. B. Tauris, 2009).
42
Jens Ruchatz, “Spiel ohne Grenzen oder grenzenlose Spielerei? Euro-vision –
Intervision – Mondovision,” in Medienkultur der 60er Jahre. Global – lokal, ed.
Irmela Schneider et al. (Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag, 2003), 143.
43
Sabina Mihelj, “Television Entertainment in Socialist Eastern Europe: Between
Cold War Politics and Global Developments,” in Popular Television in Eastern
Europe During and Since Socialism, ed. Anikó Imre et al. (London: Routledge,
2013), 23.
66 Chapter Three

Fig. 2: The glocal world society during the Space Race

Despite broadcasting across borders, for a long time television was

seen institutionally as a national matter and thus in most cases primarily
adapted to local interests and identity formation. 44 Nevertheless, it was
always also a means to advertise such national accomplishments globally,
so targeted transnationally on behalf of national interests. Images of na-
tionally organised television were supposed to also make an impression
internationally or at least proclaim national interests and accomplishments.
Societal self-descriptions find themselves confronted in a context such
as this with contradictory tendencies: On the one hand the consciousness
of a global interconnected world is omnipresent. Thus (world) society has
been described since the 1960s from the perspective of a global media
culture. With this the world is being observed from a perspective that
expects that mass media options are basically circulating globally, are

44
Cf. Anthony Smith (ed.), Television. An International History (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 21998).
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 67

under observation everywhere and these observations again compared.45

On the other hand each self-description is developed on a national level or
marked through differentiation. This means the local adaption of the glob-
al media culture functions through a comparative operation mode in order
to permanently develop, question and modify cultural identity. Such cul-
tural identities are often contoured as nationalistic identities or also in the
context of the Cold War stabilised through clear borders between alleged
different cultural statuses on either side of the Iron Curtain (cf. in a sum-
marised form fig. 2).46
In more precise terms: Through the maxim of foreign observation,
which is essential to both sides of the Iron Curtain, it is possible to go
further and say that through the permanent communication of such obser-
vations of the foreign a particular form of second order observation diffus-
es slowly but surely on either side of the Iron Curtain, and in fact spreads
worldwide. These second order observations have the characteristic to
design on the one hand through cultural comparison the global and on the
other hand offer the possibility to redesign the global again and again
through culture comparison (and in so doing to expect always other de-
signs as well). On the basis of mass media which operates across borders
or media technological interconnection such designs of the global become
gradually more and more obvious and dominating in the context of the
Cold War through the orientation of the mass media towards foreign ob-
servations and, in this way, contribute to globalisation.
The role of the space missions in ‘East’ and ‘West’ during the Space
Race can be understood precisely in this context:47
Firstly, the operations in Outer Space create the conditions for the es-
tablishment of extra-terrestrial satellites though which (nearly) simultane-

45
Cf. Andreas Hepp, Medienkultur. Die Kultur mediatisierter Welten (Wiesbaden:
VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften, 22013).
46
The differentiation in institutional, material and symbolic dimensions of levels is
adopted from Badenoch et al, Introduction, 17; the differentiation in technology,
culture and politics in context of the space missions is adopted from Dierk Spreen,
“Die dritte Raumrevolution. Weltraumfahrt und Weltgesellschaft nach Carl
Schmitt und Niklas Luhmann,” in Soziologie der Weltraumfahrt, ed. Joachim
Fischer/Dierk Spreen (Bielefeld: transcript, 2014), 99, 123. Critically seen the
economical level is completely overlooked in this paper, especially when speaking
of the exchange of programmes between the ‘East’ and the ‘West’ – cf. for further
information on this see Fickers’ contribution in the present volume.
47
Cf. Schwoch, Gobal TV or prior Parsons generally referring to the situation of
the Cold War: Talcott Parsons, “Polarization and International Order” (1961) in:
Sociological Theory and Modern Society, idem (New York: The Free Press 1967),
466-489.
68 Chapter Three

ous transnational communication is even possible.48 Secondly, a central

aspect of such transnational communication and reporting are the space
missions themselves, mostly broadcast live on television. These images–
think of the pictures of Earth as seen from the moon or the Earth’s orbit–
are crucially involved in the development of a global consciousness
through their so-called overview effect.49 Or they are at least an important
means which offer the idea of the global in its concrete as well as symboli-
cal form.50
Thirdly, in contrast to these pictures of the global, the Space Race is
portrayed as a geopolitical competition and the connected contouring of
local differences and interests. The theme of this competition was which
nation or which ‘political bloc’ could benefit from the achievements in
space. Television was an important vehicle which gave contour to the
national or ideological blocs. Television is particularly suited for this, not
least because it can deliver images that can quickly gain ‘global’ attention.
In particular, this is true when speaking of spectacular pictures of the
global or even the trans-global, as is the case with the space missions.
Fourthly, a comparison-based mode of observation is the central max-
im for the televisual reporting on the space missions on both sides of the
Iron Curtain. Second order observations are on the one hand a concession
to a global media culture in which the same event can be observed (nearly)
simultaneously, but differently everywhere. So from the outset one has to
expect that there are very different observers in the world. On the other
hand second order observations in the space missions broadcasts are used
as a means to strengthen national and ideological identity in a mode of
cultural comparison. In spite of all the different protagonists involved in
the Space Race the different reports on the space missions on either side of
the Iron Curtain are dictated with recourse to the same global perception
and comparison scheme,51 namely the confrontation of ‘East’ and ‘West’

48
Cf. Hartmann, Globale Medienkultur, 151-159.
49
Cf. Frank White, The Overview Effect. Space Exploration and Human Evolution
(Reston: AIAA, 1987).
50
Cf. Spreen, Dritte Raumrevolution, 107-108; Lorenz Engell, “Apollo TV: The
Copernican Turn of the Gaze,” in World Picture, 7 (2012), http://www. worldpic-
turejournal.com/WP_7/Engell.html, accessed September 4, 2015; Robert Poole,
Earthrise. How Man Saw First the Earth (New Haven/ London: Yale University
Press, 2008).
51
Cf. Tobias Werron, “Media Globalization in Question. Ein soziologischer Blick
auf medienhistorische Beiträge zur Globalisierungsforschung,” in zfm. Zeitschrift
für Medienwissenschaft, 1 (2010), 2, 140-143.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 69

against a global background through second order observations (see in

summary fig. 2).

The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on West

and East German Television
These quite coarse and general descriptions can be made more concrete
and be analysed in a much more precise, historic and geographical context,
namely in the case of the mutual observation of West German and East
German television.52 For several reasons, this constellation is almost an
ideal experimental system for a test of how the mutual observations via
mass media gained concrete form in the Cold War. Firstly, there was a
very secure and supervised physical border between the GDR and the
FRG. Also there was the unique position of West Berlin. Secondly, in
spite of these rigid, physical borders, walls and interruption attempts the
broadcasts were still able to reach the other side of the Iron Curtain (fig.
3a-b). 53 So in the German-German border area media technology and
politics condensed topographically in a precarious constellation: “Wireless
is equally available on either side of the frontier”.54
That wireless broadcasts could cross borders was utilised strategically
by East and West German television, for example to send programmes for
possible recipients beyond the Iron Curtain. Indeed, both broadcasters had
the remit until the mid-1960s to transmit a television programme for entire
Germany with the goal of reunification–albeit in the ether.55 Naturally this
also works the other way: When conceptualising one’s own shows and
planning programmes one would have to assume that the recipients on
their side of the Iron Curtain would also know the programmes from the
other side of the Iron Curtain. It was common practice especially in the
news sector to quickly comment on comments that had been made public
‘over there’, or at least to observe the observations.56

52
Cf. for a more elaborate analysis see the contribution of Keilbach in this volume.
53
Seen this way, West Berlin was a stroke of luck especially for the ‘West’ since
despite the Berlin Wall, signals were able to be sent straight into the heart of the
GDR. Keilbach’s contribution to this volume also analyses the fact that besides the
ideological competition the fight between East and West Germany was also about
the access to limited transmitter frequencies.
54
Arnheim, Radio, 233.
55
Cf. Rüdiger Steinmetz/Reinhold Viehhoff, Deutsches Fernsehen Ost. Eine Pro-
grammgeschichte des DDR-Fernsehens (Berlin: vfb, 2008), 182.
56
DER SCHWARZE KANAL (GDR 1960-1989) as well as DIE ROTE OPTIK (FRG
1958-1964) were shows which placed this observation logic at the core of their
70 Chapter Three

Fig. 3a-b: Signals from Outer Space: On the one side the reception possibilities of
the ARD in the GDR (left) and on the other side the transmission capacity of the
GDR television in regions of the FRG (right).57

Consequently, “mediated interaction”58 with a short delay was com-

mon media practice between East and West Germany. Thirdly, this con-
tinual programming which was aimed at reception across the border was
fairly straightforward because people on both sides of the border spoke the
same language. Because of the above named reasons observing the ob-
servers was part of the daily (programming) routine for East German and
West German television from the very beginning.
To pin down what this ping-pong model of interactive observation
looked like I will focus on two programmes. First of all I will analyse the
live report on the first manned moon landing of West German television
broadcaster ARD from 20 and 21 July 1969. After this I will investigate
the programme WEGE INS WELTALL. TENDENZEN UND PERSPEKTIVEN DER
WELTRAUMFAHRT. This was broadcast in the GDR nearly three months

programme. Here primarily the reporting done by the other side of the Iron Curtain
was observed and commented upon (cf. Peter Hoff, “Zwischen Mauerbau und
VIII. Parteitag – Das Fernsehen der DDR von 1961 bis 1971,” in Geschichte des
deutschen Fernsehens. Knut Hickethier (Stuttgar/Weimar: Metzler, 1998), 283; cf.
also the contribution of Keilbach in this volume).
57
Figures taken from: Telekommunikation in der DDR und der Bundesrepublik,
ed. Eberhard Witte (München: R. von Decker’s Verlag, 1990), 125 (left); Gumbert,
Envisioning Socialism, 108 (right).
58
Badenoch et al, Introduction, 13.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 71

after the first manned moon landing in the context of the series ASTRO-
NAUTISCHES STUDIO (Astronautic studio). Within this show among other
topics the first manned moon landing is directly referenced as well as the
reporting done on it on West German television.
I will start with the report on West German television of the first
manned moon landing. In this context it is important to note: As of the
mid-1960s 85 per cent of households in the GDR were able to receive so-
called ‘Westfernsehen’ (broadcasts from West Germany). 59 However, it
will most likely never be found out exactly how many viewers from East
Germany were actually watching West German television. It seems plau-
sible though that the agitation-stirring influence on the political level was
overestimated for a long time in both Germanys and that instead of politi-
cal programmes people from ‘the other side’ actually watched more enter-
tainment shows and sports.60 Perhaps the live reporting on the first manned
moon landing can be assigned to this second category. Since the first
manned moon landing was not transmitted live on GDR television one can
assume that many GDR citizens resorted to watching the live reports from
the West even though one cannot find numbers to prove this. This is not
very problematic in this case since my focus is not on the actual reception
in the GDR but more on how the reports in the ‘West’ assumed there to be
recipients watching in the ‘East’ beforehand. This anticipating observation
of observers beyond the Iron Curtain is visible, according to my hypothe-
sis, in the reporting itself.
In the following I will concentrate on the reports broadcast by the AR-
BEITSGEMEINSCHAFT DES ÖFFENTLICH-RECHTLICHEN FERNSEHENS DER
BUNDESREPUBLIK DEUTSCHLAND (Work Group of the Television Gov-
erned by Public Law of the Federal Republic of Germany), or ARD in its
short form. ARD’s main television channel was called ERSTES DEUTSCHES
FERNSEHEN (First German Television) for many years and is now called
DAS ERSTE (The First).61 Here the first manned moon landing was staged

59
Although this was usually connected to a bad picture quality and one needed a
proper antenna along with a frequency converter, it was said to be comparatively
easy to gain access to and install. Cf. Michael Meyen, “Kollektive Ausreise? Zur
Reichsweite ost- und westdeutscher Fernsehprogramme in der DDR,” in
Publizistik, 47 (2002), 2, 200-220.
60
Cf. Meyen, Kollektive Ausreise?; Michael Meyen/Ute Nawratil Ute, “The View-
ers: Television and Everyday Life in East Germany.” in Historical Journal of Film,
Radio and Television, 24 (2004) 3: 355-364.
61
For more detailed information on the reporting about the space missions by ZDF
(Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen) despite the slightly different focus see Bernd Müt-
ter, “Per Media Ad Astra? Outer Space in West Germany’s Media,” in Imagining
72 Chapter Three

very elaborately by the regional channel WDR (Westdeutscher Rundfunk)

based in Cologne. From there it was included into the main programme of
the ARD and like almost everywhere else in the world advertised as one of
the greatest moments ever in television history. 62 Still today the live
transmission of the first manned moon landing counts as one of the great-
est media events in the history of television and as proof for an at least
technologically possible global media culture. Through a complicated
network of receivers and transmitters, cable connections, terrestrial signal
transmissions as well as extra-terrestrial satellite technology a global live
transmission from the moon was made possible and through this ‘humani-
ty’ was assembled in front of its television screen.63 At least this goes for
the part of the population which had access to a functioning television set,
did not live in the dead zones which existed despite global connections and
whose countries also broadcast the first manned moon landing. Primarily
for ideological reasons the event was not broadcast live on television in
some places, especially not in some Eastern Bloc countries, even though
wireless connections and transmission possibilities were present. The
USSR and the GDR abstained from the live reporting as well as China,
North Korea and South Vietnam.64 West-German television on the other
hand spared no expenses or pains to focus their programming over a peri-
od of days on this central event.65 Since there were hardly any live pictures
from outer space until the astronauts disembarked from the moon capsule
and NASA had only published seven short clips “with a total of 90
minutes in color and 40 minutes in black and white”, “the shows were
filled up with additional interviews, demonstrational movies and pictures,
panels of experts in studios decorated with expensive Apollo decora-
tions”.66 What interests me most in the following is this additional materi-
al. After all, the second order culture-comparing observation mode is used
here massively.

Outer Space. European Astroculture in the Twentieth Century, ed. Alexander C.T.
Geppert (New York: Palgrave Macmillan), 149-169.
62
Cf. Knut Hickethier, Geschichte des deutschen Fernsehens (Stuttgart/ Weimar:
Metzler, 1998), 274-275.
63
Allen, Live from the Moon, 141-150.
64
Although reporting was still done on the event (also in advance) in newspapers,
radio and television – cf. on the reporting in the Soviet Union Lewis, Red Stuff,
316-317. Moreover: In some states within the Warsaw Pact, in Poland and the
ýSSR for example the moon landing was in fact shown live on television.
65
Cf. Hickethier, Geschichte des deutschen Fernsehens, 274.
66
Hickethier, Geschichte des deutschen Fernsehens, 274
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 73

During live transmissions the magazine show WELTSPIEGEL was

broadcast, amongst others. This show has been aired every Sunday even-
ing by ARD since 1963. WELTSPIEGEL was (and is) in charge of reporting
on news from abroad which, according to their self-description, is sup-
posed to give information on the newest discoveries in the world. This
happens through the backup of an enigmatic network made up of corre-
spondents abroad meant to observe and report on-site. 67 On the official
ARD homepage the successful history of this show with its operations
across borders is extended by another facet: “Very soon the new show
became for many millions of viewers–also in the former GDR–the most
popular ‘window to the world’.”68 In context of the ‘transglobal’ reporting
on the first manned moon landing the WELTSPIEGEL studio was integrated
into the Apollo space studio. A world map was placed in the background
which neatly showed the different world regions differentiated by different
colours.69 Against this background the host, Hans Werner Hübner, intro-
duces short contributions on the subject of the first manned moon landing
on that Sunday evening of July 20, 1969 and, to be more exact, on the
subject of the different expectations and evaluations on either side of the
Iron Curtain. Throughout this, the host Hübner reflects first of all on the
global position as a whole, for example with the words: “The world in
these days: introspective, torn apart, antagonised, obscure.” This is fol-
lowed by a reference to the fact that the situation on-site should be exam-
ined more closely, combined with the assurance that “the correspondents
of the German television will report…”. So here, in the WELTSPIEGEL, a

67
Cf. Anonymous, “Die Geschichte des Weltspiegels”, http://www.daserste.de/
information/politik-weltgeschehen/weltspiegel/geschichte/ind ex.html, accessed
September 4, 2015. Since the live reports of the 20 July 1969 in Germany fell on a
Sunday the WELTSPIEGEL was integrated into the report. In the programme descrip-
tion in the magazine STERN it says: “17.10pm landing on the moon […]. In be-
tween: Weltspiegel, Sportschau.” (Cf. http://www.tvprogrammenet/60/1969
/19690720.htm, accessed September 4, 2015.) The WELTSPIEGEL also in this case
aired its programme at the same time it still does today, around 19.20pm. Cf. about
the WELTSPIEGEL generally: Sylvia Breckl, Auslandsberichterstattung im
deutschen Fernsehen. Die Dritte Welt im WELTSPIEGEL und AUSLANDSJOURNAL
(Berlin: Frank & Timme 2006) 89-101; Wilfried Scharf/Ralf Stockmann, “Zur
Auslandsbericht-erstattung von WELTSPIEGEL und AUSLANDSJOURNAL,” in
Deutschland im Kontakt der Kulturen. Medien, Images, Verständigungen, ed.
Siegfried Quandt/Wolfgang Gast (Konstanz: UVK, 1998), 73-85.
68
Anonymous, Geschichte des Weltspiegels.
69
This differentiation does not strictly follow the political map of the Cold War,
but is closely related to it: The American continent is coloured blue, West, South-
and Central Europe are yellow, the USSR is green and China red.
74 Chapter Three

world situation is directly addressed and put into perspective: The local
assumptions around the globe are to be examined against the backdrop of
the global media event that is the first manned moon landing.
Consequently, the viewers are taken to different places around the
world in the individual reports. Above all one thing is observed: how ob-
servers are observing the moon landing practice. This is especially evident
in the report on the USA. “The first station is: Cape Canaveral, USA.” In
this clip many scenes are brought together that show spectators waiting
and the site of the launch pad of the SATURN V rocket which will take the
astronauts into space (fig. 4a-f). The ARD correspondents are there on-site
as well, “to some extent at the launch pad of the small man” as the report
puts it. The contribution remains ironic and critical in its tone. As for ex-
ample these words show: “Thousands are waiting for the man in the moon
to become an American.” We see a man who is waiting on-site for the
launch of the rocket equipped with the insignia of the US-American con-
sumer lifestyle: car, portable television and a cigarette (fig. 4a); the report
shows which snacks are offered on-site and with which advertising slogans
they are sold: “COLD SALAMI BEATS THE HEAT OF APOLLO 11”
(fig. 4b). Stickers for the grand event are visible (fig. 4c). They are com-
mented upon by the following: “Memories of a success that will not be-
come reality until Monday.” (Ibid.) Comments are also made on the toy
industry that has equipped itself with new toys for the great event and
offer children everywhere the chance to act out the manned moon landing
before it has even taken place (fig. 4d). And last but not least young wom-
en are shown dressed up as aliens and are waiting for signals from outer
space from a satellite dish (fig. 4e). This scenery, although not evident
from the image material, is ironically charged with national and cultural-
historical meaning: “The European Columbus was important for America,
but the Americans are important for the world… for reaching for the
stars… The young ladies are evidently embodying this.”
Through these examples a distance to the US-American ideology and
culture is quite definitely demarcated–namely through the second order
observation mode. One observes how the US-Americans are observing the
moon-landing project. Furthermore, distinct and ironic conclusions are
drawn to create distance from the cultural idiosyncrasies of the USA. This
takes place explicitly in front of the reflective horizon of a global media
culture: The images of the moon mission are sent around the world but are
then, as in the report of the WELTSPIEGEL, absorbed differently. Such a
perspective is always already a part of a certain societal self-description in
the mode of culture-comparison: In Germany, or more precisely in the
West German television of the ARD, a certain adoption is shown from
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 75

which one ironically distances oneself, in order to be able to describe

one’s own way of observation (and with this ultimately one’s own cultural
disposition). One’s own reporting should–and this is repeatedly empha-
sised in the course of the 19 hour-long programme–not be consumerist or
purely loaded with affects, despite the fascination. Instead it should com-
municate technological assets and, in particular, be able to critically reflect
upon the foreign and oneself. So here across the political-ideological dif-
ferences between both sides of the Iron Curtain interior differences are
drawn on one side of the Iron Curtain. Also on this side of the Iron Curtain
irrespective of a global village or not, not everyone is the same. This can
be discerned at least from the culture-comparing perspective of
WELTSPIEGEL in context of the live reports on the first manned moon
landing.70

Fig. 4a-f: Waiting for the men on the moon: US-Americans on West-German
television

But the gaze is not only directed towards the ‘West’ but also towards
the ‘East’. The correspondent from Moscow, Lothar Loewe, is part of the
team of experts in the studio of the ERSTES DEUTSCHES FERNSEHEN. He is
presented as such several times through text pop-ups during the show (fig.
5a).71

70
That the WELTSPIEGEL generally has a critical perspective especially on the USA
and their way of life is mentioned by Breckl, Auslandsbericht-erstattung, 89-92.
71
Loewe regularly presented reports from Moscow as correspondent for the
WELTSPIEGEL in the 1960s.
76 Chapter Three

Fig. 5a-b: Moscow correspondent in constant contact with the ‘East’ media on
‘West’ media

During the report, Loewe is in charge of providing information on the

development of space travel on the other side of the Iron Curtain. During
the live transmission, for example, he makes a nearly 20 minute-
commentary on the status of Soviet space travel. During this time Nikolai
Petrovich Kamanin, a general of the Soviet army, and the engineer Anato-
lii Blagonravov discuss ways in which the USSR could cooperate with the
USA.72 Loewe is also responsible for describing how the manned moon
landing is being received in the USSR and, in particular, which infor-
mation is being transmitted in the media of the ‘East’ about the moon
mission during the moon mission. Loewe explains, for example, that a
soccer match was being broadcast instead of the moon landing on Soviet
television, but also that one could hear news about the moon mission on
Soviet radio every few minutes. The correspondent is involved in a so-
called “priority call with Moscow”, the report often says. He calls many
colleagues in the Soviet Union, listens to, reads and translates TASS mes-
sages. Indeed, it is often insinuated that Loewe has a direct live connection
from the ARD studio in Cologne to the Soviet Union during the live
broadcast (fig. 5b). Repeatedly he sits at the expert’s table with a receiver
in his ear and listens to the Soviet radio signals. Hence the ‘East’ is sitting
at the table. Or to be more precise: It is observed how ‘Eastern’ media is
observing (or ignoring) the event in order to then discuss over and over
again the tension between East and West.
West German television, therefore, is not only following the events
surrounding the flight to the moon or at Cape Canaveral, but also noticea-
bly paying attention to the processes on the other side of the Iron Curtain;
and this is not primarily in the mode of a binary friend-enemy formula.
The reports on the USSR are comparatively moderate, and in fact for the
most part come across as sympathising with the Russians. The ‘Russians’
are not a source of fear. Instead, the report focuses on the USSR while

72
Anonymous, “Mondlandung. Längst im Kasten,” in Der Spiegel, 29/1969, 114.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 77

principally advocating cooperation with the USA in space. Then again

several times it is mentioned that the USSR is not broadcasting the moon
landing. In my opinion, this situation can best be understood by assuming
that the ERSTE DEUTSCHE FERNSEHEN was expecting some GDR citizens
to watch the programme from the very beginning. I would argue that, in
fact, it was broadcasting a programme for all of Germany on the moon
landing. Again, this means nothing other but to assume beforehand the
position of the second order observer: One observes how particular ob-
servers will possibly observe their own observation. And at this the com-
munication proposal is arranged. In the reporting itself the second order
observation has also a central place. The correspondent observes the media
reports in the ‘East’. During this process on the one hand differences are
pointed out again and again, meaning differences are marked through the
observation of observers. On the other hand, the differences are not shown
so strongly so as to establish a clear friend-enemy formula on both sides of
the Iron Curtain. On the contrary, the possibility of cooperation and the
similar interests of the USA and the USSR are emphasised. So in the pro-
cess of the reporting by the ARD one can see phases at least of a constella-
tion that runs in contrast to the dichotomy of the Cold War or at any rate
blurs it a little, since one can find a certain distancing from the USA and at
the same time a moderate approach towards the ‘East’.
But the report not only continuously focuses on the USA and USSR,
‘East’ and ‘West’. One also finds (self-)reflection on which role Germany
plays in this context. Hereby unfolds a unique kind of societal self-
description which through second order observation and historical review
is supposed to emphasise who in fact made the moon landing possible,
namely the Germans. Next to the master narrative of East versus West,
next to the semantic of the Cold War another story is diligently being
worked on during the live reporting on West German television. Even
though no German will land on the moon, the achievements of the ‘Ger-
man cultural nation’ in particular (will) have made the flight to the moon
even possible to begin with.
This is made very clear by the leader of the expert team made up of
professors in the ARD studio, namely Ernst von Khuon, chief reporter of
the SÜDWESTFUNK (South-West Broadcasting), an author of books on
popular sciences, a science-fiction writer as well as a former war reporter
for the nationalist-socialist propaganda company. Among other things, von
Khuon relays a short history on space travel while showing viewers a book
(fig. 6a). He begins by referring to the fantasies in the novel on moon
travel: “Jules Verne still sent the astronauts on a cannon ball to the
moon…well, yes…” Here von Khuon smiles indulgently. Then he talks
78 Chapter Three

about the book which he is holding in his hands: Hermann Oberth is said
to be inspired by the fantasies of the French author Jules Verne to develop
the technology for such a project. Oberth published a book which he is
now holding in his hands with the title: DIE RAKETE ZU DEN PLANE-
TENRÄUMEN (BY ROCKET INTO PLANETARY SPACE). In this book, which
was first published in 1923, the idea of a trip to space by means of a rocket
engine unfolds in a mathematically precise form. This again inspired
Wernher von Braun according to von Kuhon:

“This book gave him – as he once told me himself – the guiding star of his
life.” And further: “Wernher von Braun is actually the one who prepared the
trip to the moon, in other words who made it a reality. Interpreted directly from
Jules Verne through Hermann Oberth to Wernher von Braun.”

From this point of view, the moon mission is actually a Central Euro-
pean coproduction: A French man ‘dreamed up’ something and ‘the Ger-
man engineers’ Oberth and von Braun developed the technological aspects
and with this made it become reality. Oberth played his part by developing
the basic engineering and von Braun by becoming the central engineer for
the SATURN V spaceship with which the US-American astronauts were
able to fly to the moon. To even heighten the relevance of Oberth and von
Braun a report about a visit of von Khuon to Oberth and von Braun in
Vienna is shown. Here we observe how Oberth once again reads from his
book DIE RAKETE ZU DEN PLANETENRÄUMEN on his 75th birthday and von
Braun philosophises on the future of space travel. So we are observing
how both of them are observing the world and their position in it. After
this the show switches back to the studio where Wernher von Braun is not
present in person but one of his former colleagues in America, namely
Prof. Heinz Hermann Koelle who at the present is researching and teach-
ing in Germany. So in this ‘story’ the project moon landing is clearly
marked as an enterprise influenced by, in fact even made possible through
German engineering artistry.
Of interest here is also what is not mentioned. Wernher von Braun was
an SS officer and significantly involved in the development of the so-
called V2, or “vengeance weapon” which was used against England and
other Allies in World War II causing the death of about 8,000 people.73
These circumstances were brought to attention in the press of the GDR as

73
Cf. Michael J. Neufeld, Von Braun. Dreamer of Space, Engineer of War (New
York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007), 135-143.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 79

early as the beginning of the 1960s.74 In the West German television re-
porting this was not mentioned, at least not in the context of the live re-
ports on the first manned moon landing (but for example in Spiegel 1958,
37). Rather von Braun is utilised as vehicle for an affirmative self-
reflection: The cultural German nation actually made the moon landing
possible. Hereby the German cultural nation obviously is not restricted to
the territory of West Germany. Von Braun now operates in the USA,
Hermann Oberth originally comes from Transylvanian Romania, and they
meet in Vienna. In this way, one observes the German cultural achieve-
ments as a transnational operation but as one that originates in German
cultural achievements which again are not limited to the territorial (federa-
tion) borders.

Fig. 6a-d: ‘Without us no moon landing!’ – The gradual fabrication of a German

cultural nation during the live reports on the first manned moon landing.

74
E.g. Anonymous, “Wer ist Wernher von Braun? Ein ungestrafter Kriegs-
verbrecher,” in Volkswacht, Nr. 14 (1963), 5 (Archivmaterial DEUTSCHES
RUNDFUNK ARCHIV, Potsdam, folder “Braun, Wernher von”, n.p.); cf. Neufeld,
Von Braun, 409.
80 Chapter Three

Ernst von Khuon’s ‘story’ in the context of the reporting on the first
manned moon landing in the ARD makes the following apparent: A socie-
tal self-description takes place in the mode of a second order observation–
in fact as self-reflection which is strategically functionalised: German
cultural achievements make the global media event that is the moon land-
ing possible, lending it a nobility. (Cultural) differences are set: The USA
is not the enabler, but ‘we’ the Germans; the USA is hereby discredited,
even if only to a small degree. Selections are made: No word on von
Braun’s (and Oberth’s75) past; so here a negation of a possible observation
or an (though somewhat tricky) attempt to create a shift in meaning for the
potential GDR viewers who have probably heard of von Braun through the
GDR press primarily as a national-socialist criminal. Second order obser-
vations are explicitly drawn attention to: Von Kuhon observes how
Oberth, von Braun and Prof. Koelle are observing themselves and the
world and concludes from this the existence of a German cultural identity
which runs beyond any division into an Eastern and Western Bloc.
Through this again an inversion of the confrontation between ‘FRG versus
GDR’ takes place. Such an account could thus also be attractive for GDR
citizens who may currently be watching the West German television
broadcast on the first manned moon landing due to a lack of an alternative.
At least that is the implicit expectation placed on the expectations of pos-
sible recipients beyond the Iron Curtain.

Fig. 7a-b: Emblem and host of the ASTRONAUTISCHES STUDIO

At the same time, as previously mentioned, East-German television did

not broadcast the first manned moon landing live.76 After the event, how-

75
Oberth was during the Second World War at least for a time in charge of the
development of the V2-weapon under the leadership of Wernher von Braun; after
the war he was also a founding member of the right-wing NPD in 1965 (National
Democratic Party of Germany) – cf. Neufeld, Von Braun, 75-83.
76
But there was reporting done on it and images of the live reporting were made
available relatively promptly via newspapers and television. For example, the
periodical NEUES DEUTSCHLAND reports quite soon after about the events, mostly
together with still pictures from the live reporting.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 81

ever, the topic of the moon landing and its images are treated and worked
through quite comprehensively. On October 31, 1969, on a Friday, at 8pm
primetime an extravagantly produced episode with the title WEGE INS
WELTALL. TENDENZEN UND PERSPEKTIVEN was broadcast within the series
ASTRONAUTISCHES STUDIO.77 It was broadcast on the second channel of
the DEUTSCHE FERNSEHFUNK (DFF-2), which had just been launched 27
days earlier. Manfred Uschmann hosts the programme which is made up
of interviews, colourful animations of future missions and documentation
material. He is positioned on a red chair against a background with the
blue-silver shimmering constructivist emblem of the ASTRONAUTISCHES
STUDIO (fig. 7a-b).
The main goal of this programme, which quickly becomes apparent, is
to show how pointless a manned moon mission is. The future of space
travel, and this is repeated several times, was actually derailed by this
mission since too many resources were invested for a goal which does not
directly advance any future space travel.78 The aim of the Soviet space
mission is portrayed as being far more relevant for the future, as it concen-
trates on unmanned satellites and space stations instead of a manned flight
to the moon.
From the very beginning of the programme, this focus on the ‘right’
future is clearly documented. A globe is shown in an animation. Starting
from Baikonur more and more circles are drawn around the world (fig. 8a-
b). As the commentary explains they represent the many satellites that
have been sent into Earth’s orbit by the Soviet Union since the first Sput-
nik was launched. An impressive row of numbers is visualised in which
the quantitative increase and acceleration of the launch frequency is re-
vealed (fig. 8c). At the end of this opening sequence when the Earth is
almost completely covered by satellite paths the title of the show fades in

77
The ASTRONAUTISCHES STUDIO was broadcast as of 1962 until the end of the
1970s in irregular intervals. About the institutional structure of this series the
television magazine FF writes: “The Astro-Studio is no ‘stationary institution’
rather a task group that is called together from time to time. The core of this task
force is mainly made up of employees from the science and world view depart-
ment.” (K.L., “Auf dem Bildschirm. Die Sensation des Jahrhunderts” in FF. Funk
und Fernsehen, Nr. 15 (1965), 13 (Archivmaterial DEUTSCHES RUNDFUNK ARCHIV,
Potsdam).
78
This is, by the way, still the opinion of many experts worldwide today (cf. Robin
McKie, “Apollo...the Dream that Fell to Earth,” in The Guardian, 21.6. 2009,
http://www.theguardian.com/science/2009/jun/21/apollo-fallen-dream, accessed
September 4, 2015, but also cf. on the other hand Claude A. Piantadosi, Mankind
Beyond Earth. The History, Science, and Future of Human Space Exploration
(New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 88-93.
82 Chapter Three

(fig. 8d). Several things are worth noting here: Firstly, the ‘ways to space’
have a clear defined starting point, meaning Baikonur, the space travel
station of the Soviet Union, at least this is suggested by the animation to
be the centre of the world of (space travel). Secondly, starting in Baikonur
the entire world is connected piece-by-piece and covered by Soviet satel-
lites. The global village is seen in this way to be created by Soviet space
travel. Thirdly, the journey to space is not visualised by a departure to
foreign celestial bodies but through the inter-connection of Earth. The
moon is not the primary goal of space travel, rather the Earth is. And this
is exactly the leverage the broadcast uses to reduce the US American
moon mission and even the entire US American space operation ad absur-
dum.

Fig. 8a-d: The interconnection of the world starting in Baikonur

In the later part of the show the host explicitly speaks about the APOL-
LO 11 mission which had taken place almost three months before. The
critique of this mission takes place indirectly, i.e. through the observation
of observers beyond the Iron Curtain.79 In WEGE INS WELTALL it says: The
“civil press” commented on the first manned moon landing with the fol-
lowing words: “At the price of rising self-doubt, national depression and
growing instability” the APOLLO moon mission must be successful. It was

79
By the way one can also find such an observation loop in the press, cf. e.g. to the
same event in the GDR magazine NEUES DEUTSCHLAND from the 23 August 1969,
the article on page 2: “Apollo 11 on the way back to Earth”. Here among other
things the West German magazine BILD is cited with the words: “Crises shaken
USA needs success”.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 83

not just the commentary from the GDR that criticised the efforts of the
USA but the ‘Western press’ itself. The host continues: “A renowned
West-German magazine writes that ‘US-American space travel is limited,
whereas the Soviet space travel programme is capable of development and
thus promises more success.’” With this, again a certain societal self-
description is generated: Observers beyond the Iron Curtain are being
observed as they assess events beyond the Iron Curtain (manned moon
landing) and events on their side of the Iron Curtain (Soviet space travel
programme). On the one hand the USA and their capitalist system are
criticised and on the other hand the achievements of socialism under the
leadership of the USSR are emphasised. In the mode of culture-
comparison the goal here also serves to strengthen the socialist identity of
the GDR. At the same time through this a compensating reaction to the
supposed victory of the USA in the Space Race is given. Through the
fallback on the ‘renowned Western press’ a reinterpretation takes place:
On closer inspection, the success of the first manned moon landing is
interpreted as an expression of the failure of capitalism. East German
television reacts then with an almost three months-delay to the live report-
ing on television but at least it is armed with critical arguments and second
order observations.
In this case, the targeted audience was not so much the FRG citizens
but rather their own people.80 The DFF will most likely also have assumed
that the majority of the GDR citizens followed the first manned moon
landing either by watching it live on West German television or at least in
the meantime have been informed through other sources. After all, the
images which were broadcast during the moon landing on television were

80
This has at least two reasons, a media technological one and a political institu-
tional one. Firstly, the transmission capacities of GDR television were always
comparatively limited so that it was not possible at any point in time to reach the
whole of the FRG with televisual wireless signals (fig. 3b). Secondly – and this is
more relevant in this context: The political task of the GDR television program-
ming had changed in the meantime: “At the end of the 1960s the GDR officially
rejected the unification of the German nation. After this the SED leadership fol-
lowed a two-state policy which aimed for international recognition of the GDR and
viewed the Federal Republic of Germany as a foreign country. GDR television
found itself confronted with these altered general conditions: The entire German
vision, which was until 1966/67 still accomplished by decided address of the Fed-
eral German audience, lost its purpose at the latest by 1968. […] Fundamentally
the focus of the media controllers restricted itself to the DDR viewers […].”
(Steinmetz and Viehoff, Deutsches Fernsehen Ost, 182.) Still, of course potential
recipients in West Germany as a target group of DDR television programming
were mentioned in strategy papers (cf. Hoff , Kalter Krieg).
84 Chapter Three

also available in the East German media shortly afterwards. In this frame-
work it is more interesting to look at how the image material from the
moon landing was used rather than the criticism of the US-American space
travel programme and the targeting of the GDR citizens through quotes
from the ‘Western-press’. Especially instructive here is what happened
with the material from the live reporting on the first manned moon land-
ing: We are shown some image sequences from this broadcast (fig. 9a-c).
On these blurry pictures the moon module and the astronauts can only be
more or less assumed rather than clearly seen. Dramatic classical film
music accompanies these scenes. These image sequences are commented
upon by quotes from the previously mentioned critical points sourced from
the ‘Western press’.
The selected images from the live transmission from the moon notice-
ably did not show one thing, namely the first steps of a man on the moon.
Instead other image sequences were chosen: Aldrin and Armstrong col-
lecting lunar stones from the bare moon landscape. This we see for a com-
paratively long time while criticism of the moon landing from the Western
press is narrated over the dramatic classical film music. From today’s
point of view this editing of television material resembles a mash-up,
meaning a (re)combination of previously existing, often televisual content
which is uploaded on video platforms such as YOU TUBE.81 After all, tele-
visual pictures of the moon landing are specifically selected, recombined
and mixed with quotes from the Western press and (film) music in order to
semantically recharge the images in a new way. So as early as the 1960s
GDR television was using something which nowadays is often used to
describe modern digital remix practices.82
This picture editing becomes even more fascinating when looking at
the different images which are visible at another time during the show (fig.
9d-e). At the end of the television programme speculations are made on
what the near future of space travel could look like. Hereby the direct
practical usefulness of the Soviet space mission for the Earth is continu-
ously emphasised (weather observation, solar technology etc.). Striking
colourful and geometric clear animations are shown here. On several lev-
els these pictures advocate the opposite of what was invoked through the

81
Cf. Dirk von Gehlen, Dirk, Mashup. Lob der Kopie (Frankfurt am Main:
Suhrkamp, 2011).
82
Cf. William W. Fisher III et al, “Reflections on the Hope Poster,” in Harvard
Journal of Law & Technology, 25 (2), 2012: 243-338. From this perspective, many
other of the contributions in the production series DER SCHWARZE KANAL can be
understood. Cf. on the SCHWARZE KANAL more elaborately the writings of
Keilbach in this volume.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 85

moon landing pictures. Dichotomous allocations receive a clear contour as

the US-American pictures of the moon not only belong to the (even though
most recent) past but the Soviet space travel to the (near) future. In addi-
tion, in one example the pictures are from the moon and in the other from
Earth. So while the USA is travelling to outer space the space missions of
the USSR are connected to the Earth and with this also space travel rele-
vant to the Earth. Furthermore, the pictures of the US American moon
landing are kept in blurry black and white while in contrast the Soviet
future is imagined in bright colours.

Fig. 9a-f: Picture Space Race live or in ‘color’: USA vs. USSR

Even though this last point in particular may seem minor at first
glance, the use of colour in a comparison is utilised for symbolic politics,
as the media technological and institutional context confirm. Just barely
three weeks before the premiere of WEGE INS WELTALL the second televi-
sion channel of the GDR broadcast from the TV Tower in Berlin. “The
initial operation of the Berlin Television Tower and grand opening of the
II programme will take place on the 3 October 1969, the weekend before
86 Chapter Three

the 20th anniversary of the GDR”.83 With the DFF-2 channel, colour tele-
vision was introduced to the GDR.84 WEGE INS WELTALL, which was first
shown on this channel, was thus produced and broadcast in colour. In fact,
in this show the use of colour is basically celebrated. Colour matters:
From the elaborately produced introduction which was flooded with col-
ours and the colourful studio interior (fig. 7a-b), including pin sharp col-
ourful shots of the Sojus rocket launches in Baikonur through to the bright
colourful animation of the Soviet future in space. Though these pictures
are not live in comparison to the images of the first manned moon landing
they are at least in colour. They do not show blurry perspectives or a
seemingly useless collection of rocks but rather the practical use of space
travel for Earth and with this in the end–in bright glowing colours–the
control of the world through Soviet satellites. Here we see an implicit
orchestration of a competition between East and West in form of a Colour
Picture Space Race. Also on this level as is suggested by WEGE INS
WELTALL the Soviet version will win.
It also applies here that comparison of culture and societal self-
description is broadcast on television to form identity. By using foreign
material (television images of the moon landing from the ‘West’) which is
infused with observations on the observers from the ‘West’ (‘renowned
West German magazine’) differences are established and semantically
recharged. Here the practices of explicit arguments, which are quoted,
reach a new level of attributing meaning to prior television image material,
including the symbolical charging of different or missing colour portrayal.

Conclusions
The West German as well as East German televisual reporting on the
first manned moon landing refers directly to the respective other side of
the Iron Curtain. This takes place, as should have become clear through
the two named examples, explicitly and excessively in the form of second
order observations. In this respect, the first hypothesis formulated at the
beginning of this article applies to both cases. Here it was asserted that the
ping-pong model of interactive observations across the Iron Curtain is
marked as such in the various reports on the moon landing. The second
hypothesis was also confirmed. Forms and functionalisation of the obser-
vations on the observers prove to be quite multifaceted and complex in the

83
Hoff, Zwischen Mauerbau, 312.
84
Whereas the DFF-1 remained in black and white for a long time – cf. Hoff,
Zwischen Mauerbau, 312; Steinmetz/Viehoff, Deutsches Fernsehen Ost, 182.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 87

televisual practice of both countries. In the East German coverage, for

example, one can find observations on observers on different levels
(whether through the use of foreign image material, citation of comments
of the Western press or by marking differences using colour). East German
reporting is also marked by quite complex constellations (it is observed,
for example, how the West German press critically observes the US-
American observations on the space missions). The ARD coverage, in
particular, with its observations of observations appears far from the al-
leged clear dichotomous logic of the Iron Curtain. After all, the ARD
coverage is not only observing the ‘Eastern media’ and their coverage of
the first manned moon landing but also draws distinctions within a politi-
cal bloc (FRG vs. USA) and imagines the particular position of German
culture which cuts across the binary logic of the Iron Curtain.
This aspect can be generalised and applied to the third hypothesis,
which proposed that in the Cold War and mass media coverage of the
Space Race second order observation was established, rehearsed and ad-
vanced as a mode of observation. For today’s modern globally intercon-
nected media culture, this mode of observation goes without saying. Look-
ing at the analyses presented here, this thesis can still be modified: In the
television coverage of the first manned moon landing the faultline between
East and West is clearly denoted with the ‘Germans’ situated clearly either
on the ‘West-side’ or on the ‘East-side’. However, as the ARD coverage
shows the mode of cultural comparison is not only used for the shaping of
the rivalry between different political and economic systems but also to
define differences within the blocs (FRG vs. USA) and moreover to find
cultural connections beyond the Iron Curtain (FRG and GDR). This means
that even if the dominant Cold War narrative remains intact, i.e. the con-
frontation between the East and West Blocs, it is put in a local perspective
(from a West German broadcaster, for example) and specifically set out,
selected and changed as appropriate (FRG vs. USA, FRG and GDR, with-
holding the national-socialist background of the rocket development). In
the case of the East German television coverage the master narrative of the
Cold War is not only explicitly mentioned, but also even affirmed on all
possible levels. However, here it also holds true that images and reports
from the other side of the Iron Curtain find a local use. Aware that these
images and reports from the immediate neighbour across the Iron Curtain
could be expected to be familiar to domestic recipients, they were utilised
to locally specific ends, freshly contextualised and semantically reorgan-
ised through second order observations.
The relevant point here is not just the triviality that the global can only
be viewed from a local standpoint. More important is the idea that phe-
88 Chapter Three

nomena and events such as the first manned moon landing are appropriat-
ed in the awareness of a global media culture but in a locally specific way.
This recurring process determines how the local and the global are con-
nected. An example of this is the case when the ARD coverage questions
the role that German engineering has played in space travel, which is con-
sidered as globally relevant. It also applies to the observation of other
observers around the globe in relation to the observations at WDR’s
APOLLO space studio during the foreign reports of WELTSPIEGEL. One can
also find such portrayals of global and local in the coverage on East-
German television. Here a report by the West German press on the moon
programme of the USA is taken up in order to describe the situation of
capitalism in the world. The interconnection of the world starting from
Baikonur is also imagined and the image of Armstrong’s first step on the
moon, which has already become an icon of the global media event, is left
out.
What happens in the coverage described above can be aptly described
with the antonymic term glocalisation.85 In this case, this means: (1) A
growing consciousness of the fact that we live in a transnational, global
world. Or to be more precise: Societal self-descriptions are increasingly
formulated in a way that compares cultures with the idea in mind of a
global world. (2) A growing consciousness that others also have such a
consciousness. Or to be more precise: The societal self-descriptions now
always communicate the knowledge that others, although perhaps in a
different way, are observing the world as well. (3) The idea that perception
and comparison schemes are developed that diffuse globally and against
which the global is observed on a local level in the same way (such as on
the basis of an East/West dichotomy or through second order observa-
tions). (4) The phenomena may increasingly be perceived in the same
comparison scheme but on a local level at least they are made concrete in a
different way or vary (for example, as the German cultural nation vs.
USA; consolidation of East and West Germany; new semantisation of
television images from the first manned moon landing). (5) Lastly glocali-
sation means a dialectic process between global and local which is rele-
vant for the media observations and observations of observations: The
consciousness of living in a global world in which others are possibly
observing differently initiates, so to say, the search for and demarcation of
the specifically local; just as the definition of the local always leads to
aligning and defining the global in a new fashion.

85
Cf. Roland Robertson, “Glocalization. Time-Space and Homogeneity-
Heterogeneity,” in Global Modernities, ed. Mike Featherstone et al. (London:
SAGE, 1995), 15-30.
 The First Manned Moon Landing as Seen on German Television 89

Accordingly, the third thesis put forward at the start of the article can
be specified further: At least in the context of the East and West German
television coverage investigated in this article, the mass media in respect
to the Space Race during the Cold War does not simply follow the dichot-
omous logic of the Iron Curtain. Neither are they just instruments of a
homogenising interconnecting globalisation. The mass media of the Cold
War, especially televisual coverage achieves something more crucial than
this. Through the varying concretisations of a globally diffused scheme of
comparison within a second order observation they establish, stabilise and
variegate imagined cultural relations against the backdrop of a globally
connected world (cf. once again fig. 2). Or in more concise terms: Cold
War television is the imagination agent of a glocal media culture.

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 II.

TELEVISION AND POPULAR CULTURE:

FILMS AND SERIALS
 CHAPTER FOUR

BETWEEN CROSSBOW AND BALL GOWN,

EAST AND WEST:
CLASS AND GENDER IN THE CULT FILM
THREE WISHES FOR CINDERELLA
(TěI OěÍŠKY PRO POPELKU/
DREI HASELNÜSSE FÜR ASCHENBRÖDEL)

HANNAH MUELLER

A Transnational Phenomenon: Introduction

It took 30 years, but eventually it happened: In 2003, the Czech record
label Supraphon made Karel Svoboda’s soundtrack for the 1973 film TĜi
oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel1 available on CD.
Fans in the Czech Republic, but also in Germany and Switzerland, had
been bombarding the music label with e-mails for years, and when the CD
finally was released, many fans were disappointed to find that due to high
demand, it was already out of stock again at their seller of choice.2 The
collective excitement about the score of an old East-German/Czech
adaptation of the fairy tale Cinderella, more than a decade after the
countries of production (the GDR and Czechoslovakia) had ceased to
exist, may appear puzzling at first glance, especially considering the low
public interest in GDR films in the reunified Germany of the 1990s:
“DEFA in 1994 was a defunct film company with rarely screened, out-
dated films that very few people were interested in watching after all”.3
1
Václav Vorlicek (Dir.), TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel
(Barrandov/DEFA, 1973).
2
Kathrin Miebach, “Der Soundtrack–30 Jahre gingen ins Land,“ dreihaselnuesse-
fueraschenbroedel.de (2003), http://3hfa.jimdo.com/musik/der-soundtrack.
3
Sebastian Heiduschke, “GDR Cinema as Commodity: Marketing DEFA Films
since Unification,” German Studies Review 36.1 (2013): 64.
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 97

Sebastian Heiduschke attributes even the relative success that some DEFA
productions experienced on VHS and DVD in the following decade
mainly to the sentiment of “Ostalgia”4 and the development of a “new
regionalism” in the Eastern part of the country, suggesting that those living
in the territory of the former GDR began to rediscover DEFA films as part
of the memory of their disappearing past.
However, Václav Vorlíþek’s fairy tale film TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/
Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel has always been somewhat of a special
case: Ever since its world premiere in East Berlin in 1973, it has enjoyed a
surprisingly continuous popularity with television audiences not just in
Czechoslovakia and the GDR, but also in West Germany, Switzerland and
Austria. Its success story continued uninterrupted in the Czech Republic
and Slovakia after the dissolution of Czechoslovakia in 1993, and in the
German-speaking world after the fall of the Berlin Wall.
For a historiography of the complex relationship between Eastern and
Western European television culture, the popularity of TĜi oĜíšky is
significant for two reasons: On the one hand, the devotion this film has
inspired in parts of Western Europe contradicts the widespread
assumption5 that during the Cold War period and the separation of
Germany, the West remained mostly unaffected by East-German6 cinema

4
Ostalgia: Pun on the words “Ost” (German for “East”) and “Nostalgia”, coined to
describe the sentiment of loss among East Germans after the dissolution of the
GDR.
5
Claudia Dittmar states that far into the 2000s, most media scholars operated
under the assumption that FRG television had a considerable influence on GDR
audiences, whereas the opposite was not assumed to be true. She gives two reasons
for this common conception: First, she suggests that West-German scholars were
too readily convinced of the significance West-German television had for East-
German audiences. Second, she shows that after a programme reform around 1970,
GDR television mostly abandoned attempts to reach West-German viewers and
instead focused on addressing audiences in the own country; a reaction to the
perceived threat of West-German television’s influence on GDR viewers (Claudia
Dittmar, “Television and Politics in the Former East Germany,” Comparative
Literature and Culture 7.4 (2005), http://docs.lib.purdue.edu/clcweb/vol7/iss4/3, n.
pg.).
6
While the rivalry between the two Germanies dominated the relationship between
East-German and West-German television, Czechoslovakian television did in fact
collaborate with the West-German television channel WDR in the 1970s and
1980s, as Helena Srubar points out in her study of several co-productions for
children, for instance Pan Tau (CSSR/West-Germany 1970-1978). Undoubtedly,
their status as CSSR/FRG co-productions facilitated their distribution in West-
Germany; still, the history of these collaborations further complicates any attempts
to draw a clear distinction between the histories of Eastern and Western European
98 Chapter Four

and TV. On the other hand, it raises the question why this interpretation of
the Cinderella story in particular, among countless other adaptations of the
fairy tale before and after, has inspired such lasting viewer loyalty in both
Eastern and Western Europe, and continues to do so 25 years after the fall
of communism in Eastern Europe.
To answer this question, this essay traces the success story of TĜi
oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel and investigates the
different factors that have contributed to the film’s ongoing popularity on
both sides of the East/West divide. For that purpose, the chapter follows
the methodological tradition of Anglo-American Cultural Studies;7 instead
of only studying the text itself, it also considers the cultural phenomenon
the film has brought forth and the discourses surrounding it, by applying a
combination of textual analysis, reception/audience studies and a
consideration of the text’s production and distribution. In particular, the
study discusses the significance of the medium of television for the film’s
lasting popularity, its status as cult film, and the patterns of audience
behaviour and fan practices surrounding it. Encompassing the time from
the 1970s in Czechoslovakia, the GDR and FRG in the aftermath of the
Prague Spring to the 21st century in the Czech Republic and the reunified
Germany, this essay argues that even beyond the political reconfiguration
of Europe in the 1990s, TĜi oĜíšky continues to carry an identificatory
potential across decades, borders and political systems. This is the result of
both a particular history of distribution in European television and the
film’s successful amalgamation of romance and subversive gender politics.
The rags-to-riches romance of Cinderella is told as a story of female
emancipation that plays with a reversal of gender roles and ambiguous
sexual desires, while at the same time reconciling these non-traditional
desires with the regulatory fantasy of a happy ending. Thus, TĜi oĜíšky
manages to offer the simultaneous promise of gender equality, queer
sexuality, and traditional romance. The appeal the film’s representation of
gender holds for female viewers in particular also allows for a communal
cross-generational and transnational experience among women of different
ages and nationalities. The favourable reception is further facilitated by the
ambiguous nature of the film’s class politics, which has allowed TĜi oĜíšky

television. (Helena Srubar, Ambivalenzen des Populären (Konstanz: UVK

Verlagsgesellschaft, 2008)).
7
For a more detailed discussion of the methods and approaches of Cultural
Studies, see for example Richard Johnson, “What is Cultural Studies Anyway?”
Social Text 16 (1986): 38–80; or Stuart Hall, “Cultural Studies and its Theoretical
Legacies.” Cultural Studies, ed. Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, Paula
Treichler (New York and London: Routledge, 1992), 277-294.
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 99

to find resonance with viewers in different countries and political camps:

the film can be interpreted as a critique of capitalism, but equally so as a
critique of totalitarian oppression. In addition, the romantic conclusion
appears to soften the film’s social criticism and instead focuses on the
personal development of the prince as the process of maturing into a
responsible citizen. But precisely this apparent move away from the
political and toward the private sphere also gained political significance in
the context of communist cultural politics after the Prague Spring.

The Annual Holiday Ritual: Distribution and Reception

The fact that TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel
is now associated mainly with the holiday television schedule in both
Eastern and Western Europe8 makes it easy to forget that the film was not
originally produced for TV. In fact, before it aired on television, the fairy
tale adaptation was already a success in cinemas in Eastern Europe. The
film premiered in Czechoslovakia in the winter of 1973 in around 400
cinemas simultaneously and immediately reached “astronomical figures”.9
In the GDR, where the film was first shown in cinemas in March 1974, the
reception was equally favourable: According to the DEFA-Foundation,
554,845 visitors were counted during the first year alone10 (at a total pop-
ulation of just under 17 million).
However, the significance TĜi oĜíšky gained as a cult film in parts of
Eastern and Western Europe is closely tied to its history of being broadcast
on television. A film’s status as cult film cannot be defined primarily
through its aesthetics or content; rather, it is determined by its reception
and its audiences. Most significantly, a cult film “is a film which draws to it
a group of dedicated followers who behave in extraordinary ways beyond
8
The annual media commentary over the festive season reaffirms the association
of TĜi oĜíšky with the medium television, as can be seen in one recent example:
“There are a handful of Christmas classics that we want to see on television every
year.” (Carsten Heidböhmer, “Weihnachten–Fernsehklassiker: ‘Drei Haselnüsse
Für Aschenbrödel’, Muppets und Co,” stern.de, 12/20/2014,
http://www.stern.de/kultur/tv/weihnachten-fernsehklassiker-drei-haselnuesse-fuer-
aschenbroedel-muppets-und-co-2160400.html. “Es gibt eine Handvoll
Weihnachtsklassiker, die wir jedes Jahr wieder im TV sehen wollen.” Transl. HM.)
A quick look at any search engine produces countless similar results from previous
years, in both German and Czech.
9
Ingelore König et al., “Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel 1974,” Zwischen Marx
und Muck: DEFA-Filme für Kinder, ed. Ingelore König et al. (Berlin: Henschel
Verlag, 1996), 191. “astronomisch anmutende Besucherzahlen” (transl. HM).
10
E-mail from DEFA-Stiftung to author, 10/27/2014.
100 Chapter Four

the norm of regular film going, behaviour which is often ritualistic”.11

This kind of audience behaviour “can build and reinforce interpretive and
affective communities, but it can also be a classification felt as having
very intense, personalized value”.12
TĜi oĜíšky’s cult film status owes much to the fact that the film has
been aired on several channels in late December (around Christmas time)
every year first in Czechoslovakia, the GDR and West Germany, and later
in the Czech Republic, Slovakia, post-unification Germany, as well as
Switzerland, Austria and Norway for over four decades. In fact, TĜi oĜíšky
is considered the ultimate Christmas film in the Czech Republic, where the
genre of pohádky (fairy tale films) has developed since the 1950s into a
long-standing festive tradition:

“The classic pohádky are an integral part of the Czech Christmas ritual.
The TV papers are eagerly scanned to see when TĜi oĜíšky or Pyšná
princezna are showing, and on that basis lunch, supper, or visits to and
from friends and family are carefully arranged”.13

But in Germany, too, this particular film quickly became incorporated

into annual Christmas rituals. In West Germany, it has been regularly
aired as part of public television’s holiday schedule, directly alongside

11
Mikel Koven in Matt Hills et al., “Cult Film: A Critical Symposium,” Cineaste
34.1 (2008), http://www.cineaste.com/articles/cult-film-a-critical-symposium.
12
Hills further suggests that cult films are also often associated with tastes that go
“against cultural norms or normativity; […] against the manners of ‘appropriate’
and ‘tutored’ cinematic taste.” (Hills et al., Cult Film: A Critical Symposium.) In
Western culture, where fairy tales have been categorised as ‘mere’ children’s
entertainment since the 19th century, TĜi oĜíšky’s popularity with grown women
pushes the limits of what is considered appropriate taste. See for example A.O.
Scott’s recent lament about the ‘death of adulthood’ and the popularity of Young
Adult fiction among grown women as an example for the common dismissal of
women’s tastes as immature and childish (A. O Scott, “The Death of Adulthood in
American Culture,” The New York Times 9/11/2014,
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/14/magazine/the-death-of-adulthood-in-
american-culture.html?_r=0). As I will discuss below in regard to the prominent
role of fairy tale films in Czech and Slovakian culture, the latter factor is not
necessarily equally true for viewers in Eastern Europe.
13
James Partridge, “Once upon a Time in the Czech Republic: No Happy Ending
for the Czech Pohádka?” Central Europe Review 2.2 (2000), http://www.ce-
review.org/00/2/partridge2.html, n. p. The film Pyšná princezna/Die stolze
Prinzessin (Borivoj Zeman (Dir.), Ceskoslovenský Státní Film, 1952) is another
popular Czechoslovakian fairy tale film.
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 101

various Swedish Astrid Lindgren adaptations, or the 1980 film Little

Lord Fauntleroy14 (sr-online).
This annual ritual of watching, repeated over decades, has
permitted a viewing experience of intense familiarity. Both Will
Brooker15 and Barbara Klinger16 argue that frequent repeat watching
leads to a particularly close attachment to the audiovisual text: “Fans
can achieve a sense of belonging by entering on their own into the
familiar world of the text, and a sense of companionship from reuniting
with characters they know almost as family”, writes Brooker,17
stressing the emotional connection to the text that results from repeated
reception. Klinger, on the other hand, also points toward an intellectual
connection that is rooted in viewers’ sense of expertise and the
constant re-exploration of the text:
“Successive reencounters with a favorite title result in different
experiences of it, inspiring recognition of its multifaceted nature–a
recognition of richness intimately linked to aesthetic appreciation”.18

In the case of TĜi oĜíšky, however, not only the ritual of repeat viewing per
se is important, but also the annual rhythm of these viewings: While VCR
and DVD technically have made it possible to watch the film at any given
time, the audience’s insistence on adjusting to the television schedule,
despite the flexibility offered by recording technology, is a significant
aspect of the film’s reception as cult film.19 That TĜi oĜíšky is usually
watched during the holiday season, and thus generally in a family setting,
also means that the film accompanies young viewers’ coming of age, and
allows for an easy passing on of tradition from parents to their children: In
fact, the endurance of this ritual has made it a noticeable thread of cultural
continuity between the Cold War era and the post-socialist age.

14
Jack Gold (Dir.), Little Lord Fauntleroy (Norman Rosemont Productions, 1980).
15
Will Brooker, “A Sort of Homecoming: Fan Viewing and Symbolic
Pilgrimage,” Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World, ed.
Jonathan Gray et al. (New York/London: New York University Press, 2007), 149-
164.
16
Barbara Klinger, Beyond the Multiplex: Cinema, New Technologies, and the
Home (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006).
17
Brooker, A Sort of Homecoming, 160.
18
Klinger, Beyond the Multiplex, 156.
19
In Germany, TĜi oĜíšky shares this form of annual ritualistic repeat viewing for
instance with Dinner for One/The 90th Birthday, a short film which in Germany is
aired and watched traditionally on New Year’s Eve (Heinz Dunkhase (Dir.),
Dinner for One/The 90th Birthday (NDR, 1963)).
102 Chapter Four

Just how significant TĜi oĜíšky has remained as an annual event in the
Czech Republic after the fall of communism became apparent when a
legal conflict between Vladimír Železný, director of the Czech television
programme TV Nova, and the Czech Independent Television Company
CNTS20 prevented the airing of TĜi oĜíšky and other popular fairy tale
films during the Christmas holidays in 1999: “it was precisely because of
this last area–Christmas TV–that the 1999 Christmas will be remembered
with a touch of sadness”.21 And while the pohádky have a special place in
Czech culture in general, TĜi oĜíšky has always been particularly popular.
Partridge reports that in 1998, for example, TĜi oĜíšky “was watched by
50% of Czech children and almost 40% of adults.”22
In 21st century reunified Germany, TĜi oĜíšky also continues to draw
impressive numbers of television viewers as a traditional Christmas film.
The DEFA-Foundation reports that during the holiday season of 2010, 33
years after its premiere, TĜi oĜíšky was aired eight times on German
television; and the afternoon showing on December 26 alone attracted 2.68
million viewers, translating into a market share of 15%.23 While other
DEFA fairy tale films and GDR/CSSR co-productions are still
occasionally shown on public television, and have been made available on
DVD,24 TĜi oĜíšky has remained the only one to become a household name
and to acquire such a dedicated fanbase. Kathrin Miebach, host of the
German TĜi oĜíšky fansite and organiser of annual fan meetings, confirms
this:

“Most of the other GDR films that have earned wide popularity or even
cult film status in the East of Germany are, from what I know, basically

20
Silja Schultheis (Narr.), “Arbitrageentscheid zu TV Nova,” Sendung auf
Deutsch, Radio Praha, 02/15/2001;
Partridge, Once upon a Time in the Czech Republic, n. p.
21
Partridge, Once upon a Time in the Czech Republic, n. p.
22
Ibid., n. p.
23
DEFA-Stiftung, “Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel im TV,” DEFA-Stiftung,
12/2010, http://www.defa-stiftung.de/drei-haselnuesse-fuer-aschenbroedel-im-tv.
In the age group between 14 and 49, the film even reached a market share of 15.5
(1.2 mio.), showing clearly that in Germany, too, TĜi oĜíšky is watched by adults as
much as by children.
24
For instance Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot (Siegfried Hartmann (Dir.), DEFA,
1979), in which Pavel Trávnícek, the actor playing Cinderella’s prince in TĜi
oĜíšky, also stars as prince Michael.
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 103

unknown in the West, and no one seems to be interested in them, either.

Thus, TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku is an absolute exception.”25

Velvet and Ashes: The Class Politics

TĜi oĜíšky may be the only GDR/CSSR fairy tale adaptation to inspire
such long-lasting loyalty in Western Europe, but the film’s extraordinary
success does in fact need to be considered within the context of its genre:
It would be wrong to underestimate the cultural and political importance
of fairy tale films in communist Eastern Europe, in particular in
Czechoslovakia and East Germany, and the consequences this had for the
production of films like TĜi oĜíšky. Without wanting to gloss over the
political and cultural differences between the former GDR and former
Czechoslovakia, it can be said with confidence that for similar reasons, the
genre of the fairy tale film played an important role in the film history of
both countries.
In communist Eastern Europe, the fairy tale film was considered
anything but neutral territory. On the one hand, socialist fairy tale films
were seen as a vehicle for the education of young viewers and therefore
never apolitical in the strict sense, but rather expected to convey socialist
principles in accordance with the state’s official position. Those supportive
of fairy tale adaptations argued that fairy tales as pieces of “genuine
folklore” were a cultural treasure of the common people and therefore
compliant with the interests of the working class. For others, the fairy tales
remained somewhat suspicious: Not only were the versions published by
the Brothers Grimm26 or Charles Perrault27 considered to be tainted by
bourgeois ideology, but as fairy tales tended to be filled with magic and
regularly concluded with a lower-class protagonist rising into the upper
classes through marriage, the world of fairy tales did not seem fully
compatible with socialist principles.28 In the end, it was precisely the

25
“Da die meisten anderen im Osten sehr bekannten, teilweise Kultfilme im
Westen meiner Ansicht nach nahezu unbekannt sind und auch keiner Interesse
daran zu haben scheint, ist 3hfa [short for: Drei Haselnüsse for Aschenbrödel] eine
große Ausnahme“ (E-mail to the author, 10/23/2014, transl. HM).
26
Jacob Grimm et al., “Aschenputtel,” Ausgewählte Kinder- und Hausmärchen,
gesammelt durch die Brüder Grimm (Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam Jun., 1969), 72-80.
27
Charles Perrault, “Cendrillon,” Contes de ma Mère L'Oye, (Paris: Éditions de
Cluny, 1948).
28
Dieter Wiedemann, “Der DEFA-Kinderfilm – zwischen pädagogischem Auftrag
und künstlerischem Anliegen,” Zwischen Marx und Muck: DEFA-Filme für
Kinder, eds. Ingelore König et al. (Berlin: Henschel Verlag, 1996), 25; Qinna
104 Chapter Four

folklorist texts’ ambiguous status that lent itself to subtle political criticism
in ways not available to filmmakers in other genres. The socialist fairy tale
films developed into a genre characterised by its oscillation between
educational mission and internal criticism:

“The films were incorporated into a more or less restrictive political-

ideological educational agenda […], but at the same time offered a hard-
won or permitted space for social critique and creative imagination”.29

This seems to be true in particular for the fairy tale films of the 1970s, in
the aftermath of the Prague Spring, when censorship tightened in reaction
to the proliferation of oppositional political movements.30 In regard to
East-German DEFA fairy tales, Qinna Shen suggests that “[t]he films of
the 1970s are politically interesting because they move from critique of
capitalist regimes to internal critique”,31 since “[t]he Prague Spring and the
western students’ revolts of 1968 encouraged filmmakers to engage with
contemporary society”32. And Jack Zipes describes a similar development
for Czechoslovakia:

“[A]fter the suppression of the Prague Spring in 1968 […], [n]umerous

filmmakers were imprisoned, left the country, or were not able to find
employment. Yet, fairy-tale films continued to be produced, some in
conformity to the ideology of the Communist Party and some still in
resistance. Indeed, there were a fair number of subversive fairy-tale films,
mainly live-action, that were produced from 1968 to 1989 because the
metaphorical images and language of the fairy tales enabled the

Shen, “Barometers of GDR Cultural Politics: Contextualizing the DEFA Grimm

Adaptations,” Marvels and Tales 25.1 (2011): 71.
29
Wiedemann, Der DEFA-Kinderfilm, 22. “Die produzierten Filme waren
gleichermaßen in ein mehr oder weniger restriktives politisch-ideologisches
Erziehungskonzept eingebunden […], wie auch Ausdruck eines erkämpften oder
gestatteten 'Freiraums' für Realitätskritik und Phantasieentwicklung.” (transl. HM.)
30
For a more detailed account of the oppressive cultural politics in the aftermath of
the Prague Spring, see for example Jonathan Bolton, Worlds of Dissent: Charter
77, the Plastic People of the Universe, and Czech Culture under Communism
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2012); or Paulina Bren, The Greengrocer
and his TV: The Culture of Communism after the 1968 Prague Spring (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 2010).
31
Shen, Barometers of GDR Cultural Politics, 71.
32
Ibid., 80.
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 105

filmmakers to disguise their critiques of the state, create ambivalent

messages, and convey their dissent through satire.”33

This relative artistic freedom, compared to other film genres, made the
fairy tale adaptations particularly appealing to filmmakers and actors.
Under the restrictive cultural politics in post-1968 Czechoslovakia and the
GDR, fairy tale films offered a creative outlet for filmmakers, writers and
actors who were otherwise constrained by the official guidelines for film
production: “the fairy-tale genre enabled the filmmakers to take an
aesthetic break from the binding limitations of cinematic realism”.34 This
led to a flourishing of live action fairy tale films of extraordinary quality in
the GDR and Czechoslovakia, as Czech film director ZdenČk Zelenka
explains in a radio interview in 2005:

“During socialism, some of the best people worked in this genre, because
they couldn't make other films for political reasons. The greatest talents in
the field focused on the ‘refuge genre’, as they used to call it: the fairy tale
film.”35

In TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel, the

impact of this particular constellation is obvious. On the one hand, the film
is an excellent example of the high production quality of fairy tale films,
and as a Barrandov/DEFA co-production, the film had at its disposal a
budget exceeding that of regular fairy tale adaptations in either country.
The complex political circumstances, on the other hand, led to a delicate
situation regarding the development of the screenplay: Screenwriter
František Pavlíþek, who was on the CSSR’s black list because of his
engagement during the Prague Spring, could not take credit for his script
and had to be represented by a colleague,36 whereas the script itself passed

33
Jack Zipes, The Enchanted Screen: The Unknown History of Fairy-Tale Films
(New York: Routledge, 2011), 332.
34
Shen, Barometers of GDR Cultural Politics, 72.
35
Gerald Schubert (Narr.), “Aschenbrödel und Co: Tschechischer Märchenfilm
eroberte die Bildschirme der Welt.” Sendung auf Deutsch. Radio Praha,
12/24/2005. “Das liegt unter anderem daran, dass sich zur Zeit des Sozialismus
viele absolute Spitzenleute mit diesem Genre beschäftigt haben, weil sie aus
politischen Gründen keine anderen Filme drehen konnten. Also gerade die Besten
haben sich sehr oft diesem–wie man damals sagte–‘Zufluchtsgenre’ gewidmet,
nämlich dem Märchenfilm” (transl. HM).
36
Claudia Schwartz, “Tauwetter für eine Prinzessin: ‘Drei Nüsse für Aschen-
brödel’,” Neue Zürcher Zeitung 12/26/2013.
106 Chapter Four

the scrutiny of the officials, despite its ambivalent treatment of class

dynamics.
Pavlíþek’s screenplay enforces, rather than suppresses, the polysemic37
tendencies already inherent in earlier literary versions of the material (for
instance by the Brothers Grimm or Charles Perrault). On the one hand, the
story of Cinderella seems to fit nicely enough into an anti-capitalist
critique: Cinderella’s emancipation from the oppression of her stepmother
and stepsister, who are obsessed with power and material wealth, can be
read easily as a victory of the working class over the unjust capitalist
rulers. However, Cinderella’s triumph does not lead to a transformation of
power relations, quite the contrary: In some ways, it can be seen as a mere
re-establishment of the old order. The relationship between the prince and
Cinderella is not even, strictly speaking, a marriage across class
differences: Cinderella is, after all, the daughter of a nobleman, and the
marriage to the prince only reinstates her to her rightful place as an
aristocratic woman. Thus, Cinderella’s marriage does not upset the social
hierarchy, but suggests a continuation of the monarchic line through their
progeny. In that regard, TĜi oĜíšky seems to represent not so much a
conflict between working class and ruling class, but between old
aristocracy and the “nouveau riche”. Ultimately, these ambiguities permit
differing readings of the film’s ideological trajectory: either as a rebellion
of the worker against the bourgeoisie, in the struggle between Cinderella
and her stepmother, or a reinstatement of the “rightful” hierarchic order, in
Cinderella’s return to her aristocratic roots. The fairy tale adaptation also
allows for a third interpretation: One might read the film as an internal
critique of real socialism, in which the benevolent king, who seems more
concerned with the wellbeing of his people than with wealth and power,
does not represent monarchy so much as rather the ideal socialist state,

37
There are two reasons why folk texts like fairy tales in particular are thought of
as polysemic: On the one hand, as John Fiske has shown, popular texts in general
aim to reach not a small and exclusive, but a broad audience, and therefore need to
be open to readings by different groups of readers or spectators (John Fiske,
“Television: Polysemy and Popularity,” Critical Studies in Mass Communication
3.4 (1986): 392-394). On the other hand, the folk text as a constantly evolving text
of undetermined, collective authorship remains outside the discourse of originality
and authorship that has influenced the production and reception of Western ‘high
culture’ since the 18th century: neither the author (undetermined) nor the text itself
(changing with each act of narration) claim authority over the interpretation of the
story: “there is no standard text, no hegemonic meaning,” as Cathy Preston
explains in her analysis of sexual innuendo in Cinderella variants (Cathy Lynn
Preston, “‘Cinderella’ as a Dirty Joke: Gender, Multivocality, and the Polysemic
Text,” Western Folklore 53.1 (1994): 31).
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 107

whereas the stepmother and stepsister, who can’t let go of their attachment
to property and individual success, exemplify the abuse of political power
in real socialism.38
But while all these potential readings are implied in the film, neither of
them is explicitly spelled out. In fact, the film consciously seems to step
back from a critique of political systems altogether: Instead, social
criticism re-emerges, in the figure of the prince, as a question of personal
development and responsible citizenship. While Cinderella is arguably
presented as the character with the most agency–she does not let herself be
trapped by gender roles, social convention or the restrictions of her class
standing, and moves more or less freely between them–, the character of
the prince is shown undergoing the most considerable personal
transformation. In the beginning of the film, he is presented not as an
essentially bad person, but still as spoiled and irresponsible, even with
tendencies of careless cruelty. He is not interested in studying, and he and
his friends take considerable pleasure from playing pranks on their old
teacher, who is painted as a pitiful figure. Nor is he particularly interested
in running the country, and does not seem to waste much time pondering
on the wellbeing of his people. The hunting scenes in particular shed an
interesting light on the character of the prince at the beginning of the film.
While Cinderella clearly knows how to hunt, and wins the archery
competition by shooting a bird from considerable distance, she also has an
instinctive connection to the animals around her. She makes a habit of
speaking to her owl and her horse, and distracts the prince just as he is
about to shoot a fawn, thus saving the animal’s life. In contrast, the
prince’s hunting seems to be only for entertainment purposes and appears
to lack compassion: A sequence of him and his friends chasing a fox is
followed by a long take of the animal pierced by an arrow, struggling and
bleeding in the snow. It is certainly not a coincidence that the prince’s first
encounter with Cinderella is also set up as a hunt, albeit with a less fatal
outcome: The prince and his friends chase the young woman through the
woods in a more playful variation on the fox hunt scene, but Cinderella’s
cleverness and her familiarity with the forest allow her to escape.

38
In comparison, other readings of the film tend to zoom in on one interpretation:
For Srubar, TĜi oĜíšky highlights the socialist virtues of equality and anti-feudalism
without falling back onto stereotypical representations of friend/enemy oppositions
(Srubar, Ambivalenzen des Populären, 64f.); König/Wiedemann’s and Liptay’s
interpretations mainly discuss the emancipatory representation of the female
protagonist (Ingelore König et al., Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel 1974, 191f.;
Fabienne Liptay, WunderWelten: Märchen im Film (Remscheid: Gardez!, 2004),
198-205.).
108 Chapter Four

Over the course of the film, however, the prince appears to undergo a
learning process and personal transformation initiated by his interactions
with Cinderella. The happy ending of the film is presented as deserved; the
prince is now worthy of Cinderella because he has developed into a more
responsible, respectful version of himself–in other words, he has become a
good citizen. At the same time, the political ambiguities of the film make
it difficult to determine the specific direction his citizenship takes: His
final persona bears markers both of the liberal-capitalist individual who is
responsible for forging his own fate, and the socialist member of the
community in his acceptance of social responsibility.
Shot in 1973, the production of the film fell into the early years of the
period of ‘normalisation’ after the Prague Spring, when the governmental
crackdown on oppositional tendencies and the consolidation of state power
led to the population’s social and cultural retreat to the private sphere in
the CSSR and the GDR. While this retreat into the private sphere appeared
as a de-politicisation from the perspective of the West, in Eastern Europe
this shift away from state politics opened up a space for subtle resistance.39
In this context, TĜi oĜíšky's political significance lies precisely in its
seemingly apolitical shift to the private as the space of moral integrity.
This shift is underscored by the conciliatory ending of the film: Cinderella
is reinstated in her rightful social position, the prince retains–and earns–his
status by becoming a more responsible member of society. Not even the
villains, the stepmother and Dora, lose their standing over the fallout with
the prince: their punishment is limited to humiliation and a bath in a
freezing lake. At the same time, the conciliatory note of the film and its
focus on individual improvement rather than political structures were part
of what made the film so easy to digest for viewers on the Western side of
the European divide. However, at least some of the film’s appeal for
Western viewers was not only owed to its relative compatibility with the
values of a social democracy, but also to its offer of a (rather gentle)
critique of capitalism. In fact, anti-American sentiment most likely played

39
While Srubar also refers to the polysemic nature of popular texts to explain the
differing reception of children’s entertainment in East and West, she concludes that
the children’s TV shows she analyses did in fact conform with socialist ideals and
thus contributed to a stabilisation of the state system (Srubar, Ambivalenzen des
Populären, 333ff.). For her, the socialist elements dominated over the elements of
latent opposition (Ibid., 360). In that, her interpretation of children’s programming
clearly comes to a different conclusion than this analysis of TĜi oĜíšky. However, I
would suggest that it is also necessary to remember that her study focuses on
CSSR/FRG co-productions, which should not be uncritically compared to a CSSR/
GDR co-production like TĜi oĜíšky.
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 109

a role in the positive reception of TĜi oĜíšky in West Germany: In her

discussion of the CSSR/FRG co-production Pan Tau, Srubar suggests that
one explicit reason for the WDR’s collaboration with Czechoslovakian
television in the 1970s and 1980s was the desire to create a counterweight
to Walt Disney as the most famous representative of US-American
children’s entertainment in the Federal Republic.40

Crossbow and Ball Gown: Gender Confusion

and Queer Desire
The Christmas television programme in both Eastern and Western
Europe is associated with the festive preparations on the morning and
afternoon of Christmas Eve, and as such very much a family activity.
However, the most dedicated viewers of TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei
Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel, those who seek this film out specifically and
watch it diligently every Christmas, or participate in fan activities beyond
the annual viewing on television, appear to be in the vast majority
(although certainly not exclusively) female. Kathrin Miebach reports that
her annual TĜi oĜíšky costume parties are attended mainly by women,
although many of them are at some point accompanied by their male
partners. She suggests that while both men and women generally seem to
like the film, it is heterosexual women and to a lesser extent gay men who
are particularly interested in a more active engagement with the film.41
Women’s greater investment in fan activities can certainly be attributed
partly to the conventional categorisation of fairy tale films as a romance-
heavy and thus female-oriented genre. Walt Disney in particular has
traditionally marketed its fairy tales this way. Especially the Disney
Princess franchise, which exclusively targets girls, has led to an increasing
association of fairy tale films with female audiences: “Disney maintains
the myth that the desire for all things princess is natural for most girls (and
many women)”.42 However, among the many Cinderella film adaptations,
TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel is easily the
best-known and most popular adaptation of this fairy tale in countries from
Slovakia to Switzerland, and the only one that has brought forth such a
devoted fanbase. This, I argue, is due precisely to the film’s divergence

40
Srubar, Ambivalenzen des Populären, 89-92.
41
E-Mail to the author, 10/23/2014.
42
Meghan M. Sweeney, “‘Where Happily Ever After Happens Every Day’:
Disney’s Official Princess Website and the Commodification of Play,” Jeunesse:
Young People, Texts Cultures 3.2 (2011): 70.
110 Chapter Four

from other Cinderella adaptations in the feminist-emancipatory portrayal

of its female protagonist.
The literary sources make it easy to read Cinderella as an archetypical
incarnation of a female rags-to-riches story, but it is more difficult to
interpret it as one of emancipation. Even if Cinderella is not necessarily a
passive figure, her actions are very much dependent on the help of others.
In Grimm’s version of the fairy tale, she is protected by her late mother’s
spirit; in Perrault’s version (and the Disney adaptation based on it), she is
helped by the fairy godmother; and Božena Nemcová’s tale (which
provided the inspiration for TĜi oĜíšky) introduces a magical frog that helps
her recover the three magical hazelnuts from a well. More importantly, all
these narratives present the prince as the flawless saviour, whose love and
attention are necessary to save Cinderella from her miserable fate.
In this regard, TĜi oĜíšky stands out noticeably among other treatments
of the material in particular for the re-interpretation of the protagonist. Not
only does Cinderella establish the terms of the relationship between herself
and the prince, she also makes him work for the privilege of her affection.
Rather than seeking out his presence because she is longing for him, she
seems to take pleasure in teasing him by appearing and disappearing in
different personas, and her behaviour toward him is dominated by a
playful note. In the end, she makes her acceptance of his proposal
contingent on his ability to solve the riddle she assigns him, a riddle that
holds the key to her multi-faceted nature. In fact, instead of the prince
saving the little girl, TĜi oĜíšky makes it seem that she is the one saving
him, from a meaningless existence and an unhappy arranged marriage.
But not only does Cinderella take her fate in her own hands, she is also
presented fairly explicitly as gender non-conforming. She excels at
stereotypically masculine physical activities like horseback riding, tree-
climbing and archery; her late father used to take her hunting, and she does
not seem to care very much about her appearance. Granted, her position in
her stepmother’s house does not permit her the same luxuries as her
stepsister, and thus, the grey shabby clothes she wears early in the film are
also a reflection of her social status. Her unkempt hair, however, and the
recklessness with which she moves around the forest indicate that her
physical appearance is not her first, or even her second priority.
In comparison, the prince seems to have more in common with her
stepsister Dora than she does. With his lavish clothes and his shoulder-
length hair, he is presented as androgynous, and in most physical
activities, he appears to be inferior to Cinderella: she constantly outshoots,
outruns, and outrides him. Furthermore, his character bears the markers of
queer sexuality. His stubborn refusal to get married and his general lack of
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 111

interest in women escalate in sheer horror at the prospect of having to

dance with prospective brides at the ball. The dance with the voluptuous
Little-Rose (Drobena43/Klein-Röschen) in particular indicates a reversal of
gender roles, as she deftly takes the lead and twirls him around like a
delicate girl, going as far as to literally sweep him off his feet.
Interestingly, the actual ball at court is preceded by another dance
scene, in which the prince and his two friends roleplay encounters of
courtship: One of his friends steps in as romantic love interest for the
prince, who dances with him, bites his hand in comic exaggeration of a
hand-kiss, praises his beauty and ultimately causes him to swoon (in jest)
by refusing to propose. This scene in particular plays up the implicit
homoeroticism underlying the close male friendship between the prince
and his two companions. His awkward attitude towards women is
contrasted with the sense of ease he emits around his two friends, with
whom he appears to spend all his free time.
This constellation is significant in particular because it sets up the
stage for the prince’s encounters with Cinderella. During their first
meeting, the prince expresses a mixture of annoyance and amused
curiosity toward her, sparked by her refusal to be intimidated; but his
categorization of Cinderella as “little girl” (“kleines Mädchen”) indicates
that his interest is neither romantic nor sexual in nature. His dispassionate
interest, however, turns into something much more profound as he meets
Cinderella again, this time in her hunting outfit. In a play with gender
confusion, the film shows the prince’s fascination with the young man
Cinderella pretends to be. This cross-dressing act invokes the trope of the
girl in trousers44 that has been part of the dramaturgic repertoire for
centuries, from William Shakespeare’s plays Twelfth Night and As you like
it to Greta Garbo’s infamous role in Queen Christina (1933)–or in the
German context, post-war film star Liselotte Pulver’s numerous breeches
roles, like in Das Wirtshaus im Spessart (The Spessart Inn, 1958) or
Gustav Adolf’s Page (Gustav Adolf’s Page, 1960). The significance of this
plot point in all those texts lies in the confused attractions the disguise
provokes. The woman in men’s clothing may have to fend off women
falling in love with the pretty young man, or men begin to question their
sexuality as they find themselves being drawn to who they think is a
member of the same sex.
Without being explicitly spelled out, this dynamic is equally present in
TĜi oĜíšky’s archery scene. The prince has seen Cinderella before, but it is

43
The Czech name derives from the word “drobný”, meaning “petite” or
“delicate”.
44
See also Liptay, WunderWelten, 198.
112 Chapter Four

not until he sees her dressed up as a hunter that he is attracted to her, and
treats her with reverence and awe. When Cinderella wins the shooting
competition, he doesn’t hesitate to reward her with the prize, a valuable
ring. In fact, in the noteworthy conclusion of their encounter, he ceremo-
niously puts the ring on her finger in a scene that not too subtly foreshad-
ows their future wedding ceremony.
The scene also further underscores Cinderella’s own ambiguous
gendering. While the hunting outfit at first appears to be a disguise in the
most obvious sense, it is the only one among her three personas (girl,
hunter, princess) that shows her face unobscured. Dressed in her everyday
rags, her face is dirty, smeared with ash, and half covered by her untamed
hair. At the ball, on the other hand, her gown is complemented by a veil
that hides her face, thus leaving only her eyes visible: in a sense, the veil
marks her appearance at the ball as masquerade. Up to this moment, she
has not performed femininity, and in fact, she has not even been gendered
female by her environment. Cinderella’s father used to take her riding and
hunting as if she was a boy (“als ob du ein Junge wärst”), and the
stepmother categorises her mainly by her inferior position among the
household staff. Even in the final scenes of the film, when the prince
demands to see “all girls and women living on the estate” (“alle Frauen
und Mädchen, die auf diesem Hof leben”), no one seems to count
Cinderella among the female population of the estate at first.45 During her
first encounter with the prince, he treats her like a child (“little girl”/
“kleines Mädchen”) or even like a forest animal to be hunted, a squirrel
that saves itself by climbing a tree. Dressed as a hunter, finally, she
actually exceeds the prince and his friends in her performance of
masculinity. Before this backdrop, her first appearance as a ‘real’ woman
turns into an “allegorization of hetero-sexuality”,46 a drag performance: in
the forest, she is herself; in a gown at the ball, she is merely an imposter.
Unsurprisingly, the gender confusion and allusions to queer desires are
resolved in the conclusion of the film, which reestablishes the order of
gender binary in the heteronormative institution of heterosexual marriage.
In her last entrance, Cinderella finally appears as a ‘real’ princess: Unlike
at the ball, where she still seemed to feel out of place, she is now wearing
her wedding dress comfortably, and her face is once again unobscured,
suggesting that she is not ‘merely’ dressing up. Noticeably, she is also
riding sidesaddle, as might seem appropriate for a woman of her standing,
a clear divergence from her previous behaviour. She is now performing
socially acceptable femininity, whereas the prince has just established his
45
Thanks to Anna Horakova for pointing out this detail!
46
Judith Butler, “Critically Queer,” GLQ 1.1 (1993): 26.
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 113

virile capabilities by chasing down the stepmother and Dora before reunit-
ing with his bride.
It is in this resolution, which contains queer desires and gender non-
conforming behaviour through heterosexual romance, that TĜi oĜíšky pro
Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel seems to adhere most closely
to the conventions of Western Hollywood cinema, with its long tradition
of containing female agency either through ‘punishment’ (the death of the
femme fatale in Film Noir) or ‘forgiveness’ (the marriage of the ‘tamed
shrew’ in Screwball/Romantic Comedy).47 However, while the queer
desires that influence their previous encounters seem mostly erased in the
romantic ending of the film, the conclusion of TĜi oĜíšky does not fully
reject the element of role reversal and emancipation. Even as a princess,
Cinderella’s heart and hand cannot be won simply by putting a shoe on her
foot–which Freudian interpretations have frequently read as symbolising
sexual intercourse.48 Instead, the prince needs to solve the riddle that
provides the key to her identity, and in doing so, has to accept that the ash-
covered squirrel-girl, the talented hunter, and the masked woman in her
ball gown are all facets of the same person. That he does not simply accept
this knowledge grudgingly, but indeed internalises it, becomes apparent
when Cinderella attempts to return the ring she won at the archery
competition, and he refuses. “But it belongs to you!” (“Aber der gehört dir
doch!”) he states, thus admitting that even as his future wife, she is still the
better archer. This reaction establishes a noticeable difference to the battle
of genders in the musical-film Annie Get Your Gun49, where the butch
protagonist Annie makes a conscious decision to lose a shooting
competition to her love interest, because she knows that he wouldn’t
consider her as a potential lover if she bested him at this game.
Jackie Stacey has also shown that film endings which often function to
contain and police female agency or queer sexualities don’t necessarily
determine the viewer’s perspective on the entire text. In her analysis of
female film fans in 1940s/1950s Great Britain, she explains:
“Powerful female stars often played characters in punishing patriarchal
narratives, where the woman is either killed off, or married, or both, but

47
See Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Screen 16:3,
(1975): 6-18.
48
Shari Benstock et al., Footnotes: On Shoes (New Brunswick: Rutgers University
Press, 2001), 11.
49
George Sidney (Dir.), Annie Get Your Gun (MGM 1950).
114 Chapter Four

these spectators do not seem to select this aspect of their films to write
50
about”.

In the experience of the female spectators, the heteronormative conclusion

of a film does not need to negate or erase its emancipatory potential.
For the female fans of TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für
Aschenbrödel, however, it appears to be exactly the concurrence of these
conflicting elements which makes the film so appealing. On the one hand,
the feminist tendencies seem to be a significant aspect of fans’ fascination
with the film. In the nostalgia-driven anthology Helden der Kindheit, East-
German publisher Nadja Gröschner gives an account of her initial viewing
experience in the 1970s: “Here I encountered an entirely new Cinderella:
modern, heroic, and independent, and fearless in the face of authorities”. 51
The commitment to the emancipatory elements of the film is also reflected
in a fan’s decision to get a TĜi oĜíšky-inspired tattoo of the phrase “Sogar
jedes kleine Mädchen kann das!” (“Every little girl can do this!”), a
reference to Cinderella’s throw-away comment as she is about to beat the
prince in the shooting competition. On the German TĜi oĜíšky fansite, the
fan explains the reasoning behind her tattoo: “I chose this quote because
I’m barely 1.58m tall (a little girl), but fully capable of running my own
life (I can do (almost) anything, so to speak)!”52
On the other hand, the romantic conclusion of the story seems to be of
equal importance to many fans, who put much time and effort into
recreating Cinderella’s ball gown and her wedding dress, her jewellery and
her hairdo. A considerable number of fans report that their wedding
celebration was inspired by TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für
Aschenbrödel,53 and a Swiss wedding planner even named her agency
“Drei Haselnüsse” (“Three Hazelnuts”) in reference to the film.54

50
Jackie Stacey, Star Gazing: Hollywood Cinema and Female Spectatorship
(London/New York: Routledge, 1994), 158.
51
Nadja Gröschner, “Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel,” Helden der Kindheit aus
Comic, Film und Fernsehen, ed. Andrea Baron et al. (Frankfurt am Main: Edition
Büchergilde, 2013), 122. “[H]ier begegnete mir ein ganz neues Aschenbrödel:
modern, heldenmütig und emanzipiert sowie ohne Scheu vor der Obrigkeit”
(transl. HM).
52
“Den Spruch habe ich gewählt, da ich gerade mal 1,58 m klein bin (kleines
Mädchen) und mein Leben total im Griff habe (sozusagen kann ich auch (fast)
alles).” (transl. HM).
53
Kathrin Miebach, Heiraten wie Aschenbrödel, dreihaselnuessefueraschen-
broedel.de,
http://3hfa.jimdo.com/fanaktionen/heiraten-wieaschenbr %C3%B6del/.
54
Stefanie Widmer, Wedding Planner–Drei Haselnüsse,
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 115

This indicates that it might be the conciliatory nature of the film’s

ending that is particularly appealing to viewers. While it offers, on the one
hand, the fantasy of true love and living happily ever after (associated with
the characters’ reintegration into heteronormative models of gender and
family norms), the ending does not override the gender non-conforming
behaviour of the protagonists and the feminist potential of the story: Even
in the final scene, after the lovers express their affection for each other,
Cinderella rides off into the snow-covered landscape, forcing the prince to
chase after her, thus establishing once more her agency in the context of
their relationship.55 This ending also offers an explanation for the appeal
this film had for female viewers both in the West and East: For female
audiences in the West, who had become accustomed to the Hollywood
narrative that presented feminist emancipation and romantic love as
mutually exclusive, the reconciliation of independence and romance in TĜi
oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel was an unusual
exception. In Eastern Europe, the official political discourse promoted
gender equality, but the practical implementation of this principle was
largely limited to the integration of women into the workforce. Traditional
gender norms remained mostly untouched, which led to women struggling
to balance work against the expectations placed on them as housewives
and mothers.56 The general disdain for the principles of feminism extended
to men in dissident circles, “who, on the one hand, fought for human
rights, and, on the other, represented repressive power at home”.57 In con-
trast to this image of the woman in late socialism as perfectly compatible
with traditional norms of family and femininity, TĜi oĜíšky’s role reversal

www.drei-haselnuesse.ch/.
55
In a curious coinciding of diegetic and extratextual narrative, Cinderella actress
Libuše Šafránková was actually a talented horseback rider, unlike Pavel Trávnícek,
the actor playing the prince, who had to be replaced by a body double in riding
scenes.
56
Claudia Kraft, “Paradoxien der Emanzipation: Regime, Opposition und Ge-
schlechterordnungen im Staatssozialismus seit den späten 1960er-Jahren,”
Zeithistorische Forschungen/Studies in contemporary history 3 (2006), http:
\\zeithistorische-forschungen.de/3-2006/id%3D4564?language=en; Bren, The
Greengrocer and his TV, 159-176.
57
Ibid., 174. Bren’s study of Jaroslav Dietl’s Czech television shows during the
period of ‘normalization’ shows that this oppressive double expectation placed on
women in the late socialist era was also reflected in popular culture, which
presented women as both hard workers and perfect housewives and mothers. This
complicates the distinction between public and private in late socialism further:
While the retreat to the private sphere opened up space for resistance against the
totalitarian regime, for women this meant also a return to old patterns of inequality.
116 Chapter Four

specifically transforms the private relationship between Cinderella and the

prince, in which she is consistently presented as the dominant partner,
regardless of her lower social (public) standing. Here, female emancipa-
tion is not limited to Cinderella’s role in society, but also affects the inter-
personal dynamic of her romance, and thus offered an alternative to the
experience of inequality among women in late communism.
Forty years later, even a quick comparison with Disney’s most recent
Cinderella adaptation (2015), which puts the protagonist again into her
place as beautiful girl to be wooed and rescued, shows that TĜi oĜíšky’s
emancipatory message is far from outdated, and still an exception rather
than the norm. In fact, with the disavowal of alternative political models
after the downfall of Eastern European socialism and the appropriation of
feminist ideals by a neoliberal agenda, antifeminist discourse in popular
culture has become alarmingly common: Scholars like Angela McRobbie58
and Rosalind Gill59 demonstrate convincingly how contemporary Western
popular culture reiterates the trope of the loveless feminist who needs to
return to traditional models of femininity in order to remain desirable. TĜi
oĜíšky’s offer for an alternative to this dilemma seems to account for much
of female fans’ emotional investment in the film.

Dancing at the Ball: Fandom and Legacy

Female fans’ dedication to TĜi oĜíšky has also led to the formation of a
participatory fan community around the film. In fact, fannish participation
has itself become part of the cult phenomenon surrounding TĜi oĜíšky:
Media reports on the fan community are a frequent occurrence around the
holiday period.
In German-speaking countries, fans connect both online and in person.
An online forum provides a platform for over 300 fans, in order to coordi-
nate the organisation of meetings and trips, and the exchange of general
information about the film.60 The main fansite dedicated to the film offers
a comprehensive compilation of materials, from information on shooting
locations to a list of publications about the film, but also reports on a
variety of fannish activities, from TĜi oĜíšky-themed cakes to Carnival
costumes. The most prominent fannish circle, however, is a group of fans
around Kathrin Miebach, Germany’s best-known TĜi oĜíšky fan expert.

58
Angela McRobbie, The Aftermath of Feminism: Gender, Culture and Social
Change (Los Angeles/New York: Sage, 2009).
59
Rosalind Gill, “Sexism Reloaded, Or, It’s Time to Get Angry Again!,” Feminist
Media Studies 11.1 (2011): 61-71.
60
Das Aschenbrödel-Forum, http://3hfa4u.fds-design.de/index.php.
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 117

Once a year, the fans meet at Castle Bilstein in the Sauerland area for a
weekend of cosplay, historical dance, and TĜi oĜíšky-inspired party games.
These annual events in particular have repeatedly been the focus of media
reports: the fan community was featured prominently, for instance, in the
2005 WDR television documentary Wenn Märchen wahr werden61 (When
Fairy Tales Come True). These fans’ participatory practices are certainly
the most visible, as they are time-consuming and diverge the furthest from
‘regular’ audience behaviour. However, the annual viewings around
Christmas time, which a significant part of the population in the Czech
Republic and Germany engage in regularly, still are the most common and
widespread form of cult audience behaviour around TĜi oĜíšky. Both
groups of fans, the close-knit participatory fan community and the film’s
loyal viewers, have become the target audience for a number of TĜi oĜíšky-
focused products and events, even though compared to the global
merchandising industry surrounding Disney’s fairy tale adaptations, it may
be somewhat of an exaggeration to speak of a TĜi oĜíšky-related industry.
Nevertheless, these commercial forms of fan service both rely on fans’
continued interest in the film and, at the same time, keep their interest
alive. In 1998, Czech pop singer Iveta Bartošová recorded a vocal version
of a prominent song from the TĜi oĜíšky soundtrack that made it into the
Czech music charts. German singer Ella Endlich followed 2009 with
“Küss mich, halt mich, lieb mich” (”Kiss me, hold me, love me”), a
German-language cover of the same song that climbed to number 12 in the
German charts during the festive season. In the Eastern part of Germany,
the (former GDR) confectionery manufacturer Rotstern sells Cinderella-
themed rolled wafers at Christmas time, counting on the “ostalgic”
attachment to GDR products in the East of the country as much as on the
broader appeal of the widely known film TĜi oĜíšky. Most prominently,
several TĜi oĜíšky exhibitions have been held at some of the original
shooting locations. Since 2009, a large exhibition has been organised
almost every winter at Castle Moritzburg near Dresden, which served as
the setting for several scenes in the film. The exhibition, which so far has
attracted over 600,000 visitors and is next scheduled for the winter of
2015/16, offers fans a look at the original costumes and locations, as well
as background information on the production of the film. As many visitors
had been travelling to Dresden from the Czech Republic to see the
exhibition, it was subsequently extended to two additional locations: In
2013, for the 40-year-anniversary of the film, shows were also organised
at the Czech castles Švihov and CtČnice. Inviting fans to travel both ways
61
Wenn Märchen wahr werden–Geschichten um “Drei Haselnüsse für
Aschenbrödel.” WDR, 12/24/2005.
118 Chapter Four

between Germany and the Czech Republic, this grand-scale event

underscored the transnational impact of the film.
The soundtrack for the film, issued by Supraphon in 2003, was also
produced with the specific goal to appeal to fans in the Czech Republic
and Slovakia as well as viewers in German-speaking countries. The
soundtrack held one surprise for fans in German-speaking countries: for
many, it was the first time they encountered the vocalised version of the
theme song.
In the Czech and Slovakian version of the film, the song “Kdepak ty
ptáþku hnízdo máš” (“Where is your nest, little bird?”) was performed by
famous Czech singer Karel Gott.62 However, the programme director in
charge at WDR, the West-German television channel that bought and aired
TĜi oĜíšky in 1975, feared that the song veered too closely into kitsch
territory, and had it remixed as an instrumental piece, which has remained
the theme song in the German version of the film up to this day.
Interestingly, it seems that it was exactly the demand for less ‘Disneyfied’
children’s entertainment, which generated West German interest in
GDR/CSSR fairy tale adaptations in the first place, that made programme
director Gert K. Müntefering63 reject the original Czechoslovakian version of
TĜi oĜíšky's theme song.

Until Next Christmas: Conclusion

The analysis of TĜi oĜíšky pro Popelku/Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel,
the conditions of its production, the film’s distribution and its audiences
have shown that the continued popularity of TĜi oĜíšky in the territory of
the formerly socialist Czechoslovakia and GDR as well as parts of
Western Europe is the result of several, interrelated factors. As a
Barrandov/DEFA co-production, the film had at its disposal an unusually
large budget for its time, which contributed to its considerable aesthetic
quality and makes the film still palatable for contemporary audiences.

62
Gott was famous in Czechoslovakia, the GDR and FRG particularly for his voice
in the theme song to the children’s animation series Die Biene Maja (Maya the
Bee, 1975-1980).
63
Gert K. Müntefering, “Die wirkliche Wahrheit über 3HfA,” Potsdamer Neueste
Nachrichten 12/23/2011, http://www.pnn.de/medien/607811. Müntefering explai-
ned that he was “more interested in ‘new objectivity’ than in the sentimentalism
that dominated children’s television” (“im Kinderfernsehen mehr auf neue
Sachlichkeit aus denn auf den ohnehin landauf, landab gebotenen Gemütszirkus,”
transl. HM)
 Between Crossbow and Ball Gown, East and West 119

Emerging from the context of the Eastern-European fairy tale film genre
during the era of ‘normalisation’ after the Prague Spring, TĜi oĜíšky could
afford to convey an ambiguous representation of class politics that
facilitated its acceptance by audiences in different political systems: In the
West (and the post-communist era), the film appeared as mostly apolitical;
in the East, the ambiguities permitted the film divergent interpretations as
critical both of capitalism and of a totalitarian socialist regime. While the
polysemy of the text in regard to its class politics led to its positive
transnational reception precisely because it could be read differently at
different times in different countries, the emancipatory potential of the
female protagonist appears to be a consistent factor of female fans’
investment in the film: The role reversal in the private relationship
between Cinderella and the prince offered an alternative to the narratives
of late socialism with their focus on the good socialist woman as mother
and wife; whereas Cinderella’s rejection of traditional femininity provided
a contrast to Western portrayals of female desirability. This alternative
representation of gender roles was also welcome in 1970s and 1980s West
Germany because it provided a counterweight to the dominant presence of
US-American culture. In the post-communist era, on the other hand, the
backlash to feminism and the revival of traditional concepts of femininity
under neo-liberalism give the film a nostalgic value that is not so much
inspired by a longing for the ‘good old times’, but rather a loss of the
public acceptance of feminist ideals. However, the film’s continued
popularity is also closely tied to the ritualistic annual repeat watching on
television that makes it an essential part of winter holiday rituals in
German-speaking countries as well as the Czech Republic and Slovakia.
Furthermore, TĜi oĜíšky’s function as part of Czech and German family
traditions allows for an organic continuation of the tradition from one
generation to the next. While this ritual of repeat watching remains mostly
private and thus invisible, participatory fans also engage in activities like
cosplay, pilgrimages to shooting locations, or themed weddings, and thus
contribute to a public awareness of TĜi oĜíšky as a cultural phenomenon.
Combined with commercial appropriations of the text, like recordings of
the soundtrack and various cover versions, or annual exhibitions at
shooting locations, the patterns of cult audience behaviour generate a
public discourse that inspires regular media reports on the film and its
fans, which in turn keep TĜi oĜíšky and the narrative of its successful
career across borders and generations alive.
120 Chapter Four

Acknowledgements
Many thanks go to the editors for making this collection happen,
Kirsten Bönker and Sven Grampp for the insightful and inspiring
feedback, to Anna Horakova for the Czech expertise and the proofreading,
to Kathrin Miebach for providing invaluable information on the German
fanbase, to Gudrun Scherp from the DEFA-Stiftung for information about
box office numbers, and to the “Movie and Dinner Ladies” in Konstanz
for inspiring my interest in TĜi oĜíšky's queer subtext quite some years ago.

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 CHAPTER FIVE

THE SOCIALIST FAMILY SITCOM:

THEATRE AT HOME (SOCIALIST FEDERAL
REPUBLIC OF YUGOSLAVIA 1972–
REPUBLIC OF SERBIA 2007)

NEVENA DAKOVIû
AND ALEKSANDRA MILOVANOVIû

The aim of this paper is to map out the genre formula and the
transformations of the socialist family sitcom, from its appearance to its
decline through the analysis of Theatre at Home (Pozorište u kuüi, Novak
Novak, SFRY, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1980, 1984, 2006, 2007) as a paradigmatic
case. The development of the genre is contextualised within the broader
history of Yugoslav TV as well as within the social and political
framework of the era. TV series in the Socialist Federal Republic of
Yugoslavia (SFRY) are widely understood as transcultural texts, reflecting
the interaction of the Western/consumerist and Eastern/socialist way of
life, as well as the point of intersection of opposed TV genre models,
where such a position allows a double analytical approach. First, they
could be interpreted as the reflection of the social context searching for the
traces and marks of reality and actualities in the text. Second, TV text
analysed per se, looking for its “historical poetics” permits the
reconstruction of the social, political, and economic framework. Resulting
historicisation of the form reveals the way socialist family sitcoms neatly
reproduced not only the socialist modernity, but also the ambivalent
political positions of SFRY.
In the years of the turbulent breakup of the country in the nineties, of
the raging wars in Slovenia (1991), Croatia (1991-1995) and Bosnia and
Herzegovina (1992-1995), economic and moral collapse and Weimar like
hyperinflation (1992-1993); rising rate of crime and corruption; international
sanctions (1992-2001); military interventions (NATO bombing 1999); etc.,
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 125

the family sitcom began to regenrify toward social drama and eventually it
disappeared in its classical form. The textual and media analysis of one of
the most popular socialist sitcoms attempts to outline the interdependence
of the history of SFRY and the rise and decline of the family sitcom from
modernity and socialism to post-modernity and post-socialism confirming
the TV genre as an exemplary textual rethinking of society.
Seen from the historical, political or cultural perspective SFRY has
always been Janus-positioned as both a no man’s land between the (Cold
War) blocs of divided Europe and the eternal bridge between East and
West. It has never been fully hidden behind the Iron Curtain nor has it
fallen under the uncritical and unconditional influence of the West, but
persisted as a territory of colliding and mixing cultures and social models.
One of the consequences of its schismatic geopolitical position was that
the Yugoslav Broadcasting Agency/JRT (Jugoslovenska Radio Televizija,
1958)1 was able to develop its own formats and modus operandi. It was
carefully organised according to the needs and constraints of the dogmatic
state socialism and pertaining socialist realism. JRT was continuously and
safely state financed and in 1961 a broadcasting fee2 was introduced that
further helped the production boom of national programmes as well as the
import of foreign shows. The combination of factors allowed the fast
paced growth of its production, influenced by western TV series. These
programmes from the West were broadcast with negligible delay in
contrast to the Western bloc, and were appropriated to the local context
better and quicker than in the Eastern bloc. Television was the first
socialist institution “that followed the Western standard of entertainment
in all areas”,3 as the audience enjoyed simultaneously Peyton Place (Paul
Monash, Irna Phillips, USA, 1964-1969), The Long, Hot Summer (Dean
Riesner, USA, 1965-1966), The Onedin Line (Cyril Abraham, UK, 1971-

1
JRT was a network of TV centres of six republics and two autonomous provinces
that were founded in different years. TV Zagreb opened in 1956 and TV Belgrade
in 1958, which was the official beginning of JRT. TV Sarajevo appeared in 1969
and all others were successively founded as part of the state’s television. Cf.
Rodoljub Žižiü, Kroz ekran sveta (Beograd: Televizija Beograd, 1986); Bojana
Andriü, Vodiþ kroz produkciju igranog programa Televizije Beograd 1958-1995
(Beograd: RTS, 1998); Nevena Dakovic, “TV in Present Day and Ex-Yugoslavia,“
in Les Televisions du Monde, ed. Hennebelle Guy (Paris: Cinemaaction, 1995).
2
Vlado Miloševiü, “Razvoj ekonomske osnove Televizije Bograd,” in Istorije
televizije Beograd ed. Miroslav Saviüeviü (Beograd: Televizija Beograd, 1984),
116.
3
Milena Dragiüeviü-Šešiü, “Privatni život u vremenu televizije.” in Privatni život
kod Srba u dvadesetom veku, ed. Milan Ristoviü (Beograd: Klio, 2007), 758.
126 Chapter Five

1980), Dynasty (Esther Shapiro, Richard Alan Shapiro, USA, 1981-1989)

and array of local TV series.
National television production in SFRY began at the end of 1958,
during the period of early socialist modernity. Marie-Janine Calic, Dietmar
Neutatz and Julia Obertreis define socialist modernity as a variant of
industrial modernity where “modernity is understood not as a normative
category, but as an analytical framework that helps us describe the profound
transformation of traditional agrarian societies into fully developed
industrial ones.”4 After the Second World War, Yugoslav society
transformed itself with such intensity that “within a single generation the
Yugoslavs underwent momentous economic and sociocultural changes.”5
The development was visible in its steady industrialisation, electrification,
urbanisation, construction of roads and railways, growth of employment
and quality of life, development of education system, gender equality, etc.
Further ‘opening’ of society–in the early 1960s–brought new cultural
forms that replaced dogmatic Social(ist) Realism as the official art of the
state.
The early 1970s, marked by the advent of modernity and consumerism
“apparent in the appropriation of status symbols, fashion, new musical
tastes and leisure activities”6 assured the circumstances for the emergence
of the TV series that would follow events in the everyday life of a typical
Belgrade family in the form of the then not yet recognised sitcom. At the
height of its popularity–from the seventies to the mid-eighties–the socialist
family sitcom develops as the seamless combination of the American TV
format and a portrayal of everyday life in socialist modernity. Due to its
formula, it chronicles the story of modernism exploring the development
of society, “Socialist in form, consumerist in content, the Yugoslav
specific kind of socialism”.7 The TV series argues that “changes in
everyday life and consumer culture could be interpreted as a symptom of

4
Marie-Janine Calic, Dietmar Neutatz and Julia Obertreis, “The Crisis of Socialist
Modernity – The Soviet Union and Yugoslavia in the 1970s, Introduction,” in The
Crisis of Socialist Modernity – The Soviet Union and Yugoslavia in the 1970s, ed.
Marie-Janine Calic, Dietmar Neutatz and Julia Obertreis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht, 2011), 9.
5
Calic, Neutatz and Obertreis, “The Crisis,” 17.
6
Marie-Janine Calic, “The Beginning of the End: The 1970s as a Historical
Turning Point in Yugoslavia,“ in The Crisis of Socialist Modernity – The Soviet
Union and Yugoslavia in the 1970s, ed. Marie-Janine Calic, Dietmar Neutatz and
Julia Obertreis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 69.
7
Maleševiü, Iskušenja socijalistiþkog raja – refleksije konzumeristiþkog društva u
jugoslovenskom filmu 60-ih godina XX veka, 120.
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 127

crisis of the socialist lifestyle which was becoming less and less attractive
as people were turning to models they perceived as more up-to-date.”8 The
disappearance of the original socialist family sitcom comes in the 1990s
with the break-up of the country and the advent of post-modernism and
post-socialism.9
The first Yugoslav family sitcom Theatre at Home (sometimes also
translated as Full House or Family Ties) premiered in 1972 and then
continued in 1973, 1975, 1980 and 1984. In spite of being broadcast in the
same years as international hit TV series like Peyton Place, The Forsythe
Saga (John Galsworthy, UK, 1967), Shane (William Blinn, USA, 1966)
and Bonanza (David Dortort, USA, 1959-1973), it managed to top their
popularity and to effortlessly maintain its reputation. The renewal of the
national series happens in post-Yugoslav, post 1992, era as a juncture of
post-socialist, national and modern times. In the spirit of postmodern
recycling, hybridising and imperative reach for dialogue with tradition10
remakes of Theatre at Home, were made in 2006 in Croatia (Kazalište u
kuüi/Theatre at Home, HRT, Croatia, 28 episodes)11 and in 2007 in Serbia
(Pozorište u kuüi/Theatre at Home, RTS, Serbia, 26 episodes).
Theatre at Home was first broadcast after the tumultuous political12
and cultural13 events of the late 1960s, when television in Yugoslavia

8
Calic, Neutatz and Obertreis, „The Crisis,“ 18.
9
For relation of postmodernism, post socialism and post Yugoslav times see: Ales
Erjavec, Postmodernism, Postsocialism and Beyond; Mikhail Epstein, After the
Future: The Paradoxes of Postmodernism and Contemporary Russian Culture
(Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008), 188-210; Nevana Dakoviü,
“Post Yugoslav Cinema: New Balkan Cinema“ in Ländersonderband Serbien und
Montenegro, Österreichische OSTHEFTE 47 (2005), 1-4: 517-535.
10
For more about postmodernism see: Frederic Jameson, Postmodernism or the
Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Post-Contemporary Interventions) (Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 1992); Jean-Francois Lyotard, The Postmodern
Condition: A Report on Knowledge (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
1984); Linda Hutcheon, Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction.
(London & New York: Routledge, 1988).
11
The analysis of the Croatian remake is beyond the scope of the paper, as it
involves broader focus on the post-socialist context in post-Yugoslav states. For
more see Zrinjka Peruško and Antonija ýuvalo, “Comparing Socialist and Post-
Socialist Television Culture. Fifty Years of Television in Croatia,” in VIEW,
Journal of European Television History and Culture 03 (2014), 131-150.
12
See John R. Lampe, Yugoslavia as History: Twice There Was a Country
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 299-305.
13
See Ranko Munitiü, Adio jugo-film! (Beograd: Srpski kulturni klub, Beograd:
Centar film, Kragujevac: Prizma, 2005).
128 Chapter Five

intensified the unofficial practice of censorship. TV news footage was

carefully (re)edited in order to erase politically undesirable persons and to
glorify the cult of personality of President Josip Broz Tito (1892-1980).14
Predrag Markoviü considers the 1970s to be a “decade of silence”, of
avoiding criticism and conflict, ignoring the pressing economic and
political problems. On the other hand, it was a golden decade of illusion of
prosperity for many ordinary people, as can be seen in the Theatre at
Home. However, the promoted sense of personal prosperity and progress
“was based on foreign loans, massive imports and wasteful use of
imported energy”15 which later caused “an annual doubling of foreign debt
for many successive years.”16
Theatre at home, offering in an innovative TV format a mirror image
of our daily lives, is susceptible to a two-way analysis: a reading within
the social context and vice versa as an attempt to historicise the form.
Commenting upon David Bordwell’s project of historical poetic as an
worthy endeavour “to study film style in historical context”17 Robert Stam,
film and cultural studies theoretician, asks the question, “But would it not
be equally legitimate to do the reverse, i.e. to study style in order to
understand history?”18 The affirmative answer does not only offer an
alternative to the classical interpretative tradition but, in this case, enables
the study of the genre in order to understand socialist modernity and
reconstruct the social circumstances as indicated in the style of TV text.
Starting from the westernised elements of the text and new format it is
easy to conclude that in Yugoslavia, the exposure to the West was bigger
than in other socialist counties, or that modernism flourished earlier and
stronger. The differences were underpinned by the unique international
position of SFRY recoded in the smooth appropriation and acculturation of
the genre. The 1970s ended with the death of Tito and the last two seasons,
produced in the aftermath, were marked by the new everyday social
circumstances of various shortages (coffee, meat, etc.), reductions (electric

14
See Bojana Pejiü, “Tito ili ikonizacija jedne predstave,” in Novo þitanje ikone,
ed. Dejan Sretenoviü (Beograd: Geopoetika, 1999).
15
Pedrag Markoviü, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone? — Yugoslav Culture in
the 1970s Between Liberalisation/Westernisation and Dogmatisation,” in The
Crisis of Socialist Modernity – The Soviet Union and Yugoslavia in the 1970s, ed.
Marie-Janine Calic, Dietmar Neutatz and Julia Obertreis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht, 2011), 120.
16
Ibid.
17
Robert Stam, Film Theory: An Introduction (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2000),
196-197.
18
Ibid
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 129

power cuts) or salary cuts. However, big political problems like the battle
for political power between Tito's successors or nationalist awakening–
that would end in raging wars–never made it into sitcom. The sitcom
ended before the beginning of the final political turmoil as it was not able
to smoothly accommodate the decline of modernity, consumerism and
SFRY.
The arguments for the thesis that Theatre at Home represents a
prototype of the socialist family sitcom are threefold. First, apart from the
expected characters and events at home, the series had an overall effect on
the homogenisation and rebuilding of real families, which in addition
justifies the adjective, family. Second, running for almost 35 years it
describes the birth of modern life in socialist society. As grand recits of
socialist modernity it registers the social shifts of a dynamically changing
Belgrade and ex-Yugoslav setting from the early days of the consumer
society, through its peak in the 1980s to its decline and unsuccessful
revival in the post-2000 era. Third, as a text of popular culture it has the
privilege to simultaneously present and construct a “parallel social
universe” that encompasses both the “official” and “private” life of the
nation19 and the broader history of the country.

Popular Theatre of the Socialist Family

Theatre at Home was produced by TV Belgrade and aired in 84 episodes
over five seasons. The authors were the director Dejan ûorkoviü and writer
Novak–later to be joined by Siniša Paviü–while the 2007 remake was
directed by Miroslav Lekiü. The original 1970s version follows the life of
the Petroviü as a typical Yugoslav family. Family members: pater familias
Rodoljub-Roÿa Petroviü (Vlastimir Ĉuza Stoiljkoviü), his wife Olga
(Stanislava Pešiü), their son Borko (Goran Trifunoviü), Rodoljub’s
mother-in-law Snežana Nikolajeviü (Olga Ivanoviü), housemaid Tina
(Ljiljana Lašiü)–all living in one apartment–are joined by the family friend
Vasa S. Tajþiü (Dragutin Dobriþanin), Roÿa's mother Vuka (Radmila
Saviüeviü) concierge of the whole building Mungos (Mihajlo-Bata
Paskaljeviü), local police officer Klativoda (ýedomir Petroviü), etc. The
apartment building is located in Karaburma, Belgrade’s lower middle-
class and blue-collar area, synonymous with the cheap multi-storey blocks
and low quality flats built in the style of socialist realism.

19
See John Corner, Critical Ideas in Television Studies (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1999).
130 Chapter Five

Stereotypical family members, friends and neighbours are socially

representative characters for the micro (block of flats) and macro (Belgrade,
SFRY) communities. The repetitive situations and motives running
through seasons and uniting a range of characters are: three generations
living in a small flat; they all spend more than they can earn; cousins from
the countryside help them; the conflict between urban and rural
respectively between wife and her mother and husband and his mother.
The episodes begin either with voice over narration of the son or in medias
res and almost uniformly end with celebration of the outcome, both
comical and morally impeccable. Recognisable constituents of the series
effectively worked for the creation “of new identities of people in
socialism, both of those who contributed to its development, and of those
who destroyed its values.”20 With family as the social nucleus–implying
the whole of former SFRY to be one big family–Theatre at Home
smoothly accommodates traditional socialism and foreign modernity
impulses as becoming the exponent of socialist modernity.
The models for the first Yugoslav TV productions–from prime time
news to entertainment shows–are found in popular radio programmes. The
socialist family sitcom could be seen as a descendant of the radio comic
show Happy Evening (Veselo veþe, 1949-2001). The fact that it ran in a
series of 1,280 shows in the epoch between 1949 and 1969 testifies to the
almost incredible popularity of this amalgamation of music and comic
interludes, star casting, songs and humour benevolent but not subservient
to political concerns. On the other hand, the TV sitcom could be seen as a
precursor of the daily radio sketch Family Jovanovic, everyday life of one
family (Porodica Jovanovic svakodnevica jedne porodice, 1981-1993) that
through a twisted line of influence was modelled on the 2007 remake of
Theatre at Home. Radio shows were broadcasted after the 15h radio news
and people usually listened to both after coming home from work. As
working hours were 6-14h or 7-15h for all legal and financial institutions,
schools, shops or public services, for the majority it was also lunchtime
and the first daily reunion of the family. Family Jovanovic–whose Eastern
European national counterpart is Family Szabo in Hungary (The Szabo
Family, Szabó család, 1959-2007)–only occasionally offered stronger
criticism arising from rapidly deteriorating social conditions for which no
one was to blame. The sketch thus was also a government-tolerated safety
valve for the growing discontent of the people.21 Observant, pointed, and

20
Milena Dragiüeviü-Šešiü, “Privatni život u vremenu televizije,“ in Privatni život
kod Srba u dvadesetom veku, ed. Milan Ristoviü (Beograd: Klio, 2007), 753.
21
See Nevena Dakoviü, “Stalinism in Yugoslav Cinema,“ in History of the
Literary Cultures of East-Central Europe: Junctures and Disjunctures in the 19th
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 131

aimed toward the growing problems of ordinary people it was nevertheless

benign and not able to mobilise the audience to actually do anything in
real life. By allowing thus humorous discourse about the state of the union,
the government kept proving its own principles of media democracy and
tolerance. In 1993, the economic collapse of Serbia in the midst of SFRY
disintegration brought this, as well as many other media programmes, to
an end.
The other sources of inspiration for Theatre at Home are the early
comedy series–important elements of the embryonic popular culture TV
texts–based upon rural/urban opposition and their conflict brought down to
the everyday problems of the ordinary man. Mr. Average both enjoys and
fights against the growing modernisation, industrialisation and
urbanisation he feels threatened by. The protagonists of the first series are
recruited from the lumpenproletariat of the town's periphery or from the
village population. The plot begins by the arrival of an intruder in the
closed, semi-isolated community (village, suburbia, or a auto mechanic
shop, etc.) or vice versa from a small village to the bright lights of the big
city. In both cases the attempts at either joining or changing the
community meets strong resistance which is more comical than serious.
The most popular comedy series in Yugoslavia which reconciled
rural/urban oppositions with humour and wit were: The Service Station
(Servisna stanica, Radivoje Lola Ĉukiü, 1959-1960), Musicians
(Muzikanti, Dragoslav Laziü, 1969), Love in the Rural Way (Ljubav na
seoski naþin, Dragoslav Laziü, 1970) or Our Small Town (Naše malo
misto, Danijel Marušiü, 1970-1971).22 In the Service Station the action
takes place in the auto mechanic shop on a new motorway, which
symbolises the progress of socialist modernity. In the series Musicians,
three members of the orchestra La Campanella (La Kampanela) go from
one “gig” to another, wandering on the roads between village and city,
between urban and rural fairs. Love in the Rural Way follows the
adventures of a young man–a returnee from France–who wants to change
and emancipate country life. Our Small Town depicts the lives of people in
a picturesque Dalmatian town, from pre-World War II to the 1960s that
sees economic liberalisation and the arrival of Western tourists on the

and 20th centuries, ed. Marcel Cornis-Pope, John Neubauer (Amsterdam: John
Benjamins Publishing, 2004).
22
Sloban Novakoviü, Slobodan, “Kada je vladala komedija ili þetvrt veka
beogradske humoristiþke škole na malom ekranu,” in Istorije televizije Beograd,
ed. Miroslav Saviüeviü (Beograd: Televizija Beograd, 1984), 35-60; Nevena
Dakoviü, Aleksandra Milovanoviü, “Serbian Sitcom, Comedy of Mentality and
Identity,” in Comedia Balcanica, ed. Marian Tutui (Cetate: Port Cetate, 2014).
132 Chapter Five

Croatian coast. Yugoslav audiences saw these narratives as a truthful and

persuasive portrayal of the local mentality, lives and society.
In contrast to these, Theatre at Home frames the usual issues differently.
It is the first series exclusively set in the urbanising, modern capital city of
Belgrade, while the family apartment becomes the almost sole battlefield
of social and cultural oppositions. It is “based around the relationships and
actions of a group of characters (ensemble)”23 living in or visiting a typical
middle class flat. Its narrative model “of twists and turns of family life”24
meets our expectations with regards to sitcom conventions like storytelling,
causal structure of narrative and chronological order. Nothing changes as
the characters repeat the same mistakes in every episode. They seem to
have learned their lesson in one episode, then appear to have forgotten it
when they find themselves in a similar situation in the following episodes.
“Characters and setting are recycled, but the story concludes in each
individual episode”,25 while the outcome of any one episode has no effect
on a later one. The premises sustain the repetitiveness of a single episode
structure and varying dynamics of the order of broadcast in the season.
Due to its concept it manages to maintain the dialectics of differentiation
and repetition found within “all popular, genre-based narratives.”26 The
well-tried genre formulas, patterns and structures (repetition of premises)
give the audience a feeling of closeness and familiarity, while variations
(differentiation of the plot) create a feeling that they are watching
something new and unusual.27
The popularity of the sitcom introduced the evening ritual of the whole
family watching new episodes together and rebuilding the loose ties of the
socialist home. In return it received the adjective “family”, as explained by
Spigel:

23
Julie Patrick, Sitcom: A Teacher's Guide (Leighton Buzzard: Auteur, 2007), 13.
24
Sabina Mihelj, “Television Entertainment in Socialist Eastern Europe: Between
Cold War Politics and Global Developments,“ in Popular Television in Eastern
Europe During and Since Socialism, ed. Timothy Havens, Aniko Imre, Katalin
Lustyik (New York and London: Routledge, 2012), 19.
25
Sarah Kozloff, “Narrative Theory and Television,” in Channels of Discourse
Reassembled. Television and Contemporary Criticism (2nd ed.), ed. Allen C.
Robert (New York and London: Routledge, 1992), 70.
26
Jeffrey Sconce, “What If?: Charting Television's New Textual Boundaries,” in
Television after TV: Essays on a Medium in Transition, ed. Jostein Gripsrud,
Priscilla Ovalle (Durham, NC : Duke University Press Books, 2004), 100-101.
27
See Kozloff, “Narrative Theory and Television,” 52-76; also see Aleksandra
Milovanoviü, “The Models of Narration in Contemporary Television Series and
Serials,” in Faculty of Dramatic Arts Belgrade, Anthology of Essays 22 (2013).
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 133

“Television, it was said, would bring the family ever closer [...]. In its
capacity as unifying agent, television fit well with the more general post-
war hopes for a return to family values. It was seen as a kind of household
cement that promised to reassemble the splintered lives of families who
had been separated during the war.“28

In the Yugoslav case, splintered families were not the consequence of the
war–that ended long before–but rather of changed daily schedules of
family members. The growth in the number of working wives and mothers
imposed the rearrangement of the rhythm of domestic life. In October
1974, the family meal is moved to a later time as the sitcom’s slot changed
from before to after the prime time evening news.29 Watching TV
provided the alibi for the reunification of the family after a hard day’s
work drawing the demarcation line between working hours, private family
and leisure time. Penati suggests that:

“However, studies based on both personal memories and secondary

sources have shown how, in different European countries, television’s
presence in the home has been either enthusiastically welcomed as an
instrument capable of connecting the private space with the public sphere,
or grudgingly accepted as an unnecessary luxury and a distraction from
domestic chores.”30

It is the ritual of narcissistic self-imagining, as the TV sitcom serves as an

impetus to comment on and analyse one’s own existence with detachment
and comfort. Detachment originates from the very concept that things are
happening to someone else and although we are strongly emotionally
involved we are sheltered and at a safe distance. Comfort stems from the
very recognition of shared problems. We are not alone, but instead of
sharing the burden of troubles with the next-door neighbour over a cup of
coffee in the afternoon, we are looking for empathy within the TV

28
Lynn Spigel, Make Room for TV: Television and the Family Ideal in Postwar
America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 39.
29
In October of 1974, the programming board of JRT changed the time slot of the
main evening news from 20h to 19.30h and influenced major changes to the
broadcast scheduling strategies. The TV slot between 19 and 21h started with a
children’s programme, continued with the main evening news, sports and weather
forecast, ending with a TV series (domestic or imported). (From documentary TV
series Time of Television, 35 Years of TV Belgrade/Vreme televizije, 35 godina TV
Beograd, RTS, Miroslav Saviüeviü, Nikola Lorencin, 1993-1994.)
30
Cecilia Penati, „Remembering Our First TV Set, Personal Memories as a Source
for Television Audience History,“ in VIEW, Journal of European Television
History and Culture 03, (2013), 5.
134 Chapter Five

universe as the doppelganger of reality. The input of actualities, reality

ratio of the show, is sustained by the weekly rhythm of the episodes that
conveniently roots the series in the daily rhythm of domestic lives. The
audience gets the impression that the sitcom imitates and runs parallel with
their lives; as well as the sense that they participate in the lives of others.
The adjective socialist–in the name of the genre–refers to the time and
the ideological background against which the show developed. Flourishing
socialist problems shaping society allow the genre to propose, in melodramatic
mode, imaginary solutions of these real problems within a prescribed
political framework. Following the melodramatic principle of refracting
and displacing big, public history and dilemmas within the closed, private
and emotional space of the family31 the sitcom becomes an efficient
promoter of socialist values adapted to the stratifying consumer society.
Simultaneously Theatre at Home assures different spectacularisation of
socialist life in the original (1972-1984) and the remake (2007). The
original series is conceptualised as the spectacularisation of everyday life
through the ordinary man becoming an extraordinary character of fiction.
Mr. Average becomes remarkable as being part of efforts to build
socialism, and by becoming a hero of the fiction on the stage of private
life. In the remake, the spectacularisation additionally includes multiplied
references to theatre. The metaphor of the theatre is stylistically developed
in the opening credits with the lifting of the theatre curtain, image of the
stage and theatre masques falling on the faces of actors, fit for the
postmodernist media awareness, hybridisation and revelation of its own
illusionist character. Different opening credits, however, have the same
text of the song with another abundance of media references:

“One evening someone said: no one has nothing more important than his
own home. Run to your home! And at home are son, wife and, naturally
her mother, like in one small paradise. Every home is a theatre and all sorts
of vaudeville happen every day as soon as I enter the apartment. Ah, how
much I love theatre, but not in my own home. I do not have anything
against the stage, let them all around me act, but I want to have the main
role.” (Italics N.D.)

31
Melodrama is often theoretically related to the moment of the revolution, social
upheavel or turbulence. In sitcom, shared melodramatic elements allow it to be
seen as sign of society in permanent revolution and problem-solving. See Thomas
Elsaesser, “Tales of Sound and Fury,“ in Film Genre Reader, ed. Barry Keith
Grant (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986); Christine Gledhill, Home Is
Where the Heart Is: Essays on Melodrama and the Woman's Film (London: BFI,
1987), 5-43.
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 135

The song is sung by pater familias Rodoljub as an announcement that in

the troublesome situation his ambition of playing the lead might and
probably would turn against him. The emphasis on vaudeville characters
underlines the structural similarity with the genre materialised in theatre,
radio shows and in postmodern hybridisation.

Grand Recits of Modernism

The socialist family sitcom transgressed narrative genre borders. Thus
it became one of the earliest examples of the process of globalisation. The
acquired local flavour underpins elaborate imagining of socialist modernism
based upon American and European models. Miroslava Maleševiü
concludes that continuing the tradition of the film comedies of the sixties
Saturday Night (Subotom uveþe, Vladimir Pogaþiü, 1957), Love and
Fashion (Ljubav i moda, Ljubomir Radiþeviü, 1960), Joint Apartment
(Zajedniþki stan, Marijan Varda, 1960), There are no Small Gods (Nema
malih bogova, Radivoje Lola Djukic, 1961), the sitcom vividly portrays
“the way in which the assimilation and spreading of consumer culture
change the social orientation, system of values and in practical life how
these lead to the abandoning of socialism”.32
Radina Vuþetiü describes the sixties in SFRY as the era of the huge
popularity of the foreign, mainly American TV series and movies, Disney
cartoon characters , cowboys and Indians, doctors and detectives, images
and stories that introduced the American dream into the lives of all
Yugoslavs.33 At once, events of social, economic and political scope
invade the narrative of the socialist family sitcom sooner than those of
Western sitcoms, traditionally considered as the genre that does not deal
with “serious” topics. For example, in Theatre at Home episode When
Foreigners are Coming (Kad stranci dolaze, S02E02) shows how the
business delegation from the West is entertained in Yugoslavia; episode
Men with Deep Pockets in Belgrade (Lovaneri u Beogradu, S04E01)
features the meeting of the World Bank organised in Belgrade.
The constituents of grand recits of modernity–modern life and
consumerism with TV sets, home appliances, family cars (going on holiday
or shopping), new apartments and skyscrapers–prominently feature in every
episode. They are the emblematic iconography of family life in the Belgrade

32
Miroslava Maleševiü, “Iskušenja socijalistiþkog raja – refleksije
konzumeristiþkog društva u jugoslovenskom filmu 60-ih godina XX veka,” in
Glasnik Etnografskog instituta SANU 60 (2012): 120.
33
Radina Vuþetiü, “Amerikanizacija jugoslovenske filmske svakodnevice
šezdesetih godina 20. veka,” in Godišnjak za društvenu istoriju 1 (2010).
136 Chapter Five

cityscape as seen in the series, magazines, commercials or films but also in

real life. Trend setting Western imagology with its symbolic values and
meanings is assimilated by all generations in reality and fiction.
In Theatre at Home Rodoljub Petroviü–with clear semantics of the
name Rodoljub as Patriot and typical Serbian family name implying Mr.
Ordinary or Mr. Smith–drives a Zastava 750, popularly nicknamed Fiüa.
Made after the licence of Fiat 600–the emblem of the Italian economic
miracle–the first national mass produced car had great value for the proud
owners and became the symbol of prosperous and modern Yugoslavia.
Wives talk about fashion and shopping financed by their husbands as the
only bread winners in the families. Only in the second season (1973-1974)
does Olgica’s search for a job become the story’s plot and the whole
family tries to “pull the strings” to ensure her employment (Personal
Favour/Usluga, S02E09, Allowance with the Consequences/Džeparac sa
posledicama, S02E12, etc.). A recurring problem is, of course, a lack of
money to realise wishes and dreams, raise the standard of life and
sometimes even to maintain a daily existence under the motto "to live like
the others, like the rest of the neighbours". The message is clear and
painfully familiar today: we spend more than we earn, can allow or afford.
TV media was an important element of modernity but vice versa
modernity supported and demanded the intensive development of TV
production, a growing number of receivers and expansion of
infrastructure. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, television viewing was a
more collective activity. TV sets were placed in hotel lobbies, in shop
windows, village centres, or simply on house windowsills so that the rest
of the neighbourhood could watch important sport events or news. By the
mid-1960s it become a private and family matter.34 TV entertainment
provided the model of the ideal family environment while the ideal-typical
family guided the production and placement of television programmes. In
Serbia, in 1958 there was a total of 800 TV sets, while the price of a set
“was seven or eight monthly salaries”.35 At the beginning of 1961 in
Serbia there were approximately 11,000 sets, and by the end of the year
already 30,000; then 150,000 in 1964. The fact that the number of TV sets
in Serbia increased to 817, 258, brought this decade the title of “phase of

34
See Mirjana Otaševiü, Bojana Andriü, „Strašljivi div.,“ in Beograd šezdesetih
godina XX veka, ed. Darko ûiriü, Lidija Petroviü ûiriü (Beograd: Muzej grada
Beograda, 2003), 110-140; Dragiüeviü-Šešiü, „Privatni život u vremenu televizije“.
35
Vlado Miloševiü, “Razvoj ekonomske osnove Televizije Bograd,” in Istorije
televizije Beograd ed. Miroslav Saviüeviü (Beograd: Televizija Beograd, 1984),
110.
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 137

economic prosperity”.36 TV sets–decoration and the window to the world–

had a central place in homes and all the other pieces of furniture in the
living room were oriented accordingly.37
Comedy series owe their popularity, among other things, to numerous
and diversified references to all sorts of popular culture texts (music, TV
programmes, women’s magazines, etc.). A few episodes of Theatre at
Home offer good examples of the narcissist, meta-presence of TV on TV,
when popular TV personalities enter the Petrovic home. These metatelevision
moments are early examples of media self-awareness and self-referentiality,
as well as basic signs of post-modernity. They contribute to the popular
culture of celebrities and TV as the celebrity media. TV personalities
appearing in the series are: TV presenter Miüa Orloviü (Clean air - a Long
Life/Cist vazduh - dug zivot, Karaburma, S01E03), popular singer
Predrag Cune Gojkoviü (When Foreigners are Coming, Operation
Vozdovac/Operacija Vozdovac, S04E02), New Year's Follies/Novogodisnje
ludorije, S04E05), weather forecast presenter Kamenko Katiü (The Big
Goodbye /Veliko do vidjenja, S01E28), sport reporter Dragan Nikitoviü
(Game of Life/Utakmica zivota, S02E14), singer Dubravka Nešoviü (The
New Year’s spirit in colour /Novogodisnji kolor u boji, S01E12), etc.
High culture is sporadically mentioned with reserve and suspicion.
Family friends from Zagreb visit Belgrade (Guests from Zagreb/Gosti iz
Zagreba, S02E17), because a protagonist’s wife is performing at a concert
which coincides with an important football match. Members of both
families are obliged to go to the concert and the compromise is achieved
when the husbands put on headphones, so that they can secretly listen to
the football match and exchange handshakes for the scored goals. The
mothers-in-law interpret the gesture as giving compliments for the wife’s
excellent performance.

Parallel Social Universe

The readily accepted Western narrative formula of “happy affluent
families easily solving all problems within the nuclear family”38 in
socialism confirms the replacement of dogmatic (socialist) realism with

36
Ibid, 126.
37
Zorica Jevremoviü, Spotovi nostalgije (Beograd: Radio-televizija Srbije, 2006),
117.
38
Nevana Dakoviü, “City Foxes/East-West Soap (Belgrade/New York),” in
Ambivalent Americanization: Popular and Consumer Culture in Central and
Eastern Europe, ed. Sebastian M. Herrmann, Katja Kanzler, Anne Koenen, Zoe A.
Kusmierz, Leonard Schmieding (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2008).
138 Chapter Five

the emancipated socialist modernity. The process is amply helped by the

cosmopolitan spirit expressed, also, in the appropriations of TV formulas.
The sitcom’s distinctively urban, modern and middle class narrative
persuasively plays upon lines of structuring binaries, which all Yugoslavs
could identify with, such as: rural/patriarchal tradition, modern/progressive
trends, global/local, new/old, urban/folklore, West/East accommodated
within outer/inner spaces. The point of intersection of problem solving
processes on micro (family) and macro (public and social) level is the
apartment. Family members going to work and returning home bring the
problems from the outside into the main narrative space inside. If the
problems are disentangled within the confinements of the apartment, they
are, also, resolved for the outside world that caused them.
In Novi Beograd, the symbol of modernity in Yugoslavia, one of the
ugliest edifices reflecting the bilateral bond of TV and apartment, is called
“the TV set building”. Its windows are shaped and framed as TV sets39
making the TV as our window to the world superimposed around the real
window. The residents’ view of the highway called “the Road of
Brotherhood and Unity”, connecting the northern with the southern
Yugoslav republics, became a view of the army vehicles and tanks
hurrying toward battlefields. Simultaneously, these windows in films The
Wounds (Rane, Srÿan Dragojeviü, 1998), Absolute 100 (Apsolutnih 100,
Srdan Goluboviü, 2001) and One on One (Jedan na jedan, Mladen
Matiþeviü, 2002) turn out to be openings into the inner world of the
characters as the camera languidly goes in the apartments through dusty
and dirty glass panes. In contrast, the camera rarely goes outside the flat in
the sitcom, –but “enters in” from the corridors via the door–as their plot is
confined to the inner family space.

39
The nickname of “the TV set building” (Televizorka), built between 1970 and
1974 in New Belgrade, came later and it was not the initial intention of its architect
Ilija Arnautoviü. The inhabitants of New Belgrade named it because of the system
of prefabricated concrete facade window frames that resembled a television screen.
Building in New Belgrade, as well as the other cities in SFRY, was part of big
architectural design and urban planning scheme that would reflect the socialist
modernity as “a specific utopian vision of an egalitarian society based on the ideals
of working class emancipation” and reaching “a level of innovation analogous to
the utopian and progressive ideals of self-managing socialism.” Cf. Maroje
Mrduljaš, Vladimir Kuliü, Unfinished Modernisations - Between Utopia and
Pragmatism (Zagreb: UHA/CCA, 2012), 7.
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 139

Photo 1. The TV set building (Televizorka), New Belgrade, Serbia, 2011.40

In the 1960s and 1970s, the government answered the housing

problems of workers in a state financed and controlled way. The number
of newly built flats in Belgrade grew rapidly: from 5,162 new apartments
built in 1960; 7,407 in 1962; 8,295 in 1966; to 10,086 in 1968.
Employment, marital status and number of children were decisive for a
place on the list of the housing commission. However, the most important
factor was political activity and membership in the Communist Party.
Staged weddings, credit manipulations, and sudden party membership
were used as strategies for getting to the top of the list.41 Until then, like in
Theatre at Home, several generations lived in one flat–just one of many in
the building–causing the additional blurring of the boundaries between
private/public, individual/collective. At the beginning of the series, the
youngest family member, son Borko, goes to elementary school, while in
the last season, he is a young man who struggles to have a family of his
own and get his own apartment, i.e. private space (If You Have a Son –
Look for an Apartment/Imaš sina - traži stan, S05E01).

40
Author Aleksandra Milovanoviü, from her private collection.
41
See Nataša Delaþ, “Grlom u jagode: pseudo ili doživljena utopija,“ in Faculty of
Dramatic Arts Belgrade, Anthology of Essays, 2014; Milovan Mitroviü,
“Društvene institucije i kulturni identitet.” in Sociološki pregled 1-2 (2004).
140 Chapter Five

Viewed in “purely material terms, socialist family dwellings were

generally smaller than Western homes and, thanks to the preference for
multi-storey apartment blocks, were more standardised and more exposed
to the prying gaze of neighbours and authorities.”42 Apartments were
tightly packed on floors; buildings were clustered together so that the
neighbours could easily spy on each other. The apartment walls were very
thin and the phone was usually in the corridor near to the entrance door, so
that eavesdropping was easy. Eventually with the semi permeable
“borders”, the inner space–acquired in the ambivalently legal way–
becomes intimate and intimidating, not in the least due to gossiping
neighbours.
Comical situations in Theatre at Home arise from squabbles and
misadventures, when nothing could go right or as planned in the sloppy
socialist system. But in the end, after many obstacles and unforeseen
situations–enhanced by clumsy and obtrusive interference of curious
neighbours and friends–everything is resolved. Reunited they all talk at the
same time, amusingly explaining the misunderstandings and confusions;
commenting with benevolence and humour and of course celebrating that
the right thing was done. The frequently used ending is a homage–
although not intentional or recognised as such–to Asterix and Obelix’s
tribal spirit that reigns family life. At the end of every episode of the
famous comic the whole tribe gets together, has a great feast and
celebrates the success and restores the usual good will and unity.43 The
family or group of friends at work or home (building) are socialist versions
of the modern tribe endowed with the same basic generous and optimistic
spirit.
Public life in all its aspects–historical, political, economic, social, etc.
–has an important role for the TV series. The sitcom flourishes in the
ambience of a harmonious society sustaining a stable and happy family
that triumphs over crises. But when the crisis prevails, family and society
fall apart, they perish or mutate. The parallelism of the rise and fall of
socialist modernity and the family sitcom is confirmed by striking
correspondences in the time lines of the Yugoslav state changes and the
conversion of the genre formula.

42
Sabina Mihelj, “The Politics of Privatization: Television Entertainment and the
Yugoslav Sixties,” in The Socialist Sixties: The Global Movement in the Soviet
Union, Eastern Europe, and Cuba, ed. Anne Gorsuch, Diane Koenker
(Bloomington, Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2013).
43
“As usual our friends return is the excuse for ‘the banquet held under the stars’”
is the caption of the last drawing in the comic.
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 141

The first seasons of Theatre at Home appeared at the beginning of the

long crisis. The decline of the power of the President allowed greater
freedom in a country that was–more than ever–focused on economic
liberalisation and consumerism. The whole country discovered the charm
of living on credit and the benefits of having the leading position in the
Non-Aligned Movement (NAM). There were high hopes that the rising
upper middle class might become the dominant social model.
The TV set–as a symbol of progress and modernity–in the centre of the
living room, at the beginning of 1990s, became the TV set in almost every
room in the apartment; in the centre of family life and in the centre of
SFRY. The disintegration of Yugoslavia was completely visible in virtual
media space. All important events (The 8th Session of the League of
Communists of Serbia, 14th Congress of the League of Yugoslav Communists,
rally on Gazimestan, secretly recorded military weapons trading and
trafficking, etc.) were broadcast on TV almost in real time and turned
instantaneously into mediated events. History and politics became a reality
show that ruled the TV programmes, while the series searched for a way of
survival in different ways. Instead of being a medium of national
integration, TV was recording the country’s disintegration.

YEARS HISTORICAL SOCIETY TV SERIES

EVENTS
1945- - The end of WWII - Mostly rural
1949 (1945) - Devastated in WWII
- Founding of FNRY - Renouncement of
(1945) Soviet model of
- Tito’s break away socialism
from Stalin (1948) - Beginning of self-
management
1950- - Opening of the - Industrialisation The Service
1959 highway "Of - Urbanisation Station (1959-
Brotherhood and - Education 1960)
Unity" (1950) - Early days of socialist
- FNRY has around modernity
16,937,000 citizens
(1953 census)
1960- - Founding of The - Economic reforms Musicians
1969 Non-Aligned - Mass constructions of (1969)
Movement (1961) socialist dwellings
- Tito's speech in Split -The development of
(1962) infrastructure
- Name FNRY is
changed to SFRY
(1963)
142 Chapter Five

1970- - New Constitution - Fully developed Love in the

1979 gives more socialist modernity Rural Way
sovereignty and - Consumerism (1970)
independence to the - The golden age of Our Small Town
republics, instigating prosperity (1970-1971)
decentralisation and - International credits, Theatre at Home
surge of nationalistic mass import, import (1972, 1973,
tensions (1974) oriented economy, 1975)
country’s foreign debt
is doubled
1980- - Death of Josip Broz - Various shortages Theatre at Home
1989 Tito, lifelong (coffee, meat, etc.) (1980, 1984)
president of - Reductions (electric Better life
Yugoslavia (1980) power cuts) (1987-1991)
- The 8th Session of - Battle for political
the League of power between Tito's
Communists of Serbia successor,
(1987) - Nationalist awakening
- Rally on Gazimestan
(1989)
1990- - 14th Congress of the - Wars in former Happy people
1999 League of Yugoslav Yugoslavia (1993-1996)
Communists (1990) (1991-1995) Up and Down
- Breakup of former - Hyperinflation in (1996-1997)
Yugoslavia (1992) Serbia (1992-1993) Family Treasure
- NATO bombing of - International (1998-2001)
SR Yugoslavia, State economic sanctions
Union of Serbia and (1992-2001)
Montenegro (1999)
2000- - Last democratic - The recovery and The Dollars are
2007 revolution in Europe reforms of the coming (2004-
(2000) economic system 2006),
- Assassination of the Theatre at Home
Prime Minister Zoran (2007)
Djindjic (2003)

The immediate replacement of the sitcom, the comedy series Better life
(Bolji zivot, Siniša Paviü, 1987-1991) was obviously optimistic, in spite of
the crisis of socialist modernity and global problems. One of the biggest
productions of the time, it depicted the life of an upper middle class
Belgrade family troubled by, what seems to them, incomprehensible social
changes. The family has three children of different ages and no relatives
from the province apart from the dead and absent sister of pater familias.
The Aunty has left the children an inheritance they have to earn to save
themselves and the family from financial collapse. Adultery, children out
 The Socialist Family Sitcom: Theatre at Home 143

of wedlock, petty crimes in the office or even serving a mild prison

sentence have become part of normal life in the TV series, but also in a
rapidly changing society. Everything–sanitarily represented and
benevolently and ethically commented upon–is allowed on the way to a
“better life” in the overall decay. The TV series that followed were more
like family dramas of the new era: Happy people (Sreüni ljudi, Siniša
Paviü, 1993-1996), Up and Down (Gore-dole, Gordan Mihiü, 1996-1997),
Family Treasure (Porodiþno blago, Siniša Paviü, 1998-2001), The Dollars
are coming (Stižu dolari, Siniša Paviü, 2004-2006), etc. They are marked
by a lower class status of the protagonists who come from the pauperised
middle class, the demi monde and are arrivists. With different social
backgrounds, professions, ethics, etc., the characters broaden the gap
between rural and urban, centre and periphery, clearly indicating the
destructive de-urbanisation and ruralisation of Belgrade. Happy people are
ironically more desperate than happy in spite of the guaranteed and
meticulously constructed happy endings; The Dollars are Coming from
the relatives abroad as the partial comfort for the isolation and sanctions,
while everyone hunts for Family Treasure of rural ancestors. The latter are
social role models of rural identity which marks a bizarre return to the first
comedy series of the 1950s and their traditional types. The socialist family
sitcom disappears to be replaced by drama and comedy, but it is hardly a
surprise that in the post 2000 revival of the genre, the producers turned to
the remake of the seminal and probably the best family sitcom, Theatre at
Home. The postmodern recycling of previous texts, appropriation to the
new times, fits well with the self-referentiality and self-awareness already
present in the original, hinting that, in this case, we may consider the
postmodern text as the only option for the survival of the socialist family
sitcom in the time after crisis and “death” of its pertinent era of socialist
modernity.

Conclusion
The socialist family sitcom epitomised in the Theatre at Home marked
both the golden age of Yugoslav television and the rise and fall of socialist
modernity proving to be a most adequate encapsulation of social trends
and zeitgeist of the time. The imagology of everyday life in the series is
carefully shaped after the image of real life, as confirmed by the
maintained reality ratio of the narrative. The series succeeds both in
persuasively reflecting the fast paced development of modern consumerist
life according to the West and in carefully respecting the state approved
models confirming the existing social system as being the best possible,
144 Chapter Five

denying the logic of the East-West divide. Due to the country’s

localization between the Cold War fronts and its more relaxed political
system in comparison to other Eastern bloc nations, the image of Yugoslav
everyday life was glossier, more and earlier westernised than in Poland or
Hungary and in their TV series.
Intricately linked with modernity, the socialist family sitcom was
bound to disappear with the era but was also destined to be revived as a
postmodern and post-socialist sitcom. Nevertheless, it got drowned out
and went barely noticed in the flood of licensed series. Yugoslavia ceased
to exist together with its TV culture as the vehicle of national integration.
The new globalised TV culture was confirmed to be a tool of new
integrations sealing the disintegration of SFRY. The adjective socialist
was irrevocably lost from the genre name, leaving the original Theatre at
Home as a truthful and emotional memo of ordinary life we recognise and
understand.

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edited by Dejan Sretenoviü, 107-155. Beograd: Geopoetika, 1999.
Penati, Cecilia. “Remembering Our First TV Set, Personal Memories as a
Source for Television Audience History.” ViEW, Journal of European
Television History and Culture 03, (2013): 4-12.
Peruško, Zrinjka and ýuvalo, Antonija. “Comparing Socialist and Post-
Socialist Television Culture. Fifty Years of Television in Croatia.”
ViEW, Journal of European Television History and Culture 03, (2014):
131-150.
Sconce, Jeffrey. “What If?: Charting Television's New Textual Boundaries.”
In Television after TV: Essays on a Medium in Transition, edited by
Jostein Gripsrud, Priscilla Ovalle, 93-112. Durham, NC: Duke
University Press Books, 2004.
Spigel, Lynn. Make Room for TV: Television and the Family Ideal in
Postwar America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.
Stam, Robert. Film Theory: An Introduction. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell,
2000.
Sundhausen, Holm. Istorija Srbije od 19. do 21. veka. Beograd: Klio,
2008.
Thompson, Kristin. Storytelling in Film and Television, Cambridge and
London: Harvard University Press, 2003.
Vuþetiü, Radina. “Amerikanizacija jugoslovenske filmske svakodnevice
šezdesetih godina 20. veka.”, Godišnjak za društvenu istoriju 1 (2010):
39-65.
Žižiü, Rodoljub. Kroz ekran sveta. Beograd: Televizija Beograd, 1986.
 CHAPTER SIX

CONCEPTUALIZING CLASS AND THE NUCLEAR

FAMILY WHEN ALL MEN ARE BASTARDS:
DMITRII FIKS’ THE BALZAC AGE

THEODORA TRIMBLE

Darren Star’s popular American HBO television serial, Sex and the
City, aired its final, ninety-fourth episode in 2004, and was quickly
canonised as an American cult classic. Russian television developed its
own version on the narrative with the premiere of director Dmitrii Fiks’
The Balzac Age or All Men are Bast… (Bal’zakovskii vozrast ili Vse
muzhiki svo…). Fiks’ serial, which spans a total of twenty-four episodes,
was broadcast on the Russian network, NTV. The audience response,
according to David MacFadyen, exceeded that of Channel One during
primetime, usurping the viewership of the popular detective serial, Streets
of Broken Lights (Ulitsy razbitykh fonarei).1
The Balzac Age was marketed to appeal to middle-aged, unmarried
women as its title suggests, a nod to the term attributed to Honoré de
Balzac from his 19th century novel, A Woman of Thirty. Although NTV
never had a licensing agreement with HBO, The Balzac Age deliberately
models itself on its American counterpart, if not directly coopts its
characters and themes, primarily through its exploration of single women
and their relationship woes. Just as Star's version, set in New York City,
follows four well-to-do friends with distinctive quirks and personalities as
they encounter moment after moment of various dating calamities, The
Balzac Age follows a similar premise in Moscow as a serial that features

1
David MacFadyen, Russian Television Today: Primetime Drama and Comedy
(New York: Routledge, 2008), 158.
 Conceptualizing Class and the Nuclear Family: The Balzac Age 149

four women, each of whom comes with her own established disposition
and “tragic” dating history.2
The Balzac Age is frequently criticised for failing to offer the
“worldview informed by third-wave feminism” that Star’s serial nurtures.3
As Dawn Seckler notes, Fiks’ version is, instead, “a farcical representation
of the ostensibly sexually liberated woman. Not the male writer of the
series, the male director, or even the actresses seem to have any interest in
offering alternatives to patriarchal domination, to the representation of the
woman as passive sexual recipient, or to the notion that the proper,
respectable woman is coy, shy, and sexually reserved.”4 Such gendered
representations raise interesting questions about the lack of progressive
values and the non-embrace of feminist ideals in post-Soviet Russia, but
reviews have not engaged with the serial’s portrayal of wealth as it is
connected to heteronormative, nuclear family values that recall those
promoted in late Cold-War American politics. 5 Fiks’s serial portrays a
farcical version of these standards through its representation of how
contemporary nuclear family values are depicted in the context of post-
Soviet class structure.
In plot organisation, the serial is almost identical to Sex and the City,
as the protagonists are matched up by personality to the four women from
the American version. Vera (Iuliia Men'shova), the Carrie figure, is coded
as sensible and educated and serves as the serial’s voiceover narrator. A
therapist and psychologist, she married young and had a child in order to
spite her family. The marriage ended quickly, and in the series she lives
with her mother and teenage daughter. The Samantha figure, Sonia (Alika
Smekhova)—twice married and twice widowed—is a professional gold
digger. Alla (Lada Denc), similar to Miranda, is a criminal attorney,
successful at work but easily duped in her love life, and Iuliia (Zhanna
Epple), the Charlotte figure, comes from a well-to-do family. She is ditzy,
privileged, and overly optimistic, but wants nothing more than a husband
and children.

2
See Theodora Kelly Trimble, and Trevor Wilson, Programme notes for Dmitrii
Fiks, dir. The White Moor, or Intimate Stories about My Neighbors (Russian Film
Symposium 2013), http://www.rusfilm.pitt.edu/2013/WhiteMoor.html.
3
See Dawn Seckler, “Sex in a Russian City,” KinoKultura 14 (October 2006),
http://www.kinokultura.com/2006/14r-balzacage.shtml.
4
See ibid.
5
Consider Ronald Reagan’s marriage of family values and politics in the 1980s.
See Robert E. Denton Jr., The Primetime Presidency of Ronald Reagan: The Era of
the Television Presidency (NY: Praeger, 1988), 64.
150 Chapter Six

The main similarities between The Balzac Age and Sex and the City are
underscored in the characters’ search for partners or husbands, and a focus
on materialism. In the American serial, Charlotte clearly comes from an
upper-middle class background, as she begins the series as an art dealer
and only later marries her first husband and quits her job. Money and
social status have equal importance, as after she files for divorce, she
insists that she is worth one million dollars and their Upper Eastside
Manhattan apartment. Samantha is a successful public relations representative
who is self-made, but forthrightly indulges in all of the luxuries that her
salary offers, and Miranda is a Harvard graduate and high-powered
attorney. Carrie is the only one of the four friends whose fortune seems to
materialise out of thin air. For most of the series, she works as a
newspaper columnist, and yet enjoys the lavish material goods of each of
her three friends. Only later in the series does Carrie publish a book, a
collection of her newspaper columns that seems to yield a hefty check and
authorial fame. For most of Sex and the City, one is left wondering about
the gap between Carrie’s means of living and her means of spending. The
point is this: such a narrative presents the American dream as easy to
attain, problem-free, but inevitably connected to the quest for a family.
This chapter considers the way in which Fiks’ serial explores the
relationship between the family vis-à-vis an emerging post-Soviet
capitalist culture. It also considers the way that The Balzac Age lends itself
to an examination of the relationship between class and the existence or
absence of the nuclear family. While The Balzac Age presents a patriarchal
undercurrent of family structures from one angle, from another the serial
explores a family-class dynamic that ultimately appears to disavow the
Soviet model, but parodies American conservative family values,
reimagining such a family-class dynamic for contemporary Russian
audiences. Given the screen traditions that post-Soviet Russian culture
inherited, it is interesting to note that The Balzac Age was bequeathed
language about the nuclear family from the Soviet post-war cinema screen
while also borrowing from contemporary American television.

Family problems
While not equating television traditions to those of cinema, the
connections they share in terms of family values become more obvious
when considering that one of the touchstones throughout Fiks’ oeuvre is
the trope of the nuclear family. Fiks has achieved a prolific directing
career since he began working on television serials and programmes
during the early 1990s. In addition to serials, he has produced made-for-tv
 Conceptualizing Class and the Nuclear Family: The Balzac Age 151

productions, as well as feature films and telefilms. He directed the first

installation of the New Year’s programme, Old Songs About the Main
Thing (Starye pesni o glavnom), a popular series in Russia that reflected
on entertainment, popular figures, and stars from a particular Soviet
decade each New Year’s Eve. Largely a compilation of variety acts, the
broadcast was a chance for young audiences to reminisce with their
parents about popular entertainment from the Soviet era, and an
opportunity to explore Soviet popular culture with respect to the way it
speaks to the contemporary Russian present.
In addition to Fiks’ interests in popular culture, his work reflects his
investment in family entertainment. One of his most recent directed
productions, a feature film, more seriously addresses the issues he parodies
in The Balzac Age. Fiks himself wrote that The White Moor, or Intimate
Stories about My Neighbours, 2012, (Belyi mavr ili tri istorii o moikh
sosediakh) was driven by the romantic intrigues of the top of the middle
class. 6 The film raised significant questions regarding the ways that
contemporary Russian “middle class” families conceive of values through
the portrayal of marital dysfunction. An almanac film, the plot explores
three families, all of whom have socially damaging secrets that affect their
family structures socially and physiologically. Through the examination of
the characters’ personal lives, the film also engages with the hardships that
come with adultery and homosexuality, but most of all, the literal and
metaphorical impotence of men. “The three storylines each portray
husbands in relative states of impotence: Andrei (Aleksandr Galibin), who
cannot obtain a divorce from his wife to marry his mistress; Misha (Andrei
Sokolov), who is estranged from his once-cheating wife and lesbian
daughter; and Lenia (Igor' Vernik), a closeted homosexual facing
increasing pressure from his wife to have another child.”7 The Balzac Age,
in a sense, is even a farcical representation of the issues Fiks addresses in
The White Moor, as his film does not employ the same humorous twist
when engaging with the clash between social prestige and nuclear family
structure.
The familial problems in The White Moor are deeply complicated by
the families’ social standings. By the end of the film, it is clear that the
misery brought on its characters has more to do with the shame they fear
of facing should their private affairs be publicly revealed. They drive
expensive cars, live in spacious conditions, and for all intents and
purposes, indeed, represent the top of the middle class. Nevertheless, the

6
See Trimble and Wilson, The White Moor, or Intimate Stories about My
Neighbors.
7
Ibid.
152 Chapter Six

question of middle class—or class at all—is a complicated one in Russian

cultural history, and became more complex in recent years due to new
family policies sponsored by the state.8

The “middle class”

Class structure and social standing changed course after the collapse of
the Soviet Union in 1991, when the oligarchs emerged as cultural and
economic figures representative of Russian society and wealth. 9 As the
result of the oligarchs’ economic sweep, a great division in economic
extremes emerged, negating the opportunity for a middle class to develop
and thrive among the vast division between rich and poor. 10 With the
gradual development of a middle class in recent years, however, the norms
of social standing and class values are exaggerated on the Russian screen.
Although Russian cities, Moscow in particular, require some of the most
expensive standards of living in the world, the so-called “middle class” on
cinema and television screens is portrayed as quite affluent.11 Like Fiks’
characters in The White Moor, the protagonists in The Balzac Age drive
designer cars, wear extravagant clothing, and shamelessly enjoy lavish
living spaces.
In her study of contemporary televised productions, Elena Prokhorova
discusses their use of Soviet tropes, arguing that they function in serials as
a way to negotiate between traditional Soviet and new capitalist and global
meanings. Through this negotiation, she argues, those tropes acquire
significance. In searching for a new ideology in contemporary Russian
television serials, the use of Soviet tropes is often “opportunistic” instead

8
Such principles centered on the family bring to mind the fertility crisis in
contemporary Russia, and the various social campaigns once instituted in order to
increase the rapidly declining population that emerged around the time that The
Balzac Age was being screened on network television. In an attempt to find a
solution to the country’s demographic troubles, Vladimir Putin was responsible for
spearheading a new incentive programme across Russia. The Russian Day of
Conception, 12 September, is a national day of procreation; couples who
successfully give birth on 12 June, National Day in Russia, are eligible to receive
big prizes including cars, money, and home appliances. The policy is still in effect,
encouraged, and has quelled the once rapidly declining birthrate despite the ruble’s
recent drastic fluctuation. See “Baby, and a car!”
9
Sergei Guriev, and Andrei Rachinsky, “The Role of Oligarchs in Russian
Capitalism,” The Journal of Economic Perspectives 19.1 (2005): 138-9.
10
See David E. Hoffman, The Oligarchs: Wealth and Power in the New Russia
(NY: PublicAffairs, 2002), “Prologue”, and 6-7.
11
See “Re-imagining Class: Recent Russian Cinema.”
 Conceptualizing Class and the Nuclear Family: The Balzac Age 153

of ideologically motivated, and Soviet civilisation is “tapped into,

exploited and integrated into the narrative but ultimately used to build a
new space and new subjectivity.” 12 The Balzac Age mediates the
relationship between class and family in the post-Soviet sociopolitical
system, while also representing an exaggerated version of the negotiation
of Western values between the Soviet and post-Soviet eras culturally.
To contextualise the importance of family values in Soviet culture, its
cinema screen has long been concerned with the language of family. Such
a discussion of the family in Russian and Soviet cinema is necessary to the
context of The Balzac Age in that, as Aleksandr Prokhorov has
demonstrated, the nuclear family became the dominant trope for Soviet
cinema in the post-war era and greatly affected the way that it developed
and influenced Soviet screen culture. Contemporary Russian culture
inherited a tradition of focusing on the nuclear family while also
developing its market economy and the cultural traditions from American
television. Cinema culture, during the Stalinist era, produced a celluloid
version of the vertical family structure. High Stalinist films, in which the
family was constructed around Stalin as symbolic father, replaced the
nuclear family with the party family. During the Thaw era, the search for
identity within cinema after the war had at its centre the issue of rebuilding
the nuclear family structure. The nuclear family came to represent the
reconstruction of the aftermath of the war itself, through narratives of
familial love and loss.13
On top of the fact that citizens visited the cinema about twenty times
each year on average, the 1970s saw an increase in popularity of television
serials in the Soviet Union. 14 Moreover, “Brezhnev’s term in office
likewise witnessed an explosion in television drama, driven frequently by
adaptations of popular World War II and spy stories…it was a time of
serious, significant TV.”15 In his discussion of Russian television today,

12
Elena Prokhorova, “Flushing Out the Soviet: Common Places, Global Genres
and Modernization in Russian Television Serial Productions,” Russian Journal of
Communication 3.3-4 (Summer/Fall 2010): 87.
13
“The family melodrama was the key genre of the Thaw. It reinvented the nuclear
family as the community of the rejuvenated Soviet culture that opposed the
monumental 'great family' of Stalinist culture” (ibid. 116). Also see Peter Bagrov,
“Soviet Melodrama: A Historical Overview,” KinoKultura 17, trans. Vladimir
Padunov ( July 2007), Part I (“The Big Sleep”).
14
MacFadyen, Russian Television Today, 8.
15
Stephen Hutchings, and Anat Vernitskaia, eds. Russian and Soviet Film
Adaptations of Literature, 1900-2001: Screening the Word (New York: Routledge-
Curzon, 2005), 19-20.
154 Chapter Six

MacFadyen adds that, “Television series today frequently give voice to a

virtual, never-realised potential . . . that in turn slips and slides away from
the current administration…these tales of love, lust, and adventure
embody several social states that are always desired, but never attained.
They are—ultimately—excessive.” 16 The excessive performance of the
desire for the nuclear family, combined with the exaggerated depiction of
upper-middle class wealth, lends an opportunity for Fiks’ serial to be read
as parodic.

Nuclear family values

More recently, the Russian riff surrounding the nuclear family is more
akin to the practice of Reaganist family values from the 1980s. One might
think of the Reagan era in America as representing a moment in which the
conflation of conservative religious principles merged with politics to
advocate nuclear family values as the core of moral standards. 17 The
concept of nuclear family values combined with economic policy that
promoted capitalist tendencies and aided the wealthier families in America
contributed to the notion that gaining and maintaining wealth was
something of which to be proud.18 Political, economic, and social ideology
became associated with the end of the Cold War, as Reagan conflated such
a platform against his famous “Evil Empire” speech before the National
Association of Evangelicals in March 1983. The combination of the
merging of nuclear family values with American pride in capitalist
principles during the late 1980s fostered the idea among the American

16
MacFadyen, Russian Television Today, 8.
17
The term, “nuclear family”, here refers to the idea that a family consists of a
two-parent heteronormative household in which the father is typically the
breadwinner and the mother the child rearer.
18
Nuclear family values and the capitalist free market, of course, were fostered in
the baby-boomer generation, as well. Elaine Tyler May notes that, “baby boomers
did not abandon the therapeutic methods and personal values that had motivated
their parents. Rejecting familial security as the means but retaining individual
freedom and fulfillment as the ends, they carried forward the quest for liberation
through politics as well as their personal lives. When a powerful backlash emerged
in the 1970s and 1980s . . . the rhetoric of the cold war revived, along with a
renewed call for the ‘traditional’ family as the best means to achieve national and
personal security”. Elaine Tyler May, Homeward Bound: American Families in the
Cold War Era (NY: Basic, 1998), 17.
 Conceptualizing Class and the Nuclear Family: The Balzac Age 155

public that capitalism, democracy, and the nuclear family were the recipe
for success at home and in the international community.19
As Rayna Rapp notes, in the American context, “the family is the
normative, correct way in which people get recruited into households. It is
through families that people enter into productive, reproductive, and
consumption relations (…). ‘Family’ (as a normative concept in our
culture) reflects those material relations; it also distorts them. As such, the
concept of family is a socially necessary illusion which simultaneously
expresses and masks recruitment to relations of production, reproduction
and consumption—relations that condition different kinds of household
resource bases in different class sectors. Our notions of family absorb the
conflicts, contradictions and tensions that are actually generated by those
material, class-structured relations that households hold to resources
(…).” 20 A string of early 1990s American serials interpreted the
importance of nuclear family values in a serious way. Full House, created
and produced by Jeff Franklin, ran over the course of eight years between
1987 and 1995 for almost two hundred episodes. The series featured a
family of three children and a single father, who after the family mother
passes away enlists the help of his brother-in-law and best friend in order
to help rear the children. Much of the show took place in the family living
room, cultivating the idea that the nuclear family rests at the heart of
American culture, and that, moreover, family and social problems must be
actively improved in order to overcome the absence of the mother.
The serial Step by Step was similarly concerned with the breakup of the
nuclear family and its subsequent reconstitution. The series ran from 1991-
98, and rather than focusing on the recovery and rebuilding of family after
parental death, it followed the premise that two “broken” households—one
of a widower and one of a divorcee—could reconstitute a thriving nuclear
family. The serial tracked the blended family’s trials and tribulations, but
eventually resulted in the successful site of happiness, success, and the
embodiment of “American” values.

19
Considering Ronald Reagan’s reelection campaign for 1984, Denton, Jr.
references one particular advertisement that proclaimed, “‘It’s morning again in
America,’ showing a wedding, a family moving into a new home, fertile fields, and
employed construction workers”. Denton, The Primetime Presidency of Ronald
Reagan, 64.
20
Rayna Rapp, “Family and Class in Contemporary America: Notes Toward an
Understanding of Ideology,” American Families, ed. Stephanie Coontz, Maya
Parson, and Gabrielle Raley (New York: Routledge, 1999), 181.
156 Chapter Six

Comedic representation
With the fall of the Soviet Union and the turn towards a capitalist
sociopolitical system, it is unsurprising that the family is the focus of
humour in Fiks’ work. A comedic representation of the transition from a
socialist to a market economy plays out through Vera’s story. As the
serial’s narrative voiceover, Vera announces her marital history within the
first five minutes of the first episode of season 1. After marrying young,
she explains that she became pregnant and the marriage quickly fell apart.
The viewer, in the meantime, is offered a brief peek at her younger years:
a flashback of her ex-husband consuming alcohol and violently yelling,
while Vera stands by his side, pregnant and sobbing.
Later in the same episode, Vera’s doorbell rings. Tania, her neighbour
across the hall comes in shocked and crying. She beat her husband, she
explains, to death. As Tania becomes more and more distraught, the
women press her to explain what happened. The two of them, she
continues, got into an argument over money the night before. The women
then force themselves to walk across the hall to meet the body. Lying on
the kitchen floor clad in circus shorts, Vasilii’s head is cocked sideways,
propped against the oven door, with limp legs sprawled forward. As one of
the women tries unsuccessfully to find a pulse, the viewer witnesses
Vasilii waken slowly from his half-drunken, unconscious snooze. This
scene reinforces Tania’s previous assertion about how she “cracked him
over the head like a watermelon.”
The serial, then, begins by depicting the broken household, but one that
is going to be disavowed by Vera through her search to reconstitute her
own nuclear family. These issues, of course, are investigated through the
malleability of the female heroines, and in Vera’s case, through her job as
a psychologist. Season 1 episode three, is punctuated by Vera’s meetings
with one of her clients. The audience is introduced to a well-dressed,
attractive woman as Vera asks what she thinks led her client to experience
her current state of mind. She asks the client if her relationship with her
husband is good, at which point the woman responds by saying that they
do not see each other much, but that he loves her a lot. When Vera asks
about her children, the client begins a monologue in which she narrates the
various ways that her housekeeper, chauffer, and governess help to take
care of the children’s daily routines and perform household duties.
Shocked by the fact that her client does not work, but occupies her time
idling around the home, Vera advises the woman—since she has a driver’s
license—to try transporting the family around by herself to see if her mood
improves.
 Conceptualizing Class and the Nuclear Family: The Balzac Age 157

Towards the middle of the episode, the once well-groomed client

walks into Vera’s office again, but this time she is a dishevelled mess,
donning an arm sling. She demands that Vera return her money and
explains that she got into a car accident because of Vera’s reckless advice.
When Vera asks what happened to all of the household help, the client
responds that she dismissed them, just as Vera suggested. Vera quickly
agrees to give the hysterical woman’s money back to her, and advises her
to rehire the housekeeper, the chauffer, and the governess. When the client
returns a third time, she is well-groomed once again, and brings Vera a
gigantic box of chocolates, thanking her for the advice and remarking how
much better her life is.
As Rapp remarks on American families, “Women serve as the
gatekeepers of many of the institutions of the very rich. They launch
children, serve as board members at the private schools, run the clubs, and
facilitate the marriage pools through events like debuts and charity
balls…In the upper class, women ‘represent’ the family to the outside
world. But here, it is an outside world that is in many senses created by
their own class (in the form of high cultural institutions, education, social
welfare, and charity). Their public presence is an inversion of reality: they
appear as wives and mothers, but it is not really their family roles but their
class roles that dictate those appearances. To the extent that ‘everyone
else’ either has a wife/mother or is a wife/mother, upper-class women are
available to be perceived as something both true and false. What they can
do because of their families (and ultimately, for their families) is utterly,
radically different from what other women who ‘represent’ their families
can do. Yet what everyone sees is their womanliness as family members,
rather than as class members. They influence our cultural notions of what
feminine and familial behaviour should be.”21 The client’s story, in one
sense, pokes fun at this notion of class and family values of the wealthy in
upper middle-class America. In another sense, the client’s visit also
reveals something about Vera’s character and her role in the serial. In an
effort to compensate for her own household situation, she advises the
client to repair her family relationship. The woman’s failure to fulfil
Vera’s advice and to successfully merge her class status and family life is
reflected in Vera, and thus the audience is left to contemplate her future.
More so, however, this moment seems to be Fiks’ way of mocking such a
portrayal of wealth and the nuclear family, as all the client knows to do is
represent the face of her family and social standing.

21
Rapp, Family and Class in Contemporary America, 192-3.
158 Chapter Six

It does seem that the issues with which the American serial deals are
slightly more light-hearted in nature than those in The Balzac Age. Star’s
version deliberately tries to treat issues that are non-normative for network
TV in a light-hearted fashion. In many ways, one might argue that Fiks’
serial already assumes a heteronormative, family structure that the
American serial explores more in depth. The heroines and their families
seem to have miraculously erased the Soviet cultural stamp from their
memories: they refrain from directly referencing the planned economy of
the past, but instead live in a luxurious state in which every family
member, old and young, belongs to the same value system and class status.
Perhaps Fiks’ most ridiculous representation of such values occurs
through Sonia. Her previous two wealthy spouses left enough money
behind for her to live comfortably, but in order to maintain her lavish
lifestyle, she must find another dying husband. This search turns out to be
a full-time job for Sonia, who needs to keep her two-storey Moscow
apartment. In episodes six and seven, one of her “conquests”, an elderly
professor who falls asleep on the way home from their first date, is
eventually proven to be a philanderer after Sonia finds his used condoms
in the bottom of a trash can. This does not occur, however, before she tries
to successfully woo him into proposing. She does not need to exert much
effort, for preparing a meal and dressing in a short skirt leads to the
prospective husband bending her over the dining room table while she
takes it from behind.
Sonia’s sexual prowess extends beyond her search for an older
husband, as she is willing to take money in exchange for various sexual
favours. Among them is a proposal from a mysterious man, at the
beginning of season 1, who insists that Sonia dress in a tight, black skirt
only to make a fool of herself and split a seam in front of all of Moscow,
literally, as she is requested to “perform” with the Kremlin and the statue
of Peter I behind her. Although Star’s serial also employed a character—
Samantha—who was often unencumbered by performing sexual favours
for new boyfriends, Samantha was also a powerhouse businesswoman who
did not need money from her partners. Star’s serial, in fact, actively
condemns prostitution at one point when Samantha tries to offer money to
one of her conquests after he is fired for having sex with her on the job.
Fiks takes the sexual openness of the American serial to a new level,
arguably making the desire for wealth and love appear so absurd that it
makes the serious side of Sex and the City seem false and hollow. The
audience rarely catches a genuine moment in The Balzac Age, as most of
the women’s escapades are constructed through parodic or farcical
humour, or else punctuated by the melody of the show’s theme song,
 Conceptualizing Class and the Nuclear Family: The Balzac Age 159

reminding the audience that it is a caricature of its American counterpart.

Although Samantha’s sexual conquests in Sex and the City are also
extended to various levels of absurdity—the installation of a trapeze over
her bed during season 3, episode 11, “Running with Scissors”—such
experiences are also brought to a sobering level for the viewer. Samantha’s
new sexual partner, for example, insists that she get an HIV test, and the
episode’s arc is built around raising awareness of safe sexual practices.
The Balzac Age, on the contrary, does not level out moments of humour
and absurdity.
Zhanna Epple’s character, Iuliia, who Fiks also cast in a similar role in
The White Moor, comes from a well-to-do family, and is not only without
a husband, but is unemployed. The audience is introduced to her “family
values” in the seventh episode of season 1, when she appears in the family
dining room. Iuliia’s mother is portrayed as an obedient wife, but much
smarter than her spouse, as she is the voice of the family, but also needs to
butter her husband’s bread. The mother decides to have “the talk” with
Iuliia, that is, the talk about her duties as their daughter and as a woman.
“You are a very privileged woman”, her mother says. “But you’re already
thirty-five years old. You don’t have a husband, you don’t have a job.”
“We are nearly dead”, she continues. She insists that, “At your age, Iuliia,
the chances of marrying decrease day by day. It’s not what I think, Iuliia,
it’s what the statistics say. And the statistics confirm that non-working
women at thirty-five are set to remain single. The sooner you find work,
the sooner you will be married.”
This is not before Iuliia suffers through a series of dates during which
she is convinced that she finds “the one.” Already in the second episode,
she begins dating a guy who she deems to be husband material. He is
classy, he wants children—a boy and a girl—and he is crazy about Iuliia.
There is only one problem. They have not slept together. “We only sleep.
Like brother and sister”, she tells her friends. When Iuliia confronts the
suitor—Leva—about this dilemma, suggesting that he might not prefer the
company of women, he gets upset and threatens to leave. Iuliia goes into
hysterics, screaming and shrieking that sex, in fact, is not the most
important part of a relationship and even suggests that they adopt their
children. “It’s very in style right now!” Leva then screams that he wants
his own children. He finally confesses, however, that he is actually in love
with someone else, a television newscaster. Iuliia attempts to resolve her
problem by recording a gig as a news head, which works to turn Leva on,
but does not manage to maintain the relationship for the long haul.
Iuliia, as a version of Star’s character, Charlotte, values her social
standing and the dream of having a nuclear family. The latter even ends up
160 Chapter Six

adopting a daughter by the serial’s end, completing her vision of the

nuclear family structure. The Balzac Age turns Iuliia’s narrative into a
humorous story, vastly exaggerating the role of the female in the
relationship—through her parents—and even invoking a religious
undercurrent: “We all walk under God”, speaking to a connection to
American conservatism. At the end of the serial, Fiks seems to tie the
women’s narratives up in such a way that mocks their constructed desires
for the family. Vera ends up becoming a grandmother, Iuliia is in a
relationship, Sonia becomes pregnant and gives birth to a baby, and Alla
ends up in a relationship with the son of her late father’s wife from another
marriage.

Conclusion
Fiks’s serial is ultimately so humorously exaggerated that the
relationship between nuclear family values vis-à-vis an emerging post-
Soviet capitalist culture leads one to question how the reimagination of a
family-class dynamic continues to actually evolve in the post-Soviet
period. Although Fiks’ serial is an exaggerated celluloid representation of
the ways that middle-class values are portrayed on television, it is unclear
exactly which aspects are intended to be seriously represented for the
viewing audience. The fact that Fiks makes use of a popular American
serial to create his own version of the show speaks to, perhaps, a desire in
contemporary Russian culture to experience a more natural celebration of
class and the nuclear family. Despite the fact that the serial, unfortunately,
reinforces patriarchal norms, the importance of The Balzac Age lies not in
its parody of family values, class, or its imitation of American television
practices, but in how it—for better or for worse—provides a perspective
for understanding the way Russian families might conceive of themselves
in the 21st century: alongside a growing tendency in American culture that
continues to promote the nuclear family. The representation of class and
consumer culture in The Balzac Age does not worship capitalist practices,
but rather explores the way that new sociopolitical identity has a
relationship with the conception of family through a constructed version of
female desires that mocks the conventional American paradigm.
 Conceptualizing Class and the Nuclear Family: The Balzac Age 161

Bibliography
“Baby, and a Car! Russians Hold Conception Day,” Msnbc, 11 September
2007 (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20730526).
Bagrov, Peter. “Soviet Melodrama: A Historical Overview.” KinoKultura.
Trans. Vladimir Padunov. 17 ( July 2007).
Boym, Svetlana. Common Places: Mythologies of Everyday Life in Russia.
Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1994.
Denton Jr., Robert E. The Primetime Presidency of Ronald Reagan: The
Era of the Television Presidency. NY: Praeger, 1988.
Fiks, Dmitrii. The Balzac Age or All Men are Bast… [Bal’zakovskii
vozrast ili Vse muzhiki svo…]. A-Pro Video, Motor Film, 2004-2005.
Web.
—. The White Moor, or Intimate Stories About my Neighbours [Belyi mavr
ili tri istoriio moix sosediakh]. Motor Entertainment, 2012.
Guriev, Sergei and Andrei Rachinsky. “The Role of Oligarchs in Russian
Capitalism.” The Journal of Economic Perspectives 19.1 (2005): 131-
50.
Hoffman, David E. The Oligarchs: Wealth and Power in the New Russia.
NY: PublicAffairs, 2002.
Hutchings, Stephen and Anat Vernitskaia, eds. Russian and Soviet Film
Adaptations of Literature, 1900-2001: Screening the Word. New York:
Routledge-Curzon, 2005.
Klumbyte, Neringa and Gulnaz Sharafutdinova, eds. Soviet Society in the
Era of Late Socialism, 1964-1985. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2013.
MacFadyen, David. Russian Television Today: Primetime Drama and
Comedy. New York: Routledge, 2008.
May, Elaine Tyler. Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War
Era. NY: Basic, 1998.
Prokhorov, Aleksandr. “The Adolescent and the Child in the Cinema of
the Thaw.” Studies in Russian and Soviet Cinema 1.2 (2007): 115-29.
Prokhorova, Elena. “Flushing Out the Soviet: Common Places, Global
Genres and Modernization in Russian Television Serial Productions.”
Russian Journal of Communication. 3.3-4 (Summer/Fall 2010): 185-
204. Web.
Rapp, Rayna. “Family and Class in Contemporary America: Notes Toward
an Understanding of Ideology.” American Families. Ed. Stephanie
Coontz, Maya Parson, and Gabrielle Raley. New York: Routledge,
1999. 180-196.
“Re-imagining Class: Recent Russian Cinema.” Russian Film Symposium
2013. More precisely: http://www.rusfilm.pitt.edu.
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Seckler, Dawn. “Sex in a Russian City.” KinoKultura. 14 (October 2006).

http://www.kinokultura.com/2006/14r-balzacage.shtml.
Star, Darren. Sex and the City. HBO Original Programming, 1998-2004.
Trimble, Theodora Kelly and Trevor Wilson. Programme notes for Dmitrii
Fiks, dir. The White Moor, or Intimate Stories about My Neighbors,
2012. Russian Film Symposium 2013,
http://www.rusfilm.pitt.edu/2013/WhiteMoor.html.
Woll, Josephine. Real Images: Soviet Cinema and the Thaw. New York:
I.B. Tauris, 2000. Print.
Yurchak, Alexei. Everything was Forever, Until it was No More.
Princeton: Princeton UP, 2006.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

RASHID NUGMANOV’S FILM

IGLA (THE NEEDLE):
‘TELEVISIONISED’ CINEMA?

MARIA ZHUKOVA

During the period of perestroika (the transitional phase from 1985 to

1989 in Soviet Russia) the strategy of change is said to have played a
central role not only in politics but also in film-making. As a “battlefield
of glasnost” (openness)1 the films of perestroika presented and
problematised a range of topics and themes previously excluded from
discourse.2 One of these was the world of subculture, in particular the
rapidly expanding rock music scene. In Russia, the beginnings of the rock-
film genre3 can be traced back to the Kazakh student filmmaker Rashid
Nugmanov, whose semi-documentary Ya-ha (31 mins.) was released in
1986 under the auspices of Sergei Solovev at the VGIK, the Russian State
Institute for Cinematography. The film depicts significant figures of
Leningrad’s underground music scene, including Boris Grebenshchikov,
Maik Naumenko, Konstantin Kinchev, as well as one of the central
figureheads of late soviet rock culture, the founder of the rock band Kino,
Viktor Tsoi, performing the latter’s song with the hopeful title Dal’she
deistvovat’ budem my (Further we will act). Other significant films of the
genre include Vzlomshchik (Burglar, 1987, 90 mins.) by Valerii
Ogorodnikov starring the leader of the cult band Alisa, Konstantin
Kinchev, as well as Sergei Solovev’s own film Assa (1987, 153 mins.),
1
Michael Brashinsky and Andrew Horton, The Zero Hour: Glasnost and Soviet
Cinema in Transition (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 18.
2
For more concerning the films of perestroika see: Anna Lawton, Kinoglasnost:
Soviet Cinema in Our Time (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1992).
3
In an earlier film Nachni snachala (Start afresh, 1985) by Aleksandr Stefanovich,
Andrei Makarevich (the founder of the rock band Mashina vremeni [Time
machine]) plays the main role of a young bard, albeit not rock musician.
164 Chapter Seven

featuring the music of Grebenshchikov and Tsoi’s then popular musical

anthem Peremen (We are looking for changes), an attested catalyst for
Mikhail Gorbachev’s programme of political reform.4 The documentary
Rok (Rock, 1987, 90 mins.) by Aleksei Uchitel focuses on rock music of
the 1980s, while Savva Kulish’s film Tragediia v stile rok (Tragedy in
rock, 1988, 167 mins.) fuses the rock theme5 with a telling and harrowing
tale of modern drug addiction.6
Similarly, in Rashid Nugmanov’s graduate film project Igla (The
Needle, 1988, Kazakhfilm, 81 mins.) the themes of rock music and drug
addiction are combined and merged into a poignant commentary on the
relationship between the respective media of film and television. Again it
is the lead singer of Kino, Viktor Tsoi, who appears here in the leading
role of Moro, a fictional character who returns to his hometown of Almaty
to collect a debt from his former friend Spartak. Navigating the precarious
milieu of the Kazakh city, Moro also tries to save his ex-girlfriend Dina
from drug addiction and in so doing is drawn into a conflict with the local
drug mafia.7
Based on its plot, Nugmanov’s film may very well be considered “a

4
According to Gorbachev, on the day of Chernenko’s death (10.03.1985), he
telephoned Gromyko, the Minister for Foreign Affairs and told him about the
concert given by Viktor Tsoi, emphatically speaking about the song We are
looking for changes. Gromyko answered that he agreed that it was time to make
some serious changes. http://echo.msk.ru/blog/echomsk/951135-echo/ (accessed on
14.04.2014).
5
The appearance of Sergei Kurekhin’s band Pop mekhanika in the TV-programme
Muzykal’nyi ring (1.02.1987) in many ways represented a defining moment of
perestroika when the broadcasting of modern alternative music first became
possible. That Kurekhin’s TV-performance appears in Kulish’s film shows its
strong indebtedness to television. For further information about the so-called
‘social rock’ on TV see the recollections of Sergei Lomakin, one of the presenter’s
of TV-programme Vzgliad (Glance): http://www.newlookmedia.ru/?p=7488#more-
7488 (accessed on 14.04.2014).
6
On drugs in documentaries of perestroika see: Ispoved’. Khronika otchuzhdeniia.
(Confession. Chronicle of Alienation, 1988, 90 mins.) by Georgii Gavrilov
(Lawton, Kinoglasnost,176-177).
7
Without delving too deeply into the topic, allow me to list some of the key titles
pertaining to the genre of the ‘drug film’ which preceded The Needle: William
Kennedy Dickson’s Chinese opium den (1894), Otto Preminger’s The Men with the
Golden Arm (1955), Roger Corman’s The trip (1967), Paul Morrissey’s Trash
(1971), Ulrich Edel’s Christiane F (1981), Barbit Schroeder’s More (1989), as
well as Jerry Schatzberg’s film The panic in Needle Park (1971). For more
information, see Ernest Mathijs and Jamie Sexton, Cult Cinema. An Introduction
(Chichester: John Wiley & Sons Ltd., 2011), 164-171.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 165

cousin of the stereotypical Hollywood thriller, melodrama and road

movie”.8 Similarly, the neo-romantic style of heroism and the “alienated
mode of narration”9 which prevail throughout seem to suggest an affinity
between The Needle and the French New Wave movement, as both critics
and experts have readily pointed out.10 What has yet to be accounted for,
however, is Nugmanov’s attempt in this film (much like David
Cronenberg in his production Videodrome, 1982, 89 mins.) to experiment
with the aesthetics and effects of television, an aspect that has so far been
overlooked despite the appearance of a dedication of the film “To Soviet
television” towards the end of the film (“Sovetskomu televideniiu
posviashchaetsia”). While the links between Cronenberg and the ideas of
the renowned Canadian media theorist Marshall McLuhan have already
been the subject of critical inquiry,11 a similar meaningful venture has yet
to be undertaken with reference to Nugmanov’s opus.
Perhaps this lack of attention owes itself to the various historical
factors governing the scope of McLuhan’s readership and reception in
Russia. Whereas appearances on television and in Playboy, ventures like
the “McLuhan Records”12 and the popularisation of his work by the likes
of Andy Warhol and Nam June Paik helped to catapult McLuhan into the
spotlight, making him a household name in much of Western society, it
was not until the early 2000s that his ideas really started to gain major
currency in Russia.13 In the Soviet era, knowledge of McLuhan’s work
was for the most part limited to a small academic community.14 This can

8
Brashinsky and Horton, The Zero Hour, 240.
9
Ibid.
10
For the main reviews of The Needle in magazines such as Sovetskii ekran,
Sputnik kinozritelia, Ekran detiam, Sovetskii film, Sobesednik see:
http://www.nneformat.ru/archive/?id=4801 (accessed on 7.01.2015).
11
See for example: Royal S. Brown, Videodrome, accessed on 7.12.2015,
http://www.cineaste.com/articles/emvideodromeem-web-exclusive; or Jakub
Vemola, Reflections of Marshall McLuhan’s Media Theory in the Cinematic Work
of David Cronenberg and Atom Egoyan (2009), accessed on 7.01.2015,
http://is.muni.cz/th/109783/ff_m/Vemola_MA_diploma_thesis.pdf.
12
Sven Grampp, Marshall McLuhan: Eine Einführung (Stuttgart: UTB, 2011), 8-9,
47.
13
The first Russian full text translations of The Gutenberg galaxy and
Understanding media were published as late as 2003.
14
The basic research on McLuhan was limited to just two dissertations: N. N.
Kozlova, Kritika kontseptsii ‘massovoi kul’tury’ Marshalla Makliuena. Avtoref.
dis. na soiskanie uch. stepeni kandidata filosofskikh nauk (Moskva: Izd-vo Mosk.
un-ta, 1976); V. Yu. Tsaryov, Sotsial’no-kul’turnye osnovaniia ‘makliuenizma’.
Avtoref. dis. na soiskanie uch. stepeni kandidata filosofskikh nauk (Moskva, 1989)
166 Chapter Seven

certainly be attributed to the classification his work received in a two-

volume edition entitled Ideologicheskaia funktsiia tekhnokraticheskikh
kontseptsii propagandy. McLuhan i ego kritiki. (Ideological function of
technocratic conceptions of propaganda. McLuhan and his critics, 1977),
which deemed McLuhan suitable “for administrative use”–that is to say,
the stuff for the eyes of a select group of state academic researchers–only.
All the more curious, therefore, is the fact that McLuhan’s name should
surface as early as 1971 in a biographical essay written by the Soviet poet
Andrei Voznesenskii, entitled Au, Vancouver,15 in conjunction with a
poetry tour undertaken that same year in Canada. For the purposes of the
current paper, Voznesenskii’s essay is remarkable for the tacit connection
it evokes between McLuhan and Nugmanov. Comparing McLuhan to one
of “Jules Verne’s heroes”, or conversely to a “sculpture of Osiris on the
throne”,16 Voznesenskii’s account firstly re-iterates the popular appeal the
Canadian’s ideas had attracted not only in media theory circles but also on
a global level: “The famous Marshall McLuhan lives in Toronto. Oracle
for the one, electronic shaman for the other, he stunned the world with his
books on the influence of media over the human being.”17 The essay then
recounts a meeting that took place between the Soviet poet and the
Western media theorist in Vancouver, a city situated “almost on the same
parallel as Almaty”.18 While this choice of location is obviously
coincidental,19 Voznesenskii’s reflection on it nonetheless implies an
uncanny, if not purely imaginary and symbolic affinity between McLuhan
and the Kazakh setting of Nugmanov’s film The Needle.

and a handful of articles (G. P. Grigorian “O sredstvakh kommunikatsii i sud’bakh

chelovechestva v pop-filosofii Marshalla Makliuena,” Voprosy filosofii 10 (1972);
A. P. Midler, “Kak ‘makliuenizm’ stal modoi,” in Moda: za i protiv, ed. V.I.
Tolstykh (Moskva: Iskusstvo, 1973). For a list of Soviet publications relating to
McLuhan see: Marshall Makliuen, Televidenie: vchera, segodnia, zavtra, ed. P. W.
Terin (Moskva: Iskusstvo, 1987), 161.
15
An excerpt Iz vankuverskoi tetradi, including references to McLuhan in:
Literaturnaja gazeta 21, 19.05.1971. First book publication in: Andrei
Voznesenskii, “Au, Vankuver,” in Vzgliad. Stikhi i poemy, ed. Andrei
Voznesenskii (Moskva: Sovetskii pisatel’, 1972), 59-112.
16
Andrei Voznesenskii, “Au, Vankuver,” in Voznesenskii, Andrei, Sobranie
sochinenii v 3-kh tomakh T.2 (Moskva: Chudozhestvennaia literatura, 1984), 494.
17
Ibid.
18
Ibid., 491.
19
1971 marked a prolific year in Voznesenkii’s interest in the connections between
Canada and Kazakhstan. See for example the poem Slozhi atlas, shkoliarka shalaia
(Close the atlas, crazy schoolgirl), or Pesn' akyna (Akyn’s song) which is
specifically devoted to Kazakhstan.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 167

Perhaps a more tangible connection between the two men can be found
later, when McLuhan’s works were finally starting to reach a wider
Russian audience as part of the institutional reforms engendered by
perestroika. A translated excerpt taken from his book Understanding
media from 1964, specifically the section entitled The timid giant, was
published in the 1987 edition of the yearbook Televidenie: vchera,
segodnia, zavtra (Television: yesterday, today, tomorrow). Even if the
translation is scarcely longer than the translator’s foreword and barely
includes half of the original text (the introductory comment on the Nixon-
Kennedy campaign, as well as the two crucial final passages Why the TV
child cannot see ahead and Murder by television have been omitted), the
mere fact of its publication indicates the new degree of openness towards
Western ideas emerging in the period. What is interesting, too, is how the
translation of McLuhan into Russian directly coincided with an interest in
the problems specifically associated with television as a medium of large-
scale, mass communication with its enormous influence on Soviet Russian
life.20
As it shall be argued in the following paper, the dedication made
towards the end of Nugmanov’s film The Needle, “To Soviet television”,
can be seen as a serious attempt to engage with the medium of television
within the realm of film. Building on what has already been said with
regard to McLuhan, the aim of this paper is to analyse Nugmanov’s
cinematic work from the perspective of media history. Specific attention
shall be paid to the film’s various cinematic and television metaphors and
their explanatory power regarding the role of television in the transitional
period of perestroika.21 One analogy in particular shall form the basis of
the inquiry, namely the likening of the effects of television to the film’s
central theme of drug abuse. Correspondingly, Nugmanov’s film portrays
two very different functions of television in Soviet society: As a powerful

20
Ellen Mickiewicz, Split Signals. Television and Politics in Soviet Union (Oxford
University Press, 1988), 204-226.
21
In Igla remix (The Needle remix, R. Nugmanov, 2010, 87 mins.), the version of
the film released in conjunction with the 20th anniversary of Tsoi’s death, the link
to television is more evident. The film begins and ends with television quotations,
so that a more literal (rather than metaphorical) connection is made between Soviet
subculture and mainstream culture. At the very beginning of the film, an interview
with actors from The Needle describing the subculture can be made out on a TV
screen in the background. In the film’s final sequence, a fictional TV broadcast
hosted by the character Artur Yusupovich (Petr Mamonov) dealing with the
damage of drug abuse is shown. As such, the boss of the drug mafia is effectively
rendered part of the television machinery, as this is also visualised by the television
tower of Almaty seen in the background.
168 Chapter Seven

tool of political control over a passive watching audience, on the one hand,
television is indeed attributed an almost drug-like, addictive and stupefying
quality. The medium is nonetheless shown on the other hand to serve as an
effective “working” material for an emerging rock music scene, as is
reflected in the film’s various production elements (the soundtrack, the
casting of important rock music figures). Its appropriation here
corresponds to the transition of rock music “from a sub-cultural to a
contra-cultural” form of social organisation.22 In this way, the medium of
television figures in Nugmanov’s film not only in a negative sense as a
function of the status quo and a barrier to subculture, but also in the
positive role of a co-organiser and collaborator in protest. Nevertheless, it
is still possible to argue that in The Needle the tendency towards the
“televisionising” of cinema in turn compromises and undermines the
television medium, as will be my general line of argumentation.

Television in Nugmanov’s Film The Needle–

a General Outline
As early as the mid-1960s the well-known French film critic Marcel
Martin recoiled at how cinema had become “infected by the television
style”.23 In his film project The Needle, Nugmanov intentionally
incorporates various techniques and modes of representation unique to
television and brings them to bear on the cinematic medium. For a start,
the formal make-up of The Needle, with its introductory note and
concluding remarks, instantly calls to mind the typical television scenario
of a news broadcast.24 Once the opening credits have rolled, a well-
tempered and measured male voice proceeds to introduce the audience to
the male protagonist Moro: “At twelve o’clock he left his house and went
to the railway station. Nobody knew where he was going. Not even he
did.” At the film’s conclusion, just prior to the aforementioned dedication
to Soviet television, another voice (this time evidently the speaker of a

22
Ilia Kormiltsev and Olga Surova, “Rok-poeziia v russkoj kul’ture –
vozniknovenie, bytovanie, evoliutsiia,” in Russkaia poeziia: tekst i kontekst.
Sbornik nauchnykh trudov (Tver’: Tverskoi gosudarstvennyi universitet, 1998), 5-
33.
23
Elena Sabashnikova, “O nekotorykh tendentsiiakh ‘posttelevizionnogo’ kino,” in
Ekrannye iskusstva i literatura: sovremennyj etap, eds. Anri Vartanov, Valentin
Mikhalkovich, Elena Sabashnikova (Moskva: Nauka, 1994), 146.
24
Regarding the general structures of the television broadcast see: Aleksandr
Troshin, “Po obrazu i podobiiu teleperedachi,” in Vremia ostanavlivaetsia. Sbornik
statei, ed. Aleksandr Troshin (Moskva: Eizenshtein-Tsentr, 2002), 60-67.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 169

children’s TV show) appeals to the viewer: “Would you like more?”

In addition to this, the film is composed of a series of effects all
referencing an older style of Soviet television: The sounds of French and
Italian language lessons or sentences taken from popular movies all serve
to remind the viewer of a well-known Soviet ‘blue screen’ tradition. In
general, the acoustic references to TV and radio are far more prominent
than the visual ones. Nugmanov expounds his basic interest in sound in
one of his interviews:

“Together with sound technician Andrei Vlaznev I assembled the film’s

audio using a range of different sources [...]. I gave him the task [...] of
producing a rich, self-sufficient soundtrack neither inferior to the visuals,
nor there to purely serve a utility function. The idea was instead to create a
soundtrack existing in and of itself, which you could listen to with your
eyes closed and experience in its full aesthetic quality. In other words, we
had to work as if we were ourselves composers. That is why everything
was chosen very carefully and assembled in such a way as to create a mix
of diverse elements, one of which was the music of Viktor Tsoi and Kino.
Even the dialogues are to a certain extent rhythmical; they were designed
to follow a rhythm and create a sophisticated amalgamation of audio and
video.”25

In another interview Nugmanov explains the reason for using TV sets in

his film. In essence, this choice seemed to be motivated by the desire to
remind the viewer of the source of the sounds they were hearing:

“Unfortunately, the sounds we required could not be found in the audio

library of Kazakhfilm, meaning that we had to effectively construct the
library ourselves using two of the most popular sources–television and
radio [...]. It’s no accident that TV sets appear in the film. They enable the
audience to accept the sounds subconsciously.”26

Nugmanov is perfectly right not to make a precise distinction between TV

and radio sounds, for indeed they practically fulfil the same function in his
film The Needle. The strong focus on sound, the ‘separation’ of sound and
picture in the film not only serve a purposeful aesthetic function, they also
reflect the position of television in late Soviet culture in general as well:
Switched on but lacking an attentive audience, the TV often existed, just

25
Rashid Nugmanov, O zwukoriade i muzyke k filmu Igla. Interview. 27.02.2006,
Accessed March 3, 2014, http://www.yahha.com/article.php?sid=9.
26
Dolgov, Aleksandr, Tsoi: chernyi kvadrat (St. Petersburg: Amfora, 2008),
accessed October 29, 2014, http://e-libra.ru/read/186035-coj-chernyj-kvadrat.html.
170 Chapter Seven

like radio did, as the mere acoustic background accompanying the goings-on
of everyday life. The idea of an abstract, almost radio-like function of
television, a popular subject in several mainstream films of the 1970s and
1980s, including Rodnia (Relatives, 1980, 91 mins.) by Nikita Mikhalkov
and Belorusskii vokzal (Belorussian station, 1971, 101 mins.) by Andrei
Smirnov, was continued and intensified in the cinema of perestroika–in
Vzlomshchik (Burglar, 1987, 90mins.) by Valerii Ogorodnikov and
Dorogaia Elena Sergeevna (Dear Elena Sergeevna, 1988, 89 mins.) by
El’dar Riazanov.
Even the content of Nugmanov’s film reveals a close affinity to the
medium of television. The plot revolves around issues–drug mafia wars,
ecological problems, the theft and abuse of medicine, to mention only
three examples–which first started gaining importance amid the context of
perestroika. The Kazakh director’s treatment of these issues arguably
reveals a greater indebtedness to television than to film. According to
McLuhan, the specificity of the television medium requires “the total
involvement in all-inclusive nowness that occurs in young lives via TV's
mosaic image”.27 This ‘now’ feature of television manifests itself here in
the fixed construction of the film that scarcely displays any development
at all. The film consists of just a couple of moments, a “series of powerful
loosely connected scenes”,28 which prevent the characters from moving
beyond their initial point of departure, as Marina Drozdova has accurately
noted: “In the end, all the inhabitants of this world remain with their backs
to one another. Not one of them has deviated from a self-assigned
trajectory.”29 While the film certainly shows the process–the numerous
attempts and re-attempts–, it shies away from showing the actual
attainment of any concrete goals. As such, the plot of the film can be said
to follow more the aesthetics of television in its tendency to “favour the
presentation of processes rather than of finished products”.30
Evidently, the adaptation of elements from television in The Needle is
quite extensive. In the sections below I intend therefore to focus on three
of these aspects in particular: the thematic content of the film that I briefly
touched upon earlier, the structure of the film and finally the constellation
of the film’s two main characters Dina and Moro as respective agents of
television and rock music. Specifically, it will be explained how the
features of television, once translated into film, erode a common

27
Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media. The Extensions of Men (New York:
McGrow Hill, 1964), 335.
28
Anna Lawton, Kinoglasnost, 185.
29
Brashinsky and Horton, The Zero Hour, 128.
30
McLuhan, Understanding Media, 309.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 171

understanding of the medium as a “powerful tool of communist

education”.31 Instead, it is the reverse side of television, its power as an
anti-ideological instrument, which Nugmanov’s film also seems to proffer.

The Televised Drug / the ‘Drug’ of Television

In the period of perestroika, “an obvious imbalance” developed with
regard to television’s main aims to inform, educate and entertain. Vartanov
surmises that the aim to inform, to disperse information and get a new
message out there now far outweighed the entertainment and educational
value normally attached to the television medium.32 As is well-known and
accepted, the reforms engendered by perestroika inspired an immense
interest in a whole new array of issues previously excluded from social
and political discourse. Stories involving corruption, mafia activity,
racketeering and drugs were all suddenly beginning to fill television
screens and gaining airtime even on the most centralised state-run television
networks. Programmes such as Prozhektor perestroiki (Projector of
perestroika), Vzgliad (Glance), 12 etazh (12th floor), Do i posle polunochi
(Before and after midnight), as well on Leningrad’s alternative news show
600 sekund (600 seconds),33 were instrumental in shaping a new
understanding and consciousness of the problems thought to be facing
Soviet society. In particular, the problem of drug addiction seemed to
attract a great deal of media attention, as it became a central focus of
programmes such as Glance.34
In Nugmanov’s film The Needle, it is also the issue of drug addiction
which forms the core of a biting and at times even humorous socio-
political critique and portrayal of the social underbelly. But in contrast to
the investigative journalism of the time, Nugmanov’s film arguably
displays a greater deal of attention to the underlying, perhaps even
metaphorical basis of the problem. Specifically, and quite provocatively,
Nugmanov’s film draws the analogy between chemical drug abuse and the

31
B. Kazakov, “Televidenie – moguchee sredstvo kommunisticheskogo
vospitaniia,” in Kommunist 8 (1959), 66.
32
Anri Vartanov, “Television as Spectacle and Myth” in Mass Culture and
Perestroika in the Soviet Union, ed. Marscha Siefert (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1991), 163.
33
For a treatment of the topics featured on the programmes, for example on 12th
floor, see Ellen Mickiewicz, Split Signals, 172-178. For an analysis of Glance see
Evgenii Dodolev, Vzgliad. Bitly perestroiki (Moskva: Zebra E, 2011).
34
See: http://hdl.handle.net/10891/osa:aa269667-1db1-4648-a074-22c6eb5fe555
(accessed on 25.08.2015).
172 Chapter Seven

addiction to television as a function of the ideological fashioning of the

Soviet citizen. This fact was pointed out by the film critic Sergei
Sholokhov just one year after the film’s premiere: “For Nugmanov, having
your eyes fixed on the television screen denotes a state of consciousness
which is scarcely distinguishable from being under the influence of
drugs.”35
After the late 1950s the development of the new medium of television
in the Soviet Union was closely linked with the hope of propagating the
socialist idea. In magazines like Televidenie i radioveshchanie, Kommunist,
Sovetskii ekran, Iskusstvo kino and Literaturnaia gazeta television was
assigned the various functions of a “propagandist”,36 a “mouthpiece of the
party”, as well as an “effective tool for forwarding ideological positions
and for overseeing the political and organisational guidance of the
masses”.37 The Soviet people also seemed to welcome the new medium, so
much so that television almost took on a cult ‘religious’ status38 in an
otherwise strictly secularised, if not outwardly non-religious society. In the
medium-sized industrial city of the Russian Republic of 1978-1980, for
instance, the television set was seen as an object of first necessity. As
Mickiewicz points out, the time spent watching television was only
exceeded by that spent at work or asleep.39 Not wholly unlike the tendency

35
Sergei Sholokhov, “Kino – igla v stogu sena,” Sovetskii ekran 9 (1989), accessed
March 16, 2014, http://www.yahha.com/article.php?sid=77.
36
O. Zlotnik, “TV: pisatel’ i zritel’ (Interviu s pisatelem Sergeem Mikhalkovym),”
in TV i radioveshchanie 6 (1980), 6.
37
N.V. Dudkina, “Rol’ televideniia v razvitii social’noi aktivnosti sovetskikh
liudei,” in Deiatel’nost’ KPSS po razvitiiu social’noi aktivnosti trudiashchikhsia
(Moskva: AON, 1990), 77.
38
See chapter “...wie eine Ikone”: das Fernsehgerät als Konsumgut und
Einrichtungsgegenstand, in: Kirsten Bönker, “‘Muscovites Are Frankly Wild about
TV’: Freizeit und Fernsehkonsum in der späten Sowjetunion,” in »Entwickelter
Sozialismus« in Osteuropa. Arbeit, Konsum und Öffentlichkeit, eds. Nada
Boskovska, Angelika Strobel, Daniel Ursprung (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot,
2015), 179-189; Aleksandr Nikolaevich (born 1949 in Jaroslavl’, lecturer), whose
family was one of the first in their social milieu to buy a TV in 1961, recollects
that the television was placed “like an icon on the most representative place in the
flat” (188). See also: Kristin Roth-Ey. Moscow Prime Time, how the Soviet Union
Built the Media Empire that Lost the Cultural Cold War (Ithaka: Cornell UP,
2011). Roth-Ey cites Viktor Slavkin, who in his article “Chto by my delali bez
televideniia” (Sovetskaia kultura, 11.11.1965, 4) jokes that archeologists in a
thousand years would discover evidence of “the hypnosis of television”,
concluding that it was a “religious ritual” for people of the 20th century (203).
39
Mickiewicz, Split Signals, 204.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 173

in other parts of the world, the TV set enjoyed a privileged place in the
Soviet living room and was extensively–sometimes even meticulously–
decorated.40 The idea of the sanctification of television is realised
brilliantly in Nugmanov’s film The Needle. The depiction of three TV sets
running simultaneously in one scene of the film is surely not only a
reference to the senses involved in the perception of television (vision,
hearing and touch41) or to the three Soviet television networks,42 but also
to the symbolism of the Holy Trinity and the shrine-like quality that the
'little black box' had taken on as a portal to the Soviet people’s newly
appointed deity.
In light of this, a direct relationship between the consumption of
television and drug abuse must have become evident to the dissident
Soviet citizen as early as the 1970s following the construction of the
Moscow television tower Ostankino (built between 1963 and 1967). The
tall, slim and pointed architectonic structure (at the time it was the tallest
tower in the world) resembles a needle and as such serves as a vivid visual
reminder of the purposeful ideological role ascribed to television by the
state. Hence the poet Andrei Voznesenskii likened the tower shortly after
it was built to a “syringe for ideological injections”.43

40
Svetlana Boym, “Everyday Culture,” in Russian Culture at the Crossroads:
Paradoxes of Postcommunist Consciousness, ed. Dmitrij N. Shalin (New York:
Westview Press, 1996), 174.
41
McLuhan defines television “not so much a visual as a tactual-auditory medium
that involves all of our senses in depth interplay”. He also speaks about
“synesthesia, or tactual depth of TV experience”. McLuhan, Understanding Media,
336.
42
The Soviet Union had two national networks (channel one and channel two),
both of which were broadcast from the Central Television Studios in Moscow. In
the regional centres, a third channel existed for local content. See for example the
TV guide for Leningrad (9-15.11.1987) in the regional newspaper Leningradskaia
pravda (http://www.oldgazette.ru/lenpravda/07111987/index1.html, accessed on
4.03.2015) or for the republic Kalmykia (2.-8.09.1989) in Sovetskaia Kalmykiia
(http://www.oldgazette.ru/skalmyk/29091989/index1.html, accessed on
04.03.2015). Since the introduction of a third channel in 1965, a fourth channel
broadcasting from 7pm in 1967, and a Leningrad channel, viewers in Moscow had
a total of five channels at their disposal. See: Mickiewicz, Split Signals, 5-10.
43
Sergei Muratov, TV – ɟvoliutsiia neterpimosti: istoriia i konflikty eticheskikh
predstavlenii (Moskva: Logos, 2001), 10. This metaphor is echoed in Vladimir
Krupin’s story Sorokovoi den’ (The 40th day, 1981): “Hardly has it [television – Ɇ.
Zh.] emerged and it’s already starting to deteriorate, in other words the huge
Ostankino syringe is injecting us drop by drop with its banal broadcasting, corps de
ballet,–worse still is the insidious vacuity of information useful to no one”.
Vladimir Krupin, “Sorokovoi den’,” in Nash sovremennik 11 (1981), 89. See: Roth-
174 Chapter Seven

One of the first attempts in the Soviet Union to link the idea of
television to drugs can be found in Vladimir Sappak’s book Televidenie i
my (Television and Us, 1962). Sappak writes about the physical incapability
of the television viewer “to stop, switch off and let go of the life lived and
experienced on screen”.44 Several years later, another prominent TV critic
Sergei Muratov echoed this description in pointing out how “the blue
screen dictates its terms and imposes its programming. [...] You thought it
belonged to you, but, in fact, you belong to it.”45 A critical stance towards
television, likening the addiction to the ‘little blue screen’ to the
dependence on drugs, also became a central trope in cartoons published in
weekly magazines such as Ogonek (36, 1965; 22, 1966),46 as titles like
“The Power of TV attraction” (G. Al’tov. Sovetskaia kul’tura, 29.05.1965)
or “Home screen: friend or foe” (Ju. Sheinin. Literaturnaia gazeta,
29.01.1969)47 indicate.
In the specialist literature outside the Soviet Union, too, the idea of an
inherent link between drug and TV consumption was not without its
proponents. An early example of this can be found in Todd Gitlin’s book
Media Sociology: The Dominant Paradigm (1978), in which a
“hypodermic effect” model of television is advanced48. Even in more
formalistic approaches a nexus is established between the world of drugs
and the realm of television: In McLuhan’s Understanding media of 1964
the pixel TV image is described as “a mosaic mesh of light and dark
spots”,49 thus conjuring up associations with the aesthetic effects rendered
by the ‘injective’ movements of the syringe. This metaphor of the
television as syringe is echoed in Nugmanov’s The Needle in the form of
the constant ‘injections’ of quotations from TV and radio essentially

Ey, Moscow Prime Time, 176. Up until 1987, only the censored version of this
story entitled 13 pisem (13 letters) was allowed to be published. For the
development of the motif see Mikhail Zadornov. Kriticheskie dni Ostankinskoi
bashni (Critical days of Ostankino Tower), accessed on 07.02.2015
http://www.mihail-zadornov.ru/index.php?id=102&option=com_content&task
=view.
44
Vladimir Sappak, Televidenie i my (Moskva: Iskusstvo, 1963), 42.
45
See: Roth-Ey, Moscow Prime Time, 204.
46
Ibid., 206-207.
47
Ibid., 204.
48
Todd Gitlin, “Media Sociology: The Dominant Paradigm,” in Theory and
society, Vol.6, ʋ2 (1978): 205-253.
49
McLuhan, Understanding Media, 313. The idea of the pixel structure of the TV
image is the subject of Günther Uecker’s sculpture TV 1963. The dark-light
structure of the television image is reflected in the white corner of a TV set
hammered in with nails.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 175

serving to capture the viewer in a carefully interwoven net of myriad

cultural references. These encompass not only phrases taken from French,
German and Italian language lessons, yodelling, the theme from the news
programme Vremia, fragments from the popular children’s film Doktor
Aibolit, news reports about the Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, but
also elements from modern Russian pop songs like Ulybnis’ (Smile) by
Muslim Magomaev, List’ia klenov (Maple leafs) by Maia Kristalinskaia,
Dozhdik (Rain) by Edita P’ekha, along with many others.50 The film’s
various materials almost seem “connected by simple, spontaneous and
purely accidental relationships of temporal closeness, artistic unison and
cognitive association”51 and in so doing resemble the “patchwork quilt”,
the “inherently ragged, mosaic and eclectic” creation that is TV.52
Perhaps it is exactly this highly aesthetic stance towards the medium of
television which allowed Nugmanov’s film to avoid censorship by the
Soviet regime. Commissioned by the state-run und funded studio
Kazakhfilm and filmed to an already written script and assigned title, it
was clear from the outset that The Needle would be a film about drug
addiction. Nugmanov was invited to work on this film based on his earlier
work Ya-ha as well his recognised expertise in the area. Otherwise
fulfilling his formal duty as director, one significant deviation53 which
Nugmanov did allow himself was the insertion of the aforementioned
dedication “To Soviet Television”, consisting of white letters on a black
background and thus evocative of McLuhan’s discussion of television’s
pixel imagery. In light of the connection made here between drug use and
television consumption, the censors certainly reacted appropriately. In an
interview Nugmanov gives a brief account of the dissatisfaction with
which his small artistic ‘addition’ was met: “The sole criticism the film
attracted from Goskino [The State Committee for Cinematography–M.
Zh.] related to the inscription: they asked me to delete it. Naturally I
refused.”54 In the end, the film remained at the top of the Soviet film

50
The television images appropriated in the film will not be examined in this
chapter.
51
Abraham Moles, Soziodinamika kul’tury, Per. Biryukov B.W. (Moskva:
Izdatel’stvo LKI, 2008), accessed October 30, 2014,
http://yanko.lib.ru/books/cultur/mol_sociodinamika_cult-a.htm.
52
Aleksandr Troshin, Po obrazu i podobiiu teleperedachi, 61.
53
Being a student in his third academic year, Rashid Nugmanov set three
requirements before agreeing to direct the film: free interpretation of the script,
amateur actors and the employment of his brother Marat as cameraman. See:
Dolgov, Tsoi: chernyi kvadrat.
54
See: “Otvety Rashida Nugmanova na chastye voprosy po fil’mu Igla”, accessed
176 Chapter Seven

distribution charts for eleven months in 1989 with a total of 14.6 million
viewers.55 According to a survey in the film magazine Sovetskii ekran
(Soviet screen), the rock musician Viktor Tsoi was considered to be the
best actor of the year 1989 (Sovetskii ekran, 8.04.1989).

The French Lesson: Deconstruction of the Television

Narrative in The Needle
In one of his interviews dealing with this film, Nugmanov stressed how
“the background sounds tell their own story separate to the main story”.56
To illustrate this idea further, Nugmanov speaks about the episode with
surgeon Artur Iusupovich (Pyotr Mamonov) at the indoor swimming pool:
“For example, when Petia is in the swimming pool. Because the film
characters remain silent, essentially it is the dialogues in Italian which
attract the attention of the viewer.”57 Indeed, in The Needle the use of
voice-over techniques and television extracts is central to an understanding
of one more narrative dealing with TV. After the central protagonist Moro
is introduced at the very beginning of the film by a male commentator, the
voice of a female foreign language teacher can be heard outlining to her
pupils the activities planned for the lesson. Structurally, the utterances of
the teacher correspond with various stages in the lives of the film’s
characters:

1. After Moro’s conversation with Dina in the telephone booth >3.14@:

“And now we’ll be hearing a sad story, while listening don’t forget about
the proper use of tense forms.” (Ⱥ ɬɟɩɟɪɶ ɦɵ ɩɪɟɞɥɚɝɚɟɦ ɜɚɦ ɨɞɧɭ
ɩɟɱɚɥɶɧɭɸ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɸ, ɧɨ ɧɟ ɡɚɛɵɜɚɣɬɟ ɩɪɢ ɷɬɨɦ ɨɛɪɚɬɢɬɶ ɜɧɢɦɚɧɢɟ ɧɚ
ɭɩɨɬɪɟɛɥɟɧɢɟ ɜɪɟɦɟɧ.)
2. After the conversation with the neighbour of Spartak (Moro’s former
friend) in the stairwell >4.00@: “And now we would like to introduce you to
another young man, who’s always in trouble because he’s forever and
always...” (Ⱥ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɦɵ ɩɨɡɧɚɤɨɦɢɦ ɜɚɫ ɫ ɞɪɭɝɢɦ ɦɨɥɨɞɵɦ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤɨɦ,
ɭ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɦɧɨɝɨ ɧɟɩɪɢɹɬɧɨɫɬɟɣ, ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɨɧ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɢ ɜɫɸɞɭ...)
3. Moro’s former girlfriend Dina is introduced to us by the same voice
>7.12@: “Another example: this time we’ll be meeting a charming young

03.03.14, http://www.yahha.com/faq.php?print=103.
55
See: “Ekran i szena” 47, 22.11.1990, 10,
http://www.yahha.com/myegallery.php?&do=showpic&pid=161 (accessed 29.
10.14).
56
Dolgov, Tsoi: chernyi kvadrat. Quoted in an interview with Nugmanov for the
magazine FUZZ 3, 2004.
57
Ibid.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 177

woman...” (Ⱦɪɭɝɨɣ ɫɥɭɱɚɣ: ɧɚɦ ɧɟɨɛɯɨɞɢɦɨ ɜɫɬɪɟɬɢɬɶ ɨɞɧɭ

ɨɱɚɪɨɜɚɬɟɥɶɧɭɸ ɞɟɜɭɲɤɭ...)
4. Then there is the announcement of the meeting to take place between
Moro and Spartak >20.19@:
“And now it is time to go to the cafe, where the young man who’s forever
late has made arrangements to meet with his friend.” (A ɬɟɩɟɪɶ ɧɚɫɬɚɥɨ
ɜɪɟɦɹ ɨɬɩɪɚɜɢɬɶɫɹ ɜ ɤɚɮɟ, ɝɞɟ ɜɟɱɧɨ ɨɩɚɡɞɵɜɚɸɳɢɣ ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤ
ɧɚɡɧɚɱɢɥ ɫɜɢɞɚɧɢɟ ɫɜɨɟɦɭ ɞɪɭɝɭ.)

Re-appropriated in this way, the utterances of the teacher take on a whole

new meaning in the film in serving to both enrich and ironise the
cinematic narrative while at the same time estranging the television
discourse. The conventionalised nature of these verbalisations resembling
the introductory comments of a television broadcast58 call into question the
authenticity of the characters by having them recognised not as distinct
individuals, but instead as participants of a television programme. This
gesture, I argue, is intended less a critique of the film medium than as a
confrontation of television’s claim to “illuminate us with reality”.59
Nugmanov’s attempt here to adapt television material, specifically the
widely popular foreign language teaching material of the Soviet era, can
arguably be traced back to Soviet-Russian writer Valentin Rasputin’s short
story entitled French lessons (1973). The story is based on Rasputin’s
childhood in Siberia and describes the relationship between a French
teacher and her eleven year-old pupil. The lady not only teaches the boy
French, she also gambles with him in order to help him earn some pocket
money. In the end, the teacher is forced to leave the school when stories of
her gambling with the child become known to the principal. Several
months later the boy receives a package from the teacher containing,
(along with macaroni) three apples.
In Nugmanov’s film, a connection to Rasputin’s text is established
firstly through appropriation of the apple-motif. Interestingly, the apple-
motif is also integrated into the narrative of the language lesson as it
functions as a kind of meta-narrative. All apples shown in the film are in
some way connected to the character of Moro, though their appearance
roughly corresponds with the four instances of intermedial appropriation
mentioned above. The first apple is given to Moro by Spartak towards the
beginning of the film. He bites into it and eats it. As such, Moro essentially
‘swallows’ the offer proposed to him by his friend as a means of settling

58
Troshin, Po obrazu i podobiiu teleperedachi, 63.
59
Regis Debray, Jenseits der Bilder. Eine Geschichte der Bildbetrachtung im
Abendland (Berlin: Avinus-Verlag, 2007), 261.
178 Chapter Seven

an old debt. The second, more symbolic apple is given to the character this
time by Dina and figures as part of a linguistic play on words. Dina is a
pistol enthusiast and enjoys going shooting. In the scene in question, she
can be seen in Moro’s presence practicing and trying to hit her target. In
Russian, you would use the idiom ‘popast’ v iablochko’–‘hit the apple’–in
order to express the idea of ‘hitting the bull’s eye’. The contextualisation
of the third apple in the film owes itself to the city name in which the
scene takes place. The capital of Kazakhstan of that time was Almaty,
which, when translated from Kazakh into English, literally means ‘father
of apples’ (Rus. ‘otets iablok’).
The employment of the apple-motif on three separate occasions could
be intended to reference the tradition of the fairy tale. In the Russian fairy
tale tradition, the apple together with the golden plate is said to possess
magic powers; the protagonist was able to visualise remote places and
realities in the world as the apple rolled around the plate. As an obvious
precedent to television and as a traditional symbol of knowledge, the apple
in The Needle might very well be employed as a means of showing the
medium of television to be increasingly backward, if not archaic.60 Amid
the context of glasnost, television appeared to be reacting too slowly–in
any case, slower than, say, print media–to the changes effected in
communication and the circulation of knowledge.61 Read against the
backdrop of television’s aims to inform and enlighten a viewing public,
the leitmotif of the apple in Nugmanov’s film suggests recourse to a stage
of almost pre-technical, magical knowledge.
The second aspect in the film adopted from the short story by Rasputin
and similarly developed in a three-pronged movement is the motif of play,
jest and gambling. The first and the second fragment of the French lesson
quoted above refer to a play with temporal structure (“proper use of tense
forms”, “forever and always”), while the third fragment refers to a game

60
See the Russian fairy tales Skazka o serebrianom bludechke i nalivnom iablochke
(The tale of the silver plate and the ripe apple), Alen’kii cvetochek (Purple flower,
1858) by Sergei Aksakov, as well as Vniz po volshebnoi reke (Along the magical
river, 1972) by Eduard Uspenskii. More to apples in Russian culture: Drubek-
Meyer, Natascha. “Der russisch-orthodoxe Feiertag der Verklärung des Herrn
(Preobraženie) als Spas Jabloþnyj (“Apfel-Spas”) und das russische Märchen über
die Jungbrunnenäpfel (Molodil’nye jabloki).” In Wiener slawistischer Almanach 55
(2005), 85-99.
61
Muratov, TV – ɟvoliutsiia neterpimosti; Monika Müller, Zwischen Zäsur und
Zensur. Das sowjetische Fernsehen unter Gorbatschow (Wiesbaden:
Westdeutscher Verlag, 2001), 69-74.
Müller analyses, for example, the late and incomplete TV-reaction to the
catastrophe of Chernobyl.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 179

between Moro and Dina. The playing with time, as well as the game
between Moro and Dina are specifically connected with the TV medium,
as will be shown below in more detail. The fourth fragment from the
French lesson referencing a meeting in a cafe between two friends hints at
a game concerning money: Moro, much in the same way the boy in
Rasputin’s narrative, loses his teacher (and at the same time a source of
income), and cannot count on getting his money from Spartak.
The play motif appears again in connection with the surgeon and drug
mafia boss Artur Iusupovich. Just like Moro’s story is modelled on a
televised French lesson, so too is Artur Iusupovich’s narrative based on an
Italian one. The scene at the swimming pool is dubbed with passages from
the Italian TV lesson so that the viewer may be tempted to confound the
character with a certain Signore Pantalone. The motifs of play and jest
manifest themselves through the intrusion of yet another medium into the
film, namely the theatre, for Pantalone is well-known as one of the central
characters of the Italian Commedia dell’arte. The doctor character in the
film is missing his mask, but like Pantalone he has money and seeks a love
affair with a younger woman–in this case Dina. Dina is introduced to the
viewer within the context of the French lesson, but at other points in the
film she can literally be seen wearing a more Italian guise, for instance in
the scene in the kitchen with Moro. As such, the character appears to play
a double game with both Artur and Moro, in the first instance performing
her role as a drug-abused patient, in the second fulfilling her supposed
duty to recover.
Thus, in Nugmanov’s film The Needle the motif of play and jest seem
to go hand in hand with a complex process of intermedial appropriation
not only encompassing the television medium (the televised foreign
language programme) but the spheres of literature and theatre, too
(Rasputin’s text French Lessons, Commedia dell’arte). Interestingly, play
and jest are also important features of the post-punk culture to which the
rock music of Viktor Tsoi belonged. Marina Drozdova characterises this
particular quality of post-punk as follows:

“[T]he punks obeyed the rules of the tough game they invented, a game
that used the specific sign language of Gothic horror and “black” humour.
If the punk culture played according to defined rules, the post punk culture
admits no rules at all; it plays in anything it can find.”62

62
Michael Brashinsky, “Editor’s conclusion,” in Russian critics on the cinema of
glasnost, eds. Michael Brashinsky and Andrew Horton (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1994), 126.
180 Chapter Seven

Nugmanov’s film is replete with signs of game and jest63 (playing with
time, money, words and media are just a few examples) and as such recalls
the playful attitude underpinning the sub-cultural context of its production.
In the section below, I intend to discuss the film’s central game, the game
taking place between Dina and Moro, further. An analysis of this
configuration shall show that the relationship is in effect the manifestation
of a media struggle.

Dina and Moro: a Game of Media Agents

As the owner of three TV sets and the only drug addicted character
depicted in Nugmanov’s film, Dina assumes the role of a television agent.
The power and presence of this medium in the film are reflected in Dina’s
physical appearance, her actions and the objects and things surrounding
her. The character stashes the drugs she in turn intends to distribute en
masse in the fireplace.64 Associated to television as a source of drugs, the
fireplace in the film could be also linked to Jean Baudrillard’s “flame of
mass media”.65 The numerous sculptures and statues in Dina’s flat
reference another quality of the TV picture–its sculptural and plastic
character66 resulting from the light rays’ tactile scanning and ‘hugging’ of
the objects in its trajectory.
Dina’s love for pistol shooting symbolically recalls the ‘shooting’ of an
image with a camera67 and the ‘shooting’ of a television screen, as in
David Cronenberg’s film Videodrome with its famous image of a hand
protruding from a smashed television screen holding a gun. “Charge of the
Light Brigade” is the expression given by McLuhan, with reference to
James Joyce, to the effect of the light impulses of television as they blitz

63
In my opinion, the title of the film can be interpreted as a play on words. By
changing the “r” to an “l” you can completely re-semanticise the title from
Igla/Needle to Igra/Game. As visual support for the game motif, a videogame, can
be seen running in Dina’s flat.
64
Ten years later this TV-metaphor re-appears in Viktor Pelevin’s novel
Generation P (1998).
65
Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra & Simulation, trans. Sheila Faria Glaser (Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1996). On McLuhan and Baudrillard see:
Gary Genosko. McLuhan and Baudrillard (London: Routledge, 1999).
66
McLuhan, Understanding Media, 313.
67
In Pelevin’s other novel SNUFF (2011) the flying cameras are shown to be able
to do both: to film and to destroy the so-called SNUFF-Videos (Special Newsreel
Universal Feature Film).
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 181

the viewer.68 Furthermore, the name Dina, derived from the Roman
goddess Diana, already signalises on a verbal level her subconscious
desire to hunt, pursue and seize her prey.
The accumulation of TV attributes around Dina and her apartment,
which with its “television trinity” practically doubles as a temple for this
medium, nevertheless soften and moderate the otherwise serious nature of
her drug abuse. The almost literary nature of her drug use certainly
contributes to this alleviating effect, too. The drug Dina uses, Morphium
Hydrochloride, might seem anachronistic when compared to TV reports on
the cocaine mafia or the scene depicting a marijuana picker on the vast
Kazakh steppe. Morphine abuse is commonly associated with the drug
culture of the first half of the 20th century, as broadly reflected in world
literature. In the context of Russian literature, it was none other than
Mikhail Bulgakov’s story Zapiski iunogo vracha (Notes of a young doctor,
1925-26) that set the benchmark in this genre of drug literature writing.
Through her addiction not only to drugs but also to the power of the
little black box, Dina transforms over the course of the film from a
television agent into a television victim, as the scene at the Aral Sea
illustrates. Similar to the case of a drug injection, the gripping effect of the
‘mosaic’ television image relies less on the “isolated contact of the skin
with an object” than on the “interplay of the senses”69 engendered by it, as
McLuhan argues. The illusionary character of the “interplay of the senses”
caused by morphine and the TV-medium crystallises in Nugmanov’s The
Needle in the image of a dried up riverbed and the cracked soil of the once
fertile Aral Sea, which Dina would like to take a dip in after two weeks of
going without both drugs and television.
Interestingly, the doctor-patient relationship which develops between
Moro and Dina during their stay at the Aral Sea is maintained after their
return to the city by way of an intricate set of television references. The
music und text from Vladimir Nemoliaev’s famous children’s movie of the
Stalin era Doktor Aibolit (1938, 72 mins.) accompanying the fight scene
between Moro and a group of racketeers, suggest the invisible presence of
Dina, for in the following scene the viewer learns that it was in fact from
her television that the sound was radiating. Incidentally, it turns out that
during the fight between Moro and the drug mafia the character again
succumbs to her two addictions–to drugs and to television. The
simultaneity of the two scenes conveyed by the common audio
background underscore the dual nature of Moro’s fight not only as one

68
McLuhan, Understanding Media, 313.
69
Ibid., 314.
182 Chapter Seven

against the drug lords, but also against Dina’s drug abuse. Furthermore,
the words stemming from the film Doktor Aibolit, “No one will save
themselves” (“Nikto ne spasiotsia”), appear prophetic when read against
the backdrop of Dina’s relapse into addiction.
The sound from this old popular children’s classic is then drowned out
in Dina’s flat by the popular 1970s song Venus by Dutch band Shocking
Blue. The first words of the refrain, “She’s got it”, which Moro hears on a
loop upon entering the flat correlate with the poignant image of Dina
clasping an elastic band ready for an injection–she’s got it, she has
everything she needs. The word “doctor”, which at one point can be heard
coming from the TV set in the kitchen, serves as an obvious reference to
the arrival of Moro. The function of doctor that Moro fulfils throughout
the film is reflected in the propaganda poster shown briefly before he
enters the apartment reading: “Health for everyone. Europe without
tobacco smoke” (“Zdorov’e dlia vsekh. Evropa bez tabachnogo dyma”).
The literary nature of this scene and the character relations central to it not
only owes itself to the fact that the famous children’s film playing in the
background is based on a fairy tale by the children’s writer Kornei
Chukovskii (which itself is a free adaptation of Hugh Lofting’s Doctor
Dolittle). The doctor figure and his privileged status within the Russian
literary tradition also gives the scene a certain degree of literariness (one
needs only to think of writers like Aleksandr Gertsen, Boris Pasternak,
Anton Chekhov, and Vikenii Veresaev). On a purely phonetic level, the
name ‘Moro’ conjures up associations to another popular literary figure–
the main character from Herbert Wells’ fantasy novel The Island of Dr.
Moreau (1896). As the recognised successor of the traditional Russian
doctor figure, Moro at the same time represents the opponent of another,
‘fraudulent’ doctor character–Artur.
Thus in Nugmanov’s film, the popular children’s movie about an
animal-lover and experienced doctor and his fight against an evil robber
named Benalis70 (Doktor Aibolit) appears almost exaggeratedly intertwined
and interwoven with the taboo themes of drug addiction and drug mafia
activity, as this topic first gained relevance in the period of perestroika.
Using the methods of television itself, Nugmanov effectively deconstructs
one of the popular myths long promulgated by centralised television,
namely the very absence of such drug issues and instances of social

70
The animal-motif central to both Doktor Aibolit and The Island of Dr. Moreau is
evoked at many points throughout the film: At the hospital, and on the outside of
Dina’s flat Artur can be seen oinking like a pig. In the zoo scene, Archimedes is
depicted as a hamster running on a hamster wheel, while Spartak is shown hanging
from a rope like a monkey.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 183

malaise.
Moro is superior to the other film characters not only because of his
function as Dina’s ‘rightful’ doctor, but also because of his immunity to
the alluring power of the medium of television. Nugmanov’s protagonist is
well acquainted with the life strategies designed to counteract the powerful
aesthetic force that is television, despite having grown up “on the back
streets, surrounded by the sounds of radio and TV as they formed the
acoustic background to our everyday lives”.71 Sholokhov describes Moro
as a character who “has an ineradicable desire in his blood to go where
heaven and earth meet and to see what lies beyond the horizon”.72
Whereas for children of the TV generation “the introspective life of long,
long thoughts and distant goals, to be pursued in lines of Siberian railroad
kind”73 has apparently ceased to exist, Moro has a burning desire to
experience the far and distant first hand, as Nugmanov’s film suggests on
a number of different occasions. Symbolically, the character enters the
film by way of an alley, just as he exits again by proceeding along a street
in a movement away from the viewer. This notion of Moro as a sort of
wanderer, as someone who longs to ‘go places’, is only further evoked
when during his trip with Dina at the Aral Sea, the character climbs to the
top of a ship’s mast in order to better judge the expanse of the dried earth
below. At the shooting gallery he can be observed using a telescope. The
image of railway lines and a sinking sun at the opening of the film repeats
itself during Moro’s holiday at the Aral Sea, thus again reinforcing the
ideas of distance and expanse as two main features of the character. The
tiny animated spaceship appearing in the same opening sequence can be
seen as a further reference to Moro: Contrasted to the image of a needle
located at the other side of the illuminated railway line, the image of the
spaceship aimed towards the universe implies the idea of infinite space
and freedom instead of restrictive and arresting addiction. This implication
is only supported at this point by the song heard in the background Zvezda
po imeni Solntse (A Star Called the Sun), as it is later reflected in the lyrics
of the song Gruppa krovi (Blood Type), both of which are performed by
Tsoi and his band Kino.74 The character of Moro is pitted against the

71
Natalia Razlogova, “Nevidimymi nitkami sh’et Igla savan
psevdomolodezhnomu kino,” in Sbornik Soiuzinformkino Dumaite o reklame 6
(1988), accessed October 30, 2014, http://www.yahha.com/article.php?sid=98.
72
Sergei Sholokhov, Kino – igla v stogu sena.
73
McLuhan, Understanding Media, 325.
74
Compare the lyrics “And is able to reach the stars, not realising that it's a
dream...” in A star called the sun with “Stardusted boots” and “But the star which
is high in the sky still shows me the route” in Blood Type.
184 Chapter Seven

Soviet TV fanatic, who for his part is described in a composition by Soviet

rock culture’s founder Aleksandr Gradskii entitled Pesnia o televidenii
(Song about television)75 as an opponent of “distance”:76

Ɋɚɞɨɫɬɶ, ɛɨɥɶ, ɥɸɛɜɢ ɤɚɩɪɢɡɵ - ɜɫɟ ɡɚɦɟɧɢɬ ɬɟɥɟɜɢɡɨɪ

ȼ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɟ ɞɪɭɡɶɹ ɢ ɤɧɢɝɢ, ɢ ɩɪɨɝɭɥɤɢ ɩɨɞ ɥɭɧɨɣ
Ʉɬɨ - ɤɭɞɚ, ɚ ɹ - ɤ ɞɢɜɚɧɭ, ɤ ɧɟɞɚɥɟɤɨɦɭ ɷɤɪɚɧɭ
Ʉɬɨ ɞɚɥɟɤɨ - ɬɟɦ ɧɟ ɩɨ ɩɭɬɢ ɫɨ ɦɧɨɣ!

Joy, pain, the caprices of love–all will be replaced by the screen

Gone are friends, books and walks in the moonlight
While others are going places, for me it’s back to the couch and TV
Whoever hopes to go far, to him I say adieu!

Moro refuses to submit to the ‘instantaneousness’ of the television

broadcast, the so-called siiuminutnost’ or ‘nowness’, of the television
moment, as is illustrated in Nugmanov’s film on a very visual level. In a
set of interposed captions, the usual thematic word commentaries
employed since the days of the silent film are effectively replaced by time
specifications in the form of hours and minutes. The digital clock
displayed in the film on at least ten occasions visualises what McLuhan
would call the “total involvement in all-inclusive nowness”;77 this
powerful reminder of rationalised time structures only seems to let up once
the protagonist moves away again from the ‘drug world’ of the city. In the
scenes that take place at the Aral Sea, the caption presentation transitions
from numerals to words, from hours and minutes to days and weeks,
though the focus is still on factors of time such as “the next morning”,
“that same evening” or “two weeks later”. Moro seems unable to come to
grips with this temporal order: Wearing an archaic mechanical watch on
his wrist, he is consistently described as someone who is “always running
late”.
Moro’s “antidote”78 to the effects of television is arguably his connection
to Kino–Kino in the two senses of the word, namely as another word for
cinema and the name of the Soviet rock band. While all the other
characters in the film rarely surpass the resemblance to “shadows of the

75
Gradskii performed the song on the first episode of the show Vzgliad on
02.09.1988.
76
In Russian, the double notion of close proximity on the one hand, dullness on the
other hand (both of which could be applied to describing the effects of watching
television) is expressed in one word: nedalekii.
77
McLuhan, Understanding Media, 335.
78
McLuhan, Understanding Media, 329.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 185

Soviet and foreign rock texts of the previous decade”, that is to say “first
lyrically then melancholically ‘indifferent’” kinds of beings,79 Moro’s
character has authenticity on his side in being played by the legendary
rock musician Viktor Tsoi, Kino’s lead singer. Opposition to the medium
of television is expressed in one of Tsoi’s later songs with the
programmatic title Ia vykliuchaiu televizor (I’m switching off the television)
from his so-called Chernyi Albom (Black Album), recorded shortly before
his death in the summer of 1990. In this song, Tsoi articulates his
ambivalent position towards television by affirming his preference for the
outdated communicational mode of letter-writing:

ə ɜɵɤɥɸɱɚɸ ɬɟɥɟɜɢɡɨɪ, ɹ ɩɢɲɭ ɬɟɛɟ ɩɢɫɶɦɨ

ɉɪɨ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɭ ɫɦɨɬɪɟɬɶ ɧɚ ɞɟɪɶɦɨ,
ɉɪɨ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɧɟɬ ɫɢɥ,
ɉɪɨ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɹ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɡɚɩɢɥ, ɧɨ ɧɟ ɡɚɛɵɥ ɬɟɛɹ.

I’m turning off the television, I’m writing you a letter

Telling you about how I can no longer watch this shit,
About how exhausted I’ve become,
About how I almost began to drink, though I haven’t forgotten you.

In the epilogue following the dedication, a music video is featured, which,

in light of its particular treatment of character and temporal position,
obtains a privileged status within the film’s overarching critical message.
It is no coincidence that this “postscript” has been understood as an
allusion to the sequences singled out by the Soviet censorship.80 The clip
depicts the rock musician actors starring in the film, although this time
they are liberated from their acting roles and instead shown in various
close-up shots as real-life individuals. Along with Viktor Tsoi, the actor
playing Moro, the founder of Moscow rock band Zvuki mu (The sounds of
Mu) Petr Mamonov (as Artur), as well as one of the minor figures of the
Leningrad experimental music scene Aleksandr Bashirov (as Spartak), are
depicted. In the absence of the television commentaries otherwise
pervading the rest of the film, this sequence accompanied by the song
Gruppa krovi (Blood Type) can arguably be understood as the attempt to
overcome the ‘infection’ of TV aesthetics.
What is nonetheless remarkable is how the otherwise so counteractive
spheres of Soviet television and Soviet rock music are actually shown to

79
Marina Drozdova, “A Dandy of the Post-punk Period or Goodbye, America,
oh...,” in Russian Critics on the Cinema of Glasnost, eds. Michael Brashinsky and
Andrew Horton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
80
Brashinsky, Editor’s Conclusion, 185.
186 Chapter Seven

share common ground. Their affinity to language and especially to literature

has already been indicated. Not only the sewing needle, but also the
aquarium in Dina’s flat act as symbols for both television and rock music,
thus implying a further source of interaction between these two discourses.
In the Soviet context, the TV set is often likened to the idea of a fish tank,
for example in Sergei Muratov’s book Televidenie v poiskakh televideniia
(Television in search of watching television, 2009) when the author speaks
about the “aquarium of Soviet television”.81 In Gennady Golovin’s short
story Anna Petrovna (1987), the imagination of the female protagonist
cannot be put off by the “murky silver, aquarium-like movements of
shadows on the screen of the dusty old television set”.82 Based on the
strong musical underpinnings of the film, I maintain that it is possible to
link this scene to Boris Grebenshchikov’s famous rock band Aquarium.
Interestingly, Grebenshchikov also draws issue to television in his music.
At the heart of his song Gliadia v televizor (Watching TV, 1980), for
example, is the idea of the addictive force of television as it is passed on
from generation to generation. This idea undoubtedly calls to mind
McLuhan’s concept of media dependence supposedly transmitted to the
first generation of “TV children” by way of the mother’s TV set:83

ə ɡɧɚɥ ɟɟ ɫ ɞɟɬɫɤɢɯ ɥɟɬ,

ə ɩɨɦɧɸ ɜɫɟ, ɤɚɤ ɛɭɞɬɨ ɜɱɟɪɚ;
ə ɧɟ ɩɨɦɧɸ ɨɬɰɚ, ɧɨ ɦɚɬɶ ɛɵɥɚ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɞɨɛɪɚ. ɂ ɜɫɟ, ɱɬɨ ɜ ɠɢɡɧɢ
ɫɥɭɱɚɥɨɫɶ ɧɟ ɬɚɤ,
ɇɟɦɵɬɭɸ ɩɨɫɭɞɭ ɢ ɧɟɫɱɚɫɬɧɵɣ ɛɪɚɤ
ȿɟ ɦɚɬɶ ɜɵɦɟɳɚɥɚ ɩɨ ɜɟɱɟɪɚɦ, ɝɥɹɞɹ ɜ ɬɟɥɟɜɢɡɨɪ.

ɇɚɦ ɬɪɢɞɰɚɬɶ ɩɹɬɶ ɧɚ ɞɜɨɢɯ,

Ɇɵ ɧɟ ɫɩɭɫɤɚɟɦ ɞɪɭɝ ɫ ɞɪɭɝɚ ɝɥɚɡ -
ɇɨ ɤɚɠɞɵɣ ɜɟɱɟɪ ɧɚɱɢɧɚɥɨɫɶ ɨɩɹɬɶ: "ɉɪɨɫɬɢ, ɧɨ ɫɟɝɨɞɧɹ ɜ ɫɟɦɶ
ɬɪɢɞɰɚɬɶ ɩɹɬɶ..."
ɂ ɨɧɚ ɡɚɛɵɜɚɥɚ, ɤɬɨ ɹ ɬɚɤɨɣ,
Ƚɥɹɞɹ ɜ ɬɟɥɟɜɢɡɨɪ.

Ɍɟɩɟɪɶ ɭ ɧɟɟ ɟɫɬɶ ɞɨɱɶ -

Ⱦɪɭɝɨɟ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɟ, ɞɪɭɝɢɟ ɞɟɥɚ;

81
Sergei Muratov, Televidenie v poiskakh televideniia (Moskva: izdatel’stvo
Moskovskogo univ., 2009), accessed June 1, 2014,
http://www.tvmuseum.ru/catalog.asp?ob_no=12078.
82
Gennadii Golovin, Anna Petrovna. Povest’, in Znamia 2 (1987), accessed
October, 30, 2014, http://knigosite.org/library/read/74223.
83
McLuhan, Understanding Media, 7.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 187

ȿɣ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɹɬɶ ɥɟɬ, ɧɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɥɟɬɢɬ ɤɚɤ ɫɬɪɟɥɚ; ɢ ɯɨɬɹ ɨɧɚ ɩɨɤɚ ɱɬɨ ɧɟ
ɭɦɟɟɬ ɱɢɬɚɬɶ,
Ɉɧɚ ɭɠɟ ɡɧɚɟɬ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ, ɱɟɦ ɡɧɚɥɚ ɦɚɬɶ, ɜɟɞɶ ɨɧɚ ɜɢɞɢɬ ɫɪɚɡɭ ɦɧɨɝɨ
ɩɪɨɝɪɚɦɦ,
Ƚɥɹɞɹ ɜ ɬɟɥɟɜɢɡɨɪ...

I knew her since childhood,

I remember it all well, as if it were yesterday;
I can't remember her father, but her mother was very kind.
And everything wrong that happens in life,
Unwashed dishes and her unhappy marriage,
Her mother avenged in the evenings,
Watching TV.

Between us we are 35 years old,

We never let each other out of sight.
But every evening sure enough she would say:
“Sorry, but today at 7:35...”
And she forgot who I was,
Watching TV.

Now she has a daughter–

Another generation, another set of worries;
She's only five, but time still flies;
And although she's not yet able to read,
She already knows more than her mother knew,
Because she has many shows to inform her,
Watching TV.

Two sequences of The Needle practically visualised the quoted text. The
three televisions simultaneously running in Dina’s flat can be said to
correspond to the last verse of the song with its reference to the ‘many
shows’ found on TV. Even more pointedly, Moro’s arrival at the cafe
where he is to meet Spartak directly correlates with the time specified in
the song’s second verse: That he can be seen seated there at 7:35 (or in the
film’s time format: 19:35) instead of the agreed meeting time of 7:37 is
certainly meant less as a turn in his unpunctuality than as a wink to the
rock music of Grebenshchikov.
188 Chapter Seven

Conclusion
Rock poetry, so central to Soviet rock, “in every way, theoretically as
well as historically, formed a part of the literary system”.84 Likewise, from
the very beginning Soviet television consistently displayed a certain
affinity to literature,85 a fact which in Nugmanov’s film is underscored by
the purposeful appropriation and re-appropriation of TV material with
strong connections to the literary sphere.
As such, the great trust placed in literary-verbal forms of communication
in Soviet culture86 is shown to oscillate in Nugmanov’s film between two
poles–the subculture of rock music on the one hand and the “all-
inclusive”87 media of radio and television on the other. While the
inherently contradictory nature of the television medium is revealed here
in the separation that takes place between TV image and TV sound, the
director’s skilful appropriation of the latter opens the way to a
metaphorical interpretation of the film’s message, as recourse to Marshall
McLuhan’s theory of television illustrated. In addition to the
experimentation with both the thematic and aesthetic aspects of film, the
use of Aesopian language, as well as the appropriation of other media88 are
two very typical features of the cinema of glasnost.
Adapted to the cinematic medium, Soviet television is nevertheless
compromised, as was shown. The re-appropriated television references
serve to deconstruct various myths and stereotypes propagated on Soviet

84
S.V. Sviridov, “Rok-poetika,” in Russkaia rok-poeziia: tekst i kontekst 9 (2007):
7-22, http://cyberleninka.ru/article/n/russkiy-rok-v-kontekste-avtorskoy-
pesennosti.
85
For a general outline of the connection between literature and television in the
Soviet Union see: Pavel Reznikov, Literaturnyi teleekran: Zametki rezhissera
(Moskva: Iskusstvo, 1979); Evgenii Sergeev, Perevod s originala: teleekranizatsiia
russkoi literaturnoi klassiki (Moskva: Iskusstvo, 1980) and Elena Gal’perina (ed.).
Televidenie i literatura (Moskva: Iskusstvo, 1983).
86
Iurii Murashov, “Slepye geroi –slepye zriteli: o statuse zreniia i slova v
sovetskom kino,” in Sovetskoe bogatstvo. Stat’i o literature, kul’ture, kino. K 60-
letiju Khansa Giuntera, ed. Evgenii Dobrenko, Iurii Murashov, Marina Balina (St.
Petersburg: Akademicheskii proekt, 2002).
87
Irmela Schneider,“’Rundfunk für alle‘. Verbreitungsmedien und Paradoxien der
All-Inklusion,” in Medien – Diversität – Ungleichheit. Zur medialen Konstruktion
sozialer Differenz, ed. Ulla Wischermann (Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für
Sozialwissenschaften, 2008), 23.
88
The book in Assa (1987, 153 mins.) by Sergei Solovev, as well as the musical
composition in Zabytaia melodiia dlia fleity (A Forgotten tune for the Flute, 1987,
134 mins.) by El’dar Riazanov are just two examples of this.
 Rashid Nugmanov’s Film Igla (The Needle): ‘Televisionised’ Cinema? 189

television during the 1970s and 1980s. One such myth at that time was the
apparently irreparable and irrevocable gap between official and
underground culture. Its absorption and dissolution here go hand in hand
with the amalgamation generated by the complex process of re-
medialisation: Liberated from its visual component and re-appropriated
accordingly, the acoustic element of television somehow strangely lends
itself to the strong oral underpinnings of the rock counterculture, emerging
in the middle of the 1980s.89 Surprisingly, not only the texts of Viktor
Tsoi’s songs, but also the text of the film featuring citations from the
Soviet television tradition would merge into the soundtrack to the lives of
an entire generation of young people in the late Soviet era and beyond.90

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90
A host of commentaries by viewers and fans can be found online. Some of them
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190 Chapter Seven

1992.
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 III.

TELEVISION AND THE TRANSGRESSING

OF LANGUAGE BORDERS
 CHAPTER EIGHT

TV AS A LINGUISTIC ISSUE
IN YUGOSLAVIAN SLOVENIA:
A BRIEF CHRONOLOGY FROM THE 1960S
TO THE 1980S

LUCIA GAJA SCUTERI

Introduction
The purpose of this paper is to approach the development of Slovenian TV
in the socialist era (1958–1990) from the point of view of its involvement
in one of the constants in the historical development of Slovenia: the
language endangerment.1 Within the historical, political and therefore
linguistic fragmentation of what is now Slovenia, the standard language
acquired a prominent role as an element of national cohesiveness.2 The

1
Vodopivec qtd. in Božo Repe, Rdeþa Slovenija: tokovi in obrazi iz obdobja
socializma (Ljubljana: Sophia, 2003).
2
Several authors wrote about the role of the Slovenian language as a factor for
national cohesiveness. More on linguistic and ethnographic views on the matter in
Božo Vodušek, “Historiþna pisava in historiþna izreka,” in Jezik in slovstvo 4/7
(1958/9): 193–200; Tomo Korošec, Pet minut za boljši jezik (Ljubljana: Državna
založba Slovenije, 1972); Beno Zupanþiþ, Kultura vþeraj in danes (Ljubljana:
ýZDO KOMUNIST, 1979); Breda Pogorelec, “Vprašanja govorjenega jezika,” in
Jezikovni pogovori, ed. France Vurnik (Ljubljana: Cankarjeva založba, 1965),
1983; Hotimir Tivadar, “Slovenski medijski govor v 21. stoletju in pravoreþje –
RTV Slovenija vs. komercialne RTV- postaje,” in Kapitoly z fonetiky a fonologie
slovanských jazykĤ: pĜíspČvky z pracovního vČdeckého setkání na XVI. zasedání
Komise pro fonetiku a fonologii slovanských jazykĤ pĜi Mezinárodním komitétu
slavistĤ, eds. Zdena Palková, Jana Janoušková (Praha: Filozofická fakulta, 2006);
Maruša Pušnik, “Udomaþenje televizije na Slovenskem javne in zasebne rabe
televizije v zgodovinski perspektivi,” Javnost – The Public 15 – Prispevki k
zgodovini slovenskih medijev (2008): 113௅132; Ada Vidoviþ-Muha, “16. stotletje –
þas vzpostavitve narodtvorne vloge jezika,” in Trubarjeva številka, eds. Majda
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 197

roots of this kind of evaluation can be traced back to the constant

exposure, especially in the public sphere, to the influence of foreign
languages throughout its past and recent history. From the early
predominant influence of Latin, to the later influence of German, Italian
and Slavic languages such as Serbo-Croatian and up to the contemporary
overwhelming influence of globalised English, the problem of standard
cultivated Slovenian has been repeatedly put on the agenda of intellectual
debates.
The Slovenian standard (spoken) language developed late and abruptly
as a comprehensively used language due to its historical lack of autonomy.
Spoken Slovenian became the object of debates in the 19th century after it
became an official language in 1861–in the provincial parliament–
following the change in the Austrian Constitution that introduced equality
for all Austrian nationalities.3 Nevertheless, demands for the right to use
the Slovenian language in public life and public institutions in the
Slovenian speaking territory continued to be present in all the political
programmes of the Slovenian national movements of the 19th century,
while the range of its uses was slowly and gradually expanding to schools,
theatres and courts. In the first Yugoslavia, despite the centralising
‘Yugoslavisation’ tendencies4 and the pressure of Serbo-Croatian as the
official language of the Kingdom, the thesis that Slovenian had finally
achieved linguistic autonomy from foreign (mainly German) influence was
widely prevailing both in intellectual forums and among the populace.5
That belief, along with the linguistic Yugoslavian assimilatory tendencies,
led to a widespread neglect of the Slovenian language in public contexts.
This, in turn, affected negatively both the general level of the language and
the speakers’ attitude towards it. Despite this situation, the use of the
Slovenian language gradually expanded on all levels of public

Merše, Kozma Ahaþiþ, Andreja Žele (Slavistiþna revija: þasopis za jezikoslovje in

literarne vede 56/57, 2008-4/2009-1, 2009); Vesna Mikoliþ, “Jezikovnapolitika za
veþkulturna okolja,” in Med politiko in stavrnostjo: jezikovna situacija v
novonastalih državah bivše Jugoslavije, eds. Vesna Požgaj Hadži, Tatjana Balažic
Bulc, Vojko Gorjanc (Ljubljana: Znanstvena založba Filozofske fakultete, 2009),
and many others.
3
Hotimir Tivadar, “Slovenski jezik med knjgo in Ljubljano,” in Vloge središþa:
konvergenca regij in kultur, ed. Irena Novak-Popov (Ljubljana: Zveza društev
Slavistiþno društvo Slovenije, 2010).
4
Such tendencies were already seen as a dangerous possibility in the 1930s by a
young Edvard Kardelj (Pogorelec ed., Slovenšþina v javnosti).
5
Pogorelec, Slovenšþina v javnosti; Matjaž Kmecl, “Kratek oris slovenske kulturne
zgodovine,” in XXIV: Seminar slovenskega jezika, literature in kulture, ed. Breda
Pogorelec (Ljubljana: Univerza Edvarda Kardelja Filozofska fakulteta, 1988).
198 Chapter Eight

communication. During World War II and the National Liberation War

(NOB–narodnoosvobodilni boj) and due to a number of historical-political
circumstances, the Slovenian language suddenly became an important
symbol of the NOB itself, and for the first time could be used freely in all
areas of society. Shortly after the end of the war it experienced a
‘renaissance’ of sorts and underwent a full implementation, but at the same
time was de-sacralised: as Pogorelec (1983) argues, it gradually ceased to
be seen as a national symbol and debates on its use in the public sector
moved away from the agenda of politicians and public opinion for the next
fifteen years.
In the second Yugoslavia, once again under centralist pressure for the
use of Serbo-Croatian, the Slovenian language became truly marginalised
within its own territory.6 As the politically engaged writer Menart notes,
“in the early 60s the use of Slovenian language in public started little by
little, but steadily, to deteriorate.”7 Slovenian achieved official status in the
second Yugoslavia, formally recognised by constitutional articles as an
equal language amongst others, but in several cases, it still functioned as a
de facto secondary code to Serbo-Croatian in the public realm.8 The
establishment of federal Yugoslavian RTV (JRT–Jugoslovenska
Televizija) in 1958 further contributed to the ‘deterioration’ of Slovenian
usage in the public sphere. From a Slovenian perspective, it could indeed
be said that the introduction of a united Yugoslavian TV–usually a
positive element in building, consolidating and popularising a standard
language9–actually worsened the situation: the percentage of broadcasting
in the Slovenian language was in fact only about 30%. As TV-viewing
gradually spread as a new everyday socio-cultural practice, as testified by
the massive increase in the number of TV sets in households in the 1960s
and 1970s,10 so did its impact on Slovenian. A growing number of

6
For more details on the history of the use of Slovenian language in the public
sector cf. Pogorelec, Slovenšþina v javnosti, 19–24.
7
Janez Menart, Slovenec v Srboslaviji: Kulturno–politiþni spisi (Ljubljana:
Knjižna zadruga, 2001), 36.
8
Vesna Požgaj Hadži, Tatjana Balažic Bulc and Vlado Miheljak, “Srbohrvašþina v
Sloveniji: nekoþ in danes,” in Med politiko in stvarnostjo: jezikovna situacija v
novonastalih državah bivše Jugoslavije, eds. Vesna Požgaj Hadži, Tatjana Balažic
Bulc, Vojko Gorjanc (Ljubljana: Znanstvena založba Filozofske fakultete, 2009).
9
Tullio De Mauro, Storia linguistica dell’Italia unita (Bari: Editori Laterza, 1972).
10
At the end of 1960s there was one TV set per eight inhabitants, while at the end
of the 1970s there was already one TV set per three inhabitants. As convincingly
argued by Pušnik, TV had a role in restructuring people’s lifestyles and
perceptions of reality in socialist Slovenia. In this sense TV worked as “a
propagator of social change as well as a defender and reproducer of the existing
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 199

viewers, intellectuals and later–to a different extent–also politicians,

pointed out its negative effects on the national symbol par excellence–
language. Public Slovenian was indeed perceived as contaminated and
impoverished by media language in general and by radio and TV language
in particular, since the latter had a deep influence on the spoken language.
Considering all the aforementioned facts, it is possible to infer a
relatively tight connection between the language question and national
political demands in socialist and federal Slovenia. This is also explicit in
the view of Milan Kuþan, the former president of the Slovenian Republic
and last leader of the Slovenian League of Communists in the late 80s,
who once stated: “Slovenians cannot agree with a state [Federal
Yugoslavia, LGS] in which their right to use their mother tongue is not
ensured.”11 The main aim of the chapter is to draw a brief chronology of
the most significant moments and the tangent points between linguistic
issues in TV and national political demands. It will focus on the general
implications and commingling of TV with the Slovenian language
question12 from the so-called ‘struggle for Slovenian’ in the second half of
the 60s, through the intellectual debates in the 70s and up to the relevant
shifts in the 80s, like the establishment of the Linguistic Arbitration Board
(JR–jezikovno razsodišþe) and the permanent ‘Section for public Slovenian’

social and political order” (Maruša Pušnik, “Flirting with Television in Socialism:
Proletarian Morality and the Lust for Abundance,” in Remembering Utopia: The
Culture of Everyday Life in Socialist Yugoslavia, eds. Breda Luthar and Maruša
Pušnik (Washington, DC: New Academia Publishing, 2010), 210), from the
reorganisation of the domestic space to the transformation of the patterns of
people’s personal and social communication, from materialising and reproducing
socialism to bringing Western discourses and practices. (Cf. Pušnik,
“Udomaþenje”; ibid., “Flirting with Television in Socialism”.)
11
Qtd. in Peter Vodopivec, Od Pohlina do samostojne države Slovenska zgodovina
od konca 18. Do konca 20. Stoletja (Ljubljana: Modrijan, 2006), 489. Kucan’s
words were said in the broader context of the wave of protests that were triggered
in Slovenia by the 1988’s “Trial of the four”. More on the trial in the third
paragraph. See also Božo Repe, Slovenci v osemdesetih letih (Ljubljana: Zveza
zgodovinskih društev, 2001); idem, Jutri je nov dan: Slovenci in razpad
Jugoslavije (Ljubljana: Modrijan, 2002).
12
The social effects that TV had on socialist Slovenia, the internal dynamics–both
political and pertaining to the programming side–of RTV Ljubljana are not
considered in the present chapter. For an account of the Westernisation,
democratisation and mobilisation effects see Pušnik, Flirting with Television in
Socialism. For the impact of political shifts in authoritarian Yugoslavia and
technological improvements on TV see Ljerka Bizilj, Slikarji stvarnost: Podoba
slovenskih medijev (Ljubljana: Modrijan, 2008).
200 Chapter Eight

(SSJ–Sekcija za slovenšþino v javnosti) within the Socialist Alliance of

Working People (SZDL–Socialistiþna zveza delovnega ljudstva). More
space will be given to the 60s and the 80s, since it is in those years that the
language question assumed more explicit political connotations.
It is important to point out that this chapter merely presents a selected
chronology of the main events related to TV language. It intends to
provide a unified overview of information previously accessible only
through a detailed research of materials scattered between archives and
some published literature which has never been united in a single coherent
work.
In the 60s the national question was on the agenda of Yugoslavian
politicians for the first time since World War II. It erupted just when a
conflict was taking place inside the party (and among the closest aides of
Tito himself) between conservative and progressive tendencies on
economic and political matters of the Yugoslavian self-management
system. Indeed, contrary to the conclusions of the 1958 7th Congress of the
League of Communists of Yugoslavia (ZKJ), where in its new programme
it was said that the national question had definitively been solved with the
revolution,13 it was actually still an issue. It clearly revealed itself as such
when between 1961 and 1962 two intellectuals, the Serb ûosiü and the
Slovenian Pirjevec, publicly argued about the definition of ‘Yugoslavianness’.
However, it was difficult to think about any political reform and
democratisation of the party until the 8th Congress in 1964, when Tito,
after a temporary inclination towards the conservative forces, switched his
support in favour of the progressive ones. Symptomatic of this change was
the dismissal of the centralist Rankoviü at the ‘Brioni plenum’ of 1966. In
the second half of the decade new conditions arose for more independence
of the republics from the centre. This was made possible by several
factors, most prominent among these were the progressive character of the
young guard that rose to power after the plenum, the improved standard of
living, more intellectual freedom–the latter directly connected to
Rankoviü’s disgrace–and the introduction of the (ultimately unsuccessful)
economic reform. These new conditions actually contributed to the rise of
nationalism in the whole of Yugoslavia: from the Macedonian requests for
an autocephalous church to the linguistic quarrel between Serbs and
Croatians, from Albanian protests in Kosovo to the outbreak of Serbian
nationalism, from the Slovenian ‘highway affair’ to the Croatian
‘maspok’14–the national question was breaking out everywhere, becoming

13
Repe, Jutri je nov dan.
14
Jože Pirjevec, Serbi, croati sloveni: Storia di tre nazioni (Bologna: Il mulino,
1995).
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 201

an increasingly pressing issue. It is in this context of nationalistic

outbreaks that the debate on the equal use of Slovenian in public life took
place. As some historians put it, in those years the language question was
one of the indicators of inter-republic relationships in Yugoslavia.15

1. The 60s: the Years of the Slovenization of TV

1.1. The Beginning of the Struggle for the Slovenian Language
Before the turning point of the ‘Letter on language’ (1965), in which
the Slovenian SZDL, along with the Association of Slovenian Writers
(DSP–Društvo slovenskih pisateljev), pointed out the unequal status of the
Slovenian language in republican and federal public use–including critics
of the JRT–, the language question was mainly a concern for Slovenian
intellectuals. In the first half of the 60s, linguists and writers started to deal
again with the question in their scientific publications and in some
magazines (Naši razgledi [NR], Sodobnost [So]). The Slovenian
Association of Slavistics (SDS) was particularly active in the field,
organising symposiums and other initiatives (cf. e.g. the ‘Piran Assembly’
[1960]) to pursue the goal of “influencing the periodical publications to
follow with greater commitment the efforts and findings of contemporary
Slavistic knowledge.”16 Besides political and scholastic language, among
the most criticised was media language.
The bi-weekly magazine NR took the slavists’ call of 1960 seriously
and devoted more space in its pages to the language question. In the
column ‘Pogovori’ of July 1961 a series of round table discussions on the
problem was announced to the public. The debates were then promptly
published in NR’s pages to divulge their results.17 In particular, it was
pointed out that the influence of the Serbo-Croatian language, as it was
called then, on Slovenian took shape in “three different ways: cinema,
commercial prospects and state administrative matters.”18 Apart from

15
Neven Borak et al., Slovenska novejša zgodovina: od programa Zjedinjena
Slovenija do mednarodnega priznanja Republike Slovenije: 1848–1992 (Ljubljana:
Mladinska knjiga, 2005).
16
Jezik in slovstvo (from now on referred to as JiS), 1960: 6/ 3, 111.
17
In the second published column on the round table, entitled ‘On Slovenian
language’, the issues of the normative standardisation principles were tackled
(puristic vs. liberalistic views). Particularly underlined was the need to intensify
“the efforts to improve the language situation in our public life (newspapers,
public signs, film, radio).” (NR: 8. 7. 1960.)
18
JiS, 1960: 6/3.
202 Chapter Eight

those three factors, the issue of film dubbing/subbing and the translation of
forms from Serbian (post, bank and other official documents) are also
mentioned. The Pogovori column spread debates and criticisms among
readers and linguists.19 The magazine, similarly to other written media,
gave space to citizens’ reports in the years that followed on language
inequalities in everyday life.20 The magazine Sodobnost was also active in
this regard, dedicating ample space to these issues.21

1.2. The ‘Letter on Language’ (1965)

The amount of readers’ and intellectuals’ warnings and reports testifies
a renewed interest of the Slovenian public in the destiny of its language,
expressing concern for the language’s marginalisation and neglect. This
renewed interest practically forced the socio-political organisation SZDL
to intervene in the diatribe. It is interesting that until the publication of the
‘Letter on Language’, the readers’ criticism and reports more or less
addressed federal external factors, without considering the endogenous
dimension of the problem. The centralising Pan-Yugoslavian tendencies
were heavily criticised. It was said that the attempt to create a unified
Yugoslavian state in education, administration, media and economy had
actually meant an increase in the use of the Serbo-Croatian language in the
mentioned domains. However, in April 1965 the SZDL in the ‘Letter on
Language’ publicly warned about the need for a more coherent language
policy. It pointed out that “it is a duty of all directorates and organisations
of the SZDL to check, within its activities, what is happening with the
Slovenian language.”22 It called attention to the necessity of systematically
addressing the incorrect uses of Slovenian and also the use of foreign
languages (mainly Serbo-Croatian) “in the press, on TV, in letters, in

19
For some examples of the readers’ reactions see the column ‘Letters to NR’ (NR:
5.8.1961, 9.12.1961); as for the linguists’ reactions: Pogorelec, Bezlaj (both in NR:
26.8.1961) and Urbanþiþ (NR: 9. 9. 1961).
20
Cf. e.g. ‘Letters to NR’ on subtitles and untrained speech of TV-speakers and on
the abuse of the Slovenian language in public life, particularly on TV and in
industrial brochures (both in NR: 8. 2. 1964).
21
Worth mentioning as an example of the marginalisation of Slovenian is a
reader’s letter of 1965. Its author reports on some “linguistic incidents” that
occurred in shops and restaurants in Ljubljana, where several non-Slovenian
people, offended by the saleswomen answering them in Slovenian, claimed Serbo-
Croatian to be the one and only official language in Yugoslavia. Borko: So: 13/12,
1965.
22
Delo: 21.4.1965.
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 203

technical instructions of economic organisations, in public notifications,

in film subtitles, at public assemblies and other events.”23 The alliance also
announced its intention to assume the role of stimulating and improving
the development of Slovenian political language towards a higher spoken
and written language culture. The letter basically expressed demands for
the enforcement of rights and duties that the federal and republican
constitutions had already mandated in relation to the Yugoslavian
multilingual character. Some of their articles formally granted equal rights
for all languages and alphabets within the Yugoslavian federation, though
they were often ignored.24
The letter strongly resonated with the Slovenian public and an
increased interest in the question was also registered among political ranks
and offices.25 The biggest merit of the letter though was in spreading the
debate on the unprivileged status of the Slovenian language from the
narrow scientific and amateur linguistic communities to a wider public,
encompassing different social groups and also engaging political actors.
Among all cultural institutions and associations, the SDS played a major
role in the debate, not only before but especially after the letter was
published. In 1966 it organised the ‘Maribor Consultation’, where there
was a particular focus on the Serbo-Croatian influence and the inadequacy
of written and spoken Slovenian in public use.26 In the following years it
also organised the ‘Ljutomer Meeting’ (1967) and the ‘General Assembly’
(1968), where the improvements in raising the standard of the language

23
Ibid.
24
The 41st and 131st articles of the 1963 Federal Constitution state that all
languages of all Yugoslavian nations and their alphabets are equivalently rightful.
The second paragraph of the 74th article of the Republican Constitution specified
that the operations of all state organs, work and other self-managed organisations
that provide and implement social services in the territory of the Socialist Republic
of Slovenia must be conducted in Slovenian. ýar: JiS: 11/8, 1966. (From now on
ýar, 1966.)
25
Cf. e.g. Kolar: NR: 28.8.1966. The writer Gradišnik also wrote in response to the
‘Letter on Language’ in his column in Delo (15.8.1965). Cf. e.g. Šetinc: Delo: 31.
7. 1966. In 1966 the Constitutional Court of the Socialist Republic of Slovenia sent
a letter to the Parliament of the Slovenian republic exhorting it to stop the multiple
violations of constitutional articles–i. e. the use of Serbo-Croatian in several
contexts (such as schools, cinemas, business and administration) and criticised the
exclusive use of the Serbo-Croatian language in the legislative federal process.
Delo: 15. 11. 1966.
26
Often mentioned were the linguistic shortcomings in media, in the economic-
commercial sector, the use of language within companies and on a federal level.
(ýar, 1966.)
204 Chapter Eight

culture were monitored and discussed. In the 1968 assembly, the public
use of Slovenian and particularly TV language was specifically taken into
consideration and addressed. As pointed out in the 15th article of the
Assembly’s Final Document, the use of Serbo-Croatian on TV was
strongly disapproved of, especially in informative, children’s and school
programmes.27 The SDS, from 1965 onwards, gradually considered more
concretely the question of the cultivation of Slovenian and was therefore
in the 70s, together with SZDL, the main promoter of the ‘social action’ of
Slovenian language in public use.

1.3. The ‘Slovenization’ of TV28

Demands for a more Slovenian TV, within the debates on a more
consistent use of the Slovenian language in public life in general, appeared
shortly after the establishment of the Yugoslavian RTV (1958). Until
1961, the unified channel broadcast from three TV centres (TV Beograd,
TV Zagreb and TV Ljubljana), with only limited space left to regional
programmes due to ideological, financial and technical reasons.29 The
programmes displayed only a minimal interest in the republics’ audiences,
both from a content and linguistic point of view. In Slovenia, the high
percentage of programmes in Serbo-Croatian started to gradually unsettle
the audience, especially when it came to newscasts. Since TV directly
addressed the audience, the use of other languages constituted a
considerable discrepancy to the principle of linguistic equality sanctioned
in the constitution. As a consequence, statements such as “Every nation
deserves to hear the newscasts in its own language” became extremely
common in written media and debates.30 The amount of articles and
readers’ letters on the question convinced the Organisational-political
Committee of the Slovenian Parliament to pay closer attention to it. The
engagement of politics was instrumental for the subsequent establishment
of a newscast in Slovenian, which happened soon afterwards in 1968. The
discontent with the federal newscasts was also growing within Ljubljana
TV: the amount of regional news was overall low and unsatisfactory. The

27
ýar: JiS: 13/2, 1968.
28
For a more detailed account of the ‘Slovenization’ of TV in the 60s and
particularly on the establishment of a Slovenian newscast cf. Marko Prpiþ, “Kako
smo dobili slovenski TV dnevnik. 40. let dnevnika TV Slovenije,” Javnost–The
Public 15 –Prispevki k zgodovini slovenskih medijev. (2008): 95–112.
29
NR: 9.5.1964.
30
Ibid. Cf. also Predan: NR: 23.4.1966; Arez: NR: 30.7. 1966, and Z.A.: So: 15/2,
1967.
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 205

already existing broadcast which directly targeted the Slovenian audience–

the 15-minutes long information programme TV Obzornik (1962)–was not
enough.
A significant catalyst for change towards a Slovenian newscast
programme and more ‘domestic’ TV was the ‘Letter to TV’ (1967)
redacted by the DSP, SDS, the Slovenian PEN club and the Institute for
Slovenian language at the Slovenian Academy for Science and Arts
(SAZU).31 It expressed an urgent demand to exchange Serbo-Croatian
broadcasts for Slovenian ones in current affairs (newscasts), children’s,
youth and school programmes. Furthermore, it underlined the necessity to
subtitle films, TV dramas, theatre and sport broadcasts from other
republics. The demand for more domestic and Slovenian newscasts was
articulated in five points, with a particular focus on the unconstitutional,
linguistically disruptive and uninteresting character of newscasts in Serbo-
Croatian.32 This letter, as the “Letter on Language” before, had a big echo
in newspapers, readers’ letters and amongst the public in general: there
were many reactions in support and against it.33 TV Ljubljana
commissioned a survey in order to check the audience’s expectations and
ideas regarding the introduction of Slovenian newscasts: almost 80% of
the respondents declared themselves in favour.34 Public debates quickened
the internal RTV debates and efforts and finally on April 15th 1968 the
airing of newscasts in Slovenian began. From then on the newscast was
regularly broadcast, even more regularly than initially conceived and
expected: instead of three times a week, it was on air six times a week.
Slovenian politicians had a prominent role in the establishment of a
Slovenian newscast, firmly opposed in Belgrade at first. Not only did the
president of the Slovenian government, Stane Kavþiþ, put pressure on TV
executives, there was also a rumoured involvement at federal level by the
most prominent Slovenian politician in Yugoslavia himself, the high-
ranking federal political leader Edvard Kardelj.35 After the establishment
of Slovenian newscasts, TV Ljubljana gradually started to have more

31
Delo: 3.2.67. In their joint letter, the authors pointed out the dangerous effects of
TV on language and the unconstitutionality of the fact that more than half of the
TV schedule was not in Slovenian.
32
Ibid. Cf. also Menart, Slovenec v Srboslaviji and Prpiþ, Kako smo dobili
slovenski TV dnevnik. 40. let dnevnika TV Slovenije.
33
Arih: Delo: 9.2.1967; Fortiþ: Delo: 6.4.1968. Fortiþ: Delo: 28.5.1968.
34
Stupan, Obranoviþ: Delo: 13.4.1968.
35
More on the political involvement in the establishment of the Slovenian TV
newscast in Bizilj, Slikarji stvarnost; Menart, Slovenec v Srboslaviji and Prpiþ,
Kako smo dobili slovenski TV dnevnik. 40. let dnevnika TV Slovenije.
206 Chapter Eight

programmes in Slovenian, but there were still inadequacies present in TV

language that were in need of serious and systematic critical evaluation.

1.4. Language Columns in the Media

The linguistic situation though was not as arbitrary as readers and
members of the audience thought: some of the demands for a better and
more understandable journalistic language did not go completely unheard.
Indeed, despite uninterrupted criticism of language inadequacies, non-
proficiencies and convoluted style, Slovenian media, in their own way,
had already been trying to intervene in ‘popularising’ language culture.
Radio Ljubljana had been attempting to realise its aim to educate listeners
to a better, more beautiful and correct Slovenian from 1946, with the very
popular radio show “Jezikovni pogovori” (edited by the linguist Rupel
until 1963 and still on-going today). Other language columns with a large
following were the Maribor “Antibarbarus Pivka” in the section 7Dni of
the newspaper Veþer and the Ljubljana “Slovenšþina za Slovence” in the
Saturday section of the newspaper Delo.36 One of the effects of the “Letter
of Language” was the increase of the so-called ‘language columns’ (Slov.
jezikovni kotiþki) in written and electronic media. In 1967, for example, a
group of young linguists, who embraced the Prague Theory of Standard
Language, disagreed with the conceptual (puristically oriented) structure
of Janez Gradišnik’s linguistic column in Delo and started a new one,
“Slovenšþina v gospodarstvu” in the newspaper Gospodarski vestnik.
Irrespective of its name (gospodarstvo means “economics” in Slovenian),
the column analysed a broad spectrum of linguistic topics. Between 1965
and 1970, four short TV shows dedicated to language were broadcast:
“Dialogues on Slovenian” (1965–1966, a series of 15 broadcasts), “On
our speaking” (1966–1967, edited by Mahniþ, a series of 15 broadcasts),
“Slovenian” (1967–1968, a series of 10 broadcasts) and “5 minutes for a

36
A detailed critical evaluation of 20th century Slovenian (written) media linguistic
columns can be found in Monika Kalin-Golob, Jezikovna kultura in jezikovni
kotiþki (Ljubljana: Jutro, 1996). Regarding Gradišnik, the author of “Slovenšþina
za Slovence”, it has to be said that he was particularly critical towards media in
general and TV-language specifically. The writer was the most prolific ever among
all other authors of linguistic columns: between 1965 and 1996, he published more
than 800 comments on Slovenian language in columns in different magazines and
newspapers.
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 207

better language” (1969, edited by Korošec, a series of 35 broadcasts). In

addition to these, there were other broadcasts on the linguistic topic.37

2. The 70s: Public Consultation

(“Slovenšþina v javni rabi”) on Media Language
“The linguistic question is a political matter!”
(Beno Zupanþiþ, 1979)

In the 60s, especially in the second half of the decade, debates on the
language question in general and on the issue of a cultivated Slovenian,
both spoken and written, in particular, reached a wide audience, with
discussions and discontent continuing in the 70s. Harmful tendencies such
as an uncritical acceptance of forms in foreign languages, insufficient
awareness of the Slovenian language and a growing detachment towards it
at an individual level were still present and had to be overcome for a
coherent language policy. As reported in several newspapers and
magazines, media language was, despite the 1960s warnings and efforts,
still full of foreign words and expressions. It was also stylistically,
orthographically and orthoepically inadequate and had negative effects on
language culture in general, since it caused and spread the acceptance of
wrong linguistic automatisms that were increasingly adopted in the
linguistic behaviour of Slovenians, especially the younger generation.38
Furthermore, the approval of a new constitution in 1974–which gave new
dimensions and issues to the Yugoslavian self-management system with
its delegate consultative and decisional processes–raised the question of
updating the language question. To adjust the language to the
groundbreaking social shift expressed and prescribed by the new
constitution, it was necessary to ‘socialise’ the language policy. “Socialising
the language policy” meant to socially reform language development,
something that had to be done with the widest social reach possible. The

37
Among the examples are short broadcasts on Slavistic congresses (1966-1972),
educational broadcasts on linguistic topics edited by the editorial department for
culture in collaboration with some slavists, especially Pogorelec, and other
occasional mentions of the language question on TV shows like the cultural
programme ‘Kulturne diagonale’ (24.4.69). (Hafner, Personal Interview, 2013.)
38
Rotovnik, JiS: 24/ 2, 1978. In the first half of the decade there were some
articles on the language question and on the issue of media language in the
magazines So (1970: 18/4; 1971:19/5), JiS (1971:17/3; 1972: 17/4, 17/5) and in
some newspapers’ linguistic corners (cf. Kalin-Golob, Jezikovna kultura in
jezikovni kotiþki).
208 Chapter Eight

purpose to engage all societal groups and not exclusively the professionals
(slavists and linguists) in the debate on how to approach and solve the
linguistic issues in the Slovenian public sphere was part of the theoretical
basis of the social initiative of the 70s–i.e. the “Consultation on Slovenian
Language in Public Use”.39 In the spring of 1975 the SDS, in an open
letter to SZDL, pointed out again the need for a better language culture
and a more systematic concern for the Slovenian language at both
republican and federal levels.40 The SZDL itself, earlier that year, had
come to the same conclusion, so it accepted the SDS proposal and, shortly
after the publication of the “Letter on Language”, started to collaborate
with it in order to organise a public consultation on the linguistic situation.
From October 1975 onward, reports on the latest preparations for the
consultation were promptly published in JiS; furthermore, in the newly
added column “Slovenian in public”, space was given to the analysis of
pressing issues in the public use of Slovenian.41 The media field–in
consideration of the important informative-educational role it had–was
specifically highlighted as in need of an adequate linguistic praxis.42 The
preparations for the consultation lasted four years, as the process of
collecting data and gathering material for the reports on the different areas
took longer than expected. A crucial moment for the organisation of the
consultation was the ‘Bled Consultation’ (1977) organised by the SDS,
which was almost a rehearsal that at the same time further integrated
debate material for the wide social action of 1979. This was shortly
followed by the critical discussion initiated by the politically engaged
writer Beno Zupanþiþ (1978) on language culture. Discussions raised at
the Bled Consultation touched upon the language question within general
culture (artistic language, in schools), on the language situation in the
Slovenian minority in Austria, translation issues, use of Slovenian in the
army and in the economic field. Particularly stressed was the media field
and the situation of TV. A journalist of the newspaper Delo, Mitja Gorjup,
and Ante Novak, the representative of RTV, addressed linguistic
deficiencies in their respective papers, the first tackling journalistic jargon
in general and the second specifically targeting RTV spoken language.43
The relevance of Zupanþiþ’s publication stressed instead the political

39
For further information on the theoretical basis of the Consultation cf. Pogorelec
in JiS (1975: 20/8, 21/3; 1978: 23/6; 1980: 25/7–8), Zupanþiþ (JiS: 1978: 23/6) and
Zupanþiþ, Kultura vþeraj in danes, 1978.
40
JiS: 1975: 20/8.
41
Pogorelec: JiS: 1976, 22/ 2.
42
Pogorelec: JiS: 1975, 21/ 3.
43
Gorjup: JiS: 1978, 23/6; Novak: JiS: 1978, 23/6.
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 209

dimensions of the language question–which later became one of the

mottos of the consultation.

2.1. The Report of the Media Work Group

at the Portorož Public Consultation
In May 1979 the two-day open debate on the public use of Slovenian
language took place. It was organised in nine thematic sections. The most
interesting report is probably the one produced by the Media Work Group,
particularly its statements on TV language. The work group was composed
of representatives from the main Slovenian media and several other
institutions.44 The evaluation of the situation of language on TV was
generally negative and critical:

– the amount of non-Slovenian (Serbo-Croatian) expressions was still

very high and the quality of subtitles low;
– the quality of the spoken standard language was low and lax: several
deviations from language norms were found (high amount of dialect
forms);
– bureaucratic style, a direct influence of political language, was still
widespread in journalism;
– the Proofreading Department was highly ineffective, with texts often
completely bypassing it.

Proposals on how to deal with the situation were laid out: the introduction
of constant linguistic refinement and training for journalists, announcers
and translators; stricter hiring policies (standard language proficiency as a
hiring pre-requisite) and increased engagement from editors; strengthening
of proofreading and translation departments; establishment of a Language
Counsellor who would help in defining guidelines and preparing orthoepic
records for internal use. Particularly underlined were the necessity of
linguistic adequacy in entertainment programmes (especially the ones
addressed to children and youth) and the demand for Slovenian journalists
to always speak in Slovenian on TV, even if they conversed with non-
Slovenian interlocutors.45

44
In collecting and analysing material for the report on media language,
representatives of Delo, RTV Ljubljana, Primorski dnevnik and NR cooperated
with representatives of the Ljubljana Faculty for Socio-political Sciences (FSPN)
and Faculty of Arts, SAZU, DSP and from the SZDL.
45
The integral text produced by the Media Work Group is printed in Pogorelec,
Slovenšþina v javnosti, 83–86, 206.
210 Chapter Eight

Even though most of the critics and the proposed solutions were not
particularly new or innovative, as they had already been pointed out at the
‘Bled Consultation’ and during the 60s debates as well, the ‘Portorož
Consultation’ was a turning point. It laid out the theoretical basis for the
later formulations of language policy and, remarkably, was the result of a
collaboration between invested political and intellectual establishments on
the one hand and the interested public on the other. Held in the 70s–during
the so-called lead years that followed the late 60s and early 70s silencing
of liberally oriented political elites–the debates on the language question
were less politicised than they had been in the past and would be in the
next decade, while still showing mild political connotations. It was the
product of a long-lasting joint and conscious engagement of several
political forces, intellectuals and members of a broader (interested) public.
Most of all, the initiative continued within the socio-political body of
SZDL: in 1980, as a direct consequence of the conclusions reached at the
consultation, a permanent ‘Section for Slovenian in Public’ (SSJ) was
established within the ‘Council for Culture’ of SZDL. Its task was to
monitor shifts in the use of Slovenian.

2.2. TV Broadcasts on Language

Unlike TV linguistic programmes of the 60s, there were no broadcast
series specifically dedicated to Slovenian in the 70s. Data preserved at the
TV Documentation Office of RTV Slovenia shows that between 1970 and
1979 there was a total of eight broadcasts that considered the language
question in general: three documentary programmes, four newscasts and
one cultural programme.46 There were also specific broadcasts to promote
the new ‘Dictionary of Slovenian Standard Language’ (April and May
1970) and four very short newscasts related to it. Overall, TV broadcasts
on language in the 70s were more of an occasional nature rather than
systematically conceived and programmed.

46
Documentaries: “Naš jezik”; “Superslovenšþina” and “Reci bobu bob” (all edited
by Koder and aired in 1974 and 1975); newscasts reports: 28.10.77, 27.3.78,
20.4.79 and 15.5.79; the cultural programme ‘Kulturne diagonale’ of 21.5.79. The
newscasts on the new Dictionary of Standard Slovenian: 7.7.71, 5.7.73, 2.7.73 and
1.7.74. (Hafner, 2013.)
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 211

3. The 80s: Politicisation of the Language Question

In the 80s, starting with the consequences of the power vacuum that
followed Tito’s death, the “ten-year long dissolution of Yugoslavian
federation” took place. Different factors concurred to the dissolution at the
Yugoslavian, international and republican levels. Among them was the
political and economic crisis, along with the gradual internal differentiation
of opinion–both between the various republican parties and between the
rising civil and intellectual oppositions versus the party republican
leagues. The inter-republican conflicts along national and ethnic divides
once again came to the forefront; the conflict between Slovenian and
Serbian points of view became particularly relevant, especially on the
urgent question of the reform of the Yugoslavian system.47 The inter-
republican conflicts, in a similar way to the 60s, were also expressed in
terms of the language question. In those years almost every republic and
autonomous province created, within its own language culture policies,
social bodies specifically devoted to the language question–i.e. to the
monitoring of the actual development of language. In Serbia in the first
half of the decade there were debates on the establishment of a ‘Linguistic
Council for the Serbian Language’; in the Croatian republic the Language
Commission was already active, while in Kosovo’s autonomous province
there was the Albanology Institute. In the Macedonian republic the socio-
political organisations and state organs were responsible for monitoring
the Macedonian language development. In Slovenia in 1980, the SZDL
founded the ‘Council for Slovenian Language in Public’ as part of its
organisation. This Council had different work-sections of which one was
particularly notable and resonant with the public: the Linguistic
Arbitration Board (JR).

3.1. The ‘Language Affairs’ in the 80s

Before synthetically introducing the issue of language as it was
considered in those years in relation to TV, it is worth mentioning that the
question of equal use of Slovenian in public–i.e. the question of cultural
rights of Slovenians–appeared in the context of rising inter-republican
conflicts. Throughout the decade, apart from the long-standing critical
uses of Slovenian in public, there were a number of ‘linguistic affairs’ that

47
Peter Vodopivec, “Od poskusov demokratizacij (1968–1972) do agonije in
katastrofe (1988–1991),” in Slovenija–Jugoslavija, krize in reforme 1968/1988, ed.
Zdenko ýepiþ (Ljubljana: Inštitut za novejšo zgodovino, 2010), 22–24.
212 Chapter Eight

gained explicit political meaning. The language question was once again
moving in a political direction, after its political nature was loudly voiced
by the editors and participants of the ‘Portorož Consultation’ of 1979. The
Serb-Slovenian conflict, which was particularly heated between 1986 and
1989, included diverging opinions on political and economic matters, but
originally started in the cultural field–with the quarrels on the so-called
school nuclei. In 1981, an inter-republic-provincial agreement for the
establishment of a unified basis of education for the whole country was
reached.48 The proposed homogenisation of school programmes throughout
the whole Yugoslavia included, among other aspects, the teaching of
literature and history. The early draft proposed to formulate the unified
programmes by allocating a space to authors and events that was
proportional to the amount of the various Yugoslavian populations.49 This
proposal would have limited the school programmes for Slovenian
language, literature and history in Slovenian schools to the advantage of
the other, bigger, Yugoslavian nations. Slovenian intellectuals raised their
voices against the draft, later joined by politicians; the so-called ‘nuclear
war’ (of the school nuclei that is) went on until 1985 through public
forums and debates. Another display of the sensitivity of the language
question and the intolerance that ensued is offered by the so-called
‘Bulatoviü’s affairs'.50 A further question concerning the public use of
Slovenian was the issue of its use in the Yugoslavian People Army (JLA),
a matter on which several articles were written and was the object of
multiple public, intellectual and political debates during those years.51 In

48
Menart, Slovenec v Srboslaviji.
49
Pirjevec, Serbi, croati sloveni.
50
Miodrag Bulatoviü, a Montenegrin writer who lived in the Slovenian republic
for several years, is the protagonist of two Slovenian “language affairs.” In 1982
he quarreled with the organisers of the “On Portorož Consultation”, held by the
DSP at the Cankar Congress Centre in Ljubljana. Due to his Serbian-nationalistic
opinions, in 1986 first the Slovenian writers and soon after writers from other
republics opposed his candidature for president of the Association of Yugoslavian
Writers. The quarrel was the direct cause of the fall of the first federally conceived
Yugoslavian association (Stefano Lusa, La dissoluzione del potere Il partito
comunista sloveno ed il processo di democratizzazione della repubblica (Udine:
Kappa Vu Edizioni, 2007)).
51
It has to be said that the issue had already been considered in the previous
decades (cf. General Jaka Avšiþ’s contributions in So: 1970, 18/4; JiS: 1975, 20/3;
the issue was also considered at the ‘Portorož Consultation’). It was also
mentioned in the famous ‘57th issue’ of the ‘oppositional’ magazine Naša revija
(1987) and was the target of critics and debates within the SSJ (especially from
1986 on, cf. ARS, 537/1350: 1914-1915) and the JR (cf. statement n. 280 [1986] in
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 213

1988, the linguistic affair par excellance of those years took place, the so-
called ‘Trial of the four’ or ‘JBTZ affair’ (from the names of the arrested:
Janša, Borštner, Tasiþ and Zavrl) which had important consequences in
homogenising Slovenians in the process of the democratisation of the
country and its secession from Yugoslavia. The JLA attempt to discipline
the youth magazine Mladina, which had been very critical of the army, by
putting three of its journalists on trial in Serbo-Croatian language on
Slovenian territory, was the proverbial last straw.52 A strong, compact civil
society (gravitating around the then established Committee for the
Defence of Human Rights) stood up to the latest army act of hybris in
several protests and debates, which later proved to be among the main
forces behind the so-called ‘Slovenian Spring’. Paraphrasing a popular pro
Miloševiü Serbian saying: “In 1988 this is how the Slovenian nation
happened.”53 In this ferment of inter-republic conflicts that led to the
dissolution of Yugoslavia and the increasing role that the language
question seems to have played in it, the following paragraphs will focus on
the TV-language related debates and initiatives.

3.2. The ‘Council for Slovenian Language in Public’

The co-organiser of the ‘Portorož Consultation’, the SZDL, shortly
after and due to the proposals expressed at the Consultation,54 established
within its ‘Council for Culture’ the SSJ, later renamed as a separate
council (1980–1990). The purpose of the SSJ was to monitor the
enforcement of federal and republican constitutional laws regarding
language–particularly in the Slovenian territory but also in some other
federal contexts (e.g. in the federal chamber)55–and to stimulate the
analysis of the development of Slovenian in different public fields (such as
education, administration and media). The Council was composed of
several work groups that gradually grew in number during the decade to
eleven by 1988. Particularly interesting for our purposes are the Work

ARS, 537/1358, 1986). The party and other political organisations (cf. the letter
from CK ZKS of 15.12.86 and the minutes of the 18th meeting of the presidency of
RK SZDL of 11.11.88 in ARS 537/1350; 1914–5.72/5), as well as the Slovenian
audience, media and intellectuals in general, also debated this particular issue.
52
Pirjevec, Serbi, croati sloveni, 170.
53
Zdenko ýepiþ et al., “Krize –reforme, Jugoslavija –Slovenija: 1968–1988,” in
Slovenija–Jugoslavija, krize in reforme 1968/1988, ed. Zdenko ýepiþ (Ljubljana:
Inštitut za novejšo zgodovino, 2010), 10.
54
Delo: 28.4.1979.
55
ARS/537/1350-1915: Minutes 16.1.1987.
214 Chapter Eight

Group for the Slovenian Language in Media (SJM) and the JR, both active
after 1980.56 Most of the work groups did not meet regularly. The years
from 1983 to 1985 proved to be a particularly critical period during which,
with the exception of JR and the Work group for Education–the latter
being involved in the delicate question of the unified school nuclei
proposals–, almost none of the groups met as scheduled.57 In 1990, after
almost ten years of activity, there were still debates about the causes of the
Council’s ineffectiveness, which was mostly ascribed to its lack of
executive power, a lack of political interest in the question and to the
voluntary nature of the collaborating members.58 The SJM was no
exception. In ten years, despite its programmatic aims to “ascertain the
situation of proofreading departments in publishing houses, theatres and
media (radio, TV and newspapers)”,59 to check on “the situation in
‘factory newsletters’, language education in study programmes for future
journalists at FSPN and to monitor the phenomena of bureaucratisation of
language and its transferral to mass media”,60 to supervise the “individual
stylisation in media [...] along with more attention to the spoken language
of featured and cultural broadcasts”,61 it had only modest success. Part of
the explanation for its limited impact were the other engagements of its
president–the slavist Janez Dular62–and the aforementioned complications.
Indeed, based upon the archive material, the only relevant ‘action’ the
group had implemented was the organisation–in collaboration with the
Work Group for Language in Political Life and the FSPN–of the ‘Seminar
on Socio-political and Media Material: Reflections on Bureaucratic Jargon
Scraps in the Self-managed System and the Language of Mass Media’,
that was held in Škofja Loka in April 1983.63

56
Ibid., Minutes 7.6.1984.
57
Ibid., Report 1985.
58
Ibid., Minutes 6.3.1990.
59
Ibid., Minutes 7.6.1984.
60
Document on the activity of the Council, April 1985.
61
Attachment to the minutes 16.1.1987.
62
Dular was a permanent member of the SJM and its president from 1985. From
1986 to 1988 he was also the coordinator of the ‘Programme Council for
Language’ at TV Ljubljana. He was also a member of the JR.
63
Ibid., Magnetogram of “Škofja Loka Seminar”, 14–15.4.1983.
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 215

3.3. The Linguistic Arbitration Board on TV language

More relevant is the activity of the Linguistic Arbitration Board. The
JR was established on October 15th 1980 within the SSJ at SZDL. Its basic
purposes were to:

– “deal with the most serious violations of good linguistic and stylistic
behaviour” in Slovenian territory,64
– work as a social organ with moral authority to which citizens could
turn in order to get guidance in cases of language dilemmas and at the
same time report ambiguities and questions related to language in
public use,65
– promptly monitor and improve the situation of Slovenian language in
public.

As pointed out in the minutes of the 4th meeting of JR in 1990 (6.3.1990),

it was a very hard-working, quite popular organ that “continuously acts in
a public way and somehow sustains the political temperature regarding
language policy and language-culture questions.”66
The board was one of the work groups of the Council and the only one
that was regularly working and publishing its ‘statements’ weekly–in
several newspapers (mainly the Ljubljana newspapers Delo and Dnevnik
and the Maribor newspaper Veþer, occasionally also in others) and from
1985 also on TV teletext. Between 1980 and 1990 the JR had five
mandates and its members composed more than 400 statements. The
statements were written both in response to citizens’ requests–reporting on
various linguistic violations or inaccuracies–and as a result of personal
observations of its members. The range of covered topics was wide: from
journalists’ language to the language of exhibitions, events and
congresses; from the names of Slovenian companies to the language in
banking and other office forms; from TV language to commercial
advertising; from language in school books to the instruction manuals of
domestic products. JR also considered more simple language dilemmas
raised by citizens, most of the time related to pronunciation issues or
declension of loanwords. A detailed presentation and a critical evaluation
of its work demands would require a separate study and is beyond the
purposes of the present article, so in the following section the paper will

64
Ibid., Report on JR, April 1985.
65
Ibid., Report on the Council, September 1985; Programmatic Guidelines for
1987.
66
Ibid., Minutes, 6.3.1990.
216 Chapter Eight

briefly mention just a few statements related to TV language as examples

of JR’s modus operandi.
Between 1980 and 1990 more than 40 statements involved and
criticised different aspects of TV language. Beside the question of the high
percentage of TV programmes in non-Slovenian languages–which, despite
the start of TV ‘Slovenisation’ in the 60s, was still a live issue–67 other
frequent targets of critics were the orthoepy, orthography and some prosodic
features of TV speakers, both professional and non-professional.68 (By
professional speakers we mean linguistically trained speakers such as
newscast hosts, TV announcers and news journalists in general.) In the
70s, due to the introduction of a new radio broadcast station, Val 202,
established in 1972, that gave precedence to live and ‘interactive
broadcasts’, the quality of spoken language in the media in general started
to ‘relax’ or 'democratise', as some research has defined the phenomenon.
That meant that there was an increase of non-standard language forms on
TV, to the detriment of the standard spoken language.69 The JR also
received several letters from citizens complaining about an unacceptably
high presence of Ljubljana dialect in some TV programmes.70 Other
targets of critics were the bureaucratic language and style-related features,
foreign words and grammatical errors.

67
In 1982 and 1983 and particularly in 1985 and 1986, the JR received a lot of
protests from the audience about cultural and children’s programmes in Serbo-
Croatian, broadcast without subtitles on TV Ljubljana (cf. n. 345 1988). In 1985,
22% of the schedule of the first channel of RTV came from other republics (in
their language), while the second channel aired 91% of its content in languages of
other republics (mainly in Serbo-Croatian). The other republics, on the other hand,
transmitted less than 1% of their broadcasts in Slovenian (cf. n. 228, 1985). In
1987 the second TV channel of RTV Ljubljana was still mainly in Serbo-Croatian
(cf. the letter of JR to Politika [1987], n. 319 [1987]). Other statements regarding
the use of Serbo-Croatian or other foreign languages–i.e. English–on TV are: n.
231, 1985; n. 291, 300, 313 (1987); n. 371,1989.
68
N. 290, 292 (1987); n. 338, 366, 369, (1988); 396, 1989.
69
Hotimir Tivadar, “Aktualna vprašanja slovenskega pravoreþja,” in Wspóáczesna
polska i sáoweĔska sytuacja jĊzykowa/redakcja naukowa, eds. Stanisáaw Gajda,
Ada Vidoviþ Muha (Opole: Uniwersytet Opolski; Ljubljana: Filozofska fakulteta,
2003).
70
N. 235 (on political language on TV), 1985; n. 243 and 244 (on sport broadcasts
language), 1986; 326 (on incorrect terminology), 1987; n. 334 (on inappropriate
use of words), 347 (on the adequacy of formal – non-formal) and 356, 1988; n. 381
and 404, 1989.
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 217

3.4. TV Ljubljana’s Language Culture Actants in the 80s

The issues discussed so far have been concerned with the external
initiatives related to TV language. However, there were also internal
endeavours to cultivate language culture made by four main actants–
within television itself–from the very start of RTV Ljubljana: The Centre
for Internal Education (CII), the Proofreading Department, the external
and internal popularisation of language culture carried out by various
editorial departments in TV and the ‘Programme Council for Language’
(PSJ). The awareness that spoken media, above all others, bore the most
weight on linguistic behaviour and influenced language culture gradually
increased. Starting from the establishment of Radio in 1928 and TV
Ljubljana in 1958, a significant shift in TV efforts for language culture is
detectable in the 80s.
The first actant was an institution born within the radio where, from its
start in the 30s, there was a sort of internal school where future radio-
speakers (both journalists and announcers) received linguistic training for
performances. Indeed, in contrast to TV, in the debates on media speech
the radio’s linguistic level was often praised as generally adequate and
cultivated. The duties of the radio school were later transferred to the CII,
which with the establishment of TV became also responsible for training
TV speakers, conducting individual elocution exercises. S., a former
announcer interviewed for this research, when remembering the speech
training she experienced in the 60s, had fond memories of her teachers,
particularly the phonetician and announcer Majda Šubiþ, while she also
pointed out that it was “hard and exhausting” as it took place in parallel
with other work-related tasks.71 Although there is no reliable data on its
foundation, it is widely known that the Centre’s efforts towards training
and development of speech culture became more systematic in the 70s. In
the aftermath of the establishment of the radio channel Val 202–which, as
previously mentioned, started to ‘democratise’ media spoken
communication with live shows and more spontaneous rather than scripted
speech–the correctness of spoken language gradually faded. In light of this
phenomenon, the Centre had to organise elocution and speech training
more intensively and systematically to properly confront the decline. In
the 80s this increased attention found the form–in addition to the normal
training–in the publication of internal brochures on orthoepic issues and in
the intensified activity of its internal magazine Naš govor.72

71
Stojkoviþ, Personal interview, 2013.
72
ARS/1215 Attachment to the minutes, 24.3.1988.
218 Chapter Eight

The second actant, as the first, evolved from within radio. The
development of the Proofreading Department was a long-term process,
since texts, either due to lack of time, negligence or other reasons, often
bypassed the proofreaders. It took a while before journalists started to
respect the proposals and corrections of the proofreaders.73 Another long-
term process was–mostly due to the constant lack of staff–the
professionalisation of the department in RTV. As in previous years and
regardless of the linguists’ and other intellectuals’ calls, in the 80s there
were no changes in the number of employees. Instead of the suggested
number of ten, there were only four full-time proofreaders, with the
occasional addition of voluntary ones. On the other hand, their duties were
formally and extensively regulated for the first time in years.74 An
interesting fact concerning this actant is an anecdote told by the former
proofreader G. When she was working in TV (1975–1983), a visiting BBC
employee expressed his surprise about the very fact of the existence of a
Proofreading Department by exclaiming

“that at the BBC it would be impossible to be a journalist without

proficient knowledge of the English language; journalists with
inappropriate language knowledge would have never been employed in the
first place!”75

TV actively popularised language culture, both within its ranks and to the
general public. Television’s role as a populariser is the third actant
detected. In the previous paragraphs we saw that TV linguistic
programmes and broadcasts on language matters were more or less a
constant presence within TV, even if not continuously. In the 80s, due to
the personal initiative of several employees and in response to the
‘Portorož Consultation’s’ demands, once again mini-series of TV
broadcasts on language went on air. There was a total of as many as three
regular linguistic broadcasts: “Linguistic highlights” (edited by Ovsec,
1987), “Textual-linguistic highlights” (edited by Korošec, a series of 10
broadcasts, aired in 1986) plus a series of broadcasts with a linguistic
theme as part of the programme “Grain to grain” (edited by Golob and
Kuhar, a series of 15 broadcasts, aired from 1980 to 1982).76 As far as the

73
Ibid., Kriþaþ: May 1981.
74
Ibid., TV-Informator, n. 3/1988.
75
Golob, Personal interview, 2013.
76
Mostly in the first half of the decade. Apart from two “Kulturne diagonale” of
2.2.1982 and 14.4.83, there were also newscasts regarding language on 15.5.81,
27.11.80, Feb. 82 and several broadcasts of the programme “Signs” (1982)
(Hafner, 2013).
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 219

internal popularisation of language culture is concerned–i.e. the linguistic

columns specifically devoted to TV employees–archival data shows that it
was an innovation introduced in the 80s. In the first half of the decade on
the internal magazine Kriþaþ, issued by the RTV Ljubljana, Maribor and
Koper Work Collective, there was the ‘linguistic grindstone’ “Slovenian
on RTV.”77
The true shift in TV language culture is embodied in the establishment
of a council for language within TV itself as a direct consequence of the
70s debates. Shortly after the ‘Bled Consultation’, RTV’s Assembly
introduced the first ‘Common Panel for Language’ (1978), which had the
remit to monitor language and speech culture on RTV.78 We didn’t find
detailed information about its work, as most of the TV documents
examined focus on financial and administrative issues rather than on
language culture. It is worth mentioning though that within the public
debate on the RTV Ljubljana broadcasting schedule for 1981, some
delegates praised the achievements in speech culture.79 In the first half of
the 80s, in response to the conclusions and proposals of the ‘Portorož
Consultation’ the RTV Assembly started to analyse the issue more
comprehensively. Between 1981 and 1983 it established a new ‘Panel for
Language Culture’ on two separate occasions. Just as in the case of the 70s
Panel, these two also did not have the expected influence on the general
language culture, and by 1985 there was already another proposal to
constitute a new Panel ex novo.80 After a lengthy debate on the matter, the
RTV Assembly appointed a new ‘Program Council for Language’ (PSJ)
on its 4th regular meeting. The PSJ’s duties were to function as a
counselling organ, to stimulate professional debates on issues of language
praxis and theory and to monitor the linguistic quality and competence of
on-air speakers–in short to enforce RTV’s language policy.81 The PSJ had
a mixed membership that included representatives of socio-political

77
The term 'linguistic grindstone' (Slov. jezikovni brus) describes a particular kind
of rubric that differentiates itself from classical language columns, merely listing
incorrect linguistic choices while providing more adequate alternatives without any
detailed explanation. It is in essence a swift sharpening tool for language in its
practical use. For more information on the concept of ‘linguistic grindstone’ cf.
Jože Toporišiþ, Enciklopedija slovenskega jezika (Ljubljana: Cankarjeva založba,
1992) and Kalin-Golob, Jezikovna kultura in jezikovni kotiþki.
78
ARS 1215, Attachment to the minutes of RTV Assembly, April 1980.
79
Ibid., Kriþaþ: January, 1981.
80
Ibid., Kriþaþ: November 1983; Attachment to the minutes of RTV Assembly,
26.6.85.
81
Ibid., Attachment to the minutes of RTV Assembly, 1988.
220 Chapter Eight

organisations and linguists. Its main activities, as it can be deduced from

the archival sources, were: a) critical post factum evaluation of RTV
language; b) analysis of organisational and content related issues of RTV’s
language policy and c) critical evaluation and actual intervention in the
speech training of TV speakers.82 During its two-year term, the PSJ met
only six times, but managed to take into consideration a wide range of
issues. In this sense, compared to the complete lack of data on the work of
the panels that preceded it, the Council’s activities testify the increased
interest of TV in its own language.

Conclusion: “They’re selling fog again!”:*

Inadequacies of TV Speech between Orthoepical
Dilemmas and the Bureaucratic Style
As we saw, in socialist Slovenia the question of TV language culture
was not of secondary importance. From the establishment of TV in
Yugoslavia, it was under close scrutiny of intellectuals and the audience
alike, and to a different extent also on politicians’ agenda. The language
question, in light of the cohesive and representative functions of standard
Slovenian, could not help but take into consideration how the language
was used in the public sphere and particularly in the media.
The question took on explicit political connotations in two decades
which were crucial for both Yugoslavia and Slovenia: the 60s and the 80s.
The so-called ‘struggle for equality of the Slovenian language’ then, in the
context of the broader economical-political crisis the federation underwent
in the two decades–which raised the issue of inter-republican relations and
led to a temporary liberalisation era at first, and to the dissolution of the
country later–is the linguistic-political expression of the ‘traditional
Slovenian defensive policy’. After all, the struggle could also be interpreted
as an indicator of some latent Slovenian tendencies towards a more
democratic and (con)federated Yugoslavia: more Slovenian in school
programmes, on TV and in administration forms in the end substantially
means more Slovenian in the Slovenian republic–and more autonomy for
the republics in their internal matters. It has to be said, though, that these
tendencies were not continuous or always equally embraced by the
political class and the intelligentsia.

82
Ibid., Minutes 23.3.1988; Attachment to the minutes, 1987; Minutes, 9.6.1989;
Attachment to the minutes (1987–1989).
*
In Slovenian “Že spet meglo prodajajo!” (Golob, Personal Interview, 2013).
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 221

The question of TV-language is one of the fields where it is possible to

register this gradual and alternate commingling of politics, intellectuals
and a wider audience. Political engagement played a significant role
within the ‘Slovenisation’ of TV in the 60s, as its intervention was
decisive for the establishment of a newscast in Slovenian. In the 70s it
played a different, less factual and more organizational role together with
the intellectuals in the critical problematisation of the language question in
general, which resulted in the ‘Portorož Consultation’. With the councils
and boards established within the SZDL–the second most important socio-
political organisation after the ZKJ–the political engagement for language
culture on TV and in Slovenia in general reached its formal climax. As a
result of more than twenty years of debate, a relevant shift in the
awareness of TV’s linguistic impact on audiences took place in the 80s.
That said, the linguistic issues were not definitively solved through the
intense debates on the matter and they still persisted even after Slovenia
became independent, albeit in different ways. Indeed, the TV language
culture is still the subject of research, debates and quarrels, to which the
development of commercial TV stations–slightly less respectful of
standard Slovenian than national TV–, and the phenomenon of linguistic
globalisation have undoubtedly contributed. Recently, a former TV sports
journalist sent an open letter to RTV complaining about the low standards
of TV speech,83 while debates on the supposedly negative influence of the
English language are always heated.
The linguistic weaknesses and inadequacies that were constantly
targeted by critics are repeatedly mentioned throughout this paper. I do
believe, however, that to conclude it would be appropriate to briefly reflect
on some of the most criticised aspects. On the orthoepical and prosodic
levels, sentence intonation and the pronunciation of foreign proper and
common nouns were often deemed inadequate. These were aspects with
which professional speakers, despite their training, still had problems.84
Apart from the full-time announcers and anchors, pronunciation errors
were also very common for most of the speakers, influenced by dialect.
Highly criticised were also the use of non-standard language forms and
orthographic errors found in the written material circulating behind the
scenes. At the lexical and syntactical levels, the influence of other
languages was very strong (mainly Serbo-Croatian and English). Also very
common were declension and conjugation errors–it should be noted that
some of these problems are present even nowadays. However, the most

83
Hafner, Personal interview, 2013.
84
Stojkoviþ, Personal interview, 2013.
222 Chapter Eight

criticised inadequacy of all was the ‘bureaucratic style’. TV is a spoken

medium that, with its discourse, both mirrors and co-creates societies,
communities and identities. As the critical discourse approach pointed out,
TV discourse holds political power (Gramsci would call this power
hegemonic) and is liable to manipulation. TV discourse indeed does not
only influence the linguistic behaviour of its audience (like helping
standardisation or spreading ‘trendy’ words and new expressions), but can
also significantly influence public opinion in general. The lack of clarity of
political and journalistic language, be it intentional or unintentional, often
led to the incomprehensibility of the message, leaving room for the
possibility of ‘manipulating the masses’. Also, as repeatedly stated by
slavists in the newspapers' language columns, forums, meetings and
consultations, lack of clarity caused an incomplete participation of the
citizens in the socio-political life within the Yugoslavian socialist self-
management system. The abstract, convoluted and twisted style of the
political ‘self-managed’ language had indeed a huge influence on the
journalistic style, and therefore on the language of TV reports and talk
shows on social, political and economic topics. This kind of
communication could be highly incomprehensible and substantially empty,
which is ingeniously encapsuled in the popular saying that spread through
the TV corridors: “They’re selling fog again!”85 The bureaucratic style of
Slovenian, or ‘activist lingo’, was quite widespread in the media and
considered a serious linguistic style problem (cf. The Škofja Loka Seminar
on the issue in 1983). Its main characteristics were the verbose and empty
nature of its sentences (usually very long, with a grandiloquent periphrasis,
semantic redundancy, full of clichés, nominal subsequent determinations,
elaborate syntax full of subordinate clauses, excessive use of ‘trendy’
words or sayings for a wider appeal) and the frequent adoption of foreign
syntax and lexicon.
It should be clear at this point that the issues of language culture in the
media are manifold and exceptionally persistent throughout Slovenia's
recent history. Not only have they resisted the many efforts to eradicate
errors or at least improve the language, but have–with the expansion of the
media landscape–multiplied and presented new and even tougher
challenges to the linguists and intellectuals who strive to preserve standard
Slovenian from the endangerment and marginalisation that such a small
language incurs under the pressure of the ever increasing cultural
globalisation. While this chapter's objective was merely to summarise two

85
Golob, Personal interview, 2013.
 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 223

decades of these often futile efforts, it is with hope and anticipation that
we look at what is yet to come for contemporary Slovenian.

Bibliography
Archival Sources
ARS (Arhiv Republike Slovenije), box 1215, Radiotelevizija Slovenija
(1928–). Technical Units: 157; 606; 1022–1023.
ARS, inventory box 537, Socialistiþna zveza delovnega ljudstva Slovenije,
(1952–1990). Technical Units: 1350, 1353, 1358.

Magazine and Newspapers Sources

Delo: issues of 1965–68.
Stock 808.63-094.5 (497.12): “Slovenšþina v javni rabi” (1979–1990).
Jezik in slovstvo: issues of 1960, 1966, 1968, 1971–72, 1975, 1978.
Naši razgledi: issues of 196061, 1964, 1966, 1976.
Sodobnost: issues of 1965, 1967, 1970-71.

Oral Sources
Golob, B. (2013): Personal interview. Audio record in possession of the
author.
Hafner, J. (2013): Personal interview. Audio record in possession of the
author.
Stojkoviþ, S. (2013): Personal interview. Written record in possession of
the author.

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 TV as a Linguistic Issue in Yugoslavian Slovenia 225

Pušnik, Maruša. “Udomaþenje televizije na Slovenskem javne in zasebne

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Pušnik, Maruša. “Flirting with Television in Socialism. Proletarian
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Repe, Božo. Slovenci v osemdesetih letih. Ljubljana: Zveza zgodovinskih
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––. Jutri je nov dan. Slovenci in razpad Jugoslavije. Ljubljana: Modrijan,
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 CHAPTER NINE

“MAGIC APPARATUS” AND “WINDOW

TO THE FOREIGN WORLD”?
THE IMPACT OF TELEVISION AND FOREIGN
BROADCASTS ON SOCIETY AND STATE-
SOCIETY RELATIONS IN SOCIALIST ALBANIA

IDRIT IDRIZI

Introduction
In the Albanian post-socialist collective memory, television is lauded
as having been a “magic apparatus”, while foreign broadcasts are
celebrated as having provided a “window to the foreign world” during
Socialism. Furthermore, the population’s subversive practices to receive
foreign broadcast signals are described in a heroic narrative. Reportedly,
many people watched foreign broadcasts despite the wealth of political,
penal, and technical measures undertaken by the highly repressive and
ideologically rigid regime in the 1970s and 1980s. Overall, television and
foreign broadcasts are conferred great significance, described in a
grandiose manner. This perception is mainly based on anecdotal evidence,
while scientific research is almost nonexistent.1 The narrative is

The research was supported by the Doctoral Fellowship Programme of the
Austrian Academy of Sciences (DOC) (1.3.2012 - 30.11.2014).
1
To my knowledge, there is only one author who conducted scientific research in
the above-mentioned field. Drawing on interviews with contemporary witnesses,
Nicola Mai partially addressed the consumption of Italian television in socialist
Albania in the following publications: Nicola Mai, “‘Italy is Beautiful’. The Role
of Italian Television in Albanian Migration to Italy,” in Media and Migration.
Constructions of Mobility and Difference, eds. Russell King and Nancy Wood
(London and New York: Routledge, 2001), 95-109; Nick Mai, “‘Looking for a
More Modern Life…’: the Role of Italian Television in the Albanian Migration to
228 Chapter Nine

predominantly shaped by intellectuals and artists resident in the capital

Tirana or other major urban centres. Of the experiences of ‘ordinary
citizens’ and especially rural population little is known.
Drawing on a wealth of sources (archive records, semi-structured
interviews with contemporary witnesses, memoires, reports by
international human rights organisations, articles in socialist and post-
socialist media), this article explores the significance of television and
foreign broadcasts in socialist Albania and more specifically their impact
on larger parts of the population and on state-society relations. While the
sources include various documents referring to the whole socialist period,
my own archival research and contemporary witness interviews focus on
the timeframe between 1976 and 1985 which roughly corresponds to the
period of the self-imposed isolation. The article does not constitute an
exhaustive research. Instead, its aim is to look into this topic from different
perspectives and formulate initial hypotheses. The research on television
and foreign transmissions to socialist Albania is in its very infancy and
only future studies will enable us to have a clearer picture about their
significance and impact.
This paper represents the theoretical view that the socialist rule was an
“asymmetric power relationship” between “ruling” and “ruled” actors
marked by a diversity of interaction processes, complexity and paradoxes.2

Italy,” in Westminster Papers in Communication and Culture 1(1) (2004), 3-22.

Available online:
https://www.westminster.ac.uk/__data/assets/pdf_file/0011/20216/002WPCC-
Vol1-No1-Nick_Mai.pdf. Despite this, the history of television and foreign
transmissions to socialist Albania is an almost completely blank area. A few
publications provide some figures cited from official statistics: Beate Düning,
“Massenmedien,” in Südosteuropa-Handbuch. Volume VII: Albanien, ed. Klaus-
Detlev Grothusen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 615-634;
Raymond Hutchings, “The Infrastructure of the Albanian Economy,” in Albanien
im Umbruch. Eine Bestandsaufnahme, ed. Franz-Lothar Altmann (München:
Oldenbourg, 1990), 139-170, here: 160; Peter R. Prifti, Socialist Albania Since
1944. Domestic and Foreign Developments (Cambridge, Massachusetts and
London: MIT Press, 1978), 131. Others provide general information mainly based
on anecdotal evidence and unreferenced sources: Hamit Boriçi and Mark Marku,
Histori e shtypit shqiptar. Nga fillimet deri në ditët tona [History of the Albanian
Press. From the Beginnings Until Today] (Tiranë: SHBLU, 2010), 236-237, 241-
242; Artan Fuga, Monolog: Mediat dhe propaganda totalitare [Monologue: Media
and the Totalitarian Propaganda] (Tiranë: Dudaj, 2010).
2
The theoretical view of this paper is based on the concept of “rule as social
practice” designed by Alf Lüdtke – cf. Alf Lüdtke, “Einleitung: Herrschaft als
soziale Praxis,” in Herrschaft als soziale Praxis: Historische und sozial-
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 229

Following this approach, the paper maintains that researching the history
of television and foreign media consumption can make a significant
contribution to understanding the nature of the Albanian socialist rule, its
complexity and paradoxes. As one of the least developed European
countries in economic and technological terms and one of the most
ideologically rigid and repressive Eastern Bloc States in the post-Stalin
era, socialist Albania was marked by specific conditions.3 Furthermore, the
self-imposed isolation of the country in the second half of the 1970s and in
the 1980s and the ideological doctrine of “imperialist-revisionist enemy
encirclement” were unique in post-war Europe.4 This paper will show how
this specific national context shaped the rise of television as a mass

anthropologische Studien, ed. Alf Lüdtke (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,

1991.), 9-63, and expanded by Thomas Lindenberger – cf. Thomas Lindenberger,
“Die Diktatur der Grenzen. Zur Einleitung,” in Herrschaft und Eigen-Sinn in der
Diktatur. Studien zur Gesellschaftsgeschichte der DDR, ed. Thomas Lindenberger
(Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau, 1999), 13-44. Furthermore, the following
publications are relevant: Mihai-D. Grigore, Radu Harald Dinu and Marc
Živojinoviü (eds.), Herrschaft in Südosteuropa. Kultur- und sozialwissenschaftliche
Perspektiven, (Göttingen: V&R unipress, 2012); Rainer Gries, “Zur Ästhetik und
Architektur von Propagemen. Überlegungen zu einer Propagandageschichte als
Kulturgeschichte,” in Kultur der Propaganda, ed. Rainer Gries and Wolfgang
Schmale (Bochum: Winkler, 2005), 9-35; Joachim von Puttkamer, “Sozialistische
Staatlichkeit. Eine historische Annäherung,” in Sozialistische Staatlichkeit.
Vorträge der Tagung des Collegium Carolinum in Bad Wiessee vom 5. bis 8.
November 2009, ed. Jana Osterkamp and Joachim von Puttkamer (München:
Oldenbourg, 2012), 1-18.
3
The research of Albanian socialism is still in its infancy. The most
comprehensive overview of socialist Albania offers: Klaus-Detlev Grothusen (ed.),
Südosteuropa-Handbuch. Volume VII: Albanien, (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck &
Ruprecht, 1993). For the peculiarities of the Albanian socialist system and
ideology see especially: Bernhard Tönnes, Sonderfall Albanien. Enver Hoxhas
“eigener Weg” und die historischen Ursprünge seiner Ideologie (München:
Oldenbourg, 1980); Arshi Pipa, Albanian Stalinism: Ideo-Political Aspects
(Boulder: East European Monographs and New York: Columbia University Press,
1990). For the repressive character of the Albanian regime see furthermore:
Amnesty International, (henceforth: AI) Albania. Political Imprisonment and the
Law (London: Amnesty International Publications, 1984), available
online:http://www.amnesty.org/en/library/asset/EUR11/004/1984/en/e688790d-
e83a-4c6b-b487-fdfbe223b7f0/eur110041984en.pdf; Minnesota Lawyers
International Human Rights Committee (henceforth: MLIHRC), Human Rights in
the People’s Socialist Republic of Albania (Minneapolis, Minnesota, 1990).
4
Cf. Klaus-Detlev Grothusen, “Außenpolitik,” in Südosteuropa-Handbuch.
Volume VII: Albanien, ed. Grothusen, 86-156, here: 135-145; Michael Schmidt-
Neke, “Politisches System,” in ibid., 169-242, here: 203-205.
230 Chapter Nine

medium and the consumption of foreign media, partially producing

paradoxical outcomes.
To start with, the article provides some basic information about the
broadcasting sector in and foreign broadcast transmissions to socialist
Albania. The next section looks at the impact of television and foreign
broadcast in urban centres. Following this, the approach of party
leadership towards foreign broadcasts and their consumption is presented.
Then, the paper explores the impact of television and foreign broadcast
from the perspective of ‘ordinary citizens’. Finally, the conclusions will be
summarised.

Broadcasting in and to Socialist Albania

The advent of television broadcasting in socialist Albania was on 29
April 1960 when the so-called “Television Experimental Centre”
performed the first general test broadcast. The equipment was donated by
the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) and the German
Democratic Republic (GDR) and installed under the guidance of two
technicians from the GDR. The Albanian staff consisted of three
technicians, one cameraman and one editor who was also a presenter.5
The Albanian television station remained at an experimental stage
throughout the 1960s. Until 1965, it broadcast three days a week for about
two hours per day. Its signal covered only the capital Tirana and the
nearby coastal city Durrës.6 The Albanian authorities were originally
hoping to receive equipment and assistance from other socialist states of
the Eastern Bloc which in the end did not happen due to the break-up with
the USSR in 1961.7
Regular broadcasting started in 1971. Programme times were from 6 to
8.30/9p.m. and on Sundays also in the morning. The broadcasting time
remained restricted beyond the fall of communism (in 1992: 5.30 to
10.30p.m.). Colour broadcasting was introduced in 1981 and by 1983
made up around 70% of the total programming. In 1986, the television
signal reached a near countrywide reception.8

5
“Në Tiranë u ngrit një qendër eksperimentale televizioni” [In Tirana a television
experimental centre was set up], Zëri i Popullit (henceforth: ZiP), May 1, 1960;
Fuga, Monolog, 74.
6
Boriçi and Marku. Histori e shtypit shqiptar, 236.
7
“Në Tiranë u ngrit një qendër eksperimentale televizioni,” ZiP, May 1, 1960;
Fuga, Monolog, 74-75.
8
Boriçi and Marku, Histori e shtypit shqiptar, 236; Düning, Massenmedien, 628.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 231

In 1972, Albania started also manufacturing its own television sets.

They were assembled from imported components at a plant in Durrës.
Before that, television sets were imported, but no figures are available. In
1972, a total of 15,000 sets were manufactured locally.9 The figure of
yearly manufactured sets increased to 21,000 in 1980 and 23,000 in
1989.10 In 1984, there was roughly one television set for every 15
inhabitants and a total number of 173,000 sets.11 In 1989, about 48% of
families owned a television set, while around 74% owned a radio set. In
rural areas, where 64.5% of the overall population lived, the percentage of
families owning a television set and of those owning a radio set was
respectively around 34% and 73%.12 A comparative look into figures of
television sets in other socialist countries demonstrates a sharp contrast. In
1970, when in Albania television sets could only be found mainly in the
houses of the communist elite, in some socialist countries of the Eastern
Bloc the proportions of households possessing television sets were already
higher than they had ever reached in socialist Albania: 73.6% in the GDR,
74% in Czechoslovak Socialist Republic (CSSR), between 79% and 83%
in Hungary, and 51% in the USSR. Shortly before the fall of socialism,
there were 2.2 to 2.7 times more television sets per household in the GDR,
CSSR, Poland, Hungary and USSR than in Albania.13
The sharp contrast in the figures presented above can be explained by
the general backwardness of Albania in terms of economic-technological
development. Albania entered socialism as “the farthest removed of any

9
Prifti, Socialist Albania Since 1944, 131.
10
Düning, Massenmedien, 628.
11
Hutchings, The Infrastructure of the Albanian Economy, 160. The report of the
“Minnesota Lawyers International Human Rights Committee” provides different
figures. According to its estimation, there were 500,000 radios and 250,000
televisions in 1984 (MLIHRC, Human Rights in the People’s Socialist Republic of
Albania, 107). Artan Fuga provides again another figure. According to him, there
were 300,000 television sets in the 1980s. However, Fuga does not quote any
source (cf. Fuga, Monolog, 75).
12
The percentage figures are estimated on the basis of absolute numbers provided
by: Vjetari statistikor i R.P.S. të Shqipërisë - Statistical Yearbook of P.S.R. of
Albania (Tiranë - Tirana, 1990), 34, 41, 45. The publication uses the term
“family”.
13
The figures concerning other socialist States originate from: Stephan Merl,
“Staat und Konsum in der Zentralverwaltungswirtschaft. Rußland und die
ostmitteleuropäischen Länder,” in Europäische Konsumgeschichte. Zur
Gesellschafts- und Kulturgeschichte des Konsums (18. bis 20. Jahrhundert), eds.
Hannes Siegrist, Hartmut Kaelble and Jürgen Kocka (Frankfurt/Main, New York:
Campus Verlag, 1997), 205-241, here: 227, 228.
232 Chapter Nine

European nation from the industrialised, capitalist society that Marx

believed to be a prerequisite for transition to socialism and communism”14
and in the stage of a “backward, semi-feudal social and economic order”.15
Despite significant assistance from the USSR (until 1961) and the
People’s Republic of China (PRC) (in the 1960s until the mid-1970s), it
remained one of the poorest countries in Europe, not least because of the
isolationist foreign policy, autarkic economic model and very high defence
expenditure after the 1970s.16 The very low number of television sets
corresponds with the general poor equipment of households with electric
and electronic devices and is even significantly higher than some other
main goods belonging to this category. For instance, only 12.7% of the
Albanian families owned a washing machine in April 1989, while the
figure concerning refrigerators was 14.1%.17 In comparison, the distribution
of washing machines and refrigerators in the households of some other
socialist countries was as follows: 110.2% and 167.4% in the GDR; 148%
and 119% in the CSSR; 75% and 92% in the USSR.18
The signal of a number of foreign broadcasts could be received in
Albania. First of all, the signal of television broadcasts of neighbouring
countries Italy, Greece and Yugoslavia could be received in some regions,
at least along the coastline and respective borders.19 In addition, it is
reported that many foreign radio broadcasters such as Vatican Radio,
Radio Free Europe, Radio Cairo, Radio Pristina, Voice of America
(VOA), and the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) were listened
to.20

14
Prifti, Socialist Albania Since 1944, 22.
15
Ibid.
16
For the economic and technological development in socialist Albania see:
Michael Kaser, “Economic System,” in Südosteuropa-Handbuch. Volume VII:
Albanien, ed. Grothusen, 289-311; Adi Schnytzer, “Industry,” in ibid., 312-342;
Raymond Hutchings, “Internal Trade, Transportation, Supply and
Communications,” in ibid., 391-416.
17
Vjetari statistikor i R.P.S. të Shqipërisë - Statistical Yearbook of P.S.R. of
Albania, 41, 45.
18
Merl, Staat und Konsum in der Zentralverwaltungswirtschaft, 227-228.
19
Boriçi and Marku, Histori e shtypit shqiptar, 242; Hutchings, The Infrastructure
of the Albanian Economy, 160.
20
MLIHRC, Human Rights in the People’s Socialist Republic of Albania, 107; AI,
Albania, 12; Boriçi and Marku, Histori e shtypit shqiptar, 241; Jorgji Kote, Në
vetërrethim: Episode, ngjarje të jetuara dhe reflektime [In Self-encirclement.
Episodes, Experienced Events and Reflections] (Tiranë: Toena, 2012), 73.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 233

The reception of foreign signals emerged as an issue in the 1970s when

it became part of the “catalogue of alien manifestations”.21 Reportedly, by
the early 1970s, foreign broadcasts were watched relatively freely.22 In
June 1973, after the Fourth Plenum of the Party of Labour of Albania
(PLA, Albanian communist party), the regime undertook a wealth of
political, legal, socio-technical and purely technical measures to impede
the consumption of foreign media. While the political, social and technical
measures will be addressed later, the major legal step will be presented
under this section.
Listening to or watching foreign broadcasts and especially commenting
on them was indirectly punishable under Article 55 of the 1977 Penal
Code which stated:

“Fascist, anti-democratic, religious, war-mongering, or anti-socialist

agitation, and propaganda, as well as the preparation, dissemination or
possession for dissemination of literature with such content, in order to
weaken or undermine the state of the dictatorship of the Proletariat is
punishable by deprivation of liberty for a period of from three to ten years.
If these acts have been committed in wartime or have caused particularly
grave consequences, they are punishable by deprivation of liberty for not
less than ten years or by death.”23

The 1990 “Minnesota Lawyers International Human Rights Committee”

report and the 1984 “Amnesty International” report list a number of cases
in which people were detained for having listened to foreign broadcasts.24
The “Amnesty International Report” explicitly talks about “cases in which
charges of having engaged in ‘anti-state agitation and propaganda’ have
included accusations that defendants had listened to foreign radio
stations”.25 The most prominent case was the execution of the catholic
priest Father Shtjefen Kurti among others for having “listened to news
broadcasts from foreign radio stations and commented on them.”26
Reportedly, the consumption of foreign media became massive in the
period 1985-1990. Although no scientific research has been conducted yet,
Albanian scholars claim that this phenomenon probably played a “very big

21
Ibid., 138 [translated from Albanian].
22
Fuga, Monolog, 136.
23
Albanian Penal Code (1977), Article 55, cited in: MLIHRC, Human Rights in
the People’s Socialist Republic of Albania, 102.
24
Ibid., 58, 107; AI, Albania, 11-12, 15.
25
Ibid., 11.
26
Ibid., 15.
234 Chapter Nine

role”27 in increasing dissatisfaction and triggering the socio-political

developments which finally led to the fall of the socialist regime. This
paper can neither confirm nor reject this hypothesis, since the archival
sources and interview material used here focus on the pre-1985 period.
Intensive research is needed to comprehensively and precisely explore the
relationship between foreign media consumption and the complex social
and political developments in the last years of the socialist regime.

The Impact of Television and Foreign Broadcasts

in Urban Centres
As the figures presented in the previous section show, the rise of
television as a mass medium took place in Albania very late and slowly.
By the early 1970s, television sets were an almost exclusive privilege of
the communist elite. Following the start of local manufacturing, the
television set slowly entered the households of families with a “good
biography”28 including communists at different levels, cadres and
intelligentsia. In the 1970s, the television set enjoyed the status of a rare,
luxury and prestigious good. It was considered “like magic, like a
privilege, like an achievement, but maybe also like a politically delicate
instrument in use.”29
To purchase a locally manufactured black and white television the
Albanian consumer needed to save money for a long time. The price of a
television set was 4,000 Lek, while the average monthly salary of a worker
was 400 Lek.30 However, the price does not seem to have been the
determining factor for the low spread of television sets among ‘ordinary
citizens’. More importantly, television sets were not sold on the open

27
Boriçi and Marku, Histori e shtypit shqiptar, 242 [translated from Albanian].
Similarly, Artan Fuga claims that foreign broadcasts played “an important role”
and “transformed the whole Albanian society”: Fuga, Monolog, 76.
28
As a result of the application of ‘class struggle’ and ‘kin persecution’, society in
socialist Albania was divided according to party loyalty and social origin into
people with so-called “good biography” and people with “bad biography”. The
latter were subject to permanent discrimination. Cf. Georgia Kretsi, ““Good and
Bad Biography”. The Concept of Family Liability in the Practice of State
Domination in Socialist Albania,” in Schnittstellen. Gesellschaft, Nation, Konflikt
und Erinnerung in Südosteuropa: Festschrift für Holm Sundhaussen zum 65.
Geburtstag, eds. Ulf Brunnbauer, Andreas Helmedach and Stefan Troebst,
(München: Oldenbourg, 2007), 175-188.
29
Fuga, Monolog, 76 [translated from Albanian].
30
Boriçi and Marku, Histori e shtypit shqiptar, 236.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 235

market, but one needed a special authorisation from the local institutions
to be eligible to buy them. Families with a so-called “bad biography” had
little chance of getting the authorisation. Furthermore, political integrity
alone did not guarantee purchasing eligibility. The determining factor was
one’s place in the order set up by the authorities. Party members and their
relatives, cadres, families of “war heroes”, “heroes of socialist work” and
so on were privileged.31
The restrictive policy of the regime can be explained by mainly three
reasons. First, as already mentioned, due to the technological backwardness
and economic hardship only a limited number of television sets was
available. In this context, the distribution of television sets followed the
same scheme as for other scarce goods and resources. Politically
stigmatised people were generally deprived of them, politically most loyal
people enjoyed access first.32 Second, the Albanian regime does not seem
to have regarded television as a particularly important propaganda
medium, although it did use it for propaganda purposes. Rather than
television, the press, “figurative agitation” and the so-called “small
agitation” (agitation targeted at individuals or small groups through efforts
such as the collective reading of newspapers) were regarded as the most
effective and suitable propaganda methods.33 Third, contrary to other
socialist states in the post-Stalin era, in socialist Albania consumption and
pleasure were stigmatised, while state propaganda focused on heroism,
self-sacrifice, and economising.34 To illustrate this with an example from
the interviews I conducted, a contemporary witness remembers the
following: A local party committee member had visited his house once in
the early 1980s. After seeing a motorcycle in the front garden and a
television set in the living room, the communist had criticised the
interviewee saying:

“This [owning a motorcycle and a television set] is a premature wealth for

a [person belonging to the] working class [in this stage of Albanian
socialism].”35

31
Fuga, Monolog, 76.
32
Cf. Kretsi, “Good and Bad Biography”, 184.
33
Cf. Düning, Massenmedien, 620-623.
34
Cf. Nicola Mai, ‘Italy is Beautiful’, 98; Idrit Idrizi, “Der ‘Neue Mensch’ in der
Politik und Propaganda der Partei der Arbeit Albaniens in den 1960er Jahren,” in
Südost-Forschungen 69/70 (2010/2011), 252-283.
35
Transcript No. 22, Interview with Mr. Beqiri, 27.8.2012 [translated from
Albanian].
236 Chapter Nine

Despite the very limited number of television sets, the advent of

television in the 1970s had a strong societal echo, at least in urban areas.
As there was hardly any entertainment on offer, watching television was
very well-liked. Family life and living rooms were adjusted around
television programmes and television sets respectively. Television sound
became an integral part of family life. Distinctively, the expression
‘television room’ for living room emerged.36 People who owned a
television set got frequent visits from relatives and friends who did not
possess one themselves. Television had a very special effect which Jorgji
Kote, a contemporary witness who published his memoir in 2012,
remembers as follows:

“At that time when we did not have television [sets] yet, we used to go late
in the evenings from one corner to the other corner of Tirana, to friends
and relatives in order to get fascinated by the greatest boxer of all times
Cassius Clay, who then changed to Muhamed Ali (…) or also used to get
enraptured by the unique champion in figure skating in the ’80s, the East-
German Katarina Wit [sic!]; international football matches gave us
emotions that are still unforgettable now (…). We used to forget
completely where we were und where we lived.”37

The programmes addressed by Kote were partly broadcast by the

Albanian television, partly by foreign channels. As previously mentioned,
by 1973, watching foreign broadcasts was not prohibited. On the contrary,
it was wide-spread among the communist elite which pretended to use
foreign television as an information source about the ‘capitalist’ and
‘revisionist’ countries. For this purpose, an amplifier of the signal of
Italy’s national public broadcaster Radiotelevisione italiana (RAI) was
installed in the mountain Dajti near Tirana.38 As a consequence, initially,
when television sets started to enter the households of the ‘normal
population’, no restrictions with regard to receiving foreign broadcasts
were put in place by the regime. According to Albanian scholar Artan
Fuga, at this stage, the communist regime “had no experience with the
effect of foreign television over the Albanian public yet”39 and obviously
underestimated it.40 Furthermore, another factor seems to have played a
dominant role: The early 1970s correspond to a period of liberalisation in
Albania. Its start was marked by a speech by the communist leader Enver

36
Fuga, Monolog, 75.
37
Kote, Në vetërrethim, 58 [translated from Albanian].
38
Fuga, Monolog, 136.
39
Ibid. [translated from Albanian].
40
Ibid.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 237

Hoxha41 in front of young people on 13 May 1970. Hoxha attacked

“conservatism” and required more freedom and entertaining activities for
the youth. Following this, the propaganda targeted “conservatism” as the
“enemy”, the Party line became more liberal, new cadres belonging to the
liberal wing of the Party were appointed in leading positions related to the
youth.42
Albanian Radio-Television played a leading role during the “liberal
intermezzo” of 1970-1973. Its newly appointed director Todi Lubonja was
a “pronounced ‘liberal’”.43 The degree of politicised broadcast programmes
decreased, while more entertainment, music and special programmes
targeting young audiences were aired.44 A second channel of Radio Tirana
started to broadcast Albanian easy-listening music and also foreign
music.45 At the 11th Music Festival of Albanian Radio-Television in
December 1972, some artists performed wearing western fashioned
clothing and hairstyles and sung western influenced music.46
In the early 1970s, as a consequence of the liberalisation of the
Albanian Radio-Television and especially due to contact with western
media, Albanian youth started to get familiar with western culture.
Noticeably, this was a ‘privilege’ of almost exclusively the youth living in
big urban centres along the coastal side where the reception of Italian
television was good and the distribution of television sets much higher
than elsewhere. A contemporary witness from Tirana remembered:

“Along the Adria seaside, school children listened to the Italian music of
Radio RAI and then entertained themselves in the evenings with Looney

41
Enver Hoxha was the leader of PLA (1943-1985) and of socialist Albania from
the communist seizure of power in 1944/45 until his death in 1985. He shaped the
politics in socialist Albania decisively and enjoyed the status of “the referee of all
national and international issues” (Schmidt-Neke, Politisches System, 212
[translated from German]). For further information on Hoxha’s biography, role and
myth see: ibid., 211-214; James S. O’Donnell, A Coming of Age: Albania under
Enver Hoxha (Boulder: East European Monographs, and New York: Columbia
University Press, 1999), 193-234; Bernd J. Fischer, “Enver Hoxha and the Stalinist
Dictatorship in Albania,” in Balkan Strongmen. Dictators and Authoritarian
Rulers of South Eastern Europe, ed. Bernd J. Fischer (West Lafayette, Indiana:
Purdue University Press, 2007), 239-268.
42
Kote, Në vetërrethim, 125-127.
43
Michael Schmidt-Neke, “Innenpolitik,” in Südosteuropa-Handbuch. Volume
VII: Albanien, ed. Grothusen, 57-85, here: 74 [translated from German].
44
Kote, Në vetërrethim, 128.
45
Fuga, Monolog, 73.
46
Schmidt-Neke, Innenpolitik, 74.
238 Chapter Nine

Tunes cartoons or with Raffaella Carrà’s flying hair or with the dramatic
questions of Mike Buongiorno in Rischia Tutto; in the big cities of Albania
a generation taken hostage mentally in Italy was growing”.47

The growing popularity of western media and culture alarmed the

regime, especially the conservative wing of the party leadership which
advocated the radical break-up of any contact with the “degenerated
bourgeois culture” and the West in general. On the Fourth Plenum of the
Central Committee of the PLA (PLA-CC) on 26 June 1973 Enver Hoxha
stated:

“It is precisely this culture, coated with a glossy veneer, accompanied by

sensational advertisement, handled in the most commercial way and
backed up and financed by the bourgeoisie, that inundates the cinema and
television screens, magazines, newspapers and radio broadcasts, all the
mass information and propaganda media. Its objective is to turn the
ordinary man into a passive consumer of poisonous bourgeois ideas, and to
make this consumption an addiction. Not only have we nothing to learn
from this culture, no reason to impart it to our masses and youth, but we
must reject it contemptuously and fight it with determination.”48

In further consequence, Hoxha noted

“certain alien manifestations which have been observed in the tastes,
conduct and unseemly behaviour of a few young people (…) the spread of
certain vulgar, alien tastes in music and art, the adoption of extravagant
and ugly fashions, and unpleasant behaviour contrary to socialist ethics and
the positive traditions of our people (…) degenerate ‘importations’ as long
hair, extravagant dress, screaming jungle music, coarse language,
shameless behaviour and so on”

and warned:

47
Xha Xhai, “Kur të emancipon tjetri (X)” [When the Other Emancipates You
(X)], in Peizazhe.com, July 27, 2012, accessed November 13, 2014,
http://peizazhe.com/2012/07/27/kur-te-emancipon-tjetri-x/ [translated from
Albanian].
48
Enver Hoxha, “Intensify the Ideological Struggle Against Alien Manifestations
and Liberal Attitudes Towards Them (From the Report Submitted to the 4th
Plenum of the CC of the PLA) (June 26, 1973),” in Enver Hoxha, Selected Works.
Volume IV: February 1966 - July 1975 (Tirana: 8 Nëntori, 1982), 812-849, here:
828-829.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 239

“If the influences and manifestations of the bourgeois-revisionist way of

life are not nipped in the bud, they open the way to the corruption and
degeneration of people which are so dangerous to the cause of
Socialism.”49

After less than three years, the “liberal intermezzo” was brutally
interrupted. Following Hoxha’s speech, a massive campaign against
‘liberalism’ took place. High ranking party officials including Albanian
Radio and Television Director and PLA-CC member Todi Lubonja, the
President of the Albanian Labour Youth Union Rudi Monari, and PLA-CC
member and leading playwright Fadil Paçrami were imprisoned or
removed from their posts.50
The campaign was perceived by contemporary witnesses as an “anti-
liberal ‘earthquake’”51 and a “political ‘Hiroshima’ over the youth,
intelligentsia and over the whole Albanian people”.52 The Dajti amplifier
was shut off. The very popular Italian music festival “Sanremo” was
turned into a symbol of “degeneration”. Watching foreign broadcasts and
“imitation of foreign behaviours” became punishable. Growing sideburns
and beard, wearing cowboy trousers, blue jeans, mini-skirts, “seductive”
dresses and big sunglasses, singing foreign music and imitating foreign
artists were prohibited.53 Control and pressure over youth and artists was
increased. The intensity of political meetings grew. The aftermath of the
Fourth PLA-CC Plenum was characterised by criticism, self-criticism
rituals, and waves of arrests of young people, artists and officials in these
fields.54
The shutdown of the Dajti amplifier and the repressive measures did
not stop the consumption of Italian television. The signal became weaker,
but it could still be received, although not anywhere and at any time.
People started to manufacture antennae and experiment with different
techniques on how to amplify the signal:

“All over Tirana people talked about coaxial cables, signal amplifiers and
copper or aluminium bars. Everybody kept in his pocket an antenna
scheme, with the dimensions of the elements, in millimetres, hand

49
Ibid., 836.
50
Prifti, Socialist Albania Since 1944, 188-189; Schmidt-Neke, Innenpolitik, 74;
Geschichte der Partei der Arbeit Albaniens (Tirana: 8 Nëntori, 1982, second
edition), 501-506.
51
Kote, Në vetërrethim, 131 [translated from Albanian].
52
Ibid., 133 [translated from Albanian].
53
Ibid., 138-139.
54
Ibid., 141-150; Schmidt-Neke, Innenpolitik, 74.
240 Chapter Nine

scribbled; as if copied from an esoteric manuscript (…). Every antenna

scheme, no matter what the origin, had a magic nature, like a cryptical,
geometric proportion formula. Everybody who could stole bars from the
state–and it was known why bars were stolen. Sometimes it happened that
one saw somebody walking on the street carrying a ready manufactured
antenna under his arm, covered with a sheet as if it was an anti-tank missile
or another fatal weapon–which should be protected somehow from the
disagreeing look of the State.”55

The “antenna war”56 started. Monitoring groups were activated by

local party committees to go and check the reception capacity of antennae.
In reaction, people employed various practices to circumvent the
inspections. Antennae receiving the signal of foreign broadcasts were set
up in the night and taken down in the morning, hidden in the roof, among
tree foliage, in rooms, set up when the chance of detection was low like,
for instance, when it was raining.57 Furthermore, in some border regions,
the broadcast signal of neighbouring countries could be received without
an antenna at all.58
Manufacturing a functional antenna and hiding it from the monitoring
groups were not the only challenges faced by people trying to receive the
signal of foreign television. After 1973, the regime undertook another
technical measure: the rearrangement of locally assembled television sets
so that they could receive only the VHF signal. Thus, Italian and Yugoslav
channels broadcasting in UHF waves could not be received. However,
manufacturers invented a special electronic device called “kanoçe”
(English: tin) which consisted of several transistors, a condenser and a tin
and was able to adapt UHF waves into VHF waves as well as amplify the
signal.59
While after the shut-down of the Dajti amplifier the signal of Italian
television could be received almost only during good weather in summer,
the quality of the Yugoslav television’s signal became stronger in the
1970s, especially after the launch of the second Yugoslav television
channel. Consequently, in northern and some parts of central Albania the

55
Xha Xhai, Kur të emancipon tjetri (X) [translated from Albanian].
56
Fuga, Monolog, 141 [translated from Albanian].
57
Cf. Ibid.; Xha Xhai, Kur të emancipon tjetri (X).
58
Fuga, Monolog, 140.
59
Mai, ‘Italy is Beautiful’, 107; Xha Xhai, Kur të emancipon tjetri (X); “Një
‘antenë-kanoçe’ dhuratë për Pipo Baudon në Shqipëri,” [A tin-antenna as gift for
Pipo Baudo [sic!] in Albania] in “peshku pa uje”, June 28, 2009, accessed
November 13, 2014, http://arkivi.peshkupauje.com/2009/06/nje-antene-kanoce-
dhurate-per-pipo.html.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 241

audience of Yugoslav television increased. From the point of view of the

communist leadership, this was a much more worrying phenomenon than
the consumption of Italian television, since Tito’s Yugoslavia was one of
the main enemy images of Hoxha’s regime. In order to stop the reception
of the Yugoslav broadcast the regime installed jammers.60 Due to the lack
of research, no data on jammers is available. However, their existence has
been confirmed by technicians who installed and handled them.61
Jamming could not block the signal of Yugoslav television completely.
Its efficiency depended again on a number of factors such as region, house
position etc. and varied accordingly. Foreign transmissions were most
heavily jammed in the capital Tirana. However, at night the quality of
signal was relatively good despite jamming. Furthermore, various amateur
techniques to weaken the effect of jammers were invented.62
In addition to jamming foreign transmissions, the regime started the
“game with the television signal”.63 Depending on the broadcast
programme the transmission was sometimes impeded, while at other times
amplified, as described in the following quote:

“Are you watching a film, let’s say, about the activity of a mafia group?
Suddenly an erotic scene, a bit exaggerated, follows the previous film
sequences. Immediately the screen goes white. Everybody understands that
the amplifying aerial has interrupted its functioning. Are you watching the
news bulletin? The chronic moves to Vatican where there is an appearance
of the Pope in front of the people. Immediately the signal interrupts again.
It restarts one or two minutes later, a few seconds after the broadcasting of
the former chronic considered as harmful for the Albanian public is
over”.64

Paradoxically, the signal was mostly impeded during the broadcast of

entertainment programmes and advertisement, while it was amplified
during the broadcast of bulletins. The night bulletins of “Rai Uno” and
“Rai Due” were even aired by Albanian television. Supposedly, the regime
regarded news about criminality, drugs, and strikes as ‘useful’ and
‘confirmation’ of its own propaganda. On the contrary, entertainment
programmes and advertisements were considered as harmful because they
showed “a life among cars, villas, swimming pools”65 which was in sharp

60
Xha Xhai, Kur të emancipon tjetri (X).
61
“Një ‘antenë-kanoçe’ dhuratë për Pipo Baudon në Shqipëri”.
62
Xha Xhai, Kur të emancipon tjetri (X).
63
Fuga, Monolog, 137 [translated from Albanian].
64
Ibid., 138 [translated from Albanian].
65
Ibid., 139 [translated from Albanian].
242 Chapter Nine

contrast to the Albanian reality characterised by extreme poverty,

omnipresence of politics, ideology and propaganda, as well as lack of
entertainment.66
To sum up, the communist elite, cadres, and intelligentsia were
familiar with foreign broadcasts, as well increasingly during the 1980s
parts of the ‘normal population’ with an “unblemished political biography”
predominantly living in urban centres, first and foremost in the capital
Tirana. Preventative measures by the regime showed decreasing success.
Furthermore, during the 1980s, the regime’s approach towards foreign
broadcasts was modified, not only focusing on impeding their reception,
but also trying to make use of them through amplifying the signal during
the broadcast of selected programmes or programme sequences and even
airing the RAI bulletin by Albanian Radio-Television.

Foreign broadcasts from the perspective of the party

leadership
As already broached, the PLA represented a radical doctrine which
included among others the notion that the country was “besieged” by
“imperialist” and “revisionist enemies” who in collaboration with “inner
enemies” aimed to influence the population and trigger ideological and
political subversion. As a consequence of this worldview, the Albanian
regime propagated as well as intensively carried out the “struggle against
hostile activities” and the “struggle against alien manifestations”.
Combatting foreign media consumption was an integral part of both these
“struggles” and, thus, was usually included in reports dealing with these
issues.67
Foreign broadcasts were regarded as both dissemination channels and a
source of “hostile propaganda”. According to this view, “foreign enemies”
exerted “ideological and political pressure” on Albania through the
transmission of foreign broadcasts, while “inner enemies” made use of and
spread the propaganda broadcast by the foreign channels.68

66
Cf. Ibid., 137-139; Xha Xhai, Kur të emancipon tjetri (X).
67
Cf. for instance: Arkivi Qendror Shtetëror i Republikës së Shqipërisë
(henceforth: AQSH) [Central State Archive of the Republic of Albania]/Arkivi i
Partisë (henceforth: AP) [Archive of the Party], Struktura (henceforth: STR) [The
structure], Year 1984, File 39, sheets: 31-36; AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1979, File 10,
sheets: 290-296; AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1980, File 49, sheets: 25-30.
68
Cf. AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1984, File 39, sheets: 32, 48, 51; AQSH/AP, STR,
Year 1980, File 49, sheet: 4; AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1979, File 10, sheets: 10, 94,
293.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 243

Remarkably, the PLA reports note that most of the people watched
entertainment programmes including sports, music and films (and not
political programmes).69 However, this was considered as the first stage of
a process that if not interrupted gradually led to criminal or hostile
activity.70 In PLA and Ministry of Interior reports dealing with “criminal”
and “hostile activities” the consumption of foreign media is referred to as
having an important role as an influencing factor. Foreign broadcasts are
said to have encouraged “liberalism”, “de-politicisation”, “degeneration”,
crimes and “hostile activities”.71 In a number of cases the reports claim to
have evidence that defendants committed crimes, spread anti-state
propaganda or tried to escape (which was considered as one of the most
severe hostile acts) under the influence of foreign broadcasts.72
Overall, the communist leadership showed a radical hostility towards
foreign broadcasts and criminalised their consumption. The discourse on
this issue was characterised by a strong rhetoric, frequently using terms
such as “enemy”, “criminal and hostile activity”, “degeneration”, “anti-
state propaganda”, “police”, “persecution”, “court”.
The dangerousness the PLA leadership ascribed to foreign broadcasts
both in public and internal documents stands in sharp contrast to the
largely superficial and inconsistent approach adopted by both party
leadership and local party committees when dealing with this issue.
First, no system of regular and comprehensive monitoring of foreign
broadcast transmissions, consumption, programmes, audiences and
audience reactions existed. These issues were addressed in PLA reports at
times, but scarcely and irregularly. Characteristic formulations were for
instance: “foreign radio-television programmes are watched by many
people”,73 “there have also been comments on films and songs watched in
these programmes”,74 “foreign radio-television programmes (…) are
followed and continue to be followed in some zones and districts of our
country”.75 More concrete and detailed references are, in most cases,
absent. A PLA-CC report of the year 1984 complains that local party
committees “often” do not know which programmes are watched or they
know the title of the programme, but have no information about the

69
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1984, File 39, sheets: 32, 51.
70
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1980, File 47, sheets: 9-10.
71
Ibid.; AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1979, File 10, sheet: 293.
72
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1984, File 39, sheets: 33, 51; AQSH/AP, STR, Year
1980, File 47, sheets: 9-10; AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1979, File 10, sheet: 293.
73
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1980, File 47, sheet: 2 [translated from Albanian].
74
Ibid. [translated from Albanian].
75
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1979, File 10, sheet: 293 [translated from Albanian].
244 Chapter Nine

reaction of the audience.76 Much of the data about foreign broadcasts was
based on “whispers”77 and other sources of doubtful origin and accuracy.78
Second, the cooperation and information sharing system inside the
party apparatus did not function properly. Authorities at different levels
talked at cross purposes or did not share information. Usually the PLA-CC
blamed local committees for insufficient efforts made in preventing
foreign media consumption and urged them to pay more attention to this
issue.79 Local party committees pointed out technical constraints and asked
for assistance such as installing amplifiers or replacing individual antennae
with collective ones.80 Overburdened with such requirements, the PLA-CC
urged local party committees to tackle the consumption of foreign media
through educational and propaganda measures.81 In response, local party
committees undertook campaigns which were largely superficial and
barely effective. Sometimes authorities did not inform each other82 or used
careful formulations such as “sometimes (people) may also watch”83
foreign broadcasts in order to avoid trouble.
The superficial and inconsistent approach of the PLA will be illustrated
by the following example: On 31 July 1980 the so-called “Section of
Instructors of the PLA-CC” compiled a report entitled “Information on the
watching of foreign television programmes” based on the evidence
extracted from the local party committees’ periodical reports.84 The report
draws a worrying picture from the point of view of the PLA with regard to
the consumption of foreign broadcasts.
First, it notes an increasing number of people watching Yugoslav,
Italian and Greek television. According to the report, the audience
consisted mainly of young people, but also cadres and party members. In
many regions along the coast, foreign transmissions could be received
without an antenna. In regions where an antenna was needed some people
set them up inside the house, while others “do not care”:85 They set up

76
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1984, File 39, sheets: 32-33.
77
AQSH/AP, Organet Udhëheqëse (henceforth: OU) [The Leading Organs], Year
1984, File 32, sheet: 7 [translated from Albanian].
78
Cf. AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1984, File 39, sheet: 33; AQSH/AP, OU, Year 1984,
File 32, sheet: 27.
79
Cf. AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1984, File 39, sheet: 50-51.
80
Cf. Ibid., sheets: 20-21, 35-36.
81
Cf. Ibid., sheet: 51.
82
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1982, File 12, sheet: 12.
83
AQSH/AP, OU, Year 1981, File 148, sheet: 4 [translated from Albanian].
84
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1980, File 47, sheets: 8-11.
85
Ibid., sheet: 9 [translated from Albanian].
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 245

antennae on the roof, turned them openly towards the direction that Italian
or Yugoslav transmissions could be received and when confronted claimed
that the wind blew the antenna in that direction.86
Second, the report criticises the passive attitude of local party
committees and public towards the phenomenon of foreign media
reception. The “movement to not watch and not listen to foreign television
and radio stations” as well as other “concrete activities” were non-existent
or insufficient.87 Some local party committees even “cultivated the wrong
concept that ‘we cannot do anything’”88 to stop the reception of foreign
transmissions, “nurturing” thereby the “indifferentism and passivity in the
ranks of citizens”.89
Despite highlighting the dangerousness of watching foreign television
and criticising the formal and insufficient work done by local party
committees to stop it, the report provides very loose and superficial
recommendations formulated in a clichéd language. It urges local party
committees to “look deeper into these problems”,90 raise the issue in
public and private, and to “engage better in the ideological battle against
alien manifestations and liberal stances against them”.91
In order to increase the pressure on local party committees, on 1
October 1980, the PLA-CC sent a circular letter entitled “About deepening
the struggle against some alien manifestations”.92 The letter is
characterised by standard and general ideological formulations. Despite
the strong rhetoric in some places, the content is poor. In short, the
communists at the grassroots are reminded of “the lessons of the Party and
of comrade Enver”, criticised for their superficial efforts and tolerating
“alien manifestations” including the consumption of foreign media. The
core part of the text consists of several questions at the end which call the
communists to account:

“Why are alien manifestations tolerated and underestimated? Why are they
not strongly combated? Why is work not being done in earnest, patiently
and with all forms to educate and correct the people?”93

86
Ibid.
87
Ibid., sheet: 11.
88
Ibid., sheet: 8 [translated from Albanian].
89
Ibid. [translated from Albanian].
90
Ibid., sheet: 11 [translated from Albanian].
91
Ibid. [translated from Albanian].
92
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1980, File 49, sheets: 25-30.
93
Ibid., sheet: 29 [translated from Albanian].
246 Chapter Nine

The letter is accompanied by written instructions which urge party

organisations to “analyse” the PLA letter, find out the causes of “alien
manifestations”, undertake “concrete and practical measures” and report
back within less than one month.94 The writing stresses specifically that
the analysis should be done “well” and not “superficially”.95
In response, party organisations praised the PLA letter which allegedly
“corresponded also to the concern Party organisations and committees had
themselves”96 as well as reported about “lively discussions”97 and “concrete
measures and actions”.98 However, despite campaigns to remove antennae
no other concrete steps are mentioned.99
While the responses of party organisations do not show any evidence
of substantial achievements, the PLA-CC officials nevertheless praised the
work done on the ground. A report of the “Group of Instructors” notes, on
the one hand, that “despite the work done there are still many workers that
watch foreign television programmes”,100 while pointing out, on the other
hand, that “these issues have been addressed widely”.101 Again, the
campaign to remove antennae capable of receiving foreign transmissions
is the only reported concrete measure.102
Overall, the campaign against “alien manifestations” of the year 1980
reveals the powerlessness of the PLA to impede the reception of foreign
broadcasts and the self-delusionary practices applied at both top and
ground level while dealing with this issue. While neither technical nor
coercive means could decisively impede the consumption of foreign
media, the importance of measures of a “political” and “educational
nature” were inflated. The implementation of such measures did not solve
the problem in practice, but was rather part of rule legitimising rituals
through which communists and functionaries at both top and ground level
could mask their failure.

94
Ibid., sheet: 31-32.
95
Ibid., sheet: 31.
96
Ibid., sheet: 34 [translated from Albanian].
97
Ibid. [translated from Albanian].
98
Ibid., sheet: 35 [translated from Albanian].
99
Ibid.
100
AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1981, File 39, sheet: 5 [translated from Albanian].
101
Ibid. [translated from Albanian].
102
Ibid.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 247

Television and Foreign Broadcasts from the Perspective

of “Ordinary Citizens”
The perspective of “ordinary citizens” has been highly underrepresented
in the post-socialist memory discourses on foreign media consumption in
Socialism. In 2012, I conducted a set of 29 semi-structured interviews in
the region of Shkodra103 on everyday life and experiences of the “normal
population” with the communist dictatorship.104 Among others I asked
interviewees questions related to television and foreign broadcasts. In the
following their answers will be analysed in a summarised form.
The advent of television in the 1970s affected primarily “privileged
families”, communists, cadres and intelligentsia living in urban centres.
“Ordinary citizens” such as workers and peasants could only afford a
television set or were allowed to purchase it predominantly in the second
half of the 1980s or only after the fall of Communism. Furthermore,
people with a “bad biography” possessed at most radios, but no television
sets. Among the 29 former “ordinary citizens” I interviewed, 14 reported
that they did not have a television set in socialist times, while the vast
majority of those who had been in possession of a television set reported
that they purchased it in the late 1980s.
Watching foreign television was widespread predominantly among
young people who were curious to know more about foreign countries and
in search of entertainment. Foreign broadcasts appeared especially attractive
because they represented the only connection to the foreign world as well
as showing a cultural landscape in sharp contrast to the Albanian one.
Because of the isolationist foreign policy in the 1970s and 1980s and
the fact that contact with the foreign world was already very restricted in
the early decades of the socialist period, “ordinary people” had literally
almost no knowledge about foreign countries. They perceived the foreign
world, foreign people and foreign cultures as totally alien. As an
interviewee told me, while watching foreign television for the first time it

103
The area is close to today’s Albania-Montenegro (formerly Albania-
Yugoslavia) border.
104
The interviews were conducted for the PhD thesis at the University of Vienna
entitled “Herrschaft und Alltag im albanischen Spätsozialismus (1976-1985)”. The
sample included interviewees of different generations and was relatively balanced
in terms of gender and urban-rural population proportion. As arranged with the
interviewees, for reasons of anonymity and confidentiality their names cited in this
and other publications have been replaced with alias names.
248 Chapter Nine

surprised him even that dogs in foreign countries did not bark differently
than Albanian dogs did.105
Foreign television showed wealth, entertainment and pleasure which
contemporary witnesses and especially young people lacked in their life.
Music, sports, advertisement, entertaining shows and films were most
watched. People did not understand the language or understood it only to a
limited extent.106 However, they still found it interesting and entertaining
to watch “nice things”.107 Huge festivals, masses of young people singing
and dancing, glamour, beautiful colours, villas, big stadiums, cars and
similar images fascinated the audience. The lifestyle depicted in foreign
broadcasts was “like night and day different”108 to the quality of life in
Albania.
Until the late 1980s, the vast majority of interviewees watched foreign
television only occasionally. Very few interviewees said that they
manufactured an antenna to receive foreign transmissions. The majority
watched only foreign broadcasts that could be received without an
antenna. Watching foreign broadcasts and especially setting up antennae
for the reception of foreign transmissions was considered very dangerous.
Interviewees feared that they would be imprisoned for it and charged for
anti-state propaganda. Those interviewees who watched foreign broadcasts
reported that they talked about the programmes only with very few trusted
friends or they did not tell anybody at all outside the family.
Just over half of the interviewees did not watch foreign broadcasts. The
predominant cause was that they did not own a television set. However,
besides this, around a quarter of the interviewees who possessed a
television set did not receive foreign transmissions either. Two main
factors deeply rooted in the political culture of the contemporary witnesses
can be identified as the main causes behind this.
First, a considerable number of interviewees held the worldview that
one should strictly obey the rules set up by the State. This was both an
attitude shaped by the threat of repression and an internalised value which
guided the behaviour of contemporary witnesses. The widespread use of
violence and torture by regular police and secret police, the extensive
system of prisons and labour camps, the usually long prison sentences and

105
Transcript No. 21, Interview with Mr. Marku, 25.8.2012.
106
In the region I conducted the interviews in mostly Yugoslav television was
watched due to the good quality of its signal.
107
Transcript No. 25, Interview with Ms. Brahja, 6.9.2012 [translated from
Albanian].
108
Transcript No. 23, Interview with Mr. Ahmeti, 3.9.2012 [translated from
Albanian].
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 249

the stigmatisation of family members of prisoners appeared to be very

intimidating to contemporary witnesses and promoted the worldview that a
single “false action” resulted in life-long suffering of whole families.
Among the interviewees prevailed the attitude that nothing could escape
the surveillance apparatus. People felt monitored even at home and
expected secret police informants to spy behind windows and walls. There
was a widespread psychosis that “among four people one was a spy”.109
Remarkably, many interviewees did not blame the state for its
repressive character, but disliked non-conformist actions because of the
risk of punishment they would entail. This applied also to the consumption
of foreign media. The strong rhetoric against the “hostile encirclement”,
“anti-socialist propaganda” and “alien manifestations” clearly showed its
illegal character, while concrete measures such as anti-antenna campaigns
and the imprisonment of people caught watching foreign broadcasts
demonstrated the persistency of the state in this “struggle”. As a
consequence, many people not only avoided receiving foreign
transmissions, but also rejected it as “bad”, because it was punishable. As
an interviewee argued, he did not watch foreign broadcasts because he
“knew it as a bad thing”.110
Second, foreign broadcasts did not attract some interviewees, because
in socialist times they had neither knowledge about the foreign world nor
an interest in knowing more about it. Other countries appeared to them as
another world, far away and with no connection to the Albanian reality.
Consequently, they regarded the foreign world as irrelevant. As an
interviewee said “one cannot be curious of something that one does not see
and does not know”.111
The indifferent attitude towards the foreign world was generated partly
by the extremely low mobility of the population. For a considerable part of
the rural population even other regions of the country appeared alien. The
national transport system was rudimentary, the road network “even by
Balkan standards (…) sparse”.112 Private ownership of cars was legally
forbidden.113 Legal provisions and strict bureaucratic procedures impeded

109
This expression was mentioned in almost half of the interviews. Furthermore,
cf. Mai, ‘Italy is Beautiful’, 97-98; Schmidt-Neke, Politisches System, 206-207.
110
Transcript No. 11, Interview with Mr. Jahjaj, 7.4.2012 [translated from
Albanian].
111
Transcript No. 3, Interview with Mr. Qamili, 11.3.2012 [translated from
Albanian].
112
Hutchings, Internal Trade, Transportation, Supply and Communications, 404.
113
Ibid., 402.
250 Chapter Nine

internal mobility and migration.114 Overall, Raymond Hutchings’

assumption that “likely (…) a fairly high proportion of Albanians, tucked
away in villages, never moves at all”115 is to be agreed with.
Furthermore, people’s thoughts and endeavours were focused on
survival and everyday life. The population faced extreme poverty.
Consumer goods and even food were scarce. A number of interviewees
reported that especially during the period of isolation there were days
when they could not fill their stomachs. Under these conditions, thinking
and trying to know more about foreign countries appeared to them not
only irrelevant, but almost morally reprehensible.

Conclusion
The history of television in socialist Albania is closely entangled with
the history of foreign broadcasts consumption. Due to the late launch of
the Albanian television station, its limited resources and the specific
national conditions (isolationist policy on the one hand, availability of
transmissions from the neighbouring states Italy, Greece and Yugoslavia
in many parts of the country on the other) foreign broadcasts were of high
relevance. However, their consumption strongly varied through time,
space, and social status and political standing.
The history of both television and foreign broadcasts consumption was
shaped by the historical context, first and foremost by the country’s
economic and technological conditions, the repressive and ideologically
rigid character of its regime, and its isolation from the foreign world.
Largely because of a lack of economic and technological development,
the advent of television took place in Albania much later than in other
European countries. Furthermore, its rise as a mass medium was delayed

114
To mention two of them, guests who stayed longer than 48 hours had to fill in a
document, informing the organs of the Ministry of Interior. In order to migrate to
cities an authorisation was needed which was seldom issued. (See Georgia Kretsi,
Verfolgung und Gedächtnis in Albanien. Eine Analyse postsozialistischer
Erinnerungsstrategien (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2007), 54; Ulf Brunnbauer,
„Politische Entwicklung Südosteuropas von 1945 bis 1989/91,“ in Geschichte
Südosteuropas. Vom frühen Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart, ed. Konrad Clewing
and Oliver Jens Schmitt (Regensburg: Pustet, 2011), 597–650, here: 629.) The
publication of the “Minnesota Lawyers International Human Rights Committee”
reports on various obstacles travellers within the country faced, including the risk
of being beaten by the suspicious police (MLIHRC, Human Rights in the People’s
Socialist Republic of Albania, 63-65).
115
Hutchings, Internal Trade, Transportation, Supply and Communications, 403.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 251

for a very long time because of a number of factors. In the 1970s and
1980s, the country faced increasing economic hardship and lacked access
to modern technology as a result of the isolationist foreign policy and
economic model of autarky. The regime regarded the press, “figurative
agitation” and the so-called “small agitation” to be the most effective
methods of propaganda. Television, on the other hand, was considered
first as a “politically sensitive issue” because of the possibility to receive
foreign transmissions and second as an almost “premature wealth” in this
stage of Albanian Socialism. Ideologically, pleasure and consumption
were repelled as “manifestations of bourgeoisie culture”.
In the context of the ideological doctrine of “imperialist-revisionist
enemy encirclement”, the regime showed a radical hostile attitude towards
foreign broadcasts and adopted a wealth of measures of political, legal,
socio-technical, and technical nature to prevent their reception.
Paradoxically, in the 1980s, the regime both jammed the signal of foreign
broadcasts and amplified it during the broadcast of certain programmes or
programme sequences it considered useful for its own propaganda. The
isolationist policy of the communist regime had an ambivalent effect on
the perception and consumption of foreign media. While for a relatively
small part of the population mainly consisting of intelligentsia, cadres, and
educated party members, foreign broadcasts had a special attraction as the
only connection to the foreign world, the majority of “ordinary citizens”
was indifferent towards both foreign broadcasts and the foreign world until
the end period of Socialism. Their focus was on surviving under the
conditions of extreme poverty and avoiding the fierce repression of
deviant behaviour.
The “battle over foreign broadcasts signals” shows that certain
subversive strategies were to a considerable extent successful even in the
case of a highly repressive regime. On the other hand, the overall low
consumption of foreign media by the “normal population” demonstrates
that the acting power of “ruled actors” was largely restricted.
The history of television and foreign television consumption in
Albania includes two main contradictory aspects. First, watching foreign
television was not a genuinely dissident practice. On the contrary, as a
rule, people with “bad biographies” did not own a television set at all.
Watching foreign broadcasts was initiated as a practice by the communist
elite itself. By the mid-1980s, foreign broadcasts were watched primarily
by “privileged” families such as high ranking officials and by people with
a “good biography” such as communists at different levels, cadres, and
urban intelligentsia who again were to a large extent integrated into the
communist party. As a consequence, the “battle over foreign television
252 Chapter Nine

signals” was not a confrontation between the “regime” on the one side and
the “population” on the other side. Instead, the fronts were blurred and
actors representing or tightly connected to the party-state were both
oppressor and main consumer of foreign broadcasts.
Second, the regime’s hostile attitude to foreign broadcasts stands in
sharp contrast to the largely superficial and inconsistent approach adopted
by both party leadership and local party committees when dealing with
this issue. While neither technical nor coercive means could decisively
impede the consumption of foreign media, the party leadership talked up
measures of a “political” and “educational nature”. The latter were largely
inefficient in preventing the reception of foreign broadcasts by “privileged
families”, people with a “good biography” and urban intelligentsia.
Nevertheless, the strong rhetoric against foreign broadcasts, criminalisation
of foreign media consumption and permanent mobilisation of local
communists had a highly intimidating effect on the “normal population”
and largely put it off receiving foreign transmissions until the late 1980s.
The decisive factors in the “battle over foreign television signals” are
likely to be the very low number of television sets and the regime’s strict
control over their distribution. These aspects take on a key position when
evaluating the societal significance of foreign broadcasts and, overall,
television. Television was, indeed, a “magic apparatus” and foreign
broadcasts were a “window to the foreign world”, but only for a limited
proportion of the population that was politically eligible and financially
capable of purchasing television sets, and, furthermore, interested to know
more about the foreign world and foreign cultures. The majority of the
population was affected by the rise of television only in the second half in
the 1980s and came into contact with foreign broadcasts predominantly in
the last few years before the regime breakdown.

Bibliography
Archival Sources
Arkivi Qendror Shtetëror i Republikës së Shqipërisë (AQSH) [Central
State Archive of the Republic of Albania]/Arkivi i Partisë (AP)
[Archive of the Party], Struktura (STR) [The Structure]:
- AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1979, File 10.
- AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1980, File 47.
- AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1980, File 49.
- AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1981, File 39.
- AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1982, File 12.
 “Magic Apparatus” and “Window to the Foreign World”? 253

- AQSH/AP, STR, Year 1984, File 39.

AQSH/AP, Organet Udhëheqëse (OU) [The Leading Organs]:
- AQSH/AP, OU, Year 1981, File 148.
- AQSH/AP, OU, Year 1984, File 32.

Published Sources
Amnesty International, Albania. Political Imprisonment and the Law.
London: Amnesty International Publications, 1984.
Hoxha, Enver. “Intensify the Ideological Struggle Against Alien
Manifestations and Liberal Attitudes Towards Them (From the Report
Submitted to the 4th Plenum of the CC of the PLA) (June 26, 1973).”
In Enver Hoxha. Selected Works. Volume IV: February 1966 - July
1975. Tirana: 8 Nëntori, 1982, 812-849.
Kote, Jorgij. Në vetërrethim. Episode, ngjarje të jetuara dhe reflektime [In
Self-encirclement. Episodes, Experienced Events and Reflections]
Tiranë: Toena, 2012.
Minnesota Lawyers International Human Rights Committee, Human
Rights in the People’s Socialist Republic of Albania. Minneapolis:
Minnesota, 1990.
Vjetari statistikor i R.P.S. të Shqipërisë - Statistical Yearbook of P.S.R. of
Albania. Tiranë: Tirana, 1990.

Media Articles
“Në Tiranë u ngrit një qendër eksperimentale televizioni” [In Tirana a
television experimental centre was set up]. Zëri i Popullit, May 1,
1960.
“Një ‘antenë-kanoçe’ dhuratë për Pipo Baudon në Shqipëri” [A tin-
antenna as gift for Pipo Baudo [sic!] in Albania], In “peshku pa uje”,
June 28, 2009. Accessed November 13, 2014.
http://arkivi.peshkupauje.com/2009/06/nje-antene-kanoce-dhurate-per-
pipo.html.
Xha Xhai, “Kur të emancipon tjetri (X).” [When the other emancipates
you (X)], In Peizazhe.com, July 27, 2012. Accessed November 13,
2014. http://peizazhe.com/2012/07/27/kur-te-emancipon-tjetri-x/.

Interviews
Transcript No. 3, Interview with Mr. Qamili, 11.3.2012.
Transcript No. 11, Interview with Mr. Jahjaj, 7.4.2012.
254 Chapter Nine

Transcript No. 21, Interview with Mr. Marku, 25.8.2012.

Transcript No. 22, Interview with Mr. Beqiri, 27.8.2012.
Transcript No. 23, Interview with Mr. Ahmeti, 3.9.2012.
Transcript No. 25, Interview with Ms. Brahja, 6.9.2012.

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 IV.

THE FUTURE OF TELEVISION

BEYOND THE IRON CURTAIN
 CHAPTER TEN

FRAGMENTS AND MILLISECONDS:

AFTERTHOUGHTS ON TELEVISION
BEYOND THE IRON CURTAIN

JAMES SCHWOCH

Change, Continuity, Central Events, Historical Arcs

Lorenz Engell posits the 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing as the “central
event of television history” insofar as the global televising of this
endeavour marked a transition where television established itself “as an
agent of change, not just a witness to it.” Engell further observes this
meant the televising of the moon landing signified a change where “we
can almost speak of pre-Apollonian and post-Apollonian television.”1 This
chapter opens by borrowing and adapting from Engell’s observations
about television and the moon landing to posit another geopolitical event
of television history—the dismantling of the Berlin Wall in November
1989—and utilises the moon landing and the Berlin Wall TV events as a
double springboard to consider the splintering of the Iron Curtain as
another spatiality where, like the moon and the Wall, television changed.
Or so it seems that television changed, because both the 1969 moon
landing and 1989 Berlin Wall TV events carry and connote one of
television’s perceived opportunities of representation, the representation of
geopolitical change. Does television itself—as a medium, an apparatus, a
communication technology, a networked entity—change whenever it
records, reports, and represents geopolitical change? Or are there
continuities discernible in television across events of geopolitical change?
This situation is not likely an exclusive binary, in that television might, or
might not, or might somewhat change, suggesting this is better
conceptualised as some sort of potential continuum of change open to

1
Lorenz Engell, “Apollo TV: The Copernican Turn of the Gaze,” World Picture 7
(2012) at http://www.worldpicturejournal.com/WP_7/Engell.html.
 Fragments and Milliseconds 259

interpretation and analysis at both case-specific moments (such as

individual geopolitical TV events) and also potentially discernible across a
series of such events, over a longer duration. Perhaps changes in television
and changes in geopolitical events are potentially interlaced. If so, in what
ways are they interlaced and in what ways are changes in television and
changes in geopolitics separate and distinct strands? Does television
change geopolitics, does geopolitics change television, when and where
can historical change be observed, how and why can historical continuity
be traced?
To claim that television changed is, on the one hand, an astonishingly
easy offering. Scholars, pundits, critics, and fans (and many others) have
claimed a bewildering variety of changing moments for television since
the emergence of the phenomenon. In this sense, the ever-changing
moments of television compete with each other over claims to significance,
claims to which change could be, should be, or must be regarded as the
most significant change in television history—not so different from
competing claims to the most significant changes in geopolitical history.
In other words, there is an ongoing debate or competition in positing
ascending claims of significance that aim to identify and canonise the one
change in television, or in geopolitics, that was the ultimate change of all.
This is reminiscent of Kenneth Alder’s observation about the French
Revolution: “The French Revolution was not just one thing but many
things, although it was principally a contest to assert just what one thing
the Revolution was.”2 However, to retreat into a spiral of ascending,
never-ending relativism regarding the primacy of change can risk
counterproductivity in the collective research enterprise, including for
television studies. This suggests one reasonable corrective is sensibly
navigating this conceptual terrain of change, as, for example, exemplified
by Engell and his work on the 1969 moon landing as a seminal TV event.
As Andreas Fickers and Catherine Johnson stated, scholars writing
about television, particularly those utilising historical perspectives and
taken as a whole, have narrated a “surprising homogeneity” in first finding
television a project of modernisation and nation-building, later a project
changed by regulatory dynamics (particularly deregulatory dynamics) and
new infrastructural technologies (particularly satellites and the Internet) to
the project being changed once again as it was “catapulted” from the
national domain to the global domain. Fickers and Johnson offer an
“interpretivist approach” as a corrective alternative, an approach that does

2
Kenneth Alder, The Measure of All Things: The Seven-Year Odyssey and Hidden
Error that Transformed the World (New York: Free Press, 2002), 69.
260 Chapter Ten

not jettison visions of technological determinism, teleological modernism,

and globalisation as potential drivers, but does call for abandoning (or at
least tempering) these concepts as the exclusive or dominant shapers of
television history. Moving beyond these drivers means operationalising

“contextual and textual analysis of all kinds of sources, enabling television

as both a witness to and an actor in economic structures, social change,
political power, and cultural meaning.”3

This interpretivist approach expands opportunities for television studies.

Through the careful application of this rubric in research and scholarship,
the interpretivist approach might yield insights about television and major
geopolitical events that illuminate television as a witness to history and
television as an actor in history. It may illuminate changes and continuities
taking place in television—now more fully discerned via examination of
contextual and textual analysis of all kinds of sources—that not only
invoke new realisations about television as both a witness and an actor, but
also about television itself as a distinct phenomenon.
To build upon Engell and the notion of central events in television
history, and to offer up an interpretivist approach in the methodological
spirit of Fickers and Johnson, opens the possibility of crafting
afterthoughts about global television beyond the Iron Curtain by beginning
with comparisons of the moon landing in July 1969 and the Berlin Wall in
November 1989. Fickers and Johnson encourage the operationalisation of
“all kinds of sources” and I agree. I begin by way of evidential
comparison: television depicting fragments of the moon, and television
depicting fragments of the Berlin Wall. From these beginnings, the chapter
develops a trajectory toward the present day. This trajectory looks for
tracings, gleanings, and hints of some sort of historical continuity about
television itself as a distinct phenomenon. This trajectory arcs from the
Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV events through the Cold War TV
experiences of Eastern Europe, the splintering of the Iron Curtain, and to
the present condition of the global mobile social media viewer. Simply
put: the present condition of the global mobile social media viewer, like
the Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV events, can also be understood, in part,
as an experience of fragments and milliseconds. In some ways, that which
was represented and depicted to viewers by Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV
is now that which is experienced by current audiovisual users, living in the

3
Andreas Fickers and Catherine Johnson, “Transnational Television History: A
Comparative Approach,” Media History 16:1 (2010), 1-10 (this paragraph drawn
from first two pages.).
 Fragments and Milliseconds 261

present condition of everyday life as global mobile social media

participants.

Observation, Evidence, Operationalisation, Empiricism

Fragments are chosen as an entry point for this chapter, because both
the 1969 Moon TV event and the 1989 Berlin Wall TV event share one
common theme depicted in both cases by a significant amount of
congruent TV coverage: people collecting fragments from both physical
locations in order to take those collected fragments to different physical
locations. Moon rocks and Berlin Wall fragments may not, at least at first
glance, immediately and obviously open the door to a fuller understanding
of 1969 Moon TV and 1989 Berlin Wall TV as geopolitical events where
TV was present as a witness and actor. However, moon rocks and Berlin
Wall fragments as comparative evidence across both events do crack open
the door to a fuller understanding of television itself as a distinct
phenomenon, for in both cases the significant amount of attention
dedicated to globally televising the collection and removal of fragments
share a second continuity. Both events visually convey a story to global
audiences where all audiences generally experience the same shared set of
images, but do so with a diversity of audio information and cues:
announcers speaking in different languages, for example.4 There is a
paucity of globally shared aural experiences: the occasional chatter of the
astronauts with each other or with Mission Control during the Moon TV
event, or the background chants and songs, along with the occasional
police siren, of the Berlin Wall TV event. Sonically, both stories are
largely explained and narrated by news commentators reporting in their
national languages. The visually shared global experiences are in
contradistinction to the differing audio feeds: everyone is more or less
seeing the same thing, and most especially in both Moon TV and Berlin
Wall TV audiences see the collection of fragments from both locations,
visually depicting fragments set in motion by human activity. This
suggests that global television as a distinct phenomenon, whether or not
television is acting in and/or witnessing geopolitical events, likely has a
genealogy of differing sounds and shared images.5

4
In the case of globally shared images, the shared set of images includes the
gathering of fragments. There is also some diversity of images, for example
different logos of broadcast networks.
5
What might be called “global but not necessarily geopolitical TV event
examples” include disasters such as earthquakes or tsunamis; the completion, or
the destruction, of large edifices such as bridges or buildings; some sports events;
262 Chapter Ten

As this chapter unfolds, the discussion of televised fragments opens a

further discussion about television, spatiality, and mobility, taking into
account the depiction of mobile fragments and also introducing questions
about signal transmission and reception, often referred to in television
studies and media studies scholarship as signal flow, networking, or
connectivity, but discussed herein as signal rendezvous. The concept of
signal rendezvous in part stems from outer space travel and the Apollo 11
moon mission, with particular needs for constant signal rendezvous
between constantly moving objects: the Earth, the moon, the Apollo
Command Craft, the astronauts on the moon’s surface, and the moon
landing craft (the LEM or Lunar Excursion Module). Signal rendezvous
also engages questions of temporalities. Consideration of television and
temporality is first explored in this chapter by discussing the very slight
300 millisecond difference in Moon TV viewership between Australia and
the rest of the world, further detailed below. This slight temporal
difference in signal rendezvous and audience reception—milliseconds of
difference—posits differing milliseconds of signal rendezvous among
audiences as a second analytic concept, along with mobile fragments. This
also furthers a discussion of spatiality and mobility. Thus fragments and
milliseconds herein take on an empirical quality for analysis.
The televisual representation of fragmentation in conjunction with the
emergence of milliseconds as a manifestation of significance yields a
historical perspective about television, anchored in contextual and textual
analysis of televisual representations and in televisual manifestations of
temporality, spatiality, and mobility. In part, this analysis offers a
perspective on the question of television and geopolitical events, on
television as both a witness to and actor in geopolitics. This analytic
approach also yields a narrative continuity about television itself,
television as a distinct phenomenon with elements of both change and of
continuity from 1969 Moon TV and 1989 Berlin Wall TV to the
splintering of the Iron Curtain, the collapse of European Communism, and
for television studies, the transformation of the viewer from a fixed to a
mobile consumer. Thus afterthoughts about television beyond the Iron
Curtain, taken with the 1969 Moon TV and 1989 Berlin Wall TV events,
help sketch a trajectory of global television, from the moon to Berlin and
then beyond the Iron Curtain, as a catalyst for the present-day global
mobile social media condition. Changes are discernible in television as a
witness and as an actor in geopolitics, as well as for television as a distinct

or the oddities of human interest, such as stunts, feats, unusual things concerning
nature, or events such as the annual Pamplona bull run at San Fermin.
 Fragments and Milliseconds 263

phenomenon, in the historical arc from Moon TV to Berlin Wall TV to the

splintering of the Iron Curtain to the present day global mobile social
media condition.
Yet this chapter also projects an arc of historical continuity for
television as a distinct phenomenon, traced from the fragments and
milliseconds of both Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV to the ensuing
fragmentation and mobility of global viewers coincident with the
splintering of the Iron Curtain. In other words, the significance of the
televisual representation of fragments and milliseconds as shown in Moon
TV and Berlin Wall TV has some historical resonance with the global
transformation of audiences and their experiences of audiovisual
transmission and reception we now associate with global mobile social
media. This is an empirical transformation: the televisual representations
of fragments and milliseconds from Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV are
conceptually transformed in this chapter to become empirical qualities of
the present-day lived experiences of global mobile social media. There is a
historical continuity in the increasing significance of fragments and
milliseconds extending from Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV through the
splintering of the Iron Curtain and the subsequent fragmentation and
mobility of audiences formerly in fixed physical locations. Contemporary
global audiences are now fragmented, mobile, unmoored, and inhabiting a
contemporary world of global mobile social media, a world that is
increasingly shaped and defined by fragmented mobile users and their
daily experiences of signal rendezvous as measured in milliseconds. The
work of Paul Virilio and his concepts of dromology (a race for the mastery
of increasing speed) and the general accident (the concept that
technologies contain the potential conditions for their own destruction,
such as the possibility that the technology of the ship can become the
technology of the shipwreck) are also further employed and discussed
below.

Comparing Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV

With the moon landing, the first mission task accomplished by Neil
Armstrong after his one small step was the collection of a soil contingency
sample.6 A small amount of lunar surface material was gathered in a bag,

6
“Contingency Sample” at Apollo 11 Lunar Surface Journal, NASA online at
https://www.hq.nasa.gov/alsj/a117a11ContingencySample.html. For a summary of
the Apollo 11 mission, see the NASA Apollo 11 summary at
http://history.nasa.gov/SP-4029/Apollo_11a_Summary.htm.
264 Chapter Ten

and the bag was then placed by Armstrong in a thigh pocket of his space
suit, to ensure a lunar surface sample in case the upcoming lunar surface
activities of the mission were curtailed. Lunar surface activities continued
as planned, more surface material was gathered by Armstrong and Buzz
Aldrin, and the Apollo 11 crew returned to Earth with about 22 kilograms
of lunar surface material.7 I had a personal encounter with lunar surface
material (moon rocks) in 1970, when I was fifteen years old. I was part of
a contingent from my high school that visited the Governor of Wisconsin,
Warren Knowles. Governor Knowles had received from President Richard
Nixon a desktop memento that contained several small fragments of lunar
surface material embedded in a clear plastic, and he showed this object to
us. The scientific mission of Apollo 11 was to safely land on the moon,
conduct human activities on the moon including the collection of lunar
surface material, and safely return to Earth with the collected lunar surface
material, and this mission was accomplished. Although less remembered
today in comparison with Armstrong’s first step on the Moon, much of the
Apollo 11 lunar surface TV coverage was devoted to showing the
acquisition of lunar surface material: collecting fragments of the moon.
There are significant discontinuities in comparing 1969 Moon TV with
1989 Berlin Wall TV, particularly in terms of the careful planning and
control of the 1969 Moon TV event with the unexpected spontaneity of the
1989 Berlin Wall TV event. However, in terms of operationalising all
kinds of sources, a continuity of common source material is the central
role of fragments as a depicted set of tangible objects in both events,
tangible objects that were shown on TV as these fragmentary objects were
collected and removed from both physical locations. For both the Moon
and the Berlin Wall, the fragments were bits and pieces of the stage or
setting for the TV events. Both TV events are centrally grounded or
anchored by their physical locations more than their political, cultural, or
social contexts, despite the tremendous importance of those contexts to
both locations and both events. The moon and the Berlin Wall are both
represented as permanent spatial entities that are now capable of physical
transformation. TV shows that humans now have the ability to fragment
these physical locations and set those fragments into motion by removing
those fragments from the physical locations into which they had been
anchored. The attraction of spatiality, and of the transformation of those

7
“Apollo 11 Mission,” Lunar and Planetary Institute online at
http://www.lpi.usra.edu/lunar/missions/apollo/apollo_11/samples/.
 Fragments and Milliseconds 265

spaces from fixed to mobile, is paramount for both the moon and the
Berlin Wall.8
Another shared attribute of the 1969 Moon TV event and the 1989
Berlin Wall TV event is mobility. One aspect of shared mobility is the
mobility of fragments: fragments of spatial locales which formerly had a
physical permanence were now unmoored and in motion away from their
physical anchors. These fragments from the moon and Berlin Wall became
various manifestations of commodities.9 In both cases a portion of both
sets of fragments became archived in some form or another, stored and
preserved by various government agencies, museums, and similar
organisations. Additionally, both sets of fragments in some cases became
gifts or objects of ceremonial exchange that conveyed varying manifestations
of symbolism and meaning. Furthermore, in both cases both sets of
fragments eventually became commodities that could be owned by
individuals and institutions, and could be bought and sold through
mechanisms of public and private trade. This may be more apparent for
Berlin Wall fragments, but lunar surface fragments have also been
marketed to the general public. A recent example took place at the
Bonhams auction house Space History Sale of April 2014 where the lunar
module stowage strap of Apollo 12 Mission Commander Charles (Pete)

8
This concept of the depiction of geospatial locales (landmarks, urban areas,
edifices, nature, and similar) as central to the media consumption experience, often
more central than the storytelling, is an important theme in media studies. See, for
example, Thomas Gunning, “The Cinema of Attractions: Early Film, Its Spectator,
and the Avant-Garde,” Wide Angle 8:3, 4 (Fall, 1986). Gunning has several
publications exploring this concept of the cinema of attractions. See also Andreas
Fickers, “Presenting the ‘Window on the World’ to the World: Competing
Narratives of the Presentation of Television at the World’s Fairs in Paris (1937)
and New York (1939),” Historical Journal of Film Radio and Television (August
2008); James Schwoch, “‘Removing Some of the Romantic Aura of Distance and
Throwing Merciless Light on the Weaknesses of American Life’: Transatlantic
Tensions of Telstar, 1961-1963,” in Airy Curtains in the European Ether:
Broadcasting and the Cold War, eds. A. Badenoch, A. Fickers, and C. Henrich-
Franke (Baden-Baden: Nomos-Verlag, 2013); Wolfgang Schivelbusch, The
Railway Journey: The Industrialization of Time and Space in the 19th Century
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987).
9
For an outstanding analysis of the Apollo project and the global image of
America including Moon rocks, see Teasel Muir-Harmony, “Project Apollo, Cold
War Diplomacy, and the Framing of American Interdependence,” Ph. D.
dissertation, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Program in Science,
Technology, and Society, 2014. PDF at
http://dspace.mit.edu/handle/1721.1/93814.
266 Chapter Ten

Conrad, embedded with lunar dust after spending over 31 hours on the
lunar surface, was sold for an undisclosed sum.10
The mobility of fragments in both the Moon TV event and the Berlin
Wall TV event is bound up in the televised mobility of humans present
and active at the locales of both events. Both events show humans in
motion with similar motivations and using similar tools and technologies:
motivations to collect fragments, tools to procure and gather fragments,
and technologies to produce audiovisual records of these events. Both
events also depict human mobility in terms of demonstrative and celebratory
emotions, and these actions are shown at each location, as well as at many
locations remote from the moon and the Berlin Wall, thus depicting on-
camera protagonists as well as television audiences and media consumers
around the world expressing their reactions to the two events, interwoven
as part of the content and live coverage of both TV events. The global
circulation of TV images mobilises people, people located at the physical
locations of the events as well as people not at those locations. Audiences
are televised and recognised as active, consuming both TV events.
Liveness is connoted by including in the TV coverage various human
reactions and activities distant from both physical locations, yet activities
motivated by, concurrent with, and related to both events.11
The connotations of liveness with the global circulation of TV images
to include reactions and responses from humans not physically present at
either spatial location opens up opportunities to consider mobility,
temporality, spatiality, and signal rendezvous. Locational liveness is

10
Bonhams Space History Sale, 8 April 2014, Lot 241, “Conrad’s Lunar Module
Stowage Strap Embedded with Lunar Dust,” photo and description online at
https://www.bonhams.com/auctions/21425/lot/241/.
11
Connoting liveness is an unquantifiable claim, and is instead better understood
through various examples of the manifestations of personal experience in reaction
to the televising of such events. For one fascinating example linking both the
Berlin Wall and the moon, McKenzie Wark in his book Virtual Geography
recounts the personal experiences of Werner Kratschell and his spouse regarding
the breaching of the Berlin Wall: upon driving their automobile from East Berlin
through the breach, Kratschell’s spouse asked him to stop the car in the West, and
Kratschell recalls: “She only wants to put her foot down on the street just once.
Touching the ground. Armstrong after the moon landing. She has never been in the
West before.” Wark, Virtual Geography: Living with Global Media Events
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 58 (See also 235 note 19 for the
source of this account.) Wark offers a compelling reading of the Berlin Wall TV
events in chapter 3 of this book, and in the same chapter Wark also includes a
brief, cogent commentary on the relation of the Berlin Wall TV event to the moon
landing TV event.
 Fragments and Milliseconds 267

punctuated with audiovisual material such as maps, charts, still images,

and in particular, commentary from a range of individuals, with that
commentary routed through remote fixed locations. For Moon TV, the two
major remote fixed locations other than the Moon, LEM, and Command
Module of Apollo 11 are Mission Control in Houston, and broadcast
control rooms and news rooms. For Berlin Wall TV, the two major remote
fixed locations other than the Berlin Wall are national capitals, and
broadcast control rooms and news rooms. Additionally, the signal
rendezvous—a requirement for transmission, dissemination, and reception
of the TV events (as for any telecast)—becomes more pronounced and
apparent to audiences. Viewers can become aware that signal rendezvous
is global. Viewers of Moon TV can even become aware that signal
rendezvous extends beyond the planet, beginning on Earth with the launch
and then extending beyond the surface of the planet to the Apollo
spaceship in Earth’s orbit, the Apollo spaceship in outward-bound and
inward-bound Moon-Earth routes, in moon’s orbit, the LEM in descent
and ascent, the LEM and astronauts on the moon, and the return to Earth,
with the signal rendezvous upon or above the ocean surface during capsule
splashdown and recovery for Moon TV.
Signal rendezvous is extraordinarily complex in the Moon TV event.
Factors include the distance between the Earth and the moon, the rotation
of the Earth, and that signal rendezvous from the moon can only be
received upon the portion of the Earth facing the moon at any given
moment. Signal rendezvous is further complicated (particularly before and
after the lunar surface mission) by the movement of one, and at times two,
spacecraft transmitting signals (particularly a near-constant audio signal,
with the exception of Apollo 11 Command Module orbit segments behind
the moon, when audiovisual communication with the LEM and Earth was
impossible). The complexities of signal rendezvous engage transmission
and reception antennae on various mobile people or objects, each with
their own particular speed and trajectory: Earth, moon, Apollo 11 command
module, lunar vehicle LEM and crew descending to, upon, and then
ascending from the moon. Signal rendezvous must be constantly
maintained in order to communicate with each mobile entity, necessitating
the “handing off” of signals, as in global mobile social media. As stated
above, Command Module communication was not possible during the
portion of Command Module moon orbits that took the Command Module
behind the moon relative to Earth, although it could have been achieved by
placing a number of relay satellites in orbit around the moon, had NASA
deemed that feasible in terms of financial investment and technological
capabilities. The Apollo TV event created the conditions for unprecedented
268 Chapter Ten

complexity in signal rendezvous, a moment that, as Paul Virilio observes,

brought new levels of conceptual complexity to concepts such as altitude
and distance.12
In our contemporary world, this complexity is no longer novel but is
now an everyday experience infinitely promulgated across, below, and
above the surface of the planet as humans and objects equipped with
transmission-reception devices and in mobility, each with their distinct
speed, trajectory, and velocity, multiply and maintain signal rendezvous—
sometimes wittingly, more often unwittingly. CISCO Systems recently
estimated that by the end of 2014, “the number of mobile-connected
devices will exceed the number of people on earth, and by 2018 there will
be nearly 1.4 mobile devices per capita.”13 The complex signal rendezvous
evidenced by 1969 Moon TV is, in this sense, a historical continuity for
television as a distinct phenomenon, part of the transformative process
whereby television became a part of, and also helped shape, contemporary
global mobile social media experiences. Contemporary global mobile
social media users are now endlessly involved in a complex regime of
signal rendezvous with other human users, and also with computers,
vehicles,14 robots, algorithms, and machines, as a part of their everyday
experiences.
Virtually the entire Extra Vehicular Activity (known by the acronym
EVA, NASA terminology for the lunar surface mission) TV coverage
came from the moon to the Parkes Radio Telescope in Australia for further

12
“…altitude has become a pure and simple ‘distance’…the contemplation of an
island from one shore or another ceases to be essentially different from
contemplating the moon.” Virilio in The Virilio Reader, ed. James Der Derian,
(Malden and Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), 118.
13
The question of rendezvous for manned outer space vehicles was the topic of
Apollo 11 astronaut Buzz Aldrin’s Ph.D. dissertation at MIT; see Edwin Eugene
Aldrin Jr., “Line-of-Sight Guidance Techniques for Manned Orbital Rendezvous,”
Ph.D. dissertation, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Department of
Aeronautics and Astronautics, 1963, PDF online at
http://dspace.mit.edu/handle/1721.1/12652. Also see Cisco Visual Networking
Index: Global Mobile Data Traffic Forecast Update, 2013-2018, 5 February 2014,
at http://www.cisco.com/c/en/us/solutions/collateral/service-provider/visual-
networking-index-vni/white_paper_c11-520862.html.
14
United States Senator Ed Markey recently launched an investigation into the
lack of encryption and online security for global media and navigation systems
installed by automobile manufacturers. See Tracking and Hacking: Security and
Privacy Gaps Put American Drivers at Risk, February 2015, online at
http://www.markey.senate.gov/news/press-releases/markey-report-reveals-
automobile-security-and-privacy-vulnerabilities.
 Fragments and Milliseconds 269

relay on to Mission Control in Houston and the rest of the world. The
terrestrial TV relay from Parkes was split at Sydney, with one feed going
to the Australian Broadcasting Commission for telecasting to Australian
audiences, and the other feed on to Houston, back up into the sky via the
INTELSAT geosynchronous satellite system.15 The splitting of the signal
at Sydney meant the time lag of signal rendezvous from Sydney to
Houston via INTELSAT compared to the time lag of signal rendezvous
within the Australian TV network allowed Australian TV audiences to see
the lunar surface TV event 0.3 seconds (300 milliseconds) earlier, more
speedily viewed by Australian audiences than the rest of the world.16
In dromological terms, the race for speed was won by Australian TV
audiences and won by a margin of 300 milliseconds: an insignificant
difference in 1969. However, this nascent condition is again a historical
continuity for television, and by extension global mobile social media, as
the race for mastery of milliseconds took on increasing significance in the
21st century. Aside from a handful of signal engineers and other technical
personnel, it is doubtful that a 300 millisecond difference in signal
reception crossed the minds of viewers during the Moon TV event of
1969. Given viewership was global, a different distinction of temporal
experience was evident: the Moon TV event took place at different times
of day, depending on where in the world one was watching. For American
audiences, the Moon landing was seen during the late afternoon and the
Moon EVA in the evening.17 The 1989 Berlin Wall TV events, particularly

15
On the development of INTELSAT in tandem with the NASA Apollo missions,
see James Schwoch, Global TV: New Media and the Cold War, 1946-69 (Urbana:
University of Illinois Press, 2009), chapter 8.
16
John M. Sarkissian, “On Eagle’s Wings: The Parkes Observatory’s Support of
the Apollo 11 Mission,” Publications of the Astronomical Society of Australia 18
(2001), 287-310, PDF online at
http://www.parkes.atnf.csiro.au/news_events/apollo11/. Parkes was subsequently
used by NASA, in various capacities, on all of the Apollo missions. On the
importance of milliseconds in 21st century telecommunication and computer-
assisted stock market high frequency trading (HFT) carried out at maximum speed,
see Michael Lewis, Flash Boys: A Wall Street Revolt (New York: W. W. Norton,
2014) and the review of Flash Boys by Andrew Ross in The Guardian 16 May
2014 at http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/may/16/flash-boys-michael-
lewis-review As Ross notes in his review, maximising fiber-optic connectivity and
thereby reducing the transit time of HFT data from 17 milliseconds to 13
milliseconds proved incredibly profitable. For Virilio, HFT is a sign of dromology,
a race for the mastery of speed, because the mastery of speed in this case yields
gains in financial markets.
17
“Men Walk on Moon,” New York Times, 21 July 1969.
270 Chapter Ten

on 9 November 1989, were also seen by American audiences in the late

afternoon and early evening.18 No matter where on the planet one viewed
1969 Moon TV or 1989 Berlin Wall TV, both events shared another
distinct attribute: a bit of temporal uncertainty as to when to watch the
events. Both events ran against the grain of conventional TV
programming, with programme schedules ordinarily crafted by the local
clock, with the local clock time determined by the specific spatial location
of the given TV station within the global grid of standardised time zones.
The 1969 Moon TV event was shaped by NASA pre-planning and
scheduling, thus lending some predictability in viewing, particularly for
the landing of the LEM on the moon, but Armstrong and Aldrin decided
after landing to move forward their lunar surface event (EVA) on the
NASA schedule (which originally called for a few hours of sleep on the
moon after landing). This change in the NASA schedule serendipitously
had Armstrong step on to the moon at 10:56 EDT, just at the end of the
American prime-time TV programme hours and just before local TV news
programmes, which certainly did not harm total audience numbers.19 The
1989 Berlin Wall TV event, particularly the first few hours, arrived for the
world with little to no advance notice, and for American viewers, only one
of the three major broadcast TV networks (NBC) had a production crew at
the Berlin Wall to provide a live news feed, including NBC anchor (news
reader) Tom Brokaw, as part of their evening network news programmes.20
Despite the departures from planned programming for 1969 Moon TV,
and the rapid and surprising turn of events21 which initiated 1989 Berlin
Wall TV, many viewers quickly found these events on their televisions,
proving once again that TV audiences, like earlier radio audiences (and

18
David Culbert, “Memories of 1945 and 1963: American Television Coverage of
the End of the Berlin Wall, November 9, 1989,” in Gary Edgerton and Peter
Rollins, eds. Television Histories: Shaping Collective Memory in the Media Age
(Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2001), 230-243.
19
“Men Walk on Moon,” New York Times 21 July 1969.
20
“Good Evening, Live from the Berlin Wall,” 15 November 2009, NBC news,
online at http://www.nbcnews.com/id/33590933/ns/world_news-fall_of_the_
berlin_wall_20_years_later/t/good-evening-live-berlin-wall/#.VAIdV2NwWKx.
21
“Rapid and surprising” is an accurate term for most American viewers.
However, “rapid and surprising” is not necessarily a global description accurate for
all audiences, and I make no claims for knowing how rapid and surprising—or
not—the Berlin Wall TV events appeared for European viewers, particularly those
in divided Germany. Throughout this chapter I have tried to err on the side of
caution by writing as an American, and not as an omniscient global viewer. This is
why, for example, I have tended to emphasise the telecasts of American networks
in describing Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV.
 Fragments and Milliseconds 271

21st century global mobile social media consumers have of course taken
this to unprecedented levels), are often opportunistic in their audiovisual
consumption and are perhaps not yet completely dependent on pre-
publicity and advance knowledge to consume broadcasts or other
audiovisual screen-based content.22 Viewers are not adverse to risks, from
benign activities such as staying up late to watch TV and then sleeping
through the alarm clock the next morning, to various activities that are in
violation of national laws: failure to pay an annual license fee, flouting
regulations on the ownership of a satellite dish and, during the Cold War
for viewers living east of the Iron Curtain, watching TV programmes from
the West.

Cold War TV and the East European Viewer

Over the past ten to fifteen years, scholars have successfully built (and
continue to build) an impressive and compelling body of historical,
comparative, political, cultural, and social research that illuminates this
experience of watching TV from the West on the East side of the Iron
Curtain, as well as watching TV from the East on the West side of the Iron
Curtain.23 This research details a range of conditions and experiences, and

22
For a recent and illuminating study on the complexity of media audiences, see
James G. Webster, The Marketplace of Attention: How Audiences Take Shape in a
Digital Age (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2014).
23
Some of this research was recently published in VIEW Journal of European
Television History and Culture 3:5 (2014) at
http://journal.euscreen.eu/index.php/view with contributions from Dana Mustata,
Sabrina Mihelj, Judith Keilbach, Yulia Yurtaeva, Alexandra Urdea, Heather
Gumbert, Thomas Beutelschmidt, Richard Oehmig, Patryk Wasiak, Mari Pajala,
Veronike Pehe, Ekaterina Kalinina, Simon Huxtable, Zrinjka Perusko, and
Antonija Cuvalo. See also Aniko Imre, Timothy Havens, and Kati Lustyik, eds.
Popular Television in Eastern Europe During and Since Socialism (London:
Routledge, 2013); Dana Mustata, “Television in the Age of (Post) Communism:
The Case of Romania,” Journal of Popular Film and Television 40: 3 (2012), 131-
140; John Downey and Sabina Mihelj, eds., Central and Eastern European Media
in Comparative Perspective (London: Ashgate, 2012); Heather Gumbert,
Envisioning Socialism: Television and the Cold War in the German Democratic
Republic (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2014); Anna Lepp and Mervi
Pantii, “Window to the West: Memories of Watching Finnish Television in Estonia
During the Soviet Period,” VIEW Journal of European Television History and
Culture 2:2 (2013), 77-87; Lars Lundgren, “Live from Moscow: The Celebration
of Yuri Gagarin and Transnational Television in Europe,” VIEW Journal of
European Television History and Culture 1:2 (2013).
272 Chapter Ten

in so doing, these scholars have greatly enhanced our understanding of

transnational TV experiences across Europe during the Cold War. Viewers
on the East side of the Iron Curtain attempting to watch TV from the West
were subject to legal penalties ranging from fines to seizure of television
receivers to incarceration. They developed and shared technical skills
aimed at enhancing the reception of distant TV signals and conversion of
their TV sets to receive TV signals sent on differing technical standards.
Local knowledge of TV schedules and programming from stations in the
West was circulated through a wide variety of means, ranging from word-
of-mouth to ephemeral printed schedules, often translated into local
languages. Various technical means by Eastern European states aimed at
reducing or eroding the ability of Western TV signals to be received across
the Iron Curtain were another obstacle. Who, what, whether, when, where,
why, and how to watch TV in Eastern Europe became imbued with
significant political, cultural, and social acts and meanings, individually
and collectively.
This lived experience could even transform the viewership experience
away from viewing the programme to viewing the apparatus: political,
cultural and social acts on occasion became expressed through the display
of the actual television set, rather than through the choice (or attempt) to
watch an Eastern, or Western, TV signal. Dana Mustata reports that in
Cold War Romania, a government informer visited the home of a
television viewer in whom the government security ministry had taken an
interest: “When I visited him, the television set was sealed as he had given
up his subscription on the grounds that he could no longer put up with any
lies.”24 For a few, the choice was to abandon TV programme viewing and
let a sealed TV set be viewed by visitors. Yet in increasing numbers,
viewers in the East watched TV, increasingly choosing to watch,
managing to watch, or risking (where possible) to watch TV programmes
from the West.25

24
Dana Mustata, “Geographies of Power: The Case of Foreign Broadcasting in
Dictatorial Romania,” in Airy Curtains in the European Ether: Broadcasting and
the Cold War, eds. A. Badenoch, A. Fickers, and C. Henrich-Franke (Baden-
Baden: Nomos-Verlag, 2013), 169.
25
Although the possibilities for viewing TV from the West—that is, the ability to
receive, amplify, and convert a Western TV signal for viewing on Eastern
European TV sets—were abundant throughout Eastern Europe, the possibilities
were not universal. Signal strength was an obvious limitation, with Dresden as a
well-known example of an urban area largely beyond the reach of Western TV
signals. As discussed herein, local ecosystems and varying landscapes could also
be a factor in signal reception.
 Fragments and Milliseconds 273

This scholarship, in general, infers that taken as a whole, this viewing

experience was more often than not a fragmented activity for Eastern
Europeans watching Western European TV. The TV signal could be
fragmented due to long distances, weather conditions, other TV signals
from other TV stations, equipment challenges, and government attempts to
thwart signal reception. There was also temporal uncertainty, not
measured in milliseconds, but present in the potential interruption of signal
rendezvous and thus threatening temporal continuity. The signal
rendezvous—even with a good signal—might be fragmented or interrupted
for reasons of personal security, as viewing might need to be suspended to
avoid monitoring, surveillance, and detection. One might, or might not,
receive schedule information on upcoming programmes, depending on the
reach of word-of-mouth information or the irregular circulation of
ephemeral information. Although it is true that some of these fragmented
viewing experiences (signal problems, bad weather, equipment breakdown)
happened (and still sometimes happen) all over the world, the fragmentary
condition of TV in Cold War Eastern Europe was distinct to the local
landscapes and ecosystems (mountains and valleys can and still sometimes
do cause some signal reception problems everywhere, whereas a large flat
expanse of water—such as the Gulf of Finland—can enhance the reception
of distant signals by allowing the signal to travel farther without
significant decay), distinct to the local TV equipment and available
electronic technologies, and especially distinct due to the local social,
political and legal conditions with which these viewers lived. Writ large,
media consumption as a whole, and television viewing in particular, could
be a fragmented experience in Cold War Eastern Europe.

Transformations from Global TV

to Global Mobile Social Media
The fragments of 1969 Moon TV, the fragments of 1989 Berlin Wall
TV, and the fragmented viewer of Cold War Eastern Europe help extend
the concept of fragmentation to the splintered Iron Curtain. The splintering
of the Iron Curtain has the tropic or metaphoric possibilities of pieces and
fragments; of slag; of twisted and misshapen pieces; and of iron filings.
From the perspective of television studies, seeing the Iron Curtain as a
splintered or fragmented spatial locale opens several interesting
possibilities, two of which I briefly mention below, and the third of which
I explore in more detail. The first possibility of a splintering Iron Curtain
in the context of television studies has to do with infrastructures of state
owned and operated television services, and by extension these were (and
274 Chapter Ten

sometimes still are) discernible as state owned and operated

telecommunication enterprises. Showing signs of stress by the middle of
the 1980s, after the Cold War these enterprises were privatised,
capitalised, and commercialised in Europe and around the world. Rather
than concentrate on well-travelled and well-researched explanations such
as the opportunities inherent in commercialisation and privatisation and
the search by governments to consolidate resources and downsize, this
possibility argues for seeing breakup: a fragmenting or splintering of these
state owned and operated enterprises, similar to a fragmenting or
splintering of a curtain made of iron. The fragmenting of the Iron Curtain
and its subsequent splintering was a kind of energy or release, and the state
owned and operated television and telecommunication enterprises
fragmented and splintered in kind, ranging from examples such as the
privatisation of traditional state owned television and telecommunication
enterprises to the instantaneous creation of new state owned and operated
television and telecommunication enterprises across the post-Soviet
republics. The splintering and fragmentation led to reshapings and
reassemblies (many of them unsuccessful, and the names of failed
enterprises now largely forgotten as they merged, re-merged, and re-
merged again). In short, the Iron Curtain somehow kept these state owned
and operated television and telecommunication enterprises on both sides
of the Iron Curtain sufficiently fixed or stable. The splintering of the Iron
Curtain impacted upon many of these television and telecommunication
enterprises such that as the Iron Curtain splintered, they subsequently
contorted, unmoored, and transformed irrevocably. These transformations,
unmoorings, and reconfigurations are part of the trajectory from fixed to
mobile television and telecommunication services that have helped shape
the contemporary condition of global mobile social media.
A second possibility is that after the splintering of the Iron Curtain, the
viewer became more mobile than the TV programme was during the Iron
Curtain era. No longer did the Eastern European Cold War TV viewer, or
by extension no longer did viewers anywhere in the world, need to remain
fixed in a living room, hidden in a secret viewing place, or crouched on a
rooftop holding and carefully pointing an antenna. During the 1990s and
into the 21st century, the viewer took on mobile attributes and now had the
ability to watch and at the same time both televisually and physically flow
across borders as the TV shows of Cold War Europe had flowed, East and
West across the Iron Curtain. The viewer was unmoored from a lived
everyday experience of fixed permanence to a lived everyday experience
of mobility and signal rendezvous. In this case, to recall Fickers and
Johnston, an example unfolds where television is not “catapulted” to
 Fragments and Milliseconds 275

globalisation. Television as a distinct phenomenon traces an arc of history

from the fragments and milliseconds of Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV into
the audiovisual experiences of contemporary global mobile social media.
This is less an arc about television as a witness to or actor in geopolitical
events, and more an arc about television as a distinct entity, television with
historical continuity discernible in the textual and contextual transformations
of experiences for users and audiences. This, then, leads to the third
possibility: consideration of this historical transformation as found in the
current condition of the global mobile social media viewer.
After the splintering of the Iron Curtain, the global mobile social media
viewer eventually became even more heavily monitored, measured,
gauged, and watched than had been the case for Cold War Eastern
European TV viewers, themselves among the most closely watched
viewers of their era. The unmoored global viewer became more closely
observed and monitored, no matter where in the world, similar to the
closely attentive televisual gaze focused upon fragments in 1969 Moon TV
and 1989 Berlin Wall TV. In this sense, the gaze of the camera, and the
subsequent gaze of the viewer from Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV is now
conjoined in global mobile social media by the gaze of the data-gatherer.
Like the unmoored fragments of the Moon and the Berlin Wall, the global
mobile social media viewer is now an unmoored fragment from a formerly
fixed spatial locale. This is because global mobile social media viewers
now find themselves not only actively viewing within the well-understood
borders of nation-states, but now also as often as not find themselves
increasingly viewing and consuming TV, social media, and other
audiovisual content while mobile beyond the borders of their fixed physical
location: mobile, viewing and monitored as splintered fragments in the
less-understood world of extraterritorialities, a world rife with its own
borders.26
The splintering of the Iron Curtain did provide everyone more
programme choice, and at the same time the transformation and splintering
of the traditional television and telecommunication enterprises in part
played a role in creating new technologies for global mobile social media
consumption. At the same time, these conditions also contributed to the
establishment and promulgation of new attitudes, techniques, systems, and
technologies for monitoring and surveillance of viewers the world over.
As the boundaries between television, the Internet, and mobile telephony
blurred and mingled after the Cold War, the abilities of public and private

26
See Schwoch, Global TV, (particularly the introduction) for a discussion of the
concept of extraterritoriality.
276 Chapter Ten

enterprises to conduct monitoring and surveillance on the global mobile

social media viewer, and by extension on the individual uses of all global
electronic information devices, softwares, codes, systems, services,
networks, infrastructures, and applications by all viewers, expanded to
unprecedented levels of complexity. We all watched when the moon and
the Wall were fragmented, and now in the 21st century, we are all
fragmented and watched.
The fragments and milliseconds of this historical arc are transformed,
reconfigured, and repurposed in the smartphones, tablets, and other
personal audiovisual devices constantly carried and used by the purveyors
and participants inhabiting the world of global mobile social media, as
well as in the panoply of devices and machines with which we all engage
in signal rendezvous. These devices are constantly in a blizzard of signal
rendezvous, a flurry of communicative activity preconfigured to divulge
us. This enables us to be electronically drawn to a formidable coterie of
governments, corporations, marketers, researchers, non-state actors,
criminals, and data scrapers. This coterie is in some ways mysterious,
some ways mythic, some ways benign, some ways protective, and in all
ways the coterie collects, collates, commodifies, shares (sometimes
willingly, sometimes not) and analyses data, first and foremost to its own
ends. The ever-increasing speed and ubiquity of the signal rendezvous
now mean the global social media user is capable of being monitored by
the coterie within milliseconds of logging on and pursuing individual
signal rendezvous. The ever-expanding multitude of signal rendezvous
between humans and machines means the global mobile social media user,
as well as traditional viewers, all enable the increasing complexities of
fragmentation, mobility, and signal rendezvous and are therefore potential
observation, monitoring, data-scraping, and surveillance targets for the
coterie regardless of fixity or mobility.
That all this should have come to pass into everyday life and now be
globally ubiquitous may be, invoking Paul Virilio, a general accident.27

“Like some gigantic implosion, the circulation of the general accident of

communication technologies is building up and spreading, forcing all

27
“Accidents have always fascinated me…To invent the train is to invent
derailment; to invent the ship is to invent the shipwreck…In old technologies, the
accident is ‘local’; with information technologies it is ‘global.’…We have not
understood the power of the virtual accident.” Paul Virilio quoted in The Virilio
Reader, James Der Derian, ed., (Malden and Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), 20-21.
 Fragments and Milliseconds 277

substances to keep moving in order to interact globally, at the risk of being

wiped out, being swallowed up completely.”28

Cold War TV and Global Media: the Historical Arc

of Fragments and Milliseconds
The global viewer of the 21st century now navigates vast and ever-
expanding extraterritorialities of electronic information. Like moon rocks
and Berlin Wall detritus, the Eastern European Cold War TV viewer also
became unmoored from a fixed spatial locale, and in the case of these
viewers, this coincided with the splintering of the Iron Curtain. In a sense,
when we viewed 1969 Moon TV and 1989 Berlin Wall TV, we viewed our
own global future through the unmooring of fragments and the concept of
milliseconds. This is because both cases connote a spatial locale thought to
be infinitely permanent that became fragmented and mobilised in front of
our very eyes, and a temporality thought to be globally ubiquitous proved
to have milliseconds of difference. In this manner, the infinite permanence
seemingly fixed to a spatial locale of the Iron Curtain, and by extension
the Eastern European Cold War TV viewer experience, also splintered. All
that which was once anchored could now become mobile. Time that was
the same was in fact time with a difference of milliseconds.
On the one hand, one might argue that the moon rocks, the Berlin Wall
detritus, differing milliseconds, and the splintering of the Iron Curtain—all
acts of mobility and temporality, all components of the historical arc of
global television—are also artifacts of (from Virilio) the general accident.
This is because of the continuity of fragmentation and splintering, of
temporality and milliseconds. The global viewer is now like the moon rock
and the Berlin Wall detritus, with the difference of milliseconds, regarding
the emergent coterie of governments, corporations, marketers, researchers,
non-state actors, criminals, and data scrapers. Like the 1969 Apollo
astronauts on the moon and their lunar surface sample, or like the 1989
participants at the Berlin Wall events and their bricks and mortar from the
Wall, the coterie now engages the global viewer within milliseconds of
opportunity. The coterie finds the global viewer. The coterie tracks the
global viewer though a complex system of signal rendezvous. The coterie
collects the viewer through data storage. The coterie studies the viewer in
search of findings indicative of any and all signs of fixity, mobility, habits,
norms, quirks, tastes, socialisation, legalities, and opinions, thus
assembling a profile. The coterie archives the viewer and profile for

28
Virilio in Open Sky, trans. Julie Rose (London: Verso, 1997), 71.
278 Chapter Ten

further updates from additional data, and for continuous comparison and
consultation. The coterie exchanges the viewer, data, and profile with
other participants in the coterie, willingly or unwillingly. The coterie thus
commodifies the viewer, and this all increasingly happens in a matter of
milliseconds—often in fewer milliseconds than the 0.3 millisecond
difference of televisual geopolitical experience between Australian and
global TV viewers of 1969 Moon TV. The coterie sees us as mobile
fragments, collects us within milliseconds, and like Moon rocks and Berlin
Wall detritus, we are textual data.
Despite the appealing applicability of Virilio’s interesting and
provocative concept of the general accident and its dire implications for
global mobile social media, it is important to exercise caution in invoking
the general accident as an explanatory factor, just as it is important to
exercise caution in the navigation of change and continuity for television
history and television studies. There is another possible interpretation of
the present condition of global mobile social media that suggests a degree
of latitude—or of hope—for the current global mobile social media
phenomenon. This degree of latitude, what might be called a little bit of
wiggle room, stems from the knowledge that fragmentation is not
necessarily an ideal condition for computers, and by extension, not ideal
for the ongoing complexity of signal rendezvous between fragmented
mobile humans and machines. Fragmentation in computer parlance is
known to be less than ideal, because fragmentation introduces
inefficiencies in the storing of data. For example, computer data is
typically stored on a hard drive in a scattered or fragmented manner across
the hard drive rather than in a contained manner on a specific section of a
hard drive. Fragmentation in this case is a technical problem or a
byproduct of the unperfected computer, and by extension of the
unperfected process of global electronic communication invention,
innovation, development, manufacture, and large-scale distribution. In this
sense, fragmentation is, as Paul David observed, the historical path
dependency, or another example of a general accident, resulting from the
particular historical, technical, financial, social, and cultural conditions of
the large-scale global emergence and dissemination of typewriters,
keyboards and computers.29

29
The classic essay on path dependency is Paul David, “Clio and the Economics of
QWERTY,” American Economic Review 75:2 (May 1985), 332-337. David
observes “it is sometimes not possible to uncover the logic (or illogic) of the world
around us except by understanding how it got that way…important influences
upon the eventual outcome can be exerted by temporally remote events, including
happenings dominated by chance elements rather than systematic forces… In such
 Fragments and Milliseconds 279

The remedy for this inefficient hard drive storage is called

defragmentation. In this vein, the trajectory for the general accident of
contemporary global mobile social media that Virilio finds to be
compelling may not lie in our current fragmentation and mobility, but
might instead be in a possible future of successful defragmentation. The
fragments and milliseconds that mark the everyday lived experience of
global mobile social media may have disturbing consequences, yet it is
possible that a future world of global mobile social media which achieves
defragmentation and eliminates the differences of milliseconds may be
equally if not more disturbing as an everyday lived experience. This
suggests that, as a collective research enterprise for television studies and
for many other fields, the emergent dialectic of fragmentation and
defragmentation might be worth navigating. Navigation is still possible
because, despite the rumours of its demise, distance remains alive.30
Distance can be found in gaps, the gaps between fragments and the spatial
locales from which those fragments originated, fragments now unmoored
from their formerly infinite permanence. Distance can also be found
temporally, although this might be on a trajectory from the moon to the
Berlin Wall to the Iron Curtain to the present day toward an asymptote of
disappearing milliseconds.
What the future holds remains uncertain. Engraved upon the base of a
statue outside of the National Archives of the United States of America are
the words “What Is Past is Prologue”. This chapter has looked to the past,
to television history, to television as a witness to and an actor in
geopolitical events, and also to television itself as a distinct phenomenon
that shows elements of both change and continuity. In the search for
significant change, and in the operationalisation of all kinds of sources for
textual and contextual analysis, the seemingly insignificant fragments and
milliseconds evident in Moon TV and Berlin Wall TV have been proposed
and crafted herein as empirical data. These are but two of many possible
choices for the operationalisation of all kinds of sources. They were
chosen in part because of the possibility of utilising fragments and
milliseconds in making interesting comparisons across the historical arc of
Moon TV, Berlin Wall TV, the lived conditions of viewing Western
European TV in Eastern Europe during the Cold War, the splintering of

circumstances, “historical accidents” can neither be ignored, nor neatly

quarantined for the purpose of economic analysis; the dynamic process itself takes
on an essentially historical character” (332, emphasis in original).
30
The classic obituary is Frances Cairncross, The Death of Distance: How the
Communications Revolution is Changing our Lives (Cambridge MA: Harvard
Business Press, 1997).
280 Chapter Ten

the Iron Curtain, the subsequent transformation of the viewing experience,

and the contemporary prevalence of global mobile social media: one way
of seeing the last fifty-odd years of global television. In closing, no claims
are made that this analysis explains everything, and no claims are made
that our collective research in television studies beyond the Iron Curtain is
now complete. This chapter is, in the end, not about claims, but rather
about contributions. It is one small offering to television history and to
television studies: a valuable, lively, and compelling set of projects
collectively producing interesting and important work.

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 CONTRIBUTORS

Kirsten Bönker is Interim Professor of East European History at the

History Department at Carl von Ossietzky University Oldenburg. Her
research interests include cultural, political and social history of Russia
and the Soviet Union, European media history, Cold War history.
Email: kirsten.boenker@uni-oldenburg.de

Nevena Dakoviü is Professor of Film theory, Film and Media studies at

the Department of Theory and History, Faculty of Drama Arts, University
of Arts at Belgrade/Serbia. Her research interests include media
archeology, cultural memory, Holocaust, identity.
Email: danev@orion.rs

Andreas Fickers is Professor of Contemporary and Digital History at the

Institute of History, Faculty of Language and Literature, Humanities, Arts
and Education at Luxembourg University. His research interests include
digital history, media history, history of technology, European and
transnational history.
Email: andreas.fickers@uni.lu

Sven Grampp is Assistant Professor (Akademischer Rat) at the Institute

of Theater and Media studies at Friedrich-Alexander-University of
Erlangen-Nuremberg. His research interests include Space Race, media
theory, television.
Email: sven.grampp@fau.de

Idrit Idrizi is postdoctoral fellow of the Austrian Academy of Sciences

(Post-DocTrack-Pilotprogramme). His research interests include
contemporary history, communism and post-communism studies,
everyday life history, oral history, South East Europe.
Email: idrit.idrizi@gmx.at

Judith Keilbach is Assistant Professor of Television Studies in the Media

and Culture Studies Department of Utrecht University (Netherlands). Her
research interests include television history and theory, the relation of
284 Contributors

media technology and historiography, visual representations of history,

media events.
E-mail: j.keilbach@uu.nl

Aleksandra Milovanoviü is Assistant Professor the Department of Theory

and History, Faculty of Drama Arts, University of Arts at Belgrade/Serbia.
Her research interests include TV series, transmediality, film theory,
cultural memory.
Email: lolamontirez@gmail.com

Hannah Mueller is PhD Candidate, Writing and Language Instructor at

Cornell University. Her research interests include German-language and
Anglo-American popular cultures and audiences, particularly television,
online culture and fan culture; representations of sexuality and nudity in
popular media; the relationship between gender and media reception; the
construction of the division between “high” and “low” cultures/audiences;
differing national discourses on “the popular” in Europe and the USA.
Email: hrm43@cornell.edu

Julia Obertreis is chair of Modern and East European History at

Friedrich-Alexander-University of Erlangen-Nuremberg. Her research
interests include imperial history of Russia and the Soviet Union,
environmental history, oral history, European television history, the
relation between global history and East European History.
Email: julia.obertreis@fau.de

James Schwoch is Professor at the Department of Communication Studies

and in the Media, Technology, and Society PhD Program at Northwestern
University (USA). His research interests include global media, media
history, international studies, global security, and media-communication-
environment.
Email: j-schwoch@northwestern.edu

Lucia Gaja Scuteri is PhD student of History at the Faculty of

Humanities, University of Primorska (Koper, Slovenia). Her research
interests include Slovenian Experimental Linguistics, Contemporary
History.
Email: lg.scuteri@gmail.com

Theodora Kelly Trimble obtained her PhD at Department of Slavic

Languages and Literatures at the University of Pittsburgh. Her research
 Television Beyond and Across the Iron Curtain 285

interests include Russian and Soviet popular culture, cinema and

television, celebrity studies.
Email: tht4@pitt.edu

Maria Zhukova is Research Associate at the Department of Literature at

the University of Konstanz, Section in Slavic Literatures. She studied
German language and literature at the university of St. Petersburg,
obtained her PhD from the same university. Her research interest include
fantastic literature, “multimedial” artist-writers, television in Soviet and
post-Soviet film and literature.
Email: mariazh@gmx.net