Satire, when done successfully, is a dual representation of the surface level subject matter (capable of standing alone on its own merits), and the external levels on which the work seeks to operate and inform. Lindsey Anderson’s ‘If…’, released in 1968, is a perfect encapsulation of the British satirical ideal that still resonates as a reflection of our society today.
Principally, ‘If…’ is an allegory, in the tradition of George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’, utilising the private boarding school as the mise en scene to provide a wider commentary on structural hierarchies, class systems, and the nature of disaffected and disenfranchised youth.
The structure of the school is swiftly established; the wide-eyed juniors (or ‘scum’ as they are referred to), the more cynical seniors, and the elder prefects, or ‘Whips’, who are the de facto agents of enforcement, patrolling the corridors canes in hand, revelling in their authority over the younger boys and cosying up to ambivalent staff over dinner and brandies. The overriding maxim of the establishment is ‘Work hard. Play hard. But don’t mix the two’, whilst extolling the virtues of discipline as a means ‘allowing you to help yourselves’.
Into this cloistered and regimented environment is thrust the enigmatic Travis (played by a young Malcolm McDowell); a senior student who refuses to allow himself to be compressed into the strict form and ethos mandated for him by the system. He is imbued with nihilism and existential preponderance, a glorious contagion that infects so many of a certain age. He pins up pictures of revolutionaries, mercenary soldiers, Munch’s ‘Scream’; and as he sardonically asks “when do we live, that’s what I want to know?”, his disaffected eyes reflect all the stuffy hypocrisy and banal conformity that he recognises the system as aspiring to.
McDowell plays the character of Travis with a real and expressive maturity, and indeed it is little wonder that, having seen the film, Stanley Kubrick decided to cast him as Alex in ‘A Clockwork Orange’ only a couple of years later.
The cinematography of the film lends a rather dehydrated gravitas, from the wide-angled shots of the college and playing fields framed by pastel-coloured skies, to the monochrome interiors. Nowhere is this more apparent than during the sequence in which a young boy, singled out for his Dorian good looks, is spellbound watching a gymnast's high bar routine; a scene of highly-charged homoeroticism, which is remarkably brave for the time.
The film at times thrives on its more surrealistic overtones, most notably the café scene in which Travis and a waitress engage in an animalistic tribal play-fight.
Surpassing these qualities though, the strength of the social commentary elucidating the nature of state coercion, the militaristic pomp and ceremony, and the yearning towards the sanctuary of assimilation, is the film’s true success.
The public school setting, being such an archetypal British institution firmly embedded in the hegemony of ‘heritage’ and parochialism, is the ideal backdrop on which to exemplify the oppressive tyranny that has as its mandate the desire to control and constrain, and which inevitably fuels the fire of radical ideals to fight against the system whatever penalties may be incurred.
Travis and his ‘comrades’ sit around nursing a bottle of vodka and extolling apothegms like “violence and revolution are the only pure acts”. Whilst, the priggish whips drink tea and eat toasted muffins, discuss “the lunatic fringe” that they demand face discipline, and encourage immature homosexual flirtations with the younger boys; deluding themselves as to their exclusive monopoly on subversive individuality.
The grinding levers of discipline, when they are exercised, are harsh and desperate in their attempt at crushing the simmering manifestation of dissent; starting with the meting out of cold showers and culminating in Travis’ prolonged lashing at the behest of chief whip Rowntree.
It is the point at which Travis shakes the proffered hand of Rowntree that crystallises the critical juncture elevated to the fore as an intrinsic by-product of oppression.
By enforcing discipline – in this instance for dubious attitudinal rather than enacted offences – the state represses rebellious intent, enervating the will and resilience of the individual to the paradoxical point at which they assert gratitude, appreciation and even respect towards their oppressor (in the same way in which Winston is taught to love Big Brother). Of course, this is a volatile junction that as much as it can lead to servitude and acceptance of inferiority, can equally lead to further radicalisation.
In the end, Travis and his clique are only able to take one course of action, leading to the surreal insurrection which is both cathartic and bizarre; its weight being sharpened at the grindstone of retrospective atrocities such as Columbine and Newtown.
Vladimir Nabokov said that ‘satire is a lesson, parody is a game’, and with that in mind ‘If…’ stands as an invaluable lesson in how power, discipline and dissent are the unavoidable scaffolding rigged up around every structural system of organised society. In the UK, where nepotism very often triumphs over merit, and the Front Bench Cabinet has seemingly been recruited straight from the Old Etonian Bullingdon Club, ‘If…’ still offers an uncomfortably familiar lesson indeed.
For still today, the education system resembles an assembly line of highly subjective learning and personal development; schooling by replication, devoid of interpretation or diversion from the formulaic strictures set down nationwide. Individuality and creativity being components that are liberally encouraged so long as they conform to the conservative and unmalleable templates already chosen and laid out ready to be ascribed to.
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