The aquariums of Pyongyang

I was queasy when I first heard that the New York Philharmonic might go to North Korea. This is the sickest country on earth, the place with the most repressive, most deranged, and most cynical government. If you offend the regime, and get sent to a labor camp, they'll send your entire family, including little kids. There's brutality in these camps, of course, and not enough food. And in the midst of all that, the kids are forced to go to schools -- or, rather, sick parodies of schools -- where they do nothing but recite praise of the country's "dear leader," Kim Jong-il.

Sick. But I know a leading expert on North Korea, and, to ease my mind, I asked for his opinion. He thinks the Philharmonic should go, because -- no matter how sick the regime might be -- any contact with the outside world can be helpful. That reassured me. I hope the Philharmonic's trip happens, and that it does some good.

But still it's best to be cautious. I wish, for instance, that the Philharmonic's director of communications, Eric Latzky, hadn't been quoted in a New York Times article, saying this about North Korea's capitol:

We went to Pyongyang and discovered a city that was clean and orderly and not without beauty, and had a kind of high level of culture and intelligence.

I'm friendly with Eric, and I like him. Maybe he was misquoted, or only partially quoted. But I think there's no reason to flatter this regime. Of course Pyongyang is nice. It's maintained as a showcase, and also as a home for the North Korean elite, while the rest of the country often starves. In no sense is it a normal city, the kind of bustling metropolis -- with an independent life of its own -- that Beijing was even in the worst days of Mao's rule, or as Moscow was under Stalin.

By all accounts, it's an artificial place. No one can live or travel there without official permission. I don't know what the Philharmonic delegation saw, but visitors often report that the streets are almost empty. Certainly the view from Google Earth shows wide boulevards with almost no traffic:

pyong.jpg

Some experts think that the subway in Pyongyang doesn't really run, that just a single train shuttles back and forth, to deceive visitors.

As for culture, everything I've read suggests that there isn't any, except what the regime fosters, always in praise of itself.

And the sickest thing about North Korea is the cult of its leaders -- Kim Jong-il, the "dear leader," and his late father, Kim Il-sung, the "great leader," founder of the country. Note that they might as well be monarchs, with the son succeeding the father. The cult goes beyond the cult of personality that surrounded Stalin and Mao. This is a cult of divinity. Foreign visitors are, by many accounts, asked to visit shrines to the leaders, and are asked to bow to their images. North Koreans emerge from these shrines weeping.

In a striking documentary I've seen on PBS, North Korean citizens were treated by a visiting French eye surgeon. (An amazing exception to the usual practice of not allowing foreigners to take any significant part in the life of the country.) These people had been blind for years, and the surgeon restored their sight. When their bandages were taken off, they fell on the floor before portraits of the two Kims, weeping and giving thanks, as if the leaders themselves had cured them, which, most likely, is quite literally what they believed.

Kim and his family, meanwhile, live like Eurotrash, enjoying all the vices the West can provide. Surrounding them is an inner Communist elite, who most likely are cynical. There's a documentary available on DVD, called A State of Mind, which shows young North Korean girls taking part in the "mass games," gigantic ceremonies in which dancers and gymnasts give praise to the leaders. At one point we see high-ranking officials in the audience, obviously bored, checking their watches, as if to see how much more of this nonsense they'll have to endure.

Surrounding the inner party (to use Orwell's terminology from 1984), is an "outer party" of elites who don't get inside information. These people appear to be utter believers. Some of them are in A State of Mind, looking normal enough in their Pyongyang apartment, with state radio broadcasts always in the background (they can be turned down, but can't be turned off). But, normal as they seem, they're also brainwashed. They're asked what would happen if the U.S. and North Korea fought a war, and with perfect crazy confidence they explain why North Korea would win.

Then there's the rest of the country, the mass of North Koreans, who often starve. I'm sure my portrait here is too simple -- surely North Korea has some kind of social and political life, apart from the rule of the Kims -- but as a broad outline, I think it's accurate.

For more information:

A State of Mind, the documentary film about preparations for the mass games.

 Under the Loving Care of the Fatherly Leader: North Korea and the Kim Dynasty, by Bradley K. Martin. A thorough, lively history, which also gives a clear picture of how things are now.

The Aquariums of Pyongyang: Ten Years in the North Korean Gulag, by Kang Chol-Hwan and Pierre Rigoulot. A sober, important memoir by a labor camp survivor who managed to flee the country.

Pyongyang: A Journey in North Korea, by Guy Delisle. The non-fiction equivalent of a graphic novel, very funny and sad, by a Frenchman who produced animated films in North Korea. Shows, with great empathy, how regimented North Korean life can be.

October 16, 2007 1:41 PM | | Comments (2)

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2 Comments

Eurotrash Greg?#

Laconic comments are -- laconic. I don't know if this one objects to the term I used, or means to say that the term doesn't apply to the North Korean ruling family.

Certainly it's a common expression, in regular use wherever there's nightlife. As for whether it describes Kim Jong-il and his family, there's certainly a lot of clubbing, especially on trips to other countries. In one really crazy episode (recounted in the Bradley Martin book I recommended), one of Kim's sons was caught entering Japan with a forged Dominican Republic passport, and wads of US and Japanese currency. Stamps on the passport showed that he'd entered Japan with it many times before, without getting caught. He said he only wanted to go to Tokyo Disneyland.

Another good source of information is the documentary "Children of the Secret State." Made me cry... Very good information.

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Resources

Age of the audience 
Conventional wisdom: the classical music audience has always been the age it is now. Reality: It used to be younger -- dramatically younger, in fact. Here's some evidence -- primary sources (actual texts of old studies, links to NEA studies) -- plus two of my blog posts on this subject, and some anecdotal data.
more

earlier resources

Things I like

Back in the day 
Once upon a time, a generation ago or so, classical music was far closer to everyday life than it is now. We all know this, I'm sure. But it's good to be reminded. So here are four quick appearances of classical music in the popular culture of the past.

The Birds (the classic Hitchcock film, released in 1963): Tippi Hedren, the star, playing a woman in her 20s, visits a normal middle-class family, husband, wife, 11 year-old daughter. The family has a piano. Hedren sits down and plays Debussy's First Arabesque, which isn't identified, any more than her playing is remarked on in any way. Nobody says, "Oh, you play classical music." It's just taken or granted that she might.

Laura (the classic noir -- or, more accurately, semi-noir -- thriller, released in 1944): Vincent Price, playing a high-society type who appears to be in his early thirties (Price himself was 33 when the film was released), is a suspect in a murder case. Where was he, the detective asks, on the night of the murder? At a concert, he says. What music was played? Brahms's First and Beethoven's Ninth, he replies. And whether a concert program like that makes sense, or would have been heard back then, the fact that he's at a classical concert is simply taken for granted. There's nothing special about it. Of course he might have been there.

House Dick (a hard-boiled mystery thriller by E. Howard Hunt -- yes, the Watergate burglar, though that doesn't matter for my purposes here, and he turns out to be quite a sharp writer): The world-weary hotel detective, banged around by life, attracted to the wrong kind of women, has had a hard day. He goes home, and listens to Brahms on the radio. This is just a throwaway reference, nothing special about it, no need to explain why a tough ex-cop would listen to classical music. He just did it. The book was published in 1961.

And now my favorite, an extravagant interlude from Skylark Three, the second (despite the "three") in a trilogy of science fiction novels by E. E. "Doc" Smith, the greatest name in the great old tradition of "space opera," stories in which evil aliens plot destruction, planets explode, and the laws of physics are pretty much ignored. This book was serialized in Amazing Stories magazine in 1930.

For our purposes here, it doesn't matter why two married couples in their twenties are traveling through space, many times faster than the speed of light, saving the galaxy from a ghastly threat. Or why one of them plays a Strad. But here they are, entertaining themselves in a rare quiet moment:

"What say [says the hero, Richard Seaton] you girls get your fiddle and guitar and we'll sing us a little song? I feel good...it's the first time I've felt like singing since we cut that warship up."

Dorothy brought out her "fiddle" -- the magnificent Stradivarius, formerly Crane's, which he had given her, and they sang one rollicking number after another. Though by no means a Metropolitan Opera quartette, their voices were all better than mediocre, and they had sung together so much that they harmonized readily.

"Why don't you play us some real music, Dottie?" asked Margaret, after a time. "You haven't practiced for ages."

"Right. This quartette of ours ain't so hot," agreed Seaton. "If we had any audience except Shiro [their Japanese servant, an ethnic stereotype from a thankfully bygone age], they'd probably be throwing eggs by this time."

"I haven't felt like playing lately, but I do now," and Dorothy stood up and swept the bow over the strings. Doctor of Music in violin, an accomplished musician, playing upon one of the finest instruments the world has ever known, she was lifted out of herself by relief from the dread of the Fenachrone invasion and the splendid violin expressed every subtle nuance of her thought.

She played rhapsodies and paeans, and solos by the great masters. She played vivacious dances, then "Traumerei" and "Liebestraum." At last she swept into the immortal "Meditation" [this would be by Massenet, the "Meditation" from Thais], and as the last note died away Seaton held out his arms.

"You're a blinding flash and a deafening report, Dottie Dimple, and I love you," he declared -- and his eyes and his arms spoke volumes that his light utterance had left unsaid."
It's sweet that she plays light classics, which Doc Smith reveres as if they were the greatest masterworks. But note that these aren't culturally fancy people. Great scientists the men might be, and galaxy-spanning warriors, but as the dialogue shows, these are colloquial people (well, three of them are -- Seaton's buddy Crane is adorably stiff), in their behavior perfectly normal twentysomethings from their time. But classical music (which, if my memory is accurate, shows up just twice in the Skylark trilogy, is an easy part of their lives.
Dion on YouTube 
He's singing his first big hit in the balcony of a theater, with his group (aka two backup guys) the Belmonts. The song is gentle, and if you listen to the words, it's supposed to be sad. "Why must I be a teenager in love?" But Dion is cocky and confident, enjoying his easy triumph. So this -- in Milan Kundera's famous definition -- can't be kitsch. There's no subtext telling us that he knows he's being sad, because he's not being sad. But the song is honest. It's about something he might have felt before he was famous. And surely it catches the helpless longing all the girls listening to him felt, all the girls clapping dutifully, right on the beat (because we white people hadn't yet learned what a backbeat is).

Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles 
Smart, searing TV series. For instance: Cameron looks like a teenage girl, but really she's a killer robot from the future, reprogrammed to help people, rather than kill them. But she's still a killer. And though she tries to understand human beings, she can't grasp empathy. Someone finds a turtle on its back, and turns it over, so it can walk again. Why do that? Cameron asks. Later she attacks -- with unrelenting violence -- a friend of the people she's helping, because she thinks he's a liar. "Stop," she's told. She looks down at the man -- battered, groaning -- and with no expression turns him over.
 
Lucinda Williams, Little Honey 
Her most joyful album, but also her roughest -- very frayed, vocally, with edgiest band she's ever had. I don't know if I trust the joy (and I'm sad to say that), but she sounds like she's bitterly earned it.

Mantra for the arts 
From a New York Times Sunday piece on Wong Karwai, describing how he made his early film Ashes of Time:

"Mr. Wong was in a corner watching on a monitor. Every so often, in his measured way, he...called out to his cinematographer, Christopher Doyle, 'Is that all you can do?'

"Mr. Doyle, now a longtime collaborator of Mr. Wong's, said in a recent telephone interview that he heard that question as a constant challenge. 'It should be the mantra for all people in the arts.'"

more things

About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Sandow published on October 16, 2007 1:41 PM.

"You just drank poison!" was the previous entry in this blog.

More on North Korea is the next entry in this blog.

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