“If I had my way, not one negro would be allowed in the country!”
– “The Old Lady”, Borderline
“She worked hard and did well, paid off her mortgage and began to put something by for her old age. Then the immigrants moved in.”
“…we affirm that non-Whites have no place here at all and will not rest until every last one has left our land.”
“2 fkin rite the fkin immigrant bastards go fuk off bak n giv us our country bak n our money ya fuuuuuuuuukers!!!!!”
If France was once infected by the cinéma du papa, then the UK continues to be plagued by the cinéma du mama: a cinema whose commercial success and everlasting appeal resides predominantly in the purses of middle-aged, middle-class housewives beguiled by the gratification and security that its features can promise. This is a disease that manifests itself in two definitive strains. First, there is the ever archaic “heritage film” – a nostalgic fashion trend that beautifies the inevitably right-wing national past with its lavish veneration of mise-en-scène, whilst immobilising the viewer’s intellect with a recycled brand of doomed romanticism. Then, perhaps even more disturbingly, there are the attempts to create a stock of British “social realism” – championed by privileged white males who understand nothing of the “gritty” milieu which they sporadically inhabit, and defined by its timid aversion to any meaningful engagement with the problems confronting the disenfranchised groups whom it seeks to represent.
Together, these dominant bloodlines tighten the garrotte around the slender neck of the British film industry. And by their lack of ambition, they compel the admiration of the foreign press, defending the national colours on an awards circuit where they regularly corral nominations and prizes. What use is a picture that panders so desperately to such a vainglorious, rabidly innocuous market? The answer is none. Such inanities do not personify the vestiges of imagination and ingenuity that lurk within the forgotten corridors of our cinema – and yet they dementedly persist in stifling the enfeebled arthouses of the nation with their ill-gotten prestige. Imitators aspire to replicate their success, thereby upholding the un-impeachable tradition of audience nullification whilst maintaining the vicious cycle of vacuity that saturates our passive minds. And thus, the culture of filmic disengagement is perpetuated; reprocessed and diluted until the British “cinema” is rendered nothing more than a British vacuum, vainly masquerading as a purveyor of artistic integrity. Where then, in so mephitic an environment, do the filmmakers of tomorrow (integral to any potential revolt) find the inspiration necessary to emancipate our country from this contemptible beast that refuses to surrender?
Enter Borderline. Had Kenneth MacPherson’s 1930 feature not itself been strangulated by the consumerism of yesteryear (its theatrical release was never becoming), then perhaps the pestiferous vermin of the mama would be nothing but a creative abortion; a minor blip in the character of a thriving and pioneering national cinema. Instead, it occupies a peculiar hideaway in the annals of film history. An exemplar, and possibly the sole exemplar, of the avant-gardist tendencies that once existed here (and can yet be unearthed), Borderline is relentless in its formalism and shameless in its virtuosity. Taking heed from the Soviet montage school of thought, MacPherson incites action and reaction through a bravura demonstration of editing that wilfully distorts the viewer’s grasp of his visual rhetoric. The film bemuses with its expeditious cutting rates and its excisional framing – the latter’s reduction of human figures to dissected body parts powerfully accentuating the characters’ physical detachment from their internal desires. Together, these core tenets invoke an overwhelming tsunami of kineticism that obliterates the audience’s understanding of the film’s spacial and temporal dimensions until all that’s left for us to cling to is an immediate, raw visceralism; the ultimate purification of the cinematic experience.
Lest it give the impression of nothing more than a conceited experiment, it should be stated that Borderline is as grippingly radical in content as it is in style. Though it spitefully rejects the post-Griffith developments in narrative exposition, it cogently deploys associative montages to convey the psychological undercurrents of its disturbed characters. Torrents of passion and malice thus satiate the film, exacerbated and inflamed by the presence of that most toxic of evils: blacks. Yes, Borderline‘s real intransigence is a socio-political one – an earnest affront to Western xenophobia, and a valiant dismissal of the tendency to scapegoat minorities in times of turmoil. MacPherson contrasts the decadence of his white characters with the relative dignity of his so-called “negroes” (consider also how carefully he frames them against natural idylls), and emphasises the grotesqueries of racial hatred by recording those that uphold and enforce the status quo at their most repugnant. With this approach, the director audaciously upends the comfort and satisfaction that we seek from our modern, advanced society; his subversive portrait of an Occidental utopia revealing itself as a cutthroat mundania where all those that challenge the norm (the film’s few sympathetic whites are implied to be homosexual) are compelled into a precarious existence, forced to renounce their sense of justice in the name of the majority’s self-preservation.
MacPherson is perhaps too oblique in his approach and too callow in his sentiments to offer a parable of assiduous complexity for the 21st-century viewer. Yet the basic impetus of his tale is one that continues to transcend time (however unfortunately). Eight decades may have passed, but Borderline remains as recalcitrant now as it almost certainly did then: its fundamental concerns with the issues of immigration and integration still unnervingly prescient, and its refusal to pander to the prevailing prejudices of its era eliciting only admiration. Indeed, the film goes so far as to celebrate the very notion of dissimilitude by incorporating our fear of the subject into the form – playing out like the cinematic equivalent of an improvisational jazz piece, infectious in its exaltation of the medium’s possibilities. In the context of our national film culture, it stands alone in its compassion, its foresight and its innovation. A sign of what was to come it definitely was not, but one prays for the day when it can be commended first and foremost as a historical artefact rather than a sui generis of contemporary relevance. In the interim though, the burden lies solely with the present generation of cinephiles – it is we who must embrace progression (however paradoxically ancient) in the same manner in which our superficially-inclined brethren lust after regression. From MacPherson’s example we must draw only hope, for it is now evident that there once was a way forward for the British cinema – and, for as long as Borderline exists, there always will be.