1922
: SCENES FROM A TURBULENT YEAR
By Nick Rennison
Oldcastle Books. 255 pages. £12.99. ISBN 978-0-85730-467-4
Reviewed by Jim Burns
Nick Rennison describes the 1920s as having a “distinctive
character”. It is said to have been the “Jazz Age”, the “Roaring
Twenties”, a time when the stock market boomed, lots of people
thought they could make money quickly, and there was a determination
to party and have a good time. I’m not sure it was that way for
everyone. To point to just three contrasting factors - there was
plenty of poverty around, in Britain there was a General Strike
which bitterly divided the nation, and civil unrest, of one sort or
another, occurred in various countries. But I suppose it’s like the
so-called “Swinging Sixties” and we choose to pick out certain
happenings and events and suggest that they represent the decade
when, in fact, there was much more going on that didn’t involve pop
music, flower power, and summers of love.
But Rennison’s brisk survey of 1922, a “turbulent year” in his view,
helps to dispel the notion of the Twenties as being all fun and
games. He doesn’t get far into January when a major snowstorm has
hit Washington D.C. in the
United States and the weight of the snow on the roof of the
Knickerbocker Theatre has caused it to collapse. Almost a hundred
people died and many more were injured.
January, 1922 was also when “the second trial of the comedian and
film star Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle began”. It may be significant that
the account of how and why he came to be in court takes precedence
in terms of space over the death of the explorer Ernest Shackleton,
the first performance of Edith Sitwell’s
Façade accompanied by
William Walton’s music, a successful treatment of diabetes with
Insulin, and the Washington tragedy. I’m not criticising Rennison,
but it’s a fact that we all like a good scandal. And the details of
the Arbuckle case certainly provided enough material for the public
to gloat over and feel morally outraged by. It involved a wild
weekend with hints of an orgy in a hotel room, and the possibility
of some odd sexual practices. A young woman died and Arbuckle’s
glamorous Hollywood career was destroyed, as much by inference than
proven hard evidence.
Arbuckle’s wasn’t the
only scandal in 1922, and in Britain in December of that year
newspaper readers picked up copies each day to learn how Edith
Thompson and her lover Freddy Bywaters had killed her husband.
Rennison again devotes ample space to the case. But it’s justified
because of the way in which the trial brought out “the extraordinary
frenzy of righteousness into which elements of the media had whipped
themselves”. There were
doubts about how far Edith Thompson was
involved – Bywater always insisted she knew nothing about his
intention to kill her husband – and Rennison probably has a point
when he suggests that, given the moral climate (or hypocrisy) of the
time, she was really hanged for her sin of committing adultery with
a younger man.
There may have been sexual scandals at both the start and the end of
1922, but plenty occurred between those dates. What Rennison says is
“One of the most significant works of twentieth-century literature”
was published in Paris in February. He’s referring, of course, to
James Joyce’s Ulysses, a
book beloved by professors, at least, who can analyse it in every
which way and find allusions on every page. Academic careers have
been constructed around it. The story of its creation and
publication has been told many times, with the bookseller Sylvia
Beach playing a central role, and a key little magazine of the
period, The Little Review,
bringing it to the attention of a limited American readership. There
were few readers of the actual book itself at first for the simple
reason that it was banned in Britain and the United States. And
reactions even among informed readers who somehow got hold of a copy
varied wildly. Virginia Woolf wrote disparagingly about it. But
other writers and critics were more positive.
Rennison also writes approvingly of “The most influential poem in
twentieth-century English literature”, meaning T.S. Eliot’s
The Waste Land. It was
published in another little magazine,
The Criterion, in
October. Like Joyce’s Ulysses
it immediately attracted extremes of attention. One critic
called it “a pompous parade of erudition”, and John Squire, editor
of the London Mercury,
said that he was “unable to make head or tail of it”. But there was
nothing in it that caused it to be banned, and it went into
circulation and provided more material for those who like to ponder
and even puzzle over what they are reading. I have come across
comments to the effect that its influence was not necessarily widely
beneficial. Too many other poets wanted to imitate its “parade of
erudition” and instead simply left comprehension behind.
If there were battles in the literary world they didn’t result in
deaths. That wasn’t true of the world of industrial relations in
America. In June major strikes broke out in the mining and railroad
sectors. American labour disputes were often violent affairs and
1922 was no exception to
that rule. In Herrin, Illinois, a small mining town, a strike in
June led to management bringing in strike breakers and armed guards
to protect them. The miners were also armed and, after an exchange
of gunfire, which resulted in deaths on both sides, the strike
breakers agreed to leave the mine if they were given safe passage
out of the district. Once out in the open, however, they were
rounded up, marched away, and many of them gunned down or otherwise
killed. Rennison says that 23 people died. Around the same time more
deaths occurred as railwaymen fought with guards hired by the rail
companies to break a strike.
It wasn’t only in the United States that violent situations
occurred. In Ireland in June a vicious Civil War started as pro and
anti-Anglo-Irish Treaty forces battled in Dublin and around the
country. If we jump ahead to August Michael Collins, who had been
blamed for signing the Treaty, was killed in an ambush by IRA
dissidents. And in November the newly-established Irish government
tried and executed Erskine Childers, author of the spy novel,
The Riddle of the Sands,
for being in possession of an unlicensed firearm. He had supported
the anti-Treaty forces when the Civil War got underway.
It’s a relief to turn from the killing for a time and look at sport,
and I was delighted to see my old home-town of Preston mentioned on
a couple of occasions. In April the last FA Cup Final before they
were held at Wembley Stadium took place at Stamford Bridge. The
teams involved were Huddersfield Town and Preston North End, and
Huddersfield achieved a one-nil victory when the Preston goalkeeper,
Jim Mitchell, failed to save a penalty kick by Billy Smith.
Mitchell, we’re told, “may
well have been the only person to appear in both a Cup Final and an
international match wearing glasses”.
The other Preston reference relates to the Dick, Kerr Ladies
Football Club which toured around the United States in September.
The team had been formed during the First World War from workers at
the Dick, Kerr and Co., munitions factory and achieved some success.
Rennison notes that a match they played at Goodison Park on Boxing
Day, 1920, attracted 53,000 spectators. But “It was all too much for
the men of the Football Association. In December, 1921, they banned
women’s football matches at their members’ grounds”. Which is why
the Dick, Kerr Ladies played the initial game of an American tour in
September. The name was changed to Preston Ladies FC later in the
1920s. Dick, Kerr and Co.
was taken over by English Electric after the First World War, but
the factory was still sometimes referred to locally by its old name
when I worked for English Electric in the early-1960s.
Scott Fitzgerald’s collection of short-stories,
Tales of the Jazz Age,
was published in August 1922, and may have been partly responsible
for establishing the term as descriptive of the 1920s generally.
There’s no doubt that jazz firmly established itself then, much to
the dismay of social critics who saw it as leading to a widespread
moral collapse. Doctors, journalists, and religious leaders lined up
to point to its dangers, with the
Ladies Home Journal
launching an anti-jazz crusade and calling for its “legal
prohibition”. But, as Rennison makes clear, “Jazz was not intended
for middle-class matrons and septuagenarians. It was the music of
the post-war younger generation and they lapped it up”.
Some of the future stars of the music – Louis Armstrong, Kid Ory,
Sidney Bechet, Fats Waller –were already performing, and the
availability of cheap radios and phonograph records meant that they
could be heard across America and in other countries. There were,
too, efforts to make jazz more respectable by incorporating it into
semi-classical settings. White bandleader Paul Whiteman came up with
a large orchestra including strings and “A watered-down version of
African-American jazz”, and, in August, George Gershwin’s “jazz
opera” Blue Monday was
staged as part of George
White’s Scandals of 1922. For anyone really interested in jazz
they were poor imitations of the genuine stuff.
I’ve moved around Rennison’s book, and by doing so I’ve tried to
give an impression of what it has to offer.
Which is, largely, something that is, in his own words,
“entertaining and enlightening”. But I hope that I’ve not suggested
that it is in any way designed to avoid the disturbing. Racial
violence reared its ugly head in May in Kirven, Texas, when a white
mob burned alive three blacks who had been accused of murdering a
white girl. When they tried to crawl out of the fire onlookers
pushed them back in. The mob then went on the rampage and “somewhere
between 11 and 23 blacks died”, while many others moved away from
the area. Across the world in September Turkish troops embarked on
an orgy of murdering, raping, and looting in Smyrna, a town in
Turkey but with a largely Greek population. The ambitions of
politicians in both Greece and Turkey had brought about a war
between the two countries. Not much has changed in that line in the
past one hundred years.
1922: Scenes From a Turbulent Year
is a good book for armchair browsing, and reading about Mussolini’s
march on Rome in October, and the staging of Bertolt Brecht’s first
play, Drums in the Night
in September. It’s sad to read about events like those in Texas and
Smyrna, but it’s amusing to follow the account of the decline of the
Dada movement. In May members of the group staged a mock-funeral “at
the Bauhaus school in Weimar”. There was an inevitability about the
death of Dada. It wasn’t designed to last for very long and had been
a hotbed of rival egos almost from its inception in Zurich in 1916.
By 1922 two of the leading egotists, Tristan Tzara and André Breton,
were competing in Paris (where else could something like it happen?)
for leadership of the so-called avant-garde. Breton came out on top
and took his followers into the longer-lasting Surrealism.
|