Punishment Park

Punishment Park

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One of the benefits of the so-called DVD revolution is the chance it gives obscure films like Punishment Park to be seen. When it was initially released in 1971, this reactionary powder keg of a movie was completely marginalized by timid distributors, never given an opportunity to screen on television, and forced into the underground. The only way to hear of it was through scholarly texts by academics who were able to track down the few circulating film prints, and if director Peter Watkins hadn’t already gained some level of acclaim and notoriety for The War Game, his pseudo-documentary depiction of nuclear war, it’s quite likely Punishment Park would have been buried so deep by an indifferent distribution system that it would have been altogether forgotten.

Thankfully, New Yorker Video in conjunction with Project X Distribution has found a way to make this and other Watkins films available. What’s curious is how a 1970s allegorical fable about authority and dissent that plays against the backdrop of the Nixon administration’s escalation of the Vietnam War still feels strong, provocative, and necessary. The federal authorities in Punishment Park have detained certain individuals deemed to be a threat to internal security. These anti-establishment hippies and draft-dodgers are put before a tribunal that passes out their lengthy prison sentences, with the option of a full pardon if they participate in a law enforcement training exercise called Punishment Park.

The dissidents are required to cross a desert terrain under brutal conditions, with rising temperatures and military and police teams aggressively pursuing them. Those that make it through the course without being captured by the authority figures will arrive at an American flag and receive their pardon. However, the soldiers and police, which are purportedly not to interfere with the progress of the dissidents, use unnecessary brutality and force to take down the hippie contingent. The rising temperatures and so-called righteousness of law and order lead to a savage violence that’s familiar from the history books: Kent State comes immediately to mind. But so does Rodney King, Afghanistan, Guantanamo Bay, and Homeland Security. One of the members of the tribunal judging Punishment Park candidates is part of a housewife organization called The Silent Majority for a Unified America. Anyone who thinks this is a fanciful science fiction trope must not be paying attention.

I had read about Punishment Park in various film magazines over the years, and always wondered whether its old-fashioned lefty politics would hold up. But in watching the film, the left is represented by hippies standing in front of the tribunal getting pissed off at the unfair line of questions being thrown at them by the powers that be. None of the characters are particularly articulate about their political beliefs. Placed in a situation of extreme stress, surrounded by armed guards who have no qualms cuffing and gagging undesirables, its unlikely anyone would be able to muster up much in the way of debate. But the audience isn’t given a good mouthpiece even if they’re left-wingers. Charles Robbins, the character based on Chicago Seven radical Bobby Seale, shouts at the tribunal, “You are a lying sucker! You’re lying to the camera! You’re lying to your mama! You’re lying to everybody! Every time I hear you open up your mouth, all I hear is oink, you pig!” Hardly a cogent political view, but the scene has power not because Watkins uses Robbins as a mouthpiece for his ideals, but because Robbins is immediately detained and gagged like an animal.

Nobody deserves cruelty, and these characters are getting it because they believe in a different way of life for themselves. They are unable to say what they want, or really come up with any practical suggestions for their utopian ideals. This creates discomfort for any viewer hoping to have their idealism purged through left-wing wisdom. There is none at hand. Instead, the clearer voice articulated is that of force: police attack dogs, billy clubs, and an above-the-law sense of propriety. If order is to be preserved at all costs, that means a few skulls might get cracked along the way.

Punishment Park is told in the pseudo-documentary style that defines most of the British Watkins’s obscure body of work. This particular film is told as if a spare BBC crew was following the action of the corrective group enduring Punishment Park, the tribunal evaluation of a separate corrective group, and the police and National Guard that follow the pacifists and militants and occasionally swoop down on them with violence. It is shot using handheld 16mm cameras, with a narrator (Watkins himself) at first relaying just the facts: the weather conditions, the names of various individuals the camera focuses on, and a rudimentary, bare-bones backstory.

But as tension increases and the action becomes more and more hostile, leading to beatings and eventually senseless killing, the off-screen narrator drops any pretense of journalistic objectivity. “We’ve seen this! We’ve seen this!” he screams hysterically after witnessing a killing and getting it all on tape. What’s more chilling is the indifferent reaction of Sheriff Edwards (Jim Bohan), the main figure of police authority during the film. “I’ve been on film before, that doesn’t make a bit of difference to me,” he drawls. One might think this is a stretch for the movie, but as journalist Joseph Gomez points out in his Punishment Park essay from his 1979 book on Watkins, the crowd chanted, “The whole world is watching!” during the brutality at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. The police didn’t seem to care that the cameras were filming their “clubbing of young and old alike” then either.

That hasn’t stopped perverse U.S. troops from videotaping acts of torture to detainees. What might have seemed a little outrageous in 1971 seems old hat now, but hopefully is no less horrifying to DVD watchers. We’ve been bombarded by so many horrifying real-life images that one wonders if a recreation of it in a pseudo-documentary will have any effect on our now-hardened, cynical sensibilities. Even so, Punishment Park has a bleak optimism to it; the BBC journalist played by Watkins does have a reaction to what’s happening before him, much the same way journalists actually went out of their way to show the effects of Hurricane Katrina and the ineptitude of the Bush Administration. (This only lasted a day or two before caving in to the usual toadyism of the corporate-owned networks.) In that sense, Punishment Park remains a breath of chilling fresh air. Looking back on history reminds us of the differences and similarities between then and now, and Watkins serves up a time capsule from 1971 that, in a historical context, shows that the more things change, the more they stay the same. It is not a documentary serving up fact (and some could argue it shows the falseness of documentary filmmaking); it is an extreme, incendiary allegory stirring up deeper truths.

Image/Sound

It's amazing that this buried piece of underground filmmaking holds up so well in terms of image and sound. Shot on 16mm, it (appropriately) has the grainy look of a drive-in picture from the 1970s, but is remarkably free of scratches and damage. The DVD was digitally remastered from a new 35mm print stuck from a restored negative held in Paris, and the transfer looks clear, with excellent and audible sound quality throughout.

Extras

For those unfamiliar with the cinema of Peter Watkins, which is probably most audiences, there is a 24-page booklet accompanying the DVD written by scholar Joseph Gomez, whose 1979 essay details the rigorous making-of conditions behind Punishment Park (by this time Watkins was a pariah in the international film community because of his trenchant approach to making difficult, hard-hitting, and confrontational pseudo-documentaries). The non-professional actors were mostly cast because they were like their characters, including not only the dissenters and radicals but also the police and military characters. That authenticity comes across onscreen, but so does the tension of making the movie in the desert. (At one point in the filmmaking, when the National Guard characters opened fire on the dissenters when they weren't supposed to, in response to having rocks thrown at them for real, Watkins had a moment of fear that something had truly gone wrong, and his shrieks of, "Cut the camera! Oh my God!" remain in the finished film.) But more than a testament to Watkins and his ability to find a way to make his fierce body of work, it specifically makes reference to the real-life events Watkins was reacting to in the United States at the time, and how his movie is not merely an assault on American values like Lars von Trier's Dogville, but a parable about global oppression, a subject the British Watkins was well familiar with from his thorny tangles with the BBC and European television and distributors. The audio commentary by Gomez covers some of the same territory, but is useful for citing reference to scene specific events. There is a 28-minute introduction to the film by Watkins himself, and even though he's reading from several sheets of paper and seems a little stodgy, he also comes off as a man of tenacity and courage under difficult circumstances. His complaints about the distribution system for films like his doesn't come off as whiny or paranoid, but committed and troubled by media and corporate power. Also included on the DVD is a text essay by Scott MacDonald, who provides another useful frame of reference and analysis of Watkins, and the impassioned 1971 press kit. (The film was barely released, and the idealism of the press notes is somewhat painful in light of the movie's failure to find distributors or a cult audience.) Finally, the disc is rounded off by an amateur film directed by Watkins called The Forgotten Faces, about the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. It is an early example of the "expressionistic" documentary techniques Watkins employed, lingering on close-ups of faces that tell the story far better than watching stereotypical "revolution" images ever could.

Overall

Punishment Park is a tough film for tough viewers, and the rare political film that allows the audience to draw its own moral distinctions rather than rhetorically spoon-feed you. We'll see if modern audiences can handle that kind of challenge. Watkins inherently seems to believe they can, as long as they're willing to seek it out. Here's a movie well worth tracking down.

Image 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5

Sound 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5

Extras 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5

Overall 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5 4.0 out of 5

Specifications
  • DVD-Video
  • Single-Layer Disc
  • Region 1
  • Aspect Ratio
  • 1.33:1 Full Frame
  • Dolby Digital Formats
  • English 1.0 Mono
  • DTS
  • None
  • Subtitles & Captions
  • English Subtitles
  • French Subtitles
  • Special Features
  • 28-minute Introduction by Peter Watkins
  • Audio Commentary by Journalist Joseph A. Gomez
  • Short Film "The Forgotten Faces" by Peter Watkins
  • Text Essay by Scott MacDonald
  • Original 1971 Press Kit
  • Peter Watkins Filmography
  • 24-page Booklet with 1979 Essay on Punishment Park by Joseph Gomez, with 2005 Postscript
  • Buy
    DVD
    Release Date
    November 22, 2005
    Distributor
    New Yorker Video
    Runtime
    88 min
    Rating
    NR
    Year
    1971
    Director
    Peter Watkins
    Screenwriter
    Peter Watkins
    Cast
    Jim Bohan, Patrick Boland, Kent Foreman, Carmen Argenziano, Luke Johnson, Catherine Quittner, Scott Turner, Stan Armsted, Mary Ellen Kleinhall, Mark Keats