Most of us believe in the myth of evil, that there is a malevolent force at large in the cosmos that often manifests itself in human form. We believe in a species of free-floating dark will that can infect the human personality and is responsible for most of the harm done in the world. Evil, we believe, changes people; it negates their humanity and converts them into monsters.
It is not difficult to understand why we believe in evil; it seems to be all around us. Our newspapers and cable networks catalog it, our days are ruptured by bulletins of school and workplace shootings, details to follow. Bad things have always happened, they will continue to happen, and it is in our nature to seek meaning. And so we have invented this lurking malevolence, upon which we project our deepest fears and loathings.
The problem with evil is that it allows us to argue for the exceptionalism of its agents—normal ethical limits and restraints cannot be observed when we are fighting evil. Against evil, we are compelled to use any means necessary.
The Act of Killing is an astonishing documentary, an incursion into the dim territories of human identity and the ways we deceive ourselves. It presents us with the spectacle of cheerful murderers who’ve not only gotten away with it but are celebrated as national heroes. It is among the most disturbing films I’ve ever seen.
It was made over the course of several years by Joshua Oppenheimer, Christine Cynn and a largely anonymous (for fear of retribution) Indonesian crew and will screen during the Hot Springs Documentary Film Festival, which begins Friday. (For more information on the festival go to hsdfi.org.)
Oppenheimer, a British American who is now based in Denmark, focuses mainly on self-described Indonesian “gangsters” Anwar Congo and Adi Zulkadry. In 1965, Congo and Zulkadry were flashily dressed, fast-living thugs living in the North Sumatra city of Medan. They were hoodlums who modeled themselves on the anti-heroes they saw in Hollywood movies. To make money, they scalped movie tickets to these films and extorted Chinese immigrant shop keepers.
In the chaos that ensued after an attempted coup by the September 30 Movement that year, Congo and Zulkadry headed the notorious Frog Squad, kidnapping, interrogating and killing anyone they decided was a “communist”—a term they applied to all perceived enemies of the military including ethnic Chinese, intellectuals and union members—anyone they considered “evil.” (Oppenheimer’s film understandably doesn’t go very deep into the convoluted political history of Indonesia, but if you remember the 1982 Peter Weir film The Year of Living Dangerously, you might believe you have some idea about the surreal terror that enveloped Indonesia in those days.)
Congo, a spry, avuncular, perpetually smiling 72-year-old, claims to have personally murdered 1,000 people. He scolds a grandchild for injuring a duckling. On screen he dances as he demonstrates his method. (“We killed happily,” he says.) At first they beat their victims to death, but that was too messy, and the blood smelled “awful.” So he devised a method by which he could strangle them efficiently, using a wire attached to a post. He uses a friend to demonstrate—“that’s how you do it!” (Later he watches himself on videotape and says he has regrets. He would never have “worn white pants”while he was killing communists. He wore jeans—“thick pants”—to his executions. )
Now a revered figure in Indonesia, Congo is seen as one of the founding fathers of the politically important paramilitary youth group that grew out of the death squads. They gather for rallies, in their garish camouflage uniforms, where they are flattered by government ministers who offer no apologies, saying that the nation needs gangsters to “beat up” those who won’t toe the line.
Zulkadry at first seems more serious and better grounded than Congo. He appears annoyed by his old friend’s light-heartedness and understands his actions “were actually crueler than the communists.” But he also knows how the world works and is untroubled by his actions: “War crimes are defined by the winners. I am the winner, so I can make my own definition!”
Oppenheimer may have been disingenuous in his dealings with Congo, Zulkadry and the others who boast on camera about everything from bullying to election rigging to genocide. He has said that his subjects, who maintain their enthusiasm for American pop culture, were predisposed to trust him because he was an American, and the CIA suborned Sukarno’s overthrow. I have no problem with his methods. These people have deluded themselves that they are the good guys, they are the victors, and their version of history is the one that prevails.
They seem to assume that Joshua, their friend “from London,” means to make a movie that celebrates their lives and victories. And so they are happy to show him how they built their nation. They were the brave heroes, and now they will play themselves in the movies, closing the circle. They knew they had to be as cruel—“more sadistic”— than the Nazis in the Hollywood films. (One of Congo’s old friends remembers how, in the old days, he raped hundreds of girls: “The nice ones are the 14- and 15-year olds. Still young and fresh!”)
The film descends into madness as a film-within-a-film begins to take over, and after Congo plays one of his own victims, he swings from delusional ubermensch to a pathetic, self-pitying mess. There is nothing exceptional about him. He was simply, as Hannah Arendt observed of Eichmann, “thoughtless.”
Most of us are quite skilled at excusing ourselves, at believing in the possibility of personal redemption.
While we may understand we have moments of weakness and recognize our own capacity for cruelty, we believe there is an essential difference between our imperfect humanity and the evil we encounter in the news and on the various screens we like to look at. Most of us would prefer to hurt no one, most of us prefer not to think much about the atrocities—the smallpox blankets and slave labor—that played a hand in securing whatever blessings we enjoy.
But evil does not exist. No one is out here but us. We are all susceptible to breaking bad; we just have different appetites for risk and thresholds of panic. Depending on the circumstances, we might even revel in our crimes, we might boast about our murders. We might pretend to feel sorry. Those potentialities are part of us. People are able to do the worst things imaginable and maintain their humanity. And that is sad and scary.
pmartin@arkansasonline.com
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Perspective, Pages 82 on 10/06/2013