In Jason Manrique’s Art and War: Republican Propaganda of the Spanish Civil War, the reader is presented with a survey of the media weaponized by the Republicans in their anti-fascist effort to defeat General Francisco Franco and his merry band of Nationalists during the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939). The introduction lays out the material conditions which led to the war and explains how the various political factions involved related with one another in the lead up to the conflict. Interestingly enough, the introduction functions as a successful exercise in anticipation. The reader knows what lays ahead, for the abstract discusses the writer’s mission, and the table of contents lists the various images to be referenced. So, in reading the introduction, the reader, whether a learned scholar on fascist and anti-fascist propaganda circa the 1930s or not, is filled with their own images of what this may look like. However, this anticipation is quelled, or is forcibly placed in the backburner, when the reader reaches the first chapter, a brief analysis of films made during the Spanish Civil War. While the writing does not disappoint, the form which the thesis hinted at, that of a multi-media historical survey, disappoints in that the reader is not offered clips nor screenshots to concretely conceptualize artistic intent in 1930s. Of course, a niche audience of European film historians, the lack of images does not represent a concern. However, Manrique’s work is brief, and I interpret as a work more inviting to the novice as opposed to the expert. Ironically enough, Manrique refers to my previous point in third chapter when discussing the photojournalism of Robert Capa, whose images magnified the impact of LIFE Magazine’s reports from the frontlines of the Spanish Civil War. While structurally-speaking there is nothing wrong with the chapter, as I’m sure multiple readers of this work sought out the films discussed, the potential of an anticipated meaning finds itself disappointed.
It is not until the latter two chapters of Manrique’s work, that his desire to present the reader with a multi-media overview of propaganda in war-time comes to fruition. In Chapter Three, “Republican Posters,” Manrique not only provides a brief history of propaganda posters used in the Soviet Union and United States, but also details how these posters were made, and how different artists and artistic movements, from Goya to Constructivism, influenced the anti-fascist militants. And we get to see some of the posters! Manrique’s words acquire a new level of meaning when paired with the color images of anti-fascist Spanish propaganda. The images, which one would think the reader would pause to analyze, allow for Manrique’s words to soak within the reader’s mind while they stop and look at the propaganda. The excitement of turning the page and seeing a hammer and sickle layered atop a star long with an explanation as to why defeating Franco’s fascist is inherently a step in the revolution towards communism serves as a modern parallel to someone turning a corner in 1930s Valencia and seeing such an image. The image, an interpretable message regardless of what language one speaks, retains a power sole words do not. This amplification carries Manrique’s work towards the end, as the last chapter focuses on the work of several photojournalists during the Spanish Civil War. In between brief biographies and descriptions of the training grounds and battle conditions in Spain, Manrique formats some of the most iconic war photography of the 20th Century to become the centerpiece of the stage, highlighting the significance of this conflict and the work that arose from it.
Perhaps Manrique meant to keep the viewer in the dark regarding images from 1930s Spanish films to make a comment on the censorship that would follow General Franco’s victory in the Civil War—I don’t know. But, what I do know, is that this work truly reached (what I consider) its ideal form when its message juxtaposed several mediums.
