There is a deservedly famous scene early in the film Annie Hall, in which Woody Allen and Dianne Keaton, are waiting in line to see a movie. Behind them in the queue a man noisily opines on the demerits of the films of Frederico Fellini and the ideas of Marshal McLuhan. When Woody challenges him about his loudness and his erroneous views, he responds by saying that he teaches classes on “TV, Media and Culture” at Columbia University. At which point, Woody brings Marshal McLuhan himself on-screen, who then confirms that Woody is right and the opiniated academic is wrong. “Boy, if life were only like this,” says Woody, direct to the camera.
I should confess that on a number of occasions – during interminable and unwinnable arguments about the correct interpretation of some author’s or some artist’s work, or about the best explanation for an historical event or an economic process, or about the real meaning of an idea or concept in philosophy – I have wished to be in a similar situation. Would it not be truly wonderful if the person in the world most authoritative on the topic of the argument in question, just happened to be standing nearby and willingly and decisively intervened in the argument, telling my interlocutor that they were mistaken and that I was right. It is not just the wish to be proved right, but also the wish for there to be a right answer that is instantly and conclusively available, that makes this thought so wonderful.
McLuhan’s walk-on part in Annie Hall is a trivial but effective illustration of the English saying, Cometh the hour, cometh the man. This phrase is usually taken to mean that when a difficult situation arises, so someone comes forward to solve the problem and save the day; or, that every crisis implies a hero. I had always assumed that the phrase had a long provenance in English history, and dated back to some sixteenth or seventeenth century dramatist, such as Ben Jonson or Aphra Benn. I was surprised to discover that the saying is not to be found in the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, nor in Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. A little online research suggests a much more recent origin, the words first spoken on the occasion of a cricket match between England and South Africa in 1948. Somewhat deflated by this discovery, I consoled myself that the very same idea, if not the exact same form of words, occurs in a poem by Andrew Marvell.
Marvell was a good friend of John Milton, and is credited with saving him from execution after the Restoration of 1660 – when many republican supporters were punished for their anti-monarchical activities – thereby allowing Milton time to write Paradise Lost, for which we should all be grateful. Marvell wrote some important poetry himself, including a panegyric in 1655 to England’s greatest ever sovereign, titled The First Anniversary Of the Government under O.C.. Midway through this lengthy text, at a point where Marvell dwells on our inability fully to understand the times in which we live, he says, That ’tis the most which we determine can, / If these the Times, then this must be the Man. The elegant cadence of Marvell’s couplet points to the conclusion that cricketers should concentrate on their game, and that the making of proverbs should be left to poets.
Oliver Cromwell was, to the minds of many of his Puritan contemporaries, God’s agent on earth, who saved England from Catholicism and other forms of foreign corruption, and who established the true religion in God’s newly chosen land. His military exploits and political innovations were taken as a sign of his divine mission and favour. Later republicans, of whom I am one, celebrate his government for other reasons: its commitment to religious toleration, at least for most Protestants and for Jews; its investment in trade, commerce, and industry; and its support for science, university research, and the arts. It was, as I have already noted, a great time for English poetry. Indeed, the 1650s were, arguably, the most successful decade of progressive government in England ever, possibly surpassing the late-1940s.
The idea that because the onset of a crisis demands a hero, so we can be sure a hero will arise to meet this demand, is plainly false. During the English Civil War, Cromwell played a decisive role, just as George Washington later did in the American War of Independence. But, in his hour of crisis, Charles I did not find a hero to rescue him from Cromwell, neither did George III in the following century find a hero to defeat Washington’s armies. Only the winning side found someone of whom they could say, this must be the man. We might crave a saviour, but this desire is not always efficacious. Sometimes the hour passes and no-one comes.
Earlier this year in Bangladesh, the corrupt and dictatorial regime of Sheikh Hasina was overthrown, following a series of large student-led street demonstrations, against which the army chose not to intervene. Many protestors were killed by police forces, but when the military signalled their reluctance to provide additional support, it became clear that the government could not survive. Sheikh Hasina fled by helicopter to India, where she is seeking asylum. Muhammad Yunus, recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize for his pioneering work in developing microcredit in its modern form, was appointed chief advisor to the interim government, and many people, both in Bangladesh and the wider world, hope that this peace-loving and principled man will be able to steer the country to a brighter, more democratic future.
At first glance, Yunus appears to be a perfect example of the right man at the right hour. He is an internationally respected figure, who has spent his lifetime improving the lives of the poor in Bangladesh, and he has been an outspoken critic of the previous regime for its repression and mismanagement. The problem for Yunus is that he is now in his mid-80s (older than Joe Biden) and the political system in Bangladesh has been so degraded over the past two decades that the challenging work of reforming the country might well be too much for him. He has made clear that elections cannot be held until the party system is cleaned up, and that trials of those responsible for crimes under the old regime can only proceed once the judiciary has been reformed. Political progress takes time, and Yunus does not have time on his side. I have met him several times: he is an impressive man and I wish him well, but it is possible that his hour came a little too late.
Cometh the hour, cometh Kamala? Many of us have invested our hopes in the US Vice-President since she stepped into this year’s presidential election race. She appears to be the right woman at the right time, capable of restoring some sanity to US politics. Nonetheless, even were she to win next month, the stark problems of American public life – the polarisation and partisanship that have infected the judicial system, the education system, business and investment, as well as both traditional and new social media – cannot possibly be resolved by one person after one election. A Harris presidency would be better for the US – and for much of the rest of the world – than a Trump presidency; but she alone will not be able to bring to an end the febrile character of US political discourse. The film Annie Hall was made in 1977, nearly fifty years ago, but it seems to me inconceivable that in the US today Marshall McLuhan could settle an argument about the meaning of his own work. In most American political conversations, there are no authoritative voices left.
The Annie Hall joke works in part because whatever the ostensible subject of any of Woody Allen’s films, they are always also about film-making, and McLuhan was famous as an authority on the media. His was precisely the expertise that a Woody Allen character in a Woody Allen film would need. More generally, Allen is also interested in the problem of wish-fulfilment, and how many of our difficulties in life stem from unrealistic expectations about the world. He drew on Freud’s work which suggests that we often do not know what we really want, and that even if we do know we are often not able to get it. Into this dilemma he injected a dose of modern Jewish humour, to show the funny side of struggling to achieve self-knowledge without any hope of self-satisfaction.
What is true in our private lives is also true in public life. We do not have a shared collective understanding of many of the political problems we need to fix, nor is there consensus on what polices have the best chance of fixing those problems; and even if we did, we would disagree about how to implement these policies, and about who should pay for them. We might hope for a hero to come along and save us – and the movie industry is very good at persuading us to believe in heroes – but the less glamorous and more boring truth about the world is that when the hour of crisis arises, most of the time there is no heroic man or woman available. If we want things to get better, we are going to have to do it for ourselves.
When Oliver Cromwell died, in 1658, his son Richard was proclaimed the new Lord Protector. (Despite having overthrown the Stuart monarchy the English republicans were unable to overthrow the monarchical principle of family succession.) Richard did not last long – he was removed from office by the army in 1659, before Charles II returned as King in the Restoration of 1660. Richard was, however, smart enough not to remain in England, where he would undoubtedly have been arrested and then executed by the new regime. He lived under an assumed name in Paris and Geneva for twenty years and then, in 1680 or thereabouts, he came back to England and lived anonymously in Cheshunt until his death, aged 85, in 1712. If these be the times, then this must be what the cautious man does.
Curiously, this makes Richard Cromwell the second longest-lived English sovereign, after Elizabeth II who died two years ago, aged 96. Cometh the hour, hideth the man: that makes more sense.