Olympic delay

I celebrated the XXX Olympiad last week by watching Olympia, the iconic Leni Riefenstahl film of the 1936 Games in Berlin.

Well, look—it had better production values and the delay in coverage was only somewhat greater than what NBC has been doing for the past couple of weeks. (Plus: no fatuous commentary or commercials.)

You know all about Jesse Owens poking holes in Nazi super race theories, but several things struck me about the events that Riefenstahl presented.

Diving standards have changed in the intervening 76 years: many of the divers went into the water feet first, and they hardly did more than one somersault or twist before hitting the water. They seemed almost leisurely. Plus—way more splash when they struck than is allowed now.  Today, you’d better barely make a ripple, or you’re outta the pool.

Athletic clothes were considerably lower tech than what you find these days. Runners, vaulters, jumpers, putters and throwers frequently wore what we’d call warm-up gear (sweatshirts and pants) to compete. And the shoes—my dear, the shoes! Everything these men and women accomplished seemed to be in spite of their apparel.

The Fosbury Flop may have expanded the capabilities of high jumpers, but I have to say it’s not nearly as lovely to watch as the old straddle method. I swear that, on clearing the bar, some of the jumpers kicked the air to propel themselves out and down. You can’t do that when you’re sailing backward over the thing.

And when watching both the high jumpers and the pole vaulters, the engagement with the athletes was so intense that I found myself gearing up to will them over the bar—every one of them—and groaned in disappointment when anyone knocked it down.

Seemed like all the equestrian competitors were military—cavalry officers. That is so 1936.

Forty-nine nations competed in that Olympiad—so the parade of athletes went a lot faster than the one a couple of weeks ago. And the athletes marched sharpish, all of them; they didn’t swarm about like weirdly-dressed paramecia equipped with photographic devices. Most of them gave the Nazi salute. Frankly, it was bizarre to see the Canadians doing it. The Brits did not.

The only nations from the entire continent of Africa were South Africa, part of the British Empire, and Egypt, also under British rule. Asia was represented by India (likewise British), Afghanistan, Philippines, Japan and China.

But here’s the one thing that kind of freaked me out: the marathon. Riefenstahl devoted more than ten minutes to that ultimate Olympic event and the first thing that struck me was the lack of Africans. I’m so used to seeing Kenyans and Ethiopians dominating distance running—that’s when I discovered that the only blacks appearing in 1936 mostly came from the US. And they seem to have concentrated on the sprint events.

But then I though it very odd that a couple of runners from the Japanese team were out front from the beginning. The Argentinian winner from the 1932 Olympics took the lead and held it; but he was trailed pretty closely by the two from Japan and a Brit.

Well, it was an incredibly exciting race—I mean, there is something about the punishment of the long-distance runner that you have to admire. These days, you wouldn’t see Olympic marathoners stopping for water, or walking for stretches, but you can still see these athletes from 76 years ago focused on what their bodies have to give in order to take the next stride, and the next.

The Argentine dropped out at mile 19 and the race belonged to “Son Kitei”, Ernest Harper and “Nan Shoryu”. And that’s how they finished.

In 1936 the winning athletes got laurel crowns, and Son was also given a small oak tree in a pot, which he held in front of his uniform, while the national anthem of Japan was played.

I looked at the names on the board and thought to myself, “Self—‘Son’ just does not sound Japanese to me. What’s up with that?”

And that’s where I discovered the real drama of that race.

Son Kitei and Nan Shoryu were Koreans; real names Sohn Kee-chung and Nam Sung-yong, respectively. Korea had been under Japanese occupation since 1910, and the marathoners were forced to represent their imperial overlords under the required Japanese names.

Son was able to obscure the Japanese flag on the front of his uniform with that little oak tree; Nam had no such protection. But both had to endure listening to the Japanese national anthem, and you can see their shame in the way they hold their heads in the photo. Their extraordinary achievement was subverted to the glorification of their oppressors. What a perversion of the Olympic ideal.

And no one knew, because the Koreans’ translators were Japanese and they refused to translate any of their disclaimers.

(If you want to destroy a culture, first go after the language. Outlaw the indigenous speech, require that your language only be used. Make people take names in your language; destroy native news media; substitute your place names for theirs. The Japanese did that in Korea; the English did it in Ireland.)

The record books now show Sohn and Nam with asterisks next to their names, recognizing their nationality, but I had no clue about it until I watched Riefenstahl’s remarkable film—which covered all sorts of events, including ones the Germans tanked at.

If you can find a copy, I recommend it. Always something to learn, always something to appreciate, always something to admire.

Which are Olympic ideals.