Page 48 - Sorrow of the Earth: Buffalo Bill, Sitting Bull and the Tragedy of Show Business

up against the heart of a hidden world. Spectacle draws its power and its

dignity from being nothing. It leaves us irremediably alone, with no wound to
see the light of day, no trace of evidence. And yet, in the midst of this noisy
vacuum, in the great pity we feel, and even in our very scorn—there’s
something there. As if this grand ephemeral entertainment, this desperate
forgetting of ourselves, this way of turning our heads to get a better look were
one of the most tragic moments of our being: devoid of any sign or revelation;
and where all that happens is that the heart feels a pang, a hand clutches hold

of another person, any old person, as long as they’re right next to us on the
bleachers, and we can experience our adjacent anguish in a shout, a laugh, a
simple community of feeling.
And now Frank Richmond announces something extraordinary, the
greatest chapter in the story of the Wild West, a world monument! Shush!

“Ladies and gentlemen, here, for the very first time, with the participants
themselves, is the famous Battle of Wounded Knee!” People now understand
the reason for Buffalo Bill’s voyage, his hasty departure from Nancy, his visit
to the scene of the drama, the survivors he recruited. It makes for a great line-
up.
So the grand epic begins, and the dream starts up again. Hundreds of
horsemen gallop past, raising clouds of dust. The floor of the arena has been

thoroughly doused, but it makes no difference, and the sun beats down.
Wonderment grows, the horsemen are too many to count, and people ask
themselves how many the arena can hold. It’s a hundred metres long and fifty
metres wide! The spectators clap and shout. The crowd watches this
simulacrum of a US Army regiment go by, their eyes popping out of their
heads. Children push forward to get a better view. Hearts are beating. The

truth is finally about to be revealed.
Yet, if you look closely, it’s not much more realistic than a film by
Georges Méliès. It’s the same fakery, the same Conquests of the Pole, the
same Knights of the Snows, the same Dancing Skeletons, the same
Chloroform Fiends! But it doesn’t matter because art is business here. Simple
things have the biggest effect, and it’s the irrelevant things that are the most
important.

Right now the Indians are performing their final role. They’re there,
disguised beneath the most improbable costumes, in a fog of flies. And, as
usual, when they come on stage, an indistinct rumbling starts up, a mix of
curiosity and hostility. You can’t do without Indians if you want the show.