Island
Living 38: Diana's Death, Revisited
by A. D.
Coleman |
|
Having commented
in this space a year ago about the media feeding
frenzy over the death of John F. Kennedy, Jr., I
thought I'd come at that question from a different
angle. This rumination is prompted by the imminent
third anniversary of the death in Paris of Princess
Diana and Dodi al-Fayed on August 3, 1997, along
with the recent report that Jean-Paul "James"
Andanson, the "legendary" paparazzo suspected
of accountability in that event, died recently under
mysterious circumstances. Apparently, he burned
to death in his car on May 6, 2000, near Larzac,
in central France. Suicide, though initially suspected,
was subsequently rejected as a motive.
According to
the Associated Press, Andanson "was in Sardinia,
days before the Aug. 31, 1997 deaths of Diana and
Dodi, stalking them during their vacation. . . .
The photographer was not among the paparazzi found
at the scene of the crash and taken into custody."1
However, a white Fiat Uno with a damaged left-rear
fender -- owned by Andanson, but repainted and sold
shortly after the tragic accident that took the
lives of Diana, al-Fayed, and their driver -- may
have been the vehicle that collided in that Parisian
tunnel with the car in which the Princess of Wales
and her companions were riding.
The social consequence
of the international outpouring of grief over her
demise cannot yet be measured. But the death of
Diana as the culmination of that high-speed car
crash has so far had one potentially beneficial
consequence: it has foregrounded, brought to international
attention, and sparked serious and widespread public
debate over the question of the right to privacy
in relation to the behavior of photographers in
public places.
This long-overdue
consideration began immediately upon the disclosure
that the Mercedes in which the late princess was
traveling with al-Fayed had been chased from the
restaurant in the Ritz hotel by a wolfpack of ten
freelance photographers in cars and on motorcycles,
and that the high speed at which the vehicle was
traveling when it entered the fatal tunnel -- 90
mph, some three times over the city speed limit
-- was unquestionably an effort to elude this pursuit.
Outrage grew rapidly upon the disclosure that French
police had arrested the seven wilding paparazzi
-- six French, one Macedonian -- whom they found
parked and ghoulishly photographing at the scene,
and ultimately included the other three in their
formal investigation.
The police concern
in this matter involved two issues: whether the
vehicular behavior of the photographers and their
drivers (speeding around and cutting in front of
the car, shooting their strobes off in the driver's
face, forinstance) contributed in direct causal
fashion to the tragedy, and whether they violated
French law by proceeding immediately to photograph
the destroyed car and the four dead, dying and injured
people trapped within it, rather than calling for
help and trying to aid the victims. (Police arriving
at the scene found the photographers busily at work
with cameras and strobes; according to picture editors
in the U.K. and the U.S., images of the crash were
being offered for publication, at prices ranging
from $325,000 to $1 million, within hours of the
calamity.)
Ultimately,
on September 3, 1999, French judge Hervé
Stephan closed the two-year inquiry into the car
crash, finding insufficient evidence to justify
the bringing of manslaughter charges against the
nine photographers and one press motorcyclist implicated
in the accident. This was not exactly an exoneration,
or an approval of their actions, but merely an acknowledgment
that, technically, they hadn't broken the law. From
Judge Stephan's decision: "The critical view
which could be brought on the manner in which the
various people under examination have, during the
course of the night in question, exerted their professional
activity can only be recorded within the circumstances
of the moral appreciation or the code of ethics
which govern the profession of journalist or photo-journalist."
(To read the full decision, go to About.com.)
The role of Andanson in all this remains unclear,
and the possibility of foul play in his death augurs
an inevitable spiral into the hall of mirrors of
conspiracy theory.
Inclined myself
to neither gossip nor celebrity-tracking, I have
no particular investment in the Diana story, nor
did I feel any special sense of loss or grief over
her death. But the needless and pointless ending
of a promising young life saddened me, and to the
extent that issues of photographic practice -- in
this case, image-making, picture-editing, photo
publishing and photo consumption -- are implicated
in this situation, the event surely falls within
my purview as a regular commentator on issues of
photography and culture.
First, let me
point out that the behavior of these particular
paparazzi and the rest of their ilk -- and, indeed,
the behavior of photographers who work in the public
sphere generally -- is largely unregulated by legislation
in most countries. This holds true whether the subjects
are celebrities like Diana, politicians and holders
of public office, people unexpectedly thrust into
the spotlight (a white-collar criminal, a rape victim),
or simply average citizens going about their daily
business in no newsworthy way. What governs the
conduct of such photographers instead is a loose
mix of public tolerance, accepted professional practice,
marketplace demands, established precedent, and
a sizeable but incoherent body of case law addressing
individual instances and complaints.
Which is to
say that the photographers to whom we become potential
lens bait once we step out of our front doors --
indeed, as soon as we stand visible to them within
the windows of our own homes -- are not exercising
specific legal rights granted to them by the polity
and the legal system after extended public consideration
of the pros and cons involved. They are acting instead
on the basis of powers they've arrogated to themselves
gradually, without the active consent of the polity
and the legislature, and certainly without the agreement
and cooperation of the majority of their subjects.
Nor are they
guided by anything resembling a professional code
of ethics. To the best of my knowledge, there is
today no such formal code subscribed to by any group
of photographers anywhere in the world. Certainly
there's none here in the U.S. Notably, the last
time it promulgated such a protocol -- back in the
1970s, as I recall -- the American Society of Media
Photographers' "Code of Ethics" concerned
itself exclusively with what one could charge for
various services: ethics as fee schedule.
Second, there
was no widespread social consensus expressly favoring
free rein for photographers working in public upon
the medium's introduction in 1839, or anytime thereafter.
To the contrary, the voracity, rudeness, amorality
and recklessness of a certain breed of photographers
was noted early on and -- in the U.K., primarily
-- debated hotly, with efforts at legislative protection
of the public made sporadically, as historian Bill
Jay has noted. This form of photography continued
thenceforth under public sufferance, but hardly
with public approval. It remains unclear to me whether
the public in any country realizes one simple fact:
photographers' intrusion into private life conducted
in public places does not enjoy legislative sanction
or protection, but is fundamentally a privilege,
possibly rescindable.
That idea should
function as the starting point for all debate on
this issue. Given the absence of anything on record
save a haphazard and often contradictory tangle
of case law, nothing prevents the proposal and enactment
of new legislation covering rights of privacy in
public places. Nothing prohibits the creation of
laws protecting the populace from the incursions
of photographers specifically and the media in general
into anything save distinctly public occasions --
political rallies, public demonstrations, street
performances and such.
(To be
continued.)
1
Nicolas Marmie, "Mystery Fiat May Be Photographer's,"
Associated Press release, Friday, Feb. 13, 1998.
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Copyright 2000 by A. D. Coleman. All rights reserved.
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