Jason Burke’s “The Revolutionists” arrives at an odd moment to feel old-fashioned: a serious work of history, uninterested in hot takes, allergic to the consolations of personality-driven narrative, and skeptical of the romance that so often clings to revolutionary myth. If the book has a polemical impulse, it is expressed through restraint. Burke does not ask us to be thrilled by political violence, nor to be reassured by the state’s eventual capacity to contain it. He asks instead for attention of a different sort: the patient kind that follows cause into consequence, tactic into countermeasure, rhetoric into ruin.
The story Burke tells is, of course, thrilling in the way reality can be when it is extreme: kidnappings, hijackings, prison hunger strikes, spectacular assaults calibrated for maximum public disruption. Yet “The Revolutionists” is not a catalogue of outrages. It is a study of how modern insurgent violence behaved once it entered the bloodstream of industrial democracies and their media systems, and what those systems did in response. Burke’s real subject is not the explosion but the echo: how shock reverberates through institutions, how states metabolize crisis, how movements mistake visibility for leverage, how ideology hardens into ritual.
Burke begins where he must: with grievance that is more than abstraction. The early sections insist that revolutionary violence does not emerge from theory alone. It is born from displacement, humiliation, and the slow education of the body into suspicion. Burke is attentive to the way people become symbols before they ever choose to be. A border, a police stop, an interrogation room, an exile’s precarious housing can function as curriculum. The book’s tone here is precise rather than sentimental. Burke refuses to turn suffering into an alibi; he also refuses to treat it as irrelevant scenery. The effect is to establish a moral baseline without granting the narrative a moral shortcut.
From that foundation, the book narrows into the mechanics of spectacle. Burke’s most bracing pages treat political violence not as pathology but as strategy: an attempt to communicate under conditions in which ordinary speech has been rendered powerless. The decision to abduct rather than assassinate, to hijack rather than bomb, to issue communiqués with a particular style and vocabulary is presented as tactical reasoning within a specific media environment. Burke is particularly sharp on the way spectacle is built. Targets are chosen not only for symbolic value but for their capacity to force attention, to create a dilemma, to produce a set of images that will travel. Violence becomes a message, and the message is designed for broadcast.
Here the book’s contemporary resonance announces itself without needing to declare “relevance.” Burke does not have to mention social media or algorithmic amplification for the reader to recognize the pattern. The attention economy did not begin with smartphones. “The Revolutionists” makes the case that, long before the feed, militants understood the primacy of the image, the bite, the scene. They relied on the machinery of publicity to complete the act. The television camera did not merely record the drama; it helped produce it.
Yet Burke’s most important insight is that attention is not the same thing as power – or at least not durable power. The book’s core drama is the gap between spectacular visibility and lasting leverage. Again and again, Burke shows how tactical “success” generates consequences no one fully controls: diplomatic fracture, opportunistic imitation, state overreaction, internal paranoia, escalating demands for proof of seriousness. In a sense, “The Revolutionists” is a book about feedback loops. The act produces the response, and the response becomes part of the act’s meaning, and the meaning becomes the movement’s fuel. No one remains free of the circuit, least of all the militants who believed they were forcing history to move.
A mid-book sequence on West Germany distills this logic with unnerving clarity. The abduction of the conservative candidate Peter Lorenz by the June 2 Movement is treated not as mere set piece but as a democratic stress test. Burke lays out the confusion of the initial response, the political calculations, the unprecedented nature of releasing domestic extremists in exchange for a captive. The state yields – reluctantly, gingerly, with the insistence that it is not establishing a precedent – while simultaneously understanding that it is. Burke then shows the price of that concession as the pattern proliferates. What is negotiated once becomes imaginable again, and imagination is a form of permission.
The subsequent assault on the West German embassy in Stockholm, carried out by militants styling themselves as a “commando,” becomes the brutal counterpoint: a dramatic escalation, a standoff, killings, and a premature detonation that engulfs the building in fire. Burke is attentive not only to the event but to the interpretations that spring up around it: the militants who claim death itself as a kind of victory, the imprisoned leaders who read the violence as proof of continuing legitimacy, the diplomats who draw the bleak conclusion that a small, committed group can “play havoc” with highly developed societies. Burke’s power as a historian is in his ability to let these voices coexist without turning the book into a courtroom. He shows how each actor sees the same episode and extracts a different lesson, then demonstrates what the system actually learns.
It is in this temperament that Burke distinguishes himself from the more breathless chroniclers of political radicalism. Bryan Burrough’s “Days of Rage” is exhilarating in its momentum, a true-crime epic of American unrest. Burke’s book is closer in moral temperature to Hannah Arendt’s “On Violence” and Albert Camus’s “The Rebel,” works that treat revolutionary rhetoric as a serious philosophical claim and then follow it to the place where seriousness curdles. Burke is not writing philosophy, but he shares their refusal to be seduced by rhetoric that confuses destruction with liberation. There is also something of Alistair Horne’s unsentimental rigor in “A Savage War of Peace”: the sense that ideology is never pure once it meets the machinery of the state, and that violence has a peculiar talent for becoming its own justification.
If “The Revolutionists” has a single guiding thesis, it is that modern political violence is inseparable from modern representation. Burke’s attention to propaganda, communiqués, and the aesthetic habits of militants – the way iconography is borrowed, slogans are refined, martyrs are pictured, enemies are dehumanized into a category – reads like a prehistory of today’s ideological content streams. Here the book is both chilling and oddly explanatory: language that once aimed to persuade begins to function as incantation, a closed circuit designed to confirm believers rather than win converts. The audience that matters becomes internal, and the movement begins to perform itself into existence.
Burke is careful not to reduce his subjects to cynics. Many are sincere. That sincerity, the book suggests, is part of the danger. “The Revolutionists” returns to a hard truth: sincerity does not scale. Conviction cannot substitute for organization, and intensity cannot substitute for legitimacy. The movements Burke follows repeatedly misread their own moral urgency as evidence of historical necessity. They mistake their willingness to sacrifice for proof that they embody the people. Burke’s narrative is a long demonstration of what happens when that illusion collides with reality.
One of Burke’s most persuasive arguments concerns the state’s advantage: not simply its capacity for force, but its capacity for patience. Institutions, he suggests, do not need to be morally inspired. They need only to endure. They learn slowly, but they do learn. Each spectacular assault produces procedural adaptations that outlast the militants’ fervor: new security architectures, new investigative practices, new laws that begin as emergency measures and end as normalized infrastructure. The book refuses to celebrate this. Burke is alert to the costs. The state’s endurance often comes with a hardening that lingers, and “The Revolutionists” is honest about the way crisis can become governance’s preferred mode.
That honesty is also why the book’s emotional register may strike some readers as austere. Burke is not a writer of lyrical intimacy, and “The Revolutionists” does not regularly pause to dwell on victims. Suffering is present, acknowledged, consequential – but rarely rendered in a way that offers catharsis. Burke’s chosen temperature is procedural: he is drawn to courtrooms, ministerial offices, prison wings, and the language in which states translate violence into cases. Some readers will want more grief, more human proximity, more moral emphasis on the irreducible wrongness of what is done to bodies. Burke’s restraint feels like an ethical choice: to refuse sentimentalization, to refuse the pornography of horror, to refuse the narrative pleasures that violence too easily supplies.
And yet in the book’s prison sequences, Burke allows the human cost to emerge with a devastating specificity. Ulrike Meinhof’s deterioration is traced not as melodrama but as an anatomy of isolation: the severed contact with her children, the self-criticism that turns her intelligence against itself, the spectacle of a public figure becoming, in the eyes of observers, less terrifying than pitiable. The hunger strikes, too, become a kind of grim ritual. Burke shows how protest can become theater, how theater can become leverage, and how leverage can slide into martyrdom. The death of Holger Meins is presented as both personal tragedy and political accelerant: an emaciated body transformed into a poster, a funeral turned into a mass pledge, a movement discovering that death can recruit.
The book’s most quietly theatrical scene is the meeting between Jean-Paul Sartre and Andreas Baader in Stammheim. Burke renders it with a novelist’s sense of awkwardness and drift: Sartre arriving as moral celebrity, invited in part because his name might function as a shield; Baader greeting him with a silence and a line that is almost farcical in its self-importance; the philosopher struggling to follow the younger man’s ideological jargon; the gaps in conversation widening into a kind of mutual incomprehension. It is one of the book’s finest moments because it stages, without sermonizing, the tragic comedy of revolutionary self-mythology. The philosopher comes to bestow legitimacy and finds, instead, that legitimacy is not what the militant wants. What he wants is not moral argument but recognition.
In these later chapters, “The Revolutionists” also converses with wider histories of Cold War geopolitics – the wide-angle analysis associated with Odd Arne Westad’s “The Cold War,” or, in a different register, Vincent Bevins’s “The Jakarta Method.” Burke is not attempting a comprehensive global history, but he is constantly aware of the ecosystem in which these movements operate: proxy conflicts, ideological trafficking, the temptation for states to sponsor disruption abroad while demanding stability at home, the way local grievances are magnetized by global struggle. The book shows how transnational solidarity can be both real and strangely hollow: an alliance of tactics more than an alliance of achievable politics.
What finally gives “The Revolutionists” its moral force is its insistence that history does not grant meaning on demand. The militants Burke chronicles often believe that urgency can force the future open. They believe that spectacular action obligates the world to respond, that intensity compels legitimacy, that being willing to die proves the justice of the cause. Burke’s story is the record of what happens when those beliefs collide with the banal endurance of modern systems. The future does not open. The world continues. Violence becomes archive: files, trials, security protocols, legends that shrink and harden as they are remembered. Revolutionary violence, Burke suggests, rarely ends in either triumph or repentance. It ends in administration.
There are many reasons to admire “The Revolutionists”: its breadth, its sobriety, its refusal of cliché, its ability to make a familiar era newly legible. Burke has written a book that will be cited more than it is loved, taught more than it is devoured – and that is not a criticism. It is the mark of a serious work, one that trusts the reader to endure complexity without the sugar of sentiment. My rating is 89 out of 100: a recognition of its intellectual power and its chosen severity, and of the way its cold clarity illuminates not only a past era of revolutionary violence, but the contemporary temptation to mistake attention for authority and spectacle for change.