Survival of the Thickest

Somewhere along the line, perhaps when Cary Grant started talking about LSD, someone decided that merely alluding to the dirty side of life was skirting the issue altogether. Suddenly it was naïve for a character to clear her throat in place of blurting out the f-word in the face of her lover. Today we giggle at the sight of Lucy and Ricky sleeping in separate beds; but what have we got in its place? The belching and farting of Married with Children. I’m not saying that both these shows aren’t funny, but the question I’ve found myself asking is: Is a show like Married with Children any less naïve than I Love Lucy?

Literature is worse. Once upon a time, not long after the Hays office conquered Hollywood with its blue pencil, a depressed and jobless artist in New York, absorbed by desperate schemes spewing forth from his fetid state of penury, figured out that he could sell a few extra books by mentioning stuff that Hollywood wasn’t allowed to touch. Indeed, on this day literature became a speakeasy. Because books are cheaper to produce than films—and, perhaps, because their content is invisible to the eye—the literati managed to get their naughty products made and (at first humbly and later in ever increasing numbers) on the market. Finally, film industry censorship buckled under the pressure to compete with books and plays; but this didn’t stop them—on the contrary, one has the impression that literature and theater have done their best to keep one step ahead of film in the race toward vulgarity. Today, when perusing the shelves at our local bookshop, we get to choose from Filth, Choke and One Hundred Days of Sodom.

And, in turn, what is the attitude of this new author toward the film industry? Does he care about the fate of his story? What is the “state of affairs,” so to speak? I read an article recently in Poets & Writers Magazine about novels and film rights. According to Jonathan Franzen: “I know too much about Hollywood—about Hollywood adaptations of novels, about novelists with Hollywood—to have hopes of anything much besides getting paid. My chief hope is that a movie of The Corrections gets made but not before the option has been lucratively [sic] renewed a few times.”

Allow me to name a few director-author collaborations that worked: (1) Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita co-scripted with Vladimir Nabokov, (2) William Friedkin’s Exorcist co-scripted with William Peter Blatty, (3) Elia Kazan’s Viva Zapata! co-scripted with John Steinbeck, or, in Germany, (4) Volker Schlöndorf’s Tin Drum co-scripted with Günter Grass. Who is Franzen trying to kid? I refuse to believe that it’s only about money. I believe there are artists who believe in their ideas, and are willing to back those ideas with actions. I’ve just named eight.

In the same magazine, I read an article by author David Long who said of symbolism: “To be honest, I’m not wild about symbolism. I don’t like the notion that behind what floats on the page there’s a ‘true meaning’ to be extracted, that the writer has fashioned not an art object but a puzzle, a code¼it reeks of Middle Ages theology¼I happen to like the here and now.” Again, I’m left speechless. One of the most beautiful things about art—if not the most beautiful thing—is that it inspires us to think. Take away the symbol and all you’re left with is a pretty picture.

Oscar Wilde said: “All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” This may be true, but have you ever considered the contrary? Oh cow, the pasture of prettiness awaits you! Even Oscar Wilde couldn’t survive in such a tedious state (perhaps that’s why he wrote The Critic as Artist). Superficiality is the Shangri-la of weary intellectuals, dried-up poets, nihilists and cynics; anyone with the desire to live will venture into the depths, even when it is perilous.

In my early twenties, because I was ignorant of the context, I had a difficult time appreciating medieval art. Now I find with each year, each visit to Prague, each Carl Jung and Thomas Mann book, medieval painting and philosophy become more fascinating. In a word, it is not a question of taste, but one of education; and there is nothing worse than being proud of one’s ignorance. Theology does not reek, unwashed people do (and in case Mr. Long didn’t notice, there is a hidden meaning to this statement that relates to him). Art is aesthetic communication. As for myself, I’d rather communicate with intelligent people than with pretty ones whose myopic views are trapped within the here and now.

And yet this attitude is omnipresent today. Take movies, for example, which constitute the primary spiritual staple for many people. Since the mid-seventies (since Jaws, Rocky and Star Wars) Hollywood’s product has gone to pot. Such a brash statement is, of course, difficult to make, because art looks better from an historical distance; and all too often we forget how many stinkers were made back in ‘39. We remember Gone with the Wind and Wuthering Heights, while conveniently blocking out Revolt of the Zombies and The Shadow Strikes. Nevertheless, I have the impression that nowadays fewer quality films are produced. To my mind, when Adolph Zuckor (founder of Paramount Pictures) died in 1975 at the age of 105, Hollywood died with him. Is it really that simple? Can it be traced historically? Was Hollywood’s greatness thanks to New York City and two world wars—to all the immigrants who sowed a creative Garden of Eden in what was meant to be a desert?

During the fifties, when censorship began to dissolve, filmmakers found themselves with greater freedom to express themselves; and possibly most important of all the changes to be wrought by the mavericks, iconoclasts and smugglers of this era was an overdue revolution in the psycho-sexual drama. I shouldn’t say “wrought by” but rather “helped along by,” because there were at the time many other forces—from the Kinsey report to Playboy magazine—helping to change the mores of America. Be that as it may, in Hollywood the result, for a while, was invigorating, beginning with films like Cape Fear, Night of the Hunter, Lolita, Kiss Me Deadly and Psycho, and reaching an apotheosis with films like In Cold Blood, Day of the Jackal, Last Tango in Paris and The Exorcist.

Soon after, however, the age of Rambo arrived (Clint Eastwood morphed into Dirty Harry, Charles Bronson acquired a death wish); the studios collapsed like temples atop Olympus, and quality films became fewer and farther between. I’m not saying that good films never turn up—Goodfellas, Boogie Nights, Deconstructing Harry and Man on the Moon are all, in my opinion, great escapes. And yet how many times have I been bored by drab acting, numbed by cheesy soundtracks and enervated by arrhythmic editing? A picture may be worth a thousand words, but it possesses no temporal value. Its thousand words add up to a single, static idea. Only a story—drama—may enter the realm of time; and, as soon as we speak of two pictures, we are dependent on the literary mind.

Auteur Theory



“There are no good and bad movies, only good and bad directors.” Such were the words of Francois Truffaut in 1954, and on this day a critical mechanism was set in motion that continues to grind on to this day. The idea is attractive: the worst films of a good director—say, for instance, Alfred Hitchcock—will always be more interesting than the best films of a bad director, such as (to quote Truffaut) Jean Delannoy who directed L'Éternel retour or The Eternal Return in 1943 starring Jean Marais. In essence, the theory posits that in certain movies the individual style of the director or producer shines through the collectivism of the studio system to create a work of art which—and this is the gist of it—can be attributed to a single artist: an auteur or author.

But can a film be attributed to a single artist? Is it logical to credit all the paintings of the Sistine Chapel to Michelangelo? Does it make sense to laud an orchestra conductor for waving his baton to music he didn’t compose? Granted, there are directors who leave their personal mark on films, and, accordingly, deserve praise, but the question remains: What about George Seaton? Have you heard of George Seaton? He co-wrote A Day at the Races (1937) starring The Marx Brothers, wrote and directed Miracle on 34th Street (1948) starring Natalie Wood, as well as The Counterfeit Traitor (1962) starring William Holden—three films not joined by a particular visual style or theme, but by a subtler, easily overlooked characteristic: Quality.



By putting undue emphasis on the director of a film, the myriad sources of creativity at work are obscured, and the filmgoer is all-too-often led astray. It is perfectly acceptable for a fan of Roman Polanski to want to see his student films. But to spend money on this rather than on Carrie (1952) is to make a grave mistake—and, dear friends, if you have not heard of this film, it’s not your fault: it’s the fault of critics who neglect to bring such films to your attention.  

Der Untergang (Germany, 2004)

“Do we still today have to feel guilty?” This is the question plastered over a picture of Auschwitz on the front cover of Stern magazine. To an outsider it may sound absurd—Americans continue to discuss the collective guilt of slavery 140 years after it was abolished. To a Jew it may sound frightening. But for Martin Walser the answer is no: “Germans have repented enough,” and, hence, a new artistic genre was born: victim flicks. The defining element of this genre is the absence of perpetrators. Watching a victim flick, one has the impression that World War II (and tangentially the Holocaust) was an unavoidable hurricane drummed up from humanity’s unconscious; and woe to the chap who stepped out of his flat and caught sight of that thunderhead floating over the horizon in 1933.

The film Der Untergang could be seen as an ode to that chap; let’s call him “Herr Schmidt.” It’s as if someone wants to say: “I’m sorry.” Because how could the good Herr Schmidt ever imagine his leader was a dog-loving misanthrope who suffered from palsy. All Herr Schmidt wanted was to keep his garden tidy, but he ended up witnessing the destruction of his world. Who destroyed it? The Allies. Whose fault was it? That fanatic in the bunker. Does this sound a bit simplistic? Well, in any case, it was the message projected onto screens across Germany this fall. And if this film garners blockbuster attendance, is it the fault of Herr Schmidt?

Herr Schmidt has a “cousin”: her name is Traudl Junge. Until recently she lived a quiet life in a suburb of Munich. In 2002, she passed away at the age of 81. Ms. Junge had a rich life, historically speaking; she was none other than Adolf Hitler’s secretary (who at the time of meeting the Führer was a 22-year-old virgin with the maiden name “Humps”). Moreover, she was in the bunker right to the bitter end. Certain readers may be wondering what this woman was doing in Munich in 2002, free as a bird to reminisce about the past. Worry not: after the war she was “de-Nazified” (agreed: this sounds like she was sprayed with aerosol followed by a scalp probing, but we must beg the reader’s indulgence: this is the history) and lived more or less happily ever after.

As one can imagine, Ms. Junge may have been harboring a degree of guilt having devoted years of her life to a cause that precipitated genocide. Once again, worry not: some filmmakers called upon her to fess up and get that weight off her chest. She did so, and a documentary was made to record her confession. It ran the art house circuit and even appeared in that charming spa along the Rhine called Wiesbaden.

What did Traudl confess? To start with, Hitler was not the man we thought him to be: he was a soft-spoken, paternal, vegetarian, lover of animals who didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, rarely mentioned Jews, and had an unusual tolerance to cold and damp environments—and, in case you didn’t know, his dog could sing like Sara Leander. The bunker was a rather benign place (“ein harmlose und friedliche Atmosphäre”) and seemed to be the only spot where nobody knew what was going on—in her words: a “toten Winkel” or “blind spot.”

At the end of the interview, Traudl declares that although it is tough to admit, she has come to realize that youth is no ground for exculpation. Don’t you feel better now? She did. Just before the credits roll, we see her words, left to echo like an epitaph: “I’m now beginning to forgive myself.” Othmar Schmiderer, the producer, was among the last people to speak to her. He quoted her as saying: “Now that I’ve let go of my story, I can let go of my life.” She passed away hours after the film was given its premier at the Berlin Film Festival.

Perhaps in respect of the good Herr Schmidt’s feelings, the filmmakers didn’t mention one important point about Traudl: she is a deplorable human being. To watch this woman reach into her amnestic soul and pull out ghosts dressed up in pink is to witness the trappings of a criminal mind. It’s akin to watching a serial killer describe his lonely childhood. The value of such a confession is not to be found in the narrative, but in the light it sheds upon our understanding of the narrator. And what does it tell us? Not much: we block out bad memories.

Der Untergang is the story of the end according to Traudl. In case you missed the documentary, excerpts are tacked onto the beginning and end of the film, firmly establishing from whose perspective this has been shown. The character of Fraulein Junge is shown as a starry-eyed girl who, in an inverted world, was in the right place at the right time. Not long after her engagement as Hitler’s closest employee, however, we see the pained expression on her face as she attempts to tread water amidst sharks. She is portrayed as the sane one in a loony bin, the clear-headed girl from Munich who got herself into a situation from which she couldn’t escape. Are we supposed to feel sympathy for her? The filmmakers seem to say yes.

The killing of civilians, including children, the suicides of fanatical Nazis, the wholesale destruction of Berlin by the Russians—bomb by bomb, bullet by bullet—and the verbal abuses of Hitler against his folk are constant. References to the Jews appear but twice: once when Hitler admits: “at least we got the Jews,” and a second time as an adjective thrown into a barrage of vitriol directed at Himmler for acting out of line. Analyzing the testimonies of Order Police assigned to shooting Jews in the forests near Lublin, Poland, Christopher Browning notes: “In terms of motivation and consciousness, the most glaring omission in the interrogations is any discussion of anti-Semitism.” Conversely, a phrase that echoes throughout the film is “nie Kapitulieren” or “never capitulate.” One is at pains to determine whether it is offered as an explanation for Germany’s tardiness to respond in the face of defeat or as a Wagnerian battle cry. In any case, one goes home with the idea that it was German stubbornness, rather than German racism, that brought on Germany’s defeat.

But the title says it all: Der Untergang, which could be translated as “The Fall” (as in the fall of the Roman empire) or “The Downfall” or “The Decline” or “The Decadence”—literally translated, however, the word means “Undergoing” or “Going Under” which conjures up the image of a great ship going down, a mythical Titanic that once inspired awe and envy. And yet was Germany sound before Hitler came on the scene? Ask Nietzsche (1888): “I have never met a German who might have been well disposed to Jews…we must not deceive ourselves about that. That Germany has more than enough Jews, that German stomachs, German blood have found it difficult (and will continue to find it difficult) to deal with even this amount of ‘Jew’ (which the Italian, the Frenchman, the English have dealt with, thanks to their stronger digestions).” The “sinking” of German culture did not happen in Berlin in 1945. And Hitler was not the one to pull the plug.

The suggestion implicit in this title is dangerously wrong. It must be emphasized: one cannot fully understand The Third Reich without understanding German anti-Semitism. Hitler would not disagree: “What we must fight for,” he wrote in Mein Kampf, “is to safeguard the existence and reproduction of our race and our people, the sustenance of our children and the purity of our blood…” This was no secret, and the question remains: Why, if not sharing the spirit of Nazism themselves, did these filmmakers choose to follow a Nazi’s version of the story? And why did they post the number 6,000,000 at the end of the film? Did they “forget” the other four million gypsies, homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Slavs, and political opponents who died in German extermination camps?

Visually, when watching Der Untergang one cannot help but think of The Pianist, which leads one to the most difficult question of all: why was this film made? The sixtieth anniversary of Berlin’s destruction? If so, then they are one year early—not to mention that (unlike Hamburg and Dresden which were Medieval “wooden” cities) it took two years to destroy Berlin with its broad boulevards and stone architecture, and thus there is no anniversary. One is reluctantly drawn to the conclusion that someone in the artistic and political circles of Germany suffers from what could be called “victim envy,” and, after having seen The Pianist, felt the German side of the story needed to be told. If this is true, Germany has a long way to go before it has the right to relinquish its responsibility to repent.