Month: July 2006

Blue (1993)

During Julie’s journey from life to death and back to life again, everything in the world seems to be calling out to her, reaching for her in her self-imposed grave, to pull her back toward life, love, and goodness. Of course, the most obvious example of this is the music that breaks into her world all the time, the music that she desperately wants to forget but cannot. But it goes beyond that: chance meetings with strangers and people from the past, a puff of wind blowing her door shut, and a glimpse of herself on the television. Julie is trying to forget, to become like her ailing mother, removed from any reality, any pain, any tears. Everyday is a new day for her mother. For Julie though, in spite of her best efforts, she is painfully aware of the same thing, day in, day out.But it is in this very awareness, in the midst of her pain and suffering that she ultimately finds a kind of grace, resulting in life. Kieslowski’s world is a complicated place, filled with suffering, yet at the same time calling Julie toward new life. Thus, there is this struggle between pushing away and pulling back in. She loves me, she loves me not, indeed. This is both the way of Kieslowski’s world, yet it is also illustrative of Julie’s interaction with her past and those around her – pushing away from her former life, but never for a second being able to resist the urge to reach out for it, to stop the music in her head, to destroy those final mementos of that former life.

What’s interesting about Julie’s choices in the aftermath of the accident is the way in which she ends up cut off from everything and everyone. Even in her extreme moments (most notably the night spent with Olivier), she remains aloof. Her existence after that is very much like a hermit. She speaks as little as possible, goes out rarely, isolates herself from everyone, and descends almost into a kind of nothingness – an attempt to escape memory and thought. It is in her decision (or maybe that’s too active; let’s say experience) of living in this void that she hears and is ultimately able to receive grace.

I cannot help but wonder then, amidst all the noise of normal life, if Julie would even be able to hear the music blasting into her world as she does in the film. Would her surprising encounters with the boy, Olivier, and Lucille have had the kind of impact they did if she had been surrounded by the noise of life? What if she had not been paralyzed by fear of the rat and its babies for days – a fear that eventually pushed her out beyond herself, taking uncertain steps outside her world? What do these questions reveal about her mother, constantly in front of the television, supposedly connected to the world, yet with no idea she’s speaking to her own daughter?

Could it be that Kieslowski is suggesting, with his typical light touch, that Julie’s retreat from the world of the living was somehow necessary to allow the power of grace to pull her back toward life? Had she not done that, instead filling her life with everyday noise and responsibility, what would have become of her? Might she have become her mother, alive, but not really living? It seems that in the end, Kieslowski recognizes the tragedy of suffering, but also its converse: that same suffering works in its own way to bring life. Maybe one will find regret or sadness there. But having walked through such a valley, one also finds a rich and deep appreciation for this life, a belief that things can get better, and a comfort that the world works in such marvelous, life-giving ways.

Army of Shadows (1969)

[I was fortunate enough to catch this on the big screen here in Dallas. I for one am glad to see a recent spate of older films being scheduled at the Angelika. Good for them. I hope they continue it through the fall.]

From its opening printed line, which welcomes bad memories because they are reminders of one’s youth, Jean-Pierre Melville’s 1969 masterpiece, Army of Shadows brings its audience into the horrors and exhilaration of war. These horrors though are not primarily related to physical violence, but rather the violence done to one’s soul.

On its surface, the film tells the story of a segment of the French resistance in WWII, using a stripped down, minimalist style. Philippe Gerbier (Lino Ventura), a former engineer, plays a pivotal role in the resistance as an organizer and liaison to the leader of the anti-Nazi faction. Generally stone faced, but not without his own fears, Gerbier understands that certain things simply must be done, no matter how unpleasant or dangerous. Whether it’s jumping from an airplane, distracting a German soldier, or even killing a man, he continues to influence the resistance for good because of his willingness to act. Not all follow through like Philippe. Not all have his courage. And it isn’t easy to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Melville’s style, which is pulled back, offers most scenes in medium or wide shots, the camera generally keeping multiple characters in the frame at all times. The actors underplay their scenes, only occasionally emoting. By removing these visual and emotional cues, Melville places his audience in the position of these resistance fighters. No one is really sure what anyone else will or won’t do. Neither can the characters be sure of anyone’s trust. This uncertainty is one of the dehumanizing effects of war. The characters become isolated from one another. They may work well together on this mission or that, but the nature of their relationships are skewed because of their circumstances. This is poignantly illustrated in a scene between Philippe and Mathilde, when, after having narrowly avoided disaster, have a quiet moment of connection. After a few brief seconds, they return to their harder, military selves, leaving the moment in a haze behind them.

Another disturbing effect of the war can be seen in the code these resistance fighters are compelled to keep. When a friend gives names to the Nazis, the penalty is death. When captured, the only option is to attempt suicide or escape. When a German stands between you and freedom, they must die. This harsh, tense existence wears on the freedom fighters. Each new friend that is captured, dies, or becomes a traitor is a deeper blow to the cause, and just as significantly, to themselves. Each person they are forced to kill steals a bit more of their humanity from them. Constantly living on the edge of life and death, being forced to place an ultimate trust in people you hardly know, and never being quite sure how much good you are doing leaves these fighters in a constant state of flux, becoming shadows of their former selves.

Finally, while these people are all part of the resistance, Melville significantly never actually shows them at work against the Nazis. Sure, someone delivers an illegal transmitter or provides a safe house for another fighter, but what are they really doing outside of perpetuating their lives? They make rescue attempts for imprisoned fighters, travel to England for aid, and eliminate their own when they betray the group. Thus, this shadow army, at least in terms of action, is invisible to all. And the longer they are part of it, the more they become shadows themselves.

Forgiving Dr. Mengele (2006)

I have found myself in recent years increasingly wary of films that deal with extreme real-life tragedies or genocide, not because I am not interested in such topics or because I fear being overwhelmed by the subject matter. Rather, I am not interested in filmmakers who have little to say about such important subjects, simply using the tragedy to wallow in the heinousness of it all. Neither do I want to become numb to tragedy in the world. Thus, when I first heard about Mengele, a documentary covering the crusade of a holocaust survivor, I noted it and moved on.

Now that I’ve gotten a chance to see it though, I’d suggest this is one of the most important films about the Holocaust (and more broadly about tragedy) I am familiar with. The film gives us little new information about the genocide itself. Rather, it focuses on one woman’s response to her experience at Auschwitz. And if you’ve seen the title, then you can guess Eva Kor’s response to her captors.

At the age of 9, Eva and her twin sister Miriam were sent to Auschwitz, and survived initially simply because they were twins (who were favored for experiments by the Nazis). Mengele’s experiments involved injecting one child with a drug, and then charting the differences in the two children afterward. Eva and Miriam suffered through this for 10 months, with Eva near death at one point. Yet, as she says, she willed her way through the illness, and eventually, walked out of the camp with her sister. She eventually married another Holocaust survivor, moved to Indiana, and got started in real estate. In the early portion of the film, the interspersing of concentration camp footage with Eva’s daily routine evokes the way in which those images must have haunted her over much of her early life in the States.

Yet as her sister struggled and eventually died an early death from a kidney problem associated with their time in the camp, Eva is confronted with a desire to take action and help her. In the process, she meets a Nazi doctor, who was also at Auschwitz concurrent with Eva. She finds he too has nightmares, and struggles with his experiences there just as profoundly as she. This leads her to spontaneously offer forgiveness to him, a decision that eventually results in her forgiving all Nazis, including the head doctor at Auschwitz, Josef Mengele.

Even as Eva does this, she stirs great controversy in the Jewish community, many of whom don’t feel Eva has the right to forgive any Nazi, much less Mengele. Several responses to Eva’s act are interwoven through the film: She has no right to speak for other Jews, her comments could imply she is speaking for the dead, she dishonors her parents who also died in the camp, her decision implies she is willing to forget the evil committed in the Holocaust. Yet Kor fiercely stands by her decision, arguing that forgiveness will “heal your soul and set you free.”

Most interesting about this film is the complexity involved in its portrayal of forgiveness. What is forgiveness? What does invoking it entail? No one seems to know definitively. Everyone seems to have their own perspective. Does it mean one forgets the past? Does it mean one excuses the past? Is it necessary for the perpetrator to be sorry before one can forgive them? If so, how can one ever forgive Mengele, long since dead? Are those who suffered under him or other dead and/or non-repentant Nazis doomed to live as victims the rest of their days? How does forgiveness apply in current conflicts one has with others? Do the rules change? Is it harder or easier to forgive the living?

This film satisfies largely because Kor’s answers to a number of questions above resonate deeply within me. No, forgiveness does not entail forgetting or excusing the evil act. Neither is it dependent on the offender to be sorry. Forgiveness is an act which the victim bestows on another. It is an act they perform. No one can take it from them. All people have the option to forgive, to move beyond victim status and into a fuller life that looks forward in hope, rather than back in pessimism. And yet, in spite of all this, Kor is far from perfect, though she refreshingly recognizes her own limitations, and seems, at least to this eye, to be moving forward, bettering herself, and working out how one forgives, not just for the past, but also for the present. The doggedness and optimism in Kor is a refreshing antidote to the horrors of the genocide she and her people were subjected to.