jürgen fauth’s muckworld

I had a strange dream last night about Romania and Malta, India and Switzerland. In my dream, Francis Ford Coppola had made a new movie, something about an old man who is hit by lightning and grows a new set of teeth. He collects roses and languages and Bruno Ganz was there, too. He owned a German-made tape recorder, for which he apologized. A beautiful woman spoke in tongues and changed her name and lived in a cave for a thousand years. In Walter Murch’s hands, close-ups of cigarette smoke turned into drifting clouds illuminated by the full moon. Mad Nazi scientists electrocuted horses, and I couldn’t remember if I left the third rose in a safe deposit box or inside a shattered mirror. There was never enough time. By the seaside, I made promises and broke them, but all of my friends were at the Cafe Select.

I know, I know — there’s nothing duller than listening to other people’s dreams. And yet… the shared fantasy Coppola created from Mircea Eliade’s novella weaves a strange magic, mysterious, playful, philosophical, and loopy with romance. I’d like to hold on to that gossamer enchantment for just a little while longer, privately, before it’s time to take out the stainless steel critical apparatus and cut this one open. Check back for a proper review before the opening on December 14. With Tim Roth and Alexandra Maria Lara.

Youth Without Youth. Francis Ford Coppola, 2007. ****

The trailer:

Bill Campbell as all-American hero rocking an art-deco jet-pack, Jennifer Connelly in 30s evening gowns, Timothy Dalton as scenery-chewing Errol-Flynn stand-in onboard burning Nazi zeppelins — The Rocketeer is good old-fashioned serial-style action-adventure full of pulpy twists tempered by a wholesome gee-whiz attitude. Based on the comic book by Dave Stevens, the character also inspired a Cinemaware video game I used to play on my Amiga (screenshots). Not to be confused with Raketenmensch Tyrone Slothrop.

The Rocketeer. Joe Johnston, 1991. ***

Here’s a climactic scene at the Griffith Observatory:

Like Weltschmerz and Fahrvergnügen, Vergangenheitsbewältigung is one of those German words that don’t quite have an equivalent in other languages: “working-off-the-past” has been a national project for the last sixty-odd years; it stands to reason that no other country has a history quite as heavy with guilt and horror to cope with. To be sure, the Holocaust has been the topic of countless films, but precious few address the legacy of the most efficient genocide in history as it confronts us today. With And Along Come Tourists, writer-director Robert Thalheim has made an understated film about a particularly sensitive place where past and present collide with unforgotten atrocities: the present-day town of Oswiecim, Poland, site of the Auschwitz extermination camp.

Read the rest of my review of And Along Come Tourists on About.com. At the reception following the MoMA screening, I had the distinct pleasure of being mistaken for the director several times. MoMA is screening the film, which doesn’t have U.S. distribution yet, as part of its Kino! 2007 program. You can catch it tomorrow at 2pm. Related: Yella and Q*Bert at the Holocaust Memorial.

Am Ende Kommen Touristen. Robert Thalheim, 2006. ****

The German trailer:

This is not what architect Peter Eisenman had in mind when he designed the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, a field of concrete slabs (or stelae) on a 4.7 acre site between Potsdamer Platz and the Brandenburg Gate: “The stelae are designed to produce an uneasy, confusing atmosphere, and the whole sculpture aims to represent a supposedly ordered system that has lost touch with human reason.” (Wikipedia)

It’s possible that the man hopping from stone to stone like Q*Bert in the photo above is enacting some sort of postmodern commentary on Eisenman’s intentions — after all, “losing touch with human reason” is second nature to some of us, and “an uneasy, confusing atmosphere” is what we like to call “the modern condition.” Either way, instead of remembrance, introspection, and grief, the 2,711 stones seem to invite inappropriate behavior. Visitors can be seen sunbathing on the stelae, playing hide-and-seek, or eating curry sausages.

Other scandals and failures accompanied the memorial: the stelae were covered in anti-graffiti paint by Degussa, a company that produced Zyklon B for the gas chambers, the stones are already beginning to crumble, light fixtures are broken, and Der Spiegel reports that in the darkness, drunkards from a nearby club come to urinate and horny couples screw in the maze.

Perhaps R. Mutt would have enjoyed the Stelenfeld’s playground repurposing, but there is a harsh lesson here about the disconnect between artistic intention and actual use; clearly, the memorial’s symbolism is too arbitrary, too wide open to interpretation, to produce the desired effect. I don’t know of another memorial that fails on such a spectacular scale.

View Larger Map

A few pictures from the city I used to call home, the town where Priscilla met Elvis. More Wiesbaden facts:

• The thermal springs of Wiesbaden were first mentioned in Pliny the Elder’s Naturalis Historia in 121.
• By 1800, there were 2,239 inhabitants and twenty-three bath houses. Among visitors to the springs were Goethe, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Wagner, and Johannes Brahms. In 1900, there were 86,100 inhabitants and 126,000 visitors. In those years there were more millionaires living in Wiesbaden than in any other city in Germany.
• The Wiesbaden synagogue was destroyed during Kristallnacht, November 9, 1938.
• Wiesbaden is home to the Friedrich-Wilhelm-Murnau Foundation.
• Volker Schlöndorff and John McEnroe were born in Wiesbaden.
• Sting, Lionel Richie, and Luciano Pavarotti have performed on the Bowling Green in front of the Kurhaus.
• Wiesbaden’s coat of arms features three times as many fleurs-de-lys as New Orleans.
• More photos from previous trips.

The last word on Leni Riefenstahl seems always just out of reach. After her Memoirs, Steve Bach’s new biography provides a desperately needed corrective to Leni’s own lies, evasions, and half-truths. Anybody who has seen The Wonderful, Horrible Life knows what an extraordinarily maddening, talented, obsessive, domineering, and flirtatious creature Leni was even in her nineties–and she lived to 101. For artists anywhere–but especially Germans–Leni remains endlessly perplexing. The questions raised by her life go straight to the core of history, morality, ambition, power, and cinema. The dry statement issued after her death by the German government barely scratches the surface:

Leni Riefenstahl symbolizes a German artist’s fate in the 20th Century both in her revolutionary artistic vision and in her political blindness and infatuation. No one would deny that with her talent she developed cinematic methods that have since become part of an aesthetic canon. Her career also shows that one cannot lead an honest life in service of the false, and that art is never apolitical. (297)

Steven Bach. Leni: The Life and Work of Leni Riefenstahl. 2006. ****

• Reviews: New York Review of Books, Guardian, Washington Post, New York Times, New Yorker
• Susan Sontag’s 1975 essay “Fascinating Fascism.”
• At GreenCine: Leni, Obits.
• Jodie Foster’s Riefenstahl project
• Previously on Muckworld

For once, a life worthy of a memoir. Leni Riefenstahl tells the gripping story of her rise from dancer and star of silent mountain films during the Weimar Republic to Triumph of the Will, Olympia, and “Hitler’s filmmaker,” followed by her long fall after the war, the Nuba, scuba. Riddled with contradictions, dubious statements and suspicious omissions, the book is also a thorny tangle that raises complicated questions about moral responsibility, political culpability, aesthetics, and ambition. Leni’s extreme unreliability (I had the uncanny sense that she started lying around page 5, about a playground incident) adds a layer of uncertainty that makes the book even more intriguing, down to the heartbreaking (or calculated?) last sentence.

After the war, when landmark achievements and intimate meetings with the Nazi elite–Goebbels, Göring, Hitler, Speer–give way to frustration and a string of canceled projects, the book slows down considerably. As Riefenstahl faces increasing hardship, it becomes difficult not to admire her dogged vitality and feel a certain degree of empathy for her. Regardless of your opinion on her life, work, and guilt, this book is bound to muddy some certainties. I’ll have to look at the two new biographies to see how some of her assertions hold up (not well, apparently), and I’m rewatching The Wonderful, Horrible Life of Leni Riefenstahl for yet another take, but I don’t hope to come to terms with the confounding implications of the case Riefenstahl any time soon. Riefenstahl died in 2003, at the age of 101.

Leni Riefenstahl, A Memoir. 1987. ****

Previously on Muckworld:

• The Blue Light
• The White Hell of Pitz Palü
• Triumph of the Will

Leni

• Leni Riefenstahl - Official Site
• Leni Riefenstahl’s Photography at Fahey/Klein Gallery
• Leni Riefenstahl on Wikipedia

The New Biographies

• Leni: The Life and Work of Leni Riefenstahl by Steven Bach
• Leni Riefenstahl: A Life by Jurgen Trimborn
• Sleeping with ‘Hitler’s filmmaker’
• Clive James’ dismissive review in the Sunday Times
• Michikio Kakutani’s review

The diving sequence from Olympia:

Even when it was nominated for an Oscar, I avoided Sophie Scholl - The Final Days. After all, like Snakes on a Plane and Alien vs. Predator, it’s one of those movies where the title tells the entire story. In 1943, student Sophie distributes anti-fascist fliers, gets busted, convicted, and executed. It won’t spoil a thing when I tell you the movie fades to black over the sound of a dropping guillotine. Good friends of mine attended Geschwister-Scholl-Gesamtschule–surely I was exempt from having to sit through this?

But fear of boredom was only part of the reason I resisted this movie. After seeing Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi at a very impressionable age, tragedies about fearlessness in the face of abusive authority and the ultimate price of idealism have always hit me hard. Like Gandhi, Sophie Scholl is one of those larger-than-life figures who don’t just inspire but also inspire guilt. Her integrity shines an uneasy light on our own foul compromises with power. After all, my tax check just went to fund a war I oppose. Sophie wouldn’t have mailed it.

As far as unrelenting tragedies about impossibly principled historical figures go, Sophie Scholl is what we like to call “compelling.” Pacing and direction are brisk, the chilling sets (almost all interiors, imposing marbled staircases that drop from lofty atriums to fearful dungeons) serve the drama, and the cast of oddly shaped German faces–defiant, submissive, and (most frightening of all) revealing unmasked murderous opportunism–is most fascinating. I couldn’t take my eyes of Julia Jentsch, who is in every scene. Yes, it’s a history lesson, but first and foremost it’s a lesson in courage. Starker Tobak.

Sophie Scholl - Die letzten Tage. Marc Rothemund, 2005. ****

• Marcy’s review