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One of Honore Daumier’s greatest works shows a troubled man sitting at a window. The caption loosely translates as “O moon, inspire me,” and the man looks out his window at the moon very much in need of inspiration. This 19th century piece is a lithograph, which means the shadows look particularly black and velvety, while the whites – like the moon – shine brilliantly. So dreary and depressing is the man’s room and body that the viewer can just make out colors and details beyond the minimal forms that Daumier renders. That is perhaps Daumier’s greatest strength – his ability to create such devastation with black and white that the picture seems to unfold in color, in sound, in smells.
Lajos Koltai’s new movie Fateless (2006), based on Imre Kertész’s novel by the same name, has a flavor of Daumier in it. It relies almost exclusively on black and white with some browns, but viewers can all but smell the filth, taste the dirt, tears, and blood, and add the colors like a horrifying paint-by-number.
Previously in The Jewish Press (10/23/2002), Michael Skakun wrote of Kertész’s novel as refusing “to indulge in rhetorical self-dramatization, a flaw that commonly mars accounts of Holocaust survival.” To Skakun, Kertész does not seek an uplifting message or any other emotion; instead, he “remains true to the unnameable experience itself, often the hardest thing for a writer to achieve. It is far easier to indulge in emotional grandstanding and metaphysical protest than to evoke the daily grit of a reality that defies description.”
Skakun’s observation applies to Koltai’s film as well. Strictly speaking, I can’t and shouldn’t review this film – not without immediately casting accuracy out the window. Kertész says he is exploring the inexplicable and naming the unnameable, and an effort to address such pursuits with a critical vocabulary appears a paradox, twice over. But in a sense, Koltai manages to find a name, precisely in his insistence, that there is no name. That move creates an open space in which criticism might enter.
The main character, a 14-year-old Hungarian boy named Gyuri Koves (Marcell Nagy), is abducted by a policeman on his way to work, and herded into a makeshift prison-barn with all the other yellow star bearers. The stunt, which initially appeared simply as a cruel cat and mouse game, lands the group in concentration camps. Gyuri manages to survive the camps in the same way Primo Levi does, via the infirmary. (Of course Levi is real, Koves is not.)
But the proof of Gyuri’s tale lies in the pudding. After his camp is liberated by the Americans, Gyuri finds himself in a series of conversations that befit the “Absurdist Theater”. Enter man. Man asks Gyuri if he ever saw a gas chamber. Gyuri answers frankly that he wouldn’t be alive, had he seen one. The man replies, “Thanks, that’s all I wanted to know.” Another Holocaust denier is born. Blackout.
Next scene. Gyuri stands on the bus; he has no ticket. The driver demands a ticket, to which Gyuri says he has none. So buy one, the driver insists. Gyuri says he has no money and he points to his leg. He tells the driver his leg hurts. The driver can see that he is still in his striped prison garb, but it takes another passenger who offers to buy Gyuri’s ticket to allow him to remain. The man asks Gyuri if the Nazis did dreadful things to him. “Naturally,” Gyuri answers. “It depends what you call dreadful.” The man is indignant, demanding how Gyuri can call something so unnatural “natural.” Gyuri is silent. Blackout.
Gyuri finally finds his relatives (his father never returns), and he is then questioned by them and by his neighbor – his childhood friend Annamaria – on the stairs. To them, Gyuri meditates, “Maybe, I don’t even exist.” “I died once,” he says, “I can’t be angry anymore.” But perhaps his most provocative line is his assertion that, “lying in wait for me like an unavoidable trap, is happiness.” The next time he is asked by someone about the camps, Gyuri says “I should talk about the happiness of the camps.”
But to call such a comment heretical, is to miss the point, entirely. Koltai’s effort in this film is, effectively, to critique Holocaust films, or more precisely, perhaps, to create a new sort. There are no answers in this film, which asserts that there is no hell (at least not in this world), but there were concentration camps. The film refuses to allow evil to hide behind fancy language – even the term “evil” itself – because such language distances the destruction from us and allows it to be classified as “other”, instead of something deep within us.
Early on, Gyuri describes the “simple secret” of his universe as, “I could be killed any time, anywhere.” This reality to Gyuri – this tangible, imperative reality – outweighs any anger or blame. And true to the film’s name, this realization on Gyuri’s part comes from his sense of fate.
Before arriving at the concentration camps, the guard who originally abducted Gyuri gives him a chance to flee. As the prisoners are marching – ultimately to be judged in the infamous line – they are forced to wait for a passing bus. Many who are “in the know” sneak off from the group and run, and the guard even looks Gyuri in the eye and motions with his head that Gyuri should take off. Gyuri looks him in the eye and stays.
Almost verbatim, an American soldier who liberates Gyuri’s camp tells him that he should not go home but, instead, flee to Switzerland where he will be embraced. Then, he suggests, Gyuri should come to America and go to college and study, like a normal kid. Gyuri mutters something about his father, and is on his way home to seek out his family.
Gyuri learns the lesson of fate quite quickly, and his transformation from Gyuri to number 64921 (“vier-und-sechzig, neun, ein-und-zwanzig) and then back to Gyuri again is a powerful Bildungsroman or tale of coming of age. And in that coming of age, Gyuri and the other prisoners of the concentration camp closely resemble Daumier’s forelorn figure. At one point in the camps, the inmates are asked if there are performers in their midst, who might entertain while the trains are being prepared. One group rises and sings “On a moonlit night, what does a girl dream, that her prince will come…”
Like Daumier’s pitiful, lonely, sickly man looking up to the moon for inspiration, the camp inmates look to the clouds and the moon for inspiration, for a dream to cling on to. So powerfully does Gyuri cling to that moon, that he manages – however astonishingly – to call it happiness, even when he leaves the camps and begins to reclaim his freedom. This artistic move, in one respect, critiques other artistic efforts to turn the Holocaust into a symbol. But in a far more interesting way, Fateless raises important questions by exploring a fate that is “fateless” and a name that is “unnameable”. It is not a contradiction. It is a powerful drive to explore the Holocaust in artistic form while trying, at all costs, to avoid an inherent minefield of superficially pious messages that have clung tenaciously to the perennial question of Holocaust art.
Menachem Wecker welcomes comments at email@example.com. He is a painter and writer, residing in Washington, DC.
About the Author: Menachem Wecker, who blogs on faith and art for the Houston Chronicle at http://blogs.chron.com/iconia, welcomes comments at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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Yet all are part of one neshamah, planted in rich, verdant soil, determined to grow. May our garden continue to produce a glorious assortment of flowers and trees, each attached firmly to its roots. Our diverse southern vegetation flourishes and grows into different trees, flowers, and fruits, and a rainbow of glorious shades and hues appears. Yet each shoot is rooted in the same soil, stretching its branches and blossoms heavenward in an endless pursuit of growth and connection to the One above.
This past Lag B’Omer, we were blessed to make our first upsherin, where we celebrate our son’s first hair cut. It’s a wonderful milestone that mimics the three years that we refrain from plucking a tree’s first fruits and symbolizes the entry of the child into the world of Torah learning. It’s a clear sign to everyone; this boy is no longer a baby.
Although there are more direct and faster routes to Beer Sheva and Eilat and all the sites and towns in-between, the Basor River is one of the beauties of the Negev that defiantly justifies a diversion.
The importance of death customs has been ingrained in me since birth. When I served as a shomeret for my grandmother, I was instructed not to eat, drink or perform a mitzvah in the same room. In the shock of death, it seemed rather inane to be told it would be considered mocking the dead. My grandmother was gone; she couldn’t do those things because she didn’t exist anymore, a fact that still makes me tear up.
I would have to say that one of the most annoying things about having a newspaper advice column, aside from all these people writing to me and asking for advice, is that they frequently don’t tell me WHY they’re asking.
Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv zt”l, who passed away on 28 Tammuz, (July18) this year at age 102, spent all of his days and most of his nights learning Torah. He was the paramount leader of our generation, and inspired tremendous awe and reverence in everyone who knew him. Now, every woman has the stunning opportunity to do something in his memory. A Sefer Torah is being written in his memory and women around the world have the chance to dedicate a letter.
Due to her family situation, it is understandable that she will have more responsibilities than other girls her age, but she would benefit from having some free time and receiving more appreciation for her hard work.
For children, summer means outdoor sports, picnics, and of course, no school! Teachers and students work hard all year long – and everyone deserves a break from education over the summer. However, this two-month break can often have some pretty devastating consequences.
It was only after we celebrated the great news that we were expecting twins that we saw the first sign of problems. First of all, my wife was losing, not gaining weight, even as the babies continued to grow normally. Soon after, routine blood work revealed that my wife was suffering from gestational diabetes.
Rabbi Pinchas Gruman is the new rav of the Minyan at Aish Tamid.
One of the most respected Torah figures in Los Angeles, Rabbi Gruman has been described as “The Los Angeles link in the mesorah of the yeshiva world” by Rabbi Nachum Sauer. As a talmid in Lakewood in the 1950s, Rabbi Gruman received semicha from Rav Aaron Kotler, zt”l, and Rav Moshe Feinstein, zt”l. Soon after, he moved to Los Angeles.
Another tree is down.
I’m driving down Lakewood Avenue, figuring that maybe, just maybe, the tree that blocked the middle of North Lake Drive has been removed, and I can go through. After all, they had a whole day. I’m sure things have been taken care of.
It all started at an art and education conference at the Yeshiva University Museum. When one of the speakers misidentified a Goya painting at the Frick Collection, both the gentleman sitting next to me and I turned to each other and corrected the error simultaneously.
One of my favorite places when I was growing up in Boston was the used bookstore on Beacon and St. Mary’s streets. Boston Book Annex could play a used bookshop on television; it was dimly lit and cavernous, crawling with cats, and packed with a dizzying array of books, many of which sold three for a dollar. But used bookstores of this sort, however picturesque and inviting, are a relatively modern phenomena. In the Middle Ages, for example, I would never have been able to afford even a single used book unless I had been born into an aristocratic family. (Full disclosure, I was not.)
Jewish medals, several with Hebrew inscriptions and provocative imagery, were among the gems at The European Art Fair (TEFAF) in Maastricht, Netherlands, as I wrote in these pages two weeks ago. Another mini-trend at the fair, which will interest Jewish art aficionados, was an abundance of works by Marc Chagall.
It’s virtually impossible to ignore the financial aspects of TEFAF Maastricht, the annual arts and antiques fair in the historic city about two hours south of Amsterdam. More than 250 dealers from nearly 20 countries sell their wares—which span from Greek and Roman antiquities to contemporary sculptures—in the halls of the Maastricht Exhibition and Congress Centre, whose corridors are adorned by nearly 65,000 tulips.
Max Ferguson’s 1993 painting Katz’s may be the second most iconic representation of the kosher-style delicatessen after the 1989 Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan film, When Harry Met Sally. Ferguson’s photorealistic painting depicts the deli from an interesting perspective, which is simultaneously inviting and hostile—in short, the dichotomy of deli culture.
The whole idea of an artful pushka (tzeddakah or charity box) is almost a tease, if not an outright mockery. Isn’t there something pretty backward about investing time and money in an ornate container to hold alms for the poor?
Located about nine miles north of Madrid, the Palacio Real de El Pardo (Pardo Palace) dates back to the early 15th century. Devastated by a March 13, 1604 fire that claimed many works from its priceless art collection, the Pardo Palace and its vast gardens were used as a hunting ground by the Spanish monarchs.
Red By John Logan; directed by Robert Falls; starring Edward Gero and Patrick Andrews Jan. 20 – March 11, 2012 Arena Stage, 1101 6th Street, SW, Washington, D.C. http://www.arenastage.org One morning, Ken, Mark Rothko’s studio assistant, comes into the studio to fulfill his daily duties of stretching and priming his employer’s canvases. When he [...]
Printed from: http://www.jewishpress.com/sections/accepting-a-fateless-fate-a-holocaust-film-to-end-all-holocaust-films/2006/01/18/
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