What He Really Wanted To Do Was Direct
My F焗rer directed
by Dani Levy
Adolf
Hitler's relationships with artists is a subject that continues to fascinate
other artists 行 Mephisto (1981) and Hanussen (1988), both directed by Iztvan Szabo and starring
Klaus Maria Brandauer, come to mind, not to mention the real-life saga of
Leni Riefenstahl. Of course Hitler
himself was a failed artist; then there
were the spectacular theatrics of the Nazi regime that mesmerized the
German public and bestowed them with illusions of grandeur.
In the Szabo films, Hitler is a distant, almost mythical
figure whose ascension to legend the artist unwittingly assists (in Mephisto, Brandauer's actor character
sells his soul and becomes one with the cosmic Enabler he portrays
onstage). In writer/director Dani Levy's My F焗rer, on the other hand, the
artist meets Hitler in his twilight (four more months to go), and we get
closer to the F焗rer 行 much, much closer, sharing a shrink's couch, cot
and blanket.
A black sedan speeds through a bombed-out Berlin, its jagged
edges exaggerated by a wide-angle lens. It's Christmas 1944, five months
after yet another assassination attempt. The Russians are in Slovakia;
France and the Netherlands are long gone. Despite the delusions his coterie
feeds him daily, der F焗rer is a nervous wreck: paranoid, bloated and
hopped up on amphetamines. The scheduled New Year's address is five days
away and his handlers desperately want that old Hitler magic back. Goebbels
comes up with a final solution: He pulls Professor Adolf Israel Gr焠baum
(Ulrich M焗e, The Lives of Others), a renowned actor, from the Sachsenhausen camp
(Goebbels apologizes: "I thought we had put you up in Terezin, that's our nicest
camp") to coach Hitler. The prisoner is brought to headquarters, where
soldiers and officials alike try to comprehend the unusual visit. Heil
Hitlers are hastily exchanged in panic; the German language has
never sounded so ridiculous.
Helge Schneider's Hitler, far from the agile
Charlie Chaplin
in The Great Dictator, just about stirs sympathy. Sylvester Groth confirms
Goebbels 行 the multimedia orchestrator of propagandas, and the real power
junkie 行 to be a womanizing sleazeball. But the true star of the film is
M焗e. His Professor Gr焠baum is an artist caught between his
professionalism and his humanity. Just as Dirk Bogarde would have done in
the role, M焗e imbues his character's emotional turmoil with intelligence and
dignity. Professor Gr焠baum knows what makes Hitler tick, and instructs his
pupil to get in touch with his hatred. Gr焠baum bargains with Goebbels to
save his family and risks them again to have all of his fellow inmates
released, then, when his wife tries to smother a sleeping Hitler with a
pillow, he defends his pupil by saying, "He was an unloved
child!"
With that peculiar little mustache, bacon-grease-pasted hair
and hysterical mannerisms, it would have indeed been easy to make yet
another Hitler cartoon 行 and ridicule, like violence, is a product of
hatred. But it was the coexistence of revulsion and empathy that made
Chaplin's Dictator great. Levy plays it straight, until it is impossible not
to laugh; he knows there are situations whose horror reaches absurd
proportions. M焗e
is a master of ambiguity when his character, in the end, turns Hitler's
speech into a mass self-affirmation rally. Did he succeed? Did he fail? We,
65 years later, know what would soon befall the tyrant 行 but that's an
infinitely rich moment afforded us by the luxury of time.
行
Rika Ohara
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