Our Man in Vienna

The Art Houses of Yore

I must have been born as a film buff, and at an early age, I developed into a foreign-film buff. I was pious in very young years, but in spite of my religiosity, I used the Catholic Legion of Decency List of Condemned Films as a guide. Since the films were thus condemned, I thought that there must be something to them.

In Princeton, I’d go to matinees of Frankenstein, Sherlock Homes, Tarzan and westerns in the Garden Theater. When we moved to Locust Valleys the Cove Theater filled the bill. On trips to New York my mother would take me to art theaters to see the films that the Legion had banned, but not knowingly; she didn’t bother to read my film guide and I did not inform her where the “recommendations” came from.

These black-and-white masterpieces had lascivious scenes galore, and here and there, the briefest flash of a female anatomy zipped across the screen. I knew then that these flashes were an integral part of art.

Later on, there were theaters like the Times Theater on 42nd St with its double-feature bills with provocative titles like Bed and Broad and Bottoms Up, but as far as brass tacks were concerned, there wasn’t even a flash. You were better off trying get a bit of nudity with your culture.

 

I continued to frequent “art” theaters long after the Legion had given up the ghost. The black-and- white foreign films of the time were as tasty as a French bread and vin ordinaire. And in addition to that, there were the spice of those glimpses of female anatomy.

But with the advent of the Permissive Society and legalized pornography, everything changed. Somehow foreign films theaters become less frequented. Many of the “art” houses of yore were transformed into porno film theaters. You were afforded more than a glimpse in full color, and nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to the imagination.

Isn’t that befitting? Art and nudity have always been associated with each another. Now nudity is filling the bill.

 

Brecht and Lenya

In the famous photo of Brecht, you can almost smell the tattered stogie. He’s is a dead ringer for Groucho, but without the pasted-on brows and mustache – and the sly humor. Besides having an aversion to the odor of the stogie, I’m put off by the shabby atmosphere of his plays and the high-pitched moralism. I never liked sitting in classrooms, and I’m not wild about drama in which the author uses a blackboard and a pointer.

Unfortunately like many others, the writing of it took precedence over the living of it. And later, during the Berlin uprising, he remained in the confines of his theater until the storm had passed. He preferred to say it and to have a venue for saying it, rather than carrying through. Prior to that, when things got hot in the States due to McCarthy’s witch-hunt. When he was called to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee, he simply belied what he allegedly was all about. And the next day he flew back to Europe.

To quote my late friend and mentor Emile Capouya: “Claudel was a Heavenly imperialist.” I say that Brecht was a Marxist imperialist, which I don’t think is a contradiction in terms. He wanted the world to be Marxist, come what may, as long as his plays were on the bill. Brecht did for Marxism what Claudel did for Catholicism. Claudel’s pragmatism also overrode his ideology. Claudel may have wanted the world to be Catholic, but besides being an idealist, he was a practical man. He is reputed to have fashioned a paean he originally wrote for Marshal Pétain to fit General de Gaulle. And he was right. Why waste well-wrought sentences after Pétain had justifiably fallen from grace? It’s a writer’s business to publish, and words should take precedence over deeds.

In the Fifties, I saw the legendary production of The Three Penny Opera with Lotte Lenya in Theatre de Lys in Greenwich Village. That was when the Village was still the Village. There were theaters with off-Broadway productions and lots of non-chain bookshops, instead of just cafés, restaurants, bakeries and artsy-craftsy shops. The Opera was marvelous indeed, thanks to Brecht, as well as Kurt Weill, John Gay and Brecht’s lady friends, who filled in what the master told them to fill in à la Rubens.

Weill broke with Brecht before they left for the States, because he didn’t want to be second man in a tandem. He did indeed become his own man and that man became a very American composer. He left the hard-hammer German mode behind for a lilting Broadway one.

Among his achievements is the classical Broadway musical, Knickerbocker Holiday, which included the great standard, September Song. And speaking of Marx, when Weill left Brecht, it was like Groucho leaving Harpo and Chico. (Padron me for bringing Groucho into it again.)

Another marvelous Village production was Brecht on Brecht, directed by George Tabori with Viveca Lindfers. I begrudgingly have to admit that it was good, but I that I wasn’t enraptured

I’d like to salute the ladies who played a role in his life, and especially the lady who is best known for playing roles in his plays and operas. She relates an anecdote that would make any author envious, including Brecht and his stable of lady ghostwriters.

Lenya and Weill left Berlin, thanks to Adolf Hitler, and arrived in the States in 1933. And what did Lenya do after arriving? She went shopping. In her own words: “I went to Saks Fifth Avenue and bought a sweater, and in my horrible English, I asked the clerk, “Would you rape it for me?” “Sorry miss,” he said, “but it isn’t my type.”

*Ms. Lenya’s quote from Rex Reed: Do you Sleep in the Nude?, New American Library, 1968.

 

to be continued . . .

– Herbert Kuhner

Goodbye Leni!

Leni Riefenstahl has left us at the ripe old age of one-hundred-and-one, and the old debate concerning form and content has come to the fore again.

Doubtlessly Riefenstahl was a master cinematographer and an innovator. She approached Hitler with admiration in the twenties, and after he took power, he became her patron. He presented her with the opportunity of directing a film glorifying him and the Nazi party and a second film that should have glorified the Master Race. She accepted both commissions and delivered two films that are masterfully constructed. Triumph of the Will and Olympia, which were made in 1934 and 1936 respectively.

Let’s have some recent comments by Riefenstahl! Here are her own words concerning her work: “Everything in Triumph of the Will is true. The film is a purely historical film, a documentary, not a propaganda film. My films do not contain one single anti-Semitic word. They are Stubenrein (which translates as ‘housebroken’).” Does that mean that there is no brown element in them?

Young Leni didn’t simply have a cameraman stand there with a camera. Cameramen were placed everywhere to film the proceedings from all angles, and when the film was cut it wasn’t just spliced together. The intent of the film was to glorify Hitler and the Nazi Party. And that it did with flying colors.

But, in her defense, Riefenstahl did hit a note of truth. The film presents an accurate picture. Ruthless Nazi leaders are shown manipulating uniformed masses, which made up a military machine. And it is apparent that the machine was not going to be penned in. Indeed there is no mitigation. The film glorifies might, and the threat of what was to come can be easily discerned. The booted feet that marched in Nuremberg would march far beyond German borders.

Here’s a quote: “No anti-Semitic word has ever crossed my lips. I was never anti-Semitic. I did not join the party. So where then is my guilt?”

Apparently Riefenstahl has forgotten one scene in her masterpiece. In the second set of speeches, an anti-Semitic tract is explicitly provided by one of the lesser Nazi nabobs. I have not been able to get a cassette of the film so that I can jot down the speaker’s name and quote him. If anyone can lend one to me for that purpose, I would be more than grateful.

Leni did not join the party, but neither did most of those who were involved in the making of Jud Süss, one of the most infamous propaganda films. Goebbels forced artists tto work for him. He didn’t care whether they joined the party.

One the one hand Leni claimed that she was forced to make Triumph, and on the other, she said that she had offers from Hollywood, naming Douglas Fairbanks and Charlie Chaplin.

She said that she would also have made films for Stalin and Churchill, if they had forced her. Naming the latter is absurd, since only dictators forced artists. But I wager that if she’d filmed for Stalin, the cinematography might have been marvelous, but much less enthusiasm would have been conveyed. Some of the concepts might have been less appealing.

Leni went to the front as a correspondent when Nazi Germany invaded Poland in 1939, but was disgusted by the brutalities of the Wehrmacht and quickly returned to Germany. However, she sent a congratulatory telegram to Hitler after France had been conquered.

“Everyone thought the war was over, and I sent the telegram that spirit,” are her words.
Some feminists lay claim to Leni and close their eyes to what she and Triumph were all about.

American author Susan Sontag, who has also left us, was dazzled by Riefenstahl’s cinematography. Sontag admits that Triumph is Nazi propaganda but sees something else that should not be rejected. For Sontag, the complex mobility of spirit, grace, sensuality go beyond propaganda and even reportage, and reality ceases to be reality and Hitler ceases to be Hitler. The content plays a purely formal role.

You need form to say what you say, but what you say is the essence.

Leni claimed that she made no comment during the film. She didn’t need to. Her camera did it for her.

Leni was a “liberated” woman who aided unequivocally opposed to women’s rights, to put it mildly. As a filmmaker, she made a great contribution to spreading Hitler’s message of oppression.

When Leni made Triumph the war had not begun and mass genocide lay in the future, but Hitler’s intentions had been clearly stated, and she helped show them. Hitler and Nazism is what the film is all about. Deleting Hitler from it would be equivalent to taking Captain Ahab out of Moby Dick

A woman who served Adolf Hitler was the Devil’s handmaiden, and Leni Riefenstahl served the Devil and did his work well.

Olympia was to show the superiority of the master race in sports. Since the Olympic Games consist of contests, there could be no script for, and serendipity gummed up the works. Jesse Owens, a filmagenic black, won four gold medals in track events, and Owens’ black teammate Mitchell took gold for the pole vault. Even a master director can’t make winners look like losers, but Leni’s camera doted on them as lovingly as it had doted on the Nazi leaders in Triumph. She just couldn’t resist a good shot, even if it contradicted the thesis of the film. The film is splendid depiction of the Olympic events, but fails miserably in its propaganda purpose. Owens and Mitchell stole the show and they managed to botch up Olympia for Hitler and Goebbels. But in spite of the fact that two American blacks triumphed in Olympia, the threat manifested by Triumph became a reality that ravaged in Europe and Africa for six years.

Olympia was first briefly shown in Nazi Germany 1938, and in the following seven years of the Reich, Riefenstahl who was certainly not opposed to the cause, was not called upon by Goebbels to make another documentary.

 

The Star of Olympia

In 1935, the year the Nuremberg Laws were initiated, Leni Riefenstahl an ardent Nazi, directed Triumph of the Will at the location where the Laws were passed.

This epic starred a gesticulating little man in a brown uniform with a swishing cowlick, a toothbrush mustache and a coarse voice. That paunchy homunculus ranted and raved while a cast of thousands marched, saluted and shouted in unison.

Riefenstahl’ s second propaganda film was to feature representatives of the Master Race sweeping to victory at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, but something gummed up the works. Or rather someone undermined the thesis of the film. That someone in question was Jesse Owens, an American black. Jesse outran and jumped higher and farther than the baggy-pantsed, spindly-legged competition. The Tectonic representatives were left behind panting and gasping as an unbeatable black god ran and sprang his way to four gold medals. Jesse won with ease and his pants did not hang.

Those four gold medals were four insults to Nazi Germany and had torn four jagged holes in the Nuremberg Laws. In spite of the infamous laws, Mein Kampf and Goebbels’ “scholarly” tracts, the black man’s victory was fact and history. The cameras weren’t blind and film didn’t lie. Celluloid can be doctored up, but there are limitations for every camera. Riefenstahl may have been an ardent Nazi, but she was also a cinematographer and a woman. The static white nudes of the prologue were surpassed by the mobile black, who ran like a racehorse and sprang like a gazelle. Riefenstahl, in spite of herself, was more fascinated by that reality than the lie she had been hired to film.

The star of Triumph had pasty white skin and a five-o’clock shadow. The star of Olympia was a
beaming black god.

 

 

Hangmen Also Die

Hangmen Also Die was made in 1943 by Fritz Lang and originally scripted by Bertolt Brecht. It would have been Brecht’s only Hollywood film credit, but the great film director scrapped the great writer’s script, leaving Brecht with a legendary half credit.

I don’t know what Lang threw out, but what he left in lacks five minutes of drama. Brian Donlevy, the star, was a fine Hollywood supporting actor of the time. His specialty was playing officers referred to as „the old man“ on the Pacific front (when John Wayne wasn’t available), as well as film-noir gangsters and black-garbed villains in westerns. Hangmen was his only starring role, but it was nothing he could take advantage of. He must have known he was miserably miscast; since his acting and body language show his embarrassment. As a resistance gunman, he tip-toes around a papièr maché Prague set like Lon Chaney, Jr. playing The Wolf Man. The assassination story is complete fiction although many of the facts must have been known at the time. At any rate the great director produced a turkey, cooking the goose of all those involved.

Hangmen was one of the most marvelous titles in film history. Yes, Hangmen Also Die. Sometimes hangmen are killed like Heydrich, and sometimes they die of natural causes. The film Heydrich was shot by Donlevy, who was playing a good guy for a change.

The real life Reinhard Heydrich, „Protector“ of Bohemia and Moravia, was wounded by Czech partisans parachuted down by the British to do the job, and he passed on in the hospital. Some historians claim that since he was almost as popular among his fellow Nazi nabobs, as he was with his “Czech subjects,” orders were given that there was to be no recovery. And orders were given to wipe out the town of Lidice as a reprisal.

The day of the out-and-out villain like Heydrich is gone forever. There may still be a few around, but the fashion has changed. Today’s hangmen use ethics as a cosmetic, and they prefer to use a spiritual noose. Their aim is to have you to act as your own hit man, or at least to bring you closer to death. And they can keep their hands clean in the process.

Villains are better manipulators than men of integrity, so they can more easily attain posts, which entail acting beneficially and benevolently. The present-day variety is fawning, obsequious and patronizing. He invariably does charity work and is active in humanitarian causes. This puts him in a better position to do what he does best. It’s a tried and true method. Look at the Mafia! It builds hospitals, orphanages and old age homes. And it puts the first two to good use and helps to prevent the third from becoming a necessity.

Thus, we must concentrate on the positive aspects and give villains their due. And isn’t it better that some good is done rather than none?

Villains as well as heroes have to die, just as the man on the street must come to that end. In fact the impetus to write this came when I got the news that a prime spiritual assassin had passed on. There is something so pitiful about a man who has spent his life scheming and doing harm when he enters that final phase. When his time comes, he just doesn’t pass on like hangman á la Heydrich. He tries to keep up appearances before the Grim Reaper takes him, and he goes out singing Hearts and Flowers and other sad songs.

These melodies fill me with nostalgia for the out-and-out villain who was what he was and made no bones about it.

 

to be continued . . .

– Herbert Kuhner

My Dog Skip

The Skip of My Dog Skip is a Jack Russell terrier. The film is based on a Willie Morris memoir. Willie gets him as a boy in the Nineteen-Thirties. When he grows up to go off to fight in the war after Pearl Harbor, he has to leave Skip behind.

Skip is now an old dog. As we know dogs can’t talk, but skip shows his love for his master in a touching way. He wants to lie on Willie’s bed, but he has arthritis and can no longer hop onto it. Willie’s father sees him standing next to the bed and lifts him up onto it.

That scene broke me up. I had a dog as a boy, and I can never forget him.

When a dog loves you, his love is as pure as the most human love. No it is more pure than the most human love.

Faithfully Filmed

I don’t want to dwell on the 1962 film, Tender is the Night, directed by Henry King and starring Jennifer Jones and Jason Robards Jr. It was typical Hollywood fare with Robards trying courageously but futilely to get it to approach Scott Fitzgerald. Being a Fitzgerald buff, he must have suffered intensely. That same year, he presented his magnificent dramatic reading of Fitzgerald’s Crack-Up on TV. He had his heart in that, aided by the fact that he’d had his own bouts with the fluid that helped bring Fitzgerald down.

The 1985 mini series based on the said book, starring Peter Strauss and Mary Steenburgen and directed by Robert Knights is an adaptation of the book which is as faithful as can be. Nary a scene from the book is left out of this six-part mini series.

I waited for five minutes of drama in vain. The film is as flat as can be. Scene after scene
takes place without a spark of life. Not that the actors did a bad job, although I thought that Mary was not diaphanous enough for the part of Nicole.

You simply cannot transpose a work from one medium to another impartially. You have to interpret it for the medium you use. Unless you do that, nothing works. It simply falls flat.

I must admit that this book is the only Fitzgerald novel I had difficulty reading. I tried more than once, but I couldn’t stay with it. Perhaps that is why I watched every episode of the series intently. I tried to concentrate on the dialogue that my wandering mind had failed to retain when I attempted to read the novel. The result was more wandering. Perhaps I should give the book yet another try.

 

The Battle of Algiers and Quemada

Movies manipulate us. We love to see those outside of the law outsmart the representatives of the law in a movie theater.

When the villains are presented as heroes, they always have good reasons for being outside of the law.

We see a heist on the screen, and we sit in suspense hoping that the fuzz doesn’t show up. In a dark movie house, we want the thief to steal and the hit man to carry out his contract.

I saw two very impressive films by Gillo Pontecorvo, the Battle of Algiers in 1965 and Quemada in1969, the years in which they were made.

Quemada, with Marlon Brando, shows the motives of those who fight with oppressors against liberators very effectively. The motive is basically three squares a day, but you have to risk your life fighting on the wrong side to in order to get them.

As we know, people will do a lot of unsavory things for those “squares.”

 

The Battle of Algiers is about the fight of the Algerian fedayeen against the French colonialists. I’m a Francophile, but I wanted them to drive the French out since I considered their cause to be just. In the film the fedayeen are presented as courageous fighters. The French poilus are shown to be pretty damn rotten. Some of the officers who had fought the Nazis were now using Nazi methods against the fedayeen. Decades later they would speak out and defend their actions.

There is a scene in the film in which beautiful Algerian women smuggle bombs in bags and baskets past French guards to lay in cafés and other public places frequented by French civilians.

Suspenseful moments are provided as the women pass through the security checks.

The viewer is on their side and does not want their contraband to be detected. He wants the woman to pass through successfully. He knows as that if they do not succeed, dreadful things lay in store for them.

The baskets are placed in cafés and other public places frequented by French civilians. Then the explosions are heard and seen.

After they succeeded, I caught myself. I should have wanted them to be stopped.

Just then, the explosions are seen and heard. Amid the debris were the dead and the injured. But the camera just gave you glimpses. It did not tarry too long on those scenes.

So that’s how your emotions can be manipulated by celluloid.

This brand of slaughter is an everyday occurrence. It is part and parcel of waging war against a foe that has superior weapons at his disposal, but terror is by no means limited to the weaker adversary. It is the preferred tactic of all sides.

Today, the gore is shown in detail and the camera lingers on it.

 

to be continued . . .

– Herbert Kuhner