Well it's easy enough to make out the general idea behind this movie. Every German soldier returns from World War I (that's the one that started in 1914 and ended in 1918, kids. PS: We won.) embittered and humiliated. When you're so distressed there are a couple of things you can do about it. This movie narrows the choices down to two -- politics and art. (Freud called this "sublimation." That'll be fifteen cents.)
Hitler, Noah Taylor, has got his head and other body parts caught in a vice caused by these two more or less conflicting tendencies. He's not especially interested in politics, although he's cajoled by the most Aryan-looking ex-Army captain imaginable. He IS interested in art, but alas his muse eludes him. He forms a quasi-friendship with Max Rothman, the nationalized Jew who has lost an arm in the trenches and has returned home to a warm family and a warm mistress and enough resources to start an art market, featuring folks like Ernst and Klimt and Grosz. It's a little hard to come by Hitler's paintings in the real world. I think I saw a copy of one, once, and it wasn't that bad. The two or three examples we glimpse in this film are what Rothman calls "futuristic kitsch." There's, for instance, a dog's head, a kind of retriever it looks like, that resembles something that ought to be divided into geometric patches with numbers inside them, representing the number of the paint you use to fill up the patch. There's an eagle's head too, and a couple of ugly buildings and sketches of uniform details and a nascent Hackenkreutz. (Come to think of it, I'm not so sure it's that much worse than the cubistic puzzles that Rothman seems so fond of.) Hitler -- had Rothman just concentrated on his commercial possibilities instead of urging him to "let himself go" -- might have succeeded as an artist. Look at What's His Name -- Hugg's? -- tigers. Or Leroy Nieman. Or those tempera paintings of sailing ships found on the walls of thousands of better motels.
John Cusack has an easy role, the nice easy-going generous somewhat condescending artistic type. He deeply regrets the loss of his arm because he himself wanted to be a painter, not a merchant. But he has the strength, or let's say the resources, not to let his loss overwhelm him. The resources include a loving, understanding, and sophisticated wife played by Molly Parker. She's enough to make anybody forget about an arm. What a magnetic actress -- not exactly beautiful, her face is a bit long, but she sparkles with intelligence and something more, that suggests an understanding of things not immediately apparent in the film we're watching.
She can dance too. The toughest role is Noah Taylor's as Hitler and he's superb. First of all, he looks the part, small and unprepossessing, tousled and scowling. (He never laughs or smiles and seems to have no sense of humor.) Second, his body language would be hard to improve upon. He seems to always have his arms folded awkwardly across his stomach as if to keep the rest of the world at a distance. He doesn't smoke, drink, or eat meat. (God, he's a modern!) And he doesn't let women touch him. Third, his expressions are hard at work for him. He glares when he looks at something.
And his breakdown when faced with a canvas that is blank except for one tiny black spot he's put on it -- representing his deeper self -- is pitiful and, we sense, tragic in the end, not only for him but for the world. Maybe the most pathetic scene in the movie is in the art gallery when Rothman tries to explain to him that the world is changing and demands new myths, new approaches to painting, new everythings. And Hitler gloomily points out that he came back from the war with nothing -- none of Rothman's advantages -- except for a belief in traditional values and a veneration of Teutonic history, and now Rothman is trying to take that away from him. Hitler was right about one thing, when he shouts that he is the avant guard, that politics is the new art. He was more right than he could have imagined.
The last shot is devastatingly ironic. On one side of a wall, Rothman lies bleeding and dying from a beating given to him by a horde of goons just stirred up by one of Hitler's speeches, while on the other side of the wall Hitler marches along, head down, his portfolio under his arm, enraged that Rothman didn't show up for the appointment that was to promote Hitler's art.
The dialogue is mostly of the "newly translated" kind. "One doesn't like to think of such things." A couple of anachronisms creep in. "Newness does it for me." But, that aside, this is a well-done movie, worth watching, brimming with irony and a couple of very good performances.
Hitler, Noah Taylor, has got his head and other body parts caught in a vice caused by these two more or less conflicting tendencies. He's not especially interested in politics, although he's cajoled by the most Aryan-looking ex-Army captain imaginable. He IS interested in art, but alas his muse eludes him. He forms a quasi-friendship with Max Rothman, the nationalized Jew who has lost an arm in the trenches and has returned home to a warm family and a warm mistress and enough resources to start an art market, featuring folks like Ernst and Klimt and Grosz. It's a little hard to come by Hitler's paintings in the real world. I think I saw a copy of one, once, and it wasn't that bad. The two or three examples we glimpse in this film are what Rothman calls "futuristic kitsch." There's, for instance, a dog's head, a kind of retriever it looks like, that resembles something that ought to be divided into geometric patches with numbers inside them, representing the number of the paint you use to fill up the patch. There's an eagle's head too, and a couple of ugly buildings and sketches of uniform details and a nascent Hackenkreutz. (Come to think of it, I'm not so sure it's that much worse than the cubistic puzzles that Rothman seems so fond of.) Hitler -- had Rothman just concentrated on his commercial possibilities instead of urging him to "let himself go" -- might have succeeded as an artist. Look at What's His Name -- Hugg's? -- tigers. Or Leroy Nieman. Or those tempera paintings of sailing ships found on the walls of thousands of better motels.
John Cusack has an easy role, the nice easy-going generous somewhat condescending artistic type. He deeply regrets the loss of his arm because he himself wanted to be a painter, not a merchant. But he has the strength, or let's say the resources, not to let his loss overwhelm him. The resources include a loving, understanding, and sophisticated wife played by Molly Parker. She's enough to make anybody forget about an arm. What a magnetic actress -- not exactly beautiful, her face is a bit long, but she sparkles with intelligence and something more, that suggests an understanding of things not immediately apparent in the film we're watching.
She can dance too. The toughest role is Noah Taylor's as Hitler and he's superb. First of all, he looks the part, small and unprepossessing, tousled and scowling. (He never laughs or smiles and seems to have no sense of humor.) Second, his body language would be hard to improve upon. He seems to always have his arms folded awkwardly across his stomach as if to keep the rest of the world at a distance. He doesn't smoke, drink, or eat meat. (God, he's a modern!) And he doesn't let women touch him. Third, his expressions are hard at work for him. He glares when he looks at something.
And his breakdown when faced with a canvas that is blank except for one tiny black spot he's put on it -- representing his deeper self -- is pitiful and, we sense, tragic in the end, not only for him but for the world. Maybe the most pathetic scene in the movie is in the art gallery when Rothman tries to explain to him that the world is changing and demands new myths, new approaches to painting, new everythings. And Hitler gloomily points out that he came back from the war with nothing -- none of Rothman's advantages -- except for a belief in traditional values and a veneration of Teutonic history, and now Rothman is trying to take that away from him. Hitler was right about one thing, when he shouts that he is the avant guard, that politics is the new art. He was more right than he could have imagined.
The last shot is devastatingly ironic. On one side of a wall, Rothman lies bleeding and dying from a beating given to him by a horde of goons just stirred up by one of Hitler's speeches, while on the other side of the wall Hitler marches along, head down, his portfolio under his arm, enraged that Rothman didn't show up for the appointment that was to promote Hitler's art.
The dialogue is mostly of the "newly translated" kind. "One doesn't like to think of such things." A couple of anachronisms creep in. "Newness does it for me." But, that aside, this is a well-done movie, worth watching, brimming with irony and a couple of very good performances.