[Did a version of this for my column in Business Standard Weekend]
Picture a documentary film that begins by extolling a great leader as a saviour for his war-ravaged nation, and announcing that he is “flying to meet and encourage his faithful followers”. The stately grandeur of the visuals and the language, and the dramatic music score, make it seem like an Olympian God is about to descend among his people, and this is amplified by the long sequence that follows – beautiful black-and-white footage of clouds seen from inside a small airplane. The effect is that of being placed, with the leader, in a celestial realm.
As the plane begins its descent, we see aerial shots, then close-ups, of a grand old city, full of towers and spires. It’s like something out of a medieval picture-book, and we feel a thrill; so this is the place that the Godlike being is presiding over. (An Indian viewer might well think of Vishnu's mount Garuda, or the Pushpak Vimana, during the remarkable shot of the plane's shadow seen moving in a straight line across a network of roads.)
At the airstrip, people cheer as the deity alights. Driven through the city in a cavalcade, he waves at his high-spirited subjects; there are close-ups of smiling, golden-haired children, the sun on their faces; a mother carrying her child hands him a bouquet. The sense of hope and bonhomie is tangible; as a viewer, it’s difficult not to be seduced by it.
But the year is 1934, the place is Nuremberg, Germany, and the leader is Adolf Hitler, who is promising a glorious future to a country that was devastated by the first World War. With the benefit of hindsight, we know what repercussions that march towards “glory” will have for Europe and the world.
Watching just the opening 10 minutes of Leni Riefenstahl’s great propaganda film Triumph of the Will, it’s easy to see why, 75 years after its release, this is still one of the most controversial movies ever made. It was authorised by Hitler himself (he wanted a filmed record of the Nuremberg rallies to inspire patriotism in his people) and the opening credits begin with the proud line “Commissioned by Order of the Fuhrer”. Discussing the project with Riefenstahl, he told her that he wanted an “artistically satisfying” perspective rather than a drab political document. He wanted the man on the street to be stirred by pure film.
The result is something that is part-documentary, part myth-making, and capable of creating some very uncomfortable responses in a viewer today. It’s a credit to Riefenstahl’s filmmaking skill that she turned Hitler into a living legend so effectively. But what were the moral ramifications? What role did this very successful film play in making Nazism attractive?
These are questions that continue to be asked, and they tie in to larger ideas about the relationship between art and morality. So powerful is the imagery of Triumph of the Will that even those of us who associate the Nazi swastika with something irredeemably ugly can, briefly at least, understand the patriotism inspired by the symbol - and the promises that came with it - at a very specific point in the country’s history. The many shots of the swastika on banners and flags are typical of the film’s contemplative style - Triumph of the Will is full of languid shots that don’t seem very relevant to a work of propaganda: city streets and vistas, people going about their work, even a cat watching a procession from a balcony, and of course those clouds in the opening scene. But this only heightens the build-up to the rallies, where Hitler and other Nazi leaders make fiery nationalist speeches.
It would be comforting to think that this film is now harmless from an ideological point of view, but I was taken aback during a recent conversation at a book event with a young man – one of many in this country who seem bizarrely obsessed with Hitler’s Mein Kampf. “Wasn’t there a famous documentary about Hitler by a woman director?” he asked, “I’d love to see it – the guy was so charismatic, such a leader!”
If he does get around to seeing Riefenstahl’s film, he’ll probably become a card-carrying neo-Nazi. Or at least a regular commenter on Rediff.com messageboards. Perhaps I should email him this video of the globe-bouncing scene from The Great Dictator, just to balance things out.
Picture a documentary film that begins by extolling a great leader as a saviour for his war-ravaged nation, and announcing that he is “flying to meet and encourage his faithful followers”. The stately grandeur of the visuals and the language, and the dramatic music score, make it seem like an Olympian God is about to descend among his people, and this is amplified by the long sequence that follows – beautiful black-and-white footage of clouds seen from inside a small airplane. The effect is that of being placed, with the leader, in a celestial realm.
As the plane begins its descent, we see aerial shots, then close-ups, of a grand old city, full of towers and spires. It’s like something out of a medieval picture-book, and we feel a thrill; so this is the place that the Godlike being is presiding over. (An Indian viewer might well think of Vishnu's mount Garuda, or the Pushpak Vimana, during the remarkable shot of the plane's shadow seen moving in a straight line across a network of roads.)
At the airstrip, people cheer as the deity alights. Driven through the city in a cavalcade, he waves at his high-spirited subjects; there are close-ups of smiling, golden-haired children, the sun on their faces; a mother carrying her child hands him a bouquet. The sense of hope and bonhomie is tangible; as a viewer, it’s difficult not to be seduced by it.
But the year is 1934, the place is Nuremberg, Germany, and the leader is Adolf Hitler, who is promising a glorious future to a country that was devastated by the first World War. With the benefit of hindsight, we know what repercussions that march towards “glory” will have for Europe and the world.Watching just the opening 10 minutes of Leni Riefenstahl’s great propaganda film Triumph of the Will, it’s easy to see why, 75 years after its release, this is still one of the most controversial movies ever made. It was authorised by Hitler himself (he wanted a filmed record of the Nuremberg rallies to inspire patriotism in his people) and the opening credits begin with the proud line “Commissioned by Order of the Fuhrer”. Discussing the project with Riefenstahl, he told her that he wanted an “artistically satisfying” perspective rather than a drab political document. He wanted the man on the street to be stirred by pure film.
The result is something that is part-documentary, part myth-making, and capable of creating some very uncomfortable responses in a viewer today. It’s a credit to Riefenstahl’s filmmaking skill that she turned Hitler into a living legend so effectively. But what were the moral ramifications? What role did this very successful film play in making Nazism attractive?
These are questions that continue to be asked, and they tie in to larger ideas about the relationship between art and morality. So powerful is the imagery of Triumph of the Will that even those of us who associate the Nazi swastika with something irredeemably ugly can, briefly at least, understand the patriotism inspired by the symbol - and the promises that came with it - at a very specific point in the country’s history. The many shots of the swastika on banners and flags are typical of the film’s contemplative style - Triumph of the Will is full of languid shots that don’t seem very relevant to a work of propaganda: city streets and vistas, people going about their work, even a cat watching a procession from a balcony, and of course those clouds in the opening scene. But this only heightens the build-up to the rallies, where Hitler and other Nazi leaders make fiery nationalist speeches.
It would be comforting to think that this film is now harmless from an ideological point of view, but I was taken aback during a recent conversation at a book event with a young man – one of many in this country who seem bizarrely obsessed with Hitler’s Mein Kampf. “Wasn’t there a famous documentary about Hitler by a woman director?” he asked, “I’d love to see it – the guy was so charismatic, such a leader!”
If he does get around to seeing Riefenstahl’s film, he’ll probably become a card-carrying neo-Nazi. Or at least a regular commenter on Rediff.com messageboards. Perhaps I should email him this video of the globe-bouncing scene from The Great Dictator, just to balance things out.
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