THE DUKE ON MAX
For a fairly long old time it was considered an act of utmost
irresponsibility to offer a representation of Adolf Hitler which
strayed in the slightest from the image of the snarling, spitting
maniac who once straddled the length of breadth of Leni
Riefenstahl's camera lens. To shine the torch of humanity on this
most foul of villains was something folks weren’t too keen on. That
kinda nonsense right there invites sympathy, was the reasoning.
That kinda shit implies that the demon was, after all, kinda like
you and me.
irresponsibility to offer a representation of Adolf Hitler which
strayed in the slightest from the image of the snarling, spitting
maniac who once straddled the length of breadth of Leni
Riefenstahl's camera lens. To shine the torch of humanity on this
most foul of villains was something folks weren’t too keen on. That
kinda nonsense right there invites sympathy, was the reasoning.
That kinda shit implies that the demon was, after all, kinda like
you and me.
Far be it from The Duke to question the general consensus, but it
would appear to me that presenting this most malignant of fucks as
nothing more complex than a ranting demon might, in fact, do more
harm than good. Ranting demons are fairly easy to spot in a crowd,
is what. If someone offers The Duke an answer to the world’s ills,
I’m gonna know if he’s a ranting demon or not, and therefore evil.
The human variants, though, they’re a tougher proposition.
Who in their right mind would follow a ranting demon, except maybe
those folks who listen to The Filthy Cradles or whoever the fuck?
If another Hitler were to arise, seems to have been the thinking,
we’ll know, on account of the flames and stuff.
Well, the surprise and the twist and so on is that Hitler didn’t
have flames, horns, forked tongue, most likely didn't even have
hooves or nothing. And that right there is a fairly disturbing
notion.
It’s rather comforting to think that the Nazi movement was helmed
by some Satan-spawn entity, but it wasn’t. It was brought to power
by the kinda fella you wouldn’t even notice if he passed you on the
street. You wouldn’t think twice if he got a job in local
government. Seeing him on telly wouldn’t bother you in the
slightest.
Anyway, the point of all this pondering, is that The Duke this very
night watched the film by the name of Max, being a semi-fictional
account of the pre-Nazi Hitler trying to get his artwork recognised.
A poverty-riddled Adolf befriends art dealer Max Rothman, played by
the ever-watchable John Cusack, although you’ll probably say about
how he was funnier in Grosse Point Blank. Rothman takes pity on
Hitler to some extent. Both served in World War I, and although
Rothman lost his right arm, he sees how Adolf returns to nothing;
no family, no money, no friends.
Already, the hook and so on is pretty apparent. Here’s Hitler, at
risk of understatement, the most notorious Anti-Semite in history,
not only befriending this Jewish businessman, but actually
depending upon him.
Anyone who has read Mien Kampf will know how fond Adolf was of a
watercolour or two. He was all set to become the finest artist
Germany had ever known, is what, if only those motherfuckers would
pay attention for ten seconds.
According to Max, the problem wasn’t necessarily that no one was
paying attention, but that he wasn’t especially good. Talented,
certainly. His dogs look like dogs and so on, he has folks noses in
the right place, but hardly outstanding. Rothman encourages him to
adopt the style of the modernists, to worry more about feeling than
surface, all that jazz. Hitler grudgingly complies, albeit
fruitlessly, more out of thirst for recognition than any particular
love for the “filthy” art hanging from the rafters of Rothman’s
gallery.
On the other hand, though, there’s a fella by the name of Captain
Mayr, who seeks to draw Hitler into the world of propaganda, of
public speaking. Mayr acts as a cipher for the German Military
Establishment of the time, it appears, humiliated and seething with
anger at the surrender which brought WW1 to a close.
At first, Adolf’s saliva-flinging antics are ignored by pub-fulls
of drunken bohemians. By the films close, however, he has
experienced a standing ovation as cheering, rabid support bounds
from the walls around him.
It’s all very similar to Star Wars Part 5 – Invasion Of The Clones
or whatever, wherein young Anakin was torn between the head and the
heart, between the opposing influences of Obi-Wan and Palpatine.
Also, at the end of Max, Hitler has started growing that moustache,
just like in Star Wars when we saw the metal arm in the last shot.
Thank fuck, though, that Max steers the hell away from any romantic
sub-plot where maybe Hitler gets it on with a senator and then
complains about sand.
“It’s so course, motherfucker.”
The problem with Max, as far as The Duke is concerned, is that
although it seeks to present a much-less simplified (and ultimately
far-more frightening) portrayal of The Fuhrer, this extends little
further than Noah Taylor's performance. The character arc, from the
young soldier berating his comrades for their anti-Semitic
yackings, to the fella standing in front of a room-full of
socialites talking about The Jewish Blood, is far from totally
convincing. It’d be enough to confuse a fella if he didn’t have a
fair degree of foreknowledge.
Again, in Mien Kampf, Hitler waxes fucking imbecilic at great
length about how he went from being a sceptic of anti-Semitism to
its greatest proponent, but Max doesn’t offer any insight. The sole
reason for his speeches seems to be financial, but a fella doesn’t
carry out the abominable, heinous acts that Hitler carried out just
for the green and the adoration.
The merging of art and politics, “The New Art” as Hitler puts it,
seems to be the primary goal, but we’re never offered any
suggestions as to why his thinking took such a U-Turn, in the space
of a half-dozen scenes, no less.
But this lapse in narrative is fairly easily put aside for the
duration of the proceedings, on account of how thought-provoking it
all is. It’s fantastically photographed, also, from Rothman’s
converted-factory-cum-showroom, to the narrow, snow-glazed streets
Hitler wanders around. The performances, also, are uniformly
superb. Taylor’s turn does on occasion veer dangerously close to
caricature, but for the most part he’s thoroughly convincing.
Cusack, too, impresses, and it does a fella good to know that he
asked for no salary in return for his services, appearing in the
film simply because he truly believed in it.
There aren’t many folks of Cusack’s calibre who would work for
nothing, is what The Duke would guess, however good the script
might be.
The most telling shot in Max arrives at the very end. Hitler, black
jacket hanging from his undernourished frame, portfolio underarm,
wanders along a crowded pavement. He seems to step offscreen for a
second, but reappears, and we follow him further along. Then he
turns around, and it’s not Hitler at all. It’s some other fella.
Then it happens again. And again. Hitler, it suggests, wasn’t the
towering, red-eyed hellion we’ve been led to believe. He was all of
these folks. The horrors of WW2 weren’t the sole result of one
individual’s evil, but the result of thousands, millions of
everyday humans.
Stephen Spielberg’s production company, Amblin, were originally
attached to the project, but eventually pulled out. Spielberg, it’s
been said, couldn’t bring himself to help produce anything which
might belittle Holocaust survivors, or indeed, victims. He
encouraged director Meno Meyjes to get it made, though.
Spielberg’s heart was in the right place, for sure, but you have to
wonder what’s more damaging; The notion of Hitler as the kinda fuck
you can spot a mile off, as a one-off, or the notion that the
hatred rampant in him can be found fairly nearby a hell of a lot of
the time.
It’s much easier to shout “Never Again!” when the villain is so
easily-recognisable. When shit like that creeps up on you with a
human face, it takes a bit of extra digging to spot it.
Thanks folks.
Send The Duke An Email
would appear to me that presenting this most malignant of fucks as
nothing more complex than a ranting demon might, in fact, do more
harm than good. Ranting demons are fairly easy to spot in a crowd,
is what. If someone offers The Duke an answer to the world’s ills,
I’m gonna know if he’s a ranting demon or not, and therefore evil.
The human variants, though, they’re a tougher proposition.
Who in their right mind would follow a ranting demon, except maybe
those folks who listen to The Filthy Cradles or whoever the fuck?
If another Hitler were to arise, seems to have been the thinking,
we’ll know, on account of the flames and stuff.
Well, the surprise and the twist and so on is that Hitler didn’t
have flames, horns, forked tongue, most likely didn't even have
hooves or nothing. And that right there is a fairly disturbing
notion.
It’s rather comforting to think that the Nazi movement was helmed
by some Satan-spawn entity, but it wasn’t. It was brought to power
by the kinda fella you wouldn’t even notice if he passed you on the
street. You wouldn’t think twice if he got a job in local
government. Seeing him on telly wouldn’t bother you in the
slightest.
Anyway, the point of all this pondering, is that The Duke this very
night watched the film by the name of Max, being a semi-fictional
account of the pre-Nazi Hitler trying to get his artwork recognised.
A poverty-riddled Adolf befriends art dealer Max Rothman, played by
the ever-watchable John Cusack, although you’ll probably say about
how he was funnier in Grosse Point Blank. Rothman takes pity on
Hitler to some extent. Both served in World War I, and although
Rothman lost his right arm, he sees how Adolf returns to nothing;
no family, no money, no friends.
Already, the hook and so on is pretty apparent. Here’s Hitler, at
risk of understatement, the most notorious Anti-Semite in history,
not only befriending this Jewish businessman, but actually
depending upon him.
Anyone who has read Mien Kampf will know how fond Adolf was of a
watercolour or two. He was all set to become the finest artist
Germany had ever known, is what, if only those motherfuckers would
pay attention for ten seconds.
According to Max, the problem wasn’t necessarily that no one was
paying attention, but that he wasn’t especially good. Talented,
certainly. His dogs look like dogs and so on, he has folks noses in
the right place, but hardly outstanding. Rothman encourages him to
adopt the style of the modernists, to worry more about feeling than
surface, all that jazz. Hitler grudgingly complies, albeit
fruitlessly, more out of thirst for recognition than any particular
love for the “filthy” art hanging from the rafters of Rothman’s
gallery.
On the other hand, though, there’s a fella by the name of Captain
Mayr, who seeks to draw Hitler into the world of propaganda, of
public speaking. Mayr acts as a cipher for the German Military
Establishment of the time, it appears, humiliated and seething with
anger at the surrender which brought WW1 to a close.
At first, Adolf’s saliva-flinging antics are ignored by pub-fulls
of drunken bohemians. By the films close, however, he has
experienced a standing ovation as cheering, rabid support bounds
from the walls around him.
It’s all very similar to Star Wars Part 5 – Invasion Of The Clones
or whatever, wherein young Anakin was torn between the head and the
heart, between the opposing influences of Obi-Wan and Palpatine.
Also, at the end of Max, Hitler has started growing that moustache,
just like in Star Wars when we saw the metal arm in the last shot.
Thank fuck, though, that Max steers the hell away from any romantic
sub-plot where maybe Hitler gets it on with a senator and then
complains about sand.
“It’s so course, motherfucker.”
The problem with Max, as far as The Duke is concerned, is that
although it seeks to present a much-less simplified (and ultimately
far-more frightening) portrayal of The Fuhrer, this extends little
further than Noah Taylor's performance. The character arc, from the
young soldier berating his comrades for their anti-Semitic
yackings, to the fella standing in front of a room-full of
socialites talking about The Jewish Blood, is far from totally
convincing. It’d be enough to confuse a fella if he didn’t have a
fair degree of foreknowledge.
Again, in Mien Kampf, Hitler waxes fucking imbecilic at great
length about how he went from being a sceptic of anti-Semitism to
its greatest proponent, but Max doesn’t offer any insight. The sole
reason for his speeches seems to be financial, but a fella doesn’t
carry out the abominable, heinous acts that Hitler carried out just
for the green and the adoration.
The merging of art and politics, “The New Art” as Hitler puts it,
seems to be the primary goal, but we’re never offered any
suggestions as to why his thinking took such a U-Turn, in the space
of a half-dozen scenes, no less.
But this lapse in narrative is fairly easily put aside for the
duration of the proceedings, on account of how thought-provoking it
all is. It’s fantastically photographed, also, from Rothman’s
converted-factory-cum-showroom, to the narrow, snow-glazed streets
Hitler wanders around. The performances, also, are uniformly
superb. Taylor’s turn does on occasion veer dangerously close to
caricature, but for the most part he’s thoroughly convincing.
Cusack, too, impresses, and it does a fella good to know that he
asked for no salary in return for his services, appearing in the
film simply because he truly believed in it.
There aren’t many folks of Cusack’s calibre who would work for
nothing, is what The Duke would guess, however good the script
might be.
The most telling shot in Max arrives at the very end. Hitler, black
jacket hanging from his undernourished frame, portfolio underarm,
wanders along a crowded pavement. He seems to step offscreen for a
second, but reappears, and we follow him further along. Then he
turns around, and it’s not Hitler at all. It’s some other fella.
Then it happens again. And again. Hitler, it suggests, wasn’t the
towering, red-eyed hellion we’ve been led to believe. He was all of
these folks. The horrors of WW2 weren’t the sole result of one
individual’s evil, but the result of thousands, millions of
everyday humans.
Stephen Spielberg’s production company, Amblin, were originally
attached to the project, but eventually pulled out. Spielberg, it’s
been said, couldn’t bring himself to help produce anything which
might belittle Holocaust survivors, or indeed, victims. He
encouraged director Meno Meyjes to get it made, though.
Spielberg’s heart was in the right place, for sure, but you have to
wonder what’s more damaging; The notion of Hitler as the kinda fuck
you can spot a mile off, as a one-off, or the notion that the
hatred rampant in him can be found fairly nearby a hell of a lot of
the time.
It’s much easier to shout “Never Again!” when the villain is so
easily-recognisable. When shit like that creeps up on you with a
human face, it takes a bit of extra digging to spot it.
Thanks folks.
Send The Duke An Email
