Riefenstahl Really Delivered for Hitler in 'Triumph of the Will'

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In the annals of filmmaking, the influence of German director Leni Riefenstahl is unique.

For one thing, she was a woman doing essentially what had long been (and, for that matter, remained almost exclusively) a man's job, directing films. She started out as an actress and dancer, but she gravitated to work behind the camera when she reached her 30s and was no longer suitable for the roles she was typecast to play — adventurous, athletic. Sometimes she played a pretty peasant or a dancing girl.

(Eventually, of course, anyone in an athletic profession must concede that time conquers those athletic attributes. It is a big reason why so many professional athletes retire from their chosen sports in their 30s.)

For another, she was a trailblazer in the field of propaganda. There is a pretty good case to be made that, without her, Hitler might not have become as powerful as he did — because it was thanks to "Triumph of the Will," the filmed record of the 1934 Nazi Party Congress in Nuremberg that premiered on this day in 1935, that he was able to consolidate his support from many groups.

I suppose "filmed record" is being generous. Much of what was shown in Riefenstahl's film was staged. It was not a record of a spontaneous response to what took place in Nuremberg that year, but it was Riefenstahl's masterful manipulation of what she did see — and her creation of staged events — that made it so effective as propaganda.

It is so easy, after all, to become blinded to unpleasant facts by appealing imagery. It must have been even easier 80 years ago. There was no internet, no cable, no satellite TV. How many alternative accounts of events could have been available? Not many, I'm sure.

Besides, the real objective of the movie was not to present a faithful "filmed record" of what really happened but to produce a celebration of Hitler and national socialism.

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It was in "Triumph of the Will" that Riefenstahl pioneered techniques that are still used by filmmakers today.

She very skillfully established Hitler as a Messianic figure from the start, opening with shots of clouds above Nuremberg, then rising above the clouds and appearing to float over the crowds below. The shadow of Adolf Hitler's plane could be seen as it passed over; on the screen, the image was accompanied by an orchestral arrangement of the Nazis' anthem — which had been the party's anthem since 1930 and had been the co–national anthem since Hitler seized power in 1933.

That was truly a Valhalla–esque scene.

(Had it been up to me, I would have preferred to play "Ride of the Valkyries" — a la "Apocalypse Now" — as the soundtrack for Hitler's descent from the clouds.)

It should be noted that, during the opening sequence, there was a prologue on the screen — the only commentary in the entire movie, which was nearly two hours long. That prologue said, in German:

"On 5 September 1934
20 years after the outbreak of the World War
16 years after the beginning of German suffering
19 months after the beginning of the German rebirth
Adolf Hitler flew again to Nuremberg to review the columns of his faithful followers"

Any other words that were spoken were clips from the speeches given by Hitler and the other Nazi leaders during the rally.

Riefenstahl was reluctant to take on the assignment, telling Hitler that she knew little about the Nazi Party and its organization — on top of the fact that she had never made a full–length documentary. Hitler told her that was why he wanted her to do it. Someone who was more knowledgeable might tend to pander whereas Riefenstahl's lack of knowledge left her free to explore things that interested her. If they interested her, they would interest ordinary Germans. The Nazis had taken power during a period of instability in German government, and they were still largely unknown to many Germans, let alone the rest of the world. Hitler wanted to make a good impression on his people and the world.

It wasn't Riefenstahl's first film for Hitler and the Nazis. After her first meeting with Hitler, she was asked to direct an hour–long documentary on the 1933 Nuremberg rally. Riefenstahl, incidentally, had asked to meet with Hitler, beginning her close association with the Nazis that would haunt her later in her career. She read Mein Kampf when Hitler was a candidate for office in 1932 and, by her own admission, was strongly influenced by it. She accepted his request, and it was Hitler's turn to be impressed. He was so impressed, in fact, that he asked Riefenstahl to film the 1934 rally.

In Mein Kampf, Hitler wrote of his admiration for the success of England's propaganda during World War I. He believed it was the difference between victory and defeat for Britain, and he wanted a film that would be "artistically satisfying" for German audiences. In short, he wanted something that would win over those Germans who still had doubts whether he could revive Germany from the economic burden it had carried since World War I.

Riefenstahl accepted the challenge.

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And she delivered what Hitler wanted, I think — or, at least, what he said he wanted (given his actions for the next decade, I believe he was already making plans to conquer Europe and the world and to purge it of its Jewish population, plans he kept mostly to himself — except for what he wrote in Mein Kampf — until later in the 1930s. But that is another story for another time). In fact, it was probably more than he expected.

Riefenstahl, as I said, pioneered many techniques that are still in use today — camera angles, the use of panoramic shots — but that is negated in some people's minds by the knowledge that she manufactured some of the things she filmed.

As a student of history, does it bother me that much of the footage that was used was apparently staged? Yes, but not as much as — and probably not for the reasons — you think.

I think it has a lot to do with the fact that, as someone who holds two degrees in journalism, I have studied propaganda, and I know that it is always produced with an ulterior motive. Documentary makers often have agendas, too, but the best documentaries I have seen were done by people who had no agenda, really, except to share with others something that they found interesting for one reason or another.

When there is good reason to believe that something that is being promoted as documentary is really propaganda, that changes the rules and the expectations. If I know something is propaganda, I don't expect it to be a faithful record of an event. I have worked for newspapers as both a reporter and an editor, and I know the difference between reporting and editorial writing. While it almost certainly contains some facts, the knowledge that the one who is producing it has more than a commercial interest in how it is perceived or a dedication to the truth tends to lower the expectations bar.

By the time I was old enough to know anything about "Triumph of the Will," I knew it was propaganda, which I have always considered to be a special kind of fiction. It always has some truth in it — but you don't order a cheeseburger and expect to get filet mignon.

I believe "Triumph of the Will" really must have been more than Hitler expected because it broke so much new ground, going beyond what Hitler hoped to duplicate.

An Important Movie

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"Whoever destroys a soul, it is considered as if he destroyed an entire world. And whoever saves a life, it is considered as if he saved an entire world."

Talmud

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In reality, there probably was no one who would have seemed less likely to be a hero before World War II than Oskar Schindler.

He was a German businessman and Nazi Party member, greedy, arrogant, a womanizer who lived an opulent life in Poland away from his wife in Germany. At first, he hired Jews to work in his factory because, with their wages set by the Nazis, they cost him less than Poles. That evolved, with the assistance of his accountant (Ben Kingsley), into Schindler's unrestricted use of his factory to protect an estimated 1,100 Jews from deportation and probable death.

It took nearly half a century for Schindler's story to be brought to the big screen. Appropriately, it was Steven Spielberg, perhaps the most popular filmmaker of his time, who told the story to a mostly ignorant world. Many people will tell you it is the greatest movie ever made. The American Film Institute didn't go quite that far. I'm not sure if I would go that far, but I would certainly rank it in the Top 10. It ranked "Schindler's List" eighth on its Top 100 list.

Schindler (played by Liam Neeson in the movie) was AFI's 13th–greatest movie hero — and Amon Goeth (played by Ralph Fiennes) was AFI's 14th–most villainous villain (the highest–ranking nonfiction villain on that list).

And, in the 20 years since its initial theatrical release on this day in 1993, "Schindler's List" has been used countless times as a classroom learning tool.

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When you look back at Spielberg's career, you can see certain patterns in his work, as you can with just about any great director, I suppose.

In "Schindler's List," you can see a technique to which Spielberg would return a few years later when he made "Saving Private Ryan" — the vivid re–creation of a harrowing wartime event. In "Ryan," it was the re–creation of D–Day. In "Schindler," it was the liquidation of the Kraków ghetto.

Both scenes were lengthy — and painful to watch but necessary for the viewer to get a taste of what the participants must have experienced. Spielberg himself remarked that he felt more like a reporter than a filmmaker when he made "Schindler's List," as if he had been witnessing the actual events, not re–creating them for a movie.

By the time "Ryan" hit the theaters, you could see how much Spielberg's technique had matured. It was still in its infancy when he made "Schindler's List," but, even so, it packed a punch.

I don't think it is an exaggeration to say "Schindler's List" may well be the most important movie made in my lifetime. I guess it has almost become a cliche for someone to say that a movie project in which he or she was involved was important, but it really does fit "Schindler's List."

The interaction between Schindler and his accountant was one of the things I found especially remarkable.

Under far less extreme circumstances, it was the kind of partnership that usually succeeds in the business world. Schindler was the big–picture guy; Itzhak Stern was the nuts–and–bolts guy, the details guy. Both brought skills to the enterprise that were essential to its success.

But, in the intense atmosphere of the Holocaust, success and failure were entirely different.

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I already admired Ben Kingsley's work. A decade earlier, he starred in a movie that really was an important movie, "Gandhi."

Until "Schindler's List," though, I didn't have the same kind of admiration for Liam Neeson. He had been in several movies by this time — I even saw him in one or two — and I was favorably impressed, but I didn't think of him as an important actor until I saw "Schindler's List."

After I saw his scene late in the movie where he spoke of how many more lives he could have saved if he had sold his watch or his car, he became an important actor in my eyes.

I remember the first time I watched "Schindler's List" on TV. It was shown with no commercial interruptions — on NBC, I think, and sponsored by the Ford Motor Company. As I recall, Spielberg spoke at the start of the movie and at the end. In one of those segments, he said that he had been asked if he would permit his children to watch "Schindler's List." He said he wanted all of his children to watch it when they were ready.

That was the kind of thing, Spielberg admitted, that each parent had to decide because children mature at different rates, but he said that, as a general rule of thumb, he wouldn't let young children watch it. But a child in junior high or high school probably could understand the material and ask thoughtful questions after the movie was over. Young children might be traumatized.

I thought that was a reasonable — as well as responsible — thing for him to say.

Consequently, I was astonished the next day when a lawmaker from Oklahoma complained about the nudity in "Schindler's List," and accused Spielberg, NBC and Ford of acting irresponsibly. I wondered if the lawmaker even bothered to watch the telecast. If he had, I thought, he might have realized that the Nazis used nudity as a weapon against the Jews, not as a means of their own arousal. It was an example of the Nazis' cruelty.

Truly, some people can't see the forest for the trees.

There was another element of "Schindler's List" that is worth discussing. I speak of the little girl in the red coat. In real life, she must have stood out in the crowd just as she did in the movie — made almost entirely in black and white — if the little girl ever really existed.

My understanding is that the girl in the red coat was fictional, that she was symbolic of how high–ranking officials in democratic countries like the United States did nothing to prevent the Holocaust even though they were aware of it like "a little girl wearing a red coat, walking down the street."

In fact, though, there was a little girl in a red coat in the Kraków ghetto, and for a time it was thought that the girl in "Schindler's List" either was inspired by her or was a minor dramatization of her story. Her name was Roma Ligocka, and she was remembered by many who were there for that red coat she wore.

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In the movie, the girl in the red coat apparently died. I say "apparently" because the camera does not show her actual death, but it does show her limp body, identifiable only by that coat. It was a powerful moment in the movie, and it marked the beginning of Schindler's personal transformation.

But Ligocka did not die in the Holocaust. She survived and lives today in Munich. She is Roman Polanski's cousin.

DNA and the Boys From Brazil

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On this day in 1978, DNA and cloning were still futuristic concepts, little more than theories, really. I remember hearing my teachers speak of such things when I was in school and dismissing them as some sort of Jetsons things — totally unlikely to happen in my lifetime.

I was wrong, of course.

But director Franklin J. Schaffner had the vision and the courage to accept the challenge of explaining the theories in ways that were entertaining — and, consequently, unsettling when their relevance to the story was revealed.

The theme of Schaffner's "The Boys From Brazil," which premiered on this day in 1978, was that Josef Mengele (played by Gregory Peck) had taken some of Adolf Hitler's DNA with him when he fled Germany after World War II and had produced dozens of Hitler clones who had been distributed around the world. These baby Hitlers were adopted by couples who closely resembled Hitler's own parents in an attempt to duplicate as closely as possible the conditions that shaped the original Hitler.

At some point, it was necessary for Mengele to arrange for an adoptive father to be killed because Hitler's own father, who was more than 20 years older than Hitler's mother, died suddenly when Hitler was 13. Mengele left no stone unturned in his quest to re–create the circumstances of Hitler's life. No detail was too small.

I don't mean to suggest, of course, that the loss of a parent is a small detail. Far from it. That is a huge event in the lives of most people whatever their ages — but especially so for one so young. And I think Schaffner (and, for that matter, Ira Levin, who wrote the novel upon which the movie was based) was correct to believe that his father's death had a powerful influence on Hitler.

The movie took viewers around the globe as Laurence Olivier, a Nazi hunter, followed up on a tip from Steven Guttenberg, who stumbled on to the plot to resurrect the Third Reich and paid for it with his life.

In the movie, Mengele clearly wasn't wedded to the idea of a German fuehrer and placed Hitler clones all around the world. Olivier met four of the clones, each played unsettlingly by Jeremy Black, a teenager who, as nearly as I can tell, never appeared in a movie again.

His performance was spooky, though, to say the least. I was convinced that any of the clones he played could have grown up to be a modern–day Hitler, fulfilling an almost Nostradamus–like prophecy.

But it was ambiguous. Each had personality traits that, if seen only on the surface by those unfamiliar with the futuristic plot, would appear to be typical teenage narcissism — not necessarily a clue of what to expect.

On closer inspection, they revealed truths that went to the core of the Hitler personality, but that brings us back to the old debate over nature vs. nurture. Because these clones possessed Hitler's DNA — and, remember, much of what was known about DNA in 1978 was theoretical — did that mean they would duplicate his life experiences?

In the movie, Mengele tried to manipulate events to guarantee that the Hitler clones would have the same experiences the original Hitler had, including losing his father at a young age. But other things were not so easily manipulated, like Hitler's rejection in art school or his experiences as a soldier in World War I.

At the end of the movie, Olivier's character destroyed the list of children around the world who had been part of Mengele's experiment rather than surrender it to American Nazi hunters who were determined to eliminate the clones.

They were only children, Olivier said. They weren't responsible for the experiment that had conceived them. It wouldn't be fair for them to pay with their lives for things others had done.

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It was an uplifting, Hollywoodesque feel–good wrapup. Frankly, though, I thought the movie would have been more powerful if it had concluded the way the book did — by revealing that one of the surviving Hitler clones was developing delusions of grandeur.

Movie veterans Peck and Olivier gave brilliant performances as the story's nemeses — as did James Mason as Peck's benefactor.

To misquote Shakespeare, though, the story's the thing in "The Boys From Brazil." The acting was superb, but the story, like Black's performance, was spooky. I felt that way even at the time, when, as I say, DNA was known to exist but the applications of that knowledge were mostly theoretical.

I think it holds up just as well today although I am sure that, as commonplace as DNA application has become in modern society, the story may not have quite the impact with some viewers as it does with others.

Perhaps it was that considerable element of the unknown that made it so frightening.

'Triumph of the Will' Served Propaganda Purposes

During World War II and in the years after the war ended, the Nazis' reputation for comprehending the value of effective propaganda became almost legendary.

But their appreciation for the power of propaganda preceded the war by several years.

On Sept. 5, 2009, it will be 75 years since the Nazis gathered for the Nazi Party Congress in Nuremberg. It was an important event for rallying the faithful in person — but it also served as the basis for filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl's influential propaganda documentary, "Triumph of the Will."

Because of the role it played in the development of filmmaking techniques — such as the advanced use of telephoto lenses, aerial photography and moving cameras — "Triumph of the Will" earned a spot in film history.

It also played an important role in the rise of the Nazi Party. Hitler and the Nazis had come to power the year before and were still largely unknown to many Germans — and much of the world.

The film opened with a brief commentary written in German. Translated, it said: "20 years after the outbreak of the world war, 16 years after the beginning of our suffering, 19 months after the beginning of the German renaissance, Adolf Hitler flew again to Nuremberg to review the columns of his faithful followers."

From that point, the only written commentaries were merely the surnames of the speakers. That may have been helpful to many viewers, since most of Hitler's subordinates were hardly household names at the time.

Anyway, following the opening commentary, Riefenstahl's camera took the viewer into the clouds, aboard a 1934-era airplane, preparing to descend into Nuremberg.

In the film, Hitler emerged from the clouds, like Thor in his chariot. Once Hitler's airplane was on the ground, Riefenstahl's film crew captured his enthusiastic reception and his ride into the city from every possible angle.

Nuremberg in 1934 had all the zeal and piety of a religious revival.

Indeed, at the closing ceremony, Hitler compared the Nazi Party to a "religious order" while Riefenstahl's camera filmed from below, making Hitler look larger than life, almost godlike.

In the years that followed, Riefenstahl's film attracted full houses to movie theaters across Germany. The mood was altogether different a little more than 10 years later — when Germany had lost the war and the surviving leaders of the Third Reich were brought to Nuremberg to stand trial for "crimes against humanity."

But, in 1934, those days were still in the future.

That four-day gathering in September 1934 was filled with speeches from Hitler, Rudolf Hess, Joseph Goebbels, Julius Streicher and others, special rallies for the Labor Service and for the Hitler Youth, torchlight marches and music. It was all filmed in black and white, but it must have been quite a spectacle in color.

Riefenstahl was provided with everything she asked for and given access to anything and anyone she desired — pretty heady stuff for a 31-year-old actress directing her first documentary.

However, the film was lacking in some ways — by modern standards.

As advanced as it was in some of its techniques, the film used no transitional devices to indicate a shift from one day to the next.

For a film that sought to document a four-day event, that's a significant shortcoming. Unless the viewer was familiar with the itinerary, there was no way to tell if you were watching the Hitler Youth rally on the third day or the rally for the Labor Service on the second day — except through excerpts from speeches.

The only way to tell much chronologically was through natural light — or the absence of it. Day faded into night. And then a new day dawned in the film with little, if any, fanfare.

But the pomp and circumstance of the final day was hard to mistake.

The imagery was the most memorable, the music consisted of themes from Wagner's "Götterdämmerung," and Hitler, who shortly before laid a wreath at a World War I memorial, delivered a stirring concluding speech, in which he told the crowd, "All loyal Germans will become National Socialists. Only the best National Socialists are party comrades."

One of the primary propaganda purposes of the film, from Hitler's point of view, was to absolve himself and his associates from any guilt for the "Night of the Long Knives," a series of political executions carried out by the Nazis a couple of months earlier. Ernst Röhm, co-founder of the Nazi stormtroopers, was among those executed because he was perceived to be a rival to Hitler — something the Nazis wanted to obscure from public view.

"Only a lunatic or deliberate liar could think that I, or anybody, would ever intend to dissolve what we ourselves have built up over many long years," Hitler told his listeners.

Hitler must have sensed that the rally had achieved the party's objectives. In his closing speech, he told the crowd that the party "will be unchangeable in its doctrine, hard as steel in its organization, supple and adaptable in its tactics" — stating his intentions as clearly as he did in his book, "Mein Kampf."

After nearly three-quarters of a century, "Triumph of the Will" continues to cast a long shadow, influencing movies, commercials and modern documentaries.

But the questions it raised about the blurring of the line between artistic interpretation and integrity remain unanswered.