
LONDON
In a scene from the new German film Downfall, an exhausted gaggle of Nazi soldiers and citizens picks its way through Berlin. It is April 1945. Hitler has just committed suicide in his bunker below the Reich Chancellery, and the Red Army is advancing thunderously into the city. Against the sky looms the half-shattered wall of a bombed-out building. The street is a rubble of bricks and corpses. After years of war, this is all that’s left of the once-beautiful city that was their home.
In the annals of war films, the potholed street and towering wall has become a stock scene. The scene in Downfall (Der Untergang, with English subtitles) is small and confined, in contrast to, say, the vast destruction of Warsaw portrayed recently in The Pianist. But that’s why it caught my attention.
Like many Americans visiting Europe in the last several years, I’ve been trying to comprehend the moral roots of the current sharp political differences between Europe and the United States. Seeing Downfall here the other night with British friends, it finally hit me that however close the cultures of England and the United States may be, I was seeing the film through different eyes. Despite the universally gripping portrayal by Swiss-born actor Bruno Ganz of Hitler’s last days of alternately raving and avuncular banality, I was seeing history through 3,000 miles of removal.
Not so for my friends. Here where we stood talking — after emerging onto Baker Street from the theater one flight below — Londoners too had endured the blitz, the rubble, the shards of buildings. They too had spent time in subterranean bunkers, waiting out German bombs and emerging to landscapes and lives forever changed. They too still have to come to grips with Hitler. Like the Germans, they’re trying to understand how an entire civilized nation, now their partner in a new Greater Europe, could have been mesmerized into so fatal a follower-ship. Downfall, by focusing on the coterie still loyal to Hitler during his last days, seeks to probe the Führer’s allure — a necessary task, I suspect, though the film has been criticized in Germany for showing the monster’s too-human side.
Americans, by contrast, can have a different take on history. Insulated by distance, we can settle for a caricature of Hitler as the epitome of evil with less pressure to account for his appeal. Distance insulates us in other ways, too. Not since the Civil War have armies inflicted massive damage on our cities, and then largely in the South. Even 9/11, awful though it was, affected only parts of two cities with effects that were intense but unrepeated: There was no 9/12 or 9/13. We’ve never endured the persistent, widespread, numbing destruction of our infrastructure by modern weapons. The U.S. experience, instead, has been to fight in European wars — proudly, fiercely, and with significant loss of life. But we’ve always been able to go home to someplace untouched. For those who came back, the redbuds still bloomed in Wichita and the delicatessens still served pastrami in Brooklyn.
What Americans came back to was different also in scale. Europe is compact. Great Britain, for instance, has a population density about ten times that of the United States — meaning that the space housing four Americans would have to house 40 Britons. In that context, cities play a different role. European life, culturally and socially, centers on cities in ways that Americans have never had to understand.
That urban focus is reflected in the deliberate claustrophobia of Downfall. The American World War II films that I grew up with tended to be large-scale affairs, with long-distance shots of destroyers at sea, planes in open skies, or tanks roaring across limitless French farmlands. But the camera in Downfall, when it’s not trapped in Hitler’s labyrinthine bunker, focuses on city streetscapes tightly backstopped by masonry, with hardly any greenery or sky until the symbolic final frames.
There’s a lesson here. War, for many Americans, is a wide-open, far-flung venture. Its heroism still reflects the individualistic myths of the gun-slinging Wild West — a place of huge vistas to which, when it’s over, you can return. And it essentially happens elsewhere. War, for many Europeans, takes place at or near home, within cities and among civilian populations to which, if they’re annihilated, you can’t ever go back. Say war to Americans, and we think “over there.” Say war to Europeans, and they think “maybe here.”
Today, however, say war and both sides think “Iraq.” Here in London, that war is causing distress for Prime Minister Tony Blair, who faces a May 5 election with polls showing a lack of trust in him for (among other things) following the Unites States into Iraq. In Washington, U.S. intelligence services are being hammered for the inaccurate reports on weapons of mass destruction that shaped President George W. Bush’s case for invading Iraq.
Yet if many Americans support the war in Iraq — or at least want to see it through to the end — that’s perhaps because for them war is still a distant, heroic event that comes to an end. If Europeans resist the war, it may be because war is more like the violent, cruel spectacle portrayed in Downfall — something close to home that changes life forever. Helping us recognize such differences is a fundamental purpose of good cinematic art — and may be a necessary first step in healing the European/U.S. divide.
©2005 Institute for Global Ethics