"Hannah Arendt": A Review of the film by Margarethe Von Trotta

At some point during my undergraduate days, I met (in a manner of speaking), a woman for whom I developed a great crush. Alas, she was much older than me. Indeed, I never met her in the flesh, only in her writings. I developed an intellectual crush on Hannah Arendt.

She was not easy to get along with. Pronouncements and judgments in her writings came down like thunderbolts. Greek and Latin, French and German: her sources were legion. I spent a lot of time puzzled by what she'd written to me (well, to everyone who read her books). She often left me dumbfounded by her assertions. "Where did she get that from?” I'd often ask myself. (Silently, of course. While not exactly secret lovers, I didn't want people hear me talking to her pages.)

It was only later that I read what became her most controversial and widely discussed book, Eichmann in Jerusalem. 

Her report on the Eichmann trial held in Jerusalem in 1960, which she wrote about for the New Yorker and then turned into the book, Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, created a firestorm of controversy. It is this segment of Arendt's life that the Von Trotta film explores. 

Arendt made two points about Eichmann that raised the ire of some.First, her contention that Eichmann was not a man of radical evil (later, she concluded that evil was never radical, only good could be radical). Rather, he was a follower, a man who did not think. And for Arendt, a student of Martin Heidegger (a whole other issue alluded to in the film), thinking--really thinking--is the key to our humanity. Some complained the Arendt defended Eichmann and let him off; in fact, she didn't. Arendt clearly stated that he deserved the death penalty that he received. She sought to understand him, not to pardon him. From her experience of Eichmann, she coined the phrase that has remained with us, the "banality of evil". 

Arendt's second contention that created great controversy, especially among the Jewish community, was her claim that Jewish leaders too often corroborated with the Nazis in furthering Nazi schemes, hoping for a better result. But in the end, the Jewish efforts only made the Final Solution easier to conduct. The implication that the Jews were anything other than mere victims, that Jewish leadership could have taken steps to reduce the horror of the Shoah, raised deep resentments and recriminations against Arendt. In fact, Arendt was a German-Jewish refugee who had fled Germany shortly after Hitler's rise to power. She was intered in France by the Vichy government. She was lucky to have escaped and to have received a visa  to the U.S. She was also the author of the first major study of Nazism and Stalinism, The Origins of Totalitarianism. Some close friends rejected her as a result of her publications about Eichmann. Some reviled her, although with Mary McCarthy as a close friend, she had a sharp-tongued defender on her side. 

This is not an action flick. It's about a philosopher who cared deeply about thinking and about politics in the 20th century. The film starts slowly, but it builds, and the scene near the end, where she lectures and defends her conclusions, proves well worth the wait. She had probed deeply into wounds that were still fresh and extremely painful, and she paid a high price for her willingness--even eagerness--to explore these issues. 

Arendt in her Manhattan apartment, 1971

I no longer hold the same degree of fascination with Arendt that I once had. Her conception of politics seems too remote and too grand for reality. But I still admire her deeply. (Her photo, as a lovely young woman, is one of those that I use for my screen saver, which consists of images of persons whom I admire.) Her conclusion about the banality of evil has been buttressed not only by history, but also by research such as that of Zimbardo's Stanford prison experiment and Milgram's authority experiments. These lessons remind us that evil comes not only from the extraordinary, but from the otherwise normal, those who simply don't "think" about the moral consequences of their actions and who value loyalty to a group or leader above personal autonomy and respect for fellow humans. Historians have since suggested that Eichmann may not have been as naive or bland as she concluded. I don't think that she'd argue with a well-researched and considered reassessment of her conclusions about Eichmann the person. Unfortunately, few did the careful work and research into these issues at the time of the publication of her work. 

 

A younger Arendt, who graces my screen-saver

Her assessment of the Jewish leadership is another issue that history, through careful research and argument, must sort out. I don't know the current state of thinking on this issue. (For a fine assessment of the banality of evil motif and of Eichmann in particular, read this piece by Roger Berkowitz.)

This film reveals a philosopher of courage and determination. It also displays how hard we must work to overcome biases received from our group loyalties.We have to think (a form of work) to come to grips with our common humanity, in all its array of good and evil, fallibility and aspiration. In the end, this is the message of the film and of Arendt's work.

 

Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood

We humans like to be scared, even in our reading. Ghost stories, tales of Gothic horror, thrillers—in all sorts of circumstances we want to have ourselves scared. But there is another form of fiction that we don’t typically categorize along these lines, but that I find really scary, or perhaps creepy is the right word. These are books that I recognize as revealing something to me in the now, something about me or my world. Those books that take what seems quite normal and then reveal that the situation harbors frightening consequences. Dystopias of the near future can do this very well. Think of the classics, Brave New World and 1984: what makes them so disturbing? Not any thrills in the plotline, but the familiarity they contain, the plausibility they reveal. Indeed, we can think of dystopian writers as the prophets of today—not in the mistaken sense of those who predict the future successfully. Quite the opposite: you don’t want the prophet’s vision to come to pass. The prophet—exemplified by the Old Testament messengers of God—foretells a future that will arrive if the people don’t turn away from the error of their current ways. A successful prophet’s vision of the future does not come to a realization. The successful prophet turns the people away from disaster. Thus, we can label Orwell a successful prophet because (or to the extent) that we don’t live in a world of 1984. (The NSA isn’t reading this, right, Big Bro?) In this century, writers of dystopian visions of the future serve as our prophets, and we must count Margaret Atwood among them. 

Oryx and Crake is the first of a trilogy of books set in the near future. (MaddAddam, published in 2013, completes the trilogy.) Atwood sets the story in the near, recognizable future; a future with genetic engineering, gated and guarded compounds, and (continued) international sex trade. The tale deals with how one person, Snowman, once known as Jimmy, arrived at a Robinson Crusoe-like existence from that original, familiar setting. While surviving (one could hardly call it more than that) in this new world, the narration recounts the events that led him to his current circumstance. Crucial in the story are two others, the girl Oryx, first seen by Jimmy on a computer screen, and his friend Crake, a genius who rises quickly in the world of genetic engineering. 

Atwood writes from Snowman’s point of view, alternating between his current dire circumstances and the tale of his life that led him into this new world. Atwood persuasively captures a sense of alienated, increasingly nihilistic teenage boys who turn into alienated, nihilistic young men. This is one of those creepy aspects of the book. One can believe that a young Jimmy (young Snowman) and a young Crake (the nickname of his friend) exist in multitudes today. How do young men, endowed with the awesome power of science, especially with the power of biology to alter life, deal with this power? Might they abuse it? When we think about gun violence, as we all too often must, we realize that we readily allow young males (nearly always the culprits) easy access to guns. Look what happens. What if we allow them access to the ability to create and alter life at the most basic levels? Do you feel comfortable with that thought? This part of the tale is as old as that of Victor Frankenstein, but today we have powers that Mary Shelley would never have dreamed of. Who was the greater threat: young Victor or his creation? 

Atwood also plays with the idea of abundance and scarcity, including the problem of jealousy and violence. Will this new world—perhaps not so brave as Shakespeare hoped and not so soporific as Huxley mocked—still engender violence and jealousy? Will the abundance of computer porn and accessible “sex workers,” along with genetic engineering, alleviate the violence created by male rivalry and quests for status? In this aspect of the book, the character of Oryx, a young woman brought to the world of Jimmy and Crake from the sex trade of south Asia, provides an enigmatic key. A wisp of a woman, she remains a mystery of sorts, even to the two men, Jimmy and Crake, with whom she becomes involved.

Atwood’s tale moves fast. Her imagination streams quickly from here to there via a light, deft prose that keeps the tale moving while describing this new world and the characters in it. Atwood doesn’t ruminate. She keeps the plot moving, but the lively pace of events allows Atwood to shine her high-intensity flashlight into as many aspects of these worlds as she can. She doesn’t need to explain; the spotlight of her imagination reveals enough.

Why Priests? A Failed Tradition by Garry Wills

Garry Wills once again takes on the Catholic Church, of which he is a life-long member (nearly eighty years now). This is an important point to remember, because many traditional Catholics—at least those aware of his many works on the Church—are prepared to drum him out. Wills includes a list of what he believes in, from God to the Communion of Saints, but some of trappings of the faith held by others don't make the cut. Suggesting that priests are unnecessary and not a part of the earliest Church will certainly not endear him to those who hold a strong attachment to the priesthood. 

It's somewhat ironic that Wills should write a book of this title. As he reminds us, not only is he a devout Catholic, but he studied for the priesthood (Jesuit), he dedicates the book to a priest, and he counts many priests among his friends and confidants. Indeed, Wills doesn't expect priests or the pope (about whom he's written as well in Why I Am a Catholic) to go away despite his withering criticism of the hierarchy. His criticisms include the betrayal of the faithful in many of the sex abuse scandals and the arguments (quite separate) set forth in this book. But in this book, the argument—and its importance—goes well beyond the office of the priesthood.

Wills argues that priests—at least during the time of the writings of the New Testament—didn't exist. Many offices receive mention by Paul and other writers, but only one, the author of The Letter to the Hebrews, really pushes the idea of a priesthood. Wills argues that Hebrews is an anomaly in the New Testament corpus, at once more sophisticated in its writing style and more confusing in its theology. Hebrews gives us the argument that Jesus acted as a priest in the tradition of Melchizedek (a fleeting figure in the book of Genesis) and that Christ's death served as a sacrificial offering to the Father. Neither of these two contentions receives support from other New Testament writings, and both are central to establishing the priestly office within Christianity and to establishing the Eucharist as a sacrificial offering. 

At the time of St. Thomas Aquinas in the High Middle Ages, the idea of transubstantiation become the norm for Catholic theology, using Aristotle's metaphysics as a tool for establishing the concept. This overturned an earlier Augustinian tradition that saw the Eucharist as a remembrance and sharing and not as a sacrifice. Wills, an admirer, biographer, and translator of Augustine, argues convincingly that the Hebrews tradition that created the priestly office misleads and misinterprets the tradition and sets up a concept of the Eucharist that requires priests. 

Wills not only argues that the priestly tradition via Melchizedek isn't well supported, but the whole idea of Christ's death as a sacrifice to the Father is bad theology. Wills asks "Who Killed Jesus?" and he finds the usual arguments unconvincing, including the widely accepted argument of Anselm that the perfection of God required the supreme (perfect) sacrifice of the Son. The better question (and one implicit in Wills' question of "Who killed Jesus?") is "Why did Jesus have to die as he did?". In this, we can compare Wills argument that Jesus died to share in our humanity to Mark Johnston's argument (which I reviewed here) that Jesus died as he did to break the spell of false sacrifices and false righteousness. Both authors take important points from Rene Girard's understanding of Christ's death as a break from false sacrifices. 

Wills concludes that priests, if believers see the Eucharist as something other than transubstantiation based on Aristotelian metaphysics and more as a remembrance of Christ with the believers and among them, are not so important or necessary. The Eucharist becomes a remembrance and not a sacrifice. And with no sacrifice, no need for a priest to conduct the sacrifice. 

In a time when the number of priests is dwindling and the faithful cannot assume that a priest will be readily available to conduct priestly offices, Wills' book provides some serious points for consideration. Even if one doesn't accept all of Wills' arguments, his scholarship and concern for detail are very impressive. He also cares deeply about the Church and the world. For these reasons, his book requires some serious consideration by all Christians and those affected by Christianity. 

I and Thou by Martin Buber (2nd edition, translated by Ronald Gregor Smith

My recent reading of Bonds That Make Us Free, along with a chance encounter in a bookstore (a gift of grace that rewarded my browsing of disorganized Indian bookstores), finally led me to read Martin Buber’s I and Thou. I’ve known of it for a long time, but it has a well-deserved reputation as a challenging work. The reputation is well deserved, but the effort proved worthwhile.

The premise of Buber’s work isn’t difficult. We encounter Nature, other humans, and even God in either an I-It manner or in an I-Thou relation. (Some suggest “You” a better choice of words than the archaic “Thou”.) Indeed, an I-It relation isn’t a relation at all. The “I” experiences as subject and the “It” is just an object. I-Thou, on the other hand, is the essence of relationship. The relationship is the thing, so to speak. 

Buber’s book takes this basic framework and explores the details and repercussions that flow from it. Buber, a great Jewish-German thinker, published this in 1923 in German. Much of his language proves challenging to us, even in translation. Sometimes I felt as if I was reading lightning bolts: impressive, enlightening, and fleeting. I marked a great deal of the book to come back to. 

When in high school and early college I saw many copies of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet or posters celebrating his work. I read The Prophet, and I can recall that it said some nice things about love and life in an aphoristic style. Buber’s work, which contains an aphoristic aspect, reminds me of Gibran’s work, only I think of The Prophet as greasy kids’ stuff compared to Buber’s masterpiece. This is The Prophet for adults (if any comparison is legitimate). 

Think about the consequences of Buber’s idea. What if we considered everyone we encounter as a “You” with whom we are in a relationship? Each Other is a person with whom we relate and not a thing that we use. Consider how we would treat the natural world if we considered flora and fauna as a “Thou” with whom we experience a relationship not subject to simple manipulation and calculations as things. And what if we considered God—however we might understand God—as a relationship of the greatest importance and magnitude and not as a thing for us to manipulate through various forms of spiritual materialism? If you follow Buber very far, you realize how deeply you can go in this direction. 

I’ll have to return to this book. I feel I’ve only skimmed the surface, and as to living this book (the greatest compliment one can give to a book), I’m not sure how to monitor my progress in doing so. If you’re ready for the deep end of the pool, this is a good place to dive in. 

P.S. In my next attempt, I’ll try the Walter Kaufmann translation, which some prefer. Given the obvious challenges in translating such a work, the benefits of reviewing both translations seem obvious.

Wolves Eat Dogs: An Arkady Renko Novel by Martin Cruz Smith

Sometime, not too long after its publication in 1981, I read Martin Cruz Smith’s Gorky Park. Set in Cold War Moscow, it introduced Arkady Renko, a Moscow police detective. As I recall, this was the first book by Smith. It proved memorable. In some ways, Renko was like other cops: overworked, under-paid, and with plenty of personal problems. To this extent, he wasn’t unique among fictional police detectives. However, he worked in the Soviet Union, in Moscow, in the heart of the system. But the system didn’t work as the textbooks and propagandists said it did. Like everywhere else in the world, there was an underside, and Renko plunged into it. 

So now, all these years later, for reasons I can’t justify other than my standard “so many books, so little time”, I rejoined Renko in Wolves Eat Dogs. In this installment of Renko’s career the ground has shifted. The Soviet Union is gone. Oligarchs now run Russia. And the remains of a failed nuclear plant at Chernobyl create a deep scar in the Ukrainian steppe. A fall from a seventh story window by one of the “New Russia” oligarchs leads Renko from Moscow to the forbidden (but not uninhabited) land of radioactivity created by the greatest nuclear disaster ever. Renko is nothing if not dogged, even if it takes him to this eerie land of death and fleeting life. 

Like Ian Rankin, whom I recently reviewed, Smith creates a character and milieu that draws the reader in. Like Rankin, Smith’s prose creates enough literary quality to keep the reader careful without slowing the pace. Good detective fiction must walk the line between prose too easily parodied and prose too demanding of the reader. While other types of fiction can wander around with words and leave us wondering here and there, writers of detective fiction can’t afford this luxury—plot and resolution are too important. Smith, like Rankin, walks the line just about perfectly. In doing so, American and other readers get a sense of the Russian and Ukrainian land and culture in which Renko operates. This concern with scene on the part of good detective fiction heightens the enjoyment of this genre. 

So Renko again? Definitely. I have some catching-up to do.