Jordan Hiller's Top 25 Essential Jewish Films is coming down to the wire...

#6  Homicide

Homicide, David Mamet's ponderous film about a Jewish cop losing his way, loses its way whenever it wanders from the scene of the crime. Mamet's talent as a hard boiled writer for the screen and stage is often on display in this story of Detective Robert Gold (reserved, vulnerable Joe Mantegna) "catching" a small case while in hot pursuit of a big case, but Mamet has Gold on an existential journey of discovery that allows for no accidents.
If you read Mamet's The Wicked Son (2006), his stream of consciousness rant about anti-Semitism, Jewish destiny, and our eccentric God, you would know that Mamet, not easily discernable as a Jew based on his work (unlike, say, Woody Allen or Neil Simon), is quite smitten with his Judaism. Despite a professional choice to write mainly about other topics, Judaism consumes him. So much so and with such passion and zealousness that it appears in his personal life he constantly walks the line between crusader and madman. His writing style in more popular works like Glengarry Glen Ross can be viewed as his replacing powder kegs on the brink of explosion with sharp words and dialogue. When it comes to Jewish paranoia, Mamet is equally volatile. Add to these anxieties and preoccupations his genius of artistic expression, and Homicide, Mamet’s third directorial effort, promised to be a fireworks display of soul bearing pathos and rhetoric unlike anything else in the writer’s pantheon. And it is, but that turns out not necessarily to be a positive progression. The marriage of Mamet’s two obsessions manages two neautralize and obscure both.

Gold’s hardscrabble unit is on the trail of major crime figure Randolph (Ving Rhames in one of his first feature film roles) which brings the FBI to town and in an early scene Gold and a condescending FBI agent butt heads. The agent dismissively calls Gold a “kike” and from that slur we learn not only that Gold is Jewish, but based on his reaction to the insult that he is terribly uneasy about his ethnicity. Cops are supposed to be Irish like Gold’s partner, Sullivan (played by William H. Macy with his typical brand of weaselly muscle), and Mamet defines the difference between those meant to be and those forever outsiders as a glaring chasm. While Gold is certainly accepted by the squad and respected, he regularly fumbles with his gun, gets attacked by a thug early on but refuses to press charges, and most significantly, he is designated the manipulator of the group. Gold is sent in to speak with reluctant informants and witnesses, to seduce them with falsely sympathetic words and hand holding, gain their trust, exploit their moment of weakness, and betray them. Gold, the Jew, can convince a mother turn on her own son. Gold, the Jew, is softer than the others, more cerebral, more sensitive, less comfortable with the blue collar, macho, aloofness that his fellow officers carry off with such natural aplomb.
On the way to question a known Randolph associate, Gold and Sullivan come across a murder scene in a poor, black neighborhood. An old Jewish woman was shot in her store and the young kids behind the police tape claim to know the killer’s motive. “They were after the fortune in her basement,” they bellow repeatedly. Gold is soon told that he’s off the Randolph investigation and that he’s caught the Klein murder. Mamet has already signaled that quite the opposite is true. The Klein murder has caught a tumbling, aimless Gold.

Much of Homicide deals with Mamet’s argument that, as Jews, no matter how we delineate or categorize ourselves, we can’t ever escape a unifying collectiveness. Whether agnostic cop or Yiddish speaking doctor, we are in the same rickety boat. The Kleins are awkward, unappealing, ultra wealthy Jews who communicate with outsiders rudely and disdainfully, and exhibit an unsavory sense of entitlement. They likely represent everything Mamet hates about a well represented grade of Jew and his disdain is reflected through Gold. Over Gold’s adamant protests to be taken off the case, he’s coldly told by the captain to stop complaining and to deal with “his people.” Gold responds that the Kleins are not his people. They disgust him. The pay too much taxes. The make him sick.

Homicide’s setup is rather exquisite. It’s engaging to find Gold on a fateful road where his affiliations as dedicated officer and apathetic Jew come into conflict. Mamet provides an intriguing crime that, in classic thriller format, requires much unraveling before resolution.
The downfall of Homicide is Mamet’s abandonment of a pure criminal investigation noir with Jewish undertones in order to explore a sordid and convoluted array of Jewish identity issues. Yes, all the revelations and introspections are delivered somewhat in the context of examining evidence found in continuance of the Klein murder investigation, but Mamet is clearly interested in other things. Klein and who actually killed her are essentially irrelevant. Mamet wants to uncover secret plots to kill the Jews by neo-Nazis and the covert militant Jewish organizations that combat them. He wants us to believe that Gold will find peace and his Jewish essence by blowing up a shop that fronts for a Jew hating propaganda machine (“Crime is caused by the Ghetto, the Ghetto is caused by the Jew!”). The bizarre extremes to which Gold is rather easily pulled in reaction to his sudden Jewish calling remain both unconvincing and troubling as the narrative begins to fragment. Watching the film is truly like experiencing the ebbs and flows of Mamet’s raging inner storm. Sometimes his pulp, clever writing takes over, sometimes his Jewish compulsions win the day. The effect is jarringly uneven. We are asked to believe a range of premises just before they are discounted by a drastic, unsubstantiated turn of events.

Mamet wrote The Wicked Son fifteen years after scribing Homicide, and it is disheartening to fathom how little insight he gained into his own Judaism over that period. He is absolutely correct that Judaism and what being Jewish critically means can and should be a daily struggle, but to merely increase the size of the question mark daily is a vain and bitter pursuit (though many Jews do live that way).

Because of Mamet’s own uncertainty, he winds Gold’s odyssey to an ambiguous destination. A concrete maze that hits a brick wall. A cluttered staircase that leads up, up, up, and eventually to a roof beneath a city’s night sky where no answers are written in the stars. Was any of it real? we are left wondering. Are we only different in our minds? Is our victimhood a figment of wildly paranoid imaginations?  Mamet has no more insight than the rest of us. Just another Jew being cautious, watching his back, ready to sound the alarm.

#7 Brighton Beach Memoirs

Neil Simon's Brighton Beach Memoirs, the first play (then film) of his semi-autobiographical Eugene Jerome trilogy, takes us back to Simon’s childhood and encompasses a few hectic days in the life of an American Jewish family in the late 1930's. Over the course of the production, the domestic mayhem that unfolds in such a short period of time is indicative of all families. Somehow each conflict, from inception to moment of crisis, is at the same time minor, overblown, and cataclysmic, which can easily reflect the tantrums and sordid politics found in every household. However, Simon's prism is unmistakably a Jewish one, and not just because of the heavy "my muthuh, my fathuh" accents and arguably stereotypical characterizations.
Eugene, played well here by rookie Jonathan Silverman (but even better by Matthew Broderick in Biloxi Blues), narrates the film, sometimes breaking the fourth wall, and always representing the intelligent yet naïve, smart aleck observer. Eugene is essentially the serene, put upon philosopher, there to grin and bear it because only he has the omnipotent perspective. It’s as if he is relating the tale with the benefit of hindsight glasses, knowing everything will turn out fine and dandy in the end. Simon may have seen himself the same way in the context of his family growing up, as is the classic portrait of the artist. Eugene’s only significant problem is that everyone around him is confronting some sort of personal calamity.
Though Eugene is there to help where he can, the weight of the family’s issues fall upon Mr. Jack Jerome, a hard working saint, yet his precarious health becomes a source of worry once the load becomes drastically and suddenly heavier. If only he could spend a few minutes in peace, listening to the radio and its troubling reports of the Nazi rise in Europe. His cousins are in Poland and the news is getting worse.
Eugene’s pretty young cousin, who along with her widowed mother lives with the family, threatens to run away for a shot at Broadway. His older brother has been fired for standing on principle and complicates the problem by gambling, while we are lead to believe the family needs every penny to survive (though they are probably closer to middle class).

A very tightly wound and impressive Blythe Danner plays Eugene’s mother and her predicament is that she suffers from a severe case of being a Jewish mother. She comes across as impossible and despotic, while somehow maintaining an immovable compassion and devotion to her husband, sister, and children. If anyone, Danner holds the film together, which is appropriate considering, if anyone, mothers anchor family. Finally, remarkably pathetic Aunt Blanche (Judith Ivey) is constantly at a loss, devastated since her husband’s death, and now being courted by the alcoholic Irishman from across the street. One preeminent Jewish dilemma raised by Mr. Simon is that of assimilation. While the Jerome’s are by no means religious (though Mrs. Jerome encourages her husband to go to shul and pray when the flurry of tribulations arrive), there is certainly an overarching message of “We are better off keeping to ourselves.” Simon does somewhat present a counterargument, but the well established law, as was undoubtedly impressed upon him, remains.

 Besides navigating a familial minefield and keeping his nose clean, Eugene's greatest challenge and most pronounced personality quirk is a raging case of being pubescent and horny. His rabid lust is both humorous (Peeping Tom fantasies) and disturbing (bordering on incest). His only aspirations in life are to see (maybe one day touch) naked women and to play for the New York Yankees.

Brighton Beach Memoirs recreates the rich neighborhood flavor of ethnic ghetto Brooklyn and delivers a precise sense of time and location. Director Gene Saks, who helmed Simon classics such as Barefoot in the Park and The Odd Couple, has a very comfortable handle on bringing Simon's stage into a more liberating framework. He allows the play's words and characters to be the focus, and the camera to merely hang around as witness.
The general measure of audience enjoyment for a film based on Simon has everything to do with one’s tolerance for the playwright. He either will bring a smile to your face and a soft warmth to your heart, or he'll do those things and in addition have your eyes rolling. Neil Simon is basically the John Hughes of modern stage drama. Prolific, sometimes genius, but in a way that only sniffs true art. There is never that glaring statement of immortality. In a world where Simon’s contemporary David Mamet writes dialogue with a gritty edginess that makes us think his words are real and human, Simon’s set ups can be deemed cheeky and cheesy, even when his material is quite somber and dark. Simon’s unquestionable gift, which is his mass appeal, is equally his curse.

In Brighton Beach Memoirs, the conflicts and turmoil are more or less the stuff of your average three day Yom Tov without sufficient Bartenura Moscato. But Simon's reputation as a lightweight is not a result of his inability to orchestrate chaos – he does that extremely well – rather, he suffers for his tidy endings.

With all the things spiraling out of control in the Jerome household, it is unsatisfying from a dramatic point of view that everything wraps us so seamlessly. In the final scene, all matters having been charmingly resolved following individual moments of confession and convalescence, the Jerome’s gather around the kitchen table to read a letter that says the Polish cousins have escape and are on route to America. Although the family is cramped and crowded and breathing down each other’s necks and money is scarce and tensions can go code orange at any moment, where the Polish cousins will stay and who will welcome them with open arms upon arrival is not a question.

The curtains close with a lingering sense of the most Jewish sentiment of all.

8. YENTL
 
Barbra Streisand, as writer, director, producer, vocalist, star, and all around supernatural force behind the adaptation of Isaac Bashevis Singer’s short story about a young independent Jewish woman who poses as a male yeshiva student to fully realize her love of Talmud, deserves all the credit and all the blame for the charming yet disturbing, courageous yet shallow, poignant yet somehow uninvolving film experience that is Yentl.

First, the credit. Anything that moves the feminist agenda in relation to orthodox Judaism into the spotlight is an imperative accomplishment. When Yentl laments her inability to study Talmud or actively participate in ritual Judaism; when she longingly stares at her father at prayer from her spectator seats in the balcony; when a bookseller calls out to the crowd "Holy books for men! Picture books for women!" the character reflects all the bitter frustration Jewish women must have felt and contained ever since the day Sarah watched Abraham take Hagar into his tent.

Though the western world has made tremendous strides in the past half century in terms of women's rights and equality, the eastern world (and its religions) remain a seemingly unconquerable frontier. The three most formidable representations of capable orthodox women competing - Yentl, Nechama Leibowitz, and Blu Greenberg - each made their strongest case over twenty years ago. No one has staunchly assumed the mantle or taken up the unpopular cause. Nowadays, if anyone appears to be fighting for religious women in Jewish law, it’s “progressive” male scholars trying to broach a controversial subject. One might cynically suggest, judging by the overwhelming silence, that Jewish women have grown satisfied with the under the radar freedom and anonymity of second class.

Throughout the film, Yentl soliloquizes her volcanic feelings of confusion and resentment in song, and although she is from a shtetl in Europe, she sounds a lot like a certain diva from Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Yentl is not so much a character as a means to an end for one ambitious and well intentioned filmmaker. A filmmaker who likely witnessed and experienced a culture of male dominance and female compliance throughout her formative years. Streisand belts out, with passion and dramatic flair, her emotional inner turmoil. She does so to the fields, the constellations, the spirits of the dead, and finally the ocean. Yentl is never alone with such a voice and such a heart. And her accusations are not necessarily venomous or disparaging. She approaches the material with a sense of reason and justice, appealing to the powers that be to realize past wrongs and make amends.
In the anthem Where Is It Written, the underlying and essential theme of the film is mapped out.

Why have eyes that see and arms that reach unless you're meant to know there's something more? If not to hunger for the meaning of it all? Then tell me what a soul is for? Where is it written what it is I'm meant to be, that I can't dare to have the chance to pick the fruit of every tree or have my share of every sweet-imagined possibility?

Well, on paper and on screen that is a sound protest, however, if someone is truly wondering where in orthodox Jewish texts it is written what a woman is meant to be, what her eyes and arms are for, there are plenty of sources to point to; none providing the answer Ms. Streisand is looking for. In Judaism, it is not that a woman’s status has been ignored, but rather that it has been so thoroughly defined and explained and justified by pretense. With Yentl, the character alone is nothing more than an extraordinary exception, and since she is depicted as a well versed and learned woman, making her oblivious to the halachic position is untenable. She should never have asked: Where is it written? But the more confounding and acute: Why is it written?

And really, the lack of an accurately phrased argument trips up Yentl as it does most films aiming to depict and comprehend authentic orthodox Jewish culture. Yentl is the kind of film where an allegedly pious scholar has romantic physical contact with a woman without repercussions or excuse. The sort of film where a deep, challenging passage of Talmud (which could just as easily been referred to as “Gemarah” to score some authenticity points) is represented on a number of occasions by simplistic philosophy straight out of Pirkei Avot. It is the kind of contrived affair where a woman can dress up as man and live for a long period in a confined and close knit yeshiva society and fail to be discovered. Then do the same for months while married! All these breaches in credibility are acceptable sacrifices in order to allow the story to play out and engage the audience (in fact, the Once Upon a Time opening suggests a fable), but for the critical audience – orthodox Jews who are being asked to examine a troubling situation – such inconsistencies do the movement no favors.

While the movie is on target in terms of noble intent, so much about Yentl is self defeating, and the legendary ego of Streisand can safely be deemed the culprit. A valid position is delivered in such a self-indulgent showcase way that one can’t but scoff at the message. In one set piece after another Streisand stares off into the distance to melodically mourn her woe is me role as subjugated woman. The songs wander, rise and fall, swell, but never manage to strike a nerve. It makes you wonder whether Streisand is trying to stake a claim in the world for women, or just for one woman.
Once Yentl’s father dies (providing cause for her to sing the inconic Streisand ballad, Papa Can You Hear Me?) she flees home, masquerading as a boy to study in yeshiva. Streisand at forty was probably just a bit too old for the part, as Anshel (Yentl’s male alter-ego) in real life would have been spotted as a transvestite by even the most myopic bochur in seder. Instead, Avigdor (a gushing Mandy Patinkin), the yeshiva’s prize (yet renegade) pupil latches onto Anshel as a chavrusah and best friend. An uncomfortable love triangle worthy of Shakespeare ensues as Anshel falls for Avigdor who is engaged to and enamored with Hadass (Oscar nominated Amy Irving), but Avigdor is also strangely drawn to Anshel in a way that is not exactly kosher. In a movie that continuously panders and generally chooses shtick over substance, it is actually thrilling to find that the character of Hadass is presented as a fully realized human being who represents the notion that, given the proper nurturing environment, even the most hopelessly deferential woman will express some hidden sparks of autonomy and individualism. And perhaps this unintentional byproduct is the legacy of Yentl. The feminist agenda is best argued, not by the title character who boldly and melodramatically espouses grandiloquent positions making us want cover our ears, but by quiet, unassuming Hadass, who just might have drawn the men in before surprising them with her sudden metamorphosis.
Spoken like a true chauvinist.            

The status quo for women has changed and will change because today girls in yeshiva are educated equally if not better than the boys. Yentl’s era is certainly alive and well in some Jewish communities, but evolution has a knack for taking us to the right place. In some stubborn circles, the process just takes longer.

Despite its faulty transmission, the Jewish community should see and discuss the issues raised in Yentl, but Streisand’s biggest blunder may have been making the film a quasi-musical. Those most in need of seeing it won’t be permitted due to Kol Isha.

Check his number 9 newbie, noted as one of the Jewiest Movies of the year...if not all time...

9. A Serious Man

10.  The Prince of Egypt

As much hype as The Ten Commandments receives for being lavish, ancient, annually broadcast, and DeMille, it is only the animated The Prince of Egypt which has the ability to stir the soul. The stories of our people, biblically speaking, have been transferred many times from the scroll to the big screen, often with amateurish sets, cheesy ye old dialogue, and godless actors attempting to convey a spiritual or revelatory experience. The result, artificial Jewish history by way of perhaps well meaning but ultimately misguided studios looking to fill a slate and score some points with middle America . Though three directors and two writers are credited with putting the movie together, the beautifully hand drawn depiction of Moshe’s birth, adolescence, and transition to God-chosen savior of an enslaved nation of Hebrews, is really the love child conceived by three Jews who never did, in a most authentic sense, forget where they came from.

Steve Spielberg, Jeffrey Katzenberg, and David Geffen combined their formidable talents and clout to create the still ticking studio DreamWorks SKG in 1994 and released The Prince of Egypt as their maiden voyage into family friendly animation four years later. Again, because S, K, and G represented powerhouses in directing, producing, and music, The Prince of Egypt was uniquely positioned to rival Disney at its own game. By way of top tier voice talent (i.e. recognizable Hollywood stars), experienced animators, and award winning musical composers, DreamWorks relates the exodus from Egypt with equal parts self-assured confidence (from a technical standpoint) and humility and wonder (from the narrative perspective). That reverence and wonderment in storytelling is passed along to the audience, and I would venture particularly a Jewish one, as the images so ingrained in our religious consciousness from nursery through the rabbi’s latest sermon come to life with awesome, fearsome clarity and splendor.

Along with the major episodes recounted in Shmot, Va’rera, Bo, and Beshalach, certain liberties were taken with the plot (as implied by those parshiyot) to flesh out the saga. Most significantly the fact that Moshe was raised in the home of Paraoh and that he very likely had a deep, tragic, and complicated relationship with the ruler/deity in human form of Egypt. The Prince of Egypt presents a scenario where Moshe and Paraoh (here called Rameses and played powerfully by Ralph Fiennes) engender a special, no strings attached bond that deteriorates once Moshe flees from the palace to discover where he came from. It is difficult not to feel for the fully realized Rameses (a character not so thoroughly defined in Torah) as he begs his beloved brother Moshe to return home. The crumbling link between Moshe and Rameses not only assists in our sympathizing with and understanding Paraoh better, but it invariably informs us more starkly of Moshe’s tremendous burden. While Moshe is never depicted as being torn during his mission, we sometimes forget that the empire he was asked to cripple and the plagues he was commanded to inflict were upon those he once called his own. Dripping wine from our pinkies is one thing, seeing innocent first born children die in a sweeping destructive storm is another.

It is also interesting to note that according to the movie, quite logically, Rameses heart was hardened not miraculously by God on the spot, but by feelings of bitter spite emanating from his brother’s shocking betrayal. Rameses, a man trying to convince himself that he is a god (“The morning and the evening star!”) is unable to think rationally due to Moshe’s incomprehensible metamorphosis from freewheeling pagan stud to bearded prophet.

The visual majesty of the film is breathtaking, from the hard edged lines of the characters playing off grandly scaled background art, to the brilliant occasional usage of computer animation in order to emphasize the magic and mystery of a moment. When Moshe encounters the burning bush and confronts a God who calls Himself I Am That I Am, the impossibly lofty milestone in the evolution of man is carried with such transcendent, frightening, and overwhelming energy; it is almost as if the scene compels the audience to remove their shoes for holy ground is underfoot.

Ironically, it is only when The Prince of Egypt tries in vain to replicate Disney’s formula that it suffers and stumbles. A feeble attempt to portray Aaron (Jeff Goldblum) as a nebbish comic foil crashes and burns. The same can be said, though less so, for trying to make Tzipporah (Michelle Pfeiffer) a scantily clad warrior princess who marches before Paraoh at Moshe’s side. Although some of the tunes incorporated into the film are pleasant and surprising (like a toe-tapping Az Yashir sung as a joyous nation emerges from slavery to redemption), and others are marvelous (like the Oscar winning “When You Believe,” performed soaringly on the soundtrack by Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey), it seems that less would have been more. The opening number, “Deliver Us,” for example, is terribly melodramatic and reminiscent of a schlocky Broadway musical. Martin Short and Steve Martin’s duet (as conjurers in the employ of Paraoh) provides nothing but distracting time filler.

If DreamWorks were more confident and less wary of Disney’s shadow, The Prince of Egypt would undoubtedly have been a better movie. When trying to be something it is not, the film wanders aimlessly like Hebrews through the desert. But it is those thrilling instances of purity (“Rameses! Let my people GO!”) which shine on, haunt, and remain with us after the closing credits. As Jews, we are inclined to constantly seek out inspiration in order to keep our faith through this Diaspora, and The Prince of Egypt, missteps and all, is a more than valid resource. Next Passover/Easter, when The Ten Commandments is solemnly aired to mark the season, avoid it like the plague and make The Prince of Egypt a bold new tradition.            

11. Once Upon a Time in America 

Besides the opportunity to behold an uncannily recreated early 20th century Lower East Side where herds of orthodox Jews amble through narrow streets in their tallaisim and mobsters toss off a mournful L’chaim before downing a shot, it’s difficult at first to determine the relevance of legendary director Sergio Leone choosing Jewish criminals as the focus of his final film. The film’s title alludes to an intention to deliver a quintessential American story (if not fable) and the era chosen suggests the story will be told through the prism of the immigrant experience. A rags to riches tale so commonly associated with the fundamental American notion of achievement, yet instead of hard work, unwavering ethics, and fortitude, Leone shows us success gained via murder, mayhem, and the flouting of every civil rule.

Clearly, Once Upon a Time in America is a title drenched in irony as the American dream and the way to attain it becomes a twisted mockery of the celebrated ideal. Whether that is a fair and realistic interpretation of America, well, that depends on one’s level of cynicism.  In a post The Godfather (and The Godfather II) world, for Leone to even consider taking on an epically scoped (roughly four hour) New York gangster film (with Robert De Niro in the lead no less) took tremendous courage if not foolishness, Coppola had set the bar at an impossible height. Despite the quality of Leone’s film, even the best of receptions would merely denote its worshipful imitation of the original great mafia saga. Leone’s only chance to make an impression was to follow in The Godfather’s footsteps, but apply his own spin on the material (see Scorsese’s unique take on the subject also featuring De Niro, Goodfellas). Leone fortunately had already been recognized as having created (or substantially contributed to the founding of) a unique genre of filmmaking known as the spaghetti western, epitomized by his collaborations with Clint Eastwood including their masterpiece The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly. The formula essentially consisted of non-American casts and crews, typically Italians and Spanish, trying their hand at a gritty American cinematic staple. The result was an outsider’s artistic, slightly patronizing perspective of our stoically serious, macho as hell tough guy culture. Leone figured, likely after being struck and inspired by The Godfather, that what worked for the western would work equally well for the gangster picture. Presumably to further disassociate his attempt from Coppola’s game changer, he thought to concentrate on a band of Jewish lowlifes instead of Italians. So we get De Niro, James Woods, William Forsythe, and other mean looking gentile actors portraying characters with the names like David Aaronson, Max Bercovicz, Phil Stein, and Patsy Goldberg. These soulless Yids are then put through the motions of mob movie standards, with their polished, respectable façades barely hiding the bloody chaos of political corruption and precarious tooth and nail survival.  But is that it? Is there no greater comment in relation to what Jews bring to the organized crime table? So they hang out in a restaurant where stars of David decorate the glass windows and they avoid attending services to burn and pillage the neighborhood. Are such atmospheric details (or indicators) the final word on Judaism for Leone and his movie (which was based on the novel The Hoods by Jewish gangster Harry Goldberg)?   

The answer is yes and no.

Once Upon a Time in America is more than anything else a heavily layered, mildly trippy and bizarre (and not entirely believable to that end), sumptuously textured period piece about dirt poor immigrants rising to prominence through conscienceless actions and the wealth they accumulate by taking advantage of Prohibition. The friends who meet in the gutters and form a bond based in loyalty, despair, and a very American infatuation with conquering society at any cost, go on a journey that spans half a century and encompasses dramatic betrayal, savage deceit, doomed romance, and depraved sex (stunning actress Tuesday Weld providing a heavy dose of the latter). It is all handled in a very self-important, false hearted, almost duplicitous way that makes one sooner or later realize that The Godfather this is not and, if not for a few interesting sound effect techniques and an eclectic performance by Elizabeth McGovern, well enough should have been left alone. In terms of a straightforward gangster picture, Once Upon a Time in America contributes nothing by virtue of its central characters being Jewish (other than letting us know that American Jews, stereotypically seen as fragile nebbishes, once upon a time kicked some ass).

The only interesting point I can concoct a theory around regarding the difference between the Jewish criminals here and the Italian ones depicted elsewhere, is that the Jews leave family out of it. The Godfather is all about family, keeping it in the family, getting married, settling down, and bestowing the wonderful legacy of shooting someone through a pillow to the next generation. It seems that when Jews go bad it’s an anomaly in the chain. Rabbi, Butcher, Tailor, Organized Criminal, Dentist, Lawyer. There is no sense of desiring a Corleonesque tradition of an established family business. Quite the opposite, the Jews in Leone’s movie are tortured loners with no warmth or fatherly inclination. A violent Jewish criminal seems a wild departure from what historically is a family oriented gene pool and it is understandable that the irregularity begins and ends with one individual. Unlike the closeness of the Corleones which brings tragedy from father to son and beyond, Once Upon a Time in America shows us renegade Jews taking an extreme shot at the good life without regard for what came before or what may come after. The result is the same as it typically is in these sorts of mob movies. What starts off exciting and thrilling winds up darkly, in a heap of loneliness and unbearable regret. One could then either find it a symbol of mercy or selfishness that the Jewish gangsters choose not to bring their families down with them. That they only destroy themselves. Whether that is a fair and realistic interpretation of Jews in America, well, that depends on one’s level of cynicism. 

#12  Inglourious Basterds

When the elderly orthodox couple in front of me on the ticket line for Quentin Tarantino’s latest was asked what movie they were interested in seeing, I experienced a moment of depraved glee. The man – white shirt, black pants, white beard, big black velvet yarmulke, placid face straight off a Rebbi card – was compelled to answer the box office attendant, “Two for Inglourious Basterds, please.” Hence the first hint that Tarantino’s so called “Jewish Revenge Fantasy” had awakened something extraordinary in a people. Yes, the theatre filled up with a diverse crowd, plenty of young folks simply looking for a wicked starburst of entertainment, but there was also a remarkably unconventional Jewish presence. Groups of older, possibly European immigrants who surely passed on Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction. Modern orthodox couples with their teenage and adolescent children who likely did not organize similar family outings to Kill Bill Volumes I and II. It was evident that Inglourious Basterds had achieved religio-cultural requirement status among many Jews, like Schindler’s List did when it came out in 1993. Jews were being drawn to it like moths to a flame.

It seems from the buzz emanating from Jewish enclaves that Basterds has been unofficially deemed an important film (“Did you see it yet?”), whether as an educational endeavor (exemplified by the chaperoning of children way too young for the content), a potential source of pride, a necessary cathartic release, or quite possibly just another one of our many chukim. And it accomplished all this, I contend, with audiences never fully realizing what the film was essentially supposed to be about or the filmmaker’s intention.

Whether art can transform into something it was not originally meant to be based on the beholder’s perspective leads us to the obvious follow-up question: Does Inglourious Basterds live up to a people’s widely varying and arguably irrational expectations? Is it the fulfillment of a holy commandment that some are hoping for it to be?

First things first: Inglourious Basterds is not a Holocaust movie. Those attending a screening looking for a ghetto uprising or craving some second hand suffering will leave disappointed and bewildered. The movie, if anything concrete, is about free and courageous Jews killing Nazis (here pronounced Gnat-Zees). Some of those Jews operate brazenly, with maelstrom caliber force under the command of a Tennessee born Lieutenant named Aldo Raine and played with a measure of flare by Brad Pitt. Other Jews plot vengeance from secretive positions and work alone. By the final credits and after an occasionally dragging two and a half hours, many, many Nazis die. By dagger, by fire, by machine gun, by dynamite, and by baseball bat, many Nazis die, and a healthy number of them via Jewish initiative. If that equation amounts to something educational or pride-worthy or therapeutic or some newly imagined halachic imperative, well, Quentin Tarantino has provided an evening for us to celebrate as a community . But I got the feeling that shock, confusion, and even disgust greeted the misinformed Jewish patrons itching for rapture. Maybe that is the lesson. Death and killing sickens us all, no matter who is on the receiving end.

Second things second. Quentin Tarantino is not Steven Spielberg or Roman Polanski. He is not a Jew on a mission, aiming to erect a monument to the six million. There were no bitter tears shed in the editing room over the damn tragedy of it all. No memories or ghosts of butchered grandparents to whom he could dedicate the film.

For as long as Mr. Tarantino has been in the movie business, his purpose as a writer, actor, producer, and director has been single-minded, and this purpose drips and oozes from every frame he has ever shot. Mr. Tarantino exists to show the movie-going world that he is the dopest, coolest, freshest, sharpest, wittiest, edgiest, fucking gnarliest badass ever to hurtle into the biz. And his typical formula for accomplishing this lofty goal is to hijack a well established genre or revered method of cinematic storytelling and then flip it, supercharge it, and catapult it over the top.

And the insane thing is, eighty percent of young filmmakers approach their careers with an identical objective, but guess what? Since 1992, QT has pretty much lived up to his hype. Who over the past fifteen years has been more consistently brilliant, daring, and innovative? The heirs to Tarantino’s next-big-thing throne have remained either unproven or been proven frauds.

M. Night Shyamalan made a nice run but fell apart. Darren Aronofsky stumbled for a few years before recently getting back on track. Bryan Singer more or less sold out. Chris Nolan has potential but needs to keep it going another five years to validate consideration. Tarantino is still the maverick’s maverick with the typewriter and the lens, and Inglorious Basterds represents just another manically entertaining, sometimes overindulgent, but utterly impressive effort. It’s grand and stylized and the script sparkles, however, it does not seek to represent a Jewish agenda. Tarantino doesn’t have that in him.

When the old Jewish woman sitting next to me in the theatre began griping to her husband about the depictions of violence in the film, I experienced a wave of bitter frustration. As the Jewish soldiers took their blades to the scalps of their Nazi victims and proceeded to slice flesh from skull, the woman groaned, “What is he doing?” It was clearly not what she expected. I even thought perhaps the “he” in her protest was Mr. Tarantino as if to say, “How dare he ruin this important film for us with such boorishness?”

The unconventional Jewish presence, perhaps rarely venturing out to the movies, came looking for a Holocaust movie (and actually got one for the first ten minutes as Col. Hans Landa a.k.a The Jew Hunter – played smartly by Austrian actor Christolph Waltz – waxes poetic on the similarities between Jews and rats before gunning down a Jewish family hidden under a farmer’s floorboards), but after that, Inglourious Basterds is vintage Tarantino. No education, pride, or therapy to be reasonably found. Just a wildly talented director exposing himself.

The only message Mr. Tarantino had for the Jewish audience which mistakenly wandered in expecting saving grace: Welcome to my world! Buckle up! If you want, grab a gun, cuz we’re gonna be killing some Gnat-Zees!!!!!!

#13 Operation Thunderbolt

#14 Life is Beautiful

I wonder if African Americans today worry about what they would do if this nation ever decided to reintroduce slavery. Or whether Christians lose sleep over how they would react if the Coliseum was rebuilt and once again they were subject to being tossed alive to hungry lions. Seriously, if a race or religion at one time suffered a horrendous persecution, does the fear of it recurring become ingrained in their DNA? Does the completely non-theoretical belief that a dark history may, can, and will repeat itself linger in all victims of ethnicity based abuses?

The reason I ask is because I am Jewish and I often ponder where I would go, what I would do, and most troublingly, how I would protect my family should another Holocaust type situation begin to escalate here.  And because I take these grave thoughts seriously – delusional paranoia or not – I literally come up with answers and allow dire scenarios to play out in my head in order to gauge and prepare my reaction for when and if the time comes. I think about which non-Jewish friends I would trust to keep my children hidden. I imagine the jeep pulling up to my home, a soldier checking my mezuzah and knocking, pistol drawn, motioning for me, Amy, Cory, Maya, and Jack to join the truckload of Jews assembled outside. I picture the long marches through Indiana in winter and the moment where they send me to the right and everyone I love to the left.

What will I do?

After some deliberation, I always come to the same conclusion. I would be eliminated very quickly. I’d refuse the order with a John McClanesque creative burst of expletives or take one good shot at the soldier at my door – maybe even somehow kill him – and that would be the end of me. I’d do one brave thing and it would knowingly be my last act. Maybe my death would inspire others to fight back, but who knows?

In the end, however, I fully comprehend that a bullet in the head is but a selfish and cowardly way out. Why? Because my family would then be on their own. That is the part of the scenario I can’t ever figure out. My responsibility to the helpless children ruins everything. If I can’t prevent their suffering how could I possibly bear watching it? How could I ever allow them to see me grovel and plead at some cold blooded oppressor’s feet? At the same time, how dare I abandon them in a maddening state of terror? As a father I am stuck between two unfeasible disgraces. Children devastatingly complicate simple trips to the mall; imagine trying to keep them happy, sane, and secure in a work camp where emaciated bodies are burned nightly and bread crusts represent dinner.

What will I do?

Roberto Benigni’s miraculous Life is Beautiful (La Vita è Bella) provides a most stunning example of precisely the sacrifice a parent is capable of making for their child in the gloomiest of hours. The polar opposite – to say the least – of my shameful escape. Life is Beautiful is an award winning, splendidly crafted motion picture. More significantly, it is an overwhelming, gut-wrenching lesson in a parent’s extreme threshold for courage and love.

It is difficult to describe Oscar winner Benigni’s accomplishment relating to this movie. If he were the writer and director alone (which he is), words would not do justice, but his performance as Guido Orefice, a genuine open-hearted, sublimely natured optimist, at first wooing a woman (“BUONGIORNO PRINCIPESSA!”) and then navigating their eventual family which comes to include a son (marvelous five year old Giorgio Cantarini) through Nazi occupied Italy is honestly one of the most captivating instances of genius, wit, and emotional turmoil ever displayed on screen.

The first half of the film has nary a mention of Jews or war. We wouldn’t even suspect Guido as Jewish except that about thirty minutes into the movie someone paints his uncle’s horse green and vandalizes the animal with anti-Jewish slurs. He just seems like your ordinary clever, passionate, spirited clown with a gift for storytelling and a magnetic charm. He is also the darling of chance, as wonderful coincidences and fabulous twists of fate seem to constantly benefit whatever ruse he is running, especially when it comes to the romancing of his beloved Dora. And clearly, based on her stock and circumstance, she is 100% prime Italian shiksah, but since Guido is hardly Jewish, the issue is never raised.

But Guido’s life, truly full of dreamlike beauty, changes dramatically in the second half. The film’s title, which very well could have been a straightforward declaration prior to the war, becomes a source of twisted irony once we witness Guido pull down the grate outside his humble bookshop and the words JEWISH STORE are seen sprayed across the green metal in a callous shade of red.

The best films about the Holocaust are the ones where proper attention is paid to the contrast between before and after. Where the downward spiral, the crumbling of civilization is allowed to develop and reveal itself in all its shockingly malefic glory. One day, a devoted couple, secular in their beliefs, united only by transcendent love, is comfortable and content and plan their child’s birthday party; the next day there is a collapsed table in their dining room, a cake is sickeningly overturned on the floor, and the Jewish husband along with his half-Jewish son are being transported to a death camp. To complete the portrait of disaster, the broken wife and mother voluntarily steps into the cattle car to join her Jewish husband and their son on what surely could be a fatal journey.   

Such is the allegedly beautiful life confronting Guido and his once sunny outlook.

Instead of surrendering to depression, for the child, for the tremendous love of his good and sweet little boy, Guido creates an elaborate game of the nightmarish circumstance, and aims to keep his son alive and oblivious until…well, until God or some other supreme force intervenes.

Life is Beautiful is often described as a fable because in actuality, the mysterious providential strokes of fate which Guido enjoys tend to fall on the wrong side of possible. It is also incredibly light hearted (in a most seductively amusing way) despite the severe material. The manner in which Guido’s fortune is manifest, in both the labor camp and prior thereto, is certainly the stuff of quasi-fantasy. If there are breaks to be caught even in the face of imminent destruction, Guido seems to have been gifted a magical net. Call the film a fable if you will, but the result of Guido’s faith and wild efforts are of no consequence to me. Whether his desperate attempts to shield his son from even a fraction of the pain and anguish surrounding them succeed is utterly irrelevant to the grandeur of this once in a decade masterpiece. The message of Life is Beautiful cannot be limited by its level of credibility. As parents, Benigni exclaims, we must try and try and keep on trying until that final breath is rudely demanded from our bodies. That is the only viable option for the sake of our precious children.

So after seeing Life is Beautiful, I ask myself that same old question: What will I do?

The answer remains to be fiercely contested in my head, but certainly the ideal is set for when and if the time comes. For now, I gratefully say to Mr. Benigni, Grazie and Dio vi benedica

17. THE UNBORN

Holey Holey Holey. Holey is the Unborn/ Movie of reactionary trends/ You fill the earth with your senselessness.

More transparent than the pair of mesh tzi-tzis I wore in seventh grade and less convincing than an Artscroll mussar book, David (Batman Begins) Goyer’s supernatural thriller is assembled in the cookie cutter mold of The Grudge, One Missed Call, and a cavalcade of similar The Ring knock offs. The winning formula as dictated by The Ring is exactly that, a winning formula. Cold, bleak, and bare landscapes. A statuesque beauty who knows how to wear a pair of underpants in mortal distress. A horrifying secret that only some old lady knows and reveals reluctantly in a fit of trembling. A somber eyed child possessed. Sudden jarring images of gore accompanied by a soundtrack of shrieking strings. It’s all present and accounted for with The Unborn. Of course The Ring was released in 2002, so with each retread, the audience’s been-there-done-that attitude causes the formula to slip from winning to tired. A clever spin on the material is necessary to maintain anyone’s interest and ensure a worthwhile cinematic outcome. And behold, Goyer’s script actually provides a unique approach to the proceedings, at least from a conceptual standpoint. You see this Goyer is a Jewer and he intriguingly sought to create yet another standard supernatural suspense flick, but this time by combining the basic elements of two premium Jewish nightmares, one factual and the other fantastical.

The Unborn struggles to tell the story of Casey Beldon, a girl with no apparent charm or distinction, who begins suffering macabre visions of (what else) blood and bugs, as well as having (you guessed it) freakish encounters with a creepy neighborhood boy. Oh yeah, and her eye color begins to change from brown to Kirk Lazarus blue. If you stay on board despite the film’s quality it turns out all the spooky meshugas has to do with – SPOILER ALERT, BUT AT THE SAME TIME IT SAVES YOU FROM SEEING THE MOVIE – her mother being the daughter of a Holocaust survivor, Nazi experiments on twins, and a murderous dybbuk thrown in for good measure. On paper, the relationship between Nazi atrocities and a mythical angry Jewish soul in limbo seems to hint at a provocative and bone chilling premise. Goyer even includes Gary Oldman sporting a kippah as a rabbi who explains to Casey about the kabalistic sefiros and in the film’s embarrassingly unscary climax butchers Tehillim while performing an exorcism.

So why don’t all these innovations work on screen? Well, because Goyer’s script is lazier than a shlemiel and more incoherent than a shlemazel. The creative undercurrent flowing beneath the recycled playbook of a story is wasted in order to simply birth another canned and meaningless jumble of cheap frights (because most of the teenagers with movie tickets dollars won’t be able to tell the difference anyway). The Unborn, in a genre that requires minimal credibility just to hold matters together for an hour and a half, does not make a lick of sense. Seriously. A hefty treatise could be written discussing the preposterousness and plot flaws in The Unborn.

So, better question, why is The Unborn an essential Jewish film considering how oddly vague it is in terms of actual Judaism (Casey, though technically Jewish, deals with her situation as if an outsider)?

The answer is that The Unborn marks a defining moment in modern Jewish history. With The Unborn, apparently, it officially has become kosher for movies to commercially exploit the extermination and torture of six million Jews. This advancement has been building up over the years, but with Goyer’s film the door swings all the way open. The closest I can recall where The Holocaust was used as a throwaway narrative device in such an insincere popcorn film is the opening scene of X-Men where Magneto’s origin was revealed (or for those of you a bit older with some obscure film savvy, 1987’s silly and fun The Monster Squad introduced a Shoah survivor who assisted the kids in destroying Dracula, Frankenstein et al. and delivered the line (paraphrased) “I know about monsters” as he exposed a number tattooed forearm).

I am not here to sermonize whether it is right or wrong to consciously and blatantly utilize genocide in order to turn a profit. In this case, just to acknowledge the sea change suffices. As Jews, we are not above it and it should have been expected. The Holocaust is a gruesomely ugly era in world history, but it has for a long time been a matter of the public domain and free for all creative types to manipulate or disrespect as they deem fit in the name of artistic expression. In 1992 Clive Barker and Bernard Rose wrote Candyman, and that supernatural thriller treated the slavery, murder, and torture of black people in America much the same way that Goyer treats the horrific experiments performed on Jewish children by Nazi “scientists” in the concentration camps during World War II. The death of heroic American soldiers, police officers, and firefighters has been fair game in Hollywood since day one. The Holocaust was not going to remain untouchable forever. But, you know what? Watching a trashy film like The Unborn depict a Jewish child being prodded and injected by Nazis in the name of shock entertainment…it feels too soon. Two generations removed and the nerves are still quite raw. How ironic then that what The Unborn represents manages to be a thousand times more disturbing than anything Goyer captured with his pen or camera.                         

18. A Price Above Rubies

Boaz Yakin has an agenda. There is no denying his fierce talent as a visual storyteller, his gift for recording plain yet evocative dialogue, his flare for tackling diverse material – and there is no denying his agenda. A Price Above Rubies is a tremendous effort, really a daring and courageous undertaking for any relatively unproven filmmaker, let alone a Jewish one coming off a heralded rookie effort. Four years after Yakin wrote and directed Fresh – a spot on Spike Lee/John Singletonesque tale of a young black kid selling drugs, playing chess with Samuel L. Jackson, and trying to keep his head above water in a shark infested ocean of combustible humanity – he settled on A Price Above Rubies as his sophomore effort. I can picture the meeting with the studio heads. The script practically pitches itself as a “controversial” exposé of the veiled world of ultra-orthodox Judaism. But why go there? Why wait four years to make such an unmarketable film? Well, they say write what you know, and after watching both Fresh and Rubies, one might venture that Yakin’s breadth of knowledge is without boundary. The title is a play on a pasuk from the Book of Mishlei, one recited every Friday night by orthodox Jewish husbands as a song of praise to their wives. It tells (or maybe Yakin would say reveals) the story of Sonia Horowitz (compelling Renee Zellweger), an artistic and passionate soul trapped in the layers, wigs, and assorted tznuah accoutrements of a Chasidic female body. She is the wife of a promising, wholly God fearing rebbi (Glenn Fitzgerald, whom you’d swear was picked up on a street corner in Borough Park), she is mother to a newborn son, she is daughter to a heartbroken mother, and sister to a beloved brother who one night when they were children told her the story of their disgraced Bubbie, who abandoned her family only to die and eventually be cast from hell to wander the earth. This unsettling story is told to Sonia seemingly as a warning, her fate and predisposition perhaps apparent at a young age. It is told to her just before her plastic-faced brother removed his yarmulke and tzi-tzis, kissed the mezuzah, ran out into the night, and drowned in a nearby lake. So, yes, Sonia is visited and haunted by ghosts. She grows up an unrepentant child of gloom vying to find her place in a world of spiritual light, ironically enough via a sect that uniformly wears black.The supernatural elements of the script, Yakin may have thrown in just to give the film some edge, but the device is ultimately unnecessary. Sonia doesn’t need such an elaborate back-story or the insinuation that she may be the present incarnation of an ancient restless spirit. Sonia is basically as typical as any animated Disney protagonist. She simply doesn’t belong.

A human being is biologically and chemically predisposed to adapt to a vast array of cultural and topographical environments. We can adjust and conform as needed to slug it out even when our ideal conditions of comfort are not met. A free spirited, intelligent, passionate, sexual woman embedded in a Chasidic enclave in Brooklyn, as is the situation in which Sonia finds herself, certainly tests the limits of that sociological principle. Sonia, as God and Boaz Yakin made her, seemingly has two choices – escape the life she was born into, or metaphorically share her brother’s fate. That does not excuse her horrendous behavior, but regardless, we are asked to contemplate her with that frame of reference. A Price Above Rubies is as much about harshly judging a woman for intolerably giving up on her family and religion as it is about admiring her for avoiding tragedy and choosing life.

My estimate is that Yakin (fiendishly) roots for the latter reaction, though he provides convincing evidence to support both. According to his bio, Mr. Yakin was born in New York to secular Israeli parents and sent to yeshiva despite not practicing orthodoxy at home. Needless to say, if true, such a curious (yet understandable, knowing our people) parenting method could have engendered an unhealthy outlook toward the religion. Clearly, Yakin knows his mikvah from his Hatikvah, his shaitel from his dreidle, and he refuses to pander to (or assist) his audience by explaining, identifying, translating, or demystifying insider phraseology, rites, rituals, or even basic philosophical perspectives. The film should have been rated M for Ha’Mevin Yavin. In all honesty, it would be difficult to imagine a mainstream American movie presenting ultra orthodoxy in a more authentic, precisely detailed way (in terms of external observance). Because of Boaz Yakin’s research or simple educated awareness, one cannot but take A Price of Rubies seriously, even with its wild allegations and flagrant abuse of dramatic license. Yakin exhibits a masterful control over his material.

When he portions out scenes endearing Judaism (and they are few and far between), his personal reserve of admiration shines through. And when he seeks to undermine it (which is the case more often than not) his wrath and personal vendettas are bitingly apparent. He is like a lunatic M60 operator furiously shredding a paper target who needs to be reminded that the target is not fighting back before removing his finger from the trigger.

This is not to say some of his comments are unimportant and unappreciated by those who care to address issues in orthodoxy (specifically women’s issues). That women (their needs, both emotional and physical) are not made a priority in a community where male comradery, rebbi worship, and avodas Hashem seem to occupy all facets of a man’s day. Where the status quo is to patronize women regarding their lofty value, when historically women were treated as third class citizens (along with children, converts, slaves, and the impaired). That saying “I love you” to your wife and telling her she is beautiful is no sin, is no waste of words, is not forbidden levity, is not beyond anyone’s righteous self-image. And perhaps most significantly, that just because someone conforms to a culture that demands visible symbols of piety does not mean that they are not devils beneath a devout exterior. And Yakin makes sure that we have bearded, payesed, black hat wearing, Torah learning, Shabbos celebrating devils so that his audience can go home sniping, “See, those orthodox Jews aren’t such good people after all!” Which is a fair conclusion because the premise is correct, but Yakin’s argument is presented with such blind rage and fury that his little film goes from sensitive and perceptive to sensational and scandal-mongering very quickly.    

19. The Jazz Singer (1927)

The Jazz Singer maintains its landmark status in the evolution of cinema and the arts for nothing more than doing something that had already been done before, but simply on a grander scale. Widely considered the first “talkie,” Alan Crosland’s 1927 film about a chazan’s son (Jakie/Jack) who is cast away by his father for being too, well, jazzy, and then cuts ties with the Jewish community (which he considers a repressive ghetto anyway) to become a Broadway star is no great entertainment. Nor is it by any means competent from a narrative perspective (Jakie abandons his poor mother as a child and returns about twenty years later with some flowers as if nothing happened). In fact, much of the film is offensively patronizing and in bad taste (Let’s hear it for lame white guys performing watered down jazz in black-face!) The oohs and ahhs and universal acclaim was at the time reserved for the few minutes of the film where the actors’ mouths moved and actual words were heard and synched with the movement of their lips. That’s it. That’s The Jazz Singer. That’s why you are aware of it. It’s the answer to a trivia question.

Here’s another trivia question for ya. In feature length film history, what is the first song sung in a movie that exhibited synched dialogue? Well, the movie of course is The Jazz Singer and the song is Kol Nidre.

The Jazz Singer proves a very interesting showcase and milestone for Jews in America. No one will deny Jewish influence and authority in early (and current) American filmmaking, but The Jazz Singer, due to its sacred appointment in cinematic history and considering all that was riding on it from a technological debut standpoint, is utterly amazing in how ethnically particular it is. I mean, this film is loud and proud, we’re here and we’re from the Mir Jewish. Jakie’s mother, who has not seen the boy in years, her chief worry is that he will wind up with a “shiksah.” The most elaborate gag in the film revolves around three different characters purchasing a tallis for the old chazan as a gift. The sole conflict in the film is whether Jakie will miss opening night of his Broadway headline show in order to make his sick father proud by davening for the tzibur on Kol Nidre night. Jakie wonders whether he should choose his new god (entertainment) over the long held traditions of his “stubborn race.” It’s a classic Jewish religious struggle which played out for audiences across the world in 1927 who simply looked to catch the latest in movie magic. This is a film that strategically premiered on Erev Yom Kippur to gain publicity!

Let’s put in today’s terms. Imagine if Industrial Light & Magic discovered a stupendous filmmaking technique that enhanced the pleasure and visceral engagement of audiences thereby changing the movie-going experience for all time. And the studio that paid top dollar to get first crack at using the effect produced a film and set it for release. Eager crowds then pack the theatre for the premiere and the film begins…and it’s about a boy who wants to go Shana Bet while his parents demand that he return for college and begin his career in finance. That is about how remarkable it is that The Jazz Singer is a film about a hashkafik crisis and Yamim Noraim inspired teshuvah. So, nu? How do we explain this wild anomaly?

Some might say it is the will of God, who enjoys strategically placing His people in the crosshairs of history. Throughout time, throughout the globe, pounding at the gates of this industry, leading the charge in that movement, or tripping over the lever in someone else’s lab on the brink of a breakthrough, there we are – Forrest Schlump. Maybe Al Jolson – born Asa Yoelson to Moshe Reuven and Naomi Yoelson – who was the biggest star of his day and the first “openly Jewish entertainer” was simply chosen for greatness to boost the profile of his people and break barriers, just as Daniel, and Esther, and Joseph were selected to do before him. God delivers his message and chooses his messengers based on the day’s popular forms of communication. It was once books and oratory, now it is music and film. Moshe. Yehoshua. Spielberg. Could be. Why not?
My feeling, however, is that a lot of highly successful, highly assimilated first generation American Jews were running Hollywood in the early 20th century – men like the Warner brothers who bankrolled and distributed The Jazz Singer – and they simply wanted to offer a combination guilt and peace offering to their parents and grandparents who devoutly worshipped that ancient God of the Hebrews in meager times. The Jazz Singer may well have resulted when a bunch of fat cat Jewish moguls stuck their necks out about eighty years ago and declared, “Momma, Poppa, remember all the stuff that you taught us was important about where we come from – our life and the length of our days and all that pious stuff Zadie, the Rebbi’s shamesh, did for the poor – well, we may act like we forgot all about it (and we’ll most assuredly forget about it during the after party), but we just gambled our reputations on making this movie to let you know, and to let our people know for all time, that deep down we didn’t forget.” I think The Jazz Singer is a shallow attempt by a powerful group of straying Jews to clear their consciences.

Although Jakie’s father is not heard uttering such a plea in the film, on Kol Nidre night the chazzan begins the services with a prayers stating, “By the Heavenly tribunal, and by the earthly tribunal, with the consent of God, and with the consent of the congregation, we are permitted to pray…with those who have transgressed.”

On Kol Nidre night, the sinners are present, and worried. They sit there wishing for another opportunity to make amends and some more time to slap a bandage over an obvious wound. Jakie at one point argues that his father doesn’t understand him, can’t understand him, because…“he wasn’t born here.” He wasn’t born in America where there are golden prospects and so many reasons to leave God floundering in the dust. "He wasn’t born here." Papa doesn’t know what it’s like here, that’s why. It is the feeble cry from the Americanized Jew, one generation from the oppressiveness of the European shtetl, to be freed from the obligation of mesorah. “You don’t know what it’s like to mingle with starlets (then seduce them to bed) and to afford the finer things! You don’t know how goddamn intoxicating this country is!” You can almost smell the flop sweat.
But miraculously, The Jazz Singer has Jakie choose to leave his shiksah starlet girlfriend and ditch his Broadway debut – at least for that one night – to soothe his father’s bitter heart and chant a sincere Kol Nidre, to appease the God of his people, on the Day of Atonement.  

Perhaps in 1927, somewhere in the decadent bright lights of Los Angeles, there were a few Jews with champagne glassses raised who felt that by making The Jazz Singer they had bought themselves another year’s reprieve. 

20. The Governess

It is often overlooked that in the usual model of classic Jew-as-other literature, one character roundly escapes the ugly stereotypes and survives to represent something graceful and beautiful, something worth redeeming by the good Christians. That someone is of course the young, raven-haired, meek, mild, oddly pretty, blameless due to merely an unfortunate parentage, agreeable to fleeing her past and home Jewess. The Jew of Malta has Abigail to counter her rich, conniving father Barabas. The Merchant of Venice presents desirable Jessica to contrast ducat obsessed Shylock. In Ivanhoe, the lovely Rebecca can heal while her father Isaac is a grimy money lender. And I can’t really fault Marlowe, Shakespeare, or Sir Walter Scott for picking up on this phenomenon. Have you ever checked out some of the matches on OnlySimchas? As a general rule, our women are far more appealing than our men. Honestly, some of these guys are lucky the culture dictates attractiveness based how one rates on the shteig-o-meter as opposed to one’s ability to breed genetically pleasing offspring (as is the common standard in the rest of the civilized world). If orthodox Jewish males were obligated to marry and mate by scoring phone numbers in a bar or club we’d be extinct. And sometimes I think that there won’t be another Holocaust simply because of Natalie Portman and Scarlett Johansson, they are such wonderful ambassadors for our utility. Then I think of Adam Levine and Zach Braff and I get worried again. Regardless, because Jewish men are required to arm themselves with so many identifying symbols (yarmulke, tzi-tzis, baldness, noses the size of giant strawberries, and the circumcised shmeckle), our young ladies – as charming as any other nationality - have the distinct capability (advantage? temptation?) to blend in. Hiding Judaism is a recurring initiative in our history, and for obvious reasons. The authors of classic Jew-as-other literature naturally couldn’t resist fleshing out the premise.

Sandra Goldbacher wrote and directed 1998’s The Governess and the film looks and feels like the adaptation of a classic. If Jane Austen or a Brontë sister were inclined to revolve their tale of forbidden love and parlor room intrigue around a Jewish heroine, The Governess would undoubtedly resemble the result.

Rosina da Silva (breathtaking, angelic, marvelous Minnie Driver), the daughter of a warm and comfortable Jewish family in early 19th century London, leaves home on a strange whim after her father is killed in a mugging to become a governess (nanny/teacher) to the Cavendish family who reside in an isolated Scottish castle. Without much explanation we learn that Rosina will attempt to pass as Italian while on this particular adventure. The family consists of a friendless and slightly bratty girl, an impulsive son (Jon Rhys Meyers), a desperately ambivalent mother, and a distracted scientist father. What ensues is a very Jane Eyre-esque love affair between Rosina and her employer (the troublingly “consumed” Tom Wilkinson) which predictably ends in conflict and disaster. Despite the unfortunate manner in which things play out, to see Driver portray Rosina in the throes of passion – a Jewish virginal girl exploring sex, lust, and love for the first time – is to watch a candle burst into a gust of flames. This is one tantalizingly hot (yet utterly tasteful) period piece. I never realized how madly enchanting Minnie Driver could be.

Enchanting is certainly the right adjective here as Goldbacher attempts to flip the Jewess myth on its ear. As described earlier, the radiant Jewish female always escaped Christian ire (in literature) due to her comeliness and willingness to jump heathen ship. Rosina arrives at the Cavendish estate amidst a pounding rain storm dressed in a black high necked dress with a spire of dark hair wound and cupped atop her head. An ominous image for the already teetering stability of the family. After entrancing and bewitching the men in the home she turns them against each other, publicly exposing their indiscretions and weaknesses, and embarks back home. She leaves the family in ruin. And when she does this in a final sweep through the formal dining room, she is dressed as she was upon arrival, but this time her pale neck is adorned with a gold Star of David. It is truly as if a Jewish sorceress had paid the family a brief destructive visit, cast her spell, performed her evil, and vanished. That is one fair interpretation. After all, Jewess as witch is a theme mentioned in the film.

While there are certainly distressing elements to Rosina’s influence on her host family, there are achingly beautiful symbols of traditional Judaism in the film as well. Whether it be Rosina’s lighting of Yom Tov candles and the spare Seder she conducts in the dimness of her room with joyful memories of her aunts attempting to eat eggs dipped in salt water dancing through her head. Or her lingering after the Cavendish’s leave church so she can utter a lonely, bitterly sincere Shema (as the film begins in a lavishly ornate synagogue with the Shema being read). Or, most hauntingly, as the girl, so far from home, so confused by her Gentile surroundings and the feelings raging inside her, wraps herself in her father’s tallis as if a comfort blanket and rocks on her bed whimpering prayers to her father’s God. 

The Governess is so many things. The Jewish element can either be regarded as extraneous or imperative. The crux of the film – young girl leaves home for romantic journey of self-discovery that proves to be more trying than expected – could have been just as effective if she were not Jewish and hiding her Judaism. The Cavendish’s do eventually find out she is Jewish and it hardly makes an impression. Maybe they frown upon her beliefs, but there is no sense of urgency in the keeping of her secret. In a way, the only consequence of her being Jewish is that the upheaval she causes will now be attributed to her fiendish people as opposed to simply her as an individual.

But as a Jew, I watched the film differently. I could understand her desire to be just accepted for who she is and not for the anchor of her heritage. We all sometimes just want to blend in and just be. Goldbacher got that part right and the counterpoint right as well. Rosina can realize her deepest passions and fulfill her most uninhibited desires, but as someone with a nurtured Jewish soul, if she intends to find true happiness and acceptance, she will ultimately wind up where she feels most at home. In the embrace of her prayer shawl with Shema on her lips