Quandaries Behind the Screen

The last time I felt this ambivalent about a film, coincidentally, was when The Reader debuted. Winslet’s taut, naked belly titillated me enough to forget, for a short time, that she allowed 300 innocent peoples blacken and burn to death inside an ablazed church. The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas equalled that ambivalence tonight. 

Though masterfully filmed, and written by Boyne for that matter, it severely distorted and trivialized the Holocaust, which is something I’m not willing to overlook. Yes, yes it saddened me, numbed me; but what to make of a world calamity hijacked for the tragedy of a Nazi family? As in The Reader, I struggled to find a balance between beautiful filmwork and misplaced sentimentality. The innocence of a young child, ignorant of his own father’s monstrous doings, is easy bait for soft-hearted watchers. Hence making The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas a story of utter and unnecessary embroidery. It’s a film I’d recommend, but not more than once. There is no joy in reconciling with WWII Hitler vermin.