Perhaps
no nation’s history during World War II is as torturously complex as the Hungarian
experience. Although Regent Miklós Horthy largely refused to abet National
Socialism’s Final Solution, his resistance was tragically reversed by a full
scale occupation and the Arrow Cross coup d’état. In war-torn 1944, twin
thirteen year old brothers will learn the worst lessons possible from Germans,
Soviets, and their fellow Hungarian countrymen alike in János Szász’s Oscar
nominated The Notebook (trailer here), which opens this
Friday in New York.
The
nameless twins had lived sheltered lives, but the war’s grim turn changes
everything. Fearing for their safety in the city, their mother deposits them
with the grandmother they have never known. She is not pleased to meet them. Conspicuously
estranged from her daughter, the old woman feels no emotional bond to the two
boys. Reluctantly accepting their presence on her farm, she works them like animals
for meager rations. When they complain, she beats them before drinking herself
into a stupor.
The
boys receive similar treatment from the villagers, who openly refer to the old
woman as a witch. As a survival strategy, the twins banish all memory of their
parents. To harden their bodies and deaden their souls, they institute a
training regimen of physical abuse and voluntary starvation. Their only friend
is “harelip,” a somewhat older girl on a neighboring farm, who tutors them in
criminal techniques. Yet, they still document their daily lives in the notebook,
in accordance with the father’s instructions.
Based
on Agota Kristof’s source novel, The
Notebook is sort of the fictional anti-thesis of Anne Frank’s Diary. While
the brothers document the horrors of war from a young person’s perspective,
there is nothing life-affirming or empathic to glean from their journal
entries. Instead, it is a harrowing account of their efforts to become inhuman
in order to survive an inhumane situation. Yet, the brothers do not evolve into
true sociopaths. Rather, their remnants of decency consistently manifest
themselves in problematically violent ways.
Ironically,
the brothers’ only protector is the local ranking German officer, who displays
suggestively pedophilic tendencies. Ensconced in their grandmother’s former
home, he appreciates their singular training sessions. Not so surprisingly,
when the Soviets arrive, they act more like rapacious conquerors than
liberators. Yet, the worst abuses of Hungarians are arguably committed by other
Hungarians.
Since
the brothers largely react with such stoic indifference to each new outrage, it
is difficult to pass judgment on the young leads, András and László Gyémánt,
except to commend their poker faces. In contrast, Piroska Molnár is an absolute
dread terror as their Grandmother Dearest, but her monster is not without
pathos. As the officer, Ulrich Thomsen is the model of Teutonic severity, whose
black leather neck-brace adds creepy Fifty
Shades overtones to his appearance.
