Lanzmann’s ‘The Last of the Unjust’ Portrays the Judenrat as Moral Heroes of the Shoah
In a candid conversation, the great filmmaker considers his Jewish Orpheus, banality, and his final word
In 1975, Claude Lanzmann had just begun to ponder a monumental task: an epic film about the Holocaust, composed entirely of interviews with survivors and witnesses to the attempted genocide of the Jewish people. How to begin telling the incomprehensibly enormous story of the murder of 6 million Jews? For Lanzmann, an intimate of Sartre and de Beauvoir, and editor of the journal Les Temps Modernes, it began with a trip to Rome, to meet a man named Benjamin Murmelstein.
Murmelstein was a Viennese rabbi who had been drafted as the third and final head of the Jewish Council in the infamous Nazi concentration camp Theresienstadt. Theresienstadt, or Terezin, was the model camp the Nazis used to present a less inhuman face to the world, and Murmelstein had been its self-described Scheherazade, spinning an endless series of fantastic tales in the desperate hope of staying alive. “I survived because I had a tale to tell,” Murmelstein told Lanzmann during their interview, describing himself as a marionette required to pull his own strings.
Theresienstadt was a lie meant to deceive the world about the Nazis’ intentions, but Murmelstein’s complicity in those lies kept real, flesh-and-blood Jews alive. So when the Nazis demanded that the cramped rooms in which Jews were cooped up be repainted to hoodwink the Red Cross, Murmelstein oversaw the effort. And when typhus spread through the camp, Murmelstein withheld food from Jewish inmates until they consented to receive the typhus inoculation. Some survivors saw Murmelstein’s actions as akin to collaboration with the Nazis, and he was arrested in the summer of 1945. The charges were dropped, but the allegations stood.
After the war, Murmelstein was living in seclusion, fearful of his fellow Jews’ antipathy, but Lanzmann was gifted at tracking down those who sought not to be found. “He was the first man I decided to shoot, just to tell you how important he was for me,” said Lanzmann on a recent visit to New York to promote his new film, The Last of the Unjust (out December 13), which features Lanzmann’s extended interview with Murmelstein, at the New York Film Festival. “But I could not include it. I was with him for a full week in Rome.”
Shoah, more than a decade in the making, had defined itself by what it was not. Eschewing archival footage of stampeding Nazi thugs or concentration-camp inmates, the documentary was a dive into the terrors of the past told entirely from the deceptive tranquility of the present. All we had was now—the voices of those who remembered, and images of the deceptively tranquil places where unimaginable horrors had taken place. Murmelstein’s testimony, by contrast, was too raw, and required from the director a kind of interpretation and advocacy. “I could not include this in Shoah,” Lanzmann said. “Definitely not. It would have been much too long. And Shoah is a film without any comment. This construction of the film is the intelligibility of the film.”
Lanzmann is being modest, or perhaps slyly humorous, in describing the Murmelstein material as being excessive for his original film. Shoah is one of the most imposing, severe monuments to patience and sustained attention in cinematic history. But Lanzmann reluctantly shelved the Murmelstein material, convinced that for reasons beyond his control, it could never be made into a suitable film.
In the years since Shoah, Lanzmann revisited unused material shot for three other films, including 2001’s Sobibor, October 14, 1943, 4 PM, about an inmate uprising at the notorious death camp. But the Murmelstein footage still seemed forbidding. Murmelstein’s reputation had been sullied, his heroism, as Lanzmann saw it, wildly misunderstood by those who had chosen to transform the Judenrat into miniature Jewish Nazis, rather than leaders from whom more was asked than anyone could possibly give. “One cannot understand things without their context,” Murmelstein argues in the film, and The Last of the Unjust is his context. “It is a very great injustice, what has been done to this man, Murmelstein. That he lived in exile in Rome, in utter misery,” Lanzmann said.
The complexity of this story was only part of what kept Murmelstein’s story from making it into Lanzmann’s epochal documentary Shoah. “It was impossible for many reasons. Because it’s not the same tone, not the same line. Shoah is an epic film, and this is not an epic film. But it is another side of the history, and I was always very struck by the intelligence of this man, [by] his knowledge, by his courage.”
Lanzmann, still dapper, like a cartoonist’s caricature of a suave French intellectual, is now 87 years old, and time and age have slowed him some. This mumbling interviewer occasionally had to repeat his questions in a louder, clearer tone of voice, and even still, the presence of an interpreter was required, less to translate for Lanzmann, whose English is nearly impeccable, than to amplify. The blue fog of cigarette smoke that casually drifts across the screen in the 1970s footage is now absent. “Unfortunately I don’t smoke anymore,” he said with a chuckle. “I like to smoke. It helps when one works, when one writes.”
The interview with Lanzmann was scheduled, as it turned out, on my 35th birthday. But the experience of speaking to Lanzmann was an instantaneous flashback to the school nightmares you have when you’re about 11 years old, where you arrive in class to discover a pop quiz for which you are entirely unprepared. “I do not understand what you think—you,” Lanzmann pointedly wondered at the end of one response. I put him off with an answer about how The Last of the Unjust forces us to take another look at the efforts of people like Murmelstein, and the moral and intellectual bankruptcy of the arguments Hannah Arendt makes in Eichmann in Jerusalem, but Lanzmann was unsatisfied. I asked him to elaborate on his statement that the Eichmann trial was misguided, and he bristled: “Have you seen the film, or not?”
The entirety of The Last of the Unjust, its careful attention to Murmelstein’s story, and to the unbearable dilemmas he faced, can be seen as an extended rejoinder to Eichmann in Jerusalem, with its too-easy critique of the Judenrat, and its relative disinterest in what motivated the Nazis to treat the Jews as they did. “Murmelstein is very important to me because I was always interested by this problem of the Jewish Council,” he explained. “These people were by no means collaborators, as for instance the French collaborators [were].”
The challenge of The Last of the Unjust was more than just the knotty material. It was also that the film, as Lanzmann saw it, required his presence on the screen, not just behind the camera. The director would appear in the film doubly exposed—as his younger self, reading passages from Murmelstein’s little-read memoir, and in more recent footage. “I am not an actor,” Lanzmann said. “But I am now.” He made the choice to include himself “because of the elapsing of the time. Because 40 years passed. It was stronger than me.”
Transforming the Murmelstein footage into a finished film required Lanzmann to travel back to all the destinations of Murmelstein’s life to serve as an onscreen interlocutor and narrator, to document not just the story, but the overwhelming difficulty of its telling. “I had to return to Theresienstadt, and film in Theresienstadt. Not only Theresienstadt, [but] in Austria and [the] Czech Republic. In Poland. A lot of work which is very demanding, physically, morally.”
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