New Dietrich Bonhoeffer biopic is a grossly misleading portrait of the anti-Nazi dissident

The complexities of history have always posed problems for commercial cinema. With rare exceptions, mainstream historical films tend to flatten the inconveniently irregular textures of individual biographies and their context into simpler templates of good and evil, valour and villainy.

This is abundantly true of dramatisations of German resistance in the Third Reich. Of course, there can be no overstating the enormity of Nazi crimes, the unquestionable courage of the regime’s all-too-few committed opponents – and the terrible price they almost all inevitably paid. So it’s perhaps understandable that people such as Claus von Stauffenberg (leader of the July 20 1944 attempt on Hitler’s life), or student dissident Sophie Scholl, have been portrayed in fairly one-dimensional ways.

Yet acts of extraordinary courage and integrity are thrown into even sharper relief when we appreciate the flaws as well as the nobility of the people who undertake them. Not to do so risks turning these heroic, yet all too human, people into plaster saints.

Sadly, director Todd Komarnicki’s earnest but painfully reductive new biopic of the Lutheran theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-45) falls into all of these familiar traps.

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Executed in the final days of the second world war, Bonhoeffer’s heroism is beyond question. From the very start of Nazi rule, and fully aware of the likely consequences, he stood in uncompromising, public opposition. He saw Nazi tyranny, above all, as an assault on Christian values.

Bonhoeffer drove a campaign to repudiate the Nazi efforts to co-opt and “Aryanise” mainstream Protestantism. And he helped to establish the dissenting “confessing church”.

Eventually he became a peripheral part of the network seeking to assassinate Hitler, though he was not a prime mover. By the time of the failed July 1944 bomb plot (one of several botched assassination attempts), he was already imprisoned.

The film’s publicity, with its tagline “Pastor. Spy. Assassin” and ludicrous poster image of Bonhoeffer (Jonas Dassler) brandishing a pistol, erroneously implies otherwise.

The trailer for Bonhoeffer.

The real Bonhoeffer

Bonhoeffer’s opposition to Nazism was moral, spiritual and expressed principally in his work as a theologian and teacher.

His posthumously collected writings run to 17 volumes. Yet Bonhoeffer fluffs the essential task of making its hero’s religious faith dramatically compelling.

The film prefers to imagine him as a figure of conventional derring-do, conspiring in cafés, infiltrating Nazi intelligence and personally ferrying Jewish fugitives across the Swiss border.

All these scenes have some minor basis in Bonhoeffer’s biography. But cumulatively they misrepresent the essence of his anti-Nazi dissidence to the point of seriously distorting the historical record.

One glaring example is the film’s depiction of his response to the Holocaust. Bonhoeffer denounced Jewish persecution at Nazi hands earlier, more forcefully and more consistently than almost any of his colleagues. Yet his opposition remained limited and complexly bound up with his Christian convictions.

There are few German voices in the film beyond uniformed Nazis.
Kova

He was not, as the film suggests, a proto-Schindler rescuer; nor was he, or could he have been, impelled to action by viewing (non-existent) clandestine film of the death camps, as a very ahistorical scene implies.

Bohoeffer imposes a wholly anachronistic modern comprehension of the Holocaust as Nazism’s defining crime, as if this will make its protagonist’s actions more admirable. In doing so, it ends up muffling the more complex particularities of his courage.

Such inaccurate scenes abound. Bonhoeffer is mystifyingly slipshod on basic historical accuracy. Switching confusingly and with inadequate signposting between his final hours and his earlier life, the film includes such howlers as dissidents threatened with transfer to the “eastern front”, apparently in the mid-1930s.

There’s also a cartoonishly lurid depiction of the Nazis’ attempted “Aryanisation” of the church. Swastikas block stained-glass windows and Bibles are swapped for Mein Kampf in pulpits.

Jonas Dassler as Bonhoeffer.
Kova

Melodrama over history

The film’s portrait of German society during the Third Reich is also grossly misleading. Cadre of uniformed Nazis aside, we encounter barely a single German citizen who supports the regime. Wider German society is represented by the congregation who enthusiastically applaud a (fictitious) anti-Nazi sermon while the SS stage a huffy but mysteriously peaceful walkout.

Again and again, Bonhoeffer substitutes difficult history for conventionalised melodrama. Shortly before his arrest in 1943 the 36-year-old Bonhoeffer became engaged to his former confirmation pupil, a girl of barely 18.

His filmic avatar, by contrast, seems to lack any personal life whatsoever. Beyond, that is, an admittedly endearing affinity for jazz acquired during his seminary studies in New York (though seeing Bonhoeffer replace a Black female pianist onstage at a Harlem club, to apparently universal enthusiasm, leaves a sour taste).

Even Bonhoeffer’s execution – which may have in reality been protracted and excruciating – is rendered as a bloodlessly ethereal affair. The moment is as sentimentally devotional as any studio-era Hollywood hagiography.

Bonhoeffer’s posthumous standing, like that of other German anti-Nazis, has grown immensely. Since 1998, his limestone effigy has stood above Westminster Abbey’s west door as one of ten “modern martyrs.” But Bonhoeffer misses the opportunity to breathe credible dramatic life into this sainted figure.

The Conversation approached the director and writer of Bonhoeffer, Todd Komarnicki, for comment.

He told us that his screenplay was informed by the biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer written in 1966 by Bonhoeffer’s best friend, Eberhard Bethge. As part of a lengthy response, Komarnicki also maintained that the film’s depiction of Bonhoeffer’s involvement in a plot to assassinate Hitler is accurate. He also argued that it was reasonable to speculate that Bonhoeffer could have seen the footage from the death camps. While he agreed that Dietrich did not literally take the Jewish prisoners into Switzerland as a proto-Schindler rescuer, he said: “I took the dramatic license in the film to illustrate the fact that his bravery did save actual Jewish lives.”

He continued “Bonhoeffer is not a documentary. I have written many true life movies, and the necessity to alter timelines and to choose metaphor over fact (only when the metaphor supports the fact) comes up now and again … It is the job of cinema to entertain and inspire, to instruct and imagine. That is what the art form requires if it hopes to be any good at all. Every frame of my film tried to honour the man at its centre. And to tell the truth.” Läs mer…

How Holocaust films are changing as we lose the survivor generation

The Holocaust is fast receding from living memory. Some 300 Auschwitz survivors were present at the 70th anniversary commemorations of the camp’s liberation in 2015. This year, just 50 attended, all of whom were children in 1945.

Even before this generation began to pass on, researchers of the Holocaust had begun to study the ways that memory of these events have been shaped, manipulated, or indeed fabricated. Film scholar Alison Landsberg’s influential concept of “prosthetic memory” focused attention on the ways in which film, literature and other art forms can supplement or even substitute for the experiences of those who lived through historical events.

Approaching the moment when such supplements must become the sole means for future generations to understand the Holocaust, it seems no accident that half a dozen films released in 2023 and 2024 made Holocaust memory – and its complexities – an explicit element of their narratives.

Three of these films incorporate scenes filmed on location in Poland at former Nazi death camps. Perhaps the most unexpected example is The Zone of Interest (2023). A brief documentary sequence filmed at the modern-day Auschwitz museum concludes director Jonathan Glazer’s meticulous (though highly stylised) recreation of the idyllic domestic life of camp commandant Rudolf Höss and his family.

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It’s the only sequence that crosses the otherwise impermeable boundary separating the Höss family compound from the camp itself. It might be interpreted as a kind of reality check for the audience – a reminder that yes, this all did really happen. But that seems an improbably ingenuous stance for so intelligent a filmmaker.

More plausibly, the sequence is a reflexive extension of the film’s interrogation of the strategies by which atrocity can be held at arm’s length, or “managed”.

Höss (Christian Friedel) and his wife Hedwig (Sandra Hüller) manage this by fabricating a “perfect” bourgeois home, while ignoring the constant soundtrack of barked orders, shots and screams from the other side of their garden wall.

As we watch them, we are naturally appalled and repelled by their callous dissociation. Yet in the contemporary Auschwitz sequence, Glazer asks whether modern habits of Holocaust “consumption” don’t risk an all-too-similar disavowal.

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In the museum sequence we see Polish cleaners at work, wiping down the glass of the vitrines in which the infamous heaps of shoes and human hair are displayed, and mopping the floor of the Auschwitz I gas chamber (itself a postwar reconstruction).

This site of unimaginable violence is now a museum where the material evidence of mass murder is carefully preserved and curated for tourists. Perhaps not altogether unlike a historical recreation such as The Zone of Interest.

‘Managing’ Holocaust memory

Tourists are the protagonists of Treasure (2024), directed by Julia von Heinz, and A Real Pain (2024), written and directed by Jesse Eisenberg.

These films centre on survivors and their descendants travelling to modern Poland, ostensibly to commemorate their destroyed families. But it seems that, perhaps inevitably, more pressing and immediate personal issues override these acts of remembrance.

Read more:
A Real Pain is a subtle but powerful exploration of remembrance culture and personal trauma

A Real Pain, for example, centres on two cousins, dutiful family man David (Eisenberg) and mercurial, possibly bipolar Benji (Kieran Culkin). The pair join a “Holocaust tour” in honour of their late grandmother, a Polish-Jewish survivor, including a visit to Maidanek.

Clip from A Real Pain.

Dutifully and sombrely, the cousins view the barracks, the gas chamber and the vast pile of human ashes. Afterwards, however, only Benji lapses into inconsolable sobs. Is his grief an authentic reaction to the horror, a mark of his greater emotional connection? Is it histrionically excessive, performative attention-seeking? Or is it that the unfathomable tragedy of European Jewry allows Benji to access his own private agony.

If it’s the latter, is such an appropriation of the Holocaust somehow an “illegitimate” response? According to whom? Eisenberg’s deft traumedy leaves it up to us to decide.

Yet more ambiguous is the epilogue to Brady Corbett’s acclaimed The Brutalist (2024). The film retrospectively interprets the professional career of its protagonist, fictitious Hungarian-Jewish architect and Holocaust survivor László Tóth (Adrian Brody) as a response to the tragedy.

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Addressing the 1980 Venice Biennale, Tóth’s daughter declares that through his creations her father worked through the trauma of his experiences in the camps. A Holocaust memorial is among the designs briefly glimpsed in the display of Tóth’s work.

The trailer for The Brutalist.

The scene aptly captures the ways in which public discourses around the Holocaust crystallised from the 1980s onward.

In the immediate postwar period, as The Brutalist shows, the Holocaust was a rarely discussed, even shameful, topic outside of survivor communities. But with the onset of postmodernism, the Holocaust came increasingly to be understood as the defining episode in 20th-century European history, more even than the second world war itself.

The meanings of trauma

As all these films show, the ways that the Holocaust is commemorated today are far uncontested. For example, One Life (2023), the biopic of British rescuer Nicholas Winton, straightforwardly endorses mainstream assumptions about the value of remembrance.

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What One Life gets wrong about Nicholas Winton and the Kindertransport story

By contrast, in the documentary The Commandant’s Shadow (2024), Holocaust survivor Anita Lasker-Wallfisch is almost dismissive of what she clearly sees as her daughter’s superfluous preoccupation with a past trauma best forgotten.

The Brutalist is more ambiguous still. At one level, traumatic memory may help explain Tóth’s difficult character and relationships in the preceding three hours of the film. Yet at the same time, almost nothing in his words or actions hitherto has suggested the Holocaust is his predominant focus. Nor does Tóth make this claim himself. Stricken mute following a stroke, he can only listen as his daughter offers this account of his work.

Is it true? Or is it imposing a neat, culturally approved meaning onto the complexities of a messy, damaged life?

Together, these films make a strong case that in the “post-testimony” era, we must not only keep remembering the Holocaust, but reflect constantly on how and why we do so. Läs mer…