An Open Letter to Mr. Soderbergh
Bravo. Kanon's "The Good German" is a commendable and timely choice for your next film. Ultimately, I hope that such a project has a profound influence on the American mind. We are in need of some perspective.
Allow me to take you back a few years to the Berlin of 1992. It was there that I had the fortune of meeting *****. For whatever reasons our first encounter was quite unusual, considering the implicit barriers of the typically shallow, tourist-guide, relationship. The anticipated superficial colloquy never took place because of a simple observation.
I noted a certain distant, nearly vacant, aspect in *****'s slate-blue eyes as she skillfully avoided making anything but cursory references to the city's Nazi past. I could sense her inner turmoil, even from a distance, as my fellow travelers never let her gracefully elude commentary on all things Nazi. The pretense to knowledge of these self-proclaimed experts was just astounding, but the dynamic was intriguing. So I just hung to the rear and observed.
After one morning's excursion to the Cicilienhof, the group returned to our hotel along the Tiergarten. ***** informed us that the balance of the afternoon was reserved for independent exploration of Berlin.
When the group dispersed I approached ***** and asked her in German about her plans for the afternoon. She indicated that she was intent on doing laps at the Stadtbad Mitte, and having at one time been a competitive swimmer, I asked and she agreed to let me join her.
The pool facility was an amazing early 30s structure; a house of glass and iron, Speer-like in its grandiose simplicity; a temple for swimming. The task at hand was exhausting enough to keep the questions at bay. Later, we walked the Tiergarten, ending up at the Café am Neuen See. She introduced me to Berliner Weißbier mit Kirsche, and, for an hour (perhaps two) ***** asked questions about "America." I, in turn, asked questions about "the new Germany." I will always remember her last words as our first conversation trailed off, walking back to the hotel. ***** stopped, locked on to my eyes and asked, "Tell me. What is it like to be proud of your country? What is it like to feel pride when you see your flag? See your troops? Sing your national anthem?" I was stunned. Before I could respond she continued her thought, saying, "Sometimes I forget I'm a German and what that means. Sometimes I go to bed at night not thinking about it. But every morning, I awake and I realize I'm still a German. Do you have any idea what that's like?" Again speechless and dumbfounded by her comments and questions, I searched for words in vain. There was nothing I could say, nothing of significance. My instinct was to tell her that I didn't hold her responsible. But I fell mute, knowing it wouldn?t even make a dent. Again, I could see it on her face, guilty as charged, ex post facto.
It was at that moment that I realized that she needed a new identity. ***** and millions like her, especially those who had no hand in the Hitler era. It was at that moment that I realized why so many of the Germans I had met spoke perfect English, perhaps even French to boot. A new identity could mean a clean break--a persilschein for the soul.
Perhaps better than anything else in "The Good German," Kanon captures this essence.
Best wishes translating this profound Wahrheit into film. We could all use the perspective.
Sincerely Yours,
Peter David Orr
Allow me to take you back a few years to the Berlin of 1992. It was there that I had the fortune of meeting *****. For whatever reasons our first encounter was quite unusual, considering the implicit barriers of the typically shallow, tourist-guide, relationship. The anticipated superficial colloquy never took place because of a simple observation.
I noted a certain distant, nearly vacant, aspect in *****'s slate-blue eyes as she skillfully avoided making anything but cursory references to the city's Nazi past. I could sense her inner turmoil, even from a distance, as my fellow travelers never let her gracefully elude commentary on all things Nazi. The pretense to knowledge of these self-proclaimed experts was just astounding, but the dynamic was intriguing. So I just hung to the rear and observed.
After one morning's excursion to the Cicilienhof, the group returned to our hotel along the Tiergarten. ***** informed us that the balance of the afternoon was reserved for independent exploration of Berlin.
When the group dispersed I approached ***** and asked her in German about her plans for the afternoon. She indicated that she was intent on doing laps at the Stadtbad Mitte, and having at one time been a competitive swimmer, I asked and she agreed to let me join her.
The pool facility was an amazing early 30s structure; a house of glass and iron, Speer-like in its grandiose simplicity; a temple for swimming. The task at hand was exhausting enough to keep the questions at bay. Later, we walked the Tiergarten, ending up at the Café am Neuen See. She introduced me to Berliner Weißbier mit Kirsche, and, for an hour (perhaps two) ***** asked questions about "America." I, in turn, asked questions about "the new Germany." I will always remember her last words as our first conversation trailed off, walking back to the hotel. ***** stopped, locked on to my eyes and asked, "Tell me. What is it like to be proud of your country? What is it like to feel pride when you see your flag? See your troops? Sing your national anthem?" I was stunned. Before I could respond she continued her thought, saying, "Sometimes I forget I'm a German and what that means. Sometimes I go to bed at night not thinking about it. But every morning, I awake and I realize I'm still a German. Do you have any idea what that's like?" Again speechless and dumbfounded by her comments and questions, I searched for words in vain. There was nothing I could say, nothing of significance. My instinct was to tell her that I didn't hold her responsible. But I fell mute, knowing it wouldn?t even make a dent. Again, I could see it on her face, guilty as charged, ex post facto.
It was at that moment that I realized that she needed a new identity. ***** and millions like her, especially those who had no hand in the Hitler era. It was at that moment that I realized why so many of the Germans I had met spoke perfect English, perhaps even French to boot. A new identity could mean a clean break--a persilschein for the soul.
Perhaps better than anything else in "The Good German," Kanon captures this essence.
Best wishes translating this profound Wahrheit into film. We could all use the perspective.
Sincerely Yours,
Peter David Orr