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In this novel inspired by G.W. Pabst, Leni Riefenstahl is among the bit players

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Daniel Kehlmann’s newest book, “The Director,” offers a thought-provoking exploration on the challenges and pitfalls of art, especially artistic collaboration, and it arrives in the U.S. at a significant moment. This moment, unfortunately, can be described as a time of heightened oppression, when both organizations and individuals must carefully assess the potential risks associated with free expression in an ever more restrictive climate.

The latest work by the German author was “Tyll,” which made it to the 2020 International Booker Prize shortlist. His translator, Ross Benjamin, has skillfully translated this new historical novel into fluid, colloquial English. With an engaging plot that seamlessly blends technical prowess and intellectual depth, “The Director” occupies a captivating spot where commercial and literary fiction intersect.

In the acknowledgments section, Kehlmann mentions that the novel was predominantly influenced by the real-life experiences of G.W. Pabst and his family. One character he created is Jakob, a son of Pabst in the story, who starts as an aspiring artist but later joins the Hitler Youth. Over time, his discernment becomes clouded due to his circumstances. Interestingly, this pattern can also be seen in Pabst himself, whose single-minded dedication to his art leads him to make unattractive concessions.

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A UCLA tribute reexamines the work of Georg W. Pabst, castigated for making films under the Nazis.

As a cinephile immersed in the world of film, I found myself disoriented by the complex landscape depicted in “The Director.” This intriguing German production, titled “Lichtspiel” which signifies both “play of light” and “film,” sets the stage for a pervasive sense of confusion right from the start. Pabst, our protagonist, endeavors to carve out a niche for himself among the ranks of expatriate film artists in Hollywood, but the language barrier and his demanding demeanor clash with the norms of Tinseltown.

The people he encounters often mistake him for another Austrian director, Fritz Lang, adding to his bewilderment. The American movie Pabst creates, “A Modern Hero,” which he despises, is unfortunately a failure.

The director’s going back to Austria, mainly to assist his elderly mother, seems inconveniently timed. (The novel is divided into three parts: “Outside,” “Inside,” and “After.”) At Pabst’s countryside villa, the once submissive caretaker, Jerzabek, and his family, now turned Nazis, are in control. The wife prepares food comically unfit for eating; the daughters torment Jakob. The Pabst family finds themselves trapped in a chilling real-life scenario where escape seems elusive.

Caught in the turmoil of war, Pabst finds himself compelled, albeit unwillingly, to produce films for the Third Reich. These productions are generously financed and seemingly apolitical, yet they are underscored by his professional discomfort. The novel subtly distorts time and space and symbolically blends reality with cinema, reflecting Pabst’s personal struggle.

The story unfolds with a unique, postwar perspective as it delves into the absurd: Franz Wilzek, a dweller at an Austrian sanatorium, is unexpectedly pulled into a live broadcast interview. Previously a director himself and once an assistant to Pabst, Wilzek now battles dementia, his confusion evident during the interview. It concludes abruptly when Wilzek refutes the existence of a supposed missing film by Pabst, “The Molander Case,” allegedly filmed towards the end of World War II. Kehlmann mentions in acknowledgments that little is known about the making of this film, leaving openings for the author’s creative interpretation.

In Kehlmann’s storytelling, the narrative frequently switches between different characters’ viewpoints, creating an unsettling atmosphere. We follow events from Pabst, his wife Trude, son Jakob, Greta Garbo, Kuno Krämer, a captured British writer, Leni Riefenstahl, and Louise Brooks, who are all significant figures in Pabst’s life and work. Interestingly, the British writer provides a personal account of Pabst’s 1943 film “Paracelsus,” while Riefenstahl appears both as an actor and director. Additionally, Brooks is portrayed as Pabst’s greatest love interest.

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If there’s any proof needed that a skilled director, who deeply comprehends human nature and has the ability to convey it effectively, can elevate sensational drama into a form of high art, then the work of G.W. certainly fits the bill.

As the years pass, dreamlike landscapes, movie sets, and Germany’s war-damaged cities start to blend together indistinguishably. In his reflections, Pabst notes that the painted backdrops seemed both real and unreal, similar to something straight out of the most peculiar dreams. In Berlin, he remarks that the edges of houses appeared distorted, while the street below rolled away in a very straight line, extending into an infinite distance – reminiscent of how films looked fifteen years prior.

In a similar vein, when Pabst steps into the Nazi propaganda ministry, its confusing geometric hallways stir memories of a technique he frequently employed in extended tracking shots. Upon meeting the minister, who remains unnamed but is evidently Joseph Goebbels, Pabst perceives him momentarily as two separate individuals. As Pabst approaches the exit, the office door seems to retreat. He discovers that “the room had collapsed upon itself, causing him to walk upside down from the ceiling.

The tense and predictably prefigured mixing up of dreams, movies, and actuality takes place in Prague while filming “The Molander Case”. A band of malnourished prisoners are forced to work as exceptionally compliant movie extras. Shockingly, Wilzek identifies a known face and remarks that “time appears jumbled, like a scrambled reel of film”.

Kehlmann acknowledges Pabst’s explanations appropriately. The director expresses, “What truly matters is creating art in the situations you encounter.” Contrarily, an actor asserts, “One may bend oneself countless times, yet dies but once… It’s just not worth it.” Later on, Pabst states, “Art is perpetually out of sync. It’s pointless when it’s produced. But later, when reflected upon, it’s the sole thing that held significance.

One theme of the book revolves around perception, including things we consciously choose to ignore. Jakob emphasizes, “Look carefully,” as he believes the world blurs together when scrutinized too closely, becoming a chaotic mix where nothing is distinct. However, this may not always be true, as Wilzek, the protagonist, looks closely and his observations compel him to make a moral decision.

In Kehlmann’s epigraph, taken from Heimito von Doderer’s 1966 short story collection “Under Black Stars,” he writes about navigating through an absurdity we were aware of and saw. However, it was this same awareness that kept us alive, while those more deserving than us perished. This reflection on his time offers a disquieting perspective on our own.

Kehlmann’s epigraph from “Under Black Stars” by Heimito von Doderer describes the act of moving along with an absurdity we recognized and witnessed, yet it was this recognition that sustained us while others superior to us were lost. This insight into his era raises concerns about our own time.

Klein is the Forward’s contributing book critic.

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2025-05-04 13:32

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