4.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for violence, disturbing images, brief sexuality, nudity and moments of extreme dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 3.31.17
I marvel at the wealth of
previously undisclosed stories that continue to emerge from the Holocaust,
particularly with respect to the bravery of ordinary citizens who risked their
lives while defying Nazi oppressors.
 |
| As Antonina (Jessica Chastain, seated on the stool) and her son Ryszard (Timothy Radford) enjoy a rare peaceful moment with the Jewish refugees concealed in their basement — from left, Magda (Efrat Dor), Urszula (Shira Haas) and Regina (Martha Issova) — they're startled by an unexpected knock at the front door, upstairs. |
New Zealand director Niki Caro,
whose thoughtful and sensitive films have included The Whale Rider and North
Country, has delivered an equally compelling adaptation of poet/naturalist
Diane Ackerman’s 2007 nonfiction book, The
Zookeeper’s Wife. The resulting drama, anchored by Jessica Chastain’s
luminescent starring performance, is touching, suspenseful and at times
flat-out horrific, revealing yet another layer of atrocities committed in
pursuit of Nazi “cleansing” and “species enhancement.”
Ackerman’s book was constructed
primarily from the unpublished diary of Antonina Żabińska (played here by Chastain), who with her husband Jan (Johan Heldenbergh) directed Poland’s
unexpectedly progressive Warsaw Zoo during the years leading up to World War
II. Most of the animals were kept not in cages but in habitats resembling their
natural environments; numerous critters also wandered among or even lived in
the spacious, cheerfully chaotic on-site home with Antonina, Jan and their
young son Ryszard (Timothy Radford).
The fascinating complexity of
Chastain’s performance is immediately apparent. On the surface Antonina seems
vulnerable, slightly withdrawn and oddly fragile: a woman not quite comfortable
with the trappings and protocols of so-called refined society. But in the
company of the zoo’s wildlife she blossoms into something transcendent: an
empathetic “animal whisperer” practically capable of communicating with all the
birds and beasts.
We eventually learn the reason
for Antonina’s wariness: She’s a Russian-born Pole, and as a child saw her
parents killed by Bolsheviks during the Russian Revolution. Trust does not come
easily, which also explains her greater comfort among animals.
The Żabińska’s social life is lively,
varied and bohemian, their circle of friends including artists, professionals
and intellectuals, many of them Jewish. The subtle viper in their midst is Lutz
Heck (Daniel Brühl), a colleague who visits frequently in his capacity as
director of the Berlin Zoo. Even in these early scenes, there’s something
predatory about Heck’s gaze, particularly when it lingers on Antonina; it feels
as if Brühl’s eyes turn reptilian and beady.
Antonina makes the rounds of the
zoo each morning on a bicycle, a young camel trotting alongside
enthusiastically. Should a particular critter appear to desire company or need
assistance, Antonina will kick off her shoes before entering the habitat
barefoot, like some sort of forest-born wild child.
None of this is the slightest bit
affected or risible under Caro’s careful guidance, and Angela Workman’s finely
tuned script. Nobody here channels the childish fantasy of Doctor Dolittle; if Antonina has any cinematic ancestor, it would
be Audrey Hepburn’s mysterious Rima, in the 1959 adaptation of William Henry
Hudson’s Green Mansions.
Given this idyllic prologue, the
sudden crisis — which we anticipate and dread — is the very definition of
shocking. The 1939 Nazi invasion begins with a devastating airplane bombardment
of Warsaw, which all but destroys the zoo and kills many of the animals;
others, roaming the streets in panic, are cornered and destroyed by fearful
soldiers.
Caro doesn’t linger on any of
this, but nonetheless presents enough to rip at our heartstrings; it’s a brutal
sequence, very difficult to watch, and likely to prompt lingering nightmares in
sensitive viewers. The subtle worst is yet to come: the reappearance of Heck,
now bedecked in Nazi finery as the Reich’s newly appointed chief zoologist.
Trading on his “friendship” with Antonina, he persuades her to let him
transport the remnants of their wildlife population to the Berlin Zoo, where
they’ll be “safe.”
Knowing that her beloved friends
likely would be slaughtered for meat if they remain in Warsaw, she agrees ...
much to Jan’s displeasure, who has long mistrusted Heck. The latter’s desire
for the Żabińska’s
bovine herd is particularly pernicious; he hopes, through selective breeding,
to resurrect the centuries-extinct aurochs, extremely powerful bison once
common in German forests.
(And there’s a chilling slice
of Nazi Aryan ideals that I’d not previously encountered.)
When the Jewish population is
rounded up and imprisoned in the notoriously squalid Warsaw Ghetto, practically
within shouting distance of the zoo, Jan can remain idle no longer. The
terrified Antonina, recalling the Bolsheviks all too well, initially balks at
her husband’s dangerously audacious plan. But her compassionate instincts take
over when she’s confronted by cruelly mistreated two-legged sufferers who — as
with her former four-legged charges — are equally desperate for the balm of
kind treatment.
What follows next is nothing
short of amazing, for all sorts of reasons.
Some assumptions are easy to
make. We wouldn’t be watching a dramatization of Jan and Antonina Żabińska if their efforts had
concluded in total tragedy. That said, this is not (yet) a familiar story, and
thus we’ve no idea how this may have cost them: the point at which their
reliance on Heck’s comparatively protective embrace may dissolve, as the
civility demanded by his aristocratic breeding is progressively eradicated by
the authoritarian ferocity of his role in the Reich’s “new world order.”
Although Chastain’s incandescent performance anchors the film, she’s
well supported on all sides, most particularly by Brühl. His reading of Heck is
precise and appropriately condescending, but with a weakness. We can see, from
Brühl’s body language, that he considers the Żabińskas his inferiors — even
though they’re not Jewish — and yet he’s helpless around Antonina. This isn’t
accidental; Chastain, in turn, makes it clear that Antonina is manipulating
Heck with the blend of patience and guile that she employs with any wild
animal. The resulting dynamic is fascinating.
Heldenbergh gives Jan a gruff exterior that belies his intelligence and
training as a renowned scientist, agricultural engineer and zoologist (which,
to be sure, had a great deal to do with the Żabińskas being allowed to maintain
the remnants of their zoo). And while we’ve no doubt of the grim determination
that fuels Jan’s embrace of the underground Polish Resistance, we also grieve
at the pain in Heldenbergh’s eyes, as he watches his wife tolerate
uncomfortable liberties by Heck.
Israeli actress Shira Haas delivers a powerful and heartbreaking
performance as Urszula, a character created for the film, who represents all
the orphaned Jewish girls who were abused even more dreadfully, once in the ghetto
and subject to the whims of thuggish Nazi soldiers. Caro extracts impressively
shaded work from Haas, who turns Urszula into a frightened animal possibly
beyond even Antonina’s powers of resurrection.
Efrat Dor is similarly memorable, with her quieter handling of
Magdalena (Magda) Gross, an esteemed Polish-Jewish sculptress — and close
friend of the Żabińskas — who was famed for her earth-toned animal depictions:
artwork inspired by her lengthy visits to the Warsaw Zoo, prior to the Nazi
invasion.
Production designer Suzie Davies makes our initial exposure to the
Warsaw Zoo a radiant, breathtaking experience, re-creating an animal Shangri-La
that would be the envy of many of today’s zoos. The post-bombardment remnants
are that much more shattering, for our awareness of the innovative beauty that
has been lost. And, needless to say, our visits to the Warsaw Ghetto are
similarly distressing for their verisimilitude.
Workman’s script, while reasonably accurate with respect to what we see
on the screen, compresses time and details, and takes liberties with the
complexities of what the Żabińskas accomplished in six harrowing years. The
saga’s foundation and opening acts — up to the construction of the Warsaw
Ghetto — are better crafted than the third act, which feels rushed. Jan’s
involvement with the Polish Resistance also was much broader, and began far
sooner, than this film suggests.
These aren’t crippling issues, but it’s clear that this story could
have benefited from long-form miniseries treatment.
Harry Gregson-Williams’ orchestral score is as sensitive, restrained
and precise as Caro’s direction: At no point does the music — or film — slide
into maudlin sentimentality.
The intent of
all concerned clearly was to depict Jan and Antonina Żabińska with the respect
that Stephen Spielberg accorded Oskar Schindler, and if The Zookeeper’s Wife doesn’t quite achieve the unforgettable power
of Schindler’s List, it certainly
belongs in that classic’s honorable company.
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