Five stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity, disturbing images and violence
By Derrick Bang
You’re unlikely to see a more audacious film this year.
The slightest misstep — the most minute mistake in tone — and director/scripter Taika Waititi’s adaptation of Christine Leunens’ Jojo Rabbit would slide into puerile bathos or unforgivably heinous poor taste.
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| Having just discovered that a young woman (Thomasin McKenzie, as Elsa) has been concealed behind the wall of an upstairs bedroom for an unknown length of time, impassioned Hitler Youth acolyte Jojo (Roman Griffin Davis) is uncertain how to handle this potentially dangerous situation. |
Such a delicate tightrope walk … which Waititi maneuvers with impressive grace, skill and cunning.
Along with his unerring handling of a note-perfect cast.
Satires about Adolf Hitler are rare, and for obvious reasons; the very notion is an artistic mine field. Charlie Chaplin pulled it off, with 1940’s The Great Dictator; so did Mel Brooks, with his Oscar-winning script for 1967’sThe Producers. And now we have an even more daring and impudent skewering of the dread Teppichfresser.
Ten-and-a-half-year-old Jojo Betzler (precocious Roman Griffin Davis, in a stunning acting debut) is introduced as he stares at his reflection in a mirror, dressed in Nazi finery. “Today you join the ranks of the Jungvolk!” he proudly tells himself. “You are in peak mental and physical condition. You have the body of a panther, and the mind of … a brainy panther. You are a shiny example of shiny perfection!”
The setting is the quaint (fictitious) town of Falkenheim, Austria, years into the repressive Nazi rule. Although all signs point to the war’s imminent conclusion, the naïve and credulously gullible Jojo has waited to be old enough to embrace the pervasive propaganda against which he has grown up, by joining the Hitler Youth. He and best friend Yorki (Archie Yates, endearingly cherubic) are tremendously excited by the weekend of “training” that will transform them into hard-charging Nazi warriors.
Except that things don’t quite work out that way.
The training camp is overseen by the wearily cynical Capt. Klenzendorf (Sam Rockwell), who’d prefer to lead men to “glorious death” at the front, rather than shepherd “a bunch of little titty-grabbers.” He’s assisted by loyal acolyte Freddie Finkel (Alfie Allen, late of Game of Thrones), far more faithful than intelligent; and Fraulein Rahm (Rebel Wilson, whose deadpan slow takes are to die for), ever-willing to accept and spread the most absurd Nazi myths.
Trouble is, Jojo’s inherently sensitive nature is completely at odds with the Nazi “Aryan ideal” he’s so desperate to mimic. The crunch comes when, as the youngest and clearly most intimidated boy in the group, he’s ordered to demonstrate his ferocity … by killing a rabbit.
Mortified by the outcome of this dare, he flees into the woods, and indulges in another comforting chat with his imaginary friend: a breathtakingly clownish, hare-brained apparition of Hitler himself. But this is the sort of compassionate, patient Hitler that a lonely, fatherless little boy would concoct for inspiration: a surrogate parent who dispenses “advice” that better suits Jojo’s own sensibilities.
Waititi assumes the role of this ersatz Hitler, and to say it’s a defiantly, deliberately undignified portrayal would be an understatement.
At this point, we have the film’s moral core: the emotional turmoil of a child who believes he should be what the world expects, as opposed to following his own nature.
Events at the Jungvolk camp climax explosively and calamitously. Jojo returns home, much to the relief of his mother, Rosie (Scarlett Johansson), a radiantly imaginative, poetic and romantic figure who quietly chafes at the world view her son struggles to imitate, but is wise enough to let him work things out for himself. (Well, with subtle hints along the way.)
Rosie also is somewhat mysterious, a feeling enhanced by Johansson’s ethereal presence. She clearly disapproves of the Nazi subjugation that has eliminated empathy, tolerance and love, but when Jojo questions her on this topic, she replies only vaguely: “I do what I can.” We’re left to read all manner of ambiguity into that response.
Jojo soon resumes his apprenticeship to Klenzendorf, the boy now relegated to far safer (and mostly useless) clerical-type duties. Which is just as well, because his mother never seems to be home. Left to his own devices late one afternoon — alone (or so he thinks) in the multi-storied, wondrously baroque house that his stylish mother has filled with Art Deco touches — Jojo hears an odd noise from the upstairs bedroom that once belonged to his deceased older sister.
Upon closer analysis, he discovers a panel that opens into a cramped crawlspace behind one wall … laden with personal items, a small mattress, and a bedraggled young woman (Thomasin McKenzie, as Elsa).
A young Jewish woman.
Appalled and overwhelmed, Jojo initially assumes that exposing this “creature” is his sworn duty. But Elsa — no stranger to self-preservation — quickly dismisses this notion, pointing out that those who harbor Jews usually are executed alongside them. Which results in a tense stand-off, leaving us to wonder where the heck Waititi is taking us.
Rest assured: someplace utterly beguiling.
Enthralling as it becomes, this complex character dynamic unfolds against Waititi’s relentlessly bold indictment of Nazi extremism via ridicule. No sacred cow is left ungored; the impressionable Jojo, not knowing any better, regards Elsa as the means to verify all the atrociously racist notions he has heard about Jews (the horns and devil tails, the drinking of blood, the mind manipulation, ad nauseam).
Such pronouncements are undeniably shocking, and yet at the same time ridiculous, due to Jojo’s credulous acceptance of same (and Davis’ sublimely ingenuous performance). McKenzie’s work is equally, superbly multi-layered; at first Elsa scornfully acknowledges and even feeds Jojo’s preposterously racist notions, which emphasizes both her own humanity, and the moral bankruptcy of the so-called “Nazi ideal.”
McKenzie never raises her voice, although Elsa’s bitterness is unmistakable, as is the pain in her gaze: the look of somebody who has seen things, suffered things, that no person should endure. But she’s older and wiser than Jojo, and soon realizes — for all his posturing — that his heart isn’t really in what he claims to believe. And, with the passage of time, Jojo similarly comprehends that Elsa is like the rabbit: hardly deserving of the fate decreed by Nazi imperative.
Adolf’s “advice,” in turn, becomes ever more ambiguous.
Waititi also is darkly critical of the ruthless Nazi determination to repel ever-advancing Russian and American troops by mobilizing untrained — and tragically under-weaponed — Falkenheim citizens, alongside the equally unprepared Hitler Youth. This ferociously grim indictment is unrelenting, the tone shifting from absurdist contempt to dark horror in the blink of an eye.
All these characters continually say and do things that are completely unexpected: both shocking and mocking. Jojo’s 10-year-old sensibilities notwithstanding, at times he’s far wiser than any of the adults, and certainly more candidly self-reflective. Rose and Klenzendorf, in turn, are prone to richly elaborate and eloquent pronouncements that one would expect from an opulent stage performance … and yet, along with everything else, work perfectly here.
Rockwell’s performance is marvelously subtle. At first blush, Klenzendorf is as much a clown as Jojo’s Adolf: a strutting martinet with long-suffering sighs and eye-rolling disgust at the imbecility of the children he’s supposed to mold into soldiers. But his incisive gaze misses nothing, particularly with respect to Jojo, and we soon wonder if the “role” he assumes — for the benefit of his Jungvolk camp followers — masks an even greater complexity of character.
Waititi also is a master of the small, delicate moment. One of Jojo’s many failings is the inability to tie his own shoes: a shortcoming that quietly strengthens this story’s deep mother/son bond, each time Rosie cheerfully, lovingly handles this little duty. Later, when asked by Jojo to define love, Rosie exalts the feeling of butterflies in one’s stomach.
Both of these touches — butterflies and shoelaces — will prove powerfully consequential.
Cinematographer Mihai Malaimare Jr.’s defiantly, richly colorful palette reflects the world as Jojo sees it … and is totally (cleverly) at odds with what we normally associate with the bleaker texture demanded by a World War II drama. Indeed, the film’s title credits put us in just that grim frame of mind, with monochrome newsreel footage of Nazi hysteria playing against The Beatles’ German version of “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”
This sets up expectations that are disrupted immediately, as the film begins. And they’re continually disrupted.
That Beatles hit — and similarly incisive, impeccably placed anthems such as David Bowie’s “Heroes” (also in German), Tom Waits’ “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” and Charles Gounod’s “Waltz & Chorus from Faust” — share screen time with Michael Giacchino’s rich, classically European underscore, highlighted by a lengthy suite that reflects the evolution of Jojo’s character.
It must be acknowledged that Waititi’s Jojo Rabbit traces a far different emotional arc than that of Leunens’ novel. Waititi goes for absurdist satire, which informs (and demands) a conclusion far different than the uncompromisingly dark space Leunens inhabits.
In that sense, Waititi’s film is its own passionately individual experience. You’ll laugh and cry in equal measure, with plenty of revulsion and startled disbelief along the way. This is a perfectly crafted masterpiece, with its many disparate threads woven into a luxurious tapestry of emotion.
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