Elly McDonald

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So Frenchy, so… je ne sais pas: Juste Un Regard (Just One Look) and Tell No One (Ne le dis à personne)

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Tell No One / Ne le dis à personne – intimate times

Harlan Coben is an American crime writer whose novels include Just One Look and Tell No One. Both novels have been adapted by French filmmakers: Just One Look as Juste Un Regard, a six-part TV series (2017), and Tell No One as a film, Ne le dis à personne (2008).

In some respects the two narratives mirror each other.

In Tell No One (which I’ll refer to by its English-language title), one moment a man and his adored wife are enjoying intimate time together, then abruptly she disappears, abducted, ostensibly murdered, till a cryptic email with photo shows up eight years later suggesting the possibility she’s alive. The man pursues a trail of leads, engages in a fierce chase, to find the truth of his marriage.

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Marie-Josée Croze and Francois Cluzet in Tell No One

In Just One Look (for consistency, I’ll stay English title here too), a woman and her adored husband enjoy domestic intimacy one moment, then a photo appears suddenly, and he, too, abruptly disappears, ostensibly deserting the family he loves, till a coded text arrives suggesting he’s been abducted. The woman pursues a trail of lead, engages in fierce chases, to find the truth of her marriage.

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Just One Look / Juste Un Regard – Virginie Ledoyen and Thiérry Neuvic find that troubling photo

The French film adaptation of Tell No One changes Harlan Coben’s original ending. The novelist agrees the French ending is superior, and it is, but I find it amusing that both French adaptations conclude with the recognition that in both cases the wife, on the face of it a paragon, is in fact deeply, Eve-like guilty. The angel is in truth a fallen woman, no matter how sympathetically we might view her circumstances. Cherchez la femme.

It is perhaps no coincidence that the angelic wife in Juste Un Regard is named Eva; in the novel, the character had a different but also arguably symbolic name, Grace, and her married name, the name her husband carries, is ‘Lawson’ – “the law’s son”. In the TV series, the family name, the name Eva married, is ‘Beaufils’ – “beautiful son”. “Beau” (strictly speaking, ‘handsome’) is also the generic first name recruits to the French Foreign Legion traditionally take to preserve their anonymity in their incarnations as colonial military, as in ‘Beau Geste’. This is definitely not coincidence.

Both the film and the TV series are highly watchable, largely thanks to appealing casting. In Just One Look, Eva is played by the delectable Virginie Ledoyen, Everywoman as Everywoman wishes she were. Her husband is Thiérry Neuvic, who I wouldn’t trust at 20 paces. The villain-as-ally is Thiérry Fremont, a French actor also seen in the 2017 French TV series Transferts (Transfer), where he is equally brilliant – my new fave face of evil. The villain-as-villain is Jimmy Jean-Louis, a large menacing Haitian, casting I wasn’t sure about – racial stereotype? – but which works well. (The villain-ally played by red-haired Fremont is written as Chinese in the novel, by the way.)

In Tell No One, the hero is Francois Cluzet, Everyman as Every French Man wishes he were, and the missing wife is an elegant Marie-Josée Croze. (A hitman who in the novel is male and Chinese is in the film female and apparently butch.)

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Virginie Ledoyen and Thiérry Neuvic again, still. Would you trust that man as a husband?

Both films had central premises that made me laugh, an entertained, indulgent laugh. In Just One Look, the plot hinges on a commercial dispute (I’m trying to write that spoiler-free – the nature of the dispute is one I am all too familiar with in my personal history, but which rarely surfaces as the basis for a crime mystery.)

In Tell No One, the plot depends on accepting that husband and wife had been childhood sweethearts, from their first kiss, at primary school age; that there never was or could be anyone else, for either of them; and that after eight years, with his wife’s body ostensibly identified and buried, the husband was still in perpetual mourning.

I’ve known a few French men. I like them very much. I get that the French are romantic and sentimental. It is also the case, without wishing to plunge too far into national stereotypes, that the French men I have known are entirely capable of being romantically in love with one woman while concurrently sexually involved with other women. But that would make for a very different film.

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Francois Cluzet. Chasing the truth.


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Preachy-creepy – slaughter and social conscience in Nordic Noir

Midnight Sun / Midnattssol / Jour Polaire (Swedish-French 2016), Modus Season 1 (Swedish 2015), The Bridge Season 4 (Bron / Broen, Danish-Swedish 2017), Spring Tide Season 1 (Springfloden, Swedish 2016), Before We Die (Innan Vi Dör, Swedish 2017)

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Kjell Bergqvist and Julia Ragnarsson in Spring Tide

We surely have to wonder why it is that so much of our prime-time TV entertainment is stories about serial killers and repulsive murders, fictional and ‘true life’.

I’m not going there here and now. There’s a book, or a thesis, or both, in that inquiry.

Suffice to say for many years I’ve tried to avoid the serial killer thriller genre. Recently however I’ve been out of sorts. It’s been cold and I’ve been angry. It’s felt timely to check out a few TV offerings on the darker side.

I’ve blogged about TV sci-fi thrillers Transfer (Transferts, French 2017) and Counterpart (US 2018) – ‘Losing My Religion: Two short TV reviews’. I’ve blogged about the morality of the Norwegian series Monster (2017) – ‘Review: TV series – Monster’. I’ve blogged about terrorist thrillers Greyzone (Gråzon, Danish-Swedish-German 2018), Blue Eyes (Blå ögen, Swedish 2014), Below the Surface (Gidseltagningen, Danish 2017) and Next of Kin (UK 2018) – ‘The TV Terrorist in Western Europe – a short review’.

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Here, some oddments: Midnight Sun (Midnattssol / Jour Polaire, Swedish-French 2016), Modus, the first season (Swedish 2015), and Spring Tide (Springfloden, Swedish 2016), linked by that insistence on inventively gruesome killings, and by a strange – to my mind – preachiness.

My problem with these TV series is that I’m not sure setting fictional murders against the backdrops of worthy social issues makes up for exploiting voyeuristic appetites for sadistic slaughter.

Midnight Sun takes place in and around a mining town in northern Sweden. It’s a tale about the awful consequences that ensue when corporations and communities disregard, despise, an Indigenous culture, in this case the Sami peoples of far north Sweden. It’s a plea for greater awareness and understanding of surviving Indigenous cultures.

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Jakob Hultcrantz Hansson and Leila Bekhti in Midnight Sun

Modus is, I assume, short for ‘modus operandi’ (Latin, “way of operating”), its lead character being a crime suspect profiler. Season 1 is a tale about the awful consequences when an insular culture overseas, in this case in America, demonises a society whose values it abhors, in this case that society being Sweden, and the despised value being tolerance. It’s a plea to unite against homophobia.

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Marek Oravec in Modus

Spring Tide starts with an horrific sadistic killing, which does lead to other killings, but doesn’t fit the template of the one-sadistic-killing-piled-on-another narrative. It’s a tale of more awful consequences of international corporations behaving unethically (another mining company). It’s a plea for inclusivity, a fable about valuing the contributions of those who might be seen as outsiders: the homeless, the petty crims and prostitutes, the alcoholics, drug abusers, the mentally ill, the very young, and those still in training. The investigative team in Spring Tide could not crack this cold case without the input of people on the margins.

I watched these three series along with another so-called Nordic Noir series: The Bridge Season 4 (Bron / Broen, Danish-Swedish co-production 2018).

The Bridge S4 shares with Midnight Sun and Modus S1 a similar narrative structure: a sequence of exceptionally horrific, sadistic killings. But it is not built on a social agenda e.g. Indigenous rights, LGBTQI rights. (I assume readers are aware the lead investigator in The Bridge series is a woman with Neuraldiversity autism. I do not see the agenda of The Bridge S4 as a plea for awareness and understanding of Neuraldivergent persons.)

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Sofia Helin and Thure Lindhardt in The Bridge S4

If The Bridge S4 has a social message, it’s as broad as Parents, love and protect your kids. Oh – and cults. As with Modus S1, there’s a takeaway here – beware of cults. I enjoyed The Bridge S4 significantly more than the other series discussed here so far. I found it more emotionally affecting. It rang more true to me.

I did like aspects of Spring Tide. I like that it rejects the usual Nordic Noir visual palette of overcast greys in favour of a spring aesthetic: pinks (magenta, fuchsia) and greens. I enjoyed the fresh appearance of the young lead actress, Julia Ragnarsson.

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Julia Ragnarsson in Spring Tide

Midnight Sun? Not a lot I liked (oh ok, Gustav Hammarsten as investigator Anders Harnesk). Modus S1? I liked the evolving partnership of the lead investigators. I liked it even better in Modus S2 (which has the added drawcards of Kim Cattrall playing the USA’s first female president, and English actor Greg Wise playing a nightmare abusive ex-lover).

In point of fact perhaps my favourite recent Nordic Noir was Before We Die (Innan Vi Dör, Swedish 2017), which doesn’t feature freaky grotesque staged murders at all but is instead a family drama-crime ring infiltrator thriller where people are shot and people are knifed in frankly routine ways.

But the plot worked.

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Alexej Manvelov and Adam Palsson in Before We Die


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Losing my religion – two short TV reviews

Transfer (Transferts, French TV series 2017) and Counterpart (USA TV series 2017)

Transferts (Transfer): this French TV series is brilliant.

Identity, mind-body, religion, politics, love, loyalty, corruption, bioscience, the future. French philosophy. And one very creepy – but strangely endearing – ‘little girl’ with a gun.

Am I entertained? Ooh yeah.

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Alexis Loret and Arieh Wortholter in Transferts

In the not so distant future, kind family man Florian wakes from a 5-year coma to find his consciousness has been transferred into the muscly body of special forces cop Sylvain – illegally.

While Florian’s consciousness slept, consciousness transfer technology has been medically developed “for therapeutic purposes,” to enable individuals with terminal illness or incapacitating disability to transfer their beings into the bodies of donors on life-support. The technology is frighteningly simple – some gel goop, some basic equipment – and perhaps inevitably, a black market has emerged, where individuals are choosing to transfer into other bodies for reasons narcissistic, frivolous and criminal, and black marketeers are none too scrupulous about how those other bodies are sourced.

Within two years the technology is outlawed, not least due to pressure from the Catholic Church and its French offshoot, a C21st technology-led mega-cult led by the politically ambitious Père Luc. “Transfers”, people who have undergone the procedure, must present themselves to the authorities to be branded and confined for life in a medical facility with amenities some compare to a holiday resort.

The transfer process has been banned not simply on ethical grounds but because some ‘transfers’ experience reversion – an unstable and potentially dangerous state where their consciousness starts to split and psychosis occurs.

‘Transfers’ who do not hand themselves in are hunted down by a paramilitary squad called the BATI. Florian’s misfortune (among several) is that Sylvain, his host body, was/is a brutal “hero” of the BATI. Woops.

Meanwhile, a sociopathic rogue transfer has commandeered the body of a small girl, and has a malevolent interest in Florian/Sylvain. Sometimes it might be easier to simply, um, die.

Transferts has been compared, frequently, to the Netflix series Altered States, which I’m given to understand is overtly futuristic and heavy on special effects and technological references. Transferts is not like that.

Instead, it’s concerned with the implications of consciousness transfer for human relationships, personal relationships. If my spouse changes body, will I still have sexual chemistry with that person? If another consciousness commandeers my child, can I love that entity? Within my sphere of intimate relationships, what is my hierarchy of priorities, in terms of who matters most to me, in extremis? (The philosophical dilemma of the rescuer with the boat.) If I change physicality radically, into a wholly different body, do I remain me?

If I no longer remain who I was, what am I? Am I a threat?

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Pili Groyne in Transferts

In fact the previous TV series Transferts reminds me of most is the UK series Ultraviolet (1998), memorable for introducing me to the work of actors Idris Elba, Stephen Moyer and Jack Davenport, but even more notable for rescuing the vampire genre from George Hamilton and ‘Love At First Bite’ and making soul-suckers really REALLY terrifying again. As they have remained since.

Ultraviolet had only the most basic special effects. Its impact relied on that ice in the soul the viewer experienced witnessing human and inhuman betrayals. Transferts has hardly any special effects; but it has that vampiric ice. Set in a city that in most respects seems like any contemporary European city, in Transferts it’s only occasional moments – ‘conferencing’ by hologram, the transfer technology – that remind us this is a future.

Like Ultraviolet, it touches on current, contemporary issues that raise ethical debate. In Ultraviolet, these issues included child abuse under cover of the Church, church-state collaboration, the status of ‘the Human’ and the status of the Other, and sustainability. In Transferts, issues raised include relations between State, Church and cult (again), the ‘rights’ and integrity (or otherwise) of the human mind-body-spirit, and also gender identity, and life extension technologies.

I’ve watched the six episodes of Tranferts Season 1. Now I’m hoping, hard, a Season 2 will be announced.

Not quite as OMG as Transfer but still intriguing: Counterpart, featuring a virtuoso turn – or virtuoso turns – by J.K. Simmons, a swarmy Harry Lloyd, and the bitterly beautiful Olivia Williams, a 50 y.o. actress willing to play ageing but devastating.

Sci-fi meets Cold War meets noir.

In Counterpart, Howard (J.K. Simmons) is shocked to learn the workplace where he’s held a low-level desk-bound paper-shuffler’s job for 30 years is a portal to a parallel world, a world which split from Our Side in 1997.

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Harry Lloyd and J.K. Simmons in Counterpart

For the first five years the two worlds developed along closely similar lines. Then, a pandemic hit the Other Side, killing millions. The Other Side believes Our Side developed and released the pandemic deliberately, to destroy them. Secret diplomatic relations uneasily contain the parallel stasis, but extremists have no patience with diplomacy and the balance is about to be seriously unsettled.

The entertaining conceit of Counterpart is that for each of us alive on Our Side, there is, or was, a counterpart on their side. Until Howard meets his counterpart, no counterparts have ever – officially – met. But what happens if counterparts substitute for their Other? What happens when counterparts collide?

This is another series with some interesting philosophical questions at its heart about identity. It’s played for entertainment, and thank god for that, but yeah: it’s smarter than the average Other Worlds.

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Olivia Williams in Counterpart


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The TV Terrorist in Western Europe – a short review

Greyzone / Gråzon (Danish/Swedish/German, 2018), Blue Eyes / Blå ögen (Swedish, 2017), Next of Kin (UK, 2018), Below the Surface / Gidseltagningen (Danish, 2017)

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If popular entertainment re-presents contemporary social anxieties in fictionalized form, a rash of TV drama series unfolding narratives of terror attacks is to be expected. Hell, even if it’s simpler – as simple as TV production money invests in shows that echo other recent hits – it’s expected, in the wake of the US hit Homeland, that TV series about terrorism and counter-terrorism will proliferate.

In among the dramas about serial killers, I have recently binge-watched a number of European TV series that try to engage with terrorism and related issues. Several of them are highly effective as TV entertainment, as thrillers.

How are they as social commentary?

Next of Kin, from the UK (and not to be confused with the UK sitcom Next of Kin), is the most didactic. It’s beautifully produced, dutifully acted, and comes across like an extended public service announcement: families, if you see ANY SIGN of your loved ones, or those within your ambit, behaving in ways that might raise suspicions they have been or are being radicalized, TELL THE POLICE NOW, TELL THEM EVERYTHING, DO NOT HOLD BACK – because look what a mess this could make of your family and your life. This could destroy EVERYTHING.

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Archie Panjabi in Next of Kin (UK, 2018)

I have no quarrel with that message, by the way. The circumstances of the family that comes to grief (literally) in Next of Kin are so mundane that the point is plain: this could happen to almost any family (any family within a community where terrorist recruiters prey). And I repeat: as a thriller, it’s effective, albeit a hybrid domestic soap-thriller, pitched, I suspect, primarily at the women and teens.

The Swedish TV series Blues Eyes (Blå ögen) similarly functions as a warning against youth radicalization, although in this instance the radicals and terrorists are Right Wing activists and Neo-Nazis. Blue Eyes offers a much more complex take on who is vulnerable to radicalization and/or involvement in terrorist activities, and why, than does Next of Kin.

It also offers a more complex take on the power structures within which terrorist events occur. In Next of Kin, it’s ultimately about corrupt or unethical transactions at the level of global big business and government: it’s about foreign trade and investment. Blue Eyes would not dispute that, but it does map out in much more detail how this might operate.

I’ve seen Blue Eyes compared to House of Cards (the US version) and to the Danish TV series Borgen, both of which explore the compromises and corruptions of institutions of government, incorporating hefty doses of fictionalized violent crime. It’s a fair comparison.

Personally, I found the political shenanigans strand of Blue Eyes far less compelling than the plot strand following radicalized youth. Blue Eyes is left wide open for a Season 2. I’m up for that.

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Karin Frank Korlof and Adam Lundgren in Blue Eyes / Blå ögen (Swedish, 2017)

Two other series, Greyzone / Gråzon (a Danish/Swedish/German co-production) and Below the Surface / Gidseltagningen (Danish), do engage centrally with why individuals become terrorists but from a somewhat different perspective: where in Next of Kin and Blue Eyes, we follow the trajectories of young people being radicalized within their home communities in Britain and Sweden respectively, in both Greyzone and Below the Surface the main antagonists are men made murderous as adults in consequence of violence in lands far from Europe.

Greyzone and Below the Surface both make the point, strongly, that the violence that drives these men was perpetrated in consequence of decisions made by Western governments, generally – or at least tacitly – supported by their Western citizens.

Greyzone and Below the Surface raise much more troubling questions about guilt and innocence, about proportional response, about revenge and forgiveness. It’s hard to avoid the language of religion when discussing these two narratives, even briefly. Both series can be viewed as a mea culpa, and both resolve with reference to sacrifice and redemption.

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Johannes Lassen in Below the Surface / Gidseltagningen (Danish, 2017)

Of these four TV series, I liked Blue Eyes and Greyzone best, but my pick is Greyzone. IMHO, Greyzone is a very superior thriller, for multiple reasons. It addresses terrorism, but it simultaneously refers to wider structures of violence and oppression: it focuses on a female protagonist largely within a domestic environment, and parallels with domestic violence occasionally spark a charge of their own.

Sometimes it called to mind for me the 1960s thriller The Collector (book by John Fowles, film directed by William Wyler). In the film The Collector, Terence Stamp and Samantha Eggar enact the struggle that is misogyny. In Greyzone, actors Ardalan Esmaili and Birgitte Hjort Sorensen face off as man v woman as much as terrorist v victim or victim v weaponries industry oppressor.

In The Collector, the outcome – and implied sequel – is as we might expect in a novel written in 1963. In Greyzone, the relationships, and the story those relationships weave, are less predictable: more nuanced, more complex.

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Brigitte Hjort Sorensen and Ardalan Esmaili in Greyzone / Gråzon (Danish/Swedish/German, 2018)


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Review: TV series – Monster (Norway, 2017)

Monster (2017) – TV series, set in northernmost Norway.

This is a Norway to make its tourism board wince. This is a contemporary Norway that makes it self-explanatory why menfolk went a-viking during the winter months, a Norway where gods of war and mayhem and the two-faced goddess Hel still hold sway.

This is a Norway of grotesques, where almost everyone is decaying, ugly, distorted, misshapen, spiritually if not physically. The grotesque is so defiantly presented it’s stated as the norm: See this? THIS? THIS is normal, hereabouts.

Overlaid on this landscape of casual and purposeful violence is a dark form of Christianity, embodied in an isolated sect and pervading the narrative.

Mankind (woman too) is fallen. We are all flawed, all guilty. We are all exposed to the Devil and we all flail about, blindly reaching for salvation, whatever form that may take.

Who or what is the “Monster”?

Monster is a different Nordic-Noir, or Scandi-Noir. It’s even bleaker, and in some respects experimental. There are sequences where the physical choreography of the human body is the point. There are sequences that are Theatre of the Absurd.

Monster is not easy viewing. It’s a rejection of our television norms: the actors (with conspicuous exceptions) do not look like TV actors, the characters defy sympathy. Things don’t turn out the ways we might assume.

Loose ends are scattered like nooses, which might presage a Season 2. I hope not. I think the tale left it just where it was meant to, with those ugly odd bits provocatively on display.


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After viewing Philippe Mora’s film Monsieur Mayonnaise (2016)

Monsieur Mayonnaise: Philippe Mora’s colour-saturated documentary/memoir/graphic novel/cartoon about how his parents Georges and Mirka survived the Holocaust to introduce European bohemian culture to post-War Melbourne, Australia.

And how Gunther Morawski became Georges Morand then Mora then Monsieur Mayonnaise then Georges Mora; or, how Gunther Morawski became a Resistance hero, father substitute to Jewish war orphans, people smuggler, and impersonator of Catholic nuns (in company with best mate Marcel Marceau).

Some of my responses:- with apologies to Philippe Mora and his family for details I’ve recalled wrongly or that should have been included but are not. I hope the Mora family will forgive me for borrowing some of their images and artwork for this blog.

[SPOILER ALERT: If you plan to see Monsieur Mayonnaise this response might be best read AFTER viewing. On the other hand, it’s the Holocaust – you know how that unfolded. Don’t you?]

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Artwork by Philippe Mora for his graphic novel Monsieur Mayonnaise

One morning Leon Zelik left his Paris apartment to buy a newspaper. While he was out, soldiers arrived and took his wife and his three daughters, Mirka, Madeleine and Salome.

The women were herded onto a train along with 1000 other Jews, mostly women and children. They were terrified. As the train rattled along, Mme Zelik and Mirka, her eldest daughter, peered through the wooden slats of their crate-carriage, strained to identify signage at train stations they passed.

The mother had had the presence of mind to grab a sheet of paper, a pen and an envelope from their apartment as they were taken. Now, she wrote the names of each train station in sequence. She folded the page into the unstamped envelope, which she addressed to her husband, Leon Zelik, at their street address.

She directed Mirka to drop the sealed envelope through the crate cracks as the train slowed. Mirka was frightened it would blow back onto the tracks.

They were disembarked at a massive holding centre. Four days before their contingent were scheduled to be shunted to Auschwitz, guards came and released them. As Mirka looked back towards the camp she saw the other detainees crowded against the fences, the children big-eyed, watching the Zelik family retreat to freedom.

In later years Mirka said the big eyes in the faces of the doomed children were the genesis of the angel children she painted throughout her life. She said the guilt pained her. Telling this, she cried.

Someone had found the addressed envelope, stamped it, and mailed it to Leon in Paris. From the list of train stations, Leon worked out the camp where his family were held. He convinced a clothing manufacturer to request that the Zelik women be released on the grounds that the mother was a required worker manufacturing German army uniforms. A lie, but it worked.

In later years, Mirka thanked that anonymous person who found her mother’s letter, every day, life long.

Mme Zelik, Mirka, Madeleine and Salome were the only survivors of the Jewish detainees on that transport. I have/had a mental blank on The Mother’s name. Wiki says she’s “Celia (Suzanne)” but in his film Philippe Mora refers to her by what I think must be a Lithuanian petname or diminutive.

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Mirka Mora with angel children

There’s a sequel: by chance Leon met a French farm worker, a Christian, who offered the Zelik family sanctuary. In his village was a house locked up while its owner was a prisoner of war. The Zeliks spent 2 1/2 years there. The Frenchman’s daughter says her father never questioned that providing sanctuary was the right – the only – thing to do.

I won’t recount Georges story here. I can’t get his story out of my mind, and have been telling it to almost everyone I meet. But every time I tell it, I cry, and the people I tell it to cry too.

Suffice to say there’s a 92 y.o man on film who says he became an eminent New York child psychiatrist because Mora and his Resistance colleagues saved his life, because Mora cared, and because he wanted to be like Mora: to save children. Even if it meant dressing up as a nun and trekking Jewish war orphans to the Swiss frontier, a la The Sound of Music. In company with the famous mime Marcel Marceau. (No, even in New York none of this is required of child psychiatrists. This is what French Resistance operative code-name Mora did.)

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Georges Mora clips his son Philippe’s hair

In Philippe Mora’s film he visits a museum memorializing child victims of the Holocaust deported from France (not the famous Holocaust Museum in the States – I googled but could not identify this museum). The interior walls seem to be lit with a low golden glow and have what appear to be timber vertical divides and, less prominent, horizontal divides, so that the walls suggest a panel of spaces for portraits or icons. Many of the spaces are filled by photographs of children who died, with their name and (I think) age. The spaces left empty are ones where no photograph has been located. I believe in this museum there are 6000 framed spaces.

Aesthetically it’s beautiful. Emotionally, it’s devastating.

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Artwork by Philippe Mora for his graphic novel Monsieur Mayonnaise

My father shocked me today when he asked if pogroms predated Hitler. He seemed to think anti-Semitism started in post-WW1 Germany. I can only think this is cognitive slippage in old age and illness, as Dad, having been a child in the ’30s, went on to be a student of economics, politics and modern history.

Yet knowledge of modern history is vanishing, replaced by Hollywood distortions (Inglourious Basterds), denial, and a galloping cynicism that buys into conspiracy theories and a belief that everything we’ve been told is propaganda.

When I was 22, in 1983, I went to an adult education course where my classmates included 3 older women, post-WW2 Jewish refugees. Two spoke with heavy accents and the third, after 35 years in Australia, barely spoke English at all. Her friends explained she rarely ventured outside the Jewish emigre community.

I asked if they’d encountered anti-Semitism in their early years in Australia.

“Oh darling,” one woman laughed. “No. People here didn’t know what a Jew WAS.”

I suppose part of the problem is when we can’t admit our ignorance, and *think* we “know” the stranger.

Openness to learn is more important than ever. But in a media age, what media do we trust?

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George Mora. Monsieur Mayonnaise.

My friend Donna says, “I was married into a Jewish family for 32 years. The matriarch pulled the address labels off of every magazine that came to the house (the goyim see the name and know that is a Jewish household), and no one talked about illnesses or diseases except in very hushed voices (the government takes the weak first)… that was not uncommon in the WWII generation, but they are slowly dying off, and the younger folks have no idea..”

“George Mora’s” two sons had no idea he was really Gunther Morawitz, German-born, medical student at Leipzig University, native German speaker, until his last years; and no idea why he wouldn’t step into a VW or Mercedes-Benz or use Krupp appliances.

When I was at school I had teachers who were Holocaust survivors. Exposure to first-hand witnesses is invaluable. We’re losing them.

Remembering snow (1986)

Rosa says

I remember snow

When I was a girl I lived

in Siberia

There was so much snow so

much

we skated on a river of ice

Mrs Cameron

born Roth

40,916: tattooed in blue

teaches art

forgets

she remembers.

Don’t ask.

But

Mrs Zabukovec

gypsy eyes

teaches German

born Bulgarian

she remembers

being 18

in Berlin

being 18

Russians

she remembers.

Don’t.

She remembers

long rows of blossoms, white-clustered blossoms

so white so

much breaks

down

 

remembering snow

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