Blogical Conclusion

LITTLE MEN

OCT 31, 2009 – WITHOUT FOREKNOWLEDGE FROM the much-acclaimed source novel by Günter Grass, what does one make of the absurdist, borderline-surreal occurrences in its film adaptation? Does little Oskar (David Bennent) decide to stop growing, at the age of three, because he doesn’t want to be a grownup like those around him, none of whose footsteps are worth following, or is his stunted growth a metaphoric nudge in the direction of the Nazi party, whose growth would go on to stunt Germany? Does Oskar keep banging on his tin drum as an outsider (namely, to drown out the warmongering) or as an insider (wherein he keeps rhythm to the horrible happenings)? Is his scream, which is capable of shattering glass, the collective cry of innocents reeling under all this savagery, or is it representative of the din of hatemongering? The director doesn’t tell us.

What he does, instead, is show us, through this decidedly out-of-the-normal film, how just about nothing (and nobody) was normal at the time – even children. When Oskar’s mother Agnes (Angela Winkler) is in labour, the fully-formed foetus peers uncertainly from inside the womb, past the slivers of blood and tissue and pulsating muscle. Had Oskar not been forced out, he might have opted to stay in forever. As soon as Agnes sets eyes on her son, she exclaims, “When little Oskar is three years old, he shall have a tin drum.” And Oskar tells us, “Only the prospect of the tin drum prevented me from expressing more forcefully my desire to return to the womb.” (He adds, with the crack timing of a standup comic, “Besides, my umbilical cord had been cut.”)

Other children find him fascinating at first. They delight in the destructive capabilities of his scream, which splinters street lamps and vexes grownups. But he’s too odd for them to really accept him, which is possibly why they force-feed him a soup made of spit and urine and live frogs caught from the pond. They may be of the same size – Oskar and the other children – but they’re very different. But when his parents take him to the circus, Oskar, for the first time, sets eyes on people who are of the same size and also similar in other ways. At first, it’s just two dwarf clowns doing their shtick. “What’s wrong with you?” the first clown asks the second, whose head is covered with a piece of cloth. The latter replies, “I suffer from an illness.” He whips off the cloth and reveals a bird. He moans, “I’ve gone birdbrained!

Oskar registers his approval by banging on his drum. The ringmaster announces, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the smallest of the small: Bebra and his midgets!” Oskar watches enthralled as Bebra (Fritz Hakl), during his routine, runs his hand over glasses of water and produces eerily mournful sounds. The crowd applauds. Bebra bows, and when he looks up, his eyes land on Oskar. His gaze lingers on Oskar a little longer than it would on an average audience member. Some sort of connection appears to have been established – and perhaps Oskar senses this as well. After the show, he wanders to the vicinity of the performers’ living quarters. Bebra climbs down the steps of his caravan and observes, “My word! Now it’s three-year-olds who choose to stop growing.”

Even before Oskar has spoken a word, Bebra seems to know about him. But Bebra knows Oskar knows nothing about him, so he introduces himself. “My name is Bebra. Directly descended from Prince Eugene, whose father was Louis XIV, and not some Savoyard, as has been claimed. I stopped my growth on my tenth birthday. Better late than never.” They shake hands. Bebra says, “Tell me, my dear Oskar, you must be 14 or 15 now.” Oskar replies, “Twelve and a half.” Bebra asks, “And how old do you think I am?” Oskar mulls over the matter for a moment. “Thirty-five.” Bebra laughs. “Flatterer! I was 35 once. I shall be 53 in August. I could be your grandfather. Are you an artist too?” Oskar replies, “Not really. Although, as you see, I can lay claim to a certain artistry.” He belts out a scream that shatters light bulbs.

Bebra is impressed. “You must join us.” Oskar hesitates. “You know, Mr. Bebra, to tell the truth, I prefer to be a member of the audience and let my little art flower in secret.” Ah, so in the Germany of the time, he’d rather be audience than actor; he’d rather watch than do. So perhaps his small size is, after all, indicative of the little people, the common people who simply watched as giant bullies took over their nation. Bebra cautions, “Our kind must never sit in the audience. Our kind must perform and run the show, or it’s the others that will run us. And the others are coming. They will take over the fairgrounds. They will stage torchlight parades. They will build platforms and fill them, and from those platforms preach our destruction.” But before he can go any further, Oskar’s parents arrive and Bebra is forced to bid goodbye. “But we will meet again,” he says. How does he know this? Because, “We’re too little to lose each other.”

Die Blechtrommel (1979, German, Hebrew, Italian, Polish, Russian; aka The Tin Drum). Directed by Volker Schlöndorff. Starring Mario Adorf, Angela Winkler, David Bennent.

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