Weronika Peek: Understanding the Nazis

Poland has been endlessly losing World War II ever since 1945. Year by year, film by film, the event that was once so “ours” becomes so much “theirs”. The cinema describing World War II is pensive, uncompromisingly serious, at times brutal, but most of all – overbearing. Every young Pole needs to know that they come from the lost nation. They are equipped with all the knowledge of Westerplatte, German death camps, the “cursed soldiers”, and many others. They carry on their burden, growing up in a country so acutely stigmatised by war, until one day their memory starts to fade.

They remember, of course, for how could they possibly forget? This is the moment, however, when they realise that the burden on their shoulders is imaginary. These worlds don’t exist. Not anymore. Not here and not now. No soldier will ever knock on their door, and no Gestapo will pursue them. The images of all the atrocities become blurry, and desensitization follows. So is there any way to make this kind of narratives more engaging and less overwhelming? It seems like we have finally found one. Enter: Jojo Rabbit.

Though the story arc may sound familiar, one of its elements undoubtedly stands out – and it didn’t take long for the general public to criticise the idea. The controversial premise of the new Taika Waititi’s film has been known for quite some time. It follows the story of a young German boy, Jojo, who dreams with all his might of becoming a Nazi. Unfortunately, Jojo’s loyalty is put to the test when he meets Elsa. The young Jewish girl hides in his attic, and

the boy’s mum helps her survive the war. But here's the twist – throughout the film Jojo is accompanied by a silly imaginary friend – Adolf Hitler himself. The ‘Hitler tease’ became even racier when it was announced that Adolf would be played by no one else but Taika Waititi himself. Casting a Maori-Jew as the most anti-Jewish character in a film described as “an anti-hate satire” seemed like an irredeemable pastiche. Nonetheless, once the project came out, it gathered fairly mixed reviews. Overall, Jojo managed to hit the sweet spot between a light-hearted comedy and a war-drama. It pokes fun at Nazi stereotypes, its humour constantly balancing on the verge of parody, though never crossing the line.

Several reviewers pointed out certain problems with the representation of Nazi Germany. As Nick Schager of the Esquire put it: “Despite its nominal message about turning hate into love, Jojo Rabbit is a work that normalizes Nazis, and thus Nazism, and thus intolerance in general, by alternately saying that it either doesn’t exist, or is cute and amusing and powerless (…)”.

This is only partially true. Indeed, the film is led by the lovable German townsfolk characters, who help Jojo on his way, and yes, the same people somehow contribute to the inner workings of the Nazi system. But maybe that is the point. People all over the world go on with their lives, blissfully unaware of the tragedies happening just a block away. How can we judge them? Nazis should be normalised because after all they were normal people.

Consequently, Nazism in Jojo is not shown as a sinister force, magically influencing people. The real, historical Hitler appears briefly, creeping from posters and leaflets. The whole political system is constructed around and run by the ordinary, background characters. It only takes a glance to see that deep down they disagree with how it works. Nevertheless, they continue to fight and die for their country, even if that goes against their beliefs. The film depicts intolerance in an unconventional way. It is no longer a tool used to manipulate the masses, but the by-product of going with the flow of current politics. Jojo doesn’t long to be a Nazi because he truly hates Jews. In fact, he doesn’t even know how they look like. What seems so flabbergasting to him are the powerful soldiers, awesome uniforms and tanks. Above all – the display of power.

It is not difficult to translate the reality of Jojo into modern terms. The public discourse becomes polarized, neo-Nazi groups are on the rise. Perhaps what we need in such a moment is exactly this. No more haunting postcards of buried bodies. No more ghastly silhouettes of ancestors we haven’t met. We cannot escape the horrid past. What we can do, though, is stray away from its mistakes.

Weronika Peek

Cover illustration: Zofia Klamka