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As long as there are movies about Nazis, there will be movies about the art they looted
Early on in Pascal Bonitzer’s film Auction, Andre (Alex Lutz). a self-serving and sleazy art dealer, is placating a condescending, cruel, and racist art owner. “You have to stop at nothing for a sale,” he tells his intern.
The French film vividly brings to life the deceptive and hypocritical high-stakes world of prestigious art dealers operating in a Parisian universe of money grubbing and bad faith.
Based on a true story, it recounts what transpired in 2005, when a major work by Expressionist artist Egon Schiele, “Wilted Sunflowers,” was discovered in a home in a suburb of Mulhouse, France.
The 1914 painting originally belonged to the Jewish Austrian collector Karl Grunwald and had last been seen in public at the Jeu de Paume in Paris in 1937. In 1938 Grunwald fled Vienna for Paris, saving as many paintings as he could in a storage unit. They were ultimately looted and auctioned off.
Grunwald made it to America, while his wife and children were killed in concentration camps. For the rest of his life he futilely tried to recover his stolen paintings. Following his death in 1964, one of his sons persevered in his late father’s pursuit.
Bonitzer places the Schiele in the home of Martin (Arcadi Radeff) a highly moral, arguably sentimentalized, young factory worker who has no idea of its monetary value or backstory. Concepts of “provenance” are alien to him; he could use some money and just wants to do the right thing. So do the rightful heirs.
The whole story ends on a positive note as the painting gets sold at auction and the young worker is given an equal share in the sale.
It is estimated that more than 600,000 paintings, decorative items and other aesthetically and culturally valued items were summarily stolen from Jews during the War. Approximately, 100,000 have never been recovered.
Auction is only the latest in a long line of works centering on Nazi-looted art.
Perhaps the best known film in this sub-genre is 2015’s The Woman in Gold, which starred Helen Mirren as the patrician Maria Altmann, who works in tandem with her dogged attorney to retrieve six paintings by Gustav Klimt, one of which was a portrait of Maria’s aunt, Adele Bloch-Bauer I.
The Klimts were ripped off by the Nazis during World War II and exhibited in Austria at the Österreichische Galerie Belvedere until 2006. After a lengthy and byzantine legal battle, a number of the works were returned to the Altmann Family, which sold the Adele portrait for $135 million to Ronald Lauder who proudly displays the work in his Neue Galerie.
It would seem axiomatic that any stolen art should be restored to its original owners or, more usually, their heirs. For some, however, it’s a grayer area filled with moral and legal questions, starting with how the work was obtained. Was it purchased in good faith? If the current owners(let’s add “s”) truly didn’t know its origins should they be allowed to keep it? If not, how much compensation, if any, should they receive?
And, more broadly, who should own great art — a private collector or a museum? Doesn’t the public have a right to see great art? Wouldn’t it be better for a museum to have and display the work rather than a family who may hide it in its basement?
One of the most interesting elements in the “Gold” story, which was also addressed in the documentaries Adele’s Wishes and Stealing Klimt was the Austrian government’s contention that Adele, who succumbed to meningitis in 1925, had in fact left the painting to her husband with the stipulation that when he died it would go to the Austrian gallery. Therefore it was rightly theirs.
But if the will existed — and that was debatable — was it legally binding since Adele’s husband was forced to flee the country in the wake of Germany’s annexation of Austria, which Adele had no way of anticipating? Her will, if there was one, was predicated on the idea that he would die at home and that his art collection would remain intact and in his possession when he passed.
The Rape of Europa, a comprehensive and detailed documentary on pillaged art also touches on the dilemma surrounding Adele’s portrait, but it places the crime in a wider context, considering the questions that emerge when one country or culture appropriates the art of another. Still, it makes clear that the most egregious example is the Nazi seizure of Jewish art.
Much of the art in question, modern, abstract and acclaimed by the likes of Picasso, Kandinsky, Klee, much of it owned by Jewish collectors, fell into the category that Hitler dubbed “degenerate,” which gave him the opportunity to further dehumanize those owners. Most of the paintings were destroyed while others were sold for enormous profits in order to underwrite a massive build up of armaments for the Third Reich.
The documentary, The Portrait of Wally, is a searing indictment of MoMA and other major American art institutions that supported MoMA in a less-than-exemplary 1997 episode.
The film recounts the brouhaha surrounding Egon Schiele’s painting of his mistress Wally, owned by Lea Bondi, a Jewish Austrian art dealer before it was grabbed by the Nazis in 1939.
Prior to landing at MoMA it was housed in Rudolph Leopold’s Austrian museum. Leopold was a classic double dealer, pretending to be on the side of the original owners and their heirs when in fact he had no intention of handing over the painting.
But when the painting was on loan to MoMA, the Bondi heirs demanded that it be returned to them. Rudolph refused, which led to a 13-year criminal investigation launched by New York District Attorney Robert Morgenthau, during which time the painting was held by the United States government.
According to the film, MoMA and other art institutions sided with Rudolph because they were afraid that aligning themselves with the Jewish family would mean that museums across the globe would no longer lend their works to American museums for fear that they might potentially lose their art or have to pay big bucks to have it returned.
Ultimately in 2010 the Bondi heirs prevailed. The Leopold Museum paid them $19 million for the painting’s return. That case succeeded in opening the floodgates to many others. And a surge of films on the topic followed.
Movies centering on Nazi-looted art have been around for decades, such as John Frankenheimer’s 1965 action thriller The Train starring Burt Lancaster; and 39 years later George Clooney’s The Monuments Men, both loosely inspired by factual events.
Set in 1944, shortly before the end of the war, The Train is a suspenseful and well-acted account of a French resistance fighter (Lancaster) determined to intercept a train carrying Nazi looted art from France to Germany without destroying the art.
Set in the same era, the starry Monuments Men, co-written and directed by George Clooney and featuring Clooney, Matt Damon, Bill Murray, and Cate Blanchett, among others, depicts a unit of historians and archivists on a mission to locate and salvage works of art across Europe before the Nazis had a chance to steal and destroy them.”
Despite the caliber of talent involved, e.g., the film was seen as problematic because of its failure to point out that many, if not most, of these art works had belonged to Jews and were brutally confiscated from the original owners, many of whom had been carted off to concentration camps to be killed.
Clooney and his Jewish co-writer said that their purpose was to explore not the experience of any one group but the profound significance of great art and the violation that’s perpetrated when it is stolen, or worse, destroyed.
Both Clooney and Frankenheimer’s films also touch on the moral quandary of whether a great painting is more valuable than a human life. If the risk to save the art is that high is it worth taking?
For me the most affecting film on lost art is Elizabeth Rynecki’s 2018 documentary Chasing Portraits, her freshman endeavor. Even though — perhaps precisely because — at times it feels more like a home movie than a professionally honed flick it reveals an emotional core that is unexpectedly moving.
Equally relevant, her film centers on paintings that were scattered after the War. They may or may not have been looted, but their fate was directly tied to the Nazi regime that forced Jewish residents to escape without their precious belongings.
Rynecki grew up surrounded by the art of her great-grandfather Moshe Rynecki, who was murdered at Majdanek in 1943. His evocative expressionistic works portray the day to day life of Polish Jews prior to the Holocaust. Of his estimated 800 works, 120 remain in Polish and Israeli museums and private collections abroad.
Throughout her life Rynecki had wanted to see these works, not to reclaim them, but to uncover how they ended up where they were. She serves as a historian and witness, her great grandfather’s art a link to her family and Jewish heritage and a world that is gone forever.
The film follows her as she travels from Canada to Poland and Israel where she is, by turns, regarded with suspicion or more usually snubbed outright. Many owners, some Jewish, cannot believe that she is not there for restitution. In one of the strongest scenes, a Polish collector, a gentile, wraps up and hands over to Elizabeth one of her great grandfather’s paintings, unsolicited.
It’s a story that lingers and will no doubt continue to inspire more documentaries and feature films. Just this week, The Guardian reported that the heirs of a Jewish couple are suing The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York over a Vincent van Gogh painting they say was plundered by the Nazis.
‘Auction’ is currently screening in New York at Film Forum.
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Looking for snow in August: My lifelong obsession with the Irish
According to the 11th-century set of Irish texts known as Lebor Gabála Érenn, or The Book of the Invasions of Ireland, there once lived a man called Fénius Farsaid — “Irishman the Pharisee.”
If the weirdness of this name is not hitting home for you, it’s a bit like if I told you my name was “Jewess the Druid.” “Fénius,” a predecessor of the modern word “Fenian,” connotes an Irish person. “Farsaid” is the medieval Irish word for “Pharisee.” Though the term is now mostly reserved for insulting hypocrites in an obscure way, in biblical times it referred to a strict Jewish sect active in ancient Judea.
How did this early example of Irish-Jewish crossover earn his name? Lebor Gabála Érenn reports that he was one of the 72 chieftains who built the Tower of Babel. When it crumbled and God cursed humankind with multilingualism, he set up camp in the Tower’s remains and ordered his scholars to go out and study the babble of the world’s newborn languages. On his own, he explored Hebrew, Greek and Latin alphabets (hence the “Farsaid”). As a capstone project, Fénius blended together the best elements of all the world’s languages to make the perfect tongue: Irish (hence the “Fénius”).
Fast forward almost one thousand years after Lebor Gabála Érenn was written, and you get me, Fénius Farsaid in reverse: he was an Irishman interested in the Jews; I am a Jewish woman fascinated by the Irish. There are many ways to measure a life, but mine might as well be thought of as a 22-year-long montage of fanatical Irish-themed memories: as a child, reading Maeve Binchy’s Chestnut Street and Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes; as a tween, writing a racy work of historical fiction called Ballyhill inspired by the Irish Rebellion of 1798; as a teen, shaking my computer in rage when 23 & Me reported I was 0% Irish; as a young woman, discovering Seamus Heaney, W. B. Yeats, James Joyce and Maggie O’Farrell; and as whoever I am now, writing this confessional essay.
I do not know when or how this obsession took root, though some evidence suggests that I have a genetic predisposition towards loving the Irish. The story goes that my great-great grandfather Barnett Shapiro did not know his birthday. But on his way from Poland to America, he passed through London, where he mixed with Irish immigrants in the East End. He found them so delightful that when he arrived at Ellis Island and was asked his birthday, he, a Jewish man whose first language was Yiddish, proudly declared he was born on St. Paddy’s Day, 1888.
This recessive shamrock gene skipped a generation and reappeared in my Grandpa Barry, or “Gramps.” When I was 12 or so, he presented me with a copy of Snow in August, a novel by the Irish-American journalist and novelist Pete Hamill, a man as tender as he was hard-boiled. According to the book’s back cover, I could expect a tale of an unlikely, Brooklyn-bred friendship between a young Irish-American lad named Michael Devlin and an Orthodox rabbi named Judah Hirsch. I admit I was skeptical. Gramps had already busted his credibility several times by hounding me to read his personal favorites like Young Visitor to Mars, Hardy Boys and back-issues of Flash Gordon. But against my better judgment, I read the book. And then I read it again.
It’s hard to say why this book etched itself into me so deeply. Maybe as a fifth-generation Brooklyn Shapiro, I was hard-wired to like it. But what I remember best about the book is not the plot or any particular line, but how I felt while reading it. Snow in August made me feel that magical realism was not exclusive to jungle climates like Gabriel García Márquez’s Macondo, or Italo Calvino’s invisible cities. There were labyrinths of wonder built right under Brooklyn, like a subway system for the spirit. Pete Hamill taught me how to hear the rumble. In his Brooklyn, it was possible for a golem to rise up against your tormentors, for the dead to return for a final dance, for snow to fall in the middle of August.
Maybe you’ll be relieved to hear that in the 10 intervening years since I first read this book, I’ve tempered my admiration of the Celts by finding some Irish literature that enrages me. In my freshman year of college, I read James Joyce’s Ulysses and wanted to clobber him with it. At the recommendation of my playful Bronxonian druid of an English teacher, Ted Cleary, I read Flann O’Brien’s experimental novel At Swim-Two-Birds and was wracked by alternating warp-spasms of amusement and fury. (As Oscar Wilde, another great Irishman-of-letters, would say, “When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.”)
But most recent and vivid among my Irish memories is the pilgrimage I made to peaty Erin this past March. I had been in Oxford for a term abroad, and when the “vac” (British for “vacation”) struck, my friends Cindy, Gemma and I set out for the stretch of western Irish coastline known as the “Wild Atlantic Way.” We walked the misty Cliffs of Moher, where we were attacked by angry winds. We took refuge in pubs and soaked up pints of Guinness, plates of beef stew and hours of foot-tapping fiddling sessions that gave enthusiastic tourists and taciturn locals a reason to engage with each other. We rode a see-sawing ferry to the Aran Islands and back, and learned that time works differently when you’re on the brink of barfing.
When I think of that week in Ireland, I remember the horizon at sundown. Behind the dark green hills, the clouds looked like silhouettes of other hills somewhere far away. The wind plunged down my collar and shimmied up my pant legs. I could see no end to the ocean, only the thin line where sky and water met in some unreachable place. I feared the vastness of the world, and loved it at the same time.
In a way, that wild Atlantic scene was repeating what many Irish writers had been trying to tell me for years: Life is immense, often surprising, and occasionally tragic. Still, why not hope? The words of Seamus Heaney’s poem “The Gravel Walks” provide a lodestar for living: “Walk on air against your better judgment.”
Poetic spirits in the Jewish world have come to uncannily similar conclusions. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once described himself as “an optimist against my better judgment,” a parallel with Heaney that might have delighted Fénius Farsaid. Even a central premise of Judaism — that the messianic age when “nation will not lift up sword against nation” will arrive someday — would be impossible without a commitment to walking on air against your better judgment until that day comes.
Nobody is born knowing how to walk, let alone knowing how to walk on air. But in his poem “The Cure at Troy,” Seamus Heaney describes how to take those first steps —
“So hope for a great sea change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore is reachable from here.
Believe in miracle
And cures and healing wells.”
Believe that snow could come next August.
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When does Shabbat end? This astrophysicist thinks we’ve been getting it wrong
Aster Taylor observes Shabbat on their own time — literally.
For the past year, Taylor, a Ph.D. candidate in astrophysics at the University of Michigan, has been keeping Shabbat according to a schedule they devised using astronomical data.
So this Saturday, when Chabad of Ann Arbor says Shabbat will end at 9:09 p.m., Taylor will observe for nearly 11 more minutes. Where does Taylor, 25, get the chutzpah to challenge longstanding Jewish tradition?
“We live in the modern world. We have computers, we have catalogs of all the stars, and especially in the 80s, the construction of more significant telescopes,” Taylor told the Forward. “We have a pretty good understanding of how the sky affects our vision. So we can now just calculate this, right?”
They might have a point. In true “two-Jews-three-opinions” fashion, there’s actually no universally accepted time that Shabbat ends. But most people can agree on this: Shabbat ends at nightfall, defined by the Talmud as when three medium-sized stars in close proximity to one another are visible to the naked eye.
But what defines a medium-sized star and how close is close enough? Whose eyesight should be trusted? Those answers are not clear, leaving it up to rabbis to impart practical guidance.
Since without astronomical expertise, determining which stars make the grade is pretty difficult for the “average Joseph,” rabbis rely on proxy criteria. Today, many Orthodox communities use a standard credited to the venerable Rabbi Yechiel Michel Tucazinsky, who in 1929 determined three stars are visible when the sun sets 8.5 degrees below the horizon. Others follow the teachings of the 12th-century Rabbeinu Tam, who places nightfall 72 minutes after sunset.
But those approximations didn’t satisfy Taylor, an aspiring professor currently writing their dissertation about giant planet formation. Taylor craved a more scientific approach.
So for a few nights over several months, Taylor went to a local park, sat at a picnic table and every two minutes measured the sky’s brightness with a light meter.
Taylor settled on a brightness standard for a medium star — between magnitude 2 and 3 — and determined that three stars of that brightness need to be within 10 degrees of one another, close enough that an observer could see all three stars without moving their eyes.
Taylor then built a computer model to determine when three stars that meet those conditions become visible, taking into account various atmospheric conditions. That model became a web app that calculates Shabbat times for any given location and elevation.
The results were striking. Based on Taylor’s calculations, Shabbat should often end around 10 minutes later than the time given by the conventional approximation — no small discrepancy for those who faithfully observe the Sabbath.
Taylor’s computations are intriguing Jewish scholars. Masorti: The New Journal of Conservative Judaism has agreed to publish Taylor’s research paper on the topic this winter.
The Forward also shared Taylor’s findings with two rabbis: Yaakov Hoffman of the modern Orthodox Bridge Shul in Washington Heights, who wrote a scholarly article about Shabbat’s end, and Jack Shlachter — who in addition to being a retired rabbi in Los Alamos, New Mexico, just so happens to have a Ph.D in physics.
Both were impressed. “There’s always room for science to enhance these practices,” Shlachter said. “This author is doing things in a very admirable fashion — trying to be fully aware of tradition, but also incorporating more modern, sophisticated techniques.”
Hoffman said it was “very impressive” that Taylor “was trying to research these things from a contemporary astronomical perspective, and to really put so much effort and passion into accurate determination of the time.”
If Taylor “wants to add a few minutes to Shabbat,” he added, “that doesn’t bother me.”
What if Shabbat never ends?
As any city dweller knows, the stars don’t exactly come out in force at night.
Once Taylor factored light pollution into their calculations, it produced a somewhat uncomfortable result. In New York City, Taylor said, light pollution is so intense that three medium stars in close proximity will never be visible this year. In Jerusalem, only a few months of the year offer enough clear visibility to see Taylor’s criteria.
“The conditions that end Shabbat are never met,” Taylor said, “which is obviously a problem.”
Taken literally, that would mean endless Shabbat. In his paper, Taylor wrote that such a scenario would “require most observant Jews to quit their jobs, refrain from cooking, and spend their time studying Torah.” That would be both “unrealistic” and “lessen the sanctity” of the Sabbath, Taylor wrote.
Fortunately, there is a rabbinic workaround that dates back long before the age of light pollution.
The 16th-century Rabbi Yosef Karo wrote that on a cloudy day, one should wait to end Shabbat until “the doubt leaves his heart.” In other words, wait long enough after sunset to be certain that the stars theoretically would have been visible on a clear night.
Taylor agrees that the same principle for clouds can be applied to light pollution. But they argue that it’s still worth knowing just how much the modern night sky has changed.
Light pollution isn’t the only factor messing with the Jewish clock. President Trump is urging the Senate to pass a bill that would make daylight savings time permanent — a measure which many Orthodox Jews oppose because a later winter sunrise would mean a later morning prayer service, making many Orthodox Jews late for work.
But it also would also push Shabbat an hour later, which could mean a less frantic rush to get home before sunset on wintertime Friday afternoons.
Those potential changes raise a broader question. As modern life becomes increasingly divorced from the natural rhythms of the Earth, to what extent should Jewish practice evolve?
Taylor, who attends a Conservative synagogue, said they’re in favor of maintaining Jewish tradition when possible — but that doesn’t mean it can’t also be improved.
“We should be using a calculation like this in communities in the future,” Taylor said. “It’s a strict upgrade to the way we’ve been doing things in the past, and so I’m hopeful that we’ll start using this more widely.”
Paradoxically, in Taylor’s case, they believe modern technology enabled them to get closer to the literal meaning of the traditional text. It was the ancient rabbis, lacking that science, who had to settle for the next best thing.
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Do you suffer from ‘Israel Derangement Syndrome’? This ad says there’s a cure
It opens like a two-minute infomercial pulled off a 1990s VHS tape. Soft lighting, Clinton-era fashion, a narrator whose voice has the reassuring cadence of a prescription drug ad. “Do you or someone you love suffer from Israel Derangement Syndrome?” he asks.
The two-minute ad has become one of the most-shared clips on Jewish and pro-Israel social media this week — posted Wednesday morning, it garnered 2.6 million views on X by Thursday afternoon.
“Israel Derangement Syndrome” is presented like a real illness, complete with a fictional treatment center, the Clarity Center, and patients who describe “recovering.” The “symptoms” are a list of ways people criticize Israel and its supporters — bringing up the conflict unprompted, refusing to see any other issue in the world as important, being unable to acknowledge nuance. The “cure,” according to the ad, is just reading more and checking your sources. It ends with a rapid-fire list of side effects: “reading past the headline, a sudden interest in Middle East history, and a constant urge to touch grass.”
The ad’s target is obvious: people who are sharply critical of Israel. The name isn’t new. It’s modeled on “Trump Derangement Syndrome,” a term used to dismiss criticism of the president as pathology.
Why it lands the way it does
Anita Atwell Seate, a professor of communication at the University of Maryland who studies how people’s group identities shape the way they respond to criticism, called what’s happening in the video a textbook case of tribalism.
Our group memberships, she said, shape our psychological processes, since they’re so tied to our sense of self. That pushes us to process information in self-protective ways: “When we feel good about our social groups,” she said, “we feel good about ourselves.”
There’s a well-documented pattern researchers call the “intergroup sensitivity effect,” where people are far more willing to accept criticism from members of their own group than from people they see as outsiders. When criticism comes from outside, the instinct isn’t to engage with it; it’s to discredit whoever’s delivering it. “They’re deranged, they don’t understand facts,” Atwell Seate said, describing that reflex, which is more or less the whole premise of the ad.
She doesn’t see the video as an attempt at persuasion at all. “It doesn’t do anything to help change hearts and minds of the out-group,” she said “But it certainly does something important for the in-group, which is reify their beliefs.” Videos like this, she says, are like a pep talk — aimed at people who already agree, meant to bring them closer together.
Where it came from
It’s not entirely clear who actually made the video. What’s clear is that it was shared — and got millions of views — from an X account called the Trencher Broadcasting Company, whose bio reads: “Building the future of AI media. Mostly satire, always entertaining.” It appears to have been made with AI video tools, part of a broader wave of AI-generated political videos that have flooded social media this year.
TBC has posted this kind of thing before. Last week, the account shared an AI-fabricated video appearing to show Michigan Senate candidate Dr. Abdul El-Sayed and YouTube personality Ms. Rachel discussing Israeli “colonizers” with children — a conversation that never actually happened.
Ms. Rachel had, notably, donated to El-Sayed’s campaign, and both have been outspoken advocates for children in Gaza, which may have inspired the video.
The “Israel Derangement Syndrome” video ends with a display of fake contact info, which comes with its own punchline.
Call the phone number and it’s like spinning a roulette wheel. The first time I called, the robotic voice wanted to sell me a home security system. The second time: a medical alert device. And the third time, I got this message: “If you received a call displaying this telephone number on your caller ID, it has been spoofed, meaning the caller ID has been faked by a scammer trying to hide their actual telephone number. We are sorry this is occurring. Unfortunately, we cannot stop this from happening.”
The ad also promotes a website IDSHelp.org, a domain that was registered on Tuesday and redirects to DerekhLearning.com, the homepage of an AI-powered app for studying Torah and Talmud. It’s a fitting coda for a video built around telling people to check their sources.
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