Brennendes Geheimnis

This film came to mind again the other day when I watched the film "Sredni Vashtar" (1981) by British director/screenwriter Andrew Birkin, whose screenplays already hold a privileged place in my physical media collection.

Undoubtedly, there are few works in recent literary history that have sparked as much controversy as Thomas Mann's "Death in Venice," written in 1912, and this short story, written a year later by Stefan Zweig under the title "Burning Secret." So much so that all the film, theater, and TV adaptations of these works have caused great controversy...

"Burning Secret" was banned and its publication prevented so many times that Adolf Hitler and the Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda banned the book separately and the film adapted from it, titled "Das brennende Geheimnis, Mutter, dein Kind ruft!," separately.

This adaptation was quite risky for MGM because they actually wanted Stanley Kubrick to direct the film. They both wanted the project and feared that Kubrick, who had already generated great controversy with his film "Lolita," would take things even further with this script.

Ultimately, the film was written and directed by Andrew Birkin, but according to him, there was never a comfortable working environment on set due to the constant quarrels between Klaus Maria Brandauer and Faye Dunaway.

He even says in an interview that he made the film with David Eberts, which I didn't quite believe, but later, when I saw his videos with Hans Zimmer, I did...

This film and all the adaptations of this book are very underrated because MGM doesn't have the guts to release these films today.

I read this story in the original in 1939 when I was an adolescent. I understood it only from the boy's point of view. It was a wonderful experience to see it at a time when my son was a grown man and I could understand the film from each individual's point of view. The makers of this film are to be congratulated for their sensitivity, and their tremendous skill for presenting this story written in a different social and historical context from their own. The acting of the entire cast was subtle and powerful. The mother's relationship with her son is beautifully realized. All in all, I highly recommend this film. I plan to buy it for my own collection.

If you're thinking of blowing off Burning Secret, don't be so hasty. It's slow, but the pace fits in perfectly with the time period. It's set during the early 20th century, and Faye Dunaway plays a married woman staying at a health spa with her young son. In modern times, she might think of it as the perfect opportunity to play around, with her elderly husband at home. But in the 1910s, women didn't have affairs - especially high-class ladies - as readily. Faye's son, David Eberts, suffers from asthma, and her only priority is to see him receive good medical treatment. The spa is located in the beautiful Austrian countryside in winter, and while she enjoys the scenery and amenities, she loves her son. When David meets another patient, Klaus Maria Brandauer, she thinks Klaus is merely being polite in forming a friendship. David starts putting Klaus on a pedestal, and Faye has to weigh her reputation as a married woman spending time with an eligible man against the happiness of her son.

It's an interesting, subtle story that sucks you in and keeps you interested until the credits roll. Some might find it too slow, but I really enjoyed the realistic pace. Faye was perfect as a well-bred lady, and Klaus was intriguing without being too charming. Also, Faye's costumes were gorgeous! I'm starting to think she had it in her contract that she had to wear beautiful clothes. She looked lovely in Burning Secret. I think it was her first film after her plastic surgery, and her eyes looked beautiful.

The several published criticisms linked by IMDB are all over the map about this movie, not only as to their reactions to the art-film mood (a negative reaction to which, although I can't say I really understand, one must admit clearly reflects many people's values and expectations in cinematic entertainment these days), but even as to Brandauer's acting, a craft about which one would think one could be objective.

Well, I'm here to say I liked it all. So art films like this give art films a bad name? And what Hollywood is now serving up as standard fare-- ever-louder explosions, flashier collisions, and interminable series of action scenes so frenetic as to make the whole idea of suspension of disbelief a moot issue-- doesn't give anything whatsoever a bad name? Sorry, beside that I'll be a sucker for woozy art films, if that's what they are, any day. We need a few more.

About a film like this, one is able to ponder, to wonder what might be implied, and to ask questions even about what might not have been implied.

So the acting is poor by giving the impression that the Baron and Mrs. Tuchman, even as they were becoming lovers, loathed each other? This is a real-life possibility, you know. To give just one example: suppose that I have such low self-esteem as to feel unattractive, even a freak, and to take it for granted that no one would take any initiative towards me. Then someone does. What might I feel? Perhaps I'd feel that the other person must be weird too, has a fetish for the kind of freak I am. Furthermore, since I am not worth loving, the other person cannot possibly want to love me, but wants something less worthy from me. Because I loathe myself, I must loathe anyone who gets close to me.

If there is a subtle loathing between these two characters in this film, it is not a flaw, because it is perfectly in order to ponder how or why that might be, beneath the surface: there are things beneath the surface. Not a lot of movies made today would support such a complicated sentiment. One critic, evidently, was too used to them.

Another point to ponder: what did Edmund tell his father? The usual assumption is that, although he intended to reveal his mother's unfaithfulness, at the last minute he drew back and concealed it. I'm not so sure about that. Everything indicates that Mr. Tuchman is a very wise and gentle man, with exceptional insight into the labyrinths of the human heart; and Edmund is a boy who expresses his feelings with a touching forthrightness and sincerity and who despises lying. Just maybe he told the truth, the whole truth: his mother was very lonely, so much that she was taken in and seduced by a very deceitful man, and the incident left her sorry and even more miserable than before. It seems to me that when the father met her again, he knew everything. Diplomat that he was, he realized then that his professional burdens had caused him to neglect his wife, and he was quietly going to make amends. "There is nothing more to say about this." Would such a man be unaware if his own son had just concocted a tissue of lies? It would be quite ironic if he, of all people, congratulated his son for becoming a man due to a successful cover-up. Or is he congratulating him for developing diplomacy: to know the truth but not necessarily to tell the truth in so many words. However it happened, Edmund's father knew and Edmund was the messenger. They had an understanding.

"To know all is to forgive all." Is this what the film suggests? And if so, is it true? These are the questions which perceptive critics should be debating.

One might ponder the echoes of World War I reverberating around the plot. The baron had been wounded by an American soldier. Edmund was an American. Edmund's father was an American. Edmund's mother was not. Perhaps revenge was part of his motives. I hasten to say that I caught no such overtones in Zweig's short story, and would expect none, because he was very much an internationalist. Perhaps we have a subtle innovation on the part of the moviemakers here, but it only increases the interest.

Finally, the baron's behavior towards Edmund, after developing such a blissful friendship with romantic suggestions, was so callous that it could not have done this boy, who was also lonely, any emotional good. And all this to chalk up one more casual female conquest. How much better a man might he have been were he truly interested in Edmund the way he at first appeared to be.

This film is about manhood, and a boy's (actually every boy's) journey to manhood. The scene in the dining room with the baron and the young boy explains it all. The baron recites Goethe's poem, "ErlKonig" and interprets it for the young boy-man. Schubert set this poem to music (ErlKonig, The Erl King). The poem is a dialog of a child, and his father who holds him close as they ride horseback toward their home. The child expresses fear and apprehension about what he sees on the journey. At the end of the poem, the "kind war tot" - "the child was dead" in the arms of his father. This movie is about the "death" of childhood, which must take place if a boy is to become a man. The film is filled with obvious symbolism and has a most satisfying conclusion. This is a personal favorite. If you can find a copy, buy it.