Chronicler of the Holocaust
Shoah director received almost universal praise for capturing horror of wartime atrocities
PARIS — French director Claude Lanzmann, whose 91⁄2-hour masterpiece Shoah bore unflinching witness to the Holocaust through the testimonies of Jewish victims, German executioners and Polish bystanders, has died at 92.
Gallimard, the publishing house for Lanzmann’s autobiography, said he died Thursday morning in Paris. It gave no further details.
The power of Shoah, filmed in the 1970s during Lanzmann’s trips to the barren Polish landscapes where the slaughter of Jews was planned and executed, was in viewing the Holocaust as an event in the present, rather than as history. It contained no archival footage, no musical score — just the landscape, trains and recounted memories.
Lanzmann was 59 when the movie, his second, came out in 1985. It defined the Holocaust for those who saw it, and defined him as a filmmaker. “I knew that the subject of the film would be death itself. Death rather than survival,” Lanzmann wrote in the autobiography. “For 12 years, I tried to stare relentlessly into the black sun of the Shoah.”
“Claude Lanzmann’s cinematic work left an indelible mark on the collective memory, and shaped the consciousness of the Holocaust of viewers around the world, in these and other generations,” said Avner Shalev, chairman of Israel’s Yad Vashem Holocaust memorial.
“His departure from us now, along with our recent separation from many Holocaust survivors, marks the end of an era.”
Shoah was nearly universally praised. Roger Ebert called it “one of the noblest films ever made” and Time Out and the Guardian were among those ranking it the greatest documentary of all time. The Polish government was a notable dissenter, which dismissed the film as “anti-Polish propaganda.” (but later allowed Shoah to be aired in Poland).
In 2013, nearly three decades later, Lanzmann revisited the Holocaust with The Last of the Unjust, focusing on his interviews in 1975 with a Vienna rabbi who was the last “elder” of the Theresienstadt ghetto, which was used by the Nazis to fool visitors into believing that the Jews were being treated humanely.
His final work, a series of interviews with four Holocaust survivors stitched together into a single 41⁄2-hour film, was released in French theatres Wednesday. But even before that, Lanzmann showed his breadth with the 2017 documentary, Napalm, which narrated his visit to North Korea in the late 1950s, including him recounting his unconsummated affair with a Red Cross nurse in the country.
“The cinematic work of Claude Lanzmann shows how much art contributes to the construction of our collective memory, giving individual resonance to each story,” said Audrey Azoulay, director general of UNESCO and a former French culture minister.
Lanzmann was born Nov. 27, 1925, in Paris, the child of French Jews. After his mother left in 1934 and the war broke out, Claude and his two siblings moved to a farm where their father timed his children as they practised escaping to a shelter he had dug.
Lanzmann ultimately joined the Resistance as a Communist and became intellectually enamoured with Jean-Paul Sartre, whose Anti-Semite and Jew formed the philosophical underpinning of what would later be his life’s work.
Lanzmann joined Sartre’s circle and ended up having an affair with Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre’s companion, who was 17 years older than the young acolyte. Lanzmann left for Israel and moved in with Beauvoir when he returned, from 1952 to 1959, according to The Patagonia Hare, his autobiography. Sartre, Lanzmann’s hero, became a constant in their life together. “So I was an opportunist — ‘on the make’ you say. But she was beautiful. My attraction to her was genuine,” he once told Beauvoir’s biographer. Long after their affair ended, Beauvoir provided much of the financial support for Shoah.
Lanzmann tinkered in politics and journalism, working periodically for the journal France Dimanche, taking on freelance assignments. He joined Sartre in signing the Manifesto for the 121, calling on French soldiers to refuse fighting in Algeria, and was prosecuted.
In 1968, he did television reporting on the Israeli Army in the Sinai Peninsula, which led to his first film: Israel, Why.
Beauvoir, writing about Lanzmann in her memoir Force of Circumstance, described him as someone who “seemed to be carrying the weight of a whole ancestral experience on his shoulders.”
It was this weight that ultimately led a vagabond intellectual to examine the defining event of 20th century Judaism, obsessively tracking down those who were closest to the dead. “The film would have to take up the ultimate challenge; take the place of the non-existent images of death in the gas chambers,” he wrote.
The film opens with Simon Srebnik, who as a 13-year-old Jewish detainee sang for the SS and fed their rabbits at the Chelmno concentration camp. Crediting a sweet voice with his survival, Srebnik performs the same songs for Lanzmann as he is rowed along the placid river that leads to the camp. Later, it is revealed that among Srebnik’s tasks was to dump bags filled with crushed bones of Jews into the same water.
He filmed Abraham Bomba at work in a Tel Aviv barbershop, describing how he cut women’s hair inside the gas chambers at Treblinka. With periodic questions by Lanzmann, Bomba recounts how after each group of women was done, the barbers were asked to leave for a few minutes, the women were gassed and then the men returned to cut the hair of dozens more naked women accompanied by their children.
“This room is the last place where they went in alive and they will never go out alive again,” he said. “We just cut their hair to make them believe they’re getting a nice haircut.”
Lanzmann is survived by his third wife, Dominique, and his daughter, Angelique. His son, Felix, died last year.