My wife and I saw The Boy in the striped pyjamas last night.
We left in silence at the film’s end. But we carried different kinds of silences. Her’s was a silence waiting to be broken, once her grappling of her emotional response found its expression. Mine was a silence borne out of something else entirely. Much later, she said
I don’t know why I’m so disturbed by the film. The different perspectives of people, influences, how cruel life can be. Injustice, brutality, peace
I said
That’s how I feel and bring into most days
Post-script:
Better still, read Rochenko’s short piece on Fascism & Representation over at Smokewriting.
If you’re still hungry, there is also Matthew Crowder’s The Holocaust and Melancholia over at Saving The World
