NR | 2h 23min | Drama, Biopic | 1983
How many people did Oskar Schindler save from Nazi brutality in WWII? 1,200. How many people did Hugh O’Flaherty save about that same time? 6,500! Two exceptional films salute these wartime heroes. Why, then, do most cinema lovers know of only Schindler and little to nothing of O’Flaherty?
Schindler was a Nazi, a wealthy businessman, and far from upright. Naturally, his sacrificial courage in smuggling Jews to safety stunned many. Then, top-billed Steven Spielberg directed “Schindler’s List” and made Schindler world-famous.
O’Flaherty, however, was an Irish Catholic priest and Vatican official, someone you expected to do the right thing. Unlike Spielberg, Jerry London who directed “The Scarlet and the Black” was an obscure name in the film world. Still, the courage and pugnacity of this other Schindler is no less stunning.
Jerry London’s film is set in Rome in 1943 in the wake of Italy’s surrender to the Allies.
Anxious to prevent Allied prisoners of war from exploiting the reigning chaos as a cover to escape, occupying Nazi forces paint a white line in St. Peter’s Square to warn POWs that they remain German, if no longer Italian, POWs. It’s a reminder that Vatican sovereignty has limits. It’s also a threat that anyone crossing the line to seek refuge in the still neutral Vatican, will be arrested, possibly tortured to disclose the whereabouts of fellow escapees, or killed.
Defying the prohibitory letter and spirit of that white line, O’Flaherty (Gregory Peck) rescues thousands, while playing a deadly game of hide-and-seek with the Nazi commander in Rome, Lt. Col. Kappler (Christopher Plummer). Under the pretense of a military campaign, Kappler victimizes Allied civilians, not merely soldiers.
The movie begins with Vatican clergy escorting Nazi officers through St. Peter’s Basilica’s arcane corridors to meet Pope Pius XII (John Gielgud). The scarlet and black emblazoned on their respective insignia and vestments, are striking more for their similarity than for their difference. As the movie proceeds, this cinematic reference to shared colors proves more than superficial.
London’s film ponders how truth eventually triumphs over the impermanence of falsehood even as it acknowledges the terrible price that defenders of the truth must pay, while falsehood holds sway.
O’Flaherty explains to fleeing prisoners sheltered by his aide Mrs. Lombardo (Olga Karlatos), why they shouldn’t reveal where they’ve been hiding even if captured and tortured: “You’ll only be put in jail, and Mrs. Lombardo and her daughters will be shot.”
Power and Responsibility
London’s film also ponders the morality of power, implied in the shared regalia of colors. It asks: does cowardly and irresponsible use of power by one institution or state, excuse cowardice by another?Nazi Germany has power to mobilize against military targets, but a responsibility to stay clear of civilians. The Vatican, too, as a state in its own right, has power to protect the vulnerable, but also responsibility to speak against wanton oppression.
In one profound scene lasting five minutes O’Flaherty walks with the pope and contemplates whether the Vatican is right to stay neutral when innocents are hounded or slaughtered. Doesn’t silence under the cloak of neutrality make the Church complicit in Nazi falsehood and oppression? The Pope offers no ready answers, but privately blesses O’Flaherty’s salvific work that he believes he can’t bless publicly.
In another scene, Kappler walks his child through a museum hallway lined with busts and statues of Roman emperors, once masters of the world. Kappler gushes with all the arrogance he can muster that, unlike the Roman empire, which collapsed under the weight of its own falsehood, the Reich will last for 1,000 years.
But London’s film is no hagiography. He reveals a very human O’Flaherty. He’s funny when he wants to be, once cheekily skirting but not crossing, the white line in full view of Nazi guards and a furious Kappler.
O’Flaherty also uses sports (boxing and golf) as a kind of pressure-cooker valve, to let off steam that builds up from his many frustrations—for instance, his helplessness in seeing some of those he rescues being arrested, tortured, or killed, or his impatience at the delay and discretion required of Allied diplomacy in Rome.
Fellow priests wrestle with their own frustrations, asking O’Flaherty if they (as able-bodied men) should be doing more than sheltering refugees. Why not help in low-key counter-offensives, in making munitions or in sabotaging Axis assets in Rome. Acknowledging their urge to do more, O’Flaherty is sympathetic but firm: “As priests, it’s our duty to help … victims of the war. …We’re not here to add to the killing.”
Ennio Morricone’s score uses a remorseless military march to amplify the vice-like Nazi hold over Rome. And London lavishes his camera on the cobbled walkways and squares of Rome to lend authenticity to his film and the rivalry between O’Flaherty and Kappler.
Peck’s onscreen Irish accent wouldn’t fool a deaf priest, let alone an Irish one, but his principled, gracious bearing makes him convincing as the monsignor who risks everything to save lives. Plummer is the perfect foil, his eyes mirroring both the perversion of power-drunk Nazis, and the pathos of a man stalked by his emptiness.
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