The name of Leni Riefenstahl is destined to echo forever down the years as one of the facilitators of Nazism. Whilst she later claimed to be a ‘fellow-traveller’ rather than a deliberate exponent of the fascist disease which engulfed Europe, her body of work makes it objectively almost impossible to divorce her from a murderous wave she so actively propagandised.
Brave and disturbing
As our ethical sensibilities evolve, it becomes increasingly problematic to find the correct level of reverence for the writers, musicians and artists whose unpalatable personal moralities shade their professional genius. But in the main, a deft ability to shuffle the relevant backdrops into contextual suitability can satisfy both legitimate revulsion and artistic appreciation. In the case of Riefenstahl, however, so much of her work is not just tainted by Nazism but fully marinated in it that it is both naive and wilful to suggest her famous - and yes, groundbreaking footage - be seen through anything other than a Nazi lens.
Born in Berlin in 1902, Riefenstahl showed an early interest in the arts and began her career as a dancer and actor. Athletic, stoic, ambitious, Riefenstahl epitomised the Aryan ideal of womanhood espoused by the Third Reich; and her rise to fame was catalysed when Hitler invited her to direct the 1933 Victory of Faith. In the film, what would become her trademark shots and eye for detail were showcased; her ability to reach the masses assured; and her role as Nazi darling cemented.
In Leni’s Last Lament, Jodie Markell brings a morphine-addled Riefenstahl to the stage in a piece which cleverly fades from folksy oompah into the slick filmic messaging which superseded it as entertainment. Gil Kofman’s script is a hallucinatory, whirling paddle through the past; splicing historical tidbits with archive footage and huskily drawled cabaret numbers. The stage is a cluttered mind of arbitrary memories: the black and white costume palette intriguingly at odds with the nuance we are being invited to explore. In the last frames of her life, Markell paints an unsympathetic, unrepentant woman more preoccupied with cleansing her legacy than providing any semblance of contrition. It is a brave and disturbing choice: but one which more fully realises the horrors of a fascist world arguably more than a sentimental and penitent character might have done.
This is not an easy watch: not should it be. But when Riefenstahl smirks that she hears fascism is fashionable again; its brittle, bitter taste suddenly seems even harder to swallow.
