1st 04 - 2016 | 2 comments »

The Seventh Room (1996)

Director/Coscreenwriter: Márta Mészáros

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By Marilyn Ferdinand

It’s time again for me to review another film nobody’s seen or heard of from a prominent and still-working female director who is nearly unknown these days outside of her native Hungary because of the general unavailability of her work. Márta Mészáros has been making shorts, documentaries, and feature films since the 1950s, with 64 director credits and numerous international awards to her name, including the Golden Bear at the 1975 Berlin Film Festival for Adoption (1975), the Grand Prix at the 1984 Cannes Films Festival for Diary for My Children (1984), and the Gold Plaque at the 2010 Chicago International Film Festival for The Last Report on Anna (2009). The film currently under consideration here, The Seventh Room, came to me through interlibrary loan of a DVD issued by Ignatius Press, a large U.S. publisher and distributor of Catholic books, magazines, videos, and music. As one might expect from a publisher who does not specialize in film releases, the barebones DVD derives from whatever print was available—in this case, a print from Italy with all of the actors dubbed in Italian. Despite enduring the deteriorating images on the well-worn library disk and the lost vocal performances of the international cast, I found The Seventh Room a thoroughly mesmerizing experience.

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The Seventh Room tells the true story of Edith Stein, a German Jew, atheist, and philosopher who converted to Catholicism in 1922, became a Carmelite nun named Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, died in Auschwitz in 1942, and was canonized by Pope John Paul II in 1988. Stein was led to her conversion and vocation after reading the works of St. Teresa of Ávila, a 16th-century Spanish reformer of the Carmelite order; the title of the film references the last of the seven rooms of spiritual growth the Spanish saint posited, the stage when a person reaches a firm, all-inclusive worldview for which she or he may be willing to die. Mészáros alludes to Stein’s eventual entry into her seventh room by opening the film with images of trains and archways, which have become iconically linked with the Nazi death camps.

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Mészáros’ approach is a very personal one, offering a complex look at Stein (Maia Morgenstern, a dead ringer for Edith Stein) that seeks to explicate the sharp turn of a worldly life of family devotion and professional acclaim to a severe, cloistered pursuit of spiritual perfection. It is nearly impossible to glimpse a soul, and Mészáros doesn’t really try, but the engaged and convincing performances she elicits and her effective use of light and imagery provide a compelling portrait of a saint in the making.


Morgenstern’s Stein is forceful and passionate in her work and in her relationships with her beloved family, especially her mother (Adriana Asti). She is truthful to a fault and unafraid of criticizing the rising Nazi Party, even when a beloved student of hers starts innocently sporting a swastika lapel pin from her “youth group,” yet she is made unsteady when a former colleague (Jan Nowicki, then Mészáros’ husband) taunts her and suggests she has won acclaim as a philosopher because she slept with her professor, famed phenomenologist Edmund Husserl. The introduction of this likely fictitious colleague whose thwarted romantic feelings for Stein and inferior professional standing transform him into the worst kind of enemy—a member of the SS—offers a rather heavy-handed symbol of the perverted relationship between the Christian and Jewish worlds that Stein hoped to harmonize. Mészáros and Nowicki may have had Dr. Mabuse in mind when they developed the portentously named Franz Heller, moving from what looks like his attempted rape of Stein in a repeated flashback to complete criminality in his new skin, his SS uniform, a skull and crossbones on his cap.


The sequences of Stein as a novice in the convent offer telling details about the unsuitably of her previous life and current physical condition to the work she has ahead of her. Already 42 when she enters the convent, she collapses while scrubbing the stone floor on her hands and knees and repeatedly dips her sleeves and veil into the wash water as she tackles the laundry, seemingly lacking the common sense to roll up her sleeves or pin back her veil. The convent’s mother superior (Anna Polony, another lookalike, this time for St. Teresa of Ávila) is skeptical about Stein’s vocation, wondering if she is trying to escape the fate of her fellow Jews, but then she appears to watch over Stein, evoking the spirit of St. Teresa as a guiding force in Stein’s spiritual growth. This is especially apparent during final vows, when Morgenstern’s genuinely moving happiness at becoming a bride of Jesus reflects on Polony’s face, softened in recognition of the bond they now share.

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In a time when a film like The Big Short (2015) is being hailed for making complex concepts understandable to nonexperts, I have to say that The Seventh Room outclasses it in every way. Stein’s niece asks her to explain phenomenology, and when assured that the girl really wants to know, Stein sits at the family piano, which is currently being used to stage plates of cookies, and starts to play it, explaining that it only becomes what it was designed for when it is played. Simplicity itself, but the point is so well made that the Stein family bursts into applause. In another cinematically lucid moment, Stein explains to a novice what the seven rooms are. Mészáros shifts her camera angles as each room is counted off and described; her lighting is dramatic, quite reminding me of a Rembrandt painting, with the contrast between shadow and light offering a visual metaphor for the gradual spiritual awakening the seven rooms represent.


Mészáros’ grip on the spiritual is matched by her evocation of the secular world that is stalking Stein. Stein’s first visit to her mother’s, in 1922, is marked by a long tracking shot that takes Stein down a street with a gift of tulips in hand to the double doors of her mother’s home. In the 1933 sequence, we get the same shot, the same tulips, but the walls on either side of the doors are defaced with anti-Semitic graffiti, an economical and shocking representation of the changes wrought in German society. The secular intrudes upon the sacred in some surprising ways. A movie first for me was seeing the nuns discuss the upcoming elections in which they will vote, with Stein stumping against Hitler; when the time comes for them to cast their ballots in the voting box brought inside the cloister, the officials worried about Stein are told matter-of-factly by the nuns to leave her alone because she has already been denied the vote by the Nazi government. In a unique staging of the overly familiar Kristallnacht, Mészáros shoots down the halls of the convent dimly lit by the glowing red hue of businesses burning to ash outside (another portent of the Holocaust), suggesting the hell one of the nuns says has come to earth.


The film takes pains to assert Stein’s personal affirmation of her Jewish identity as equal to her devotion to Christ. The film is heavily scored with Jewish liturgical and secular music, the background soundtrack of Stein’s life. In addition, the image of her mother, who died while she was in the convent, appears to her frequently, for example, when the train carrying her and her sister Rosa (Elide Melli), an extern sister with the Carmelites, to Auschwitz passes through their home town of Breslau, as well as in her final moments, when her mother embraces her naked body in a room that resembles a gas chamber. Because Jewish heritage is passed through the mother’s line, this connection is significant; their final embrace, reminiscent of a pietà, represents the reconciliation of her Jewishness and her Catholic identity.


The final passage—the transport of Stein, Rosa, and a large number of Jewish children to Auschwitz—is strangely peaceful, but the pitiable vision of small hands reaching through the gaps between the boxcar timbers drives home the horror to come without the usual theatrics. As the camp guards sort their human cargo into the two lines that signal life or death, a close-up shot of Stein, her shaved nun’s head a vision of what all of the women in the camp will look like before their extermination, offers dignity to the murdered and the completion of her life’s task. The sure-handed, coherent vision Mészáros builds throughout makes The Seventh Room a cinematic treasure that deserves to be more widely known.

11th 02 - 2009 | 8 comments »

The Nun’s Story (1959)

Director: Fred Zinnemann
Screenwriter: Robert Anderson


By Marilyn Ferdinand

Robert Anderson, the man who wrote the screen adaptation of Kathryn Hulme’s fictionalized account of her lover Mary Louise Habets’ experiences as a nun, died on Tuesday at the age of 91. Anderson, who always considered himself a playwright (movies were what he did for money), produced serious-minded works that respected the intelligence and maturity of audiences to deal with such hot-button topics as homosexuality, aging, and the loss of faith. Called “a gentleman in an age of assassins,” Anderson produced such sensitive and powerful works as Tea and Sympathy (1956) and I Never Sang for My Father (1970). The Nun’s Story is a rich and rewarding look at religious life that eschews pious platitudes to explore both its mysteries and its cold, hard facts.


Gabrielle van der Mal (Audrey Hepburn), the eldest daughter of a renowned Belgian surgeon (Dean Jagger), is about to embark on a long journey that she hopes will take her into a close relationship with God and enable her to do His work as a nurse in the Congo. The film opens as she fingers her engagement ring, then resolutely removes it and places it on the desk in her bedroom along with some other items atop a note that says, “Return to Jean.” She hears her father plinking out some Mozart on the piano in the drawing room. She quietly descends the stairs, comes up behind him, and joins him at the keyboard. When he turns to face her, he says “Your hat is on crooked.” “I’ve been trying to practice putting things on without…” The words “a mirror” are left unsaid. The pair goes into town and views the convent across the square. “I can see you poor. I can see you chaste. But I can’t see you obeying their Rule,” Dr. van der Mal says. “You don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to.” Gabrielle merely looks down, deflecting his implied question with a demure but determined gesture. They walk to the door and enter a room filled with parents and daughters. After some tearful farewells, the would-be nuns pass behind the door of the inner sanctum and into a world where they will be taught to create internal silence to better devote themselves to prayer and learn obedience to the Holy Rule.


The film takes us on the journey from Gabrielle to Sister Luke at a deliberate pace, missing few fascinating details that form the strict lives of discipline and striving for perfection that make a girl into a nun and a nun into a representative of Christ on Earth. At first, the postulants learn mere behaviors, such as hiding their hands when they are not being used for prayer or work, standing near the walls as they move through the halls as an act of humility, writing their transgressions in a small notebook, publicly accusing themselves of everything from being late to prayer, to feeling proud about doing a task properly and talking during the Grand Silence. Observing how they live, for example, sleeping in a common room with each bed surrounded by curtains, and their behavior, from using the sign language that allows them to communicate, to bowing and kneeling before higher-ranking nuns, to donning their habit for the first time in a rote and ritualized way, compares favorably with the experience I had viewing the lives of real Carthusian monks in Into Great Silence (2005).


In short order, Simone (Patricia Bosworth), Gabrielle’s closest companion in the convent, gives up her vocation, while assuring Gabrielle that she is strong enough to complete the journey. “I’m the weakest of us all!” Gabrielle protests, saying she is constantly in error. Nonetheless, Simone’s prediction comes true as we watch the truly beautiful and awe-inspiring investiture of Sister Luke and her fellow novices as brides of Christ, again, with the close, unhurried observation of a way of life that has been centuries in the making.

Sister Luke is sent for training to an institute for tropical medicine to prepare her for working in the Congo. She’s an outstanding student, but put upon by Sister Pauline (Margaret Phillips), a veteran of the Congo and an average student who fears Sister Luke will take her place. Sister Luke takes her problem to Mother Marcella (Ruth White), who tells Sister Luke she has been given a golden opportunity to prove her humility; Mother Marcella then asks her to fail her final exam. The scene in front of her examiners is one of high drama, as Hepburn so evokes Sister Luke’s inner struggle that she actually breaks a sweat. That the charge from Mother Marcella was a particularly cruel Gordian Knot makes no difference; for passing her exam (in fact, placing fourth in a class of 80), Sister Luke is denied a posting to the Congo and is sent instead to work in a sanatorium for the mentally ill. The waste of her talent seems stupid, considering the great need of the Congolese and their overworked medical staff.


After a somewhat harrowing stint at the sanatorium, including being attacked by a dangerous patient called the Archangel (Colleen Dewhurst) for disobediently tending to her without help, Sister Luke finally gets posted to the Congo. Her happiness while moving among the natives in the black hospital and holding the babies of Congolese mothers breaks her nun’s proper reserve. Yet still she is to be tested. When she learns she is to work at the white hospital under Dr. Fortunati (Peter Finch), she is devastated. The scenes in the Congo are a bit too picture-perfect, but this idealization is tempered by filming real lepers in a downriver leper colony Sister Luke visits.


Sister Luke buries her disappointment in work to such an extent that she weakens her entire system and develops early-stage tuberculosis. Hepburn’s darkly circled eyes, drawn face, taut and nervous frame, and constant edge of fatigue work brutally to reflect Sister Luke’s worry that should her disease be uncovered, she will be sent back to Belgium for good. Fortunati, initially jaundiced about working with yet another nun, then surprised at her competence and increasingly reliant on her great skill, manages to keep her in country and cure her TB. Unfortunately, when an important benefactor who has fallen ill must be sent back to Belgium, Sister Luke is the only logical choice to accompany him. With World War II brewing, she fears she will never be able to return to the Congo. And indeed, Rev. Mother Emmanuel (Dame Edith Evans), the highest-ranking nun in the order, refuses to send her back. Her struggles in Belgium, her painful war losses, and her acknowledgment that she has never found the internal silence to become a great nun finally force her, with all the determination she had when entering the convent, to give up her vocation and return to the world.


This 2.5 hour film has the time and the ambition to take us all the way into Sister Luke’s world and experience with her the joys, disappointments, and, most of all, the pain of trying to bend her will to that of God and the sisters. Dr. Fortunati tells her that he’s worked with nuns as long as he can remember and found there are two kinds: the obedient ones without a stitch of imagination and the worldly ones. Sister Luke, he says, is the latter and not cut out to be a nun. When Rev. Mother Emmanuel refuses to allow Sister Luke to work at the local hospital when she returns from the Congo, her reason is that Sister Luke must attend to her vocation—she joined the order to become a nun, not a nurse, and her spiritual life must always come first.

Herein lies the conflict Anderson and Zinnemann have highlighted in obvious and subtle ways—Gabrielle wanted to become a nun, but she wanted to practice medicine in the Congo even more. In the strict and arbitrary world of the convent, God is the only master. Like army training, all convent exercises, teachings, and assignments are designed to root out individuality and create vessels to carry out God’s wishes. There was nothing half-hearted about Gabrielle’s attempts to become Sister Luke—all or nothing, she says, was her Rule before she entered the convent—and we can see through Audrey Hepburn’s remarkable performance the deep sincerity in Sister Luke’s dedication to being a nun, the automatic behaviors she has adopted over the two decades of her vocation and her anguish at all her faults.


The supporting performances are wonderful, particularly all of the ranking sisters whose guidance rules the lives of Sister Luke and her fellow sisters. Mildred Dunnock is here a placid and patient mistress of the postulants. Dame Peggy Ashcroft is a compassionate, but obedient head of the mission in Aftica. And Dame Edith Evans is old-school Catholicism at its best, firmly guiding her nuns in a clear-eyed manner than can look, but is not meant to be, cruel.


Peter Finch is young and dashing—a prototype of the rude doctors we see on TV all the time. Other viewers of this film detect some sexual tension between Hepburn and Finch’s Dr. Fortunati, but I didn’t see it. Hepburn’s Sister Luke truly seems modest, even asexual, to me. When a native man asks her why a young woman like her doesn’t have a husband, rather than try to explain the difficult concepts of Catholicism, she says quite believably, “I do have a husband. But, He’s in heaven.”


Zinnemann’s direction is very full-bodied, more so than many of his films. There’s hardly a stock type in the film, and he strives to bring as much realism as Hollywood would allow to his African scenes. I was incredibly impressed with the cinematography of Franz Planer, who is a master of shadow and color, creating beauty in every scene while still somehow making everything look real. There’s very little of the crescendo-music-soaring-looks-heavenward that many religious films are made of. His work with Hepburn’s radiant face brings out so many looks that have nothing to do with glamor and everything to do with the truth of her character.

Finally, of course, is The Word. Read this remarkable exchange between Sister Luke and Rev. Mother Emmanuel:

Rev. Mother Emmanuel: Have you struggled long enough to say surely that you’ve come to the end?

Sister Luke: I think I’ve been struggling all these years, Reverend Mother. In the beginning each struggle seemed different from the one before it. But then they began to repeat, and I saw they all had the same core: obedience. Without question, without inner murmuring. Perfect obedience as Christ practiced it. As I no longer can.

Rev. Mother Emmanuel: Yes?

Sister Luke: There are times when my conscience asks which has priority. It or the Holy Rule? When the bell calls me to chapel, I often have to sacrifice what might be the decisive moment in a spiritual talk with a patient. I’m late every day for chapel or refectory or both. When I have night duty I break the Grand Silence because I can no longer cut short a talk with a patient who seems to need me. Mother, why must God’s helpers be struck dumb by five bells in the very hours when men in trouble want to talk about their souls?

Anderson truly made this film more than the sum of its many magnificent parts.

The Nun’s Story was nominated for eight Oscars the same year that Ben-Hur cleaned up. It won not a one—yet more evidence that even back in 1959, the Oscars were a joke. On Oscar night this year, skip the broadcast and watch this movie; it’s long, but not as long as the Oscars, and infinitely more deserving of your attention and admiration.

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