Steven Spielberg
Schindler's list

Hebrew verses mingle with the thin thread of smoke rising from a ritual candle. The thin thread of smoke thickens excessively until it becomes a heavy outburst generated by a boiler. Ink pots are opened. Uncomfortable canvas chairs are unfolded. Ledgers are opened. A stamp representing a jagged bird of prey is applied.

It begins to snow, and thousands of voices blend in a call that will not have a happy ending. Those same names will be transcribed, selected, tattooed, beaten, tortured, burned, scattered, forgotten. And they will become smoke. A black smoke that mixes with the velvety white of an extraordinary photograph. Meanwhile, on the other side of hell, bedizened harlots dance to the heart-wrenching notes of "Gloomy Sunday" or some old romantic waltz. The stranger arrives, scrutinizes the environment, sits, is recognized by the old waiter, and with a substantial wad of red banknotes begins to corrupt the atmosphere. The ingeniously glassy eye and the skin not at all ruined by artificial lotions emerge, imposing on the screen, spreading all their beauty.

Hebrew verses are neutralized by demonic white Aryan patriotic anthems pounding on the pavement of an otherwise innocent cheerful town. It is dramatic to have to accept leaving everything behind at a moment’s notice, in most cases with stubborn violence, sometimes with death. Will there be a better future? If a god exists, why is this happening? Away from homes, from families, branded with fire or tattooed with a serial number. Pulverized because useless, inferior, inconvenient.

In the most prestigious salon of hell, amidst a glass of champagne and some free magnesium, they talk about a factory that should be dealing with enamelware. Soon it will become a refuge from the madness of the iron fly. Maybe there is an unawareness of the directives wielded by the madman, but every worker deemed useful must absolutely get out of the circles. Meanwhile, they hide in the sewers, in latrines, in basements. They hide like rats, like indecent beings, to the notes of Mozart or a large caliber armored played repeatedly.

The snow turns to ash, the sniper for amusement is going mad, and the carousel can no longer operate this way. Some mechanism must be removed or maybe clip the wings of the iron fly. Blood carbonizes, electricity runs out, the air becomes unbreathable, poisons are running out and more will need to be bought, the showers do not work too well... the chimneys do, and too much.

The factory produces enough, but pots are no longer needed. There is a need for men, there is a need for Jews. The race against time where money serves as fuel manages to create a thousand of them. Perhaps a few more. Among the remnants of the factory, there are countless abandoned possessions. Glasses of various graduations, skins of various tanning, shoes of various manufactures, photographs of various subjects, books of various cultures, teeth of various makes, red coats...

The showers start working again, the chimneys extinguish, the cold invaders enter, the factory closes, the mad sniper dangles, the iron fly pierces a temple, the violence remains, and so do the tattoos. Divine justice über alles and for this time, just for this time, let him who is without sin lay the first stone on the tombstone of the heart of gold, even if a Nazi.

Epic Spielberg, excellent Kaminski, superb Williams, masterful Neeson, Kingsley a confirmation. Hearty congratulations to all members of the army of salvation. Crass Hollywood. Only 7 statuettes...