Daniel Kehlmann's G. W. Pabst novel The Director - Keeping it light. Keeping it carefree.

Daniel Kehlmann’s previous novel, Tyll (2017), was about a magical clown wandering through the hellscape of the Thirty Years’ War.  Apparently that was not grim enough for him so his new novel, The Director (2023), although there is some early hopeful Hollywood sunshine, is about G. W. Pabst’s life and work in Nazi Germany.

If the idea of a novel about a great German director making films under the thumb of the Nazis sounds interesting, well, this novel is highly interesting, although I will warn the kind of reader who is bothered by such things that Kehlmann writes fiction.

Chapters hop around from character to character and from style to style.  Sometimes the style is an imitation of German Expressionist filmmaking or lightly Kafkaesque.  Ross Benjamin does a wonderful job capturing these stylistic shifts, or inventing them out of nothing, or for all I know he suppresses even more dazzling stuff, how would I know, I don’t read German.  Seems good to me!

Pabst and his crew have just been interrupted by “two men in leather coats” while discussing a new film over dinner:

“But seriously,” says Karsunke.  “Enough of the funny business.”

“Yes, seriously,” says Basler.  “Which of the gentleman here is…”

He falls silent and looks at his colleague.  The other pulls a notepad out of his pocket, taps his finger on the tip of his tongue, and squints as he flips through the pages once, twice, three times.

“Just kidding,” says Karsunke.

“Keeping it light,” says Basler.  “Keeping it carefree.”  (209-10)

They are Gestapo agents from The Castle doing a comedy routine.

As the variety of the chapters accumulated, I became more impressed with what Kehlmann was doing with the novel.  Any resistance finally vanished in the amazing “German Literature” chapter, where Frau Pabst is invited to join a highly connected book club.  Yes, Nazi book club satire, a perfect mix of the lowest stakes with the highest.  Is this subtle or blatant?

“Where did you get these beautiful porcelain cups?” asked Gritt Borger.  “If I’m not mistaken, they weren’t here last time.”

“An antique shop on Feldmochinger Strasse,” said Else Buchholz.  “A whole set.  Eighty-five reichsmarks.”

Everyone fell silent.  Outside on the street two men could be heard talking to each other.  The coughing start of a car engine was audible, as well as the splashing of the coffee Maria Lotropf was pouring into her cup.  (163)

I cannot prove that those two men are Karsunke and Basler passing by.  Their car engine starts on p. 212 but does not cough.

The Director is a study of compromised creativity, but Pabst is not a monster.  What choice does he have?  It is always at least a question.

“I have no intention of making any more films.”

“Wrong answer,” said the Minister.  “Wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer.”

Both were silent.

Pabst took a breath, but the Minister interrupted before he could speak: “Now it would be good if the right answer came.” (147)

He has some choice.  A chapter narrated by P. G. Wodehouse (which “has been substantially revised for the present English translation,” curious) is about the same issue.

Lousie Brooks, Greta Garbo, P. G. Wodehouse, Leni Riefenstahl – a superb use of Riefenstahl – plus artful technical detail about film editing, lighting, and acting, plus a Nazi book club. Good stuff.