"Focusing on the everyday domesticity of the Auschwitz commandant’s family might only reflect the horror indirectly, but the film pulls the banality of evil into pin-sharp focus"
Though it’s been seven months, I remain haunted by “The Zone of Interest.” When I first watched writer-director Jonathan Glazer’s radical take on the Holocaust back in May, I couldn’t quite pinpoint what was so startling about it. There have been many films on this horrific chapter in history—from “Night and Fog” to “Schindler's List” to “The Pianist,” and as recently as “Occupied City”—all asking the viewer to bear witness to unfathomable suffering under a genocidal regime’s brutality. It would be a mistake, however, to interpret Glazer’s adaptation of Martin Amis’ same-titled novel as him asking viewers to simply witness.
It’s a disturbing work, guided by a discomforting sense of immaculateness that chills the viewer. It is the sanitation the film performs, which speaks to the now, in a way few Holocaust films have done before.
You could, of course, accuse Glazer’s film of merely being a formal exercise. He challenges himself to not only work purely through atmosphere, but also takes the risk of telling this story from a German perspective. Rudolf Höss (Christian Friedel) is the commandant of the Auschwitz concentration camp. When he first appears on-screen, he is with his wife Hedwig (Sandra Hüller) and their children, relaxing at the riverside, in a verdant field surrounded by lush mountains. Soon we are introduced to their dream house, a tall concrete structure surrounded by a lavish yard and seemingly even taller walls. On the other side of these barriers is the camp itself. Outside of a single shot—a low angle of Rudolf, framed by black smoking billowing in the background—we never really see inside the camp.
Much has also been made of the banality of evil. The Höss family live next door to ongoing genocide yet never comment on the horrific screams or the smell of death nearby. Thus, there is an expected coldness which seeps into the film’s lack of sentimentality. They raise their children under a pretense of normalcy—Rudolf tells them late-night bedtime stories, takes them horseback riding, and participates in other pastoral pursuits. Because of the emotional blankness, a burden falls on Friedel and Hüller to chart a tricky course: How human can you make someone who is clearly inhuman?
The close correlation speaks to the repulsively intimate relationship Rudolf and his family have with destruction. They profit off an entire people’s death in unspeakable ways: In one scene, one of Rudolf’s sons has a flashlight in bed. But he’s not rifling at a comic book in the dark; he’s rummaging through his collection of gold teeth. In another scene, Hedwig receives a fur coat. She tries on the fine pelt, twisting her body to catch her every angle in the mirror. In one of the pockets, she discovers the previous owner's lipstick; in the next scene she tries the lipstick on. Their easeful proximity to murder is thrown in stark relief when Hedwig’s mother arrives. At first, her mother is impressed by their “scenic” home. “You really have landed on your feet, my child,” she says to a proud Hedwig. But when the emanating sounds and smells become apparent to Hedwig’s mother, she reacts in a way that shocks Hedwig.
As much as Glazer’s film is about a specific moment in time, it’s equally concerned with how history records tragedy. Consider when Rudolf is transferred from Auschwitz to Oranienburg; Hedwig wants to stay in the dream house, in the reality she’s crafted for herself. Rudolf on the other hand, for the first time, openly speaks on the phone to his wife about murder without softening the language. Her reaction is grim; his words barely register. “It’s in the middle of the night and I need to be in bed,” she disturbingly replies
Jonathan Glazer & Team on The Zone of Interest and the Ethics of Representation | NYFF61
The Aesthetics of Detachment
Glazer utilizes a "Big Brother" style of filmmaking. The production installed up to 10 hidden cameras throughout the house and garden, allowing actors to improvise and move naturally without a visible crew. This creates a clinical, fly-on-the-wall perspective that refuses to "dramatize" the Holocaust in the traditional Hollywood sense.
Fixed Perspectives: The camera rarely moves. It observes the Höss family with the coldness of a security camera.
The Wall: The physical wall separating the garden from the camp is a constant visual motif. We never see inside the camp; instead, we see the tops of chimneys, steam from trains, and the orange glow of the crematoria at night.
Sound as the Primary Narrator
While the visuals focus on the mundane—gardening, tea parties, and children playing—the audio track (designed by Johnnie Burn) provides the horror. The film employs a dual-narrative structure where the eyes see "civilization" and the ears hear "genocide."
Low-Frequency Hum: A constant, industrial thrum pervades the film, representing the machinery of the camp.
Incidental Horror: Distant screams, gunshots, and the mechanical roar of the ovens are treated as background noise by the characters, forcing the audience to confront the psychological phenomenon of normalization.
The Banality of Evil
The film is perhaps the most literal cinematic translation of Hannah Arendt’s concept of the "banality of evil." Rudolf Höss is not depicted as a mustache-twirling villain, but as a middle-manager concerned with efficiency and career advancement.
Domestic Ambition: Hedwig Höss is portrayed as the "Queen of Auschwitz," more concerned with the growth of her dahlias and the quality of looted furs than the mass murder occurring over her fence.
The Thermal Imaging Sequences: Glazer breaks the realism with night-vision sequences showing a local girl hiding food for prisoners. These scenes, shot with thermal cameras, act as the film's only "light"—a moral counterpoint to the darkness of the Höss household.
"There are two films: the one you see, and the one you hear. The second one is the one that stays with you." — Jonathan Glazer
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