In his in-depth study, Jakub Gortat focuses on made-for-television movies coproduced by the Austrian Broadcasting Corporation (ORF) and Western German partners between 1965 and 1980. He contextualizes his analysis by providing pertinent genre definitions and a clear overview of Austria’s “difficult past.” Then, in four chronologically organized film chapters, Gortat pairs TV movies by genre and delves into how they become more critical of Austria’s victim narrative and progressively adopt techniques from feature films. At the same time, he examines the evolution of a more open reception to films critical of the victim narrative, drawing on available printed and archival material.
In his first pairing, Gortat examines the ways two filmmakers combine historical events and figures with fiction to varying degrees and with differing takes on the victim narrative. John Olden’s “docudrama” An der schönen blauen Donau (1965) is set against the backdrop of the days leading up to and including the failed coup attempt and assassination of Chancellor Engelbert Dollfuss in July 1934. The director interweaves the lives of fictional individuals to criticize the damaging effects of Austria’s civil war and expose the fascist government’s blind spot concerning the danger the National Socialists pose. By including the ill-treatment and murder of a Jewish character, the filmmaker also addresses Austrian antisemitism and Nazi violence. In contrast to Olden’s “docudrama,” Hermann Lankse’s “dramadoc” Theodor Kardinal Innitzer (1971) focuses on the career of the controversial eponymous archbishop of Vienna and cardinal of the Austrian Catholic Church. Although the film criticizes Innitzer’s initial support of the National Socialists, Gortat argues that by placing this episode in the context of the cleric’s entire career from 1932 to 1955, Lankse presents “a complex, multidimensional individualized character” (82). Moreover, the director’s choice of Josef Meinrad as Innitzer, who assumed this role in Otto Preminger’s The Cardinal (1963), places his version in conversation with the Hollywood film. Following the cleric’s efforts to help “non-Aryan” Catholics and his work on rebuilding Stefansdom after the war, Lankse’s film could be seen as a rehabilitation of Preminger’s Innitzer.
In the following chapter, Gortat analyzes Axel Corti’s “docu-dramas,” Der Fall Jägerstätter (1971) and Ein junger Mann aus dem Innviertel—Adolf Hitler (1973), arguing how the filmmaker successfully combines dramatic reenactments with contemporary interviews. Of particular interest is Der Fall Jägerstätter (1971), which was broadcast 19 times between 1971 and 2018. The story of Franz Jägerstätter, a devout Catholic who refused to join the German army at the cost of his life despite efforts of many to dissuade him, criticizes both the Catholic Church and the Austrian population. First aired on 26 October 1971, Austria’s national holiday, the film struck a nerve among the audience. Because of the initial negative reactions, a second broadcast 5 months later was followed by a 70-minute discussion, which included, among others, Corti, the prominent historian Erika Weinzierl, and representatives of the military, Church, and press. Drawing on the calls to the ORF after the second viewing, Gortat points to the continued explosive nature of the true story of a man who defied the Nazi regime and sacrificed his life because of his religious beliefs.
Directed by Dieter Berner, written by Wilhelm Pevny and Peter Turrini, and set in 1933 and 1938, respectively, the fourth and fifth episodes of the TV miniseries Alpensaga—Die feindlichen Brüder (1978) and Der deutsche Frühling (1979) received more muted reactions than Corti’s Jägerstätter film, which marks a shift in attitudes toward recognizing Austria’s fascist past and Austria and Austrians’ complicity in National Socialism. The portrayals of history from below through the lives of everyday individuals in 1933 and 1938 were received favorably in the Austrian press across political divides. However, by including the fact that after each broadcast the negative calls to the ORF outweighed the positive, Gortat argues that the general public was still resistant to critical examinations of the Nazi period.
Gortat closes his study with two literary adaptations from the eighties—Wolfgang Glück’s Die kleine Figur meines Vaters (1980), based on Peter Henisch’s autobiographical text from 1975, and Michael Kehlmann’s Land, das meine Sprache spricht (1980), based on Alexander Lernet-Holenia’s novella Der 20. Juli (1947). In both subject matter and style, mirroring the sources, the films could hardly be more different. Gortat praises Glück’s choice of a work that focuses on the writer’s attempt to make sense of his father’s work as a photographer for the National Socialists, as well as his innovative style. In contrast, he views Kehlmann’s film as a nod to a conservative contingent in the audience in both style and content.
Available as open access and hard copy, Gortat’s insightful volume shines a light on understudied made-for-TV movies and argues their importance for a more nuanced understanding of Austrian history and film.
