Cassandra Lewis

From the two-paragraph synopsis I was given before a pre-release viewing of Black Book, it sounded like it would be my kind of film. It’s a thriller set in Holland during World War II about a beautiful Jewish singer, played by Carice Van Houten, running from the Gestapo and seeking revenge for her family’s murder. But within the first half hour it became painfully obvious that this movie was made by Paul Verhoeven, the same director who made Robocop and Showgirls.

The storyline was flat, predictable, and chronologically ambiguous. It was too long (and, yes, I say that about everything, even pieces I admire). But really, the movie was 145 minutes and it was 145 minutes too long. It wasn’t only the gratuitous violence that bothered me. I found it offensive that Verhoeven glamorized the suffering of Holocaust survivors by inventing a Mata Hari-like character who shrugs off the genocidal world along with her clothes in every scene.

I felt sorry for Ms. Van Houten. Her role was reduced to being groped and squeezed and violated by every male character she encounters. At one point she’s singled out by a mob of people, brutally stripped and beaten, and as if that isn’t too much already, a large vat of excrement is dumped on her and she is left exposed, crawling around, covered only by filth.

I’m shocked that this movie was awarded in the Netherlands for Best Director and Best Film. I think our friend Verhoeven should stick to making Hollywood B movies of topless women having mudfights and leave the gravity of history to the professionals.