Brooks won the Pulitzer in 2006 for her book March, so I felt obligated to try People of the Book when I saw it on display at the mega-bookstore that shall remain unnamed. I feel guilty that I didn’t spend my money at the local independent bookstore.  I had a gift card.  What could I do.

The book is about the Sarajevo Haggadah, a Jewish religious text that tells the story of the Jewish exodus from Egypt.  It’s believed that this Haggadah originated some time in the 14th century in Spain and made it’s way to Sarajevo, surviving Jewish expulsion, the Spanish Inquisition, World War II, and the Bosnian War.  The Haggadah contains some beautiful illustrations similar to Christian prayer books, and one of them includes a Moorish woman.  This raises several historical questions about why this Jewish text has Christian influenced artwork and a Moorish woman. Brooks’ fictional protagonist is a conservationist of ancient texts.  She finds several clues as to the Haggadah’s origins and history while restoring it for the museum in Sarajevo.  The chapters take the reader back in time to tell the fictional story behind each clue, which is pretty interesting, but several times Brooks uses corny plot twists along the lines of something from a Dan Brown novel. Most are in the present and involve the protagonist and her own little storyline. Overall, the book is about how multiculturalism is great and created this wonderful work of art, but I have to say I felt the Christians in this book took a beating.  I know, the Inquisition. I can’t argue with that.  I don’t want to give any spoilers, but there are several times Brooks could have gone in a different direction with certain characters. Again, the Dan Brown nonsense really turns me off.  It wasn’t a lot, but that’s my pet peeve, especially coming from a writer who won the Pulitzer.

People of the Book is good, and it kept my interest, but it’s not as good as I thought it would be. I guess that’s what I get for not buying March, but I figured her follow up to the Pulitzer could only be better…right?

For Kootenay Mountain Culture’s Winter 2009 “Competition” issue, I investigated what an Olympic hangover looks like at altitude.

Now, with just 78 days until the Winter Olympics rolls into Whistler, it seems fitting to look at what previous host mountain communities have gotten for their hospitality. Anyone who’s ever hosted a wicked party knows the morning after can be rough.

 

The big question is: can the Games be more than just a billion dollar party?

The recent resolution for an Olympic Truce seems a pretty blunt instrument for peace, given that Canada has no intention of pulling troops out of combat in Afghanistan during the Olympics. The Games had a real chance to put its money where its peace-proclaiming mouth is, in 2001, when the Bosnian Olympic Committee made a bold bid to bring the 2010 Games back to Sarajevo.

Bold, given that Sarejevo’s fifteen year old Olympic facilities were in ruins. Zetra Olympic Hall had been pulverised in mortar attacks during the siege, land mines prevent access to the Olympic bobsleigh run and the city still cannot afford the electricity to keep the skating rink open. Bid president, Bogic Bogisevic proposed a moral campaign to win the Games. He argued that the international community had stood by while the City of Sarejevo was devastated by civil war. That failure to act could be repaid by awarding the Games to the city as a stimulus to rebuilding.

But, as Olympic watchdog Chris Shaw told me in a later interview, the Olympics is not a moral event. It’s a business event. And the business case wasn’t there. The IOC visited Sarajevo as part of the 2001 bid process, but the city didn’t make the shortlist. Instead, the Games are coming to Whistler.

People often ask me why I even bother to care. As if “I”, indeed, can really do anything largely impactful. (It appears most of them are quicker to cast doubt on you than support you. I don’t allow myself to be thwarted by their negativity.) After being asked this question several times lately- I’ve reflected back to where my awareness of impending humanitarian crises first began. The point when I recognized the presence of a world beyond my own small existence and its simultaneously occurring events. (Does that sound cheesy enough yet?)

I just finished the 4th grade and was in Phoenix, visiting my Aunt and Uncle. After playing outside for hours, the parching heat chased me indoors. I needed water! I slid open her screen door and slammed it behind myself just to hear the echo. I was the only “non- adult” in the house. My footsteps on the tile floor were the only sounds, besides the television and voices of my family members on the patio. Alone to sneak a cookie or two- what opportunity!

I glanced curiously at the television. The news was on and I watched a group of men carrying a boy from a burning building. One of his legs was completely crushed and the other bleeding. He was grabbing the arms of the NATO paramedics begging them to let him live and not to amputate his leg. I remember barely being able to read the subtitles at the bottom of the screen. The continued footage showed groups of orphaned and injured children, whom I quickly realized, were the same age as me…

I never stopped to think about this before. I always thought all other children were just like me. They had the same things as I had. They had parents as good as mine, food, a place to go to school and a bed to sleep in. (I also thought health care was free and food was too- damn, was I wrong!)

Someone called my name from the patio. I went back outside- telling my relatives that “I never wanted to watch the news again”. I was distraught and damaged. I never forgot about that boy. The footage was a Serbian attack on Bosnia. At the time- I didn’t realize how much the event I witnessed bared relation to a distant stranger. Here is why:

My family was living in West Virginia when I was about 2 years old. A young woman of about 19 years old moved into the apartment next to us. She spoke no English and was sent to the US by an arranged family marriage from Bosnia. She was doe eyed, bewildered and within months gave birth to a son- who became my best friend and first “boyfriend”. We often played together as my mother aided his young mother in learning English.

Sadly, her husband was abusive and my family eventually moved to South Carolina. She called us one day- telling my mother she was taken to a “bad house”. My mother urged her to return to her family in Bosnia. This was right before the wars and the siege of Sarajevo.

I always wondered what happened to him. He would be my age now and I have never been able to find him since. If he returned to the Balkans as his mother said they would- the crisis would have directly affected him. Maybe he was somewhere behind those cameras on that news footage or maybe he is safe and more affluent then me. At least this is what I hope…

It’s difficult to gage the exact point in your life when you realize this truth: We are not created equal. Our teachers, parents and politicians tell us that we are. This is not in any way accurate.  We indeed are victims of the cultural framework we are born into from the beginning. Our deviations from this depend on our education and exposures.

Today, I reflect on just a few months ago as I watched the amount of displaced persons in Pakistan climb from a few hundred thousand to millions in just two weeks. Jeffery Sach’s book “The End of Poverty” presents statistics revealing that 1/3 of humanity has not even reached the “bottom rung” on the ladder of economic development. Out of the 6 billion people in this world this fraction would represent roughly 2 billion, including the 45 million uprooted and displaced by war. That’s 1/3 of the world’s people without food, clean water or basic amenities, which is 1/3 TOO MANY…

Packed congregation at St Andrew’s Church of Scotland this morning – and a truly international one, too.  Forty-nine nationalities.  A very warm welcome, a mix of Sydney Carter, Richard Gillard and the  Threefold Amen, choir in blue gowns and beautiful Southern African stoles, proper children’s address – and a happy buzz downstairs for coffee afterwards.  Met a Canadian who is also just back from Sarajevo – not part of the major EU/US delegation but Canada plays a peace-building role.

People arriving before the service at St Andrew's Church of Scotland in Brussels.

“after Jugo“, my new multimedia project, is now online!

check it out at www.afterjugo.com

and leave a comment, I want to hear your feedback!

painting, sarajevo 2009-no.25, 16″x20″ acrylic on canvas, by alyse radenovic,  at http://www.aelisheva.com

painting, sarajevo 2009-no.24, 16″x20″ acrylic on canvas, by alyse radenovic,  at http://www.aelisheva.com

Sarajevo är fotografernas paradis. Åtminstone om den som håller i kameran är Tant Ekologisk.

Från Zagreb tar det en natts tågfärd till min hemstad Sarajevo. Här dricker jag alltid en dubbel espresso på järnväggsstationen och ser på när tidningsbuden börjar sin runda.

På stationen där träffade jag mycket trevliga människor från Portugal och Nya Zeeland och morgonen förvandlades till förmiddag innan bekanskapsfasen var avklarad. Jag har en stående inbjudan att åka dit och hälsa på och det dröjer nog inte länge förrän ni ser Tant Ekologisk gästspel i bägge länderna. Det bästa med resor är alla fina människor man träffar, och ännu bättre är när de inte har bråttom någonstans. Tåg har den effekten på människor. Tåg saktar ner.

Amanhã… Jogo decisivo de apuramento para o Mundial de Futebol 2010. A selecção viaja até a capital da Bósnia-Herzegovina(Sarajevo) aqui retratada pelos UHF. A música destaca a missão de todos os militares portugueses na Bósnia-Herzegovina desde 1996. Depois do restabelecimento da paz na Ex-Jugoslávia, irá o povo português triunfar novamente através do maior espectáculo do mundo?

I’m a fan of figure skating, but old school.  Meaning: I didn’t really follow the Olympics in Torino and don’t have a clue who plans to compete in Vancouver, but I was obsessed with the Battle of both the Carmens and the Brians in Calgary in 1988 and went just about over the moon when the IOC changed the rules and I got two winter Olympics in two years:  1992 and 1994.  There was Kristi and eventually Nancy.  And perhaps my favorite of all, Michelle.   But before any of these women, there was Katarina.  I started thinking about her last week with all the talk of the end of the Cold War, the wall coming down, and reunification.

Katarina Witt is a figure skater who represented East Germany throughout most of her skating career.  She stole my heart in 1988 when she went head to head with Debi Thomas in the ladies figure skating championship in Calgary.  She won with this performance, which still gives me goose bumps.  But it’s another performance that still has the ability to make me cry. Witt is only one of two women who ever successfully defended her Olympic title (1984 and 1988; the other is Sonja Henie).  She did not compete in the 1992 games, but due to a change in the rules professional skaters were allowed to compete in 1994.  Without any realistic expectations of winning a medal, she instead created a routine that she dedicated to the people of Sarajevo.  She won her first gold medal at the winter Olympic games in Sarajevo in 1984, so when she returned to the 1994 games in Lillehammer she skated her long program as a tribute to the people of Sarajevo, who were in the midst of a raging war following the collapse of the Yugoslav federation.   She skated to a version of Pete Seeger’s Where Have All the Flowers Gone.  While this isn’t the Olympic performance, it’s the same program and better quality:

In 1994 I also got to know Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean, an ice dancing pair who also won their first gold medal at the 1984 winter games in Sarajevo.  Their long program, which they skated to Ravel’s Bolero, stunned audiences and judges alike — they were the first skaters ever to receive the perfect score of 6.0 from every single judge in the artistic impression category.   Due to the same change in rules that brought Katarina Witt to Lillehammer, Torvill and Dean also came back in 1994.  They were robbed of the gold that year (imho), but here’s the routine from ‘84 that, for many, revolutionized the sport of ice dancing.

And then came Michelle.  I barely know where to begin.  (My friend Michelle might encourage me to start by telling you about the belt that I once purchased because it was the same beautiful ice blue color of the dress that Michelle Kwan wore during her long program at the Nagano Olympics when she, too, was robbed of the gold medal … but I might be too embarrassed to mention it.)  I love Michelle Kwan.  I was devastated when thatbitchtaralipinski was awarded the gold medal in 1998.  I’m sure Michelle has reconciled herself to that travesty in Olympic history, but I haven’t!  Anyway, onward to Salk Lake City in 2002, which we all thought was Michelle’s year.  Turns out it was, though not quite like any of us imagined.

Due to all sorts of fishy ice skating rules and things, not to mention a few mistakes during her performance (details details), she won the bronze medal.  However, it was during the post-competition Olympic gala that I saw her Fields of Gold program for the first time.  Seriously, waterworks.  What a triumph it was to watch her, in a season during which everyone favored her for the gold, put her best foot forward and skate so beautifully to a song with such an ironic title. (As a side note, Kwan’s routine helped pluck the singer Eva Cassidy from relative obscurity and, though posthumously, her album Songbird went on to receive gold certification; Cassidy’s parents went to see Kwan perform this routine in Baltimore and presented her with a copy of the gold record.)   It seems quaint now, but I recorded the performance using my trusty VCR and would watch it every now and then until one day, gasp, I accidentally recorded an episode of ER on top of it.  Thus, I must take this opportunity to thank you, Internet, for giving me my Michelle back.

Finally, who in the world knew that the name “Figure Skating” actually came from the compulsory figures (or school figures) that played a significant role in the overall scores during competitions?  Didja?!  Clearly I never thought this through (and I call myself a fan) but, wow, what a discovery.  While doing some reading for this post I found multiple references to people receiving marks for “compulsory figures,” which under the former skating rules was a score that awarded points for carving specific figures into the ice that were then scrutinized by judges to make sure they were uniform in size, didn’t wobble or have flat edges, etc.  Compulsory figures actually gave the sport its name!  And they were the sport for a long time, counting for more than half an athlete’s total score.  Eventually the short program was added and compulsories counted for less of the total, but were still combined with the short and long programs to determine the winner of a particular competition. Their weight in competition changed over time, and they were eventually eliminated altogether in 1990.  Seriously, I may be the last person to figure this out (heh), but blow me down.  Things make much more sense now.

Slavoj Zizek comments on why present leftism is insufficient and too self-congratulatory to damage capitalism. He encourages the evolution of 20th century revolutionary ideals into something more sophisticated in order to prevent both the disasters inaction as well as mindless moralizing will lead to. Of Zizek’s lectures, this one is perhaps his most passionately delivered and pithy.

La chambre d’appel du tribunal international pour l’ancienne Yougoslavie -TPIY- a réduit la peine de prison de Dragomir Milosevic, ancien général de l’armée des Serbes de Bosnie reconnu coupable de crimes perpétrés contre la population civile de Sarajevo lors du conflit de 1992 à 1995 en Bosnie Herzégovine. La chambre d’appel a partiellement confirmé  les conclusions rendues par la chambre de première instance dans l’affaire Dragomir Milosevic et ramené la peine de 33 ans d’emprisonnement à 29 ans. L’appel de l’accusation qui demandait que M. Milosevic soit condamné à la réclusion à perpétuité a été rejeté dans son intégralité.

Dragomir Milosevic

 Dragomir Milosevic était commandant du corps Sarajevo-Romanija -SRK- de l’armée des Serbes de Bosnie qui a encerclé Sarajevo et maintenu ses habitants prisonniers pendant les trois ans et demi qu’a duré le conflit. Il a succédé à son ancien supérieur Stanislav Galic à la tête du SRK en août 1994, poste qu’il a occupé pendant 15 mois, jusqu’à la fin du conflit en novembre 1995. Stanislav Galic a été condamné à la réclusion à perpétuité par la chambre d’appel en novembre 2006. Depuis sa création, il y a seize ans, le tribunal a mis en accusation 161 personnes pour des crimes de guerre perpétrés sur le territoire de l’ancienne Yougoslavie. Les procédures à l’encontre de 120 d’entre elles ont pris fin. Les procédures concernant 41 accusés sont actuellement en cours. Vingt-quatre personnes sont actuellement jugées en première instance, sept autres attendent le prononcé du jugement et 14 sont en appel. Zdravko Tolimir est le seul accusé placé sous la garde du tribunal dont l’affaire est encore au stade de la mise en état. Deux accusés, Ratko Mladic et Goran Hadzic, sont en fuite et doivent être arrêtés et transférés devant le tribunal à La Haye.

Ali Pasha mosque (Sarajevo, Bosnia)

main mosque of Bosnia-Herzegovina
Europe
48% muslim nation (main religion)

Cargado originalmente por sana banana nana

Ali Pasha’s Mosque was constructed in Sarajevo during 1560-61 as a vakuf (legacy or perpetual endowment) of Hadim Ali-pasha, the former Ottoman governor of the Budapest administrative district (budimski begler-beg) and the Bosnian district (pašaluk). The mosque was built according to the classical Istanbul architectural style. The dome covers the prayer area and three small domes cover the cloister. Because of its noble proportions it stands at the top of the scale of all sub-dome mosques that have been constructed in Bosnia and Herzegovina. In the framework of the complex there is a domed burial site (turbe) with two sarcophagus of Avdo Sumbul (d.1915) and Behdžet Mutevelić (d.1915), Gajret activists who died in the dungeons of Arad. The Ali Pasha Mosque was heavily damaged by Serbian forces during the conflict of the early 1990s, especially the dome.[1] The most recent renovation of the mosque occurred in 2004 and in January 2005, the Commission to Preserve National Monuments issued a decision to add the Ali Pasha Mosque to the list of National Monuments of Bosnia and Herzegovina.[2]

Neformalna grupa građana, strip entuzijasta, okupljena pod nazivom Stripopeka Inicijativa, poklanja danas kolekciju strip albuma Biblioteci Sarajeva.

U proteklih šest mjeseci uz svesrdnu pomoć fondacije Schuller Helfen Leben organizovali smo školu stripa „KAPOW!“ za potrebe koje je oformljena i biblioteka strip albuma i priručnika kako crtati stripove. Po završetku škole stripa, ovu kolekciju strip albuma odlučili smo pokloniti Biblioteci Sarajeva.

Neki od naslova koji će biti poklonjeni biblioteci su:

• „Oči i tama“ (autor Gigi Simeoni) prošlogodišnji je super-hit izdavačke kuće Bonelli iz Italije;
• „Balada o slanom moru“ (autor Hugo Pratt) prvi je strip iz serijala o Corto Malteseu (trebamo li reći išta više);
• „Zarobljenik zvijezda“ (autor Alfonso Font) sjajan SF strip velikana devete umjetnosti;
• „Svebor i Plamena“ (autori Goran Sudžuka i Matija Pisačić) strip je o odrastanju nacrtan prema scenariju slavnog hrvatskog scenarista, Darka Macana.

Tu je i više primjeraka knjige „Kako crtati strip“ najvećeg teoretičara stripa današnjice, Scotta Mclouda. Ovaj vrlo detaljan priručnik nacrtan je u formi stripa te čitaoce na primjeru same knjige uči kako dobar strip treba izgledati.

Knjige koje Stripopeka poklanja biblioteci su stripovi u kvalitetnom tvrdom uvezu prevedeni na hrvatski jezik (objavljeni i kupljeni u Hrvatskoj s obzirom da u Bosni i Hercegovini, kao što znamo, izdavaštvo stripova ne postoji), što ukupnu vrijednost donacije čini višom od 300 KM.

Ovom gestom nastavljamo promovirati strip kulturu u Bosni i Hercegovini uz želje da poklonjeni strip albumi provedu što manje vremena na policama biblioteke, a što više u rukama čitaoca.

Dario Tozzoli

The Siege of Sarajevo. Illustrazione di Carlos Latuff. Immagine di dominio pubblico.

Questa non è una storia inventata da me ma il racconto confidenziale di una cara amica. Soltanto dopo un po’ di tempo ho avuto il coraggio di confessarle che, a seguito del nostro ultimo incontro, avevo scritto quello che lei mi aveva raccontato perché… neanch’io sapevo il perché. Qualche oscuro moto interiore mi aveva spinto a farlo, ecco tutto.
Quindi le ho sottoposto a lettura quanto segue e da lei ho avuto il consenso di renderlo pubblico. Anzi, per un certo periodo di qualche anno fa, abbiamo addirittura coltivato la fantasia di tradurlo in un’opera teatrale.
In ogni caso, se da questo racconto riuscisse a trasparire anche soltanto un barlume della bellezza e dell’amore di S.N., sarà valsa la pena di scriverlo.

Avevo compiuto i miei diciotto anni da poco quando vennero i soldati croati nella nostra casa semidistrutta dalle bombe e ci prelevarono per condurci nei campi di concentramento dove ammassavano i musulmani. Eravamo nel pieno della guerra che stava dilaniando la mia terra e la mia gente. Prima di separarci ci lasciarono qualche minuto per il commiato… privilegio dovuto al fatto, credo, che mio nonno fu una figura di grande rilievo nella cultura della ex-Jugoslavia.
Mia madre piangeva con il volto tra le mani. Mio padre mi abbracciò forte e mi disse: «Non so quando e non so come, ma ci rivedremo, perché noi sappiamo cos’è l’amore».
Non ebbi la forza di dire nulla ma anch’io avevo la certezza che ci saremmo ritrovati.
Pochi giorni prima avevo visto dalla finestra, senza vetri, la lunga fila dei musulmani bosniaci, come noi, che venivano condotti ai campi. Di tanto in tanto qualche cecchino sparava e, dalla fila, ne cadeva qualcuno che rimaneva lì, a bagnare col suo sangue questa terra disgraziata. Adesso ero io in una di queste file e i cecchini sparavano ancora. È un miracolo che sia qui a raccontarlo.
Quando arrivammo al campo separarono le donne giovani dalle anziane. Mia madre non c’era, l’avevano portata altrove. Prima di farci entrare nel buio sotterraneo ci costrinsero ancora in fila, questa volta per valutarci fisicamente, come si fa al mercato del bestiame con gli animali. Un soldato piccolo e tarchiato mi si avvicinò, mise una mano ruvida sulla mia guancia e spinse il pollice tra le mie labbra per farmi aprire la bocca. Voleva vedere i miei denti.
Ma il colpo più forte lo ricevetti quando vidi l’ufficiale responsabile del campo. Era, era stato almeno, il migliore amico di mio fratello. Mio fratello studiava in Germania già da un paio d’anni quando scoppiò la guerra. Si trovava ancora là quando ci deportarono e per fortuna non era riuscito a rientrare. Fin da piccola li avevo visti giocare insieme, confidarsi i primi amori, ubriacarsi, andare insieme a pescare. Spesso ero con loro. Si fidanzarono a poca distanza l’uno dall’altro e anche le loro ragazze diventarono amiche.
È passata molta acqua sotto i ponti da allora.

Il ponte ricostruito di Mostar. Fotografia di domino pubblico.

Anche il vecchio ponte di Mostar è stato distrutto ed ora già lo stanno ricostruendo.
Quando, in seguito, mio fratello seppe che il suo più caro amico aveva detto: «Preferisco morire se Mostar non diventerà croata» fu spezzato dal dolore. Da allora non l’ho mai più visto davvero allegro e spensierato. Ancora oggi c’è nel suo sguardo la traccia indelebile della disgrazia che ci ha attraversati.
Non gli raccontai mai ciò che avvenne al campo. Mentii sia con lui sia con i miei genitori. Non sarebbero stati in grado di capire. Avrebbero sofferto, ancora, senza ragione.
Mostar non diventò croata e fu lui a morire.
Ma prima doveva ancora consumarsi, in questa tragedia balcanica, un’ulteriore tragedia privata che mutò, alla radice, il volto e la prospettiva dei miei sentimenti, insieme a tutto il resto. La distruzione totale del mondo sereno che aveva preceduto questi tempi terribili si svolse in modo spietato come se, nell’anima, ogni costruzione degli affetti e dei sentimenti dovesse essere rasa al suolo, proprio come fuori. Non soltanto il mondo fuori ma anche il mondo di dentro crollava senza pietà lasciando solo un mucchio di macerie. Avvertivo questa rovina in un grumo di dolore, anche fisico: sordo, cieco, muto. Un lancinante grido soffocato, tanto più mostruoso quanto più sepolto… nel silenzio.
Il gorgo malefico nel quale ero capitata, prolungamento singolare di un maleficio ben più ampio, mi costrinse a trovare, dentro me stessa, una forza d’amore inaudita, capace di comprendere l’infamia più grande. A questo fui costretta.
Quando mi vide mi riconobbe subito. Me ne accorsi. Nonostante le mie condizioni e per quanto tentassi di dissimularmi tra le altre mi aveva identificato, ma distolse subito lo sguardo da me. Era stato ospite nella nostra casa, aveva pranzato e cenato con la mia famiglia, spesso nostra madre gli preparava il letto nella stanza di mio fratello. Avevamo riso e scherzato insieme. Tutto ciò non contava più nulla? Il vento dell’odio e della guerra era davvero riuscito a spazzare tutto quanto in un colpo solo?
Ora che mi aveva visto, speravo in cuor mio che mi avrebbe aiutata.
E, alla fine, lo fece. Ma prima successe quanto segue.
Dopo due giorni, durante i quali restammo a marcire nel sotterraneo, vennero due soldati cristiani e prelevarono me e un’altra ragazza. Ci portarono in un edificio poco distante. Lei la condussero lungo un corridoio poco illuminato di cui non riuscivo a scorgere il fondo. Non so che fine abbia fatto: non l’ho più rivista. Io fui condotta al piano superiore. Mentre salivo le scale uno dei soldati insinuava la canna del fucile tra le mie gambe, sollevandola fino a farmi male. Avevo paura, una paura tremenda, ma cercavo di controllarmi.
Mi fecero entrare in una stanza molto illuminata. Un grande tavolo con gli avanzi di un banchetto, sul lato sinistro. Sul lato destro, una grossa stufa. Bicchieri e bottiglie sparsi dappertutto… sedie. Una decina di soldati allegri e semiubriachi parlavano ad alta voce e fumavano. Tra loro c’era lui, l’amico, quello che era stato l’amico di mio fratello. E proprio lui esclamò, quando mi vide entrare,: «Ecco la piccola troia musulmana».

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Stummfilm, s/w; 76 Minuten
Deutschland, 1928

Regie: Rolf Raffé

Darsteller: Fritz Spira, Erna Morena, Maly Delschaft, Leni Riefenstahl u.a.

Uraufführung am 16.11.1928 im Waterloo-Theater, Hamburg

Einziger Spielfilm mit Leni Riefenstahl als Schauspielerin (in der Rolle der Baronesse Mary Vetsera), in dem nicht Arnold Fanck oder Leni Riefenstahl selbst Regie führte, und der nicht im Bergfilm-Genre angesiedelt war.
Der Film blieb in seiner Zeit relativ unbeachtet, und auch Leni Riefenstahl war mit ihrer Rolle, in die sie zunächst viele Hoffnungen gesetzt hatte, sehr unzufrieden, weil ihr Part aufgrund einer Erkrankung bei den Dreharbeiten auf Schloß Schönbrunn in Wien stark gekürzt werden mußte. Nach eigenen Angaben habe sie den fertigen Film selbst nie gesehen.

“Das Schicksal derer von Habsburg” erzählt die familiären Verstrickungen am österreichischen Kaiserhof zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts um Kaiser Franz Joseph I., Kaiserin Elisabeth I. und deren Kindern, Kronprinz Rudolf und dem Thronfolger Franz Ferdinand, der schließlich 1914 in Sarajevo einem Attentat zum Opfer fiel, dem Auslöser des I. Weltkriegs. Im Film sind vom Regisseur Rolf Raffé zur Spielfilmhandlung original Dokumentaraufnahmen eingeschnitten worden.

Der Film galt lange Zeit als verschollen. Laut Rainer Rother existieren im Bundesarchiv-Filmarchiv Berlin zwei kurze Fragmente von etwa 11 Minuten Dauer.
Am 18.08.2001 zeigte die Bonner Kinemathek anläßlich des 17. Bonner Sommerkino-Festivals eine restaurierte italienische Fassung (76 Minuten) mit den erhaltenen deutschen Untertiteln oder übersetzten italienischen Untertiteln. Die Basis dieses restaurierten Films bildete eine Nitratkopie der Cineteca Paolo Venier (1706 m). Da einige Teile stark beschädigt waren, wurden gut erhaltene Fragmente aus dem Bundes-Filmarchiv (382 m) und dem Filmarchiv Austria (335 m) eingeschnitten. Völlig unbrauchbare Teile der italienischen Kopie mußten jedoch durch Standbilder ersetzt werden. Die italienische Fassung war zur damaligen Zeit zu propagandistischen Zwecken umgearbeitet worden.

Am 29. August 2002 zeigte das Filmuseum Potsdam anläßlich der Ausstellung “90 Jahre Babelsberg” vermutlich die gleiche Fassung von 76 Minuten Dauer.

Der Film ist derzeit weder als Video noch als DVD erhältlich.
Einen kleinen Eindruck kann folgendes RealMedia-File bieten:
“Das Schicksal derer von Habsburg”
Dauer 4:31 Minuten / Dateigröße zum Download 7,4 MB!

Throughout our trip there has been multiple themes, but none better than the local news playing on our many bus trips. As with many news interruptions on the radio they make sure to jazz them up with catchy sounds and attention grabbing sequences of headlines and yet more sounds. The thing with these news casts is that they’ve essentially sampled the sound that would happen in Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater when your character would do a secret move and intermittently placed this noise in between what I can imagine is every change of topic. In Serbia this was particularly pleasing, as multiple hours into a bus ride you would have fairly entertaining Boratesque music interrupted by what sounded like a guy mashing his Playstation controller mixed with unintelligible rapid speech. It’s seriously amazing, I’ll try to get a video of it just to verify that I’m not just ranting out of my ass here. On a more exploratory note, Sarajevo was pretty radical. The devastation and first hand testimony didn’t come close to that of Mostar, but it was still a great experience. We once again went on an a tour, but this one was considerably shorter and not quite as impactful. We explored the tunnel that the Sarajevans used to escape the city during their time under siege in the 90’s. The city was comprised of way too many cemetaries, with an over abundance of them showing lives cut short in the mid 90’s. We had a modest Halloween here and hit up some local pubs, viewing some modest local Halloween apparel and having a solid time. We then ventured on to Nis, Serbia, not exactly a must see, but a spot to break up a heinous 15 hour journey. Nis was a nice surprise though, featuring an exceptionally clean hostel, amazing food and an overall clean and welcoming city. We found a restaurant from a local that was located in an alley that was off the culinary chain. My dish (which I indulged in back to back nights) featured FOUR types of chicken (chicken breast cooked to perfection, chicken pieces wrapped in bacon, chicken breaded with sesame seeds and chicken cordon bleu with mushrooms). That meal and 2 beers, $13…   thank you very much. This ain’t no Sizzler guys, seriously, visit Slovenia and Serbia just for the sake of your palate’s enjoyment. We’re now in Sofia, Bulgaria having some mellow days and getting psyched for Istanbul. We’ll be taking off likely tomorrow, and we’re as the Australian’s would say “sick-as car park boardie heaps” to be going. On a final note, what’s up with showers where you have to hold the shower head whilst cleaning ones bod? Have you ever realized how much the cleanliness of armpits suffer? In order to clean your arm pit properly you basically have to chicken wing your non shower head holding arm and feebly clean. Get a life, mount your shower heads.

ur ett fönster strömmade det guldsånger och det var så vackert att jag inte kunde låta bli att stanna och försöka glömma bort att det inte finns en gul liten fläck i mitt hjärta en stund och livet var verkligen lidande under ett fönster en stund och sen gick jag därifrån.

graviterade omkring som en liten rymdapa och kände mig ensam i tokyo en stund och tänkte på farfar i göteborg som gick omkring i sin lägenhet och väntade på döden och på att jag nästan skiter i fotboll numera.

bakgatorna i den här stan är mörkare än man kan tro.

en stund senare tillbaka i arkadia med nina simone och kalla fötter.

någon säger att jag håller på att bli galen och att inte ens sveriges minst energikrävande elavtal kan rädda mig från mig själv och någon får höra att även om vi snurrar runt solen tillsammans allihopa och även om jag aldrig typ skulle råda någon att äta två månader gammal vispgrädde så kunde någon hoppa upp i en tillräckligt skön soffa och svalka sig i någon annans skugga en stund för det är som det är med allt tills det är något annat.

drack mitt vita te och väntade på adventsljusstakarna.

satte spisen på hundra grader och la mig under den öppna luckan och funderade på hur många kilometer musik jag hade lyssnat på sen jag krashade i sarajevo. ovanför balkongen brann ljus från stjärnor som kanske varit döda i hundra år och varje ögonblick här och nu kunde allt förändras men jag kände nog ändå likadant.

Pepparkakspremiären bara någon vecka bort och jag saknade Axel.