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Reflections

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Pian1a.jpg
The Pianist

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Roman Polanskiís

The Pianist

By Christine Young

    I was bound to the screen as though I was a prisoner of war; a war against mankind in the flesh, on behalf of mankindís iniquity, and in the midst of the atrocities was a melody for the heart to hold on toómusic for the soul. Within the days and the months and the years of hell on earth, the pianist struggled for survival along with his family; bound to their fate like a photograph is bound to its instance in time. They were herded like cattle from one place to another; one foot in front of the other; one death and then another, all for their own eyes to see and their senses to feel. Along the way the pianist now and again played the love of his life; his fingers moving ever so slightly, side by side, over the ebony and ivory keyboard of his mind. And there was I, the fingertips of my right hand touching my lips every so slightly, as I observed again what I had seen so many times before, in so many other films and documentaries dealing with the Holocaust. But those were just films depicting the horrible reality of a time before I was born, and I was safe within the borders of my own time and space. The state of the world is different now and this film today seems more odious to me. Perhaps itís the realization that mankind is so profoundly good, and so appallingly evil, and time is of no consequence at all.

óChristine Young