Munich


I went to see "Munich" at the open-air theatre on the island last night expecting a documentary about the city and its famous October beer festival.

I kid, I kid. I knew it was a movie about the attack on the Israeli athletes during the 1972 Munich Olympics and that image of the Palestinian kidnapper in his balaclava is one I may even remember from the time. (Yes, I'm THAT old).

What I didn't know was that it was also a movie about plastic explosives, and even more plastic dialogue, and phoney accents of every description, and (inexplicably, to me) elaborate dinners (accompanied by wine, not beer).

I also didn't know it was two-and-a-half fricken hours long (two hours for me, I amputated the last half hour in favor of sitting on a bench, drinking beer, and gazing across the river at the bright lights of the Karlovy lazne night club, listening to the mating calls of the Italian tourists).

I've been reading reviews this morning, trying to piece together just exactly what Spielberg thought he was doing, since simply telling the truth obviously wasn't it. If you want the "facts" about Munich, you should go elsewhere, apparently.

I can't believe the reviewers I've read watched the same movie, "somberly heartfelt, "an audacious political statement, "a brave attempt to wrestle with the impossible, "a film of uncommon depth, intelligence, and sensitivity."

All I could think as I sat on my bench with my beer willing the thing to be over was "I wonder what that movie would have been like if somebody SMART had made it?"