Kritiken

The first time I saw "Schindler's List," it enraged me. . . . Not surprisingly, I see it very differently now. Whereas a quarter-century ago I only could recognize Spielberg's signature, saccharine sentimentality, now I register how many punches he pulled — how carefully he built his very necessary case using the exact tools for which my younger (and rasher) self faulted him.

My own reservations concern scenes of naked bodies, or, more precisely, naked extras, being herded into the gas chambers. These scenes have become so familiar as to be numbing, a kind of Holocaust pornography. . . . For me, the best scenes are oblique, suggestive, and all the more terrifying for that. . . . This, to me, is where Spielberg's real brilliance lies: the light touches that underline the horror.

Candor compels me to admit that Schindler's List not only made me blubber helplessly both times I saw it, once before and once after reading Thomas Keneally's fascinating nonfiction novel; it has also, though I have some misgivings, won my gratitude and respect.