A Look at the Film ‘Legend of Destruction’ (Column 398)

Yesterday, on Sunday the 17th of Tammuz, I was invited to an early screening of the film Legend of Destruction at the Jerusalem Cinematheque. The film depicts the events that led to the destruction of the Second Temple (the zealots and ruffians, the corruption within the city, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai, and more), and it does so through roughly 1,500 excellent oil paintings (by artists David Polonsky and Michael Faust) shown one after another, accompanied by beautiful choral music (mainly settings of relevant Psalms). I’ll note that the film contains virtually no animation (save for one scene), and the story it tells is of course well known to all of us—so I would have expected to doze off by about the third image. And yet, that absolutely did not happen. The film truly manages to be captivating and to touch on contemporary notes. Another advantage of the subject is that I don’t have to worry about spoilers. You all generally know what happened, and in particular you all know how it ends. The characters in the film are all real, though the director weaves them together in a way that does not purport to be historically precise in detail, but is as faithful as possible to the descriptions in our sources (it’s hard to know from the sources exactly what occurred, especially since they are all written by people with particular agendas who wish to convey specific messages—Chazal included, of course).

In a conversation with the director, Gidi Dar (Ushpizin), after the film, he spoke about his motivations—as a thoroughly secular person—for making such a film (it took them about eight years), about how he studied the subject (Josephus, tractate Yoma, the Aggadot of Destruction), about the execution, the decision to do it in this very particular way, and of course about the implications for our day and the different target audiences they intend to approach at first (mainly the religious-Zionist public and the Tel Aviv left).

Bottom line, it is a very powerful and thought-provoking film. After a warm recommendation to go see it (it is supposed to be released for screening on 15.7 of this year), I still wanted to share here some thoughts on a few aspects that relate to the film. These points, of course, are very fitting for the beginning of the Three Weeks.

Technical Aspects and the Artistic Decision

While watching, I thought to myself that any film, live-action or animated, is in essence built of static frames one after another, so there’s nothing essentially different here (see more on this in my essay here). This point is sharpened in two scenes I recall: one is a Roman messenger’s horse whose gallop is fully animated, and yet you hardly notice anything different from the general flow of the film. Beyond that, the battering ram breaching the wall is presented as a sequence of very close frames of shattering, one after the other, and it’s easy to see this as animation. If this had been done at higher resolution it would have been a clip from an animated film (watching this in the midst of the 17th of Tammuz fast was especially powerful).

Even in a standard film our brain fills in gaps and in fact creates the movie. Here, a larger portion of the meaning is produced by the brain’s completions, and less of it is spoon-fed by the director. In addition, the camera roams across the different paintings, occasionally focusing or moving from one side of a painting to the other, which brings us even closer to animation (here the camera moves, not the painting—but as a physicist, what difference does it make?!). This naturally raises the question: why construct the film this way after all? What’s wrong with the conventional genres?

I ultimately became convinced that it’s not just a gimmick—that there’s added value here. Dar explained that if it were animated it might look like Walt Disney, and with flesh-and-blood actors it would look Hollywood. Especially for frequent viewers, the awareness that it’s not real is built-in. Therefore, even if you get into the mood and the situation, it’s hard for such a film to affect you deeply. A viewer of the film as it was made has a slight sense of being in a museum (as one viewer aptly described it, though Dar himself, as a filmmaker, was wary of that characterization), but this really casts a heavy, serious atmosphere that prompts reflection. You are decidedly outside the situation—unlike a regular film—but perhaps that very distance allows you to observe matters with intellectual and contemplative detachment (see Rashi s.v. “meshalot,” Sukkah 28a).

A Side Note: Can One Learn from Tanakh or Aggadah?

I can’t resist opening with a side note. The film’s protagonist is Ben Batich (voiced by Shuli Rand), the nephew of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai (voiced by Moni Moshonov). This name appears in the sources, and in parallel sources it is apparently Abba Sikra. Early in the film he sits in his uncle’s lesson in the beit midrash, and RYBZ expounds the verse “He looked this way and that, and saw that there was no man.” He explained that someone who looks this way and that and is afraid is not a man. A man must rise and act without fear (“In a place where there are no men…”), like Moses our teacher. I immediately thought to myself: here is yet another vapid Hasidic vort. It’s vapid not because the message is wrong, but because that is not really the verse’s meaning. Though here it’s even better, because it certainly fits the situation described in the Torah, and still I felt there was a homiletic reading that does violence to the verse. In column 52 I explained that this is the essence of derash, and that’s why one does not refute it (the bottom line is correct, so why should we care about the quality of the argument and the interpretation?!)

I didn’t recognize the midrash and suspected it had no source in Chazal. After searching I found midrashim close in spirit, for example (Sanhedrin 98a): “‘And he saw that there was no man’—and he was astonished that there was no one to intercede,” or (Pesikta Zutrata, Shemot 2:12): “‘For there was no man’—to save,” and other midrashim of this kind that redirect the verse’s “man” to people who would intercede with the Egyptian. That is essentially the idea the film places in RYBZ’s mouth. So in the end this sharpened for me the great closeness between Hasidic vortlach and aggadic midrashim in general. This is why, in my view, such derashot may have educational value but are not learning. It’s not truly an attempt to reach the verse’s meaning but merely to use it as a hook on which to hang your ideas. As I’ve written more than once, one can thus understand that there’s no point in forcibly seeking exegetical depths in midrash. In many cases (perhaps not always) it is not anchored in the text but in the message the preacher wants to convey through it—just like among the Hasidim.

Thinking further about this midrash, I saw that this interpretation actually fits the verse and its context quite well. I’m a prisoner of Rashi and the familiar commentaries and midrashim, so it was obvious to me that Moses feared people might see the deed. But on second thought, the interpretation of “in a place where there are no men” fits the verse and the context as well. So this midrash (or perhaps interpretation) is actually better than the usual vortlach. I already noted that the entire passage certainly conveys this idea (the Torah praises Moses for taking action), but it seems that even this specific verse can indeed be read this way. And still, the lesson is of course trivial, and the verse does not really add new content to it. Therefore I maintain that such a homily has at most educational value, not scholarly value.

As the film goes on, Ben Batich increasingly gravitates to the zealots. He takes the homily he heard from his uncle and applies it to a Roman soldier who is about to beat a Jew to death. This act arouses his uncle RYBZ’s anger, and when Ben Batich explains that he learned it from the homily he heard from him, RYBZ doesn’t bother to explain his mistake and why he opposes the act; instead, he rebukes him and says that not for nothing did the Sages rule that one must not teach Torah to an unworthy student.

But on its face, Ben Batich’s question is very good. Why isn’t that the take-away from the homily? Moreover, why is a student who applies what he learned an unworthy student? On the contrary, only such students should be taught. We would expect RYBZ to explain where he went wrong, while still seeing him as a worthy and highly suitable student. I don’t know whether “unworthy” here means a student with bad intentions or a student who lacks the common sense to understand how and whether to apply what he learned and thus may cause great harm. But in the end I, as a viewer, was left with the question: where exactly did Ben Batich err?

The answer likely lies in understanding his situation. In a context of confrontation with an empire, you mustn’t apply the lesson of the homily simplistically. Whoever does so will bring disaster upon the public. Yet Moses too did so to defend the Jews against the Egyptians—the dominant empire of that era that ruled them without limits. If so, again it’s unclear what Ben Batich failed to understand and apply correctly. One way or another, it’s apparently a matter of common sense that he missed. But that brings me back to the previous point: what, precisely, was Ben Batich supposed to learn from RYBZ’s homily? The principle itself is trivial (that it’s important to act when there’s a need). The application is a matter for common sense according to the circumstances, and thus cannot be learned from the lesson or from the verses themselves. So what on earth was Ben Batich supposed to learn from the homily he heard? Why was it said if, taken alone, it’s trivial and its application in this situation is wrong? And finally, isn’t Ben Batich’s rash act his uncle RYBZ’s fault? (“Sages, be careful with your words….”) Any contemporary take-away (such as ruling “law of the pursuer,” din rodef) is on you.

By the way, it’s also hard to learn anything clear from the film itself—for the same reasons. For example, someone just sent me a clip in which Nir Guntaz, a journalist at Haaretz, claims that the film is an atheist manifesto, since it shows how religious faith destroyed Jerusalem. I found this amusing, because it shows that everyone interprets the film according to their a priori positions (whether protesting the film or seeing it as confirmation). But in fairness I should note that there is some truth to his claim. Religious zealotry (and not necessarily faith itself) had a part in the destruction—and you can see that in Chazal as well. Unlike him, however, I am not prepared to see this as an atheist manifesto, because if I believe in God, then the destruction—even if caused by religious zealotry—cannot be a reason to stop believing in Him. I don’t examine my positions by consequentialist considerations. If God exists, then He exists; and if He doesn’t, then He doesn’t. If believing what is true brings destruction, it is still the right thing; and if an error prevents destruction, it is still an error. This critique turns both faith and atheism into picks with which to dig. [1]

The Film’s Plot (Spoiler with No Warning)

The situation at the start of the film is appalling corruption among the upper classes, led by the High Priest Yehoshua ben Gamla and his attendants, with the secular authorities (Queen Berenice) and the sages (RYBZ and his colleagues) turning a blind eye. Violence and robbery, oppression and torment of the poor and weak, alongside the luxurious lives of the rich—and for Nir Guntaz’s information, all this is presented on the basis of the Aggadot of Destruction and the words of Chazal. In response, Shimon bar Giora, Ben Batich, and their group rise up, demand social justice, burn the warehouse of debt notes, and ultimately kill the High Priest.

Gidi Dar aptly said in his talk that the sikarikin and ruffians are today’s leftists—not in their extreme policy toward Rome but in their pursuit of social justice and equality. In my view, however, this can be interpreted differently. They cried out against injustices, but they did not necessarily strive for equality. There’s a difference between protesting wrongdoing and aspiring to an equal distribution of property. Identifying injustice with the social right is truly leftist propaganda. Here you have a non-leftist interpretation of zealotry, and another example of why everyone learns from these aggadot and films whatever they already want and think.

Later, the Romans hear that the zealots have taken over Jerusalem and send a large force led by Vespasian and his son Titus to conquer it. On their way they pass through the Galilee and destroy it, murder its residents and turn many into refugees, and then advance toward Jerusalem. Among those refugees is Yohanan of Gush Halav, who arrives at the head of a band of his men and wants to join the defenders. Bar Giora’s zealots suspect their motives, and it finally becomes clear that Yohanan’s plan is to fight in order to reach a favorable arrangement with the Romans. Bar Giora, by contrast, wants to fight until victory or death (his hope being that once social justice reigns again, God will help, and then no nation’s hand can dominate us). Thus an internal war erupts between the two zealot groups, each seeing the other as traitors.

Yohanan and his band barricade themselves in the Temple and he is careful at all times not to interrupt the service there—priests at their duties and Levites in their song and music. Queen Berenice, who formed romantic ties with Titus (unclear whether to save the Temple or due to a genuine relationship), also battles within the Roman court at Caesarea, both politically and romantically, so that the Temple will survive. This is a very central motif in the film—the preference for spirituality over human interest (which may itself depend on the spiritual state). There is something to appreciate in that, but the impression is of a distorted spirituality in which trees and stones are preferred over human beings. The sense is that this approach and these distorted emphases are among the main reasons for the destruction (as the prophets said: “Why do I need your many sacrifices?” “But to do justice, and walk humbly with your God,” and more).

As things progress, the zealot groups burn each other’s food storehouses, and thus the besieged are left without provisions—and the fate of the city and the Temple is sealed. The Temple service of course continues all the while, and resources are devoted to it at the expense of the people starving and fighting (there’s a scene in which, while Jerusalemites look like Muslimans—emaciated like Nazi death-camp survivors—the last lamb for the daily offering is brought in the Temple). Near the end, when the Romans are already inside the city, the two zealot factions unite and embrace one another (“we are brothers”), and all are slaughtered together en masse by the Romans, who also set the Temple ablaze.

In the middle of this process, RYBZ, with the help of his nephew Ben Batich, leaves the city and secures the continuation of the Torah by requesting—and then receiving—Yavneh and its sages. The film doesn’t show this, but we all know that what remained in the end from all the tumult was a single house of study in Yavneh, and it is what continued and passed on the Jewish tradition to our day. So at least from our vantage point, it’s clear that in the end spirit is the condition for the material’s existence—not necessarily the spirit of sancta and sacrifices, but that of Torah study.

Dilemmas

Despite the fairly clear message, the dilemmas presented in the film are real. Bar Giora and his comrades see a corrupt upper class shamelessly exploiting the public for its own benefit. We must remember that these are the people’s political and spiritual (!) leaders, whose voice should be heeded and to whom honor should be given (“Were it not for fear of them, a man would swallow his fellow alive.” But they are swallowing their fellows for their own benefit.) It’s no wonder that Bar Giora and his companions are enraged and go to war against them. They are right. On the other hand, by the test of results, this revolt was the beginning of the end. It is what brought about the destruction and exile. More measured conduct would indeed have left the inequitable situation and the injustices in place, but the people would have remained alive. So what should we do in such a situation? Bar Giora chose a policy of “let me die with the Philistines”—to revolt even at the price of total destruction. One must remember that the powerful classes build their status on the realistic calculus of the exploited. Because they know that a revolt against them could bring ruin, they allow themselves to keep exploiting the masses and demand obedience and respect from everyone.

Now I’ll note that this is a situation familiar to all of us. There are circumstances in which we are certain that a person or a certain group/party is wicked and exploiting us or leading us to ruin. They of course rely on the claim that it’s unseemly to fight and stand up for one’s interests—we must be united—and perhaps the harm from such a fight will exceed the benefit. Yet under such arguments, those same actors feel free to continue their conduct and even depict those who oppose them as evildoers who are fragmenting society and bringing about its demise. To sharpen the point, here are a few examples from our own times.

About twenty years ago I gave a weekly class in Bnei Brak to yeshiva students and young scholars (those who dared to come despite boycotts and excommunications). The pamphlet on migo here on the site is a summary of the first class I gave there. Already then, fierce battles were raging in Ponovezh between the “haters” and the “fighters,” and I asked the guys how they explained this phenomenon. Torah scholars considered among the greats of the generation—and their students, who toil in Torah and devote themselves to it—are fighting over interests and honor like the emptiest of men. Despite the halachic tradition and respect for it, they cannot reach an acceptable arrangement even in a rabbinical court (and of course they go to civil courts). The explanation I received was fascinating: both sides said they were right, and that the other side exploits the value of unity and the desire for peace and the duty to respect sages in order to wield power and promote its interests. We mustn’t allow the sinner to profit, they told me. But of course both sides thought this way. And what is the result? Exactly what I described above.

This is a description of things as they are—not a critique. If you are sure you are right and the other is wicked, it is not correct to let him benefit and gain in the name of unity and peace. After all, he is exploiting that. Gidi Dar said that even in our day there are disputes that threaten our existence, and I thought to myself that if I am convinced I am right and the other is wrong and perhaps even wicked, I am not willing to examine myself and find the fault in me. I am not willing to yield and compromise in the name of peace and unity and to let them continue their vile conduct (each of you can fill in the blanks and identify the parties in your own mind). Sometimes there is justification to fight even if the result will be hard for us all.

Under those same calls for false unity and respect for sages, people also try to silence my critiques here on the site. From time to time I receive self-righteous rebukes that “everyone is right,” that I mustn’t be so sure of myself, that I must respect sages, etc., etc. But when sages behave like the emptiest of men, when they have blood on their hands, and when matters are plainly their fault—should I be silent in the name of honor and unity? Is there never a justification to conclude that I am right and the other is wrong? This is a post-modern message that infuriates me.

About fifteen years ago we waged a fierce struggle against the corrupt head of the council in Yeruham. As part of that struggle, I also opposed the Haredim, who were the only ones in his coalition (sound familiar? How could it not!). I was then a member of the Haredi community, and so the community rabbi sent me a scolding letter about my actions. He claimed that I was spreading slander and a bad name and causing a desecration of God’s name. I replied that in my eyes those who act that way are responsible for the desecration, not those who fight and condemn them. Do claims of hillul Hashem justify remaining silent and not struggling? Should we “wash the dirty laundry inside”? In my view, usually not.

In that context, I was asked during the struggle: if an election were held now, would I not vote for the previous candidate (whom I had also harshly criticized in the past)? I replied that I would not; I would abstain. I told the questioners that the “lesser-evil” policy is a chronic illness in our politics. People vote for the lesser evil and thereby perpetuate evil. In the long run, it’s better not to vote so that good can replace evil, rather than settling each time for the lesser evil (see at length in column 189, and also on the difference between the lesser evil and the best of the worst—the minimax and maximin of game theory). True, such voting might lead to tough, perhaps irreversible short-term outcomes (usually that’s not the case, but that’s how they threaten us). In my eyes, the calls of “go vote” are a manipulation by the corrupt currently in politics (like the High Priest I described above). I don’t think that one should always, in the name of fearing severe short-term outcomes, forgo the struggle against evil. As I explained in that column, lesser-evil calculations and apocalyptic short-term fears castrate just struggles and prevent the possibility of future improvement in the long term.

When we left the film, Daphna, my dear wife, said to me that, in an overall view, the destruction was actually not a bad solution to the situation. The corruption disappeared, and we were left with RYBZ and with Yavneh and its sages, who created the Talmuds and continued the Torah onward. Had Bar Giora, Ben Batich, Yohanan of Gush Halav and their comrades yielded to the calculus of the lesser evil and unity, perhaps to this day we’d still be in Egypt and not redeemed from the Jerusalem elite’s corruption. I told her she’s in good company: it seems that God too thinks so—and the proof is that that is exactly what He chose to do (assuming, as Chazal commonly do, that He indeed chose it). According to this interpretation, the destruction is not a punishment for quarrels and zealotry—the leftist message people want to convey—but an optimal outcome under the circumstances. It is a punishment for the prior corruption, not for the war against it, and this is apparently the right way to deal with it (at least when the situation is dire): destroy and rebuild. In effect, God Himself agreed with the zealots. I was told that Rabbi Avraham Stav wrote in the Motza’ei Shabbat supplement of Makor Rishon this past Shabbat that after the film he stopped mourning the destruction (but apparently he does mourn the situation that prevailed in Jerusalem and led to it. See similarly here). Again, opposite lessons that can be drawn from the same film and the same situations.

The Film’s Artistic Merit

As to the film’s artistic merit, I’m rather ambivalent. It certainly gave me a powerful experience, but its artistic value depends on the definition of art. Since that’s not our main discussion, I’ll only comment briefly. Clearly there was a new and creative idea here, whose realization was very difficult and demanded tremendous work. It’s also clear that the viewer undergoes a powerful experience and, as a result, may sharpen insights and absorb various lessons. But something is missing—something I consider very essential to a work of art.

This film immerses us in familiar events, but it essentially adds no layer of its own beyond the content of those known events. Moreover, the film’s characters lack nuances and complexity beyond what the situation itself contains (and not within the characters). In my view, artistic value cannot be determined solely by the intensity of the experience. There must be some added value provided by the work; otherwise, it’s kitsch. In column 109 I briefly described my definition (following Tomas Kulka) of kitsch. Kitsch can be executed with excellent technical skill and can arouse strong emotions in the viewer. And yet it is considered inferior art because the viewer’s excitement (catharsis) is generated by the situation itself, not by added value from the artist or the work. A painting of a crying child against a sunset, for example, can arouse strong feelings, but what arouses them is not the painting but the situation depicted. The painting adds no value beyond the situation. In this sense, Legend of Destruction was kitsch. It portrayed the events as they were, and the characters were very flat and stereotypical—neither rounded nor complex. Each character expressed the predictable stance of the faction it belongs to, and there is no real character development. It’s almost a banal role-play, a chronicle leading to the known end. The feeling is that the work’s added value and novelty lie only in the technical decisions (a sequence of oil paintings), not in structure, plot, or character. I missed that.

In a certain sense one could say that this film presents a photograph of history according to a certain interpretation that is not the director’s. The viewer’s excitement and lessons are derived from the events themselves, not from the film’s added value. The film simply set them before us as they are—and in the contemporary context that lies in the background (but is not mentioned), of course. It led to an illustration and sharpening of the lessons, but to me that is insufficient to confer artistic value. In this sense, it is a didactic and educational tool more than a work of art.

True, Ben Batich undergoes some change (so Gidi Dar explained in response to another question), but it is a predictable and not very significant change. After he burns the food storehouses and sees where zealotry has led them, he realizes he was mistaken. That is indeed a banal development and not very “rounded.” Queen Berenice, too—who on one hand belongs to the upper class and is, at least passively, complicit in corruption—at the same time cares with great force and devotion for the Temple and the sacrificial service. True—but again it seems to me that this is an authentic description of the characters themselves. I suppose many figures back then were like that: despite the corruption, the Temple was very important to them (like criminals today who are strict about eating kosher and kissing rabbis’ hands before going to steal and murder). To me this is not significant character complexity but, again, a snapshot.

On the other hand, I can’t shake the feeling that in saying this I may be doing the film an injustice. Perhaps the root of the matter lies in a difficulty I noted in that same column regarding the art of photography. In light of the definition I offered of kitsch, the added value of the photographer and the photograph is unclear. Photography by definition merely conveys the situation; if something moves us, it happens by virtue of the situation, not the photograph. True, this film is composed of paintings, but in essence it’s photography of the events as they are (with some nonessential completions by the film).

And yet, photography is considered art—and you can sense why. In column 276 I addressed this difficulty somewhat. I noted the photographer’s ability to capture within the situation before him a statement that goes beyond the situation itself. An ordinary person passing by the same scene wouldn’t notice it. That is, there is an art that is the presentation of reality itself, but the context—not necessarily something in the work itself—adds artistic value. It seems to me that Legend of Destruction is photographic art at its best. Presenting matters before us in the contemporary context succeeds in sharpening points we wouldn’t truly notice without the film. The technical artistic choice is an inseparable part of this, and thus contributes to the film’s artistic value.

Still, in the end, this is art that, in the given context, conveys a message that is fairly clearly on the surface—and some would say that is again not serious, genuine art. Therefore, in conclusion, I will leave this point without a definitive statement—but with a warm recommendation to go watch. Art or not, this viewing is important, instructive, and captivating.

[1] Similarly with the critique of religious faith that was much aired after Rabin’s murder: “See where religious faith leads!” This is, of course, nonsense—not only because any extreme belief can lead to extreme outcomes, not just religious belief, but also because if I believe, then I believe, whatever the consequences. Consequences don’t change facts. At most, one can expect me to pay attention and try to prevent foreseeable outcomes of my faith. But you cannot demand that I give it up because it leads to such-and-such results.