The Jewish Film festival was showing its wares and the buzz on the block was, as ever, excellent. I saw Sir Bernard Zissman and Geoff Morrow’s film about Theodore Herzl along with a packed audience at the Phoenix cinema. I was expecting a demo outside from the geographically challenged Palestine Action but it was a wet night and they may all have been washing their placards.
My 13-year-old granddaughter was singing Misty in her school cabaret at the same time so my heart was in a schism, but Geoff is my chum and loyalty trumps nachas. I can honestly say that I made the correct decision, as this excellent and entertaining film taught me so much that I didn’t know about the founder of the term “Zionism” in its original form. It is very well directed by Dom Howlett, with animation filling in the gaps of history, and fronted by a carefully dishevelled but intrigued David Baddiel. It should be shown in schools both Jewish and secular and the odd mosque and campus wouldn’t hurt.
Like all activists Herzl was fanatical to the ruination of his private life and his health. At 44 he was a spent force and died of heart failure. Thousands of adherents from all over the world attended his funeral. But what a life! This was a man. A successful journalist and playwright, he was forever looking for a cause and after the pogrom in Kishinev, Bessarabia, his mission became clear. Forty eight dead, 92 injured, 500 left hurt, 700 houses destroyed, 600 shops looted, the streets littered with bodies, and all because of a nonsensical blood libel. The local police ignored the mob.
It did not happen in a vacuum. For years the newspapers had been screaming “Death to the Jews” and “Crusade against the hated race”. Culminating in a charge of murder at the Jews when two children died. The accusation of bleeding kids to bake matzos was a stroke of PR genius. It was so easy to disprove, via a basic microscope, but fake news was – and remains – so much more fun.
Herzl had found his cause. The Jews needed a country where they would be safe from murderous, obsessive tyranny. His theatrical staging of the six Zionist Congresses were magnificent. The world sat up and noticed the Jewish cause for the first time. He was revered by his peers.
We need his like today. We need a tone. One voice, untouched by factions, to protest with dignity and forcefulness. To show via history that there was antisemitism hundreds of years before there was Israel. It is the only way to push back the current tide of propaganda, which has been planted for decades in our academies, places of worship and media to achieve the exact perilous state in which, once again, we find ourselves,
One only has to follow Zarah Sultana’s political career to see how thoroughly the issue consumes her. She appears determined to steer as many arguments as possible back to Israel, swiftly invoking accusations of “genocide” and denouncing Israeli policy. The fixation is unmistakable. Even Corbyn would struggle to operate with this level of single-issue intensity.
Consider this. When Michael Etherton, CEO of The Jewish Film Festival, sent out a general press release about the coming films, he was alarmed to receive the following email from one of the journalists on the list.
“Congratulations,” it sneered, “not a single mention of Palestine or genocide. You should be ashamed. I shall be joining the Free Palestine protest scheduled for the Baddiel screening.”
This from an impartial reviewer on being sent a flyer for a whole festival of Jewish films. Can you imagine this being applied to a festival of black films? A Russian film festival would have been just fine. An interview with a Chinese film-maker? No problem at all. As it happened there was no demo outside and Baddiel couldn’t make the screening or the Q&A. Still, the journalist’s response might well have been called “Jews Don’t Count”.
Oh, but they counted from 1939 to 1945, when 3,000 Jewish soldiers gave their lives to save the freedom of their country. At the Cenotaph at the annual Ajex Remembrance Parade, a hearty turnout from all our communities gathered to be at one with the families of those heroic young men and women. It was a cold autumn day as we marched from Horse Guards Parade to the designated spot, where major generals, politicians and kids from JSoc joined Rob Rinder and the 99-year-old hero Mervyn Kirsch in laying wreaths and listening to Chief Rabbi Mirvis give prayers for the fallen. The words, “in these days of rising antisemitism”, were spoken over loudspeakers more times, I suspect, than at past events.
As we marched the thought had to be banished from my mind more than once that any of us might be struck by a sniper as we marched along, passing the curious and bemused tourists behind the steel barriers. Just keeping up with dear, much medalled Ron Shelley who, at 96, was fronting his 60th march, was a challenge.
Lord Pollack was beside me and our respective spouses walked discreetly behind. I must tell you that, marching behind the King’s Household Cavalry and occasionally obeying the call, “Eyes Left” as we passed the officers, I felt proud and patriotic. And never more moved as when the band played Adon Alom and we sang out in song, only stumbling and mumbling, as usual, on the fourth and fifth verses. The Kaddish never felt more profound.
We ended a hectic week watching two more films at the Phoenix. One was called Rachel and, other than featuring a family of thieves called Zimmerman, had as much to do with the chosen people as a lard sandwich on Mother’s Pride. Ah, but then, we returned for Annie Hall. A masterpiece by a great film-maker. Undated, fresh, hilarious and not a ticket to be had. It’s a revelation every time you watch it. No matter what the haters and conspirators will tell you, we should be very proud of our Woody. After 63 mostly magnificent movies, at 90 years old, many happy returns, Woody.
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