
I used to think there was something demonically profound about Hannah Arendt’s diagnosis of Adolf Eichmann. He was “neither perverted nor sadistic… but terribly and terrifyingly normal”; he epitomised the “banality of evil”. Eichmann, in effect, was a bespectacled gimp who you wouldn’t look twice at in the street.
Yet he had played an active role in an industrial-sized enterprise of human cruelty and malevolence. There was something deeply unnerving about this: the disproportion between the smallness of this man and the Himalayan magnitude of the Holocaust. It didn’t seem to add up.

Even with a pandemic locking us all down, including most of our movie theaters, pretty much no one is even aware of, much less watching, this year’s Best Picture nominees. Oh, and the ratings for all the award shows celebrating these nominees have sped right past humiliating into dreadful.







