Beating a Tin Drum

Decades ago, on assignment from the Hollywood Reporter, I wrote an article on child actors who were required to perform in very adult situations. I came away disturbed but fascinated by parents who allowed—or even encouraged—their kids to play roles that involved heavy doses of sex or violence.  The parents, and the kids themselves, all insisted that there had been no harm done, but a child psychologist I interviewed wasn’t so sure that the youngsters ultimately came away unscathed.

 So you can imagine how curious I am about Daniel Bennent. The Swiss-born actor is 58 now, and apparently doing fine. But he was a mere 11 when he starred in Volker Schlöndorff’s bold 1979 adaptation of a tragicomic German anti-war novel, Günter Grass's The Tin Drum. The film (distributed in the U.S. by Roger Corman) shared the Palme d’Or at Cannes with Apocalypse Now, and went on to win the 1980 Academy Award for best foreign language feature.

 Bennent, the child of actors, apparently got the plum leading role because of a medical condition that stunted his growth at an early ago. Oskar, the boy he plays, has made the eccentric choice not to grow any taller once he’s reached the age of three. So at 11 and at 16 and at 19, he’s still got the look of  a very young boy. It’s not just his height that’s distinctive: he has a solemn face marked by an intense blue-eyed stare that keeps the audience riveted. And then there’s the toy drum (a gift from his sensual and eccentric mother) that’s his constant companion, something he turns to at moments of high emotion, rapping out his feelings with two wooden sticks. (He also depends on a shriek that can literally shatter glass.)  In the course of the film, though his body stays the same, his spirit definitely evolves, leading him to discover lust and ultimately sorrow.

 Oskar and his family live in Danzig, an independent coastal city that’s a blend of German and Polish influences. It’s the 1930s, and Nazi ideology is definitely on the rise. In some ways it divides his household, which is an unusual one. Mother Agnes seems to split her attentions (sexual and otherwise) between her shopkeeper-husband and the male cousin who shares Oskar’s bright blue eyes and is quite probably his biological parent. The two dad-figures are on opposite sides of the town’s political and ethnic divide, and ultimately both face tragic fates, with Oskar always sensing that he’s a slight bit responsible.

 Following the loss of his mother and both father-figures, Oskar is drawn less to political ideology than to the simple need to survive. Which is how he ends up in a circus act featuring a cynical band of what we might call munchkins, all of them far older than he but not much taller. They perform for Nazi troopers who greet them gleefully, but they find their happiness (not to mention sexual gratification) within their own ranks. This is not to be the end, though, of Oskar’s odyssey through wartime Europe. He winds up back where he started, finally making the curious decision to start growing once again.  

 The cinematography of The Tin Drum is often distinctive, and the European cast is strong. I want to single out  Charles Aznavour, known worldwide as a French singer/songwriter of Armenian descent. He was also a lifelong supporter of human rights. In The Tin Drum he has the small but vital role of a kindly Jewish toy-shop owner who (of course) meets a sad fate, and he’s not easily forgotten.