The Loudest Silence is Found in ‘A Hidden Life’

Thoughts on Terrence Malick’s 2019 film about Hitler’s conscientious objector

Franz Jägerstätter lives on a farm in the foothills of the Austrian Alps. With his wife, Fani, and his three young daughters, he works in the midst of beauty and clearly revels in it. The camera lingers on the deep looks and tender touches that Fani and Franz frequently exchange, the silent blue-green majesty of the mountains, the running stream, and the wind moving through the orchard. Many of the shots could be framed and sold as paintings — unnecessary to the movie’s action, but vital to its aesthetic.

But the Third Reich comes crashing in on Franz and Fani’s bliss. Franz refuses to swear allegiance to Hitler, is arrested, and tried for treason.

Despite the music (an ethereal soundtrack primarily by James Newton Howard, but interspersed with classical and liturgical pieces) that’s often much louder than usual “background” music, and the frequent sounds of running water and wind, the word I would use to describe the movie is “Silence.”

For a three-hour movie, there’s surprisingly little dialogue. What dialogue does occur is usually expository rather than a representation of how the characters would have spoken to each other in reality. The silence isn’t empty space, but an overwhelming presence. Characters communicate by looks and shared emotion and knowledge. Franz’s climactic act of defiance transpires with no words said by him or the Nazis. The movie is a three-hour test of intuition.

The Silence of the Sympathetic

Sometimes the silence is infuriating. When the village learns that Franz refused to swear loyalty to Hitler, most of them mock and ostracize his family. A few are sympathetic, but they show their sympathy in the quietest ways — helping Fani carry something when everyone else walks away, or giving her a little more food than she paid for. Of course, those acts are meaningful, but their inability to speak up in Franz’s defense is also telling. We know that Franz isn’t the only one who realizes Hitler’s racial-cleansing is wrong, but when the test comes, Franz is the only one brave enough to act on his belief. As a religious artist tells Franz, “They won’t fight the truth, they’ll just ignore it.”

The Silence of the Accused

Franz endures agonizing interrogation throughout the movie — from the exasperated villagers demanding his reasons for refusal, to the Nazis inquisitors’ beatings. He remains silent through them all. It reminds me of Christ in Dostoevsky’s The Grand Inquisitor. After delivering an eight-page monologue against Christ, the Inquisitor

“…waited some time for his prisoner to reply. His silence weighed on him. He had seen how the captive listened to him all the while intently and calmly, looking him straight in the eye, and apparently not wishing to contradict anything. The old man would have liked him to say something, even something bitter, terrible” (Dostoevsky 262).

One of the Nazis judges has a similar response. After questioning Franz and receiving no response, the Nazis looks at Franz and says, “Do you judge me?” It’s a profound moment. When the accused refuses to speak, the accuser begins to sound like the one pleading. Franz’ silence is the silence of the assured. He understands that actions are the only witness in a world where people refuse to be convinced by argument. But the silence has a different effect on those around him. It disrupts the constant stream of propaganda flooding their minds. It forces them to think. And it either infuriates or frightens them.

The Silence of God

Fani experiences a different kind of silence as she keeps the farm and family afloat while Franz is in prison — the silence of God. She prays for Franz’s return and wrestles with the ultimate question — why would God allow the suffering of someone so faithful to Him? “You said knock — it will be opened. Ask — it will be given” she pleads. Why are her prayers going unanswered? One of Franz’s fellow prisoners says something similar, “Your God has no pity. He left us. Abandoned us. Like He did your Christ, His son.”

It’s another similarity with The Brothers Karamazov, where Ivan presents horrific instances of child abuse and senseless cruelty and concludes by refusing to submit to a God who would allow evil to go unpunished. Alyosha has no argument in response. Instead, he spends his life caring for suffering children. God doesn’t answer humanity’s cry for justice with a legal brief, He answers by sending Christ to suffer with us.

While he paints religious scenes on the church walls, the artist says, “Christ’s life is a demand. You don’t want to be reminded of it.” Franz responds in kind. He shares his food with hungry prisoners. While traveling between prisons, he uses his handcuffed hands to help a woman struggling with her luggage. He notices a small umbrella fallen on the floor and sets it upright. He can’t justify, but he can live like Christ. The painter tells him,

“I paint their comfortable Christ, with a halo over his head. How can I show what I haven’t lived? Someday I might have the courage to venture, not yet. Someday I’ll… I’ll paint the true Christ.”

The true Christ comes amid suffering and often in silence. That’s the life that Franz lives. The life of the silent witness.