Why we feel like fiddlers on the roof

Editor’s Note: Author Arni Magdamo, 29, is a medical doctor who claims to have a lot of free time in his hands right now, most of which he spends watching movies. He just finished training in Nephrology a few months ago.

I just have to rely on gut feel about what I feel has been the most significant film for me. And when I say significant, I mean a movie that entertains as well as provides vignettes of wisdom. A movie that is socially significant then as it is now. And for me, nothing best fits into this category than Fiddler on the Roof.

My dad brought home a VHS copy of Fiddler on the Roof when I was in high school. The thing is, I did not even pay attention to it the first time I saw it. The box it was in was rather unimpressive and bland. And I’m quite sure my dad did not even have the slightest idea what the film was all about. So, politically incorrect and crass as I was in my taste for movies then, I went from one VHS tape (Legend, starring a much younger, and aurally irritating, Tom Cruise, and a visually perfect Mia Sara) to another (Claaarrriissssseee…, I am positive you know which film I am referring to) before I finally got to watching Fiddler on the Roof. Boredom has a way of leading me to enlightenment.

Fiddler on the Roof, directed by Norman Jewison, is the movie adaptation of a Broadway musical of the same title which in turn is based on a series of short stories by Sholom Aleichem, a Ukrainian writer. It is the story of a turn of the century Jewish farmer (for lack of a better term, since he actually delivers milk and dairy products every morning to households) in Anatevka, a Jewish village in czarist Russia. Sounds insipid, huh? I mean for those of you who marveled at the spectacle and human drama depicted in its grandest form in Schindler’s List and the lesser known but equally impressive made-for-TV movie series Escape from Sobibor (shown in GMA 7 during the late ’80s), both of which showed with uncanny realism the cruelty of the Holocaust, the story of a Jewish family during the apparently sedate and relatively peaceful early 1900’s (which deceptively concealed in its bosom the growing unrest of the Pogroms when Jewish families were forcibly evicted from their land by the Cossacks) does not pack in the punches enough to hold interest. But prejudice then was as real as it was during the dark years of World War II, and as real and appalling as it is now when people are supposed to have been enlightened by history and lessons learned from it.

While not as visually shocking as the other films on racial prejudice, Fiddler on the Roof, despite its relatively tranquil exterior, delivers the message of tolerance powerful enough to wrench the gut, sear the heart and pierce the soul. And all these were done by way of song and dance.

But to reduce its merits to a mere rebuke of racial prejudice is to do an injustice to the film. It is, after all, not just a commentary on the sad state of human affairs and the cruelty of men towards others. It is a story about life, a tapestry of human experience seen through the lives of simple Jewish folks. From the first strains of Tradition which magnificently introduced the film to the last notes of Fiddler on the Roof which capped it off, we are treated to a wonderful collage of love and of life. The metaphor used by the writers comparing the human daily struggle to survive to a fiddler making superb music while precariously perched on a rooftop was simply a stroke of genius.

Through most of the film, the viewers are treated to the entire spectrum of human emotion. We laugh at the dry wit and sarcasm of Tevye, the patriarch of the Jewish family. Our hearts skip a beat at the beautiful love story of Tzeitel, Tevye’s eldest daughter, and Motel, the poor tailor, while the same bleed for the bittersweet romance of Hodel, the second daughter, and Perchik, the student activist. We feel the fire of a spirit yearning to break free and escape from the clutches of tradition through the story of Chava, the third daughter, and Fyedka, the Russian, ergo Gentile, peasant. We chuckle a bit at Yente, the matchmaker’s irrepressible and at times irritating nosiness. And we seethe in anger at the inhumanity of driving an entire village away on the basis of race and religious affiliation. Yet, we find ourselves buoyed up again by the indomitable spirit of a people who, in the face of tragedy, have proven countless of times the power of faith in God.

The film is replete with magnificent images that choosing a particular one as my favorite was quite a daunting task. There are more than a dozen splendid scenes in the film. I already mentioned the opening sequence which sets the tone for the entire film. There is also the dream, err, I mean the nightmare sequence with Tevye, his wife Golde, and a whole bunch of undead relatives. And there is the wedding scene where the song Sunrise, Sunset is played. It is portrayed with painstaking attention to detail and a conscious effort to represent Jewish traditions and customs as accurately as possible so as not to offend culture-based sensibilities. But two scenes stand out. One is at the train station where Tevye sees his daughter Hodel off. She is leaving for Siberia to join her beloved Perchik who was banished there as an exile for his role in anti-czarist movements gripping most of St. Petersburg. In that particular scene, we see the pain of a father letting go of his daughter and not knowing when they will see each other again. On the other hand, we see the daughter, torn between filial piety and romantic love. This is followed by another outstanding sequence where Tevye, having come from the train station, finds his wife Golde in their hut ironing clothes. With her trademark crabbiness, she prepares his dinner for him. Having been a product of an arranged marriage, he suddenly sees their relationship in a totally new light. After so many years of sharing a home together, bringing up five strong-willed daughters, and going through the pains and joys of married life, he questions himself and his wife if it is possible for love to have blossomed between the two of them. The answer is amazingly delivered despite, or perhaps because of, its simplicity. After 25 years, indeed it has. And after 25 years, "it’s nice to know". These two scenes, though not as visually striking as the others, make the viewers look deep inside themselves and draw from their own wealth of human experience. In their quietness, we see love in its most sublime form.

The Fiddler on the Roof is the story of a simple man, his family, his people and his God. In the midst of trials and in the face of tragedy, we see the resilience of man and the power of faith and love. It is an affirmation of life. Sometimes, when I find myself trying to make sense of all the chaos about me, I make a mental note. Like a fiddler on the roof, we all are trying to get our act together. Funny at times, oftentimes frustrating. But, hey, has anyone noticed what beautiful music we are actually making?