At first, the audience will think that the old rabbi is a funny character. He hides in the office all day and meditates, ignoring the protagonist's distress and pushing it to the trainee rabbi. But at the end of the film, the old rabbi appears, and his image suddenly changes, becoming a saint, as if to reveal the Coen brothers’ seemingly unintentional belief that the wisdom of the Talmud is vast and boundless. For the little boy's hidden pain—the Walkman was confiscated by his teacher, so he was chased and beaten by his neighbor, Fatty—the old rabbi knew all too well. He never asked the child, and rarely even met him, but when the old rabbi blessed the child, the first thing he did was return the Walkman, and then said to him, "Be a good boy. !" It's not hard to imagine that the little boy felt so empowered at the time. You know, he never told anyone about his distress, not even his useless father. The significance of this matter to the child, only the child himself and the old rabbi know (and of course the director and us as the audience).
As a result, the power of the satire that runs through the whole film has been greatly strengthened and deepened at once. The old rabbi was not, as we expected, a dumb old man, he was a real saint. Here, we have the feeling that the director is better than the audience, and this kind of cleverness makes us so happy and so convincing.
Perhaps, most people will end up living like the "serious men" in the film. But even so, you still can't make an assertion for a child based on this ruthless probability theory. Compared to their elders, young children have an invaluable asset: possibilities. This is what makes education attractive, the essence and charm of education. The old rabbi helped the child, he may not be a genius, but the old rabbi still wanted to help him. In contrast, serious men are hopeless.
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