I was talking to my friends D&B yesterday about the lousy translation of the title of Fassbinder’s “Faustrecht der Freiheit” into the English “Fox and His Friends” and how the German is much more rich with meaning, implying maybe “law of the jungle” or “price of freedom” or some such thing along those lines.

But even more interesting than that was the realization, pointed out by D, that when you put Faustrecht der Freiheit into Google asking for translation, it doesn’t come back with a  translation of the phrase, it responds with fox and his friends.

It’s almost as though Google has become even more intelligent but more stupid too. Wikipedia style truth-through-consensus seems to be spreading to language equivalency. Of course communication is based on consensus but there seems to be a step or two missing in this particular equation.

Me voy a comer con unos queridos amigos al Lili Marleen. Entramos abriendo una sobrecortina de plástico bajo un escudo y una bandera, y me encuentro de inmediato en el infierno. Las paredes están sobrecargadas sin dejar apenas espacios libres, es una decoración folklórico militar agobiante. Muñecas alemanas, escudos, galvanos, retratos de militares, banderas, trofeos y cientos de pequeñas fotos enmarcadas. De pronto los marcos me recuerdan a los de mis acuarelas, qué barbaridad…. Imágenes triunfantes y cariñosas de Pinochet con o sin capa, en forma de busto o de figurilla, también de sus colaboradores, más militares, una palilimrada militar en miniatura dentro de urna de vidrio de más de un metro de largo que finalmente resulta ser una recreación del funeral de don Augusto… alusiones nazis, mucha cosa patriotera alemana y/o chilena, imágenes del Kaiser, de Wagner, etc… Atienden unas chicas uniformadas que sonríen y se mueven con firmeza. La dueña es una dama elegante y afable, parece salida de una película de Fassbinder. Mientras ocupamos una mesa me llega el sonido inmisericorde de las marchas alemanas, son aires militares más que musicales. Tal como las fotos y cachivaches de las paredes no dejan espacio alguno en blanco, las marchas repletan el ambiente sonoro evitando el silencio. Grandes vasos de cerveza alemana de muy buena calidad. Luego me zampo una salchicha con mostaza, excelente, bajo la mirada atenta de Pinochet y el Papa Juan Pablo II, que es otro de los personajes recurrentes. La clientela es esa cosa un poco gris o provinciana que si se te enojan mejor desaparecer. De pronto me siento sofocado, me dan ganas de estar afuera. Me agobia este restaurante temático obsesivo. ¿Por qué razón he ido a meterme allí? Igual estuve 10 años secuestrado en el Liceo Alemán. Animado por la cerveza, recuperada mi integridad republicana y artística, comienzo a emitir algunas opiniones en voz alta, que me parecen muy divertidas, y además justas…. Noto que las pupilas de mis amigos se mueven con alarma, mientras me recomiendan silencio y piden la cuenta, que llega en un librito dorado pero falso que es una caja, dentro hay unos caramelos, y en pocos minutos me encuentro de nuevo en la calle Julio Prado, mis amigos vuelven a estar tranquilos y cariñosos. Qué bonito es regresar al mundo de los vivos.

Crítica de Cuidado con esa prostituta tan querida de Fassbinder

Amaury Brondo

Desde que el film comienza , se sabe que, a lo largo de este, no veremos tantas prostitutas queridas como relaciones extrañas entre actores de cine que intentan enlazarse unos con otros, sin importar el sexo o nacionalidad; y al parecer para esto es lo único para lo que la nacionalidad no importa.

La película  introduce a un elenco disperso, sin orden alguno, indiferente; que espera la llegada de su director en lo que parece ser una filmación prometedora, a pesar de que el asistente a cargo (actuado por el mismo Fassbinder) parece obtener mucho placer al tratar a todos los demás como basura. Comienza a haber dificultades cuando no se consiguen los materiales.

De esa forma tan sencilla se plantean varios de los problemas cruciales de la filmación, por ejemplo el presupuesto consumido totalmente en dos días (pienso yo la mayoría gastado en cigarros), pero problema real aún no aparece…

Cuando aparece Jeff, el esperado director, me pareció que fácilmente puede ser el Axl Rose del cine, con actitudes de diva, egocéntrico, gritón, pero como después descubrí, talentoso.

Y este talento se hace muy evidente en una toma que casi a manera de juego, nos muestra simultáneamente el talento de Jeff, director de la película dentro de la película, y el talento de Fassbinder.

Dicha toma nos muestra a Jeff hablando con su director de fotografía acerca de un traveling de cámara que quiere hacer al día siguiente explicando contextos y psicología de los personajes y del crimen a cometerse y dándose lujo de detalles en la toma que quiere, mencionando incluso algunas pinturas al óleo. Ésta escena es presentada hermosamente en un traveling de cámara alrededor del cuarto mientras los personajes caminan y en el fondo se distinguen las pinturas al óleo, siendo ésta casi la toma que Jeff quiere para su película mezclando así el film que vemos con el que está por grabarse dentro de éste.

A pesar de que lo parece, está no es solo una película acerca del arte de hacer cine, esa es solo la situación para hacer un estudio profundo a la psicología humana. Los actores inseguros que se alcoholizan todo el día, el director a quien nadie parece merecer, y sus romances con todo el equipo de producción, incluyendo hombres, e incluso el insignificante ayudante que trabaja de traer bebidas al equipo, y que asegura en diferentes ocasiones que no es un idiota (lo cual pongo en duda) y que el filmará sus propias películas.

El film es en sí, no un tributo, si no una inteligente sátira, una burla de la industria cinematográfica y de la humanidad en general, lo cual se evidencia en una frase de Jeff que nos dice “el público cree que conoce a ésta gente, pero no tanto como ellos creen” lo cual aplica para su película, pero también lo dice directamente a mí, a ti y a todos como espectadores, en realidad no conocemos a ésta gente, ni la que está en la película, ni la que está al lado nuestro; al menos no como creemos.

El racismo, la desesperación y las cubas libres están siempre presentes, pero al parecer son éstas últimas las que dan la inspiración, motivación o disposición del equipo para grabar la película de una vez por todas, pero a cambio de eso también traen fricciones y cada vez más peleas entre los personajes.

La película cierra bellamente con una frase de Thomas Mann que no dice “Estoy harto de retratar a la naturaleza humana, sin participar en ella” que es lo que hace con nosotros ésta película, retratarnos, proyectarnos, y diseccionarnos en una pantalla con la realidad de que los romances y las cosas bonitas en la vida solo que son posibles en esta.

The Frankfurt Jewish Museum is staging an exhibition, the Frankfurt School: a Return to Germany, presenting an opportunity for Die Zeit’s writers to recall Leo Löwenthal’s observations of the Stunde Null (year zero) and Trümmerlandschaften (rubble landscape) after the war. It’s interesting to read how quickly the reinstated Munich Bierfest filled up with the same “bellowing, zombified masses” Löwenthal had earlier seen cheering on the Führer. (Today the bellowing is more likely to be that of tourists, paying over-the-odds to hear Schlager and ogle low-cut Dirndls). Löwenthal goes on to note the casual anti-semitism of the time: “Everyone knows the Jews had the money”, a taxi driver tells him, not realising he is Jewish, a scene which recalls Herr Treibel’s treatment in Fassbinder’s Veronika Voss. With some bathos, the author illustrates the piece with a comical picture of Adorno at Fastnacht. Who says he was a grumpy old man?

O blog, aparentemente, está meio abandonado. Mas não pense que é por escolha nossa, acontece que as autoras deste blog, apesar da vibe abduzidas pelo cinema, tem uma vida pessoal para organizar (e ela geralmente é uma grande bagunça). Fora isso, também estamos (infelizmente) um pouco afastadas dos filmes, de novo, por culpa dessa vida pessoal desorganizada.

Mas como me dá dó ver esse blog abandonado, fiz uma listinha de dicas para vocês:

- O blog do Domingos de Oliveira. De uma maneira descompromissada e leve, Domingos nos dá aulas de cinema com o seu blog, vale a pena conferir.

- A mostra “Filmes libertam a cabeça: R. W. Fassbinder” no CCBB. (Mostra essa que eu jurei que ia assistir pelo menos um filme, mas, é… dessa vez a preguiça também ajudou). Aliás, outra dica é a videoteca do CCBB que tem um arquivo gigante de filmes disponíveis por um preço amigo.

- O primeiro curta do Truffaut disponível no Youtube: “Les Mistons” (dividido em parte I e parte II).

- O blog do Zacca, meu miguxo, que não é só sobre cinema, mas tenho certeza que aborda temas interessantes aos admiradores do cinema de qualidade.

"...if you never get hurt, you always have fun..."

Bom, por hoje é só isso. Mas prometo que durante a semana voltamos com resenhas, piadinhas e posts excepcionais para vocês, beijos!

Escrito por Taís Bravo

Kann es sein, dass noch Zeichen und Wunder geschehen? Kann es wirklich sein? Man mag es im ersten Moment gar nicht glauben, jedoch entspricht es augenscheinlich der Wahrheit. Der Publizist  Henryk M. Broder kandidiert für das Amt des Präsidenten des Zentralrates der Juden. Man kann es glauben oder auch nicht, es ist so. Zumindest wenn man den Worten des Tagesspiegels glauben schenkt. In diesem Fall tun wir das natürlich ausnahmsweise einmal sehr gerne. Nun, die Zeitung berichtet dass Hr. Broder nun endlich das tut was er tun muss und nicht mehr was er tun will, so wie er es sein Leben lang getan hat

Hier der lesenswerte Artikel.

Ich habe nach reiflicher Überlegung beschlossen, mich um das Amt des Präsidenten des Zentralrates der Juden in Deutschland zu bewerben. Das Procedere ist nicht ganz einfach, man muss der Repräsentantenversammlung einer jüdischen Gemeinde angehören und von dieser nominiert werden. Nachdem mir aber zwei kleine Gemeinden ihre Unterstützung zugesagt haben, sind das keine unüberwindlichen Hindernisse. In zwei Jahren werde ich 65, ich habe immer das getan, was ich tun wollte. Jetzt ist die Zeit gekommen, das zu tun, was ich tun sollte.

Die offizielle Vertretung der Juden in Deutschland befindet sich in einem erbärmlichen Zustand. Die Präsidentin – intern „Tante Charly“ genannt – scheint von dem Job überfordert. Wer die Pressemitteilungen liest, die von ihrem Büro herausgegeben werden, erfährt, dass ein Besuch bei der Frau des Bundespräsidenten zu den wichtigsten Erfahrungen ihres Lebens gehört. Ihre Stellvertreter belauern sich gegenseitig und warten darauf, wer als Erster aus der Deckung geht.

Was der Zentralrat tut oder unterlässt, das entscheidet dessen Generalsekretär, der die schwindende Bedeutung der Organisation durch taktische Allianzen und sinnfreien Aktionismus auszugleichen versucht. Zuletzt hat er den ehemaligen Berliner Finanzsenator, Thilo Sarrazin, wegen dessen kritischen Äußerungen über integrationsunwillige Migranten in eine Reihe mit Hitler und Goebbels gestellt und sich bald darauf für diese Entgleisung auf eine Weise entschuldigt, die vor allem eines demonstrierte: dass er keine Ahnung hat, wovon er redet.

Der Zentralrat vertritt eine kleine Minderheit, etwa 100 000 Juden, von denen die meisten nach 1989 aus der ehemaligen Sowjetunion in die Bundesrepublik gekommen sind, sein Wort hat aber Gewicht. Besser gesagt: Es hatte Gewicht. Inzwischen werden dessen Stellungnahmen kaum noch wahrgenommen, weil er sich inflationär zu allem und jedem äußert. Den Rücktritt eines Ministerpräsidenten zu fordern, weil dieser sich in der Wortwahl vergriffen und von einer „Pogromstimmung gegen Manager“ gesprochen hat, ist nicht nur unangemessen sondern auch dumm. Man soll keine Forderungen erheben, zu deren Durchsetzung man nicht in der Lage ist. Es sei denn, man will sich vorsätzlich blamieren.

Der Zentralrat versteht sich als eine Art Frühwarnsystem gegen politischen Extremismus und andere aufziehende Gefahren. Das war die Rolle, die den kapitolinischen Gänsen im alten Rom zukam. Dennoch haben sie den Untergang Roms nicht verhindern können.
Es kann nicht die Aufgabe des Zentralrates sein, sich als das gute Gewissen Deutschlands aufzuführen. Es bringt auch nichts, „Wehret den Anfängen!“ zu schreien, wenn eine Handvoll Neonazis durch Möllenhagen in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern marschiert, und das Verbot der NPD zu fordern, was die Partei, die im Begriff ist, sich selbst zu zerlegen, nur in ihrer Scheinbedeutung bestätigt. Ebenso ist es nicht die Aufgabe des Zentralrates, den übrigen 79,9 Millionen Deutschen vorzuschreiben, wie sie mit ihrer Geschichte umgehen sollten. Liebesbeweise, die erzwungen werden, sind keine.

Der Zentralrat tritt als Reue-Entgegennahme-Instanz auf und stellt Unbedenklichkeitserklärungen aus, wobei es weder nach oben noch nach unten eine Schamgrenze gibt. Der Zentralrat hat seine Beziehungen zum Vatikan und zur deutschen Bischofskonferenz im Zuge der „Williamson-Affäre“ zeitweise abgebrochen; wenn ein Theater in der Provinz Fassbinders Stück „Der Müll, die Stadt und der Tod“ aufführen will, eilt der Generalsekretär persönlich hin, um den Theaterleuten zu sagen, was sie machen beziehungsweise nicht machen sollen. Wenn das keine Beschäftigungstherapie ist, dann ist es nur lächerlich.

Als Präsident des Zentralrates werde ich für ein Ende des kleinkarierten Größenwahns sorgen, der sich immer mehr zumutet, als er zu leisten in der Lage ist. Ich werde mich dafür einsetzen, dass Holocaustleugnung als Straftatbestand aufgehoben wird. Das Gesetz war gut gemeint, hat sich aber als kontraproduktiv erwiesen, indem es Idioten dazu verhilft, sich als Märtyrer im Kampf um die historische Wahrheit zu inszenieren. Unser aller Problem ist nicht der letzte Holocaust, dessen Faktizität außer Frage steht, sondern der Völkermord, der vor unseren Augen im Sudan stattfindet. Wir brauchen nicht noch mehr Holocaustmahnmale und Gedenkstätten, sondern eine aktive Politik im Dienste der Menschenrechte ohne politische Rücksichtnahme auf wirtschaftliche Interessen. Wer vom Kampf der Dissidenten in China und der Verfolgung der Baha’i im Iran nichts wissen will, sollte auch am 27. Januar und am 9. November zu Hause bleiben.

Ich werde mich um gute Beziehungen zu den in Deutschland lebenden Moslems bemühen. Nicht zu religiösen Eiferern oder türkischen Nationalisten, die den Paragrafen 301 des türkischen Strafgesetzbuches („Beleidigung des Türkentums“) verteidigen oder verharmlosen und sich um jede Stellungnahme zu der Armenierfrage drücken, sondern zu solchen, die für eine strikte Trennung von Staat und Religion und für eine säkulare Gesellschaft eintreten.

Ich bin überzeugt, dass es keine partikularen jüdischen Interessen gibt. Ob jemand koscher isst oder halal oder doch lieber Kassler, ist Privatsache. Ebenso wann und zu welchem Gott er betet. Religionsfreiheit beinhaltet auch das Recht, areligiös und antireligiös zu sein und sich über den eigenen und seiner Nachbarn Gott lustig machen zu können, ohne deswegen bedroht zu werden. Freiheit, Demokratie, Rechtsstaat sind die Werte, die offensiv verteidigt werden müssen.

Von Juden, Christen, Moslems, Atheisten, Agnostikern, Häretikern, von Ariern und Vegetariern, Frauen und Männern, Heteros und Homos – meine Kippa liegt im Ring.

// Israel/Palestine: Oktoberfest in Palestine.

// Germany: Antisemitism on stage: Fassbinder’s late appearance. Politics or Pathology? Review of The Baader-Meinhof Complex. To Whom Honor is Due: A disgraceful capitulation.

// UK: Nick Griffin denies Iranian nukes.

// US: Crummy student occupations.

// From the archive: 1. Unweaving The Tangle: Zionism, Anti-Zionism, Antisemitism. 2. On antisemitism and Indymedia: a follow-up.

// Other variousnesses: Roland’s. Bob’s.

The Baader Meinhof Complex

The Baader Meinhof Complex as the name implies is as much about the psychology of the Baader Meinhof Group as it is about the events. Not knowing much about the time it is hard to say how accurate the film is to the events. It does portray the unrest in West Germany of the late 60’s and early 70’s well and which is reflected in some of Fassbinder’s films, especially in The Lost Honor of Katarina Blum. The more interesting take of the film, though, is not the historic, but the motivations of the group. What was it that drove them and how did it manifest itself if their actions?

The film makers make clear that they see the group as well intentioned ideologues who could not control what they were: free loving anarchists from the 1960’s. The anarchism in their personal lives leads to mistakes in their actions. They are undisciplined terrorists and while they can plan out bank robberies well, they can’t plan out the next steps. And when they are arrested those who follow cannot plan any better. It doesn’t mean they are the Three Stooges of terrorism, because they managed hijackings and the German Embassy raid in Stockholm. It means they had no plan after the action. What happens when you reach your tactical objective?

The Badder Meinhof was good at achieving the tactical, but not the strategic and eventually the movement died out. However, it was not because the police were particularly cleaver. They caught group members, but were not able to stop new members from starting following after the group. Badder Meinhof dissipated as the times dissipated, as the politics that drove the original members changed.

It was also the seeming patience of the police that stopped the gang. The film makers show a scene where the head of the terrorism squad says, we must understand their motivations. It doesn’t make those motivations right, but it is the only way to defeat them. When he says it those in the meeting with him are resistant and it is an obvious criticism on the American War on Terror, which has posited a with us or against us mentality that has seemed to block analysis the movie posits. Yet the film also makes it clear that the German legal system was not able to handle the group adequately, since its processes were based on the idea that the accused will want to fight their charges. Instead the group makes fun of the case and spends time in their prison cell planning escapes.

Ultimately the questions The Baader Meinhof Complex grapple with is how do you stop terrorists? And how do you do it without destroying your society or creating more terrorists. The movie has no answers, but the skilled acting and film making make this and excellent film.

I have not written about the big D., my mood or what has been happening in my life for some months now. I was just preparing to do so at the very end of August and was ready to comment on how excellent July and August had been – the best August since my ‘mood records’ began in 2005 indeed – when I was struck down with a bout which is only now (late September) slowly passing. I suppose this could be described as hubris; or less classically as the tendency and capability my Depression has of sneaking up and knocking me down whenever life has been going too well. I should know better but, as I have no doubt discussed previously, optimism is, however unrealistic and irrational, both a natural inclination and a necessary part of making living with the condition bearable. I suppose that I can trace some trigger factors for this particular attack – I had attended St Hildas Mystery Conference (which I thoroughly enjoyed and will be writing about separately at some point) the weekend before, then I had a very difficult MH meeting from which I suppose I did not fully recover. Whatever the reason another 3 weeks have passed in which most normal activities have been completely suspended. This has of course included any writing or consideration of this blog, which is why this particular entry is making such a belated appearance, although the majority of it was written well before the attack began.

I did want to write something about the changing direction which my life is taking however. This blog is a personal record as well as an opportunity for me to air my views on any subject which takes my interest. Those uninterested in this diary aspect should skip the following and move down to where I start discussing Caryl Churchill’s work. Over the past three years I have been getting more and more involved with campaigning around Mental Health (MH) issues. One thing has led to another and one group to another. Over the past year these activities have started to concentrate on the Birmingham LINk Mental Health Group. LINks (Local Improvement Networks) are the new mechanism which the Government has established with the stated task of monitoring the provision of health and social care. There is a LINk for every Council area so naturally I am involved with the Birmingham LINk. Anyone can become involved on a voluntary basis: as details of how each LINk should be organised were, for commendable reasons, left vague it has taken a considerable amount of time for a structure and framework to become established. In Birmingham it was decided at an early stage, partly because of the intervention of MH activists, that there should be a number of themed working groups. The MH Group has probably been the quickest to develop and, as I am possibly the most active member, already demands a considerable amount of work. However the Core Group, or LINk’s managing committee, has not really developed at all. Recently elections were held for a new Core Group and I was persuaded to stand; I was elected which could involve yet further work – indeed should involve further work if it develops as it ought to. There are two aspects to all this; the political - in terms of what I observe to be the role of a LINk and similar bodies, and the personal-  in terms of what all this means for my life. It is on the latter which I wish to dwell here.

This movement into MH – and now general health – activism is something which has been more or less completely unplanned. As I look back at my life I realise that this is true is of every single of its many (and very disparate) phases. In a way of course this period harks back to my days of union activism in the 1980’s – meetings, negotiations, publicity, propagandising and so on. Certainly I get a strange feeling of deja vu at times. There are of course very significant differences. The people whom I am dealing with do not share the common ideological purpose or vision which were so uplifting in my union days. Not to say that all the activists, let alone members, with whom I dealt were lefties like me, but there was a solid core of people who shared roughly similar values. The linking factor in the MH groups is one of experience. This is undoubtedly a strong bond but not I think as strong a bond as ideology. In the general ‘health monitoring’ community there is not even the bond of common experience and I have yet to understand the full range of motivations which drives people to become involved. In any case my point is that I have more or less drifted into this new position where MH activism, or now more accurately LINks activism, occupies much of my time and effort. I am not even sure that this is really what I want to do. I am probably happiest – when well of course and options are available to me – involved in what I can describe (pretension be damned!) as intellectual pursuits. Reading and writing – the latter both here, on the lists, for ReviewingtheEvidence and so on. A quiet and fairly solitary (certainly in RL terms) life of the mind. This solaces and satisfies me. Yet I have drifted as I say into a position where I am spending my time in meetings, dealing with confrontations and personality clashes – precisely the things which I find most difficult. Not that everyone is difficult of course; as is my way I generally like people and I have met some really delightful people, including Caron who is the Facilitator of the LINk MH group. It is quite possible that I will have more bouts of Depression as a result of this change. Of course if this becomes overwhelmingly evident then I will have to give it up. So why do it? Well in the first place I do think it is worthwhile. This belief is a little tenuous and may also be altered by experience. I am still new to the area. Secondly I think that, much to my amazement really, I am still interested enough by new and different areas of life to want to give another one a try. This genuinely surprises me. Third because I am a passive personality and allow myself to drift or be manoeuvred into doing things which are not the result of active choices or self-determination. Some combination of these – not very flattering or persuasive – factors has led to this new situation. The practical result is that I will not have enough time to continue with my intellectual pursuits in the way that I used to. Inevitably this means something will have to give and I very much fear that it will have to be the lists. I do want to continue with my blogging and my personal projects (like Crabbe) and my mystery reading. The lists will be a big loss to me however. Well we shall see as time passes. And now back to a more regular service! 

Continuing my slow progress through Caryl Churchill I read Shorts (1990), a collection of her short plays from Lovesick (1966) to Hot Fudge (1989). Some of these are radio plays, some TV plays and some are for the theatre. They cover a wide range of subjects and are in a wide variety of styles and tones, admirably illustrating Churchill’s versatility. Naturally I was more taken by some than others. Schreber’s Nervous Illness I admit to finding unreadable; both it, Lovesick and The Hospital at the Time of the Revolution are heavily concerned with psychiatric matters and influenced by Churchill’s reading of R.D Laing. Much the most successful is Hospital which is so influenced by Fanon that it is set in Algeria (that is the revolution) and actually makes him a major character; it is a powerful piece. Lovesick and Three More Sleepless Nights are both plays about relationships with an intense, claustrophobic feeling even though the former is for radio and the latter for theatre. Seagulls is a very strange play about a woman with telekinetic powers and Churchill says in her introduction that it felt too much like a play about her inability to write for her to want it to be performed at the time. Hot Fudge is a kind of brilliant exercise of Churchill’s developed technique in which everyone is some kind of liar or braggart or criminal; the dialogue and rhythms here are reminiscent of Serious Money. This is also true of my favourite play in the collection, The After-Dinner Joke, which is an examination of the world of charities and aid; it is very political, very funny and remains just as true in 2009 as it was in 1978 when it was written (which is depressing); it was a PlayforToday in the days when the BBC was producing terrific one-off drama on a regular basis. Not Enough Oxygen is a dystopic view of the future – 2010 actually so it would be a good play to revive next year!  The Judge’s Wife is another television play, this time from 1972; it is a trick play which is gradually revealed as a very black comedy. Taken together the plays make a fascinating collection and emphasise Churchill’s versatility, her brilliance with dialogue, her political acuity and the fact, which I have probably failed to emphasise enough in my discussion of her work, that she can be very funny. 

I snuck off on my own to watch Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds - Tarantino being of course one of the very few living directors whom it is really worth making an effort to go and see at the cinema. Is it up there with the best of Tarantino? (Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown) No. Does it contain moments of complete cinematic genius like Kill Bill? Undoubtedly. In fact Tarantino makes spectacularly little effort to provide any sort of narrative cohesion or, at times, sense. Everything is sacrificed to the production of various episodes which vary widely in their quality. Of course he emphasises this with his use of chapter titles. So one goes from the brilliant to the comparatively ordinary with almost bewildering rapidity. Tarantino is still the kid in the sweet shop and I suppose that he always will be; he has said that this is the kind of film he wants to make and nothing is going to change him. One can’t help but regret that this enormous talent is in a way wasted given what he might be capable of if harnessed to a moral or political sensibility. But on the other hand any kind of shackles might prevent some of the moments of sheer audacity which still have the power to shock, startle and, of course, induce hilarity. I think one of the sadnesses about Tarantino is that people fail to get the jokes. There were a lot in this film. As his dramatic climax approaches and the whole of the Nazi high-command including Hitler, Goebbels, Bormann and Goering are assembling at a Paris cinema to watch the premiere of a new Nazi propaganda film Tarantino uses comic strip letters with an arrow pointing out Bormann and others! At another point discussing the flammability of film stock he suddenly splits screen and has an absurd pastiche of a Ministry of Information Public Information film. Both Hitler and Churchill are pure caricature. Yet along with the absurdity there are moments of pure cinematic power. The entire opening sequence – very Sergio Leone including the music – is one such. Indeed Tarantino himself has called it his ’spaghetti western’ and Leone’s influence is very obvious. The Paris cafe and cinema sequences have a different quality. Tarantino is of course such a cine-phile that it would be impossible for any but the most knowledgeable to spot even a substantial majority, let alone all, of his references. His setting the climax of the film in a cinema allows for all kinds of play along those lines but the final climactic scenes are another high-point of brilliant inspiration. The use of a David Bowie song is another Tarantinoesque (what other word is there?) moment which works brilliantly and is followed by an extraordinary overhead tracking shot. But for all these moments of inspiration and indeed genius the fact is that there are also moments which are mundane. Because of the lack of real emotional involvement with the story, everything always depends on Tarantino relying again and again and again on his visual (and auditory) powers. Now those powers are enormous. Probably greater than any currently active Western director (certainly any I know of). But they are not unlimited. And when they run out there is nothing to fall back on. Still I am very glad I went to see it on the big screen because that is where Tarantino, even at his worst, always belongs; and that alone means that he is a major director.

In complete contrast to the Tarantino my Fassbinder voyage continued with his wonderful adaptation of  Theodore Fontane’s Effi Briest. Fassbinder put all his vast talent at the service of producing a film which he thought would do justice to his source material. Everything is reined back in and muted. It is shot in BandW and both cinematography and performances are extremely restrained. This is not to say that it lacks extraordinary visual care. Shots are framed with great precision and often beauty. The use of mirrors is perhaps among the most brilliant one can ever imagine; in shot after shot characters appear in mirrors, sometimes in such a complex way that it takes the viewer a little time to puzzle out exactly who is being shot directly and who is being shot in a mirror. Characters talk to each other through the medium of mirrors.

Effi and her mother in a typically bravura 'mirror shot'

Of course this is a metaphor for one of the central themes of the film which is a society dominated by appearances. To stress his source-material, and the fact of adaptation, Fassbinder not only uses voice-over (which Fassbinder himself provided) but also sentences or paragraphs from the text to introduce narrative developments. This also functions as a distancing device, emphasising the fact that this is a construction. In terms of what kind of adaptation this is I would judge (though my memory of the novel is far from complete) that it is very faithful in narrative terms, yet it also emphasises and comments on certain aspects of the book. The text which Fassbinder selects to be shown right at the start of the film is absolutely central to the entire project: ‘Many people who are aware of their own capabilities and needs yet acquiesce to the prevailing system in their thoughts and deeds thereby confirm and reinforce it’. The film is all about the way in which human beings are distorted by ‘acquiescence’ to the system (in this case a particularly rigid, stratified, class and gender based, patriarchal one). It is both tragedy and social comment. Fassbinder does not want us to get too wrapped up with the former, with the individual narrative, in case we ignore the latter. Thus the extraordinary muting to which I have referred. After all this is a film which features ghosts, an affair, a duel, great cruelty, yet it has a U certificate. Effi’s affair with Crampas occurs almost entirely off-camera; the closest we get to seeing any physical contact is a long-shot of them embracing on a beach.  All the performances are brilliant; Fassbinder’s muse Hanna Schygulla is amazing as Effi herself, but the whole cast (no doubt many of them members of the Fassbinder ‘family’; in the case of Frau Briest very literally so as he cast his own mother Lilo Pempeit!). There is an absolutely brilliant essay on and analysis of the film at http://movingtoyshop.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?action=edit&post=535&message=1 (from which I have taken some of the details here) which notes how Fassbinder was influenced by both Godard and Sirk (the latter I had not thought of at all but makes perfect sense once I start to think about it ). Centrally though this is about a great director putting his talents completely in the service of an adaptation; even the briefest of comparisons with Fassbinder’s ability to use colour demonstrates this. Effi Briest is unquestionably one of his masterpieces and shows how necessary an intellectual, political, emotional project and involvement are to really great, as opposed to merely diverting, cinema.

Making yet another complete contrast was Ken Russell’s Mahler (1974). I saw this at about the time it was released when I was around 18 and it made a big impression; the lesson of revisiting it is that by and large one should avoid returning to one’s teenage enthusiasms. In a way one has to admire Russell; the film is obviously extremely low-budget, with the Lake District standing in for Austria and the budget being unable to even stand mounting a concert performance. It is was clearly a labour of love. But that does not detract from the fact that it is completely loopy and more damning not nearly as good as it thinks it is. The sad ultimate truth about Russell is that he just does not have the cinematic talent or vision to pull off the kind of film which he wanted to make. I know that I should defend his refusal to have any truck with realism, his insistence on his personal vision, and I do admire those qualities, but the fact is that all too often the film reduces one to laughter rather than the intended emotion. Or perhaps it is all intended as a joke? Could the famous Cosima Wagneras dominatrix ‘conversion scene’ really be intended in any other way? The acting is poor, the cinematography wholly average at best and the story, such as it is, functions mainly at the level of cliche and leave one only with the impression that Mahler was a rather unpleasant individual. The scenes of his Jewish childhood trade in stereotypes to such an extent that they can only be described as anti-Semitic. The only thing which endures, and makes the film at all bearable (other than laughing at its excesses) is, of course, the glorious music. And it is with that which I will be sticking from now on!

In an appalling month for television I do need to note one shining gem. This was the performance of Timothy Spall in the last episode of Series Three of the The Street. I wrote about The Street as a series, and the problems I have with it in my July Miscellany and none of the episodes shown in August changed my opinion. None that is except the last one, which was lifted into a different class by a performance of magnetising and surpassing power by Spall as a man of the most fundamental decency and kindness who has a disastrous one-night stand. Anyone who was not moved to tears by Spall here would have – and no excuses for the cliche -  a heart of stone. Strangely his performance was of such brilliance that although wholly rooted in realism, almost hyper-realism, it in fact lifted that particular episode out of realism; I think the reason for this is that his performance was transcendant, and transcendence and realism cannot sit together. Whatever it was a total joy – while also heart-rending – to watch. 

Bon Mots of the Month

A new occasional feature highlighting some particularly good or insightful writing which I have happened upon. Here is A.L.Kennedy in The Times of 15th August writing about her career….

>>I’ve spent the past 25 years telling teachers, social workers, readers, writers and whoever else would listen, about words — about defending them, freeing them and using them. It makes sense to me that this month I launched a book and a show on the same day — the stories I tell to private minds in my absence and the ones that I tell face-to-face. Telling stories has given me more than a way of earning a living. And words are more than material. Without us, they fade and are lost. Without them, we are other peoples lies, or we are silence. It isn’t always obvious, but one way or another, we speak and write to save our lives. Although remembering that should probably be a duty, it is also nothing less than wonderful.<<

The Third Generation

Fassbinder’s comedy of confusion centers on a low-level terrorist group, frozen in the ennui of revolutionary posing, who, after one of their members is gunned down, decide to go underground and move into action. Each scene is pumped up to its full comic potential; the members of the group more concerned with further tangling up their already muddy ideologies, memorizing their newly fabricated histories, and what hair color they will choose next than truly being present in their forms of resistance. The central robbery and final kidnapping both resemble comedy routines, the former going so far as to feature the members of the group dressed as clowns, as if the whole thing was nothing more than a performance.

Through this lens, Fassbinder rejects an agitprop portrait or a palliating canvas in the guise of objectivity, instead highlighting the absurdity of the whole process rather than the high drama — a denial of the conventional constructions of viewer empathy. Multiple conversations are often happening at once within the same densely packed frame, plowing alongside the sounds of multiples televisions and radios (not to mention the drug addict playing guitar). They’re all buffoons, Fassbinder wants to show us. After watching The Third Generation, it’s easy to see his argument.

All kinds of perfect: Clutch

Saw Clutch last Wednesday at the Phoenix. I danced like a fool, had some fun in the pit (rolled over my ankle and sprained it, and took the back of someone’s skull in my eye socket) and lost my voice singing. The crowd impressed me, too, perhaps the best I’ve seen in Toronto. I saw Mayhem in June (not my video) but was underwhelmed — it had been years since my last metal show and I  too tripped out by all the kids on their cell phones all night — so I had been worried I’d lost my ability to get into a good, heavy show.

Clutch is one of my all-time favourite bands, inspiring near-fanaticism in me and others that’s well-nigh impossible to explain to those who don’t get it. It doesn’t describe well: post-hardcore, given solid doses of blues and funk so that it turned into a really stoned, less aggro Rage Against the Machine on the way to sounding like beer belly rock. But the band is tight, breathes the most monstrous grooves and has one of the most gifted lyricists around.

Upcoming shows

A lot of bands I want to see in town this fall. A bit of nostalgia (Obituary), a few bands past their glory that I still feel I should check out (KMFDM, Skinny Puppy, Os Mutantes — although the latter may still have some cred, we’ll see), and some top-notch contemporary shit (Bajofondo, Fleck/Hussain/Meyer). There are a few other metal bands I may add to the nostalgia list, but I’m too embarrassed to name them in polite, literate company. I missed Down and Voivod, they played last night, although that show may have been eminently missable anyway.

• Obituary : 25 September, Opera House
• KMFDM : 29 September, Phoenix
• Bajofondo : 28 September, Opera House
• Bela Fleck + Zakir Hussain + Edgar Meyer : 29 September, Koerner Hall
• Os Mutantes (listen to that fuzz!) : 2 October, Opera House
• Skinny Puppy : November 13, Phoenix

Lettuce know if you wanna catch any of these shows!

Cinematheque’s new season

Just got the new Cinematheque program with the fall schedule in the mail and am pleased as punch (they haven’t updated the schedule yet). My Cinematheque membership saved my life last fall, after I moved back to Canada and was still completely out of sorts; I caught a big chunk of the Oshima retrospective (In the realm of the senses is a must-see for those interested in power and desire in eroticism, and deeply disturbing) and Fassbinder’s Berlin Alexanderplatz, a 15-hour adaptation of Alfred Döblin’s novel, screened over a single weekend. I saw little in the spring, only Bicycle thieves quite by chance one day when the gal and I were strolling around the neighbourhood.

Among other dandies, the fall season has retrospectives of the films of Elia Kazan and Manoel de Oliveira. Again, happy for company.

شرح ديوان ذكري

Una raccolta di nuove interviste all’autore di “Fitzcarraldo” e “Grizzly Man”. Tutti i sogni e le manie del «bavarese tardomedievale».

«Detesto proondamente il concetto d’artista in questa epoca. L’ultimo re dell’Egitto, Farouk, ormai in esilio e tremendamente obeso, mentre divorava una coscia d’agnello dopo l’altra, ha detto una cosa veramente bellissima. “Oramai non ci sono più re al mondo, solo il re di cuori, il re di quadri, il re di picche e di fiori”. È rimasto solo un posto in cui si possono trovare artisti: il circo. Penso davvero che nel mondo dei pittori, dei romanzieri e dei registi cinematografici non ci siano artisti. Si tratta di un concetto che appartiene a secoli passati, in cui c’erano cose come la virtù, i duelli con le pistole all’alba tra uomini innamorati e le fanciulle che svenivano sui divani».

Si intitola Incontri alla fine del mondo la raccolta di conversazioni tra cinema e vita con il regista Werner Herzog a cura di Paul Cronin edito da minimum fax (con la curatela di Francesco Cattaneo). Non la fine del mondo in senso menagramo & apocalittico, anche se l’oscuro, solitario e visionario (ma non immaginario) Herzog, scartata l’etichetta di romatico tedesco e di espressionista, si è sempre definito un «bavarese del tardo mediovevo». Ma nel senso dei territori estremi esplorati dall’uomo, sia nella straordinarietà delle imprese – nel Fitzcarraldo con cui nel 1983 vinse per la regia a Cannes, l’attore feticcio di Herzog, Klaus Kinski ha un sogno: costruire un teatro d’Opera nella foresta Amazzonica, dove far cantare Enrico Caruso – sia nella quotidianità della vita, con la costante della comunicazione, l’espressione dell’invidividuo alle prese con handicap, come lo straordinario Paese del silenzio e dell’oscurità, documentario sulla vita della sordocieca Fini Straubinger, per il quale Herzog è stato sempre categorico: «Chi non l’ha visto non dovrebbe parlare del mio cinema».

Una grande energia scorre in Herzog, ma non il vitalismo dell’Hemingway dell’Harris Bar: alla impaziente identificazione con le cose, all’esperienza della pura energia, il regista preferisce la paziente opera dell’intagliatore, perchè il mediovevo lavora per cambiare la materia che ha davanti, sperando che il risultato sia un’estasi e non un incubo. E se la materia è fatta di sogni, come diceva Shakespeare, ecco allora Herzog alle prese con i deliri dei suoi personaggi, manie sempre private, conseguenza di menomazioni ed eccessi, che aspirano a sfide impossibili, contro Dio, contro la natura, contro la società.

Quello di Cronin é un libro che vuole arginare il mare di bugie ed esagerazioni che ha sempre circondato la figura del regista, un pò per la spigolosità del personaggio, un pò per l’aurea mitica assunta dai suoi film-opera. Per questo Cronin rinuncia ad assemblare materiale già esistente, ma preferisce ripercorrere di nuovo i 45 film di Herzog, dal claustrofobico film sulla fallimentare rivolta dei nani, Anche i nani hanno cominciato da piccoli, ai documentari come Grizzly man, premiati in tutto il mondo. Ma anche Cronin si arrende all’ambiguità dell’epica herzoghiana in fatto di verità e bugie.

«Non so chi sia Ferrara e non ho visto nessuno dei suoi film» ha dichiarato ieri il regista dopo le dichiarazioni di Abel Ferrara che lo accusava di furto. Forse un’altra bugia, ma, a proposito, non si faccia ingannare chi leggendo le quasi 400 pagine di conversazioni con Herzog, si mostri compiaciuto – in tempo di crisi dell’industria del cinema – dell’aneddoto del furto della cinepresa ai tempi della scuola, come fosse una sorta di manifesto indy. Herzog fa parte di una generazione di cineasti tedeschi coraggiosi (che nel deserto cinematografico post 1945, decisero di svincolarsi dalla lontana stagione del grande cinema espressionista) che venne fuori grazie alle sovvenzioni statali (televisione compresa, di cui il massimo esempio fu Fassbinder), con l’obiettivo unico e ossessivo di fare film, i loro film. Arenatosi Wenders, scomparso precocemente Fassbinder, Herzog continua per la sua strada: fare film. A Venezia addirittura raddoppia, con My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done, prodotto da Lynch.

Love is Colder than death, or On Levinas’ chilly description of love in “The Ethics of The Face” and “The Phenomenology of Desire,” in Totality and Infinity
a prostitute tells her pimp in earnest that she is not attracted to their third man, cohort in a blossoming bank plot. then he enters the apartment.
she prostrates herself on the floor at third man’s feet. he fondles her body and she laughs at his fumbling. her pimp watches the scene from the bed.
she stands up and her pimp slaps her for laughing, saying that she shouldn’t make fun of his friend.
pimp/levinas refuses to lose his sense of self, sturdiness, in spite of transversality of desire. Ultimately, subject/pimp, irascible, must violently maintain hegemonic possession of other, figment.

stay tuned for this week’s book of grievances: labor and the invisible! featuring american labor oral online history, comments on terror, das kapital, and invisible man

above: scene from “Love is Colder than Death,” by R.M. Fassbinder

fassbinders grab in bogenhausen.

I was going to explore Fassbinder slowly. I usually prefer to go through a director’s work at a leisurely pace, mixing in the work of several different filmmakers in between. In the case of Rainer Werner Fassbinder, I don’t know if this will be possible. This is the second of his films that I’ve seen, the first being Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (love that title).

One difference I found between the two films is that some of the characters in The Merchant of Four Seasons are more difficult to lend sympathy towards than in Ali. Hans Epp in particular acts brutally towards his wife, and tends to neglect his young daughter. The viewer is quickly convinced that his only concern involves his own problems. Following an episode of physical abuse, his wife, Irmgard, flees from home and seeks out Hans’ relatives. They mostly offer a  restrained sympathy for her, but they nonetheless seem to despise Hans. However, Anna Epp (Hans’ sister) seems to be the lone dissenter of the group. She attributes her brother’s troubles to the neglect he himself received. The disparaging attitudes of his close family drove him to join the military, and subsequently, to treat his wife and daughter with contempt. This assertion becomes wholly believable once we see the manner in which Hans is capable of acting.

Fassbinder seems to genuinely care about all of his characters. Their movements (along with the camera’s) are deliberate, as are the lines they deliver. Everything seems to be carefully crafted and meticulous. This does not provide a sense that events are contrived, but rather it is an indicator of the importance of each complex relationship that develops along the way. The plot is melodramatic, but, as is obvious for anyone who has seen one of his films, there is certainly more going on in every scene than what is on the surface. I absolutely love the style of both of these films along with the way that the complexities of characters and events are expressed on screen. Things look bizarre with rooms of solid colors and rigid frames; it almost feels as if some scenes take place inside of a doll house. I have no idea if it is a style that is constant throughout his work, but I am always anticipating what I will see next. Every single shot feels important, emotional, and highly combustible. As mentioned before, I believe I will be delving into Fassbinder’s work at a greater pace than usual.

A separate  blog for four movies watched already in July. The reason for this sudden increase in movie-watching is the near disappearance of any interesting new material on television on British television during the summer months (combined of course with a ‘good spell’ Depression wise). Although my movie reviews would normally form part of the Monthly Miscellany these were getting out of hand!

First The Changeling (2008) directed by Clint Eastwood. This film has a lot going for it: its themes are irreproachable, the production values very good, the direction highly competent. It is based on the ‘true story’ of Christine Collins, a single mother in the Los Angeles of 1928, working as a supervisor in a telephone exchange, whose nine year old son goes missing. Five moths later the LAPD find a boy in Illinois who claims to be her son; she insists he is not – he is shorter and circumcised. When she continues to insist that they search for her son, they harass her and eventually have her incarcerated in an asylum. There she finds other women who are patently sane who have been committed by the police for bringing complaints against them or defending themselves from physical or sexual abuse by cops. By the efforts of a Presbyterian minister she is released and at the same time the gruesome discovery is made of a serial killer who has killed some 20 young boys. As a result of her campaigning the incarcerated women are released, the police chief forced to step down and  the powers of the police to commit women to the asylum curbed. As I say it is intensely worthwhile, impeccably on the ‘right’ side. The scenes in the asylum are shocking, particularly the behaviour of the psychiatrist and the use of compulsory ECT on any woman who steps out of line. I always find such scenes hard to watch – of course these asylum scenes were by no means as disturbing or appalling as those in the wonderful Frances (1982) in which Jessica Lange is so utterly brilliant as Frances Farmer - the only film I can think of which I am genuinely afraid of watching again because it so upset and chilled me. The fact that psychiatry was used as a method of political control, especially against women, in the US when it was precisely this which, justifiably, is one of the great crimes laid at the Stalinist regimes door, is of course one of those horrific historical ironies. My personal reaction to ECT scenes is connected to my own experience, though of course these were wholly voluntary, intended to be therapeutic and certainly not carried out while I was conscious!; even so I find them hard to watch. So given all this – that it was well-made, politically uplifting and correct, why didn’t I like it more? Why did I not fully engage with it? I think there was always a sort of awareness there, which I feel with some films, that ‘this is an Oscar film’ (and it did get 3 nominations). There was a lack of edginess, a lack of anything really exciting visually, a lack of that something special. I even felt that Angelina Jolie’s performance was something of an Oscar performance – almost too restrained, too deliberate. I have no doubt that I am probably being unfair – in a film which tells a story such as this there is no need for any moral complexity, and I am perfectly happy for films to be campaigning (even when they are doing so historically – the need to understand and tell the stories of the past is an imperative one). I just felt the film ought to have had an emotional impact which, for me, it lacked. But this is a good, perhaps very good film, certainly well worth watching – it just isn’t great.

Next came Notes on a Scandal (2006) directed by Richard Eyre  with a screenplay by Patrick Marber from Zoe Heller’s novel, starring Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett supported by an array of top-class British thespians headed by Bill Nighy. The only thing this has in common with The Changeling is that both were nominated for stacks of awards. Well that and the fact that – laudably – they are both films for grown-ups. But where The Changeling is controlled, composed, closed, on one level, not open to any discussion of meaning, Notes on a Scandal is open, slightly melodramatic, multi-layered, open to all sorts of discussions and dissensions about its meanings and values. It is quite beautifully acted especially by Dench (taking a rare largely unsympathetic role) and Blanchett, and well-directed by Eyre – although I always feel he is stronger when the material is more distanced (I must rewatch his The Ploughman’s Lunch which made a big impression on me in the 80’s). The narrative relates the encounter of Judi Dench, playing Barbara Covett a lonely, cynical and tough teacher in a North London comprehensive with Cate Blanchett as Sheba Hart who takes up a position as Art Teacher in the same school. Sheba Hart comes from a wealthy family,  is married to, the much older, Bill Nighy and has two children – one a son with Down’s Syndrome. Covett is strongly attracted to Hart who in turn seems to value the older woman as a confidante. The relationship changes direction however when Covett discovers that Hart is having an affair with one of her pupils – a 15 year old boy, Steven Connolly. Covett agrees not to report the affair thinking she now has Hart in her power. But when Hart chooses to go and see her son in a school play rather than to go with Covett and help her deal with the death of her cat, Covett manipulates another teacher into finding out about the affair and reporting it. Hart is sacked and arrested, her marriage falls apart and she comes to stay with Covett; but there she eventually discovers the diaries in which Covett writes about everything and a climactic confrontation ensues. In the accompanying documentaries Zoe Heller said that one reason why she wrote the novel was that she was suspicious of what she called the ‘Oprah-fication’ of women’s friendships – the notion that women are naturally supportive of each other. The novel was apparently criticised at the time for its caustic view of the relationship between Covett and Hart. Heller also said that in the novel, which is written as the first-person diary narrative of Covett, the reader is only intended to realise that she is an unreliable narrator and far from benevolent some way into the book. While the film makes some use of voice-over to convey this, I think that we are somewhat suspicious of Dench from quite early on. But there are clearly ideological problems here; the book is to some extent a deliberate assault on certain positions according to what Heller says (in an admittedly short snippet). But there is another problem here. The scandal is ,of course, the affair between Hart and Connolly, but in terms of the film this is a matter of very much secondary interest to the relationship between Covett and Hart. Again in the accompanying material Blanchett talks about how she sees Hart as a desperately lonely woman – that the film is the story of two lonely woman and of the corrosive effects of loneliness – and that is Hart’s motivation for the affair. I am not wholly sure that the film conveys this successfully, and it certainly fails to deal with the physicality of the matter. The first sexual encounter takes place at night beside a railway line but we actually see very little and I do not think it is prurient to be critical of this. My problem is that I find it hard to believe that a 15 year old boy is going to offer much in terms of comfort, companionship, intellectual stimulation or other cures for loneliness – what he provides is surely physicality, passion, excitement and the chance for dominance. Very little of any of the latter is brought out. Nor does the film tackle in any real sense the morality of the situation – Bill Nighy makes a reference to the fact that society would see a 30 year old man and a 15 year old girl in a different way – which I think is quite true – but in fact Covett is remorselessly hounded by the press and eventually imprisoned. The actual effects – or lack of them – on Connolly remain completely unexamined. Personally I find it almost impossible to imagine any ill-effects whatever and am sure there would have been plenty of voices around to assert this (in fact I know this because there have been similar real -life cases and opinion has been very divided – this is not so in a gender reversed situation which is perfectly right and proper in my view). But whatever the case the scandal is relegated to a back-page. The other big question is the nature of Covett’s ‘attraction’ to Hart and the degree to which physical and sexual elements play any part. Here again, though far more justifiably, the film is ambiguous. There are shots from Covett’s point of view which convey lasciviousness – of her watching Hart stretching to hang something from the ceiling for instance, the voice-over rhapsodises about her skin, there is a moment when she asks Hart to stroke her (this felt forced to me but maybe was intended as such), and another towards the end when she reaches towards Covett’s leg while the latter is sleeping but finally contents herself with pulling a blanket over it. But in the end I think we are meant to conclude that physical and sexual attraction, while far from absent, are not central to Covett – it is companionship she desperately seeks. I have spent so much time discussing the film’s problems and ambiguities which might suggest that I in fact preferred the much less problematic and ambiguous The Changeling; this is not so. It is precisely in the problems and ambiguities that the richness of Notes on a Scandal is to be found – unlike The Changeling which in some ways is the ‘better’ film, certainly in terms of production values – this is a film which would certainly bear repeated viewing and consideration.

The Marriage of Maria Braun (1979) directed by Rainer Werner Fassbinder. This was the first in a ’second stream’ of rentals from Lovefilm. While the first stream is comprised of individual movies which I have not seen before, mostly of very recent vintage, this second strema comprises classic cinema, overwhelmingly linked to certain great directors, and the majority of which I have seen, and loved, previously. When watching such films I experience an emotional response of a kind I only find elsewhere in literature and music. This is always linked to the visual and cinematic mastery of the directors concerned; to what I see as the essence of cinema, its’  foundation as kinetic visual art. There is, for me, some qualitative difference, extremely hard to define but definitely present, between such cinema and the lesser kind which forms the great majority. This is not to say that lesser films cannot be full of interest and fascination in terms of their narrative, sociological, psychological, political  content. But to move me at a deep emotional level they almost always need this extra visual something which I find almost impossible to describe in words.

Hanna Schygulla as Maria Braun

The Marriage of Maria Braun certainly did not disappoint in these terms on my re-watching of it; Fassbinder is a master of the use of colour – especially primary ones – and the shot compositions, the close-ups and the editing are also of the highest order; in terms of the latter he will use on occasion a sort of fade-out/fade-in system which calls attention to both the passing of time and the theatrical nature of the film. Fassbinder’s aspirations are always dramatic and visual rather than realist. In brief the film follows the story of Maria Braun, brilliantly played by one of Fassbinder’s favourite muses (and muse is the mot juste) Hanna Schygulla, who marries a soldier in the latter days of WW2; the ceremony, in the midst of a bombing raid, is shown during the opening credits. We then jump to an immediate post-War period with Maria scavenging for food and firewood while searching for her missing husband. The film follows her story first as a night-club hostess who takes an American lover ; her husband Hermann returns and much more by accident than design Maria kills her lover, but Hermann takes the blame and is sent to prison. Maria then builds herself a highly successful career in the business of a French entrepreneur, Karl Oswald who also becomes her lover. Oswald is dying and he makes an agreement with Hermann that the latter will absent himself when he comes out of prison on the basis that Oswald will leave his business and wealth to Hermann and Maria. When, in the closing scene of the film, Maria, following Oswald’s death, discovers this arrangement she commits suicide by blowing up the house she has built for herself and Hermann.  It is a commonplace to remark that in some ways Maria’s history is that of post-War Germany itself – the Marshall plan, reconstruction etc.. There are two very different Adenauer radio broadcasts in the course of the film, and the climax takes place with a commentary on the World Cup Final of 1954 (which Germany won – a highly ironic triumphant counter-point to the film’s tragic end). The film cannot, however, be reduced to any simple symbolism. Scene after scene and character after character have a rich and vibrant life of their own. But at their centre is always the dynamic strength and resilience of Maria herself. The film is in every way a masterpiece.

Unfortunately the same can certainly not be said of Rachel Getting Married (2008) directed by Johnathan Demme from a screenplay by Jenny Lumet. This told the story of Kym (played by Anne Hathaway) a young woman who comes out of a long stay in rehab to attend the wedding of her sister Rachel. Naturally various dramatic confrontations between Kym and Rachel, both of them with their father and Kym with her mother (mother and father are now divorced and living with new partners) ensue. We see Kym attending AA type meetings, and having a brief affair with the best man who she first meets at the AA meeting. The whole story takes place while the wedding itself is being planned and then taking place ; this wedding – and the whole movie – are a celebration of Demme’s liberal (I hope I am using the word in the correct American context here!) values. The bridegroom is black and therefore the guests are a wholly multi-racial mix – never the slightest indication of any racism or prejudice is given; he is also a musician and various friends of his are endlessly practising – there is an almost continuous sound-track of a range of many types of music (only anything with a whiff of the commercial being excluded). The marriage is in part of a faux-Hindu type. In the accompanying interviews Demme explained that his major technical innovation was that the musicians played live during shooting rather than being dubbed on later. There was a great deal of use of hand-held cameras which apparently were permanently shooting at events such as the wedding itself so that actors had to stay permanently in character. A requirement for the casting director was that all the actors should be NY based; many of them, particularly the wedding guests etc., were old friends of Demme’s. Demme said that he wanted the wedding to reflect his own experience of America and the life of his friends. Now in a sense this liberalism, this joyous and non-judgemental cultural mix is indeed worth promoting. I do not doubt that it is true of certain circles in America; and for non-American audiences it provides a useful corrective to the highly problematic picture of race relations which cinema usually gives. Nonetheless I am a little sceptical; there are certainly circles (I have moved in them) in which the same would be true in the UK – that does not mean that they form any sort of majority picture. Still no doubt positive pictures of multi-racial harmony are in general a good thing. But this does not mask the fact that large parts of this film seemed wholly self-indulgent. The post-ceremony celebrations – basically shots of people dancing – seemed almost interminable; the hand-held camera  meant the shots lacked any compositional grace or style and the editing was similarly haphazard. The film never looked good (of which, in fairness, I was particularly aware watching immediately after the Fassbinder). Even the approach to the casting seems indulgent, if not nepotistic (Demme used his son among others) : there is nothing wrong with that in itself – Fassbinder had what was known as his Family with whom he worked again and again; Mike Leigh - a more apt comparison – tends to work with the same people repeatedly – but it just seems to add to this impression of self-indulgence which I had formed before even hearing of the casting policy. Of course all the foregoing would probably not matter if I were more convinced by the treatment of the central story-line and by Kym’s character. Much of her trauma arose from the fact that when she was 16 she was left in charge of her younger brother Ethan; she was high on Percocet (a kind of powerful painkiller apparently) and drove into a lake where he drowned. This intensified her substance abuse leading eventually to her incarceration (she was somehow under some legal orders though this was not clearly explained) in various rehab units. Now quite apart from confirming once again (every time I see a movie or read about them my opinion is reinforced) my own low opinion of the whole 12 step malarkey, the film seemed to have no appreciation of just what an impossible ordeal this wedding and its components – rehearsal dinner, lots of strangers, social chit-chat, family reunion – would have been for someone with Mental Health issues; at my very best I would find such concentrated social interaction impossible and bound to bring on a depressive episode. The various confrontations all seemed to me rather conventional and forced. This is despite the fact that Hathaway gave as good a performance as was possible. But in the end the movie seemed unwilling to confront the fact that for some people social interaction and social events – no matter how impeccably liberal, tolerant and inclusive they may be – are difficult if not impossible. Not everyone can dance their troubles away. Perhaps this was the implication of the end where Kym leaves – she would certainly be much better off without her family. But the overall impression the movie left was of rather messy, sometimes tedious, self-indulgence.

Ieri sera mi sono rivisto, dopo un bel po’ di anni, il bellissimo film di Rainer Fassbinder del 1974, Angst essen Seele auf (La paura mangia l’anima). Ha vinto diversi premi, e fa ormai parte dei “cult”, ma non in Italia, vista la nota non-propensione anche degli intellettuali italiani a sorbirsi pellicole non tradotte nella loro lingua. E questo film tradotto non lo è mai stato, solo sottotitolato (e a quanto mi risulta, mai in italiano, solo in inglese e arabo), e consequentemente abbondantemente snobbato dal popolo radical-chic italico.

Un’altra ragione, oltre alla barriera linguistica, forse era anche il fatto che si confrontava con una problematica che allora, e per molti anni a venire, era abbastanza estranea all’Italia, e quindi non interessante per le discussioni nei salotti cinefili e affini.

Il film parla di razzismo e xenofobia, ma non solo. Evidenzia anche la forte solitudine del singolo in un mondo sempre più freddo, dove ognuno fondamentalmente fa i fatti suoi, e neanche più la famiglia è un luogo di coesione.

Questo è lo sfondo dell’incontro tra la sessantenne Emmi, vedova, donna di pulizie, madre abbastanza negletta di tre figli adulti, e “Ali”, lavoratore immigrato dal Marocco di quasi 30 anni più giovane, in un bar triste e squallido, luogo di sosta di molti elementi “reietti” dalla società.

Quasi per caso si mettono a parlare, a ballare, e il bisogno di una voce amica, di un po’ di calore, di un sorriso e uno sguardo diretto li porta prima a un’amicizia improbabile, che poi sfocia in una relazione d’amore, e infine, in un matrimonio molto improvisato.

La reazione del mondo di Emmi è triste, estrema, bruttissima.. lei, prima benvoluta e apprezzata nella piccola cerchia di colleghe delle pulizie, pettegole di palazzo e commercianti di quartiere, diventa all’improvviso un elemento di disturbo, una “puttana di stranieri”, una causa di ogni possibile inquinamento materiale e psicologico.

Anche peggio la reazione dei figli, egoisti già prima, e distanti, ora la insultano apertamente e si schierano contro di lei, rinnegandola.

Il loro amore resiste, permette loro di sopportare tutti gli attacchi e le discriminazioni (alle quali lui, peraltro, è già molto abituato), e infine sembra vincere anche le resistenze esterne, visto che pian piano, in genere per ragioni molto venali, conoscenze e famigliari abbandonano l’opposizione e si arrendono ai fatti.

Ma proprio questa mancanza di necessità di opporsi al brutale, nemico mondo esterno sembra far venir meno anche la base stessa della relazione tra Emmi e Ali, che si trovano davanti a una crisi del loro rapporto, che sembra far diventare triste realtà tutte le terribili cose minacciate da amiche e parenti a Emmi, all’inizio della sua “avventura”.

Una vera situazine senza uscita, pare, con tutti gli effetti collaterali di tali stress anche a livello di salute. Il film finisce come inizia, dolorosamente speranzoso.

35 anni più tardi, poco o nulla di tutto cio’ è più “attuale” in Germania. L’opposizione agli stranieri ora si basa sulle paure causate dall’estremismo islamico (già ai suoi inizi comunque in quel periodo, poco dopo i tristi eventi delle olimpiadi del 72 con gli attacchi mortali contro gli atleti israeliani a Monaco), e le varie mafie, russe, cinesi e anche italiane.

Se quando andavo a scuola io, proprio in quegli anni, i tedeschi “purosangue” ancora ci guardavano male e ci davano la colpa di tutto, dai pidocchi alle varie epidemie di influenza e simili fino ai furtarelli e i rifiuti buttati nel cortile della scuola, a noi coi nomi stranieri, e la lingua tedesca zoppicante, negli anni seguenti le differenze si appianavano sempre di più, fino a diventare impercettibili, anche grazie a un lavoro di integrazione immenso svolto da insegnanti, pagati e volontari, durante e dopo gli orari scolastici.. con tale entusiasmo e impegno che a loro volta coinvolgevano anche noi studenti “con retroscena di migrazione” (questo è il termine politicamente corretto di questi giorni per stranieri, immigrati, figli di immigrati, ex emigrati ecc) a fare lo stesso, appena riusciti a conquistare le difficoltà della lingua tedesca, aiutando i nostri compagni meno rapidi nella comprensione, o quelli delle classi più giovani.

E non solo linguistico era lo sforzo, ma proprio di inquadramento sociale e di mentalità. Non importa se piccoli italiani, nei primi anni di scuola molto spesso pizzicati a rubacchiare, mentire e allegramente buttare i loro rifiuti del pranzo dove capitava, oppure giovani turche, chiuse e sospettose, osservate strettamente da fratelli più grandi e sprezzanti verso le compagne occidentali vestite più che leggere durante l’estate, con l’andare degli anni tutti si imparava a rispettare l’ordine e la pulizia richiesta dalla convivenza civile, e ad apprezzare il fatto che le regole non servivano solo a renderci la vita difficile, ma a facilitare l’interazione con gli altri, e a migliorare la qualità della vita in genere.

Già allora non c’era la “ora di religione”..esisteva una materia chiamata “etica”, che trattava la storia delle grandi religioni alla stregua dei grandi movimenti politici e filosofici.. lo spazio e l’importanza riservato al cattolicesimo era esattamente lo stesso di quello per il marxismo, e per la storia della psicanalisi. Chi lo desiderasse, poteva seguire le lezioni per la propria religione organizzate dalle proprie communità religiose, ma non faceva parte del curriculum scolastico, e questo certamente già toglieva uno dei fattori critici per la convivenza di bambini di diverse estrazioni culturali. Quasi per gioco, ci entrava nel sangue il fatto che il bene commune è più importante dell’immediata soddisfazione del bisogno individuale e che un’educazione poliedrica e più variegata possibile ci poteva dare un fondamento morale molto più solido di tanti diktat religiosi e politici.

Tutto cio’, all’epoca di questo film era ancora in divenire, all’inizio, soggetto a tentativi a volte fallimentari di politiche educative e di integrazione. Una cosa pero’ non è mai venuta meno: un forte supporto istituzionale dei valori umani, dei diritti di pari opportunità ed educazione. Non ricordo alcun politico dei maggiori partiti al potere nel corso degli anni che abbia mai osato pronunciarsi contro la presenza degli stranieri in Germania, a mettere in dubbio il diritto di asilo o il bisogno di assistenza dei nuovi, e futuri, cittadini. Dall’altra parte, le leggi tedesche, severe, venivano fatte rispettare molto accuratamente, indipendentemente dalla nazionalità dell’infrattore, rendendo ben presto impopolare la Germania come destinazione di grandi e piccoli delinquenti.

Fast forward al giorno d’oggi, Italia. Sono stata personalmente target di offese e insulti, aperti e anonimi, perchè da due anni vivo con, e ho infine sposato, un cittadino romeno. Questo in Italia, i miei amici e parenti tedeschi invece lo hanno accolto senza alcun pregiudizio, quando si rendevano conto che ci stavamo facendo del bene, l’uno all’altra.

Una mia amica italiana che vive con un tunisino è stata sfrattata dall’appartamento a Como dove viveva da 10 anni (con motivazioni assolutamente ridicole) e la sua famiglia le ha tolto la parola, da un anno ormai. Diverse altre, simili, storie succedono tutti i giorni, e invece di diminuire, stanno aumentando.

Qui, l’integrazione sembra prendere la strada inversa che nel resto del mondo.. è iniziata più tardi, essendo tradizionalmente gli italiani popolo esso stesso con retroscena di migrazione, è solo da poco che si “permettono” di impiegare cittadini stranieri per i lavori a loro meno grati.

E proprio questo loro retroscena da “emigrati con le pezze al culo”, come si suol dire, sembra invece spingerli a trattare i loro “successori” con un’astio e un dispetto superiore a quello di cui i loro stessi padri e nonni furono vittime in Germania, Belgio e Inghilterra. Una specie di rivendicazione tardiva, una vendetta perpetuata sulla storia, irrazionale e sciocca come di solito possono farla solo i bambini.

Chiaramente, tali atteggiamenti acquistano forza e risalto soltanto quando hanno alle spalle una volontà politica, un’espressione del potere che fanno diventare “opinione pubblica” quel che in realtà sono le bizze di un popolo immaturo ed egoista, che dovrebbe essere educato (assieme agli ospiti, ovviamente, su questo non ci piove) alla convivenza costruttiva e rispettosa degna di essere umani maturi e colti, ma invece si trova ad essere aizzato al razzismo e al conflitto rissoso dalla demagogia di una classe politica marcia e in decomposizione, che pur di distrarre l’attenzione dalla loro corruzione e dal loro malgoverno sceglie la facile e disastrosa strada della xenofobia primitiva, fuori moda in tutte le culture più avanzate, ma purtroppo sempre più in voga proprio in quell’Italia che, essa stessa, in realtà è una culla di immigrazione ed emigrazione, di miscugli etnici e religiosi da millenni. Legioni romane hanno conquistato e saccheggiato il mondo allora conosciuto, dalla Britannia fino alla Dacia, oggi Romania, dall’Africa all’Asia. Si sono sposati con donne locali, e con schiave importate, e i risultati di questo compongono il DNA di quelli che oggi si considerano italiani. Con i loro pregi e le loro pecche, esattamente come tutti gli altri popoli del mondo.

Ma chi glielo va a dire a Berlusconi (ti pareva che poteva mancare in un mio post) quando sputa veleno demagogico su criminali da sbarco, e città “nere” italiane, o agli idioti della Lega Nord con le loro sparate per posti anti-immigrati sul metro di Milano o simili trovate. E’ il classico caso dell’offerta che crea domanda.. una certa parte della popolazione sarà sempre paurosa e diffidente verso chi è diverso da loro, e sta a chi governa di dissipare queste paure e proporre soluzioni e alternative a possibili conflitti e insicurezze. Quando invece si sceglie di utilizzare queste paure per i propri fini elettorali, si sa dove si inizia, ma non si potrà mai sapere dove si va a finire.. solo a pensarci, la paura davvero mi mangia l’anima, e sono più contenta che mai che tra due mesi definitivamente potremo girare la schiena a questo paese, e guardarlo dal di fuori, con la leggittima tristezza e leggera nausea con la quale guarda l’Italia in questo periodo una buona parte del mondo.