How to respond when faced with injustice, with oppression, with violence? Should one strike back or turn the other cheek? These are the questions Susanne Bier asks in her new film In a Better World. The original title gives a better clue as to what the film is about: Haevnen - revenge.
Two families are in its center: On one side the twelve-year-old Christian who just lost his mother to cancer and accuses his father of having given her up. Then there's Christian's classmate Elias, victim of a gang of school bullies, with separated parents and a father who spends much of the year in Africa, treating patients in a tent pretending to be a makeshift hospital.
Everybody has their reasons- and targets - for revenge: Christian the hated father, both boys the chief bully, Elias' father Anton the warlord who cuts open pregnant women who Anton cannot save, Elias' mother her husband who cheated on her. Later a playground argument turns into a violent confrontation between Anton and a car mechanic in which the former does indeed turn the other cheek. The boys, Christian especially, go another way: meeting violence with violence and believing in the right to vengeance. However, when the warlord turns up looking for Anton's help, his choice is different from his earlier one.
Susanne Bier goes through the different responses with a high degree of virtuousity, sets them against each other, brings them into conflight, in a rhythmically compelling crescendo, culminating in the boys' act of vengeance. She uses an elaborate color scheme, cold blues and warm yellows alternate in an almost disconcerting way. Little is certain, least of which is what right and wrong actually mean.
William Johnk Nielsen as Christian is the centerpiece of the film, the catalyst. An intelligent but hardened boywith an unusual measure of self-control only half-concealing the explosive anger inside. He is like an angel of vengeance, relentless, unforgiving, determined to hunt down and punish those who, in his opinion, have done wrong. He detests what he regards as the adults' weakness in what is also a clash of the young versus the older. The boys weigh the rationalism, the pacifying of the adults against their own brutal reality and find it way too light.
For most of the film, the two basic responses receive equal weight and value, there is no clear tiiping of the scales. Both sides have their reasons, and pretty good ones, too.
However, when the boys' plot backfires, the balance collapses. Predictably, the film comes down on the side of the opponents of violence.After initial hard feelings and suffering on all sides, everybody forgives each other and all is in harmony. After asking all those hard questions earlier, the final answers are disappointingly easy. One wonders if they can work in our highly developed society - they certainly don't in Africa which is why the answer there, the decision Anton makes, is different, much less black and white. And it's hard to discard the impression that this answer might be just a little more honest.
March 20, 2011
Friedrich Hebbel: Judith, Deutsches Theater Berlin / Kammerspiele (Regie: Andreas Kriegenburg)
Es gibt Theaterabende, da sitzt man im Zuschauerraum und führt eine virtuelle Liste von sicheren Anzeichen dafür, dass es sich um eine schlechte Inszenierung handelt. Irgendwann ist es drei Stunden später, die Liste, hätte man sie tatsächlich geführt, wäre mehrere Seiten lang, und man stellt mit Verwunderung fest, dass man sich keine Minute gelangweilt hat. Andreas Kriegenburgs Insenierung von Hebbels Judith ist so ein seltsamer Abend.
Er beginnt äußert plakativ, Standbilder und Videos zeigen Szenen aus Afghanistan, Libyen, Irak, Nachrichtensprecher berichten stumm von Krieg und Zerstörung. Davor die Schauspieler, die irgendwann beginnen, Striche schwarzer Farbe über die Projektionen aufzutragen, Striche, die sich zu Farbflächen verdichten, und am Ende Umrisse übrig lassen, die offenbar Menschenformen darstellen sollen, die wiederum Katharina Marie Schubert mit brutroten Klecksen versieht.
Kriegenburgs Theater, das muss jeder wissen,d er sich darauf einlässt, ist eines derBilder, keines der wortmächtigen durchstrukturierten Erzählung. Der Text, er ist bei Kriegenburg immer der Diener des Bilds, das Visuelle das wichtigste Instrument der Inghaltsvermittlung.
Judith ist da am stärksten, wo Kriegenburg eindrucksvolle und sprechende Bilder gelingen. Die Eingangssequenz ist so eines. Ein anderes zeigt Holofernes, gespielt von Alexander Khuon, wie er nacheinander seine Untertanen ermordet und sie ihre blutverschmierten Kriegsmäntel einen nach dem anderen überzieht, bis er sich unter der Last kaum noch bewegen kann. Die Gewalt als Lebensinhalt, als Last, die er zu tragen bereit ist, eine stärkere und präzisere Charakterisierung als diese des Holofernes gelingt an diesem Abend nicht.
Stark auch, die Choreografie des Leidens der Bewohner in der belagerten Stadt, weiß getünchte Gestalten, zitternd, schreiend, ihre Menschlichkeit für ein Stückchen Hoffnung verkaufend. Das ist vielleicht etwas lang geraten, aber ein am Zuschauer zerrendes Tableau von Elend, Verelendung und menschlicher Verödung.
Nicht immer gelingen Kriegenburg und seiner Bühnenbildnerin Juliane Grebin diese Bilder. Manches wirkt bemüht, bleibt Effekt, nicht selten verzettelt sich der Regisseur in zu vielen Details. Dass das Tragische von Hebbels Stück, dass die extrem heutige Frage nach den Grenzen moralischen Handelns, nach der Rolle und Legitimität von Gewalt, nach der Möglichkeit, das Richtige zu tun, indem man moralische Grundregeln außer Kraft setzt, ja die zentrale Frage nach dem Richtig und dem Falsch und nach ihrer Unterscheidbarkeit, die Frage, die Hebbel stellt, aber nicht beantwortet, dass also diese Frage stets präsent bleibt, ist einer spannungsreichen wie fragilen Verbindung zu verdanken, um die Kriegenburg seine Inszenierung baut.
Denn zwischen den Bildern entwickelt sich ein zurückgenommenes, fast klassisches Kammerspiel deren Protagonisten Schuberts Judith und Khuons Holofernes sind. Schubert gibt die Tragödin, die Schmerzensfrau, die an ihrem Schicksal, ganz antike Tragödie, zerbricht. Khuon ist ein pragmatiker, der den hohen Ton eintauscht gegen einen alltäglichen, geschäftlichen Duktus, ein Gewaltarbeiter, ein Geschäftsmann der Vernichtung, kein Monster. Die Aufkündigung des Schwarz und Weiß, die Weigerung, klare und einfache Antworten zu akzeptieren, treibt Kriegenburg um wie sie Hebbel umtrieb. Wer ist hier der held, wer das Monster, wo liegen richtig und falsch? Es ist Kriegenburgs Verdienst, das Fragezeichen nicht aufzulösen, sondern stehen zu lassen und dem Zuschauer mitzugeben.
Wenn der Abend am Ende aber auch Fragen zum eigenen Sinn unbeantwortet lässt, dann liegt dass daran, dass ihm die anfangs behauptete Gegenwärtigkeit ud Heutigkeit nicht gelingt. Am nächsten kommt demnoch Khuon, ansonsten schwebt die Inszenierung in einer Zone des Unzeitgemäßen, des Ungefähren, das nie zur Zeitlosigkeit wird. Kriegenburg verweigert die klare Einordnung und stellungnahme zum jetzt, versagt sich damit aber auch eine spürbare Relevanz. Er verbleibt im überzeitlichen Vagen, das droht, zur Beliebigkeit zu werden. Es bleibt dem Zuschauer überlassen, die Fragen zu konkretisieren und an sich und seine Zeit zu stellen. Ein wahrhaft politischer Regisseur wird Kriegenburg wohl nie.
Er beginnt äußert plakativ, Standbilder und Videos zeigen Szenen aus Afghanistan, Libyen, Irak, Nachrichtensprecher berichten stumm von Krieg und Zerstörung. Davor die Schauspieler, die irgendwann beginnen, Striche schwarzer Farbe über die Projektionen aufzutragen, Striche, die sich zu Farbflächen verdichten, und am Ende Umrisse übrig lassen, die offenbar Menschenformen darstellen sollen, die wiederum Katharina Marie Schubert mit brutroten Klecksen versieht.
Kriegenburgs Theater, das muss jeder wissen,d er sich darauf einlässt, ist eines derBilder, keines der wortmächtigen durchstrukturierten Erzählung. Der Text, er ist bei Kriegenburg immer der Diener des Bilds, das Visuelle das wichtigste Instrument der Inghaltsvermittlung.
Judith ist da am stärksten, wo Kriegenburg eindrucksvolle und sprechende Bilder gelingen. Die Eingangssequenz ist so eines. Ein anderes zeigt Holofernes, gespielt von Alexander Khuon, wie er nacheinander seine Untertanen ermordet und sie ihre blutverschmierten Kriegsmäntel einen nach dem anderen überzieht, bis er sich unter der Last kaum noch bewegen kann. Die Gewalt als Lebensinhalt, als Last, die er zu tragen bereit ist, eine stärkere und präzisere Charakterisierung als diese des Holofernes gelingt an diesem Abend nicht.
Stark auch, die Choreografie des Leidens der Bewohner in der belagerten Stadt, weiß getünchte Gestalten, zitternd, schreiend, ihre Menschlichkeit für ein Stückchen Hoffnung verkaufend. Das ist vielleicht etwas lang geraten, aber ein am Zuschauer zerrendes Tableau von Elend, Verelendung und menschlicher Verödung.
Nicht immer gelingen Kriegenburg und seiner Bühnenbildnerin Juliane Grebin diese Bilder. Manches wirkt bemüht, bleibt Effekt, nicht selten verzettelt sich der Regisseur in zu vielen Details. Dass das Tragische von Hebbels Stück, dass die extrem heutige Frage nach den Grenzen moralischen Handelns, nach der Rolle und Legitimität von Gewalt, nach der Möglichkeit, das Richtige zu tun, indem man moralische Grundregeln außer Kraft setzt, ja die zentrale Frage nach dem Richtig und dem Falsch und nach ihrer Unterscheidbarkeit, die Frage, die Hebbel stellt, aber nicht beantwortet, dass also diese Frage stets präsent bleibt, ist einer spannungsreichen wie fragilen Verbindung zu verdanken, um die Kriegenburg seine Inszenierung baut.
Denn zwischen den Bildern entwickelt sich ein zurückgenommenes, fast klassisches Kammerspiel deren Protagonisten Schuberts Judith und Khuons Holofernes sind. Schubert gibt die Tragödin, die Schmerzensfrau, die an ihrem Schicksal, ganz antike Tragödie, zerbricht. Khuon ist ein pragmatiker, der den hohen Ton eintauscht gegen einen alltäglichen, geschäftlichen Duktus, ein Gewaltarbeiter, ein Geschäftsmann der Vernichtung, kein Monster. Die Aufkündigung des Schwarz und Weiß, die Weigerung, klare und einfache Antworten zu akzeptieren, treibt Kriegenburg um wie sie Hebbel umtrieb. Wer ist hier der held, wer das Monster, wo liegen richtig und falsch? Es ist Kriegenburgs Verdienst, das Fragezeichen nicht aufzulösen, sondern stehen zu lassen und dem Zuschauer mitzugeben.
Wenn der Abend am Ende aber auch Fragen zum eigenen Sinn unbeantwortet lässt, dann liegt dass daran, dass ihm die anfangs behauptete Gegenwärtigkeit ud Heutigkeit nicht gelingt. Am nächsten kommt demnoch Khuon, ansonsten schwebt die Inszenierung in einer Zone des Unzeitgemäßen, des Ungefähren, das nie zur Zeitlosigkeit wird. Kriegenburg verweigert die klare Einordnung und stellungnahme zum jetzt, versagt sich damit aber auch eine spürbare Relevanz. Er verbleibt im überzeitlichen Vagen, das droht, zur Beliebigkeit zu werden. Es bleibt dem Zuschauer überlassen, die Fragen zu konkretisieren und an sich und seine Zeit zu stellen. Ein wahrhaft politischer Regisseur wird Kriegenburg wohl nie.
Film review: The Fighter (Director: David O'Russell)
The Fighter is based on a true story, that of Micky Ward, a boxer from an American-Irish family from Massachusettes who rose from being a stepping stone for more ambitious fighter to become junior welterweight Champion of the World. It is that typical tale of a working class kid finally triumphing due to the power of his will. It is a combination of the classic boxer's tale with the newer twist of the stubborn underprivileged kid fighting antagonistic circumstances to liove their dream. It's Rocky meets Million Dollar Baby. So far so bad.
But it does not stay there because the result is remarkably good and far from being as stale as the well-known storyline suggests. That's due to the fact that director David O'Russell adds a few changes to tried and trusted way of doing this, some of which can even be seen at the second glance only.
One is the hero. Micky, played by Mark Wahlberg, is by no means your typical hero, he is even far from being the most remarkable and memorable characters of the film. He enters the film as a sort of punchingball, a tool both for his opponents and his family for whom he is the source of their self-esteem, the instrument to fulfil their dreams, a puupet they use for their own goals. Micky is no heric figure, just a young man slowly emancipating himself, coming into his own, gaining independence. Wahlberg plays him so low key, so subtly that sometimes he threatens to disappear before finally (re-)asserting himself. This is no Rocky, the pathos, the heroism so typical for this genre are absent.
Instead, O'Russell surrounds his protagonist with characters much more excentric, much more memorable, much more formed. Characters who represent forces from which he must free himself. Christian Bale plays Micky's older brother, a former fighter with some success, dubbed "the pride of Lowell", long struggling with a crack addiction. Bale lost a lot of weight for this role and plays his character with a self-denigrating relentless intensity. He is no mere caricature, but a forceful character holding a major spell over Micky who has to break it in order to establish a real and fruitful relationship with his brother.
Then there are the two women fighting for control over him: Melissa Leo as Micky's mother and Amy Adams as his girlfriend. Early on, the mother is the dominating force who wants to control his entire life, whicle Adams' character appars to be the voice of reason who can help him live. It's to O'Russell's credit that the black and white gets dissolved. The mother turns out to be a desperate, lonely, loving figure who learns how to let go, while the gilfriend reveals a desire to control him, to shape him into who she wants him to be. In the end, Micky needs to emancipate from both of them and in doing so gains their respect.
Another weapon againt sentimentality and heroism is the films humor. Especially Micky's sisters are portrayed in an lmost caricature-like manner which counters the heaviness of the dreary surroundings which O'Russell depicts with a close attention to details as well as with a lot of light. There may be poverty and little hope here, but there is also a lot of life. This may be one of the most sun-drenched ghettos ever seen in film.
The film ends, typiucally, with a fight, but it's not the heroes apotheosis. Its dry brutality takes away all pathos, after all, this is a day at work. Triumphant yes, but hard fought, hard won, and paid for. A shining moment fitting a hero who isn't one. Just a guy doing his job and finding himself along the way.
But it does not stay there because the result is remarkably good and far from being as stale as the well-known storyline suggests. That's due to the fact that director David O'Russell adds a few changes to tried and trusted way of doing this, some of which can even be seen at the second glance only.
One is the hero. Micky, played by Mark Wahlberg, is by no means your typical hero, he is even far from being the most remarkable and memorable characters of the film. He enters the film as a sort of punchingball, a tool both for his opponents and his family for whom he is the source of their self-esteem, the instrument to fulfil their dreams, a puupet they use for their own goals. Micky is no heric figure, just a young man slowly emancipating himself, coming into his own, gaining independence. Wahlberg plays him so low key, so subtly that sometimes he threatens to disappear before finally (re-)asserting himself. This is no Rocky, the pathos, the heroism so typical for this genre are absent.
Instead, O'Russell surrounds his protagonist with characters much more excentric, much more memorable, much more formed. Characters who represent forces from which he must free himself. Christian Bale plays Micky's older brother, a former fighter with some success, dubbed "the pride of Lowell", long struggling with a crack addiction. Bale lost a lot of weight for this role and plays his character with a self-denigrating relentless intensity. He is no mere caricature, but a forceful character holding a major spell over Micky who has to break it in order to establish a real and fruitful relationship with his brother.
Then there are the two women fighting for control over him: Melissa Leo as Micky's mother and Amy Adams as his girlfriend. Early on, the mother is the dominating force who wants to control his entire life, whicle Adams' character appars to be the voice of reason who can help him live. It's to O'Russell's credit that the black and white gets dissolved. The mother turns out to be a desperate, lonely, loving figure who learns how to let go, while the gilfriend reveals a desire to control him, to shape him into who she wants him to be. In the end, Micky needs to emancipate from both of them and in doing so gains their respect.
Another weapon againt sentimentality and heroism is the films humor. Especially Micky's sisters are portrayed in an lmost caricature-like manner which counters the heaviness of the dreary surroundings which O'Russell depicts with a close attention to details as well as with a lot of light. There may be poverty and little hope here, but there is also a lot of life. This may be one of the most sun-drenched ghettos ever seen in film.
The film ends, typiucally, with a fight, but it's not the heroes apotheosis. Its dry brutality takes away all pathos, after all, this is a day at work. Triumphant yes, but hard fought, hard won, and paid for. A shining moment fitting a hero who isn't one. Just a guy doing his job and finding himself along the way.
March 16, 2011
Film review: Rango (Director: Gore Verbinski)
Having shocked viewers with The Ring, enchanted critics with The Weather Man and scored huge box office hits with the Pirates of the Carribean trilogy, director Gore Verbinski seems to be unable to do anything wrong. So when he turns to animation for the first time, we expect him to succeed, especially as he has Pirates star Johnny Depp by his side, lending voice, character and demeanor to a lizard wearing clorful shirts and entertaining dreams of being a Shakespearian actor. And the funny thing is: It does work.
The story is quickly told: A pet lizard is thrown into the Mojave desert because of a car accident. He finds a town suffering from a terrible drought. Inventing heroic stories about himself he hains the admiration of the town's inhabitants and embarks on a quest to bring them water. He is found out, leaves the town in shame, only to return to fulfil his task, which of course he does, becoming the hero he once pretended to be, taking on the villainous mayor, an ancient turtle and a rattlesnake, the most feared gunslinger around.
It is not exactly a new story, the unlikely hero being a staple character of bost Western and animated film. Of course, all charcters, are strong, tough, individual types as the western demands. They are also full of absurdity, always a little over the top, strange and mostly loveable, as is typical in the animation genre. So far, so well known. So why does it work?
One reason is the title character. Rango, a phantasy name he comes up with when he creates his heroic persona in the town saloon, is a pet lizard, an outsider, unfit to live in the real world. A slightly bizarre appearance, coupled with a ridiculous shirt, he is a blank sheet in the beginning. He not only does not have a name, he is nobody, nothing, he could even be said to not really exist.
Though he invents and takes on several personas pretending to act in the safety of his terrarium none of which has any reality. Thrown into the wild, has to come into being. He imitates how others walk and quickly assumes a role which he is amazed works on those around him. Love and adversity help him become somebody in the end. His story is nothing more nor less than one of being (re)born and growing up into a personality of his own - in an unusually short time.
Depp lends him more than his voice, his quirkiness, his stubborn independence, his difference from everyone else is all Depp. This strong connection between actor and animated character is one of the strengths of the film and works for Depp as it does for Ned Beatty as the mayor, the true villain in the piece, for Bill Nighy as Rattlesnake Jim, Rango's great enemy, for Alfred Molina, Ray Winstone and the rest of the great cast.
Another plus the film has is its director: Verbinski's sense of rhythm as well as his sharp and often quite absurd humor which made his Pirates films so good and successful, are in full bloom here. The film shows a great sense of timing, effortlessly quotes the tradition of the Western on so many levels and revealy such a wonderful attention to detail as well as a biting as well as bizarre humor, there is no chance of boredom. Verbinski combines the strengths of both genres, the Western and the animated film, allows them to collide a little before he fuses them into something all his own, more than the sum of its parts.
This may not be your Disney-style classic for the whole family with its love for the absurd, its biting humor, its acceptance of ugliness, its refusal to soften anything. That makes it even more enjoyable, a not too guilty pleasure.
The story is quickly told: A pet lizard is thrown into the Mojave desert because of a car accident. He finds a town suffering from a terrible drought. Inventing heroic stories about himself he hains the admiration of the town's inhabitants and embarks on a quest to bring them water. He is found out, leaves the town in shame, only to return to fulfil his task, which of course he does, becoming the hero he once pretended to be, taking on the villainous mayor, an ancient turtle and a rattlesnake, the most feared gunslinger around.
It is not exactly a new story, the unlikely hero being a staple character of bost Western and animated film. Of course, all charcters, are strong, tough, individual types as the western demands. They are also full of absurdity, always a little over the top, strange and mostly loveable, as is typical in the animation genre. So far, so well known. So why does it work?
One reason is the title character. Rango, a phantasy name he comes up with when he creates his heroic persona in the town saloon, is a pet lizard, an outsider, unfit to live in the real world. A slightly bizarre appearance, coupled with a ridiculous shirt, he is a blank sheet in the beginning. He not only does not have a name, he is nobody, nothing, he could even be said to not really exist.
Though he invents and takes on several personas pretending to act in the safety of his terrarium none of which has any reality. Thrown into the wild, has to come into being. He imitates how others walk and quickly assumes a role which he is amazed works on those around him. Love and adversity help him become somebody in the end. His story is nothing more nor less than one of being (re)born and growing up into a personality of his own - in an unusually short time.
Depp lends him more than his voice, his quirkiness, his stubborn independence, his difference from everyone else is all Depp. This strong connection between actor and animated character is one of the strengths of the film and works for Depp as it does for Ned Beatty as the mayor, the true villain in the piece, for Bill Nighy as Rattlesnake Jim, Rango's great enemy, for Alfred Molina, Ray Winstone and the rest of the great cast.
Another plus the film has is its director: Verbinski's sense of rhythm as well as his sharp and often quite absurd humor which made his Pirates films so good and successful, are in full bloom here. The film shows a great sense of timing, effortlessly quotes the tradition of the Western on so many levels and revealy such a wonderful attention to detail as well as a biting as well as bizarre humor, there is no chance of boredom. Verbinski combines the strengths of both genres, the Western and the animated film, allows them to collide a little before he fuses them into something all his own, more than the sum of its parts.
This may not be your Disney-style classic for the whole family with its love for the absurd, its biting humor, its acceptance of ugliness, its refusal to soften anything. That makes it even more enjoyable, a not too guilty pleasure.
Film review: 127 Hours (Director: Danny Boyle)
The task Danny Boyle set himself when he embarked on his latest film wasn't an easy one: He was to make a film about a man trapped in an Arizona canyon for five days when his arm was pinned against the canyon wall by a falling rock - and he was to make it interesting. Not only did he succeed, he even managed to turn a story of someone forced to stay in the same spot during most of the film into something resembling an action thriller.
The film is based on the true story of young adventurer Aron Ralston who in 2003 had to endure 127 hours between life and death when his arm got trapped by a boulder. Ralston is played by James Franco who has the difficult task to carry almost the entire film, because except for two girls he meets at the start of the film and the family who rescues him at the end, he is the onlyx character in the film.
The scenes in which he meets the girls after leaving home having failed to answer aphone call from his mother, serve too purposes: The set up his characterization as a confident adventure-type looking for fun and the newest thrill but fairly content with himself. Full of life and love of it. Cocky, confident, but not a poser. A man ho indeed is happy to be who he is. "I don't think we figured in his day at all", one of the girls says after their ways have parted, and she's probably right.
The second purpose is to introduce the film's second protagonist, the bare, lonely and stunningly beautiful landscape of the canyons. The piercing blue of the sky and the dazzling yellowish brightness of the rocks will come to dominate the film. Their beauty is a dangerous one, unrelenting in its purity, perfect in its bareness. It is the beauty of a nature perfect in itself without need or care for the human element.
Again and again, for moments only, the camera zooms out, the desparate fight for survival and the man fighting it diminishing and finally disappearing, a tiny invisible dot in a perfect universe. In a philosophical sense, this is not beauty but the sublime, with all the awe and fear it carries.
This is the background against which one man struggles just to stay alive. A survivor, he calmly tries all tricks he can think of to free himself, uses the techniques he's taught himself, works with concentration. There is no panic, just purpose. Later, the water runs out as do his options, hallucinations come, concealed fears and regrets. While the happy facade crumbles, the character becomes richer.
But as his powers fade, his will of life grows stronger, reasserts itself, returning the sense of purpose to him and leading him to the redical decision which saves his life. Franco plays Ralston in an almost minimalist way, hinting at desparation rather than exhibiting it. The contentment, the confidence, the stubborn will to survive: unable to move much, Franco is left with his face to display the inner drama. The subtlety with which he does this makes his experience even more intense and touching to the viewer.
The inner drama, the attempts to save himself, combined with thehostile beauty of the surroundings and a brilliant sense of rhythm on Boyle's side combine to create a suspense may thrillers which they had. It makes 127 Hours a great small film about the human spirit, a film full of respect for nature. It is a thriller without a villain, a strange and fascinating thing.
The film is based on the true story of young adventurer Aron Ralston who in 2003 had to endure 127 hours between life and death when his arm got trapped by a boulder. Ralston is played by James Franco who has the difficult task to carry almost the entire film, because except for two girls he meets at the start of the film and the family who rescues him at the end, he is the onlyx character in the film.
The scenes in which he meets the girls after leaving home having failed to answer aphone call from his mother, serve too purposes: The set up his characterization as a confident adventure-type looking for fun and the newest thrill but fairly content with himself. Full of life and love of it. Cocky, confident, but not a poser. A man ho indeed is happy to be who he is. "I don't think we figured in his day at all", one of the girls says after their ways have parted, and she's probably right.
The second purpose is to introduce the film's second protagonist, the bare, lonely and stunningly beautiful landscape of the canyons. The piercing blue of the sky and the dazzling yellowish brightness of the rocks will come to dominate the film. Their beauty is a dangerous one, unrelenting in its purity, perfect in its bareness. It is the beauty of a nature perfect in itself without need or care for the human element.
Again and again, for moments only, the camera zooms out, the desparate fight for survival and the man fighting it diminishing and finally disappearing, a tiny invisible dot in a perfect universe. In a philosophical sense, this is not beauty but the sublime, with all the awe and fear it carries.
This is the background against which one man struggles just to stay alive. A survivor, he calmly tries all tricks he can think of to free himself, uses the techniques he's taught himself, works with concentration. There is no panic, just purpose. Later, the water runs out as do his options, hallucinations come, concealed fears and regrets. While the happy facade crumbles, the character becomes richer.
But as his powers fade, his will of life grows stronger, reasserts itself, returning the sense of purpose to him and leading him to the redical decision which saves his life. Franco plays Ralston in an almost minimalist way, hinting at desparation rather than exhibiting it. The contentment, the confidence, the stubborn will to survive: unable to move much, Franco is left with his face to display the inner drama. The subtlety with which he does this makes his experience even more intense and touching to the viewer.
The inner drama, the attempts to save himself, combined with thehostile beauty of the surroundings and a brilliant sense of rhythm on Boyle's side combine to create a suspense may thrillers which they had. It makes 127 Hours a great small film about the human spirit, a film full of respect for nature. It is a thriller without a villain, a strange and fascinating thing.
March 13, 2011
Tennessee Williams: Endstation Sehnsucht, Berliner Ensemble (Regie: Thomas Langhoff)
Es scheint so etwas wie ein Reflex zu sein: Kaum entscheidet sich irgendwo ein theater dazu, Endstation Sehnsucht zu inszenieren, muss ein Star her. Früher ging es dabei meist um die in Uraufführung wie Verfilmungvon Marlon Brando verkörperte Figur des stanley Kowalski, heute steht meist Blanche DuBois im Fokus, jene verlorene, zwischen der harten Realität und dem eigenen Gefühl, etwas Besseres zu sein, ja, sein zu müssen, aufgeriebene Gestalt. Erst kürzlich war Isabelle Huppert im Rahmen der spielzeit'europa in dieser Rolle zu sehen, jetzt ist es Dagmar Manzel am Berliner Ensemble.
Damit haben die Gemeinsamkeiten aber schon ein Ende. Inszenierte Krzysztof Warlikowski sein Un Tramway als dichte, poetische Studie über die Einsamkeit, geht Thomas Langhoff deutlich direkter und hemdsärmeliger zu Werke. Führt Huppert ihre Blanche als tieftraurige Verlorene ein, gibt Manzel zunächst die affektierte Überspannte. Das sorgt zumindest am Anfang für Lacher, bereitet die Konfliktsituation vor und führt dann ziemlich schnell ins Leere.
Manzels Blanche ist eine Schauspielerin, die sich selbst inszeniert, die eine Illusion ihrer selbst erschafft, weniger, wie bei Huppert, für sich selbst als für andere.Sie spielt die Klaviatur der Affektierten rauf und runter, virtuos, laut, kreischend - und zunehmend ermüdend. Blanche gerät hier zur Karikatur, zum komischen Zerrbild. Das ist, wie gesagt, eine zeitlang durchaus unterhaltsam, nimmt der Figur aber jegliche Komplexität. Wenn Blanche dann den Halt verliert, wenn die Phantasie, die sie zunächst kontrolliert, von ihr Besitz ergreift, ist das ebenso plötzlich wie unglaubwürdig. So wie diese Figur angelegt ist, kann der tragische Bruch nur aufgesetzt wirken, und verliert dadurch seine Kraft. So ist das Ende Melodram statt Tragödie (selten war ein Dramatiker im 20. Jahrhundert so nah an der Tragödie wie Williams hier).
Und das wiederum passt ganz gut, erweist sich doch Langhoffs Inszenierung als wenig mehr als gehobenes Boulevardtheater. Alles ist ein bisschen greller, eine Nuance übertrieben. Das beginnt bei der langweiligen Bühne (eine Wendeltreppe, die gleichzeitig das so wichtige Badezimmer beherbergt oder eher verbirgt, darum eine gar nicht mal so schäbige aber zusammengewürfelte Einrichtung) und führt sich fort mit der nachlässigen zeitlichen Verortung: Der Umgang der Figuren gemahnt eher an die Neuzeit, ebenso Blanches Rollkoffer, die Kostüme signalisieren jedoch Fünfzigerjahre. Und auch der Rhythmus der Inszenierung gemahnt eher ans Boulevardtheater: Pointe - schwarz - lange Pause - nächste Szene.
Am deutlichsten verkörpert dies jedoch Robert Gallinowskis Kowalski. Grobschlächtig, prollig unattraktiv bedient er jedes denkbare Klischee, ohne irgendeine Spur von Attraktivität, Anziehungskraft oder gar Faszination zu zeigen. Mit er Abwesenheit eines echten Gegenübers verschwindet auch Blanche zunehmend - oder würde es tun, brächte sie Manzel nicht immer wieder mit beeindruckender Lautstärke ins Gedächtnis.
Was bleibt am Ende von Williams Meisterstück? Nicht mehr als eine Karikatur, eine ebenso grelle wie altbackene Komödie ohne echten Spannungsbogen, wenn auch mit einer zumindest engagierten Hauptdarstellerin. Die Tragik bleibt auf der Strecke, die großen Menschheitsfragen, die das Stück stellt, werden ausgeblendet. Schöner Schein, eine hübsche Fassade ohne Fundament. Potemkin hätte seine Freude daran.
Damit haben die Gemeinsamkeiten aber schon ein Ende. Inszenierte Krzysztof Warlikowski sein Un Tramway als dichte, poetische Studie über die Einsamkeit, geht Thomas Langhoff deutlich direkter und hemdsärmeliger zu Werke. Führt Huppert ihre Blanche als tieftraurige Verlorene ein, gibt Manzel zunächst die affektierte Überspannte. Das sorgt zumindest am Anfang für Lacher, bereitet die Konfliktsituation vor und führt dann ziemlich schnell ins Leere.
Manzels Blanche ist eine Schauspielerin, die sich selbst inszeniert, die eine Illusion ihrer selbst erschafft, weniger, wie bei Huppert, für sich selbst als für andere.Sie spielt die Klaviatur der Affektierten rauf und runter, virtuos, laut, kreischend - und zunehmend ermüdend. Blanche gerät hier zur Karikatur, zum komischen Zerrbild. Das ist, wie gesagt, eine zeitlang durchaus unterhaltsam, nimmt der Figur aber jegliche Komplexität. Wenn Blanche dann den Halt verliert, wenn die Phantasie, die sie zunächst kontrolliert, von ihr Besitz ergreift, ist das ebenso plötzlich wie unglaubwürdig. So wie diese Figur angelegt ist, kann der tragische Bruch nur aufgesetzt wirken, und verliert dadurch seine Kraft. So ist das Ende Melodram statt Tragödie (selten war ein Dramatiker im 20. Jahrhundert so nah an der Tragödie wie Williams hier).
Und das wiederum passt ganz gut, erweist sich doch Langhoffs Inszenierung als wenig mehr als gehobenes Boulevardtheater. Alles ist ein bisschen greller, eine Nuance übertrieben. Das beginnt bei der langweiligen Bühne (eine Wendeltreppe, die gleichzeitig das so wichtige Badezimmer beherbergt oder eher verbirgt, darum eine gar nicht mal so schäbige aber zusammengewürfelte Einrichtung) und führt sich fort mit der nachlässigen zeitlichen Verortung: Der Umgang der Figuren gemahnt eher an die Neuzeit, ebenso Blanches Rollkoffer, die Kostüme signalisieren jedoch Fünfzigerjahre. Und auch der Rhythmus der Inszenierung gemahnt eher ans Boulevardtheater: Pointe - schwarz - lange Pause - nächste Szene.
Am deutlichsten verkörpert dies jedoch Robert Gallinowskis Kowalski. Grobschlächtig, prollig unattraktiv bedient er jedes denkbare Klischee, ohne irgendeine Spur von Attraktivität, Anziehungskraft oder gar Faszination zu zeigen. Mit er Abwesenheit eines echten Gegenübers verschwindet auch Blanche zunehmend - oder würde es tun, brächte sie Manzel nicht immer wieder mit beeindruckender Lautstärke ins Gedächtnis.
Was bleibt am Ende von Williams Meisterstück? Nicht mehr als eine Karikatur, eine ebenso grelle wie altbackene Komödie ohne echten Spannungsbogen, wenn auch mit einer zumindest engagierten Hauptdarstellerin. Die Tragik bleibt auf der Strecke, die großen Menschheitsfragen, die das Stück stellt, werden ausgeblendet. Schöner Schein, eine hübsche Fassade ohne Fundament. Potemkin hätte seine Freude daran.
Film review: Biutiful (Director: Alejandro González Iñárritu)
After widening his view on the entire world in Babel, Mexican director Alejandro González Iñárritu goes back into close-up mode in his new film Biutiful. It tells the story of Uxbal, a somewhat shady Barcelona man who makes his money renting out illegal workers and managing illegal businesses such as those selling bags to tourists in Barcelona's thoroughly renovated old port. Uxbal has a daughter and a son who he tries to keep from her junkie mother and can contact the dead.
Far from the sights and the tourist hotspots, his is a Barcelona in grey, pale light, the browns and yellows of which are not warm, just dirty. The heat is not comforting but stifling. It's the underbelly of paradise, raw, relentless, unforgiving. Javier Bardem plays him with littlemore than one expression in hin face, a man turned to stone, am man whose efficiency has taken over his entire being. Even when he is with his children who he loves unreservedly, he struggles to shed the role he has come to play and only slowly and with some pain opens up.
At some point, Uxbal learns he has terminal cancer and only weeks to live. He tries to repair some of the damagehe has caused and finds himself creating een more and much worse damage in the progress. the film follows his fight between managing business and becoming human again, the camera always close to his face. Trying to repair his family and aiding the wife of one of his deported workers who in the end comes to care for him in his last days, he seeks redemption. It is one of the film's strengths to not answer the question whether he finds it.
González Iñárritu does not shy away from symbolism (the growing and receding numbers of moths on the ceiling - or are they dark, bat-like butterflies?) and his paranormal talent rather ttakes away from the films density rather than adding to it. The film moves along slowly, too slowly for its 2.5 hours running time, as it repeats the same shots of Uxbal's pained face, as little development takes place, as his descent becomes ever more predictable. A heavy weight holds the film down, allowing little light to enter and threatening to bury the few lighter, more hopeful scenes (such as those with his daughter opening and ending the film) under tons of lead.
Slowly, but unrelenting, pessimism invades and conquers every corner, so that the message of hope at the film's end goes almost unnoticed. A somewhat lighter touch would have been called for to make this film a little less tiring and a little more moving.
Far from the sights and the tourist hotspots, his is a Barcelona in grey, pale light, the browns and yellows of which are not warm, just dirty. The heat is not comforting but stifling. It's the underbelly of paradise, raw, relentless, unforgiving. Javier Bardem plays him with littlemore than one expression in hin face, a man turned to stone, am man whose efficiency has taken over his entire being. Even when he is with his children who he loves unreservedly, he struggles to shed the role he has come to play and only slowly and with some pain opens up.
At some point, Uxbal learns he has terminal cancer and only weeks to live. He tries to repair some of the damagehe has caused and finds himself creating een more and much worse damage in the progress. the film follows his fight between managing business and becoming human again, the camera always close to his face. Trying to repair his family and aiding the wife of one of his deported workers who in the end comes to care for him in his last days, he seeks redemption. It is one of the film's strengths to not answer the question whether he finds it.
González Iñárritu does not shy away from symbolism (the growing and receding numbers of moths on the ceiling - or are they dark, bat-like butterflies?) and his paranormal talent rather ttakes away from the films density rather than adding to it. The film moves along slowly, too slowly for its 2.5 hours running time, as it repeats the same shots of Uxbal's pained face, as little development takes place, as his descent becomes ever more predictable. A heavy weight holds the film down, allowing little light to enter and threatening to bury the few lighter, more hopeful scenes (such as those with his daughter opening and ending the film) under tons of lead.
Slowly, but unrelenting, pessimism invades and conquers every corner, so that the message of hope at the film's end goes almost unnoticed. A somewhat lighter touch would have been called for to make this film a little less tiring and a little more moving.
Film review: True Grit (Director: Joel and Ethan Coen)
It was a matter of time before the Coen brothers would embark on a Western, having set the stage with film who had the look and feel of Westerns, their epic quality, their open and bare landscapes, their lonely, lost heroes. True Grit is thereforein a way a successor to masterpieces such as Fargo or No Country for Old Man. At the same time, it must be placed in a tradition that to symbolizes American film more than any other genre.
The film, adapted from a book that saw an earlier adaptation starring John Wayne, is a Western as much as it is a Coen brothers film. It features the strongly individual, struggling, sometimes quite bizarre characters known from all of their movies, characters who they treat with the same respect, villains and heroes alike. There is no black and white in their films, everyone, no matter on which side they stand, is given dignity. True Grit is no exception.
The film tells the story of a girl who hunts the killer of her father, and for this purpose recruits and old and hardened US marshal (Jeff Bridges), who are later reluctantly joined by a Texas ranger (Matt Damon). There is little John Wayne in this film, more of the archaic desolation of John Ford's later films (some starring Wayne, of course), some of the brutal hopelesslness of Sergio Leone, a dose of the longing and sense of loss of Eastwood. It may well be closest to the laconic dryness of Jarmusch's Dead Man. Not least in its atmospheric density and its unique and consistent look and feel, courtesy of legendary cinematographer Roger Deakins.
Where it truly differs from all of them, is in its assertion of life. There is nothing pessimistic about it. The violence, the brutality, the dying do not affect the richness, the value, the desirability of life. For one, the film is full of the Coen's trademark humour, which is ironic, sharp, sometimes bordering on slapstick and always subversive. The humor contrasts the starkness and bleakness of the world it shows.
Secondly, the aforementioned dignity is given to all the characters, the suffering and dying is accompanied by a warm humanity, as in the death of the young gang member dying in a rather arbitrary and meaningless fashion. The humanistic perspective which refuses to condemn is most striking in the case of the target of the protagonists' quest, the killer portrayed by Josh Brolin. Far from being one-dimensionally evil, he, too, is a lost soul, searching for something he is not quite sure of, drifting along, desperately longing to belong somewhere. When he is ordered by the gang leader he has joined to guard the girl they had captured instead of riding out with them, his disappointment is almost childlike. They are all lost souls here and no-one throws the first stone.
Particularly not Bridges' Marshal. He is the tough, hardened gunman who has seen it all, connot be surprised by anything and has no illusions about humanity. As with everybody, those labels don't stick, they are not eanough to contain the whole of the man. The Coens have succeeded in creating characters that are too complex, too round, too ritualistic to fit into drawers.
In the end, True Grit is a surprisingly optimistic, warmhearted film, not so much a Western, as a film about real people who just happen to live in a certain time and place, full of humor and full of life, a life which accepts death and violence as part of it but does not allow them to take control.
The film, adapted from a book that saw an earlier adaptation starring John Wayne, is a Western as much as it is a Coen brothers film. It features the strongly individual, struggling, sometimes quite bizarre characters known from all of their movies, characters who they treat with the same respect, villains and heroes alike. There is no black and white in their films, everyone, no matter on which side they stand, is given dignity. True Grit is no exception.
The film tells the story of a girl who hunts the killer of her father, and for this purpose recruits and old and hardened US marshal (Jeff Bridges), who are later reluctantly joined by a Texas ranger (Matt Damon). There is little John Wayne in this film, more of the archaic desolation of John Ford's later films (some starring Wayne, of course), some of the brutal hopelesslness of Sergio Leone, a dose of the longing and sense of loss of Eastwood. It may well be closest to the laconic dryness of Jarmusch's Dead Man. Not least in its atmospheric density and its unique and consistent look and feel, courtesy of legendary cinematographer Roger Deakins.
Where it truly differs from all of them, is in its assertion of life. There is nothing pessimistic about it. The violence, the brutality, the dying do not affect the richness, the value, the desirability of life. For one, the film is full of the Coen's trademark humour, which is ironic, sharp, sometimes bordering on slapstick and always subversive. The humor contrasts the starkness and bleakness of the world it shows.
Secondly, the aforementioned dignity is given to all the characters, the suffering and dying is accompanied by a warm humanity, as in the death of the young gang member dying in a rather arbitrary and meaningless fashion. The humanistic perspective which refuses to condemn is most striking in the case of the target of the protagonists' quest, the killer portrayed by Josh Brolin. Far from being one-dimensionally evil, he, too, is a lost soul, searching for something he is not quite sure of, drifting along, desperately longing to belong somewhere. When he is ordered by the gang leader he has joined to guard the girl they had captured instead of riding out with them, his disappointment is almost childlike. They are all lost souls here and no-one throws the first stone.
Particularly not Bridges' Marshal. He is the tough, hardened gunman who has seen it all, connot be surprised by anything and has no illusions about humanity. As with everybody, those labels don't stick, they are not eanough to contain the whole of the man. The Coens have succeeded in creating characters that are too complex, too round, too ritualistic to fit into drawers.
In the end, True Grit is a surprisingly optimistic, warmhearted film, not so much a Western, as a film about real people who just happen to live in a certain time and place, full of humor and full of life, a life which accepts death and violence as part of it but does not allow them to take control.
March 12, 2011
Film review: The King's Speech (Director: Tom Hooper)
The film starts with a scene of almost unbearable suspense and tension: A man (Colin Firth) waiting for his first public speech broadcast via radio to begin. A body tightened at the brink of breaking, a face reduced to a pained mask, we see a man expecting his own very public humiliation. This is set against the seasoned radio announcer training his voice in an almost comic fashion. When the man walks out to face the crowd, it is more than a few steps to a microphone. It is more like the final battle in High Noon. But the shot does not come, nothing comes except a few stuttered syllables, then silence.
It is the story of Albert, Duke of York, the second son of King George V and later King George VI, the father of Elisabeth II, a man still fondly remembered by many as the king who led the Empire through World War II, who stayed in London with his family when the German bombs were falling.
Tom Hooper's film, however, shows no hero but an insecure man who cannot believe in himself because of the handicap which he cannot control and which he therefore allows to control him. It follows him as he fails again and again with renowned therapists before meeting his last resort, an Australian amateur actor turned sppech therapist (Geoffrey Rush) which he is goaded into seeing by his wife (Helena Bonham-Carter)..
The man who walks into the therapist's office is a deeply repressed person, so burdened by outside pressure, his own demands and a stifling environment, he has been turned almost incapable of living on his own. His speechlessness, the film suggests, maybe an effect or at least a symptom of the repressive nture of the environment he lives in. Hooper paints this world in pale, cold colors, there is an icy feel to it, an invisible fog that swallows up all light and joy.
How this(self-)repressed man, this man so serious that his desire to do right almost paralyses him, slowly, painfully and even against his will, opens up, how he develops first a fragile trust, later an unlikely friendship with the would-be actor, how he retreats again into his shell before giving it a second try, is fascinating to watch, particularly as it happens all in Colin Firth's face. When in the end, he gives his famous speech announcing Britain's entry into the war, softly underscored with the Allegretto from Beethoven's Symphony Nr. 7, the quiet struggle, the exhausting effort, the total commitment it takes to give this speech, create a triumph as unglamorous as it is complete. It is this man, unlikeliest of all, gives his nation hope. No High Noon, just a dedication to duty, in the best possible sense.
Thsubtle, minimalistic manner in which Colin Firth takes us through all nuances of the Duke's and later the King's struggles is truly memorable, his Oscar well deserved. The secret hero, however, Helena Bonham-Carter playing the Duke's/King's wife, a ray of light in a stifling universe, with her direct yet aways appropriate honesty and wit, a catalyst and symbol of truth in a world where truth is dominated by protocol. In the end, his triumph is hers, too. And ours, in a way.
It is the story of Albert, Duke of York, the second son of King George V and later King George VI, the father of Elisabeth II, a man still fondly remembered by many as the king who led the Empire through World War II, who stayed in London with his family when the German bombs were falling.
Tom Hooper's film, however, shows no hero but an insecure man who cannot believe in himself because of the handicap which he cannot control and which he therefore allows to control him. It follows him as he fails again and again with renowned therapists before meeting his last resort, an Australian amateur actor turned sppech therapist (Geoffrey Rush) which he is goaded into seeing by his wife (Helena Bonham-Carter)..
The man who walks into the therapist's office is a deeply repressed person, so burdened by outside pressure, his own demands and a stifling environment, he has been turned almost incapable of living on his own. His speechlessness, the film suggests, maybe an effect or at least a symptom of the repressive nture of the environment he lives in. Hooper paints this world in pale, cold colors, there is an icy feel to it, an invisible fog that swallows up all light and joy.
How this(self-)repressed man, this man so serious that his desire to do right almost paralyses him, slowly, painfully and even against his will, opens up, how he develops first a fragile trust, later an unlikely friendship with the would-be actor, how he retreats again into his shell before giving it a second try, is fascinating to watch, particularly as it happens all in Colin Firth's face. When in the end, he gives his famous speech announcing Britain's entry into the war, softly underscored with the Allegretto from Beethoven's Symphony Nr. 7, the quiet struggle, the exhausting effort, the total commitment it takes to give this speech, create a triumph as unglamorous as it is complete. It is this man, unlikeliest of all, gives his nation hope. No High Noon, just a dedication to duty, in the best possible sense.
Thsubtle, minimalistic manner in which Colin Firth takes us through all nuances of the Duke's and later the King's struggles is truly memorable, his Oscar well deserved. The secret hero, however, Helena Bonham-Carter playing the Duke's/King's wife, a ray of light in a stifling universe, with her direct yet aways appropriate honesty and wit, a catalyst and symbol of truth in a world where truth is dominated by protocol. In the end, his triumph is hers, too. And ours, in a way.
March 10, 2011
Berlinale 2011: A quick glimpse
Unfortunately, the 2011 edition turned out to be one of my shortest Berlinales due to being away for most of it. So I ended up seeing just three films which, however, I'll attempt to review in a short way here. The Golden Bear winner is, unfortunately, not among them.
Tomboy (Panorama / France)
The French film Tomboy opened this year's Panorama section. The film tells the story of a pre-teenage girl who prefers to hang out with boys, dresses like a boy and wants to appear to be a boy. When her family moves into another town, the chance presents itself to build a fresh identity as boy. Laure becomes Mikael. The film starts with a close-up. We see the back of a head, short, blonde hair flying in the wind. The view opens to reveal a young boy (or so it seems) sitting on top of an open car, eyes closed, content and happy in the moment. The scene succeeds in characterising the protagonist without any words, just in the quick glance it allows us. We will never see Laure this happy, totally herself. Or himself for that matter. Tomboy is as fresh as it is unassuming, as it (and the camera) moves in and out of the children who occupy the film almost on their own. When Laure's secret is revealed it happens totally unspectacularly, first to the viewer, much later to the other characters. By not allowing any noise to obstruct our view, the identity crisis is as intense as it can be, and it happens right in our faces. The search for who you are, the adventure this discovery process can be and the pain it often brings have hardly ever been shown in such a direct, warm and honest manner.
Margin Call (Competition / USA)
After Oliver Stone's second installment of his Wall Street saga, J.C. Chandor's film is the second film dealing directly with the recent crisis that brought the world's finance system and the global economy to the brink of total collapse and the long-term effects of which cannot even be predicted today. The two films could not be any more different. Where Stone takes a sweeping look the a wide lense and paints the portrait of a society driven by greed, Chandor narrows the view almost painfully, where the former makes clear where he stands, Chandor is content telling a story. It is just one night between the discovery of a problem potentially fatal to a large investment bank and the "solution" which, as everyone knows, may save the bank but will trigger off a crisis whose dimensions are hard to grasp. It is a dark world, in cold colors, a small claustrophobic place in which decisions are made that affect much more than these people here. No-one will come out of this unchanged. Some, many will have lost their jobs, others their dignity or at least some money, others again will triumph. There are no villains here, just people doing their jobs, some more, others less scrupulously, some with more, others with less integrity. There are victims who understand that they're part of the same game as the winners. Kevin Spacey's exhausted forehead, Jeremy Irons' piercing look, Stanley Tucci's dignified despair - it is the little details that make this relentlessly unspectacular film so effective, even haunting. The world has ended and yet it still turns. Whether this is a good or a bad thing is not the film's job to tell, it's on us to decide. Margin Call is a great little film on something so much larger than any of us, with characters that will stay with us for a while.
The Forgiveness of Blood (Competition / USA, Albania)
After Maria Full of Grace,US film maker Joshua Marston takes us again to a place not often visited by film crews. His new film takes place in rural Albania, a place not so different from what we know, it seems at first, but full of ancient, archaic traditions that offset the modern facade of a society embracing its future. Nik is a 17-year-old, dreaming of opening an internet café and falling in love with a class mate.All this is shattered from one moment to the next when his father is involved in a fight with a neighbor during which the latter is killed.According to the ancient laws of the land, all male family members may be killed by the victim's family once they leave the only shelter left to them, their home. Marston paints an impressive portrait of a young man, still in many ways a child, who evolves wfrom incomprehension to resignation and finally emancipation in fighting for his right to life and freedom, taking on the barbaric laws that imprison him in his own house. At the same time, his sister needs to take his and his father's role, taking care of the family instead of going to school. The film is a double coming of age story which moves along slowly and quietly like a river that seems peaceful but whose depth is treacherous and conceal deadly undertows. In the end, Nik frees himself from the grip of the past, but at a high price. It is, however, a price he is willing to pay, because after all that happened the decision he makes is all his, he is at last the master of his destiny.
Tomboy (Panorama / France)
The French film Tomboy opened this year's Panorama section. The film tells the story of a pre-teenage girl who prefers to hang out with boys, dresses like a boy and wants to appear to be a boy. When her family moves into another town, the chance presents itself to build a fresh identity as boy. Laure becomes Mikael. The film starts with a close-up. We see the back of a head, short, blonde hair flying in the wind. The view opens to reveal a young boy (or so it seems) sitting on top of an open car, eyes closed, content and happy in the moment. The scene succeeds in characterising the protagonist without any words, just in the quick glance it allows us. We will never see Laure this happy, totally herself. Or himself for that matter. Tomboy is as fresh as it is unassuming, as it (and the camera) moves in and out of the children who occupy the film almost on their own. When Laure's secret is revealed it happens totally unspectacularly, first to the viewer, much later to the other characters. By not allowing any noise to obstruct our view, the identity crisis is as intense as it can be, and it happens right in our faces. The search for who you are, the adventure this discovery process can be and the pain it often brings have hardly ever been shown in such a direct, warm and honest manner.
Margin Call (Competition / USA)
After Oliver Stone's second installment of his Wall Street saga, J.C. Chandor's film is the second film dealing directly with the recent crisis that brought the world's finance system and the global economy to the brink of total collapse and the long-term effects of which cannot even be predicted today. The two films could not be any more different. Where Stone takes a sweeping look the a wide lense and paints the portrait of a society driven by greed, Chandor narrows the view almost painfully, where the former makes clear where he stands, Chandor is content telling a story. It is just one night between the discovery of a problem potentially fatal to a large investment bank and the "solution" which, as everyone knows, may save the bank but will trigger off a crisis whose dimensions are hard to grasp. It is a dark world, in cold colors, a small claustrophobic place in which decisions are made that affect much more than these people here. No-one will come out of this unchanged. Some, many will have lost their jobs, others their dignity or at least some money, others again will triumph. There are no villains here, just people doing their jobs, some more, others less scrupulously, some with more, others with less integrity. There are victims who understand that they're part of the same game as the winners. Kevin Spacey's exhausted forehead, Jeremy Irons' piercing look, Stanley Tucci's dignified despair - it is the little details that make this relentlessly unspectacular film so effective, even haunting. The world has ended and yet it still turns. Whether this is a good or a bad thing is not the film's job to tell, it's on us to decide. Margin Call is a great little film on something so much larger than any of us, with characters that will stay with us for a while.
The Forgiveness of Blood (Competition / USA, Albania)
After Maria Full of Grace,US film maker Joshua Marston takes us again to a place not often visited by film crews. His new film takes place in rural Albania, a place not so different from what we know, it seems at first, but full of ancient, archaic traditions that offset the modern facade of a society embracing its future. Nik is a 17-year-old, dreaming of opening an internet café and falling in love with a class mate.All this is shattered from one moment to the next when his father is involved in a fight with a neighbor during which the latter is killed.According to the ancient laws of the land, all male family members may be killed by the victim's family once they leave the only shelter left to them, their home. Marston paints an impressive portrait of a young man, still in many ways a child, who evolves wfrom incomprehension to resignation and finally emancipation in fighting for his right to life and freedom, taking on the barbaric laws that imprison him in his own house. At the same time, his sister needs to take his and his father's role, taking care of the family instead of going to school. The film is a double coming of age story which moves along slowly and quietly like a river that seems peaceful but whose depth is treacherous and conceal deadly undertows. In the end, Nik frees himself from the grip of the past, but at a high price. It is, however, a price he is willing to pay, because after all that happened the decision he makes is all his, he is at last the master of his destiny.
March 08, 2011
Thomas Bernhard: Einfach kompliziert, Berliner Ensemble (Regie: Claus Peymann)
Bernhard, Peymann, Voss: Das war einmal der Gipfel deutschsprachiger Theaterkunst. Heute ist Bernhard über 20 Jahre tot, Peymann gilt zunehmend als eifernder Hohepriester des Theaterkonservatismus und Gert Voss, dem Bernhard einst ein Stück mit seinem Namen im Titel schrieb (Ritter, Dene, Voss) ist ein alternder Mime, noch immer mit grandiosem Können gesegnet, aber im Herbst seiner Karriere. Wie viel vom alten Zauber ist noch da? Die Frage drängt sich auf bei dieser Konstellation, zumal Karl-Ernst Herrmann für die Bühne verantwortlich zeichnet - wie bei vielen von Peymanns zum Teil legendären Bernhard-Uraufführungen.
Wenn sich der Vorhang hebt (so etwas Altmodisches gibt es am BE tatsächlich noch), wird schnell klar, das von Zauber kaum die rede sein kann. Zu sklavisch orientiert sich die Inszenierung an der Textvorlage, deren Bühnenbildanweisungen sich detailliert wiederfinden lassen: das ganze schäbige Zimmer der Vorlage mitsamt aller Möbelstücke und Requisiten. Nur der Viertelkreis, den die linke Wand bildet, verrät ein wenig Abkehr vom Naturalismus und so etwas wie künstlerische Kreativität, mehr erlauben sich Peymann, Voss und Herrmann in Ehrfurcht vor Bernhard, der in diesem Jahr 100 Jahre alt geworden wäre (Korrektur: Bernhard wäre natürlich erst 80).
Einfach kompliziert ist ein Ein-Personen-Stück, mit Ausnahme einer Episode in der zweiten Szene, in der ein kleines Mädchen als Botin, als Repräsentatin der Außenwelt eintritt. Voss spielt einen alten Schauspieler, der sich in seiner Wohnung verschanzt hat, von der Außenwelt nichts mehr wissen will und die Triumphe wie die Niederlangen seiner Vergangenheit durchlebt, durchleidet, sich an ihnen reibt und abarbeitet. Assoziationen zu Beckett entstehen automatisch und sind wohl auch gewollt. Selbst das tonbandgerät aus Becketts Ein-Personen-Stück Krapp's Last Tape finde sich wieder.
Allerdings fällt der Vergleich zu Beckett nicht vorteilhaft für Bernhards Stück aus. Sind Becketts Figuren Verlorene, Umherirrende in einem verlassenen Universum, in dem vielleicht nur noch sie existieren, deren Existenz ebensowenig gesichert scheint, ist Bernhards Protagonist eben nur ein alternder Mime, der sein eigenes Boulevardstück mit sich selbst spielt. Wo der Junge in Waiting for Godot die Existenz der außenwelt nicht bestätigt, sondern durch die Wiederholung seines erscheinens nur noch mehr in Frage stellt, ist Bernhards Katharina ganz von dieser Welt, ist das Vorhandensein einer "normalen" Welt, eines da draußen nie fraglich. Wo Beckett die großen Menscheitsfragen thematisiert und unserer Existenz bis an ihren Kern folgt, verhandelt Bernhard eben nur, wie so oft, ein Schauspieler-, ein Theaterdrama.
Natürlich macht es Spaß, Voss zuzuschauen, wie er alle Nuancen seiner Figur auskostet, wie er das Pianissimo ebenso beherrscht wie den großen Ausbruch, und doch schleicht sich ein Gefühl der Routine ein, scheint wiederholt der Schatten des großen Minetti, dem Bernhard die Rolle auf den Leib schrieb, sich ber die Bühne zu legen.
Es ist ein Second-Hand-Spiel, wie die ganze Inszenierung aus zweiter Hand zu sein scheint. Nichts wird der Vorlage hinzugefügt, eine Interpretation, gar eine Hinterfragung findet nicht statt, die Frage der Relevanz dieses Stückes wird nicht gestellt. Und so ist der Abend ein Abglanz nur einer großen Epoche des deutschen Theaters, eine fahle Kopie eines verblassenden Bildes aus einer anderen Zeit.
Wenn sich der Vorhang hebt (so etwas Altmodisches gibt es am BE tatsächlich noch), wird schnell klar, das von Zauber kaum die rede sein kann. Zu sklavisch orientiert sich die Inszenierung an der Textvorlage, deren Bühnenbildanweisungen sich detailliert wiederfinden lassen: das ganze schäbige Zimmer der Vorlage mitsamt aller Möbelstücke und Requisiten. Nur der Viertelkreis, den die linke Wand bildet, verrät ein wenig Abkehr vom Naturalismus und so etwas wie künstlerische Kreativität, mehr erlauben sich Peymann, Voss und Herrmann in Ehrfurcht vor Bernhard, der in diesem Jahr 100 Jahre alt geworden wäre (Korrektur: Bernhard wäre natürlich erst 80).
Einfach kompliziert ist ein Ein-Personen-Stück, mit Ausnahme einer Episode in der zweiten Szene, in der ein kleines Mädchen als Botin, als Repräsentatin der Außenwelt eintritt. Voss spielt einen alten Schauspieler, der sich in seiner Wohnung verschanzt hat, von der Außenwelt nichts mehr wissen will und die Triumphe wie die Niederlangen seiner Vergangenheit durchlebt, durchleidet, sich an ihnen reibt und abarbeitet. Assoziationen zu Beckett entstehen automatisch und sind wohl auch gewollt. Selbst das tonbandgerät aus Becketts Ein-Personen-Stück Krapp's Last Tape finde sich wieder.
Allerdings fällt der Vergleich zu Beckett nicht vorteilhaft für Bernhards Stück aus. Sind Becketts Figuren Verlorene, Umherirrende in einem verlassenen Universum, in dem vielleicht nur noch sie existieren, deren Existenz ebensowenig gesichert scheint, ist Bernhards Protagonist eben nur ein alternder Mime, der sein eigenes Boulevardstück mit sich selbst spielt. Wo der Junge in Waiting for Godot die Existenz der außenwelt nicht bestätigt, sondern durch die Wiederholung seines erscheinens nur noch mehr in Frage stellt, ist Bernhards Katharina ganz von dieser Welt, ist das Vorhandensein einer "normalen" Welt, eines da draußen nie fraglich. Wo Beckett die großen Menscheitsfragen thematisiert und unserer Existenz bis an ihren Kern folgt, verhandelt Bernhard eben nur, wie so oft, ein Schauspieler-, ein Theaterdrama.
Natürlich macht es Spaß, Voss zuzuschauen, wie er alle Nuancen seiner Figur auskostet, wie er das Pianissimo ebenso beherrscht wie den großen Ausbruch, und doch schleicht sich ein Gefühl der Routine ein, scheint wiederholt der Schatten des großen Minetti, dem Bernhard die Rolle auf den Leib schrieb, sich ber die Bühne zu legen.
Es ist ein Second-Hand-Spiel, wie die ganze Inszenierung aus zweiter Hand zu sein scheint. Nichts wird der Vorlage hinzugefügt, eine Interpretation, gar eine Hinterfragung findet nicht statt, die Frage der Relevanz dieses Stückes wird nicht gestellt. Und so ist der Abend ein Abglanz nur einer großen Epoche des deutschen Theaters, eine fahle Kopie eines verblassenden Bildes aus einer anderen Zeit.
Nicolas Stemann: Aufhören! Schluss jetzt! Lauter! Deutsches Theater Berlin (Regie: Nicolas Stemann)
Ums Aufhören soll es gehen an diesem Abend, das wird schnell klar. Zu Beginn steht da Margit Bendokat im glitzernden Showkleid und liest eine Geschichte von einem Mann, der aufhören will. Danach kommen Regisseur Stemann und seine Musiker auf die Bühne und spielen einen Song, den letzten, anschließend soll Schluss sein. Eine Zugabe lassen sie sich noch abringen, das war es dann aber, macht Stemann energisch deutlich. Natürlich war es das nicht, aber der Grundton des neuen Stemann-Abends ist angestimmt. Schluss sollsein, Schluss mit den ewig gleichen Theaterritualen, mit dem Erwartbaren und dem Erwarteten, Schluss vor allem mit dem "Terror der Sinnproduktion", wie es später heißt.
Sinn, so schreit und singt uns der Abend entgegen, hat hier nichts zu suchen, ein Theater wird suggeriert, dass sich dem Zwang, immer neue Sinnzusammenhänge, Bedeutungsmuster und Interpretationsansätze schaffen zu müssen, entzieht. Liedchen zwischen Albernheit und feinerem Humor, launische Geschichten, kurze skizzierte Spielszenen erzählen vom Schlussmachenwollen - wie die vom Flugbegleiter, der die sprichwörtliche "Schnauze voll hat", sich drei Bier greift und über die Notrutsche verschwindet, und dessen Geschichte Stemann zum Schluss in einem grandios-witzigen Country-Song verarbeitet. Und auch aktuelle Ereignisse (Guttenber!) finden ihren Niederschlag.
Natürlich ist das selbstreferentiell, thematisiert Stemanns Theater sich selbst und seine Obsession mit Sinn und Bedeutung. Das ist gelingt manchmal mehr (wie im Dialog mit Herrn Friedrichstadtpalast auf der großen, auf einen Bretterturm aufgesetzten Showtreppe), manchmal weniger gut (wie in den Szenen gehetzter von Selbstzweifeln zerfressener Schauspieler). Der Abend hat seine Schwächen, wenn er zuviel auf einmal will, wenn die Drehbühne kreist, mehrere Szenen, von der Videokamera aufgenommen, gleichzeitig spielen, in Miniaturhäusern oder einer Diskoecke. da brennt Stemanns Hang zum Multimedialen mit ihm durch, da packt er die Bühne voll, bis das Ganze droht, bleischwer zusammenzustürzen.
Doch es gelingt Stemann immer wieder, die Bremse zu ziehen. Wiederholt fällt der Vorhang, bleibt nur der vordere Teil der Bühne mit einer Konzertanordnung, wird elesen und rezietiert, vor allem aber immer wieder gespielt und gesungen. Stemann ist viel zu klug, um nicht zu wissen, dass Sinnfreiheit Behauptung bleiben muss, dass die gezielte Ablehung von Bedeutung ebendiese produziert. Doch er ist kein Pollesch, der jetzt einen furiosen Diskurs inszenieren würde, er lässt den Abend geschehen, er lässt auch seinen inhärenten Widerspruch stehen und gewinnt eben dadurch eine betörende Leichtigkeit.
Denn am Ende ist das Unterhaltung und soll es auch sein. Friedrichstadtpalast oder DT - das ist nicht das Gleiche, aber eben auch nicht so weit von einander entfernt, wie man gemeinhin glauben machen will. "Reicht das fürs Theater?", singt Stemann einmal, und: "Reicht das fürs DT?" Ja, möchte man rufen, tut es! Und verlässt das Theater mit einem Lächeln auf den Lippen. "Ist das denn schon Kunst hier?" Vielleicht, vielleicht nicht. Wirklich wichtig ist das aber nicht.
Sinn, so schreit und singt uns der Abend entgegen, hat hier nichts zu suchen, ein Theater wird suggeriert, dass sich dem Zwang, immer neue Sinnzusammenhänge, Bedeutungsmuster und Interpretationsansätze schaffen zu müssen, entzieht. Liedchen zwischen Albernheit und feinerem Humor, launische Geschichten, kurze skizzierte Spielszenen erzählen vom Schlussmachenwollen - wie die vom Flugbegleiter, der die sprichwörtliche "Schnauze voll hat", sich drei Bier greift und über die Notrutsche verschwindet, und dessen Geschichte Stemann zum Schluss in einem grandios-witzigen Country-Song verarbeitet. Und auch aktuelle Ereignisse (Guttenber!) finden ihren Niederschlag.
Natürlich ist das selbstreferentiell, thematisiert Stemanns Theater sich selbst und seine Obsession mit Sinn und Bedeutung. Das ist gelingt manchmal mehr (wie im Dialog mit Herrn Friedrichstadtpalast auf der großen, auf einen Bretterturm aufgesetzten Showtreppe), manchmal weniger gut (wie in den Szenen gehetzter von Selbstzweifeln zerfressener Schauspieler). Der Abend hat seine Schwächen, wenn er zuviel auf einmal will, wenn die Drehbühne kreist, mehrere Szenen, von der Videokamera aufgenommen, gleichzeitig spielen, in Miniaturhäusern oder einer Diskoecke. da brennt Stemanns Hang zum Multimedialen mit ihm durch, da packt er die Bühne voll, bis das Ganze droht, bleischwer zusammenzustürzen.
Doch es gelingt Stemann immer wieder, die Bremse zu ziehen. Wiederholt fällt der Vorhang, bleibt nur der vordere Teil der Bühne mit einer Konzertanordnung, wird elesen und rezietiert, vor allem aber immer wieder gespielt und gesungen. Stemann ist viel zu klug, um nicht zu wissen, dass Sinnfreiheit Behauptung bleiben muss, dass die gezielte Ablehung von Bedeutung ebendiese produziert. Doch er ist kein Pollesch, der jetzt einen furiosen Diskurs inszenieren würde, er lässt den Abend geschehen, er lässt auch seinen inhärenten Widerspruch stehen und gewinnt eben dadurch eine betörende Leichtigkeit.
Denn am Ende ist das Unterhaltung und soll es auch sein. Friedrichstadtpalast oder DT - das ist nicht das Gleiche, aber eben auch nicht so weit von einander entfernt, wie man gemeinhin glauben machen will. "Reicht das fürs Theater?", singt Stemann einmal, und: "Reicht das fürs DT?" Ja, möchte man rufen, tut es! Und verlässt das Theater mit einem Lächeln auf den Lippen. "Ist das denn schon Kunst hier?" Vielleicht, vielleicht nicht. Wirklich wichtig ist das aber nicht.
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