Posts Tagged Nazism

The Cremator (Herz, 1968)

Fascism is born in the mind. We live secure in the knowledge that such minds collectively form little more than insignificant minorities in contemporary Western societies – but how much of that knowledge is based upon material fact, and how much is self-delusion? The capacity for bigotry exists somewhere within us all. And although in most cases it lies dormant (or at least translucent enough to be wilfully ignored), such volcanoes of devolution may not need the strongest of catalysts to awaken from their respective slumbers. After all, for most the delineation between normality and brutality will remain forever untested. Could it be, then, that our moral boundaries are more precarious than we’d like to believe?

Juraj Herz’s The Cremator dives head-first into the degenerative psyche of one Karl Kopfrkingl – an eccentric, somewhat awkward bourgeois fantasist who lives for social advancement. This oily, rotund character rigidly maintains his aura of respectability, priding himself on his familial and professional roles (both, for him, are fundamental status symbols). In terms of the former, our protagonist appears nigh-on faultless: the patriarch of an immaculately nuclear household, his only visible “flaw” (in Czechoslovakia c. 1938) is an overly-effeminate son and heir. And with regards to the professional, few are likely to relish their careers as much as this eponymous cremator, who zealously forges fantastical links between his own incineration of the dead and the Tibetan Buddhism of the Dalai Lama in a sincere attempt to garner validation for his work. Unfortunately for Kopfrkingl, society is slow on the uptake when it comes to the self-perceived benevolence of his undertakings, leaving him with an inferiority complex that he’ll do anything (anything) to conquer.

Bulging at the seams with its director’s visual flair, The Cremator‘s primary intent is to disorientate the viewer into incertitude. Sharp, angular compositions; quasi-abstract montages; a random deployment of fish-eye lenses; extreme close-ups that dissect and distort the human body – all contrive to impair our comprehension of an otherwise straightforward narrative. Herz’s most cunning tactic finds him cannily abusing the audience’s trust in the integrity of the audio-visual relationship through his editing: by frequently resting his camera upon Kopfrkingl’s face (as the character espouses the garrulous monologues that so pervade the film), the director lures us into a misappropriated understanding of on-screen action. On certain, unpredictable instances however, the camera zooms out to reveal a backdrop which deliberately contradicts that of the preceding shot. Thus, the dialogue continuity enacted by the protagonist is deftly exposed as an illusive device that unsettlingly conceals scene-to-scene transitions, quietly disembowelling our awareness of space and time.

Such strategies prove emblematic of the director’s diegetic formation, conceived as a dynamic duplicate of the paranoia-inducing frameworks that one more commonly associates with the horror genre. And indeed, in many respects the gruesome content of the film lends credence to his designs: given its portrayal of Nazism’s inevitable onset and the consequent upending of a tenuous national order, The Cremator effectively invites murder and mayhem into its boudoir. Less expected, though, is the macabre humour that incises its way throughout the proceedings, perplexingly undercutting the emotional intensity of the drama at hand. Kopfrkingl is riddled with bizarre quirks and idiosyncrasies – consider his casual insistence upon removing cigarettes from others’ mouths, or the wryly comical over-ardour with which he discusses his “Temple of Death”, or especially his ritualised hair-combing procedure, in which he caresses the heads of his corpses before brushing his own thinning locks – and Herz doesn’t waste the opportunity to take potshots at those of his ilk. It’s soon discovered that this ‘perfect’ family man acquiesces to his adulterous impulses with laughably ordered regularity (“only on the first Thursday of the month!”); his fastidious observance of socially-sanctioned morality a mere ruse for the simmering amorality within.

Equal parts drama, horror and satire, Herz’s anxious synthesis of tones builds – alongside his stylistic erraticism – the backbone of a brazenly eclectic approach to his material. The director exploits this schizophrenic modus operandi for two immediate ends: first, to imaginatively mould his deranged protagonist’s fragmentary perspectives into a subjective narrative of insightful vigour; and second, to goad the viewer outside of his/her standardized comfort zone until they’re assailable enough to be ambushed by The Cremator‘s disturbed nucleus. This core displays an aggressively historical bent, with the film’s integration of its late-1930s political context giving rise to the condemnation, not to mention the allegories (the Third Reich can be substituted for any other totalitarian state), that one would envisage from so curious a premise. With these reference points in mind, Herz’s high-octane tributes to the German expressionism of yore play exequially, striking purposefully and powerfully at the cultural magnitude of all that was lost following Hitler’s rapid, ruthless ascendancy.

Of course, Herz’s bereavements go well beyond the artistic; his plot acting as an eerie pre-emptor of the human tolls that would eventually become synonymous with National Socialism in practice. The director’s shrewdest study however, concerns that more intrinsic element within the ideology’s (and, later, the regime’s) rise: the gaping void of compassion. We realise early on that Kopfrkingl is a morally-deficient hypocrite, but his idealistic fluidity nonetheless startles with its accelerated descent into opportunistic savagery. Notice, for example, the slippery transience of his patriotism: initially identifying himself as “purely Czech”, he then discovers “a drop of German blood” before allowing himself to be cast as a fully-fledged Übermenschen. It’s this final transformation which initiates a similarly mercurial attitude to his own family (all of whom have been “tainted” by his wife’s Jewish heritage), pointing the way towards a Final Solution with its contemptuous dismissal and subsequent destruction of these purest of human relationships.

Whilst nourishing a culture of audience bewilderment, The Cremator‘s surface flair dualistically invents a cinematic nightmare through its visual rendering of Kopfrkingl’s psychosis. Herz exploits his myriad of techniques to create an acute psychological proximity to his deranged antihero; the intimacy marking the disquieting pith of his thesis: the style in itself stupefies, but it’s the exposition of the internal hysteria which horrifies. The director swims deep into Kopfrkingl’s troubled pneuma, bringing each of the character’s malevolent ailments to the fore for audience scrutiny (one shouldn’t be surprised when confronting a mirror image or few). Understandably, the natural effect of such devotion is to inhibit character development elsewhere. But therein lies the strength of Herz’s achievement, for Kopfrkingl’s inundation of the narrative itself becomes a commentary on the subservience accorded to and extracted by the tyrannical lunatics of past and present – the incubus being, of course, that the character is not so much a lunatic as he is a capitalist everyman and overeager conformist. As the director lurches towards his frenzied finale, the reduction of human life to anonymous archetypes fails to diminish the harrowing implications of the injustices on-screen. We need not know people to comprehend the impact of their suffering. As Herz so persuasively argues beneath the hysterics: knowledge is overrated, and empathy is everything.

Perhaps the film’s most poignant ongoing thread is the conspicuous lack of a female presence to counter the fascistic manoeuvrings of the men. Kopfrkingl’s soliloquies saturate the narrative with his pseudo-tender male chauvinism, objectifying all women (only when viewed through the prism of sexual desire can they be granted the gift of speech) and relegating their voices to the non-diegetic orchestrations of the soundtrack. Composer Zdenek Liska imaginatively moulds the sounds and strains of this feminine oppression into choral harmonies of cherubic splendour – exalting the female voice as a communicative medium of unparalleled ethereality. As our protagonist sets about extinguishing this vital life-force with methodical precision then, the absurdities of the director’s vision gradually fade away to leave only the excruciating barbarity that they once sheltered. The Cremator thus bares its teeth as a tale of loss. A loss of values, a loss of integrity, and finally – most devastatingly – a loss of humanity: that virtue which needs to be upheld against all odds. In Juraj Herz’s spiritual replication of the Nazi terror, one man’s failure to do so allows the horrifying to swiftly, effectively morph into the tragic. And as Kopfrkingl’s numerous descendants continue to remind us, that tragedy very much remains an ongoing reality.

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Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (Pasolini, 1975)

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ANTE INFERNO

Heil Pasolini! From the dying embers of Italy’s fascist nightmare, this provocateur extraordinaire found truth, beauty, freedom and above all things love. Make no mistake, the iniquitous repute of cinema’s most notorious bête noire is entirely just: Salò depicts the debauched, the depraved and the disgusting with indefatigable relish. Even so, the film is not deplorable… never deplorable. No, the surface repugnance of the director’s masterpiece may overshadow the appeal of its naïve extremism and its truculent fury, but the rectitude behind his achievement sears the memory long after its numerous horrors have subsided. Pasolini’s sentiments are as pure as his visuals are lewd; exemplars of a tormented artist’s last stand against a world dismissed as beyond redemption. Galvanised by this incendiary vitriol, Salò unleashes a violent barrage of ideas and images whose cumulative impact achieves the coup of transplanting its inter-filmic suffering directly into the viewer’s psyche; this dualistic infliction of abuse forming the crux of the director’s hermetic dystopia – a cause and product of the nihilism that so repulsively engulfs his subtexts. His is a work that seemingly revels in the darkness of the abyss; a work that venerates murder, rape and torture whilst denigrating their respective meanings unto the level of sadistic pleasure; a work that trades in on its puerile shock value to actively lust after reprehensibility – eventually attaining the ideal with incomparable causticity.

But Pasolini was too skilled an artist – or perhaps too conflicted a man – to wallow so unremittingly in literal misery-porn. The director’s pessimism finds itself both emboldened and muddied by the ridiculous, possibly even humorous treatment of his material. Salò‘s problematic hinges upon this dogged refusal to capitulate to our understanding of tragedy: its narrative’s mechanisms grind out devastation that’s deprived of sentiment and laden with camp, nonsensical satire. Thus, the perverted quartet of oppressors who invoke its infernos are rendered nothing more than mere pantomime villains at the heart of an elaborate farce; the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse recast as hysterical drag queens, dancing their way toward a 20th-century Armageddon. Pasolini’s tone is wild and unruly, veering from the cataclysmic to the gelastic with the blink of an eye (provided, of course, that the eye in question hasn’t been gouged from its socket). Nevertheless, his purpose is clear, for nowhere in Salò is it possible to properly process the magnitude of its victims’ pain – and in thwarting his audience’s cathartic needs, the director endeavours to expose and then redefine the limitations of human empathy. Unable to reconcile the abominations on-screen with any depth in the film’s emotional matter, we end up lapsing puritanically into a moral panic (though not unjustly). Pasolini’s relentless antagonism drives the film into a crevasse unto itself, in which it harbours a disaster so incomprehensible that it become an exercise in the anti-tragic. Reason – as we once understood it – no longer exists.

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CIRCLE OF MANIAS

If Salò succeeds in the anti-tragic then it surely excels at the anti-erotic. Populated by the lithe, pubescent figures of its uniformly-unclothed teenage captives, the film invites titillation only to emphatically molest it. Pasolini’s camera doesn’t always shy away from the expected gaze – skin, torsos, pubic hairs and genitalia all appear in close-up – but his imagery’s pornographic potential is either offset by the victims’ howls of anguish or supplanted by the perverse glares of their tormentors. The director thus pries open a chasm between object and desire that’s impossible to traverse; our latent aphrodisia neutered by the all-too conspicuous framework of exploitation which effectively desexualises an otherwise attractive group of bodies. The distance that Pasolini begets between viewer and content subsequently materialises inside his frames themselves. Brandishing his mastery as an aesthetician beyond compare, he constructs a series of tableaux informed by the classical elegance of High Renaissance paintings, carefully dividing the action within each of these impossibly-perfect compositions: trauma relegated to the background, with emptiness and/or irreverence dominating the foreground. As the atrocities increase, so too does the physical distance between the two planes; the director at once emulating the reality of marginalised agony, maintaining the tradition of its artistic veneration, and posing the question: is the horror any less real if we’re forced to remain blind to it?

In this paraphilic paradise, the characters’ suffering finds itself incarcerated by the inexorable allure of Pasolini’s artifice. Beauty is therefore as much a curse as it is a blessing: a distraction; a masquerade that protects barbarism; a fallacy. Whilst condemning his own aesthetics, the director incorporates a not-unrelated discussion on the subject of eugenics. Salò‘s victims are chosen as such for their physical perfection, their masters’ filtering procedures unmistakably calling to mind the Nazis’ vision of a flawless gene pool (the geometrical precision of the film’s mise-en-scène further evokes the regime’s ruthless sense of order). However, where Hitler & co. were intent on preserving the “master race” (albeit by destroying others), Pasolini proves hell-bent upon obliterating it altogether. The hollow ideal of an Aryan utopia is thus disembowelled, evaginated and then beautified as the director lambasts the very notion of unnatural selection; his total disillusionment with the modus operandi of interwar Europe’s purportedly “developed” societies blisteringly apparent. Given his Marxist sympathies, it’s unsurprising that this contempt should extend beyond the obvious extremist targets and into the more general domain of capitalism itself. It’s the ubiquitous value of rabid consumption which he denounces most vehemently of all, and it’s the culture of greed that it perpetrates which enables his clinical debilitation of intercourse: he invades this most intimate of acts and reduces it from its zenith as the utmost expression of love to its nadir as the vilest demonstration of hate – where bodies are rendered commodities (if that) in transactions impelled by the privileged perversions of the ruling classes. Enveloped by this ever-decaying morality, Pasolini’s eroticism perhaps appears not quite anti-erotic per se, so much as a mere reflection of the dominant, ruthlessly systematic approach to human life engendered by the reverence of money over man.

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CIRCLE OF SHIT

Adopting as his mantra the notion of “absolute power corrupting absolutely”, the director retools Sade’s lascivious libertines (in Salò: a Bishop, a Duke, a Magistrate and a President) and uses them to launch a multi-pronged, defiantly allegorical critique upon the vestiges of authority. The centrepiece of the film’s infamy – a Last Supper-inspired banquet of faeces – is therefore not simply an exercise in maximal revulsion, but also the very axis to all Pasolini’s promulgations. This grossly hypnotic celebration of the coprophilic, conducted at the whims of the merciless foursome, takes the film’s debasements to their inevitable extreme – though lest we forget, the scatological is a genuine fetish to which the libertines are far from alone in subscribing so avidly to; Salò‘s ignominious feast of shit is first and foremost a part of its sexual paraphernalia. Regardless, the scene in question remains irrevocably coloured by the director’s manifold political subtexts: Pasolini himself reportedly contended that the entire conceit was a figurative representation of a world increasingly obsessed with junk food, a statement that may seem somewhat ludicrous on paper but nonetheless keeps entirely in tune with the film’s acerbic depiction of social regression in the face of corporate esurience. The director thus pre-empts the acknowledged McDonaldisation of society and pushes the notion of immediate gratification to its entirely natural breaking point. In this typically sardonic twist, “fast food” is given a new meaning altogether whilst materialism backfires spectacularly upon the materialists.

As the multitudinous images of excrement-smeared faces recedes from the consciousness, what persists in residing is the perturbing perception that, in Salò, anything is possible. Pasolini crafts an alternate reality which conserves a familiar social structure (the hierarchical pyramid from top-to-bottom: elites → accomplices → victims), but he shatters the legislative glass ceiling designed to curb hegemonic abuses. Consequently, all restrictions to the tyrannies inflicted by the elites are eradicated – it is, after all, these individuals who make the laws of governance – and so it follows that there is no end to the complacency of the accomplices, nor any respite to the exploitation of the victims. As one of the libertines memorably declares: “We fascists are the only true anarchists.” – and the shit-eating episode therefore comes to epitomise the height of authoritarian anarchy; an anarchy of power that gleefully nurtures brutality. Even the slightest hint of dissidence is swiftly repressed in Salò‘s monstrously insular milieu (though one of the film’s most resonant images remains the Communist salute of a nude, recalcitrant guard, causing the libertines to collectively gasp in momentary disbelief before gunning him down). Detached from the outside world and shielded from its scrutiny, Salò can turn upon only itself. How appropriate then, that its inhabitants should end up ingesting the faecal so vividly – what better metaphor could there be for the transgressions of a societal microcosm hung up on self-extirpation?

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CIRCLE OF BLOOD

Lost amidst the grotesqueries is an assertion that offers cause for greater alarm than any of the film’s disconcerting visuals. Although frequently damned for his simplistic, bludgeon-like approach, Pasolini’s treatise decisively embraces the complexity within the historiography of fascism. So it stands that totalitarianism is acknowledged as an impossible goal and, with the film degenerating into its murderous finale, it suddenly emerges that a significant proportion of the prisoners have been covertly flouting the libertines’ preposterous “rules”. Naturally, the disobedience offers little cause for concern in its own right (given the context, its almost certainly admirable), yet the manner in which the dissent is exposed betrays the full, staggering extent of the director’s despondence in his fellow man. It’s easy to view Salò as an (overzealous) cautionary tale against the concentration of power in relatively few hands, but the film is interlaced with telltale signs that suggest something is gravely amiss with such perspectives: the prevailing passivity of the victims; the brief close-ups that allude towards not just their acceptance, but the actual enjoyment of their suffering. Bowdlerised emotions are biding their time and awaiting their release, and when the investigation into the adolescent deviance eventually commences, each of the detainees makes an attempt to delay their demise by accusing another of greater misdeeds. And so a domino effect ensues; the instinct for self-preservation devolving into a pathological desire to destroy one another, thereby provoking a battle for survival where it’s no longer the fittest that necessarily triumph, but the most ruthless. Salò‘s very foundations now crumble before our eyes – not due to the futility of the totalitarian ideal, but because its entire order is upended: absolute power doesn’t merely corrupt those who wield it, it defiles those that are subjugated by it too; the director contending that victims can become just as complicit in their victimisation as their oppressors. Faced with the banality of evil and the silence of humanity, Pasolini sees only one answer: a wave of annihilation – which, in this setting, is an act of love if ever there was one.

Salò‘s allegorical indictments threaten to read like failures; the insane ramblings of a misguided, troubled radical. Indeed, the director’s dejection becomes much easier to dismiss when one considers that his action takes place in a theatre of cruelty that’s like no other in cinema. If innocents and tyrants subsequently become indistinguishable, it’s because he coerces them into illogical scenarios from which it’s impossible to draw reasonable conclusions. Except therein lies the problem. Salò‘s extremities aren’t as extreme as decades of censorship would imply, and the horrors that occur within its confines are all too plausible for the contemporary viewer. For all his Brechtian distancing manoeuvres (his formalism, his abrasions, his vulgarity), Pasolini can’t quite suppress the devastating reality that lurks beneath the veil of his entropic vision. And he knows it. Painfully aware of his art’s woeful inability to incite a revolutionary overhaul of Italian society c. 1975, he retreats into a nihilistic wilderness and defecates on each and every one of his fellow citizens. In the film’s most confrontational gesture, he reverses a pair of binoculars to implicate his unwitting audience in the slaughters on-screen; challenging us to question the integrity behind our voyeurism, imploring us to look directly into the eyes of the inhumane. And yet, in spite of all the violence that occurs before our eyes, the utmost act of savagery is saved for the very last scene – a scene that yields nothing in the way of bloodshed and terror but instead offers a revelation which, really, we knew all along. That is to say: Salò has stamina; Salò has stealth; Salò is a survivor. Salò lives!

And long may it continue to do so.

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We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.

– Marcel Proust

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Berlin Alexanderplatz (Fassbinder, 1980)

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“Men’s fate is like that of the beasts: just as they die, so does he.”

Funny that Rainer Werner Fassbinder himself should make such a statement during one of Berlin Alexanderplatz‘s numerous voiceover interludes. New German Cinema’s freewheelin’ enfant terrible would meet his own “fate” a mere two years after his film’s acerbically nonchalant commentary helped propel the movement to its artistic zenith (thereby closing a fertile chapter of personal and national creativity that continues to bewilder in both its quantity and its quality). Although the directors behind this loose coalition were united only by the ambitious intent of speaking “a new film language”, Fassbinder’s inner fantasist was helplessly susceptible to even loftier aspirations – and Alfred Döblin’s literary foray into Weimar urbania’s pitiless underbelly would offer him the vehicle with which to achieve them. This most bona fide of “movie brats” revitalised the modernist crevices of Döblin’s senescent novel, and found himself redrawing the landscape of narrative filmmaking as a result. In Fassbinder’s prodigious hands, a who’s who of the 20th-century’s definitive art forms (cinema, literature, music, theatre, television) collided for a maddening, melodramatic and ultimately majestic visual rhapsody that ominously teetered on the brink for over thirteen-hours before finally combusting in the name of a hallucinogenic 110-minute cinematic exorcism (masquerading as an epilogue).

While the director’s artisanal finesse hurtled towards ever exospheric heights, his thematic dexterity continued to mine unsparing terrain in an indefatigable quest for compassion. Using Döblin’s unflattering characterizations as a springboard, Fassbinder tunnelled deep into his nation’s tumultuous history and held up a lacerating mirror to past and present. The result is a typically scathing condemnation of moral destitution, but for all the pessimism that inundates his epic canvas it’s the director’s obstinate commitment to empathy that resonates most vociferously here – in the misguided wretches that prowl his dystopian hyperreality, Fassbinder had the audacity to see hope. Though the vanity of such optimism isn’t wasted upon him (these characters are firmly, even wilfully locked into their orbits of odium), he remains assiduous in his critiques of the covert mechanisms that coerce proletarian angst into the realm of clandestinity. At its blazing heart, Alexanderplatz roars with a schizophrenic fury on behalf of its pathetic inhabitants: how does one combat staid societal structures that curb human potential with rigid norms and blind labelling?; how can one help an individual who’s incapable of resisting the beguiling allure of self-destruction?; why waste our time fighting on behalf of others if man is capable of such beastliness?; and is it so naive to assume that even beasts deserve to be loved?

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“And as the elders of our time choose to remain blind, let us rejoice and let us dance and let us ring in the new…”

Franz Biberkopf is one such man/beast, and Berlin Alexanderplatz spins the yarn of his determination to cling onto former over latter. Of course, this is no ordinary tale – and it’s not merely length that distinguishes the film as a cinematic behemoth. Conceived (and originally broadcast) as a television miniseries, Alexanderplatz finds Fassbinder exploiting the temporal freedom afforded by the smaller medium to furnish a subversive tribute to Döblin’s modernism. Though split into “thirteen parts with an epilogue”, the final product refuses an episodic narrative in favour of a looser, more experimental structure that’s better equipped to handle the director’s disregard for standard plotting devices. Indeed, the very concept of ‘plot’ remains frustratingly evasive until several hours into the film while Fassbinder opts to prove his excellence in the art of meandering. As our protagonist wanders aimlessly between bars, jobs and women, so the narrative wanders too – but, in spite of its overarching linearity, not necessarily alongside him. Instead, it gallops ahead of him, lags behind him, and even penetrates inside him in an all-encompassing externalisation of his interiority.

Consider the startling tedium of Part IV, in which all emergent plotlines are brashly dispensed with whilst the director wastes an hour tracking the newly-derelict Franz’s rapid descent into despair. Time grinds to a halt as Fassbinder fills the vacuum left by its absence with the characters’ nonsensical ramblings, heavy-handed Biblical allusions and his own (monotonous) voiceover narration. It’s a cocktail of ideas that threatens to repel us, but it nonetheless founds a paradox that’s emblematic of the work as a whole: whilst staying true to the Brechtian aesthetics that he’d always favoured, the director’s distancing effects conversely lure the viewer closer to Franz’s catatonic psyche. Exasperating they may well be, but Fassbinder’s decisions are driven by his desire to understand; to fully comprehend the entire fabric of Franz Biberkopf’s being from multiple perspectives, and to share that knowledge with his audience. As a result of these endeavours, Alexanderplatz‘s seemingly disordered drama harbours a psychological density that verges on the frightening. Over the course of 15½ hours, a stunning accumulation of detail transpires; a sentient mass of feelings and ideas that invigorates the labyrinthine clutter of the director’s filmic world. While he oscillates erratically between moments of stupefying stasis and unrestrained melodrama, his subtexts firmly anchor the spirit of Alexanderplatz to an emotional reality (albeit a poignantly disturbed one, where pain is never distant and forever triumphant).

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“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

Perhaps it’s this very acclimatization with unfeigned sentiments that allows Fassbinder to take such liberties elsewhere? His unconventional approach to storytelling is supplemented by a visual dexterity that quietly reinforces the film’s central theme of entrapment – within both the self and society. It’s a concern that the director strives to highlight from the word go: Alexanderplatz‘s apparently diffident opening shot lingers upon the image of a looming (though not malevolent) building – an image that the camera attempts to pull away from, only to find itself helplessly enticed back to it but a few seconds later. The moment seems unspectacular, a surprisingly banal way to commence such an intimidating feature. Upon learning that the building in question is Tegel Penitentiary however (the location in which Franz served time for killing his girlfriend, Ida), it assumes much greater significance. Tegel, as a result of its initial depiction as an anonymous walled compound, later becomes a symbol upon which Franz projects his fears and anxieties – and thus, with the slightest flicker of kineticism, this unremarkable introductory shot instantly touches upon a triad of nerves: the difficulty of escaping one’s personal history, the struggle to emancipate oneself from a self-made prison, and the daunting obstacle course one faces when attempting to move forward with that thing called life.

Fassbinder spends the ensuing hours expounding these ideas with a showman’s ardour and a psychoanalyst’s insight. He constructs an enclosed universe, both haunted and galvanised by its lack of verisimilitude. An accurate physical rendering of Weimar-era Berlin this most certainly is not, for although the film invokes its parent novel in name, its settings prove markedly different – to the extent where the “Alexanderplatz” of the title is barely seen on-screen. Whether motivated by budgetary constraints or artistic intent, the director ends up confining his action to a limited selection of locales that eventually breed a soap opera-esque familiarity. His narrow scope, focused almost entirely within theatrical interiors, isn’t completely divorced from context however: if the chaotic urban vistas of a key interwar city are absent, then the mental asphyxiation induced by residing in such a metropolis is wholly present. Fassbinder actively nurtures an aura of intoxicating intimacy. Location shots are abandoned (unsurprising, given the fifty-year discrepancy between the production date and the period concerned) as he zeroes in on his stage sets, thereby ensnaring his characters in a wealth of detail. Constantly framed against windows, doorways and even iron bars, Alexanderplatz‘s denizens are captives in their own homes; the recurrent motif of a caged bird only reiterating the phenomenon. Meanwhile, murky, unusually golden hues dominate the film’s colour palette as if to render its residents mere insects – glaring out of their amber prisons, and unable to break free from the fossilised structures that incarcerate them.

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“Chain reaction and mutilation, contaminated population.”

If the overriding sensation obtained by the director’s stylistic treatment is one of claustrophobia, then the immediate perception that it elicits is that of heightened artifice. Certainly, the discord between authenticity of feeling and artificiality of expression is one that’s pronounced for much of the film’s duration, offering a suitably sardonic reflection of the internal vs. external conflict that plagues so many of the film’s characters (how to stay true to real feelings in a fake world?). Fassbinder’s cinematic discourse augments the effect, replaying sounds, images and even entire scenes over and over until the viewer becomes immersed in the cyclical maelstrom that both inhabits and inhibits Franz’s state of mind. Most notable is a particular flashback sequence depicting Ida’s demise at Franz’s brutish hands whose increasingly frequent appearances during the narrative’s progression directly correlate with the acts of trauma inflicted upon our protagonist’s regressive psyche. It’s a persistence of memory that exemplifies Franz’s status as a prisoner of his soul, an everlasting reminder of his capacity for brutality. For the viewer however, it provides a sly deconstruction of said brutality: the sequence’s ability to horrify gradually subsides with each recurrence, initiating a process of desensitisation that undermines its intrinsic shock value. In Alexanderplatz violence isn’t something to be remarked upon, it simply is.

Within the first five minutes of the film, a prison guard imparts the following words of wisdom to the newly-released Franz: “The main thing is to not look back.” It would be slanderous to claim that Franz ignores the advice; on the contrary, he does his utmost to uphold this creed before the considerable physical and mental costs of doing so finally break his resolve. Yet there’s another force at work here – namely, the harbinger of doom that is Fassbinder’s direction. Every weapon in his cinematic arsenal appears geared toward establishing the influence of an external, metaphysical presence upon the narrative. From his excessive repetitions to his garish colour schemes, Fassbinder’s auteurial choices consistently entangle his characters in a complex web of predetermination. His actors’ movements feed into the process; their passionate performances strangely (compellingly) at odds with their lumbering attempts at navigating space. It’s an awkward clash between expressionism and somnambulism that hints at something deeper – as if to imply that these characters are mere pawns, involuntarily being shafted around in a wicked game that’s domineered by the hands of fate. (A seditious homage to The Seventh Seal‘s most iconic setpiece during Part IV surely lends credence to this paranoia.) Even the arabesque convulsions of Fassbinder’s restlessly roving camera reveal themselves to be agents of restraint: can it really be a coincidence that the pre-eminent motions here are circular? During a crucial scene that occurs at the height of the film’s romanticism, the director conducts a remarkable 270° pan that concludes by framing its two affectionate participants behind a tarnished window – and thus, with but their first meeting, these would-be lovers are already devoured by their noxious surroundings. Not only are Alexanderplatz‘s citizens required to escape society and their selves in order to live, they’re also challenged to thwart a destiny that’s being filmically scribed in an alternate universe. The influence of script upon screen has rarely felt so foreboding.

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“The heart is deceitful and desperately wicked. Who can know it?”

Composer Peer Raben’s reliance upon leitmotifs maintains the preoccupation with imprisonment, whilst paying a sly tribute to Wagner and, by association, his Gesamtkunstwerk (of which Alexanderplatz is arguably a cinematic descendent). The film’s soundscape is overwhelmed by a single instrumental theme that underscores Franz’s impishly tragic complexion. And although he devises a number of variations based upon it, the connotations of Raben’s incessant tune swiftly become all too apparent to the viewer. His is a musical formula that damningly passes judgement on the personality that inspires it – can a leopard really change its spots? Raben’s motif answers in the negative, acknowledging that Franz’s social demeanour may evolve and devolve with the passage of time (much like the alterations that the composer foments), but simultaneously noting that the violently guileless manchild at his core remains an unremitting constant (much like the everpresent melody). Pure intentions alone cannot instigate substantial change, and Franz’s theme eloquently comes to represent his valiantly futile attempts to escape his self. Moreover, its omnipresence performs a secondary, deceptively sinister function by fostering our innate affinity for comfort and security. In Alexanderplatz‘s turbulent terrain, Franz’s interminable descant assumes the role of a reassuring acquaintance – a familiar face amidst the endemic confusion that confronts the audience, as well as a reliable source of plain old-fashioned order. It’s a characteristically wry manoeuvre on Fassbinder’s part: for a motif that’s both an extension of Franz’s enslavement and an insignia for the status quo to act as a fount of relief is a startlingly subversive tactic, designed to transpose the viewer directly into our protagonist’s mindset. And it’s when surveying the surroundings from this privileged vantage point that one begins to truly fathom the solace that Franz finds in his social servitude.

Always as much evocateur as provocateur, Fassbinder’s guiding goal in both guises was to incite compassion by whatever means possible. With Raben’s musical accompaniment he manages to do so with his victims remaining unaware of it. Thus, we develop an attachment to Franz’s theme, to the point where one exercises distrust in the face of any alternatives. Reinhold and Mieze – the two great loves of Franz’s life – are each granted their own leitmotifs by the composer, with the fairground charm that informs the latter’s theme proving every bit as menacing as the howling woodwinds that define the former’s. Raben’s strategy here isn’t hard to crack: the malevolent spectre lurking within Reinhold’s refrain may initially seem more transparent, but the same ghost haunts Mieze’s motif in a less conspicuous manner. The gulf between the shimmering innocence that the composer conveys on her behalf and the sombre tones that envelop the rest of the film is an enormous one – too enormous, in fact, for the innocence to prove convincing. The daintiness of this over-girlish melody may offer an immediate respite from an otherwise glum soundtrack, but it’s differentiation ultimately betrays it as the mental conditioning engendered by the Fassbinder-Raben collaboration hastily triggers a base fear of the ‘other’. If Franz’s theme represents order, then Mieze’s is a social deviant that exists outside of society – and naturally, in Alexanderplatz‘s world, nothing can exist outside of the social order. And so the film’s sole hope of a fairytale romance is doomed to failure from the outset.

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“There is no cause for despair.”

Of course, one could argue that characters such as Franz and Mieze (with their shared naïveté) are simply ill-equipped to exist within the confines of a civilised society. On the other hand, Fassbinder’s presentation of society is anything but civilised. Lest we forget, Alexanderplatz is set during a critical juncture of history, and the tumults and upheavals of a nation on the perilous slide towards Nazism are hardly lost on a director as politically aware as this. In a film that’s dominated by pimps, thieves and whores, the issue of the Weimar Republic’s internal crisis becomes unavoidable from the get-go. Miles removed from the smoky cabarets of Berlin’s roaring twenties, Franz & co. function as stand-ins for the German commoner – individuals for whom everyday life hangs in a precarious balance. With an all-too palpable dearth in employment opportunities (consider how Franz drifts from menial job to menial job in the early episodes), the film’s pervasive criminality is soon stripped of its latent glamour and redressed with the proposition of necessity. Whether we choose to buy into such an argument is one of the film’s numerous moral quandaries. Crime may be ‘wrong’, but as Meck (initially Franz’s best friend) so convincingly states: “It’s the time we live in – we have to make ends meet.” Accordingly, we bear witness as the characters that we come to know (love?) sink into a ruthless, self-defeating cycle of corruption that exploits the weak and innocent for scanty financial gains. Greed is rampant (the film is littered with shots and sounds of Franz gorging on food), and economic deprivation has birthed a dog-eat-dog world of petty capitalism, where the struggle for integrity is replaced by a scramble for survival.

Painful ironies have always been abound in Fassbinder’s oeuvre, but in this desolate portrait of interwar Berlin he offers stark contextualisations that amplify their effect. Significantly, the first individual to show Franz any form of kindness following his release from Tegel is a Jew. Nevertheless, our ‘hero’ is later persuaded to flog copies of the Völkischer Beobachter in order to earn a living. Franz understandably meets hostility from former comrades as a result of this new profession, but one man – a fellow street vendor – wishes him luck in spite of the newspaper’s contents. That man later reveals himself to be Jewish, fully aware of the fact that the anti-Semitic propaganda which Franz disseminates paints him as an overweight and überwealthy undesirable. Much can be read into this curious encounter: is Fassbinder sabotaging a historical scapegoat by imbuing the character with personality traits perceptibly lacking in the film’s would-be Herrenvolk (dignity, kindness)? Or is he reverting back to type, rekindling one of his filmography’s staple arguments by implying that the oppressed are somehow complicit in their own oppression? (In an astonishing appearance during Alexanderplatz‘s bombastic coda, the same Jewish street vendor is seen wearing a concentration camp uniform whilst professing allegiance to Hitler.) For Fassbinder, the gift of benevolence is a double-edged sword – a sign of both strength and weakness that’s especially volatile in an environment under perpetual threat from the lurking shadows of fascism. In a film that’s first and foremost concerned with the insularity of its protagonist, those shadows are predominantly left to prowl in the background: voiceovers, intertitles and the slightest details in mise-en-scène form a quiet collective that alludes to off-screen space and the inclement narrative of a nation’s downfall. Occasionally however, tensions threaten to boil over into the story at hand, as in Part IX where Franz daydreams his way through a Leftist rally and subsequently debates (and decries) socialism with an ageing unionist. All the same, a few scenes later one finds him nonsensically regurgitating the arguments espoused at the meeting to a group of friends – only this time championing the ideology’s virtues. Politically, Franz is a worryingly blank slate: ignorant, hot-headed and willing to go whichever way the prevailing wind blows. Even more troubling is his alacrity when deferring to authoritative superiors. As the main plot threads wind to a close in Part XIII, Franz is granted a crucial vote after a conflict emerges inside his part-time gang. Wasting little time, the moustachioed, sexually ambiguous figure of Reinhardt instructs him where to cast his decider – and Franz conforms accordingly. If Franz really is a stand-in for the German everyman, then the parallels that Fassbinder makes with this exchange are nothing short of anathematising.

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“Let us speak of the destruction pain causes.”

Herbert, the fiancé of Franz’s friend/lover/guardian angel Eva, prophesies the following in Part VII: “There’ll be a bloodbath in Berlin that’ll really open people’s eyes!” In one sense, he’s unnervingly accurate, but in another he misses the point entirely; that is to say, there’s already something akin to a bloodbath in Berlin – but, with eyes wide shut, he (and indeed, most petit-bourgeois wannabes of his ilk) remains firmly oblivious to it. In Alexanderplatz, fascism as history understands it is a distant ideology, and one that’s ultimately beyond the comprehension of its populace. Fascism as Fassbinder portrays it however, is the by-product of a fissiparous soul; an insurmountable poverty of feeling during human interaction that exposes a chronic psychological malaise: whether through a fault in their nervous systems or a conscious survival tactic, his characters are unable to effectively process basic emotions. When at its most benign, their condition unfolds as callow foolhardiness (love, for example, is proclaimed freely and frequently, without ever being truly understood), but when malignant the disease mutates until it exhorts a cold-blooded detachment from humanity itself. This pathological callousness infects even the film’s most marginal figures, pointing towards an epidemic that invades far beyond Franz’s hermetic space. Following what is undoubtedly Alexanderplatz‘s pivotal turning point – an “accident” in which Franz loses an arm – the couple who inadvertently caused his misfortune engage in a strikingly glacial discussion. As our protagonist’s life potentially hangs in the balance underneath the wheels of their car, the pair veer off into quasi-moral dialectics on a mission to circumvent their culpability. “We couldn’t help it!”; “It’s his own fault!”; “We’re not to blame!” – their obdurate ethics are alarming, not least because they serve as an unsettling precursor to later, more damaging attempts to excuse oneself from responsibility (and thus, guilt). Though they eventually relent to the needs of their victim, the duo’s initial reluctance becomes symptomatic of a widespread reticence within the national character. In Fassbinder’s condemnatory thesis, the German people are both united and divided by a single uniform trait: soullessness.

Our encounter with the equivocating couple unearths another, similarly troublesome dynamic within the film – the subservience of women. Concluding their conversation at a moral crossroads, the female partner matter-of-factly states: “You must decide. You’re the man.” The director’s relationship with his heroines has forever been fraught with complications and contradictions. His ceaseless devotion to, and sympathy for, the plight of women inspires admiration, and yet his blistering brand of rage-frothing feminism can skirt dangerously close to the demesne of misogyny. Alexanderplatz‘s key females – Mieze and Eva – are both prostitutes, and although the film’s sisterhood as a whole is slightly (but only slightly) more diverse in its range of professions, it nonetheless becomes apparent that almost every woman who appears on screen does so as a sexual object. The notable exception is Frau Bast, Franz’s bizarrely comical landlady, who nonetheless upholds and even encourages her gender’s subordination; the director’s assertion that the oppressed partake in their own oppression getting more acute with each passing scene. Fassbinder’s females allow themselves to be defined and mis-defined by the males that crave them. They bear the scars of their men’s misdeeds, but they persist with their policies of patience, staying up all night as the lovers they wait for in vain commodify them to their hearts’ content. At one point, after Reinhold attempts to jettison another of his girlfriends in Franz’s direction, the latter declares: “I don’t want a new woman until the spring.” A glaring incongruity emerges here, for how can a man in possession of such grotesquely porcine features – poles apart from one’s typical ladykiller – find himself so able to cherrypick from members of the opposite sex? And how does this reflect on the women who inevitably fall for him? In the arena of gender politics, Fassbinder posits archetypes against stereotypes and watches with zeal as they tear themselves apart. His approach is a sort of defiant reductionism, whereby both sexes are undressed down to their basest caricatures in order to expose the degradation that occurs behind the veil of traditional gender roles. Somewhere within this miasma of abuse and servility then, a pro-feminist antithesis emerges: women need a voice, and the fact that they’re denied it (and moreover, that they’re unaware of its void) is one of the great tragedies of Alexanderplatz‘s Berlin. Its female citizens therefore anticipate the BRD trilogy‘s notorious heroines, with their actions and collective fate encapsulating the spirit of the nation as a whole. In the impoverished recesses of late 1920s Germany, can we really act surprised when headless women find themselves attracted to boorish louts based on charisma and the promise of a better future?

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“…for sometimes life’s too short for the eternity of feelings…”

Women certainly endure the majority of the film’s visible hardship. However, the director’s illustrations are nothing if not humanistic, and within his portrayal of female strife he discovers a quality that’s both redemptive and cathartic. Although they’re just as capable of misdeeds as their male counterparts (sometimes even proving themselves superior participants in the roundabout of delinquency), Alexanderplatz‘s subjugated damsels are far better attuned to their emotions – and in a world where emotional volatility governs everyday behaviour on a shared platform with prehistoric social codes, such differences prove fundamental. Repressed desire tortures this society, smothering its dwellers’ hearts whilst diverting their instincts towards increasingly savage outlets. Amidst this self-inflicted tyranny, it’s Mieze – the most childlike of all the film’s characters – who brushes off Eva’s accusation of lesbianism with a brazenly candid: “I just happen to like you.” Granted, she inherits a limited understanding of sexuality from the order that’s moulded her, but she’s also its sole owner of the open-mindedness that’s a requisite for meaningful change. As was the case with her predecessors in the role of Franz’s bedfellow, Mieze is only too ready to express her feelings, regardless of the mental (or indeed, physical) consequences of her honesty. It’s a trait that the film’s entire parade of discarded women attempt to use to their advantage; a weapon to spurn the tide of objectification that’s determined to consume them. With frank declarations of love and lust, they desperately forge attachments to their beaus in a bid to disguise their disposability and prolong their shelf-life – however momentarily. Meagre scraps these may well be, but the women of Fassbinder’s Germany have always been caught in an evergreen dilemma: required to trade in either their integrity for success, or their security for that most important of all things, love.

Love? “Love is colder than death”, or so affirms the English translation of an early Fassbinder title. The director would spend the ensuing years building an oeuvre to support his theory, crystallising his vision with the contorted, depraved, ghoulish notion of romance performed by Alexanderplatz‘s army of masochists. The importance of being carnal is dealt with in Part I, where a peculiar encounter with a prostitute unveils Franz’s erectile dysfunction. His potency is restored only by reverting to a past conquest (sister to his slain lover); his instant of climax punctuated with a frenzied cry: “Hallelujah! Franz Biberkopf has been released! Franz Biberkopf is free!” – the former prisoner thus betraying his (hetero?)sexual incarceration. With the issue resolved, Franz’s path to promiscuity becomes clear, and his appetite for sex voracious. His trademark kink, a Nosferatu-esque bite to his lover’s neck, exemplifies his dependency: he feasts on intercourse, requiring it to recharge and rejuvenate his being. As physical cravings take precedence over all else, relationships are borne not from affection, but through a primal thirst for copulation on the part of the men, and economic necessity and convenience on the part of the women. Love is debased and marginalised, a peripheral entity that lives unfashionably underground until the introduction of Mieze in Part VIII. It’s her appearance that initiates the film’s final, semi-romantic flourishes. Sunlight suddenly, miraculously showers down upon the frame, enlivening the stale colour palette, and the natural world beyond Berlin – heretofore invisible – is finally acknowledged, explored and exalted.

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“I need you, I don’t need you, I need you, I don’t need you.”

…but there’s a catch. For all that Mieze means to Franz, she’s not “the one he loves most” – an honour that he unconsciously acquiesces to Reinhold. Herein lies the decisive divergence in adaptation: Döblin’s rendering of this key relationship conceives Reinhold as an Angel of Death, and Franz as the wide-eyed ignorant who finds his promise of carnage irresistible; Fassbinder’s interpretation embeds gay codification into the narrative, divulging a mutual attraction (and incomprehensible love) that stealthily snakes its way through subtextual quagmires, rising to the fore during the film’s most volcanic paroxysms. Theirs is a maimed romance, expressed with barbs and venom as a result of the shared paralysis that prevents its actualisation – this is, after all, homosexual passion in a stringently heterosexual context. Gestures and glances touch upon the secret fissures within their souls whilst the director swathes his star-crossed duo with queer innuendo. Consider: Fassbinder’s appropriation of teen Americana’s movie tropes when the pair first lay eyes upon one another (Reinhold coyly sucks his soft drink through a straw whilst Franz looks on with a sheepish smile); the homoerotic subversion of a very masculine game of fußball, edited to zone in on the titillated faces of its two players as they jerk, thrust and perspire – slaves to their unbridled animalism; or the enthralling perversity that’s generated when Reinhold, architect of Franz’s anatomical misfortune, rashly stuffs his victim’s empty sleeve with his own undergarments in an outlandish bid to restore the amputee’s “symmetry”. With his cold (enig)magnetism, closeted physical strength and bumbling diction (stammered, as if exerting all his might to suppress the psychotic inclinations that lurk beneath), Reinhold offers the sort of sadistic sexual allure that’s a masochist’s – aka Franz’s – wet dream. Unable to consummate the love that he’s possibly oblivious to, Reinhold instead masterminds a plan that sees Franz sleeping with his cast-offs – a nefarious gambit in which the latter relinquishes control of his bed in exchange for the slightest semblance of physical intimacy with the former. Their egregious scheme exhibits the patriarchal order at its apex and, ergo, represents the absolute nadir in the standing of the film’s women; the vagina suffering from total denigration, disregarded as little more than a receptacle for illicit male desire. As Franz makes that initial, critical capitulation to Reinhold’s stratagem, the director’s camera collapses into hysteria, anxiously scampering around the room (a public toilet, no less), frantic in its bid to locate an escape route that’ll liberate the characters from their pre-formulated destinies. In the end however, the camera stumbles upon a home truth – there is no escape, and its lavish pans only entwine the pair further, binding them together definitively… forever and always.

Mieze’s entrance throws this fragile romance into disarray, exposing the all-consuming, corrosive force that constitutes its essence. Although Franz has long since opted out of Reinhold’s vitiating theatre of exchange, he’s done so at a cost (the loss of a limb). Needless to say, lawful society is only too willing to turn a blind eye when confronted with disability, and our protagonist consequently finds himself permanently entrenched within the criminal underworld that Reinhold roams; the tormentor continuing to torment. From the outset, Mieze poses a symbolic affront to this state of affairs. The first of Franz’s girlfriends to have been untouched by Reinhold since prior to the latter’s debut, she’s also quite notably installed in his life by a woman (Eva), thereby defying the hitherto masculine regulation of love. But what is love? Mieze’s presence functions as a catalyst for the film’s final, irreversible descent into chaos – a descent in which the director’s visceral ruminations on the subject settle into a state of funereal cognition. Alexanderplatz‘s emotions are fuelled by the malnourished society/economy in which they exist; avarice being the percolating outgrowth in this environment, emasculating all romantic impulses and leaving dehumanisation in its wake. Fassbinder’s outlook essentially hinges upon that most capitalist cornerstone of basic property rights, except in this case physical possessions are substituted for the emotional ownership of weaker partners. Herein lies the crux of the film’s love triangle. Franz’s ownership of Mieze defines their twisted relationship; one recalls his constant declarations of My Mieze!”, stemming from a disposition that marries an overprotective paternal instinct with the attitude of a spoilt child. Mieze’s unquestioning surrender marks an attempt to reciprocate Franz’s sentiments via negotiation in a scenario where her gender is congenitally disenfranchised; moreover, her obedience is restricted to her mind alone – physically, her profession necessitates a level of freedom that drives Franz to manic paranoia. Meanwhile, Reinhold’s ownership of Franz is attenuated by this entire male-female dynamic; as he’s made aware of the extent of the latter’s feelings for Mieze, an amalgam of dismay and envy dampens his otherwise sly demeanour – and he swiftly contrives to impair their domestic arrangement as a result. Thus, a catastrophe is born, each character driven by the fury of yearning for another beyond their grasp. As the stars begin to align for the narrative’s deleterious denouement, the sole private meeting between Alexanderplatz‘s ill-fated trio provokes a temporary lapse in the film’s detachment from its violence. The ensuing scene degenerates into a disarming rampage amidst a sea of Freudian mind games: Franz smuggles Reinhold into his bed (supplanting his possession of Mieze) in order to ‘surprise’ his lover; Mieze arrives and confesses her infidelity (his clasp weakens), before a cataclysm erupts from within him (memories of Ida… the cycle repeating itself…) that sets all three on an irrevocable path towards disaster. At some point during this excruciating cacophany of screaming (Mieze, Franz) and silence (Reinhold, Frau Bast), a bruised, bleeding Mieze assures her infuriated boyfriend: “I’m yours, Franz. I belong to you! You alone.” Her wilful objectification, her need to own and be owned, her ludicrous persistence – all function as a microcosm of a wider pandemic, echoed and epitomised by the film’s very last words: “He’s not yours. He belongs to me… to me…” Uttered by Franz in reference to Reinhold (who, in the interim, has pillaged his everything), the musing bitterly lays bare Fassbinder’s worldview: love is blind. Love is possessive. Love is destructive.

Love is all we need.

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“What do you think I’d see, if I could walk away from me?”

Franz. Oh, Franz. What to say about this mess of a man? Is he a brute, an oaf, a hapless barbarian? Or is he an innocent, a dewy-eyed cretin at the mercy of forces beyond his control? Over, what is for us, the duration of a real-time day, his own private saga unfolds as an inversed bildungsroman; the ending leaving little doubt as to his complete mental regression. Given Fassbinder’s gift for detail and the minimised temporal constraints of a new medium, his portrait of this tragic protagonist acquires a level of depth that’s staggering. As we bear witness to his trials and tribulations, Franz begins to resemble a close friend, the audience coming to care for him in spite of (or perhaps because of?) his copious flaws. Even so, for all the artistry and innovation that the director weaves into his tale, we observe Franz’s life from a relative distance as privileged voyeurs. And, truth be told, what can a voyeur really understand about their subject? We watch, we deduce, but never can we really know. Fassbinder’s incisive ventures inside his hero’s psyche are manifold, yet although he streams the findings from his studies directly into Alexanderplatz‘s spirited undercurrents, the bulk of his exposition remains camouflaged by the melodrama brewing overground. In a film that purports to examine the very fibre of being, the limitations faced by the audience are significant. By illuminating the darkest corners of a wretched soul, the director hoped to shine a light that would inspire a new breed of radical compassion – but such aspirations are impossible to realise if the compulsory incandescence fades out before reaching the mind’s most Cimmerian caverns. Astutely aware of this fact, Fassbinder saves his greatest pièce de résistance for last: a fantastical two-hour “epilogue” that spurs an intra-filmic revolution by taking us under the skin and into the subconscious itself. This explosive finale makes a clean break with its literary predecessor, disregarding the story’s natural closure and instead offering a postscript that speculates on Franz’s past whilst hypothesising his future – all the while perambulating inside those formerly unreachable caverns in the hero’s now rapidly disintegrating mind. Subtexts and intimations burst into the foreground while a kaleidoscopic array of unspoken sentiments resurface to taunt a prisoner who’s retreated into self-custody. Almost all of Alexanderplatz‘s citizens – dead or alive – return at some point during this personal inquisition; their material existence proving irrelevant for proceedings that occur in a spiritual netherworld. And it’s here that the director finally opens the floodgates and allows his entire panoply of influences to run riot. The film implodes into some sort of Punkxpressionist update of the Sturm und Drang, with a tendency to skew towards psycho-Biblical surrealism; the figurative itself becoming figurative. God and Satan brawl over Franz’s soul in one corner, the anima and animus wrestle for it in another. (Greed is good.) A phantasmagorical cavalcade of delirious imagery both throttles and emancipates the film; the underlying psychosis that’s coursed its way through the narrative reaching its breaking point. (Chaos reigns.) Fassbinder mercilessly plunges his audience deep into this chthonic abyss, a demoniacal mélange of fascism, religion and S&M that externalizes the decaying heart of his protagonist. (Punish me, torture me… let me live?) Time, so central to the film’s conceit, now dissipates before our eyes, an inadequate foe for the relentless subjectivity that gnaws at Franz’s soul. In the fevered collages of these final hours, desperation swells to the point of clarity – this fragmentary collection of reminiscences, what-ifs and never-was’ are coalescing for a reason: for a last-gasp attempt at redemption that only a prolonged confrontation with the self can procure.

Struggle is the father of all things. It is not by principles of humanity that man lives or is able to preserve himself above the animal world, but solely by means of the most brutal struggle. If ones does not fight, life will never be won. But Franz… what of Franz’s struggle? Our hero wanders as haphazardly through this apocalyptic reverie as he does through life, a passive protagonist in his own nightmare. Can he save himself? It soon becomes apparent that no one can; even the pair of angels assigned to oversee his journey find themselves bemoaning his being rather than guarding it. Yet Franz cannot wallow in this symbolic wasteland without stumbling upon a neverending series of gospel truths. Accordingly, it’s in these moments of candour where the magnitude of Fassbinder’s achievement hits home. Alexanderplatz spends thirteen hours clambering towards this psychological inferno – and the monumental weight of that grandiose odyssey allows for this indulgence in vision, imbuing it with its pathos and, of course, its unequivocal compassion. Although he aligns himself with the film’s marginal characters (more than one of whom is now revealed as a suicide victim), the director continues to extend his sympathy towards the leads that have abused and exploited them. Where else could the Mephistophelean figure of Reinhold, so poisonous a personality, be granted clemency for his misdeeds? There is a look, a single, devastating look which he and Franz share during this allegorical onslaught, which in itself manages to state everything that one could ever need to know about the anguish of forbidden love. Fassbinder understands this level of suffering, and therefore he understands and identifies with his fallen creations – at one stage implanting himself into this cinematic purgatory to demonstrate the point. Synergistically then, director and protagonist attempt to extinguish their demons on film, each looking to heal the open wounds caused by the pain of living because yes, in Alexanderplatz life is agony. But the film is nonetheless a paean to that very condition, and an ode to humanity in all its ugliness. Fassbinder’s masterstroke is to recognise that there is value in all life, no matter how grotesque – and as a result of this, he can’t help but rail against the mediocrity of the un-living. As this oneiric coda peters out, we meet our hero for one last rendezvous. Alas, this isn’t Franz as we once knew him. Devastated by the trauma inflicted upon him in his previous incarnation, and debilitated by the vitriol faced during his retreat into the self, Franz yields to the powers-that-be: he becomes a nondescript conformist, ordinary in every way. The director underlines the transition with a caustic remark: “There is nothing further to report about his life here.” The chagrin of orthodoxy has never felt so resounding. Still, there’s Fassbinder… what of his struggle? Thankfully, our protagonist’s compliance is offset by Rainer Werner’s undying transgression. In telling the story of Franz Biberkopf, the director creates his foremost act of defiance. Length, excess, virtuosity, and a cast of deplorables play into his rebellion, but Fassbinder’s principal violation remains unrelated to his cinema. Somewhere amidst the chaos of this epilogue, the familiar strains of Joplin, Cohen and Kraftwerk can be heard infiltrating the soundscape; the audience beckoned to acknowledge Alexanderplatz‘s enduring athanasia. It’s in this timeless context then, that Fassbinder takes a vile, but ultimately insignificant individual, and elevates a portion of his life unto the plane of the epic… the mythic… the tragic. And in doing so, he discovers the most elusive truth of all:                                                                     .

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“Sleep in heavenly peace,
sleep in heavenly peace.”

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