Angelus [Lech
Majewski, 2000]:
My reaction
to the film was very much similar to my reactions to two other films that I
recently saw; Wanda Gościmińska: A Textile Worker (1975) and ABC Book/The
Primer (1976) both directed by Wojciech Wiszniewski. These two films also approach both the
history and cultural identity of Poland in the last half of the 20th century
from a rather eccentric, somewhat sardonic perspective, and both are similarly
difficult to describe, in any critical capacity, without possessing a further appreciation
of the socio-political context that informs both the narrative and its critique. However, even with some of the more specific
references being lost in translation, the style of the film - the actual direction
of it - is unforgettable. There are hints
of Derek Jarman in the mix of the modern and the antiquated, in the presence of
art in every frame, and in the stylised 'tableau vivant' approach to
composition, which frequently recalls the spectre of actual paintings and their
ability to provide a commentary, through symbolism, that is consistent with the
stylisation of the film itself. The
humour, which is also imperative to the film's point of view, is reminiscent of
Roy Andersson, especially in the presentation of the central characters and in
the almost Buñuelian lampoon of contemporary domesticity, which adds to the
film's intelligent and often startling burlesque.
Larisa [Elem
Klimov, 1980]:
A tribute to
a woman who no longer exists, except in images, both moving and still. The voice of this woman - conjured,
phantom-like, from haunted recordings that suggest the continuation of a life
when only the traces remain - speaks, in clear terms, about the difficulties
faced by the individual, and of her own influences and ideological struggles,
as both an artist and a woman, to remain true to her own creative ambitions and
intent. The film - in short, a kind of
memorial piece, assembled by her husband as a response to his own state of tearful
mourning - is a celebration of the talent of this young woman (only forty at
the time of her death), and in essence becomes a declaration of love, from one
artist to another. It is a celebration
as well as a lament that attempts, through the combination of sound and image,
to honour the spirit of this woman, the filmmaker Larisa Shepitko, but also to
present, through images edited from her own films, the sadness felt, not just
by her husband - director Elem Klimov - but by her friends and associates left
broken in the wake of her death. In the
gallery of sad and hopeless faces, or in the scenes of pure anguish found in Shepitko's
own films - amongst them Krylya (1966) and The Ascent (1976) - Klimov is able
to express, movingly, but without sentimentality, an outpouring of his own
grief and admiration and the tragedy of his (and our) loss.
The
presentation of the film suggests, through the use of its running commentary,
both aural and visual, the strength of this woman, as expressed in her own
words, but also her enthusiasm and commitment to making films with a passion
and integrity that was distinct and entirely her own. In conversation with Klimov, the voice of Shepitko
outlines her conception of a "ladies' cinema", in opposition to the
more dominant "male cinema", and free of its persistent influence. As a hypothesis, this is both fascinating and
inspirational, but the real power of the film is found, not in these snippets
of conversation, but in the actual ability to show, through the arrangement of the
images - as literal "recorded memories" - the journey of a life. Beginning with a wordless montage of photographs
of Shepitko - from birth to death, or near enough - the film progresses through
the success and achievements of her professional career, beyond the last
attempts to film an adaptation of Valentin Rasputin's novel Farewell to Matyora,
and eventually reaching a kind of conclusion at the site of the accident that
claimed her life. The film ends with the
very last piece of footage ever directed by Shepitko. An image, described by Klimov himself as
"an eternal tree, the symbol of perseverance and dignity, the symbol of
faith in the endless continuation of what we call life." A final elegy, suggestive of the lasting
influence of this woman, as stoical and enduring as the tree itself.
The
Niklashausen Journey [Rainer Werner Fassbinder & Michael Fengler, 1970]:
Like the
earlier film, Why Does Herr R. Run Amok? (1970), The Niklashausen Journey is
co-credited to Fassbinder and his occasional producer Michael Fengler. Some of Fassbinder's closest collaborators,
amongst them the actress Hanna Schygulla, have since claimed that the true
"author" of Why Does Herr R. Run Amok? was in fact Fengler, and that
Fassbinder's name was only added to the production to help secure the film's
release. With this in mind, it becomes
even more difficult to ascertain the true authorship of a film as extraordinary
as The Niklashausen Journey, which, as a work, is thematically unlike any other
film that Fassbinder is best remembered for, and yet, at the same time, is a
film very much reminiscent, in both its approach and technique, of some of the
director's most significant and identifiable works. While the earlier Fassbinder/Fengler
collaboration had employed a loose cinéma vérité approach of drab colours,
hand-held camera and harsh (seemingly) natural light, the look and feel of The
Niklashausen Journey is comparatively much closer to the style of subsequent
Fassbinder films, such as Beware of a Holy Whore (1971) and Fear Eats the Soul
(1974). In those films as well as here, there
is a similar use of bold primary colours, lengthy tracking shots and the
rigorous composition of actors within the frame, each expressive of that early
Fassbinder style as it was developing through Love is Colder Than Death (1969)
to The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant (1972).
This
approach is also consistent with Fassbinder's early adoration for the work of
Jean-Luc Godard, with the influence of films like Week End (1967) and One Plus
One (also known as Sympathy for the Devil, 1968) conspicuous in both the film's
aggressive political dissertation and in the genuinely confrontational design. Like the Godard of the late 1960s and early 1970s,
The Niklashausen Journey is a loud, seemingly rambling and chaotic film, full
of didactic sermonising, agitprop sloganeering and a propensity for pure
provocation. As such, it is often
disregarded from the general discussion of Fassbinder's career, which to me
seems a bit of a shame. Although less
powerful than the work he would eventually direct after swapping the influence
of Godard for the influence of Sirk, The Niklashausen Journey is a no less a
fascinating portrait of a specific time and place. A portrait obfuscated by allegory and a loose
theatrical evocation that recalls the Straub-Huillet of the analogous Othon
(1970), but still redolent of the political situation as it existed in Germany
at the time the film was produced. As
such, it now seems of specific interest, not just for the confident and
imaginative direction of Fassbinder & Fengler, but for the historical
context that it provides.
