The Prisoners of Corona Island

by Lucía Salas, Patrick Holzapfel

La vida útil meets Jugend ohne Film

Cinema doesn’t die easily. It has been declared dead for ages and by now it must be one of the undead; a ghost haunting our dreams, nightmares, hopes and lives. In a time in which we are not allowed to go to cinemas around the globe we decided to start a little dialogue about the films we see at home. We always believe that cinema is necessary and useful but even more so in these times of insecurity and when a lot of our friends face a struggle to survive within the world of cinema. Since cinema is always alive when we talk and write about it, dream and think about it, this is our contribution to resurrect what will never be lost.

Monday, March 23, 2020

Patrick: It seems quite obvious that films always react to the world around them. Recently watching films took a very abstract turn in my perception but being forced to sit at home all day, I rediscovered the life inside the frame, the touches, the sensuality. Though I don’t necessarily think that watching this or that film is an act of solidarity, I feel drawn to images of or from Italy these days. I watched Un petit monastère en Toscane by Otar Iosseliani. It’s a beautiful film portraying the life around a monastery. The workers, the monks, the nature. Like often with Iosseliani everything holds together because of music. There is a co-existence of sacral music and folk songs. The peasant’s life is touched by God and the believer’s life is touched by the world we live in. Though it is a very hopeful film it also made me sad. It’s also a film about ways of life being lost.

Tuesday, March 24, 2020

Lucía: It is true that films always react to the world around them, even the way the world turned out to be after they appeared in it. So I have been mostly interested in seeing what I cannot see, which is people in places, now that space-travel has become almost as impossible as time travel because of the corona-sharks outside. Your monks and peasants took me to right across the border from where I am, to the French side of the Basque Country, as I watched Un petit monastère en Toscane and then, right after, Iosseliani’s Euskadi été 1982.  France now seems a lot farther than 25 km away. In this one the crew goes around some small villages of the region recording Basque parties and practices, as well as the infinite countryside. For example, in an amazing montage, an image of one woman shearing a sheep cuts to another woman, knitting. But I have a piece of life inside and out the frame for you: almost at the end of the film many people are on a stage for a town party and in the middle of a battle scene a little trap door opens in the stage and they throw the defeated enemies there (out of the frame). That image cuts to a shot from below the stage, where two actors receive their fellows surrounded by pillows (back to the frame). It impresses me very much when, after having watched something for almost an hour, I realize there is a second camera at work, which makes this cinematic magic trick possible: to be both in the stage and in the backstage while an action that will only take place once happens. Or perhaps (I can only hope) it is fake, and they were all plotting against us, and not only the filmmakers (as usual) but the characters too. As both films were made for the small screen (although perhaps not as small as a small computer), there’s still hope of being as close to the film as you can. I am glad your monks took me to France, as I hadn’t heard anyone speaking Euskera since the quarantine started (the film is half in French, half in Euskera). What I wonder is why on earth do your monks pray in French in the middle of all that Tuscan wine?

“quarantine in the basque country”

Wednesday, March 25, 2020

Patrick: Isn’t it curious how cinema can occupy places and geographies? We are writing about Tuscany or Basque Country as if we could really visit them, walk through their mountains and hills, lie in their gras and survive their cruel histories. I recall Alain Badiou’s notion about how cinema is able to possess a piece of music, to even change it. I think, he describes how he can’t listen to Mahler’s 5th without thinking of Venice (because of Visconti’s Morte a Venezia) anymore. Yet, I think this is also true for the place itself. Venice is not the same after having seen that film. In these attractive mental movements of an imagined lifelong quarantine, I wonder what would happen to all those places we know but can’t reach anymore. Would they become memory? Would they be forgotten? Or would they become cinema? Concerning your question about the language spoken in Un petit monastère en Toscane, I read a bit about it. The monastery is the Abbazia di Sant’Antimo, it has a long history and has changed since Iosseliani filmed there (maybe that’s why we didn’t get the film he promises at the end of this one) but at some point the French “chanoines réguliers de saint Augustin” moved there. They belong to the Premonstratensians and their task is to pray, sing songs and help the neighboring peasants. In itself this can maybe be seen as a metaphor for how cinema at its best might transform a landscape. It brings an aesthetic or spiritual truth into what’s already there and tries to help those who have to live. This brings me to two films I have seen inspired by your Basque ventures. Both are short films by Basque filmmaker Victor Erice, both were made as part of anthology films. Alumbramiento and Vidros Partidos. For now I only want to state that I won’t accept that there is no cinema of eventuality. As Erice shows we can imagine or fear without manipulating, there is an illusion which is also a reality. Maybe that is a comforting thought, maybe it is a nightmare. However, the landscapes, buildings, animals and people Erice films are transformed, they become a memory and still, I feel, they have a capacity of healing (not only for the viewer but for those involved). So is a filmmaker a Premonstratensian?

a dog dreaming (captured by Victor Erice)

Saturday, March 28, 2000

Lucía: Sorry for the delay in my response, my friend, I didn’t get coronavirus but I sure got the corona blues. There’s a common joke between the students from the film school here in which you are either an obedient follower of Oteiza or of Chillida, but never both Basque sculptors (I know, we need better jokes around these parts). This also happens often between cinephiles, and I always wonder if that’s the case with Victor Erice and Ivan Zulueta, as they both lived in San Sebastián and Madrid for so many years. I think they are both their own kind of Premonstratensians, only they might have different definitions for what praying, songs and helping the neighbors is. My recuperation from the corona-blues came strangely from Zulueta, a filmmaker that I would have never called a healer before, although I would have called him an exorcist. But I came across some of his short films, some of them as an animator and found footage filmmaker. In his film Aquarium he starts by animating the sky. Most precisely, the clouds that float in it. It appears to be a Super 8mm single-frame animation, a time-lapse of the clouds which allows you to perceive their movements, shapes and relationship to the sunlight by making everything go faster. Curious how it usually works the other way around: to really perceive a movement it helps to slow it down and de-compose it, like in Muybridge. But here, the possibility of watching everything going faster is what makes you see how all those particles behave, and how time flies. They also look like an army of smoke slowly taking over Madrid (if only there was an anti-corona cloud). What a task, to stay still for so many hours, regularly capturing the clouds as they pass by in order to create the illusion of a new movement for them in the film strip. It seems like a perfect task for the quarantine. To answer your thought around the reality of illusion, if it’s comforting or a nightmare, for now, I will go for comforting. All the animators of the world must be saner today than all the rest of us.

Speaking of which, way down east, in Asturias, there is another monastery, Monasterio de Santa María de Valdediós. There are places that you want to visit for the first time only after watching a film, and this is one. Elena Duque made a film last year called Valdediós, about this particular place. It’s a three minute film that takes the spirituality of the place and animates all over it, bringing the world and the stars literally to its doorstep. Valdediós touches on the explosive feeling that landscape can create within you and makes shapes and forms out of that, which, superimposed to the images of the place, create a whole new explosion. I watched this for the first time in a documentary film festival, after which a friend told me it could also be thought of as a documentary about an animator, which made me like it even more. This has its own reality.

Look at this still from the film: Imagine being able to take a photographic image of a horse and have the texture of the brush at the same time? It’s like having your cake and eating it too.

Sunday, March 29, 2020

Patrick: Your descriptions and thoughts brought forth in me a desire to see clouds. Outside I can see a lot of them. I imagine them looking at us. They seem friendly and indifferent. They won’t bring rain but they still block the light of the sun like Diogenes did with Alexander the Great. They are wiser than us. Allegedly we have more time these days. Some people I know treat this situation as if it was a meditation. I am not one of them. The clouds haven’t changed. Neither has the way I look at them. I think about James Benning’s Ten Skies and FAROCKI in which clouds are the protagonists. I feel too close to real clouds, real skies to really understand the merit of these films that remind us what it can mean to look. We exchanged some thoughts about the necessity to travel the world with cinema and though I am certain that cinema is also a school of seeing, I remain doubtful as to whether this applies for seeing films at home. I think, If I understand Ten Skies, it is in a cinema in which I am more or less entrapped in the dark and which might allow, after a busy day, to finally breathe, see, get closer to reality. Or, as you put it, to see how time flies. At home there is no need for it. I see the real clouds moving through the window behind my screen. Especially digital clouds (and I am not sure if I can trust Benning here?) have their way of reminding me what a lie cinema can be. Maybe it is the time for lies and illusions? (I have to remember that my dreams of riding on a cloud always end with rain.)

I also thought of Drifting Clouds by Aki Kaurismäki and Floating Clouds by Mikio Naruse. In the former (which I consider the most heartwarming film by this lover of people) there is a sense of reaching for the clouds when you’ve sunk so deep that you almost can’t see them anymore and in the latter there is a sense of of reaching for the clouds we once have known. Both films are melancholic to the bone and beautiful. Yet, both films also portray defeated societies and people. Which emotions can survive a war, a financial collapse, a loss of life? Is there a space for the touch, a kiss, a gesture of love? Of course there is, you just have to decide whether it’s an illusion or reality. Do you feel that in seeing films at home, time moves differently?

Monday, March 30, 2020

Lucía: We allegedly have more time, but time flies more than ever. Where did all my days go? Films also, they end quite sooner than before now from home, but they seem to be taking much more space. I think this is what they call distraction. But to answer your question, it may depend on the conditions for watching you have at home. I don’t have a TV or a projector where I am, so I watch films on my computer, and as time and space are indivisible, so is the  perception of time and the perception of space (I’m guessing here). So, in my small screen, smaller than myself, there is always less immersion, in both the space and the time of the film. Sometimes I try hard to tweak my perception to get lost (physically) in the sounds and images a little, and it works. Everything is smaller of course, but what would be the word for what happens to time? Is it more dispersed? What I would give for a screen bigger than myself (and for problems that are the exact opposite).

I was looking at some skies too, from inside two cars. In The United States of America Bette Gordon and James Benning drive from New York to Los Angeles with a camera attached to the back of their car (in the inside) in a way in which we can see them and the road ahead. In Lettre à mon ami Pol Cebé, Michel Desrois, José They and Antoine Bonfanti travel from Paris to Lille and back as members of the group Medvedkine to present the film Classe de lutte. Gordon and Benning appear to be silent, but they talk through the fragments they choose, both in image and in sound. The radio is always playing, songs and news, and we learn that the Vietnam war was about to end as they crossed the untouched territory of the losing side. Radio is almost gone, but TV is still here, still in the news and games business. Desrois, They and Bonfanti do talk, between them, to the friend who this letter is for, Pol Cèbe, and to everyone here at the house. They ask at the beginning why is taking film to the lab so expensive? And their answer is because film is a class instrument, as cinema is such a powerful tool. And joyfully (for them, for Pol Cèbe and for us) they take a good amount of film (color film stock!) and they write and capture comraderie all over the road. If time is money, then money should buy time, and it often seems that way. I wonder how we can continue to try and break that cycle now that we allegedly have more time, no space, no money, and we can’t get in the car with comrades and think or have such a conversation. I wonder this also because in The United States of America there’s a song that plays many times, as it is or was usual on the radio. It’s Minnie Riperton’s Loving You, a song I hadn’t heard in probably ten years, and I can’t help but think that this is how the new decade started. In the song she says And every day of my life is filled with lovin‘ you and, corny as it sounds and is, I am glad that we love cinema, as every day can be filled with something and some tools we have.

Speaking of time and skies, I leave you a few from João César Monteiro’s Branca de Neve.

Wednesday, April 1, 2020

Patrick: The beautiful clouds you sent make me think of three things at the same time: pubic hair, Robert Walser and John Wayne’s hips.

João César Monteiro has to be a companion these days. He always is. I remember reading the interview he conducted with himself and how he talks about his film Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen being a proof for the impossibility of filming poetry. In a poem of Sophia she talks about how volatile images are. She says that we are standing naked in front of living things and she asks whether any presence can satisfy the eternal urge within us. Those sentences have always reverberated in my heart. Looking at Monteiro’s clouds, it came to my mind we are not only looking at the clouds, we are also watching in the cloud. All these films that are now growing from the digital darkness like weeds, all those offers, all these films that can be downloaded, streamed. I have to run through my online garden with a hoe and scream: “Stop! Stop! I can’t see anything. I only see a big cloud!” I doubt these are the volatile images Sophia wrote about. This is an inflation, a senseless firework in which supply exceeds demand by a couple of lifespans. Who the hell is going to watch all those films? Is this the urge of cinema (culture) in times of its non-existence? Is it the purpose of cinema to be there for us or is it, as they make believe everywhere, that we are there for cinema if we continue seeing films (which films?) on this or that platform? I am not referring to the films we search for, I am referring to the ones we cannot hide from. Sometimes I wonder, whether we shouldn’t all just dream about the films we can’t see now. For example, I think I’d love it if you wrote to me about a film I have no chance of seeing at all in the near future. The cinema (cultural) world is under threat (has been as long as I remember) and I can understand certain reactions and ideas. It’s a struggle for survival, in this is certainly no time for ontological debates. Yet, the sheer speed in which after a couple of days solutions have been presented and we could read about how the crisis demanded certain reactions is a farce as far as I am concerned. The answer as to why this or that institution, festival or cinema shows films seems only to be: because if we don’t show films, we don’t exist. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? The reason for showing films online is in most cases not one of solidarity but one of a digital marketplace that was very ready to be what it is now before there was a pandemic. I understand that this may come across rather cynical as there are people involved and their well being depends on these things and I am not one to talk because I also need a festival to happen in order to have enough money. It’s absurd and this is what I state. Camus wrote in his diary that people cry about and desire exactly what they are humiliated by. He calls it the great misery of humanity.

I think about Monteiro’s famous assessment that you are poorer if you don’t go to the cinema. I think this would be a start, to admit that we are poorer now instead of indulging into all kinds of cinephile euphorias, utopias, dystopias and self-important messages. Films can be a plaster for our wounds these days, they can help us, they can make us richer while we are poorer. The rest is cinema as a slave and I find it disquietingly funny that those who put everything online at the same time declare that now is a time to rethink some ideas we have about life. I hope nobody is believing into online utopias anymore while discussing things on corporate chat rooms under government surveillance. A good example for the real kind of help and plaster art and culture can offer is Krsto Papić’s Let Our Voices Be Heard, Too. It’s a little treasure from Former Yugoslavia about pirate radios in the countryside. It shows the love and resistance that goes into sharing knowledge and pleasure. Toward the end of the film we see how the equipment is confiscated by the authorities. The camera pans over cables and machines and somehow the radio suddenly seems to be a bomb. There is a difference between weeds and a bomb. I think I know which metaphor for cinema Monteiro would have preferred. But I am only guessing, of course.

Sunday, April 5, 2020

Lucia: The image of you, screaming in your online garden with a hoe, opened this tab in my mind’s browser:

Young Wittgenstein, overwhelmed in Derek Jarman’s film. The fact that most things that exist around cinema (the film world) are there only to perpetuate themselves and have little to do with cinema is no news to any of us. Perhaps the news is that this is not unavoidable as we used to believe, as its permanence in the future may not be automatic and may even not be at all. I disagree with one thing you say: I do think there is no better time to be ontological, at least for us, the non-essential. What I gave up on are solitary conclusions.

I am also overwhelmed, hoe in hand, in the cloud. But, speaking of pirates, I am a film pirate (and I suspect you are too). I recently read a fellow pirate making a joke about how everyone is downloading or streaming now the things we downloaded illegally ages ago. The cloud has been there for a while, but now it’s a little more out there and in the weird shape of a mandate. Before it was a secret cloud, a whispered cloud, a word-to-mouth cloud. So, in this increasingly polluted virtual world, I keep to my fellow pirates, now a little more under the sun, and try to see what they are up to. What I mean is that, in order not to follow my current ever present urge to jump out the window (which would achieve nothing really, I live on the first floor), I ignore anything that is not organized around some form of thought or community. I agree we are poorer now (in absolutely any possible meaning) but there is still some movement out there. Film societies and clubs are emerging in different platforms, ways of collective watching and discussing. It is absolutely not the same as coexisting in a real space, which is fundamental, irreplaceable and what I desire the most. But from this, I gather that, contrary to what I believed shortly before the pandemic in my most apocalyptic cynical moments, the need to be close to films and to the people who we want to discuss them with, friends and strangers, is still essential.

This is my way of thanking you for your radio pirates, Krsto Papić’s Let Our Voices Be Heard, Too which I had never heard of before and made my quarantine worthwhile. The note on which it ends, that the things you love cannot be destroyed, is perfect for today. This made me go back to two films around radios, Gianfranco Annichini’s Radio Belén and Sebastian Lingiardi’s Sip’ohi, el lugar del manduré. Radio Belén is shot in a radio station from the neighborhood of Belén, Iquitos which they call the Venice of the Amazonas, as it is built over the water. Sip’ohi was shot in El Sauzalito, a small city in the Argentinian northeast, Chaco, and around a wichí radio station. These two films are built around the importance that the stations have for the community, concentrating in the amount of detail with which they cover the needs of everyday life (announcing and inviting to celebrations, bringing news, narrating stories, entertaining) while they reflect on how these communications have a very short range, which keeps them inside the community only. In Radio Belén, this short rage of the radio waves is contrasted with the images taken from the place, which show the precarity of life around Belén and will travel with the film. But in both of them there is also a thought or two around how, even if this short-range might seem like a menace to the permanence of the cultures they belong to, this opacity could also work as protection. Against what? In Sip’ohi, two characters have a conversation close to the river about the oral nature of wichí culture and the complexity of sharing that outside the community, especially with the white population, by recording, translating or transcribing. They ask themselves what is recognition, for a culture to be recognized, and who are the subjects on both sides of this recognition. Their problem so far has been that people had come, taken the information and never returned, leaving them with nothing. The film was released in 2011, a moment in which, at least in the Spanish-speaking world, hybridity was starting to settle as the key world in thinking about documentary film practice. The film’s answer to its time, and the character’s predicament, was that the true political agency of this hybridity was not only in looking inside the conventions of cinema and the self to difuminate or re-write them but also in thinking with others instead of about others. And that this collective thinking (with people, places and times) would create a form of its own.

I don’t have films that would be only available to me and not you right now, but I have a memory, which is similar. I grew up in a small city which is located in a sparsely populated territory in which a lot of people live far from a town or any other place where you can find people. So every evening the local radio stations would have something called “Mensaje al poblador rural” (message to the rural people) which would broadcast messages. They were usually about travels, crops and shearing seasons. I can’t count how many times I heard as a child that someone would arrive at the station on Tuesday at 9 am and wondered if, when Tuesday came, there would be someone to pick them up from the station.

I saw a few more films by Papić after your pirates. I send you these images from Halo München, shot in Zagora. It says at the beginning of the film that the area was always known as the land of the rocks and the poor and that many people leave from there. In this scene, everyone gathers around the mailman to get their correspondence, letters from all over the world. From one friend in a lockdown very far from home, to another:

 

Monday, April 6, 2020

Patrick: “Along with murder, piracy is one of mankind’s oldest practices.“. This is one of the first sentences said by Bud Spencer in Ermanno Olmi’s wild Cantando dietro i paraventi. I couldn’t resist putting it here, though in no way I think of murder when I think of piracy. Yet, both can be acts of love.

I am not sure if it is customary for pirates to send letters. Yet, I sympathise with the pirate who shares such beautiful memories as well as with all those pirates who share their booty. Somehow, my life as a pirate has always been on dry land. Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island is maybe the most important book of my life, it was given to me on the Canary Islands and I read it seven times in a row. What sticks most with me is not its sense of adventure, it is the longing for it. I remember loving the beginning so much, I lived with Jim Hawkins at the inn, I observed all those creatures of the sea coming and going like ebb and flow. I stayed in my room, heard their voices and laughter turning into desire and expectation. Imagining being a pirate, dreaming about buried gold and reading maps has always been closer to me than actually setting sail. Sometimes I wonder whether this makes me a fool or coward but then I think it takes a lot of courage to dream. We shouldn’t forget that in the Arabic language Riḥla refers to a journey as well as the written account of it. It’s maybe a more solitary occupation but dreams can be shared, too. The endless episodes at another inn of literature, in Don Quixote, are another milestone in my coming to realise that sometimes the story is the life and vice versa. I wonder if those prisoners on Corona Island, those who are fortunate enough to be healthy and to be able to move on the island, all meet at the local inn. They drink and share their stories and fears, hopes and enthusiasms. But then, I know that it is not allowed to go into an inn. Let’s take it as metaphor and think about Maurice Tourneur’s Treasure Island, a lost film, one of those we can only dream about.

So, I was browsing through all the pirates I know in cinema, from Anne of the Indies to Jacques Rivette, Paul Henreid in Frank Borzage’s The Spanish Main to Anita Morgan in Henry King’s Hell Harbor. It’s a lost genre, buried deep underground by Walt Disney. Maybe someday a group of fearless adventurers will find a map, arrive at a distant island and dig it out.

Then I came across somebody who could be called a pirate (who would defeat a whole armada of pirates though) and who surely backs my notions of Riḥla: Der Baron von Münchhausen. I watched Karel Zeman’s stunning film Baron Prášil, a otherworldly ode to fantasy, a romantic tale about the closeness of adventures and love, Georges Méliès and the Lumière Brothers, the moon and the earth. As we wrote about clouds I couldn’t help feeling that this is another film about looking up. Be it the moon, the clouds, some God, a radio signal, all that seems important and since you insisted on the ontological questions, I have to refer to Jean-Luc Godard’s idea of cinema as something which you look up to whereas television (and laptops) are things you look down at. Where do you look at when you are listening to the radio?

Here I send you two images from Karel Zeman’s work with animation and dreams:

Thursday, April 9, 2020

Lucía: Good question. My grandmother listened to the radio all day as she worked in her sewing, my grandfather listened to it in the car while driving all around town, and I listen to it while I do any mechanical task (less and less in my line of work, if I ever work again), knit or cook. So I guess when you listen to the radio you look at your hands and whatever is keeping them busy. Or out the window. It would be nice to have a corona island radio station where we all could hear the same things at the same time. The other day someone interviewed Godard and streamed it on Instagram, and I couldn’t pay attention to anything but the comments from the people that were tuning in (around 4000 people). Some of them were friends and we even said hi. There were three types of social media posts after it: posts on how handsome Godard looked, posts of people showing that they themselves were in the streaming when their names showed up on the screen, and people who found friends and captured their fleeting comments.

A few weeks ago, when you could go places, there was a screening of Michael Pilz’s last film in Rotterdam. The film is called With Love – Volume One 1987-1996 and it is composed of footage from his personal archive, being the personal his friends and loved ones talking and going places. He said after the screening that he found that he could not always pay attention to what people were saying when facing footage like that, as he kept mostly looking at the faces and the way they move. I felt relieved, as this happens to me often with the final result of feeling stupid, and it happened during the Godard streaming, when if I could take my eyes out of the comments and constant stream of little hearts (unblessed) I could only concentrate on his movements, especially that giant cigar. The interviewer didn’t have a cigar, he had one of those masks that are the new gold.

I miss looking up to see a film terribly. Some days ago Tsai Ming-Liang’s Rizi was available online, one of the last films I looked up to watch, as I saw it in a huge theater with probably more than a thousand people. I was very close to the screen looking up and having a terrific time while a lady breathed, deeply asleep, and people coughed every once in a while without feeling like murderers. You could look at a giant projection of the bodies of two men touching, can you imagine? As the internet shows, you don’t need space to be alone, but you do need space to be together. The longest part of the film is a sex work scene including a massage. In such a screen you could feel the pressing of the muscles as if there were your own, feel the time as it was your own, your life fugaciously transformed by the relationship between the lives of these two characters. That’s what days could be like. Going back to an old question, I do think now that time moves differently when you watch a film on a computer. It is also not the same to fall asleep in a theater than at home, watching films in bed, where you are supposed to sleep already.

But these I watched in the past and not in captivity, so one from the island: speaking of dreams, I have been reading Jerry Lewis’ biography and films. His friendship with Dean Martin consolidated also in a hotel room, a late night of four friends goofing around until daybreak. A friendship based ob crafting amusement together. In their film debut, years later, they plair their (later) usual part of a couple made out of two friends who have built their survival together, living in the same room, working the same jobs and trying to make it together as the handsome man and the monkey. Their first musical number in My friend Irma happens in a fancy restaurant where they are eating with their manager, his girlfriend Irma and her friend and roommate. Soon they realize that the deal is that they have to sing for their food, so Martin sings a song and then Lewis comes along, pretending to interrupt and asking for another song. Lewis says everything wrong, even the declination of the phrases, to the point to which Martin inquires if he’s asking him or telling him something, to which Lewis answers: I am wondering. Neither asking nor telling, nothing fixed, all in movement. Finally, Martin asks Lewis to be his human instrument as he sings the Donkey Serenade. While Martin goes handsomely into the song, Lewis is freaked out from the effort of making those sounds with his mouth, pretty much like when you have to beat egg whites until stiff but you don’t have an electric mixer. It ends on an amazingly sustained note. Monkeys and donkeys, the perfect cure for the corona-blues:

Btw, the song they sing is a version of this one.

Saturday, April 11, 2020

Patrick: As far back as I remember, Jerry Lewis has always been a cure. There is something deeply satisfying and consoling about his screen presence. It’s even beyond the purity of laughter itself. I think it has to do with his portrayals of “weakness” and “strength”. He always manages to show that neither of those attributes really exists. Weaknesses can turn into strengths and strengths are ridiculous and may lead into catastrophes. The moment he shows that strength does not really exist, he gives us a political cure and once he turns to weakness he gives us a spiritual cure. The best thing, as you rightfully pointed out, is that he cures while he is dancing, singing, jumping, screaming, rolling on the floor. It’s music and music has a healing effect in itself.

I decided for an overdose of this specific cure and spend a night watching That’s My Boy, Visit to a Small Planet, The Bellboy, Three on a Couch and his appearance in Jerry Seinfeld’s Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. Since I am still drugged, I can only share two observations.

a: In Visit to a Small Planet his character (Kreton) gives a completely new meaning to the moon and all this business of looking up (to it). He says that the moon was the last stop for gas before mars.

b: After a couple of hours with those films there are only two solutions. Either you go completely crazy (if you identify with what is going on, one may call this a superficial viewing experience) or you go completely sane (if you look for the details, appreciate the work, observe the virtuose anatomy of each gag). I have yet to decide where I am heading but my feeling is that I might just get insanely sane or at least, disorderly orderly.

I wonder, does cinema in these days also inspire you to live? To me, cinema means most when it teaches me about how to be, how to act as a person in the world outside of cinema.

I wanted to share this image of one of the greatest letter writers I know of: D.H. Lawrence. In one of his letters he writes: “It isn’t the scenery one lives by, but the freedom of moving about alone.” Aldous Huxley wrote a great essay on Lawrence in which he deals with the conflict between a solitary life as an artist and the need for social and bodily contact. It made me think about a lot of things. For example, about the pleasure and need of writing letters and sharing our solitary experiences. After all, as Lawrence also wrote in one of his letters, the art of writing was also a cure, a cure for the writer and (maybe) the reader.   

Monday, April 13, 2020

Lucía: you reminded me of an anecdote from Jerry Lewis’ autobiography. Things with Dean Martin are not going well, he can’t get out of unwanted contracts and he just had his first of many cardiac arrests, so he decides to call a psychiatrist friend. He goes into the office, very fancy and manly, and tells the guy what’s wrong, to which the guy says that he sees there might be a conflict in Jerry starting analysis. There is a danger that the pain may leave and therefore there wouldn’t be any reason for Jerry to be funny anymore. Just enough to never ever laugh again while watching Cracking-up. Or else, to laugh a little more hysterically. By the way, how was Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee? I always wanted to watch his episode, but the normalized display of wealth that all its advertising had made me run the other way. It’s silly, we all know these people are filthy rich, but there’s something about the unfunny way in which they seem to handle that transparency that repulses me.

I go to cinema to learn how to live much more than I would dare to admit. I sometimes fear that one day I will see a film and realize I have been walking funny my whole life. My favorite make-up advice (and the only one I have) I got from Nancy Allen in Brian de Palma’s Blow Out. When I watched Hiroatsu Suzuki’s film Terra, I thought that if we all knew how natural coal was made we wouldn’t use so much of it. Today I watched Ogawa’s A Japanese Village, and as I was watching these people figure out why the crops were going so bad, I had the same feeling with rice, and as I saw a speedy image of how rise blooms -it takes it 45 minutes to open- I thought I should sprout some legumes in order to see something grow next to me, as in Spain all recreation outside is still forbidden. So I asked a few friends whether they would like to grow sprouts in their homes and then share pictures of their growth with each other. One of them said yes and immediately roasted me with a vimeo link. The film is called Lea e il gomitolo (Lea and the ball), starring the Italian comedian Lea Giunchi. It’s from 1913. Lea’s parents are telling her that she shouldn’t read but knit, and they sit her down to work. But as soon as they are gone she loses her yarn and trashes the whole house looking for it. The ball, of course, was hanging from the back of her skirt the whole time. My friend sent it as a response to the tyranny of the domestic we are living right now (us, who were not too tied to it before, as other women were before corona) and also as a viable possibility. We are trying to stay sane by creating temporary ways of life which can produce some sense of joy within the conditions of the confinement, taking time to bake obsessively, knit, reorganize the home or make things grow on lentils. But there’s also Lea’s way, just trash everything and sit down to read among your ruins.

An ambitious crossover between Ogawa and Lea: there’s a scene in Dennis the Menace in which people are gathered to watch the blossoming of a forty-year old orchid that will only do so once, that night. Meanwhile, Daniel realizes there’s a burglar in the house and runs outside to tell everyone. He starts screaming in the exact moment in which the orchid opens up, and when people finally turn their heads towards the flower, it has already withered. Like the opening poem of Joan Didion’s The year of magical thinking:

Life changes fast.

Life changes in the instant.

You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.

The question of self-pity.

Films also help with grief, and we are grieving our future lives as much as our past ones. What about the question of self-pity?

Friday, April 17, 2020

Patrick: now you left me with the difficult task of having to dwell on two topics that provoke an ocean of thoughts: firstly, you asked about a display of wealth and secondly, you were concerned with the question of self-pity. The crux of the matter is that both topics seem to cross, to be related. I watched a couple of episodes of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. To be honest, despite having heard about it here and there, I didn’t really know what’s it all about. I also don’t know what Seinfeld is all about and to be honest, none of that did change after watching those episodes. Nevertheless, I got the certain feeling that it’s not for me to “get it”. It’s about something else and this something else is a provocation. It’s very close to certain hip-hop artists but instead of promoting an escapist or sexist approach to political sexuality, here there is this metaphor of cars, a certain elitism and a very fake way of imitating friendship and even the feeling of comedians being one big family. It’s still funny in the way that it can be funny to hear a good joke by your tax collector. It’s a test for your individual amount of empathy necessary to laugh. Accidentally this is also a documentary about the lack of personality and reflection necessary “to make it”. It mirrors Malcolm McDowell’s capitalistic ventures in Lindsay Anderson’s allegorical odyssey O Lucky Man!. Just be lucky and smile. You look at all those smooth surfaces, this sassy slickness and with exception of the very old guests of the show (they don’t care anymore), you can feel the tremendous pressure of someone having to be funny, while being escorted in a car that costs more than almost all salaries of those combined who are supposed to laugh about it.

But then, from Chaplin on there has always been a conflict between laughter and wealth. While Chaplin as one of the richest men promoted an idea of poverty, those people in their unaffordable cars and Hollywood mansions, give the impression of being like you and me. They talk as if they had the same problems and I don’t mean those that money can’t solve. It’s intriguing. Could this be you and me? Film people at home writing emails? As to Jerry Lewis, he was rich and funny. As you said, he was not always funny. Maybe it’s also a luxury to be funny in a way that seems to transcend the class you live in? Today it becomes clearer than ever that “home” means not the same for everybody. If I look at the homes of football players sending videos from their so-called quarantine (not even funny), I get the feeling that they are not even living on the same planet. But what about the question of self-pity?

I can only say that for me the problem of that specific question is that it is already conceived as an answer. Sometimes though self-pity is a reason to laugh. Isn’t Jerry Lewis’ The Nutty Professor a great film about self-pity? Isn’t a lot of great comedy about states of self-referentiality that we as an audience can see from the outside and therefore either laugh or cry about it?

For a lecture in self-compassion I also recommend reading the diaries of Thomas Mann. As a writer he never fails to show how close isolation, sickness and self-referentiality are. Borges once wrote that great writing is often about getting closer and closer to a character. Every step in a story is only there for us to get closer. I wonder whether getting closer automatically means getting closer to self-referentiality. Maybe, if I write or talk or make a film about myself, I am bound to pity myself. Otherwise you wouldn’t see my vulnerabilities, my insolence, my weaknesses. The poor wretch that I am! Those poor fellows in their cars getting coffee? Although I love so many books written in the first person and/or dealing with an “I”, I have to say that in cinema it’s quite the opposite. I think in cinema there is a chance of truly looking at the other. It’s just difficult. A beautiful example for a cinema of self-pity that is also decidedly a cinema about the other is Peter Nestler’s Am Siel. “To look at the little trickle that I am.”, speaks the voice of the sluice. Robert Wolfgang Schnell speaks with the voice of the sluice, it’s the voice of the other, the voice of what society ignores. In a couple of minutes Nestler proposes a different way to look at the world, not through your own eyes but through those of the other. It’s beautiful and sad.

Monday, April 20, 2020

Lucía: You wonder whether getting closer automatically means getting closer to self-referentiality. I have a photo album for this lockdown situation made of images that mirror how this whole corona thing feels like. This is the latest, from The Family Jewels:

In the introduction of a collection of her essays under the title Senses of the Subject, Judith Butler writes: …”I do not always encumber the first person with scare quotes*, but I am letting you know that when I say “I“, I mean you, too, and all those who come to use the pronoun or to speak in a language that inflects the first person in a different way.” A quote that I read for the first time for a class called The Aesthetics of Politics. What the quote describes is definitely a esthetics of politics by use of the pronoun I. Some people say I in a way that is close to we, but not as assuming, and some people just mean “me”. There’s a story by Lucía Berlin called “Point of View” in which she asks the reader to imagine a story by Chekhov in the first person. We would feel embarrassed, she says, because we are all pretty insecure. And then she tells us about this woman she’s writing about, and tries to write a presentation of the character in the first person, which sounds pretty bleak. It actually sounds like something we say in Spanish to which there is no direct translation, vergüenza ajena. It’s like being embarrassed on behalf of someone else, only that saying “on behalf” sounds much more polite than the cruelty behind the term vergüenza ajena. Berlin continues to say that in the story nothing happens, but she wants to write everything with such detail that you won’t help but to feel for the woman, with some passages in which she narrates Henrietta, now always in the third person. This invented woman has habits, a job, a house, things she doesn’t own and wants, some of which are things that Berlin has, does or has seen. At the end of the story Henrietta hears a car approaching the phone booth outside her house and leans against the windows to listen to the music coming from this car. The story ends with these lines: “In the steam of the glass I write a word. What? My Name? A man’s name? Henrietta? Love? Whatever it is I erase it quickly before anyone can see.”

Between Butler and Berlin there has been a change of paradigm regarding the use of “I” in writing and filmmaking for sure, which changed fiction a lot. Still, sometimes an “I“ here or there can give you goosebumps. Or, there are many ways of being naked, and it is all a question of craft. In the aesthetics of politics sense of this matter, it’s like Judge Priest-Will Rogers says: The first thing I learned in politics is when to say ain’t.

Speaking of Will Rogers and going back to the display of wealth (and health, which commands this domiciliary confinement), one scene from John Ford’s Doctor Bull: the doctor goes to see an ill teenager servant, Mamie. It is the morning, and he’s been up all night delivering a baby. While the doctor is in the room, Mamie’s rich employers walk in with food for the people at the house. The doctor leaves Mamie’s room, as she has died, and after a while the rich ask him why wasn’t he there the night before, as he might have been able to save her. But he doesn’t think so, as 30% of the people die of this illness and you need to have the strength, as probably the rich employers would but their employees did not. As they leave, offended by his comments, they ask for his bill to be sent to them to take care of it, after all, she worked for them. The doctor answers: yes, she worked for you, there can’t be any doubt of that. I wonder if the food presents are like the lockdowns, they will help, but for something not to be deadly you need to be properly fed from the day you were born, among other things, and we are all grown up. A police car just stopped in our corner. The police went outside, played a children’s song, danced to it, screamed a few things with their speakers (I didn’t understand, it was in Euskera) and drove away. Rage and vergüenza ajena.

*What a funny name for them, scare quotes. Ah, English.

Tuesday, April 21, 2020

Patrick:

According to one of your poems, your most perfect love was your love for the mirror. Who do you see in it?

The other that I am. (The truth is that I’ve got a certain fear of mirrors.) Occasionally we come together. Almost always when I write.

This is from an interview with Alejandra Pizarnik.

no idea what she was saying! . . till she began trying to . . . delude herself . . . it was not hers at all . . . not her voice at all . . . and no doubt would have . . . vital she should . . . was on the point . . . after long efforts . . . when suddenly she felt . . . gradually she felt . . . her lips moving . . . imagine! . . her lips moving!

This is from Samuel Beckett’s “Not I“.

It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both; and from an early date, even before the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell with pleasure, as a beloved day-dream, on the thought of the separation of these elements.

This is from Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde“

I think I have to defend the first person as a person you know better than me. Since I am not writing in my mother tongue (a language in which the use of first person, for example in film criticism, is a sort of taboo), my first person here (and elsewhere; everywhere to be precise) is like a distorted mirror, a collection of ideas which I loose between my mirror and my bad use of language. So my first person is nobody I know, it’s just an impossibility (as if there weren’t already enough impossibilities). Still, I decided that it has to be a me that defends the first person today. I am neither a scholar nor a historian of language, we (which is also another way to say I) can say that I am a user, for user seems to be a common word that can be applied to almost anything, a word that means nothing without asking the question: what do you use? Thank you for asking, I use the I. Why do you use the I? I think it is because I want to make sure it’s nobody else and also because I want to be able to make mistakes, be uncertain, be weak. I can’t ask you or us or them to be wrong, to be me, to be lost between a mirror and a bad use of language. But I is not me either. It’s not even my point-of-view. I is somebody (I prefer I to be a somebody instead of a something) sitting in-between, in the middle, building a bridge. Let’s call I a translator. A translator for what I couldn’t say or write myself. Like every translator I has to work very hard to get it right. I might make mistakes, I might consult a dictionary and then move on freely, find words that are an approximation (for approximations are, if I am not mistaken, what Alejandra Pizarnik defined her poetry as.) I is never really there I just wants to be, I tries to exist, I is an approximation to life, to be alive, to be myself. In the best case I am possible for a sentence or two and then it is you or them or nobody who gets goosebumps.

If I am not myself, I am happy.

The opening sequence of Ruben Mamoulian’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is a perfect translation of this impossibility into the medium of film. The camera takes the point-of-view of Dr. Jekyll (who as we/I know is not the most stable human being when it comes to be a first person only) as he walks through his house, meets his butler and heads to university. In a decisive moment he looks into a mirror (not yet distorted) in which we see the face of Frederic March, strangely displaced, as if it wasn’t really him, a distant face, a face that belongs to the I of the camera as well as the eye to the camera/the other. It’s in these first moments of the film that the whole story, the fascinating horror and beauty of being a first person is revealed in all its complexity.

Saturday, April 25, 2020

Lucia: If I am not myself I am happy. So am I, my friend. What a drag it is to be trapped inside oneself at times! Plenty of that in this lockdown. All day, from the moment the sun rises -whenever that means for each one of us- we are doomed. On the bad days, I dread daybreak. On one of those days, a song by Rafael Berrio comes floating from my partner’s computer. The name of the song is Amanece, which is not sunrise but something like the sun rises, and it starts: The sun rises, ¿what for? My mind answers: for nothing, absolutely nothing.

But whenever I hear the word Amanece my mind automátically completes: y ya está con los ojos abiertos. In English, something like: the sun rises / and his eyes are already open. The beginning of each section of Juan José Saer’s The Regal Lemon Tree. Those words, the image of them as they are arranged on the page, so many times, and the pause between them, is the image of restlessness and grief:

Amanece

Y ya está con los ojos abiertos

The waiting, nothing to wait for. Waiting for the dawn. ¿What for? But the song moves forward, after asking the question many times: a beautiful first question of the day. It had never occurred to me to call that question beautiful. And the song continues here and there: I don’t know why the sun rises / the sun rises. I guess what is beautiful in the question is that you don’t know, it just happens. And if you don’t ask, it also happens.

In reminded me of a scene in Ted Fendt’s Classical Period, where a friend with insomnia goes for a walk before she is able to go to sleep and runs into a friend who woke up early, as the day breaks. The sun is not out yet, so the light is very dim and the street lights are still on.  The day is no more than a possibility at that hour. Also, the opening of Jean-Claude Biette’s Le Champignon de Carpathes, dawn on the first day after Chernobyl, of which Jean-Claude Guiguet wrote: when the sky and the earth get confused with one another, where the first color cloud stretches. Yet another possibility.

This week’s program at Kino Slang is built from a film called Le monde comme in ne vais pas by Jean-Luc Godard and Cela s’appelle l’aurore, by Luis Buñuel. It’s Called The Dawn:

„The film is a remarkable adaptation by Buñuel of a fine novel by Emmauel Roblès, who took the title from the last line of Jean Giraudoux’s play Electre:

NARSÈS:  What is it called when the sun rises, like today, and everything has been ransacked, everything is devastated, but you can still breathe the air, and everything is lost, the city is burning, and innocent people are killing each other, but the guilty are in their death throes in some corner of the daybreak?

ELECTRE:  Ask the beggar, he knows.

BEGGAR:  It has a very beautiful name, Narsès. It’s called the dawn. “

Like today or every day during this thing, we see a new day start. The destruction and the terror are there. The markets are crashing, the day is still a possibility. Like in the last shot of the film, where is still dark but you can sense the light could be about to enter. Solidarity.

Rafael Berrio passed away a few weeks ago, he lived in the town where we live but I didn’t know him. I have the windows open and play the album where that song came from, called Diarios. Perhaps one of the neighbors knew him, even was a friend of his. Tomorrow the sun will rise once again, I hope.

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Image from Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans by F.W. Murnau.

It came to my mind as you were writing about sunrises. I always see the night when thinking about that film. I see darkness, shadows moonlight. So my idea is that the sunrise comes after the film, it’s something to wait for, to fight for, to believe in. I made a little list of how films could be titled following this strategy of giving a name for what comes after the film:

Life (Vampyr; Carl Theodor Dreyer)

Peace (Van Gogh; Maurice Pialat)

More Sand (Greed; Erich von Stroheim)

Silence (Mouchette; Robert Bresson)

Silence is what we maybe should be able to hear after every great work of art.

Our friend Andy, who presented this great program with Godard and Buñuel, recently remarked via social media that Franz Kafka didn’t write a single entry in his diary during the year 1918 when the Spanish Flu haunted Europe and Kafka who picked it up in October. Another form of silence? Nevertheless Kafka wrote letters, for example to his sister Ottla. While being too exhausted to leave his room in his parent’s home he witnessed the creation of the independent republic of Czechoslovakia (du to the collapse of the Habsburg Empire). Reiner Stach, a biographer of Kafka notes how strange it must have felt to get sick as a citizen of the Habsburg empire and to wake up as a citizen of democratic Czechoslovakia. Suddenly he was called František Kafka. He also composed his The Zürau Aphorisms in the beginning of 1918 while he was living with his sister in Zürau (he spent there 8 months after being diagnosed with tuberculosis). It’s a book I like a lot:

There is a destination but no way there; what we refer to as way is hesitation.

The crows like to insist a single crow is enough to destroy heaven. This is incontestably true, but it says nothing about heaven, because heaven is just another way of saying: the impossibility of crows.

A man was astounded by the ease of the path of eternity; it was because he took it down- hill, at a run.

You can withdraw from the sufferings of the world-that possibility is open to you and accords with your nature-but perhaps that withdrawal is the only suffering you might be able to avoid.

What comes after? It’s a question  strongly relating to the current situation, of course, but it is also a question relating to fiction and cinema. What comes after this shot? What comes after this page? It’s a question we have to be curious about. A film I saw recently was made by another František, František Vláčil. I saw one of his first works, the stunning Holubice. It tells a sort-of fairy tale about a white carrier pigeon going astray on its way from Belgium to an island in the Baltic Sea. This white dove is a metaphor as well as a carrier of messages as well as a living being something everybody waits for. It comes next. What does it stand for, what does it bring, how does it feel? It comes ashore in Prague at a housing complex in which an artist and a young boy who, after an accident prefers to sit in a wheelchair although is he able to walk, live. They boy shoots the pigeon with an airgun. It is badly hurt but not dead. The film shows the difficult part towards recovery and the endlessness of waiting for a return. Neither the animal nor its multiple meanings belong to anyone because belonging is just another way of saying: the impossibility of doves. Or, to give this film another title: freedom.

Tuesday, May 5, 2020

Lucía: Belonging and freedom, ¿remember that? I am now almost fully convinced that none of the new virtual activities that are here to replace life are succeeding. I refuse to engage with all of them. There is no freedom online. I am not sure if freedom is the opposite of belonging, as part of this new loss of freedom comes from the impossibility of belonging. But that’s belonging in a different sense: belonging as a sense of community, not ownership. A few days ago I stumbled across a book by Vivian Gornick which I didn’t know, The Romance of American Communism. The books starts like this: Before I knew that I was Jewish or a girl I knew I was a member of the working class. It was May the 1st, and this is a quote that belongs to the International Workers’ Day.

I wonder often about belonging when I face the fact of national cinemas. I used to belong to a country, Argentina, and I still belong to it as I am a citizen. So my cinema is Argentinian cinema, even if most cinephiles believe that we belong to humanity through a supplementary country called cinema. But legally and idiosyncratically I belong to Argentina and its films, and even with physical distance this is inescapable. Lately I rewatched the Episode 3 of Mariano Llinas’ La Flor, which is among other things the materialization of Borges’ idea that we should not fear and we should think our patrimony is the universe. In the second part of La Flor the protagonists are a group of spies who are in Argentina as a foreign country. It is set in the 80s (more late than early) and they all speak in french with one another (dubbed, they are all Argentinian actresses, the group of four actresses that changes roles almost completely throughout the film). They end up there, a remote South American country, for a final mission. They carry with them a hostage, a Swedish scientist who has no idea where he is, and he tries to guess based on landscape, ethnicity and infrastructure. He guesses wrong many times until the night comes and the sky reveals the location: he is in the south, the far south. The stars were the same, but backwards. Backwards, as his stars are the ones he can see from home. Until he finds a constellation that only we have, the southern cross. He sees it there for the first time. The stars look suspiciously bright, just as they look in Hugo Santiago’s El cielo del centauro. My partner had the idea that what happens to the scientist in front of the stars is the exact opposite of what happens to James Dean’s character in Rebel without a cause. I wonder if this has something to do with living looking at the outside or at the inside. The chapter opens with a quote from Nerval: The Universe is in the night. And it is, as most of the episode happens in one night of memories. There is infinite time for memories in the night, memories or stories. That time is invisible from the outside, and the film materializes it by calling it the universe. The operation from which this becomes the universe is by narrating: the thought and memories become a voice over spoken by the Llinas’, Mariano and Veronica.

After watching this episode it was the time to go outside, as in Spain we can leave the house four hours in the early day and three between sunset and night. I went to the beach next to my house with every other living soul here between the ages of 14 and 69, and I walked by the sea as it was getting dark. As the nightfall came, I found the colors unfamiliar. I wondered if this was an effect of confinement, as I haven’t been in the presence of dusk by the sea for two months. Was it an abnormal sunset? Was this the way it always was when the sky was clear? The shades of color went from orange to blue, and it changed by the minute. Some of them existed in the sky and others were reflected, the reflections had infinitely more colors than the sky, as that depended on movement. The waves moved, and so did the reflection in the wet sand as I was moving through it. I turned my head and I saw that all the windows were doing the same, all facing different directions and creating different lights and colors, a sunset facing the sunset. Even the ever-present mist was reflecting the light, making everything a little more green. I could also imagine the river, behind the rocks nearby, reflecting, and its rocks, shiny and covered with moss, revitalized moss from the lack of life around it. The dogs now carry lights in their collars (I don’t know if they did before), which are also reflected by everything. All of this was new. But I had seen the sun setting in the ocean the day before.

I don’t remember if La Flor has this quote by Rimbaud, I have the feeling it does: La vraie vie est ailleurs. True life is elsewhere. I think this quote is fake, and the real one is La vrai vie est absente. Truel life is absent. I left the beach as the police came down to make themselves visible, the daily reminder that freedom is not there.

Friday, May 8, 2020

Patrick: I thought about what it might mean to leave a house. First of all, as we can for example see in many Japanese films, not everybody is allowed or expected to leave a house. There are those that wait at home, that work at home. In Japanese films (and not only in them) it’s mostly women.

Sometimes it’s also children. I think in American English one says “to be grounded“. In German we use the same word as for a prisoner who has to stay at home, house arrest.

At other times people have to leave their house. Recently, I rewatched Robert Aldrich’s Ulzana’s Raid and the film has a couple of scenes in which people have to decide whether they leave their house or not. First, it is a question of precaution. Should we stay and face the storm or should we escape? It’s the men who stay in this case and it is the men who die. In one scene a man is trapped in his own house. The attackers come closer and closer, climb on his roof, burn everything. Suddenly they disappear. Everything is quiet. Are they gone? The man inside looks outside. He knows it could be a trap. If he leaves the house they could wait for him outside. He still goes…

In one of the many beautiful sequences in Maurice Pialat’s La maison des bois we can see how people had to move out of their homes during World War I. They pack everything on wooden carts, drag their animals along behind them and try to ignore the sound of bombs in the distance. After a while they are allowed to return, to go home. The series is concerned a lot with the act of leaving a house. It’s also about moving out, moving on. It shows that whoever stays inside is left alone. It’s mostly the parents, those who built the house, that do not leave.

How can you leave a house? I always thought Chaplin has some genuine ways of leaving houses. He might fall or just jump out of a window, for example. Maybe you remember the opening minutes of The Gold Rush as strongly as I do. There is a sequence which is heavily concerned with the need of not leaving the house. Outside are dangers and there is a blizzard. What Chaplin shows here among other things is that it can be very funny if you try to stay inside. There has been some literature, some theatre and some films (Buñuel again) concerned with the idea of not being able to leave a house. Yet, when it comes to trying to stay inside, Chaplin is at the same time the most surreal and real.

We learn a lot about leaving a house when we look at people who don’t leave a house, I think. In many films of Chantal Akerman people (or herself) are not leaving houses. When I see her work I sometimes wonder what is outside. In her No Home Movie she films a sort of nightmare when she wakes up and runs to the balcony to look outside. She doesn’t leave, she just looks. What would it mean to leave? I also think some people never leave a house. It’s like a snail shell which in German we call a snail house. What does it mean to never leave a house?

These ideas of portable homes, houses on wheels, they are horrible, aren’t they? They are like tourism. They remind me of people travelling around the world always searching for food they know. Either you want a life on the road or you stay at home.

Leaving a house opens the possibility of a return. A return to where we belong? I am inclined to deny but then I remember a poem by Paul Celan:

Mit wechselndem Schlüssel

schließt du das Haus auf, darin

der Schnee des Verschwiegenen treibt.

Je nach dem Blut, das dir quillt

aus Aug oder Mund oder Ohr,

wechselt dein Schlüssel.

 

Wechselt dein Schlüssel, wechselt das Wort,

das treiben darf mit den Flocken.

Je nach dem Wind, der dich fortstößt,

ballt um das Wort sich der Schnee.

(With a changing key,

you unlock the house where

the snow of what’s silenced drifts.

Just like the blood that bursts from

Your eye or mouth or ear,

so your key changes.

 

Changing your key changes the word

That may drift with flakes.

Just like the wind that rebuffs you,

Clenched round your word is the snow.)

Sunday, May 10, 2020

Lucía: As a woman I was raised to leave the house as much as possible both by my mother and my grandmother. So as we are now allowed to leave the house at a certain time, I have left it every day. But as if this was unwise to do, it started raining only during the hours we were allowed outside. It stopped raining at 10 am, the morning curfew, and started raining again at 8 pm, the start of the evening exercise hours. Are the adults grounded by the clouds? The children can go outside, as it never rains during the hours they are allowed to be, the hours in-between. So naturally I hate children right now, out of pure envy, but the images of those two boys you sent (they are the boys from Good Morning, right?) has softened me a little. Who else can you share a good fart joke with? Ozu and his children.

There’s that other Ozu child, stripped from a home until taken by a half-good-hearted lady who takes him home and then can’t stand him (he is quite annoying) in Record of a Tenement Gentleman. There’s a scene in which the poor boy, scared and clueless, has to take his mattress outside because he wet the bed. As he stands outside next to the stained piece of cloth, humiliated, he sees the furious lady and starts fanning the thing as hard as he can. One collateral damage produced by the lockdown that I hadn’t thought about yet, all the small humiliations children have to go through in order to grow up, which they usually try to hide from their parents as much as possible. Now, with the whole family secluded together, this must be impossible. I cannot imagine how horrifying it must be to have your first period with your whole family in the house, all day, every day, no place for secrets to keep to yourself.

It is terrifying, not being able to leave the house, but I get it when people don’t want to leave. This is quite different. I have been haunted by Ozu’s Late Spring these past few weeks. A woman who refuses to leave her father in order to be married. This is 1949, so she has a few points. Why leave the house to go to something unknown, if the unknown could be horrific? Why grow up at all, once all the childhood humiliations are done with? Why acquire the ones from adulthood? Noriko (Setsuko Hara) is quite happy when she leaves the house, because she will always come back soon. There can be beautiful bike rides with handsome friends, and endless sleepovers with chatty cousins, but the house and the father will stay where they are. In the film, once marriage comes as an inevitable possibility, even the outside becomes a nightmare.

While this whole virus happened I learned that one of the most beautiful theaters in Los Ángeles, the Bing Theater at LACMA, was finally demolished, as part of a project to redesign the whole museum. The last screening held there took place on June 27th of last year. The film was Ozu’s An Autumn Afternoon. Unlike Noriko, Michiko’s fear is that she will not be able to leave the house, as the men around her have been sloppy towards the marriage business, perhaps too much on their own benefit. It was a sad event, as the theater one of the most beautiful I have seen, especially when full (which still happened often if they were showing a 35mm print) with its 600 seats, magnificent red curtain, wooden walls and seigniorial restrooms, with a room for nose-powdering and other majestic activities. Also, one of the few places you could see a movie without having to pay a fortune. People stood there a long time taking pictures of the theater in which they had found a partner for their cinephilia. After the screening a friend and I went to a familiar bar nearby, to have a few drinks as if, after the wedding, the daughters would also go to a bar to say goodbye to that relationship which will never be the same, as they don’t share the same home anymore.

One last Ozu memory for the day: once I went to a Benshi show. One of the films they were showing was Ozu’s Dragnet Girl. I don’t know if the annoying quality of the show was historically accurate, but under the constant screaming I could see that Dragnet Girl was a gangster film very different from the usual pre-code/pre-noir, the American ones. At the end of the film, while chased by the police, the girl (Kinuyo Tanaka) shoots her lover in order to make him slower for her and the police to catch them. A few years in jail would be better than a life running away, she says. As of tomorrow, the Spanish basque country is going into stage 1 of the post-lockdown plan. We’ll see if she was right. But in the meantime, it’s still pouring rain.

Tuesday, May 19, 2020

Patrick: It’s true that the images of children I sent you are from Ozu’s Good Morning. I’ve always had a difficult relation to the art of the fart joke. The sounds provoked by whoopee cushions or naughty mouths have disturbed me as a child. These fake fart sounds made me nervous. Maybe this has to do with my observation that the art of blaming, whose fart was causing smells inside class rooms, would never stop…and I was right since still everyone is blaming everybody for farts that he or she did or didn’t commit. It’s just such a tricky thing, a fart. One can hear or smell it but never see it (except for some dangerous experiments). On the other hand, the art of farting is a rich and healthy one and we should not have false morals and a red cheeked catholic upbringing (the one with a lot of shame involved) stand in our way.

As the lockdown has ended where I am (where am I?) nothing changes. A few years in chail are still better than a life running away. It’s just that a life in jail might not be better than a few years of running away. So, inspired by your beautiful screenshot of Late Spring’s bicycles, I took my bike and tried to cycle up a mountain (since the country I happen to be in has no sea). It’s a mountain which is not made for bikes. But since it was my goal to ride my bike on a cloud (just like the ones we were writing about)  I had to take it up. My intention was clear: cumulus instead of corona. At first it went pretty well. l cycled on steep roads through a forest. There was still a lot of wild garlic which caused a rather curious sensation in my nose and movements in my body that brought me in close proximities with the art of the fart. Afterwards I cycled across a beautiful green meadow on which some cows (rather hungry I must say) digested the first grass of spring. I must say that these cows didn’t give a flying fuck concerning social distancing. They were constantly bashing their faces with their nervous tails, full of flies, some were cuddling. I love cows. Then came another steep forest and a passage through some pine trees. It was horrible to go there with a bike, the thorny trees were (sorry for that) a pine in the ass. Sometimes I had to carry my bike over some rock or abyss but since I descend from the family of a bike seller, I know how to carry bikes (more so than riding them actually). In Ozu’s films there are all these bicycles. People move so casually with them. They are beautiful. If you see people on bicycles outside of cities nowadays, many seem to think that they have to wear special and rather ridiculous clothes. Some look like the bike could suddenly catch fire or the wind might bring deadly nails with it. Well, maybe they are not more stupid than me who thought he can ride on the clouds. I had a beautiful time riding on the mountain crest. There still was some snow but also a lot of rare flowers and even a bird which sings like an alarm system called goatsucker spit on my head. It’s called like that because Pliny the Elder, in a strange phase of his life possibly (who can blame him?), thought that this bird actually drinks the milk of goats. I love goats.

Arriving at the top I had to accept that the clouds were still too distant. I sat there and only took one picture documenting my longing.

to be continued…

Videoveröffentlichung LATER von Helena Wittmann

LATER from Helena Wittmann on Vimeo.

 

HD I stereo I 16:9 I colour I 5′

Quixadá, Brazil. The sun goes down and the darkness reveals its fine layers of light on the last mountain to fall into darkness. The light continues inside it.
Darkness is not only the absence of light in vision. It is clearly audible.

The video was produced as part of THE DARKNESS COLLECTION which was curated by Oskar Alegria and published by Punto de Vista – International Documentary Film Festival of Navarra.

Annie Dillard’s Rain

“At a certain point you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait, listening. After a time you hear it: there is nothing there. There is nothing but those things only, those created objects, discrete, growing or holding, or swaying, being rained on or raining, held, flooding or ebbing, standing, or spread. You feel the world’s word as a tension, a hum, a single chorused note everywhere the same. This is it: this hum is the silence. Nature does utter a peep—just this one.“

(Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk)

“If I walk along a shore towards a ship which has run aground, and the funnel or masts merge into the forest bordering on the sand dune, there will be a moment when these details suddenly become part of the ship, and indissolubly fused with it. As I approached, I did not perceive resemblances or proximities which finally came together to form a continuous picture of the upper part of the ship. I merely felt that the look of the object was on the point of altering, that something was imminent in this tension, as a storm is imminent in storm clouds.“

(Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception)

„I cherish mental images I have of three perfectly happy people. One collects stones. Another—an Englishman, say—watches clouds. The third lives on a coast and collects drops of seawater which he examines microscopically and mounts. But I don’t see what the specialist sees, and so I cut myself off, not only from the total picture, but from the various forms of happiness.“

(Annie Dillard. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)

“The sun was now low beneath the horizon. Darkness spread rapidly. None of my selves could see anything beyond the tapering light of our headlamps on the hedge. I summoned them together. “Now,” I said, “comes the season of making up our accounts. Now we have got to collect ourselves; we have got to be one self. Nothing is to be seen any more, except one wedge of road and bank which our lights repeat incessantly. We are perfectly provided for. We are warmly wrapped in a rug; we are protected from wind and rain. We are alone. Now is the time of reckoning.“

(Virginia Woolf, Evening Over Sussex: Reflections in a Motor Car)

„Pitching snow filled all the windows, and shapes of dark rock. I had no notion which way was up. Everything was black or gray or white except the fatal crevasses; everything made noise and shook. I felt my face smashed sideways and saw rushing abstractions of snow in the windshield. Patches of cloud obscured the snow fleetingly.“

(Annie Dillard, The Writing Life)

Petrichor

von Patrick Holzapfel

Matsch, Patsch, Gatsch, ich sehe Fußspuren im Schlamm. Die Erde bewegt sich noch, kaum sichtbar, aber da gibt es kleine Bläschen im Dreck, einen Regenwurm in seinem Element; alles tropft wie Honigwachs von langen Kerzen in der Nacht. Im Gras liegen Äste und hoffnungslose Borkenteile. Ein schwarzer Käfer klettert dort. Er hat Schmerzen, hat zu viel Wasser geschluckt. Die Wunden heilen langsam. Entfernt hört man noch ein Donnern, sieht gebrochene Wolken, erkennt ein Donnerlittchen, jemand beruhigt: Es zieht weg, es ist vorbei. Der Hund zittert bis jetzt, kommt nicht aus seinem Versteck. Es rinnt und tröpfelt aus der Regenrinne, die Vater neulich repariert hat. Wie geht es wohl dem Spatz, der dort sein Nest errichtete? Plattgedrückte Ringelblumen strecken sich nach der durch die Wolken drängenden Sonne, der Garten eine Trümmerlandschaft, man sieht es. Die Fliegen schütteln und trösten sich unter den Blättern, aber Vorsicht ist geboten, denn aus den Baumkronen plätschert es beim kleinsten Wind.

Es wird wieder wärmer. Die Nachbarin kann kaum warten bis sie das gefallene Laub vom Trottoir entfernt, erst ganz sachte tritt sie auf die Straße mit ihrer Regenjacke und den Gummistiefeln, als könnte sie ertrinken, dann immer bestimmter weht sie wie das Laub, das sie entfernt, über den Asphalt. Ihr Ziel: Den Regen vergessen. Ich blicke aus dem Fenster. Die Rispen, eine Kraterlandschaft, die Böschungen wie der Flieder, niedergedrückt. Warten auf Erholung. Am Schönsten ist es, wenn man trocknet.

Es ist stiller nach dem Regen. Von den Zweigen melden sich die Vögel, sie verkünden, dass sie überlebt haben. Hier bin ich noch, sagen sie, alles gut, unter den Federn ist es trocken, aber das Fliegen fällt jetzt schwer. Welch Unglück, die Regenwürmer im Pfuhl wären so bekömmlich! Irgendwo tropft es, es ist beinahe als würde die Regendecke schmelzen. Unter ihr hat niemand geschlafen. Das Moos ist ein riesiger grüner Schwamm. In ihm eine Seenlandschaft, ein Morast aus Morcheln und Insekten; wabenartig scheint das Moos die Wiese zu besetzen. Ich sollte nach dem Schimmel sehen.

Bei uns im Keller hat er die ganze Wand bedeckt. Kahmschichten schillern in Grau und Lila, es ist zu feucht. Mir wird etwas mulmig im Keller, alles scheint angefault, als würde der Regen hier im Verborgenen weiterprasseln. Ich frage meinen Vater, er hat den Keller aufgegeben. Was soll man machen, sagt er, bei solchem Regen? Wir setzen uns auf die Terrasse und sehen der Welt zu. Ein Mädchen springt barfuss durch die Pfützen. Sie lacht dabei. Sobald jemand durch Pfützen springt, denke ich immer an meine Großmutter, die zu Pfützen Batschlach sagt. Der Regen malt Laute in kräftigeren Farben als die Sonne oder der stille Schnee.

Meine Füße sinken etwas ein in die Erde, es gibt dieses Geräusch, das klingt als ob man mit Speichel zwischen Vorderzähnen und Oberlippe spielt, erste Schritte, mach nicht wieder deine Hose schmutzig, aber ich muss schauen, ob die Tomaten den Regen gut überstanden haben. Sie mögen ihn nicht. Die Gänse lugen aus dem Stall, ihre Füße sind besser geeignet für dieses Wetter. „Du hast keine Gänsefüße“, hat mein Schwimmlehrer immer gesagt, ich weiß nicht mehr weshalb.

Es riecht anders jetzt. Petrichor, das Blut der Götter. Schwebestoffe sind als Erinnerung an den Regen bei uns geblieben. Modrig wohltuend, ungefiltert aus der Erde steigende Bakterien, die milliardenfach durch die Luft wirbeln. Sie sind das Echo des Regens. Es riecht nach dem, was man vergessen hat. Unter den Fingernägeln hat es auch so gerochen, wenn man als Kind im Regen spielte. Ich atme tief ein. Die Katze am Fenster gegenüber tut es mir gleich.

Wir sollten die Wäsche wieder aufhängen, sagt mein Vater. Ich hänge das Gewand auf, denke mir, dass es doch eigentlich einen Regenbogen geben müsste, aber sehe nichts. Stattdessen höre ich einen leisen Ruf von der Wiese. Es gibt einen dampfenden Nebel in der Luft, ich kann nicht viel erkennen, aber dort ist ein Regenpfeifer. Seine Flügel wie Paddel, er ist aufgeregt: „kiju-wit“, schreit er, „kiju-wit“, „komm mit!“. Als ich mich frage, ob er damit mich meint, sehe ich eine riesige schwarze Wolke, die sich vor die Sonne schiebt. Ich lasse die Kleidung hängen, was soll man schon machen, bei solchem Regen?

Nebel bei Dickens: Raum, Zeit und der bleierne Geist

von Marius Hrdy

Meine erste bildhafte Assoziation ist der epochale Beginn von Bleak House, einem Fortsetzungsroman von Charles Dickens. Dickens führt in die langsam mahlenden Mühlen der Rechtsbürokratie durch den dichten und undurchsichtigen Londoner Nebel um Lincoln’s Inn Hall ein und durchmisst damit gleichzeitig die Topographie sowohl politisch und geographisch: „Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city….“) Mit bilddeutenden Mitteln beschreibt er die Stadt und düstere Umgebung seines Londons der 1820er und allmählich richtet er die Stimmung vom Ungewissen des Außen auf das klaustrophobische Innen.

Dickens Ausdruck wenn er eine Szene beschreibt ist wie der eines Malers, eine Szenenauflösung wie in einem Gefühl durch die Stadt wandelnd und schließlich bei seinem Protagonisten- der Rechtsinstitution ankommend: „Am rauesten ist der Nachmittag; da ist der Nebel am dicksten, die Straße am schmutzigsten in der Nähe jenes dickschädligen steinernen Hindernisses, das so recht eine passende Zier für die Schwelle der dickschädligen alten Korporation – des »Tempels« – ist.“ Dabei ist das durchaus impressionistisch, an Monet’s Nebelbilder wie Londres, le Parlement. Trouée de soleil dans le brouillard, erinnernd. Der Nebel in seiner schmutzigen Ausformung- der Ruß der wild wuchernden Industrie- werden spürbar in jeder Ritze der Syntax. Dickens erschafft so ein Gefühlsbild der mühsamen Bewegung, des gesellschaftlichen Stillstands. In der Doppelbödigkeit der Rechtssysteme der Courts of Law entgegen der Courts of Equity, eine Art Schiedsgericht/Schlichtungsstelle, liegt eine Zwiedeutung der Natur des britischen Rechtssystem zugrunde, das der ungeschriebenen Verfassung geschuldet ist.

Dazu eine Erklärung: Der Lord Chancellor war pro forma das Gewissen des Königs um durch Rechtsbilligkeit Gerechtigkeit zu erreichen. Die Courts of Chancery waren ein eigenes Rechtssystem, in dem ein durch at law gesprochenes Urteil direkt durch den König in equity gemildert werden konnte, um die Strenge einzelner gerichtlicher Entscheidungen auszugleichen. Dabei ging es meistens um Erbschaften, Eigentumssachen, Schuldenverfahren und Eherecht. Als Anwaltsangestellter in einer Anwaltskammer hatte Dickens täglichen Umgang mit Rechtsangelegenheiten. Aus dieser Erfahrung bezeichnet er in Bleak House die endlos ausgedehnten Verfahren in den Courts of Chancery auch mit der „Länge der Eiszeit“. Dies hatte technische Gründe: Eine Klage vor dem Common Law -Gericht konnte nicht gleichzeitig mit dem der Courts of Chancery laufen, was jahrzehntelange Prozesse mit sich zog, im Schnitt dauerte ein Prozess zwölf Jahre. Mitunter überlebten die Fälle oft ihre eigenen Kläger. Erst 1833 wurden mit den Judicature Acts die beiden Systeme miteinander verbunden (actions in law and equity (1) ).

Dickens beschreibt hier wie lächerlich dieses System ist: Die Prozesse dienen vornehmlich den Bürokraten, um ihre Bedeutung zu behalten, diese in die Länge zu ziehen und sich derweil an den Kosten zu bereichern. Die gesellschaftliche Dimension wird hierbei gänzlich ausgeblendet. Rechtsanwälte nehmen das ganze Geld, Verfahrensteilnehmer werden endlos angehört und Entscheidungen vertagt. Vieles in Bleak House ist Einführung von Charakteren, sinnlose Gespräche und Auftritte von Vertretern, die mit dem Fall Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce irgendwie oder im Entferntesten verstrickt sind, fast schon wie eine Parade von Schaulustigen, die auch dabei sein wollen.

Das alles erlebt man lesend mit wie im Purgatorium, wie ein Gefangener auf dem Fährweg über dem Styx, mit dem Versprechen auf Erlösung, aber in der Mitte des Flusses auf ewig mit den Wellen kämpfend, weil man die Überfahrt ins Totenreich nicht bezahlen kann. Nicht tot, nicht lebendig. Der Nebel ist bei Dickens ein Geisteszustand, die prismenhafte Spiegelungen und Streuungen jeglichen übergebliebenen Lichts reflektieren den emotionalen Haushalt, das drückende Opak unterbricht alle funktionierenden Nervenwege. Die Metapher ist Ausdruck eines Sittenbildes und die Taktilität des Nebels schlägt sich auch im Körperlichen nieder, dessen Metamorphose zu schwarzem Rauch und Ruß durch das Einatmen des Menschen körperlich verinnerlicht werden. Der Mensch und seine Muskeln gewöhnen sich an die Umgebung. So wird der Nebel selbst Teil des Menschen, der jeden Gedanken und jedes eigenständige Bewusstsein lähmt.

Mit dem Nebelbegriff erforscht Dickens die Zonen der Liminalität. Licht und Schatten und das Spiel in deren Übergängen sind omnipräsent, das Umherirren in unbedeutenden Zonen, geschichtslosen Zeiten ist Mainstream. Dickens setzt durch diese Konstruktion die Undurchdringlichkeit des Nebels mit der Undurchdringlichkeit der Gesellschaftsordnung gleich. Legt man diese Stimmung auf die Gegenwart um, blühen parallele Assoziationen: Das Bild der Umbewertung von Wert und Wichtigkeit, der erodierte Respekt vor einer die Gesellschaft ordnenden Autorität, die bewusste Diffusität der herrschenden Klassen um Machtstrukturen zu erhalten. Den Ursprung dieser Diskussion nimmt die Lähmung durch die Austeritätspolitik als Resultat der durch Immobilienschulden getriebenen Weltwirtschaftskrise 2008, die weiterhin eine schlafwandelnde Gesellschaft wie ewig unter dem Einfluss eines Antidepressivums erzeugt. Keine Spitzen mehr, kein American Dream, nur mehr gleichmäßiges Untertanentum. Die Suche nach Erneuerung, in der die Grammatik von Sprache nichts mehr zu beschreiben vermag, da Infragestellung wichtiger ist als Lösungsutopien für eine „bessere“ Welt zu finden, die auf Qualität aufbaut. Die konkreten Vergleiche mit Dickens sind frappant: Die Subsysteme der Rechtssprechung, die Aushöhlung und ad-hoc Reinterpretation der Bedeutung von Recht wie zum Beispiel bei einer präsidentiellen Executive Order in den USA, Kriegsspiele die mit dem roten Tuch des Terrorismus ihre Rechtfertigung finden und so internationales Recht umgehen. Das moderne Menschenbild ist fatalistisch und bipolar. Die Pressefreiheit, die nur mehr als Zier gedacht wird, da das „Essenzielle“ des „Volkes“ wichtiger ist; ja was ist eigentlich das Essenzielle? Schon vergessen.

Darüber stülpt sich eine Glasglocke der Trance und in ihr rundherum schwebt der Nebel des Ungewissen. Eine Linke die sich nur damit beschäftigt, exklusiv zu sein, eine neue Biedermeierei für den Rückzug in das Private, Ballsäle voll, das Silberputzen auf der untergehenden Titanic als Primat sehend. Draussen noch immer Nebel. Die Strategie der Nachahmung leerer Hüllen ohne Bedeutung, das „als ob“ als Ideal. Im häuslichen kann man keine Revolution starten. Demonstrationen werden immer mehr zu choreographierten Theaterstücken, bedienen sich der Bildpolitik des Effekts jedoch ist die Übergabe der Gewaltzonen nicht mehr in einer generellen Öffentlichkeit zu sehen, abgestumpft in die „erlaubten“ Zonen gedrängt, in der nun das Private über allem steht. Individuelle Selbstverwirklichung, die Anbetung des Berühmten als Ausflucht aus der eigenen Depression, die Introspektion zur Maxime erhoben. Ohne der Bereitung von Möglichkeiten einer ganzheitlich gedachten Entwicklung bleibt der Mensch Einzelkind. In der Auflösung der Sicherheiten bedeutet was genau Mensch sein? Die Lokalität, die Nation? Nation ist der Lösungsansatz von Kleinmut. Was macht die Bürgerinnen eigentlich aus, was heisst es in dieser diffusen Welt, Mensch zu sein? Was sehe ich im Dickicht treiben, Lichter stehen im dumpfen Fahl, erhellend gerade nötig um den Atem zu erkennen. Schwer liegt mir die Luft am Herzen, bald sind wir da…der Bug deutet die Richtung. Es wird dunkel, der Geist wiegt Blei…im Wanken wohnt die Ruh.

Als Coda und Denkanstoß Alberto Toscano zum Thema Raum und Widerstand in einem Interview hier: “To try to articulate a critical social and political theory in a period marked by imperialist wars, and mortgage-debt driven financial crises – but also by catastrophic anthropogenic climate change and mass migration – is ultimately impossible without truly attending to spatiality.” (2) Und weiter: “We could also think of the ways in which opacity, secrecy, and the clandestine might also become, in different spaces and times, resources for opposition to abasement and domination”.

—–

Originaltext aus: Charles Dickens, Bleak House, Kapitel 1.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ‘prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.
Gas looming through the fog in diverse places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

(1) Charles Dickens: Bleak House. Edited with an introduction and notes by Stephen Gill. Oxford University Press. May 2008. (Ersterscheinung in 20 Fortsetzungen: März 1852- September 1853)

(2) Stephen Connolly, Matthew Gibson, Patrick Brian Smith: Visualising Spatial Injustice Q&A (Part One: Alberto Toscano). In: Mediapolis, A Journal of Cities and Culture. July 2018

Windeseile

von Helena Wittmann

Eins.
Es ist sehr warm, es ist heiß. Mag sein, dass die Wolken von oben langsam zu drücken beginnen. Trotzdem scheint es mir unwahrscheinlich, dass es regnen wird. Der Boden ist trocken, rote Erde, roter Staub. Es gibt Pflanzen, aber die scheinen nicht viel Wasser zu brauchen. Wir sind an einem besonderen Ort, es war ein weiter Weg hierher. Die Brüder, die hier in der Nähe leben, als Einzige, drängen zur Eile. Wenn uns der Regen zuvorkommt, dann wird der Weg zum reißenden Schlammstrom. Dann kommen wir mit den Motorrädern nicht mehr zurück zum Haus.

Dort steht das Auto. Ich mache Filmaufnahmen und bin längst nicht fertig. Das macht mich zu derjenigen, die die verbleibende Zeitspanne so weit wie möglich auszudehnen versucht. Ein Ruf der Brüder, der Tonfall freundlich aber bestimmt, und alle springen auf die geliehenen Motorräder und dann über die Löcher und Felsen im Weg. Ich sitze hinten und vermutlich lache ich, weil es Spass macht. Es macht Spass, weil das Unterfangen nicht die volle Sicherheit verspricht, auf diesem alten Motorrad, auf diesem staubig holprigen Weg, in Eile und mit Respekt vor unerhörten Wassermassen, die sich nun auch für mich spürbar ankündigen. Die Motorräder sind laut. Doch um uns, über uns und unter uns ist es ruhig. Noch ruhiger als es ohne den gewohnten Menschenlärm ohnehin schon wäre. Nun scheint auch all das andere Leben verstummt zu sein. Der Wind verbirgt sich im Kostüm der Ruhe und entzieht sich unseren Sinnen. In dieser Stille feuchter, fester Luft schneiden die Maschinen scharfe Risse. Dazu unser Lachen, zwei warme Körper auf einem Dings aus Stahl und Öl.

Springen wir auf unsere Füße und laufen zum Haus, weil die ersten Tropfen bereits fallen? Oder bleibt uns noch Zeit, die zwanzig Meter in Ruhe zu durchschreiten? Sicher ist, dass uns die Frau des älteren Bruders auf der Veranda erwartet. Uns bleibt noch etwas Zeit. Wir nehmen Platz, es gibt Kaffee und selbstgemachten Käse. Wir schauen erwartungsvoll in die Landschaft.

Die ersten Blätter zittern, dann breitet sich der Wind aus. Es dauert nicht lange, da fegt er bereits irre durch die Landschaft. Die Bäume legen sich vor ihm auf die Seite, die Wasseroberflächen kräuseln sich, das Eisentor schwingt auf und zu und singt und wir sitzen auf der Veranda und schauen aufgeregt und ich staune nur, wie alles in Windeseile seine Erscheinung verändert. Und plötzlich umgibt uns ein lautes Rauschen und der Regen ist so dicht, dass der Hintergrund im Weiß verschwindet, es gibt jetzt nur noch Vordergrund und da ist keine Lücke, da scheint keine Luft mehr zu sein, da ist nur Wasser, das vom Himmel stürzt.

Zwei.
Es ist lange her. Und es wird das einzige Mal sein, dass ich mich ernsthaft in Wintersport versuche. An diesem Tag ist es sehr still. Ich bin allein und nehme den Lift nicht allzu weit nach oben. Je höher es geht, desto dichter der Nebel, desto stiller wird es. Das Klackern des Liftes, wenn er über die Träger gezogen wird, ist überdurchschnittlich laut. Aber das Geräusch hallt nicht in den Raum, es bleibt, wo es entstanden ist. Ein trockener Klang im matten Weiß. Weiß unten und Weiß überall. Ein kleiner Sprung in den knirschenden Schnee, dann auf das Brett, dann hinab. Ich höre meinen Atem und das Brett auf dem Schnee. Aber ich erinnere mich nun nicht mehr, wie das klingt. Ich erinnere, wie sich der Raum auflöst, denn ich bin dicht umgeben vom Weiß. Die Bewegung spüre ich nicht, keine Geschwindigkeit, keinerlei räumliche Anhaltspunkte. (Man sitzt im Zug und denkt, dass er langsam anfährt, um den Bahnhof zu verlassen. Und dann stellt man fest, dass es der Zug auf dem Nebengleis ist, der schließlich aus dem Blickfeld verschwindet und die Bewegungslosigkeit des eigenen Zuges offenbart. Umgekehrt.) Ich fliege? Durch eine dichte träge Wolke. Oder stehe ich doch still? Ich wundere mich, wie wenig eindeutig sich die Bewegung auf meinen Körper überträgt. Und kann es wirklich sein, dass ich hier ganz allein bin? Dass keine Geräusche zu mir durchdringen? Es passiert etwas mit dem Zeitgefühl, es löst sich auf, es kondensiert in den Nebel, es wird träges, leichtes, feuchtes Weiß, es hatte mit meinem Körper zu tun und nun nicht mehr.

Drei.
Wir sitzen zu dritt in einem Auto und folgen einem anderen über eine Landstraße in Norddeutschland. Es ist dieser heiße, trockene Sommer. Man sorgt sich. Aber heute kündigt sich eine Veränderung an. Mehrmals versuchen wir, die Wetter-App zu öffnen. Keine Internetverbindung, dann klingelt mein Telefon. Meine Mutter fragt, ob wir die Unwetterwarnung mitbekommen hätten und sagt, dass wir unter keinen Umständen nach draußen gehen sollten. Während ich noch darüber staune, wie passend ihr Anruf ist, schaue ich aus dem Fenster. Der Himmel hat sich giftig grün, ätzend gelb verfärbt und in nicht so großen Abständen wird es sekundenlang gleißend hell. Die Blitze zucken durch das drohende Gelbgrün. (Ich erinnere gerade ein andermal. Da liegen wir in einem Zelt am einsamen Ostseestrand und schauen aus der Öffnung. Es regnet in Strömen und wenn die Blitze in das Meer einschlagen, kann man für den Bruchteil einer Sekunde bis auf den Grund schauen. Das Wasser wird dann türkis.) Am Telefon erzähle ich meiner Mutter davon und sie besteht darauf, dass wir auf keinen Fall aussteigen sollten. Aber habe ich nicht meine Kamera im Kofferraum? Sind wir nicht im Rahmen eines Filmdrehs unterwegs? Unter dem Protest meiner Mutter lege ich auf und bitte den Fahrer aufgeregt, so schnell wie möglich anzuhalten. Irgendwann erreichen wir die Einfahrt zu einem Supermarktparkplatz. F und ich springen aus dem Wagen, bauen die Kamera auf und eigentlich schon währenddessen geht es los. Es wird dunkel, der Himmel bleigrau schwer, Leute rennen zu ihren Autos, manche mit Regenschirmen. Doch der Regen, er beginnt so plötzlich und so mächtig, begleitet von einem Sturm. Da klappen die Schirme um, der Parkplatz ist im Handumdrehen zu einem See geworden, die Lichter der Autos strahlen in das bedrohliche Tagesgrau, der Regen peitscht von allen Seiten, die Welt geht unter, ganz sicher. F und ich lachen, klitschnass, F stemmt den Schirm gegen den Wind, hält das Stativ mit ihrem ganzen leichte Körper, um die Kamera zu schützen.

Vier.
Wir sind achtzehn Jahre alt und fahren auf einer italienischen Autobahn in die Alpen hinein. Hinter uns liegt Venedig, hinter uns liegt der Sommer. Das Auto ist dunkelgrün und verglichen mit den heutigen Modellen ist es relativ klein. Damals kommt es uns groß vor. Die Straße schneidet gerade durch die Landschaft. Dann landen die ersten großen Tropfen auf der Windschutzscheibe und treiben im Fahrtwind auseinander. J stellt den Scheibenwischer auf die niedrigste Stufe, in einen langsamen Rhythmus. Es werden mehr Tropfen, die nächsthöhere Stufe wird eingestellt, noch mehr Tropfen, und dickere, der Scheibenwischer schlägt nun hektisch von rechts nach links und zurück, an den Seiten fließt das Wasser hinunter und über die Karosserie, vom Wind getrieben. Die Sicht verschwimmt, die Fahrbahn spiegelt die Lichter der Autos, die nun immer langsamer werden. Irgendwann sind wir eingeschlossen vom dichten Regen, ausgeschlossen von der näheren Umgebung. Es ist nichts mehr zu sehen. Wir werden langsamer, und langsam langsamer, immer langsamer auf der Autobahn, bis zum Stillstand. Nichts geschieht, kein anderes Auto fährt uns von hinten an, niemand fährt an uns vorbei, aber der Regen! Er donnert auf das Blechdach, trommelt auf die Scheiben, mit aller Wucht auf uns ein.

Eins.
Und uns bleibt nichts zu sagen. Im Stillen fragen wir uns, ob das wohl jemals wieder aufhören wird.
Zwei.
Ich atme ein, aus. Ohne Furcht.
Drei.
Dreißig Sekunden halten wir das aus. Dann wird es zu viel und wir rennen zurück ins Auto. Die aus dem anderen Auto rufen an und halten uns für ein bisschen verrückt.
Vier.
Und dann werden es weniger Tropfen, wird es nicht leise, aber leiser, können wir wieder weiter blicken und die anderen Autos sehen. Alle stehen sie still, in größeren Abständen, und es dauert noch einen Moment, bevor sich der Strom ganz vorsichtig wieder in Bewegung setzt und der Verkehr dann weiter fließt. Und schnell fließt er ganz normal, als wäre nichts geschehen.

Was alles durchzieht. Neun Beobachtungen entlang der Bilder von Nebel in Wang Bings Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks

von Alejandro Bachmann

I. Nebel und Erinnerung

Als Bild ist Nebel eine recht genaue Metapher für die Art und Weise, wie Filme sich im Gedächtnis ablagern – vielleicht auch in besonderem Maße bei jenen Menschen, die überdurchschnittlich viele Filme schauen (Das fällt oft auf: In welchen dramaturgischen Details, also vor allem: mit welcher Genauigkeit und Klarheit bezüglich der Abläufe, des Nacheinanders der Bilder und Handlungen jene Menschen, die nur – sagen wir – drei Mal pro Jahr ins Kino gehen, von Filmen erzählen!). Oft verfließen die Dinge zu einer dichten Suppe, Konturen werden zu einem Brei, dramaturgische Wendungen verflüssigen sich, der Verlauf eines Films diffundiert und alle nacheinander gesehenen Bilder und Töne verdichten sich zu einer Wolke, zu einem Bild, das nicht ein Bild aus dem Film ist, das weniger als der ganze Film, aber doch in gewisser Weise ein Bild des Films ist. Die Reihe „Theatres“ des japanischen Fotografen Hiroshi Sugimoto übersetzt diesen inneren Ablauf, dieses Speichern und Verzeichnen (im Sinne eines emotionalen und intellektuellen Auffindbarmachens) eines Films im eigenen Wust des Filmgedächtnisses, in einen technischen Prozess: die fotografische Langzeitbelichtung einer Leinwand über die gesamte Dauer eines auf ihr präsentierten Films. Am Ende bleibt eine Fotografie, die den Film enthält, sie zeigt alles um die Leinwand herum gestochen scharf, die Leinwand selbst ist hell erleuchtet, vom Licht aller Bilder, von einem Nebel aus Helligkeit, der die eigentlichen Bilder des Films überdeckt und unsichtbar gemacht hat, eigenartig scharf und doch maximal diffus.

Das Bild, das mir aus Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks, Wang Bings über 9-stündigem Porträt des langsamen Endes des in der Provinz Shenyang gelegenen, gigantischen Industrie- und Fabrikgeländes Tie Xi im Nordosten von China, geblieben ist, besteht definitiv in nicht unerheblichen Anteilen aus Nebel. Sicher: tatsächlichem, fotografisch abgelichtetem Nebel, der den Film, bis auf einige Ausnahmen, durchwegs begleitet. Aber eben auch: Nebel als Atmosphäre, als Geisteszustand, als Einfärbung eines Fragments von Realität, die mir als vernebelt, diffus, unübersichtlich, umhüllt, zerfließend, geblieben ist, weil der Nebel die Welt in Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks nicht nur umschließt, sondern in vielerlei Hinsicht so etwas wie ihren Kern darstellt.

II. White Noise

Ein Rauschen, ein Fiepen, ein Dröhnen, ein Raspeln und Krächzen, ein permanentes white noise unterliegt jeder Minute von Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks. Die Lokomotiven, die entlang der Adern des Fabrikgeländes hin und her rollen, die wenigen Maschinen, die in den Fabriken noch laufen, Transistorradios, offene Feuer- und Kochstellen, Hochöfen, Arbeiterduschen, all das eingefangen mit dem Mikrofon der DV-Kamera, mit der Wang Bing zwei Jahre in drei Fabriken (Teil 1 des Films: „Rust“), im Arbeiterviertel Rainbow Row (Teil 2 des Films: „Remnants“) und mit den Eisenbahnern des Tie Xi Viertels (Teil 3 des Films: „Tracks“) verbracht hat, und das manchmal übersteuert und überfordert ist vom Frequenzbereich und den Ausschlägen, vom permanenten akustischen Nebel dieser Umgebung.

Auch der Bildchip der DV-Kamera scheint in gewisser Weise immer wieder überfordert vom Detailreichtum der Bilder, von den Verstrebungen und Windungen der Fabrikstrukturen, den Bewegungen des Rauchs von Zigaretten, den Verwehungen des Dampfs von frischen Teigtaschen, den Wolken vor den in der Kälte sprechenden Mündern, dem zappelnden Tanz riesiger Industriefeuer. Wenn es dunkler wird, wenn es unübersichtlich wird, wenn es zu detailliert wird, reagiert die Kamera mit Überforderung, wird das Bild schwammiger, sind Schlieren und Artefakte zu erkennen, das Rauschen des Chips, der Nebel der Maschine – auch das ein Grund für den oft mit der Hand/dem Pinsel gemalten und nicht mit der Kamera geschossenen, gemäldeartigen Eindruck der Bilder des Films.

III. Eintritt

Im Dokumentarfilm ist Nebel kein Mittel der Inszenierung, er ist nicht bewusst herbeigeführt, er soll nicht etwas bedeuten, er ist selbst eine Form von white noise, das Grundrauschen aller Bilder, die diese Gegend in China einerseits, die gigantischen Industrieanlagen andererseits immer mit sich bringen. Wang Bing nimmt das Weiße Rauschen der Realität aber nicht nur hin, er hebt es hervor und setzt es an den Anfang seines Films. In Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks ist es fast immer auf die ein oder andere Weise neblig, das gilt insbesondere für die erste Stunde des Films.

Das erste Bild des Films: Eine Aufsicht auf einen Teil des Industriegeländes, alles verschneit, einige Menschen bahnen sich ihren Weg, ein paar Bahngleise sind unter der Schneedecke zu erkennen, im Hintergrund ragen einige Schornsteine in die Höhe, das Bild wird in die Tiefe hinein zunehmend verschwommener, säuft ab im Grau der Nebelbänke, die in diesem Film nie einen wirklichen Horizont erkennen lassen, eine Linie, an der man sich orientieren könnte, auf (oder hinter) der potenziell ein Ziel liegen könnte, auf das man sich zu bewegt.

Die folgenden rund 10 Minuten bestehen ausschließlich aus Phantom Rides entlang der Gleise des Industriegeländes. Fahrt folgt auf Fahrt, immer weiter bewegen wir uns in den Raum hinein, entlang schmaler Routen und Rückwänden von Fabrikgebäuden, über sich weitende Plätze, manchmal vorbei an einzelnen, an Bahnübergängen wartenden Menschen, immer tiefer in den winterlichen Matsch hinein, der sich hier und da zusätzlich vom Dampf einer Lock oder dem Rauch einer Fabrik verdichtet. Vorwärts, immer vorwärts, hinein in die Zukunft, die sich nicht und nicht zeigen will im Nebel der Bilder: Noch in den 1980er Jahren war das Tie Xi Viertel von über einer Millionen Menschen bewohnt, die größtenteils in der 1934 etablierten Industrieanlage arbeiteten. 1999, als Wang Bings Kamera sich ihren Weg bahnt, stehen die letzten Fabriken vor der Schließung, wenige arbeiten noch, manches bewegt sich noch, aber ein wirkliches Ziel ist aus den Augen verloren.

IV. Körper im Nebel, Nebel im Körper

Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks ist ein Film mit eingeschränktem Sichtfeld. Der Nebel und – in seinen Variationen – im Sommer der Zinkstaub, der Qualm, der Dampf erinnern uns immer auch daran, dass wir nicht alles sehen können, dass unser Blick beschränkt ist, dass manches vielleicht erkennbar wird, einiges sogar verständlich, vieles aber auch nach dem Film unsichtbar und unklar bleibt. Der Nebel ist die sichtbare Erinnerung an die Bescheidenheit und Demut des Dokumentarischen. Zugleich steckt in ihm aber auch eine Umkehrung oder Umcodierung des Blicks: Wir sehen Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks nicht so sehr, um Produktionszusammenhänge zu verstehen oder uns in dem gigantischen Industriegelände orientieren zu können. Der Nebel wie die Montage arbeiten dagegen an. Dafür aber sehen wir mehr von den Körpern, weil sich der Nebel als Wasser auf ihnen ablegt, weil er Stofflichkeit und Materialität sicht- und spürbar macht, weil er der Oberfläche der Dinge eine Intensität verleiht, die ihre spezifische Haptik und Körperlichkeit ins Visuelle überträgt.

Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks ist ein Film über Körper. Über die Körper der Arbeiter und Arbeiterinnen und die Körper der Fabriken, Häuser und Maschinen, über den Zustand einer materiellen Infrastruktur, die das private wie öffentliche Leben rahmt. Der Nebel legt sich über die Körper und wir können sie dadurch nicht nur sehen, sondern auch ein Stück weit spüren. Alle drei Teile des Films erzählen von diesen Körpern und wie sie langsam verschwinden: Nach der Schließung der Fabriken werden die Arbeiter kollektiv in ein Krankenhaus gebracht, wo man über Wochen daran arbeitet, die Metalle und Gase, die sich im Körper abgelagert haben, zumindest in Teilen wieder herauszuholen. Anschließend gehen die Arbeiter wieder zu den Fabriken, um den Abbau der Arbeitsanlagen voranzutreiben, ihre Häuser aufzulösen und den Hausstand als Metallschrott zu verscherbeln. Körper werden verbraucht, vergiftet, gereinigt und abgebaut. Nur wiederhergestellt werden sie nicht. Alles wird nutzbar gemacht, bis es auseinanderfällt, alles ist schon halb in Zersetzung begriffen, löst sich im Nebel auf.

V. Auge im Nebel

Das Auge im Nebel – Wang Bings Kamera –, durch das wir diese Welt wahrnehmen, ist kein Auge der Neutralität (das unvoreingenommen auf die Realität blickt), auch kein Auge des Wissens (das uns Dinge im eigentlichen Sinne verständlicher macht), es ist vor allem Mal ein Körper. Das bereits beschriebene white noise trägt dazu bei, verweist auf die Grenzen des Materials, also auch auf die materielle Qualität des technischen Apparats, durch den wir die Welt sehen und hören, auf seinen Körper. Flecken und Schlieren auf der Linse werden in Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks zum Normalfall, Teile des Bildes verschwimmen, es entstehen blind spots, manchmal tauchen wir als Auge in Gänze in den Nebel ein und bekommen so nicht nur ein Bild von der Welt vor uns, sondern den Eindruck einer Welt um uns herum. Der Nebel – und generell: die Materialität der Luft und des Lichts (Räume sind in diesem Film nicht nur Verhältnisse von Dingen und Architekturen, sie sind immer gefüllt mit Luft und Licht, mit Atmosphäre, durch die hindurch man sich bewegt) vergegenwärtigt uns in besonderem Maße, dass die Kamera ein Körper ist, der sich durch Räume und entlang von Körpern bewegt: „Thousand tentacles feeling their way through space rather than a single lens taking it in view” (Anne Rutherford). Über die Körperlichkeit des Auges versteht man die Körperlichkeit der Situation in Tie Xi. Es geht – erstmal – nicht darum, zu analysieren und zu kritisieren, es geht darum, zu verstehen, also nachvollziehbar zu machen, in welcher Situation Menschen sind, was es bedeutet, ein bestimmter Körper in einem bestimmten Raum zu einer bestimmten Zeit zu sein. Ein politischer Körper, sicher, aber auch ein Körper, der sich mit dem Raum gemeinsam auflöst.

VI. Stillstand

Ein Raum, der sich auflöst. Ein Raum, der keine Begrenzungen mehr hat, weil der Nebel uns nie soweit blicken lässt. Das meint beides das Gleiche: Bewegung verpufft. Wir sehen die Menschen noch bei der Arbeit, harter, schwerster Arbeit, aber Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks zeigt uns nie einen Arbeitsablauf, den Weg vom Rohstoff zum fertigen Produkt. Es wird gearbeitet, die teils noch (und teils auch schon nicht mehr) emsige Tätigkeit wirkt wie ein Sich-Eingraben in Gefangenschaft, umgeben von einem Nebel der Perspektivlosigkeit. Der zweite Teil des Films artikuliert das weniger rau und nochmal aus der Perspektive jener, die schon nicht mehr arbeiten: Eine Gruppe junger Männer und Frauen im Arbeiterviertel, allesamt arbeitslos. Die Zeit vergeht mit Hanteltraining, Streitereien, Poker oder Mahjong, am Ende aber muss man ran, das Haus abreißen, bevor man übersiedelt (wird) in noch kleinere, noch schäbigere Unterkünfte. Umgeben von einer Nebelwand graben die Menschen sich immer weiter ein.

VII. Vernebelt – trinken, rauchen, kochen, feiern

Es wird exzessiv getrunken in Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks. Immer wieder im kameradschaftlich-zugewandten Miteinander, meistens aber über die Stränge, begleitet von ungut machoidem Geprahle auf Kosten von Frauen, immer wieder auch in Gewalt mündend. Dem Nebel in der Welt begegnet man mit dem Nebel in der Birne.

Die erste Stunde des Films, die in so besonders starker Weise vernebelt ist, sensibilisiert unser Auge aber auch für alle anderen Formen des Rauchs, des Dampfs, der materialisierten Luft: Wie viel geraucht wird in den Pausenunterkünften der Arbeiter oder auch in den winzigen Häusern der Familien. Welche eher seltene Atmosphäre von Wärme, vielleicht Geborgenheit, in jedem Fall aber kurzzeitiger Entspannung der Dampf aus Kochtöpfen erzeugt, wenige Momente, in denen man sich auch als Zuschauer erlaubt, zur Ruhe zu kommen, den kalten Winternebel, den heißen Industriedampf um einen herum zu vergessen.

VIII. Lichtblicke – Farbe, Sonne, Glücksmomente

Der Nebel also ist innen wie außen in Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks. Und weil er so allumfassend ist, weil er alles umschließt oder schon von innen heraus trübt, gibt es diese Momente, die ganz anders sind, in denen der Nebel sich lichtet: Wenn zum chinesischen Neujahrsfest lange Ketten mit bunten Wimpeln aufgehängt werden, wenn in den verlassenen Arbeitsquartieren ein bunter Regenschirm gefunden wird (der sich dann nicht mehr richtig aufspannen lässt), wenn gegen Ende des Films, im dritten Teil, fast 45 Minuten lang die Sonne scheint und der Horizont zwar immer noch nicht zu sehen ist, diesmal aber, weil die Blende der Helligkeit hinterherhechelt und so Teile des Bildes ausbrennen.

Es erscheint trivial, aber beim Sehen von Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks treffen einen immer wieder Funken der Hoffnung im Zentrum der grauen Suppe, bunte Farben, helles, gleißendes Licht: Unvergesslich in seiner Lässig- und Wahrhaftigkeit, wenn einer der jungen Männer im zweiten Teil von seiner Liebe für eine ehemalige Klassenkameradin erzählt, die ihn – so glaubt er – immer wieder anlockt, um ihn dann von sich zu weisen. Schließlich bittet er eine Freundin, der Verehrten am Valentinstag einen Blumenstrauß zu überbringen. Sie solle ihr sagen, er sei den ganzen Tag gereist und habe sein ganzes Geld dafür ausgegeben. Wahr ist das nicht. Aber es könnte wahr sein, wenn man sich den knallig bunten Blumenstrauß inmitten dieser grau-grauen Welt ansieht.

IX. Nebel und Bühne

Der Nebel in Tie Xi war einfach da. Jedes Bild, das Wang Bing von Tie Xi machte, kam mit dem Nebel, (fast) jedes Bild in Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks ist vernebelt. So ist der Nebel ganz klar Teil der Realität, die ein Dokumentarfilm abzubilden trachtet.

Der Nebel in Tie Xi ist aber auch ein Geschenk für den Dokumentarfilm. Weil er den Blick für die Realität in einer paradoxen Wendung verdichtet: indem er die Sichtbarkeit der Welt einschränkt und sie so zu einer Bühne macht, in der jedes Detail deutlicher hervortritt. Zwei, drei Mal im Film gibt es Momente, in denen dieser generelle Zug eine Prägnanz hervorbringt, die üblicherweise nur im willentlichen Akt der inszenatorischen Verdichtung, der Mise en Scène – im Anwerfen einer Nebelmaschine, wenn man so will – zu erreichen ist. Aus einer Untersicht filmt Wang Bing einen Arbeiter, wie er unter einer gigantisch wirkenden Hebevorrichtung etwas verkettet, damit es abtransportiert werden kann, im Hintergrund ein paar rote Scheinwerfer, im Bildvordergrund ein Abgrund, alles ist eingetaucht in einen Dunst aus Wasser, Staub, Licht und Luft. Die Fabrik als sakraler Bühnenraum. Zu Beginn des zweiten Teils von Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks verteilt ein Repräsentant der staatlichen Lotterie in China billige Fernseher an einige „glückliche“ Gewinner. Einer von ihnen bekommt von dem Mann erzählt, dass es keine bessere Art gäbe, sein Geld auszugeben, für einen guten Zweck und mit der Chance auf einen Gewinn, auch wenn man kaum Geld habe. Der Lotterierepräsentant lächelt dabei in Richtung der in Massen gekommenen Zuschauern, die vor der erhöht errichteten Bühne stehen. Auch Wang Bing (und damit wir) steht unter ihnen, blickt auf den Mann, der den Leuten hier erzählt, wie man am besten lebt. Hinter ihm hat sich derweil eine dichte Nebelwand gebildet und schließt so alle Umstehenden mit dem Los-wedelnden Mephisto ein und vom Rest der Welt aus.