Writer-director Julio Medem can be guaranteed to get you thinking with a narrative graced with ravishing imagery and likely much nudity, particularly female. Chaotic Ana (newcomer Manuela Vellés) suddenly finds she has visions linking her to (possible) past selves, women who died young and violently at the hands of men. Her life as a naive artist in Ibiza, where she lives with her dad in a cave on the coast, is disrupted by Charlotte Rampling’s Justine (presumably named after de Sade’s character but the reason for this I can’t fathom) who runs an artists’ colony in Madrid. Here Ana meets video artist Linda (Bebe Rebolledo) and Said (Nicolas Cazalé), with whom she enters into an intimate relationship. She discovers she can dream for the first time and, under hypnosis, filmed by Linda, she investigates what might be her past. The paintings that had so enraptured Justine were doors on the cave dwelling walls: doors and dreaming = Jungian psychoanalysis. For many this will be a problem: Jung as hokum or as insight? It’s the former for me, however I’m willing to suspend disbelief in return for interesting narratives and Medem certainly succeeds on that level. There are moments (like when Ana appears on Linda’s dad’s boat) where credulity is over-stretched (I assumed it was a dream for a few minutes) but there are enough ideas whirling around to engage to the end.
At the end Medem has flung in American aggression in the Iraq war (UK was culpable too) in a very strange scene with an American politician. We also end up in Arizona (Ford’s mesas and buttes are on show) at an Native American Reservation that, as aquarello concludes is:
an awkward juxtaposition [for the film] that proves especially flawed during a pivotal encounter at a Navajo bar, where Medem’s trenchant parallel illustration of dispossession and institutional segregation between the Native American reservations in the US and the refugee camps of displaced Saharans in the Middle East – and by extension, the Iraqi occupation that has also resulted in geographic factionalism along ethnic and tribal lines – is undermined by the facile sight gag of a patron’s inebriated uncoordination.
The refugee camps in Africa are drawn into the narrative via the mysterious Said and there is a degree of Orientalism in his representation. The film was dedicated to Medem’s sister Ana, an artist who was killed in a car crash in 2001. Clearly the film is a form of therapy for the director, which explains the narrative lacunas. Her beautiful paintings are used as her namesake’s in the film and knowledge of her death adds to the melancholy that infuses the movie.
Glasgow’s retrospective this year was ‘Are We There Yet? A Retrospective of the Future’ and amongst the many Hollywood films selected for this strand, Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker stood out as something different. I don’t think I saw Stalker when it arrived in the UK, but I knew something about the film. I was therefore surprised that a 162 minute film which has baffled audiences for 40 years should attract a nearly full house in GFT1 (260 seats taken according to Festival co-director Allan Hunter). Admittedly this was a free show, like all the morning shows in the retrospective, but even so the turnout was impressive.
The starting point for Stalker was a novel, originally titled Roadside Picnic, by Boris and Arkady Strugatsky. There are numerous stories about the production of the film but most point towards Tarkovsky’s decision to use the novel only as ‘inspiration’ rather than to adapt it ‘faithfully’, although I think some have argued it is quite close to the novel (which I haven’t read). In addition, reported problems with the filmstock used and a dispute with the original cinematographer meant that Tarkovsky re-shot much of the film and there is a credit part-way through the Curzon DCP which announces ‘Part 2’ and therefore, I think, the new material.
If you haven’t seen the film, the narrative starts from the premise that after some kind of major incident (which in the novel is an alien visitation which the aliens treat ‘like a picnic’) an area of land is cordoned off and access is denied to the public. This is ‘the Zone’. A group of individuals have spent time trying to find ways into the Zone and these people are known as ‘Stalkers’. The narrative opens with a Stalker (Aleksandr Kaydanovskiy) leaving his wife and child at home and meeting two men, the ‘Professor’ (Nikolay Grinko) and a ‘Writer’ (Anatoliy Solonitsyn) who will pay him to lead them into the Zone. Why do they want to go there? The local legend is that at the centre of the Zone is a building with a room in which anyone who enters successfully is able to have any wish granted. The Stalker tells them that the Zone is very difficult to navigate and that only he and his few fellows know the pathways and how to find them. He refers to the most famous Stalker who was known as ‘Porcupine’.
The film is divided into sections marked by the use of colour filters or distinctive palettes. The opening in the house of the Stalker and the bar where he meets his two customers is presented in a yellowish sepia, many of the scenes indoors/underground in the ‘Zone’ have a palette primarily of greys, contrasting with outdoor sequences in full colour dominated by the greens of vegetation. The final sequences set back near the Stalker’s home are perhaps again yellowish sepia. (I’m confused here since the many stills online don’t always match what I think I saw in Glasgow.) The film is presented in Academy ratio and there are two types of colour stock used as well as black and white according to IMdB.
Stalker has been described in many ways but like all films labelled as ‘science fiction’ it is about ‘now’ rather than anything futuristic. The film seemed to me to be primarily concerned with living in the USSR. This in turn requires entering a number of philosophical debates about how to survive in the society and what it is that keeps people going. We do find out what the Professor and the Writer are seeking but several questions are unanswered by the narrative. The most obvious is why the Stalker hasn’t entered the room and obtained his own wish – which might be for money to support his family or for a cure for the affliction which means his daughter has difficulty walking.
I should point out that I found the film very heavy going. Partly that might be because I was feeling under the weather anyway with a heavy cold but I think I stayed alert throughout the running time. However, I am now finding it difficult to remember some parts of the narrative. I saw my first three Tarkovsky films on release in UK cinemas, Solaris (1972), Andrei Rublev (1973) and Mirror (1980) and not only did I enjoy them but I found myself moved by them in different ways. When I watched Tarkovsky’s début film Ivan’s Childhood (1962) some years later on video, I was similarly knocked out. Why then did I not respond to Stalker? I don’t know. I was impressed by the camerawork and some of the ‘action sequences’ such as the initial breaking into the Zone, the walk across it and some of the sequences inside the buildings, but for some reason I wasn’t engaged. I wasn’t sure what to make of the opening and closing sequences with the Stalker and his wife and daughter. It may be that I just couldn’t tune into the religious and and more broadly philosophical questions – though these are also present in various ways in some of the earlier films. More likely, is that the narrative itself is much more abstract and though it isn’t difficult to see some of the links to a critique of Soviet society, I tend to enjoy narratives that are more materially, more sociologically grounded (or in the case of Solaris, couched in more specific generic structures).
There are many, many pieces written about Stalker from eminent film critics and scholars to auteur fans. There are also many attempts to explain the narrative. Stalker has become one of those films that are endlessly argued over. You can easily find many of these on YouTube and through simple searches. Perhaps I need to watch it again – or perhaps I should seek out his last two films? I’m pleased Glasgow screened it and I’m glad I saw it in what is now considered a large cinema. Here’s the trailer for a recent restoration of Stalker:
Song Without a Name proved quite a difficult film to engage with during the opening few scenes. The opening shot in a film presented in black and white, comprises two ghostly figure in long shot trudging up a slope through the mist. Photos of newspaper headlines and street graffiti etc. reveal the political conflict of Peru in the 1980s. We are then introduced to the central character Georgina (Pamela Mendoza), part of a group of indigenous people coming together to sing, seemingly on a street corner. Perhaps because the film was presented in Academy ratio on a screen without masking in GFT3, the projectionist had difficulty in registering the image so that we could read all of the text of the subtitles. The film was re-started and from then on, I did begin to respond to the narrative. You can see in the trailer below that often there is no sharp edge to the image. Some commentators have remarked on the ‘shadowy photography’, others suggest a reference to film noir. The director and co-writer Melina Léon says she wanted black & white Academy to suggest both the monochrome newspapers and the TV image of the 1980s. The film’s story is based on real events from the early 1980s in which the director’s father had some involvement when he was setting up a newspaper. But the film is set specifically in 1988 towards the end of the first Presidency of Alan Garcia during which the Peruvian economy was in economic crisis mode and internal security was threatened by the Maoist guerrilla actions of the Shining Path and the smaller Túpac Amaru Revolutionary Movement (MRTA).
Georgina is heavily pregnant and she and her husband Leo make a living selling potatoes in a local market. Georgina hears a radio announcement about a clinic offering free birthing procedures. When her time is due she makes her painful way by bus and on foot to the clinic in Lima where her daughter is delivered but quickly taken away from her. Later she is told to go home and return the next day to collect her baby. But by the next day the clinic has closed and moved away. In a sadly familiar sequence of encounters, Georgina and Leo (Lucio Rojas) are turned away by different government departments and sent on another pointless trip to an office where their lack of paperwork means nothing will happen. (As indigenous people they do not have IDs.) The police seem unprepared to investigate the theft of their baby. In despair, Georgina seeks to contact the press and Leo turns for support to one of the guerrilla groups.
When Georgina finally gets to see a journalist we realise we’ve seen him earlier in the film, nervously visiting a guerrilla group. Pedro (Tommy Párraga) recognises that this could be an important story and he begins to investigate with support from his boss on a major Lima paper. At this point the central narrative begins to splinter. Georgina finds other women who are supportive and she becomes more involved in music and street theatre. Pedro’s investigation begins to uncover a baby-smuggling network but also the role of the ruling class in covering up and blocking his investigation. He also has his own narrative one which makes him a potential victim as well as an investigator. This ‘unravelling’ of the central narrative and the lack of a clear resolution has been a criticism of the film from some reviewers. I can understand this but I don’t mind the ‘open ending’. Having said that, the latter stages of the narrative do take on an almost dreamlike (nightmarish?) quality. The black and white photography has also been seen as a practical decision to enable an easier representation of 1988 without too many VFX required to change contemporary Lima. Certainly the scenes of Georgina’s first home and then the shanty towns by the sea with sand dunes and footways across the landing stages offer a certain kind of marginal location. I think I may have been confused by these locations. The shacks tend to look the same. Perhaps some of the scenes towards the end of the narrative do refer to 1940s noir?
The music in the film is by Peruvian avant-garde musician Pauchi Sasaki and her website suggests:
Her music recreates intimate subjective landscapes through electro-acoustic sonorities mixed with field recordings and synthesis.
Along with the cinematography by Peruvian-Chilean Inti Briones, the music creates a distinctive ‘feel’. Briones and Sasaki, along with director Léon have experience of documentary shoots. Briones also shot Too Late to Die Young (Chile 2018). That film was not as successful on release in the UK as I expected. It shares some qualities with Song Without a Name which as yet hasn’t got a UK distributor. Together they represent a willingness by younger (under 40) directors to explore the social, political and cultural issues of Latin America in the 1980s and into the 1990s. I did find the coverage of the Shining Path and/or MRTA confusing in Song Without a Name. I’m not sure who the indigenous groups are that Georgina joins and I wasn’t sure what to make of bombings in Lima. Overall though, I found this an interesting film and a contrast to the few other Peruvian films I’ve seen. The performances by the leads are very good. After its Cannes showing, Song Without a Name has won prizes at several film festivals around the world. I hope it does get a UK release.
‘Iceland: Shining Northern Lights’ was one of GFF20’s festival strands this year with 12 titles on offer – an impressive array of films from such a small country. I managed to catch three of them, all good. This second title after Pity the Lovers, was in some ways the most familiar because it stars Ingvar Sigurdsson, the first Icelandic actor to make an impression on me with his lead in Jar City back in 2008. I was delighted to find that he was present for the screening and he proved to be an entertaining guest. In Jar City he played a rather grumpy police officer, a role he repeated (although less grumpy) in the popular TV crime fiction series Trapped (2015-19). He has 81 acting credits, including several Hollywood roles and not all of them police officers, but in A White, White Day he appears as what the synopsis refers to as an ‘off-duty police chief’ in a rural community.
The film opens with a misty wintry scene, a day when it is hard to distinguish between earth and sky. From behind we watch a car career off a remote road, through the safety barrier and crash unseen below. We are then shown a house in a rural location and through a leisurely montage of similar static shots it is renovated/re-built over time and with significant changes to doors, windows etc. and the horses in the fields around it. This turns out to be the home of Ingimundur (Sigurdsson) a widowed police officer spending his time on the house as part of the grieving process for his lost wife. Ingimundur is struggling to come to terms with his loss. He has colleagues, friends and family to support him but he seems closest to Salka, his young grand-daughter, played by the daughter of the film’s writer-director Hlynur Palmason. It is an astonishing performance by the little girl and in the Q&A Ingvar Sigurdsson was full of praise for how she helped him with his role.
This intriguing opening might be the beginning of a crime fiction but in the Press Notes, the director tells us something else:
I’ve never thought about genres, I know very little about them. I don’t think I’m that conscious about where the film is going, but for me A White, White Day was about two kinds of love. Love that you have for your children or grandchildren, which is simple, pure and unconditional and then another kind of love – a love you have for your partner, your lover, wife etc. That is something completely different, it’s more complex, intimate, animalistic and something quite unique that you don’t have with anyone else.
This statement pushes the reader into thinking about the film in a different way. I do feel that having read through the Press Notes and re-run scenes from the film in my mind’s eye, I now read it differently. I seem to have watched several films recently which all seem to be ‘art films’ making use of genre elements and structures and, by doing so, frustrating audiences (see recent posts and comments on The Lighthouse and Little Joe). Like those films, A White, White Day was shown at Cannes in 2019 and will get a UK release from Peccadillo Pictures (date not yet confirmed). I wonder if it will cause the same consternation? At Cannes, Ingvar Sigurdsson won the ‘Rising Star Award’ which is ironic for someone with his great experience and previous acclaim. Around the festival circuit over the last year the actor and the film have been nominated for awards many times, winning on several occasions. The film’s arthouse credentials are clear. It is director Palmason’s second feature after the similarly acclaimed Winter Brothers (2017). Both films feature the cinematography of Maria von Hausswolff from Denmark and editor Julius Krebs Damsbo. The music in the new film is by Edmund Finnis and Palmason’s work with his actors and this trio of creatives has created a film that works primarily as a character study about the grieving policeman.
No spoilers here but I want to point to some of the ways in which camerawork and editing help to create a sense of Ingimundur’s feelings. The camerawork is at moments simply expressionistic as in the montage of static shots of the house and the sense of time passing slowly or the view from the house through a porthole. The mise en scène isolates Ingimundur in several scenes, especially at various social and family gatherings where it often seems that Salka is the only companion he seeks. He has been required (I surmise) to undergo some counselling from a psychologist and these sequences are edited in distinctive ways. When he is talking to the psychologist via a video link and loses control, the camera pulls back to show him attempting to break the connection by attacking the computer and the power and signal sources.
Having said this, it is impossible to not read certain incidents as making references to genre narratives. When a rock has fallen on the road near to where his wife’s car crashed do we wonder if it’s a sign that someone is attacking him? When he rummages through a box of his wife’s photographs and finds one that perhaps shouldn’t be there do we think of a crime fiction/thriller narrative? The whole narrative sometimes feels like a ghost story and the stories Ingimundur tells Salka seem to point to Norse mythology. Having spent a long time trying to write this piece, I feel that the film is much richer than I experienced at the time and I can’t wait to see it again. Do watch out for it – highly recommended!
Little Joe was funded by a range of European public funding agencies and is now distributed in the UK by the British Film Institute. Its profile within the European film world is based on its Austrian director Jessica Hausner’s previous Cannes screenings and its Cannes 2019 Best Actor prize for Emily Beecham. But apart from a handful of critics, the film audience has not taken to it – at the time of writing it has a 5.9 score on IMDb. I think the problem is that the film falls into a contemporary bear-trap – the sense for audiences that an arthouse director is making a genre film but not carrying through the expectations they have for that specific genre. It’s a different version of the problem which also affects The Lighthouse.
‘Little Joe’ is the name given by a senior ‘plant breeder’ to a new plant she has created as part of a project to develop a house plant that will produce excessive amounts of pollen and a very distinctive smell. The project team believe that inhaling the smell will be calming and will promote ‘happiness’ – thus tying in to the latest ‘wellness’ craze, though nobody mentions that in a film shot in 2018. The plant name refers to Alice Woodard’s son, Joe a young teenager who she fears she may be neglecting. As well as the central narrative about the plant, a parallel narrative explores Alice’s relationship with Joe (she is a single parent, her estranged (?) husband lives out in the wilds, in the fells). Alice is visiting a psychotherapist (Lindsay Duncan) to deal with her anxieties about parenting.
The genre narrative here is seen to belong to either horror or science fiction/speculative fiction and most critics and audiences seem to have assumed that this is a re-imagined version of the famous Body Snatchers novel (1955) by Jack Finney which has been adapted four times by Hollywood. Although I read this suggestion before I saw Little Joe, I forgot about it completely and instead thought about a range of other horror/SF narratives. Two Ira Levin novels sprang to mind, both of which later became Hollywood hits – Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and The Stepford Wives (1974). These may seem peculiar references but the key element is the fear that all of us feel when we think that somebody we know well still looks the same, but that they seem now to be somebody else. This sense of paranoia makes for a quiet but devastating psychological thriller. I was pleased to discover that the writer-director (with co-writer Géraldine Bajard) was aiming precisely for this:
. . . our concern was to create an atmosphere within the scenes that allows the audience to question the integrity of the characters involved.
We wanted to offer different ways of interpreting what is happening: the so-called changes in people can either be explained by their psychological state of mind, or by the pollen they have inhaled. Or alternatively, those ‘changes’ do not exist at all and are only imagined by Bella [the first of the breeders to notice something] or Alice. (from the Press Notes)
The issue for audiences here appears to be that, first, the narrative moves at a glacial pace and there isn’t as much ‘plot’ as we would expect from a genre horror/SF film and second that because we know the story we can predict the next event. I don’t buy this, partly because I’m quite happy to accept the arthouse approach. Hausner herself offers a conversation in the Press Notes with a neuroscientist to suggest that the basis of her narrative is at least plausible. Plants do contain chemicals which humans choose to ingest in various ways and which we accept as behaviour-changing and mood-altering (cannabis and nicotine are just two examples). The horror factor in this narrative is terrifying because the film doesn’t have a clear resolution. In all the Invasion of the Bodysnatcher films at least we know that the pod people are replacing humans. In this film we never know if it is actually dangerous to inhale the pollen. Have we changed? Or, because we are happy, do we just not notice?
My gripe with the film is not with the ideas, the arthouse pacing or the complex relationship to genre, but with the aesthetics of the film. The costumes are designed by the director’s sister Tanja who has worked on Jessica Hausner’s previous films and those of the Austrian auteur Ulrich Seidl. I found them ugly especially in their cut and in the clashing pastel shades designed for the overall colour palette of the film. But I can see that they help to create the sterile world of the plant breeders. They are matched by the camerawork of Martin Gschlacht and Hausner’s decision to use some of the avant-garde Japanese music of Teiji Ito (1932-1981). Ito is credited with melding traditional music from noh and kabuki theatrical forms with American avant-garde music. Hausner came across his work because of his collaborations with Maya Deren (who he married at the end of her life). This music has been one of the most disturbing/irritating aspects of the film for some audiences, especially those expecting a conventional horror/SF score (even though conventional scores for such genre films do sometimes use unusual musical forms). Finally, it is important to add to the aesthetic mix, the acting styles that Hausner has urged some of her well-known actors to adopt. I find it difficult to describe this style other than to say that it feels stilted and unnatural. I did wonder if any of it was associated with this being Hausner’s first film in English, but I would have expected the actors to have overcome any issues with the script. It must be deliberate and is most apparent in scenes which would otherwise carry emotional force such as those between Alice and Chris (Ben Whishaw) and between Alice and her son and his girlfriend.
There were times watching Little Joe when I was strongly reminded of Peter Strickland’s In Fabric. That film has the same sense of ‘timelessness’ – but it also has plenty of humour, violence, horror, sex and passion, all absent in Little Joe. I sound as if I am damning Little Joe, but actually I did find it intriguing and always interesting. I’m not sure why Emily Beecham won her acting award. Perhaps it was because she gave Jessica Hausner precisely the performance the director wanted? I do wonder if I’ve fallen into the trap of ‘seeing’ Alice only through a ‘male gaze’? It’s interesting that the three other female roles of the psychotherapist, the former lead plant breeder, Bella (Kerry Fox) and Joe’s girlfriend Selma (Jessie Mae Alonzo) are all characters with more vitality and emotion reflected in their costumes and acting than that of Alice.
The production, with its Austrian, British, German and French funding was shot mainly in Liverpool and North West England, Austria, Germany and the Netherlands (for the plant breeding). I have seen comments from critics complaining about ‘another Euro-pudding’ but I think the different locations add something to the ‘otherworldliness’ of the narrative. If you go in to Little Joe thinking that you will see a horror or SF genre film I expect you will be disappointed. You might enjoy it more as an art film exploring a specific set of ideas. I’m now going to try to watch Jessica Hausner’s earlier success Lourdes (Austria-France-Germany 2009) which has just popped up on MUBI in the UK. I’m expecting a similar arthouse approach but without the genre narratives.
Wings of Desire, Christian Rogowski, German Film Classics: Camden House 2019, ISBN 9781640140370, £12.99, 96pp
I was pleased to receive a review copy of this book, in the German Film Classics series, as I was interested if it could persuade me that a film I’d failed to complete viewing twice was actually the classic critical opinion suggested. It must be 15 years since I’d last failed to get through Wim Wenders’ film but since then I have visited Berlin so I was looking forward to re-viewing the film; but first I read the book.
Wings of Desire debuted at Cannes in 1987 and won Wenders the Best Director award. It is a portrayal of life, and Berlin, before reunification when the director was at the top of his arthouse reputation; his previous feature had been the well-regarded Paris, Texas (West Germany-France, 1984) and his role in the New German cinema of the ’70s was feted. Paris, Texas was filmed in America and one of the constant themes in Wenders’ work was the (his) relationship between Germany (Europe) and America in the post-war era. Like Godard, in the ’60s, there was a love-hate tension: the love of American culture and democratic values and the hate of its imperialism. For Godard, there was a linear progression from one half of the dichotomy to the other during the 1960s; Wenders remained conflicted, as the protagonist of Kings of the Road (Im Lauf der Zeit, West Germany, 1976) said, “The Yanks have colonised our unconsciousness.” This film was the third of the road movie trilogy; the others were Alice in the Cities (West Germany, 1974) and Wrong Turn (West Germany, 1975), all starring Rüdiger Vogler as Wenders’ ‘stand in’. Wrong Turn was scripted by Peter Handke, who also contributed to Wings of Desire and, after the revelation of Handke’s support for Slobodan Milošević’s Serbia, which hit the news again recently after his award of the Nobel Prize for Literature, casts something of a shadow over the film.
Alice in the Cities, Wenders’ best fiction film in my view, is set both in America and West Germany but of Wings of Desire, as Rogowski says:
. . . the decision to film in (West) Berlin, in German, to address specifically German issues in a highly poetic, literary, manner and to enlist the help of none other than Peter Handke . . . the film seeks to reclaim something that is authentic, significant, and unique, both to the (divided) nation as a whole and to the individual person. (18)
The ‘poetic’ emphasises the arthouse elements to Wings of Desire, where being obtuse is anything but a problem. So it is helpful that Rogowski diligently unpicks the references and offers enough context, for those who are younger, about Berlin just before the Wall came down. Although he obviously admires the film, that doesn’t prevent him having a critical gaze. The climax of the film, where Bruno Ganz’s (fallen) angel finally meets Marion (Solveig Donmartin) in the flesh, is dissected in some detail showing the problems in Handke’s script (the attempt to recoup Nazi discourse) and the uncritical celebration of heteronormative union. Rogowski is fair to Wenders as he acknowledges the last point is not something that would have been widely understood in 1986.
Donmartin and Wenders were a couple at the time of the film and (from 2020) it does look to me like an indulgent love letter to her, utilising the trope of the ‘mysterious woman’ who will ‘save’ the man (Handke names her Woman in the script but at least Wenders humanises her in the film with a name). Although I did get to the end of the film this time it was only because I forced myself. Much of my irritation was rooted in the constant reverse shot of the angel Damiel watching the world go by; Ganz is an actor I admire but I found his patronising smug smirk insufferable.
The gender politics has (inevitably) dated but that is no reason to condemn any text as all are of their time. However, I didn’t like the film when it came out so my view hasn’t changed.
Monographs on individual films are a popular publishing format; the BFI Classics and Modern Classics have been running since 1992. Their obvious strengths are offering an in-depth consideration of a film; which, of course, are also its weakness for although the monographs usually contextualise the film, the focus has to be on the text. Exactly what breadth of scope is ideal for writing about film I wouldn’t like to say; it depends upon the film, genre, director, producer and so on.
As noted, Rogowski offers an excellent guide to the film and an example of how useful he is can be seen when he points out that there is a key reference to Walter Benjamin’s philosophy of history that could be “lost on English-speaking viewers, since it is not translated in the subtitles . . . ” (68). This refers to Benjamin’s concept of the ‘Angel of History’ which witnesses (as does Damiel and his companion Cassiel, played by Otto Sander) “history as perpetual catastrophe” (69). Hence the guide does more than contextualise in that it offers clarity for non-German speakers.
Rogowski is also generally sound in his analysis of the specifically filmic elements but betrays his background, as a Professor in Language and Literature, when he questions whether two pairs of men walking in the same frame, one pair in the background, was intentional (72). Film students know that everything is assumed to be of significance.
The quality of the film stills in the book is superb; they are large enough to be seen clearly and printed on high quality paper. However, the book isn’t structured by chapters, so there’s no Contents (or index), which compromises its use as a reference book. Recommended if you (think you’ll) like the film.