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Cinema of Damnation | by Tony McKibbin | December 2004
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Cinema of Damnation:
Negative Capabilities in Contemporary Central and Eastern European Film
What might we define as the “cinema of damnation”? One way
into it is to view the “genre” as a more pessimistic version
of what John Orr has called in his book, The Art and Politics of Film,
the “cinema of wonder”. For Orr, this incorporates Central
and Eastern European cinema generally and the work of Tarkovsky, Paradjanov,
Jancsó and Angelopoulos in particular. Who are their heirs apparent?
Names and films that come to mind include: Artur Aristakisyan's Hands
(1993); Alexander Sokurov's Whispering Pages (1996); Victor Kosakovsky's
Wednesday 19. 7. 1961 (1997); Vitaly Kanevsky's Don't Move, Die and Rise
Again! (1989). And, though a veteran from the '60s, Kira Muratova, whose
The Asthenic Syndrome from 1989 remains some sort of abject apotheosis.
But perhaps more significant names are Béla Tarr, Sharunas Bartas,
and Fred Kelemen, whose films reject the natural world's hopeful aspect,
an aspect that encompasses the often socially pessimistic. While Orr sees
the cinema of wonder as an “aesthetic of the rare experience”,
in the cinema of damnation we're much more likely to see nature as oppressively
mundane – negatively at one with, rather than opposed to, social
oppression.
Let us take for example the difference between Tarkovsky and Tarr's use
of rain. In Tarkovsky's Mirror (1974) it conjoins with fire to create
a magical effect, a frisson of the natural world at one with the strange
beauty of a burning house. In Tarr's universe rain is a daily presence,
part of the grind of life as it pours down on the small towns and villages
populated by the lumpy and depressive who believe the world is a miserabilist
universe they're helplessly shrunken by. In Damnation (1988) and Sátántangó
(1994) the notion of being outdoors is deeply uninviting, as if a trip
along the road is like crossing the surface of the moon. Thus Tarr's world
is often focused on half-lit interiors, showing us characters banging
doors shut against the elements. These are characters so devoid of purpose
they're instead full of mischievous malevolence. Where one of the central
questions for Tarkovsky is the meaninglessness of life in the presence
or absence of God or art, and the way the elements hint at a benign being,
in Tarr it's the apparent meaningless of existence tempted by evil elemental
forces. Where in Tarkovsky's Stalker (1979) and The Sacrifice (1986) the
zone may represent a religious locale in the former and the burning of
the house a necessary sacrifice in the latter, in Tarr we're talking less
about a spirituality from without – from the possibly celestial
– than a spiritual absence from within. In Damnation the central
character's lover says, “you've lost the beauty and love within
you”, and so it comes as no surprise when at the end of the film
he shops her and her husband to the police. And we might wonder how much
love and beauty is within her when she cynically blow-jobs the wealthy
town hood in his car behind both her husband and her lover's back.
Tarr finds a wonderful visual style for this encroaching evil. His complicatedly
blocked sequence shots seem to take away from his characters any sense
of self-imposition. The characters don't act in the world so much as seem
to be acted upon by the world; a decision made is secondary to the forces
compelling them. When, near the end of Sátántangó,
a police officer reads out a lengthy, treacherous confession, the camera
slowly encircles the desk and its two inhabitants: the officer, and another
typing up the confession. Maybe a more conventional shot/counter shot
style might suit a world of good versus evil, and would focus on cop and
confessor, but Tarr refuses Manichaeism for something closer to Schopenhauer.
It's almost as if Tarr is the first genuinely Schopenhauerian filmmaker
if we keep in mind the German philosopher's comment in On the Suffering
of the World. “If the immediate and direct purpose of our life is
not suffering then our existence is the most ill-adapted to its purpose
in the world: for it is absurd to suppose the endless affliction of which
the world is everywhere full…should be purposeless and purely accidental”
(1).
The Corridor
Tarr's cinema of damnation then isn't necessarily meaningless, but its
meaningfulness is malevolent. This contrasts with Bartas' perspective
which is closer to a degree zero aimlessness. In The Corridor (1994),
for example, the central character (played by Bartas himself) walks through
the various corridors of the title, looking at and listening to the behaviour
of those in the various rooms he passes along and walks into. Bartas'
character is neither obviously agent nor seer; neither one who acts to
achieve nor who sees to perceive; and thus whose place in the world is
provocatively without purpose. He witnesses immense deformity, mental
illness and poverty, but the director chooses neither to explain the character
and his world's inertial genealogy, nor does he offer him brief purpose
within the present circumstances. It's a degree zero extended to the camera.
Bartas often uses static, or almost perfunctory, framing which plays much
more on offscreen sound than the possibilities in onscreen space. In Tarr,
taking off from fellow Hungarian Miklós Jancsó, though with
a very different purpose, space is constantly opening up as he shows us
the enormity of malevolence. In Bartas, impinging offscreen sound implies
something else: it suggests the weakness of self, the insignificance of
being. The misery of Bartas, not just in The Corridor, but also in Three
Days (1991) and A Few of Us (1996), isn't the obvious inversion of the
cinema of wonder often to be found in Tarr, but the apparent absence of
the most basic will-power. When Tarr says “I don't believe in God.
This is my problem” (2) he implies that the spiritual issue is nevertheless
the problem. In accepting that the “human is just a little part
of the cosmos” he hints that a bigger controlling principle is required.
In Bartas the problem often appears to be less the malignantly cosmic
than the microcosmically abject. This can take the urban form of Three
Days and The Corridor, or that of the isolated rural community in A Few
of Us.
The problem here is neither specific spiritual absence nor malevolent
presence, but a chaotic despair where man has neither the energy nor the
sense of purpose to affect the world. In A Few of Us there are images
of isolated hardship where the few villagers drink in all night revelries.
The woman who comes into the community serves a similar purpose to Bartas
in The Corridor. She's neither necessarily returning to the community
to find herself – as we might expect of the seer – nor is
she there to change the community, as we might expect of the agent. If
in Tarr the inner despair comes out of cosmic chaos, in Bartas it seems
more grounded in the immediate milieu. The milieu becomes a quagmire that
the characters can't easily escape, but can neither readily affect. There
is an Alice in Abjectland side to Bartas; especially pronounced in The
House (1997), where in an isolated mansion a young man wanders through
the building observing and conjuring up the inactions of others whilst
remaining inactive himself. In the opening voice-over he talks about not
seeing his mother but keeping her in mind, as if his imaginary relationship
is equivalent to its reality, that any reality may even be the product
of one's imagination, or that reality is something to which one is witness
but incapable of changing.
But this solipsism isn't Bartas' point. His work may bring to mind Berkeley's
comment, “It is evident that the things I perceive are my own ideas,
and that no idea can exist unless it be in a mind” but such a comment
comes out of a belief that “in God we live, and move and have our
being”. Bartas' work seems to confront an aspect of Berkeleyian
perception, without accepting the Berkeleyian assumption of a Godly presence.
If for Berkeley all ideas are linked by God's presence, by God's unifying
being, what happens if these ideas remain unlinked by anything bigger
than the perception? Bartas here opens up an interesting cinematic approach
to sensory-motor collapse – where the action and reaction no longer
cohere – by illustrating characters locked into private, almost
autistic worlds without a governing assumption about what might draw them
together. This is of course a cinema of alienation, but it's even more
a reductio ad absurdum of solipsistic inevitability. Bartas' degree zero
has nothing to do with, say, Antonioni – with a cold-eyed phenomenological
look at alienation generated quite specifically out of western capitalism
and subsequent ennui. Nor does it have much to do with Bresson's feeling
for Grace that Susan Sontag finds echoed in Simone Weil's notion that
“Grace fills empty spaces, but it can only enter where there is
a void to receive it, and it is grace itself which makes this void”
(3). Certainly Bartas' work has both alienation and the void, but this
doesn't allow for political possibilities, nor for Grace, but instead
emphasises perhaps a “dis-grace”. In this Bartas is very much
a post-communist filmmaker, for he brings together very well the problem
of material collapse and the spiritually bereft. This Lithuanian filmmaker
shows a world where material failure and theological absence has left
something deeper and still more profoundly scarred than the political
aspect of capitalist alienation and the spiritual possibilities of the
void. In Three Days, the two heroes visit the dilapidated town of Kalingrad,
named after the Soviet politician of the revolution Mikhail Kalinin, a
town whose very name implies past glories and present defeats. And as
the characters meet up with some local girls, or get into a bit of trouble,
Bartas' camera always implies that a general air of emptiness is stronger
than any individual sense of purpose. Bartas' “dis-grace”
suggests what can happen when there is neither the spiritual nor the material
to prop up an existence, and self-definition is still beyond one's ken.
Now this spiritual absence raises a metaphysical question in Bartas, the
way it isn't quite relevant to Tarr. Just how will characters communicate
when all the avenues of semiotic communication have been closed, the already
made meanings of capitalism, communism and religion? What could bring
the characters together? If the characters are frequently alienated in
Tarr it's because of this malevolent atmosphere that still allows for
a dog-eat-dog world. In Bartas it's as though first of all they would
have to try and define what all parties would mean by a dog.
If, then, Tarr's a great metaphysician of collective, greedy, desperate
despair, and Bartas a solipsist by virtue of the inability to trust in
any assumption of underpinning communication when both materialism and
spirituality are absent, where does that leave German filmmaker Fred Kelemen?
In a technical sense he's clearly somewhere in between. In Fate (1994)
he offers Tarr-like long takes, but relies on a hand held, implicative
camera suggesting the filmmaker is goading as readily as filming, as though
Kelemen wants to create despair as much as film it. In one sequence a
character drinks a bottle of vodka straight; in another scene a woman
dances in a bar wearing nothing more than an open dress. Where Tarr shows
us what we might perceive to be an intractable, all encompassing despair
– a community falling apart, and the individuals within it unable
to hold themselves together – Kelemen seems to be ferreting out
despair by looking at Berlin's underbelly. One of the things that give
Tarr's world its sense of inevitable miserabilism is his wider mise en
scène. This is the combination of the Jancsó-like long take
that eats up space already mentioned, and Tarr's interest in finding a
malignant environment. He's talked about how he needs “a special
impression from the locations”. Any hint of optimism implied in
location must be quickly vanquished. This may help explain why he uses
monochrome in most of his work. As he says, “With black and white
you can keep it more stylistic, you can keep more of a distance between
the film and reality which is the important thing” (4). Stylistic
here may equate with the consistently malign.
Abendland
Kelemen appears more interested in focusing on a general notion of contrast.
In Abendland (1999) he moves between the long-take long-shot and the close-up
video insert. He wants, like Bartas, to suggest a degree zero of non-motivation,
but it's as if where Bartas' minimally moving camera suggests a paralysis
at one with his characters, Kelemen's camera offers a hope more present
in the world than in the character's self. Sure he says, “I think
our world is cruel”, but he also says, cryptically, “when
we stop hoping, we fall asleep and can be killed very easily” (5).
In Abendland there's the close-up despair of the video insert, but there
is also the camera that picks up symbolic possibilities in a dead swan,
in a picture on the wall of a Klimtian woman who looks like the hero's
girlfriend, in the film's increasing use of an encompassing deep, royal
blue. But the final escape from despair doesn't stem from a communication
coming out of spiritual hope but in fact from the very depth of misery.
What brings the central character and his lover together again is a kind
of abject epiphany. It is after the discovery of the dead body of a missing
young girl which has haunted the community that our hero finds a capacity
for feeling he had thought was beyond him. And of course the symbolic
possibilities in the images just mentioned are far from optimistic: dead
swans, Klimtian women and a blue caught between the blue of calm and a
blue of despair – it is as ambivalent a use of the colour as Lynch's
blue in Blue Velvet (1986). But they're nevertheless possibilities, hints
at other worlds, where Tarr and Bartas' work is more inclined to emphasise
the closing down of any alternative way of being. If Tarr suggests the
victory of the malign and Bartas the “dis-grace” of extreme
alienation, Kelemen may be moving toward what Tarr has talked about but
never finally illustrated cinematically: “the more desperate we
are the more hope there is…” (6) Abendland suggests that out
of the fusion of personal despair and an innocent girl's demise something
positive springs. In Kelemen's world two negatives can make a positive.
What is interesting in Tarr, Bartas and Kelemen is that they might initially
be perceived as realists, but of course that conforms to a narrow notion
of realism equated with miserablism. They are all in fact close to low-key
metaphysicians. Tarr may say in interviews “there are no allegories
in any of my films and there are no symbols and any kind of metaphysical
things…” (7) but in retreating from the specific day to day
realities of life for a more encompassing take on existence, Tarr, Bartas
and Kelemen are asking questions that we might call philosophical. When
the motor-sensory system breaks down, the “natural” action
becomes the inevitable question. In each instance the philosophical invades
the image. Thus when Tarr talks about lingering over a shot of glasses
in a bar rather than focusing on his central character's dilemma in Damnation
– whether or not to become involved in a smuggle – the camera
queries the nature of a world beyond the situation. We might loosely define
this as the difference between the self and being, between the self-ish
action of personal existence, and the self-conscious direction. Here we
could say the unmotivated camera movement becomes the motivated question,
the philosophical question. For to be philosophical, in common parlance,
is to distance oneself from oneself, to gain a perspective on oneself.
In both Tarr and the Kelemen of Abendland, the directors abstract action;
they deny it psychological singularity for a metaphysical totality. An
example of this is of course the confession sequence in Sátántangó,
but it's also central to the rather different confession scene in Damnation.
Here the confessor is present but the camera is, if you like, absent.
It witnesses the confession not from inside the police station, but from
a single take crane shot outside the building. And just as the camera
implies distance, so something in the central character adds to it. “So
it was this awful inner tension that brought me here, setting the affectionate
friend in me aside to fulfil my duties my deep respect for order imposed
upon me”. Both the camera and the dialogue suggest something external
to the conventionally psychological.
In denying conventional film language – shot/counter shot –
and making the central character's confession about the necessity of order
over his own feelings of jealousy – Tarr denies the notion of an
autonomous self. In each instance, though, the scenes give justification
to apparent bad faith. The self-conscious direction helps give meaning
to the limitations of the fatigued individual. In the circular Sátántangó
an opening and closing voice-over informs us of the coming autumn rains,
and of the bell tower that collapsed during the war. There is something
of a depressive Nietzschean eternal return here where we have a land constantly
trounced by invaders and yet populated by locals who never leave, nor
can never quite understand their predicament. The impoverished doctor
may say at the end of the film that the people are caught in a cosmic
“vert-schaft”, but they're also products of a nation that
has been over-run perhaps once too often. There is an explicit reference
to the return of the Turks (who ruled much of Hungary from 1526 to the
late 17th century before the Habsburgs took over). There is also anything
from a visiting figure claiming to be a spiritual leader, to the sweeping
October rains that the film conspicuously mentions at both the beginning
and at the end, all adding to this sense of the invasive. Thus when the
reclusive Karrer in Damnation reckons he's hardly the master of his own
destiny, or one of the community in Sátántangó, Futaki,
talks about trying to get a job somewhere else, though he's unlikely to
go anywhere, the camera, the wild weather which hems the locals in for
the winter, the historical and the cosmic, all give justification to the
sense of an inertial world bigger than the individual populating it.
Damnation
The philosophical thus becomes the sum total of possibilities within a
presented existence and bad faith dissolves into a relative fatalism.
This is partly how the cinema of damnation goes beyond realism without
hinting at the transcendent. Where realism might merely suggest the difficulties
within the immediate milieu (Ken Loach for example), the cinema of damnation
hints at the apparently unavoidable nature of despair: the resonance of
the echo within the world. Transcendent cinema may want that echo to hint
at the possibility of a higher being (Dreyer, Bresson, Tarkovsky), but
the cinema of damnation seems more a cinema of dire yet multi-faceted
actualities than of spiritual possibilities. What its characters look
for is often the best option within the clearly hopeless. In Damnation,
Karrer, despairing of humanity, communicates with a dog before disappearing
into the muddied wilderness. At the end of Sátántangó
the doctor no less despairingly boards up his windows from the inside.
In both Three Days and A Few of Us the characters finally leave the community
not because, it seems, there is something better elsewhere, but because
there is nothing to keep them where they are. Abendland may appear more
optimistic than most, but the best option comes out of terrible realities.
It would be too much to say here that love will flourish, the most the
characters can expect, one senses, is the possibility of consoling each
other within their despairing state.
What we have in the cinema of damnation then is a realism, or, if you
like, a realisation. It is in this realisation that realism is eschewed
and transcendence denied. Realisation offers a perspective on realism
without resorting to anything beyond the full weight of the widest possible
milieu. The question the films ask is this: what's the best option available
in what is already the worst of all possible worlds? If Karrer acts treacherously
amongst those who are themselves treacherous, is communication with a
dog not the best option? If the community one comes from is dull and fatiguing
but no worse than the one that is visited, then why not return home asks
Three Days? If we argue and fight and emotionally tear each other to pieces,
is this still not better than the murderousness outside Abendland wonders?
The metaphysical perspective of comprehending oneself and one's position
in the world doesn't generally lead to possible spiritual enlightenment,
ritual significance, political martyrdom or profound understanding, as
we sometimes find respectively in Tarkovsky, Paradjanov, Jancsó
and Angelopoulos. It is enough merely to remain within the realm of sanity.
For if the central image in the cinema of wonder is, in Orr's words, “watching
a rainbow during the sensation of aftershock” (8), in the cinema
of the damned the rainbow has been replaced by the retreat into madness
and drunken reverie. The realisation remains within realism not beyond
it. How so many characters of damnation might ask, does one remain sane?
Surely the priority is to remain resolutely in this world when those who
look as if they've gone beyond it are so obviously mad. Sanity thus becomes
something one can't necessarily take for granted; it instead needs to
be pursued. Hence in Bartas we see he isn't necessarily rejecting the
expectations of the seer, but instead turns the seer into an internalised
agent. The action is not outward but inward. It's a perpetual fight against
perceptual collapse and catatonia. Bartas' character journeys through
the hallways of The Corridor comprehending the frailty of self in the
crumbled minds of the building's inhabitants. In A Few of Us, the young
woman travels to the Siberian wastes perhaps as anthropological observer,
but seems finally to settle for the preservation of her own mental and
physical well-being. Here again, in Bartas, we see the Carroll influence,
but where the nonsense in Carroll is chiefly through language, in Bartas
the non-sense is chiefly through language's absence. The non-sense has
been absorbed into the face and the body, the buildings and the topography.
This is especially pronounced in The Corridor, where there is the character
humming as he looks out of the window at the beginning of the film; the
young boy setting fire to the sheets, the lean, middle-aged moustachioed
drunk crossing himself just before he falls off the stool. Then there
is the building, with its long, narrow corridors and its rooms crumbling
and crowded with dozens of bodies, or half lit and barely occupied. Bartas'
is certainly a world out of joint; the only question remaining is to what
degree one can minimise one's misery within the wider despair.
Realisation is thus no more or no less than an acceptance of harsh realities
without allowing oneself to be crushed by them. It's a cinema of immanence
over transcendence in a very obvious sense. A few minutes after the moustachioed
drunk in The Corridor has fallen off his stool he's back on his feet again,
but any hint of communion with God his crossing himself implies is quickly
replaced by an oblivious need to lose himself in dance. In Damnation,
Karrer may say his actions are of significance because the world's so
out of phase, but this doesn't lead to epiphany, merely to a walk out
to a dreary mud heap on the edge of town.
Of course there is no clear line of demarcation between the cinema of
wonder and the cinema of damnation. Tarr's Werckmeister Harmonies (2000)
undeniably has moments close to wondrousness: the swelling score that
accompanies the central character's night time walk through the town near
the beginning of the film; the presence of the gigantic stuffed whale
– an image that resembles the giant hand in Angelopoulos' Landscape
in the Mist (1988) or the monstrous Lenin statue in Ulysses' Gaze (1995).
And surely Tarkovsky's Stalker, with its grim, post-industrial landscapes,
might as readily belong to damnation as to wonder.
But simply to incorporate Tarr, Bartas and Kelemen, as well as films like
Don't Move, Die and Rise Again!, Whispering Pages and The Asthenic Syndrome,
under the same rubric as Tarkovsky, Angelouplos and co would be to ignore
key differences of epiphanic possibility in the latter versus spiritual
impossibility in the former. When we describe Tarr as offering a malign
cosmology, or Bartas a degree zero belief, we're talking about a philosophy
of minimal hope within hopelessness, nor an ontology of wonder within
hopefulness. Any hope isn't ontologically transcending, perhaps, but realistically
practical, even survivalist. Man realises his status not in the calling
card of a higher being, but in the degree of degradation of which he is
capable. This may be why, Tarr, Bartas and Kelemen's work is as full of
“degrading” images as Tarkovsky and the others' work is full
of epiphanic ones. Whether it's the mad, drunken dance in the middle of
Sátántangó, where people drink and dance till they
drop or career into somebody else, the oblivious dance in the pouring
rain in Damnation, the heroine pounding the dance floor with her heels
until the tiles crack in Abendland, or characters falling off stools in
Werckmeister Harmonies and The Corridor, the emphasis is clearly on man's
negative capability, with man at best capable of a decision that can offer
a non-hopelessness, but nothing so grand as spiritual release. Spiritual
hope in such a world wouldn't be a higher calling but a lower demand.
Whether that be the aforementioned moustachioed man in The Corridor or
the doctor in Sátántangó confusing the sound of the
bell, theology, politics, ritual or will can no longer relieve the soul.
What can is obviously another question.
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Endnotes
1. Arthur Schopenhauer, Essays and Aphorisms, Penguin, London, 1970, p
41.
2. Interview with Béla Tarr by Fergus Daly and Maximilian le Cain,
Film West, Spring, no. 43, 2001, p. 30.
3. Susan Sontag, Against Interpretation, Dell Publishing, New York, 1966,
p 192.
4. Interview with Béla Tarr by Fergus Daly and Maximilian le Cain,
Film West, Spring, no. 43, 2001, p. 30.
5. Interview with Fred Kelemen by Roger Clarke, The Independent, 8 April
1999.
6. Interview with Béla Tarr by Jonathan Romney, Enthusiasm, 04,
p 7.
7. Romney, Enthusiasm 04, p 4.
8. John Orr, The Art of Politics of Film, Edinburgh University Press,
Edinburgh, 2000, p 54
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Tony McKibbin is an independent writer and teacher who writes for The
List in Edinburgh and various film and literary journals worldwide.
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