Savant Some More

Some filmmakers simply capture the essence of a moment with ease. The movie amounts to a series of heavy, real moments - something that tugs at your heart in a way you have trouble describing. The director’s efforts, the painstaking and tiresome routines of creating a movie, all stay put offscreen.  Instead, what remains of the film is something beautiful, something that enraptures an audience not by style or by showmanship, but by the gripping reality the movie produces. Only afterwards, when you stretch from your seat, throw your overpriced popcorn away, and rehash the past two hours, do you realize with sudden excitement how technically masterful the movie was. These movies are a rare breed.

And, after viewing The White Ribbon, I am pleased to announce its earned status among the cinematography-lover’s treasure chest.  Michael Haneke, a reputable European director who’s past films I now plan on digging up and watching, has turned what could have been a rather drab, boring plot-line into something terrifyingly real - all with the power of his lens.

To be brief, the movie concerns itself with dramatic and increasingly disturbing events in a small German village that are meant to paint a larger picture about the country’s entrance into World War I.  To go further, the village is also portrayed as a microcosm for the social mindset of Nazism before World War II.  One reviewer of the movie succinctly reworded the title to his liking: National Socialism - A Prequel.  

I won’t wear you down with the details. We have Wikipedia for that.  In a few words, the movie covers patriarchy in all its glory, and leaves you with a sour taste of tradition, religion and honor.  What needs a little more emphasis, however, is Haneke’s directorial style.  Let me pen to you with careful detail how realistic this movie was:

You are me, sitting in the theater. The lights have dimmed, and after an onslaught of attention-grabbing previews, you nuzzle into your seat a bit more and await the movie. The movie fades in with extreme patience, as if you are being told to take great care with what you are about to see.  Soak it all up, the first scene says, this is a glimpse into a culture, and you will respect it like any foreign traveler should.  

The fade-in leads you into what seems to be a black-and-white film, like any other.  Black-and-white does not lend itself readily to my “reality” description, but let us think about what black-and-white does.  It strips itself of a facade, removes any distracting cosmetics, sucks out the superficial and places special attention on action rather than ‘acting’.  And yet, on closer inspection, there is something different in the way this film was shot.  Conventional wisdom of black-and-white films would not have me questioning whether or not I spotted a yellowish hue in an actor’s linen nightgown. It so happens that Haneke filmed The White Ribbon in color, then proceeded to drain the film of its color to leave you with a reel palette that can only be described as Ghostly Pale with a Pulse.

You, being me, will also notice a stillness to the film.  An eery quiet that you cannot shake.  In the background is a void, a hum that is occupied not by some soundtrack but by the varied thoughts of the individual viewer.  No soundtrack accompanies the scenes, there is only organic music - that is, music that is actually being played by characters in the film.  From one music lover to another, I find that the use of soundtracks are often a way to carry a movie from one scene to another - sometimes cheaply.  But true life lacks a leitmotif, and The White Ribbon is all the more real for opting out of one.  

Most importantly, Haneke has deft control over his camera.  I should preface by saying I’m no film student, I’m but a humble movie buff.  But with that said, I have learned to appreciate certain artfully employed techniques in filmmaking.  What Haneke has done in this film is something wholly new to me.  He lets his lens linger on the scene. Let me explain.

After the climax of a scene has passed (or, perhaps more appropriately, after the point of a scene has passed), Haneke’s camera remains.  At one point, the son of a pastor is led into the dining room to be punished with 10 lashes to his back.  We, the audience, are left in the hallway, our eyes fixed on the dining room door and our imaginations opening the scene on the other side.  In another instance, the baron’s wife returns to her estate and the camera is left long after she has entered, changing scenes only after a trail of attendants follow her in and a butler closes the large wrought iron doors.  

The Lingering Lens.  

I have never felt more like a voyeur at the cinema: glimpsing with confused anxiety and reluctant interest the incestuous relationship between a doctor and his daughter, the heartless parenting of a pastor, the shame and guilt-ridden conscience of a farmer, and the childlike love blossoming amongst a teacher and a maid.  

Say what you will about Haneke’s political points. His only subtleties were in his style - everything else was blunt, and forcefully so.  I care less about how effectively he has managed to sell his take on German culture than his craftsmanship with which he has wrapped everything in.  The scenery was breathtaking.  The choice of actors was superb. The acting was so believable from so many of the young children that I found myself on numerous occasions choking back tears.

And the ending? 

We fade out just as slowly as we faded in, with a story unsolved and a village of people never to be vindicated or brought to justice.  In fact, the last scene (a gathering at the village church) is so normal, so innocent and moral on the surface, that it squeezes one last time at the stomachs of the audience.  You know what lies beneath the surface, and you want to scream out in rage at the screen, gesticulate with wild motions and lament the feigned gentility of it all.  If you are left unsettled by the ending, that is good.  Take that with you as a testament to just how powerful and evocative the moments leading up to it were.

Joe.