some not so simple questions about fassbinder’s berlin alexanderplatz
by Douglas Messerli
Rainer Werner Fassbinder (screenwriter, based
on a fiction by Alfred Döblin, and director) Berlin
Alexanderplatz / 1980
I have
always resisted introducing a work by proclaiming its difficulties. A good
reviewer, presumably, should be able to resolve those before beginning to write
or, at least, during the process. But the very ambitiousness and commensurate
success (as well as its failures) of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s 15 ½ hour,
14-part original television series, Berlin Alexanderplatz, if nothing
else, takes one’s breath away—and all this after its creator having already
directed some 40 previous films over little more than a decade. Even in order
to watch the work one has to hunker down, hour after hour, suffering what
critic Tom Tykwer describes as “a stretched out temporality” that “creates an
elliptical sensation. For a while your concentration is so completely
distracted from the narrative chain of cause and effect that you almost lose
your orientation and ask yourself, in view of such a total standstill, whether
the story will ever get moving again.”
And
there is the nearly nauseating feeling that arises from watching a work
centered upon a heavy-set, lumbering, stupid, often drunk, sexual manipulator
such as Franz Bieberkopf (brilliantly performed by Günter
Lamprecht), who has already killed one of his lovers, Ida, in a drunken fit
of anger and, who, after serving 4 years in Berlin’s Tegel prison, stumbles out
into the daylight like Simpliclus Simplicissimus (one of the original author,
Dōblin’s, numerous literary influences) determined to be a “good man.” In fact,
both Döblin’s and Fassbinder’s inverted picaresque takes us circle by circle
into an ever-spiraling downward voyage through the German hell of the Weimar
Republic to reach the anvil of Nazi horrors at its end.
Yes, there is also much comic about following Franz the dolt about the
Berlin streets and into the numerous houses, bars, and underground passages
through which he makes his way. And, despite the horrible mess of a human being
he represents, there is something sweet and even dream-like about the man’s
(and actor Lamprecht’s) almost putty-like face. If one moment Franz is a
snarling monster of a mad-man, in the very next he is a sweet, loving simpleton
asking for his lovers’ and, by extension, our forgiveness. Each time he acts
badly, Franz’ landlady Frau Bast (Brigitte Mira),
Eva (Hanna Schygulla), his former lover for whom he played pimp, and many of
his current lovers willingly forgive him; but increasingly it becomes harder
and harder to sympathize let alone admire such an oaf.
Which brings us, certainly, to our very first question: why are so many
dozens of women, particularly Eva; Franz’s first lover after imprisonment, Lina
(Elisabeth Trissenaar); the widow he encounters while selling shoelaces; his
friend Reinhold’s cast-offs, Fränze (Helen Vita) and Cilly (Annemarie
Düringer); and particularly the beautifully young girl from Breslau, Mieze (Barbara Sukowa)* all attracted to this semi-bestial
slob? Yes, Franz may seem loveably malleable like his always shifting face,
and, accordingly, a man that quickly can be made over. Perhaps he is even a
reliable lover, although early in the film there is evidence that Franz has
some difficulty in getting an erection. But what does it say about Berlin
culture that all these women gather round him, many, like Eva and Mieze,
perfectly willing to work as prostitutes to support him?
Ignoring the widow, whose dead husband looked somewhat like Franz, what does it say about a world which some writers such as Robert Beachy have declared “no one was a virgin,” that Franz is given such latitude with women, whom he falls in love with before beating and betraying them? If Döblin and Fassbinder, each in their own way, are depicting a world in which women are treated little better than cattle, beasts to be fattened up for male pleasure, their behaviors clearly represent these women’s own willingness to offer their bodies up for a kind of sacrificial slaughter.
We
can speculate, of course, that in a city where a large percentage of the males
are unemployed, that there are perhaps only two other choices, prostitution or
robbery. Franz’ own attempts at employment seem to prove the point. After
failing to sell street goods, robbed (of his products and his honor) by his
partner Otto Lüders in his attempt at selling shoelaces, and later arousing the
hate of acquaintances for his attempt to sell the Nazi Party newspaper Völkischer
Beobachter, Franz has few choices. The women of this society, moreover,
have even fewer choices if they want to survive and find protection,
particularly if they are independent minded such as Eva and Meize.
What
is almost just as interesting about Döblin’s and Fassbinder’s representation of
Berlin is the complete absence of the numerous gay and boy prostitutes with
which the city seems to be teaming in other works I’ve written about in this
volume. In fact, Franz’ strange determination to sell the homosexual texts of
the noted homosexual scholar Magnus Hirschfeld, ends in an absolutely
homophobic furor from his current girlfriend.
Of
course, we might explain the absence of such other sexual interests in
Fassbinder’s work as having to do with his refocusing upon the relationship
between Franz and Reinhold. One of the major questions of the film,
accordingly, has to do with comprehending just what that relationship is. Why,
in a world (which includes the viewer) where everyone recognizes the
serpent-like evil-doings of Reinhold Hoffmann (Gottfried John) does Franz—even
after he himself having lost an arm after being thrown from a truck by the
villain—remain so loyal to this hound-eyed, doggèd villain. Despite what
appears in the film to be an immediate connection between the two beings, very
much like sudden attraction that occurs between gay males who immediately like
what they see—wherein, in this case, Franz mistakes him for a man who, like
himself, has served time in prison—Fassbinder determinedly insists “it’s by no
means a question of something sexual between two people of the same gender:
Franz Biberkopf and Reinhold are in no way homosexual—they don’t have problems
in this area even
While
superficially that may be true, Fassbinder, however, goes out of his way to
hint at sexual intimations between them. They do most of their talking together
and plotting in the bar’s men’s bathroom, each of them simultaneously urinating
and often sharing a towel after. Yes, they talk often about women, they speak
without saying it of Reinhold’s disgust of women, his misogynistic attitude to
them. For Reinhold cannot bear to have a woman companion for more than a week
or two at most before he becomes utterly disgusted by his current mate. While
Franz clearly loves women (although, as I noted above, sometimes rather
passively), he is not without his own sexual eccentricities. As more than one
critic as noted, his name, Bieberkopf, meaning “Beaver head,” when connected
with the obscene description of a woman’s vagina, might be retranslated, as
former California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger recently described gays, as
being a “girly boy” or a man with womanly mind and behavior. Indeed, when Mieze
has appeared to leave him, we witness this determinedly heterosexual dressed up
in his lover’s clothing, lip-stick smeared across his face (an image repeated,
more recently, in Clint Eastwood’s 2011 film J. Edgar, in which the
seemingly homophobic FBI director, who spent nearly every evening with his
assistant Clyde Tolson, dresses up as his own mother after her death).
Indeed, we need only to think back at the image of Franz’ face smiling
up with a near insane admiration of Reinhold the moment before this satan
attempts to toss his friend to his death, to realize that there is definitely
something queer about their friendship. While the novel hints at Reinhold’s
later love for his Polish prison roommate, Fassbinder, in his Epilogue,
absolutely revels in Reinhold’s gentle kisses and embracement of his naked male
lover, suggesting that only now has Reinhold begun to comprehend why he was
previously so disappointed with his women lovers, pretending to himself, as he
was, to enjoy heterosexual love while denying what he himself could not even
have imagined, the pleasures of male flesh.
For Franz, his love of Reinhold is not actual sexual desire but an
aspect, perhaps, of his personal machoism, his basic desire to be punished by
someone for the sins he continues to be unable to resist. If Reinhold is a
sexual being for him, it is as an agent of torture and even death; unfortunately,
without his even knowing it, Franz has offered up his beloved Meize to the
Anvil himself—in a very sexually bizarre situation—by hiding Reinhold in his
own bed in order to demonstrate how loyal to him his Meize is. Like a scene out
of some Mozart opera, his lover instead admits of her love of another man, in
reaction to which Franz nearly acts out Reinhold’s later murder of the sweetest
and most honest being in Berlin Alexanderplatz.
If
Reinhold is a near mythical force in this work, however, like all of the work’s
characters he is also suggested as having a human history, which, in order to
comprehend his destructive gestures, we need to know. But here, unlike Franz,
we get only little hints. Surely his belief that he is among the sinners and
his insistence that Franz accompany him to, quite unbelievably, a Salvation
Army meeting, to which Reinhold reacts with fascination and utter terror as the
sinners are called forth to sit upon the sinner’s bench, reveals some of his
inner confusion. We know he’s evil; he knows he’s evil. But why does he still
seek out redemption? Might we ever imagine Iago to seek out serious solace,
even for a second, within a church pew?
Who was Reinhold before the events of Berlin Alexanderplatz we
necessarily ask? And so too does the trying judge ask Franz: “Did you know
about his past?” Franz pleads no knowledge—and as far as I can tell, we get no
clue by fiction’s end. Was he too, like Franz, severely traumatized or, like a
bad seed, simply traumatized others from his birth?
Yet, these very scenes, we must recall, coming as they do in
Fassbinder’s “over the top” Epilogue may be merely imaginary, a thing of Franz’
delirious imagination. While I would argue that Fassbinder’s grandiose
cinematic melodrama makes for brilliant movie-making, his semi-surreal Epilogue
creates all sorts of problems, particularly in its use of kitsch and often
outright silly Jungian, Freudian, and psycho-babble metaphors expressing Franz
Bieberkopf’s psychological breakdown and the reconfiguration of his sanity.
While Fassbinder, at moments, brings many of the work’s multi-faceted images
together, weaving them into a slightly different warp and woof of previously
more naturalistically presented “reality,” many of these images seem like a bit
like tourist snapshots of an incredibly amateur production of the German
Oberammergau Passion Play. Angels, male and female, walk Franz through a kind
of circus-like recounting of his life.
Franz, as Christ, is hung upon the cross before all the women he
previously loved, He, Meize and others, are hung up upon butcher’s hooks and
eviscerated like cows and pigs. Reinhold whips him while a sun-glassed
Fassbinder crouches around the corner. Again, we hear stories from Job, the
famed tale of Abraham offering up his son to God. Frau Bast carries a puppet of
Bieberkopf wearing a Nazi armband. An Atomic bomb explodes in the background,
with music by Janis Joplin and Lou Reed accompanying it, as everyone
melodramatically falls to the ground, the angels scurrying in to carry them off.
In
other scenes, German psychologists of the day offer up trite evaluations of
Franz’ condition, suggesting shock therapy or even a complete abandonment of
any attempt to save him from starvation.
In
short, this “hyper-dramatic” ending turns much of what the director has
carefully built up through naturalistic-expressionist depictions into pure
camp, almost as if the director were throwing up his arms in despair of trying
further to deal with his everyday hero. Upon his cure, as Döblin also put it,
the character no longer matters. He is now hired as an ordinary watch man, akin
to the prison guard who first sent off into this post-Edenic world. Although Franz
is determined to be on the lookout, guarding the wealthy garage of cars, we can
be sure that, once again, he will be unable to figure out what’s going on. And
the film ends with a flourish of the Horst Wessel Lied, the Nazi Party
anthem—
Clear the streets for the brown battalions,
Clear the streets for the storm division!
Millions are looking upon the swastika full of hope,
The day of freedom and of bread dawns!
Millions are looking upon the swastika full of hope,
The day of freedom and of bread dawns! —
clamoring against the strains of the Communist
Party’s Internationale!
If, in the end, accordingly, this great film seems almost to spin off
into a series of contradictory possibilities, Fassbinder and we, quite
obviously, having the advantage of Döblin in knowing precisely what happened.
And given the consequences of the next decade, Franz—except for his
representation of the German everyday man—truly is inconsequential. Yet those
who have seen other, earlier Fassbinder films, know that the director is hardly
disinterested in how Franz came out of the war. In film after film, Fassbinder
returns to Döblin’s highly influential film, a work which he himself describes
as not only helping him to “ethical maturation” but literaly permitted him
survival during his turbulent puberty:
…Berlin Alexanderplatz
didn’t only help me in something like
a process of ethical
maturation. No, it also provided genuine,
naked, concrete life support
when I was really at risk during
puberty, because I was able to
apply the story to my own
problems and dilemmas,
oversimplifying, of course; I read it
as a story of two men whose
little bit of life on this earth is
ruined because they don’t have
the opportunity to get up the
courage even to recognize, let
alone admit, that they like each
other in an unusual way. Love
each other somehow, that some-
thing mysterious ties them to
each other more closely than is
generally considered suitable
for men.
If
dozens of questions still remain unanswered at the end of Fassbinder’s Berlin
Alexanderplatz, we still have many others of works to turn to in order to
help comprehend the complex tale which we have just experienced. In one of his
earliest films, Love is Colder Than Death (1969), a character named
Franz (played by Fassbinder) shares a prostitute with a male criminal friend to
whom he clearly more attracted than the woman. In the 1970 film Gods of the Plague,
another Franz (Harry Baer this time around) is released from prison and, like
Döblin’s Franz attempts to start a new life, but soon through his relationship
with another man and the criminal underworld is swallowed up into a destructive
world from which there is no escape. The American Soldier (also from
1970) shares many of the same patterns of sexual longing between two long-time
male friends as between Franz and Reinhold, again ending in a gangster-like
violence. Beware of the Holy Whore although set in a Spanish hotel,
presents its characters very much in the same kind claustrophobic world
inhabited by the figures of Berlin Alexanderplatz. The central character
of The Merchant of Four Seasons (1971), like Franz, is forced to live by
selling fruit on the street, and, after beating his wife and suffering a heart
attack, is left, like Franz incapable to keeping his wife away from another
vendor he has hired to replace him.
Finally, in Fox and His Friends (1975)—the work most obvious in
its parallels with Döblin’s book—Fassbinder again takes on the role of a
character named, this time full out, Franz Bieberkopf, who, working as a carney
mind-reader Fox, wins the lottery only to fall in with better-off gay
acquaintances who trick him out of all his winnings and leave him presumably to
die face down on the underground floor.
And, indeed, in nearly all of his films Fassbinder weaves in elements of
the great Döblin fiction. In short, one might argue that his longer Berlin
Alexanderplatz, were it not so determined in its attempts to winnow down
the actual plot of the 1929 work, was merely another version of his ongoing
commitment to explore a Germany filled with Franzs, men who never growing up,
are easily fooled by the society spinning around them. Yet if Franz is ever the
fool in these works, he is also a kind of Christ, a holy fool for whom we
cannot but feel love and some real sympathy. For he is every one of us who
dreams of being more than we know how to be, who imagine joining a society that
is more caring and purer than the one in which we must everyday make our peace.
In his incurable optimism Franz may be an idiot, but he is a hero in his
ability to transcend the crude cynicism also central to Fassbinder’s campy,
melodramatic worlds. As I have argued for Stella in Williams’ A Streetcar
Named Desire, (see My Year 2002) Franz is the being who brings all
the other hysterical types seem almost real, anchoring Fassbinder’s great
cinematic achievement to life here on earth.
*While watching Berlin Alexanderplatz I
kept having a strange feeling that I had previously seen the actor who plays
Mieze, Barbara Sukowa. By the time I finished the last episode of Fassbinder’s
work, I realized that indeed, Barbara, married to our artist friend Robert
Longo, had been a guest in our house.
Los Angeles, August 24, 2015
Reprinted from World Cinema Review (August
2015)
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