normalizing violence
by Douglas Messerli
László Krasnahorkai and Béla Tarr
(screenplay, based on his fiction The
Melancholy of Resistance), Péter Dobai, Gyuri Dósa Kiss, and György Fehér
(additional dialogue), Béla Tarr (director) Werckmeister harmóniák (Werckmeister Harmonies) / 2001
Although the author was very much involved with the film version,
serving as the co-writer of the screenplay, Tarr has made, at least to my
imagination, a very different work from the dark, broodingly metaphysical
fiction. The film begins with one of the best scenes of all of literature, the
appearance of János Valuska, who proceeds to take the drunken patrons of the
soon-to-be-closed bar through the galactic patterns of a solar eclipse.
Valuska, who plods throughout both the film and fiction about the small
Hungarian town, with newspaper bag on his shoulder, face to the ground, is
fascinated by the heavens, and explains the planetary motions every chance he
gets. Like a mad dance choreographer, Valuska positions the men as planets,
Sun, Earth, Moon, spinning them around each other with the patience of a
theater director attempting to prompt children into synchronized movement.
“You are the sun. The sun doesn't
move, this is what it does. You are the Earth. The Earth is here for a start,
and then the Earth moves around the sun. And now, we'll have an explanation
that simple folks like us can also understand, about immortality. All I ask is
that you step with me into the boundlessness, where constancy, quietude and
peace, infinite emptiness reign. And just imagine, in this infinite sonorous
silence, everywhere is an impenetrable darkness. Here, we only experience
general motion, and at first, we don't notice the events that we are
witnessing. The brilliant light of the sun always sheds its heat and light on
that side of the Earth which is just then turned towards it. And we stand here
in its brilliance. This is the moon. The moon revolves around the Earth. What
is happening? We suddenly see that the disc of the moon, the disc of the moon,
on the Sun's flaming sphere, makes an indentation, and this indentation, the
dark shadow, grows bigger... and bigger. And as it covers more and more, slowly
only a narrow crescent of the sun remains, a dazzling crescent. And at the next
moment, the next moment - say that it's around one in the afternoon - a most
dramatic turn of event occurs. At that moment the air suddenly turns cold. Can
you feel it? The sky darkens, then goes all dark. The dogs howl, rabbits hunch
down, the deer run in panic, run, stampede in fright. And in this awful,
incomprehensible dusk, even the birds... the birds too are confused and go to
roost. And then... Complete Silence.”
This scene, the first of thirty-nine slowly
paced shots, is totally magic, particularly in Lars Rudolph's boyishly sweet
rendition of Valuska's actions. But while in the original novel, I imagined the
scene to be in a dark, fire-lit bar crowded with revelers, Tarr presents us
with just a few late drinkers within a rather clean room, awaiting Valuska's
arrival. In the fiction Valuska is equally awaited, but is also taunted by some
who see him, as do most the townspeople, as a fool, a mentally-disabled being
who dreams of the heavens only confirms his idiocy.
Throughout the film, Tarr—despite his
grimly black-and-white palette—opens up and orders the landscape of this small
town, which, in turn, normalizes it. The gigantic square, with only small
groups of men huddled about it, seems far less foreboding than does
Krasnahorkai's literary village.
The relationship between Valuska and the
noted musical theorist György Eszter (Peter Fitz), is much vaguer here, and the
love Eszter feels for the boy remains unspoken in the film until the very end,
which invests their friendship with a feeling more of master and servant,
rather than mentor and loyal friend. When Eszter is forced to leave the house
in order to campaign for his detestable wife, Tünde (here played by Hanna
Schygulla) he is not in the least shocked by the filth and debris he suddenly
observes; Tarr makes the place looks almost respectable, a town that in summer
instead of the middle of cold winter, might possibly be a tourist destination.
Even the truck made of corrugated metal
that carries the carcass of a whale into the square seems less menacing than
mysterious. Because of the sparseness of the script, in fact, much of the
menace and general grubbiness of this world is replaced by a sense of
incomprehensibility. In Karasnahorkai's fiction the hidden figure of the
Prince, who seems to be at the center of the violence soon to take place,
speaks in a high-twittering-voiced, unknown language, but in Tarr's work simply
speaks, quite normally, in another language. In short the continued
normalization of the original often lends the film an even stranger quality.
Why is everybody doing what they are doing? To what purpose? To what end?
This is particularly true of the horrific
would-be dictator of the town, Tünde Eszter, who in Tarr's hands seems almost,
at first, like a slightly interfering auntie instead of the monster that she
is. Her relationship with the Chief of Police is presented less as a disgusting
coupling of drunkenness and sex than it is as a kind of quixotic romance. So
vaguely is Mrs. Eszter realized in the film that we cannot comprehend what she
has in mind by demanding her husband campaign for her causes; we have no way of
knowing that it is she who has brought the terrifying circus act to town.
What Tarr does brilliantly convey is the
sort of plodding inevitability of the violent riot that takes place. Although
he greats everyone cheerfully as he moves through the city, as if all but the
strangers in the square were one large family, the heavy booted Valuska
stumblingly marches through his days, just as did the drunken oafs in the bar,
symbolizing the prosaic pace and beat of life in this place.
When the riot does begin, Tarr portrays it
almost as in a Brecht-Weill opera, with the hostile crowds marching
meaninglessly through the streets en masse. Whereas in the author's fiction,
Valuska himself is caught up in their horrifying actions and himself commits
violent crimes, here Valuska simply disappears until after the brutal attack on
the hospital and its patients—quite brilliantly depicted in Tarr's work—which
literally wears out the assailants.
Just as in the book, Valuska winds up in an
insane asylum, but, whereas, in the original he seemed to be forever locked
away out of Mrs. Eszter's desire, here the poor boy seems truly to have lost
his mind in the violence and its aftermath. Mr. Eszter's visit to him presents
him and the viewer with new possibility of redemption for the city and its
people that did not exist in Krasznahorkai's fable.
In making these comparisons, I am not
necessarily criticizing the film. It is its own work in which the characters
and their actions may be far closer to everyday life, and, accordingly, even
more horrifying than the grotesques of the fiction. Whereas Andreas
Werckmeister's harmonic principles were insistently declared to be wrong in the
Krasznahorkai work, in Tarr's hands the harmonies might even be restored with
the survival of the beautiful innocence of the town's sacred fool, Valuska,
particularly if Eszter, as he promises, will again take him in.
Los
Angeles, November 23, 2001
Reprinted
from International Cinema Review (May 2011).
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