over his head
by Douglas Messerli
Béla Tarr and László Krasznahorkai (based on the novel by
George Simenon, screenplay), Béla Tarr and Ágnes Hranitzky (directors) A Londoni férfi (The Man from London) / 2007, USA 2008, 2009
In The Man from London, however, Tarr
permits us very little joy in Maolin's dark and brooding gestures. From his
position high above land and sea, working as a railway pointsman, the
middle-aged worker moves with a Frankensteinian plod in a kind of zombie-like
voyeurism, watching through the various viewpoints available to him incidents
on ship, land, and water, ponderously evaluating their meaning and, ultimately,
taking advantage of the situation at hand.
A ship has docked, and in a drawn-out sequence of visual repetitions,
Tarr ponderously forces us to observe, for long periods, what seems to be
inaction. Yet the slow pace is purposeful in demonstrating not only the
intensity of Maloin's voyeurism, which we are sharing, but signifies the
meaningless boredom of that worker's nightly life, a man working alone, whose
only major act is, once it has filled up with the ship's passengers, to set the
train upon its designated track. Nothing much else happens, but what does occur
is obviously an enormity of activity compared to the uneventful emptiness
Maloin must endure night after night.
Two Englishman can be heard talking, one evidently (since we hear only
fragments of their conversation) warning the other of consequences. Slowly one
of the men exits the ship, showing his papers and, instead of moving, as most
of the others, into the awaiting train, walks forward along the edge of the
dock. Eventually we see him standing a ways from the hull of the ship, where
suddenly a briefcase is tossed from ship to shore, with him retrieving it. With
briefcase in hand, he walks along the quay, disappearing into the fog. A few
minutes later, however, we see two men wrestling at the edge of the quay,
shouting at one another, fighting evidently over the contents of the same
briefcase. One man is thrown into the ocean along with his briefcase. The other
hurries away to a nearby cafe.
Tarr almost hides the fact that what we have been observing for nearly
the first half-hour of this film, is also being observed by the pointsmen. We
hear his footsteps, see bars of black and white as he moves sideways along the
window patterns, but know little else about his existence. It is only now that
he comes into being. With a long tow-hook in hand, Maolin slowly descends from
his sanctuary, moving to the edge of the quay, and, with the help of the incoming
tide, eventually retrieves the briefcase. Inside, as we discover once he has
returned to his aerie, are stacks of British pounds, 55,000 we later discover.
One by one, the methodical worker sets them upon the stove to dry.
So begins the downfall of an everyday, hardworking man, living in a
decrepit apartment in this port town (originally filmed in Corsica before Tarr
had to move the film company elsewhere). Maolin has no easy life. At daylight
he slowly trudges back home, discovering along the way that his daughter,
working as a clerk in a nearby butcher shop, has now been forced to clean the
floors backing the alleyway. She is no beauty, and it is not an impossibly
difficult job, yet he is outraged; for him, clearly, it is yet another insult
in a life of small abuses, abuses which he, in turn, transfers to both daughter
and his hard-working, loyal wife (Tilda Swinton, in the version of the film I
saw, dubbed into French). His absurd logic is expressed in a chauvinist
proclamation: everyone can see her ass. And a few days later he acts on his
ridiculous perceptions, forcing his daughter, Henriette (Erika Bók) to leave
her employment without notice.
At the heart of Maolin's anger and meaningless acts, we realize, is his growing sense of guilt, a feeling—reinforced by being trailed by one of the thieves, Brown—that he has gotten in over his head. Maolin may not yet understand the consequence of his acts, but he senses something amiss, suddenly, in his life. He has money that he dare not and, because it is in British pounds, cannot expend. The appearance of Inspector Morrison (István Lénárt), the man from London, further unsettles him. Having tracked down Brown, Morrison lays out his cards, explaining why they suspect him and offering him his freedom and two weekends of theater sales if he returns the money. Brown's answer is to slip from Morrison's watch, escaping into a world of hunger as he goes on the lam.
Morrison's next step is to bring in Mrs. Brown, painfully explaining to
her the situation, and encouraging her to play along as he concocts a story of
her son's illness, hoping to lure Brown back to her and into his net. Szirtes
tearful reaction to Morrison's revelations are one of the emotional highlights
of this dark tale in which feelings are otherwise mostly hidden and bottled up.
Overhearing much of these cafe conversations, Maolin is increasingly
made uneasy, so much so that when the clever inspector pays him a visit at the
train-tower, he is clearly ill at ease, setting a pot of hot water upon the
burner where he had previously dried out the bills in order to steam the
windows over as if to hide the view from which he has observed the crimes. The
discovery of the body of Brown's cohort, however, can only further hint that
there was something to be observed.
In a sudden twist of the plot, Henriette reveals to him, back in their
apartment, that a man has entered their oceanside storage hut; she has locked
him in. Gathering a few provisions, wine, bread, etc., Maolin slowly trudges
off to the hut, opening the lock and entering. Again Tarr does the unexpected.
For several long minutes we hear little and see nothing. What is going on
inside is left to our imaginations.
The film ends, as I have suggested, with both Brown's wife's and
Maolin's rewards, along with his being given a clean slate. Neither openly
accepts the money, as Morrison slips the bills into her purse and into his
pocket. Both their faces remain blank as they stare off into a future that
cannot free them from their own falls from grace.
Tarr's study of the moral breakdown of order and society, along with the
individual's involvement in that collapse cannot exactly be described as
subtle, but, in its long visual manifestations of the turmoil of the inner soul
suffering in such a world, is certainly powerful and cerebrally moving. That
the film, time and again waylaid by individuals and corporations seemingly
determined to see that it would never be shot, still evokes such a powerful
message is almost a miracle. And if it is not quite up to the cinematic levels
obtained by the director's Sátántango and
Werckmeister Harmonies, it only reiterates how brilliant Tarr
is as a filmmaker.
Los Angeles, April 24, 2012
Reprinted from International Cinema Review (April 2012).
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