Daily Archives: Monday, April 18, 2016

  • Michael

    Markus Schleinzer (2011)

    Markus Schleinzer has a long list of credits on IMDB as both an actor – he has a small role in Michael – and a casting director, most notably for Michael Haneke’s films, but this is the first cinema feature he’s directed and he also wrote the screenplay.  Inspired (if that’s the word) by the Natascha Kampusch case, the movie describes a few months in the life of a thirtysomething man who keeps a ten-year-old boy prisoner in the soundproof basement of his house.  Unless I missed it, it’s not until late on in the film that we know that Michael is the name of the man rather than the boy.  It becomes clear much sooner, though, that Michael has sex with the ten-year-old, who’s called Wolfgang, on a regular basis:  it appears that he marks the dates in his diary.  Michael was screened at Cannes last year where it received a mixed press.   According to Wikipedia, the Esquire critic Mike D’Angelo, after seeing the film, tweeted:  ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE IN AUSTRIA.  SERIOUSLY.’

    In 2006 Natasha Kampusch escaped from eight years’ imprisonment in a small cellar under Wolfgang Priklopil’s garage in Strasshof an der Nordbahn.  In 2008 Elisabeth Fritzl disclosed to the police her horrifying life with her father Josef in Amstetten.  From what he went on to say in his tweet, D’Angelo may have complaining about the themes of Michael Haneke films as much as about Michael specifically although the best-known piece of cinema deriving from the Fritzl case so far is not Austrian but the Greek movie Dogtooth.  Austria does seem, however, to have cornered the market in shocking sex-captive cases in recent years, in which case it’s not hard to understand why Austrian writers and directors are drawn to the subject in the same way that Elephant and We Need To Talk About Kevin, in their original incarnations, were made in America – still the world capital of high-school massacres in spite of increasing competition.  I think Michael is particularly likely to offend because the captor is a homosexual paedophile, and one of the interesting questions prompted by the film is why Schleinzer decided on this orientation.

    Although the subject of Michael is a long way from populist, it could be argued that, in making its protagonist homosexual, Schleinzer panders to the audience (there are people who think that paedophile can only mean a man who has sexual relations with male minors) – or at least creates a distance between the audience and Michael.  But it’s equally arguable that Schleinzer’s choice is more challenging to the viewer if we feel, as I did, something more complicated than complete repugnance for Michael and hostility towards him.  When I read Edward Lawrenson’s admiring review of Michael in last week’s Big Issue and what he said about the film staying with him more than any other from 2011, I was sceptical:  the subject matter was bound to make the film hard to forget.  Now that I’ve seen it, though, I see what Lawrenson means.  Michael prompts questions about Markus Schleinzer’s reasons for making the film at all, about whether you should be watching it at all.   (Because I couldn’t get out to the cinema for a few days, I saw Michael through the recently-launched ‘Curzon on Demand’ facility.  Watching this film at home made me uneasy in a way I might not have felt if I’d been in a cinema with other people.)  The proof that the movie deserves to be taken seriously is in the scrupulous construction of the screenplay and development of Michael’s character – in Schleinzer’s ability to keep making you think again about his protagonist.

    Michael is an Austrian living and working in Germany.  He’s employed by an insurance company.  As far as we can see, he’s good at his job.  When he’s called in to see his boss one day, he wonders for a moment (and so do we) if his terrible secret has somehow been discovered but it turns out the boss wants to know if Michael’s interested in being considered for a senior job that’s about to come up.  He confirms that he is, although the boss tells him there are other candidates too.  In the canteen at work, a colleague, Christa, chats to Michael about her great uncle living in the same street as him but, when someone else sits down and raises a work matter, she switches her attention to him and Michael is easily ignored.  Later on, Christa visits her relative and pays Michael a surprise visit.  He panics and ejects her violently.  Although this may sound like a predictable payoff to the earlier scene involving her, Christa’s appearance at Michael’s home still comes as a shock – to us, as well as him.  And although you expect his sudden loss of self-control to lead to Michael’s comeuppance, it doesn’t.   Christa makes just one further and brief appearance, telling Michael in the office that she won’t be able to come to an event after work that evening.  He receives her apologies with amiable indifference.  In this scene, Michael is suited up – previously at work he’s worn a tie but with a pullover and trousers rather than a suit.   The change of costume means what it looks to mean:  Michael has been promoted and is hosting an office party that evening to celebrate.  Pouring drinks and handing round food to colleagues without needing to get into sustained conversation with them, Michael is more socially at ease than we’ve seen him before.  Driving home, he sings along to Boney M’s cover of Bobby Hebb’s ‘Sunny’, which is playing on the car radio.  Michael is euphoric but, when he gets back home, he finds his prisoner Wolfgang in no mood to let a good evening continue.

    Schleinzer may have benefited from watching Haneke work with the children (cast by Schleinzer) in The White Ribbon:  he certainly gets a fine performance from David Rauchenberger as Wolfgang.  Although the child’s captivity is distressing to watch, it’s one of the most daring and effective aspects of Michael that he isn’t merely a hapless innocent.  As you watch Wolfgang colouring and writing cards for his parents, you admire his tenacity in keeping doing things.  Michael stores these missives in a box in the house and, at one point when Wolfgang is being disobedient, tells him his parents don’t want to hear from him anymore and have said that Wolfgang should do as Michael says.  That upsets Wolfgang but the child is also capable – and knows that he’s capable – of hurting Michael.   On Christmas Day, they exchange gifts:  Michael gives Wolfgang the fifth Harry Potter book (the same present he’s bought for one of his nephews).  Wolfgang gives Michael one of his home-made cards – with a drawing of two figures, who I took to be Wolfgang’s parents, inside.  Michael’s polite thanks don’t conceal his disappointment.

    We watch Michael watching a porn movie.   A man in the movie says, ‘This is my knife and this is my cock – which one shall I put in you?’  This makes Michael laugh – it’s the first time in the film that his face cracks (which is part of what makes this moment so shocking).   Michael is so tickled by this idea that, when he and Wolfgang are next having dinner together, he repeats the lines and unzips his fly to offer Wolfgang the choice of his penis or a butter knife.   (According to Wikipedia, an ‘invisible split screen’ was used for this sequence so that David Rauchenberger didn’t fully participate in it.)  Wolfgang replies without a moment’s hesitation, ‘Your knife’.  Catherine Wheatley in Sight and Sound cites the couldn’t-care-less tone of the child’s response as evidence of how ridiculously tedious Michael is.   Perhaps, but it’s possible to read Wolfgang’s response in a very different and chilling way.   As the words ‘Your knife’ and the tone of their delivery sank in, it seemed to me they signified a kind of dazed cynicism on Wolfgang’s part – that he was saying, in other words, that he’d rather die than continue a life of sexual abuse by Michael.   Whatever the intention of Wolfgang’s response, its effect is to make Michael feel ashamed and rejected.

    It’s often said about paedophilia that its essential element of desire is to exploit a position of power rather than express any kind of sexual preference.   There’s a moment in Michael when Wolfgang struggles to overpower Michael and the older man laughs at his efforts.   But Wolfgang is a tenaciously tough nut, physically brave and mentally canny.   When Michael returns from the triumph of his promotion party, Wolfgang is racing round the basement pretending to be a wild beast.  This is partly the natural self-expression of someone in a cage, partly a way of keeping himself amused and crucially, as soon as Wolfgang perceives Michael’s reaction to the performance, a way of disconcerting his captor.  This is a brilliant sequence:  it threatens the paedophile balance of power; because Michael has just returned from the grown-up social world in his smart suit, Wolfgang’s behaviour also taps into something more general about a child’s capacity to say or do something unrestrained and embarrassing, and which can floor an adult.  Having thrown Michael off balance, the resourceful Wolfgang presses the advantage home, meting out an apt revenge for what Michael has subjected him to.   We’ve seen the child more than once having to boil a kettle to make himself a drink.  We’ve watched him cleaning, along with Michael, work surfaces and toilet seats.  When Michael returns to the basement and opens the door, he’s greeted with an animal roar from Wolfgang, who throws liquid in Michael’s face – it may be boiling water or cleaning fluid but it’s enough to mean that Michael is temporarily blinded.  He still manages to prevent Wolfgang from escaping but the liquid has the effect of a fatal wound.   Michael gets out of the house and into his car and drives off.  The car disappears into the darkness and crashes.  Schleinzer then cuts to paramedics carrying what is evidently a corpse into an ambulance.

    What’s impressive about Schleinzer’s portrait of Michael, and Michael Fuith’s admirable playing of him, is its continuing complication.  At first, Michael’s unprepossessing appearance makes him almost a cartoon of nondescriptness – balding and beaky-nosed, amorphously bulky in his glumly tasteless clothes, which always look either too baggy or too tight on him.  As the film progresses, you start to notice not just his unattractively wide hips but his powerful thighs and the sense of a physical strength which can hurt someone weaker than he is.   Early on, Michael seems isolated too – in that brief lunchtime conversation in the canteen, for example – but we come to see he’s not simply isolated.   He meets his sister before Christmas to exchange family presents then – a surprise – he goes for a few days’ ski-ing with two male friends.   Although it confirms our growing sense of Michael as a man whose solitariness is chosen, this section isn’t completely convincing.  It’s hard to believe the two other men, who clearly regard Michael as a dweeb, would spend time with him; unlike them, he’s utterly inept at the skiing.  Yet the scenes on the ski slopes – the anonymous black figures turning in the white landscape – seem to express Michael’s alienated existence.  His aggressive fury when he falls in a heap and is stranded on the mountainside is upsetting.  Fuith’s acting is highly naturalistic yet he never disappears into the man he’s playing.  Thanks to the individuality that Fuith develops, Michael increasingly becomes a character study rather than a case study.  We seem to be observing a particular personality rather than just the behaviour of a type.

    When the three men go for a drink one evening on the skiing trip, the woman who runs the bar seems interested in Michael (possibly because she realises neither of the other men will be interested in her).   There follows a brief scene of Michael’s penetrating her from behind, with difficulty and without enthusiasm.  (This is the only sex shown on screen in the movie.)  The sequence makes its point although you’re conscious that making a point is its sole purpose.  I wasn’t persuaded either by the idea that, because Wolfgang is lonely and getting bored, Michael would try, unsuccessfully, to abduct a prospective companion for him.  Some of Schleinzer’s rhyming feels too neat for the subject matter yet he’s able to give follow-up moments a charge that transcends their conception – the liquid that Wolfgang throws at Michael echoes the snowballs which, in a fit of unaccustomed horseplay, Michael collects from outside and chucks at the boy in his dungeon.  (The snowball-throwing may also be an expression of relief on Michael’s part, safely home after his gruesome skiing holiday.)   The final car accident – which could be suicide rather than an accident – picks up the earlier episode when Michael, hurrying across the road to get medication for Wolfgang from a chemist, is knocked down by a car and briefly hospitalised.   The contrast between the open-plan offices of the insurance company and the locked, sealed-off areas of Michael’s home – a place of memorably bleak aspect, even from the outside – is obvious but the images (photographed by Gerald Kerkletz) acquire, through repetition, an increasing weight.  The gradual descent of Michael’s automatically locking garage door and his bolting the door to Wolfgang’s basement prison make you feel empty and hopeless.

    That door is seen in the film’s final image.  At Michael’s funeral, the priest has consoled the family – telling them that Michael has gone before, recalling his ‘impatience’ in childhood anecdotes supplied by his sister (Ursula Strauss).  Afterwards, his grieving mother (Christine Kain) and his brother-in-law (Victor Tremmel) are clearing out Michael’s house.  The mother goes down to the basement and starts to open the door.   Schleinzer could be accused of evading the difficulty of dramatising the family’s reaction to what’s about to be discovered there but I think he was right to end the film at this point:  it is, after all, the story of Michael.  One of the most unsettling aspects of the piece, which Schleinzer realises very successfully, is the apparent proximity of the modus vivendi of Michael and Wolfgang to that of a normal family.   Like a real parent, Michael scolds and takes care of and indulges Wolfgang.  The boy as plenty of space in the basement, which is well stocked with snacks and the art materials he likes to use.  When Michael takes Wolfgang on a day out (well out of town) they walk together in woodland, where a father and his young son are also walking – at least, we assume these two are father and son though they don’t look any different from the other pair.  At Christmas, Michael and Wolfgang decorate the tree and stand before it singing ‘Stille Nacht’.  It’s through showing their life together as, in some respects, a facsimile of conventional family life that Markus Schleinzer, Michael Fuith and David Rauschenberger succeed in reminding you of Michael and Wolfgang’s devastating distance from it.   When Wolfgang is ill, Michael is anxious to get medicine for him.  But he also goes into the woods to dig a grave, in case it’s going to be required.

    7 March 2012

  • The Lunchbox

    Dabba

    Ritesh Batra (2013)

    In the opening scene of the young writer-director Ritesh Batra’s debut feature, a mother is preparing her young daughter for school.   She tells the girl not to play outside because of the rain and to take care on the journey, warning of a bridge that’s come down in the bad weather.  The child says, ‘But it’s stopped raining now’.  ‘It can always start again’, comes the reply and, a screen minute later, it has.  This anxious mother is a Mumbai housewife called Ila.  By the end of The Lunchbox she’s preparing to leave Mumbai for Bhutan with the child Yashvi.  Ila can no longer stand living with her uninterested and, she discovers, unfaithful husband Rajeev.  Besides, the unusual epistolary relationship she’s had in the course of the film, with a late middle-aged office worker called Saajan Fernandes, hasn’t come to fruition in the way that Ila had hoped.  As far as she knows, Saajan has now retired to a place called Nasik, leaving Ila even more isolated than when the story began.   The audience can be slightly more hopeful of a happy ending for Saajan and Ila, even if it’s not one that we get to see and enjoy.  Saajan has returned from Nasik to Mumbai, is going to try and find Ila, and thinks he knows how to succeed.   It’s right that The Lunchbox ends in this way.  Its last twenty minutes are a gripping contest between the clear-eyed realism that’s a hallmark of the film and the requirements, well understood by Ritesh Batra, of an emotionally satisfying romantic comedy-drama.

    The Indian lunchbox (dabba) tradition in Mumbai has its origins, according to Wikipedia, in the late nineteenth century.  In 1890, a man called Mahadeo Havaji Bachche:

    ‘… started a lunch delivery service with about a hundred men.  In 1930, he informally attempted to unionize the dabbawallas … a charitable trust was registered in 1956 under the name of Nutan Mumbai Tiffin Box Suppliers Trust.’

    Ritesh Batra originally intended to make a documentary about the lunchbox system and his description of the dabbawallas’ daily routines, as they collect lunchboxes from private homes and dabba service outlets around the city and deliver them to individual workers in time for lunch, are absorbing to watch.  You might think, given the rapid economic development of Mumbai in recent years, that the tradition is a dying one but as recently as 2007 the dabbawala industry was (also according to Wikipedia) still growing at between five and ten per cent  each year.  (You do wonder, though, given Mumbai’s status in the IT world, about the lack of computers in Saajan’s workplace in the film.)  The dabba run operates on a very large scale:   approaching 200,000 lunchboxes are moved each working day by between 4,500 and 5,000 dabbawalas.   The system looks chaotic but the dabbawalas’ reliability in getting the right lunch to the right person is legendary – and confirmed by a recent Harvard Business School case study, which is mentioned in the film.

    The plot of The Lunchbox depends on one of the rare exceptions to the rule.  With culinary advice and encouragement from an elderly neighbour in the flat above, Ila cooks a new recipe for Rajeev, in the hope of finding her way back to his heart through his stomach.  She’s excited when the dabbawala returns the lunchbox that day with everything in it eaten.   But when she raises the subject with Rajeev on his return from work, he sounds underwhelmed by his lunch although he does commend the cauliflower.  The cauliflower dish came from a seemingly mediocre dabba supplier in the city, which provides lunch for the widowed accountant Saajan.  The dabbawala somehow mixed up the two lunchbox containers.   Next day, Ila includes a note with the lunchbox, explaining to the unexpected recipient what must have happened.   It continues to happen and the correspondence between Ila and Saajan develops.

    Ritesh Batra thus uses a distinctive means to tell a familiar story – of two people, lonely in different ways, who, by accident, become important in each other’s lives.  But the story is told with such intelligence and fine detail that The Lunchbox never feels formulaic as you’re watching, and Sajaan’s emergence from his thoroughgoing solitariness is one of the richest coming-out-of-a-shell screen stories of recent years.  His unsociableness is both sad and amusing, particularly in the soon-to-retire Sajaan’s cussed determination to do all he can not to train the newcomer Shaikh to do the job that Sajaan has held for thirty-five years.   All the acting is good but Irrfan Khan, who didn’t make much impression on me in either Slumdog Millionaire or Life of Pi, is masterly as Saajan.  The changes in Khan’s animation as Saajan opens each new delivery from Ila – his facial expressions, his gestures, his breathing – are wonderfully subtle and expressive.  You look forward to this acting treat as Saajan looks forward to the food and the note from Ila tucked under the flat bread.  (The metal dabba is an intriguing construction.)  There’s always something different to observe in Khan’s lunchbox routines.  They chime with the work of the street painter that catches Saajan’s attention: the painter always uses the same cityscape background in his pictures but picks up changing details according to what he sees on the street each day.   Irrfan Khan also shares Saajan’s thoughts and feelings with the viewer as you watch his interaction with Shaikh and a mutual liking develops between them.

    As Ila, the beautiful Nimrat Kaur does well in a more difficult role:  Ila’s circumstances limit her opportunities for expressing herself beyond what she puts in her notes to Saajan.  Her husband isn’t interested in her.  In response to one of Saajan’s more melancholy missives, she shares a childhood memory with her daughter (Yashvi Puneet Nagar); but Ila’s main interlocutor is Mrs Deshpande, the old lady upstairs, with whom she talks through an open window but who remains unseen.  Nimrat Kaur skilfully conveys Ila’s changes of mood and emotional fortune through these conversations, the words of which are mostly conventional.   Nawazuddin Siddiqui’s performance as Shaikh, enthusiastic about the prospect of his new job but not much good at it, is a delight.   His blend of ingratiating charm and (once he realises what kind of man Saajan is) tentativeness is beautifully judged.

    Shaikh tells Saajan that he’s an orphan but, later on, that ‘my mother always says:  the wrong train will sometimes get you to the right station’.  (This adage – the film’s motto – is perhaps spoken once too often by the end of The Lunchbox.)   Saajan reminds Shaikh that he’s supposed to be an orphan and you think he’s been caught out.  In fact, Shaikh’s duplicity is slightly more sophisticated:  he is an orphan, he confirms to Saajan, but saying ‘my mother says makes things sound better’.  I’d feared that The Lunchbox might be eccentrically charming but slight – and thereby invite a patronising response.  The certificate warning offers the promise of nothing more than ‘infrequent references to suicide and one use of mild language’.   But the film is tough-minded and often painfully acute.  The exchanges between Ila and Auntie Deshpande (Bharati Achrekar) are largely amusing but, once you’re told about Auntie’s domestic situation, the conversation takes on a different meaning:  she’s caring for her husband, who’s been in a coma for fifteen years.   Ila’s own father is terminally ill and being looked after by her mother (Lillete Dubey).   When he dies, the mother confesses to her daughter how fed up she’d become with the daily routine of breakfast, medicine, bathing her husband.  She also says that, even so, she often dreaded the prospect of his death and wondered what it would be like in the event.  Now that it’s happened, all that she feels is hungry.

    Although Ritesh Batra predictably draws parallels between the desire for delicious food and other kinds of appetite, the illustrations of this are more troubling than expected.  Rajeev (Nakul Vaid) shows interest in the contents of his lunchbox only as a means of thwarting Ila’s attempts to get him to have sex with her:  he chooses his moment carefully to grumble that the cauliflower in the dabba gives him wind.  Once Ila smells something else – a woman’s perfume – on Rajeev’s shirts as she prepares to wash them, she knows he’s lost to her (it makes a kind of sense that Rajeev doesn’t even appear on screen again after this point).   Shaikh makes the evening meal for himself and his bride-to-be (Shruti Bapna) and chops up ingredients on the commuter train home whenever he can get a seat:  at one point, Saajan’s boss (Denzil Smith) calls in him and Shaikh not only to complain about the inaccuracies in Shaikh’s work but also to ask why the files smell of vegetables.  The most poignant olfactory moment occurs on the day that Saajan is preparing to meet Ila in person – and is the cause of his decision not to go through with doing so (although he watches her in the café where they’d arranged to meet).  He tries to look his smartest and is worried that he’s missed a bit of beard growth.  As he tells Ila in his letter the next day, when he went back to finish shaving, the bathroom smelt the way it used to when Sajaan’s grandfather had been using it.  Sajaan is horrified by smelling like an old man.  He feels he can’t inflict himself on the lovely, much younger Ila.

    Some of the plotting of The Lunchbox doesn’t bear close inspection – or, at least, Ritesh Batra doesn’t make things sufficiently clear.  If the grotty café’s lunchbox continues to go to Rajeev, why does he take so long to complain to Ila about the effects of the cauliflower?   (Or is he having lunch with his girlfriend?)  Sajaan takes the blame for Shaikh’s serious errors with the accounts and, until he smells his age in the bathroom, has changed his mind about retiring:  although Shaikh’s prospective father-in-law has bought him a motorcycle as a reward for his promotion, the young man actually seems much happier with the idea of working as Saajan’s assistant rather than his successor.  Are we meant to think that, by the time Sajaan actually does retire, he’s got round to training Shaikh effectively or is Shaikh’s occupancy of Sajaan’s desk only temporary?   These are relatively minor faults of storytelling and don’t significantly detract from the quality of The Lunchbox.  The score by Max Richter is pleasant but unremarkable.  The chant of the dabbawalas, though, is insistent and rousing.  It accompanies the final shots of the film – Saajan, travelling with the men, is taking the route back to Ila’s apartment block – and it continues throughout the closing credits.

    14 April 2014

     

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