THE BITTER TEARS OF PETRA VON KANT (GERMANY/1972/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

Perhaps the most acclaimed film in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s inimitable oeuvre, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant deals with issues of obsession and jealousy. The titular Petra von Kant is an esteemed fashion designer who surrounds herself with objects of decadence in a house she shares with her reticent assistant Marlene. Still bearing the pain of her recent divorce, Petra takes out most of her frustration on Marlene, whom she frequently commands to continue sketching designs. When she is visited by a young dilettante named Karin, Petra finds herself unexpectedly smitten, and her obsession grows to sinister proportions when Karin is called away to Switzerland to reconnect with her husband.

Fassbinder spells out the film’s personal relevance from the very beginning by calling it a ‘case history’ and identifying an unnamed male as the inspiration for Marlene’s character. The all-female cast is perfectly selected, all faces that will be familiar to fans of Fassbinder. Margit Carstensen is marvellous as the lead – uncomfortably rakish in appearance, she portrays the predatory Petra with aplomb. Irm Hermann as Marlene is a ghostly presence throughout the film – in one scene, her teary pale face suddenly vanishes into a blur, underlining her comparative insignificance once Karin has entered the frame. The fashion motif in the film suggests a theme of deception, the two women dressing competitively in a bid to convince the other of her feelings. Though it carries the relics of a low-budget seventies production, Petra von Kant is fundamentally timeless and classic.

THE MERCHANT OF FOUR SEASONS (GERMANY/1971/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

Freshly returned from a stint in the French Foreign Legion, Hans takes on a lowlier job as a fruit merchant, working under the constant henpecking of his sensible wife Irmgard. An incident involving a past love spurs Hans into a sad routine of nostalgia and self-destruction, punctuated by frequent trips to the bar where he tells anyone who will listen about his former career as a policeman. When Irmgard pushes him too far one night, Hans flips and attacks her with a chair, and the subsequent argument leads to Hans suffering a violent heart attack. The relationship is turned on its head as Irmgard has an affair during Hans’ hospitalisation, raising the ugly issue of trust once again.

The Merchant of Four Seasons marks an evolution in Fassbinder’s style, although vestiges of his sarcastic sense of humour are still palpable. Neither Hans nor Irmgard is a particularly sympathetic character, but their tempestuous relationship is what holds the film together. On the surface the film could be Fassbinder’s twist on the fairy tale, Hans playing a stubby ogre to Irmgard’s svelte princess – at one point Irmgard amuses herself by telling Hans she only really fell for him because of him comical appearance. Indeed the film itself works best as an awkward comedy, despite its serious themes and depressing dénouements. The Merchant of Four Seasons is somewhat reminiscent of Fassbinder’s earlier Why Does Herr R. Run Amok? in its impatient editing, but occasional flashbacks and stronger characterisation allow the viewer enough access.

BEWARE OF A HOLY WHORE (GERMANY/1971/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

In an instance of comic self-reflexivity, prolific director Rainer Werner Fassbinder uses Beware of a Holy Whore to lampoon his career as a filmmaker, specifically reflecting on his time making surreal western Whity. Lou Castel plays the director of a project set in Spain which appears to be stuck at the point of no return. We first join the crew as they congregate in the lobby of a hotel, chain drinking and flirting as they wait for the director to turn up so the shoot can start. When he finally arrives (escorted from a helicopter no less), he is less than impressed with the location and proceeds to shout down to anyone who dares challenge him, revealing a whole network of relationships between cast and crew members, emotional and sexual.

Beware of a Holy Whore is said to have been the film Fassbinder regarded as his best, and if one knows the rest of his work, its importance is obvious. Casting himself as the short-fused production manager Sascha, rather than the despotic director, is perhaps for cathartic purposes, allowing him to experience his own megalomania from the perspective of one of his ‘subjects’. The film references several of Fassbinder’s earlier films – the overwhelming sexual tensions and discussion of community living come straight from Katzelmacher – but there’s enough in this film to keep the uninitiated entertained. With its sarcastic exaggeration of film relationships and awkward theatrical flare, Beware of a Holy Whore is a perfect introduction to the work of Fassbinder.

PIONEERS IN INGOLSTADT (GERMANY/1971/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

The first of Fassbinder’s films to receive significant critical attention, Pioneers In Ingolstadt concerns the construction of a bridge in a German village, spearheaded by a select group of soldiers. Our protagonist of sorts – the story jumps between various characters – is Berta, a reserved young woman who falls almost instantly for a soldier named Karl. Unlike her vampish friend Alma, Berta struggles with sexuality, and her romantic manner jars with Karl’s impatience. Alma, on the other hand, is content to manipulate the men to feed her desires, and by her own assertions is ‘well-liked’ by the visiting soldiers. Before long, the task at hand is forgotten in a long weekend of debauchery.

The film is an adaptation of a play by Marieluise Fleißer, and carries much of the expected theatricality in its mise-en-scène. Fassbinder’s angle on the play is led by gender stereotypes, and he uses his burgeoning film style to experiment with these conventions. The soldiers’ presence in the town is seen as intrusive, almost unwanted, but charged with erotic potential. Men are simultaneously portrayed as heroes and beasts, lycanthropes whose desires get the better of them at night, while the women’s envy is borderline Freudian. The bridge, too short to necessitate much attention, provides a symbol for the relation between the military and small-town Germany, while another motif, a moonlit park bench, provides a setting for various dalliances, sexual and romantic. It might not be a classic, but Pioneers In Ingolstadt is vital viewing for the Fassbinder fanatic.

RIO DAS MORTES (GERMANY/1971/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

In the opening scene of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Rio Das Mortes, Hanna Schygulla repeats to herself a passage from a childcare book about achievement, indirectly teasing the two protagonists who are to be introduced later. Mike and Günther, feeling unfulfilled by infrequent employment and soured relationships, decide to unravel the mysteries of a treasure map, plotting a trip to Peru in the hopes of finding gold. Mike’s girlfriend Hanna doubts the men’s ability to organise such an excursion, but is crushed when they succeed, and tries to find whatever means she can to stop them.

One of ten films made by Fassbinder between 1970 and 1971, Rio Das Mortes appears to have suffered the most from a lack of focus, with thin characterisation and an unproductive narrative. Whereas the chain-smoking hedonists in his earliest films were consigned to their worthlessness, Mike and Günther are given a misleading goal and take an hour and a half to fail it. And even though the plot promises exploits of Herzogian proportions, there is not enough time in the film for anything to build up, and more importantly, nobody in the film appears to realise that Rio das Mortes is in Brazil. Whether intentional or not, the film offers a host of awkward laughs, particularly during a woeful fight where Günther’s trousers split. There are glimmers of the familiar Fassbinder here, with Schygulla stealing the scene as ever, but all in all one wonders who, if anyone, was driving the film to its conclusion.

23 ZOOMS (GERMANY/2004/GREGORY BÜTTNER)

In documentaries like Capturing the Friedmans, The Devil and Daniel Johnston and Must Read After My Death, home footage and audio recordings are used to emotive, and frequently disturbing effect as they add another dimension to the personal histories of their subjects. In Gregory Büttner’s 23 Zooms, no one person is the subject – in fact, the artist has no connection to any of the people featured. Büttner compiles a selection of twenty-three found photographs and, with no provenance for any of them, composes a piece of music to complement their presentation. Each photograph is scanned over, certain details zoomed into, before fading to black.

While his ambition may not have been to create a tribute to these strangers, Büttner manages to tap into the pseudoscience of nostalgia to give the viewer little shivers that may represent a superficial connection to each photo. A proponent of musique concrète by trade, Büttner has a clear understanding of the synaesthetic possibilities of film, and the lack of movement in each image suggests that audiovisual memory is freed of temporality. Each musical composition feels diligently constructed, and clear references are made to the iconography in the images – a photograph of an old man with canaries is scored by a slightly tropical composition, while a scratched record accompanies Christmas picture. Büttner’s work is very consciously experimental, and ultimately the film showcases the artist’s music over his filmmaking abilities (one wonders why each picture has to seem so sinister), but it is definitely worth a watch.

THE NIKLASHAUSEN JOURNEY (GERMANY/1970/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER, MICHAEL FENGLER)

A radical work even for Fassbinder’s hefty film catalogue, The Niklashausen Journey darts through history to tell the story of Hans Böhm, a lowly Franconian shepherd who had a visionary experience which instructed him to preach social equality to the masses, calling for the deaths of clergymen and members of the upper class. Böhm, resembling a brightly dressed, long-haired anarchist, finds himself surrounded by a variety of characters from different eras, who appear to be following his life story as it happens. Fassbinder himself plays the enigmatic leather-clad Black Monk, who speaks in curt maxims as he shadows Böhm in his egalitarian mission.

Fassbinder could never be accused of lacking ambition, and in The Niklashausen Journey he becomes his most politically direct. The film uses anachronisms to invite reevaluations of contemporary German politics, with particular resonance with the possible reunification of Germany. He also uses the presence of a medieval peasant amidst modern characters to underline the ridiculousness of revolutionaries comparing themselves to historical figures by dint of their ability to recite ideologies with conviction. One particularly mischievous example sees Böhm preaching Marxist slogans to anyone who will listen, before singing a paean to Lenin. Naturally, a film with such grand aspirations is bound to be uneven, and it is difficult to tell what Fassbinder wanted his audience to make of the characters’ contradictions. As such, it does not have the sincerity of Pasolini’s more overtly political works, sharing more in common with Derek Jarman’s later Jubilee. Uncompromising but unbalanced.

THE AMERICAN SOLDIER (GERMANY/1970/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

Fresh from the Vietnam War, German-American soldier Ricky returns to his hometown Münich to work for some detectives as a contract killer on a case they have been struggling with. Working methodically through the hits, Ricky uses his spare time to meet up with family and friends, one of whom accompanies him on a tour of his old neighbourhood and reminds him of the local women. After reconnecting with a few of them, he asks for a prostitute to be sent to his hotel room, a woman who turns out to be one of the detective’s girlfriends. The two fall for each other, much to the dismay of the police who suddenly turn on Ricky.

The American Soldier is one of those Fassbinder films that spends a lot of its screentime both revering and parodying cinema, and here the target is film noirs and the gangster genre. Remarkably, even with such a thin premise, it succeeds in holding one’s attention. Even in its most high-octane moments, the film carries on in a plodding pace, a choice that deliberately steals the plot of its frivolity and adds a touch of realism. The gorgeous photography, comprising glowing whites against pitch black, keeps Münich in perpetual nighttime. The character of Ricky could easily have come from one of Fassbinder’s first three features, but gone is the impish sarcasm and dispassion that made films like Gods of the Plague so enjoyable. It’s by no means a bad film, but it does leave one wanting.

POOR JENNY (GERMANY/1912/URBAN GAD)

Jenny is a young woman from an impoverished background who works as a cleaner in various elegant residences in the city. While cleaning the stairs of a wealthy man named Eduard Reinhold, she receives an enigmatic invitation from him but decides against telling her proud parents. With the assistance of her sister, Jenny sneaks out of the house to rendezvous with Eduard, who takes her for a meal at a restaurant before inviting her back to his place. Returning home at dawn, Jenny is shocked to discover her family still awake, and the ensuing argument leaves her on the street. Seeking comfort and shelter from her wealthy lover, she is told that she is unsuitable to be seen on the arm of such a well-to-do man and, with no-one else to turn to, she takes on a series of sordid jobs before eventually committing suicide.

The word ‘poor’ in the title relates both to Jenny’s financial situation and her repeated rotten luck, and the lesson here is something along the lines of not giving into temptation, as Jenny finds herself even lower down in society than she had been before thanks to her spontaneous tryst. Legendary temptress of early cinema Asta Nielsen, star of Gad’s sensuous film The Abyss, portrays Jenny with appropriate gullibility despite being thirty at the time of filming. Though a mostly unremarkable film, (Louis Feuillade’s The Defect dealt with similar themes a year earlier), Poor Jenny does feature some interesting photography, particularly at its tragic climax.

WHY DOES HERR R. RUN AMOK? (GERMANY/1970/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER, MICHAEL FENGLER)

Herr R. is an architect’s draughtsman, and the breadwinner for his wife and son. We see him living a purely functional existence, only managing to catch precious few moments of social activity in between his obligations with his work and family. The story flashes between brief scenes in Herr R.’s day, the only anomaly being a macabre check-up with the doctor. Rather than observing, the viewer is invited into the scene through the movement of the camera, which positions itself as another character, turning to face each speaker. Herr R. is very rarely seen alone, giving the impression that he never catches a break.

Why Does Herr R. Run Amok? continues director Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s earlier fascination with suburban stagnation and dehumanisation, and the anonymity of the protagonist’s name is no coincidence. In fact, little of Fassbinder’s film is a coincidence – Herr R.’s job in architecture, for example, relates to his destiny, as he is left to draw up plans for other people. Kurt Raab, who resembles Fassbinder himself, carries his character’s burden without ever externalising his emotions. The shooting style and mise-en-scène are unusually naturalistic for a Fassbinder film, although this may be linked to the rumours that collaborator Michael Fengler was the film’s true director. The deliberate monotony might be trying for uninitiated viewers, but nonetheless there is a decent sense of humour in Why Does Herr R. Run Amok?, and it would make a complementary companion film to Once Upon A Time There Was A Singing Blackbird.

NUUK (GERMANY/1997/THOMAS KÖNER)

Thomas Köner is a German media artist who works in both video and music, combining the two to create unique ambient experiences. His area of fascination seems to be the North Pole, and all of his installations focus intently on the natural beauty of this area. This project, Nuuk, comprises a series of desaturated images of the Greenlandic capital, ice sheets dominating the screen, and the framing often suggests that these stills could have been culled from CCTV footage. One image, taking in a snow-covered street lined with drab apartment blocks, slowly mutates into a nocturnal scene, coloured lights emerging from windows. The music gently sweeps the viewer through the experience, using a variegated wall of electronically produced tones.

If it had to be categorised, Nuuk would best align itself with the voyeuristic works of James Benning and Sharon Lockhart, its wordless presentation encouraging the viewer to let go of all previous understanding of cinema and enjoy the experience. One is led to feel as if the music is somehow being produced by the ice itself, as there is a deep, raw quality to the soundtrack that defies musical classification, and the texture of the video harmonises with this. Though successful, it is tempting to consider what effect the film would have if there was movement in each ‘still’, for example if a person were to be seen walking through the city scene. Not for the impatient, Nuuk is a twenty-minute film in name only, and deserves one’s full attention.

ONE11 AND 103 (GERMANY/1992/HENNING LOHNER)

Echoing a lot of the experimentation he had done with music, John Cage’s only feature film project One¹¹ And 103 pares film down to its most basic concepts. The subject here is light itself, the very Urschleim of photography, and its behaviour in the film often runs in counterpoint with an orchestral work that Cage wrote specially for the project. Employing what sound theorist Michel Chion calls ‘synchresis’, the film binds both sonic and visual experiences together through mood and intensity. Though Cage and fellow composer Andrew Culver specifically designed the lighting arrangement so that it would be randomised to some degree, there are several audio-visual harmonies throughout the film. The grain of the film adds an extra urgency to these photographic abstractions.

It would be cliché to call the work ‘brave’ for its simplicity, especially in light of the achievements made earlier by artists like Norman McLaren and Tony Conrad, but there is something excitingly new about One¹¹ And 103, even seeing it 18 years later. Being denied the ability to gauge even space or time in a film is an alienating experience, and this is precisely what Cage and Culver appear to reference in their collaboration. Naturally, it can get quite frustrating to watch, even if one knows what to expect from Cage. The audience is always kept on the surface of the film, but the more open-minded viewer may sink deeper, finding elementary patterns in either the visuals or the composition – this could easily be minimalism’s Fantasia.

THE COFFEEHOUSE (GERMANY/1970/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

Based on Carlo Goldoni’s 18^th century comedy of the same name, controversial director Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s televised play The Coffeehouse presents all of its characters simultaneously, on a set populated only by actors and decorative chairs. The coffee house in question comprises the unpleasant customers who frequent it, whose bourgeois concerns range from gambling to romantic infidelities. The coffee is notably absent – these people seem to survive off each other’s problems and disenchantment with the world. The camera, static through much of the film, hones in on relevant conversations, conveying very little movement whatsoever.

Like Béla Tarr’s TV version of Macbeth, which is dominated by an hour-long shot, Fassbinder’s version of The Coffee House requires considerable patience from the viewer, and relies heavily on the richness of language to communicate its emotional subtleties. Before making his film adaptation, Fassbinder had rewritten the play for the stage, stripping it of its elaborate set design and whimsical comedy to place it firmly in the modern age. It is this unrelentingly stoical approach which permeates a lot of Fassbinder’s early work, and it was at this point that his theatrical output was most prolific. On screen, The Coffeehouse still feels like a play, but as a film it does paradoxically gain an undercurrent of comedy through its supposed seriousness. As actors deliver their lines in turn, the viewer’s attention is drawn to the status of the production rather than the content, and the characters’ hysterical self-pity becomes little more than a theatrical whimsy.

GODS OF THE PLAGUE (GERMANY/1970/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

Shot in the hilariously dispassionate, nouvelle vague-inspired manner common to his earliest films, Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Gods Of The Plague follows small-time crook Franz as he attempts to reassimilate himself into society. His first priority is to meet with his loved ones again, although the word ‘loved’ here is purely functional. Girlfriend Johanna, a sultry chanteuse, shares an unexpressed joy to be reunited with him again. Her relief is short-lived however, as Franz suddenly falls for an enigmatic woman named Margarethe. The new couple’s dalliances reveal why Franz had grown tired of Johanna, as Margarethe’s apparent moral indifference allows him to return to his life of crime. When he and friend Gorilla are implicated in the murder of his brother, the police turn to Johanna, who has the power to choose how much information to give away about her unfaithful lover.

Gods Of The Plague is an interesting point in Fassbinder’s career, demonstrating a balance between sarcastic parody and hysterical melodrama. The opening credits, putting every cast and crew member in one long scrolling marquee at the bottom of the screen, presages the deliberate listlessness of this would-be gangster flick. A trilingual poker scene featuring a group of effeminate players, including Fassbinder himself, predicts the director’s overt flamboyance in later films. It might not be a particularly great film by any standards beyond its adventurous photography, but Gods Of The Plague has a naïve campness to be treasured, and as such stands out as one of Fassbinder’s more endearing features.

KATZELMACHER (GERMANY/1969/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

Shot on a low budget in little over a week, Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s second feature describes the exploits of a group of young, happy-go-lucky people living in a Münich apartment block. The group apparently spends much of their time smoking, drinking and sleeping with each other, forging a strong collective identity of hedonism. But when Jorgos, a Greek gastarbeiter, moves into the building and begins an affair with the fickle Marie, the group unwittingly unites on a different front – one of prejudice. The residents speak unkindly of Jorgos, but it soon becomes clear that they are jealous of his apparent emotional intelligence and lack of baggage.

The film takes its plot from Fassbinder’s own play, and this is deftly echoed by the flat camera angles. The film often returns to a shot of the residents sat on the railings outside the building, speaking but not conversing. Group dynamic works exceptionally well, as none of the characters openly express much affection towards each other – eye contact is rare, put-downs are frequent, hugs and kisses are laughably insincere. As with Fassbinder’s first film Love Is Colder Than Death, the characters act as if they had all been forced into this friendship out of convenience, and this is the film’s virtue. Jorgos thus becomes a very strong protagonist by mere dint of his apparent neutrality, although he is potentially as dull as the rest of the group. Dryly sarcastic and unyielding, Katzelmacher is a brilliant introduction to the beautifully cruel world of Fassbinder.