Phoenix First Draft

Complete first draft written for In Review Online.

Any discussion of Phoenix almost begs to begin with the ending. One of the greatest mic-drop endings in all but the most literal sense of the word, it acts as an overwhelming release, a moment of long-awaited triumph over schemes and betrayal, all conveyed through glances, the reveal of a marked arm, and a piercing, impossible to replicate voice. The catharsis and clarity of that scene refuses to be denied, so much so that it almost threatens to overshadow the rest of one of Christian Petzold’s greatest films. But in looking beyond those final three-and-a-half minutes, one can get a clearer picture of what makes the film, and the ending, such a powerful, even mysterious experience. Beginning in a shadowed car at night, Phoenix establishes its period setting with unusual clarity for Petzold: the American uniforms and flatly accented English of the soldiers at the checkpoint that stops Nelly (Nina Hoss) and Lene (Nina Kunzendorf) clearly demarcate the film as taking place just after World War II, in internationally occupied Berlin and its surroundings. Indeed, it is a film filled to almost bursting with period detail, from the crumbling ruins to the dramatic train station to the seedy clubs, so much so that one could be forgiven for seeing the film as primarily a stylistic exercise, a chance for Petzold to finally craft a world markedly separate from the 21st century Germany that has typified so much of his work. But Phoenix is above all a profoundly internal film, one dedicated to mindsets, investigations, and projections, as characters constantly circle the ghosts of their pasts and of the unimaginable crimes of a nation. The Holocaust remains at the forefront of Nelly’s mind throughout, not the least because of the distinct possibility that Johnny (Ronald Zehrfeld) may have betrayed her to suffer at the hands of the Nazis. However, it’s just as crucial that nothing is shown of her time there. Rather than go a shock-and-awe route, bluntly impressing upon the viewer the trauma undergone by the survivors, Petzold lets his sense of atmosphere suggest and even confront that recent violence. More than a third of the film passes before the “main narrative” truly begins to unfold, and that time is necessarily put towards establishing that mood, which persists across countryside hospitals, fraught street encounters, and even a few almost ghostly images: in her bandages, Nelly holds a spectral presence at some times, an achingly human one at others, a spectrum of presentations that persists, and which Hoss portrays with complete assuredness, throughout the entire film. When the main narrative does come in, comparisons to Vertigo almost seem too obvious: a man reshaping a woman to be his presumably deceased lover, only to belatedly discover that she is that very same women. But crucial differences abound: the film takes place from her point of view, and thus the audience is aware from the very first moment of the subterfuge at play; Johnny’s preparations focus as much on Nelly’s behavior as on her physical form; and his motives are entirely mercenary, disbelieving in the very possibility of her surviving the war. Perhaps most importantly of all, the viewer is never given a glimpse into the couple’s past life, never able to see the supposed ideal that Johnny is projecting onto the woman he believes to be a poor stranger. Such a change consciously reframes and breaks the dreamlike spell that that epochal film weaved over its second half. Here, it is resolutely dedicated to materiality, to the step-by-step molding and procedures that must be undergone into “fooling” the world that Nelly has returned. Thus, Phoenix’s ending brings all the exiled ghosts and feelings back into the present. Petzold’s achievement is such that, even though the viewer has stayed tethered to this woman for the entirety of the film, feeling her emotions and turmoil, her anxiety and curiosity, it is as if they are truly seeing her for the first time. Hoss’s impassioned voice does a great deal, yes, but it owes just as much to Petzold’s sense of time and pacing. “Speak Low” is by design a song with a looping structure, and in tandem with the sudden paring away of the spectators sitting in the same room as the performances, focusing on just Nelly and Johnny in alternating shots, the film which seemed so concerned with a forward momentum, a progression of understanding and deception, suddenly halts in its tracks, stretching out for what seems like eons. When the song is broken off, the people around these two shattered lovers return; Petzold is not so naïve as to think that time can be decisively turned back, only stalled. But once that interlude is up, time begins flowing again, and here it does so with the most resolute of irresolutions, with, at last, a future for its heroine that is open, free from the prescriptions and lies of others.

Barbara First Draft

Complete first draft written for In Review Online.

In retrospect, it almost seems odd that Christian Petzold’s international breakthrough effectively came with Barbara. Though it was his first period film, dealing with a readily identifiable hook — the eponymous doctor (Nina Hoss) wants to escape 1980s East Germany — its actual progression, its choices of emphases and structure, result in something far more complex and thornier than would be expected from such a barebones logline. Indeed, barebones would be the first impression that a fair chunk of viewers would get from the film, which focuses on Barbara’s interactions at the small town hospital that she has been forcibly transferred to, especially with the head doctor Reiser (Ronald Zehrfeld). Additionally, she must contend with periodic apartment raids and constant surveillance from the Stasi, personified by Officer Schütz (Rainer Bock), and the furtive relaying of supplies and money from West German compatriots, including her lover Jörg (Mark Waschke). It is true that the film toggles between these storylines, paying attention to the constant tension that Barbara must face in dealing with patients and warding off the suspicions of the authorities. But Petzold crucially declines to overdramatize or telegraph any of its developments with cheap ploys to increase the tension. There is no moment when the tremendously skilled Barbara slips and makes an incorrect diagnosis or is forced into an interrogation room and worked over to no avail: Barbara is distinguished above all by the quiet surety of its development, which lets what ultimately becomes a discernible narrative come to fruition in an intensely subdued manner. This assuredness is evident in the very nature of Barbara’s character. As played by Hoss, she gives the immediate impression of statuesque imperiousness; in the first scene, Schütz says that she would be called sulky if she was six but doesn’t follow up on the analogy, a gesture that sets up the film’s depiction of her as not quite akin to a subject found in a character study, but rather as almost a vector, a force that, impetuous and blunt as it may be, carries with it a dazzling amount of charisma. It is a star performance in the classical sense; much of the film’s pleasure comes from simply seeing Hoss alternating between motion and stasis, channeling the scene’s given emotion with her figure’s bearing. It’s no accident that so much of the film is therefore dedicated to travel. Barbara accepts a few rides from Reiser at a few points, but for the most part she prefers to ride her bike and/or take the train. This is partly out of necessity, as she goes to her dead drops and illicit rendez-vous, but Petzold includes scenes of not inconsiderable length showing her in transit, which do a great deal to bring out the local color and surroundings that might very well be missed in a film more dedicated to plot and incident. Of course, there is a secondary purpose to these scenes, as Barbara is constantly on the lookout for prying eyes, and the long scenes may very well be interrupted by a screeching car or a policeman’s call; when this does happen, however, it occurs outside of her home, furthering the constant dichotomy of finding familiarity in strange places, and danger in the most intimate spaces. The strangest — and eventually most comforting — place of all in Barbara is the hospital. This strand of the film is divided neatly into halves, watching how Barbara and Reiser deal with two young patients, Stella and Mario, and while they are focused on almost to the point of exclusion of other patients, this leaves a great deal room for interactions between the two doctors, as they often come together to converse about their concerns and observations. Reiser emerges here as a warm yet implacable presence, as both Barbara and the viewer are unsure exactly how much of his generosity and endearingly fumbling attempts at courtship are influenced by his collaboration with the Stasi. For his part, Zehrfeld plays his part as bemused, almost curious about his new coworker, letting his restive visage act as the antithesis of Hoss’s means of expression. Though these two characters are the only two that Barbara truly focuses on, Petzold gives so much detail to every interaction that each character — whether it be a hired piano tuner, an excitable sex worker, or most of all Stella, the one true victim in the midst of so much paranoia and foreboding — has their own unique charge and autonomy that in turn influence the viewer’s perception of Barbara. When the time for her final decision comes, it is critically not based upon some crisis of consciousness, but rather out of a sense of duty, an inner strength and morality that has been built upon in every scene. And just like everything else in this supremely controlled film, this unspoken turn of events is conveyed via only a few minimal gestures, set in a few evocative images. Thus, the status quo continues, but it does so with a renewed, confident understanding and dedication.