Hauptmann Gerd Weisler, as portrayed by Ulrich Muhe in Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s 2006 motion picture, The Lives of Others, is a man who thinks he is in control. From the cold open of his frigid lecture, it is made clear that he is a man who moves through the world as an electrical current moves through a closed circuit. Everything is set in place, everything is routine, everything is cold, calculated, and clear-cut to be at maximum efficiency. He is not one to slack on the job, unlike his partner, Udo, who has a tendency to doze off from time to time. It is surprising, then, to see Weisler undergo a series of profound changes, making emotionally-charged decisions, and in the end giving in to his human impulses. The film ends with its representation of Weisler in a polar-opposite position from where he began. He becomes a different man with different ideas and feelings, and an altogether different kind of human being.
The film wants you to believe in this idea, that a man can change so drastically over so little time, because of a single semblance of love. To be perfectly frank and honest, that is just corny and altogether ridiculous for a story that sells itself as a grounded piece of storytelling, held down by the iron stakes of history. However, that is judging it on purely realistic merit, which is rarely ever fair criticism for a film that is anything but documentary. No, instead, the film presented is one of big ideas in a small space: the human mind. But not just any mind, no, it happens to be one far removed from any kind of meaningful connection, and when those two frayed ends spark together (both in the literal and metaphorical sense), the audience bears witness to a transformation unlike any other in films before. It is a fascinating thing to behold, to see it all poured out on screen like of molten lava down the side of a mountain, only in reverse. The hardened stone softens and reverts to its primal state, gurgling and hissing and slowly scorching all that it touches as it makes its way across the frigid surface. In reverting to this primitive, volatile state, Weisler loses his sense of reality, and is conflicted with himself over the desire for control. He is, after all, us.
A common thread presented in the film is one of meta-commentary on the entire concept of film, and the impact it can have on real-world expectations. In his own unique way, Weisler embodies the desires of the typical movie-going audience. He sits isolated in a dark room for extended periods of time, listening in on conversations and becoming involved in a narrative. And like any audience member, he has certain expectations as to how that narrative should play out. The key difference here is that film narrative, like pretty much all narrative in human history, has a predetermined ending and resolution. More often than not, these narrative conclusions are tailored to suit the audience’s expectations in regards to how they want things to play out. Who gets to live, who gets to die, who gets the girl, and so on. Weisler, in personally involving himself in what he believes to be such a narrative, envisions himself as the audience, and this particular story is going to play out exactly how he wants it to. Things do work somewhat according to plan for a while, as Weisler manipulates the situation to his liking, using different technological tricks and deus ex machinas to get the desired result. What he ultimately fails to realize, however, is that this is reality. And reality has no author, not even God.
The film itself is noticeably devoid of any religious imagery or connotations, and takes a considerably removed approach in letting itself play out. Donnersmarck’s direction is impeccable, as everything is where it should be. The camera is always focused on the characters and rarely, if ever, draws its attention away from the people in the scene. A mirror of the voyeuristic nature of the Weisler and his fascination with Dreyman and Sieland’s romance, the camera is always drawing the viewer’s eye to the faces on screen. In fact, it tends to linger uncomfortably long in some scenes, making the audience hesitate about whether or not to keep looking. It is in this way that the film does such a good job of drawing in the audience, and getting them to share in Weisler’s obsessions.
Weisler is seen as a plain, boring man of little interest or emotion. He wears a lot of grey, and lives in a flat, grey apartment building. His character would be wholly unremarkable if he weren’t the center of the film, but in that way, the film is also distinctive because of its unremarkable appearance due to its commitment to that sense of realism and believability in its scenes. Beyond that, however, there is nothing visually compelling about the look of the film. It is all fairly standard work.
The same can be said of the acting, with the exception of Muhe as Weisler. He is wholly convincing as a robotic man, removed from reality and human emotional perception as the Secret Police have trained him to be. He is cold and ruthless, with a hint of vulnerability, and he doesn’t have to say a word to convey that idea to the audience. There’s is only a grim scowl with a glimmer in his bright blue eyes.
The single visual flourish that the film possesses comes in the form of the red ink, which Dreyman is forced to type with in order to not raise suspicion about the content of the script. “Harder to trace,” is believed to be the reasoning behind this decision. However, the red ink could also be seen as a symbol of the blood of the people, and their desire to be free from the GDR’s tyranny in the form of the Secret Police. In the film’s climactic scene, it could hardly be seen as coincidence that Sieland’s blood is spilt on the street. It was a needless sacrifice brought about by the need to free themselves from the GDR’s watchful eye. That, and the ink stains on both Weisler and Dreyman’s fingers. The blood is indeed on both their hands, but each in his own way.
Returning to the theme of narrative the omnipresent author, the bookended scenes with the stage plays both touch on the death of Arthur. It is never made clear who Arthur is, but the fact that it is presented twice both at the beginning and end of the film suggests some deeper meaning. It could be said that it is a form of word-play, as the name Arthur, spoken in German, sounds like “auteur,” or, “author.” In this sense, when they say that, “Arthur is dead,” it gives an implication that the author is dead. The author of this world is no longer alive, and neither is fate.
There is no predetermined destination for people in this life, and it is best for humanity to move on from this fact and accept it as truth. To deny this reality is to hurt the ones we care about, and that is a lesson that Weisler learned the hard way. In his desperation for control, to be the author to his own narrative, to mess with the lives of others, he brought an end to what he cared for most.
Dino-Score: 4/5
No comments:
Post a Comment