Diego Aparicio reviews Faith Akin’s controversial and violent thriller. 

Following The Golden Glove world premiere in Berlin, I’ve seen a few critics comparing director Fatih Akin’s latest to Lars von Trier’s The House that Jack Built due to the films’ common theme of violence against women. I am not a critic, and I have no agenda, so I’ll say honestly (and in my humble opinion) that this comparison is very superficial and suggests a lazy viewer. The similarity ends with the gore and misogyny portrayed on screen: while von Trier’s ‘construction’ oozed of egocentric and self-indulgent intentions, as if to explain himself and his oeuvre, Fatih Akin’s work seems, to me, at least a bit more nuanced.

A big reason why I appreciated The Golden Glove a great deal is the presence of what I interpret as literary metaphors, presumably stemming from Heinz Strunk’s 2016 eponymous novel. The time at which the novel was written makes me all the more eager to conclude that the film has a lot more to say about our times than what its 1970s setting might suggest. I am not a fan of violence, on-screen or otherwise, and, sadly, von Trier’s latest effort failed to convince me. But recently I’ve seen violence used as a means to a cinematic end – and not just for its shock value – much more effectively than I ever thought possible. The first time was in Jennifer Kent’s The Nightingale; the second in The Golden Glove.

Throughout Akin’s film, we follow serial killer Fritz Honka (Jonas Dassler) in 1970s Hamburg. Most of the time, Honka keeps busy by overworking his liver at The Golden Glove – a pub where ex-S.S. soldiers, ex-concentration camp prostitutes, and other similarly unhappy people drink their lives away. Otherwise, Herr Honka spends his time picking up deranged, drunken homeless women at the Glove, raping them, and chopping them up into pieces to keep in his attic. Whenever the next victim asks where the stench is coming from, Herr Honka’s reply is always the same: it’s the Greek family’s fault, the one living in the flat below, always adding that disgusting garlic into everything they cook.

‘Gruesome’ doesn’t even begin to describe the horrors to which the viewer is subjected. (If we could describe everything with words, we wouldn’t need films in the first place). People walked out of the auditorium, brought their hands to their mouths and eyes, and turned their gazes away from the screen in disgust more than a few times during the screening I attended. But on behalf of those who didn’t walk out, I would like to argue that The Golden Glove is really not as pointless as some are calling it. Far from glorifying violence through the portrayal of his troubled – to put it mildly – protagonist, Akin gives us a taste of a reality unpalatable to humanity through the years: that the rottenness we so hatefully perceive around us, is very often an internalised hatred that we dare not admit.

One should not overlook the fact that this story’s characters are all victims of war:  a woman forced into prostitution during WWII; an ex-Nazi official with no purpose in life 30 years later; and Honka, whose father was arrested for being a Communist in Nazi Germany. In an early scene, we are introduced to the theory that there are three reasons for people to drink:  to celebrate the good things, to drink away the bad things, and to escape the boredom of nothing happening at all. Celebration seems to be the least likely reason for these characters’ severe alcohol dependence. These are people whose lives were forever dismantled by violence in all its unimaginable and horrific forms. It is a violence that is very much passed on and inherited, still pervasive in the lives of younger generations. No matter how we try to conceal the hateful acts of violence from the past, they inevitably slip through the cracks of the rotting attics of history, like maggots feeding off dead bodies.

Much like the characters in The Golden Glove, our own generation’s passive acceptance of violence and the inability to connect may have been inherited through postwar trauma in more ways than we realise. The fact that Fritz and Willi (Tristan Göbel) share a similar taste in eyewear and teenage girls implies a few reasons why the Honkas of the world have not yet ceased to exist. Akin does not force feed his audience this reading of the story, but there are hints supporting this reading inconspicuously scattered throughout the film:  WWII references occur more than a few times, and war becomes the common thread connecting all characters.

In The Golden Glove, men and women alike have to live with all the trauma that the war has brought upon them in a strongly divided Cold War era Germany. Honka and his brother seem to believe that women are objects made for their satisfaction. This unhealthy relationship between the sexes is perpetuated by apathy in a society whose wounds can only be numbed by alcohol.

The only glimpse of humanity we see in Honka is when he decides to stop drinking – which is also when he develops what appear to be feelings for a coworker. “I had dreamed that I’d do more in life than just clean offices,” she opens up to him. This is a cleaner who’s wasting her life away with an unemployed husband who spends her earnings on alcohol. Sympathetic as he may appear, Honka’s only verbal attempt to express feelings towards her comes when he’s once again drunk. “I love you. Now I want to fuck you,” he exclaims before violently assaulting her.

There is much power in Akin’s subtle insertions of the peaceful Greek family scenes amongst all the massacres and acts of inhumanity committed by the film’s antihero. Through this lens, see a family of refugees accused of creating the foul stench in Honka’s apartment, a situation which is likely to be a commentary on today’s increasing nationalism in various states globally. When read this way, the film appears not only to be opposed to war and toxic masculinity, but also to right-wing extremism.

The film doesn’t justify itself in any obvious way, but comparing The Golden Glove to The House that Jack Built seems unfair to say the least. Akin’s depiction of Honka’s monstrosity is ultimately unsettling for a much more profound reason: the real horror is that, in contrast to von Trier’s, this misogynist serial killer actually existed. Fritz Honka was alive in the 1970s, a product of one of the most horrific periods in recent history.

Overall, The Golden Glove was not a strong contender for the Golden Bear Award at this year’s Berlinale. Jonas Dassler’s extraordinary physical performance and Rainer Kalusmann’s commendably greasy cinematography were not enough for the jury. Still, I thought there was a case to be made in the film’s favour. Akin succeeds multiple times in drawing laughs only moments after showing a murder, and that says something very interesting about our attitude towards violence.

The Golden Glove (Der Goldene Handschuh) premiered at Berlin Film Festival on February 9th. It has yet to acquire a UK release date. Check out a clip below: 

Diego Aparicio takes an exciting look at the 2017 Palme d’Or-winning satirical drama.

This review originally appeared on the author’s film blog, Observancy. It has been slightly modified.

Ruben Östlund’s follow-up to his wickedly funny Force Majeure (2014) is a hilarious satire not only of the modern art-world, but of today’s society in general. Winner of the 2017 Palme d’Or, nominated for this year’s Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, and gathering an impressive total of six European Film Awards, The Square features some of the year’s funniest and most memorable moments in cinema.

The Main Exhibit

In an opening scene that sets the tone for the ensuing hilarity, journalist Anne (Elisabeth Moss) interviews the respected curator of a Swedish contemporary art museum, Christian (Claes Bang). Attempting to make sense of a rather pretentious exhibit description, Anne is left all the more confused by Christian’s attempts to explain the artworks, who is clearly making things up as he goes along. This hysterically funny exchange is followed by a scene in which Christian has his phone and wallet stolen by a pickpocket, and we look on as his desperate actions clash with his apparent ideals. Two stories unfold in parallel: one focusing on Christian as an individual, the other on the role he assumes in public. All the while he is left in charge of promoting a new exhibition which has one particular piece of art at its centre, ‘The Square’: an installation inviting the public to an act of altruism.

Review

Despite some scenes that slightly outstay their welcome and perhaps trying to do too many things at once, this satirical drama by writer-director Ruben Östlund boasts a hilarious script, with several memorable scenes and some very clever directing. The Square plays with the idea that, despite their apparent appreciation for the arts, people from the high society can certainly still be very superficial and uncultured. Power games between genders and social classes are also satirised, as is the media’s often detrimental influence on art. Östlund also seems to be making a comment on the untrusting, selfish stance people often adopt in their relationships, and the lack of honesty and intimacy this leads to in society. The film’s laudable production design did not go unnoticed at the European Film Awards, and neither did Bang’s strong lead performance. The soundtrack includes some interesting choices, which often add a further touch of comedy to the film. Apart from offering a few good laughs, the film raises questions of social importance that even touch the existential at times. It may not do so very coherently, but it does some interesting things that largely compensate for that.

The Inspiration

At Curzon Mayfair last month, the director revealed that the story was inspired by true events that took place in Gothenburg, around the time he was working on his 2011 film, Play (2011). What Östlund witnessed stayed with him: young boys in a shopping mall robbing other young boys in the presence of adults. What struck him most about this, he said, was that on only a small number of occasions did the victims receive any help, or indeed ask for it in the first place. Östlund discussed the incident with his father, who told him that parents used to be more trusting of other adults with their children ‘back in the day’, a discussion repeated in The Square between Christian and his daughters.

And so the idea occurred to Östlund and his friend, Kalle Boman, ‘to create a symbolic place where we’re reminded of each other.’ It was only after the success of Force Majeure that a museum in Värnamo agreed to host an installation of a square, much like the one in the film. A recent interview with Östlund for The Guardian revealed some of the things that went on within the square: ‘On the opening night, drunken youths stole the plaque. Afterwards the square became a base for buskers, beggars and protesters. Office workers gathered to eat lunch on sunny days. Lovers proposed within its borders. How it is used is up to the people of the city. If they abuse it, it reveals something about them. If they treat it well, it says something interesting, too.’

‘Humans have the ability to create fictions that change their behaviour. Like a pedestrian crossing,’ Östlund said at the Q&A. In the same way, the square in the film can be thought of as ‘a humanistic traffic sign’. The punishment for not helping someone in need inside ‘The Square’ is shame.

Squares Within The Square

‘Trust is something you give to your kids by saying “you can trust other adults”. If your parents tell you that, then that’s what you feel towards others in life’, Östlund said at the same Q&A session in Mayfair. On several occasions in the film, the writer/director seems concerned with the importance of family in society’s struggle to become more caring. Christian is a divorced father of two and, though his marital status doesn’t necessarily say anything about the society he’s part of, it does affect his children’s upbringing.

When Christian’s daughters first make an appearance, the camera pans onto an art piece on his apartment wall, and the audience is left to admire square within square within square inside the frame, a lingering shot revealing what could be one of the film’s most important moments. It asks: how does Christian, as a father, inspire his children to be trusting, generous, and caring?

He loves his daughters, no doubt, but he also seems to handle parenting quite poorly at times: he loses his temper a bit too easily; he loses sight of his daughters at the mall (and asks a homeless person to guard his shopping bags while he looks for them, when none of the rich people will help him); and he abuses his power in front of them, pushing a young, working-class boy down the stairs, refusing to take responsibility for his earlier misbehaviour.

In fact, it is the father that is taking life lessons from the children. Despite his position, Christian does a poor job at promoting ‘The Square’, both as a piece of art and as an ideal. A visit to see his daughters perform synchronised gymnastics appears to teach him more about community than art ever does in this film. The sports court where his daughters spend time with their coach is outlined in white lines, and a quadrilateral is projected onto the frame, much like ‘The Square’ itself in an earlier scene. It is only after seeing his daughters and their team supporting one another on that court that he decides to apologise to the boy he mistreated.

When Christian drives to the building where the boy lives, his daughters want to accompany him. The director said that the (initially longer) scene where the three of them are climbing up the stairs to the boy’s apartment was written as a sort of pilgrimage that all three of them had to make; it’s something that they do together, in a team effort to make up for Christian’s mistakes. Interestingly, it evokes that antecedent scene on the staircase in Christian’s building, and encourages a comparison between the two social classes once more.

First World Problems

Alas, Christian doesn’t get the redemption he seeks, and has to live with his shame. At the Q&A, Östlund recounted the plot of a poem that inspired the film’s ending. Written in the 1900s by an upper-class Swede, the poem tells the story of a game of marbles in which the narrator wins five marbles from a poor boy, using the fifty marbles that he already owned (giving him a distinct advantage). In time, the initial pride and sense of power that the narrator feels are replaced by a sense of shame at his privilege. This is telling of a poem written at a time when social classes were shifting in Sweden, and the middle class started having access to education. The narrator seeks out the boy, in the school yard and in the neighbourhood, but never finds him. Years later as an adult, he remains tormented by these memories and has to live with his guilt.

Christian is much like the narrator of this poem. After pushing the young working class boy down the stairs of his apartment building, he remains haunted by the boy’s cries for help, having initially ignored them. Desperate to make amends, he searches through a sea of garbage bags for a note with the boy’s phone number. This iconic scene, with Christian on his hands and knees in the pouring rain, consumed by endless piles of rubbish, is a suggestive metaphor for how poor his inner world is in contrast to the expensive suits he’s always seen wearing.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

‘Soon you will be confronted by a wild animal. Convey fear, and the animal will hunt you down. Remain perfectly still, and you can hide in the herd, safe in the knowledge that someone else will be the prey.’

Terry Notary’s jaw-dropping monkey performance combined with that little prologue (above) makes for a unique and immersive existential experience; one that is only accentuated by the grandiose dining hall setting and all the bystanders of high society sitting still in almost uninterrupted silence. But what’s with the monkey? And why does Anne have a pet primate in her apartment? Apart from being excellent comical devices, these elements also serve as reminders that apism is abundant in our societies: and if we’re all just copying each other’s behaviours, we’d better be setting examples that are worth imitating in the first place.

A Bit of Trivia: the Lola Arias Controversy

The Square (as an artwork) was conceived by Östlund and Boman in reality, but is attributed to an Argentinian artist called Lola Arias in the film. In fact, Lola Arias is the name of an actual Argentinian artist and filmmaker, who earlier this year presented her documentary, Theatre of War, in the Forum section of the Berlinale. Although Östlund claims he did not know of Arias when writing the script, he says the artist had been informed that her name would be used prior to filming. Arias herself remembers a somewhat different story. ‘It has hurt my reputation as an artist because I am associated with an artwork that is not mine and that I dislike… I was shocked when I saw how they used my name without consent.’ Just the type of conflict the media love to promote art with.

---

A slightly modified version of this piece can be found on the Curzon Blog. Many thanks to Ryan Hewitt for all his helpful suggestions.

The Square is out now in UK cinemas. Check out the trailer:

Diego Aparicio reviews Carla Simón’s fresh biographical drama.

This review originally appeared on the author’s film blog, Observancy. It has been slightly modified.

Estiu 1993 (“Summer 1993”) has made quite a splash: Carla Simón’s autobiographical feature debut won the Best First Feature Award in Berlin this year, will be to the first film in Catalan ever to compete for an Oscar, and was one of the ten European (co-)productions in the European Parliament’s LUX Prize 2017 Official Selection. And all on a budget of only €960,000.

A spoiler-free review

Working with child actors can be tricky business, but in making Summer 1993 writer-director Carla Simón has risen way above that challenge, to deliver a film of truly remarkable sincerity: an astonishing portrayal of a child dealing with loss. Following the death of her mother, six-year-old Frida (Laia Artigas) leaves her home in Barcelona to live with her aunt (Bruna Cusí), uncle (David Verdaguer) and younger cousin Anna (Paula Robles) in the countryside. The camera almost transports us next to Frida, and takes us on a very intimate journey right by her side: we’re observing Frida as she tries to  adjust in her new home, with her new family, over the course of a summer. Shot within six weeks in Catalonia, over the summer of 2016, the film is rich in natural light, and probably quite truthful, visually, to the summer of 1993 that inspired its story. The realistic nature of the screenplay is one of the film’s strongest points, and the all-round strong performances really help bring that out: there is honestly no way to stress how talented the child actors are, and how great a job Simón has done in directing them. The film steers clear of almost every cliché imaginable for the genre, and finds beautiful ways of telling its story visually without force-feeding its audience emotions: there is no sentimental music in the background, and no constant crying. The storm brewing inside Frida is silent, and so are her tears.

Further remarks

‘Why aren’t you crying?’ a little boy asks Frida as she leaves the city. This, in some sense, becomes the core of the entire story. The film returns to this question only at the very end, in a very memorable final sequence. Interestingly, the above line seems to be inspired by a sense of guilt that the writer-director felt, for not having cried the day her mother died. Carla Simón recalls thoughts of fleeing from her new home in 1993, a thought which also occurs to Frida in the film. Simón also recalls praying to a picture of her mother every night: in the film, this is instead portrayed through the scenes where Frida visits a statue of the Virgin Mary.

The film approaches the subject of loss through a very authentic lens. The audience is invited to see Frida’s world through her eyes, and her eyes alone, following her in every single sequence. All we’re ever witness to is Frida’s experience of her reality. Though her family receives her with open arms, Frida has a hard time adapting to her new home. Time and again, we see her staring at her new family as if they’re strangers to her. We see her experiencing all the confusing emotions that make her so human: fear, jealousy, love, compassion, sadness, joy – these are all part of the delicate picture that Simón so skillfully paints.

Bruna Cusí is brilliant as the aunt, and her character is extremely well-written and crucial, as Frida’s new mother figure. It’s interesting that, while it’s the uncle who shares a blood tie with the girl, it is the relationship with Frida’s aunt that is explored the most. Her way of helping Frida heal after her loss defines a fine role model for an adopting parent. Although it’s something never said in words, there is a detail in the film that is significant to Simón’s (as well as Spain’s) past, which is that Frida’s parents both die of AIDS. This causes other parents to be over-protective of their children when they’re playing with Frida. There’s a scene early on, on a playground, where the aunt defends Frida against another mother’s prejudice, and that really tells us that she really does care for the child as though she were her own. She tries her best to help Frida integrate in her new family, by limiting visits to (or from) her grandparents at first: and though that may not be what the girl wants at the moment, it might nonetheless be what’s best for her. However, later on, the aunt is worried that her daughter Anna might be negatively influenced by Frida’s spoiled behaviour. Naturally, she then tries to protect her daughter, by somewhat distancing Anna from her cousin. And it’s interesting how this helps Frida grow more mature: when she realises that her attitude is causing problems to the family, she becomes scared that she might lose the love she has thus far taken for granted.

On making a film about this important part of her past, Simón commented that it was hard to let go of what she had envisioned for certain scenes. There are times on set where you simply can’t do exactly what you had in mind; it’s hard enough for directors to accept that in general, let alone when that artistic vision is combined with a sense of personal attachment to a memory. ‘At certain points during the writing process’, she admits, ‘there were scenes where I couldn’t tell the difference between memories I was remembering and memories I was imagining’.

As for casting Laia Artigas as Frida, the director  has pointed out that almost 1,000 children had auditioned before Laia finally appeared. Simón found the brutal intensity in the child actor’s gaze to be truly captivating, and full of ambiguity: ‘Laia had the qualities that you might expect of a ‘good girl’, but you had no idea what she was actually thinking’.

Strong cultural references in the film are a prominent feature, and serve as good reminders of the fact that the story takes place in Spain, and specifically in Catalonia. The dialogue is, after all, entirely written and delivered in Catalan. Several traditions seem to have made their way into the script, such as a song the family sings at the table on St Joan’s day; or the “big heads” that are part of a costume used in what seems like a local festival. It is interesting that the audience gets to witness these traditions. These customs are part of Frida’s everyday life and the culture to which she belongs, and in some sense they help the audience establish a certain connection with the protagonist.

Summer 1993 is undoubtedly excellent at evoking a whole breadth of emotions in its audience but, above all, it is a film full of humanity. It is a film that turns its tender, caring gaze towards childhood, and reminds us how important it is – for any child growing up – to discover honesty, and to feel the loving, nurturing presence of a family – whatever shape it may present itself in.

 

The visual storytelling

One of the main cultural elements present in the film is religion, and it’s interesting how the film plays with this theme. Grandma tells Frida to pray every night, so she will feel closer to her mum. Before leaving home, Frida is shown holding one of her dolls. Soon after, in the countryside, she discovers a little altar with a Virgin Mary holding her baby in much the same way. It is a strikingly beautiful visual touch: ‘the mother of mothers’ finds a parallel in the face of an orphan girl.

Frida visits the Virgin Mary statue several times in the film. She presents the Virgin with a packet of cigarettes, as well as a dress. In all her childhood innocence, she asks that the Virgin give these presents to her mother when she visits her. And then comes the loss of innocence, in a scene that complements the first one in a painfully beautiful way: after some time has passed, Frida discovers that her offerings were never accepted. The gifts are untouched, and there’s a wild overgrowth of vines surrounding the statue, perhaps a symbolic representation of the fact that nature has taken its course, and that her mother is no longer within her reach. Yet Frida’s reaction seems unnervingly silent.

Another way in which Frida seems to be trying to hold onto her mother’s image is through role-playing with her cousin Anna. In an iconic scene that also serves as comic relief, we see her dressing up and talking in a way that only someone much older than her would. While very funny, the scene also touches on the theme of her untimely maturity and cleverness.

A central theme explored by the film is the feeling of exclusion that Frida experiences. This is emphasised particularly well in a scene where the family spends an evening together around the town square, with Frida sitting alone on a bench. Her longing gaze is intensely fixed on her new family, as her uncle, aunt and cousin all dance together as a ‘real, happy family’ would. She feels like an outsider to this family, and to their happiness. We are observing her on that bench as a spectator among the crowd would, and she’s observing her relatives within that crowd—always in silence. The camera  explores Frida’s fear of not belonging throughout the whole film, almost always giving  us that sense of ‘her’ and ‘them’.

There is a scene – possibly the darkest in the entire film – where Frida provokes Anna to go and hide among some distant trees as part of a game. To some extent, Frida might be wishing for Anna’s disappearance, thinking that she might, in some way, take her place and become the one and only daughter in the family. The scene is utterly unnerving: for all we know, Anna may have drowned in the lake nearby. When Frida realises this, she is filled with regret, and fear; after all, she does love Anna. This is another example of how the story explores some of the most complex aspects of the human psyche – and through a child at that.

The dynamics of the bond between the two cousins are further examined in many other scenes. One of my favourites is the one where Anna hands a telephone over to Frida as they’re playing, and innocently asks her: ‘Do you want to call your mummy?’ This scene is one almost straight out of a suspense thriller: Frida dials the number, and I catch myself hoping somebody picks up the phone. But, of course, no one does. It’s an exceptionally powerful scene in which, once more, Frida’s pain becomes synonymous to a deafening silence, interrupted only by the ringing sound from the telephone receiver.

Earlier in the film, Frida’s aunt tells her off for pretending she can’t tie her shoes, believing that Frida only does that as an excuse to get others’ attention. Sure enough, when Frida decides to escape the house at night, we see her perfectly capable of tying her shoelaces. The action is only in frame for a few moments, but the visual statement that it makes is very powerful.

The same night Frida decides to run away, Anna finds her in the kitchen. The dialogue exchanged between the two children is once again incredibly effective: ‘No one here loves me’, says Frida as she’s about to leave, to which Anna’s response is ‘I love you’ – in the sweetest and sincerest way imaginable. And we see Frida reciprocating that love when she immediately gives Anna one of her favourite dolls – the very same one she forbids her to touch at the beginning of the film.

Following Frida’s return to the home, there is a bittersweet and honest conversation between her and her ‘new mother’, regarding ‘her mother from before’. It is a conversation you wouldn’t expect a six-year-old to be able to handle, let alone initiate, yet Frida proves mature way beyond her years. In a certain way, the event is almost a rite of passage in her life, and perhaps she can finally begin anew. Her new mum kisses her goodnight and caresses her.

After a scene where the father is playing with both his daughters (and an absence of POV shots that distinguish between a ‘her’ and a ‘them’), the film concludes with a finale that is as unexpected as it is touching. While in the middle of a seemingly joyful game with her new father, Frida very abruptly begins to cry – for the first and only time in the entire film. And the unanswered question from the beginning of the film, ‘Why isn’t Frida crying?’ is suddenly replaced by a far more upsetting one: ‘Why is Frida crying?’

Are they tears of sadness? Tears of joy? Is Frida mourning her loss or does she feel, for the first time, that she can finally adjust to her new life? Maybe she’s crying because she has finally stopped suppressing her grief. The film is incredibly wise to leave these questions unanswered, allowing the ending to become whatever the viewer makes of it.

I don’t pretend to understand (in the deepest sense of the word) the subject matter of the story, but Estiu 1993 made quite an impression on me at the London Film Festival. If anyone was entitled to tell this story through the eyes of the child protagonist, it was Carla Simón, and her film – sincere, and as bittersweet as life itself – is a truly unique and wonderful contribution to the world of cinema.

Estiu 1993 (Summer 1993) premiered the 10th of October at London Film Festival. Trailer below.