Questions towards Michael Haneke seem to centre on a few key things. Firstly, that he is a cold and icy filmmaker; secondly, he is geared towards displaying a bluntly bleak world; and finally, he is fascinated by the darker side of characters. However, for a man who is perceived as slightly nihilistic, his energetic skip towards the stage at the BFI on Sunday, into an eager handshake with interviewer Geoff Andrew, projected nothing but optimism. And for those who were shivering he blamed the air-conditioning: “It’s not my inner coldness!” he joked to the audience.
After producing several Austrian TV films over 14 years, it was not until 1989 that his first feature, The Seventh Continent, was released. Following the demise of a middle-class family towards their somewhat enigmatic suicide, Haneke’s debut marked a shift in representations – and sympathetic notions – towards characters.
This debut, along with 1992’s Benny’s Video and 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance, released in 1995, are considered as the Austrian’s emotionally dim trilogy. A presumption he disagrees with, stating that the stories came mainly from “themes I found in a German newspaper”, later adding that there was no plan for a trilogy. The real life story of a family that committed suicide inspiring a director like Haneke would surely stand as the most honest approach in filmmaking. However, in an early interview he described the story as “emotional glaciation” which subsequently led to his reputation for all things dark and chilly.
Director who strive for “stories with no answers” immediately ask volumes from their audience. And perhaps what is so intriguing about Haneke’s films is his refusal to hand out the exposition, and instead provide the questions for an audience to engage with but not answer. Haneke bravely explains that he produces films and explores tragedies from the western world, “the Third World has bigger and more important problems”, he adds to the slight discomfort of certain audience members. Haneke, whose films are never straightforward, explains that misunderstanding is the root of criticism of his films. His questioning of audience sophistication through his films, a process of challenging spectators to actually think about what they’re watching, is all part of his desire for a sense of difficulty in watching films, or reading books for that matter.
Focussing on actors is where Haneke really becomes a director. “Even the worst asshole can be understood!” He points out two things you need to do for an actor: develop trust, and protect them from the intimidating crew. Although Haneke’s films may boast an exclusive viewing spectrum and require strong initiative and solid emotional truthfulness, the meta-emotion that they sit on is a delicate line strung between reality and the bizarre.
The Piano Teacher, which starred the magnificent Isabelle Huppert, exemplifies Haneke’s approach with casting. Using long takes and exquisite sound adds a crucial demeanor, but it is when Erika’s eyes, shoulders, microscopic twitches and occasional shrugs articulate a wordless scene that Haneke’s dedication to trust flourishes.
His discomfort with films that pay little attention to the importance of casting and working with actors seeps into almost every aspect of his filmmaking approach. Even when he has film school students working with him, he insists they understand how vital the actor is. “They know the technology but not the actors”, he says with a hint of disappointment, implying that there is seldom a consideration for theatre in film.
If we look toward Haneke’s most notably sinister release, Funny Games, we might be led to reinforce the belief that he is an anti-Hollywood man. Without making someone superhuman in their abilities, it is hard, if not pointless, to tell the hero’s story. “Victims are the best subjects, heroes are boring”, he muses. Funny Games, which was later remade shot-for-shot by Haneke with an American cast, is really not much more than two young men taunting and murdering families in their wealthy lakeside retreats.
Well, in fact it is an incredibly vast amount more than that, but that’s the gist of it. His approach in Funny Games encompasses everything that mainstream cinema is afraid to do. And although Haneke claims that “if you put all the violence in all my films together you still wouldn’t have as much as some of the films shown on TV at eight o’clock”, he is still considered a director of violence.
He expresses passionately that the idea is to create contrasting solutions in a film, and to express the individual and therefore show the bigger issues. Focus and specificity are paramount, “offer an example so it can be seen as an example” he says on the idea of the mainstream becoming too broad. He has been compared to Bresson and Hitchcock, but personally I see more of Krzysztof Kieslowski’s A Short Film About Killing and Three Colours: White; and with regards to contemporary stories ‘in the paper’, huge comparisons with Krzysztof Krauze’s The Debt.
It took almost 20 years for The White Ribbon to jump from the mind of Haneke and onto the reel of film in his camera. What a worthwhile wait! This year it won the Palme d’Or at Cannes and is receiving respect and admiration across the globe. But considering all that Haneke has exposed about his thought processes, there are certainly more complex issues behind this success.
His attention to detail borders on the insane, but is the fuel behind quality filmmaking anecdotes. Try this one; more than 7000 children were auditioned for parts in the film, not because Haneke’s two casting teams were suffering from short term memory loss, but because of the unique look needed to convincingly portray a north German village in 1914. “People from that area just don’t look like they did in photos from 100 years ago,” he declares. “Farmers now drive around in air conditioned tractors”. To overcome this modern problem of changing faces and lifestyles, the film’s casting teams sought farmers from Romania to fill the shoes of pre-First World War land workers. By projecting desaturated images, and ensuring that the images and aesthetics of The White Ribbon were impeccably precise, Haneke has the humble belief that he wants “people to wear their own spectacles, not his”.
“I see the audience as I too want to be seen, I make the films I want to see”. Call it direct, or call it selfless, what doesn’t diminish in that thought is Haneke’s generosity as a creator and as a director. During the screening of a clip form The Piano Teacher, Haneke took a few steps to the left of the stage and perched on the edge of an unused piano (possibly the most appropriate seating he could have chosen), asking the people a few feet behind him if they could see okay. Maybe it was a benign and honest question, but what it seemed to show about his character, as well as his jolly jog to the stage at the start of the talk, is that he makes films that incorporate discomfort and unfamiliarity through truth and real life analysis, and does not project a selfish grudge against norms and a persistence to shock.
The BFI Michael Haneke Season runs until December 17, so grab a mate (although I wouldn’t suggest a date), wrap up warm (for the weather, not the films) and head to the Southbank and enjoy.
