CONFINED SPACE
Yvette Biró
Béla Tarr has been labeled the man of “Closed-in-Time.” Insurmountable Time – at once, both confined and unfathomable – is the dimension he deliberately chose in order to define this horizon.
The people who inhabit his Time may be either shadows of another time or fiercely contemporary. These men and women, though living their ordinary daily lives and feeling the status of earth-bound beings at each moment, nevertheless are undeniably marked by destiny. Whatever they do or whatever happens to them is significantly ponderous. If Time is imprisoning you, you cannot see where the walls or the bars are found. In a paradoxical way, it is borderless, infinite, of the same nature all around.
This vision of Time leads us on to another notion: that of Space. If his characters’ experience of time, and ours as well, is so dense, so thick, comprising of so many layers in their slow motion, then this approach goes along with the sensation of a particular space. The space of Tarr’s films is always heavy, peopled with only very few but repetitively appearing, miserable objects: distant, rain-washed houses; bare trees; an overly modest kitchen with its obligatory paraphernalia; a scant office-room in a tower; airless, stuffy inns; or solitary animals, wandering all around the barren wet ground; disturbingly, people and objects resembling and treated the same as each other. They all radiate the same feeling: being on a desolate wasteland, undermined by an unspoken danger, a hidden threat that will be revealed.
This secret or threat is not necessarily a crime; more, it is a fundamental, unchangeable misfortune, the weight and pressure of mundane life. Crusted, bleak, so monotonous that some vague expectation of a sudden change, or hidden menace cannot be avoided. This is the underlying tension.
The artist himself is a secretive person, reticent, strained, on the verge of darkness – whose sternness is proverbial. In discussions, he is always deeply, seriously involved. In his intentions there is a sense of jusque-au-boutisme – excessive intensity to the bitter end: uncompromising, unrelenting, but not stubborn. Once he is convinced about a chance of a more telling alteration, he is ready to move on and follow the new idea, the new solution. But inspired only by the authentic power of the ambience: the truth of a gesture, a particular gaze, more explicit than any kind of word.
The topics he seems to be obsessed with may be different but never the “voice,” the way to evoke the atmosphere of this particular universe. This is the reason that the represented space, always in black and white, plays immediately such an overwhelming role, continuously following from film to film the same intense, unmistakable power as if they all would belong to a homogenous fabric.
Focused stubbornly on the genuine milieu, on the sensuous strength of the surrounding physical environment, it is texture that sums up the unique content of Tarr’s films. The disclosed space recorded by the camera is so minutely defined, down to the last nail, to the shape and placement of the objects, and to the light and shadow illuminating and enveloping them – that a constant shivering and mysterious tone prevails. Normal observation is not used to this kind of closeness. The familiar truly becomes “defamiliarized,” as the formalists used to call it. Nothing is “natural” though artificiality and theatricality are absolutely banished. Each detail contributes, in its most physical way, to the thrilling mood.
Large, vacant places and overcrowded backgrounds both complement or alternate with the succeeding images. They both lay emphasis upon the similar state of mind: loneliness, (precisely in the midst of the throng) abandonment, and despairing solitude – indefatigably underlined with the almost monophonic music from a sorrowful harmonica. This sporadic but obstinately returning music becomes part of the space; it fills it up, makes it more saturated, adding weight to it. One could say that it works as a third dimension, suggesting volume as well as surface, depth of field, as if it were an architectural substance and tension. Oliver Sacks quotes in his inspiring, compelling book Musicophilia, that music can appear as a ‘three-dimensional container, a vessel…a subdivided internal space…therefore it can exert such an emotional hold over’ people. 1 Though in Tarr’s films this music is truly scarce, and at rather wide intervals, its impact cannot be underestimated.
Being deeply affected by this unusual, almost nebulous richness: is it justified to name it immediately “metaphysical,” like many exegetes do it? To evoke the name next to him: Tarkovsky? I don’t think it is appropriate. Tarr’s seemingly disordered yet restrained febrility, his far-reaching suggestive power brings about a very different kind of depth. It is existential, creating a magical concreteness, in the form of such a tangible precision in which no traces of mysticism can be found; neither questioning the absolute, the value of human knowledge, or the philosophical study of being. No abstract notions lurk under the overly earthy acting of his characters. He draws the spectator in a dizzying web of stories, both rooted in near-past history and entirely up to date realities. I’d dare to name it existential apprehension through which he forces the observer not towards the spiritual, but on the contrary, towards the most palpable vegetation of the living world, nature and human at once. In this way, he was able to capture the less visible process of entropy: tiny but revealing signs of everyday degradation, the decline of the essential conditions for human nobility.
Let’s look at a very short, five-minute-long piece, Prologue, unfortunately almost unknown, that Tarr directed in 2004, as a commission for the opening of the New York Film Festival. This short film, in black and white, consisting, of course, of one uninterrupted long take, features countless men, young and old, and a few women as well, all apparently poor and deprived and marked by need but also maintains still an un-deteriorated dignity. They move slowly in line toward something invisible we can’t make out. Everything forecasts that the invisible thing is very substantial. As they move forward undisturbed, unyieldingly, towards the promised gift? … Money? … Particular event? The more patient and firm their steps become, the more the suspense grows. We are prepared to discover something terrible, a stupefying, or at least awe-inspiring event; however, the great surprise is completely the opposite: there is a lack of any kind of scandal about the climax.
There is no violence, no outbreak of anger or passion, in fact the opposite: we arrive at a small, half-open window through which a gentle young woman is handing out a piece of bread and a glass of milk to each of those who are waiting. One after another, thirteen times.
One cannot praise this sudden turning point enough. It is a surprising climax but it is precisely because of its “anticlimactic” character that the impact becomes so stunning. The very fact that no outburst, no cruel destruction, follows – where, in his earlier movie, Werkmeister Harmonies, in that dreadful irrational way, the angry, powerless people smashed hospital ward furniture into pieces in their rage, sparing not their cruelty to other people – here, he makes his solution no less poignant. When, with dismay, the spectator eventually understands that the fact is that people are forced to wait for an incredibly long time just for a piece of bread and some milk, the experience is truly shocking.
Is it merely a social-critical statement, flashing a sudden light on the misery of people? Obviously, there is more beyond that. Precisely because there is the unexpected sensuous energy of the whole piece, the immediate poetic aura of the impression. Also, the importance and variety of individual characters: several of the human beings are so emphatically in the foreground that our expectations are aroused. Even in this very short process we encounter separate men and women, we have to observe memorable faces, never a sheer mass of unprivileged people. The presentation applies artful measures, l’esprit des formes, (the meaning, or sense of the shape) is stressed in order to reveal a fuller, broader human experience. The deliberate delaying of the reason these people are gathered and waiting for, as ellipsis often do, challenge the spectators’ activity, – the “void” becomes a constructive energy.
In Prologue, also, is Tarr’s fully discernible trademark, the long take is created by an incredibly slow movement, quietly following the endless line, paying attention to each particularly expressive physiognomy – the uniqueness, the individual features of the profiles of different ages, and the varied social and ethnic characteristics. Yet the sense of an unerring similarity, defining their bearing that has brought them together is no less stressed, – both impressions make a forceful impact. The unnamed goal, the lasting expectation contributes to the suspense of the situation – we are both patiently impatient in waiting for the revelation, the solution, and the unknown “end.” There is a composite, heavy aura, hanging over the scene, precisely for its undefined character. The suggestion is more baleful than any kind of clear naming could be.
Tarr’s epigram, like the great examples of this genre, excels in its reductive audacity, embracing his strong message into one single metaphor, filling every moment. So much disciplined, calm energy – what for, we could ask. What for? … For a miserable nothing.
But, again we have to ask, is it really mere discipline, quiet patience, or maybe more? With the deliberate repetition we are led to feel the force of habit, accepting the too familiar circumstances, to the level of indifference. And precisely at this point we dig deeper into the quotidian way of life. An unshakable, rigid order dominates their destiny, like a weird entity, under which they all become tiny nonentities.
Not only is the “pay-off” painfully simple and understated, the whole slow short duration of our undefined anticipation is emphasized by the identical framing. The tracking camera shows no more than half-profiled men and women, as they continuously proceed before us, with practically no gestures or facial expressions. The excessively reduced design is effectively enhanced with this utterly silent and hypnotic camera movement. It is at once both unusually close, almost gently touching the people’s heads and shoulders, or, on the other hand, seemingly so assiduous and tenacious that its unceasing accompaniment imbues the forward movement with great significance. We are so constrained in focusing on each individual’s identical demeanor that it becomes disquieting. Moreover, our mesmerized gaze fails to observe the gradually changing background: only retroactively, do we notice the brick wall, a corner, and finally the half open window. Yet their presence meaningfully charges the tight frame. Thus, an additional subliminal intensity is felt. Ceaseless, double attention sustains the power of the scene, even if notwithstanding, no loud, spectacular solution furthers it. On the contrary, this reticence creates increasing tension. Excessive simplicity, pervasive silence reigns.
It is rather audacious to rely so exclusively on such few elements, to manifest such an excessive minimalism. Here, concentrating on the human faces, and behind them the existing parts of the natural environment, only time and silence, time and movement remain the components, consequently the sensation of a highly saturated space comes to life, in spite of the fact that it is unusually restricted. Prologue is an exceptional example to fathom the contradictory content of the small and the “big,” the multifarious and the reduced. The resolute and consistently limited frame challenges its interests; curiosity growing with its passing vision. It is no wonder that the highly textured, rhythmically articulated space can so successfully elevate its tiny story.
Needless to say, the presence of the minimalist sound becomes a mostly constructive element of space, as well. And in particular the music, which plays a fine emotion-filled part in this stark-poetic statement. The director’s constant and faithful composer, Mihaly Vigh, provides his characteristic expressive tone and ambiance, with very few fine notes. Its atmosphere is melancholic, mild, without any pointed darkness or stressed sad misery – it evokes the atmosphere of a remote country inn, by repeating the same melody, on a poor cymbal and harmonica, over and over, again and again. Thus, here, too, music becomes a building stone of space as well, rendering it more concentrated.
This short film may be only five minutes long but, without any exaggeration, I think we are right to place this piece of poetry next to the renowned, Satantango, (duration more than seven hours) which lasts the whole nightlong. Satantango emerges from the ocean of space-time as a giant mother ship, built with staggering force and complex structure; Prologue follows it like a small safe boat, yet its firm construction holds up and engraves in our memory an exceptional summation of living conditions of the forsaken.
This plain poem, like all true works of art, transcends sheer, everyday reality. It brings to our visceral apprehension the substance of existence beyond the simple authenticity of real life.
I: TARR↩
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Notes
- Oliver Sacks, Musicophilia, (New York: Vintage Books, 2007), p.159-160 ↩