Transnational German Cinema: Encountering Germany Through Film and Events (Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues) 3030729168, 9783030729165

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Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues Series Editors: Benjamin Nickl · Irina Herrschner · Elżbieta M. Goździak

Irina Herrschner Kirsten Stevens Benjamin Nickl Editors

Transnational German Cinema Encountering Germany Through Film and Events

Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues Series Editors Benjamin Nickl, School of Languages and Linguistics, University of Melbourne, Parkville, VIC, Australia Irina Herrschner, School of Languages and Linguistics, University of Melbourne, Parkville, VIC, Australia Elżbieta M. Goździak, Institute for the Study of International Migration, Washington, DC, USA

Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues presents original research work from contributors in a cutting-edge collection of case and monograph studies in humanities, business, economics, law, education, cultural studies and science. It offers concise yet in-depth overviews of contemporary ties between Germany and nations in flux, such as Afghanistan, Korea, and Israel, as well as societies with longstanding ties to the Federal Republic. It serves as an arena for both scholars and practitioners to apply comparative and interconnected research outcomes connected to topics such as educational policies, Muslimness, refugee integration, nation branding and digital societies to other transnational contexts. This series is an interdisciplinary project to offer a fresh look at Germany’s relations to other countries in the 21st century. The bilateral concept is anchored in a renewed interest in Germany’s innovative stance on identity politics, fiscal policies, civil law and national cultures. The series caters to a renewed interest in transnational studies and the actors working across the boundaries of nation states.

More information about this series at http://www.springer.com/series/15756

Irina Herrschner • Kirsten Stevens • Benjamin Nickl Editors

Transnational German Cinema Encountering Germany Through Film and Events

Editors Irina Herrschner Gateway Office Universität Bayreuth University of Melbourne Parkville, VIC, Australia

Kirsten Stevens School of Culture and Communication University of Melbourne Parkville, VIC, Australia

Benjamin Nickl University of Sydney Glebe, NSW, Australia

ISSN 2522-5324 ISSN 2522-5332 (electronic) Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues ISBN 978-3-030-72916-5 ISBN 978-3-030-72917-2 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Introduction: Transnational German Cinema

The Transnational as Transdisciplinary This volume on German film, its experience, its production, its eventisation, and its circulations around the globe avoids the danger of discussing film only in strict disciplinary perspectives, which would have limited its scope in many ways. Moving beyond and across disciplines and choosing a transdisciplinary perspective on our topic of analysis means we can embrace the wider variety of relevant research strategies in this book. Among them are, to give some examples, not just purely historical approaches to how German film moves beyond the confines of Germanspeaking nation-states or communities, scrutinised by Kabel and Oezpalman and Jin. Historical scholarship here also includes a sociological lens to analyse film consumption while exploring racialised film reception on Twitter or discussing the mediation of its impact on Instagram in Part 3 of this book. The authors investigate diverse cultural practices related to German cinema, from its gendered auteurism in Worthy’s chapter to its diversification of the concept of Germanness in Wansborough’s chapter to what makes a film German explored by Wagenfeld and Verhoeven. In assembling the chapters for this book, we wanted to construct a prism on German film which reflects plurality of direction and sites of interpretation, while it still adheres to the notion of German culture. To some extent that notion is becoming more and more elusive at its core. We want to illustrate to the readers who come from different disciplines, both student and expert, that the dialogue around Germany’s film discourse creates new and exciting connections and pathways for thinking. Thinking through film as event(s) like iconoclast festivals such as Berlinale in chapter 1 or generational memory of film in GDR (see: Cleverley), this book puts in dialogue past, present, and future to imagine alternate ways of knowing German culture: beyond the discipline, beyond limitations of disciplinarity (see: Popescu).

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Introduction: Transnational German Cinema First proposition: Film is in the event and the event is in and around the experience(s) of film.

This points to the production of a newer kind of film scholarship. It is one which is confident to reach across the aisles of knowers, film studies experts grouped by method or school of thought, each certainly confident that theirs is the key to making claims about film events with authority. But without the experiment to venture outside the established, how can we find more truth and detail?

The Transnational as Trans-Local and Trans-Temporal Another aim of this book is to extend film to other sites and modes of experience. What does change when film moves from big screens to smartphones, from synchronous live event to multi-streamed parallel viewing? How many borders can a film cross before the audience sees it as foreign or rejects it as a colonising culture practice? When is a film the experience of its time, and when does it move to become a visual archive of the spirit of a decade or generation? Is traditional humanities scholarship enough to capture what is going on in the transnational film industry? To whom do German-themed narratives belong—and which ones should be censored? Discussing these questions which arose from the contributing authors’ chapters made for productive exchanges with scholars working on areas and topics related to film in Germany, Turkey, Austria, China, Australia, Chile, and the United Kingdom. Each author or team of authors had their own claim to film as an event, as an experience to Germany and German culture, deeply rooted in their line of thought and scholarly identity. Second proposition: The relationship between film experience and event must be open to new sources of knowledge.

We believe that it is essential for scholarship and researchers to get ‘un-stuck’, freeing ourselves just like film from historical restraints of the national, indeed even of narrow ideas of space and time, and preconceived notions of who the audience are and what we think they should experience, and what the site of film or medium of the film experience looks like. This experience has encouraged us that writing on film has the continued quality of inviting new and other voices into the conversation. Here, this means to rethink German culture and its audio-visual representation and makers and consumers.

The Transnational as Trans-Pandemic The writing of this book, of course, coincided with the largest pandemic since the Spanish flu highlighting the interconnectedness of the film industry and questioning aspects of virtuality and corporeality. Film projects had to be put on hold, film

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releases paused and film festivals moved online. In chapter 1, we establish a virtual, imagined conversation between those usually moving parts of the film industry, which are now all stationary and temporarily locked into their homes. This temporary immobility of a usually very mobile workforce brings on reflections on the necessity of impromptu conversations that inspire and connect and on the impossibility of a purely ‘national cinema’. Film is the outcome of a transnational web connecting creative and business heads in different places as well as spanning a less tangible web of transnational ideas when film is screened to audiences around the globe. In the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, this web is disrupted and thus made more visible than ever. The ideas of interconnectedness and interdependencies are themes that tie the book together, from co-productions, to audiences, to social media and to the film-makers that create film within this complex transnational network. Third proposition: Film is physical. Film is virtual. It connects. It separates.

In contrast to this transnational network of the film industry stands the idea of national cinema, supported by governments on the basis of cultural diplomacy through the accessible sharing of ideas, images and stories. The baseline of cinematic diplomacy is the argument that stories connect and establish empathy and a shared feeling of humanity. However, as showcased in Nickl’s chapter, film can also divide; it can exacerbate societal discussions and divide into echo-chambers who either watch or categorically disregard a film, its film-maker or its basic storyline. The question of where that conversation happens, especially when there is no physical space for it, stands at the heart of Rodriguez’ and Belinskayas chapter mapping a discussion on German cinema on Instagram. Ideas and discussion threads are here at the same time connected by hashtags, as they are disconnected from other discussions by the same rational and technique. Jin’s chapter addresses similar issues of connectivity through language by analysing translations of film and film titles and putting them into the context of a system driven by dynamics of the market economy, but also governmental agendas. The questions of how much film connects and whom it connects and disconnects form an important part of contemporary scholarship on mass communication; here we ask these questions in their particular relevance to German cinema, its transnational reverberations and definitions.

Transnational German Film Throughout this volume, we address and understand film as transnational, transdisciplinary and transcending virtuality and corporeality. Acknowledging that film today is at its most virtual since its invention, the pandemic offered a good pause to question and consider this development at times when we more than ever depend on virtual communication and when being confronted with the concept of a less mobile world. The film markets of the Berlinale – held before the pandemic put the

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world at a standstill – compared to the Marche du film in Cannes, which was held entirely online, yet mimicking the physical buildings and structures, form an image that stands at the beginning of this book and guides its explorations on contemporary transnational German cinema.

The University of Melbourne, Parkville, VIC, Australia The University of Melbourne, Parkville, VIC, Australia The University of Sydney, Camperdown, NSW, Australia

Irina Herrschner Kirsten Stevens Benjamin Nickl

Contents

Part I 1

2

3

4

Trans-National Encounters at the Berlinale: A Look from the Inside . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Irina Herrschner and Kirsten Stevens

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Translation and Dissemination of German Films in China (1994–2018) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Haina Jin

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Transnational Qualities of German Cinema: An Austro/European Audience Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sibel Kaba and Deniz Özpalman

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International Feature Film Co-productions Between Australia and Germany: An Australian Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Franziska Wagenfeld and Deb Verhoeven

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Part II 5

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7

Films in Global Circuits

Transnational Audiences and Communities

Tuvalu Live!: Live Re-Scoring, Transnational Digital Participation and Audience Engagement in a Film Festival Context . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Atkinson

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Romancing the Reich and What Film Twitter Had to Say About It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Benjamin Nickl

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#Germancinema in the Eye of Instagram: Showcasing a Method Combination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 Joan Ramon Rodriguez-Amat and Yulia Belinskaya

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Contents

Part III

German Filmmakers in a Global Environment

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Intercultural Experience Through Affective Encounters: Marten Persiel’s This Ain’t California (2012) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 James Cleverley

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Werner Herzog and the Transnational-Appeal of the Mythic Hyperreal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Stefan Octavian Popescu

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Lars von Trier and German Expressionism: Understanding von Trier’s Transnational Appeal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 Aleks Wansbrough

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‘Denglish’, ‘International English’, ‘Garbage Language’ and ‘Corporate Speak’: Transnational Nonlanguage in Maren Ade’s Toni Erdmann . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 Blythe S. Worthy

About the Editors

Irina Herrschner is the Gateway Office Manager for the University of Bayreuth. Her academic interests are international relations and cultural and science diplomacy. She completed her PhD at the University of Melbourne in 2018 on cultural and cinematic diplomacy at the Festival of German Films in Australia. Irina is the co-editor of this book series and has published on cultural diplomacy, mobilities and visual anthropology. Kirsten Stevens is Lecturer in Arts and Cultural Management at the University of Melbourne School of Culture and Communication. Her research specialises in examining film festivals and their operation as national, transnational, institutional, cultural and aesthetic events. She has a background in screen and media studies and is the author of Australian Film Festivals: Audience, Place and Exhibition Culture (Palgrave Macmillan 2016). Kirsten’s principal research interests include festivals and events, cultural industries, media history, digital media technologies, visual culture, media exhibition and distribution, audiences and reception studies, Australian cinema and women’s cultural production. Benjamin Nickl is a cultural studies researcher with an interest in popular culture studies in film, television, literature, performative and mass media. His current research projects involve Muslim minority culture representations in the mainstream media of Christian majority populations and popular culture as an arena for debates around ethnic diversity and disenfranchisement. His PhD dissertation (2016) ‘Turkish German Comedy in the New Century: Contesting Ethnic Identity Discourse in Germany’ examined Muslimness in Western Europe in the new century through the lens of entertainment culture and the social pragmatics of humour. Benjamin is the co-editor of the Springer book series: Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues.

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Part I

Films in Global Circuits

Chapter 1

Trans-National Encounters at the Berlinale: A Look from the Inside Irina Herrschner and Kirsten Stevens

Abstract Establishing a conversation with three film professionals who attended the Berlinale in 2020, this chapter focuses on transnational and transdisciplinary encounters at Germany’s most important film festival. Drawing on interviews, the chapter puts the voices of attendants of the festival into a dialogue discussing the mechanics and meanings of the Berlinale from the perspectives of a film maker and producer, a film distributor and from the perspective of German Films, the national information and advisory centre for the promotion of German films worldwide. Using ideas of transnational encounter, this dialogue highlights the role of physical encounters in times of increasing virtuality and at a point in time when physical travel is questioned in light of the global COVID-19 pandemic. The Berlinale is without a doubt the most important film festival for the circulation, positioning and constant reframing of German cinema. As Germany’s pre-eminent film event, and one sponsored by the German state, the Berlinale at one level speaks inwardly to an imagined national audience. Its Perspektive Deutsches Kino program helps to define and redefine what constitutes contemporary German cinema on an annual basis. Yet if the Berlinale is an important national event, it is also intrinsically and inescapably transnational. At an international level the Berlinale ranks amid the triumvirate of global film festivals—the “big three” that is filled out by Cannes and Venice. Its highly regarded competition and alignment with the European Film Market locate it as a key stop for film professionals on their various routes through global film festival circuits. It is therefore fitting that we open this edited volume on transnational German cinema and events with an examination of the Internationale Filmfestspiele Berlin (Berlinale). Like many international film festivals, the Berlinale connects the national to the transnational; it brings the world to Berlin and showcases German cinema to the world. In this opening chapter we interrogate this process, examining the role of the

I. Herrschner (*) · K. Stevens The University of Melbourne, Victoria, Melbourne, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_1

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Berlinale as a site of transnational cinematic experience. More specifically, we examine the festival as a site of multiple everyday lived transnationalisms that congregate around German film and German film culture. The Berlinale is a place of encounter between nations, professions, roles and motivations to attend. In conversation with a filmmaker, a national film marketer, and a film distributor from three different regions of the world, we explore the meanings, mechanisms and encounters that the Berlinale enables. In doing so, we examine the ways in which international film festivals contribute to forms of embodied transnationalism, creating in their physical expression individualised connections that enable these events to function as important “sites of passage” within global film networks (de Valck 2007: 36–39). This chapter is guided by interviews conducted with regular attendees of the Berlinale. Drawing on the insights of industry insiders who engage with the festival for a myriad of reasons, we aim to begin the work of deciphering the transnational and national encounters that both create and are created by the Berlinale experience. Through the accounts that our interviewees relate, a picture of the Berlinale emerges—its appeal, interest and attraction, and the power it holds to draw people in and into contact with one another. What comes through most strongly in these interviews is ultimately an understanding of the Berlinale as a festival site. The Berlinale is an event that is located spatially and temporally within the Berlin winter and conditioned by the coming together of participants from around the world. Yet as a chapter built in conversation, this chapter also reflects complex anxieties that link to this prospect of international gathering. In conceiving this chapter, our interest in the Berlinale as a temporary transnational space was framed by an assumption of the festival’s function as gateway, predicated on a level of freedom of movement reflective of a broadly globalized society; national borders were perceived as (relatively) open to film professionals from many nations and access to the Berlinale, while structured through ticketing and accreditation, was seen as broadly attainable.1 This assumption is important to acknowledge as in the course of writing this chapter a significant disruption and destabilisation of this framing occurred in the form of the severe acute respiratory syndrome coronavirus (COVID-19). This chapter therefore sits at an interesting juncture—the conversation that we present here remains entrenched in assumptions and attitudes that relate to how festivals were conceptualised before the world came to a standstill in the immediate wake of the 2020 Berlinale. Yet, the realities of the present moment can’t help but influence the discussion about what “makes” the festival experience for our interview subjects. Predictions on the increasing likelihood of a virtual future for the Berlinale and EFM2 colour this chapter, as do opinions on what the virtual 1

In saying this, we also recognize that access to festivals such as the Berlinale as both an audience member and as a professional remains privileged; significant barriers to entry including access to visas, cost of entry and travel, access to means of production, professional affiliations, and so on, are encountered unevenly on both a global and a localized level. 2 This has since been confirmed, with the 2021 edition of the EFM set to run as a hybrid virtual and physical event (Grater 2020)

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can and cannot replicate from the live event. To conclude this chapter, then, we delve into the thoughts and anxieties that permeate the present moment. While it is far too early to predict how the Berlinale, or any festival for that matter, might change in the wake of COVID-19, this chapter considers how notions of encounter help to articulate latent fears over virtual festival futures. By examining the perceived boundaries and limits of the virtual, this chapter returns to the importance that the intangible, yet inherently physical, aspects of film festivals have held in shaping film festival experiences until now.

Thinking through Encounter Film festivals have been theorised as important sites for bringing people together. Writing in 1976, the organisers of the Melbourne Film Festival noted that film festivals are fundamentally about two things—films and people (MFF 1976: 27). While these two elements capture the essence of such events, they each ultimately describe a highly heterogeneous mixture of entities; festivals celebrate many types of films as well as many types of people. Cindy Hing-Yuk Wong highlighted the mix of participants that film festivals draw together in the introduction to her 2011 book Film Festivals: Culture, People, and Power on the Global Screen, mapping out the many film professionals, media personnel, celebrities, filmmakers, programmers, governments, sponsors, audiences, and others, who are brought together to create the buzz and urgency of these events. Far from being an aside to the films on display, these participants hold a central, if also variable, role in shaping our recognition of global film festivals as social events; as Wong notes, “film festivals are created by people” (2011: 4). The sociality of festivals lies at the heart of the power of such events. Writing in 2007, Marijke de Valck locates film festivals as significant “obligatory points of passage” in the context of the global film industry (36). She argues that the ability of festivals to draw together key players in the international business of film—sales agents, directors, financiers, distributors, programmers, and so on—has made these events necessary spaces for conducting such business, to the extent that “without them, an entire network of practices, places, people, etc. would fall apart” (de Valck 2007: 36). Moreover, the nature of festivals as celebratory and spectacular events in which mingling and parties are a norm, “creates increased opportunities for people to meet as regular barriers tend to be lowered” (de Valck 2007: 115). The value of the interactions described by de Valck lie not in their simple existence, but in the fact that festivals achieve a critical mass of such interactions that helps to multiply the outcomes of the social relationships they produce and replicate. Through their sociality, festivals facilitate the formation of various professional and personal networks, the creation of public spheres, and the building of communities of practice (de Valck 2007; Wong 2011; Comunian 2017). Yet, if the social function of festivals as hubs of human activity has been well articulated in festival research, what is often sidelined are the practicalities, and

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uneven experience, of the way in which such social capital is generated within these events. The reality is that film festivals are never only a single event; instead each festival is constructed of many iterative festivals that exist simultaneously, occupying the same spaces, and yet addressing participants differently on an individual level (Stevens 2018: 58). On one level, these many iterative events reveal themselves through the festival program. As Rüling and Pedersen observe (2010: 319), at an operational level the confluence of official competition programs, press conferences, red carpet appearances, galas, VIP parties and networking opportunities reveal “a nexus of multiple events” as ever-present within single film festival. For an international film festival such as the Berlinale, an international film marketplace, talent campus and co-production forum are added to the usual ins and outs of competitive and thematic program offerings. Beyond these many programmed sub-events, festivals also divide at an experiential level. As Daniel Dayan (1997) observed during his visit to Sundance, festivals can be experienced on multiple levels and in different ways by various participants. Far from offering a cohesive and singular experience for all festival-goers, Dayan observes, “the very nature of the Festival pulls its story in different directions, [making] it the centre of divergent and sometimes competing scripts” (1997: 42). Levels of access, accreditation as well as the agendas of both festival organisers and individual festival-goers all condition the way in which festivals are experienced. Festivals speak to different constituencies—industry, general public, sponsors, filmmakers, press, and so on—with the festival shaping to the needs of each of these groups through the events that are opened or closed to different participants and the functions such events fulfil (Wong 2011: 25–26; Stevens 2018: 55). The many points of access to, and agendas of, the festival are further revealed through the spaces these events occupy. As both de Valck (2007: 114) and Wong (2011: 25) observe in relation to Cannes in particular, the spaces that festivals occupy are legion; they incorporate not only official venues and their surrounds, but the many restaurants, streets, hotels, bars, shops, and public spaces that are co-opted by festival-goers and industry representatives as part of their extended festival experience. Looking at the sociality of festivals in a broad sense highlights the potential that such events hold for creating interpersonal connections across all participants. Festivals focus attention, people, power, time, and space through their programs and their operations, all of which holds the potential for festival subjects placed in close proximity to interact. Yet, what is harder to articulate is the way in which such potential is realised though specific interactions. As de Valck observes, for all that the annexation of informal festival spaces—bars, restaurants, etc.—by festival participants helps to lower barriers and encourage multiple points of connection, many interactions at festivals remain highly proscribed: “the real business” as de Valck notes “is carefully planned beforehand” (2007: 114). Yet as Harbord suggests through her work on contingency (2016), it is also a feature of any live event that risk and the unpredictable become part of the experience. Harbord’s recognition of the power of the live moment—the emphatic now that shapes festival temporality (2016)—also suggests the potential of happenstance and serendipity as inherent to

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the festival space. The power of chance encounters lies in their ability to circumvent planned interactions, forging unexpected connections. The notion of encounter here offers a key means for conceptualising the value of festivals as spaces for person-to-person interaction. Encounter has been theorised within feminist geography, tourism studies and migration studies to describe the multiple unplanned and fragmented relationships that form and reform as bodies, cultures and subjects come in contact with one another (MacDonald 2020). Unlike the work emerging from fields such as urban geography, with its focus on everyday spaces (see Wilson 2017; Duffy and Mair 2018), the approaches to encounter routed in tourism studies offer a means for understanding how encounter intersects with exceptional or temporary spaces and with notions of global mobility and transnational flows. Encounter in this sense connects with border studies and ideas of ‘contact zones’ (Bruner 2005) and ‘zones of interaction’ (Rumford 2012: 895–896), where global flows of people and cultures come into contact in interactions that hold the potential for both positive and negative exchanges. The notion of touristic ‘contact zones’ in particular is inflected with a recognition that such zones are often conditioned by asymmetrical power relations between locals and outsiders that are often informed by the aftermaths of colonial histories and global north-south dynamics (Babb 2011). As with such contact zones, then, encounter captures this notion of coming together while also enabling a recognition that such interactions are highly conditioned by the many inequalities, relationships of power, of histories, politics, genders, and so on, that shape the subjectivity of the encountering individuals. Engaging encounter in this sense within an event such as the Berlinale offers then a method to examine the multiplicity and complexity of lived experience within the festival space. Encounter enables us to consider the interaction of the many elements that frame subjectivity—identity politics, history, geography, power dynamics and so on—to examine how these shape what connections are formed, the (symbolic, cultural, economic, social) value of such connections and the way in which bodies transverse the festival environment. Moreover, this approach captures the potential for the unexpected, the unplanned and the sense of the unknown that accompanies these interactions. Building on the work of Florence Babb (2011: 5), encounter in this sense “foregrounds the intimate relations of those coming together from different cultures and societies and it does not already assume the outcome of any given engagement, granting agency to players who may be historically disadvantaged on the global stage.” The Berlinale as a transnational site of encounter brings together a wide variety of subjects. As these subjects traverse the festival site, their individual interactions are what shape and form the larger impact of these events in relation to their ability to bring these individuals together. An important feature of how encounter is conceptualised here is anchored in notions of embodiment. There is a strong spatial element at work in understanding festivals as sites of encounter; how bodies share space and how they encounter one another informs both how and what relationships are formed. Conceptualising festivals as sites of embodied encounter achieves two things: firstly, it foregrounds how festivals have operated—up to this point—as primarily physically located

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events that are predicated on bringing as many bodies into contact as can be managed. Secondly, a focus on embodiment privileges the lived reality of the festival space as a felt thing, with different bodies provided with differing levels of access and agency within the festival environment.3 Embodiment here is an acknowledgement of sensory experience of attending and participating in the festival; where the stuffiness of a venue, or the cold of the outdoor areas shape where people move and congregate. For David Crouch (2002), such an embodied view of experience is essential in understanding how knowledge is constructed through space and encounter. Writing about touristic encounters, Crouch argues “In encountering place in tourism our bodies are important mediators of what happens and of what we comprehend to be ‘there’” (2002: 207). Crouch suggests that a privileging of the visual and the gaze in approaches to tourism studies limits an understanding of how processes of speech, movement, sensuality, imagination, social interaction, and “doing” inform how subjects make sense of space—both as a physically occupied environment but also at an imaginative level of how space is perceived and valued. In the context of the film festival, an embodied approach to conceiving of encounter helps to emphasise the social nature of such events, as well as the different topographies that inform the experience of festival spaces. As Crouch suggests (2002), bodily experience is essential to processes of “‘making sense’ of practice and of space” (210), as well as conceiving of the sociality of “being together” and “sharing time” that mark the event experience (214). In the context of an event such as Berlinale, an embodied approach to examining the festival helps to locate encountering subjects not only in relation to one another’s subjectivity, but also in relation to how and in what circumstances they come into contact. In particular, it offers an avenue to explore points of connection as well as points of unevenness in how the event is perceived and experienced, especially along what Kevin Dunn characterises as the “axes of embodied difference, including skin colour, disability, and gender” (2010: 1). A recognition of a festival’s unevenness is important in grounding understandings of how festivals function as lived transnational spaces. International film festivals have been theorised as inherently transnational due to the flows of people, capital, communications and ideas that they facilitate (Iordanova 2016; Stevens 2018). Festivals offer at one level a cultural contact zone, where the films programmed offer an exchange of knowledge and ideas across national borders. Yet as sites for global flows of people—filmmakers, audiences, press, industry personnel, programmers, and so on—festivals offer important sites for an experience of embodied transnationalism. As Dunn explains, an embodied approach to transnational mobility foregrounds the mundane experience of transnational bodies—the 3 Here we can consider the way in which gendered and racialized bodies have historically had different levels of access to festival spaces, through the various professions, nations and cultures that have been privileged. Recent examples such as the “Flatgate” controversy at Cannes 2015 highlight the way in which certain bodies have historically been policed in the festival space—in this case the presence/absence of high heeled shoes literally shaping one’s access to Red Carpets and gala screenings (Ritman 2015).

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“stress and dislocations, the ‘trickiness’ of getting bodies across borders, the costs of communication, and the impacts of those difficulties on identity, wellbeing, and belonging” (2010: 4). While noted in relation to migrant experience, these challenges also apply in understanding how bodies are brought into contact within the transnational space of the film festival. By looking to an embodied experience of festivals the uneven and subjective encounters that are facilitated along lines of race, gender, ability, age, wealth and country of birth are exposed, as are the specific forms of transnational exchange that festivals facilitate. Approaching encounter and transnationalism through an embodied lens thus works to challenge the notion of international festivals as universally accessible and accessed sites of global film exchange. To paraphrase Dunn (2010: 2), such an approach ultimately works to reconfigure the festival from a site of transnationalism towards a site for transnationals. In this sense, the Berlinale is not only a globalised space where transnational relationships become possible, but a space in which specific encounters between globally mobile entities are enacted. Through a framework of embodied transnational encounter, then, what is made visible within the festival setting are the ways in which both planned and unplanned interactions shape the event’s functionality, and the ways in which the navigation of festival space can be understood both to aid and inhibit various forms of contact.

Encountering Berlinale To better understand the encounters and forms of embodied transnationalism activated by the Berlinale, we spoke with three regular attendees of the festival— Bradley Liew, a filmmaker and producer working in Manila; Fergus Grady, a film distributor working in Australia; and Dennis Ruh, Department Head for International Festival Relations at German Films in Munich; Germany. While interviewed separately, these three interviews produce a conversation that speaks to how the Berlinale works to bring together a range of actors from across the world. Our discussants represent three points of entry into the transnational Berlinale experience. Their professional backgrounds along with their personal history with the event map out a range of encounters and networks that have formed as a result of the paths each have travelled within and around the Berlinale: Bradley Liew is a Malaysia-born Philippines-based film director and producer. He has attended the Berlinale across several years, participating in the Berlinale Talents program in 2015 and regularly representing his own work and that of his production company Epicmedia Productions within the festival’s co-production market. Liew’s film Motel Acacia (2019) was part of the official project-selection for the Berlinale co-production market in 2018. Liew attended the Berlinale in 2020. Fergus Grady is a film distributor and filmmaker working in Australia. He has regularly attended international film festivals for over a decade, purchasing films for the Australian market. He first attended the Berlinale in his capacity as distributor in 2015. In 2020 he attended the Berlinale “wearing two hats”—returning to the event

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as a distributor but also attending as a filmmaker for the first time. His debut feature documentary Camino Skies (Fergus Grady and Noel Smyth, 2019) made its premiere appearance within the 2020 European Film Market. Dennis Ruh works for German Films as Department Head for International Festival Relations. In this role, he attends international film festivals to position Germany as a cinematic nation as well as fostering collaborations with German creative bodies. The Berlinale is a unique festival, as it is institutionally funded by the Federal Ministry for Culture and the Media and thus has a unique focus on contemporary German film. Through speaking with these three festival regulars, this chapter begins the work of examining how encounter is enacted within the Berlinale. While certainly not representative of the full spectrum of experiences and actors that congregate annually within the festival, these three subjects nevertheless offer an interesting range of perspectives on the festival’s ability to generate encounters. Our interviewees come from different facets of the film industry as well as separate geographical regions. Their reasons for attending the Berlinale differ significantly—seeking a space to promote their own works, seeking films to appeal to a specific national audience, and engaging the festival machine as space for extending a national industry. Beyond the festival, the paths of these participants do not typically intersect in their day-to-day professional work. Yet as becomes clear in the discussion that follows, the power of the Berlinale as a site for transnational encounter lies in the way that shared experiences emerge as these various actors are drawn from their separate locales to participate in the festival and congregate within its attendant spaces. In the sections that follow, we bring into conversation the responses of our interviewees to examine what the Berlinale means for those who attend the event professionally. We consider how the role of the Berlinale shifts with the perspectives brought from different professions and different regions. We interrogate both what represents the Berlinale for each of these individuals, as well as what role it holds in relation to ideas of national and transnational cinema. What emerges through this conversation is an inescapable return to the physical characteristics of the event and in particular the casual encounters between national film markets, audiences, professionals, and the many different facets of the film industry, that this event enables.

Locating the Berlinale In talking about the Berlinale, the physicality of the festival—its venues, the city, the arrangement and proximity of the European Film Market—is inescapable. Asked to reflect on what the Berlinale has meant to our interviewees both personally and professionally, the located nature of the festival comes to the fore. FG: I think what struck me in that first year was how convenient the Martin Gropius Bau was in terms of meetings. In Cannes, or Toronto, it’s not really considered a market, it’s more a festival with some meetings, but Berlinale was super easy in terms of going around

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and meeting the various sales agents and stakeholders. The screen room’s great, obviously it’s freezing outside but once you get in there it’s cosy.

The Martin Gropius Bau (MGB) acts as a hub for industry participation within the EFM, a locus that draws in market participants. For Grady, the experience and atmosphere of the MGB provided a boon, enhancing its power as a site for planned encounters. Yet the experience of the space, while drawing in festival guests, also highlights the inherently embodied nature of traditional festival participation. For Liew, this also signals a risk: BL: The market is in Martin Gropius Bau right, it’s in that giant kind of courthouse, so I don’t know what it’s usually used for but it’s basically a giant room where there’s no ventilation per se. So there’s this thing where every year people will go to Berlin and everyone will get sick because they’re at the market, because someone is coughing and sneezing in the enclosed space and everyone just gets sick at the end of it.

Liew’s comments take on particular relevance in the context of COVID-19, as the looming challenges of navigating proximity and infection control are front and centre of discussions about public gatherings. Yet they also highlight how atmosphere and environment can underscore the bodily experience of the festival, as well as the ways in which individual bodies experience this differently. Light-heartedly Liew adds, “And knowing European people, they’re not going to open a window. . . ‘cause every time I try to open the window in the market, people are like can you close the window. It’s so hot!” If the Bau offers a site of convergence for reflections on the EFM and for a sensory appreciation of the festival’s environment, it is also the festival and market’s timing that stands out. For both Ruh and Grady, the Berlinale marks the start of a new festival year. DR: Die Berlinale ist auch so eine Art Start Festival im Jahr, wo man sich halt mit allen trifft, weil alle relevanten festival Direktoren, Programmer usw.—also weil alle branchenrelevante Teilnehmer vor Ort sind und man wirklich die Kooperation für's Jahr bespricht [. . .]. Es ist einfach so ein Ort, wo viele Leute zusammenkommen. Und ich finde auch einfach das persönliche Treffen, gerade in Zeiten in denen die virtuelle Kommunikation überhand genommen hat, wichtig und anders. Manchmal kommt man da auch auf Sachen, auf die man sonst nicht gekommen wäre. DR: The Berlinale is also a kind of start-the-year festival, where you meet everyone because all relevant people from the industry are in one place and talk about their co-operations for the year. [. . .] it’s simply a place, where many people come together. And, I think that the personal meeting, especially in times when virtual communication is taking over, is so important and different. Sometimes you think of things that you otherwise just wouldn’t have thought of. FG: I think what’s important about the Berlinale is the date. Being the first market of the year, a lot of sales agents and buyers and producers want to kick off the year with a new slate or a new selection of films that they’re hoping to sell or finance. So, it’s sort of an exciting market in the sense that everyone’s come from Christmas or our Australian summer to their winter and they’re just keen to get into the year properly in February.

The value of Berlinale as the first major market for the year is strategic. As de Valck notes, the selection of Berlinale’s February time-slot was not a chance event, but a

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move achieved in 1978 following an extended process of negotiation that recognised the positioning of this event relative to its chief competitors—Cannes and Venice (2007: 54–55). Yet if a history of festival and film market dynamics provides insight into why a winter festival was preferable for Berlinale’s organisers, it does little to give insight into the contemporary experience of this event. As Ruh and Grady note, the Berlinale fits into both northern and southern hemisphere calendars as a return to work and the business of film. While this has significance in relation to what business is carried out—the timing of Berlin relative to other events, such as Sundance and Cannes for example, or the availability of films—it also works to locate the event within specific transnational flows of mobility. In speaking of the EFM’s location within Berlin, Grady draws attention to the affordability of this festival site: FG: You have producers attending [who are] not as regular at the other markets. If you’re a producer in Denmark or a producer in Spain, you know, the prohibitive costs to get to Berlin is not that much, plus the accommodation out of any of the markets and any of the cities, Berlin is by far the cheapest, so it’s an affordable festival and market. [. . .] you know with Cannes you’re really spending up to 200 euros a night on accommodation and you really can’t walk away from a restaurant without paying 20 euros for an entrée.

The affordability of Berlin as a city has a significant impact on how this event unfolds as a transnational space. Speaking as an Australian, whose currency rarely converts favourably to the Euro, Grady’s notes on the affordability of Berlin speaks to the accessibility and attractiveness of the EFM as a site for international visitation. This affordability, when compared to the likes of Cannes or Venice, which operate at times of higher tourist demand and with greater levels of exclusivity, opens Berlin up to a wider demographic—both in terms of the nationalities who attend but also in terms of the career stage of participants. If the Berlinale has a wide appeal for its affordability, the festival’s association with winter also adds a unique backdrop to the proceedings in the context of top tier international film festivals. The cool weather provides atmosphere and conditions how the festival unfolds. For Liew this brings a more serious and focused quality to the proceedings: BL: I think Berlinale is more professional to a sense where it’s winter, so not everyone is randomly out in the sun like trying to shoot the breeze with you, right. Everyone has a purpose and it’s cold, so I’m off to a movie, I’m off to a meeting, I’m off to dinner party, that’s it, we go home we repeat. Cannes, it’s summer right and everyone is there and everyone is like in a gown or suit and everyone’s an actor. And suddenly you say you’re a director and everyone is giving you a card saying “oh, please consider me” [. . .]So there’s a lot more bullshit happening to an extent. And that’s why people say when they go to Cannes it’s a circus, and it really is, but it’s also where all the big deals are made. Berlinale I guess is a bit more focused, like you know that people are there for the films because it’s Berlin itself right. The people of Berlin are participating in this festival proceedings.

Reflecting on how the conditions of Berlin in winter produces the festival’s effect highlights the value of locating the Berlinale and EFM within a framework of embodied encounter. In doing so, we not only gain insight into the lived quality of the interactions that the festival sets up, but also the ways in which Berlinale can be

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located not simply as a generic festival space, but as one that structures its own specific forms of engagement.

Global Encounters: Making Contacts at Berlinale The focus that Liew notes in the Berlinale’s proceedings is echoed in the clear objectives that bring each of our interviewees to Berlin each year; it is the business side of the Berlinale and EFM that is at the forefront of their minds. They come for the planned and the chance encounters that the festival and market provide. In terms of planned or scheduled attractions, the co-production market provides a point of focus: FG: If I was to say exit and not work in distribution again, I would probably target [the Berlinale] as my main festival and market as a producer. I think with the advent of co-productions and how co-productions are able to proliferate into the market now, we’re seeing you know three-way or four-way co-production, films get released through the lifecycle now, and I think a lot of those deals are done in Berlin, less so in Cannes. So it’s a really important market for producers.

The funding models in different countries as well as substantially different production costs across locations means the co-production market plays an important role in aiding filmmakers in encountering potential production partners. A truly transnational site, the EFM’s co-production market creates a space where ideas and stories, rather than national tropes, define collaboration. While operating within the sphere of the German film industry, EFM’s co-production market provides a space where transnational partnerships are formed laterally, often across what has been named in the context of global economics as the ‘fast’ and ‘slow’ lanes of globalisation (Sheller and Urry 2006). In the case of Liew’s Motel Acacia (2019), this resulted in a Filipino-Slovenian co-production: BL: The story basically is set in snow [. . .]. Of course there’s no snow in the Philippines. So naturally we wanted to do some shooting overseas, and of course every film commission in the world has some sort of special rebate or tax incentive or something. So, we went to the Berlinale to look for a partner and we eventually did find our partner. We ended up shooting in Slovenia with our Slovenian co-producers. It’s totally different from going to the UK for snow, or you go to America, you go to Canada or something, but the prices in the North American system are so expensive that it just doesn’t make sense for a Southeast Asian film to shoot there unless we have a X amount of budget. Films in like for example America or Australia as well, I mean a realistic budget is definitely something within 3-5 million [US] dollars for a small film. But in Southeast Asia [. . .] most arthouse films can be shot for $50,000 and you know a big commercial film is basically $1,000,000. So, it’s a very different kind of system.

Although Slovenia is geographically and culturally far removed from the Philippines, its similar economic potential and small size arthouse industry, as well as its climate—providing the necessary snow—made this film possible. It is easy to see how the market here functions as a matchmaker, encouraging international

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collaborations. Indeed, the metaphor of “speed-dating” was used by Grady to describe the “nice” quality of the market, signalling the EFM’s emotional as well as commercial function. As Grady expands, what is particularly nice about EFM is once again the opportunity provided by the affordability of the location: FG: when I was talking about costs and the prohibitive costs of accommodation and flights, what it allows is for emerging producers or first-time filmmaker’s to meet lots of different people and there not to be this kind of exclusivity around, you know [. . .]. So if you’re a first time filmmaker from Eastern Europe and you’ve got say €100,000 of government grants or subsidies and you need another €300,000 to make a film, it’s a great place to meet other filmmakers who might have interests in Eastern European stories, or at least can access the funding from the German or other governments [. . .] to do those co-productions. So, I think it’s a really nice kind of market that you can network really well and then deals are a possibility not a dream really.

Less obvious than the connections formed through formal market agendas are the interactions that don’t lead immediately to successful partnerships, but instead establish a network of international contacts that facilitate collaborations down the line. Noting what sets Berlinale apart as a festival, Grady emphasises its ability to connect global regions: FG: Because its government subsidised or heavily subsidised, they’ve been putting a spotlight on the focus on a particular region or country to highlight that cinema, this year it was Chile. So, it’s really interesting to see a lot of Chilean producers who I met in December at a South American film market were all there and had subsidised or free trips. Obviously there’s been some great Chilean filmmaker’s coming out in the last few years, so there was a big highlight and focus on that region. That doesn’t happen at any other markets or festivals. Obviously, the curated festival programmers work with the market and the business people and it’s a nice synergy or harmony that they can have this focus on Chile.

Grady’s recollection of seeing contacts from Chile points to the importance of the repeat encounters that festivals facilitate. This point is also taken up by Liew, who notes that the process through which his projects connect with sales agents is one built on past rather than present interactions: BL: Because we produce as well, a lot of our different projects end up going to different project markets, not just in the Berlinale. [. . .] So these kinds of places, usually you go with a project [. . .] and you take like 20, 30 meetings in a space of three to four days and most of the time we go to these project markets trying to find financiers, but most of the people who you end up taking meetings with are sales agents. So it’s kind of like, we don’t need you yet, we actually need the money first. And [. . .] when you’re very early on in your career, when you go to one or two project markets you meet a lot of new people and all the big companies and then as you subsequently go through the years with different projects you end up realising you meet the same people again and again and again and again. So [. . .] how we get [sales agents is] a combination of that.

Speaking specifically to partnering with German-based sales agent Picture Tree for his most recent film, Motel Acacia, Liew expands on the role that festivals fulfil in building connections: BL: Picture tree . . . we met them in Berlinale—strangely in the co-production market. We met them but we really didn’t think too much about them. [. . .] In a sense we never actually choose [. . .] to collaborate together in the first meeting. Somehow it’s always one of those

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things where you meet them a year ago, two years ago, for another project and then later on you realise another project is more suited to this person and it goes along. [. . .] Film Festivals and markets are very important because you know all these kind of business meetings are initiated in these markets because otherwise where would you meet these people in the world? It’s very hard to kind of randomly email because the random email thing never works, because we’re really an industry of personal relations, right. I mean you won’t end up giving a $1,000,000, $2,000,000 project to a sales agent whom you’ve never met before because there’s just too much on the line.

Cinematic Encounters If the Berlinale offers a site for the embodied encounter of transnationals, it also maintains a role in facilitating other forms of cinematic transnationalism, importantly through the films it screens as both commercial and cultural products. For Ruh, it is the role of the Berlinale as a showcase of films that is most important: DR: Es ist natürlich so, dass die Berlinale ein relativ zugängliches Festival für deutsche Filme ist. Die Aufgabe von German Films ist es ja den deutschen Film im Ausland zu promoten. Da ist ein Standbein, und das ist im Grunde mein Aufgabenbereich, die enge Zusammenarbeit mit internationalen Film Festivals, die im Grunde als Startrampe für deutsche Filme im Ausland gelten können, und da gehört die Berlinale sicherlich dazu. DR: For German cinema, the Berlinale is certainly a relatively accessible festival. The task of German Films [the organisation] is the international promotion of German cinema. One aspect of that—and that is my task—is the close collaboration with film festivals, which can really be seen as launching pads for German films abroad. The Berlinale certainly is one of them.

Here the encounters that matter most to Ruh are less his own and more those formed through the exposure of German cinema to an international audience. This speaks to both an established sense of cinema’s transnational potential—in acting as “a window on the world translating ‘foreign’ cultures into ‘our’ culture” (Berry and Robinson 2017: 1)—while also reversing this to an extent. Rather than providing a point of transnational connection for an audience, here it is German cinema, via Ruh, that is seeking out transnationals (namely distributors) with whom it can connect to reach international screens. Recognising the importance of films as commercial as well as artistic products, the market screenings offer a point for negotiating the value of national cinemas within transnational arenas. For those attending the EFM as a distributor, films are viewed through the lens of economics and each distributor tries to estimate the financial success of films watched for their national context. Grady in particular emphasises this point, noting the need for the films he buys to meet a particular balance of attributes: an ability to speak to audiences in the relatively small markets of Australia and New Zealand and to be affordable for his smaller-scale distribution company. While universal themes and accessible emotionality drive his purchases, they reflect a point of difference to the films he might personally seek out. Describing the process as a symbiosis of facts and instinct, he explains:

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I. Herrschner and K. Stevens FG: As a buyer [. . .] I can sometimes cover up to five films in an hour because my time is pressed or the films are just not really what we’re looking for. You know there is a difference between acquiring for an audience and personal pleasure. [. . .] So for us, in order to make the numbers work, there has to be a strong festival release and then obviously definitely followed up with the theatrical release [. . .] so we’re always looking each year :looking for those special films.

Commercial logics drive which films are ultimately bought by Grady and his partners. When describing the films he enjoys, Grady draws a line between the festival space and a viable audience. Having not acquired a German film for distribution “for about four years,” Grady nevertheless reflected on his personal enjoyment of Nora Fingscheidt’s Systemsprenger (System Crasher, 2019): FG: It obviously has done very well commercially in Germany, it won what 8 awards in the German film awards. It’s also a film of unease and anxiety. Even though I like the film a lot, I guess you think about the audience experience when you’re watching the film and so in that two hours what emotions does that bring up for you? And even though the filmmaking is super strong and I’m really looking forward to seeing the filmmaker’s next film, you walk away and you just think “Oh my God imagine being a parent or imagine having to be the guardian of that child.” And then sometimes great cinema doesn’t translate to great commercial business if those themes are unease and anxiety driven, so yeah. It’s a great film but it hasn’t been picked up for Australia and NZ, which says a lot about how easily marketable that film is.

Yet if the logics of transnational distribution drive what films move beyond the Berlinale and other festival spaces, these logics also represents only one type of valuation applied to cinema within the festival and market environment. For countries with a small arthouse film industry and no official funding mechanism, film festivals form an integral part for the survival of the industry. As in Liew’s case of the Philippines, the country lacks the audience to make Filipino arthouse films financially viable. Such films therefore rely heavily on film festivals for their financing as well as access to audiences via distribution through global film festival circuits. The film festival and market form crucial parts of this transnational cinema system: BL: For Southeast Asian films, because our budgets are smaller, we apply to a certain pool of international funds aimed at development countries [. . .]. So all these funds usually have no obligation for you to pay it back - usually, most of the time. So basically, it’s getting free money that you use for your production with -of course some strings attached. But because this money is big in our extent, so like cinémas du monde gives you usually 100,000 to 120,000 euros right, and half you can spend in your own country. So if I have a budget of just 100,000 euros to make my film and suddenly one fund gives me more than half the budget, I’m kind of on my way right. Like, I know that I can make this film come to life. So all these stamps that I got along the way, from Berlinale project market with me as the director and then my project went into the Berlinale co-production market, suddenly my project has the prestige and I get another stamp. All these things affect your application for production support, so suddenly your project becomes more attractive to the funders.

Liew’s account of navigating film financing through festival markets highlights the importance that prestige and symbolic capital play in the circulation and continued production of different types of cinema. Here the economic imperative is not to sell through to new markets, but rather exists as a function of film financing, where

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symbolic value and prestige garnered by individuals through their encounters with festivals is translated into another form of currency recognised and traded within global film funds. This emphasizes the fact that value is not perceived equally, nor within the same places, by the various participants who occupy the festival space. Grady highlights this point by noting the competing interests of the Berlinale as both market and audience festival: FG: So there’s obviously this duality with you’ve got the festival and you’ve got the market, and what works in the festival won’t often mean international sales. But you know, I think Toronto and Berlin are the two festivals that I go to, that the local audience will queue up for hours to see a film. And that’s great to be able to cultivate that loyal audience. [. . .] There’s obviously huge demand for the festival from the Berliners, you know, queues around the corner.

Ruh echoes Grady’s observation, noting that a discrepancy can emerge between what is valued by Berlinale’s audiences and the buyers within the market. He explains: DR: Es gibt natürlich immer Filme, die in diesem Berlinale Kontext funktionieren. Aber ausserhalb eben nicht. DR: Of course there are always films that work in this Berlinale context. But not outside.

For Ruh, this discrepancy is of particular importance. Working for German Films, Ruh attends the Berlinale with an agenda different to that of a producer, filmmaker or distributor. He attends international film festivals to represent German filmmakers and German film funding, as well as promoting German cinema to international territories. Film festivals are utilised to add symbolic value to German cinema, enhancing the potential for films to be sold internationally, as well as allowing individual filmmakers and producers to gain traction in the global marketplace thus supporting future works. For this, the value garnered by the selection of a film screened in competition at Berlinale becomes a central concern, precisely for how this is expected to translate into other marketplaces. The value of a Berlinale screening for Ruh is not an abstraction. Rather it is calculated into an equivalent of tickets sold via a points system that rewards films selected in the context of the domestic industry. This system credits a festival screening with providing the film a promotional head start, specifically in aiding the film’s official release and cementing the filmmaker’s reputation, which in turn boosts their prospects in applying for funding for future projects. DR: Man kann das auch ganz technisch sehen, z.B. mit dem FFA Referenzpunktesystem. Filme, die im Wettbewerb der Berlinale laufen bekommen dann 100 000 Referenzpunkte, das zählt im Grunde bei der Referenzfilmförderung soviel, als wenn die schon 100 000 Leute im Kino gehabt hätten, weil dann ein Referenzpunkt eine Person ist und damit Referenzförderung für das nächste Projekt generiert. Festivals haben also auch einen echten wirtschaftlichen impact auf die Produktion. Das Punktesystem heißt natürlich auch ‘money’ und beeinflusst natürlich auch die Entscheidung zu welchem Festival man geht. Also, wenn man z.B. aus Cannes eine Einladung in den Nebenwettbewerb ‘un certain Regard’ hat und aus Berlin eine Einladung in den Wettbewerb, dann kann man sich als deutscher Produzent auch überlegen, gehe ich nach Berlin, wo ich 100 000 Referenzpunkte bekomme, oder nach Cannes.

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I. Herrschner and K. Stevens DR: You can see this [the value add of festivals] is also very technical: e.g. with a reference point system of the FFA (German Federal Film Board), where films shown in competition at the Berlinale get 100,000 points, the equivalent of having already sold 100, 000 tickets in cinemas, because one point counts as much as one ticket sold and with that acts as a reference point towards funding the next project. Thus, festivals have real economic impact on film production, and the reference point system of course means real money and also influences what festival you attend—e.g. you might have an invitation to Un Certain Regard in Cannes and one for competition in Berlin, so as a German producer, you have to think— do you go to Berlin and get those 100,000 points, or to Cannes.

Ruh’s description of the formula used here to quantify the value of a Berlinale screening for German filmmakers speaks to the way in which economic and symbolic forms of value become intertwined within the festival space. The potential for festival screenings to generate promotional hype and industry buzz for projects and filmmakers is well recognised within festival scholarship (Czach 2004, de Valck 2007), even as a precise measure of how such symbolic value can be quantified as it translates to economic value, or indeed even reliably predicted, remains elusive (Burgess 2017, 2018). Despite the challenges in tracing how festival buzz truly converts into economic rewards for individual films, however, as Ruh suggests a clearer line can be drawn between festival selection and benefits for filmmakers. Specifically, the stamp of approval associated with official participation within festivals, either within their competition or associated market programs, has tangible impacts on filmmaker reputations regardless of the ultimate economic gains of their films. Liew similarly emphasises this point, citing the way in which participating in festivals helps to align filmmaker reputations with notions of quality: BL: As a director, I mean, of course having your film in Berlin is the prestige, right. I mean even if you make films that don’t make any money, let’s say for example you know your film will make zero internationally because it’s too obscure, it’s too arthouse and no regular Joe will pay like $10 in the cinema to watch your film because they would rather spend $10 on a Marvel film, which is the reality of most of the situation in the world today, then you can say that “hi, my name is so and so, I have done four films. All my four films have always gone too Venice, Berlin and Cannes.” Then suddenly you have this prestige around your persona as a filmmaker because having your films in the big three—I mean the big three is Venice, Berlin and Cannes—is always like OK, this guy is a quality filmmaker. We don’t know if he makes money but at least the prestige is attached to the person’s name, so having your films in these three festivals is very important.

For Liew, the importance of the festival as site for gathering prestige is crucial. Similar to Ruh’s insight into the points system that links a screening at Berlinale to metrics of audience impact for German filmmakers, the prestige that Liew describes here has a very tangible influence on his ability to work as a filmmaker. Specifically, as Liew describes, it functions as a stamp of approval for filmmakers that reassures funding bodies of a filmmakers reliability: BL: The idea of getting all these stamps is to attach credibility to your name. So when I then start applying for production grants [. . . my project] becomes more attractive to the funders because they have the assurance of your project will be made. It’s kind of like this ecosystem of, like, I apply for production support from a fund from Germany or Switzerland, but these funds are funded by their own government right, so they need to show results that the money

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that they give to this third world countries are not being stolen and used for drinks or something. Like these films are actually being made and then go onto festivals like the Berlinale, they go to Cannes, they go onto Venice. And then the prestige is attached to the fund. And then someone in the government is happy that they are reporting some sort of success.

In this sense, prestige becomes its own form of capital to be traded within the ecosystems of film festivals, transnational markets and subsidised film funds. While symbolic value is important across many nationalities and for many different types of filmmakers, then, for filmmakers such as Liew working in developing countries, the bankability of European festival prestige is formalised through the processes and strategic priorities of government-backed transnational production funds. The transnational cinematic encounters that festivals facilitate thus have very real implications not only for the future development of global cinema as a broad category, but for the individuals invested in its creation, circulation and evaluation.

In the Absence of Encounter If the importance of festivals as sites for cinematic exchange is well recognised, the value of these events as physically located spaces has taken on new significance in the context of 2020. As COVID-19 has shifted festivals into virtual environments, numerous questions have been raised about how different forms of encounter, which have shaped festival experience up to this point, will continue. For our interviewees, the importance of the festival as a physical site became a focus for anxieties over the future of such events. Asked what happens if festivals disappear or contract next year, Liew describes a possible scenario he sees as likely for filmmakers like himself: BL: If I don’t have the Berlinale and no other film festivals exist, [. . .] I mean the writers are not there now, right, so all the press writers don’t go and give you a five-star rating. Everyone looks for the press, whether they bash your film or they laud your film, we don’t have that anymore. Maybe our sales agent sends it to the press and he writes it from his laptop while watching on a screener. Totally different. And then he gives me maybe a three-star rating [. . .] There’s no buzz internationally, then my film sells maybe less so then the financiers are not so happy, they won’t finance my next film. Maybe I start making smaller films and I don’t realise certain projects and that’s how the career goes maybe. So I think the festival is very very important for these kinds of specific films.

For Liew, it is the loss of buzz, linked closely to the amplification of excitement, interest and attention that is facilitated by the atmosphere and proximity of press, in particular, to films on a big screen that is most concerning. The potential for films to be overlooked, to fail to accumulate that crucial symbolic capital that boosts both sales potential and filmmaker reputations could have significant implications for the types of films that get made. Liew’s concerns over how the loss of access to the festival site might impact his career resonates with similarly grim predictions made by our other interviewees.

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Both Grady and Ruh see the challenge presented by COVID-19 as linking into broader shifts in how film business gets done. For Grady, the threat posed by the coronavirus was palpable at Berlinale 2020, yet he also sees cause for hope in the prospect of renewal and change: FG: I guess just skipping through to this year. . . there was sort of a weird impending doom, I guess of what would happen with coronavirus. . . [compared to 2015] there was certainly a different feel five years on in terms of where we’re at as an industry, how the sales model operates and I think Berlin 2020 and 2021 will be the last international market that will have that traditional look about it. I think when we restart after coronavirus it’s going to be a very different looking industry. So excited to see what happens and what's next really, because no one knows what’s going on.

Ruh’s future-gazing offers a slightly less optimistic take on what might come next. For Ruh, the clearest impact of a virus that limits movement will be on the potential transnational collaborations that festivals help facilitate: DR: Ich spreche gerade sehr viel mit Produzenten und schau wie es im Moment in der Produktionslandschaft so aussieht—auch in puncto Ko-produktionen. Und da gibt es zur Zeit ganz verstärkt eine Tendenz zum Nationalismus—im Grunde, also zum Zurückkehren zu nationalen Produktionen, weil es momentan wirklich unmöglich ist international kozuproduzieren. Niemand kann reisen, internationale Teams können nicht wirklich zusammenkommen um einen internationalen Film zu erstellen, viele Produzenten versuchen gerade von internationalen Koproduktion zu nationaler Produktion zurückzuschwenken. Es ist ein bisschen traurig, aber anders ist es gerade nicht herzustellen und die Produzenten stehen alle mit dem Rücken zur Wand. Die haben Drehabbrüche, die wissen nicht, ob sie dieses Jahr noch ohne Insolvenzanmeldung überstehen. DR: Currently, I talk a lot with producers and see what the production landscape looks like at the moment—also in terms of co-productions. And there’s a current trend to, well, nationalism really, a return to national productions. Because at the moment it’s just not possible to coproduce internationally. Nobody can travel, international teams can’t come together in order to produce an international film. So, many producers are trying to turn from international co-productions back to national productions. It’s a bit sad really, but otherwise it’s not possible to produce anything and the producers really have their backs to the wall. Their filming had to be stopped, they don’t know if they’ll survive this year without going bankrupt.

Such a shift to more contained forms of filmmaking offers an uneasy juxtaposition to the celebration of the transnational qualities of the Berlinale and its co-production market detailed above. The limits on travel and the ease of movement presents a real challenge for the role that international film festivals have created for themselves as transnational hubs. Returning to Dunn’s interest in the everyday stresses faced by transnational bodies (2010: 4), it is in the mundane questions about how a COVID-era festival will work that current anxieties are best captured. Reflecting on the experience of navigating venues and infection within the Berlinale, Grady captures clearly the challenges facing organisers for future events: FG: A lot of the films that I screened were market screenings in the Cinemax, which is across the road from Potsdamer Platz. There’s five cinemas at the bottom level that are under 30 seat capacity cinemas. So even when Corona was happening, you know I’d wake up

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every day and read two Corona articles and then start reading all the film reviews, but there were still film buyers sitting either side of me coughing on me, because it’s the middle of winter and you sort of—at that point I felt “oh there’s a big transition here, what’s going to happen with cinemas?” So I think they’ll need to find new screening venues, they will need to have either online links that are available for people that buy a badge, I mean this has been the big issue is that do sales agents send out links to buyers who can’t attend or won’t attend which might be the case next year [. . .] I think by Berlin we’ll have some festival, whether it’s just a European festival. I don’t think Australians will want to risk travelling to Germany and there be a second wave or third wave of infection in either Australia or Germany and then not being able to get back. That would be a disaster, no one wants to be trapped in nomans-land right now. So who knows, everyone’s speculating.

From a global gateway to a no-mans-land, the role of the festival as physical site is, as Grady notes, for the moment an open question. The uncomfortable proximity that Grady describes in sitting close to others now carries with it a more worrying type of virality than the buzz and atmosphere formerly associated with such settings. While the impetus for global collaboration and exchange may remain strong, there are also now questions about how sustainable—or even desirable—is the embodied experience of such mobility and interaction that festivals offer.

Conclusion The experiences of our three interviewees highlight a number of important features about the Berlinale. As a located space, the physical attributes of the festival and its setting play an important role in what and how business gets done. Against a backdrop of winter, participants get down to work, navigating the cold outdoors and warm interiors. The accessibility of Berlin as an international city contributes to the Berlinale’s transnational appeal, helping to facilitate a wide range of encounters between transnational subjects and cinematic objects. From the planned and unplanned interactions that take place in the many spaces of the Berlinale, new knowledge and entanglements are produced. Face-to-face meetings enable new collaborations and help to forge long-term relationships that are cemented through repeat encounters. Meanwhile the symbolic value of a Berlinale screening or project market participation transforms intangible qualities of atmosphere, buzz and collective excitement into tangible benefits for those who participate. Yet both the importance and the fragility of these encounters is highlighted in the anxieties the need for physical interactions produce in the time of global pandemic. The fears that a lack of encounter might fundamentally change the ability to be seen, the ability to engage and the ability to collaborate speak to the importance that these functions of the festival space have taken on. By approaching these insights through the lens of an embodied transnational encounter, this chapter considers the way that subjective experience can help elucidate how festivals facilitate global film business. Bringing into conversation the experiences of filmmaker and producer Bradley Liew, distributor and producer Fergus Grady, and German Films representative Dennis Ruh, this chapter examines

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the Berlinale at a personal level. While these three perspectives must be multiplied and varied numerous times to approach the sum of encounters made possible within such an event, what this chapter offers is an initial step towards charting the everyday lived transnationalisms that ultimately form and inform the Berlinale’s place in the global flow of cinema.

References Babb, F. (2011). The tourism encounter: Fashioning Latin American nations and histories. California: Stanford University Press. Berry, C., & Robinson, L. (2017). Chinese film festivals: Sites of translation. Palgrave Macmillan US. Bruner, E. M. (2005). Culture on tour: Ethnographies of travel. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Burgess, D. (2017). “Reconfiguring the National Cinema Value Chain: Methodological dilemmas related to measuring the impact of film festival screenings” Paper presented at the circuits of cinema: Histories of Moviegoing, exhibition and reception (HoMER network) conference, Toronto, June. Burgess, D. (2018). “Symbolic value, attention momentum, and the dispersive qualities of film festival buzz” Paper presented at the Media Industries: Current Debates and Future Directions conference, London, April. Comunian, R. (2017). Temporary clusters and communities of practice in the creative economy: Festivals as temporary knowledge networks. Space and Culture, 20(3), 329–343. Crouch, D. (2002). Surrounded by place: Embodied Encounters. In S. Coleman & M. Crang (Eds.), Tourism: Between Place and Performance (pp. 207–218). Czach, L. (2004). Film festivals, programming, and the building of a national cinema. The Moving Image: The Journal of the Association of Moving Image Archivists, 4(1), 76–88. https://doi.org/ 10.1353/mov.2004.0004. Dayan, D. (1997). In quest of a festival. National Forum, 77(4), 41–47. Dunn, K. (2010). Embodied transnationalism: Bodies in transnational spaces. Population space and place, 1, 1. de Valck, M. (2007). Film festivals: From European geopolitics to global Cinephilia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Duffy, M., & Mair, J. (2018). Festival encounters: Theoretical perspectives on festival events. New York: Routledge. Grater, T. (2020, 24 August). “Berlin film festival to make acting awards gender-neutral; Planning Physical Fest & Hybrid EFM” Deadline. https://deadline.com/2020/08/berlin-film-festivalacting-awards-gender-neutral-physical-fest-hybrid-efm-1203021413/ Harbord, J. (2016). Contingency, time, and event. In M. de Valck, B. Kredell, & S. Loist (Eds.), Film festivals: History, theory, method, practice (pp. 69–82). New York: Routledge. Iordanova, D. (2016). “Foreword.” Film Festivals: History, theory, method, practice, Marijke de Valck, Brendan Kredell and Skadi Loist, xi-xvii. New York: Routledge. MacDonald, K. (2020). Toward a transnational feminist methodology of encounter. Qualitative Research, 20(3), 249–264. https://doi.org/10.1177/1468794119847578. Melbourne Film Festival (MFF). (1976). 25th Melbourne film festival retrospect: 1952–1976. Melbourne: The Festival. Ritman, A. (2015). “Bodies provided differing levels of access and agency within the festival environment”. The Hollywood Reporter May 5. https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/ cannes-2015-festival-stumbles-flatgate-796747

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Rüling, C.-C., & Pedersen, J. S. (2010). Film festival research from an organizational studies perspective. Scandinavian Journal of Management, vol., 26, 318–323. Rumford, C. (2012). Towards a multiperspectival study of borders. Geopolitics, 17(4), 887–902. Sheller, M., & Urry, J. (2006). The new mobilities paradigm. Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space, 38(2), 207–226. https://doi.org/10.1068/a37268. Stevens, K. (2018). Across and in-between: Transcending disciplinary borders in film festival studies. Fusion Journal, 14, 46–59. Wilson, H. (2017). On geography and encounter: Bodies, borders and difference. Progress in Hunan Geography, 41(4), 451–471. Wong, C. H.-Y. (2011). Film festivals: Culture, people, and power on the global screen. New Brunswick: Rutgers UP.

Irina Herrschner is the Gateway Office Manager for the University of Bayreuth. Her academic interests are international relations and cultural and science diplomacy. She completed her PhD at the University of Melbourne in 2018 on cultural and cinematic diplomacy. Irina is the co-editor of this book series and has published on cultural diplomacy, mobilities and visual anthropology. Kirsten Stevens is Lecturer in Arts and Cultural Management at the University of Melbourne School of Culture and Communication. Her research specialises in examining film festivals and their operation as national, transnational, institutional, cultural and aesthetic events. She has a background in screen and media studies and is the author of Australian Film Festivals: Audience, Place and Exhibition Culture (Palgrave Macmillan 2016). Kirsten’s principal research interests include festivals and events, cultural industries, media history, digital media technologies, visual culture, media exhibition and distribution, audiences and reception studies, Australian cinema and women’s cultural production.

Chapter 2

Translation and Dissemination of German Films in China (1994–2018) Haina Jin

Abstract The chapter will focus on the circulation of German films in China from 1994 to 2018 in such venues as cinemas and film festivals, and via online platforms, with the aim of documenting the kinds of German films that have been available to a Chinese audience. The number of foreign films shown commercially in Chinese cinemas is limited by an annual quota. From 1994 to 2018, eleven German films— from such genres as action, crime, comedy, and animation—were shown in Chinese movie theatres under buyout deals, in which Chinese distributors pay a one-time fee for the exclusive rights to distribute the film in China. Film festivals have also been great platforms for showing foreign films, and through analyzing the case of the Focus Germany Section of the Shanghai International Film Festival, this chapter will show that the German films presented at film festivals are much more multi-faceted than those released cinematically. Finally, online platforms have become an increasingly important way for Chinese audiences to access foreign films. This chapter will draw conclusions about the characteristics of German films shown on Chinese streaming platforms based on the most popular German films on Tencent Video, China’s largest online video platform.

Introduction Film, in many ways, is a representation of a country and its culture, and German cinema is no exception (Herrschner 2018, p. 32). As Paola Voci and Luo Hui put it, nowhere is the appeal of a culture, a country, or a state more vividly displayed, or brutally scrutinized, than on screens (2018, p. 9). German films have long served as an important channel for a Chinese audience seeking to understand Germany. In the 1920s and the 1930s, German films produced by Universum Film AG (UFA) were shown in Chinese cinemas, as attested by frequent advertisements in Shanghai News (Shenbao), and the discussion of German film stars such as Dita Parlo (Yingxi zazhi H. Jin (*) Communication University of China, Beijing, China e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_2

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1935) and Lilian Harvey (Dianying huabao 1933) in Shanghai film journals. A number of Chinese film directors were influenced by UFA films. Wu Yonggang, one of the most prominent directors of China’s silent film era, wrote that he often watched Hollywood and UFA films in the 1920s. From these films, he learned that setting can facilitate acting and that increased theatricality and deliberate lighting not only can increase the beauty of a scene, but also can help to create a sense of atmosphere (Wu 1986, pp. 172f). The setting of his film Waves Washing the Sand (Lang Taosha 1936), for example, resembles that of the UFA film Metropolis (dir. Fritz Lang 1927). In Waves Washing the Sand, stairs, rails, and walls cut through the frame in order to show the separation between Ah-Long, the protagonist, and the other characters. In one scene, Ah-Long meets a little girl on the ship and teases her, her mother comes and takes the girl away, and Ah-Long returns to the handrail. The deck separates the shot into two spaces, a technique possibly inspired by Lang’s Metropolis, which used composition to separate crowds into two classes. The Story of Twenty Cents (Liangmao qian, dir. Situ Huimin 1937), produced by Lianhua Company, uses the journey of a twenty-cent bill to show the lives of the rich and the poor, a premise which seems likely borrowed from the UFA film Adventures of a Ten Mark Note (Die Abenteuer eines Zenhmarkscheines, dir. Berthold Viertel 1926). After the founding of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949, films from the United States were publicly banned due to the ideological differences between the two nations until the end of the Cultural Revolution in 1976 (Jin and Gambier 2018, p. 28). Most foreign films shown in China during this period were from the Eastern Bloc, including the German Democratic Republic (East Germany), although a small number of films from the Federal Republic of Germany (West Germany) were also shown in China. After the implementation of the “reform and opening” policy in China after 1978, the PRC allowed more foreign films to be screened in Chinese cinemas, but it was not until 1994 that the Chinese government allowed foreign films to be shown in Chinese cinemas on a revenue-sharing basis. The Ministry of Radio, Film and Television selected revenue-sharing films that “basically reflect the finest global cultural achievements and represent the latest artistic and technological accomplishments in contemporary world cinema” (Ministry of Radio, Film and Television of the People’s Republic of China 1994). Between 1994 and 2002, the quota was ten films per year. In 2002, as China prepared to enter the World Trade Organization, the quota was increased to 20 films per year. In 2012, it rose again to 34 films annually, 14 of which were to be screened in 3D or IMAX formats imported from America (The People’s Republic of China and the United States of America 2012). In addition to the films screened on a revenue-sharing basis, around 50 foreign films can be shown in Chinese cinemas as “buyout films”. Those are films to which the exclusive rights to distribute within China have been sold to Chinese distributors for a one-time fee. The Chinese box office reached 60.976 billion RMB in 2018 and foreign films accounted for 37.85% of that total (Bai and Shi 2018). In order to obtain the highest profit possible, China Film Group and Huaxia Film Distribution, the only two distributors in China permitted to import foreign films on a revenue-sharing basis, are inclined to import Hollywood blockbuster films which can potentially generate high box office returns. Films from other

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foreign countries are rarely shown on a revenue-sharing basis, but instead as “buyout films.” From 1994 to 2018, eleven German films were shown in Chinese cinemas on this basis. Because commercial distribution is relatively limited, film festivals play an important role in circulating German films within China. German Films Service and Marketing GmbH (Germanfilms), the national informational and advisory center for the promotion of German films worldwide, has had a collaboration with the Shanghai International Film Festival (SIFF) since 2005. Finally, online platforms have become one of the most important channels through which the Chinese audience can access German films. This chapter will use the German films streamed on Tencent Video as an example of the kinds of German films available on Chinese online platforms. Tencent Video is a leading Chinese streaming website, with over 900 million mobile monthly active users and 89 million subscribers as of March 2019 (Tencent Video 2018). This chapter focuses on films produced solely by German film companies and will not cover German co-productions shown in Chinese cinemas, such as The Bourne Identity (dir. Doug Liman 2002) or Cloud Atlas (dir. The Wachowskis and Tom Tykwer 2012), as German culture and German people usually do not play a major role in these films. From 1994 to 2018, German filmmakers have produced great works which have been both commercially successful and critically acclaimed. Lola rennt (Run Lola Run, dir. Tom Tykwer 1998) was the first of many films—Academy Award winner Nirgendwo in Afrika (Nowhere in Africa, dir. Caroline Link 2001), Goodbye, Lenin! (dir. Wolfgang Becker 2003), Der Untergang (Downfall, dir. Oliver Hirschbiegel 2004), Sophie Scholl–Die letzten Tage (Sophie Scholl–The Last Days, dir. Marc Rothemund 2005), Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others, dir. Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck 2006)—that marked the re-establishment of German cinema’s global reputation (Sölter 2015). However, although some of the abovementioned films reached a Chinese audience through film festivals or exhibitions or through online channels, not one has ever been released in Chinese cinemas commercially. This disjunction means that the German films screened in China do not reflect recent developments in German cinema. In the rest of this chapter, I will present a panoramic overview of the German films distributed through these three official channels in China as a way of demonstrating what contemporary German cinema, in terms of films, genres, and directors, looks like to the Chinese audience.

German Films in Chinese Cinemas Watching films in theatres remains an important entertainment option in China. In 2016, Chinese cinema attendance was around 1.4 billion, and the number continues to grow. In June 2017, with 49,000 cinema screens, China overtook America as the country with the most cinema screens in the world (Li 2019). It is estimated that over ten new cinema screens are added in China every day (Verrier 2015). Because the number of films distributed according to a revenue-sharing model is limited by a strict quota, the revenue-sharing distributors China Film Group and Huaxia Film

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Table 2.1 German films screened in Chinese cinemas from 1994 to 2018

No.

German Name Der Clown Kampfansage—Der letzte Schüler

Fast track: No limits Die Fälscher Jerry cotton Konferenz der Tiere Die Jagd nach dem Schatz der Nibelungen Schutzengel Tarzan

Vier gegen die Bank Der 7bte Zwerg

Chinese name 火线战 将 终极挑 战

极速漂 移 伯纳德 行动 悍将双 雄 动物总 动员 查理曼 大帝密 码 孤胆保 镖 丛林之 王 夺金四 贱客 第七个 小矮人

Genre Action Action, Sci-fi

Action, sport, thriller Crime, Drama, war Action, comedy Animation Action, adventure, mystery Action, crime, Drama Animation, adventure, Drama Comedy, crime Animation, adventure, comedy

Release date in Germany Mar. 24, 2005 Jul. 31, 2005 (München fantasy Filmfest) Feb. 21, 2008 Feb. 10, 2007 Mar 11, 2010 Oct. 7, 2010 5 June 2008

Release date in China Nov.4, 2005 Nov. 30, 2007

May 23, 2008 Apr. 3, 2009 Oct.10, 2010 Jun. 24, 2011 Sept. 16, 2012

Sept. 27, 2012 Feb. 20, 2014

June. 13, 2014 Aug. 21, 2014

Dec. 15, 2016 Sept. 25, 2014

Dec. 1, 2017 June. 16, 2018

Box office (RMB) Unknown 3,050,000

9,488,000 9,698,000 5,187,000 63,446,000 9,500,000

6,350,000 18,779,000

3,537,000 25,491,000

Source: China Box Office, http://www.cbooo.cn/realtime, retrieved April 23, 2019

Distribution tend to focus on moneymakers produced by major Hollywood studios, and non-American foreign films are often shown as “buyout films.” From 1994 to 2018, all 11 German films distributed commercially in China were distributed as “buyout films.” The full list is provided below (Table 2.1): Private Chinese companies are often the buyers of foreign buyout films. These firms purchase foreign films at film festivals or from a list of recommended foreign film companies, and then file for a quota from China Film Group or Huaxia Film Distribution. If the quota is granted, China Film Group or Huaxia Film Distribution files for a review for the film from China Film Bureau. If the film passes the review, China Film Bureau will allocate a “dragon mark,” the golden dragon insignia which represents the official seal of approval for the film to be screened in the PRC, for the film and set a release date. Films are usually released in Chinese cinemas in two versions: a subtitled version and a dubbed version. Younger audiences in big cities

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tend to prefer the subtitled version and the audience in small cities and rural areas tend to prefer the dubbed version (Jin and Gambier 2018, p. 33). After the subtitling and dubbing is completed and passes review, a film is finally ready to be screened in cinemas in China. Due to the complicated process, the time lag between the release dates in Germany and in China can range from three months to two to three years. Chinese companies must consider whether the foreign films they chose are suitable for the Chinese market and can pass the review of the China Film Bureau. If a film cannot pass the review, it will be barred from cinematic release and the release fee the Chinese company paid for it will be wasted unless they can sell the distribution rights to an online platform. In order to minimize risk, Chinese private companies are often reluctant to pay a high release fee for foreign films, which prevents them from purchasing the cinematic release rights to many outstanding foreign films. In 2005, Nian’en Chanying purchased the Chinese cinematic release rights, DVD rights, and television and internet broadcast rights of Der Clown (dir. Sebastian Vigg and Roland Leyer 2005) for 45,000 USD (Anonymous 2006). The first German film shown in Chinese cinemas after 1994, Der Clown screened in China on November 4, 2005. Der Clown, adapted from a popular German television series of the same name, was promoted as the most expensive European production ever shown in China. In China, the lead actor Sven Martinek was promoted as the “German Jackie Chan,” because, like Jackie Chan, he performs his own stunts and, as in Jackie Chan’s films, outtakes are shown during the credits. Eva Habermann, the leading actress, was marketed as “second to Lola” (i.e. the protagonist of Lola Rennt) and Xenia Seeberg, who portrayed the female villain, was promoted as the “German Angelina Jolie” (Ren 2005). The distributor of the film relied on familiar names to attract a Chinese audience to Der Clown. Kampfansage–Der letzte Schüler (The Challenge, dir. Johannes Jaeger 2007), was originally brought to China as part of the 2005 SIFF. The organization committee wanted to recommend foreign films which participated in its past festivals for wider distribution, and so at the end of 2007, Kampfansage–Der letzte Schüler became the first film recommended by SIFF to be distributed commercially by China Film Group (Zhang 2007). The film likely appealed to its Chinese distributors and audience because of its use of kung fu tropes. The film takes place in an anarchic future where technology has vanished and vicious warlords rule by fear and by fist. Jonas, a street urchin, uses knowledge passed down by an ancient martial arts dynasty to stand up against the ruler. Ironically, this film has never obtained a wide cinematic release in Germany—it was only shown at the Munich Fantasy Filmfest in 2005. Yet, because it showcases the global influence of Chinese martial arts, Chinese distributors felt it would appeal to a Chinese audience. Fast Track: No Limits (dir. Axel Sand 2008) was aimed at the international market, a strategy most clearly evinced by the fact that it is an English-language film. The story is similar to that of the Fast and Furious series. The film was purchased by the Beijing Era Film Co., Ltd., and released by China Film Group, likely because it was felt that it would appeal to Chinese fans of German-made automobiles. Schutzengel (The Guardians, dir. Til Schweiger 2012) was bought by China Film Group and screened in cinemas in China in June 2014. This film was

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promoted in China as the combination of two Hollywood-style action films, Léon: The Professional (dir. Luc Besson 1994) and The Bodyguard (dir. Mick Jackson 1992), and Til Schweiger, the leading actor, was promoted to the public as the “German Tom Cruise” (Suo and Xie 2014). Although Jerry Cotton (dir. Cyrill Boss and Philipp Stennert 2010) is a Germanlanguage film, Chinese audiences would be forgiven for assuming that it is an American film: the leading character is an FBI agent and the whole story takes place in and around New York City. Vier gegen die Bank (Four Against the Bank, dir. Wolfgang Petersen 2016) is the lowest-performing of all the German films, earning only 3.537 million RMB in Chinese box office receipts. The strategy for promoting the film in China emphasized that it was directed by Wolfgang Petersen, the most successful German director in Hollywood. It was also positioned as a comedy well-suited for the Chinese New Year season, the busiest movie-going season of the year in China, which to a certain extent reflected the German marketing strategy for the film—it had been released in Germany during the Christmas season of the previous year. In the Chinese poster, the four thieves become four sneaking shadows with indistinct faces, which gives a color of mystery to the film and deemphasizes the foreignness. German animation films are the most commercially successful German film genre in the Chinese market. The title of Konferenz der Tiere (Animals United, dir. Reinhard Klooss and Holger Tappe 2010), was translated as Dongwu zongdongyuan, the “general mobilization” of the animals, a title meant to resonate with the Chinese translation of the titles of films produced by Pixar. Toy Story (dir. John Lasseter, Lee Unkrich and Josh Cooley 1995) was translated as Wanju zongdongyuan (General Mobilization of the Toys) and was very successful in the Chinese market. Because of Toy Story’s success, all Pixar films have been given similar Chinese titles. Ratatouille (dir. Brad Bird 2007) was translated as Meishi zongdongyuan (General Mobilization of Food). WALL
E (dir. Andrew Stanton 2008) was translated as Jiqiren zongdongyuan (General Mobilization of the Robots). The translation of Konferenz der Tiere into General Mobilization of Animals was therefore an effort to draw the large Chinese Pixar fanbase, and was apparently successful: Konferenz der Tiere earned 63.446 million RMB at the Chinese box office. Der 7bte Zwerg (The Seventh Dwarf, dir. Boris Aljinovic and Harald Siepermann 2014) was promoted in China as an adaptation of the Disney classic Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (dir. David Hand and others 1937). The film was screened during the Chinese Dragon Boat Festival holiday, and promoted as a family-friendly film. Tarzan (dir. Reinhard Klooss 2013), an English-language German film, was translated as Senlin zhi wang (King of the Forest) in Chinese, a title distinct from those used for Hollywood Tarzan films. The three German animations were all targeted at children, all screened during public holidays, and all had translation and promotion strategies built around drawing connections between these films and Disney or Pixar productions. All three were successful, bringing in the highest box office revenues of all 11 German films distributed commercially in China.

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Die Fälscher (The Counterfeiters, dir. Stefan Ruzowitzky 2007) received an Academy Award, which eased its entry into international markets. In 2009, Cai Jin, the director of ERG Media, purchased the rights to screen Die Fälscher in China for less than 100,000 USD. The film achieved a box office of 9.69 million RMB. Later, the same company purchased Die Jagd nach dem Schatz der Nibelungen, (dir. Ralf Huettner 2008) a film produced for German television. The latter was promoted in China as similar to The Da Vinci Code (dir. Ron Howard 2006) and earned 9.6 million RMB at the Chinese box office. The 11 German films screened in Chinese cinemas fall into the genres of action, animation, and comedy. Der Clown, Kampfansage–Der letzte Schüler, Fast Track: No Limits, and Schutzengel are action films, while Vier gegen die Bank and Jerry Cotton are action-comedies. Lauras Stern und der geheimnisvolle Drache Nian (Laura’s Star and the Mysterious Dragon Nian, dir. Thilo Rothkirch 2010) and Konferenz der Tiere Tarzan, and Der 7bte Zwerg are animations. The German animations are by far the most successful of the German imports in terms of box office revenue. Herrschner (2018, p. 33) remarks that in German films screened in Australia, Germany tends to be represented as sober, hyper-realistic, and historic. The image of Germany that reaches Chinese cinemas is very different. In China, German films are promoted as containing Hollywood elements, with materials that emphasize the popularity of the directors or actors in Hollywood, or the labelling of actors as the “German Tom Cruise” or “German Angelina Jolie.” Often, these films are even disguised as American films, with titles translated to sound like Hollywood films. Chinese distributors use this strategy to attract a Chinese audience that is largely unfamiliar with German film. But as Yang Jinsong has pointed out, there is an increasing demand for international arthouse films in Chinese cinemas. In early 2018, Hirokazu Koreeda’s Japanese Palme d’Or winner Shoplifters grossed an impressive 12 million USD at the Chinese box office (Macnab 2018). This trend might change the marketing strategy for Chinese distributors and bring new opportunities for German arthouse films.

Film Festivals The film festival has always been imagined as a translation machine—a window on the world, translating “foreign” cultures into “our” culture (and vice versa) via the cinema (Berry and Robinson 2017, p. 1). Since 2005, Germanfilms has hosted the Focus Germany Section of the Shanghai International Film Festival, the largest film festival in China. SIFF was launched in 1993 and has grown to become a category A international film festival. There has been a place for German filmmaking since the very beginning of the festival. German filmmakers Manfred Durniok and Eberhard Junkersdorf served as members of the festival jury in the second and the fifth SIFF, in 1995 and 2001 respectively (SIFF 2019). In 2005, Germanfilms sent 75 German films produced in 2004 and 2005 to the organizing committee of SIFF, which

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selected 19 films for screening. A German delegation which included Marc Rothemund and Julia Jentsch attended that year’s SIFF and Marc Rothemund served as a member of the festival jury (Zhang 2005). Vier Minuten (Four Minutes, dir. Chris Kraus 2006) won the best film of the ninth SIFF in 2016 and Frei nach Plan (According to the Plan, dir. Franziska Meletzky 2007) won the best film of the tenth SIFF in 2017. That year, twelve German films participated in SIFF’s Focus Germany Section: Auf Einmal (All of a Sudden, dir. Asli Özge 2016), Auf Augenhöhe (At Eye Level, dir. Joachim Dollhopf and Evi Goldbrunner 2016), Dolores (dir. Peter Bratt 2016), Nebel im August (Fog in August, dir. Kai Wessel 2016), Tschick (Goodbye Berlin, dir. Fatih Akin 2016), Das kalte Herz (Heart of Stone, Johannes Naber 2016), Haus Ohne Dach (House without Roof, dir. Soleen Yusef 2016), Offline–Das Leben ist kein Bonuslevel (Offline: Are You Ready for the Next Level, dir. Florian Schnell 2016), Robbi, Tobbi und das Fliewatüüt (Robbi, Tobbi, and the Fliewatüüt, dir. Wolfgang Groos 2016), Burg Schreckenstein (Shiverstone Castle, dir. Ralf Huettner 2016), Das letzte Abteil (The Last Compartment, dir. Andreas Schaap 2016) and Therapie (Therapy, dir. Felix Charin 2016). The Tribute to the Masters Section of SIFF that year paid tribute to Rainer Werner Fassbinder, screening six representative films including Liebe ist kälter als der Tod (Love is Colder than Death 1969), Chinese Roulette (1976), Fontane—Effi Briest (1974), and Welt am Draht (World on Fire 1973). In addition to the showcases dedicated to German filmmakers, German films were entered into the competitions for the Golden Goblet, best animation film, and best documentary film, and were screened as part of the Jackie Chan Action Movie Week, Spectrum, and SIFF Classics (SIFF 2017). By way of contrast with the limited selection of German films distributed in Chinese cinemas, SIFF allowed the Chinese audience to view a wide range of genres of German film, from dramas to comedies, romances, sci-fi films, epics, and thrillers. German films screened at SIFF include reflections on the Second World War, the German immigrant experience, family life in Germany, and even films with LGBT themes. In addition to the film screenings, German directors and actors often made appearances during the film festival in dialogues and receptions organized to provide a platform for discussion. SIFF chooses from a selection of films recommended by Germanfilms, and the films selected by SIFF tend to be of higher artistic value than the German films shown commercially in Chinese cinemas. SIFF organizing committee prefers awardwinning films, films nominated for awards, or films with Chinese elements or some connection to Chinese culture, such as Chinese Roulette, and 3 Tage in Quiberon (3 Days in Quiberon, dir. Emily Atef 2018). The former has “Chinese” in the title, although it has little to do with China, and the latter was chosen largely due to its connection to Sissi (dir. Ernst Marischka 1955). The dubbed version of the film produced by Shanghai Dubbing Studio was popular in China in the 1980s and remains fondly remembered. 3 Tage in Quiberon focuses on an interview of Romy Schneider, the star of Sissi, conducted by two journalists for three days and nights in a spa hotel in the town of Quiberon one year before her death. 3 Tage in Quiberon was therefore of great interest to the Chinese audience.

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In comparison with a commercial cinematic release, the German films shown at SIFF reach a limited number of Chinese viewers, and those viewers are mainly devoted cinephiles. However, participating in SIFF can increase awareness of the films among a Chinese audience and even open commercial distribution channels in China. Kampfansage–Der letzte Schüler is a good example. The film was released straight-to-DVD in Europe after screening during the Munich Fantasy Filmfest on July 31, 2005, but after it participated in the 2005 SIFF, it was recommended for commercial distribution in China to China Film Group in 2007. Wo ist Fred? (Where is Fred?, dir. Anno Saul 2006) was the opening film for the Focus Germany section of the 2007 SIFF, and was purchased the next day by Beijing Era Film Co., Ltd. for a wide cinematic release (Germanfilms 2007). Apart from the Focus Germany section of SIFF, the Festival of German Cinema in China has been organized annually by Germanfilms since 2013, supported by Goethe-Insitut and Broadway Cinemas. The festival is often held in November in several cities throughout China; the 2018 festival was held in Beijing and Chengdu. In 2018, 12 German films were exhibited, four of which appeared in SIFF in June that same year: 3 Tage in Quiberon (2018), Transit (dir. Christian Petzold 2018), 1000 Arten Regen zu beschreiben (Different Kinds of Rain, dir. Isabel Prahl 2017), and Rock My Heart (dir. Hanno Olderdissen 2017). The. China Film Bureau has also organized German film retrospectives in to support diplomatic activities. In May 2017, in order to support the first iteration of the ChinaGerman High-Level Person-to-Person Dialogue, China Film Bureau selected seven German films produced after the 1980s to be shown in the China Film Archive from May 24 to May 28, 2017 (Bai and He 2019). The seven films included Lola rennt (1998), Der Himmel Über Berlin (Wings of Desire 1987), Nirgendwo in Afrika (2001), Victoria (dir. Sebastian Schipper 2015), Nebel in August (2016), Paula (dir. Christian Schwochow 2016), and Democracy: Im Rausch der Daten (Democracy, dir. David Bernet 2015). Unfortunately, these films were only shown once in the China Film Archive cinema, necessarily limiting the audience for the films shown. Film festivals in China offer a greater variety of German films to the Chinese audience than commercial distribution channels and showcase the achievements and current state of German cinema. Participating in Chinese film festivals in China not only spreads awareness of German culture in China, but also can bring commercial opportunities to German film companies, as a number of German films shown at film festivals were afterwards released cinematically or online.

Internet Channels Chinese online streaming platforms emerged around 2005, at the same time as videosharing websites such as YouTube were launched, and complicated peer-to-peer streaming software became globally available (Hu 2014). After more than a decade of development, China’s online video platforms—the largest of which are Tencent Video, iQiyi, and Youku (Li 2019). These platforms have become another important

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Table 2.2 German films viewed over ten million times on Tencent Video No.

German Title (release date) Helle Nächte (2017) Liebe macht sexy (2009)

English Title Bright Nights My New Sexy Lover The Lives of Others Four against the Bank The Stranger

Die Brücke

The Bridge

Wir sind die Nacht Atomic Eden

We Are the Night Atomic Eden

Die Wanderhure

The Whore

Das Leben der Anderen (2006) Vier Gegen die Bank Die Verführung—Das fremde Mädchen Das Boot

Chinese Title 明亮的夜 我的新性 感情人 窃听风暴

Number of Views 53,356,000 29,804,000

Genre Drama Comedy, Romance Drama, Thriller

20,955,000

夺金四贱 客 陌生人

Comedy, Crime

19,970,000

Thriller

14,720,000

从海底出 击 桥

Adventure, Drama, thriller Drama, History, War Drama, Fantasy, Horror Action, Adven ture, Thriller Drama, Romance

14,506,000

我们是夜 晚 原子伊甸 园 玛丽的复 仇

12,598,000 11,546,000 10,776,000 10,767,000

Source: https://v.qq.com, accessed April 23, 2019

way for the Chinese audience to access foreign films. Although there is only one German film, Der geilste Tag (The Most Beautiful Day, dir. Florian David Fitz 2016) available on iQiyi, both Tencent Video and Youku offer over 100 German films. Most of the German films on these platforms are subtitled, unless a dubbed version has been produced for a Chinese cinematic release. In China, online video platforms can screen foreign films without being restrained by the quota system. The censorship of the films is the responsibility of the websites themselves. Online video platforms therefore offer more foreign films than Chinese cinemas. While IQiyi and Youku do not display the number of views on their websites, Tencent Video shares this information with the public. The table below lists the ten German films that have been viewed over ten million times on Tencent Video, with the German, English, and Chinese titles provided on the platform (Table 2.2). The most viewed German film on Tencent Video is Helle Nächte (Bright Nights, dir. Thomas Arslan 2017). This film is about a father who tries to amend his relationship with his son after years of absence by taking him on a road trip to Norway. This film was selected for the main competition section of the 67th Berlin Film Festival, the Hong Kong International Film Festival, and the Taipei Golden Horse Film Festival in 2007. The leading actor, Georg Friedrich, won the Berlin Film Festival’s Silver Bear for best actor. Participating in international film festivals, including those in China, increased the exposure of the film. The number of views shows that arthouse films can attract Chinese netizens and do have market potential

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in China. Das Leben der Anderen (2006) garnered the attention of the Chinese audience after winning the Best Foreign Film in the 79th Academy Awards. Before it was shown on Chinese video websites, it had already been subtitled into Chinese by amateur fans (Ning 2006). Over 300,000 Chinese viewers gave the film an average score of 9.1 out of 10 on Douban, the Chinese equivalent to the Internet Movie Database (IMDB)1. The original film is 137 minutes, but the cut shown on Youku is 136 minutes 19 seconds and the cut shown on Tencent Video is 135 minutes 08 seconds. To comply with China’s film censorship guidelines, which prohibit explicit sexual content, the scene in which the protagonist solicits a prostitute was cut (China Film Promotion Law 2016). Liebe macht sexy (dir. Michael Rowitz 2009), Die Verführung–Das fremde Mädchen (The Seduction–The Strange Girl, dir. Hannu Salonen 2011), Die Wanderhure (The Whore, dir. Hansjörg Thurn 2010), Wir sind die Nacht (We Are the Night, dir. Dennis Gansel 2010) all attracted a Chinese audience with their erotic elements. The Chinese title of Liebe macht sexy listed on the film’s Tencent introduction page is Wo de xinggan qingren (My New Sexy Lover) and a teaser shows the performance of a male stripper, which attracts internet viewers. The introduction page of Die Verführung–Das fremde Mädchen suggests a love affair. The English title provided for Die Wanderhure, The Whore, is featured prominently on the Tencent introduction page, even though the Chinese translation is The Revenge of Mary. The introduction page of Wir sind die Nacht shows three attractive women in lingerie lying on a young man. Although the Chinese cinematic release of Vier Gegen Die Bank earned relatively little, the film was viewed almost 20 million times on Tencent Video, suggesting that its cinematic release improved its visibility in China. While German animations are the best performing German films in Chinese cinemas, they are not the best performing German films on Tencent Video. The most viewed German animation is SIFF best animation winner Molly Monster (dir. Ted Sieger and others 2016), with 2.1 million views. After Molly Monster, Der 7bte Zwerg has been viewed 2.08 million times, and Hui Buh (dir. Sebastian Niemann 2006) has been viewed 0.23 million times. German animation faces more competition on streaming platforms than in cinemas and have a different target audience. Many Chinese users of streaming platforms are adults, not children, which would explain the preference for arthouse films and erotic-sounding titles. Even if a German film does not screen at a film festival or secure a cinematic release or distribution on an online video platform, dedicated Chinese cinephiles will still be able to access it through unofficial channels. German-speaking Chinese fans have formed fansubbing groups such as Fix Fansubbing Group, TLF Fansubbing Group, and Youzimu Fansubbing Group to voluntarily provide subtitles for German film and television they love. Fix Fansubbing Group was founded in February 2012, and as of April 22, 2019, the group has produced 445 blog posts about the different

The data on the ratings of German films was obtained from www.douban.com, which is a Chinese equivalent to IMDB, on April 23, 3019.

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German film and television programs they have subtitled, including Werk Ohne Autor (Never Look Away, dir. Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck 2018) and Bad Banks (dir. Oliver Kienle 2018). The group has over 30,000 followers on Weibo, a Chinese equivalent to Twitter (Fix 2009). Through Fansubbing groups like Fix, Chinese audience can watch German films and television programs that are not made available to them through official channels.

Conclusion This paper offers an overview of the distribution of German films in China from 1994 to 2018. The three main channels of distribution for German films in China are cinemas, film festivals, and online platforms. Largely due to China’s quota system, the German films released in Chinese cinemas are limited in genre to action, crime, comedy, and/or animation and promoted with marketing materials that associate the films with Hollywood filmmaking. Chinese film festivals offer a wider variety of German films and can better showcase the development and achievements of German cinema. Although film festivals often only reach a small number of moviegoers, mainly cinephiles, their impact cannot be overlooked. Participation in Chinese film festivals can spread awareness of German film in China and even open commercial distribution channels. Online video platforms have become another important way for German films to reach a Chinese audience. The German films preferred by users of these platforms are those that have been recognized by film festivals internationally or in China, that have previously been given a cinematic release in China, or simply those that have an erotic topic or an erotic-sounding title. Much more research needs to be done into the audience profile, the translation process, and the reception of Chinese films in Germany. By providing a preliminary overview, this chapter hopes to serve as a jumping off point for future research.

References Bai, Y. & He, X. (2019). Luola kuaipao jiemu deguo dianying huigu zhan [Lola Rennt unveils the Retrospective Exhibition of German Films]. Xinhuanet. Accessed April 23, 2019, from http:// www.xinhuanet.com//world/2017-05/24/c_1121028896.htm Bai, Y. & Shi, J. (2018). Guojia dianyingju: 2018 nian zhongguo dianying piaofang shouci tupo 600 yi, guochanpian shichang bi chao liucheng [China Film Administration: In 2018, the box office in China exceeded 60 billion RMB, with the share of domestic films exceeding 60% of the total]. Xinhuanet. Accessed April 23, 2019, from http://www.xinhuanet.com/politics/2018-12/ 31/c_1123931741.htm Berry, C., & Robinson, L. (2017). Introduction. In C. Berry & L. Robinson (Eds.), Chinese film festivals: Sites of translation: Framing film festivals (pp. 1–11). New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Germanfilms. (2007). Deguo dianying zai di shijie shanghai guoji dianyingjie shang defang yicai [German films shine at the 10th Shanghai International Film Festival]. PRNewswire. Accessed April 23, 2019, from https://www.prnasia.com/story/3830-1.shtml Herrschner, I. (2018). Curating the antipodes: The diversification of cultural diplomacy. In B. Nickl, I. Herrschner, & E. M. Goździak (Eds.), German-Australian encounters and cultural transfers: Global dynamics in transnational lands (pp. 29–40). Singapore: Springer. Hu, K. (2014). Competition and collaboration: Chinese video websites, subtitle groups, state regulation and market. International Journal of Cultural Studies, 17(5), 437–451. Jin, H., & Gambier, Y. (2018). Audiovisual translation in China: A dialogue between Yves Gambier and Jin Haina. Journal of Audiovisual Translation, 1(1), 26–39. Li, W. (2019). China has 49,000 cinema screens, solidifying its place as a world leader. Global Times. Accessed April 19, 2019, from https://gbtimes.com/china-has-49000-cinema-screenssolidifying-its-place-as-world-leader Macnab, G. (2018). Growing Chinese demand for international arthouse films, claims Tallinn panel. Screendaily. Accessed October 4, 2019, from https://www.screendaily.com/news/growingchinese-demand-for-international-arthouse-films-claims-tallinn-panel-/5134940.article Ministry of Radio, Film and Television of the People’s Republic of China. (1994). Guanyu jinyibu shenhua dianying hangye jizhi gaige de tongzhi [notice on further deepening the reform mechanism of the film industry]. Beijing: MRT Office. Shanghai International Film Festival Organizing Committee. (2017). The brochure for the 20th Shanghai international film festival. Sölter, A. (2015). Festival circus, golden gnomes and cultural diplomacy. The Audi Festival of German films in the context of multicultural festivals in Australia, Studies in Australasian Cinema, 9(2), 190–204. Suo, Y. & Xie, S. (2014). Gudan baobiao jiang shangying, toupai yinghan [Til Schweiger will act with his daughter]. Guangdong xinwen wang. Accessed April 19, 2019, from http://www.gd. chinanews.com/2014/2014-06-06/2/316856.shtml United States Department of State. (2012, 25 April). Memorandum of understanding between the People’s Republic of China and the United States of America regarding films for theatrical release, PRH-U.S. Accessed April 19, 2019, from https://www.state.gov/documents/ organization/202987.pdf Verrier, R. (2015). Box office in China is soaring to new highs. Los Angeles Times. Accessed April 19, 2019, from http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/envelope/cotown/la-et-ct-china-filmsbox-office-20150604-story.html Voci, P. & Luo, H. (2018). Screen cultures and discourses of power. In P. Voci & H. Luo (Eds.), Screening China’s soft power. London & New York: Taylor & Francis Group. Accessed April 19, 2019, from https://online.vitalsource.com/#/books/9781317209430/cfi/6/26!/4/102/ 2@0:100 Wu, Y. (1986). Wo de tansuo yu zhuiqiu [my exploration and pursuit] (p. 1986). Beijing: China Film Press. Zhang, L. (2005). Shiliubu deguo yingpian jiang liangxiang dianyingjie, nangkuo niandu de yingtan jiazuo [16 films will appear at the film festival, including the best German films of the year]. Dongfangwang–laodongbao. Accessed April 19, 2019, from http://ent.sina.com.cn/x/ 2005-06-08/0852745888.html Zhang, G. (2007). Zhongji tiaozhan yuedi denglu neidi, yanxu jinnia dapian kuangchao [Kampfansage–Der letzte Schüler will be released in the end of the month, to continue the great wave of foreign films this year]. Jiankuai bao. Accessed April 19, 2019, from http://ent. sina.com.cn/m/f/2007-11-26/16311807997.shtml

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Haina Jin is a professor of translation studies and communication studies at the Communication University of China. Her research interests include audio-visual translation, translation history, film history and translated cinema. She is the principal investigator of two China National Social Science Foundation funded projects on audio-visual translation. She has published a monograph entitled Towards a History of Translating Chinese Silent Films (1905–1949) and is now working on a sequel, which will cover the 110-year history of translating Chinese films into foreign languages.

Chapter 3

Transnational Qualities of German Cinema: An Austro/European Audience Analysis Sibel Kaba and Deniz Özpalman

Abstract This study is underpinned by qualitative data in audience reception to contribute to the debate around the notion of transnational German cinema. Considering the global popularity, the German filmmaking and the ways in which films are produced merit scrutiny for its transnational qualities. The study first discusses the issue of national cinema, in terms of how German films are and are not perceived as “German” through the comments of Austrian audiences. The results indicate that current German cinema has both national and transnational features in line with the literature of relational account (Choi, J., Philosophy of film and motion pictures: An anthology. John Wiley & Sons, 2006) and Thomas Elsaesser’s critics to essentialist perspective in film studies.

General Overview of the Study The main purpose of this study is to identify some of the major configurations of German cinema for transnational audiences. Thus, this chapter is mainly guided by the following research questions: what are the different or consistent understandings of German cinema across audiences; which films are commonly cited as part of German cinema, and are they co-productions with other European/US/UK countries; and what images of Germany have been marketed successfully among European film audience? To elaborate on these broad and important questions, in-depth interviews are conducted in the Austrian capital Vienna. This city was selected for its location in a German speaking country. Indeed, we are aware that no empirical study may represent such an large group as is the transnational German cinema audience. Therefore, for a feasible empirical investigation, we limited the sampling to randomly selected Austro/European viewers. The data gathered from this

S. Kaba (*) Faculty of Communication, Trabzon University, Trabzon, Turkey D. Özpalman Department of Communication, University of Vienna, Vienna, Austria © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_3

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audience enrich the theoretical debate around transnational German cinema as the viewers are uniquely placed to designate what is national (whether Austrian, German, other European nations) and transnational. Despite multiple facts and figures about European audiences consuming German films including co-productions, there is a glaring gap in the literature regarding audiences’ interpretations and understandings of transnational German cinema. In his article “Where Is National Cinema Today (and Do We Still Need It)?”, Ian Christie inquires whether screen history can help us to think through the issue of nationality. First of all, Christie (2013, p. 27) draws attention to a transition of the field of academic film studies that approaches films as “not primarily immaterial texts,” but Grant’s “complex hybrid objects.” For Christie (2013, pp. 27–28) empirical audience studies are the final stage of this methodological shift that signifies an “audience turn” in film studies. Since the early 1990s, transnational configurations of capital, talent and infrastructure have become an important constituent of filmmaking, thus naming a film as “German” has also become increasingly problematic (Langford 2012, p. 11). Following the fall of the Berlin Wall and the effects of neo-liberalism, globalization and multiculturalism, theoretical debates on German cinema have been aligned with those of art cinema, film authorship and the ‘national’ (Langford 2012, p. 11). However, those approaches have been questioned in the context of transnational or the European cinema. Today, the transnational is used as a key category “to conceptualize the cinema of migration and hybridity that emerged in the Berlin Republic and the New Europe of the 1990s,. . . [it] is defined both through multimediality and media convergence and through a rediscovery of aesthetic traditions and perspectives” (Hake 2013, p. 110). Likewise, national boundaries have been challenged by international systems of casting, global production and distribution channels, international film festivals and awards (Ponzanesi and Berger 2016, pp. 112–113). Further, the various post-war new waves like neo-realism, Nouvelle Vague, New German Cinema and films with national themes have gradually lacked an “identity construction” (Elsaesser 2005, p. 9). Therefore, this study operates within the confines of the dominant conceptions of transnational cinema like global filmmaking, international film funding and co-productions, film distribution channels and exilic/diasporic filmmakers. First, nation-based approaches in film studies will be discussed. This includes national identity, cultural difference, the dichotomy of commercial Hollywood films versus national art cinema, and critical prestige versus box office data. Moreover, the essentialist, constructivist and relational critiques of national cinema will be elaborated upon in line with film scholars who discuss cinema in relation to cultural and national identity formation. As Elsaesser (2018, p. 2) argues, geopolitical, demographic and technological changes have affected film production, distribution, exhibition and viewing practices in the new century, and put especially the national cinemas of Europe in a crisis. In the light of these debates, our empirical investigation of transnational German cinema has the purpose of understanding whether Austrian audiences’ reception of German films discern the “national” as German, and, if so, what images of Germany

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are conveyed. In the light of these debates, our empirical investigation of transnational German cinema has the purpose of understanding the way in which Austrian audiences interpret German cinema. We interrogate how the audience interprets what marks a film as “nationally” German, what images of Germany trigger a sense of national specificity, and, where the national is not perceived, what elements are perceived instead as being “transnational”.

Theoretical Perspectives of National Cinema: Essentialism Versus Constructivism Since 2000, significant changes have occured and film industries have adapted to a digitalized and globalized world. “The complicated dynamics of the inter/trans/ national, just as that of the local and the global” have become an integral part of production, distribution, and consumption of film (Hake 2013, p. 112). Cinema has been associated with “globalizing processes” as well as “social, political, and technological change” (Mueller and Skidmore 2012, pp. 4–7). Correspondingly, the usefulness of certain national categories has been questioned in cinema studies (Mueller and Skidmore 2012, pp. 4–7). “It is now important to explore whether having a privileged place among national cinemas is something desirable or even possible” (Fisher and Prager 2010, p. 13). In her article National Cinema, the Very Idea (2006), Jinhee Choi calls our attention to the concerns about the domination of Hollywood cinema and to the issue of governmental controls that would protect domestic films. Whether situated as an art form or as entertainment, the problem arises when a national cinema is understood as “a cultural product forming a certain national identity or nationhood” (Choi 2006, p. 310). Choi suggests “a territorial account, a functional account and a relational account” for a national cinema discussion (2006, p. 310). The territorial account of a national cinema is more concerned with production and industry-based approach and refers to “a body of films produced within a certain nation-state”, meaning that “a national cinema is the product of activities and institutions within a nation-state” (Choi 2006, p. 310). In contrast to this approach, the functional account tries to define national cinema in relation to the issue of national identity and examines it as “instances of national cinema based on what a film embodies at the level of text and how it functions within a nation-state” (Choi 2006, p. 311). This was the model of national cinemas that was dominant in scholarly works until the 1980s as it was used as an umbrella term to categorize various genres and auteurs. This means categorizing national cinema from the point of a literary conception of “great works”, for instance Ingmar Bergman and Sweden or Jean-Luc Godard and France (Hjort and MacKnzie 2000). Similarly, Heimat film in Germany, Beur film in France and Masala film in India are examined to see the coherent imaginary of a nation, to raise a debate on a national identity discussion through a country’s cultural history. In this way, the “national” of a

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cinema could be evaluated regarding its local aesthetics and authors, and whether or not it reflects the identity and cultural heritage of the nation, so that it would distinguish it from other national cinemas and primarily from Hollywood. Choi argues that competition with Hollywood cinema causes dichotomy such as “Hollywood cinema and the rest” and national identities become useful in that sense (2006, p. 312). With regard to this view, national cinema can also have the same function and, unlike homogenizing national cultures of Hollywood cinema, national cinemas can construct the national identity and consequently audiences can imagine themselves as a member of a national community and culture. This functionalist approach provides the basis for arguments that demand the protection of national film industries from American cultural imperialism. After the 1980s, these interpretations of nationhood and national identity feeding an “essentialist” approach were questioned through the transnational patterns of national cinema. The main issue here is to see whether a national cinema transmits a national culture. This approach takes into account the mediation between cinema and society as films do not directly reflect the society in which they exist and from which they are produced, distributed and consumed (Choi 2006, p. 313). Elsaesser underlines that all classic studies of national cinema with an “essentialist” approach assume that “the films produced in a particular country ‘reflect’ something essential about this country as a ‘nation’” (2005, 60). Elsaesser refers to Siegfried Kracauer’s study of the cinema of the Weimar Republic From Caligari to Hitler (1947) as an essentialist approach of national cinema. Following Kracauer, Elsaesser argues that national cinema in that period has been related to“a nation’s unconscious deep-structure, the reading of which gave insights about secret fantasies, political pressure points, collective wishes and anxieties” (Elsaesser 2005, 64). From this perspective, cinema was a tool for “the distillation of national stereotypes or significant symbolic configurations, such as the father-son relations in German cinema, contrasted with the father-daughter relationships of French cinema” (2013). The reception of national cinema an accepted homogenized experience caused the debate of Choi’s third category of “relational account”. Unlike the national cinema associated with stereotypes and myths of traditional culture, the relational account underlines the heterogeneous experiences of film reception. It asks “how the concept of national cinema functions as a frame of reference for viewers and critics” (Choi 2006). From a relational perspective, “national cinema is not a given, but is classified as such only when there exists a set of identifiable characteristics that mark itself from other national cinema” (Choi 2006, p. 315). A relational account also compels us to rethink the false dichotomy between “national” and “transnational” cinema. According to Elsaesser, in European cinema, signifiers of national, regional or local specificity serve as “second-order references (“post-national”) rather than evoking “essentialism” in their assertions of a common identity (2005, p. 76). Thus, Elsaesser reconsiders European cinema as “mutual interference” among nation states, a modus operandi institutionalized in the political objectives of the European Union (Elsaesser 2005, p.126). In this sense, the relational account guides us to reconsider German cinema with empirical audience studies. As Christie states “the ‘national’ is intrinsically relational-dependent on who and where the observer is and

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on the institutions involved” (2013, p. 28). In the following part, we begin the analysis of qualitative data based on the reception of German films favored by the participants of that study (as there is no specific order proposed other than per the participants’ feedback).

German Cinema and the Austrian Audience By following inductive reasoning, the study offers direct quotes from the audience’s anecdotes about the variety of German films (and some television series) known in Austria. The following questions were out to the audience of that study: What does German cinema remind you of? Which German films come to your mind first? Which images? How would you define German cinema? What do you think about the heavy presence of German media products on Austrian TV channels and movie theaters? Do you prefer US/UK or other countries film products? Are you a fan of any German TV series, for example Tatort1 or any other? In-depth interviews were conducted in the Austrian capital city of Vienna. The study follows more than one sampling method. As researchers, we first followed snowball sampling and it resulted in all the viewers being in the same or adjacent social networks. However, as “the variation within the sample chosen would be limited” (Waller et al. 2016, p. 66), we also used “purposive sampling” defined as the selection of viewers according to the research questions and the theoretical needs of the study (Glaser and Strauss 1967). We continued the interviews until we reached “informational redundancy” and/or “theoretical saturation” (Charmaz 2006) which means we stopped interviewing when the viewers did not add any further information to the data. We first conducted five preliminary interviews and then 24 in-depth interviews. The audience profile is composed of 25–47 year old women and men living and working in Vienna. Out of the 24 participants in our study, 17 were female and seven were male.

The Audience beyond National Boundaries The question of national cinema should be approached in terms of “how actual audiences construct their cultural identity in relation to the various products of the national and international film and television industries, and the conditions under which this is achieved” (Higson 1989, p. 45–46). Likewise, Kapczynski and Richardson explain to what extent the “global film industry and the demands that films

1

Tatort means crime scene.It is a franchise collection of police procedural TV series, which are very popular. They are consumed by viewwers of allages and genders in German-speaking countries, from the early 1970s until today.

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appeal to audiences beyond national boundaries” have complicated the conception of national cinema. Kapczynski and Richardson (2014, p. 6) highlight the role that popular film has played in the shaping of national identity. In his book titled German film after Germany: Toward a transnational aesthetic (2010), Randall Halle suggests a “transnational citizenship” by closely observing the changes in the economic mechanisms of filmmaking and defines some characteristics of the transnational film aesthetic in a globalised world. For Halle, targeting audiences beyond national boundaries is one of the significant characteristics of the transnational filmmaking process. In that practice, production is directed not toward “national public spheres and ideal citizen audiences” but toward “interest groups and subcultures that cut across national lines, marketing focus groups like ‘tweens’ or social situations like the date film and summer vacation flicks” (Halle 2010, p. 84). As a matter of fact, three principal ways draw the attention to the ways in which films reach their audiences beyond national boundaries. Aida A. Hozic indicates these ways as: “the marketplace,” “festival networks,” and “less visible alternate routes (licit and illicit), facilitated by the development of new technologies (from Netflix to piracy)” (2014, p. 231). For Hozic, the marketplace and festival networks have existed since the early 1930s, before the dichotomy of commercial Hollywood films and national art cinema. Festivals are one of the important ways to reach commercial distributors for independent films from “minor cinematographies”. For spectacular Hollywood blockbusters, the competition at prestigious film festivals is “to build critical acclaim that can aid them in competition for awards such as Oscar” (2014, p. 231).

The Meaning of German Cinema for the Audience The most popular German films among Austrian audiences are historical dramas such as Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others, dir. Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck 2006) followed by romantic comedies, family melodramas and contemporary dramas. To cite a few: Das Wunder von Bern (The Miracle of Bern, dir. Sönke Wortmann 2003) which tells the story of a German family, Das Leben der Anderen a German historical drama film, Keinohrhasen (Rabbit Without Ears) a 2007 German romantic comedy film, written, produced and directed by Til Schweiger, Honig im Kopf (Head Full of Honey, dir. Til Schweiger 2014) a German drama film and one of Germany’s top box office hits. These films were globally popular and acclaimed at festivals around Europe and were nominated or honoured with various awards. For instance, Das Leben der Anderen won the Best Film Award at the European Film Awards and Best Foreign Language Movie Oscar and found a quite significant international audience outside its national territory. As a fundamentally transnational text, according to Fleishman (2013), Das Leben der Anderen necessarily invites reinvestigation of the very concept of national cinema by way of examining and presenting a particular German national past largely for foreign eyes. The success of historical dramas like Das Leben der Anderen is seen as stemming

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from the universality of emotional engagement that enabled it “to travel more easily, even while dealing with insistently national histories and characters (and for the most part, twentieth-century histories)” (Higson 2016, p. 198). The following comments about German films all belong to the participants of the study. The viewers define German cinema within the dichotomy of “cheap films versus very good intellectual films”. With the first category the participants refer to some rom-coms (romantic comedies) and with the second category they refer to some international award winning films and crime series. Similarly, the viewers find that German cinema is composed of “very funny” versus “very sad movies”, “monotone, banal” versus “smart jokes” and “boring” and “very wise men”, “romantic-comedy” or “films that talk about real, serious matters” and “stupid films that say nothing”. In general, the viewers find German cinema to be “interesting”, consisting of transparent as well as natural and relatable characters: Austrian characters don’t say explicitly what they want to say, the characters look like they never had a happy life. In German movies you don’t see that and the characters are super clean or transparent people, you see their everything. (male viewer aged 42 working as teacher)

Lower-budget films with a greater degree of cultural Germanness, such as romantic comedies in the style of Hollywood cinema that are produced mostly by the German actor and director Til Schweiger, and which bring huge success to the box-office hits in Germany, were favourably consumed by Austrian audiences. The viewers who like rom-coms define them as “composed of warm and bright pictures, a light sepia tone and funny scenes”. In this sense, the viewers’ perception of Keinohrhasen, for instance, is that it stimulates their interest with its great story, the high-quality pictures, and the perfect setting in the wonderful landscape of Berlin. In general, German cinema reminds viewers of very bright colours, high and risky situations within which the main characters find themselves in traditional family concepts, always in the same plot. In contrast to this, viewers sometimes find the stories not very interesting, however, they think the story was compensated by a nice landscape and beautiful people. In the scholarly literature, there are various approaches to define the postwar German cinema in a variety of generic and commercial filmmaking forms as an example of national/transnational cinema, understanding its aesthetic configurations and political investments as a result of global filmmaking. This aspect has been driven by the notion of “cinema of consensus”, coined by Eric Rentschler to define post-war film culture as characterized by “its lack of oppositional energies and critical voices” under the thumb of a wave of romantic comedies of the mid 1990s (Rentschler 2000, p. 262). Another approach focused on the trend of typical, exportable and internationally successful historical dramas in post-war German filmmaking. Discourses centered by the concept of “heritage cinema”, which is coined by Andrew Higson to describe British historical costume dramas of the 1980s, were also an important part of this production trend. For Higson, heritage films “present a national past, imagine the nation historically and contribute to the

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maintenance of particular constructions of national identity and national community” (Higson 1989, p. 198). Thus, the rise in production and distribution of “heritage films” not only in German film making but also in the European film markets “often generate [s] major national debates on the role of the past in contemporary national identity construction” (Bangert et al. 2013). However, as Higson points out, “a great deal of what passes as (national) heritage cinema is actually the product of transnational circumstances and pitched at transnational, even global markets including global art-house and festival markets” (Higson 2016, p. 198). Thus, one may consider that historical drama which negotiates national and, increasingly, transnational spaces and navigates cross-border spaces in new ways, has become an important part of film festivals. Elsaesser also observes that European cinema distinguishes itself from Hollywood and Asian cinemas by dwelling so insistently on the (recent) past (2005, p. 23). In summary, German cinema is in line with the global trends and produces popular genres like other European cinemas on the quest of transnational audience.

German Dominance in the Austrian Media Market All of the participants like crime series. They commonly mentioned series like “Soko Stuttgart, Tatort, Der Alte, the German-Nordic co-productions like Die Island Krimis”. Concerning the circulation of cultural content mainly from dominant countries through the rest of the world, the literature suggests for its possible consequences “cultural imperialism thesis” articulated by Herbert Schiller (Schiller 1976). The long-debated approach through dominant countries’ media products was mainly concerned with the distribution of U.S. cultural products, as their global popularity was commented on in the literature as cultural dominance (Robertson 1992). As such, Schiller’s “cultural imperialism thesis” argued for prioritizing economic power and commercial interest of the dominant country (Robertson 1992). By taking into account the fears that western media could impose western values upon the non-western world, we ask the viewers what they think of the heavy presence of German products in the Austrian media landscape. This was a critical and interesting moment for us as researchers because viewers did not indicate concern about the idea of German cultural imperialism at all as they think the German and Austrian culture and religion are the same. One female viewer (aged 31, working as an architect) explained it as follows: There is no cultural difference between Austria and Germany, just the language is a bit different and the accent is a bit different. In general, I am proud of good German films because it is nicer than other EU films and Germans have also money and they can produce big projects. So, the visual image of Germany doesn’t fully come from viewership. Germany has very different sub-cultures like in Vienna. However, the country was heavily bombarded during the World War II and many places were destroyed. German movies impress young Austrians the way US films impress British teens; they catch some words; they adopt and repeat their sayings. It doesn’t mean they start talking like them, but it is possible to hear some words that show you they are consumers of German products. So, when the topic is

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about Germany, images do not come from History; someone from Munich might be culturally very different then than someone from Hamburg but there might be less cultural difference between people living in Vienna and Munich.

The viewers say: “it needs to have plenty of Austrian, German and international movies on Austrian cinema houses and TV channels”. When they can, they definitely prefer Austrian movies as they prefer the humor but if not, they prefer German films rather than American ones. Another viewer explained that the issue with reference to the researchers’ cultural identity is like “the relationship between Turkey and Greece”. Germany is like our big brother, we support each other, we are sometimes jealous of them but we also know they are ten times bigger than Austria, that’s why. It is like Turkey and Greece, we are neighbors, there is a common historical past but also it is another country. (aged 34, female viewer working in culture related company)

Apparently, Austrian audiences look at German films the way they look at their national films when they watch German films (both arthouse films and more commercial romantic comedies). They don’t see any cultural difference or dominance.

Deutsches Deutsch (Germany’s German) Und Österreichisches Deutsch (Austrian German) Tim Bergfelder discusses the strategies and practices by which filmic texts “travel” and are transformed within different cultural contexts and audiences (2005, p. 326). Bergfelder discusses the difficulty of specifying “a nationally specific and stable meaning” (2005, p. 325) at the level of film production. Bergfelder also points out the need to approach European cinema “as a variable cluster of diverse instances of reception across various cultural boundaries” rather than as a uniform mode of production (2005, p. 325). Moreover, Bergfelder draws our attention to the transnational circulation phase that makes films “subject to significant variations, translations and cultural adaptation processes” (2005, p. 326). Bergfelder states that “language defines our understanding of filmic texts to a greater extent than the visual information a film provides” (ibid). However, he adds that “the respective importance of images and verbal language in the making of meaning in cinema remains a rather under-explored area” (2005, p. 325). Without doubt, the language of a film is an important fact as it “serve[s] as a gesture of recognition from the filmmakers toward their presumed audiences” (Fisher and Prager 2010, p.15). So, the understanding of distribution patterns and cross-cultural reception between European countries is important to analyze for the ways in which the verbal/linguistic dimension of cinema dominates the perception of cultural boundaries. The heavy presence of German films in Austrian movie houses is not a worrying matter for the audience, as it is perceived as the same culture. However, the language issue is very important for Austrian viewers. All viewers underline their concern for

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the protection of the Austrian language which is defined by them as “Österreiches Deutsch” meaning Austrian German. The protection of the viewers’ language from Germany’s German is directly related to an identity issue. The viewers explain this point further: German movies, TV series fulfill TV in Austria because of Austrian local market structure that doesn’t allow big productions. The big crime productions are made by Redbull TV station, Servus TV etc. It is impossible to get only Austrian productions so there are few films but if there were 20 German films, there would be 200 US films. Some Austrian don‘t like Germans but still they watch them because it is on TV. (aged 27, female viewer, student)

On that issue, another male viewer (aged 37, engineer) explained his concerns as follows: Increasing Germanisierung (on the language level) and the loss of a standard Austrian language really concerns me and I think it should concern every Austrian citizen.

Germany and Austria use the German language with a different accent and vocabulary. This alone already ensures that German films are more readily accessible to the Austrian audience. However, the common language is both an advantage and a potential problem, raising the fear that the German language will cause the loss of a standard Austrian language.

Discussion of Findings National cinema has many definitions with a common tendency to associate it with a set of common stylistic or thematic references which relate to national identity features. However, what national cinema might offer to an international audience has always been less clear. This study aims to fill this gap. As it is said in the main body of our discussion here, national cinema is rarely national in its production, distribution, and exhibition. Neither are audiences within today’s global system. This study seeks to demonstrate how German cinema can be reconsidered through the incorporation of the national and transnational in view of audiences and audience reactions we gathered in Austria. The results draw our attention to the audiences’ imagination of German cinema, which is shaped by the winning films of various film festivals. It appears that the festival circuit is the main factor shaping the understanding of German cinema in the audiences’ minds as “very good intellectual films”. Historical drama, a dominant genre of film festivals (Das Wunder von Bern; Das Leben der Anderen) is identified as German cinema. On the other hand, when German films cross Austrian borders, they become subject to a cultural adaptation process. Undoubtedly, Germany and Austria share a common language, a strong historical and cultural past. The audience does not see any big difference between “German” and “Austrian” culture. Nonetheless, Austrians have been in a struggle for creating a separate identity, particularly through language. This is one of the points we want to stress here, which is that Austrian audiences construct their cultural identity through language in relation to German films.

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We can conclude that there are not many prominent features in German films llike specific cinematic language or aspects of auteurism and/or auteur filmmakers. This is a tendency that reflects national/cultural themes which can be construed as German from the audiences’ perspective. Therefore, Elsaesser’s comments on national cinema are useful here. When looking at the issue of German film in Austria from the audience’s perspective, Elsaesser’s assessment makes sense in that “there hardly seems any space, recognition, or identity left at all [for national cinema]” (2005, p. 76). In line with that kind of assessment of national cinema, the participants’ comments in our study show that a shared cultural meaning that extends across borders and a cultural affinity greater than political boundaries already exist in the audience’s mind. What is appreciated as German film already has many transnational features to begin with. Among those are genre similarity and film festival popularity, and this gives little room for an understanding of a typical national German cinema.

References Bangert, A., Cooke, P., & Stone, R. (2013). Screening European heritage. Viewfinder [Online]. Available at: http://bufvc.ac.uk/articles/screening-european-heritage. Bergfelder, T. (2005). National, transnational or supranational cinema? Rethinking European film studies. Media, Culture & Society, 27(3), 315–331. Charmaz, K. (2006). Constructing grounded theory: A practical guide through qualitative analysis. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Choi, J. (2006). National cinema, the very idea. In N. Carroll & J. Choi (Eds.), Philosophy of film and motion pictures: An anthology (pp. 310–319). Wiley. Christie, I. (2013). Where is national cinema today (and do we still need it)? Film History: An International Journal, 25(1–2), 19–30. Donnersmarck, F. H. (Director). (2006). Das Leben der Anderen [Film]. Wiedemann & Berg, Bayerischer Rundfunk, Arte, Creado Film (co-production). Elsaesser, T. (2005). European cinema: Face to face with Hollywood. Amsterdam University Press. Elsaesser, T. (2013). Imperso Nations: national cinema, historical imaginaries and New Cinema Europe. Mise au point. Cahiers de l’association française des enseignants et chercheurs en cinéma et audiovisuel, (5). Elsaesser, T. (2018). European cinema and continental philosophy: Film as thought experiment. Bloomsbury Publishing USA. Fisher, J., & Prager, B. (2010). The collapse of the conventional: German film and its politics at the turn of the twenty-first century. Wayne State University Press. Fleishman, I. T. (2013). International ‘Auditorism’: The postnational politics of interpretation of von Donnersmarck’s the lives of others. In P. Cooke (Ed.), The lives of others and contemporary german film (pp. 159–176). Berlin, Boston: De Gruyter. Glaser, B. G., & Strauss, A. L. (1967). The discovery of grounded theory. Chicago: Aldine. Hake, S. (2013). German cinema as European cinema: Learning from film history. Film History: An International Journal, 25(1–2), 110–117. Halle, R. (2010). German film after Germany: Toward a transnational aesthetic. University of Illinois Press. Higson, A. (1989). The concept of national cinema. Screen, 30(4), 36–47. Higson, A. (2016). Historical films in Europe: The transnational production, circulation and reception of ‘National’heritage Drama. In P. Cooke & R. Stone (Eds.), Screening European heritage: Creating and consuming history on film (pp. 183–207). London: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Hjort, M., & MacKnzie, S. (2000). Cinema and nation. Psychology Press. Hozic, A. A. (2014). Between “national” and “transnational”: Film diffusion as world politics. International Studies Review, 16(2), 229–239. Kapczynski, J. M., & Richardson, M. D. (2014). A new history of German cinema. Boydell & Brewer. Langford, M. (2012). Directory of world cinema: Germany. Intellect Books. Mueller, G., & Skidmore, J. M. (2012). Cinema and social change in Germany and Austria. Wilfrid Laurier Univ. Press. Ponzanesi, S., & Berger, V. (2016). Introduction: Genres and tropes in postcolonial cinema (s) in Europe. Transnational Cinemas, 7(2), 111–117. Rentschler, E. (2000). From New German cinema to the post-wall cinema of consensus. In M. Hjort & S. MacKenzie (Eds.), Cinema and nation (pp. 260–277). London: Routledge. Robertson, R. (1992). Globalization: Social theory and global culture. London: Sage. Schiller, H. (1976). Communication and cultural domination. New York: International Arts and Sciences Press. Schweiger, T. (Director). (2014). Honig im Kopf [Film]. Barefoot Films, Warner Bros., SevenPictures Film (co-production). Waller, V., Farquharson, K., & Dempsey, D. (2016). Qualitative social research. Contemporary methods for the digital age. London: Sage. Wortmann, S. (Director). (2003). Das Wunder von Bern [Film]. Little Shark Entertainment GmbH, Senator Film Produktion, SevenPictures Film (co-production).

Sibel Kaba is an assistant professor at Trabzon University in the Faculty of Communication, Department of Radio Television and Cinema. She has her Phd from İstanbul University Institute of Social Sciences, Department of Radio Television and Cinema. Her research interests include film and ethics, spectatorship, historical audience and also transnational cinema. Deniz Özpalman is affiliated to University of Vienna, Austria. She conducts qualitative investigation on global media industries, television series/films and transnational and digital audiences with a particular interest on European local contexts.

Chapter 4

International Feature Film Co-productions Between Australia and Germany: An Australian Perspective Franziska Wagenfeld and Deb Verhoeven

Abstract Despite evident and mutual benefits, international co-production treaties are an under utilised aspect of Australia’s screen production slate. This chapter explores the various reasons why this is the case through the lens of AustralianGerman co-productions. The research finds that, in Australia, there are heterogenous reasons for this operative reluctance that stem from the specific (finding the right partners), the structural (the complexity of working in different financing and production jurisdictions), to the systemic (the impetus for national cinemas has historically favoured an inward-looking film production culture). In addition to these reasons, we may expect additional challenges and, potentially, unexpected opportunities resulting from the global COVD-19 pandemic.

Background Australia’s homegrown screen1 industry is a vital part of the nation’s creative and cultural identity. The economic and cultural value of the industry is significant. From an economic perspective, a report into the sector’s economic contribution estimated the screen sector’s total output in 2017–2018 (that means the total spending associated with the industry) to be A$22.5 billion (Olsberg-SPI 2019). On a cultural level, Australian films influence the nation on how Australia sees itself, and how it is seen by the world (Olsberg-SPI 2016a). Although the industry is small in comparison to other nations, Australian films are regularly invited to the world’s most prestigious

This paper uses the term ‘screen’ as defined by Deloitte Access Economics: television and film content which excludes “television commercials, promotional videos and games.” Deloitte Access Economics, ‘Screen Production in Australia: Independent Screen Production Industry Census’, (Australia: Screen Producers Australia 2018). 1

F. Wagenfeld (*) Deakin University, Geelong, VIC, Australia D. Verhoeven University of Alberta, Edmonton, AB, Canada © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_4

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festivals and Australian directors are sought after internationally (George 2016a). Australia’s line-up of A-list screen talent, from Margot Robbie to Hugh Jackman, contributes significantly to the country’s national pride. However, serious concerns relating to the screen sector’s sustainability and future growth have been raised to governmental level (House of Representatives 2017). Domestic and international research shows that international co-productions are a factor in mitigating these concerns, with research identifying international co-productions as contributing to the strength of the screen sector and playing a key role in supporting the industry’s sustainability (Swift 2012). Nonetheless, in a highly global industry, Australia produces relatively few international co-productions. In this chapter, the authors examine international feature film co-productions within the Australian context and examine if this instrument can be utilised more fully. From an academic perspective, study of the screen industry falls under the discipline of Production Studies which is currently categorised as an emerging discipline (Kerrigan 2018, p. 29) and one this chapter contributes to. When researching international co-productions, it becomes apparent that there is a deficit of English-language scholarly work on this topic in the past two decades. Notable exceptions are, amongst others, Doris Baltruschat, Norbert Morawetz, and Anne Jäckel. Consequently, the research for this paper draws heavily on industry reports, policy papers, and trade articles as well as on academic work. Professional engagement within the Australian film landscape and film-industry fieldwork informs a large part of the discussion. Data for this article is informed by interviews with film producers who have undertaken bilateral and trilateral co-productions, interviews with representatives of domestic and international Screen Agencies, attendance at industry-led co-production panel discussions and at co-production markets. The appraisal of this hands-on experience is consolidated through an examination of trade literature, magazines, newsletters, and podcasts. Writing from an Australian perspective, this paper begins by examining the dynamics of the Australian film industry and directing attention to feature film financing mechanisms. We use the term “feature film” as it is commonly used in Australia: a long-form film, drama or documentary, that is initially produced for cinema distribution. We then look at how international co-productions bring value to the industry and examine the different iterations of co-productions. We examine case-studies of Australian/German co-productions and direct attention to the advantages and drawbacks of using this transnational instrument.

Film Financing in Australia A report undertaken by the Screen Producers Association (SPA) states “Australians are proud of their screen content. Nine in ten people believe it is important that Australia has a film and television industry producing local content” (SPA 2014). Research into Australian audiences’ viewing habits testifies that Australians value

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their domestic film and television culture (Screen Australia 2016). Despite the significance that a domestic film industry has on the everyday lives of Australians, concerns about the sustainability of Australia’s screen sector are frequently discussed and reported upon. These concerns are so crucial to the industry that they are regularly brought to the attention of the Federal government (Broinowski 2018). Nor are the issues surrounding the sustainability of Australia’s film industry new. In 2006, the Australian Federal Government released an issue paper into Australian government film funding, calling for submissions to address the state of Government support, acknowledging that the past decade had been difficult for Australian films (DCITA 2006). Nearly 10 years later, research conducted by IBISWorld, a global market research company, reiterated concerns about the viability of the industry, stating that the Australian film industry is highly fragmented, with low barriers to entry and a strong trend to increasing the already strong competition (IBISWorld 2014). In late 2014, Jeni Tosi, former CEO of a major Australian state funding body, summed up the obstacles she thought the Australian film industry was facing, focussing on the significantly reduced government funding to the public broadcasters and the cuts to the federal funding agency which is a major supporter of Australian film and television. These factors impact Australia’s ability to be competitive internationally (Tosi 2014). Given the importance of international markets to the success of individual films, being globally competitive is of key importance. While Australia’s screen sector is important both culturally and economically, by global comparison and on a percentage basis, Australia produces a small number of feature films (Crane 2014). Since 2000, Australia produced roughly 34 feature films per annum (Crane 2014; Olsberg-SPI 2016b). Germany, a country with approximately three times the population size of Australia, produced 247 feature films in 2018, whereas France produced 300 in the same year (Statista 2020). For a film producer, the production of feature films is a high risk, capital intensive venture. This chapter uses the term “producer” as defined by the Australian Screen Producer Survey as “someone who manages the financial, creative, technical and/or logistical challenges of making screen content” (Ryan et al. 2014). That is, the producer draws together the disparate components that make up a film production, marrying the financial and practical elements with the creative requirements. A significant amount of domestic and international marketplace finance and, to a lesser extent, private capital, flows into a production. In Australia, this investment is ideally supported by Australia’s small, but relatively generous, film subsidy system. Government funding is important as the investors’ risk is associated with the marketplace, which is considered high-risk, while government funds appear as instruments that help mitigate this risk (Morawetz et al. 2007). Within the Australian financing landscape, government funds are central to the financing strategy. Only a small number of feature films financed without government support have cut-through in the domestic and/or international arena (this does not include the occasional Hollywood-financed, large-budget Australian films). Government support assists to finance most projects, giving financial comfort to private and market investors. For a producer to access federal government subsidies, the producer needs to demonstrate domestic market interest by attaching a domestic distributor, as well as

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international market interest by attaching an international sales agent. Simply put, when seeking federal funds, a feature film is required to have both domestic and international marketplace interest, as this signifies a film’s pathway to audience. Marketplace interest is expressed by the distributor and the international sales agent committing finance to the film, regardless of whether the film is financed as a domestic film or as an international co-production. In an environment where films regularly fail at the box-office and where producers fight the expectation that there will be low commercial returns (House of Representatives 2017), attaching domestic and international market finance is an essential, but challenging, undertaking. The Australian domestic film distributor purchases rights in the film via a Distribution Guarantee (DG). These domestic rights give the distributor the right to release the film in cinemas in the Australian and New Zealand territories, collectively known as ANZ rights. Depending on the negotiations, the rights could include theatrical rights, free-to-air broadcasting rights, streaming rights, educational rights and a host of other ancillary rights. The DG is traditionally negotiated prior to commencement of production and usually the bulk of the finance is paid on delivery. Screen Australia data shows that, since 2008, the DG of the top ten performing films was between 2.8 and 8.2 percent of the films total finance, which averages up to approximately 5 percent (George and Rheinberger 2017b). This means that if a film’s budget is $3million, the distributor would pay, on average, $150,000 for the rights to distribute the film in the ANZ territories. On top of that, the distributor commits to expending a certain amount on marketing and distribution expenses, entitled P&A costs (prints and advertising). Having a good P&A budget is important as it ensures the film does not get lost in an already overcrowded space. A difficulty in Australia lies in the fact that only a limited number of distribution companies distribute Australian films to the domestic market. The small number of distributors is a roadblock to Australia’s production industry, all the more so in an environment where distributors are closing down or have to consolidate their structures (Wiseman 2019). From 2006 to 2016, distributors rarely released more than four Australian films per year, with most distributors releasing only one or two. There are, however, exceptions: in 2006, Palace, a family company, released six domestic films into the cinemas and in the following year they released four Australian feature films. Paramount, at times partnering with Transmission, released six into the marketplace in 2011. In 2014, eOne also released six into the market. The data shows no consistency in the number of domestic films that individual distributors released, with some distributors releasing a larger number in 1 year, and in the following years only one or two (Screen Australia 2019). The international sales company is an essential piece of a film’s marketplace finance and ensures the finished product has access to the global market. The international sales agent sells the film to international territories. For independent films, such as those produced in Australia, the international sales agent showcases, and sells, the film at international film markets, such as the European Film Market (EFM) or the American Film Market (AFM). International sales agents work with film producers worldwide. To gain the interest, and finances, of an international sales agent, Australian producers compete on a global scale. The sales agent commits to a

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minimum guarantee (MG) against future global sales, and typically commits to a film at development stage (George 2016c). The sales agent generally prefers to invest in projects which have already secured a domestic distributor, as this gives confirmation that the home market has endorsed the project and team (George 2016a). Screen Australia’s data demonstrates that once a sales agent agrees to commit to a film, their input can be significant. Of the Australian projects surveyed, the MGs “rarely dipped below $50,000 on individual films”, while about “30 per cent of feature projects attracted MGs of more than $250,000 and in half these cases, the MGs were worth more than $500,000, two of them exceeding $3 million” (George 2016c). However, in the changing environment, the international sales are more difficult to achieve. For a long time, DVD sales had driven the market, but with the collapse of the DVD market and an increasing number of independent feature films flooding the market (Neuman 2019), the sales agents’ view is not heartening. Senior sales executives note the marketplace uncertainty. The result is that for independent producers, gaining the interest of an international sales agent is increasingly difficult. While the sales agent and the distributor, collectively known as the “marketplace”, retrieve costs early in a film’s recoupment waterfall, buying into a project before a frame is shot is a risky financial venture, in particular in a market undergoing massive disruption (George 2016c). While a domestic distribution agreement and an international sales agreement are a prerequisite for Australian feature films to get funding support from the federal government, they are not a guarantee that the film will receive government subsidies. Given the severe cutbacks to Australia’s key government funding in the past decade (Frater 2015), government support is highly competitive. Graeme Mason, the CEO of Screen Australia, Australia’s federal government agency that supports the development and production of screen content, succinctly states: “competition is intense and likely to get more so.” (Mason 2016). In key communication to Australia’s producing community, the federal and state funding agencies unequivocally state that many great projects cannot and will not get funded as the agencies do not have the budgets to support all projects. Given the high level of industry uncertainty, the reduced government funds, the limited local distributors, the shrinking number of international sales agents and the increasing number of films seeking finance in an evolving market, Australian producers are well placed to embrace additional pathways to financing feature films.

Co-Productions: An Alternative Pathway to Finance While the industry is struggling to maintain sustainability, scholarly research and industry reports demonstrate that producing films as international co-productions brings significant value (Baltruschat 2002, 2010; Blatchford 2014; Goodfellow 2012; Screen Australia 2015; Zeitchik 2015). An international co-production is defined as producers of two or more countries collaborating on the same project. In effect, the film is produced not by one

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sovereign nation, but by two or more nations. Screen Australia is a vocal advocate of international co-productions, emphasizing the advantages they bring in international cooperation, increased box office returns, and increased international sales. Screen Australia notes that its biggest percentage return on investment was an international co-production (Mason 2016). Academy award winning Australian producer Emile Sherman states “co-productions give you the tools to be a bit more muscular to compete in a very competitive global marketplace” (Sherman 2018). Indeed, it was found that in relation to a wide number of key success factors (commercial, critical and coverage), international co-productions have a particularly high impact rating (Verhoeven et al. 2015, p. 11). In 2012, Screen Australia reported that international co-productions outperformed Australian projects by being distributed into more international territories than domestic products. Specifically, the research showed that international co-productions were, on average, distributed into 7.5 territories, in contrast to local productions which sold to 5.7 territories. Moreover, international co-productions were significantly more successful financially, grossing an average international box office of US$1.2 million while domestic productions grossed an international average of US$300,000 (Screen Australia 2012b). Research into Australian international co-productions demonstrates that international co-productions “were the top three grossing films in Australian history, four were in the top ten and all eight were in the top 20” (Einspruch 2016). As the statistics show the significant advantages of international co-productions, Ruth Harley, the first CEO of Screen Australia, argued that “co-productions could be used more often and to great effect by the Australian film industry” (Swift 2012). At the 2016 Screen Producer’s Conference, Tim Phillips, Head of Screen Australia’s Co-Production program, reported that of the 94 feature films that Screen Australia supported via investment funds, only eight films were official co-productions (Einspruch 2016). As research confirms the greater success rate of international co-productions, this low number of co-productions is noteworthy.

Defining the International Coproduction The term international co-production is used differently across academia, trade press and diverse territories. There are two main forms of international co-production: an unofficial international co-production; and an official international co-production, also called a treaty co-production. A treaty co-production is more complex, but financially and creatively the most rewarding arrangement. An unofficial international co-production, often referred to simply as an “international co-production” (Morawetz et al. 2007), is a co-financing arrangement between two production entities registered in different countries. In this arrangement, two (or more) producers agree to produce a film. Each producer brings a share of finance, and/or key creative elements to the table. The manner in which these producers collaborate, their creative input, their production responsibilities, roles, and their profit share is arranged by mutual agreement (Morawetz et al. 2007).

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Unofficial international co-productions are often undertaken between countries which do not have treaty arrangements, or between producers who feel that going through the official co-production certification process is time consuming and costly. A co-financing venture is a similar arrangement between producers residing in different countries, but who represent branches of the same production entity, and who finance the film in partnership. An example of this is the Academy Award winning film The King’s Speech (Tom Hopper, 2010). Australian-based producer Emile Sherman, managing director of the Australian/UK company See Saw Films, produced the film with his UK-based partner Ian Canning. While the producers worked in close collaboration (Sherman 2018), this critically acclaimed project is officially regarded as a British film, despite having key creative Australian elements and an Australian producer. An “international production-service” arrangement is not an international co-production, although sometimes referred to as such. It is a practical arrangement that is used when a production company seeks the production services, but not the creative or financial input, of an international production entity. An example of this is the Australian film Berlin Syndrome (Cate Shortland 2017), which screened at the Berlinale. Berlin Syndrome had the hallmarks of a perfect treaty co-production arrangement between Australia and Germany. That is, it is an Australian screenplay, set and shot on location in Berlin, with a leading Australian actor and a leading German actor. The Australian producers discussed the project with several potential German co-producing partners (Stöter 2017). In the end, the film’s financing fell in place in such a way that the film was financed as an all-Australian production. The Australian producers engaged a German production company solely to wrangle the German components (Blum 2017). A treaty international co-production arrangement is a country-to-country government arrangement. A treaty arrangement is defined like this: the government of one country enters into a formal arrangement with the government of another country, with the aim of facilitating the production of feature films or television productions. These arrangements are either official government treaties or Memorandum of Understandings (MOU’s). In respect to co-productions, the regulatory requirements of treaties and MOU’s are much the same and their essence is similar.2 The main element of a treaty co-production is that the financial and creative elements of a production are regulated via the treaty which requires a comparable percentage of creative input to financial contribution (Phillips and Champ 2018). The competent authorities of both countries approve these components prior to commencement of production (Phillips and Champ 2018; Screen Australia 2012b). Treaty co-productions can be undertaken with more than one co-producing country. Treaties offer significant opportunities and can be understood as helpful tools that benefit the production (Cabrera Blázquez et al. 2018). Australia’s co-production treaties are seen positively by the industry. Producer Emile Sherman considers them

2 For simplicity sake, we will only use the term ‘treaty arrangements’ rather than ‘treaty and MOU arrangements’.

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“a gift to us and [. . .] something we should use and be excited about and not fearful of” (Sherman 2018). The advantage of working under a treaty co-production is that when the relevant conditions are met, both countries consider the production as their national product. This enables a project to access government film funds and tax credits from both countries. The productions are regarded as national productions in both participating countries when awarding national film prizes or for statistical measurements. In its 2015 report Doing Business with Australia, Screen Australia writes “These [co production] arrangements foster cultural and creative exchange, allow the risk and cost of filmmaking to be shared, and drive up quality and output” (Screen Australia 2015). In his 2014 article, “Coproducing in Europe: an economic solution or an artistic choice?”, Axel Scoffier writes: “By coproduction we mean collaboration between several producers, which entails their combining resources (financial, human and physical) and the pooling of risk” (Scoffier 2014). Risk mitigation is an important aspect, and for some producers it is a major factor for entering into a co-production (Neumann 2016, p. 90). Australia commenced its treaty co-production arrangements in 1986, with an MOU with France. At the time of writing this chapter, Australia has signed agreements with 12 countries (Screen Australia 2012a). Australia’s treaty arrangements are with Canada, China, Germany, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Korea, Singapore, South Africa and the United Kingdom. Australia is a signatory to MOU’s with France and New Zealand. Treaties in negotiation are with India, Denmark, and Malaysia (Screen Australia 2015).

Germany Is a Preferred Co-production Partner in Australia Given the documented concerns of Australian film industry’s sustainability, Australia’s leading organization for producers, the Australian Screen Producers Association (SPA), conducted an industry-wide survey in 2014. Following on from research which demonstrates the financial and box-office benefits of international co-productions, the survey asked the question “is your business developing co-productions?”. Seventy-six percent of producers responded that they were developing international co-productions. Responding to the question which countries Australian producers intend to enter into co-production arrangements with, the respondents listed Germany and China in equal measure. These countries were listed ahead of Australia’s close neighbour, New Zealand (Blatchford 2014; Screen Producers Australia 2014). The fact that Australian producers wish to partner as readily with Germany as with China is significant. China is Australia’s largest export market (Trade 2019). With over 1.4 billion people and more than 444,000 cinema screens in 2018, Chinese government figures valued China’s film industry in excess of US$8.6 billion in 2017 (Xinhua 2018). In 2006, Australia negotiated an official co-production treaty with China, which means that films made under the treaty are treated as domestic productions in both countries and do not face China’s complex foreign film import

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quota restrictions. Given the potential to access the world’s largest market, the appeal to co-produce a feature film with China is large. The reasons Australian producers wish to partner in equal measure with Germany as with China may be based on the documented success of Australian television and feature films selling into German speaking territories. German-speaking Europe (Germany, Austria, Switzerland) comes in third globally by value of sales for Australian productions, directly following the main English-speaking territories of the USA and UK (George 2016b). As Europe’s largest economy and Europe’s economic leader, Australia’s Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT) notes of Germany that “Australia and Germany have a warm, vibrant and diverse bilateral relationship” (DFAT 2017). In 2017, Germany was the fourth largest global economy behind the US, China, and Japan (Austrade 2017; Gray 2017). Germany, like Australia, provides strong government support for the film industry. As early as 2013, a headline in the leading film industry trade magazine Variety read: “Germany remains a fav for co-productions” (Meza 2013). Being part of the European Union, Germany is a signatory to the European Convention on Cinematographic Co-Production, signed by 38-member countries. (Europe 2019). Germany is highly adept at international co-productions: in 2018, 49 percent of German feature films that premiered at the German box-office were international co-productions (SPIO 2019).

Germany’s Film Funding System: A Brief Overview Germany is a nation that holds a central economic, cultural and political position within Europe and strongly utilises the advantages presented by international co-productions (SPIO 2019). There are notable differences in the Australian and German funding systems which impact on international co-productions. Germany has a complex government film support system. The complexity is illustrated by the number of theses examining the German film funding system (Behrmann 2008; Giehl 2017; Mohr 2010; Neumann 2016). Perhaps the most comprehensive is Thomas Neumann’s 2016 dissertation entitled Das Recht der ‘Filmförderung’ in Deutschland (Film Funding Law in Germany). The bulk of German government support for film is regionally-based, with over 60% of film funding support coming from the 16 German federal states. This is based on the German concept of Kulturföderalismus (cultural federalism, or the cultural sovereignty of Germany’s regional states) and has led to Germany having the highest amount of regional film financing in Europe (Behrmann 2008, p. 105). Introduced after the fall of Fascism, this form of decentralized arts funding was established with the explicit aim of protecting a diverse cultural environment, as, by its very nature, it ensures no central government body is responsible for the nation’s cultural expression (Eckhardt 2015,

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p. 11). The structure has long-term advantages,3 yet it also presents logistical challenges (Behrmann 2008, pp. 106–107). One of the main criticisms within Germany, is that Germany’s regional film agencies don’t coordinate their funding. A further issue lies in the fragmentation of financing, as producers seeking finance are required to engage with several different regions resulting in what one scholar defines as “film funding-tourism” (Neumann 2016, p. 137). This creates complexities and inefficiencies. For example, when financing the German component of the German, Australian and UK international feature film co-production Lore (Cate Shortland, 2012), German producer Karsten Stöter received funding from six German funding agencies: two federal and four regional film funding bodies. In return for supporting a project, regional film agencies usually require that the production shoots a part of the film in their region. For Lore this meant a crew of 50 persons were required to shoot in four different regions. The extensive travel increased the production budget and placed significant stress on the production (Stöter 2017). Australia’s film funding system, by comparison, is less complex. In Australia, the federal film agency, Screen Australia, is a majority financing partner and has the ability of contributing up to 2 million dollars to an individual film (Screen Australia 2019). Screen Australia also administers Australia’s Film Producer’s Tax Offset, a federal government’s tax rebate which, when the production meets the criteria, offers a virtually automatic 40 percent tax rebate4 on eligible expenditure (Office of Parliamentary Counsel 2014). As the funds are federal they can be expended in any state. Australia’s regional (state) funding bodies are minor financing parties, usually offering grants of around 10 percent of the film’s expenditure in that particular state.5

Australian Co-Productions with Germany The first feature film produced as a co-production between Australia and Germany was selected for the prestigious “Un Certain Regard” category at the 1989 Cannes Film Festival. The Prisoner of St. Petersburg (Ian Pringle 1989), a personal and idiosyncratic drama (Martin 1990), was shot over 4 weeks in Berlin. The project was a “natural” co-production, having been structured as such during script development (Scharf 2015). What may have enticed the Cannes festival selectors to select the film, could have been the sensibility of a pan-European story told through Australian eyes. 3 Over the past years, Australia’s federal screen agency, which administers the largest funds to the screen sector, has been heavily impacted by severe federal cutbacks. This has had a major negative effect on Australia’s film landscape. Germany’s cultural funding system was specifically designed so that federal cutbacks can only have a minor impact on the entirety of the creative sector. 4 The 40% tax offset is earmarked for drama and documentary films that are released theatrically. 5 Western Australia and Tasmania, states with smaller populations, have higher percentages. The exception is Western Australia’s Regional Film Fund, a generous fund which is based on major expenditure in a Western Australian regional area.

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Produced by Australian Daniel Scharf, the German co-production partner was Klaus Sungen of Panorama Films. As the treaty between Germany and Australia had yet to be signed, the film was made under an official MOU between the countries, using a 70/30 split. This meant that 70 percent of the finance and creative elements came from Australia, and 30 percent of the finance and creative elements were from Germany. Scharf notes the production itself went “incredibly smoothly.” Shooting with a small team, Scharf states that “It was a great experience. I came out of it really buzzing about co-production” (Scharf 2015). Lore (Cate Shortland 2012), the story of a group of German children experiencing the collapse of the Third Reich, is a prime example of how nations can benefit culturally from the creative exchange that is an inherent part of treaty arrangements. The trilateral German/Australian/UK co production was a critical success in Australia and Germany. Treaty arrangements meant the film, based on a British novel, shot in Germany, filmed in the German language with German actors, and directed by an Australian director, is considered an Australian film in Australia, a German film in Germany and a British film in the UK. This culturally-specific and culturally-sensitive story of Germany, directed by award-winning Australian filmmaker Cate Shortland, was nominated for eight Australian Academy of Cinema and Television Arts Awards (AACTA), winning four awards, including Best Direction and Best Adapted Screenplay. Lore garnered hugely positive reviews in Germany and was hailed a “filmisches Meisterwerk” (cinematic masterpiece) (Frankfurter Allgemeine 2012), winning, amongst other awards, the 2013 award for best German feature film (filmportal.de 2018). Maya the Bee Movie (Alexs Stadermann 2014) is another example of creative and skills exchange between Germany and Australia. The animated children’s feature film is based on a highly popular German children’s story and is produced under the treaty arrangement. A significant portion of the creative animation elements were directed by the Sydney-based director Stadermann and undertaken in Australia. The children’s film was a commercial success in Europe, releasing into 48 countries (George and Rheinberger 2017a) and spurning two sequels. The German, Australian and Finnish official co-production Iron Sky (Timo Vuorensola, 2012) is also treaty co-production. Prior to production, the European producers were seeking additional finance (Damian 2017). This is when Australian producer Cathy Rodda (formerly Cathy Overett) came on board. The Australian funding finalised the financing strategy, but not without bringing additional paperwork and significant costs to the table (Damian 2017). The $10million dark sci-fi comedy shot for 3 weeks in Germany and for 4 weeks in Australia. Rodda notes: “A lot of people think co-productions have to have cultural fit, but in fact, they don’t. What Screen Australia now interprets as cultural fit is actually the creatives involved. So, by having Australian creatives involved, it has enough Australianness to make it what it is. And it is a commercial prospect” (Rodda 2016). Iron Sky had its world premiere at the prestigious Berlin Film Festival and has since become a cult classic with a sequel.

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Challenges of International Co-Productions Despite the above successes, and despite industry research which document that Australian producers intend to co-produce with Germany, Screen Australia’s statistics show that by 2019 only nine feature films had been undertaken as treaty co-productions between Germany and Australia. With the treaty signed in 2001, that averages to one project every 2 years. Given the advantages of producing international co-productions, we must ask why Australia undertakes so few when the industry itself is so global. The cultural and economic advantages of international treaty co-productions are numerous, but the procedure itself can be cumbersome. To receive treaty co-production certification, a project needs to meet specific certification criteria. This means a project must be “engineered” to meet the guidelines and needs to be structured creatively and practically to comply. As producer Emile Sherman notes, complying by these criteria is not complex but requires forethought and pre-planning during the development phase (Sherman 2018). Applying for treaty co-production status is considered time-consuming as applications need to be approved by the competent authorities in the co-producing countries. Approval times can become a point of contention if a production needs to get underway in a particular timeframe. Australian approval procedures have been noted as being particularly time consuming and paperwork heavy (Damian 2017; Stöter 2017). The requirements of each treaty vary. It is generally understood that treaty co-productions can be too unwieldly and costly to undertake for a low budget films, with Producer Karsten Stöter stating the cut-off for him would be projects with budgets less than €3 million (Stöter 2017). Working with a producer based in a different country and of a different nationality, is an intense, creative business relationship and both sides need to feel comfortable that the other side can deliver. Producer Emile Sherman notes that the producer is vulnerable as they are reliant on the other producer bringing in their share of the money and “you are not in control of that” (Sherman 2018). Alison Warner, Vice President of I.P. Sales, Acquisitions and Co-Productions for Technicolor, USA, states “I can’t emphasize enough doing research and figuring out who you need to do a co-production with. Research, research, research” (Einspruch 2016). A case in point is producer Danial Scharf’s feature film, Isabelle Eberhardt (Ian Pringle, 1991). Following the successful relationship established on Prisoner from St. Petersburg, and initially conceived as a co-production between Australia, Germany and France, the set-up changed to an Australian/French co-production when Germany dropped out of the equation. Scharf found himself working with a French partner he didn’t have a close relationship to. The experience proved stressful and disappointing, with the French side not delivering the finances they agreed to. In the words of Scharf, “I was misinformed, ill-advised, and under the wrong impression” (Scharf 2015). Setting up a film production is often a long-term engagement. When Karsten Stöter got on board of Lore as the German producer, extensive work had already been undertaken. Nonetheless, it took another 3 years before the film was fully

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financed (Stöter 2017). While treaty arrangements give access to much needed finance, the complexities of film financing are increased when working with a partner country that has different financing mechanisms. An international co-production also significantly increases the production budget. Legal fees are increased, the producers must budget for overseas travel, accommodation costs, per diems and different fee structures for crew (Einspruch 2016). International industrial differences contribute to the complexity (Stöter 2017). Union requirements and expectations are different (Damian 2017). When collaborating jointly for an intense period of time, cultural complexities can emerge. Germany, for example, is a highly industrialised nation and the majority of Germans speak excellent English. The Australian producer may be easily mistaken that cultural and language differences are non-existent or minor. However, even when speaking the same language, particular words or concepts have different meanings.6 Things taken for granted in one culture, seem outlandish in another. Even crew structures do not match across the different countries. The Australian key crew role of a first assistant director (1st AD) is different in Germany which traditionally does not have a 1st AD. The props person in Germany has a role that is unheard of on an Australian production7 (Bischoff 2017). German producer Pitt Krause, who undertook an animated co-production with Australia, notes that in France they take a 2-hour lunch-break. While this is unfeasible in both Germany and Australia, he explains “That’s just the way it is” (Krause 2017). Most German productions, when shooting with a combination of German and English crew, fit into the English production methodology, yet cultural differences need to be researched, acknowledged and understood. In addition to the significant logistical challenges that confront producers seeking to establish co-productions, there are a range of less evident but nonetheless arduous cultural barriers.

The Industry Perspective Australia’s independent production sector is entrepreneurial and difficult to sustain. Structuring a feature film production as an international co-production which gives it a clear pathway to international finance and more than one domestic market presents evident advantages to the sustainability of a production company. In keeping with the global nature of the film industry, an international co-production uses global talent and global creative co-operation. Australian producer Emile Sherman notes that the UK does many co-productions. As a film producing nation, it is outward and Significantly, the English word ‘feature’ is used in Australia to mean a theatrically released film. In Germany, the word ‘feature’ is most commonly used in reference to a television format which is a hybrid between a documentary and current affairs project. 7 On Australian sets, during the shoot, the props person is positioned on the edge of the set and works under the direction of the art director or production designer. On German sets, the props person stands next to the director and works directly under the director’s instructions. 6

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not inward looking. UK producers are encouraged to go out and look for co-production opportunities. In Australia, Sherman states that “this has been a bit lacking [as] producers are a little scared by them.” (Sherman 2018). Could it be that Australian producers, as a community, are too inwardly focused? At the expense of utilising the advantages offered by official international co-productions, do they balk at the time and energy it takes to undertake them? Award winning Australian producer Marion Macgowan notes that Australian producers may need to expand their understanding of financing, rather than opting for the majority of their finance coming from a territory known and safe to them (Macgowan 2016). Producer Cathy Rodda agrees that Australian filmmakers do not have an international perspective when financing films and do not often consider international co-production options (Rodda 2016). Australian producers’ reluctance to develop international co-productions may also relate to the lack of strong international producer-to-producer relationships. The observations about the insularity of Australian film production practices are confirmed by the 2012 Australian Screen Producer survey that found finding international partners was the least vital issue reported by survey participants and the hardest to achieve (Ryan et al. 2012). In order to establish good working relationships based on trust, producers need to attend international film markets, meet potential partners and grow relationships. These co-production markets are predominantly based in Europe and the USA, giving European producers a vast advantage, which may be one of the many reasons that close to 50% of German feature film productions in the past years have been co-productions (SPIO 2019). In interviewing German producers, what clearly transpires is that they understand the complexities of co-productions as just another hurdle to overcome. They see it as their job to understand and accept cultural complexities, and work with cultural differences (Krause 2017). As Australian producer Cathy Rodda notes, producing an official co-production “doubles the workload in some cases but it just is what it is” (Rodda 2016). Australia’s tyranny of distance is a hinderance, but once a production is underway, it can be overcome. The majority of Australian and German producers who have undertaken co-productions felt that time difference and the geographic distance between the countries to be manageable. As Academy award winning producer Emile Sherman explains, “it becomes a mind-set when you make more co-productions” (Sherman 2018). In the words of Oliver Damian, the German producer of the cult film Iron Sky, “it is inspiring, and for me it just feels right because it’s also an exchange of ideas” (Damian 2017). The advantage of constructing a project as an international co-production is that the story includes or references cultural elements from more than one country from the outset. As noted by Sherman, there are probably many more non-local stories that Australia needs to embrace as a community (Sherman 2018). Research demonstrates that co-productions attract a broader audience, sell wider, the stories are less parochial, and encourage greater global collaboration. The production process itself fosters greater creative co-operation across cultures. It is highly likely that an international release strategy is in place from the outset, which aids in enabling the production to compete on the world stage. This gives the project

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significant advantages in the market as demonstrated by Australian co-production figures on return on investment (Mason 2016).

Conclusion International co-productions need to be seen as more than just a financing and marketing opportunity. They are also global projects that influence culture by emphasising how reciprocity rather than solipsism is also a way to express and appreciate nationally driven, creative industry endeavours. Official co-productions are sophisticated instruments, utilizing and deriving benefit from cross-cultural experiences that are part of modern everyday global life. Australians are justifiably proud of their feature film landscape. Early initiatives for government support for the screen industry were founded on the idea that Australians deserved the opportunity to “tell our own stories.” The desire to see more Australian films in the cinemas for example, might also motivate the desire to see our stories and screen narratives relationally, by seeing the world through Australian eyes. To date however, there has only been cautious acceptance by the industry that we can expand the horizon of our narratives and that more Australian producers, directors and story-tellers explore the advantages of international cooperation and cross-cultural fertilization and establish the complex but rewarding framework of the internationally co-produced feature film. In the context of the global pandemic, now more than ever, the imperative for a co-operative approach to the creative enterprise of being human is clear. International co-productions afford this vital opportunity.

References Austrade. (2017, December). Insights into Germany. Commonwealth of Australia Australian Trade and Investment Commission, Commonwealth of Australia 2017. Australian Government Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. (2019). China country brief. Retrieved January 20, 2019, from https://dfat.gov.au/geo/china/pages/china-country-brief.aspx Baltruschat, D. (2002). Globalization and international TV and film co-productions in search of new narratives. In Media in transition 2: Globlisation and convergence. Cambridge, MA: MIT. Baltruschat, D. (2010). Global media ecologies networked productions in film and television. New York, NY: Routledge. Behrmann, M. (2008). Filmförderung im Zentral- und Bundesstaat: eine vergleichende Analyse der Filmförderungssysteme von Deutschland und Frankreich unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Staatsverfasstheit. Berlin: Avinus-Verlag. Bischoff, S. (2017, April 1). Audio Interview mit Sabine Bischoff über Koproduktionen und produzieren in Deutschland. Blatchford, E. (2014). International opportunities high on producers’ agenda, SPA reveals, IF Magazine. Retrieved from http://if.com.au/2014/06/02/article/International-opportunities-highon-producers-agenda-SPA-reveals/YLBGQMYSUV.html Blum, F. (2017, May 24), Audio Interview mit Felix Blum

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Broinowski, A. (2018). ‘The industry will be gutted’: Why Australian film and TV is fighting for its life. The Guardian. Retrieved May 25, 2019, from https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2018/ apr/29/the-whole-industry-will-be-gutted-why-australias-film-and-tv-industry-is-fighting-forits-life Cabrera Blázquez, F. J., Cappello, M., Enrich, E., Talavera, M. J., & Valais, S. (2018). Der rechtliche Rahmen für internationale Koproduktionen. Straßburg: IRIS Plus, Europäusche Audiovisuelle Informationsstelle Council of Europe. Council of Europe. (2019). Chart of signatures and ratifications of Treaty 147 European Convention on cinematographic co-production. Retrieved May 02, 2019, from https://www.coe.int/en/ web/conventions/full-list/-/conventions/treaty/147/signatures Crane, D. (2014). Cultural globalization and the dominance of the American film industry: Cultural policies, national film industries, and transnational film. International Journal of Cultural Policy, 20(4), 365–382. Damian, O. (2017, February 24). Audio Interview mit Oliver Damian. DCITA. (2006). Review of Australian government film funding support issue paper. Canberra: Department of Communications Information Technology and the Arts, Australian Government. Deloitte Access Economics. (2018). Screen production in Australia: Independent screen production industry census. Sydney, NSW: Screen Producers Australia. DFAT. (2017). Report of the Australia-Germany Advisory Group Berlin-Canberra Declaration of Intent on a Strategic Partnership Australia and Germany. Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. Eckhardt, T. (2015). Das Bildungswesen in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland 2014/2015. Bonn, Germany: Sekretariat der Ständigen Konferenz der Kultusminister der Länder. Einspruch, A. (2016). Screen forever 2016: Pros and cons of co-production. ScreenHub. Retrieved February 12, 2017, from https://www.screenhub.com.au/news-article/features/policy/andreweinspruch/screen-forever-2016-pros-and-cons-of-co-production-252689 filmportal.de. (2018). Lore. Retrieved March 18, 2018, from https://www.filmportal.de/film/lore_ 8854dd44e7db41e2a722689f8060649e Frankfurter Allgemeine. (2012, October 12). “Filmisches Meisterwerk”: Spielfilm “Lore” erhält Hessischen Filmpreis. Frankfurter Allgemeine. Frater, P. (2015). Screen Australia hit by new round of budget cuts. Variety. Retrieved May 12, 2019, from https://variety.com/2015/film/asia/screen-australia-new-budget-cuts1201493312/ George, S. (2016a). The film sales business: Insider information. Part 1 What sales agents want. In Screen Australia (Ed.), Screen Australia Website. Screen Australia. George, S. (2016b). The film sales business: Insider information. Part 3 Measuring Rest of World advances. In Screen Australia (Ed.), Screen Australia Website. Screen Australia. George, S. (2016c). The film sales business: Insider information. Part 2 sales agents on market volatility and deals. In Screen Australia (Ed.), Screen Australia Website. Screen Australia. George, S., & Rheinberger, B. (2017a). 94 films. A commercial analysis. Part 1 Performance in Australian cinemas. In Screen Australia (Ed.), Screen Australia Website. Screen Australia. George, S., & Rheinberger, B. (2017b). 94 films. A commercial analysis. Part 2 International Performance. In Screen Australia (Ed.), Screen Australia Website. Screen Australia. Giehl, L. (2017). Kulturelles Kapital Filmförderung in Deutschland. Köln: Deutschland Herbert Von Halen Verlag. Goodfellow, M. (2012). “Don’t sign co-production treaty with US,” Weinstein tells French. ScreenDaily. Gray, A. (2017), The world’s 10 biggest economies in 2017. World Economic Forum. Retrieved from https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2017/03/worlds-biggest-economies-in-2017/. House of Representatives, Standing Committee on Communications and the Arts. (2017). Report on the inquiry into the Australian film and television industry. Canberra, Australia: Commonwealth of Australia.

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IBISWorld. (2014). Motion picture and video production in Australia (p. 32). Melbourne, VIC: IBISWorld. Kerrigan, S. (2018). A ‘logical’ explanation of screen production as method-led research. In C. Batty & S. Kerrigan (Eds.), Screen production research (pp. 11–28). Cham, Switzerland: Springer Nature. Krause, P. (2017, May 30). Audio Interview mit Pitt Krause über Koproduktionen. Macgowan, M. (2016, June 30). Audio Interview with Marian Macgowan on Co-Productions. Martin, A. (1990). The Prisoner of St Petersburg (Ian Pringle, Australia/Germany, 1990). Film Critic. Retrieved May 11, 2019, from http://www.filmcritic.com.au/reviews/p/prisoner_ petersburg.html Mason, G. (2016). 'The good, the bad and the possible. In SPA Conference 2016. Melbourne, VIC: Screen Australia. Meza (Ed.). (2013). Germany remains a fav for co-productions. Variety. Retrieved April 25, 2019, from https://variety.com/2013/film/markets-festivals/germany-remains-a-fav-for-co-produc tions-1118065484/ Mohr, P. (2010). Produktionsstandort Deutschland – Vergleichende Analyse der Filmförderungen in Deutschlands, Frankreich und Kanada. Hochschule Mittweida University of Applied Science. Morawetz, N., Hardy, J., Haslam, C., & Randle, K. (2007). Finance, policy and industrial dynamic The rise of co-Productios in the film industry. Industry and Innovation, 14(4), 421–443. Neuman, B. (2019). Pathways to market with Beatice Neuman. In F. Wagenfeld (Ed.), Screenwest Western Australia. Neumann, T. (2016). Das Recht der Filmförderung in Deutschland (Uvk Verlagsgesellschaft M). Office of Parliamentary Counsel, Canberra. (2014). Income Tax Assessment Act 1997 (p. 51). Canberra: Australia Office of Parliamentary Counsel. Olsberg-SPI. (2016a). Measuring the cultural value of Australia’s screen sector. In Olsberg-SPI. Olsberg-SPI. (2016b). Measuring the cultural value of Australia’s screen sector. A report presented to screen. Australia by Olsberg SPI (2018), p. 91. Olsberg-SPI. (2019). Study on the economic contribution of the motion picture and television industry in Australia. Rodda, C. (2016, September 26). Audio Interview with Cathy Rodda. Ryan, M., Cunningham, S., & Verhoeven, D. (2012). Understanding Australian Screen Content Producers: Wave 2. Australia ARC Centre for Excellence for Creative Industries and Innovation (CCI). Ryan, M. D., Goldsmith, B., Cunningham, S., & Verhoeven, D. (2014). The Australian screen producer in transition. In A. Spicer, A. McKenna, & C. Meir (Eds.), Beyond the bottom-line: The producer in film and television studies (continuum) (pp. 125–142). New York: Bloomsbury. Scharf, D. (2015). Audio interview with Daniel Scharf. Scoffier, A. (2014). Industry report: Produce - Co-produce...Co-production in Europe, economic solution or artistic choice? Cineurope. Retrieved April 25, 2019, from https://cineuropa.org/en/ dossiernewsdetail/1364/253854/ Screen Australia. (2012a). Friends with benefits. A report on Australia’s International co-production Program. Sydney, NSW: Screen Australia. Screen Australia. (2012b). Friends with benefits (p. 32). Sydney, NSW: Screen Australia. Screen Australia. (2015). Co-production program overview partner countries. Retrieved July 23, 2015, from https://www.screenaustralia.gov.au/coproductions/treaties_mous.aspx Screen Australia. (2016). Screen currency valuing our screen industry. Sydney, NSW: Screen Australia. Screen Australia. (2018). Australian feature film titles released in cinemas in Australia and overseas, 1998–2018. Retrieved March 16, 2018, from https://www.screenaustralia.gov.au/ fact-finders/cinema/australian-films/feature-film-releases/titles-released Screen Australia. (2019). Production. Getting it made. Retrieved May 13, 2019, from https://www. screenaustralia.gov.au/funding-and-support/feature-films/production, accessed 13.05.2019.

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Screen Australia’s Tim Phillips and Colleen Champ discuss the ins and outs of Official Co-productions. (2018, January 31). Screen Australia. Screen Producers Australia. (2014). National Roadshow Presentations March April 2014. Sydney, NSW: Screen Producers Australia. Sherman, E. (2018), Podcast – Official co-productions: Emile Sherman. In C. Bizzaca (Ed.), Sydney, NSW: Screen Australia. SPA. (2014). National Roadshow Presentations March-April 2014. Retrieved March 03, 2015, from http://screenproducers.org.au/assets/Uploads/2014-Roadshow-Pres-PUBLIC2.pdf SPIO, Spitzenorganisation der Filmwirtschaft. (2019). Filmproduktion 2018. Retrieved May 12, 2019, from https://www.spio-fsk.de/?seitid¼24&tid¼3 Statista. (2020). Production costs and global box office revenue of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit movies from 2001 to 2017. Retrieved February 02, 2020, from https://www.statista.com/ statistics/323463/lord-of-the-rings-films-production-costs-box-office-revenue/ Stöter, K. (2017, March 07). Audio Interview mit Karsten Stöter über Koproduktionen. Swift, B. (2012). Co-productions outperform local films: Screen Australia report. IF Magazine. Retrieved July 28, 2015, from http://if.com.au/2012/08/02/article/Co-productions-outperformlocal-films-Screen-Australia-report/CGBZCEISKO.html. Tosi, J. (2014). Jenni Tosi Weclome Speech. In SPA Conference. Melbourne, VIC: Film Victoria. Verhoeven, D., Davidson, A., & Coate, B. (2015). Australian films at large: Expanding the evidence about Australian cinema performance. Studies in Australasian Cinema, 9(1), 7–20. Wiseman, A. (2019). Universal to take over entertainment one’s Australia/NZ theatrical distribution. Deadline. Retrieved May 11, 2019, from https://deadline.com/2019/01/entertainment-oneaustralia-new-zealand-film-distribution-1202531146/ Xinhua. (2018). China’s film industry sees growth in 2017. China Daily Global Edition, 03(01), 2018. Zeitchik. (2015). Cannes 2015: Netflix comes to the Croisette, and sparks fly. Los Angeles Times, 1. Franziska Wagenfeld is Development and Production Executive at Western Australia’s film funding body, Screenwest. An independent film-producer with diverse credits, she worked as Investment Manager at Film Victoria, has lectured in film-production at leading tertiary institutions, managed the Victorian office of the Australian Film, Television and Radio School, and was Executive Producer at Open Channel Productions. She is currently undertaking a PhD at Deakin University, Melbourne Australia. Deb Verhoeven is Canada 150 Research Chair in Gender and Cultural Informatics at the University of Alberta. Prior to this position she was Associate Dean of Engagement at UTS. An agitator, commentator and critic, Deb is a longstanding advocate and leader in academic-screen industry engagement. She is Director of the Kinomatics Project (http://kinomatics.com), an international, interdisciplinary study that collects, explores, analyses and represents data about the creative industries. She served as inaugural Deputy Chair of the National Film and Sound Archive of Australia (2008–2011) and as CEO of the Australian Film Institute (2000–2002).

Part II

Transnational Audiences and Communities

Chapter 5

Tuvalu Live!: Live Re-Scoring, Transnational Digital Participation and Audience Engagement in a Film Festival Context Sarah Atkinson

Abstract Through an examination of the case study of Tuvalu Live, this chapter addresses the reception of German film through festivals—specifically transnational engagement with German film through a live event. Tuvalu Live was an ambitious live cinema experience which fused an open-air festival screening environment, a live re-scored soundtrack and digitally-triggered audience participation via an online web-app. Central to the Motovun Film Festival programme in July 2017, Tuvalu Live was a transnational experience based upon a German film (1999, Dir: Veit Helmer) which was screened to an international audience in Croatia—with bi-lingual textual instructions and subtitles. Through a close consideration of screening environment, film and audience, this chapter pays particular attention to the interrelations between these three key factors in live-cinema-event design, through participantobservation of both the creative process and the audience experience. Observations and insights into the production process of the live event—from its conception through to its reception—are provided as well as an examination of the audience experience design. The event included opportunities for both physical interaction of audience members within the screening environment, as well as the integration and enhancement of these through specially designed digital technologies. I argue that the Tuvalu Live project advanced three key areas: first, the practical experimentation and extension of the creative practices of live re-scoring and participatory cinema; second, it was a highly effective and affective application of the codes and conventions of live cinema, including instruction, screen-centric interactions ensuring audience complicity, therefore both evolving and crystallising live cinema exhibition aesthetics; third, and crucially, through a participatory dimension that transcended European borders, the delivery of live cinema within a festival context opened up a fruitful space for transnational engagement with European film.

S. Atkinson (*) Department of Culture, Media & Creative Industries, Faculty of Arts and Humanities, King’s College London, London, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_5

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Introduction Tuvalu Live was an ambitious live cinema experience which fused an open-air festival screening environment, a live re-scored soundtrack and digitally-triggered audience participation via an online web-app. As the headline event of the Motovun Film Festival programme in July 2017,1 Tuvalu Live was a transnational experience based upon a German film Tuvalu (1999, Dir: Veit Helmer) (which was a financial co-production between Germany and Bulgaria) filmed in Bulgaria and screened to an international audience of 780 people in Croatia—with bi-lingual textual instructions and subtitles. Through an examination of this particular case study, this chapter addresses the wider theoretical concerns of this volume—the reception of German film through festivals and specifically transnational engagement with German film through a live event. The chapter theoretically frames this particular experience across the dual contexts of film festival scholarship (including de Valck 2007; Peranson 2009; Iordanova 2013; de Valck et al. 2016; Stevens 2018) and live cinema studies (including Klinger 2008; Atkinson and Kennedy 2016, 2018, 2019; Vivar 2016; Dickson 2018). Within this case study, I examine the tripartite of screening environment, film and audience, paying particular attention to the significance of the interrelations between these three key factors in live-cinema-event design. I deal with each in turn under the headings of context, text and audience. Firstly, I will provide an overview of the context of this project, its funding imperatives and the particular film festival of Motovun. Secondly, I outline the method of interrogation of the case study which is based on participant-observation of both the creative process and the audience experience. Thirdly, I explore the filmic text of Tuvalu—a 97-minute feature film—and its suitability to a live cinema experience. Fourthly, as a producer who collaborated on the wider project, I am able to provide observations and insights into the production process of the live event—from its conception through to its delivery and reception. I was able to examine the audience experience design and the development of opportunities for both physical interaction of audience members within the screening environment, and the integration and enhancement of these through specially designed digital technologies. Although I deal with each of these elements separately within this chapter, I do not consider context, film and audience as mutually exclusive categories—rather I contend that they are deeply intertwined in the complex development and design process of the live cinema experience. This study responds both to the macro level—the broader discursive framework within which the film festival is contextualized—whilst also paying close attention to the specific embodied experience of the audience/participant.

1

Tuvalu Live was later presented in Hull as part of Hull City of Culture 2017 to a sold-out audience at Mr. Lee & IvaneSky’s first UK live show.

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Context: Live Cinema in the EU Project The Tuvalu Live event originated from a wider one-year initiative entitled “Live Cinema in the EU,” which was funded by the Creative Europe MEDIA sub-programme of the European Union.2 The project brought together a unique collaboration between a number of partners. It was led by Live Cinema UK who are international leaders in creating live cinema events, with a particular expertise in working with artists and musicians to craft new soundtracks, scores and rescores. The other partners were Boombeam—digital consultants and interactive web-app providers; myself and Helen W. Kennedy representing academic expertise in the field of live cinema; and three European film festival partners: Motovun Film Festival (Croatia), T-Mobile New Horizons Film Festival (Wroclaw, Poland) and Reykjavik Film Festival (Iceland). The overall aim of Live Cinema in the EU was to explore whether audience size for European films could be increased through the development of live elements at film screenings as part of core festival programming. Live cinema projects in the UK constitute a vital part of the film exhibition economy, with almost 50% of exhibitors hosting live cinema events (Brook 2016). The majority of source films for live events have thus far been of American or British origin. The Live Cinema EU project aimed to replicate the success of such events in the UK across Europe utilising European films. The three participating festivals were selected as partners both in recognition of their offering of unique and novel screening locations and for their track record of delivering live soundtrack events, but none had ever engaged internationally or explicitly with the concept of live cinema. Whilst a report detailing all of the findings of the entire project has already been authored (Brook 2017), this chapter focusses solely on the Tuvalu Live event.

Film Festivals & Liveness This chapter theoretically situates the Tuvalu Live case study within and across the two key scholarly areas of film festival studies and liveness. Marijke de Valck has outlined the overarching key areas of concern which shape film festival scholarship: Film festivals [. . .] play a role in numerous areas. They accommodate culture and commerce, experimentation and entertainment, geopolitical interests and global funding. In order to analyse the network of film festivals, it is necessary to investigate all of these different levels on which the festival events operate. (de Valck 2007: 16)

Whilst, Dina Iordanova has underscored the importance of an interactional perspectives and how film festivals interface and fit within wider culture:

2

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S. Atkinson There is consensus, too, that one needs to study how it is that the film festival structures and narrates itself, what its components are, what constitutes the play of power between its participants and how this is re-enacted in the time and space of the festival and even beyond. (Iordanova 2013: 11)

Liveness is an area of critical enquiry initiated by Philip Auslander (1999) and has cut across various media and performance studies domains. Auslander’s definition of liveness refers to events in which there is “physical co-presence of performers and audience [. . .] production and reception, experience in the moment” (2008: 61). Karen van Es proposes constellations of liveness in response to her contention that “the live needs to be considered as the product of the complex interaction among institutions, technology, and users” (2016: 25). The two areas of interest—film festivals and liveness—which underpin this chapter—very often intersect in the consideration of film festivals as “event” and the significance of liveness has been underscored by a number of scholars (including Harbord 2016 and Stevens 2018). Janet Harbord claimed that: A film festival [. . .] gathers together the time of the film and the time of viewing. In doing so, it re-institutionalizes the collective attention of film viewing, and re-centers the time of projection as a live event [. . .] the festival demands that you are there within the fold of its moment. (Harbord 2016: 80)

The specific context that is under examination in this chapter—Motovun Film Festival—sits outside of the film festival circuits through which de Valck and her contemporaries have built their theoretical frameworks of study. Indeed, Lesley Dickson has noted the limited consideration of such festivals within current film festival scholarship: many of the smaller-local “audience” festivals, which unlike exclusive entities like Cannes and Venice exist and thrive because of attendance by the general public and local communities, are largely underexplored from a critical perspective. (Dickson 2018: 84)

Dickson has addressed this gap through an examination of live and eventful aspects of film festivals proposing “event-led exhibition practices” (Dickson 2018) and the “eventfulness and festivity” (2018: 84). It is a similar line of enquiry which is pursued in this chapter. Tuvalu Live built on established live re-scoring and participatory cinema practices which both have their own creative trajectories and histories and areas of academic interest. This includes the expanded cinema movement in the former case (Youngblood 1970), and sing-a-longs, quote-a-longs, etc., in the latter (which have already been the focus of numerous audience studies in film and media scholarship). An examination of various different instances of live cinema has been taken forwards by Atkinson and Kennedy (2016). This chapter situates Tuvalu Live under the umbrella of Live Cinema exhibition which “involves some form of simultaneous live action or addition to a cinema screening” (Atkinson and Kennedy 2019) such as those enhanced with live music, theatrical performance or increased audience participation. The work of Atkinson and Kennedy has examined live events and the hybridisation of experience and viewing registers which bring together live music with traditional film viewing, with thematic digital and physical

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synchronous participation. The work of this chapter is therefore situated between the intersection of film festival studies and film experience. The Tuvalu Live project advanced three key areas within these fields which will be considered within this chapter. Firstly—the delivery of live cinema within a festival context and its potential to open up a fruitful space for transnational engagement with European film; secondly, the creative practices of live re-scoring and participatory cinema; thirdly, the application of the codes and conventions of live cinema, including instruction and screen-centric interactions and engagements.

Motovun Film Festival Tuvalu Live took place in the unique surroundings of the 20th Motovun XX Film Festival, from the 25th–29th July 2017. The festival has been held annually since 1999 having initially been founded by film director Rajko Grlić and producer Boris T. Matić. It is a festival dedicated to independent and internationally diverse film productions. Screening up to 100 films over its 5–6-day duration, the programme spans features, documentaries and shorts. The festival was originally established in response to a complete lack of international films being distributed in Croatia in the late 1990s. Taking place in the streets and squares of the medieval town, it is an informal and relaxed festival which attracts up to 40,000 visitors each year. Alongside the Subversive Film Festival, in Zagreb, (a larger festival which runs for two weeks), these events occupy what have been considered the ‘alternative public spheres’ and ‘counter publics’ (Wong 2011) of Croatia. In the foothills of the fifteenth-century Croatian hill town, festival goers stay in a dedicated campsite, hence the festival’s reputation as “a cross between Glastonbury and Sundance” (Bryan 2007). It has been described as: A film festival totally unlike any other, Motovun has such a unique and charming atmosphere that makes it stand alone. It is unique because of its isolated but beautiful location and charming because of the enthusiasm of its organizers, not to mention the audience. For five days at the end of July, this was a film nirvana that can only be loosely compared with imagining the set of Cinema Paradiso (1988) being visited by a young festival crowd. (Yates 2008: 87)

Most pronounced in the case of Motovun is “. . .this vital component of people and place that sets apart film festivals once again from other viewing experiences” (Wong 2011: 189). Mark Peranson (2009) has established a useful spectrum of festivals which span from business festivals to audience festivals and argues that these forms exist on a continuum, rather than as distinct festival types. Motovun is most definitely positioned towards the audience festival end of the spectrum and is characterized by a highly politicised programme and approach, illuminated in 2017 by a number of instances: the festival screened the controversial The Misandrists (2017), an English-language German drama film directed by Bruce LaBruce; the Motovun Maverick Prize was awarded for the first time to a woman, the Polish film director Agnieszk Holland; the 2017 programme included talks by Maša Aljehin, the

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Russian political activist best known for her membership of the Pussy Riot collective and for serving a prison sentence after their infamous 2012 performance of Punk Prayer in a Moscow cathedral, attacking the support for President Vladimir Putin by the Orthodox Church. Along with Deputy Chairman of the European Film Academy Mike Downey, Aljehin used the festival as a platform to call for Oleg Sentsov’s (the incarcerated Ukrainian director) release at the screening of The Trial: The State of Russia vs Oleg Sentsov (Askold Kurov 2017). The festival also embraces playfulness and experimentation—a further live augmentation of the festival experience included a Q&A with directors and producers was held in the local swimming pool. It is a festival where the audience experience is prioritised and foregrounded and there is encouragement to actively engage in the festival community. It is also a festival dedicated to education with its unique “Campus Motovun” programme— which the organisers describe as “a ‘light-type’ summer workshop for film professionals, semi-professionals, students and all those who want to learn more!” The programme includes daily lectures with acclaimed filmmakers, a daily “debate club” moderated by Croatian film critics, and also a speed-dating event with directors featured in the festival programme. Tuvalu Live was framed by this very specific festival context, one attuned to a playful, alternative, and participatory atmosphere— arguably one which was particularly critical to the programming of the chosen film, and its subsequent experience design as I will go onto discuss.

Tuvalu Tuvalu had actually already featured in the festival’s programme—in the first edition festival of Motovun in the film’s initial year of release (1999), however a 4k restored version of the film had just been released in 2017 and so Motovun provided a timely opportunity for its screening. The festival organisers also had personal connections to the director—such considerations are characteristic factors in a small-scale, audience-based festival where choice is dictated by circumstance and budget. Despite these contextual limitations, the choice to screen Tuvalu aligned well with the funding imperatives of the Live Cinema in the EU project because of its particular pan-European legibility—by this I mean its accessibility by multiple audiences regardless of spoken language. Tuvalu is an experimental “near-silent” film since there is limited dialogue delivered in a range of different European languages. It is a film recognised for its use of tropes drawn from German expressionism and exaggerated silent film aesthetics including its black and white treatment, optical effects, surrealism, distorted scenery, exaggerated visuals and fantasy themes. Made on a modest 1.4-million-mark budget, Tuvalu was shot in Bulgaria and set in a generic European landscape. It is an emblematic example of an instance of transnational German Cinema which transcends language and cultural boundaries. The Director Veit Helmer is renowned for: “. . .his often-noted predilection for visual storytelling, on the fact that in most of his feature films he obsessively avoids the use of his native German tongue, and, more importantly, is

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one of the few contemporary directors who have produced modern-day silent films” (Blankenship and Nagl 2014: 351). The silent-film oeuvre, as well as foreign-language films, are very often the staple of live re-scored screenings since there is no issue with loss or occlusion of dialogue when a soundtrack is performed over the top of the visuals. In the former there are intertitles cut into the on-screen action and with the latter subtitles are present at the foot of the screen. There is a clear historical lineage stemming from the silent film era where live musical accompaniments to film screenings were the standard mode of early cinema exhibition. There has been a twentieth century renaissance of such practices following the preservation and restoration of silent films, where films were exhibited in the same conditions in which they were first screened. Kevin Brownlow, a key proponent and enthusiast of film screenings with live soundtracks, remarks: “The intention is to present films of the silent era as they were meant to be seen in first-run theatres—with top quality prints, shown at the right speed, with full orchestral accompaniment” (Brownlow 1982: 229). Indeed, the term “live cinema” was first used by Kevin Brownlow in 1982, and the Pordenone “Days of Silent Film” Festival (“Le Giorante del Cinema muto”)—established in the same year and still held annually in Italy—is dedicated to the live screening of silent cinema (Turan 2002). All the screenings are held in the 1200-capacity opera theatre—the Teatro Verdi. There was a plethora of live cinema activities from 1982 onwards including the “Thames Television Season of Silent Films with Orchestra” (or “Thames Silents” for short), a partnership between Channel 4, Thames and London Film Festival. These were commissioned after the creative and critical success of the restoration and screening of Abel Gance’s Napoleon (1927), which was restored by Brownlow, scored by Carl Davis and shown with a live orchestra at the Empire, Leicester Square, as part of the London Film Festival in November 1980. Prior to this, in August 1979 Francis Ford Coppola (another key proponent of the “live cinema” genre) had reportedly planned to present Napoleon with a live orchestra, and commissioned his father, Carmine Coppola, to write the music. This version was premiered in March 1981 in the Radio City Music Hall, New York. In addition to silent films, foreign-language films also feature heavily in the live re-scored format since they are screened with subtitles and so there is no need for the spoken dialogue to be audible. Re-scored films are those where an entirely new, and very often experimental, soundtrack is written and performed. Notable examples of re-scored films include numerous performances of Man with a Movie Camera (1929, Dir: Dziga Vertov) by bands such as Document 12, In the Nursery and Michael Nyman; The Pet Shop Boys rescoring of Battleship Potemkin (1925, Dir: Sergei M. Eisenstein) in Trafalgar Square, London; Run Lola Run (1998, Dir: Tom Tykwer) by The Bays, La Haine (1995, Dir: Mathieu Kassovitz) and The Battle of Algiers (1966, Dir: Gillo Pontecorvo) by Asian Dub Foundation to name but a few examples. It is worth noting here the significant differences between live scoring and live re-scoring formats, where authenticity is the guiding principle in the former practice, whereas performativity characterises the latter. Live scores prioritise maintaining historical verisimilitude ensuring that the live soundtrack is faithful to the central text. This is in direct contrast to re-scores which tend to be playful, artistically

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interpretative and experimental renditions which can alter the meaning of the original text and thus offer different types of reception and engagement. Tuvalu is set in a derelict public swimming baths, the story is centered on a love affair between Anton (played by Denis Lavant) and Eva (played by Chulpan Khamatova). The story plays out against the backdrop of Anton’s attempts to stop the bath house from being demolished, and his dreams of escaping to the idyllic island location of Tuvalu. Helmer himself describes the metaphoric significance of the deteriorating bath house in the film which represents the disappearance of movie theatres as a result of the digital transformation of cinema (Dockhorn 2000). The screening of the film in a live context which seeks to maximise audience participation and to build an experience community also responds to the negative impacts of a digitised cinema moving into the solitary viewing settings of home and mobiledevice streaming. As stated, Tuvalu’s status as a silent-film appealed to the transnational imperative of the Creative Europe funding scheme. It also appealed to the politicised and activist emphasis of the Motovun festival. Of Tuvalu, Blankenship and Nagl propose that: Helmer’s nostalgic silent film aesthetics with its dysfunctional, dislocated, and disembodied European cartography can be seen to convey a uniquely utopian impulse, offering audiences a “minor” escape from the EU mastercode of valorization, privatization, and financialization. (Blankenship and Nagl 2014: 360)

Blankenship and Nagl also acknowledge the pan-European legibility of the film through its dialectical techniques of minimalist and generic dialogue: Helmer utilizes a universal artificial machine-language or kauderwelsch comprised of bureaucratic terms that could be appropriated in Russian or German but sound alike in almost any language, such as “Profit,” “Protokoll,” “Inspektion,” “Imperial,” “modern,” or “Achtung.” (Blankenship and Nagl 2014: 354)

Tuvalu, with its sparse dialogue, simulational silent era aesthetics, and its pseudoGerman-expressionism (see Fig. 5.1) places it in the realms of a cult-film, and therefore an apt programming choice for an audience-based festival and as we shall see, its assignation as a cult-film will be further deepened through its live cinema treatment.

Audience De Valck has underscored the importance of a focus on audience as part of a film festival study. She states that: “the focus on ‘attention,’ ‘spectacle’ and ‘experience’ offers ways of framing institutional decisions and cinephile practices without being caught in high-low culture dichotomies” (Valck 2007: 19). In this case study, the audience are a central aspect of both the experience design of the event itself and the research design of its subsequent analysis. Findings and insights of the audience experience were garnered from a multi-faceted methodological approach. The

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Fig. 5.1 The use of colour tinting, exaggerated landscapes and close ups of highly expressive faces are all tropes of silent film and German-Expressionism. Stills taken from Tuvalu (Veit Helmer 1999)

methodological design involved participant observation of both the creative process and of the audience reception, as well as analysis of post-screening audience questionnaires and data captured from the digital app. Anthropology and ethnography are methodologies which have both been deployed in a film festival context (Dayan 2000; Lee 2016). In previous live cinema research, Atkinson and Kennedy have outlined the different researcher subjectivities which they describe as distinct modes: participant, pursuer, producer (Atkinson and Kennedy 2018). The “producer” mode which was enacted here, enabled the creative exploration of the processes and potentials of emergent live cinema at a time when access to other

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producers is not possible—it is notoriously difficult to make direct contact with some of the more successful and high-profile practitioners in the field due to commercial imperatives and sensitivity around the exploitation of intellectual property (Atkinson and Kennedy 2018: 265). Audience feedback was captured through paper-based questionnaires which were left on the seats in the town square at the Tuvalu Live event and participants were encouraged to complete them before leaving. The same questionnaire was also made available digitally via the online-app after the experience had finished. From the 780 people who attended the event, 82 responses were gathered in total comprising of 33 returned paper questionnaires and 49 responses which were received via the online platform. These were all then translated from Croatian to English and the insights from which will be briefly summarised in the conclusion.

Tuvalu Live Experience Design and Audience Participation In the weeks leading up to the event, a brand-new re-score to Tuvalu was devised and then performed live by Croatian music collaboration “Mr Lee & IvaneSky,” formed by two of Croatia’s leading musical artists Damir Martinović “Mrle” (frontman of Croatian rock group “Let 3”) and Ivanka Mazurkijević. Alongside the development of the score, a web-based app was also developed. The purpose of the web-based app that Boombeam designed and managed was threefold: firstly, to generate interest and information on festival events pre-festival; secondly, as an integrated tool for audience participation at live cinema events; and thirdly as a post-event data capture tool. As a web-based app, the Boombeam platform was accessible via any web browser with bespoke URLs created for the festival for maximum compatibility on all devices. (A specific, downloadable app, for example, would be unachievable for multi-festival use, as it would require multiple platform versions to be created and a guaranteed and stable on-site Wi-Fi network to ensure multiple downloads). On the night of the screening—Friday 27th July 2017—in the main square venue there were two key participatory opportunities: the band utilised audience members to accompany them by playing experimental handmade wind instruments, constructed from hose-pipes and water-cooler bottles (pictured in Fig. 5.2) and then all attendees were invited to be part of the score using their mobile phones, with interactive elements that cued the audience to augment the soundtrack through various interactive and participatory interventions. The audience were introduced to the prospect of participation through an introductory speech by Lisa Brook of Live Cinema UK and the festival organiser Igor Mirkovic behind whom an instructional screen was projected (see Fig. 5.3). The screen clearly displayed the URL and the visual prompt for interaction. The length of the speech provided the audience members with the necessary time to access the URL via their mobile devices and to prepare for the experience.

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Fig. 5.2 Tuvalu Live: Mr. Lee & IvaneSky perform their re-scored soundtrack with volunteers from the audience who play experimental make-shift instruments, as Tuvalu is projected above them. Image courtesy of Lisa Brook, Live Cinema UK

Fig. 5.3 Introduction to screening by festival organiser Igor Mirkovic and Lisa Brook. The background screen provides clear instruction in both English and Croatian. Image courtesy of Lisa Brook, Live Cinema UK

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Fig. 5.4 The screen instruction which initiates the infamous “Technology—System— Profit” repetitive chant. Image courtesy of BoomBeam

The web-based platform was then used to deliver instructions to interact directly to the audiences’ personal mobile devices, which enabled members to audibly animate the viewing experience at various moments during the screening. Whilst audience participants on stage played make-shift instruments constructed from water bottles, those in the audience engaged in actions such as gargling and chanting. The experience design of Tuvalu Live was built on established participatory cinematic spectatorial conventions as honed by and with “Rocky Horror Picture Show” audiences—in which audience participants recite lines and make noises at a particular moments (Austin 1981). The interactional instructions of Tuvalu Live were temporally synchronised with the live score via a prompt on the subtitles. This included the instruction to repeatedly chant the phrase “Technology—System— Profit!” during one of the moments in the film (see Fig. 5.4). Blankenship and Nagl explain the significance of this particular phrase within the diegesis of the film: The major-turned-minor language of bureaucracy represented in the film (oral and written) is a language in crisis, an almost expressionist performance of imperative commands, accusations, urgent or desperate cries (“Anton! Eva! Gregor!”) or capitalist slogans, such as the infamous “Technology—System—Profit!” (Blankenship and Nagl 2014: 354)

Repetitious shouting is a key feature of participatory cinema behaviours. Writing in 2008, Barbara Klinger noted that: “Over the last 25 years an especially intensive ‘replay culture’ has developed,” citing the causes as being the proliferation --of exhibition windows, digital technologies and the integration of media organisations.

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Klinger goes onto state that “replay culture acts as a mnemonic device,” that is to say that moments are made more memorable and more readily recalled in repeated viewings of a text. In the examples that Klinger refers to the instances of memorisation are in the context of texts which attract enthusiastic and sometimes obsessive fan interest; thus, the cult status of the media product is assured. Within the context of Tuvalu Live, specific scenes of the film, such as the “Technology—System—Profit” chant resonate more deeply through the participatory augmentation. In Tuvalu Live, we can clearly perceive the influence of the mimetic behaviours of copying and repetition from the Rocky Horror Picture Show playbook, which although impromptu, developed its own set of actions and instructions and a list of props to bring to be used at certain moments (for example rice to throw during the marriage scene, water pistols to shoot into the air to emulate rain, a torch to wave during the song “There’s a light—Over at the Frankenstein place”). Although seemingly playful and improvisational, these moments call on the enaction of very specific behaviours which have been very clearly demarcated. This is characteristic of many subsequent live cinema engagements which are ritualistic, rule-bound and built on principles of crowd control and complicity (Atkinson and Kennedy 2016). There are of course exceptions, such as those described in Rosana Vivar’s 2016 study of the San Sebastian Horror and Fantasy Film Festival where audience participation very often manifests as resistant and disruptive (such as abusive heckling and verbal assault). Tuvalu Live did have elements of the carnivalesque in the behaviours of the unruly crowd which were actively encouraged and which would normally be deemed unacceptable in a traditional auditorium viewing environment. This was in large part due to the outdoor town-square environment where audience members were able to bring drinks and refreshments as well as to talk loudly, chant and sing. The film was scheduled for the late-night Saturday spot, so the audience were inebriated, boisterous and cheerful. The lack of spoken word dialogue in the film’s soundtrack and the loudness of the band were therefore able to accommodate heightened audience noise without disrupting any narrative comprehension. The re-scored sound-track and digital engagements of Tuvalu Live were inspired by the aquatic mise en scène of the film. Bottles of water were placed under all of the seats for the specific task of gargling at one particular moment (see Figs. 5.5 and 5.6) The audience were also instructed to howl like the wind and to hum like a goldfish, these were all interventions that were designed to augment the soundtrack through collective participation, the louder, the better! In this sense the audience were simultaneously both complicit and unruly. Although Tuvalu has received little critical academic attention with only a passing mention in a book by Flaig and Groo (2016), the film carries with it all of the potential hallmarks of a cult classic when subjected to the live cinema format. As Umberto Eco contends: “In order to transform a work into a cult object one must be able to break, dislocate, unhinge it so that one can remember only parts of it, irrespective of their original relationship with the whole” (Eco 1984:198). With Tuvalu Live this transformation was initiated in the breaking apart of the filmic text into a series of participatory and interactive moments which were rendered

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Fig. 5.5 At one point, the audience were instructed to gargle water from the bottles that had been placed under their seats prior to the screening. Image courtesy of BoomBeam

Fig. 5.6 The audience dutifully respond. Image courtesy of Lisa Brook, Live Cinema UK

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memorable through the embodied experiences of the audience—the gargling of water and the repetitive chanting being two key moments. In much the same way as The Rocky Horror Picture Show has a number of isolated “participatory moments,” which are scripted and anticipated by the audience, scene-specific interactions were designed at key moments in Tuvalu which enabled space for aural intervention and repetition. This is a key trope of The Rocky Horror Picture Show screenings, of which Jerslev observes: The spectators’ [. . .] deconstructive game—is made possible by repetition. The audience destroy the common opposition between temporal presence and temporal distance, and between actor (representor) and character (represented), that distinguishes theatre and cinema [. . .]. And they replace the voyeuristic desire that constitutes cinema, so to speak, with a performance where voyeuristic and exhibitionist pleasure are inseparable. (Jerslev 2007: 96)

In Tuvalu Live all of the instructions encouraged collective-community-based actions—in particular, the finale, in which audience members were encouraged to kiss one another in order to mimic and celebrate the actions of the two on-screen protagonists (see Fig. 5.7). Tuvalu Live may well have elevated the film’s status to a memorable cult object through the successful integration of these memorable interactive and participatory moments.

Fig. 5.7 The final prompt of the experience to coincide with the finale of the film. Image courtesy of BoomBeam

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The web-based app logged 49 individual participants on mobile phones on the night of the performance. As a participant myself, I was able to observe that often phones were being shared amongst the participants and the effect of some of the audience participating in the action fed out to others in the venue—and more and more individuals joined in. Therefore, not everyone required a phone and the number of engaged audience members far exceeded those logged onto the online app. After the experience—those phone participants were asked to complete a short questionnaire via the app. The results from these were collated with the hand-written questionnaire responses. These collectively revealed a clear propensity and motivation towards engaging more in European film and a frequent expression of desire to do so because of their enthiusiastic engagement with the participatory and live aspects that they had experienced (Brook 2017). In many cases, respondents sought more opportunities to engage and interact. Suggestions for improvements around further prompting and clearer instructions were also noted.

Conclusion Taking these observations forwards from the experience of both producing and evaluating the live event in Motovun, adaptations were made to the interactive elements to encourage further participation. Tuvalu Live was later presented in Hull as part of Hull City of Culture 2017 to a sold-out audience at Mr. Lee & IvaneSky’s first UK live show. As with Motovun, the same digital platform was used to cue live participatory elements and capture feedback from the audience. The team enhanced and improved the delivery of the live elements of the screening by the use of a physical prop held up by one of the project team members to augment the mobile-phone-based interactive instructions. The use of the prop worked well and encouraged a sense of group participation in the interactive element. In addition, a number of other audience props were provided underneath seats (whistles and demonstration signs) for use at certain stages of the experience. These were positively embraced by the audience, thus signalling a return and a preference for non-digital and more physical forms of participation. In summary, the Tuvalu Live project advanced three key areas: first, the practical experimentation and extension of the creative practices of live re-scoring and participatory cinema; second, it was a highly effective and affective application of the codes and conventions of live cinema—including instruction and screen-centric interactions ensuring audience complicity—therefore both evolving and crystallising live cinema exhibition aesthetics and further establishing the form (see Atkinson and Kennedy 2016); third, and crucially, through a participatory dimension that transcended European borders, the delivery of live cinema within a festival context opened up a fruitful space for transnational engagement with European film. Ultimately, we can conclude that Live cinema in a film festival context is at its best and at its most participatory when the film and the engagements are not bound

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by aural language. Instead they are universal engagements which are open and inclusive for all types of participation, building a sense of community participation and enjoyment in a transnational context. The importance of the close interrelations between context, text and audience were clearly played out in this example, with the three working in co-dependent unison. Through the context-specific film selection and its subsequent live cinematic treatment, Tuvalu was arguably elevated to cultfilm status. The lessons learned here could be taken forwards into audience-based film festival curation, particularly when programming showcase/headline events such as this one. The simultaneous development and consideration in all three parts of the process, and an equality where one is not prioritised over another, is a key tenet of live cinema event design and configuration. Acknowledgments Lisa Brook and Live Cinema UK; Creative Media EU; Department of Culture, Media & Creative Industries (CMCI), King’s College London; Media School, University of Brighton; Helen W. Kennedy; Motovun Film Festival—Matko Burić, Igor Mirkovic, Vanessa Biljan, Vanda Volić, Campus Motovun, all the Motovun Film festival helpers, and CMCI student Katie Merriman.

References Atkinson, S., & Kennedy, H. W. (2016). From conflict to revolution: The secret aesthetic and narrative spatialisation in immersive cinema experience design. Participations: Journal of Audience & Reception Studies, 13(1), 252–279. Atkinson, S., & Kennedy, H. W. (2018). Live cinema: Cultures, economies, aesthetics. New York: Bloomsbury. Atkinson, S., & Kennedy, H. W. (2019). The live cinema paradox: Continuity and innovation in live film broadcast, exhibition, & production. In C. Batty, M. Berry, K. Dooley, B. Frankham, & S. Kerrigan (Eds.), The Palgrave handbook of screen production (pp. 335–346). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Auslander, P. (1999 and 2008). Liveness: Performance in a mediatized culture. New York: Routledge. Austin, B. A. (1981). Portrait of a cult film audience: The rocky horror picture show. Journal of Communication, 31(2), 43–54. Blankenship, J., & Nagl, T. (2014). Veit Helmer’s Tuvalu, cinema babel, and the (dis-) location of Europe. In J. Blankenship & T. Nagl (Eds.), European visions–small cinemas in transition (pp. 351–366). Nova Iorque: Columbia University Press. Brook, L. (2016). Live Cinema in the UK report [online] http://livecinema.org.uk/wp-content/ uploads/2019/04/Live-Cinema-Report-2016-web-res.pdf Brook, L. (2017). Live Cinema in the EU report [online] http://livecinema.org.uk/wp-content/ uploads/2018/02/CREATIVE-EUROPE-FINAL.pdf Brownlow, K. (1982). Thames Silents. Sight and Sound, 4(51), 228–229. Bryan, T. (2007). Diaries at the ready . . . The Guardian, Travel, 6th January 2007 [online] https:// www.theguardian.com/travel/2007/jan/06/saturday2 Dayan, D. (2000). Looking for Sundance: The social construction of a film festival. In I. B. Bondebjerg (Ed.), Moving images, culture and the mind (pp. 43–52). Luton: University of Luton Press. de Valck, M., Kredell, B., & Loist, S. (Eds.). (2016). Film festivals: History, theory, method, practice. Oxon: Routledge.

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Dickson, L. A. (2018). Beyond film experience: Festivalizing practices and shifting spectatorship at Glasgow film festival. In S. Atkinson & H. W. Kennedy (Eds.), Live Cinema: Cultures, Economies, Aesthetics (pp. 83–100). New York: Bloomsbury. Dockhorn, K. (2000). Veits Tanz in der Erfolgsspur: Heute startet Tuvalu, der erste Spielfilm des Wahlberliners Veit Helmer,” Die Welt, 22 June 2000, 143. Eco, U. (1984). Faith in fakes: Travels in Hyperreality. New York: Random House. Es, K. (2016). The future of live. Cambridge: Polity. Flaig, P., & Groo, K. (2016). New silent cinema. New York: Routledge. Harbord, J. (2016). Contingency, time, and event: An archaeological approach to the film festival. In M. de Valck, S. Loist, & B. Kredell (Eds.), Film festivals: History, theory, method, practice (pp. 87–100). New York: Routledge. Iordanova, D. (2013). The film festival reader. St. Andrews: St. Andrews Film Studies. Jerslev, A. (2007). Semiotics by instinct: Cult films as a signifying practice between film and audience. In X. Mendik & E. Mathijs (Eds.), The cult film reader (pp. 88–99). Maidenhead: Open University Press. Klinger, B. (2008). Say it again, Sam: Movie quotation, performance, and masculinity. Participations. Journal of Audience and Reception Studies, 5(2). Lee, T. (2016). Being there, taking place: Ethnography at the film festival. In M. de Valck, S. Loist, & B. Kredell (Eds.), Film festivals: History, theory, method, Practice (pp. 122–137). New York: Routledge. Peranson, M. (2009). First you get the power, then you get the money: Two models of film festivals. In R. Porton (Ed.), Dekalog 3: On Film Festivals (pp. 23–37). London: Wallflower Press. Stevens, K. (2018). You had to be there: Film festival “liveness” and the digitally connected audience. In T. Jenkins (Ed.), International film festivals: Contemporary cultures and history beyond Venice and Cannes (pp. 11–31). New York: Bloomsbury. Turan, K. (2002). Sundance to Sarajevo: Film festivals and the world they made. Berkeley: University of California Press. Valck, M. (2007). Film festivals: From European geopolitics to global Cinephilia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Vivar, R. (2016). A film bacchanal: Playfulness and audience sovereignty in san Sebastian horror and fantasy film festival. Participations, 13, 234–251. Wong, C. (2011). Film festivals: Culture, people, and power on the global screen. New Brunswick, NJ; London: Rutgers University Press. Yates, S. (2008). Stories from the movie mountain: The Motovun international film festival, 23-27 July 2007. Film International, 6(1), 87–95. Youngblood, G. (1970). Expanded cinema. New York: Dutton.

Sarah Atkinson is Professor of Screen Media at King’s College London and co-editor of Convergence: The International Journal of Research into New Media Technologies. Sarah has published widely on the film, cinema and screen industries including extensive work into the Live Cinema economy. She has worked on numerous funded immersive media projects and virtual reality initiatives. Sarah also adopts practice-based methodologies through the creation of her own original works which include video essays, an interactive documentary, immersive experiences and short films (including Live Cinema—walking the tightrope between stage and screen—nominated for a 2020 Learning on Screen Award).

Chapter 6

Romancing the Reich and What Film Twitter Had to Say About It Benjamin Nickl

Abstract Race remains problematic in the twenty-first century for the reconstruction of historical German Holocaust memory through fictional cinema productions. A case study of black British director Amma Asante’s 2018 British romantic war drama film, Where Hands Touch, suggests the difficulty in adapting national race and race representation discourses for global Afro-diaspora audiences outside the German national and supranational European cinema context. The film caused controversy among transnational black audiences and American pop culture outlets. Even black British viewers flat-out rejected it on Twitter. They alleged that Asante deployed clichéd depictions of neo-romanticised interracial romance and naïve reformulations of historical racism, which were interpreted as an example of selfreproducing Blaxploitation. All this points to under-researched structures of transnational minority representations operating within contemporary Afro-European pop culture cinema. I foreground these relations as interstitial culture space, thus linking transnational German cinema’s racially loaded themes like the Holocaust and hybridity to a larger cinema of diasporic storytelling and questions about transnational film scholarship in the twenty-first century.

A Converging Film Culture of Europe, but Who May Tell its Stories? This chapter has two basic premises. The first is that for all its national differences, European film after World War II is marked by a culture of retelling and that the themes of this retelling are forming connections across the borders of cultures and countries in the twenty-first century. That such transnational connectedness is based on themes is in part due to the converging nature of film cultures and film production markets. One can argue the same about all national media cultures, which are increasingly framed by a “convergence culture” (Freeman and Proctor 2018: 17), B. Nickl (*) School of Languages and Cultures, The University of Sydney, Camperdown, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_6

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which is “really only an umbrella term for making sense of the proliferation of interconnected screens and media texts that dominate our contemporary media culture” (Freeman and Proctor 2018: 17). The continued convergence and connectedness of European film cultures also arises from the need to revise or reconstruct their shared history. It is a history based on different nations and diverse national communities, but they all commune through their representations on silver screens and on other mass entertainment platforms like Netflix. The second premise of this chapter therefore holds that popular film culture is the space in which the retelling and reconstruction of converging national histories has become most accessible and visible. Contemporary pop film culture is consistently committed to the negotiation of spaces between dominant narratives about the nation and its hegemonic structures and mechanisms of societal exclusion, and the marginal voices working in resistance to them. Pop film culture is, moreover, in a book on transnational German cinema and cinematic event studies, a specifically abundant area and object of academic research. There have been a number of prolific studies. They assess the intentionally mediated and subjectively received space for transnational stories about German identities in a culturally converged, European cinema. To them belong Tim Bergfelder’s “rethinking of European film studies” (Bergfelder 2005: 315) through the lens of nationalism versus transnationalism; Ayca Tunç Cox’s exploration of the “liminal spaces of Turkish-German cinema” (Tunç Cox 2018: 2) in the lead-up to German Reunification during the 1980s; and Louisa Rivi’s persuasive argument that cinema forms one of the most productive layers of meaning attached to the idea of contemporary Europe as an evolving identity marker: “Cinema is a privileged site of this [identity] interrogation [. . .] [It] uniquely provides images for a changed European imaginary,” writes Rivi (2016: 2). James Harvey’s introductory remarks to his edited collection on “nationalism in contemporary Europe, and the visual cultures of these new nationalisms” (Harvey 2018: 1) are also informative for this context. My specific concern here though is with the participation of diasporic minority filmmakers in Europe’s cinematic convergence culture. Daniela Berghahn’s investigation of ethnic niche cinema in Europe and the process of its mainstreaming to widespread popularity describes a normalisation of ethnic diaspora films in modern Europe (Berghahn 2020: 305). I, too, aim to challenge an exclusionary claim to certain thematic representations of cosmopolitan European history on film. That is, in particular, a claim held by Europe’s white majority populations. They have a history of using their ethno-national identity to mute diasporic minority cultures and these cultures’ filmic retelling of popular themes in European history across state borders and ethnic communities. The case of Turkish German versus ethnic German cinema offers ample evidence for this argument. Turkish German filmmakers required bio-German credentials during the 1960s and up to the late 1990s for their creative work to be considered German enough to engage with themes like the fall of the Berlin wall and reunification. Similar stories exist about the reluctance of French, Austrian, British, Irish, Belgian, Dutch, or Czech mainstream cinema to accept the importance of national minority filmmakers with diverse, transnational backgrounds. Female filmmakers of colour had the hardest time to produce films

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about Europe’s past despite their productive insights into intertwined national histories from the perspective of hybrids. Daniela Berghahn and Claudia Sternberg argue this point in their circumspect analysis of migrant and diasporic film in contemporary Europe: “migrant and diasporic film must be seen—alongside music—as the most significant and influential popular artistic practice with regard to the (self-) representation of migrant and diasporic groups and their experiences and concerns. Migrant and diasporic cinema addresses questions of identity formation, challenges national and ethnocentric myths, and revisits and revises traditional historical narratives” (Berghahn and Sternberg 2010: 2). At the start of the 2020s, however, there is no critical mass of mainstream films by second-generation diaspora, Afro-European filmmakers like the one whose work I discuss here. It is an astounding asymmetry which defies belief in the utopian vision of an easy European multiculture forged of many shared histories into a common identity. The European Left never tired of heralding the advent of that vision in actual reality without being able to prove it. Investigations like Cassandra EllerbeDueck’s of female “African/Black Diaspora living in European societies” (EllerbeDueck 2011: 159) have already rejected the ideal of supranational universalism and democratic symmetries as a fantasy of technocrats and majority society’s elites. “African/Black women living in Europe,” Ellerbe-Dueck writes, “endure not only sexism from the dominant white society, but also, in certain situations, from within their own communities. Thus, Black women in Europe experience and grapple with these realities on two distinct fronts” (Ellerbe-Dueck 2011: 159; Campt 2003: 289–290). The same double bind appears to be at work in films about Europe’s interlinked histories at the intersection with race. Amma Asante was confronted with it when she connected the perspective of subaltern Germanness with her authority as a black British filmmaker to tell a story about interracial love in Nazi Germany. I work from Rielle Navitski’s assumption that national cinemas and diasporic minority filmmakers are entrenched in global modes of affiliation which converge in race loyalties rather than transnational imaginaries of inter-ethnic cosmopolitanism (Navitski 2017: 3–5). This serves to detail how black Germanness during the Holocaust in Where Hands Touch passed for the wider public in Europe as an acceptable European convergence theme. However, black Twitter, especially in America and Great Britain, rejected the film’s biracial love story for perpetuating a naive Blaxploitation romance. Similar to Benedikt Anderson’s concept of imagined communities, I suggest that certain convergence themes in transnational cinema create a communal identity across audiences. Stephanie Dennison argues this point for diasporic Hispanic cinema (Dennison 2013: 1); Anne Ciecko makes it about transnational Chinese cinema and Hollywood adaptations (Ciecko 1997: 221); Emanuelle Santos repeats it in a discussion of Portuguese or Luso-African filmmaking and film consumption (Santos 2018: 170–171). Biracial identities and the German Holocaust are two of those transnational convergence themes in European cinema. One questions the stronghold of ethnicity in modern societies, the other is a tremendous caesura in modern history (Fig. 6.1).

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Fig. 6.1 Official poster art for Where Hands Touch (Amazon America DVD release; from left to right: Hans, Kerstin, Leyna, Lutz; note the recommendation by Utibe Gautt Ate published on Black Girl Nerds; Gautt Ate is a freelance culture and arts writer based on Los Angeles, California contributing to the LA Review of Books and Honeysuckle Magazine

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They allow supranational viewers to perceive of themselves as part of an ethnically diverse yet coherent community, which is shaped by similar events and experiences. They form socially associative structures of meaning, agendas, traditions, and ideologies (Anderson 2016: 25), which in turn feed into larger dynamics of transnationally converging film cultures. These structures are useful in that charting them is charting part of the global cinema complex, which informs this chapter’s approach to interracial Germanness in the context of transnational screenwriting and the directing of films about European history in the new century. I use the idea of transnational convergence themes further to reflect on Twitter as a contested event space for the reception of popular cinema; and to comment on the consequences of intra-communal cancel culture on social media. I discuss all this in the conclusion of this chapter in relation to ethnic minority filmmaking in Europe.

To See and be Seen: Afro-American Versus Afro-European Directing transnational black identity films as part of the Afro-European cinema diaspora, Carmen Faymonville and Tina Campt stress, is as much about being visible and asserting a distinct form of representation as it is about the perspective of the outsiders looking in and creating an identifiable Other’s gaze in the process (Faymonville 2003: 365–367; Campt 2003: 288). Other transnational media scholars also argue that the flow of converging themes in entertainment cultures and the cross-border commerce of European cinema entertainment have unified entire film industry discourses. In fact, themes like the Holocaust and ethnicity in Nazi Germany gave some of the most divergent and fragmented cinema discourses across Europe a distinct geo-political profile as just that: European. With a variety of converging blockbuster themes about a retelling of its recent past, as Thomas Elsaesser writes, “European cinema distinguishes itself from Hollywood and Asian cinemas” (Elsaesser 2005: 23). The East-West division along Europe’s Iron Curtain, for instance, endures in the thematic cinema legacy of most European countries as a shared identity discourse until today. The same is true for artistic efforts in European cinema to overcome ethno-national divisions in an expanding cluster of multilingual nation states. Border-crossing filmmaking, Elsaesser posits: further de-centers national cinema without abandoning the [pan-European] auteur by highlighting the efforts—not always successful or recognized—of individuals who have tried to make films either in Europe or addressed to European audiences, from transitional and transnational spaces, including explicitly political spaces. (Elsaesser 2005: 23)

A polycentric understanding of the configuration of European identity, where multiple identities of the local, national, and global coexist within and side by side, seems to support the notion of a post-national cinema; a cinema, which favours thematic explorations of communal belonging across borders of ethnicity and language without universal concepts of identity collapsing difference into a unitary cultural order. Rivi finds that “the multiple subjects and nations that contemporary

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European movies envision challenge a monolithic [and monoethnic] configuration of Europe and attempt to reconfigure it into a heterogeneous, hybrid, and polycentric space so as to take into account multiple subjectivities, nations, and realities” (Rivi 2016: 6). And yet, a large segment of black American and British Twitter and American e-magazines like Vulture, the pop culture and entertainment site from New York magazine, rejected Asante’s coalescence of a supranational framework for multi-voiced and pluri-ethnic European film around race and history. The headline for Vulture’s takedown piece reads as follows: “A Short Conversation About What the Hell Is Going on in Where Hands Touch.” In the article published on January 4 in 2019, Vulture staff writer Hunter Harris and guest contributor Haahniyah Angus, a black British pop critic, discuss historicity, biracial romance, and why and how Asante got it so horribly wrong (Harris and Angus 2019). In light of this dilemma, Where Hands Touch is a case in point for our insufficient grasp of the relationship of popular European cinema and its transnational consumption and global reception by distinct communities on social media. It is, of course, a tall order to ask of transnational film scholarship to work simultaneously on the level of production, consumption, and supranational aesthetics while factoring in perception via social media platforms like Twitter or pop culture outlets. However, the spectre of white Eurocentrism still haunts the representation of Europe’s national histories and their convergence themes’ transnational retellings on screen. If left unchecked, it threatens to overshadow the gains of European film in representing a critical and self-reflexive look at its “heart of whiteness” (Loshitzky 2010: 90), as outlined in great detail by Yosefa Loshitzky. This case study illustrates the possibilities and limitations of this process as represented by the production and release context and the social media response to Asante’s romantic WWII drama. Cinematographed by Asante’s fellow British production crew colleague, Remi Adefarasin, the two-hour-long film first premiered on September 14 in 2018 at the Toronto International Film Festival. The independent American film distributor and production company Vertical Entertainment released the film on Netflix shortly after its festival debut. Written and directed by Asante, Where Hands Touch depicts a bi-racial Germany teenager by the name of Leyna. The seventeen-year-old is daughter to a white German mother and a black father from Senegal. At the beginning of the film, she lives with her mother Kerstin and her brother Koen in the idyllic-looking small town of Rüdesheim in the German Rhine Valley. While her half-sibling appears white and hence is considered fully German, Leyna’s mixed background defines her as a so-called Rhineland bastard, a derogatory term used in Nazi Germany to describe Afro-German citizens. The mixed ancestry of these AfroGermans allegedly relates to French soldiers of African descent, who occupied the Rhineland in the aftermath of World War I. Leyna’s race status and a visit from the local Gestapo prompt the single mother Kerstin to move her children to Berlin— commonly believed in those days to be a modern sanctuary city. Leyna falls in love with Lutz. He is a teenager, a blue-eyed and blonde-haired white German boy who serves in the Hitler Youth. Their romantic involvement unfolds before the historical background of the Holocaust in Germany and Leyna ends up facing persecution and detention in a Bavarian labour camp for being deemed impure by the regime.

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As the film opens, a quote by celebrated Afro-American author, novelist and playwright James Baldwin appears during the fade-in sequence: “There are days when you wonder what your role is in this country and what your future is in it.” The quote, delivered in an interview Baldwin gave in 1963 on public American television to Kenneth Clark, reads in full: That’s part of the dilemma of being an American Negro; that one is a little bit colored and a little bit white, and not only in physical terms but in the head and in the heart, and there are days when you wonder what your role is in this country and what your future is in it. (Clark and Baldwin 1963: 27)

Even the shortened version of Baldwin’s quote is quite powerful in its historical reference and due to its origins in the American Civil Rights movement. James Baldwin’s words are programmatic shorthand for a critical awareness of racial hybridity, which Asante provides to viewers of her film as a frame of reference. The narrative of Where Hands Touch admits to the heterogenous realities for Germans living their lives through the prism of race. The plot acknowledges the unequal social strata imposed by an ethno-national populism, which turned the logic of racial superiority back on its own citizens. The terrors imposed by the Nazi regime on Germany’s minority populations or non-Aryans are on full display. The perverse logic of miscegenation is, too. Lutz’s father Hans, a high-ranking SS officer, shoots his son dead for impregnating Leyna and for trying to flee the country with her at the height of the war in 1944/1945. The killing of his own son, a white German, is a powerful commentary on racist thought. Neither can racism serve as a sustainable core of Germanness nor does it permit future generations to move passed it if they do not actively fight it. What the father deems a race shame, a bastardisation of white Germanness, ends up as the film’s central message about Hitler Germany’s fated undoing. Leyna, however, gets rescued by American troops and survives the internment camp. At the end of the film, she is reunited with her white German mother and her white German brother. Fully pregnant and saved from the Nazis’ cruelties, she will be able to carry the pregnancy to term and give birth to her biracial German child in Germany. This aspect of the film’s message is a rejection of racism and the doomed logic of fascist bio-politics. It begs the question why some international audiences saw it as something completely different and argued that Where Hands Touch’s interracial romance was undermining the critical potential of the story and the German Holocaust theme. Vulture’s critical review took the angle that Asante was exploiting biracial subjects for commercial success: “How did we make it here, to a story that finds romance in a black German girl falling in love with a Nazi during the Holocaust. What has the swirl-industrial complex wrought!” (Harris and Angus 2019). As the second decade of the new millennium has come and gone, European filmmakers increasingly experiment with racially transgressive protagonists and mixed-race romance to retell Europe’s converging histories. Berghahn’s work documents how interracial romance has been used since the 1950s in British race relationship films like Flame in the Streets (Roy Ward Baker 2011). Flame in the Street’s director Roy Ward Baker gives the audience the story of Kathie, a young

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white teacher from a blue-collar workers class family, and Peter, an Afro-Caribbean immigrant from Jamaica. Berghahn explains that theirs is a romance which the genre of race relationship films in the United Kingdom told in address to white liberal audiences. Rooting for the love of couples like Kathie and Peter and having black characters fight for their right to love whomever they want meant at the same time that white majority audiences should stand up for tolerance and racial integration in real life (Berghahn 2020: 308). Flame in the Streets models inter-ethnic romance as an unremarkable part of everyday life in Britain. The narrative is certainly less politicised and less concerned with a focus on black British experiences. Films adhering to those features were made by only a small number of black British directors in the 1980s. A prominent example for this is Menelik Shabazz’s Pressure (1981). Yet, one may see popular romance productions like Flame in the Streets as a valid effort to mainstream the representation of racial Otherness. There is a core message that interracial love stories deserve a place in national pop culture as accessible mainstream entertainment. They may favour a more simplistic, emotional approach over a pedagogical lesson in ethnic self-definition or auto-ethnographic explorations of race and gender as expressed in the works of Britain’s Black Film Collective (Berghahn 2020: 309). There is no denying though that access to mainstream audiences via the representation of relatable experiences has great potential to inform them about precarious topics. Kathie’s and Peter’s situation raised awareness among millions of viewers about systemic racism, as did subsequent interracial romance films made in Great Britain and circulated across Europe. My Beautiful Laundrette (1985) was directed by Stephen Frears, with a script written by Hanif Kureishi. The film premiered in the United Kingdom in 1985 and has been screened in cinemas and on television since then many times. It has reached millions of viewers. It features the homosexual relationship between the British Pakistani character of Omar and the white, AngloBritish character of Johnny. A sex scene between the two references Johnny’s racist background when he marched with white nationalists through the city of London. Omar remembers this detail only moments before giving in to his passion and letting his sexual desire for Johnny overcome barriers of ethnic division. More interracial couples have followed in European film in the wake of Kathie and Peter and Omar and Johnny. They symbolise the convergence of Europe and its diverse communities by living out transgressional race romance and transnational connections on screen in films like Stig Björkmann’s Georgia, Georgia (1972), Otto Preminger’s The Human Factor (1979), Coline Serraus’ Mama, There’s a Man in Your Bed/Romuald et Juliette (1989), Michele Placido’s Pummarò (1990), Montxo Armendáriz’s Letters from Alou/Las Cartas de Alou (1990), Régis Wargnier’s Indochine (1992), Jean-Jacques Annaud’s The Lover/L’Amant (1992), Gurinder Chadha’s Bend It Like Beckham (2003), Jeremy Wooding’s Bollywood Queen (2003), and Hermine Huntgeburth’s The White Massai/Die weiße Masai (2005). Interracial romance is a productive and persistent pop culture genre in European cinema. Asante herself has acquired somewhat of a reputation for telling the audience about the complexity of race relations in white majority societies through an accessible storyline: the love story of a mixed-race couple. She has done so in her

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2016 British biographical romance drama, A United Kingdom, which revisits the story of King Seretse Khama of Botswana and his loving but controversial marriage to white woman and British citizen, Ruth Williams, in the 1950s. Her 2013 British period drama Belle had already been centred on racial hybridity, featuring the fictionalised life story of Dido Elizabeth Belle who was born in the West Indies as the illegitimate mixed-race daughter of the First Earl of Mansfield William Murray’s nephew, Sir John Lindsay. Unlike Where Hands Touch, Belle won over AfroAmerican audiences, garnering five nominations and two wins at the American NAACP Image Awards in 2015. It remains a poignant fact that European pop film culture has consistently denied or minimised interracial protagonism in historically themed drama genres, specifically with films recapturing wartime periods or times of severe societal upheaval. With its more hybrid immigrant context though, Hollywood cinema already trialled the re-envisioning of the past of America around experiences of mixed-blood Americans in the 1930s. And, as J.E. Smyth comments, “many of these classical Hollywood films subverted traditional notions of national history, gender, and race and classic ‘tragic mulatto’ stereotypes” (Smyth 2008: 24). Isolina Ballesteros writes that the theme of historical interracial otherness, as foregrounded by a mixed-race lead on major screen productions in the United States, only transpired in Europe in comparable ways in the 1990s and only in “European countries with a long tradition of immigration and established diasporas, such as the United Kingdom, France, and Germany” (Ballesteros 2016: 124). It was a wave of female second-generation immigrant directors and scriptwriters, whose hybrid condition was so interesting to mainstream audiences in America that it created a space for them to represent the intersection of race, gender, class, and sexuality with the national (Ballesteros 2016: 127). One could therefore argue that the majority of black and hybrid audiences predominantly faulted Asante’s Afro-European romance for a supposed lack of black American film wokeness. They consumed the interracial Holocaust narrative as a modern story about global race issues in an Afro-American race film framework. In America, this framework developed at different speeds and with a distinctly different set of cinematic aesthetics around race, blackness, and multi-ethnic coexistence compared to its European counterparts. It may help explain why the NAACP board of governors acknowledged that Asante’s eighteenth century, black British history piece was as important as Afro-American films like Gina PrinceBythewood’s Beyond the Lights (2014), Justin Simien’s Dear White People (2014), Tate Taylor’s Get On Up (2014), and Ava DuVernay’s blockbuster sensation Selma (2014). Selma was the breakout sensation of the year, featuring black rights in America in the 1960s with a female director at the helm of the project. Where Hands Touch, in contrast, seems to have fallen short of delivering sufficient connection between both the complexity of its subject matter and its contemporaneity. Asante, as the majority of her critics appears to suggest, has mastered the nuanced depiction of race as a national history drama; but it would seem that she failed to show blackness beyond costumed tropes in the light of the Holocaust’s modern race complex.

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All this turns in large part on the fact that film blackness has been a more sustained point of discussion for a longer period of time in American culture and film studies than in studies of European cinema(s). Convergence themes in European cinema have been dealing with whiteness as a unifier rather than blackness as its equal. The latter has been a greater concern in America with the emergence of New Black Cinema in the 1980s and the insurmountable obstacle of systemic racism in the United States, as argued in the insightful monograph studies of Michael Boyce Gillespie (2016) and Maryann Erigah (2019). “Of paramount importance is understanding how whiteness operates in creative industries to contribute to racial difference and power”, writes Erigah (Erigah 2019: 6). Gillespie argues that “the idea of black film is always a question, never an answer” (Gillespie 2016: 16). He goes on to add that “film blackness thickens with the irreducible character of blackness and the radical capacity of black visual and expressive culture, a difference that ceaselessly devises and recasts” (Gillespie 2016: 26). The epistemological gridlines around societal forces and colour consciousness formed by Lee Daniel’s Precious (2009) and The Butler (2013) or Tyler Perry’s Madea franchise affirm both of these scholars’ arguments. Placed in direct comparison with film’s like Asante’s Where Hands Touch as commercially focused cinema products about black experience, the race logic of popular Afro-American film in the twenty-first century appears to avoid “a more simplistic binaristic debate over good/bad racial role models versus negative/bad racial stereotypes” (Mask 2012: 5). That is the main point of critique for Asante’s work as articulated by Afro-American audiences. Scholars of African American cinema like Mia Mask view oversimplified binaries as a “historical point of departure rather than a foregone conclusion” (Mask 2012: 5). In this way, contemporary black American film has also dismissed the grand narrative of race. It is one to which European cinema still seems overly attached, namely that blackness and inter-ethnic hybridity present a productive opportunity to think critically through the changing nature of whiteness rather than to confirm blackness on its own terms and realise its innate complexities. Negative reactions to the reductive race paradigm in Where Hands Touch thus fall broadly into the categories of innovative black subjecthood and binaristic approaches to race identity.

Where Black and White Hearts and Hands Touch, Opinions Differ Where Hands Touch was nominated for 2019 Outstanding World Cinema Motion Picture at the British Black Reel Awards. George MacKay, who stars next to Amandla Stenberg’s character of Leyna as the Nazi youth Lutz, was nominated for best British/Irish Actor of the Year by the London Critics Film Circle Awards 2020. Another nomination for Best Soundtrack/Discovery of the Year Award 2019 by the World Soundtrack Awards Academy went to the film’s Ann Chmelewsky for musical composition and original music score. In a review of the film for the British

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Film Institute, Pamela Hutchinson praised Asante’s determination to “[take] the plunge into the late Third Reich with a precarious but determined story of a perilous passion between Amandla Stenberg’s bi-racial ‘Rhineland bastard’ and George MacKay’s Hitler Youth recruit” (Hutchinson 2019). Writing for the British Film Institute’s Sight and Sound international film magazine section on the BFI website, Hutchinson also defended Asante’s work against many negative pre-release reactions the film received online: “When stills were released online of the lead couple, the film was accused a priori of romanticising fascism. It’s an unfounded claim: this film lays out not just the enormity of the Holocaust but the insidious mechanics of prejudice” (Hutchinson 2019). The reception was less positive and by far less supportive of the romancing-the-Reich motif outside the United Kingdom. Glenn Kenny, writing for the New York Times film review section, termed the film a “disturbing misfire” (Kenny 2018). “In Nazi Germany during World War II there were 25,000 people of color”, writes Kenny, “many of whom were killed by their fellow Germans. I agree with the filmmaker Amma Asante that their stories should be told. But Ms. Asante’s new film, ‘Where Hands Touch,’ an attempt to tell one such story, is a gut-wrenching misfire” (Kenny 2018). He also picked up on Asante’s use of the Baldwin quote, which European and specifically British reviewers largely omitted: “No matter how much humiliation she’s subjected to, Leyna is determined to assert her German identity. This trait is meant, I suppose, to make the viewer reflect on the James Baldwin quote that appears at the movie’s opening: “There are days when you wonder what your role is in this country and what your future is in it.’ But the devices this movie constructs to connect to Baldwin’s thought are insufficient, to say the least” (Kenny 2018). More zeitgeisty American publication outlets included the Twitter shitstorm unleashed by social media users on Asante’s creative decisions and her screenwriting. Vulture ran a feature story on the misgivings black viewers had about Asante’s work. The American publication outlet collaborated with one Twitter user, who bemoaned in live tweets about the film while viewing it the lack of complex whiteness in Where Hands Touch. According to Haahniyah Angus, the outspoken Tweeter and pop culture critic in question, Lutz’ whiteness could have been used to play against Leyna’s Afro-German identity by complicating it to a point of contrastive foil worthy of white/black race dialogue on screen. Angus surmises that Where Hands Touch succumbs instead to the global market forces of race-bait cinema, which sells tickets by conveying “romantic racism or a racist romanticism” (Loshitzky 2010: 90) as a problem for non-white characters to resolve. Do mixedrace love stories “offer a celebratory reception of hybridization and miscegenation, or [do they] reveal a latent fear of it?” (Loshitzky 2010: 90). Upon reading her comments, Asante blocked Angus on Twitter. Her: yeah so nazis told me I couldn’t swim after they banned Jews from swimming Him: let’s jump in a lake —niggathée chalamet (@hanxine) January 2, 2019

Certain scenes like the one hinted at in a tweet by Angus tend to present twin processes of racism and reproduction of racial knowledge as the black character’s

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problem. And by extension, it is the black audiences’ problem. Repeatedly, Leyna is presented as the negative cultural contamination. A scene at the beginning of the film shows her as the only black German on a train. When SS officers check everyone’s papers, they frown upon her claim that she is German while sitting next to her mother and her brother. A few minutes later, Leyna sits in a classroom filled with blond, white teenage girls her age. The white German teacher lets her know that she is different, the other girls convey that she does not belong with them by ignoring her. A framed picture of Hitler hanging on the wall is the backdrop for the pervasive racism, whose portrayal is heavily imbued in style and content with what has come to be regarded as European race romance (Galt 2006). I don’t believe that a black girl in 1940s Germany would willingly risk her life for an ugly boy under the threat of being captured by Nazis. —niggathée chalamet (@hanxine) January 2, 2019

As in My Beautiful Laundrette, Leyna’s story follows an integration ideology of antidiscriminatory rhetoric, spurred by providing symbolic gestures of liberalism; love by a white man, to be precise, who loves her not because she is black, but in spite of it. Angus points out that Lutz is deeply troubled over what will happen to Leyna and his mixed-race child, but his white privilege simply assumes no responsibility in all of the horrible things leading up to labour camps and the interment of Germans of colour. This means that white audiences can consume the inner turmoil of the black German hybrid as a proxy for questions with which they should grapple themselves, while identifying with Lutz as the good German. He laments the circumstances of Nazi Germany but never asks what he or other white Germans could have done to avoid the Holocaust or Leyna’s internment. It is good white Europe washing its hands clean of bad white Europe. More criticism of oversimplification follows. A closer look at the black-white race aesthetics of Where Hands Touch suggests that the romance plot bears out the concept of difference and how to overcome it in a Romeo-and-Juliet meets loveconquers-all tale. This, again, is something Angus picks up on in the discussion of the film with Harris. They bring up the longstanding controversy surrounding Black Twitter and the BFI, which acted as one of several co-production companies for the film: Haaniyah: I first heard about Where Hands Touch through social media around 2016? I feel like I can say that for most of us we were not here for it when the project and its premise were announced. It honest to God has felt like this ongoing battle between Black Twitter and the BFI (British Film Institute) for producing this film. (Harris and Angus 2019)

Where Hands Touch makes it clear that the segregation of German-speaking cultures and intra-national communities is based on allegedly innate difference. That racial division underpins all aspects of Nazi groupthink is the actual storyline in the film on which this concept turns. Recent Hollywood productions such as Michael Gracey’s Disney blockbuster The Greatest Showman (2017) have demonstrated that it is a current and widely sellable storyline to rebel against racism in the name of love. A subplot in Gracey’s film has Zac Efron’s white socialite Phillip Carlyle and Zendaya’s black circus artist, Anna Wheeler, fall for each other and even sing about

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rewriting the (racialised) stars in a fan-favourite musical number. The Greatest Showman’s interracial romance succeeds against the racist odds of the day in 1850s and 1860s New York. American audiences and film critics applauded that choice, because it was a fictional modernisation, an addition to the historical figure of P.T. Barnum and his white American success story (Moreland 2017). It is, as Gillespie points out, a sign of tacit evolution in that American mainstream film has made some space for black subject formation, guided by an attentiveness to polyphonic representation without reproducing race as a tokenistic prop (Gillespie 2016: 34). For both Vulture’s staff writer and Angus, it is here that Where Hands Touch loses touch with a ‘woke’ twenty-first century discourse on film blackness and whiteness. For whether the notion of difference is racial, ethnic, religious, or linguistic in nature, there is a multitude of possibilities to depict its overcoming on screen without succumbing to reductive Blaxpoitation dialogue and dated racist language tropes, which remain uncontextualized for today’s audiences of colour across the world. Angus points out in reference to highly offensive terms used in the film that Asante may be catering to an audience taste, which is firmly rooted in the cinematic reduction of black identity to an absurdist fantasy of white audiences in films like William Crain’s Blacula (1972): Haaniyah: Oh God, there are so many scenes that made me physically cringe. But I think the worst is when her little white brother (whose existence is never explained) says that her father was black “head to toe.” I don’t know why, but that piece of dialogue just made me want to curl up in a ball and scream. Other than that, I think the scene where a Hitler Youth rally takes place in front of Leyna’s apartment and for some reason her first logical thought is, Oh, I’ll go hang with the li’l Nazis. As most would guess, they aren’t happy to see a black girl, and then proceed to call her a nigga. It’s just so much at once. . . (Harris and Angus 2019)

Another point raised by Angus concerns the reputation of Asante for telling the story of interracial couples while setting them back in history. In Asante’s films prior to Where Hands Touch, she made a point about highlighting the persistence of private racism or racism in private spaces. This spotlight on personal love and personal racism contradicted the established conceptual analysis of splitting racism into institutionalised or structural racism and individual psychological notions of racism. If done right, interracial romance in the face of racism rejects the notion of a more important racism (state, nation, officials, laws) and a minor racism (individual attitudes and feelings). It denounces the structural forces of bigotry and hate, which play out in individuals’ acts of racism as microaggressions as well as in statesanctioned actions like the Kristallnacht, or Night of Broken Glass (also called the November Pogrom). None of this happens in Where Hands Touch, which Angus points out could have been addressed by complicating German whiteness: Haaniyah: I mentioned it on Twitter already, but the idea of having a “romance” set to this background is absurd in its own right. But the fact that he’s Nazi Bae makes it even weirder. Many have argued that because of Asante’s old films with interracial couples that she may be pigeonholed into this “genre” of sorts, but my question is, Why on earth isn’t the male lead Jewish? Like, I feel that would be the easiest fix for this mess. (Harris and Angus 2019)

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With all the resistance coming from African American and black British audiences on social media, one must raise the question if Asante came to regret her creative participation in the interracial German theme and its circulation in the transnational film circuit. The British-Ghanaian filmmaker and screenwriter addressed her reasoning in public interviews and media statements by stressing that this was a story about a coming-of-age take on mixed-race teenagers in Nazi Germany. On the specific issue of representing the story of an Afro-German girl in Nazi Germany, she pointed to the underexplored theme of black Europeanness and suggested that its exploration would benefit the global black diaspora all over the world: I had made my first movie, A Way Of Life, it was a movie that didn’t get released in the US. And the place where I made that in the UK, in Wales, had some of the oldest Black communities in Europe. And prior to really doing some research about Wales, I didn’t really know that. And I found it weird that this was a part of the United Kingdom that I lived in, but I didn’t know the history of people like me who were of the diaspora, of the African diaspora, but born and raised in Europe. And it kind of compelled me to want to find out more about the other countries around the UK that were European, but that had communities that were from the diaspora, and to try and find out about the history of their existence, kind of going back beyond the ‘60s. It dawned on me that I didn’t know a massive amount of history around African American history, but I knew more than I knew about European Black history. (Broadnax 2018)

Best revealed in Angus’s own words, it says a lot about dominant attitudes on mainstream film in Europe that support of film blackness and an allegedly progressive theme to show it should mean uncritical reception. A black pop culture critic based in England, she remarked on the issue of assumed loyalties to a black female filmmaker working in the same country: Haaniyah: It’s just this weird idea that we have in the film industry, specifically the British film industry, where we can’t call out BS when we see it. People are too afraid to be honest, and thus we create this weird area where harmful art can exist and be praised. On top of that, I was told that it was unfair that I was calling Amma out, as WOC get barely any roles, scripts, or good opportunities within Hollywood. Yes, the rep for WOC within the film industry is minimal, but that doesn’t mean we should accept the lowest bar of representation. (Harris and Angus 2019)

The Cosmopolitan Cinema Conundrum and its Curation on Twitter Towards the end of the film, a brief exchange between Leyna and Lutz encapsulates the crux of the matter at point in this chapter. It is that Asante never makes good on her promise of a cosmopolitan race film, which uses the black German experience during the Holocaust to think about racism as a structural issue in modern society. Where Hands Touch speaks out against the racialising politics of Nazism by having two lovers separated because of race. There is little in the film however which would

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speak to Afro-European diaspora or Afro-American audiences as a complex narrative about transnational film blackness and racial hybridity. Leyna: (in tears, chocked up) You can’t save me! Lutz: (eyes welling up with tears, voice sounding desperate) Then you save me! (sobbing) I want you to breathe properly. To eat morning and night without the fear that you will be murdered. In this place that tells me that I should be a murderer. (pauses, then looks directly at Leyna) I don’t want you to be afraid anymore. (Where Hands Touch, 1:42:34-1:43:02)

The notion of hybridity plays little to no part in the process of Lutz and Leyna becoming aware of the finality of their situation. There is no ambiguity connected to Leyna’s race status. She never questions her fate as a mixed-race German, apparently accepting propaganda doctrine spread by the Nazi regime. She is seen as non-German Other and will be killed for it, for which Lutz seems to atone in a trope-like Good-German plea for Leyna’s survival and her escape from the horrors of the Third Reich. The boundaries of race and Germanness are clear-cut and remain intact despite Asante’s declaration that Where Hands Touch is a film about and for the complex identities and histories of Afro-European diaspora (Broadnax 2018). Black Twitter had misgivings about the filmmaker calling it anti-discriminatory or relevant for a transnational discourse on blackness and race in film. A review of social media reactions posted by users like Angus in reaction to Asante’s work may explain why. One user found that other films produced in Germany, which were based on popular German non-fiction books by Afro-German authors of acclaim in the country, were more relevant to portrayals of black German experiences in World War II: Don’t watch #WhereHandsTouch ‘Neger Neger Schornsteinfeger’ is a better watch if you wanna learn more about the struggles of blacks in Nazi Germany. pic.twitter.com/GPrkcQ0s8v —Kumi (@D_Kumii) January 3, 2019

Another user echoed Angus’ critique in that Leyna’s character. They point out that Leyna lacks dimension and thus remains problematic as a cornerstone for multifacetted race discourse in film blackness and the film’s romanticised Holocaust theme: Like are we supposed to sympathise with the lead character? She's anti-Semitic, defends a whole entire nazi boy, and bad mouths her mother as well. Like not a single redeeming part in sight #wherehandstouch pic.twitter.com/qV8MFp3BJb —Harpo who dis (@KendridKamonne) January 3, 2019

Monique Jones used the opportunity to link to a critical piece on Asante’s work, which she published on Just Add Colour, an American movie and entertainment e-magazine. In it, she explains why the problem with Asante’s work is in the film’s uncritical fetishization of race, both whiteness and blackness: In case you need my opinion on #WhereHandsTouch in light of it going a bit viral: https://t. co/o7VESOiozB —Monique Jones (@moniqueblognet) January 3, 2019

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Other contemporary films about film blackness and race such as Jérôme Salle’s ZULU (2013) show that there is indeed a way to infuse the national with the transnational so that film blackness and hybridity can be consumed in supra-national paradigms. It is possible to arrive at Kwame Anthony Appiah’s definition of cosmopolitan society: “university plus difference” (Kwame 2006: 151). ZULU, as Ivo Ritzer argues, depicts the racist tensions in South Africa as a specifically national context for the film’s crime drama plot. At the same time, white audiences and audiences of colour across the world flocked to the film for its ingenious ways to hybridise black South African realities with global entertainment genres. To them, as Ritzer explains, belong “the (South African) post-apartheid social drama, the (francophone) série noire as well as the (US-American/Afro-diaspora) buddy-cop movie” (Ritzer 2020: 285). Starring Orlando Bloom and Forest Whitaker, ZULU revolves around a genocide plot designed by white supremacists to unleash biological weaponry developed in Soviet Russia to eradicate all black populations in South Africa. The white supremacists deem black South Africa responsible for the surge of crime rates and poverty. The film premiered at the 2013 Cannes Film Festival on 26 May as the closing night film. It earned unanimous acclaim with film critics in South Africa where it was renamed as City of Violence shortly after its global release. That it works simultaneously as a local and a global narrative about racial hybridity, interconnected histories, and as a transnational commentary on race relations today is according to Ritzer the reason for ZULU’s appeal to audiences as diverse and diasporic as the film crew: As a matter of experientiality, one can develop the concept of cosmopolitan (genre) film with ZULU. It is local and global. On the one hand, this kind of hybrid cinema has no static links and it moves freely between cultures and contents, which makes it part of a cosmopolitan paradigm. It is at home in many places across the world. On the other hand, the explicit reference to the national history of South Africa establishes a moment of the local, which the cosmopolitan mode of production cancels out just as easily: South African, French, and US American film crew members allow audiences to read the film on an extra-textual level as part of a of filmmakers”. (Ritzer 2020: 286)

Twitter activity around ZULU’s transnational reception appears to validate Ritzer’s argument. Cosmopolitan film is successful if it explores hybridity beyond genre conventions and if it acknowledges its own place in an increasingly hybridised world of filmmakers and film audiences. It becomes itself into a platform for discussions, online and on social media, of how global entertainment partakes in the mixing of cultures and identities without denying them their national origins and histories. #Films2020 73 - ZULU 2013 - @Jerome_Salle J’ai enfin rattrapé ce film dont j’avais bcp entendu parler. Un film sur le pardon, c’est vrai, dans cette Afrique du Sud encore meurtrie. J’ai bcp aimé le soin apporté à la construction complexe de chaque personnage. Envoûtant et âpre pic.twitter.com/S9hmVXW0WH —Th Barnaudt (@tbarnaud) April 20, 2020

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(translation) #Films2020 73 - ZULU 2013 - @Jerome_Salle I finally caught up with this film which I had heard a lot about. A film about forgiveness, it is true, in this still battered South Africa. I liked the care taken in the complex construction of each character. Bewitching and harsh pic.twitter.com/S9hmVXW0WH —Th Barnaudt (@tbarnaud) April 20, 2020

In all of this, Twitter transforms into a social event space of film reception. This Film Twitter adds, as Masha Tupitsyn aptly points out with reference to Gilles Deleuze’s and Félix Guatarri’s ideas about raising awareness for the structural pattern of cinema critique, a valid and informed building block to the traditional architecture of thinking about film: beyond the formalised academic discourse and the published press product, or even beyond more current phenomena like blogs or online reviews (Tupitsyn 2011: 9). Twitter lines are bare bones. They are to the modern study of film what modern architecture is to the historical rejection of the simplest fragment of a building as a complete structure in and of itself (Tupitsyn 2011: 9). Tweets are skeletal pieces along which bodies of contemporary criticism and identities are forming. At times, the pieces clash to reveal tensions, introducing new critical dialogues along fault lines hidden in plain sight. Like Black Twitter, and in many places congruent with its political poignancy and global immediacy, the reactions of Film Twitter mediate a closer look at transnational pop culture in real time. They are microscopic studies which charge the shortest prose with observation and personal insight. They are minimalist critique in that a word or phrase may cut through the overproduction of thoughts on film on the internet or on millions of pages printed and stored in libraries and online archives. In dialogue with other non-traditional publication outlets, Twitter as a form of contemporary film criticism eventisizes transnational audience receptions across the borders of countries and the boundaries of communities and languages. A part of contemporary film criticism and marked by a chimeric nature along the spectrum of social media user and professional film critic, it gives new air to cultural conversation and discourse. It opens cinema up for the reader to have an experience with it and with other viewer-users over it. There is room for opposition and agreement, expansion and correction. In the case of Asante’s film and the Twitter reception of it, the objective of the case study here was to probe the aesthetic nexus of globality and locality, transnational and hybrid, and film blackness and whiteness in Where Hands Touch. To understand current forces at play in transnational cinema, German, British, European or American, we must interrogate the notion of homogenous consensus beyond traditional repertoires of film critique. Denying the validity of all voices in a community to be heard formed the foundation myth of seamless and uniform national cultures, and hence the foundation of racist systems of power as shown in Where Hands Touch. Should transnational film scholarship want to avoid replicating

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similar myths of consensus in the discussion of such topics as racism and ethnonationalism, then we must affirm the importance of transfer processes between media and cultures, and subscribe to the state of transnational flux in which cinema and its reception will always rest.

References Anderson, B. (2016). Imagined communities: Reflections on the origin and spread of nationalism. London: Verso. Ballesteros, I. (2016). Female transnational migrations and diasporas in European Immigration Cinema. In G. Zinn & T. S. Maureen (Eds.), Exile through a gendered lens: Women's displacement in recent European history, literature, and cinema (pp. 123–149). New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Baker, R. W. (2011). Flame in the streets. Spirit entertainment. Bergfelder, T. (2005). National, transnational or supranational cinema? Rethinking European film studies. In Media, Culture & Society, 27(3), pp. 315–331. Berghahn, D. (2020). Das Mainstreaming des diasporischen europäischen Kinos aus der ethnischen Nische zum populären Kino. In M. Christen & K. Rothemund (Eds.), Cosmopolitan Cinema: Kunst und Politik in der Zweiten Moderne (pp. 305–326). Marburg: Schüren. Berghahn, D., & Sternberg, C. (2010). European cinema in motion: Migrant and Diasporic film in contemporary Europe. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Broadnax, J. (2018, September 18). BGN Interview: Filmmaker Amma Asante. Black Girl Nerds BGN. https://blackgirlnerds.com/bgn-interview-filmmaker-amma-asante/ Campt, T. (2003). Reading the black German experience: An introduction. Callaloo, 26(2), pp. 288–294. Ciecko, A. (1997). Transnational action: John woo, Hong Kong, Hollywood. In S. H.-P. Lu (Ed.), Transnational Chinese cinemas: Identity, nationhood, gender (pp. 221–238). Manoa, Hawaii: University of Hawai'i Press. Clark, K., & Baldwin, J. (1963). There is no compromise (From the National Education TV symposium, The Negro And The American Promise). In Black World/New Negro Digest, 12 (12), pp. 25–32. Cox, A. T. (2018). Portrayal of Turkish–German migratory relations in Turkish films of the 1980s: A call for an alternative Reading. In Turkish Studies, 20(5), (pp. 1–18). Dennison, S. (2013). National, transnational and post-national: Issues in contemporary film-making in the Hispanic world. In S. Dennison & S. Woodbridge (Eds.), Contemporary Hispanic cinema: Interrogating the transnational in Spanish and Latin American film (pp. 1–24). Rochester, New York: Boydell & Brewer. Ellerbe-Dueck, C. (2011). Networks and ‘safe spaces’ of black European women in Germany and Austria. In U. Hanna (Ed.), Negotiating Multicultural Europe. Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship series, Armbruster, Heike and Meinhof (pp. 159–184). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Elsaesser, T. (2005). European cinema: Face to face with Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Erigah, M. (2019). The Hollywood Jim Crow: The racial politics of the movie industry. New York: New York University Press. Faymonville, C. (2003). Black Germans and transnational identification. Callaloo, 26(2), pp. 364–382. Freeman, M., & Proctor, W. (2018). Introduction: Conceptualizing national and cultural transmediality. In M. Freeman & W. Proctor (Eds.), Global convergence cultures: Transmedia earth (pp. 15–28). New York: Routledge.

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Galt, R. (2006). Redrawing the map: The new European cinema. New York: Columbia University Press. Gillespie, M. B. (2016). Film blackness: American cinema and the idea of black film. Durham: Duke University Press. Harris, H., & Angus, H. (2019, January 4). A short conversation about what the hell is going on in where hands touch. Vulture. https://www.vulture.com/2019/01/amandla-stenberg-nazi-lovestory-where-hands-touch-what-the-hell-happens.html Harvey, J. (2018). Introduction: On the visual cultures of the new nationalisms. In J. Harvey (Ed.), Palgrave European Film and Media Studies Nationalism in contemporary Western European cinema (pp. 1–15). Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan. Hutchinson, P. (2019, May 13). Where Hands Touch first look: Amma Asante braves an interracial love story in the Nazi inferno. BFI. https://www.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/sight-sound-magazine/ reviews-recommendations/where-hands-touch-amma-asante-interracial-love-story-nazi-ger many-world-war-2 Kenny, G. (2018, September 13). Review: ‘Where Hands Touch,’ Set in Nazi Germany, Is a Disturbing Misfire. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/13/movies/ where-hands-touch-review.html Kwame, A. A. (2006). Cosmopolitanism. In Ethics in a world of strangers. New York: W.W. Norton. Loshitzky, Y. (2010). Screening strangers: Migration and diaspora in contemporary European cinema. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Mask, M. (2012). Introduction. In M. Mask (Ed.), Contemporary black American cinema: Race, gender and sexuality at the movies (pp. 1–13). New York and London: Routledge. Moreland, T.A. (2017, December 29). ‘The Greatest Showman’ is a show worth seeing. New York Amsterdam News. http://amsterdamnews.com/news/2017/dec/29/greatest-showman-showworth-seeing/ Navitski, R. (2017). Mediating the ‘conquering and cosmopolitan cinema’: US Spanish-language film magazines and Latin American audiences, 1916-1948. In R. Navitski & N. Poppe (Eds.), Cosmopolitan film cultures in Latin America, 1896–1960 (pp. 112–146). Indiana, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Ritzer, I. (2020). Cosmopolitan ZULU: Zur medienkulturellen Logik transnationaler GenreMigration. In M. Christen & K. Rothemund (Eds.), Cosmopolitan Cinema: Kunst und Politik in der Zweiten Moderne (pp. 285–303). Marburg: Schüren. Rivi, L. (2016). European cinema after 1989: Cultural identity and transnational production. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Santos, E. (2018). National representation in the age of transnational film: A Lusophone story. Portuguese Studies, 34(2), pp. 167–180. Smyth, J. E. (2008). Classical Hollywood and the filmic writing of interracial history, 1931-1939. In M. Beltran & C. Fojas (Eds.), Mixed race Hollywood (pp. 23–44). New York: New York University Press. Tupitsyn, M. (2011). Laconia: 1,200 tweets on film. Winchester, United Kingdom: Zero Books. Benjamin Nickl is a cultural studies researcher with an interest in popular culture studies in film, television, literature, performative and mass media. He is currently working on topics related to cultural systems and cultural change, and humour as cultural technology. Recent publications include the monograph “Turkish German Muslims and Comedy Entertainment” (2020). Benjamin is co-editor of the Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues series.

Chapter 7

#Germancinema in the Eye of Instagram: Showcasing a Method Combination Joan Ramon Rodriguez-Amat and Yulia Belinskaya

Abstract This chapter analyses the 381 first Instagram posts tagged with one of the ten keywords about German Cinema. The research combines digital methods for the data collection and a series of quantitative, qualitative and network analysis to identify some of the features of the discussion emerging around this topic. The question asked involves what kind of idea of German Cinema is represented on Instagram, where are these posts published from, and what kind of network of interaction can be inferred from this practice. The responses show that there is a tendency to represent the German cinema produced during the Weimarer Republik or the most recent productions highlighting the promotional capacity of Instagram as a platform. Regarding the location of the posts, the majority of them are from European based profiles; but a good number came from Latin American locations and particularly from institutional profiles with the role of promoting the German Culture, such as the Goethe Institut; and the network analysis of users and hashtags shows that there is a community of interaction that acknowledges and uses similar hashtags in their posts. This work is a first exploration and a methodological demonstration of how Instagram research can help the understanding of cultural communication, as well as research on Communicative spaces.

Cities are made of the accumulated memories of people, which have the power to transcend their own time, like the beautiful, semi-imaginary, infinitely detailed Tokyo of Akira Yamaguchi.

J. R. Rodriguez-Amat (*) Department of Media Arts and Communication, Sheffield Hallam University, Sheffield, UK e-mail: [email protected] Y. Belinskaya Department of Communication, University of Vienna, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_7

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Platforms and Culture The phenomenon of platformization (Nieborg and Poell 2018) has drastically changed society and the ways we interact with each other; social media have become fundamental spaces of socialization. In times of Instagram, the shapes of the public sphere are also changing—already almost a decade ago Rainie et al. (2012) stated that photos and videos constituted most of all the social interactions between younger users. On the other hand, “Cinema was once heralded as the art of the 20th century” (Sontag 1996: 60), and after a long century of political and social transformation, technological development, and cultural and aesthetic articulation, the cinema industry is today’s multimillionaire. Furthermore, while the cinema industry has embodied capitalism, the film industry has also played a strategic role in the shaping of national public spheres (Hansen 1993; Wong 2016). Germany, for instance, has systematically supported its film industry to promote German culture at national level within its borders, but also at global scale. This paper builds on the prevalence of cinema as one of the sectors through which German culture is more actively promoted by tracing the activity on social media platforms. Platforms and social media, in this case Instagram, are still blind hotspots—there is a shared assumption about their relevance but very little knowledge about how to incorporate the activity on platforms in the discussion about cultural interventions. Considering whether Instagram, and other social media platforms, are more a response to the institutional creative efforts of the state or if, instead, they are its continuation, this chapter checks the role of Instagram as a space of social activity around German cinema. This analysis shows that the representations of cinematic “Germanness” (Hake 2008, p. 23) on Instagram take place beyond German borders across the world, and across languages such as Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, English, or French. It further argues that these understandings of German cinema involve some significant historical references to past creative periods of German culture. The tool developed here: first, innovates on the current strand of Instagram research, by showing methodological possibilities and limitations of a tool to collect and analyse Instagram activity; second, checks that social participation, as a possible response to the promotion of German cinema by German cultural institutions, is received as a chance for the organisation and assessment of the state driven cultural interventions; and third, links the network and geography of social interactions around #Germancinema to the concept of communicative space. These three contributions align with a broader research program on the public sphere in times of social media.

Towards an Instasphere? Civic participation and engagement are fundamental pillars of democracy. The state’s national and international authority and body of laws sit on the legitimacy provided by the public’s will expressed in public debate. Public sphere is a vast

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concept explored early by Walter Lipmann, Hannah Arendt or Juergen Habermas, among many others (Benhabib 1997) or recently by Benkler (2006) with the “networked public sphere” to explain the following triple condition: first, the existence of a community of people collectively engaging; second, a shared space of open and free debate in which all community-related topics can be discussed (communicative space); and third, a frame of power that transfers the debate outputs into laws binding the members of the community. These three normative and theoretical aspects of the public sphere are problematic when brought into practice, or onto empirical research (for a complete exploration of the topic see Calhoun 1992). However, the possibility of an Instasphere around German cinema—this is an international community of interaction on Instagram—could be a powerful breakthrough inviting further exploration.

Cultural Diplomacy and Country-Branding: Curating the Community This chapter approaches the community developed from interactions about German cinema on Instagram. Curated by hashtags, Germanness, in this case, emerges as a construct projected inwards—among the citizens of Germany—and outwards for the rest of the world. This construct also activates the idea of communicative space: an interface within which social Instagram interactions take place. According to Neal (2014), the sociological definition of the concept of community from Parsons to Tonnies, from Mannheim to Benedict Anderson, typically involves a group of people sharing interactions, territory, and meanings (from the state perspective, the most popular form of imagined community is the nation, Anderson 2006). The state efforts regarding this community are well-packed under the concept of cultural diplomacy as the “exchange of ideas, information, art, and other aspects of culture among nations and their peoples in order to foster mutual understanding” (Cummings 2003, p. 1). Cultural diplomacy is understood differently along the vector of state intervention, where the extreme propaganda model is one side of the spectrum and the silent state and private non-governmental actors’ involvement is the other (Jessica et al. 2010). Schneider (2009) refers to cultural diplomacy as a process that “operates best as a two-way street” (p. 261): inwards, as a form of building citizenship by enabling shared meanings and nation-membership and outwards as a permanent effort to improve, and curate the international perception of the state. The complexities of this inward process have long been researched: Foucault (2008), Billig (1995), Yuval-Davis (1998), Edensor (2002), Hobsbawm and Ranger (2012), Calhoun (2007) and many others have explored how institutions such as national museums, universities, and educational schooling systems build and disseminate narratives of collective belonging to enhance feelings of commonality among citizens. States also invest in national heritage (McGuigan and Mcguigan

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2012) and language protection: in broadcasting systems or in shared fiction; original mythologies and folklore; or soap operas and movies. Culture, rituals and tradition ease the violence of the law; and with them, also conflictual issues like social class awareness are diverted. The process of nation building sometimes adopts the form of nation-branding (Montiel et al. 2008) and, as much as the nation is taken for granted in the everyday life, sometimes it is abused and it can be particularly violent to newcomers (Edensor 2002). Beyond their borders, national states also curate how they are internationally perceived. Arts, media, cultural production and consumption become spaces of inclusion of NGOs and private stakeholders—corporations or other actors—“favoring a diversification of cultural policy” (Zamorano 2016: 166). Cultural festivals, exhibitions or other cultural exchanges are part of this public diplomacy (Schneider 2009) with the ultimate goal to build and maintain relationships rather than simply communicate the country-image (Szondi 2008). These relationships extend towards the geopolitical arena. “Different to cultural diplomacy, cinematic diplomacy focuses on the use of cinema and film for establishing intercultural dialogue” (Herrschner 2015: 127). But the dialogue of diplomacy shadows also power relations: Hollywood is an example of soft power applied through cultural export. German cinema, similarly to any European cinema industry, is financially and structurally supported through mechanisms that “foster film and audiovisual sectors” (Talavera et al. 2016: 10). Indeed, national and regional governments anually support the German film industry with €350 to €450 million. These sums fund the production of 120 to 140 feature films that are “mostly” produced in Germany (Loist and Prommer 2019). Such financial institutional efforts are explained from multiple angles: first, they compensate the U.S. industry domination that in 2013 signified almost 70% of the cinema consumed in Europe (Katsarova 2014); second, because cinema is a “prototype” industry with fluctuating demands, high regulation, and production costs. This industry balances on top of its cultural and industrial components which makes any consideration about funding very delicate: whereas marketized views call for liberal and non-interventionist funding systems, the creative sectors demand more financial curatory attention. In short, “funding [serves] to support the industry on one hand, and to enhance national culture, on the other” (Loist and Prommer 2019: 97). Promoting its own cinema for Germany helps enhancing and promoting its symbolic, cultural, and economic value. German cinema is thus paradigmatic as embodiment of what Herrschner, following Schulte, calls the “German model of cultural diplomacy” (Herrschner 2015: 126): a mixed system of public and private and independent organizations and institutions (e.g. Goethe Institute) that hold the responsibility of representing and cultivating the German culture and language abroad. Setting goals and defining a program of cultural promotion with strategic purposes, particularly if there is financial support involved, carries the temptation of measuring its impact. The effect of commodifying the cultural activity starts a capitalistic constellation of meanings: industry, production, and consumption. Such constellation also raises the issue of financial risk and its consequent need to

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measure success in relation to investment cost, impact, or predefined goals. Nevertheless, the cultural policy environment is in process of changing paradigms (Bonet and Négrier 2018) and the understanding of impact of any cultural intervention changes too (see Langen and Garcia 2009). Public response, engagement, and participation are the lines of discussion towards which the understanding of impact of cultural policies is heading; new public diplomacy refers to the engagement of foreign audiences (Melissen 2005). Bonet and Négrier (2018) call it “participative turn.” In this context, social media platforms play a key role in altering the discussion about audiences and participation: there, social media activity becomes an indicator for the success of the promoted culture activity. This chapter does not measure the Instagram response to a specific campaign from German institutions, however, this research apparatus showcases the possibilities of the analysis and how this tool can be systematically—and statistically— applied. Examining the perception of German cinema on Instagram enables an analysis that discusses the views promoted by German cultural institutions, as well as an opportunity to consider the Instagram activity around the hashtag #Germancinema as a form of checking applied to the impact of institutional investment on German cinema.

Communicative Spaces: an Interface for Social Interactions The second condition of the public sphere is that it happens in a communicative space of interactions. For Schlesinger (1999) democracy must be grounded in a notion of open and accessible communicative spaces that enable debate, negotiation, struggle, and (dis)agreement. Too often, the space has been assimilated to territory— assuming national public sphere as the state territory. But it is necessary to move beyond the physical territory or the contents of the conversation to explore the assembled extension of the network on a geographic background. In this sense reflecting that idealized picture drafted by Habermas of the London bourgeois society in 1700s, which included more than 3000 public coffeehouses, publications, citizens participating in debates, and the topics discussed all along (see Calhoun 1992; Habermas 1964). To understand the communicative space, the attention needs to move beyond the physical place; communicative space is a virtual environment, a complex interface of interactions. Such interface is an assemblage of physical territory, published contents, understandings, and the means that enable those interactions (the media)—this includes online worlds or social media spaces. The current ecosystem of online enabled social media platforms as background for many social interactions does not diverge from the idea of a communicative space, but rather enhances it. This is also how Twitter can be treated as a communicative space (Schmidt 2014). This chapter explores whether the activity on Instagram involves interactions similar to those of a communicative space.

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The conceptual effort of assembling the online and geographic communications on a single interface comes with empirical and methodological difficulties. This chapter innovates in this direction by aligning with works that consider the spatial turn of the media (Adams and Jansson 2012) and the mobility turn (Urry 2008); along these lines, the research on spatial media (Kitchin et al. 2017), locative technologies or locative media (Thielmann 2010) or geomedia (McQuire 2017), among many other, have helped. The integration of the territory and the digital platforms reactivates concepts such as the third space (Bhabha 2012), or digiplace (Zook and Graham 2007). These conceptual and methodological advancements help explore the spatial (in)equalities visible in the geographies of events and within communicative spaces as part of the research on public sphere (Rodríguez-Amat and Brantner 2016); in this case, the geographic and connective spread of interactions among Instagrammers about German cinema.

Instagram The Instagram application launch in 2010 marked a new era of mobile photography as opposed to previous desktop photo- (and video-) sharing platforms (Manovich 2017). Photo-sharing became then part of the daily media consumption as communication includes the photographs and their context (Budge and Burness 2018), changing the former mnemonic communicative function of photography for a more present and phatic one, personal and professional (Barbour et al. 2017). Facebook-Inc Instagram has grown since its launch to recently celebrate 1 billion active users. 71% of them are under 35 years old (Mohsin 2019). In 2015 more than 85% of German youths used Instagram (Pilgrim and Bohnet-Joschko 2019). Instagram functions as “image machines” for brands, location, and whole industries (Carah and Shaul 2016: 70), the principal virtue of which is “its capacity for interaction between brand and users through photography” (Caerols-Mateo et al. 2013: 70). Brands and celebrities entered Instagram and since 2014 can pay for targeted advertisements to sell products and build followship. Instagram research expands across a wide range of topics: brands operation and representation on social media (Habibi et al. 2014); identity practices of Instagram users (Duguay 2017); community-building and community facilitation (O’Callaghan et al. 2012); or narratives, contexts and meanings produced by Instagram hashtags (Commane and Potton 2019). Some previous research focused on the role of Instagram regarding touristic destinations (Nixon et al. 2017) or located Instagram images (Hochman and Manovich 2013). This paper aligns with these research antecedents; while expanding on Highfield and Leaver’s calls (2015) and (2016) to develop mixed methods that integrate textual and graphic critical analyses in social media research. This chapter also follows Stefanidis et al. (2013) and makes use of geospatial information generated by social media applications to learn about activities of people involving interests, contacts, and participation in global virtual communities.

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Methodology Aligned with digital methods (Rogers 2019), Internet studies, and Instagram research this research is inspired by research on Twitter and combines image tools and text-based data from social media following Laestadius (2017). Commercialized Instagram API turns the platform into an advertising friendly platform but complicates academic research: this forced the use of a Python script to collect images and metadata directly from the website with a clean browser. This means all the images were accessible without an Instagram account and without browser cookies that could affect the search output. With this approach we excluded the issue of public/private comments, or of public and public-ness availability of data. Thus, the data collection was determined by Instagram’s algorithm decision of what posts appear first. Hashtags focus the exploration of meanings. They are markers for topics and facilitate indexing activity on social media and sharing keywords “folksonomically” (Halavais 2013: 36). Hashtags build contingent communities of meaning, or ad hoc publics around cases (Bruns and Burgess 2011). The Instagram hashtag #Germancinema points at the social representations of meanings involving Germanness and filmic culture. Data collection thus was based on 13 hashtags obtained from a first exploration: #Germanfilm, #Germancinema, #Deutscheskino, #Cinealeman, #Cinemaalemao, #Cinemaallemand, #Cinematedesco, #Deutschefilme, #Filmallemand, #Filmdeutschland, #Filmtedesco, #Germanmovies, #Kinodeutschland. A python script automatically collected 200 Instagram posts per hashtag (when available) between 19th and 20th of January 2020. The script scraped metadata of the posts: likes, date and time, location, all hashtags, and the available information of users—number of posts, followers, and followed, personal description, and URL links. The sample showcased consists of the first 381 posts without duplicates. This sample is not expected to be statistically representative: the first posts chosen by the algorithm create constructs that disable any statistical generalization of the results. Quantitative, geographic, and visual analyses were helped by python processing of images and metadata. Some posts were geolocated (121 from the 381 sample). A qualitative analysis was done manually, following the Image Type Analysis approach (see Brantner et al. 2019). It consisted of an inductive extraction of images sorted by contents revised through several waves of analysis until reaching a final organization of 6 image types (see Fig. 7.6). For quantitative analysis, only the first two types were considered to quantitatively identify historical periods and specific movies. The data were mapped and the interactions between users and hashtags visually analyzed using Gephi software for network analysis as a natively digital method for “exploring social and semantic structures of publics” (Caliandro 2014, p.17). Gephi identifies modular clusters showing communities of interaction in the network structure.

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Discussion Three subsections organise this part: in the first, data graphically represented along four variables—most liked posts, most used hashtags, most active users, and chronology of posts. The second subsection explores image contents against specific movies and historical periods of the German cinema. The third subsection deepens in the heuristic possibilities of geographic analysis and of the analysis of the network of users and hashtags.

Pictures, Hashtags, Users and Chronology From the showcase sample, 347 pictures included the number of likes, the 38 rest were videos. Only the first 15 posts have more than 1000 likes. And most of them do belong to institutional profiles; for instance, @deutschland_de is the Instagram profile of an online portal owned by Frankfurter Allgemeine publisher (FAZIT) and German Federal Foreign Office. The other posts included in the list are published by profiles with more than 15 k followers—Instagram reference to incorporating advertising. Also @oldmagicmovie counts with 254 k followers, and @fadeincinema 15.5 k; these profiles post topics rather than persons; but @carolmoreira (275 k) and @aboudi.86 (101 k) are influencers with profiles on other social media. @nicolebielow (101 k) is a visual artist, @dasding a new publication; and @denkpausefilms (9.9 k followers), or @cinematic_bts (34 k) are film production companies. The highly attractive posts, and their number of followers’ correlate. Those posts are owned by institutions, private or public, or by individual influencers. After these first profiles, the number of likes falls closer to the trendline of likes, well below 1000 likes per post (see Fig. 7.1). Regarding the hashtags, 381 posts carried 900 unique hashtags of a total of 4807. Of those, 265 hashtags only appeared once, 279 appeared twice. Only 110 hashtags include more than 10 iterations. 51 of these 110 relate to #Germany

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traumfabrikfil cinematic_bts sebastianbez netflixdicasdi fotografie_a_t francesville_e elcomentarist vhs.cosmico cooperativad crush. agency goethe_institu m.e.o.m.e.n.t loco_cine filmdialogueo jeffreyleehall screensong chickentattoo peccapics yatta2010her betacinemaof badenbaden1 yatta2010her cinemasnaps kinogermany icaf_chennai furiosofilm clubde.ru dontworryitsr gustav_frohlic gustav_frohlic gustav_frohlic movie_fan_ge gustav_frohlic gustav_frohlic gustav_frohlic gustav_frohlic dasgnaedige_ gustav_frohlic gustav_frohlic movieposters gustav_frohlic thedarksideof camcore kenngwa peccapics traumfabrikfil

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Average of likes: 533 Median: 48 likes Mode: 149 likes Std Deviation: 1618.53 likes

Fig. 7.1 Line-chart of the number of likes in descending order (left). Statistics (right)

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(4) #Germancinema (19), #Germanauthors (14) or #Germanmovies (12) (see Fig. 7.2). Of these 110, one is @GoetheInstitut (see Fig. 7.3), “which is the representation of German culture, with the aim of creating a contemporary image of Germany (GoetheInstitut 2012)” (Herrschner 2015: 126). Portuguese hashtags seem to have taken over, but this is part of the algorithm-bias that prioritizes recent posts. And the users are also unbalanced (Fig. 7.3) of the Distributon of Hashtags (>10 iterations) #omeninoquefaziarir 0.3% #ogabinetedodoutorcaligari 0.3% #conradveidt 0.4% #usecrossover 0.4% #germanmovies 0.5% #robertwiene 0.5% #cine 0.6% #germancinema 0.7%

#cinemaalemao 11.5% 394 (11.5%)

394 (11.5%)

#film 0.9% #mulher 1.0% #mulheres 1.2% #fritzlang 1.2% #cinemaderua 0.4%

Fig. 7.2 Pie-chart of the hashtags with more than 10 iterations

Fig. 7.3 Pie-chart of Instagram users by number of posts

160 (4.7)%

#cinemaAlemao 11.5% #cinema 4.7% #movies 2.3% #filme 2.3% #Filme 2.3% #cultura 1.8% #movie 1.8% #filmes 1.6% #alemanha 1.5% #Alemanha 1.5%

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Fig. 7.4 Chronology of posts from the showcase sample

381 posts, 66 are from the same user @gustav_frohlich. The rest are more evenly distributed. There are 216 different users in the 381 posts sampled. This distribution of hashtags will be combined later with the users in the network analysis. Statistics number of posts: Average: 1.89 posts per user, Median: 1.55 posts, Mode: 1.47 posts per user; Std Deviation: 1.51 posts per user. This algorithmic unbalance is also visible in the chronology of posts. The line shows that Instagram prefers posts of less than 10 days (see Fig. 7.4). However, some posts with a high number of likes were published six months earlier. The older posts in the sample are from October 2017 (Fig. 7.4), not particularly relevant for the number of likes (306 likes) or for the number of followers (@cinema.retro, 8375 followers); this is an algorithmic mystery. These first views (posts, users, hashtags, and their chronology) show that Instagram commercialized approach gives prominence to higher amount of likes and to recent posts; and the first check also shows that these posts with more likes are mostly institutional or professionalized profiles.

Movies and Periods of the German Cinema History The images were analyzed following the Image Type Analysis approach described earlier. The process of grouping and sorting the images through multiple analytical waves, called loops, that helped identify a typology of six posts (available in the showcase sample): – Movie photograms, – Poster or promotion of the movie (trailer), – Image of the cinema (building) or of the projection,

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– Personal posts before/ after the movie (or actors). – Making off, backstage, gatherings of movie staff, – Visitors to festivals/ museums The first two types of images referred specifically to movies and it was possible to identify them. Therefore, the 214 images of the first two types were further qualitatively analyzed, while the remaining 167 were dismissed. The images were classified by periods of historical German cinema. The categories corresponded to the periods described by Silberman and Silberman (1995), Fehrenbach (1995), Flinn (2004), Allan et al. (1999) the periods were: Weimar Republic (1919–1933), War period (1935–1947), Post War (1950s), East-West (1960s), New German cinema (1970s), Pre/re/unification (late 80s–90s), Post 2000s and Recent cinema (after 2015). The outcome of this analysis is represented in Fig. 7.5: The sample shows preference for recent movies against any other period of the German history. This fits the efforts of the cinematic cultural diplomacy exercised by institutional anchors such as #GoetheInstitut or German Federal Foreign Office (@deutschland_de). Non institutional actors also participate in the promotion: for instance, the 10 posts (out of 381) by @camcore.filmproduction—a Germany based film producer for advertising; and 9 by @peccapics owned by Peccadillo—“one of the UK’s most recognized distributors of LGBT & World Cinema titles” (Peccadillo Pictures Ltd. 2020). 66 of those posts were by @gustav_frohlich—the name of the male protagonist of 1927 Fritz Lang Metropolis—which with 130 followers appears to be a non-institutional fan account. The Weimar Republic is the next relevant period on Instagram. With very specific films: Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927) gets 12 mentions (from the 49 of the period) topping the rank of the Weimar Period cinema, Sonnenstrahl (1933) interpreted by Gustav Frohlich gets six. After these two movies, Der Golem (Wegener and Boese

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1920) and Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari (Lang 1927) are mentioned five times. There is a rich dispersion of movies referred to in this period. These four aside, 15 other movies represent the Weimar Republic period that appears as the Golden Age (Elsaesser 1996) of German cinema: a great contribution into development of the European and world film industry in terms of technology and artistic interpretation. Fritz Lang was described by Hake (2008) as the figure representing “Germanness” with his dark and epic urban thrillers and philosophical vision that brought him recognition on the international arena and in the US, where he moved in 1933. The rest of periods show lower numbers, and the titles are more scattered, appearing only once or twice. For example, only Stosstrupp 1917 (Zöberlein and Schmid-Wildy 1934), Der Kampf mit dem Drachen (Seitz 1935) or Tanz auf dem Vulkan (Steinhoff 1938) represent the War period. and Die Sünderin (Forst 1951) the postwar. The divided Germany appears with six different movies and the seventies includes Angst essen Seele auf (Fassbinder 1974) (four mentions) or Die Ehe der Maria Braun (Fassbinder 1978) (three mentions) and 10 other movies mentioned less. Similar trends are observed with the re-unification period. Only Wenders’ Der Himmel über Berlin (1987) reaches three references, After that, two works by Herzog Fitzcarraldo (1982) and Cobra Verde (1987) receive two mentions, as many as Fassbinder’s miniseries Berlin Alexanderplatz (1980). Other 7 titles were mentioned once. Closer to the millennium, Der gefallene Engel (Ittenbach 1997) and Lola rennt (Twyker 1998) are mentioned once. The sharp decline of the German film industry since 1933 coincided with the exile of talented directors and other industry workers. The regime used cinema as a propaganda instrument pushing the decline further to an after-war period of Rubble films not much successful in terms of box-office or international recognition (Zimmermann 2008) neither of movies, nor directors. Instagrammers inside and outside Germany seem to follow these thoughts when representing the cinema, too. The political and social history of Germany is closely tied with the perception of German cinema as a clog in the ideological machine, favouring “authoritarian, nationalistic or racist values” (Elsaesser 1996: 11). And yet, those growing up in the 50s and 60s and through the whole period of East-West Germany, people systematically dissociated themselves from the idea of the German nation (Gemünden 1998: 120): “1989 has come to signal yet another ‘Stunde Null’ (zero hour), a kind of magical date that allows or calls for a taking stock of German history at the threshold of a new beginning.” The nation-branding in case of Germany is aimed to move from egocentrism and to overcome the legacy of the past (Jordan 2014). Already in the twenty-first Century, Good Bye, Lenin! (Becker 2003), and Das Leben der Anderen (Donnersmarck 2006) are the top-ranked mentioned movies. The American and German production Unknown (Collet-Serra 2011) is mentioned four times; and after that Sophie Scholl—Die letzten Tage (Rothemund 2005) receives three mentions, followed by six movies that are mentioned only once or twice. These millennium movies rejected the past artistic film history and marked a new era of German cinema that turned towards mass culture production (Kapczynski

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2007). For Kapczynski, Good Bye, Lenin! and Sophie Scholl are “heritage films,” capturing the divided Germany and looking at the past through the lens of nostalgia, or ostalgia, when talking about GDR. The spread of recent movies is bigger: The Cakemaker (Graizer 2017), Traumfabrik (Schreier 2019), Kartoffelsalat 3—Das Musical (Pate 2020) receive four mentions; Der goldene Handschuh (Akin 2019) received three mentions; whereas two mentions for Vier zauberhafte Schwestern (Sven Unterwaldt, Jr. 2020), Victoria (Schipper 2015), Toni Erdmann (Ade 2016), The Bra (Helmer 2018), the short Sven und Sabrina (Álvarez 2020) Prélude (Sarabi 2019), Jonathan (Oliver 2018), Gipsy Queen (Tabak 2019), Der Hauptmann (Robert Schwentke 2017), Das schweigende Klassenzimmer (Kraume 2018), Das Perfekte Geheimnis (Dağtekin 2019), or Aus dem Nichts (Akin 2017). Another 32 movies were mentioned once. The spread of recent movies points in two directions: one, the good health of German audiovisual production and two, the value of Instagram as a promotional platform. The former shows the richness of recent titles available, productions and co-productions aiming at global audiences. The latter shows Instagram as a promotional platform: many posts linked to trailers, posters, or events or were posted by producers or cinemas. The combination of these two factors—Instagram promotion, and healthy industry—forms a space of recognition and reproduction of recent titles, beyond the German public, outreaching and promoting productions across the world. User’s activity on Instagram spreads knowledge, awareness, and links the public with a variety of German productions. The iteration and prevalence of historical commonplaces such as the Golden Age of the Weimar Republic points right in the direction of the interest of German cultural campaigns; however, it is uncertain whether this is the happy coincidence of the 100 anniversary with the 1920s historical period, or if it is a sampling bias related to the over-representation of @gustav_frohlich in the sample. Still, with care, the scarce references to historic German movies between the post war period and the 2000s shows a selective shared memory of German cinema that made it across the globe. The tandem Herzog-Kinski receive little attention as do works by Wim Wenders or by R.W. Fassbinder, or more recently Fatih Akin, who is barely visible in this list. Indeed, in spite or beyond the algorithmic bias, the analysis of the spread of titles points at the absence of historically important titles bringing the discussion towards the features of collective forgetting (Billig 1995; Anderson 2006): A consistent pattern of omission or avoidance of a particular history or particular histories—of the existence of whole groups of people and their pasts—by journalists, politicians, and the general public, [suggests] that there is some meaning and motivation behind this collective forgetting. The absence of films from the Nazi regime or the war period plays in favor of an understanding of Germany as a country, as a continuous historical entity. This point invites further research on the topic: collective forgetting is not simply an act of a governmental or individual decision, but rather “negotiated in the interplay between social and individual organization of memory” (Brockmeier 2002: 32). Research

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should explore the extent of the discrepancy or continuity between institutional efforts to shape shared memories or particular images of the country and the spontaneous expression of users on the social media platforms.

Geography and Networks: A Communicative Space The Instagram posts were not published all from the same place. The location of the Instagram images was translated into GPS coordinates with a python script (see Fig. 7.6). It was then possible to identify with some precision the country of origin of a good number of images: 121 of the 381 showcased. Some of the addresses were very specific; and some were more general such as “Germany” or “Chile”; but the possibility of translating them to geolocative data, enabled a new layer of analysis. The distribution of pictures by country indicated that half of the posts came from Germany and, while the majority of the rest of the pictures were located in Europe (four France, seven Spain, four Ireland, three Italy, and one for Sweden, Czech Republic and Austria), 18 pictures were located in the United States (see Fig. 7.7). This geographic distribution expands the possibilities of analysis. Figure 7.8 (left) shows the number of Instagram posts based in Germany referring to movie periods. Figure 7.8 (right) shows the geography of posts referring to recent movies (size and labels by number of likes). Such visualization allows also to see the higher concentration of posts from the European continent, particularly Germany. The secondary focus of attention to contemporary German cinema could be identified: obviously Hollywood, New York, and several countries in Latin America, particularly Venezuela, Brazil, Chile, and Colombia with the last three posts from cultural institutions such as the Colombian-German house (see Fig. 7.8). Python geolocating a percentage of Instagram posts (31% as opposed to Twitter geolocation rate of 0.1%), allows to build maps and opens analytical opportunities such as proximity, centrality and periphery, and all sorts of quantitative and

Fig. 7.6 Example of how the location of the Instagram images (left) translates to GPS data (right)

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Fig. 7.7 Posts per country: quantitative data (left), geographic representation (right)

Fig. 7.8 Posts per movie period located in Germany. Geography of posts with recent movies by number of likes

qualitative operations. Such as the counts of posts within Germany, or the distribution of posts about German cinema, by country (see Fig. 7.9). Locating posts geographically expands the analysis of representations of German cinema and nuances the dispersion of their meaning by geography of social interactions. To demonstrate such an interactive space constructed through Instagram activity, it suffices to trace the links between users and hashtags from the body of posts. The graphic visualization is the network diagram—system of elements (nodes) connected to each other in particular ways (edges). The analysis of the connections between nodes shows the network structure and its capacity. The Instagram activity around German cinema shows recurrence of hashtags among users, graphically represented identifying the principal clusters of probability of interaction. The model available in Gephi showed the modularity analysis of the network (according to Newman and Girvan 2004) identifying the community structure as described by Du et al. (2007). The clusters of the network show the structure of interactions providing the idea of a public (Highfield and Leaver 2015), or of a repertoire of meaning. The interactions and recurrences between 900 unique hashtags making 4807 hashtags across the sample of 381 posts, and 216 unique users identified earlier,

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Fig. 7.9 Modularity in the network of hashtags and users. 8 Communities and one full network. (first line starting at left, a, b, c modules; central row are full network, e (top) and f (bottom); and third row, modules g, h, i from left to right)

leads to the formation of 1116 nodes (900 unique hashtags +216 unique users), contacted 4807 times (see Fig. 7.9). Figure 7.9 is the network of all the interactions. For visualization purposes, the network represents all links above degree 5—all the connections happening more

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than 5 times. The modularity of the network was then calculated to identify 8 modules—or communities—represented separately (a to i) in the group of images above. Each community is mostly an articulation of usernames and a cloud of hashtags used by them. Proper detail, for instance, shows the tendency of formation of hubs around relevant users—those more active—in the sample. For instance, the top right node of the module c (see Fig. 7.9c) corresponds to @cinematic_bts connected to a cloud of hashtags including: #cinemaemergente, #johanneskrell, #deutsch_alsfremdsprache, or #curtasalemaes among others; in that same community, @peccapics links to #danielbruhl, #dasboot, or #thriller. And the very active green node at the bottom left of the first cluster (module a) is @gustav_frohlich, connected to #cinemaalemao, #filmalema, #cineclube, #dasboot, #obarco. The analysis of the network expands the territory of possibilities and of visual representation: it helps understanding that a few hashtags bring a world-wide dispersion of users together, and it expands an online conversation around the topic –German cinema. The analysis also shows that few users are responsible for a good amount of the hashtags collected (opposite to Twitter, hashtag cramming on Instagram increases visibility). The calculus of communities—through modularity within the network—offers various possibilities that can be graphically represented in multiple ways, increasing the heuristic power of both network analysis and datavisualization. Identifying an articulated network of the interactions among the users and their references (hashtags), and the territory within which these postings occur, brings this first analysis of the Instagram posts well inside the field of research on governance of the communicative spaces (Rodríguez-Amat and Brantner 2016).

Conclusions This chapter addressed the Instagram discussion on German cinema to explore the community and the communicative space developed in that conversation. The contribution here can be perceived along three fields: first, the current research on Instagram as a combination and mix of digital methods; second, to research on cultural diplomacy cultural policies; and finally, aligns these contributions to progress in the double discussion about the public sphere—the community of interaction and the communicative space. The method showcased here has explored 381 posts under 13 hashtags and the network of users, images and posting times. The images have then been analysed to identify to which historical period they refer to further identify the movies. The third layer of analysis consisted of the network of relations between users and hashtags to identify the communities of meaning, and the geography of the posts to explore the communicative space formed by this conversation. The findings show a triple contribution. First, the relevance and opportunity of a tool to research Instagram incorporating Image Type Analysis and metadata, and combining quantitative, qualitative, network and geographic analysis to contribute to

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research on social media and communicative spaces and the public sphere. The findings have shown that the amount of geolocative data is high and that there is a dense network of activity. Geographic and network analysis showed that interactions are modularly structured forming communities. Tracing interactions shows sets of shared meanings and geographies of activity that can be visualized in maps. The mix of methods is an innovative contribution; beyond its limitations, this case is a good starting point for further developments and for a systematized model of research. Second, the findings show that Instagram activity not only assumes and reproduces the institutionally promoted views of the German cinema—as the prominence of the institutional profiles demonstrates—but also that the Instasphere could complement that institutionally promoted German culture by responding to the braindrain of creative agency in the currently institutionally promoted German cinema. Beyond these initial findings, this chapter has shown the possibilities of research on social media activity around German cinema as a form of enhancing participation and engagement of the public as a response to culturally planned actions. In this case, German cinema as part of a broader strategy of cultural cinematic diplomacy and the result of the German effort to curate German culture around the world. The analysis showed that Instagram is actively used as a promotional platform by various institutions, such as German Federal Foreign Office and independent actors representing the creative industry—production companies, film festivals, actors, and viewers. Instagram, therefore, can be used as an assessment tool for the impact of cultural policies promoting cities, regions, or countries. The activity produced by these stakeholders shows the diversity of representations, as respect country branding and cultural memory. The absence of certain historical periods and overwhelming number of posts associated with the Weimar Republic and contemporary movies indicates the narrative of collective amnesia might be exercised as a part of cultural diplomacy. Finally, combining the previous two sets of findings, this chapter demonstrates that social media interactivity around a topic is not linear. Rather, it forms a networked system of activity that spreads across geographies. Instagram does not only connect the people who are acquainted with each other but also expands the networks to those sharing similar interests and mediate the community-building around certain brands, celebrities, books, or movies in the online realm. Interactions on Instagram are not structured necessarily around conversational turn-taking processes, but they build a space of contact and disagreement, a space of interactive dispersion: this is an interface with fundamental features of a communicative space. The case of German cinema can be thus approached as a communicative space: the Instasphere as a contingent public sphere.

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Katsarova, I. (2014). An overview of Europe’s film industry. European Parliamentary Research Service, pp. 1–8. Available from: https://www.europarl.europa.eu/RegData/etudes/BRIE/2014/ 545705/EPRS_BRI(2014)545705_REV1_EN.pdf Kitchin, R., Lauriault, T. P., & Wilson, M. W. (Eds.). (2017). Understanding spatial media. Sage. Kraume, L., (Director). (2018). Das schweigende Klassenzimme. [Film] Akzente Film- und Fernsehproduktion, Zero One Film, Studiocanal Film, Zweites Deutsches Fernsehen (ZDF), WunderWerk, Medienboard Berlin-Brandenburg, Filmförderungsanstalt (FFA), FFF Bayern, Filmförderung Hamburg Schleswig-Holstein, Deutscher Filmförderfonds (DFFF). Laestadius, L. (2017). Instagram. The SAGE handbook of social media research methods, pp. 573–592. Lang, F., (Director). (1927). Metropolis. [Film] Deutsche Universum Film AG. Langen, F., & Garcia, B. (2009). Measuring the impacts of large scale cultural events: A literature review. Liverpool: Impacts, 08. Loist, S. & Prommer, E. (2019). Gendered production culture in the German film industry. Media Industries Journal, 6(1). Available from: https://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/mij/15031809.0006. 106?view¼text;rgn¼main Manovich, L. (2017). 14 the Mobile generation and Instagram photography. In A. S. Tellería (Ed.), Between the public and private in mobile communication (Vol. 36, pp. 262–278). New York: Routledge: Taylor & Francis. McGuigan, J., & Mcguigan, J. (2012). Culture and the public sphere. Routledge. McQuire, S. (2017). Geomedia: Networked cities and the future of public space. Wiley. Melissen, J. (2005). Wielding soft power: The new public diplomacy. Netherlands: Netherlands Institute of International Relations, Clingendael. Mohsin, M. (2019, 29 November). 10 Instagram stats every marketer should know in 2020 [infographic]. Oberlo [Online]. Available from: https://www.oberlo.com/blog/instagram-statsevery-marketer-should-know Montiel, F.J., Peña, J., & Rodriguez, J.R. (2008). Country-Branding als Identitätsmetapher. In: Anspruchsgruppenorientierte Kommunikation. VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften, pp. 421–438. Neal, Z. (2014, November). Community. Oxford bibliographies. Available from https://doi.org/10. 1093/OBO/9780199756384-0080. Newman, M. E. J., & Girvan, M. (2004). Finding and evaluating community structure in networks. Physical Review E, 69, 26–113. https://doi.org/10.1103/PhysRevE.69.026113. Nieborg, D. B., & Poell, T. (2018). The platformization of cultural production: Theorizing the contingent cultural commodity. New Media & Society, 20(11), 4275–4292. Nixon, L., Popova, A., & Önder, I. (2017). How instagram influences visual destination image: A case study of Jordan and Costa Rica. In: ENTER2017 eTourism conference, Rome, Italy. O’Callaghan, D., Greene, D., Conway, M., Carthy, J., & Cunningham, P. (2012). An analysis of interactions within and between extreme right communities in social media. In M. Atzmueller, A. Chin, A. Helic, & A. Hotho (Eds.), Ubiquitous social media analysis (pp. 88–107). Berlin, Heidelberg: Springer. Oliver, B., (Director). (2018). Johnatan. [Film] Manis Film, Raised by Wolves. Pate, D., (Director). (2020). Kartoffelsalat 3—Das Musical. [Film] Take25 Pictures. Pilgrim, K., & Bohnet-Joschko, S. (2019). Selling health and happiness how influencers communicate on Instagram about dieting and exercise: Mixed methods research. BMC Public Health, 19(1), 1054. https://doi.org/10.1186/s12889-019-7387-8. Rainie, L., Brenner, J., & Purcell, K. (2012, September). Photos and videos as social currency online. Pew Internet & American Life Project. Extraído el, 28(04). Available from: https://www. pewresearch.org/internet/2012/09/13/photos-and-videos-as-social-currency-online/ Rodríguez-Amat, J. R., & Brantner, C. (2016). Space and place matters: A tool for the analysis of geolocated and mapped protests. New Media & Society, 18(6), 1027–1046. Rogers, R. (2019). Doing digital methods. SAGE Publications Limited.

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Rothemund, M., (Director). (2005). Sophie Scholl – Die letzten Tage. [Film] Goldkind Film, Broth Film, Bayerischer Rundfunk, Südwestrundfunk i Arte. Sarabi, S., (Director). (2019). Prélude. [Film] Weydemann Bros. Schipper, S., (Director). (2015). Victoria. [Film] MonkeyBoy, Deutsch film Radical Media, Westdeutscher Rundfunk (WDR), ARTE. Schlesinger, P. (1999). Changing spaces of political communication: The case of the European Union. Political Communication, 16(3), 263–279. Schmidt, J. H. (2014). Twitter and the rise of personal publics. Twitter and society, 3–14. Schneider, C. P. (2009). The unrealized potential of cultural diplomacy:“best practices” and what could be, if only. . . . The Journal of Arts Management, Law, and Society, 39(4), 260–279. Schreier, M., (Director). (2019). Traumfabrik. [Film] Traumfabrik Babelsberg, Studio Babelsberg, ARRI Media Productions, Pantaleon Films, TOBIS Filmproduktion, herbX Film. Scott, R., (Director). (1979). Alien. [Film]. Brandywine Productions. Seitz, F., (Director). (1935). Der Kampf mit dem Drachen. [Film] Bavaria Film. Silberman, M., & Silberman, M. D. (1995). German cinema: Texts in context. Wayne State University Press. Sontag, S. (1996). The decay of cinema. New York Times, 25(2). Stefanidis, A., Crooks, A., & Radzikowski, J. (2013). Harvesting ambient geospatial information from social media feeds. Geo Journal, 78(2), 319–338. Steinhoff, H., (Director). (1938). Tanz auf dem Vulkan. [Film] Majestic-Film GmbH. Szondi, G. (2008). Public diplomacy and nation branding: Conceptual similarities and differences. Clingendael: Netherlands Institute of International Relations. Tabak, H., (Director). (2019). Gipsy Queen. [Film] Dor Film-West Produktionsgesellschaft, Dor Film Produktionsgesellschaft, ARTE, Norddeutscher Rundfunk (NDR), Österreichischer Rundfunk (ORF). Talavera, J., Fontaine, G., & Kanzler, M. (2016). Public financing for film and television contents. The state of soft money in Europe. Strasbourg, France: European Audiovisual Observatory. Available from: https://rm.coe.int/public-financing-for-film-and-television-content-the-state-ofsoft-mon/16808e46df Thielmann, T. (2010). Locative media and mediated localities. The Journal of Media Geography, 5 (1), 1–17. Twyker, T., (Director). (1998). Lola rennt. [Film] X-Filme Creative Pool, WDR, Arte. Urry, J. (2008). Moving on the mobility turn. In W. Canzler, V. Kaufmann, & S. Kesselring (Eds.), Tracing mobilities: Towards a cosmopolitan perspective (pp. 13–24). Hampshire: Ashgate Publishing, Ltd. Wegener, P., & Boese, C., (Directors). (1920). Der Golem. [Film]. Projektions- AG Union (PAGU). Wenders, W., (Director). (1987). Der Himmel über Berlin. [Film] Roadmovies Filmproduktion, Argos Films, Westdeutscher Rundfunk. Wong, C. H. Y. (2016). Publics and counterpublics: Rethinking film festivals as public spheres (pp. 101–117). Film Festivals: Routledge. Yuval-Davis, N. (1998). Gender and Nation. In R. Wilford & R. L. Miller (Eds.), Women, ethnicity and nationalism: The politics of transition (pp. 23–35). London: Routledge. Zamorano, M. M. (2016). Reframing cultural diplomacy: The instrumentalization of culture under the soft power theory. Culture Unbound: Journal of Current Cultural Research, 8(2), 165–186. Zimmermann, P. (2008). Landscapes of “Heimat” in post-war German cinema. The Geography of Cinema–A Cinematic World, 171–186. Zöberlein, H., & Schmid-Wildy, L., (Directors). (1934). Stosstrupp. [Film] Arya Film GmbH. Zook, M. A., & Graham, M. (2007). The creative reconstruction of the internet: Google and the privatization of cyberspace and Digi place. Geoforum, 38(6), 1322–1343.

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Joan Ramon Rodriguez-Amat, PhD—Principal Lecturer in the Department of Media, Arts and Communications at Sheffield Hallam University. His main area of research revolves around governance of communicative spaces; the cultural constructions of time and space, and citizenship and power (see http:communicativespaces.org). This triple discussion emerges in the intersection of media governance research, cultural production, and democratic debates; and the communities and identities—among them sexual, national, and cultural identities—growing from the geopolitics of social media platforms and the communication technologies. Yulia Belinskaya, MA—Prae-Doc researcher at the Department of Communication, University of Vienna. Her work covers the issues concerning governance of communicative spaces, cultural communication, including social media activity, freedom of expression, pornography and obscenity, restrictive media policies, and ethics of communication.

Part III

German Filmmakers in a Global Environment

Chapter 8

Intercultural Experience Through Affective Encounters: Marten Persiel’s This Ain’t California (2012) James Cleverley

Abstract This chapter examines intercultural experience in Marten Persiel’s film This Ain’t California (2012). This ‘hybrid’ documentary defies simple categorisation within traditional borders, such as those between national and international film, and between fiction and non-fiction. I argue that the film’s particular, affective mode of remembering the GDR has broad appeal that extends beyond national film-viewing contexts. The case of This Ain’t California demonstrates how intercultural and international dialogue happens not only in conversations between domestic and international audiences of German films; intercultural exchange occurs on the level of the text itself, in the filmmaking processes and in the affective experience of the embodied spectator. Studies which seek to account for embodied responses on the part of the spectator offer the means to understand the appeal of films such as This Ain’t California. The portrayal of transcultural experience between East German youths and the Western pursuit of skateboarding resonate with the film’s potential for opening up new avenues for discussing life in the GDR, and the legacies of re-unification. With an understanding of the phenomenology of the spectator’s film experience, we can illuminate pathways for future, productive interdisciplinary studies of films and their impact at film festivals.

Introduction: If ‘This Ain’t California’, Then Where? In a report for Spiegel Online, Christian Buß describes the audience reaction to This Ain’t California, shown on the opening night of the 2013 Audi Festival of German Film in the coastal city of Newcastle, Australia. In the session following the filmscreening, questions asked of the director, Marten Persiel, were ‘very concrete’, according to Buß’s (2013) report: ‘How many of the sequences had been shot by the filmmakers themselves? What parts of the history were true, and what was legend? What meaning did skateboarding have in the repressive state of the German J. Cleverley (*) The University of Melbourne, Parkville, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_8

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Democratic Republic (GDR)?’. Persiel’s film takes a hybrid ‘docu-fictional’ form, employing a fictionalised narrative to tell the subcultural history of skateboarding in East Germany in the 1980s. The ratio of ‘truth’ and ‘fiction’ remains nebulous throughout, calling for an interrogation of This Ain’t California’s cultural memory work, framed by issues of documentary authenticity and history/story-telling, as evidenced by the audience questions cited above. Of particular interest is how the filmmakers (re)create the everyday by shooting ‘amateur’ skate clips with Super 8 cameras. By presenting these ‘falsified’ sequences as archival footage, according to generic documentary conventions, the film also probes how the spectator is affected by mediated (sub)cultural memories. This Ain’t California’s formal challenge to the fiction/non-fiction binary takes on further layers when considered in terms of its framing as a ‘German’ film. In his report, Buß goes on to observe how the Australian audience quickly engaged with the central aspects of the German production, which loosely plays with archival footage, editing and fiction, mixing these to produce a thrilling love-story about skateboarding as an act of freedom: ‘This happens in such a sunny and cheery way, that one could almost forget what ‘This Ain’t California’ is about: East German history’ (Buß 2013)1 How should this film be positioned? As a ‘national’ memory film, or ‘sub-national’? Or perhaps as an ‘international’ skate film? How does this film, telling an unexpected history of skateboarding in the GDR in an unexpected fashion somewhere between fact and fiction, affect the spectator in her engagement with its production of a cultural memory of the GDR? The film’s success in both domestic and international terms, in particular on the film festival circuit, may be pointed to by the numerous awards it has won, including ‘Best Documentary’ at Cannes Independent Film Festival, the ‘Audience Award’ at the Warsaw Film Festival and ‘Best Film Perspective Category’ at the Berlin Film Festival. The film festival is recognised as a ‘European institution’ (Elsaesser 2005, p. 84), invented prior to the Second World War and maturing during the 1940s and 1950s, developing into an event model for the circulation of films among differing national contexts, and in opposition to Hollywood. Benedict Anderson’s (2006) term ‘imagined communities’ is often used to describe the type of cultural and social interaction at these events, as different groups encounter each other, shaped by abstract, ‘imagined’ borders. Indeed, ‘film festivals contribute to imagined communities due to their often identity-shaping and identity-based criteria’ (Herrschner 2015, p. 128). Experiencing difference is often a motivation for the festival spectator, who, Nichols (1994, p. 17) argues, often seeks an ‘encounter with the unfamiliar, the experience of something strange, the discovery of new voices and vision’. This chapter seeks out explanations for the film’s global appeal through an analysis of the film’s embedded, affective portrayal of intercultural experience. The chapter proceeds in two parts, the first outlines in more detail the argument for a methodological approach to the study of national films which can account for

1 Das geschieht so sonnig und so heiter, dass man fast vergessen kann, um was es in ‘This Ain’t California’ geht: ostdeutsche Geschichte.

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transcultural effects not only as having international, but also sub-national qualities. The second part looks closely at This Ain’t California’s vibrant model of transcultural film-experience—its dreamlike production of a memory of the GDR touched by the cultural influence of the United States; I argue that when considering German films in global contexts, we must be cognisant of the crucial workings of intercultural exchange operating at the level of the spectator’s active and affective experience.

Sub-national Memories and Transcultural Film This Ain’t California begins with the death of its protagonist, the former skater Denis ‘Panik’ Paraceck. He has died fighting as a soldier in Afghanistan, this acts as a catalyst for the film’s memories of the East German skater-scene in which he once had been a kind of leader, being its charismatic, wild and rebellious icon. A group of his friends take the opportunity to come together and reminisce, their memories are supplemented by ‘archival’, home-video footage and animated sequences (see Figs. 8.1 and 8.2a). Predominately framed through the narration of one ‘witness’ in particular, ‘Nico’, the previously unknown history of a small but energetic skateboarding subculture is told alongside the story of Denis. The film traces his emergence from an exuberant young boy into his alter-ego, ‘Panik’—a cool and liberated youth whose passion for skateboarding often came up against the restrictiveness of GDR society. In fact, these friends, including Nico, turn out to be actors, not ‘genuine’ eye-witnesses, and the dual figure of Denis/Panik is a fictionalised character played by the actor Kai Hillebrand (see Figs. 8.1 and 8.2b). Given that none of this ‘fiction’ is acknowledged, the film starts by centring the spectator as a documentary film-viewer.

Fig. 8.1 ‘Archival’ Super 8 footage of Denis/Panik (played by Kai Hillebrand) performing a trick with the ubiquitous GDR Trabant car in the background

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Fig. 8.2 (a, b) Rotoscopic animation and ‘eye-witness’ interviews are also utilised in This Ain’t California’s telling of its story

Finding itself at the crossroads of fiction and nonfiction, Persiel’s film not only problematises our understanding of what ought to constitute ‘documentary’ style, but, through its destabilising form, it constitutes a fresh approach to GDR memory, offering a chance to examine sub-national memories from an atypical vantage point—the cool, sexy subcultural world of skateboarding. The filmmakers create the character of Denis/Panik as a symbolic and narrative force through which the ‘real’ history of skateboarding in the GDR can be told. His persona is then packaged into a film that appears to be a documentary—a sense reinforced by generic, non-fictional accoutrements (archival footage, interviews, narration etc). The film’s experimentation with documentary and fictional aesthetics and forms offers an apposite means, theoretically and methodologically, to make sense of the intercultural experiences inherent in film-viewing. How do we make sense of the spectator’s engagement with the fictional and non-fictional playing with memories of the GDR, which is activated by these filmic techniques? Here, Annette Kuhn’s concept of ‘memory work’ is helpful. ‘Memory work’, Kuhn (2010, p. 157) argues, ‘undercuts assumptions about the transparency or the authenticity of what is remembered, treating it not as ‘truth’ but as evidence of a particular sort’. According to Kuhn (2002, p. 157), we encounter the past as ‘material for interpretation, to be interrogated, mined for its meanings and its possibilities’. Framing the memories of Persiel’s film as productive, interrogative sites helps to clarify the specific way that memory films, whether fictional or not, are capable of questioning the past; we can question the extent to which This Ain’t California engages the spectator in an active and conscious ‘staging’ of memory, and I analyse its critical relationship to the work of memory. Memory work offers the possibility of engaging with the relationship between individuals and groups, and across multiple temporalities: ‘[I]t is never the past itself that acts upon a present society, but representations of past events that are created, circulated and received within a specific cultural frame and political constellation’ (Assmann and Shortt 2011, p. 3). Moreover, the dynamics of memory in the present are also frequently considered increasingly to be in motion: Bond et al. (2017, p. 1) argue that memory is increasingly conceptualised as something that is ‘on the move’, it is ‘more and more perceived as a process, a work that is continually in progress,

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rather than as a reified object’. In This Ain’t California, the chaotic presence of Denis/Panik embodies this idea. His exuberant performance supports the film’s production of a cultural memory of East German skateboarding, typifying this lively, active and shifting model of memory work. Being so central, charismatic and exciting, Panik demands the strongest physical and emotional response from all of the characters in the film. He is definitively the film’s protagonist, while at the same time being GDR society’s antagonist; the mythology of skateboarding, and of the subculture that developed around that activity in the former East, is crystallised in Panik’s persona. A skater remembers in the film: ‘When Denis switched into Panik mode, he was somehow cooler even than the West Germans. He impressed them’.2 The East German skaters expressed pride in Panik’s ability to match it with the Westerners in attitude and style. Panik, the fictional construction of the filmmakers, embodies the very real power of cultural memories to transform the ways in which identities can be shaped around mythology and legend, as much as history and fact, (some would argue more so). Scholars increasingly consider both memory and cinema beyond national frames. In an age of globalisation, memory is not locked into a national context, and neither are films (Fisher and Abel 2018, p. 14). However, as Susannah Radstone (2011, p. 117) reminds us, ‘even when (and if) memory travels, it is only ever instantiated locally, in a specific place and at a particular time’. This Ain’t California’s particular memory work, fashioning an exciting, lively depiction of a cool skater scene in the GDR, provokes questions regarding the locality of the sub-national memories of the East German past, mediated by the post-unification national context. At the start of the second decade of the 2000s, Sabine Hake (2013, p. 643) provocatively challenged German film studies for a ‘growing narrowness, conformity, and insularity’ in the context of her plea for the field to make a stronger commitment to ‘studying a national cinema in the shifting terrain’ of contemporary media and screen studies in global, transnational contexts. Regarding broader tendencies in German film studies, Hake (2013, pp. 634–651) expressed concerns over the ‘demarcating effects of the national’, warning of the dangers of both homogenisation and particularism through siloing effects of theoretical and institutional practices. Partly in response to Hake’s appeal, Jaimey Fisher and Marco Abel (2018, pp. 12–13) have articulated the need to present German-language films within global contexts, reflecting a transnational turn observable in both film and memory studies. Their intervention presents cogent arguments for the deterritorialization of German cinema, writing specifically of the need to comprehend German films beyond intellectual frameworks overinvested in the national. As evidenced by the global reach of This Ain’t California at film festivals, its memories of the GDR and of re-unification certainly travel. The filmmakers’ biographies are pertinent to the shifting emphasis between a number of national sites that underlie the subculture the film portrays, which are separated in both time and place; the spectator shares in encounters between East and

2 Wenn Denis so in Panik-Mode geschaltet hat, denn war er echt sogar irgendwie cooler als die Westdeutschen. Er hat die beeindruckt.

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West Germany, the USA and post-unification Germany. This is expressed both humorously and in a more serious tone. One example of the farcical is shown in an excerpt from the communist propagandist television broadcast Der Schwarze Kanal, in which the host, Karl-Eduard von Schnitzler absurdly (from our postunification perspective) warns of the dangerous activity that has already inflicted West Germany. More seriously, the restrictions of the Wall, prohibiting the skaters from access to proper equipment are presented in tones that emphasise the deep frustrations they felt. The motivations and relationship of the film’s creators with the remembrance of the GDR they produce, and of the global, cultural ‘meaning’ of skateboarding, vary according to each of their personal interests and upbringings. In an interview that appears on the DVD release, Dirk Reiher, born in the former East, and researcher for the project, describes how, in an autobiographical way, the film spoke of a GDR past that was his own: ‘I had to make this film because it told my history, because it is the story of my childhood. Of my youth. Because I come from a time, or from a country, which no longer exists’.3 Persiel, who was socialised in West Germany on the other hand, occupies a different positionality regarding the former East; his interest begins with skateboarding, a scene he has been involved with for a large part of his life. In one press interview, he and the producer Ronald Vietz recall that the early conception of their movie started with the idea of filming a story about an East German who invents the notion of skateboarding without any contact with the West: From the starting point of making something humorous or something light, it moved very quickly in the direction of a proper German history, which was perhaps worth telling seriously. The film is serious in the moments where it does not speak about skateboarding.4 (cited. in Rebhandl 2012)

The translation of the original idea into a documentary form followed the filmmakers’ realisation, their discovery, that there was a serious East German history of skateboarding to be told. The balance between light-hearted exuberance and sombre context runs throughout the film eventually produced; the death of Denis in Afghanistan as a soldier bookends the noise, laughter and absurdity in the skateboarding story it encompasses. The chaotic filming of youthful rebellion is testified by the filmmakers as a powerful and vital part of the film. The fun that was had during the shoot, we are led to understand, should translate into the affect that those sequences in particular seek to elicit upon their viewing. Moreover, while This Ain’t California, might look like ‘a documentary about East Germany’, its exuberant, colourful portrayal of a skater scene places it as much in

3 Ich musste den Film machen, weil das meiner Geschichte erzählt, weil es die Geschichte meiner Kindheit ist. Meiner Jugend. Weil ich aus einer Zeit komme, oder aus einem Land komme, was es nicht mehr gibt. 4 Von diesem Ansatz, etwas Komödienhaftes oder was Luftiges zu machen, ging es dann sehr schnell in die Richtung einer richtigen deutschen Geschichte, die es sich vielleicht sogar lohnt, ernsthaft zu erzählen. Natürlich ist von dem Luftigen und Lustigen viel übriggeblieben. Der Film ist an den Stellen ernst, an denen er nicht über Skateboarden erzählt.

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dialogue with the cult US skater-film Dogtown and Z-Boys (Peralta 2002) as it is with contemporary GDR-documentaries such as Einzelkämpfer (Kaudelka 2013) or Die Familie (Weinert 2009). There remains a need to examine the film’s memories according to both their specifically ‘German’ and ‘East German’ qualities, in order to consider their intercultural potential. Furthermore, the influences from international film cultures in producing a ‘German’ (or East German) memory film play a significant part in this equation. Sub-national memories of East Germany continue to haunt both eastern and western imaginations. The relationships between Germany’s national history, its self-conceptualisation and its cinema have been interactive and reciprocal, each influencing the other. Hake (2008, p. 1) describes the nexus where these points connect as a ‘site of crises, ruptures, and antagonisms, but also of unexpected influences, affinities, and continuities’. The persistence of contestation between the sub-national and the national recalls the conditions of mobility described by Radstone (2011, p. 109), especially the ‘significance of location, and, particularly, memories of ‘home’, for the meaning-making and affective dimensions of life in the present’. In light of this and cognisant of memory’s mobility and of the insecurity inherent in the concept of the nation, the final section of this chapter further localises the body as an active site of memory work. It posits the body of the spectator as the site at which the past and the present, the individual and the collective affectively collide—in a productive, intercultural experience.

California Dreaming Through the framework of embodied spectatorship, I suggest that personal and cultural memories of East Germany adhere in mediated filmic narratives and are experienced as affective encounters between the film and the spectator. Here, I aim to address sensual qualities of cultural memory by drawing a corporeally aware notion of cinema which ‘stresses the interactive character’ of film spectatorship (Marks 2002, p. 13). Through marrying an embodied film theoretical approach with questions that continue to probe existing tensions in Germany’s (sub)national identities, the following paragraphs seek to account for the sheer differentiation found in sensorial responses to individual and collective memories. This enquiry is based upon existential phenomenology, namely ‘a philosophical style that emphasizes a certain interpretation of human experience and that, in particular, concerns perception and bodily activity’ (Ihde 1990, p. 21). Under this framework, the spectator is considered not as an abstract, ideal figure, but rather as an embodied, material subject, whose agency in the film experience is crucial to the film’s memory work. Here, I argue for the theoretical characterisation of the film-viewer as being involved in ‘perceiving, affective, [and] sensual’ relations with the ‘body’ of the film’ (Elsaesser and Hagener 2015, p. 130). This project is necessarily intercultural, as the spectator’s ‘acculturated sensorium’ (according to her particular positionality) fundamentally shapes the process by

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which memories are mediated. Here, the phenomenological encounter is between the viewer’s body and what Sobchack (1992, p. 3) terms the ‘film’s body’,5 producing an ‘expression of experience by experience’. Rather than focusing on what is processed solely on a cognitive level, this is partly a question of wondering how the viewer ‘feels’ during a film, or more specifically, what she ‘senses’, i.e. in filmic spaces, hues, shapes, sounds and movements. If we know the viewer to be active in an exchange between two bodies—theirs and the film’s—then, as Marks (2002, p. 14) argues, ‘the characterization of the film viewer as passive, vicarious, or projective must be replaced with a model of a viewer who participates in the production of the cinematic experience’. Applying these insights to the issues raised by This Ain’t California’s memory work, we can return to the central question: how are memory, time and place experienced by the embodied spectator, given the film’s dual focus on the East German past and on the pursuit of skateboarding. The following examines the influence of ‘America’ as a cultural force within Germany and in This Ain’t California’s creative endeavour to bring to life the ‘feeling’ of ‘the States’ that is integral to the skateboarding scene’s cultural resonances. My analysis builds upon the theoretical foundations described above—i.e. that it is the spectator’s attitude, the way she intends the screen, that structures the identifications from ‘real’ to ‘fictional’ sounds and images. I examine the role of the spectator’s body and memories of the senses in determining how that physically operates in This Ain’t California, arguing that we must consider that a cultural image (such as the memories of the GDR in This Ain’t California) will be sensed, felt, and understood in multiple ways, according to unique individual experience. Referring to the reflections of a personal encounter with American culture, this comparison aims to productively show the ways by which This Ain’t California explores the feeling of intercultural experience in a shared, as well as an individual, sense. America’s cultural relationship with Germany has been a topic of much discussion. Its influence, often perceived as a threatening, engulfing force upon the country’s domestic culture, has produced strong emotional responses to a range of cultural products from Jeans and Coca-Cola, to Hollywood, individualism and Fordism. Lüdtke et al. explain the historical beginnings of these processes:

5

Sobchack’s terminology seeks to describe two key dimensions of perception and expression. Firstly, the film’s body is ‘the instrumental mediation necessary to cinematic communication between filmmaker and spectator’. Secondly, it is considered ‘as a direct means of having and expressing a world’ (1992, p. 168). Sobchack summarises her meaning of the term thus: ‘I use the phrase the “film’s body” very precisely [. . .] to designate the material existence of the film as functionally embodied (and thus differentiated in existence from the filmmaker and spectator). The “film’s body” is not visible in the film except for its intentional agency and diacritical motion. It is not anthropomorphic, but it is also not reducible to the cinematic apparatus (in the same way that we are not reducible to our material physiognomy); it is discovered and located only reflexively as a quasi-subjective and embodied “eye” that has a discrete—if ordinarily prepersonal and anonymous—existence’ (2004, p. 66).

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After the turn of the century, some admiring, but more sceptical, if not sharply critical remarks about the ‘Americanisation’ of one’s own world began to be heard in Germany. In the 1920s, these condensed into a much-used topos. As varied as the established emphases became, so too were hopes present—more widespread however, were anxieties and worries.6 (1996, p. 7)

This tension backgrounds the situation in East Germany where official attitudes, under Cold War relations towards the United States, were naturally more antagonistic than in the West. Nevertheless, there are continuities between the early twentieth century attitudes in Germany, before division, and the specific responses to America that developed throughout the Cold War opposition. In an essay which discusses shifts in attitudes towards the ‘issue’ of Americanisation in Germany, Winfried Fluck begins with a personal memory of his own: his first encounter with American culture in bombed out Berlin, 1949. He remembers looking at American comics with a friend, before they could read in either German or English; the pleasures they received were largely drawn from the pictures. Fluck (2005, p. 221) particularly recalls ‘the strong presence of an intense blue in Superman’s dress as well as in the sky through which he moved, a blue that gained an almost magical quality in our dreary, colorless surroundings’. The affective power of the colour in the exotic magazines intersected with something his father once told him of a place called California, ‘where the sky was always blue’. Through this ‘arbitrary but creative linkage’, the young Fluck experienced a powerful and memorable response to the sensory information encoded in both the aesthetic of the ‘blue’ in the magazine, and the aura of a foreign land—creating a vision of ‘California blue’. In Fluck’s (2005, p. 222) story, we can see how cultural knowledges can emerge in individual and unique encounters. Significantly, he sees his ‘wilful transformation of “Superman blue” into “California blue”’ as evidence of the fact that recipients of culture may re-use and transform its effects in ways that can be confounding, unpredictable, and which go beyond the overt meaning that is more readily apparent in a cultural object. For the young Fluck, ‘California’ was not simply found in the blue ink on a comic. Rather, it was created by him, via the sensations elicited in his perceptive response to both that colour, and to the idea in his head, of a mythical place where the sky was always blue, a notion he had culturally learned after a remark made once by his father. We can observe the same transformation, an affective feeling, in This Ain’t California. The story (at this stage representing the origins of skating as it developed in the former East) is taken up by Nico, who remembers having the first Westbrett, a skateboard from the West, brought over for the three friends, Nico, Dirk and Denis. Its quality was far superior to the homemade boards they had so far been using. Its translucent wheels were succulently beautiful; this became the favourite colour-type in the East. The skaters remember, in tones evoking childlike wonder, 6 Bewundernde, mehr aber noch skeptische, wenn nicht scharf-ablehnende Äußerungen zur “Amerikanisierung” der eigenen Welt setzten in Deutschland nach der Jahrhundertwende ein. In den 1920er Jahren verdichteten sie sich zu einem viel verwendeten Topos. So unterschiedlich die Akzente gesetzt wurden, so präsent waren Hoffnungen—verbreiteter jedoch Ängste und Sorgen.

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Fig. 8.3 Delectable, red translucent wheels that taste like the West

the joy of this board and the pleasures of summers spent together. Meanwhile the characteristically warm and grainy Super 8 close-ups roll, showing the bright red wheels and the three boys messing around, doing tricks: ‘That was the coolest! Oh man, these wheels. Transparent was the most popular colour in the East. And the way they sniffed, like paradise, you wanted to gobble them up’.7 In this sequence, the spectator is invited to share in the cultural experience common to East German memory, of receiving ‘exotic’ goods that were hard to come by. The transcendence of see-through wheels (see Fig. 8.3) into an almost delectable sense of the brighter West echoes the post-war experience of America described by Fluck: ‘the transformation of a piece of cheap, cheesy popular culture into an almost magical object’ (2005, p. 221). In This Ain’t California, we are told similarly that: ‘Skateboarding . . . smelled like the wider world . . . it was the simplest American thing that you could put together’.8 The expansive sensorial possibilities that can be found in relatively banal objects within one’s life—and one’s memory—fit neatly within a schema of the cinematic affect that the filmmakers have taken hold of and wielded, in their efforts to produce this vibrant film that seeks to overflow into the spectator’s reality. Here we can note how the film’s relative ‘authenticity’, or possibly its lack thereof, when conceived of as a nearness to an actuality ‘out there’ in the ‘real’ GDR past, does not have to be argued according to a logic of absolutes. Instead, there is a truthfulness to the account of how the children created (Western) magic in translucent wheels. Their creative investment in the objects will be understood by the spectator, who is engaged in a similar relationship with the haptic Super 8 images of those wheels.

7

Das war der Knaller! Oh Mann, diese Rollen. Durchsichtig war die Lieblingsfarbe im Osten. Und wie die geschnuppert haben, wie das Paradies, das man am liebsten mit ihm hab’s verputzt. 8 Skateboarden . . . roch’ nach großer Welt. . . das war so das einfachste Amerikanischer was man sich zusammenbauen konnte.

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Fig. 8.4 Grainy, Super 8 footage enhances the multi-sensorial qualities of the sequence

This is affectively conveyed by the mimetic relationship between the experiential knowledges of the viewer and the film’s own understandings of its memories. The spectator plays a crucial part in activating this transfer between the film’s body and the experience produced. The children’s experience of cultural transfer, as the dream into translucent wheels the taste of the West, is sensorially depicted in This Ain’t California. The film’s haptic, grainy Super 8 images, such as those shown in Figs. 8.3 and 8.4, inspire in the spectator an active participation in this multisensorial interaction between cultural ideas, dreams and memories. ‘The elementary fact about aesthetic objects is that, in order to acquire meaning, they have to be actualized by means of a transfer’; Fluck (2005, p. 228) explains how this functions in the example of reading a literary text, ‘[s]ince we have never met literary characters such as Huck Finn or Madame Bovary and do in fact know that they never existed, we have to bring them to life by investing our own associations, feelings, and even bodily sensations’. We are fashioned by such experiences; they inform our world. This idea does not only speak to such sensorial responses as recalled by the ‘eyewitnesses’ (actors) to the translucent wheels that were so popular among the Eastern skaters, it also helps explain how the audience responds to This Ain’t California. Evocative and sweet images such as those of the children playing with their prized boards from the West are brought to life by the spectator’s active investment in them—if the Super 8 footage has a nostalgic quality, this is not only denoted by an aesthetic or style, but equally it emerges through the mechanism of the viewer’s acculturated, built-in associations with the idea of ‘childhood’; personal memories of similar experiences fashion these cinematic moments into rosy, shared cultural understandings. This function moreover acts as a cultural and social translation: To understand something of the transcendent power of a skateboard’s see-through wheels, the spectator does not need to share lived-experience of either growing up in Germany or being a skater. The spectator can intend the screen by associating similar memories from a

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personal store, enmeshing individual emotional knowledges with the cultural memories particular to the film. Speaking in an interview available on the DVD release, Persiel and Vietz assert that an important aspect for them in shooting the film was to make sure that it was ‘Nicht zu DDR-ich’—‘Not too ‘GDR-y’, a phrase they coined to describe the conventional depiction of East Germany that has developed over the years since re-unification. One scene demonstrates the results of this approach well; a skating sequence was shot in a concrete drain, with extended slow-motion images in a soft, glowing, yellow light. ‘The American dream’, East German youth (sub)culture, and the dreaming of This Ain’t California’s loose and free-flowing sounds and images combine. The boys are skating shirtless, the image evoking a warmth that seems to bring ‘California’ out of what might otherwise be ‘GDR-y’ scenery. As a result, this sequence produces a momentary vision—an experience—of that ‘other’ place, an American dream that is also an East German dream, a universal yet particular moment, cinematically seeking to transcend the typical. This is not (merely) Ostalgie—the (in)famous phenomenon of nostalgia for the GDR—but a nostalgia for a transcultural idea, for the desire to experience something different. The eye-witness ‘DJ Laser’ expresses this emotion when interviewed in the film, where he recollects: ‘We wanted to look into infinity . . . at other mentalities, other sounds, to taste something else. Quite banal things basically.9 The East German children and their emotional investment in the translucent wheels of a Rollbrett from the West reflect a cultural dynamic of desire for consumables that formed a part of the GDR economy.10 According to Fluck (2005, p. 222), the thinking about cultural imperialism has shifted over the years, and the idea that American values are simply imposed and then absorbed unchanged into other, submissive cultures has been replaced by more complex theories. These seek to describe the ways that American culture can be reappropriated and managed according to different needs and desires in each context, such as the ‘toolbox’ mode of cultural transfer. Fluck (2005, p. 222) argues that his own ‘childhood focus on the magic of color provides an example for such selective, often highly idiosyncratic forms of reappropriation’. Skateboarding’s history in East Germany demonstrates this toolbox mode of cultural use and exchange. The surprising existence (to many with no prior knowledge) of the very ‘American’ pastime of skateboarding over the ‘other side’ of the Wall forms a central attraction in the film’s thematic framing. This Ain’t California describes how the ‘American’ pastime developed special meaning in the East German context. Furthermore, we see how the activity’s potential was differently idealised depending on how the individuals were connected with the pursuit. For example, we hear from the ‘witnesses’, both in narration and in their roles as former

Wir wollten in die Unendlichkeit gucken [. . .] andere Mentalitäten, andere Geräusche, was Anderes zu schmecken. Ganz banale Sachen im Prinzip. 10 See Jonathan Bach, What Remains?, for an example of this in the form of the ‘Intershop’—a chain where goods could be purchased with foreign currency (not East German Marks). 9

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skaters. They reminisce about the sense of community they shared with each other, existing alongside the individual freedom and expression they felt when skating. This contrasts with the state’s attempts to organise the sport in a similar way to their other official sport programs. At various points in the film, we see the attitudes to skating of both the GDR government and the state’s officials, such as the excerpt from Der Schwarze Kanal mentioned earlier, in which the propagandist Karl-Eduard von Schnitzler warns of the dangers of skateboarding. Originating in the United States, skateboarding has already infiltrated West Germany. We learn that the GDR’s DTSB (Deutsche Turnund Sportbund, The German Gymnastics and Sports Federation) saw a chance to develop skateboarding into a sport for the country’s athletes could excel at, aiming to echo national achievement in other sporting disciplines. In 1986, the GDR even produced its own skateboard, the ‘Germina Speeder’. However, the incompatibility between the skaters’ practical and personal desires, the way they wished to use their boards, and the understandings of state officials was clear: ‘They also did not consider that you would do tricks with it. It was simply a thing that you stood on and rolled in a certain direction’ (Böhme, cited. in Reinhart 2010, p. 226).11 On the reverse side of the board, such rules as ‘Use on public spaces forbidden’12 illustrate how the sometimes destructive, usually mischievous behaviour of the skaters in This Ain’t California quickly developed into acts of resistance against a regime lacking empathy or understanding. This aspect of the history is also written into This Ain’t California’s narrative with dreamlike sequences, told through the device of Denis’s characterisation. The story is told through one of the film’s rotoscopic animation sequences. Denis briefly attends an official camp set up by the state for skaters to train and improve their skills. Denis’s friends, sitting around the campfire, suppose that this might have somehow resulted from his desire to reconcile with his father. They had been estranged since Denis refused to fulfil the expectation that he would become a GDR swimming champion via the Sportschule. We are told by the skater, Sladek, that the premise of the camps was for trainers to run exercises in the manner of ‘Turnvater Jahn’;13 he gestures at his head to indicate how ridiculous this approach was. The story explains that Denis’s firebrand personality could never be satisfied in the strict, disciplined and poorly conceived official approach to the sport. This, together with the quashing of that spirit of individual freedom, which is so crucial to skating’s power (as it is remembered in the film), meant that it would not work for Denis. ‘You simply could not get on with these types of people’,14 as Nico recalls.

11 Die haben auch nicht damit gerechnet, dass man damit Tricks machen kann. Das war einfach nur ein Ding, wo man sich draufstellt und irgendwo lang rollt. 12 Befahren öffentlicher Verkehrsflächen verboten. 13 ‘Turnvater Jahn’ is a reference to Friedrich Ludwig Jahn, who in the nineteenth century was a teacher of German gymnastics and is considered the father of the patriotic, social Turner movement (Eisenberg 1996). 14 Mit diesen Typen. . . konnte man einfach nicht klar kommen.

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Returning to an animated sequence, we encounter a landscape view of a local sports hall that has been set on fire, with smoke billowing from the windows. We hear in the narration that Denis (or is it Panik now?) eventually lost his cool and ‘set the place on fire’, screaming, swearing and causing general panic. There is ambiguity; was this fire is literal or metaphorical? That is not the important part of this moment in the story. What is vital, is that in another dysfunctional interaction between Denis and the state, (and his father, by extension), ‘Panik’ was born. He returns to Berlin with this part of his personality amplified, along with his antiauthoritarian belief system. These animated scenes such as this fill out the story visually, often in moments of the story, where there could not credibly be ‘archival footage’. These sequences weave together threads of the myth of Denis/Panik. The black-and-white, shimmering drawings are more obviously ‘illustrative’ than either the Super 8 footage or the witness recollection scenes around the fire. They are stark images with sharp contrast and bold lines, but the characters’ bodies glimmer at their edges, creating an unreal effect. In a dreamy animation that introduces us to the young Denis at the film’s beginning, Nico narrates a ‘typical Denis story’, where Denis escapes from his apartment, having been grounded by his father, by jumping out of the window into a tree, before meeting and playing with Nico and Dirk for the first time. Nico acknowledges the ambiguity in the truthfulness of this Denis narrative, which, when considered against the film’s own methodology, can be read as a nod to selfawareness. He tells us: ‘For his part, he always insisted that it happened exactly like that. As if in a dream’.15 Ambient music hovers unobtrusively behind this animated introduction to the film’s characters, furthering the resemblance to a dream. The story of skateboarding is indelibly painted with American cultural resonance and evocation; wherever skating subcultures manifested in the world, a link with America, and the origins of the sport, is connoted in some way. In This Ain’t California, it is addressed in the film’s title, which plays with the distance and proximity of California, as a place and as an idea, from the East German experience. This quality is aroused in the film’s home-movie sequences, which are bound together more by the creation of a feeling than a causal narrative structure—the rolling of wheels on concrete, youthful exuberance, laughter, partying and general mischief-making. As with the film’s animations, the skating montages share the characteristics of a dream.

Conclusion Intercultural experience is central to the attractive, sensorial mode of This Ain’t California’s memory work. Persiel’s film wilfully plays with documentary and fiction forms to tell a story that refreshes ongoing debates in re-unified Germany 15

Er selber hat immer darauf bestanden, dass es genauso passiert ist. Wie in einem Traum.

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about the legacies of the history of division, and the problems that persist as ‘subnational’ issues continue to influence German-German relations. These conflicts are emblematised in the phrase the Mauer im Kopf—the Wall in the mind,16 a physical analogy for national division. In this sense, This Ain’t California can be interpreted as a memory film, dealing with a specific, German history located within a domestic setting. At the same time, This Ain’t California tells a story that could belong, at its core, in many contexts. The East German-ness of the film, while always important, is pulled into tension with the love of skateboarding as a pursuit in itself. The film depicts the youths performing skate tricks in many long sequences, which are sensorially and affectively pleasurable without the need for a specific emotional backing of a poignant GDR contextualization. In those moments, the film is about skating, more than it is about the GDR. In an article published by the (‘edgy’) Vice magazine, which presents This Ain’t California to a British audience, the film is introduced with the following preamble: For whatever reason—be it Nestlé recruiting Bob Burnquist to sell Aeros or MTV adopting Ryan Sheckler to sell advertising—the public perception of skateboarding seems to have changed over the last decade. Skaters on TV aren’t obnoxious, glue-huffing wasters anymore; they’re admirable young men building community skateparks on Google adverts. But the sport—or the culture that goes hand-in-hand with the sport, at least—did used to be seen as more of a threat to all things wholesome. (Clifton 2013)

Through its unrestrained formal, aesthetic and narrative approach, This Ain’t California rejuvenates the rebelliousness of skateboarding (and the skate-movie) through its East German locality. The filmmakers reach into the sexy, cool aesthetic of skating in order to conjure a story of youthful exuberance that aims to resonate with a broad audience, who may be tired of the negative aspects within their current political and economic climates. The film satisfies the escapist potential that skateboarding films offer, through the kinaesthetic thrills of free expression and movement. Persiel and his team thus develop a movie with emotional application to numerous spaces and temporalities, which has been demonstrated in its popular appeal and in the vigorous discussions that followed its tours across film festivals internationally. Interdisciplinary research has the promise to further deepen the insights we can gain about the way that memories of films such as Persiel’s impact on spectators via, for instance, empirical survey data. Such studies would complement the methodological approach I propose in this chapter, with its recourse to the phenomenological as well as to cultural and historical theory and research, which allows for interpretations of the way that sub-national memories collectively continue to influence Germany’s post-Wende present. I find that the filmmakers themselves believe that This Ain’t California’s authenticating power lies in its physical, rather than cerebral, Originally published in ‘Der Mauerspringer’ a tale by Peter Schneider published in 1982, this phrase has become a common metaphor in discussions of Germany’s post-unification circumstances: ‘It will take longer to tear down the wall in our heads than any demolition company would require for the wall we can see’ (Die Mauer im Kopf einzureißen wird länger dauern, als irgendein Abrißunternehmen für die sichtbare braucht) (1982, p. 102). 16

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force. As the producer, Ronald Vietz (cited. in Rebhandl 2012), explains in an interview: ‘The film was never meant for the head, but rather for the stomach’.17 Remembering is always a creative, embodied act—drawing on, and influenced by, the present and the future in its process of bringing back the past. This Ain’t California takes its audience on such a ride.

References Anderson, B. (2006). Imagined communities: Reflections on the origin and spread of nationalism. London: Verso. Assmann, A., & Shortt, L. (2011). Memory and political change: Introduction. In Memory and political change (pp. 1–16). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Bond, L., Craps, S., & Vermeulen, P. (2017). Introduction: Memory on the move. In Memory unbound: Tracing the dynamics of memory studies (pp. 1–26). New York: Berghahn. Buß, C. (2013, May 7). Deutsches Filmfest in Australien: The heavy stuff from Germany. Spiegel Online. Retrieved June 5, 2019, from https://www.spiegel.de/kultur/kino/deutschesfilmfestival-australien-geschichte-vom-goethe-institut-a-898566.html Clifton, J. (2013, November 26). East Germany’s secret police used to spy on skateboarders. Vice. Retrieved March 27, 2018, from https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/kwpayy/east-germanyssecret-police-used-to-spy-on-skateboarders-martin-persiel Eisenberg, C. (1996). Charismatic nationalist leader: Turnvater Jahn. The International Journal of the History of Sport, 13(1), 14–27. https://doi.org/10.1080/09523369608713922. Elsaesser, T. (2005). European cinema: Face to face with Hollywood. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. https://doi.org/10.1515/9789048505173. Elsaesser, T., & Hagener, M. (2015). Film theory: An introduction through the senses (2nd ed.). New York: Routledge. Fisher, J., & Abel, M. (2018). Introduction: Berlin school and beyond. In The Berlin school and its global contexts: A transnational art cinema (pp. 1–37). Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. Fluck, W. (2005). California Blue: Americanization as self-Americanization. In A. Stephan (Ed.), Americanization and anti-Americanism: The German encounter with American culture after 1945 (pp. 221–238). New York: Berghahn Books. Hake, S. (2008). German national cinema. In London. New York: Routledge. Hake, S. (2013). Forum: German Film studies. German Studies Review, 36(3), 643–660. Herrschner, I. (2015). The role of art in German cultural diplomacy: An analysis of the festival of German films in Melbourne, Australia. Media Transformations, 11, 124–141. https://doi.org/10. 7220/2029-8668.11.07. Ihde, D. (1990). Technology and the lifeworld: From garden to earth. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Kaudelka, S. (2013). Einzelkämpfer. Lichtblick Media. Kuhn, A. (2002). Family secrets: Acts of memory and imagination. Verso. Kuhn, A. (2010). Memory texts and memory work: Performances of memory in and with visual media. Memory Studies, 3(4), 298–313. https://doi.org/10.1177/1750698010370034. Lüdtke, A., Marssolek, I., von Saldern, A., Lüdtke, A., Marssolek, I., & von Saldern, A. (1996). Einleitung. In Amerikanisierung: Traum und Alptraum im Deutschland des 20. Jahrhunderts (pp. 7–33). Stuttgart: Steiner.

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Der Film war nie für den Kopf gedacht, sondern für den Bauch.

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Marks, L. U. (2002). Touch: Sensuous theory and multisensory media. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Nichols, B. (1994). Discovering form, inferring meaning: New cinemas and the film festival circuit. Film Quarterly, 47(3), 16–30. https://doi.org/10.2307/1212956. Peralta, S. (2002). Dogtown and Z-Boys. Agi Orsi Productions. Persiel, M. (2012). This Ain’t California. Wildfremd Production GmbH. Radstone, S. (2011). What place is this? Transcultural memory and the locations of memory studies. Parallax, 17(4), 109–123. https://doi.org/10.1080/13534645.2011.605585. Rebhandl, B. (2012, August 5). DDR-Skaterfilm: Die Magie des Echten ist gestellt. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeiting. Retrieved August 6, 2018, from http://www.faz.net/1.1856922 Reinhart, K. (2010). Wir wollten einfach unser Ding machen: DDR-Sportler zwischen Fremdbestimmung und Selbstverwirklichung. New York: Campus. Retrieved April 4, 2018. Schneider, P. (1982). Der Mauerspringer. Darmstadt: Luchterhand. Retrieved February 14, 2019. Sobchack, V. (1992). The address of the eye: A phenomenology of film experience. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Sobchack, V. (2004). Carnal thoughts: Embodiment and moving image culture. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Weinert, S. (2009). Gesicht zur Wand. Core Films.

James Cleverley is an early career researcher at the University of Melbourne, having completed his PhD in 2019 at the same institution. His thesis investigated recent German films, examining cultural memory of East Germany by focussing on questions of embodiment and identity. His research interests and teaching expertise lie in the connections between German cultural studies, memory studies and screen studies.

Chapter 9

Werner Herzog and the Transnational-Appeal of the Mythic Hyperreal Stefan Octavian Popescu

Abstract The work of Werner Herzog aspires toward the mythic, whether through his epic films or his documentaries, with their protagonists confronting mysterious, elemental forces. From Aguirre, The Wrath of God (Herzog 1972) and The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser (1974) to his documentary Grizzly Man (Herzog 2005), Herzog ascribes a fateful otherness to a nature that is agonistically externalized to the human subject. In his documentaries, this pervasive emphasis on the mysterious otherness of the world becomes pronounced through his auteurish self-imposition into the narrative via narration and his idiosyncratic interview style. With deadpan seriousness, he asks bizarre questions such as whether the internet dreams (Herzog, Lo and Behold, Reveries of the Connected World, 2016); or he makes strange analogies between spectators of Neolithic cave art and albino crocodiles seeing their reflections in tanks of water (Herzog, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, 2010). Such antics, may invite the question, is Werner Herzog for real? This chapter will argue that there is something hyperreal about Herzog’s auteur-provocations as his works become inseparable from his persona, blurring the lines between fiction and reality. Hyperreal, coined by Baudrillard, gestures to a breakage within mythic coordinates as the concept of origin, so vital to the stories/myths that frame reality, become erased by simulation. Whether Herzog is for real, his reception denotes in a sense that the territory (in Baudrillardian terminology)—the films themselves—become subsistent upon the map—Herzog (Baudrillard, Simulacra and simulation, 2005, p. 3).

Introduction Werner Herzog is not just a German filmmaker but has a transnational appeal, travelling across the world. One of the reasons for his pop-culture renown is not merely the films he has made but his identifiable accent which leaves its mark upon S. O. Popescu (*) The University of Sydney, Camperdown, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_9

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stories surrounding his film shoots and life: whether it is directing Klaus Kinsky at gun point, his promotion of Errol Morris’ Gates of Heaven (1978) by eating his shoe, or being shot during an interview. He signifies an intense sincerity and questing for authenticity in a postmodern context where high seriousness is something to be parodied. Although aligning himself with German Romanticism, his appeal relies on a garish identifiability, and Herzog complies even appearing on Rick and Morty (Dir. Dan Harmon, 2013–current), which may make one wonder to what extent his seriousness is a self-parody. It is, at any rate, a defining attribute of his pop culture mimicries and reproductions. Many will encounter Herzog’s appearances, or the imitation Herzog’s on YouTube (where someone does a Herzog impression and reads out children’s stories), before first watching a Herzog film. Indeed, Herzog deviates so far from the conventions of documentary filmmaking that people appreciate his work with a touch of irony, and for reasons not always so different from fans of Tommy Wiseau’s The Room (2003), where one is laughing at rather than with. Extending on a concept of the hyperreal narrative that I have explored elsewhere, I will contend that Herzog’s supposed profundity and earnestness become so enlarged as to be almost ‘self-parodic,’ and that his documentaries can be situated within the Hyperreal Gonzo genre (Popescu 2013). As such this chapter would explore Herzog not only through his work but rather his work through Herzog. One of the goals of this chapter is an attempt to define Herzog as a character in the story of filmmaking. In conducting my research, I quickly realised that any academic deconstruction, discursive analysis or close reading of his work would be vastly inadequate in describing his contribution to the cinematic medium. The story of Herzog is far too contradictory and he is too much of a chameleon for such a simplistic approach. Every attempt to quantify Herzog’s value ended in a slippery defiance of any coherent intellectualisation. It is for this reason I have chosen to take a page of Hunter S. Thompson’s playbook and write in a looser, informal, ‘Gonzo’ (Hoover 2009) tone that resembles an op-ed piece written about a f(r)iend who I have not met. This chapter is hybrid piece; it’s part close reading, part comparative analysis, with a journalistic voice. This approach seems a fitting methodology since both Thompson and Herzog both are journalists of sorts, striving for a higher ‘truth’ but simultaneous acknowledging the impossibility of objective ‘truth.’ Ultimately, they discard the dichotomy of truth and fiction altogether and embrace a ubiquitously subjective rendering of ‘their’ story as poetic fact; as no less important than the myth of objective ‘truth’ and the façade of factual indexing. As Jean Baudrillard articulated in relation to a mediasaturated culture, it matters not whether something is simulation or not, it matters if that simulation has an actual effect in the physical world. In this regard, the binary logic of truth and fiction becomes redundant—the simulation only hides the fact that there never was an original as well as effacing the possibility of origin. In Simulacra and Simulation (2005) Baudrillard argues that ‘today abstraction is no longer that of the map, the double, the mirror, or the concept. Simulation is no longer that of a territory, a referential being, or a substance’ (Baudrillard 2005, p. 3). In short, we see the copy, the double, the map before we see the origin, and as such the map, the copy, the double becomes the origin. Such a situation, means that the map comes to

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locate, define and create the territory, blurring any ability to discern an origin, the co-generation of the real and the simulation through one another leaves both orphans, or as Baudrillard explains, simulation ‘is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal. The territory no longer precedes the map, nor does it survive it.’ (Baudrillard 2005, p. 3) Confusingly Baudrillard continues ‘it is no longer a question of either maps or territories. Something has disappeared: the sovereign difference, between one and the other’ (ibid). I take this to mean that the hyperreal is state where nothing is original, not even the original. For Baudrillard, the myths of origin come to be effaced. But I would claim that such a state entails that myth pervades, liberated to pursue truth without the possibility of literalism. Baudrillard’s prophetic description aptly describes the era of fake news, public relations and information engineering to emotionally move masses (Bernays 1928, p. 1). I think both Thompson and Herzog are quite coherent in their quest for ‘truth’ in the only possible fashion they see as deliverable, which is by getting inside the subject matter and physically and emotionally engaging with it. ‘Reporting’ thus become an act of witnessing. They convey their experience of the story in the most affective means possible as this becomes their truth for that moment in time. In this respect, poeticism and subjectivity are not valued but hold currency as a cultural testimony. In the past, I have written about this form of Gonzo Journalism that has permeated other cultural forms; namely the documentary form. In an article entitled ‘Hyperreal Narratives: The Emergence of Contemporary Film Subgenres’ (Popescu 2013), I use the neologism ‘Gonzo Documentary’ in an attempt to describe works such as Exit Through the Gift Shop (dir. Banksy 2010) and I’m Still Here (dir. Casey Affleck 2010), where they use the pallet of ‘reality’ and ‘celebrity’ to create these hybrid documentaries, where it is near impossible to know how much (if any) of the documentary is fictionalised/not fictionalised. They rely on surpassing the truth/ fiction dichotomy to sit in a realm of higher ‘truth’—the ‘Hyperreal.’ In opposition to cinema verite, Herzog is one of the forerunners of establishing this search for this higher ‘truth.’ In saying this, I believe that throughout his career, Herzog was on an earnest mission to find a ‘an ecstatic truth’ (Pager 2007, p. 5), which he found to be paradoxical to be the ‘Hyperreal’ or a Baudrillardian disclosure of the impossibility of ‘truth,’ thus combining the mythic with the loss of myth. This search for the higher truth is exemplified in his artistic, poetic, blatant manipulations of content and opinionated interjections within his ‘factual’ works, which gives cause to most critics to barely describe his ‘factual’ works as documentaries. Herzog himself openly admits that his works could hardly qualify to be described as ‘documentaries’ (Pager 2007, pp. 5–9). Some of Herzog’s interview scenes are so orchestrated, laboured and directed it strips any semblance of authenticity from each filmic moment and redirects the viewer’s attention to the artifice of the cinematic medium. Take for example the scene in Grizzly Man (Dir Herzog 2005), where the Coroner returns Timothy Treadwell’s watch to Jewel Palovak, Treadwell’s friend. Evidently pre-rehearsed and blocked, the coroner recites his lines and cautiously presents the watch to Jewel who is then uncomfortably left to improvise a couple of lines, which she gets tautologically tongue-tied. The whole

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while the audience is cringing at this painful display, then to drive the real message home the scene is left rolling on silence and the coroner is reframed, the audience is then uncomfortably left with the darting eye line of the coroner, signalling off-screen to Herzog. It is only then once Herzog himself is referenced that the scene ends. This scene is not about the cinematic moment of the coroner handing the watch to Palovak—it is about Herzog. The whole scene is about the artifice of cinema being revealed in what is supposed to be a heart-felt, one-off moment captured on screen. Whether a product of directorial maniacally or not is beside the point; by the postproduction stage of film, Herzog is literate enough to know how this scene will come across to the audience. And here within lies the genius of Herzog. He ultimately tells the only ‘truth’ that can be told, that a filmmaker is telling a story of a guy who got eaten by a bear and now I have interjected myself in this story to bring it to you—the audience. There is no greater truth than this, and Herzog puts himself in the front-line of criticism to bring audiences that ‘truth.’ Where is the Hyperreal in all this you ask? Herzog realises the impossibility of his own position in the re-telling of the story, much like quantum physics where the observer in innately part of the experiment, once he starts telling the story he has become part of the story and to attempt to hide that would be disingenuous. His only choice is to fully submerge himself (in a Gonzo fashion) into the story and use the artifice of the director as semiotic signifier in conveying the ‘truth’ of the story he has now altered by virtue or conveying it to an audience. This example extends beyond each discrete film and actually compounds over his whole body of work, each film he uses his status as a celebrity and pop culture figure as a means to heighten the impact, intertextuality and multiplicity of each consecutive work. Of course, I have no delusion of actually knowing Herzog, as I have never met the man, however there is a kindred spirit by virtue of being an indie filmmaker, who has begged, borrowed and stolen to produce his films. Additionally, by virtue of digital media—I know the hyperreal Herzog, the myth, the indie filmmaker hero, the celebrity, the simulacra of Herzog that he has built over a lifetime and maybe that is the ‘ecstatic truth’ of him? Through this frame, I then see Herzog’s body of work as a self-reflexive, yet extremely narcissistic (and ultimately honest) attempt to write himself into every film he has ever made; where every film he has made is just another chapter in the story of Herzog. Treating his body of work as one continuous diarist storyline is the means by which I can understand this hyperreal figure he has formulated. Thus, an apt analysis to adopt here could be narrative deconstruction, based on the formulaic conventions of storytelling. Like a good mainstream film, we are first introduced to the protagonist, Herzog himself with the overt goal of being ‘filmmaker’ by any means. The PR story we get is that he steals a camera from Munich Institute of Film to start this journey. He uses it to make his first short film and later his feature, Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972), where he encounters the antagonist (Klaus Kinsky), after numerous conflicts with him and from circumstance, he overcomes them by any unconventional means (filming Kinsky at gunpoint, stealing monkeys by pretending to be a vet, crew being mutilated and killed on set). This is Herzog’s ‘A’ Story, where he self-depicts

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a Romantic figure driven by the passion of filmmaking that circulates in his veins, risking life and limb to overcome any adversarial situation in the pursuit of his artistic freedom. The critical success of Signs of Life (1968), Even Dwarfs Started Small (1970) and Fata Morgana (1971) attest to his success at portraying himself as a director on the margins. To fully understand Herzog’s character arc, we need to know his ‘B’ Story, the emotional goal, which is always revealed in the third act and comes after the completion of the ‘final battle’ as a product of the hero’s self-reflection can arguably be found in Les Blank’s Herzog Eats His Shoe (1980). In this short documentary, Herzog made good on a bet with Errol Morris, that if he ever completes Gates of Heaven (1978), he will eat his shoe. This turned into both a film premiere publicity stunt and a stand-alone documentary. The way the whole event plays out, has echoes of an Avant-garde performance as well. Whilst eating his shoe and being interviewed for the documentary, Herzog is asked what social value films may have. He states that ‘films might change our perspective,’ then he goes on to say that there is ‘Absurdity involved in filmmaking—it makes me into a clown. Everything we do is immaterial, it’s only a projection of light and doing this all your life makes you a just clown, and it’s almost an inevitable process’ (Blank 1980). He delivers this derogatory description of his life’s motivation without irony or shame. One would be forgiven to accuse him of hypocrisy when he goes on later to state that one of the biggest issues facing the human race is that We lack adequate images. Our civilization doesn’t have adequate images. And I think that a civilization is doomed or is going to die out like dinosaurs if it does not develop an adequate language or adequate images. I see it as a very, very dramatic situation. For example, we have found out that there are serious problems facing our civilization, like energy problems, or environmental problems, or nuclear power and all this overpopulation of the world, but generally it is not understood yet that a problem of the same magnitude is that we do not have adequate images and that’s what I’m working on: A new grammar of images. (Blank 1980)

In the same breath that he declares himself a clown, he also positions himself as a ‘semionaut’ (Bourriad 2002, p. 19) helping civilisation develop a means of letting go of antiquated forms of literacy, what he calls a ‘worn out’ grammar of cinematic language (Cronin 2014, p. 66), and forging a new path image literacy. This is his perspective is as important as overpopulation and energy issues facing humanity and their gravity cannot be understated. In this respect, his character develops into one of the jester or joker, whose subject matter and setup is essentially irrelevant to the fact that he is the only person in the whole court who transcends the power of the crown. He is the only person who can mock the court and not lose his head over it. Much like the jester, Herzog is a character that transcends filmmaking rules and is interested in surpassing dichotomous thought. He is comfortable with ‘truth’ as existing as contradiction or paradox. His jester persona is one reason that he is such a unique anomaly and resists stereotyping. Herzog has been described by many filmic adjectives including, artistic, poetic, brave, self-indulgent, romantic, insane, anti-academic and maniacal. As slippery as he is to define in the context of the cinematic arts, one thing that

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cannot be questioned is his unique style and therefore his status as an auteur. . .Or can it? It is undeniable that Herzog is the driving creative force behind each and every one of his productions; his role transmuting into equal parts producer, director and dictator. The German romantic yet existential style, pacing and tone coupled with his iconic mesmerising voice is undeniably, distinctively and authorially ‘Herzog.’ But his works are so layered, intertextual and self-referential, even the term ‘auteur’ becomes challenged when used in the context of Herzog in so far as the modernist author relates to authorial control and intentionality. Yet as mentioned, one may find Herzog’s documentaries funny because Herzog invests so heavily in the subject matter, imbuing it with his ‘hyper’ seriousness. On one hand, the fact that audiences can recognise a Herzog film means that the modernism idiom of the auteur is strongly evident in his work. However, the extremely subjective rendering of the subject matter, intertextuality and experimentation of cinematic forms and audio-visual language imbues his work with strong post-structuralist overtones. The tradition of the auteur is to understand an author or artist to a point where interpretation of the work relies on that knowledge, and Barthes ‘death of the author’ (Bannet 1991) coaxes us to let go of the author’s intentions let us read the text in the context of our own experiences. Herzog on the other hand forcibly interjects himself in the text to start a conversation (or rather argument) with the audience. As much as I love Herzog, I find him rather abrasive, condescending and idealistic in relation to the subject matter in his films and rather than agreeing or accepting the view-point that is put forward to me I find myself questioning the integrity of the whole material. An example would be the plump helicopter pilot with the aviator sunglasses and moustache offering his opinion on Timothy Treadwell in Grizzly Man (2005). In one statement, he accuses Treadwell of anthropomorphising the bears: To me he was acting like he was working with people wearing bear costumes, instead of wild animals. Those bears are big and ferocious and come equipped to kill yah and eat you. And that what Treadwell was asking for. He got what he was asking for. He got what he deserved in my opinion. The tragedy of it was taking the girl with him. (Herzog 2005)

This sentiment of crossing an ‘invisible border line’ (Herzog 2005), by anthropomorphising wild animals is echoed at every turn by Herzog, even wrangling indigenous people to express their traditional relationship to the wilderness and wild animals. But in the interview with the pilot, Herzog directly contradicts the premise and theme of the very documentary, by editing a shot of the same man stating ‘I think the only reason Treadwell lasted in the game as long as he did was that the bears probably thought there was something wrong with him, like he was mentally retarded or something’ (Herzog 2005). This directly contradicts the argument put forward by the pilot, as the pilot himself anthropomorphises the bears as a means to defend his harsh position and justify why Treadwell managed to survive in the wilderness for 13 summers without harm. This desire to confound to me signifies the hyperreal Herzog and suggests a post-auteur position for his filmmaking. His position and power as documentarian is rammed down our throats, but his authority

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is open to be challenged, giving us the only ‘truth’ possible—that he is someone retelling someone else’s story and we are open to disagree and challenge his very position. Herzog wants the audience to engage with him in discussion and be active about the storytelling; just because we are listening to him, does not mean we shouldn’t form our own opinions. I don’t know if Herzog does this intentionally or in a calculated manner after the moment has passed or whether Herzog is as genuinely un-self-aware as he comes across. That is to say, I am not sure if he orchestrates these contradictions of his own ideals beforehand; whether he does just let things slip out; and whether when faced with sinewy content in the edit, decides that looking foolish is for the greater good of the film. Whatever the case may be, I have seen too many moments like these in his documentaries to accept that it is not a stylistic choice. One of the most telling moments in Grizzly Man, was when Herzog’s voice over was introduced Timothy Treadwell’s notoriety. He states that ‘over time he [Treadwell] reached the status of a national celebrity. It was as if he had become a star by virtue of his own invention’ (Herzog 2005). It was this moment that finally led me to understand the real, properly hyperreal Herzog and realise that he was not making a film about Treadwell, but was actually making a film about himself. Later Herzog goes on to state: with himself as the central character he began to craft his own movie, something way beyond a wildlife film. . .increasingly it became something more, he started to scrutinise his innermost being, his demons, his exhilarations. Facing the lens of a camera took on the quality of a confessional. (Herzog 2005)

In this respect, I believe that Herzog found a similar character to himself as a surrogate in a chance to use this documentary as his own confessional. I can’t know if this choice of Herzog’s to almost separate himself from the character of himself through a surrogate in Grizzly Man, came about through intent or accident, but this technique of using Treadwell to explore himself is certainly a recurring motif in most ‘factual’ work he has produced or acted in. My Best Fiend (1999) said more about Herzog than Kinsky, Cave of Forgotten Dreams (2010) was a parable about the cinema, Little Dieter Needs to Fly (1997) was a meditation on passions and perseverance. When watching Les Blank’s Burden of Dreams (1982), I distinctly remember the drama of the Brazilian engineer walking off the project after claiming that there is a 70% chance that the cables will snap and kill crew members. The engineer tells him that if Herzog was to proceed with his plans, he could not be part of it. When the cables did snap, the films edit suggested to the viewer’s that a person was killed by the whole incident. To this day, I have no idea if a person was actually killed by the snapping of the cables or if the documentary was just edited in a fashion to make me think that he was killed. In this cinematic moment, Les Blank was suggesting that Herzog is Fiztcarraldo. Fitzcarraldo was a fictionalised version of what Herzog was doing by the very making of the film, selfishly driven by a passion or ‘burdened by a dream’ (Blank 1980, np). Blank’s documentary collapses Herzog’s character of the documentary into the character of Fitzcarraldo. It was as if Herzog had to do his audience justice in portraying this personal ‘truth,’ even if it’s

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at the sacrifice of the perception of himself. Adam Call Roberts, in an article entitled ‘It’s Past Time We Condemned Fitzcarraldo’ (Roberts 2017), aptly pulls up Herzog on the lives he has endangered during the making of the film and further condemns those who glorify his filmmaking sins. Ethically, I agree with Roberts, but I also understand Herzog’s need to be honest about his maniacal selfishness as a filmmaker. This type of paradoxical self-reflexivity can only come from an acute insight, narcissism or an unflinching ideological drive. It is my opinion that Herzog is so driven in his search for ‘truth,’ that he conveys the only ‘truth’ that could possibly be conveyed—himself and his journey in making his films. This arguably renders his work almost diarist, ultimately self-indulgent and arguably fantastical and narcissistic. In this vein, I agree with Roberts in his abhorrence when people glorify Herzog and his films as ‘brave and epic’ (Roberts 2017). However, I also do believe because Herzog is willing to place his mania on display and open himself up to criticism—it must be considered ‘brave and epic’ at the time. This is an important note to make, because a lot of Herzog’s films that are discussed were made before the explosion of social media platforms. Nowadays uploading the most intimate aspects of your life seems mundane and banal. I’m sure Herzog would disagree with me, but being only one of a handful of artists that pushed the form of documentary film in such a manner, with such a radical and challenging style (be it described as self-reflexive genius or self-indulgent narcissist) renders his work a developmental stepping stone for the era of our new literacy embodied in social media culture. Ahead of his time, he was confessional and outlandish before vlogging and YouTube confessionals. If my speculations are correct and Grizzly Man both a diarist and a Gonzo film using Treadwell as a proxy (and I can’t overstate that my musings are calculated, but ultimately speculative), then Herzog has planted little intertextual myths all through his life-long body of work, that have acted to elevate him to one of the most infamous film characters ever created. The myths range from filming Kinsky in a scene at gunpoint, Herzog eating his own shoe after losing a bet, being shot whilst being interviewed on TV, almost killing his entire crew on La Soufrière, Herzog pretending to be a vet to steal a truck full of monkey for Wrath of God, or Herzog rescuing Joaquin Phoenix from a car crash. Perhaps the most infamous occurrences were during the shooting of Fitzcarraldo, where a native chain sawed-off his own foot after a snake bite. Herzog’s films are spectacular featuring nature imagery but his films are also about his own spectacle, his persona as spectacle. We have transformed somewhat from, Debord’s essay ‘Society of the spectacle’ (Debord 1994), which was originally critiquing the flux of media artefacts of capitalism that are consumed and distort reality. For Debord, the spectacle encouraged deception. Today the spectacle is completely embodied in media ecology and works through overt engagement in self-spectacularisation. As consumers, we have become more literate and savvier and adverts are just not as effective as back in the day when Bernays invented Public Relations. In the digital age, stories have become sensational bite-sized myths that we consume—the more outrageous, absurd and the more spectacular the myth the better. That’s why fake news, conspiracies and

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odd-ball celebrities have such traction in contemporary culture and social media is a fantastic means of dissemination. Tommy Wisseau is an example that in this technocratic age, myth is currency. There are many parallels between Wisseau and Herzog—I think both have built themselves into pop cult celebrities by virtue of their own invention. They are both fiercely independent filmmakers, they both have an unstoppable drive, they are both perceived as narcissistic, their fame was fuelled by mythological notoriety, the notoriety they garnered aided to promote their films and lastly, they never denied or confirmed many of the myths surrounding them. They both seem to realise that once one testifies to the truth or falsity of the myths, the myths lose mobility and are confined into a solid state of ‘truth’ or ‘fiction.’ In a fluid, media world it is vital that myths are kept alive for self-marketing as their potency depends on allowing masses to project whatever fantasies they want upon the celebrity. Otherwise, the audiences then simply lose interest. In the case of Wisseau, at the peak of his infamy the stories that piqued people’s interest were legends of his links to organised crime or the fact that no one could work out what country he came from, or that he made his money from selling leather jackets online, etc. Just as James Franco was working on The Disaster Artist (2017), a documentary called Room Full of Spoons (dir. Rick Harper 2016) started doing the indie festival circuit. Rick Harper’s documentary shatters every one of these myths and lifts the veil on Tommy Wiseau once and for all. It was no coincidence that Tommy Wiseau harassed this indie documentarian and threatened and, in some instances, initiated litigation against the filmmaker and film festivals that decided to screen this film. In a coincidental twist, it was only after The Disaster Artist (2017) was successfully released and capitalised on its box office earnings, that The Room Full of Spoons’s civil suit was concluded, the injunction was lifted and is now allowed to peacefully play the film festival circuit again. Herzog, like Wisseau is famous and infamous for his eccentricities, the uncertainty of his personal filmmaking story, and his ironic place within popular culture. In Herzog’s case it’s more subtle and profound than in Wiseau’s case. An almost forgotten film of Zack Penn’s entitled Incident at Loch Ness (2004) is actually the film where Werner Herzog finally discloses his own awareness of his status as hyperreal figure and even lays to rest some of the mythologies that have carved out the infamous character of ‘Herzog.’ It seems fitting that that Herzog is in control of the means by which the mythology of himself is revealed and more over done through a mockumentary about the most mythological creature in contemporary culture—the Loch Ness Monster. This film borders on being a Gonzo Documentary because all the actors are playing fake versions of themselves, this includes Herzog, which makes separating fact from fiction all the more difficult. Herzog is the central character in this film and in the film, he is attempting to make a documentary about the myth of the Loch Ness monster. He is followed by a John Bailey attempting to make a ‘making-of’ documentary on Herzog’s fake production. Conflict arises when Zack Penn (the fake producer of Herzog’s fake documentary), tries to hijack the shoot and make it more commercial by paying actors to feign scientific expertise and faking scenes with Nessy behind Herzog’s back. To fully grasp all the comical layers and

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appreciate the textured intertextuality of mocumentary, the audience would have to be somewhat familiar with Herzog’s life and aware of all the media-constructed mythologies. Key turning points of the film are direct references past difficulties in Herzog’s actual productions, including cast and crew subordination, locals creating rumours and affecting the film production, being held at gunpoint for a scene and part of his crew almost drowning on a boat. Apart from the fact that he wrote and produced this mockumentary with Penn, his involvement attests to an acute awareness of how these myths have acted to construct his infamous career. This somehow signifies the climax of the Herzog Story and gives Herzog a clownish attempt at redemption and self-reflection. In the film, when the cryptozoologist gets head-butted by a local, Herzog uses this moment to comments that he has seen rumours spread like a virus—like on Fitzcarraldo where all sorts of rumours that the he violated the rights of the native people—he contests that they were just rumours. Although confirmation that no one really died on set by virtue of his filmmaking is already buried in the Crogin book Werner Herzog Conversations with Paul Crogin (Crogin 2014), but film is a means of extinguishing this myth via popular culture. Moreover, the climax of Incident at Loch Ness finds Penn directing Herzog with a gun pointed at his head, echoing the myth that Herzog filmed Kinsky at gunpoint. Penn says to Herzog ‘how does it feel to be on the other end of the gun’ and Herzog responds ‘it’s just a myth I have never done that. The story of me directing Kinsky with a gun pointed at him from behind the camera it’s just a fabrication, a myth of the media and I’m just tired of defending myself against it—it has its own life’ (Penn 2004). There is moment of self-reflection at the end of Incident at Loch Ness, Herzog and Penn reflect upon the fictional journey they have just undertaken, prefaced by the title card ‘the truth.’ Penn embodying the monstrous alter ego or myth of Herzog and Herzog playing himself as a subjective artist—the voice over playing out almost like a diarist testimonial between Herzog’s public and private personas, worth quoting in full for its manifold reflections on myth, identity, and the truth: Herzog: It was all lies, deceit and in some ways this film was doomed from the beginning. I think we shouldn’t even started the whole thing. It’s one of those films that didn’t want to be made. To me it seemed to be like a still-born child that just didn’t want to come to life. Zach Penn: You know, I’m a Hollywood screenwriter. I wanted there to be conflict. I wanted there to be excitement and adventure. And I thought that had to be created. And what I learnt, is that I didn’t need to do any of that stuff, because what was happening to us was so much more interesting, than the things I was inventing and that’s what so amazing is how much cooler the truth is than fiction. Herzog: Finding the monster was never my intention and so filming it was strangely unfulfilling and it not only left me questioning this experience, but many things I’ve done before. It made me wonder what I’ve been after. All this drama and pain to capture a few moments of light on a strip of celluloid. The truth did not seem ecstatic. It seemed vulgar and pointless. Zach Penn: This is what we set out to do and we did it you know, I mean, it’s pretty amazing, it an adventure, it was epic, I mean honestly it was something out of a Werner Herzog film. I don’t regret any of it, you know. Was there tragedy? Of course, there was, I mean, people died, you know that always tragic, but that’s what happens in any great adventure. Think about stories from ancient Greece or a movie or lord of the rings or

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something, I mean some one always dies, that’s how it works. But we achieved something, some truth was uncovered. We dreamt something incredible and made it real. (Penn 2004)

Much like the media collapsed the character of Herzog into Fitzcarraldo to create the monstrous myths, Herzog uses the same technique of blurring the boundaries of myth and fiction to exonerate himself from the myths by confessing to the situation in a playful manner. This confession is not by way of an admittance of guilt or defending against allegations. Rather he disempowers the public myth-monster of ‘Herzog’ by facing off with it as the private ‘Herzog.’ In this regard, this mockumentary transmutes into a documentary about all the Herzogian myths and herein lies his genius—in all his attempts to bring audiences an ‘ecstatic truth’ (a higher poetic truth), this is the moment of disclosure of that impossibility and yet completes his mission by having brought to us the only truth he could have portrayed; the truth of his journey—the Herzog Story. Incident at Loch Ness (2004) is perhaps the most confessional of his work, but his confessions seem to be multiplying. Although Herzog has been mocked for being a little bit of a technophobe, not owning a cell phone and even lacking a literacy of social media, pop culture and memes, his active involvement in using his Herzogian character in other intertextual pop-culture social media platform, where cult character is the focal point of humour, again indicates his awareness of the manner in which he is perceived. He has participated everything from analysing Kanye West’s music video Famous for The Daily Beast, and as alluded to, Herzog voiced Shrimply Pibbles on Rick and Morty (2015) explaining humanity’s fascination with penis. Herzog also voiced Walter Hottenhoffer on The Simpsons (2011), a German pharmaceutical company owner, and there are many other appearances. His willingness in these light-hearted memes indicates that beyond his displeasure towards pop-culture, he is actively aware of his own status as a cult figure and willing to acknowledge the recent developments as an important cultural shift related to his own ideological aspirations. In his analysis of West’s Famous he states that ‘all the people that you see in this video—are they real or fake?’ He continues: That’s an interesting thing that the internet can create doppelgangers easily and the most interesting thing for me as a storyteller is something I always keep saying—in a movie, yes, you do have a story and develop a story, but at the same time you have to be careful about and organise a parallel story a second story that only occurs in the collective mind of the audience. And when you hear the rap, which is really well done, all of a sudden it gives you more time than anything else to just reflect on it and this video gives you space for create that separate parallel story and you keep thinking are these people for real? (Reed 2016)

Here Herzog connects questions of identity, with Romanticism’s focus on doppelganger (a word coined by Jean-Paul Richter) with online culture and uncertainty. Herzog further elaborates this idea that the hyperreal, the hypertextual, the digital can facilitate a sense of mystery and uncertainty. He queries: Are they doppelgangers and what could be the story of them, what are they doing, how have they partied, what brought them together, so all of a sudden, the rapper gives me the chance to completely go wild into my own story on the collective audience he has sort of out there. (Reed 2016)

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Herzog ties myth with uncertainty, with the uncertainty of the audience and the idea of giving the audience a space between illusion and reality to project: You start to reflect upon the kind of overlaying self and inventive self, and what’s going on in Facebook is all stylised invent forms and I see it personal contact with the internet that there is a lot of doppelgangers pretending to be me trying to speaking my accent in my voice, answering things on Facebook or Twitter—it’s all imposters.

Herzog thereby links the development of online social networking sites with narrative and questions of identity, further underscoring that ‘our understanding of self deeply and radically changed and its very fascinating what’s going on out there.’ For Herzog, West has emerged from social media with overlapping concerns with his own, ‘All of a sudden, a guy out there in the world of rappers who is doing something I have always tried to get across to people who want to make movies.’ This remarkable self-analysis—again Herzog treating the subject, Kanye West as his own doppelganger, reveals Herzog’s storytelling methodology. He decisively constructs and navigates between layers of perceptions of ‘truth’ and ultimately seeks an understanding of audience creation of personal stories and the way they slot into their own reality. He consciously activates the audience’s faculties of mythology, fantasies and delusions as a means to sculpt his stories. Having made over 60 films in the course of 50 years, Herzog is an institution and has often polarised critics, being described from whimsical, adventurous, selfindulgent, idiosyncratic and poetic, but from my assessment he is a semionaut and a cinematic genius purely because of his whimsical, adventurous, self-indulgent, idiosyncratic and poetic nature. His worked are textured and layered beyond romantic, existential and nihilistic academic renderings. As he claims, his works are experiments and investigations into the deepest recess of the human psyche— exploring the very way we (as individuals and as a collective consciousness) construct reality. Throughout his career, he calls for an evolution of images (of visual language) and claims he tries to imbue his work with an ‘ecstatic truth.’ An element of fantasy as concocted and project upon the film by the audience is integral to Herzog’s works in conveying his ‘ecstatic truth.’ He goes on to state that ‘we try to create our own scenarios our own stories to somehow bring them together. And we are very pleased when the film actually fulfils our wishes.’ When one considers his whole body of work, complete with the intertextual spin-offs and memes with the central hyperreal character of Herzog as the protagonist, then one comes closer to understanding what he was talking about. One also comes to understand our hyperreal present.

References Bannet, E. T. (1991). Structuralism and the logic of dissent. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Baudrillard, J. (2005). Simulacra and simulation. Translated by Sheila Glaser. The University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor. Ebook PDF version. Retrieved from https://www.e-reading.club/ bookreader.php/144970/Simulacra_and_Simulation.pdf

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Bernays, E. (1928). Propaganda. New York. Reprinted by IG Publishing 2005. Blank, L. (1980). Werner Herzog eats his shoe (Short Film). Los Angeles: Flower Films. Bourriad, N. (2002). Postproduction: Culture as screenplay: How art reprograms the word. New York: Lukas & Sternberg. Cronin, P. (2014). Werner Herzog: A guide for the perplexed. Faber & Faber, London. ISBN:978-0571-35977-9. Debord, G. (1994). Society of the spectacle. New York: Zone Books. Herzog, W. (1972). Aguirre, The Wrath of God. Filmverlag der Autoren. Herzog, W. (2005). Grizzly Man. Lionsgate. Herzog, W.. (2010). Cave of Forgotten Dreams. IFC Films. Hoover, S. (2009). Hunter S. Thompson and Gonzo Journalism: A guide to the research. Reference Services Review, 37, 326–339. https://doi.org/10.1108/00907320910982811. Pager, B. (2007). The cinema of Werner Herzog: Aesthetic ecstasy and truth. London: Wallflower Press. Penn, Z. (2004). Incident at Loch Ness. Los Angeles: Eden Rock Media. Popescu, S. (2013). Hyper-real narratives: The emergence of contemporary film subgenres. Journal of Literature and Art Studies, 3(9), 568–575. Reed, R. (2016). Hear Werner Herzog Analyze Kanye West’s ‘Famous’ Video. Rolling Stone Magazine. Retrieved from https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/hear-wernerherzog-analyze-kanye-wests-famous-video-248767/ Roberts, A. C. (2017). It’s past time we condemned Fitzcarraldo. The Metropolis Times. Retrieved from https://www.themetropolistimes.com/the-metropolis-times/2017/3/13/fitzcarraldo Stefan Octavian Popescu is a filmmaker and academic and is currently the director and curator of the Sydney Underground Film Festival. Stefan is interested in alternate, marginal and frontier forms in cinema. This includes the relationship between materiality, affect and narrative in film and theorising new technological developments and the emerging aesthetics. Stefan’s research extends into making feature films and focuses on creating films that experiment with material, aesthetics, character and story structure. Having completed his PhD in Film and Digital Art in 2007, he has written and directed three independent feature films; Rosebery 7470 (2007), Nude Study (2010) and Vixen Velvet’s Zombie Massacre (2015).

Chapter 10

Lars von Trier and German Expressionism: Understanding von Trier’s Transnational Appeal Aleks Wansbrough

Abstract Lars von Trier has acknowledged that he appropriates visual and conceptual motifs from German Romanticism. It is unsurprising that various commentators including, Steven Shaviro, Robert Sinnerbrink, Bonnie Honig and Lori J. Marso, and Richard Brody among others, have argued that his work extends on or even corrupts the legacy of German Romanticism. But what has been obscured is von Trier’s relation to German Expressionist cinema. Even his films which overtly borrow the aesthetics of German Expressionist cinema such as Images of a Relief, The Element of Crime, and Europa are all too-often framed as part of von Trier’s early experimental aestheticism. Further key themes related to German Expressionism such as issues of power, madness and control become obscured even though they find recurrence throughout von Trier’s oeuvre. Such an analysis allows for new transnational connections regarding the aesthetics of film to be made between von Trier and German Expressionism. In this way, the chapter concludes that much of von Trier’s transnational appeal stems from his hybrid appropriations of the ideas of German Expressionism.

Introduction: The Hybridity of Lars von Trier Lars von Trier is a director with a transnational appeal, whose work crosses the divide between art film and mainstream movies, often imbuing German Romantic themes associated with directors such as Werner Herzog, Wim Wenders and HansJürgen Syberberg to “genre films.” He is a maker of what Robert Sinnerbrink calls “hybrid” films, films that fuse European art film experimentation with US genre conventions (Sinnerbrink 2011, p. 137). He riffs on noir in The Element of Crime (1984) and Europa (1991), the Hollywood musical form in Dancer in the Dark (2000); and notably, horror with Antichrist (2009) and The House That Jack Built (2018). He is a Danish director who attempts to identify with Scandinavian auteurs such as Dreyer and Bergman, but at the same time is heavily indebted to visual and A. Wansbrough (*) The University of Sydney, Camperdown, NSW, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_10

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conceptual motifs from German Romanticism (quoted in Spiegel 2011). For this reason, it is unsurprising that various commentators (Shaviro 2012; Sinnerbrink 2011, pp. 157–176; Honig and Marso 2015; Brody 2011) have argued that his work extends on or even corrupts Romanticism’s legacy. What is often obscured in studies of von Trier though is his relation to German Expressionist cinema, and in turn Romanticism’s proximity to German Expressionism. By engaging past modes and styles, von Trier is not merely a transnational director but a transhistorical filmmaker, which is to say he resurrects past modes of cinematic expression. The argument I will put forward is that his hybrid, transnational appeal depends on his recourse to themes found in German Expressionist films. Even von Trier’s films which overtly borrow the aesthetics of German Expressionist cinema such as Images of a Relief (Befrielsesbilleder 1982), The Element of Crime, Epidemic (1987) and Europa are sometimes framed by critics as part of von Trier’s early experimental aestheticism (Porton 2011; Thomson 2011). These critical interventions seem to occlude the transhistorical, transnational themes of von Trier’s approach to filmmaking. This may be surprising considering that various commentators have observed that there is a pronounced overlap between German Expressionist cinema and some currents of German Romanticism (Eisner 1969, p. 9; Elsaesser 2003, p. 37, 46, 48; Scheunemann 2003, p. 132). German Romanticism is too large a movement to really be explored in depth here; but it will be linked in this essay to an emphasis on unconscious urges, a scepticism of societal progress and the invocation of myth and/or fairy tales. This thematic constellation will be framed as also existing in Expressionism and von Trier’s work. Although von Trier would later obscure German Expressionist stylistic conventions (lighting, sets) by adopting realist conventions in Breaking the Waves and The Idiots; the themes associated with German Expressionism remain prominent, such as a focus on twin threats to society of tyranny and chaos. To accentuate these aspects of German Expressionism is not to deny the German Romantic heritage of von Trier’s work. Rather by emphasizing ties to German Expressionism we can understand the diverse influences on von Trier’s oeuvre and thereby accentuate his transnational hybridity.

Framing German Expressionism In order to sketch the themes of German Expressionism that help to locate the transnational appeal of von Trier, it would be useful to draw on the accounts of Siegfried Kracauer and Lotte H. Eisner of German Expressionism. Such an approach needs defending as although they remain influential and seminal film theoreticians, recent scholarship often challenges many of their assertions. For instance, Dietrich Scheunemann’s edited collection Expressionist Film: New Perspectives (2003) draws attention to various limitations and errors in their research and notes that they establish a simplistic uniformity of content and theme between Expressionist films (see Scheunemann 2003, p. x). However, by returning to their analysis, I do not mean to vindicate their analysis in full. Nor do I wish to overlook the differences

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between Kracauer and Eisner (Eisner 1969, p. 326). However, Kracauer and Eisner will be examined because their interpretations of German Expressionist film remain a starting point for analysis of the style and content of the genre. The themes and motifs that they detect as present in German Expressionist films, as will become clear, are also present in von Trier’s work. Kracauer detects an inheritance of Romantic themes in German Expressionist cinema during the Weimar Republic years. Kracauer turns toward German Expressionist cinema to understand the psychological forces that led to the rise of National Socialism, “those deep layers of collective mentality which extend more or less below the dimension of consciousness” (Kracauer 1966, p. 6). Rather than treat these films as flights of fancy or as modes of entertainment, Kracauer instead believes them to contain weighty themes about social psychology. What these films reveal about the psychology of Weimar Germany, claims Kracauer, is the way in which the German psyche fixates on power and powerlessness, authority and anarchy. Kracauer argues that the reason to turn to cinema is that cinema has a distinctive, even elevated status in being able to reveal national anxieties, observing that the “films of a nation reflect its mentality in a more direct way than other artistic media” because films are never made by a single artistic vision. Not only is film but it must have a mass appeal and thereby engage what Kracauer terms “the anonymous multitude” (Kracauer 1966, p. 5). After making the case that film has a special relation to a culture’s psychology, Kracauer asserts a fundamental psychological anxiety underneath German Expressionist cinema, stating that German Expressionism’s “basic theme [is] the soul being faced with the seemingly unavoidable alternative of tyranny or chaos” (Kracauer 1966, p. 77). For Kracauer, the resurrection of fairytale and mythical narrative tropes (such as maidens in distress, vampires, devils, automatons and golems) in German cinema in the 1920s reflect a premonitory warning of the Nazis rise to power, diagnosing political maladies. The fairytales that Kracauer seems to have in mind are those of ETA Hoffmann, particularly his collection The Night Pieces (Die Nachtstüke), published in 1817 (see, Kracauer 1966, p. 64). The Night Pieces embed mythical occurrences in stories about bourgeois figures. For instance, in Hoffmann’s most celebrated story in the anthology, “The Sandman,” the protagonist Nathanael is duped by a sinister figure, Coppelius, into falling in love with an automaton, and losing his grasp on reality. Coppelius, Nathanael suspects, is the mythical figure of Sandman. Such themes and motifs are present in German Expressionist cinema. The idea of falling in love with an automaton features in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927), and the manipulative Coppelius seems to prefigure mysterious figures such as Caligari or the horrid Mabuse. Hoffmann’s fairytales were attempts, in a romantic vein, to reinject mythical elements into nineteenth century modernity. According to Kracauer there is a synthesis between such Romantic themes and narrative elements in fairytales (especially Hoffmann’s fairytales) and modern political anxieties around the masses. Although Coppelius’ mischief occurs on a smaller scale, issues of manipulation and power are still accentuated amid Hoffmann’s Romantic challenges to rationalist explanation. Kracauer argues that German expressionist films magnify these types of tales to allegorize concerns about

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the organisation of the masses. Kracauer notes that in Expressionist films supernatural forces cause society to teeter between chaos and tyranny, where “the German soul, haunted by the alternative images of tyrannic rule and instinct-governed chaos, threatened by doom on either side, [is] tossed about in gloomy space like the phantom ship in Nosferatu” (Kracauer 1966, p. 125). Kracauer elaborates that German Expressionist films went further in analyzing tyrannical impulses than German Romantic literary traditions such as Hoffmann’s fairytales, stating that German fairytales’ “inherent romanticism was unable to meet the wants of a collective mind definitely expelled from that baroque paradise” (Kracauer 1966, p. 125). Eisner also situates the return to German Romanticism via German Expressionist cinema to have political connotations, noting: Mysticism and magic. The dark forces to which Germans have always been more than willing to commit themselves, had flourished in the face of death on the battle fields. The hecatombs of young men fallen in the flower of their youth seemed to nourish the grim nostalgia of the survivors. And the ghosts which had haunted the German Romantics revived, like the shades of Hades after draughts of blood. A new stimulus was thus given to the eternal attraction towards all that is obscure and undetermined, towards the kind of brooding speculative reflection. (Eisner 1969, p. 9)

For Eisner, German Romanticism is much more connected to issues of power and hauntings, the strange and the occult, than Kracauer seems to suggest. Eisner links the return to Romanticism to a belief in hidden forces that develops into the excessive, ‘Hoffmannesque’ suspicion of the bourgeois. Mocking the preponderance of villainy beneath respectable facades, Eisner ironically states that “all those townclerks, municipal archivists, qualified librarians and magistrates must surely hide beneath their municipal exteriors some vestige of sorcery liable to come to the surface at any moment” (Eisner 1969, p. 109). Various commentators extend on the political implications of German Expressionist cinema. For instance, Peter Leese interprets Nosferatu as concerning the trauma of the First World War. Leese comments that in Nosferatu: an unearthly, evil figure slips unnoticed from a ship into the port of Wisborg, carrying corruption, plague, and his own coffin. Each arrival dramatizes the tension of return from war: the expectation and resentment of the returnee; the suspicion and ignorance of a community that cannot imagine distant, awful experiences. Such scenes show the moment of return is as likely to bring chaos and contagion as peace and renewal. (Leese 2012, p. 250)

Leese thereby evokes both Eisner and Kracauer, illustrating the continued influence of these theorists of German Expressionism. Given the political concerns in German Expressionism detected by these theorists, it is curious that there are few comparisons made between von Trier’s films and German Expressionism. Von Trier himself has argued that many of his films concern the breakdown of society and the idea that the individual contains dangerous pathologies that are often hidden from view (quoted in Hjort and Bondebjerg 2001, n.p., Chap. 14). As will become evident, von Trier’s films explore similar issues to German Expressionism and hence, von Trier’s films engage in a transnational exploration of societal pathologies.

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Framing von Trier’s Early Appropriation of German Expressionism Lars von Trier launched his international career with three films that appropriated the aesthetic strategies of German Expressionist cinema. His first film to receive a theatrical release was made while he was in film school, entitled Images of a Relief. His first feature, The Element of Crime made a stir at Cannes and launched his reputation as a daring, experimental director. And his third feature, Europa, won three awards at Cannes. These three films share an overt borrowing of German Expressionist cinematographic tropes such as the use of pronounced shadow and light, theatrical backgrounds, and unnatural performances. Given that German Expressionism is associated with war and trauma, as well as premonitions of totalitarianism in both Eisner and Kracauer’s accounts, it is little surprise that von Trier’s early films employing expressionist lighting and tinted colour also concern war, trauma and moral conflict. For example, Images of a Relief concerns a Nazi officer, Leo, and his lover, Esther, in liberated Denmark. Von Trier chooses to follow a Nazi officer for his subject of evil. (It is arguable that some of the most distinctive characters in German Expressionist cinema are the villains: Caligari, Count Orlock, Mephisto, Mabuse and the robotic doppelgänger of Maria.) In the early scenes of the film, we see figures eclipsed by shadow as well as elaborate sets suggestive of BDSM dungeons. Expressionistic imagery is used to evoke a sense of hell and the colour is a red tint. The sets are not quite as artificial as those in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari but there is a similar embrace of the artificial and the theatrical. Von Trier’s use of German Expressionist imagery in the film, the colour tinting and lighting ought not to distract from some of the more substantial thematic similarities. Thomas Elsaesser notes for instance that German Expressionist cinema distinctively problematizes the gaze and treats the audience spectatorship with anxiety: Although such anxieties are not attributed specifically to German males, since the same dispositions are said to be constitutive of the scopic regimes of all mainstream cinema, the difference between Weimar film and Hollywood is that whereas in the latter, voyeurism is motivated by action, spectacle and a linear narrative drive, in the German films by contrast, sight and seeing emerges as a troubled, uncanny, unstable relation of the characters to the powers of vision and filmic representation itself, often “feminizing” the men and representing the women as sexually ambivalent (Elsaesser 2003, pp. 41–42)

Elsaesser presumably has in mind the sequences such as the scene from Metropolis where Maria’s doppelgänger dances amid a sea of eyes or the inducement of the trance in films such as Nosferatu and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. The process of problematizing viewing as voyeurism is at work on multiple levels in von Trier’s film. On one level, we as an audience witness the helplessness of Nazis, encouraged by von Trier to become sympathetic to their suffering. In von Trier’s words we witness “images of Germans being chased down the streets, being jeered and beaten, as well as images of Danish traitors locked up” (quoted in Lumholdt 2003, p. 7). In fact von Trier uses archival footage in order to create an

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uneasy relationship to the viewing experience, where we witness what may appear to be atrocities of war but directed toward those we would wish not to sympathize with. However, von Trier’s other strategy for problematizing spectatorship and voyeurism aligns more closely with German Expressionist cinema, when the problems of our empathetic gaze are contrasted with Leo’s unsympathetic gaze. We learn that Leo is a sexual voyeur who enjoys watching his lover Esther with another man. We see his spectacles cracked, suggesting his vision is similarly distorted, inviting us to question film spectatorship. But when we learn that Leo witnessed the SS blinding a child, his defence that he did not take part seems particularly troubling in light of his, and now our, voyeurism. Even if he did not enjoy the sight of the mistreatment of the child, his horrific passivity is in some way tied to his sight, as though his very experience of watching was linked to his immobility. At the conclusion of Images of a Relief, Leo’s eyes are expunged by Esther, at which point Leo is able to face the darkness within and elevate to the heavens. (Perhaps, such an elevation is reminiscent of Murnau’s Faust.) As an audience, we find identifying with his redemption troubling. This theme of problematic voyeurism continues through von Trier’s later films as well. As Rosalind Galt comments: Lars von Trier’s films often seem hard to pin down: they can be taken straight or read as ironic, joking, or doubled in meaning. Sometimes the spectator feels as if a joke has been played on her, and other times she might feel herself to be in on the joke. When we laugh (for instance at the German uncle in Zentropa [1991] or the lustful men in Nymphomaniac [2014]), we are complicit, but this position is never secure or straightforwardly ironic. Unlike the classically ironic text, there is no clear compact between text and reader. Instead, the spectator’s position is unstable, her status insecure. This article argues that the structures of spectatorial complicity offered in von Trier’s films illustrate how entwined cinema, sexuality, and the political can be. (Galt 2015, n.p.)

Galt accentuates von Trier’s problematization of spectatorship. In so doing, she highlights the politics of viewing and the uncertainty the spectator experiences when watching a von Trier film. Such spectatorial uncertainty portends the uncanny in its literal meaning. Das Unheimlich (the uncanny) as a descriptor conflates both the unhomely (heim meaning home) and the unhidden (heim also being associated with the hidden or secret). In short, von Trier’s films make one feel “not at home” while watching a movie, revealing the strangeness of viewing other people. Uncannily then von Trier’s films reveal “how entwined cinema, sexuality, and the political can be.” Such a problematization of viewing is also present in von Trier’s Europa Trilogy: The Element of Crime, Epidemic and Europa. These films center on concerns about collective delirium, trances, hypnosis and manipulation. Such themes are recurrent motives in Metropolis, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Nosferatu, Faust and Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler. The Europa Trilogy focuses on protagonists who undergo hypnosis and lose control of their reality, which in turn destabilizes the role of spectatorship as we the audience are not certain what is real and what is fantasy. Such a destabilization of the spectator is, according to Elsaesser, a defining trait of German Expressionist films.

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The Element of Crime particularly highlights themes associated with German Expressionism such as the struggle between order and chaos, and the idea of human duality. Von Trier’s film uses expressionist lighting and elaborate sets, and synthesizes German Expressionist imagery with film noir conventions, perhaps alluding to how German Expressionist filmmakers fled to the US and contributed the chiaroscuro lighting to film noir. In von Trier’s words the film is “a bastard child of a mating of American with German film” (quoted by Badley 2010, n.p., Chap. 3); by which von Trier means that it is a transnational film that combines traits associated with German Expressionism and Hollywood films. However, the themes themselves recall German Expressionist motifs. The story opens in Cairo and concerns a detective called Fisher who goes to a psychoanalyst in hope that the psychoanalyst may help him overcome his headaches. The psychoanalyst puts him into a trance to help him confront his previous trauma, the supposed cause of his headaches. In the trance we discover that Fisher had returned to a post-apocalyptic Europe. In Europe—the nation is never specified but is intended to evoke Germany—Fisher decides to solve a spate of murders where girls selling lottery tickets have been violently killed. We discover that these murders resemble a previous case, the prime suspect of which was Harry Grey. However, Harry Grey is dead. Fisher and the police chief, Kramer have very different methods of solving the murders. Kramer is depicted as thuggish and authoritarian; while Fisher frames himself as humane and enlightened. But Kramer’s authoritarianism is a response to what Kramer perceives to be Europe’s chaos, as Kracauer notes, for German Expressionism ‘chaos and tyranny are interrelated’ (Kracauer 1966, p. 83). In contrast to such an authoritarian conceptual schema, Fisher holds that the best way of solving the case is to understand the murderer, who he believes is Harry Grey. In order to do this, Fisher uses a method taught to him by his mentor, Osborne. He retraces Grey’s steps and even sleeps with a previous lover of Grey, a sex worker named Kim. However, Fisher becomes ever more violent in his quest to understand Grey and ultimately uses a lottery-selling girl as bait. However, when the girl suspects that he is the killer, he stifles her screams and ends up smothering her. This quality of mistaken identity and dual identity is a theme often commented on with respect to German Expressionism. Eisner asserts the centrality of German Romantic duality to German Expressionist cinema, where characters embody seemingly contradictory positions. Fisher, and for that matter Leo from Images of a Relief are split subjects, at once humanistic and monstrous, respectable and criminal. This duality becomes heightened in The Element of Crime when we discern that the shadowy spectral figure Harry Grey is not just a monster but also a father; it transpires that he had a child with a lover. Similarly, Osborne is a venerable scientist and sleuth, a man of reason, as well as a demented murderer consumed by subterranean, primal drives, and Fisher is both a detective trying to prevent the murder of children and a murderer of a child. In the words of Eisner: Caligari is both the eminent doctor and the fairground huckster, Nosferatu the vampire, also the master of a feudal castle, wishes to buy a house from an estate agent who is himself imbued with diabolism. And the character Death in Destiny is also an ordinary traveller in

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search of land for sale. It would seem from this that for the Germans the demoniac side to an individual always has a middle-class counterpart. (1969, p. 110)

Even the civilized figures in these films transpire to be dangerous threats, another trait shared with German Expressionist cinema. Note for instance that it is the counts, scientists and doctors who are sinister, and those characters that Eisner calls the “demoniac bourgeois” who are villainous in German Expressionist films (Eisner 1969, p. 106). Similarly, in von Trier’s films, the monstrous characters are the bourgeois figures who claim not be monsters. Von Trier’s summarizes his plots as follows, “the inquiring humanist who leaves his home terrain and journeys out into nature ends up going to wrack and ruin” (quoted in Hjort and Bondebjerg 2001, n.p., Chap. 14). Von Trier made this comment in explaining his Europa Trilogy where he describes the characters having a primitive, primal nature underneath their conscious identities. Such an observation equally applies to the plot of Dogville, with Grace, who abused by a town, undertakes the murder of the inhabitants; Antichrist where the male character attempts to cure his partner’s depression and anxiety and ends up murdering her; and Nymphomaniac, where Seligman, a humanistic bachelor who denies having a sexuality attempts to rape Joe, with Joe killing him in self-defense. The other two films in The Europa Trilogy also explore the notion of hypnosis, disaster and duality. Although less overtly influenced by Expressionist lighting, Epidemic (1987), the second film in the Europa trilogy, concerns two filmmakers Lars and Niels, played by Lars von Trier and Niels Vørsel (the cowriter of the film and the screenwriter of The Element of Crime), who decide to write a film about plague stricken Europe (casting themselves in the role again leads the audience with an uncertain identification). In the story within the story, the doctor treating plague victims uncovers that he was the carrier for the plague all along and that he has spread the plague during his journey. The doctor is again played by Lars von Trier. Mimicking their plot, Niels and Lars decide that they will use hypnosis on a cast member in order to get a sense of how best to portray the plague. However, the hypnosis somehow conjures an actual plague and the cast and crew die. Again we encounter the idea of the mirror or shadow self, where filmmakers accidentally create rather than represent what goes on, and hypnosis is portrayed as a supernatural power. Further the very notion of the plague has a significance for German Expressionist films, particularly Nosferatu: The horrors Nosferatu spreads are caused by a vampire identified with pestilence. Does he embody the pestilence, or is its image evoked to characterize him? If he were simply the embodiment of destructive nature, Nina's interference with his activities would be nothing more than magic, meaningless in this context. Like Attila, Nosferatu is a “scourge of God,” and only as such identifiable with the pestilence. He is a blood-thirsty, blood-sucking tyrant figure looming in those regions where myths and fairy tales meet. (Kracauer 1966, p. 79)

Hypnotism as a way of underscoring tyrannical forces of nature and the irrational recur with Europa, where an off-screen hypnotherapist allows us to question the idea of spectatorship. Such a questioning exists in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Kracauer argues that the ending of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is ambivalent where it is unclear to what extent the character of Francis is telling the truth about doctor

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Caligari who it transpires is the director of the mental asylum that houses him. Europa centers on the character of Kessler, a US soldier who travels to Germany to help with the reconstruction after the Second World War. However, everyone he meets manipulates him. He finally loses it while on a train when he discovers that his wife was a Nazi terrorist agent. He grabs a rifle and threatens the entire train, firing wildly above the passengers’ heads. However, a bomb goes off that derails the train and the train plummets into a river. Kessler is stuck inside the train and then we hear the hypnotist’s voice, “you will drown. On the count of ten you will be dead. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” Kessler then dies on command, but even then the hypnotherapist’s voice can be heard, “above your body people are still alive” and continues “you want to wake up to free yourself of the image of Europa, but it is not possible.” Such a device recalls the unreliable narration of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, questioning the nature of perception and reality as well as the dangers of a somnambulist trance, indicating that those who present themselves as sane and rational conceal sinister impulses. The narration underscores the possibility that Kessler was never in control and as such his fate was always manipulated. Much more could be said about these early von Trier films and their relation to German Expressionism. However, what is important for this enquiry is to underscore that these films locate the dangers of human beings by suggesting that beneath our civilized facades there lurks subterranean forces. Such a concept itself comes from traditions in German Romanticism, such as Schopenhauer, Wagner and Nietzsche, where human beings may express animal longings and are controlled and tormented by irrational will. But it is also a theme in German Expressionist cinema and as such gestures to the threat that we are all capable of becoming monstrous. Such warnings are recurrent through much of von Trier’s oeuvre, and notably find voice in his film Dogville where we identify with Grace to the extent that we may even find her murder of a town permissible. According to von Trier his message was that we must be wary of the possibility that we could all commit acts of evil. Von Trier thereby intimates that unless we understand ourselves as possibly driven by animalistic urges we risk becoming monsters and repeating the mistakes of others. Framed from this vantage, von Trier’s films indicate a political focus shared by German Expressionist films. Such themes continue in von Trier’s two most recent films Nymphomaniac and The House that Jack Built. For instance, in the extended cut of Nymphomaniac there is a long conversation between the protagonists Jo and Seligman, about whether or not we are all potentially as evil as Hitler. Such discussions also echo von Trier’s provocations, including the infamous 2011 Cannes Film Festival debacle where von Trier performatively claimed to “understand Hitler and sympathize with him a little bit.” Such a remark, although uttered in jest, reveals not only von Trier’s conviction of the potential for human evil but also the idea that there is a genuine parallel in aesthetic sensibility. As Richard Brody (2011) comments on von Trier’s tasteless remarks, “he did indeed seem to be acknowledging something substantial and deeply considered: that he recognizes a link from German romanticism through Nazi aesthetics to von Trier’s own.” This link, Brody continues:

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involves purification through destruction, an awesome and overwhelming monumentality that arises together with a taste for apocalyptic devastation (of course, in von Trier’s case, only in images, not in reality)—an excess of aesthetic purity that goes together with a vehement repudiation—a horror—of mere ordinariness. (Brody 2011)

In this context Brody argues that von Trier’s most recent discussion of mass murder and Hitlerian art in The House that Jack Built is part of his self-exploration in relation to the Cannes fiasco (Brody 2018). Although I would agree, such a point should not obscure that von Trier already explored such themes in his very early films by using German Expressionist cinema. It isn’t merely romanticism that has influenced von Trier but particular tropes of Expressionist cinema. Despite Brody’s association between von Trier’s aesthetics and Nazi aesthetics and Romanticism, the emphasis on shadow as a source of beauty is as much a focus of German Expressionism. Framed in this way, part of the reason that von Trier’s work is so successful in courting controversy and therefore achieving a transnational audience is precisely because von Trier borrows and inherits themes from German Expressionism.

German Expressionism Reborn in von Trier’s Recent Films Von Trier’s later films, in a transnational and transhistorical gesture, again borrow tropes associated with German Expressionism. Take von Trier’s Golden Heart Trilogy. Superficially, it would appear the films that comprise the trilogy: Breaking the Waves, The Idiots and Dancer in the Dark have little in common with German Expressionist cinema. Unlike his early films, this series of films lack the evocative lighting and elaborate sets so associated with German Expressionism. Yet when one examines the stories there is something of the German Expressionist fables, especially in relation to the narratives of heroines. German Expressionist cinema often concerned sacrificial heroines or women who suffer: Gretchen (Faust), Maria (Metropolis) and Ellen (Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror) to name but a few. As with these expressionist films, von Trier uses heroines who seem naïve, sacrificially good and are tortured because of their purity. And as with German Expressionist films, von Trier sought inspiration for the trilogy in a fairytale, namely a Danish fairytale he read as a child about a protagonist who gave away all her possessions. In the case of Breaking the Waves there is a melodramatic redemption of the heroine, Bess, who ascends to heaven and we hear and see the bells of heaven ringing, which may seem reminiscent of Murnau’s Faust. However, it is with von Trier’s most recent films that he returns to the themes most associated with German Expressionist cinema. Antichrist, Melancholia and The House That Jack Built all feature supernatural elements that would be in keeping with German Expressionism. For example, both Antichrist and The House That Jack Built examine the idea of hell and feature personifications of evil, which recalls the supernatural phantasms in Expressionist films. For instance, The House That Jack Built is centered around a dialogue between a mass-murderer named Jack and Virgil or “Verge,” who leads Jack to hell. This

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supernatural deeper thematic level von Trier again explores madness, control and manipulation. Jack is a psychopath who enjoys torture and cruelty, but thinks of himself as an artist. He is a frustrated engineer who desperately wants to be an architect and so commits acts of murder in order to find an outlet for his artistic ambitions. Von Trier’s Antichrist also explores questions of power and manipulation. The male protagonist in the film uses hypnotherapy to treat his partner’s depression. Although he claims to be helping her, he is shown to be aggressive and arrogant arguing that he does not need to abide by conventional rules where doctors and therapists are prohibited from treating family members. Ultimately, he becomes humbled by the traumatic forces underpinning nature. The conflict between his masculine and tyrannical pursuit of power on the one hand and the frenzied, destructive forces of nature on the other is accentuated as one of the supernatural agents he encounters is called Chaos. Moreover, after he ends up killing his wife and burning her body, a practice associated with destroying witches, the dead rise-up, in what may be a sort of apocalypse or reckoning. It is then possible to detect connections between von Trier’s recent films and his very earlier work, as well as German Expressionist films which focus on trauma and disaster. Eisner views German Expressionism as being obsessed by possible apocalypses and von Trier’s films reveal a similar obsession with forms of annihilation. By associating von Trier with German Expressionism we can then attest his hybridity as a transnational filmmaker.

Conclusion Von Trier’s films have introduced contemporary audiences to German Expressionist themes. By framing von Trier as continuing insights from German Expressionism, one can start to discern his appeal and success as a transnational filmmaker. Part of what makes von Trier’s films interesting is that they seek to ask questions about society, power and the hidden subterranean motives buried beneath facades of decency. Behind the patina of courtesy and cultivation of the protagonists, lurks dangerous and violent impulses—at least this is the suspicion that drives both von Trier’s oeuvre and many of the iconic films of German Expressionism. The weird figures who portend disaster that populate the perverse imaginings of von Trier’s films would not be out of place in a film by Lang, Weine or Murnau. Rather, von Trier shares a fascination with how seemingly docile, ordinary or humanistic figures can turn out to be monstrous individuals. As with Murnau’s Nosferatu, von Trier’s characters can be at once pitiable and horrifying. However, there is also a sensationalist element to the way von Trier probes society and presents civilisation as precariously situated between chaos and tyranny that again attests to his transnational appeal. Such extreme oscillations are to be found both in von Trier’s work and the work of German Expressionist directors. Von Trier’s films concern things going horribly wrong for the protagonists and the

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characters being tried by circumstances. Under such conditions, von Trier’s protagonists often unleash chaos or transform into tyrants (think, for example of Fisher in The Element of Crime or Grace in Dogville). In other words, von Trier shares with German Expressionist filmmakers an apocalyptic imagination, where disaster emanates from wolves in sheep’s clothing. Although there is an obscurity regarding von Trier’s early films such as Images of a Relief and The Element of Crime—by far his most pronounced homages to German Expressionist film—these works are useful to detect the recurrent themes in his oeuvre. Such films mark the start of von Trier’s obsessions with questions of power and punishment animating some of his most celebrated works such as Breaking the Waves, The Idiots, Dancer in the Dark, Dogville and Antichrist. Further, von Trier’s return to overt Romantic themes and aesthetics have, in The House That Jack Built, Nymphomaniac, Melancholia and Antichrist, resonances with German Expressionism. His recent films seem to once again harken to the supernatural elements so iconic in German Expressionist cinema. Indeed, the use of fantastical elements to discuss social and existential concerns are very prominent in German Expressionist films as Kracauer and Eisner attest, and von Trier’s films betray these influences. Von Trier’s use of German Expressionist themes thereby affirms his transnational hybridity. Von Trier is a Danish director, influenced by German Romanticism and German filmmakers, making films that have international cast and crew with “big names” attached. And he remains one of the most celebrated and infamous transnational directors. His films court controversy and blend intellectual “art film” ideas with the most excessive and fantastical elements. We started this analysis by noting that von Trier’s works are best described as hybrid films, films combining elements associated with German filmmakers such as Herzog and Syberberg with more mainstream genre films. However, German Expressionism led to innovations in many of the genre films that were to be adopted by the US such as horror, fantasy and science fiction. Such films as Nosferatu and Caligari, Faust and Die Nibelungen, and Metropolis continue to influence Hollywood to this day, but von Trier’s films accentuate intellectual concerns alongside the more fantastical tropes. In a sense, we can see von Trier’s work following German Expressionism’s transnational appeal as German Expressionist filmmakers already synthesized elements of artistic experimental films with sensationalist elements. Hence, von Trier seems to retrace the steps of figures like Murnau and Lang by combining fantastical occurences with issues about the power dynamics of society and dark ponderings on human nature. In short, this chapter has approached von Trier as partly being an echo, or more appropriately for this subject, a shadow of transnational tendencies, already at work in German Expressionist cinema.

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References Badley, L. (2010). Lars von Trier. Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press. Brody, R. (2011, October 1). Lars von Trier, ‘Melancholia’, and the remarks, The New Yorker. Retrieved December 23, 2018, from http://www.newyorker.com/culture/richard-brody/larsvon-trier-melancholia-and-the-remarks Brody, R. (2018, December 13). Lars von Trier’s empty, repugnant provocations in ‘the house that Jack built’, The New Yorker. Retrieved from https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-front-row/ review-lars-von-triers-empty-repugnant-provocations-in-the-house-that-jack-built Eisner, L. H. (1969). The haunted screen. London: Thames and Hudson. Elsaesser, T. (2003). Weimar cinema, mobile selves, and anxious males: Kracauer and Eisner revisited. In D. Scheunemann (Ed.), Expressionist film: New perspectives. Suffolk, UK: Camden House. Galt, R. (2015). The suffering spectator? Perversion and complicity in antichrist and nymphomaniac. Theory & Event, 18, 2. Retrieved from https://muse.jhu.edu/ Hjort, M., & Bondebjerg, I. (2001). The Danish directors: Dialogues on a contemporary National Cinema. Portland, OR: Intellect Books. Honig, B., & Marso, L. J. (2015). Lars von Trier and ‘the Clichès of our time. Theory & Event, 18, 2. Retrieved July 5, 2015, from https://muse.jhu.edu/ Kracauer, S. (1966). From Caligari to Hitler: A psychological history of the German film. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Leese, P. (2012). The great war and German memory. Society, politics and psychological trauma, 1914–1945. First World War Studies, 3(2), 250–253. Lumholdt, J. (2003). Lars von Trier interviews. Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi. Porton, R. (2011). Cannes 2011 | melancholia (Lars von Trier, Denmark). Cinema Scope. Retrieved November 22, 2017, from http://cinema-scope.com/spotlight/spotlight-cannes-2011-melancho lia-lars-von-trier-denmark/ Scheunemann, D. (2003). Expressionist film: New perspectives. Suffolk, UK: Camden House. Shaviro, S. (2012). MELANCHOLIA, or, the romantic anti-sublime. Sequence, 1, 1. Retrieved May 30, 2018, from http://reframe.sussex.ac.uk/sequence1/1-1-melancholia-or-the-romantic-antisublime/ Sinnerbrink, R. (2011). New philosophies of film: Thinking images. New York: Bloomsbury. Spiegel. (2011). Interview with Lars von Trier. Spiegel Online. https://www.spiegel.de/ international/zeitgeist/interview-with-lars-von-trier-if-anyone-would-like-to-hit-me-they-arewelcome-a-763955.html Thomson, D. (2011). Lars von Trier. The Guardian. Retrieved December 23, 2018, from http:// www.theguardian.com/film/2011/sep/22/lars-von-trier-david-thomson

Aleks Wansbrough is an academic and cultural theorist. His current research is on the intersections between film theory and media theory, and many of his publications concern film-philosophy. His book, Capitalism and the Enchanted Screen (New York: Bloomsbury, 2020), explores social media, myth and film. He lectures at the University of Sydney and Auro University.

Chapter 11

‘Denglish’, ‘International English’, ‘Garbage Language’ and ‘Corporate Speak’: Transnational Nonlanguage in Maren Ade’s Toni Erdmann Blythe S. Worthy

Abstract Drawing inspiration from Anna Wiener’s conception of tech industry ‘garbage language’, this chapter traces the breakdown in communication in Maren Ade’s 2016 Austro-German coproduction Toni Erdmann, assessing the film’s content and reception within trans- and international contexts. Though the focus of this chapter is the granular communicative nuance between characters in Toni Erdmann, the initial argument focuses on the movement and distribution of Ade’s films. Highlighting a range of international critical responses to Toni Erdmann, translingual and rhetorical inconsistencies are then traced within the film’s coverage. Furthering these inconsistencies, The second half of this chapter focuses on relating the film’s central familial relationship to larger cultural and economic features of the recent European Union member state of Romania (where the film is set). I position Toni Erdmann as concentrated on distinctive conceptions of its national, international and transnational contexts, drawing cross-references with Germany’s post-2003 positioning as Old Europe or ‘altes Europa’ within an accelerating new millennial modernism.

‘Wrong and Irritating’ But ‘Hugely Important’ As a screenwriter, editor, director, teacher and polymath producer, Berlin-based filmmaker Maren Ade has moved her creative focus from the sclerosis of rural German life to the volatile economic exchange between nation states without compromising her national voice. Involving herself directly in the production and distribution of her films, Ade has modelled an emergent auteurism calibrated to the demands of a rapidly accelerating modernism within the strictures of continental traditions. From the Euro dearth of US-monopoly, with the aim to produce her own

B. S. Worthy (*) The University of Sydney, Camperdown, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 I. Herrschner et al. (eds.), Transnational German Cinema, Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72917-2_11

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films, Ade founded the production company Komplizen Film with Janine Jackowski while the two were still at film school in 2001. Komplizen Film has since co-produced all of Ade’s films, including her 2003 Künstlerroman titled The Forest for the Trees (Der Wald vor lauter Bäumen) and the 2009 melodrama Everyone Else (Alle Anderen), as well as Toni Erdmann (2016), a tragicomedy. Muriel Cormican has noted, it is Ade’s ‘entrepreneurial’ idealism enabled by Komplizen Film that has enabled the director to invest wholly in production processes to create an international funding model drawn from a range of sources (Cormican 2018, p. 105). Though these pastiche-funding models are necessary due to funding dispersion necessitated by multinational film, Ade has been able to use competing interests to hone her transnational optic as a cultural contact zone. In locating German millennials in foreign situations, Ade’s films reflect what Anna Wiener, in her 2020 tech industry memoir Uncanny Valley, calls the ‘garbage language’ of aspirational economics (Wiener 2020, p. 162) whereby the interests of corporations supercede meaningful communication between their employees. Having begun her career as a production student before switching to directing at Munich’s Hochschule für Fernsehen und Film (HFF), Ade has discussed the ‘hugely important’ step of producing her own films as a way of maintaining her ‘bible’ of intentionality to sustain these reflections on Germans “elsewhere” (BAFTA Guru 2017). Furthering this protectionist preservation, for several years Ade has been teaching screenwriting at the Film Academy Baden-Württemberg in Ludwigsburg, fostering the next generation of German filmmakers. Considering these myriad cinematic endeavours, I will show Ade’s work is locating the director’s intentionality outside German urban centres, drawing to attention the challenges of communication amongst petitbourgeois millennial Europeans. The director distilled these intentions in her most recent feature Toni Erdmann, an Austro-German co-production. Filtered through self-conscious characterisations of the German middle class, Ade’s characters often grapple with modern ‘new European’ ideals of transnational exchange (Merkl 2005, p. 54). The Forest for the Trees focuses on an inexperienced schoolteacher Melanie Pröschle (Eva Löbau) who moves from the rural German town of Swabia to the southwestern city of Karlsruhe. Relying mainly on diegetic sound, having Löbau speak with a country Swabian accent and filming with handheld camera instead of the more popular Steadicam, Ade effectively styled The Forest for the Trees within a new bourgeois realist cinema. Desperate to be a success in her new home, Melanie’s humble attempts at connecting with her Karlsruhe neighbours are thwarted by her increasingly overearnest attempts at social habit, the viewer is positioned to experience overwhelming embarrassment on her behalf. In employing what Raymond Williams termed the ‘social extension’ of action from an elite few to more generic middle-class characters, Ade inverts a realist formula with its roots in eighteenth-century bourgeois drama, enhancing the ‘Germanness’ of clinical domesticity (Williams 2002, p. 107). Surrounding Melanie in a whimsically curated one-bedroom apartment full of dying plants and a flair of painted forest, Ade locates the actions of tragedy within the degradation of the character’s home environment. Irritated by Melanie’s New Age teaching styles (which include attempting to reason with a class of primary

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schoolers) and perpetual optimism, her neighbours and colleagues withdraw from her abruptly. Pacing her imaginatively decorated home alone, Melanie eventually resorts to defacing its pristine walls. Frustrated after a particularly awkward encounter with a Karlsruhe woman she had hoped to befriend, Melanie eventually climbs into the back seat of her moving car, seemingly content in losing control for good (in 2013 Marco Abel interpreted the film’s ending as a comment on bourgeois normality and fanaticism). Though distinctly focused German social graces and customs, The Forest for the Trees translated well in several foreign countries, winning the Special Jury Award at the 2005 Sundance Film Festival. Ade’s next film, Everyone Else, sustained an ‘ironic distance’ from Melanie’s over-earnest behaviour, developing the cultural cool sown in what Abel saw as Germany’s ‘early adulthood during the first ten or fifteen years after unification’ (Abel 2013). Focusing on a young couple, Gitti (Birgit Minichmayr) and Chris (Lars Eidinger) vacationing at a Sardinian Summer home, Everyone Else problematises Ade’s social extension of ‘middle-class, gendered familial conventions’ with Chris’s toxic masculine impulses (Cormican 2018, p. 104). When Chris becomes obsessive about Gitti’s behavior in front of ‘everyone else’ he deems her embarrassing or peinlich, comparing her eccentricities to a tacky tree sculpture at his parent’s lavish Summer house. The film devolves into nonsensical tragic action when Gitti tearfully defends the tree, leaping from a balcony and pretending to be dead. Winning the Berlinale Silver Bear for Best Film (Jury Grand Prix) and Best Actress (Minichmayr) in 2009, the film was released in over 18 countries, including Australia, France, the United States and Japan. Through Melanie’s earnestness and Gitti’s rebellion, Ade’s challenge to ‘the dominant representational paradigm of white, middle-class, professional German femininity’ (Cormican 2018, p. 104) was slowly becoming central to her cinematic project, the director antagonising the appropriate modes of social conduct for women to expose the horrors of sincerity that oftentimes lurk beneath. Gendering modern complexities with German moral integrity in this way, Ade positions the state as a masculinised ‘altes Europa’, a phrase denoting the ‘old Europe’ of pre-unification. In 2003, this phrase was made Germany's word of the year. Part of its popularity can be understood as an attempt by Germans to reclaim integrity after a disparaging remark made by Donald Rumsfeld, who considered the state’s moral opposition to the war in Iraq outdated (Milligan 2009). Ade’s early films draw on a complex pattern of these altes Europa parochial attitudes (such as a clinical domestic life) and complicates them with progressive or idealistic sensibilities, the desire to save face often provoking the communicative imbalance that sustains Ade’s characterisations of a region in flux. Exploring the communicative fractures between German generations, Ade’s most recent film Toni Erdmann follows the turbulent father-daughter relationship of an ageing German prankster named Winfried Conradi (Peter Simonischek) and his adult daughter Ines (Sandra Hüller), who works as an executive consultant. After the death of his geriatric dog Willie, Winfried (who, with his revolving suite of wigs, false teeth and gag sunglasses often resembles something between an Austrian

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cabaret performer and a German Klamauk comedy figure) pursues his daughter to her corporate job in Romania, intent on staging a reconciliation. What results, however, is a series of interrogations of garbage language, as both characters struggle to communicate from either side of an idealistic divide (Wiener 2020). Ade projects the duo against the backdrop of Ines’s workplace in Bucharest drawing into relief Winfried’s ‘altes Europäisch’ moral sense against the uneven ‘neues Europa’ Bucharest economy. Toni Erdmann did exceedingly well internationally, winning the 2016 International Critics’ Award and FIPRESCI Grand Prix, sweeping the European and German Film Awards in the same year. In 2017, the film was also nominated for a Golden Globe, a César, and a BAFTA. Toni Erdmann ran a robust but unsuccessful Oscars campaign for Best Foreign Language Film, going on to be distributed to over 100 countries worldwide. Despite the international success of Toni Erdmann and Ade’s otherwise influential and sustained filmic career, the film was disappointingly labelled a ‘surprise triumph’ by some, who levelled ‘hype’ as being responsible for the film’s international trajectory (Sucher 2017). Not only is this opinion ‘both wrong and irritating’, as Jörn Glasenapp (2019) argues, it also profoundly devalues the startlingly pervasive and long-term labour Ade has put into German cinema for the last twenty years. Specialising in coproduction features, Komplizen Film has produced or aided in the production of over 30 films and television series, many of them sophomore productions. Ade has personally produced 13 productions, supporting emerging directors such as Anna Sofie Hartmann, Maya Da-Rin, Corneliu Porumboiu and Sebastian Schipper. Ade has also proved herself a tireless champion of groundbreaking cinema, producing Sebastián Lelio’s 2017 Chilean drama A Fantastic Woman. Focused on Marina (Daniela Vega), a trans woman struggling for recognition with the middle-class relatives of her deceased lover, A Fantastic Woman went on to win the Academy Award for Best International Feature Film at the 2017 ceremony. The film was only the second LGBTQI+ film to win the prize following the 1999 win of Pedro Almodovar’s All About my Mother (Todo Sobre mi Madre). Similarly, Ade has engaged German filmmakers who may otherwise struggle for funding, producing Valeska Grisebach’s feature Western in 2017, which premiered in the Un Certain Regard competition of the 2017 Cannes film festival. Bringing the director out of an almost decade-long hiatus, Western engages an Eastern European frontier, following a group of German labourers working in a remote community contact zone on the Bulgarian border. A simple enough premise, Western details traditional and emerging transcontinental sentiment towards a rapidly modernising economy through protagonist Meinhard (Meinhard Neumann). When Meinhard tells Bulgarian locals he is in Bulgaria ‘for work’, he encounters perplexing ‘neues’ and ‘altes’ European opinion; ‘You can do work in Germany’ a Bulgarian villager complains, ‘Germany!’ another exclaims, ‘Such sophisticated people!’. Foregrounding the movements of German citizens against this practical and epistemological framework, Western follows Toni Erdmann in furthering an aesthetic philosophical tradition born by German idealism and romanticism in the middle of the eighteenth century.

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Beyond an interview in Film Quarterly and a handful of post-Toni Erdmann articles, Ade and her film have attracted limited academic enquiry into their status as German realist social extensions. Though recent scholarship has gone some way to assuage this misconception, scholars have focused their enquiries into Ade’s thematic dualities; where Abel has enquired into the director’s ‘Sincerity and Irony’ within the context of the Berlin School, Cormican has surveyed Ade’s ‘Willful Women.’ In kind, Jörn Glasenapp has focused on Toni Erdmann’s ‘Mixed Feelings’ and ‘tragicomedy.’ While this author strikes no issue in acknowledging Ade’s complexities, it is my intention to show these qualities as intrinsically linked to her ability to harness a hyperawareness of historically German idealism and romanticism within a transnational modernity with little patience for sincerity. Ade’s methodical and rigorous writing process (Cormican suggests the director’s ‘long periods’ between features as evidence), and ability to self-produce through Komplizen Film means she is never rushing to produce (Cormican 2018). Ade’s lengthy creative process, then, is perhaps responsible for the misinformed descriptions of Toni Erdmann as ‘out of the blue’, especially when measuring Ade against more productive German auteurs like Wim Wenders. However, Ade’s filmic production through Komplizen Film engages a complex network of transnational cultural exchanges from the present back through time to the Berlin Wall era.1 In the 1990s, when Ade was a film student at HFF, film and television industries were in a state of crisis in Germany’s East and West (Halle 2016). Alongside the exponential increase in broadcast hours afforded by the liberalization of the European television industries, a financial and creative deficit in spectatorship for national productions was at an all-time low, as networks struggled to localise programming to fill the boosted airtime. Though initially relying on the import and circulation of American serials, local networks began investing in gaining control over a common European audio-visual sector. The goal, as Randall Halle argues, was ‘to make it more profitable for European investment and more competitive against especially Hollywood productions’ (Halle 2016). This European regime ruptured state control over the media on the national level, replacing the selfconsciousness of Europe’s cultures of the existing subsidy systems with an emphasis on popular culture, mass appeal, and profitability. This mass culture ‘sought on a transnational level to create a common European culture industry’. In turn, this ‘common Europe’ was promoted as an advantageous development, proving unsustainable amidst the linguistically and culturally diverse European audience, a group of smaller markets incorrectly assumed to be homogenous by larger initiatives such as the EU’s 2007 European Agenda for Culture, and Film Europe (Halle 2016). Following Sabine Hake’s accounting for several filmic terms that at this time (the early 2000s) moved to the forefront of Film Europe scholarship, the aim of the European film sector was to create a transnational and deterritorialised form of

1 Ade has outlined some of this transnational network, naming researchers, filmmakers and Romanian citizens who contributed to her research for Toni Erdmann.

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filmmaking. Signifying ‘a decline in the idea’2 of national cinema and a concomitant rise in. . . suprastate and substate structures of financing,’ such as those Komplizen Film would use a decade later, transnationalism in cinema brought about more hybridized forms of filmmaking. These included, but were not limited to, the development of generic, formulaic and stylistic filmic features now commonly referred to as ‘Film Europe’ since the company’s inception in 2009 (Hake 2013, p. 111). This promotion of a deterritorialised production models (in comparison with a more international approach) avoids reliance on what Hake terms ‘contact zones and patterns of exchange’ in a film market and industry clearly influenced by nationstates (2013, p.110). After reunification in 1990, Germany had surrendered most of its national cinematic product ‘grounded in indigenous traditions, oriented toward domestic concerns, and bounded by national interests’ to focus on importing American productions (Hake 2013, p. 111). This transnational funding model was developed through Film Europe, a media company with teams in Bratislava, Prague, London and Cannes that co-produced solely European and festival films. The transnational Film Europe model then distributed to cinemas, its own television stations and on VoD and DVD (according to the Film Europe company profile on filmeurope.cz). Amid these competing coordinated systems fostered on flattening cultural complexities, Ade’s position as a German film producer intent on mediating co-productions is complicated on both geographic and cultural levels. Within Ade’s filmic space develop border crossings in the broadest sense, as places of transit, interaction, transformation, contention and diversity. Popular coverage of Ade’s work, however, has done little to address this trans/national connection. Few critics have acknowledged the international discourse of Toni Erdmann as being reliant on Ade’s ability to reflect, comedically, transnational perceptions of the German bourgeoisie. For example, though Richard Brody appraised the universally relatable tragicomedy patter of the film’s protagonist, Ines, in reference to her ‘minimal psychology’ and ‘flattened execution’ (Brody 2016), he did so without considering these features as inherently leaning on aesthetic traditions and perspectives of her status as a Gastarbeiter with restricted permission to work in Romania. As Ade’s oeuvre aligns itself with a long history of German cultural alignments such as those of the German idealist, it is married to intensive interrogations of the travelling German capitalist—a character in permanent absentia. Though most popular coverage of the film marvelled at its ability to translate its comedy internationally, the inherent Germanness of the main characters of Ade’s films remains a powerful reference point for Toni Erdmann, Everyone Else and The Forest for the Trees, mostly through the nonexportable forms of domestic Austro-German humour. This humour is communicated through the miscommunication between characters,

2 This study is concentrated on English-language coverage of Toni Erdmann in accordance with the ‘Global Germany in Transnational Dialogues’ slant of this book series. There have been several excellent German-language articles written about the film’s German references (though they differ in content to the present study), namely C.B. Sucher’s Was ist ein Hype? (2017).

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the physical comedic tradition of Austrian public cabaret and Klamauk comedy, and an emphasis on domesticity itself. Neutralising Toni Erdmann’s exploration of nationhood for an international audience, critics like Brody have instead contemplated the ‘economic malaise, and inhuman indifference of contemporary Europe’ as a stopgap for Ade’s ‘stilted vision’ of the region in decline (Brody 2016). International discourse surrounding Toni Erdmann stripped the film of its cultural aesthetics unless, of course, it was making fun of it: ‘Not only does German comedy exist,’ critic Robbie Collin wrote for The Telegraph, ‘it might just save your life!’ (Collin 2017). The film was almost immediately slated for a future Hollywood remake starring Jack Nicholson and Kristen Wiig. Ade later distanced herself from the production, stating she was ‘definitely not attached,’ claiming what she had wanted to say with Toni Erdmann was encapsulated in the film’s original iteration (Thorne 2017). In essence, though Ade’s characters showed themselves to be preoccupied with Germany’s place in new iterations of global business, speaking mainly in German and exhibit distinct Austro-German comedic idiosyncrasies, a more sanitised English language version, in accordance with the original film’s international popularity, would persevere. The enthusiastic global distribution of Toni Erdmann is noteworthy in that it mirrors the movement of its protagonists; at home in Germany but yearning for connection elsewhere. Through this komische Ironie, Ade proves herself as participating not in a withdrawal from global German aesthetic traditions and perspectives, but in their rediscovery. Through the course of her career, Ade’s work has continued to mediate the complicated dynamics of the international, the transnational and national, which, as Hake argues, have been integral perspectives to German film production, distribution, and consumption from the industry’s birth (Hake 2013, p. 111). Enthusiastic German coverage of the film’s successes at Cannes and subsequent international press in combination with recent publications on German cinema have made it clear that the coproduction has been closely aligned with binary-dependant assertions of German cinema as a trans- (or post-) national cinema (Bovermann 2017). However it is clear from the existing scholarly accounts of Ade’s work that the director has fast approached auteur status, furthered in Toni Erdmann having been sanctioned by the Academy Awards with a nomination, her films reflecting the cultural encounters and exchanges that have characterised Austro-German cinema history (Hake and Mennel 2014, p. 2). It is my aim to further contextualise Ade’s frames of reference. This interrogation is undertaken in the hope it might better contextualise the work of a filmmaker arguably most likely to become the second woman to win an Academy Award for directing in the competition’s history, given her track record.

What Does ‘Un Certain Regard’ Mean? Before it became a ‘leftfield Palme contender’ (Bradshaw 2016), Toni Erdmann was accepted into the Un Certain Regard competition of the 2016 Cannes Film Festival. A parallel section of the official selection without the market nor the prestige of the

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main competition, Un Certain Regard is a newer competition designed specifically to acknowledge and cater to the ‘leftfield’ market (Sorin 2016). The Cannes selection committee, however, withdrew Toni Erdmann from Un Certain Regard and inserted the film into the main competition for the Palme D’Or at the eleventh hour. A baffled Ade received a phone call the night before the film’s premiere informing her of the decision, commenting: The day before the press conference in April, my producer told me that it was rare but not impossible for a film to switch competition. She was about to go to bed when she called me. We had just received an email telling us that we were taken. I was shocked. I was alone at home, my children slept, and I couldn't believe it. (Sorin 2016)

Whether Ade’s film was initially placed in Un Certain Regard due to its content, length or production credits (the German film industry was widely considered to be in slow deterioration, it was even called ‘long moribund’ by Timeout in 2006) is uncertain. Reputation notwithstanding, the foreign press immediately speculated upon the rare switch of competition as an intercontinental reappraisal of this alleged decline.3 While at Cannes, Ade amassed an astonishing 30 interview hours with 60 correspondents from almost 20 countries (Dargis 2016), most of which were focused on transnational aspects of the film which was shot and rehearsed on location in Bucharest and Berlin (Sorin 2016). Discouragingly labelled a filmmaker ‘whose importance isn’t measured in box office numbers,’ Ade was given the standard press junket treatment for women filmmakers: she was asked how much of Toni Erdmann was autobiographical; how much inspiration she drew from ‘other people and other movies’ (Dargis 2016); journalists referred to Ade by her first name and insinuated her unpreparedness through hyperbolised rumour-mongering about her creative process; these errors were then published in their reports. ‘Maren, is it true that you shot 700 hours of footage?’ one reporter asked incredulously (Macfarlane 2016). These rumours are representative of a history of liberties taken with female directors like Elaine May, lazy assertions that discount a director’s work and often plague her career (Rabin 2019). Though it is not suggested Ade was initially placed in Un Certain Regard and not the main competition due to her gender, it remains a blight on the festival that New Zealand filmmaker Jane Campion is the only woman to have won the Palme d’Or, for her coproduction The Piano (1993). Interviewers also pushed Ade to define her film as either a tragedy or a comedy, and roundly ignored its status as a coproduction between Austria and Germany (Komplizen Film in concert with coop99, knm, Missing Link Films and SWR/WDR/ ARTE), refusing to acknowledge the complexities often permitted for other European directors (such as Wenders and Paul Verhoeven). Throughout the junket period, however, Ade remained steadfast that her film was deeply informed by both its coproduction status, and also her German identity and national context of production: 3

Despite the efforts of the Berlin School in the 1990s, see Abel’s The Counter-Cinema of the Berlin School (2013).

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It’s our identity, for me [the protagonists] have a German relationship, [Winfried] is such a typical post-war generation father, this generation who was very political through and wanted to raise their children with a lot of these values, and now he’s confronted with his result—that he, politically at least, has some problems with. It’s my identity. (Macfarlane 2016)

Toni Erdmann was the first German film in a decade to premiere in Cannes’ main competition, and its loss to Ken Loach’s 2016 film I, Daniel Blake, voted on by a jury headed by Australian action auteur George Miller, was criticised by film commentators and on social media (Gabriel 2016). The question remained as to whether the film would ride on this wave of support, or suffer the Euro Art House curse, unable to survive off-continent. Regardless, Ade became one of the few international directors to receive widespread US distribution, with Toni Erdmann released for the US market primarily through Sony Pictures Classics. A territory not recognised for accepting subtitled films (one needs only to see Donald Trump’s damning tweet regarding the Korean language film Parasite and director Bong Joon-ho’s historic ternary wins in 2020), the US release was a strategic manoeuvre by Sony Pictures Classics to compete with the rising demand for diverse forms of world cinema, as seen in the expansion of production and distribution houses NEON, Annapurna Pictures and A24. In Germany, Toni Erdmann was an immediate hit—with over 800,000 attendances during its release, becoming the 40th most watched movie in Germany in 2016 (Kinocharts 2016). Watching the film immediately before its 2017 Cannes premiere, Ade presumed it would be classed as a tragedy due to its static German subjectivities, commenting, ‘you cannot change where you come from’ (Romney 2017). When Toni Erdmann premiered, however, Ade was shocked by the en-masse audience laughter. The complexities the director had worried would baffle non-Europeans, it seemed, translated well. ‘When the cinema is really full, it’s another film than when you watch it alone on your laptop,’ Ade admitted, having edited the film with only a skeleton crew right up until its Cannes premiere, ‘I’m happy that the film has these two faces’ (Romney 2017). Toni Erdmann screened to over 50 film festivals in the months following its Cannes premiere, entering the box-office charts in the fifth position and ending up with the best per-screen average in 2016. Sold by the international agency The Match Factory to over 100 territories, Toni Erdmann outstripped all expectations, aided by the Cannes selection committee’s crucial switch of the film into the main competition before its premiere. Given Toni Erdmann was the first German film to premiere at Cannes in a decade, there was a possibility that statistically it would have been more likely to win the Un Certain Regard Palme than in the main competition. Trailing in Palme d’Or wins, with the United States in the lead (with 13), followed by France (with 7), Italy (5), Japan and the UK (4), German cinema has recently had a more robust showing as a direct result of the successes of Toni Erdmann. In 2017, for example, there were five German coproductions in competition for the Palme d’Or. Ade’s success made a sizeable national impact politically too, with the federal

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government doubling its film industry financial support in order to compete with the international market (Roxborough 2017a). German cinema having an increased international presence was, according to German Minister of Culture Monika Grütters, a direct result of federal government subsidies. ‘Germany is very important on the political scale in terms of global perspectives. That also makes German film important because the film tells the political and current social stories,’ she explained, adding: These budget increases help remove restrictions for filmmakers. On the other hand, big international companies can come and make their films in Germany and big German productions don’t need to look for places to film outside of Germany. I think these were two very important signals to filmmakers. (Goldmann 2017)

Historically, the German film industry has been remarkably receptive to transcontinental influence, though this movement has remained dynamic. Film production within Germany itself has similarly remained relatively diverse, with production companies such as Bavaria Film, the Universum Film-Aktien Gesellschaft (UFA), Studio Babelsberg (a studio with production services), Wild Bunch, Rialto Film, Deutsche Film-Aktiengesellschaft (DEFA) and Constantin Film frequently supporting co-productions in step with the geopolitical changes of Germany’s modern period. Hake describes German cinema as having always ‘functioned as a national cinema against and through the continuous practice of co-productions, border crossings, and cross-cultural influences and exchanges,’ arguing for its classification as both a transnational and international artistic movement (Hake 2013, p. 115). It is curious, then as Hake and Mennel have noted elsewhere, that such enthusiastic pioneers of transnational coproductions have had such limited involvement in both academic enquiry and international competition, with accordingly restricted inclusion in continental festival circuits (Hake and Mennel 2014, p. 10). It is perhaps due to this phenomenon that Toni Erdmann was selected initially to show in Un Certain Regard instead of the main competition. In 1998, the Prix Un Certain Regard was announced to as an alternative to the main competition’s ‘films that are representative of arthouse cinema with a wide audience appeal.’ Instead, the parallel competition would focus on ‘works that have an original aim and aesthetic and are guaranteed to make a discreet but strong impact on screens around the world’ (festival-cannes.com) by presenting the winner with a grant to aid its distribution in France. Less than a handful of German films have ever won anything at Cannes, the first being Volker Schlöndorff’s film Tin Drum, which tied for the Palme d’Or with Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now in 1979. Schlöndorff and the next German Palme d’Or winner, Wim Wenders (for his feature Paris, Texas in 1984) were acknowledged as hailing from ‘West Germany’, this distinction contributing to outline the debilitating effect political turmoil has had on national cinema. Hake argues that the decline of German cinema as symptomatic of a particularly violent history of ruptures and divides, somewhat at odds with the origins of the nation’s cinema, ‘provide the frameworks in which the relationships between national(ist) discourses and international/transnational practices can be

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studied with particular clarity’ (Hake and Mennel 2014, p. 13). Furthering this line of reasoning, Hake notes: The 1918 disintegration of the Wilhelmine empire at the end of World War I, the short-lived Weimar Republic and coming of the Third Reich in 1933, the country’s defeat in World War II and political division during the Cold War, and the birth of a unified Europe after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. . .

as being pivotal events that could impact international perceptions of German cinema’s major technical and artistic contributions to early film, broadcasting and television technology (Hake and Mennel 2014, p. 13). German comedies, especially political satires and niche comedies have struggled with recognition and distribution, a tradition clearly followed by the slightly sceptical coverage of Toni Erdmann (low-brow, stoner and young adult comedies fare slightly better according to German box office kinocharts). The ‘battle of humour’ as Ade describes her film, though, would prove itself galvanised as instead ‘a drama where you laugh sometimes,’ the director weaponising laughter as a universal language (Peranson 2016).

A Universal Language Taking several years to complete Toni Erdmann’s script, Ade’s influences range from the minutiae of humiliating fathers to the overwhelming international march of rapid economic change, technological expansion through high-speed internet and budget travel, along with gender dynamics in the workplace. When viewing her film against these influences, the filmmaker’s description of Toni Erdmann as ‘a film with two faces’ is startlingly inadequate. Choosing Bucharest due to its rejuvenated film industry and ‘cruel’ economic divides separating the upper and lower classes, Ade admitted to the fact that the city experiencing such new and prevalent issues meant that Toni Erdmann really ‘could be [set] anywhere’ (Peranson 2016). The film follows the disintegration of familial relations during a misguided visit Winfried pays his daughter Ines, where he discovers her job, in which she provides fiscal guidance for Dacoil (a fictional fossil fuel company), is contributing directly to the economic and moral malaise he sees in Bucharest and, by extension, in his daughter. Brushed off by Ines and realising their disconnection threatens to subsume the relationship entirely, Winfried surprises Ines at a dinner out with her sophisticated and calculated international girlfriends, posing as an obnoxiously rich life coach named Toni Erdmann. Inspired by the committed cringe styling of American comedian Andy Kaufman and his extroverted alter-ago Tony Clifton, Ade has Winfried be-wigged and sporting a set of gag false teeth offset by a burgundy sharkskin suit jacket. ‘There’s clearly something not entirely genuine about him’ Ade writes in the script, ‘but, overall, his outfit somehow works’ (Ade 2016). Winfried’s alias ‘Toni,’ directly references Kaufman’s alter ego ‘Tony’, with a German accent replacing the Y, followed by the distinctly German-sounding ‘Erdmann.’ ‘I like the contrast’ Ade explained, ‘Toni is a very international, business

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name. . . Erdmann is very German, it’s similar to erdmännchen—German for meerkat. So you have something in mind about a certain animal’ (Stevens 2017). Indeed, what follows is a cat and mouse ‘battle of humour’ in which neither character admits defeat (Peranson 2016). ‘Larking about,’ Isabel Stevens notes of Winfried, ‘is his only mode of communication’ (Stevens 2017, p. 30). In the same interview, Ade asserted the inherent Germanness of Winfried’s character, stating ‘He’s very typical post-war generation in Germany. . . his generation was strong enemies with the generation before and I see this battle as what gave birth to his humour’ (Stevens 2017). Ines’s initial fury and Peinlichkeit at Toni’s antagonism quickly crumbles under a natural competitiveness. As the film progresses, Toni and Ines’s interactions intensify, culminating in a nude executive brunch somehow more agonising than a previous scene in which Ines stabs a needle through her own toenail. In this moment, peinlich verges into pain schmerzlich, a combination of the shame of losing face and poignancy, as who lies underneath once the mask has slipped is revealed. Ade’s ‘very fast’ decision to set the film in Bucharest coincided with the rapid constitution of Romanian natural resource markets and escalating economy, aided in part by a German ‘business consultant’ Gastarbeiter class of workers like Ines (Peranson 2016). Romania’s international image had ‘taken a battering’ in the British press especially, and a survey in The Guardian conducted during the same year as the release of Toni Erdmann found it was the EU country ‘Britons would least like to live in’ (Cadwalladr 2016). Shockingly, Carole Cadwalladr wrote backhandedly that after two decades she had returned to find the city ‘transformed. . . [Romania] isn’t about immigrants stealing jobs or Gypsy beggars getting their teeth fixed free on the NHS’ (Cadwalladr 2016). Considering Romania only recently (in 2007) joined the EU, its ‘little sister’ status to Germany (a founding member of the EU since 1958) makes Toni Erdmann both a family melodrama on one level and on the other, a continental political satire. Ines represents a shrewd generation of German businesspeople who, according to Ade’s extensive research amongst Eastern Europeans in the region, ‘think they know better’ than the countries in which they based. This Gastarbeiter business class, of which Ines is an alumna, are intent on introducing an ‘international way of thinking’ (Ade 2016) aligned with the 2009 enactment of the Treaty of Lisbon, which provided the EU with ‘modern institutions and more efficient working methods’ (europa.eu n.d.). The treaty, which amends the two treaties that underlie the 27-member political and economic union, required 19 eurozone finance ministers to meet informally as a ‘Eurogroup,’ with little to no transparency or accountability. Instead of blunting distinct cultural markings, however, institutions with vague descriptions such as Eurogroup have only sharpened economic disparities between countries to a razor-sharp edge. The ability for international financiers such as Ines, who is portrayed as operating in a legal gray area reflects recent financial disparity headlines such as the Eurogroup Scandal, a political body Advocate General Giovanni Pitruzzella described as ‘the least easy ‘to circumscribe’ given its uncertain institutional status and spread over several nation states’ (Quell 2020). Transparency, as Wiener argues, ‘for the masses. . . isn’t ideal’ (Wiener 2020, p. 32).

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This dangerous opacity is probed by several characters throughout Toni Erdmann, foremost through intergenerational portraits of the Conradi family. Upon introducing Ines in the film, Ade has her stepfather, Oliver, inform Winfried ‘She’s only advising an oil company. She’s still a business consultant’, confusing the older man, ‘I have to write that down now, too’ Winfried admits (Ade 2016). Generic or vague cultural markers pervade the film’s furnishings, too, as Ines lives in an apartment described by Ade in her screenplay as: impersonal. . . The living room opens out onto a large roof terrace. The whole place seems sterile and a bit American: the kind of luxury you can find anywhere in the world. Only a few objects hint at the fact that we’re in Eastern Europe. (Ade 2016)

This homogenised extravagance is, Ade notes ‘borrowed from other countries,’ gelling ‘Austrian and German companies’ (similar to those that funded her film) within the Romanian landscape (Ade 2016). Territorial exploitation is a firm confirmation of the prevalence of nationality in a transnational modernity for Ade, ‘You feel like [Romania] sold themselves to the richer part of Europe as well as America’ she writes. The Austro-German Gastarbeiter, a class that categorically (and ironically) includes the internationally-operating Ade, ‘may have the better know-how’, the director commented, but this sentiment distinguishes them from locals, something Ade believes ‘should be changed’ (Peranson 2016). Ines’ international business coterie is consequently presented in deliberately vague terms, making it difficult to grasp the hierarchy and connections between them. There are, though, subtle nods to intercontinental audiences: Dascalu, a Romanian manager for Dacoil (played by Alexandru Papadupol), is also the name of a small Romanian commune of villages to the northeast of Bucharest, hinting at the character’s local conscience. Similarly, Dascalu is an obsolete Romanian word for ‘teacher’, appropriate given Dascalu’s repeated ‘schooling’ of Ines, who he clearly suspects is seeking to have a managerialist discourse over the heads of Romanians. Over poolside business drinks, Ade shows Ines falling into a trap of aspirational authority, as a French Businessman Vermillard (Saga Lolov), asks Dacoil CEO Henneburg (German actor Michael Wittenborn) and Dascalu about ‘the young Romanian manager generation.’ ‘Dascalu is about to respond’ Ade writes, ‘when Henneburg turns to Ines. HENNEBURG: She is the specialist. She has all the insights.’ At this crucial moment, though, Ade has Ines fumble the ball: ‘So, when I started here, I was really surprised’ Ines answers, ‘in English so perfect she could be mistaken for an American’ Ade writes, blurring Ines into the collective the protagonist then describes, stating ‘Almost everyone did a Master’s degree abroad, speaks several languages. They are all very dedicated. I would even say most of them have a very international way of thinking. Which is great’ (Ade 2016). Though Ade writes in the screenplay that Ines speaks in a ‘self-confident and to-the-point’ manner, Dascalu interrupts her. ‘But they don’t understand Romania anymore’ he argues, ‘They are faster than the rest of the country, they don’t want to stay here.’ The Romanian then staunchly disagreeing with Ines, ‘I don’t believe very much in an international perspective.’ In an awkward position, Ines quickly reverts to a corporate speak failsafe position (one of four often taught in career

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development) known as ‘the beggar’, useful when one is publicly criticised, ‘I was just trying to say that knowledge is international’ Ines says, ‘I totally agree with that, too’ (Schrank 2008). Again, however, Dascalu pushes against Ines’s transnational idealism, ‘Romanian knowledge runs deep’ he adds, pointedly summarising German interests in Romania, ‘Take a look at our oilfields’ (Ade 2016). Though she may not realise it, Ines’s inadvertent weaponising of a corporatised ‘garbage language’ aligns her imprecisely within an aspirationally integrated class. Employing opaque phrases such as ‘international thinking’ allow Ines to strategically obscure her personal interest as universal, a EU-ROmania. Disguising surveillance as praise in this way is, as Molly Young argues, an effective method to ‘bewilder, embarrass, and penalize’ the working class into accepting cultural hegemony (Young 2020). The aspirational authority Ines displays in this instant ignores Romanian geopolitical distinctions (a collapsing economic neighbour in the Ukraine, an unenthusiastic institutional basis for democracy that threatens to follow in the way of Russia or Egypt) to instead promote an international middle class (Cadwalladr 2016). Dascalu’s function within Toni Erdmann, then, is to articulate the privilege of Ines’s naiveté. Though the first twenty minutes of the film are solely spoken in German, from the introduction of Ines’s erudite colleagues (who all speak over or through one another) Toni Erdmann spirals into linguistic plurality, with garbage language the communicative currency. Ines’ clique do not ever discuss their nationality, for example. Instead, they debate the virtues of where they are ‘based’, which, for the most part, elicits profoundly impenetrable answers. ‘I live mostly in Frankfurt and France’ trophy wife Natalja (Victoria Malektorovych) offers primly to Ines, before clarifying in broken English, ‘I like countries with a middle class. They are relaxing me.’4 As she so often does throughout the film, Ines agrees in English, ‘I totally understand’ she says. In Uncanny Valley, Wiener makes the distinction that the corporate speak of new modernity is fundamentally nonsensical, arguing that without a common lexicon, conversations sound ‘like everyone was speaking a different language—or the same language with radically different rules’ (Wiener, 2020, p. 131). The impenetrability of nonlanguage forges it into a sort of shield, protecting the interlocutor by way of what Young comments is an ‘eternal mutability’ (Young 2020). Within this ‘mutability’ of nonlanguage, then, lies the existentialist issue of why it exists at all. Ade has an international business dialect of her own that she explores in Toni Erdmann, something she calls ‘Denglish’, in which ‘Germans use English words but make them sound German’, where, for example, ‘handy’, meaning ‘useful’ in English, becomes handie—Denglish shorthand for a situation that serves an individual’s business interests. ‘Feedback’—something Ines’ Romanian personal

4 Frankfurt being the most corporatized city in Germany, and the country’s second-largest metropolitan region, being the major financial centre of the European continent, hosting the headquarters of the European Central Bank, Deutsche Bundesbank, Frankfurt Stock Exchange, Deutsche Bank, DZ Bank, KfW, Commerzbank, several cloud and fintech startups and other institutes.

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assistant Anca (Ingrid Bisu) thrives on—becomes a managerialist term that operates, as Ade terms it, to ‘allow Ines as big European partner’ to criticise the younger, less confident Anca, the ‘little partner’ (BAFTA 2017). A trend in and of itself, Denglish has made several appearances in European cinema since Toni Erdmann. Swedish director Robert Östlund’s 2017 Palme D’Or winning art-world satire The Square, for example, featured a Scan-Denglish spoken by the character Christian (Claes Bang), the overbearing creative director of a large art gallery. Attempting to bully a younger employee into performing an illicit task, Christian wields a manipulative nonlanguage, ‘As your boss, I’m curious to know if I can count on you,’ he threatens. The façade of Denglish with which Ines constructs her own managerialist discourse is swiftly pierced, first by Dascalu then, crucially, by German Dacoil CEO Henneburg. When pressed on her job description by ‘French businessman’ Vermillard, Ade writes in the screenplay that Ines ‘lets slip’ she is helping Dacoil ‘outsource’ (read: fire) the majority of their local maintenance and labour (Ade 2016). The corporate speak faux-pas (ironically, of transparency) is rebuked by Henneburg ‘cuttingly in German’. ‘HENNEBURG: Interesting how you describe your job’ Ade writes (Ade 2016). Responding in German, Ines once again reverts to the ‘beggar’ position, ‘please say it in your own words’ she implores Henneburg. In softened English for the group, the CEO does, ‘We see outsourcing as the last option of many’ he approximates confidently. Bewildered, harassed and penalised, Ines begs an apology again, ‘I’m sorry, this is what I tried to say’ she says in English. The Denglish, which was briefly free flowing, halts. Communication breaks down. ‘For a moment,’ Ade writes, ‘the group falls silent’ (Ade 2016). When Henneburg described Ines as having an ‘interesting’ way of describing her job he is, without knowing, reiterating a sentiment previously expressed by Winfried after being accosted by his daughter through Anca. Though the assistant can speak reasonable English and German, Winfried still struggles to communicate with the ‘internationally thinking’ Anca, as she continually reverts to corporate speak. Winfried switches languages, asking in German ‘And how is my daughter as a boss?’ then, in hasty English ‘As your chief?’ Anca, Ade writes, isn’t sure how to respond, but opts ironically for diplomacy. ‘Yes, she’s very honest,’ she says, clarifying, ‘she gives me a lot of feedback. . . about my performance’ (Ade 2016). Winfried struggles with this reference, ‘stammering in English’ Ade writes, he asks ‘Performance? This means. . . this describes your job?’ (Ade 2016). As an outsourcing ‘consultant,’ Ines’s job is kept deliberately obscure by Henneburg, a move unwittingly imitated by Anca. While switching between languages enables Henneburg and Ines to have a private German dialogue, it only confuses Anca and Winfried, who speak in different registers. The specific gravity needed for a language to have an active communicative life becomes lost without a shared lexicon. This breakdown in communication is, as George Steiner argues, a result of the distortion of national experience, afforded by the programmed blending of ‘fields of idiomatic, symbolic, communal reference which give to language its specific gravity’, through the process of transnational transfer. In After Babel: Aspects of

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Language and Translation, Steiner explores the pervasiveness of ‘International English’ through an analysis of its concomitant analogousness when enacted in the bourgeois business world. Comparing the international spread of English to ‘a thin wash, marvelously fluid, but without adequate base’, as Ines and Henneburg’s solely economical grasp of English is, Steiner surmises that although ‘so much that is being said is correct, so little is right’. It is only, Steiner goes on, through ‘time and native ground’ that language can truly be provided a ‘the interdependence of formal and semantic components’ necessary to ‘translate culture into active life’ (Steiner 1975). Ade’s description, then, of Toni Erdmann as ‘heavy, melancholic [and] ‘in its inability to ‘change where [it] comes from’ inhabits Steiner’s contention that languages used in this petit-bourgeois manner can never set in motion organic culture or life (Romney 2017). For example, early in the film Winfried asks his last piano student Lukas (Lennart Moho) to help him with his Mac computer. ‘My internet’s acting up. That ball was there again’ he says, Ade leaning heavily on the metaphor of the spinning mac pinwheel to show the both future spiralling away from, and frigid to, Winfried’s paralysing touch. ‘Oh, it’s frozen again’ Lukas comments absentmindedly. As these kinks in communication prove, the characters cannot move beyond the ‘midst of the middle class’, weighed down as they are with a sort of paralysis or pein (Romney 2017). These complicated and unwieldy observations on what Tobias Kniebe calls the ‘cruel miniatures’ of the modern German middle class set Ade apart from the rest of the Berlin School of filmmaking with which she is often associated (Kniebe 2010). What the majority of mainstream commentary ignored about Toni Erdmann was precisely the ‘trouble’ Ade regards with inscrutable detail which is, as Kniebe notes, an inherently German cynicism. Comparing Ade to the majority of the Berlin School’s po-faced optimism, Kniebe notes filmmakers who matured during the post-unification 1990s idealise and even romanticise a ‘better, that is, non-bourgeois life’ in their films (Kniebe 2010). Ade, by comparison, hitches her films firmly to the bourgeois winds of ‘the unbearable misery of [her] middle class origins’ which Kniebe sees as ‘blow[ing]’ through these ‘non-bourgeois dreams’ (Kniebe 2010). In the same way that Ade understands her films as ‘static’, though they are often set ‘elsewhere’ (Everyone Else was filmed on location in Sardinia and The Forest for the Trees moved from Swabia to Karlsruhe), Kniebe argues the filmmaker sees ‘there is no escape in this regard’ (Kniebe 2010). For every criticism levelled at Ade’s cinema for its cringing concentration and even extension of the ‘shabbiest, pettiest and most embarrassing moment’ of being a transnationally minded German in an international world (Ines’s inability to communicate with her Romanian colleagues is just one such example), Ade defends her protagonists, citing their motivations alongside shame as a communal burden. ‘Fremdschämen (embarrassment on behalf of someone else) is often a sign of identification’ she said after the first screening of The Forest for the Trees (Schulz-Ojala 2016). In concentrating on these specific German anxieties, Ade exposes the universal paralysis of saving face. During an early moment in the film in which Ines is attending a family lunch in celebration for her birthday, Ade collapses Ines’s communicative potential, exposing

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the nihilistic loneliness at the core of Toni Erdmann. By chance, Winfried catches Ines sitting alone, looking at her mobile phone. Seeing her father, ‘Ines reflexively lifts the phone and now that she has it at her ear, she carries on acting,’ in a painstakingly fremdschämen ‘performance’ (Ade 2016). This time, however, is it Winfried who experiences Pein affected on behalf of Ines. As Ines consoles an imaginary phone partner with nondescript garbage language, commenting ‘Yeah, good. And what else did he say? OK, that’s no bad thing’, her expression attains a multi-directional absence of meaning. Turning and miming surprise at her father's intrusion, Ines then ‘quietly, to Winfried’ offers a wretchedly optimistic comment, ‘I’m almost done, Dad’ and then ‘Winfried waits’ Ade writes. In this scene, Winfried’s absurd act of waiting for Ines to act out the phone call ‘so convincingly’ Ade writes, strikes him as epiphany, as although he knows it isn't possible, ‘he suddenly wonders whether there really might be someone on the other end’ (Ade 2016). Winfried’s nihilistic revelation that Ines is saying nihil (Latin for ‘nothing’) to no one, evokes the sense that Ines may not be flying high as she claims to be, but is instead ‘plunging’ into an abyss of meaninglessness performance. Though she sees herself as enlightened, Ines is performing the role of Friedrich Nietzsche’s madman, ‘plunging continually’, away from her father’s idealism, ‘Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions’ without ‘any up or down’, as Winfried’s witness to Ines’s performance shows his inability to stop her from plunging further ‘through an infinite nothing’ (Nietzche 1974). Establishing a ‘sleepwalking certainty’ of these nihilistic sentiments Kniebe argues is ‘man könnte auch sagen auf den deutschesten’, or, ‘the most German’ (Kniebe 2010). Correspondingly, Young has argued that at the heart of the ‘fakery and puffery’ of corporate speak is in fact a profound ‘lack of a reason to exist’ (Young 2020). This nihilism makes Ines’ shaky grasp of corporate speak all the more heartbreaking as Ade wields corporate speak as a tool to expose a transnational millennial nihilism afforded by neoliberal economics. Whether or not Winifred may be able to pull Ines out of her ‘performance’ is left appropriately vague, though a mention of Singapore towards the film’s end seems to promise of some sort of renewal. Though he may be an idealist, Winfried is an overbearing, frustrating and shabby figure, presented in sloppy costume with a sagging stomach and unshaven face, sorely out of place in the slick corporate circles of Bucharest. Threatened with the nihilistic one-dimensionality that plagues his daughter, Winfried is shown to cultivate his own post-war bourgeois garbage language. During one pre-Toni scene, during a conversation at a luxurious day spa in which Ines finds herself pressed by his whimsical questions, she levels with him. ‘Lots of words buzzing around: fun, happiness, life. . . Shall we sort it out? What do you find [is] worth living for? If you want to discuss the big topics.’ When repeated, Winfried’s questions suddenly sound devoid of meaning, his idealism blurring naiveté with the nihilism of corporate speak. As Philipp Bovermann has termed Ade’s work ‘social horror’ (Bovermann 2017) so does Kniebe show her ‘sleepwalking certainty’ towards these ‘shabbiest, pettiest and most embarrassing moments’ of bourgeois nihilism are in fact ‘most German’ in their ‘buzzing’ preoccupations with tactfully avoiding candour at all times (Kniebe 2010).

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Tact, Candour and Credibility At the midpoint of Toni Erdmann, Ines has to give an important presentation to the Dacoil board. Dascalu, Henneburg and Ines’s supervisor Gerald (Thomas Loibl), however, interrupt her ‘performance’ repeatedly, undermining her authority. The painful situation is worsened when Henneburg calls the group ‘gents’, misgendering Ines repeatedly. There are, as Glasenapp notes, a number of reasons for Ines to harbour hostility for the ‘new economic conditions in which she has to function. . . most evidently misogyny’ (Glasenapp 2019, p. 40). When discussing her formidable research for the film, which included months spent in Bucharest with the sophomore business class of German executives the majority of the supporting cast are based on, Ade described the Dacoil presentation as being particularly difficult to research and write. Having to understand the ‘tact, candour and credibility’ (Shrank 2008) of Denglish corporate speak in order to write it, Ade’s formulation of Ines’s presentation is a confusion of lightweight speech patterns and disconcerting directness (Peranson 2016). Instead of identifying specific procedures, Ines outlines a series of ‘options,’ the first being the bafflingly ambiguous ‘full outsourcing in all assets’ which she then unenthusiastically confirms as ‘essentially a radical cut.’ What Ines means, though, is that Dacoil could feasibly fire their Romanian oil field workers and bring in cheaper labourers from other countries. Upon hearing from her boss that Henneburg has selected this option, Ines later becomes confusingly distressed, calling full outsourcing ‘unfounded’ and ‘on the verge of speculation.’ Moments of crisis and miscommunication such as this, Wiener argues, are often obfuscated further by either optimism or hubris. Opening Uncanny Valley with a meditation on the tech bubble, Wiener says ‘depending on whom you ask, it was either the apex, the inflection point, or the beginning of the end’ (Wiener 2020, p. 1). Towards the end of the film Ines seeks to clarify a lingering issue with a local manager named Iliescu (Vlad Ivanov), whom Dascalu ‘trusts’ (Ade 2016). Sensing the danger of transparency risked by Ines’s inability to disguise the crude nature of outsourcing, Gerald chastises her, ‘The Iliescu issue wasn’t very elegant.’ Ines’s immature grasp of ‘international English,’ ‘Denglish’ and ‘corporate speak’ becomes an ineffective nonlanguage when it is clear from her censure that not even her own class of executive can comprehend her manner of speech. Later, as Gerald curtly informs Ines she will have to do the dirty work of informing the Romanian manager Iliescu he must fire his staff, he notes her idea of ‘building up pressure through Dascalu backfired.’ In compounding scientific jargon with that of mechanical engineering, before verging into the calculatingly opaque, Gerald manages to completely divorce their conversation from meaning: ‘He and Illiescu won’t be discussing our project’ he says. The flatness of Gerald’s delivery is reflected in his vague phrasing, which rightfully raises Ines’s suspicion. She soon finds out he intends to keep her ‘static’ in Bucharest, when she knows opportunity beckons from the more economically formidable Shanghai. Ines has, in effect, been duped into inertia by her own aspiration. Ines realises too late that although ‘corporate speak is not a crime’ as Young contends, ‘the words have a scammy flavour’ (Young 2020).

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Although Toni Erdmann is the result of Ade’s preferred independent production model, drawing on disparate transnational funding sources (as noted, the film credits five production companies) its scope is not limited to a humorous reflection of Europe at large. Instead, through Ines, Ade clearly articulates a warning at what Germany is becoming. ‘With every step you take, I can tell you how direct your economic connection is to these people’ Ines informs Winfried towards the end of the film. As the duo return from an oil field meeting with the Romanian workers, including Iliescu, who Ines will probably fire, the film is at its most schmerzlich. These are not a collection of moments humorously hinged on cultural difference in a flattened world, as Mark Kermode notes. Instead Toni Erdmann, as both film and character, is most superlative when ‘shiver[ing] with fear’ (Kermode 2017). ‘Your pseudo-green attitude won’t help you there at all’ Ines concludes icily. Clinging to a contrived post-war progressivism, Winfried is exposed as a devotee to a different kind of nonlanguage, ignorant of modernity’s impending ‘moral compromises and sacrifices of dignity’ (Kermode 2017). The dizzying pursuit of transnational modernity propelling Germany ‘Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions’ in search of ‘the top’ is, undoubtedly to Ade, a national project (Kermode 2017). With the Toni Erdmann Hollywood remake on the horizon, one questions how exactly a US cultural system so intent on ironing out national complexity will interpret a film made by a director who ‘still feels most at home in Germany and in the German language’ (Roxborough 2017b). While Ade has agreed she ‘could imagine’ the remake, it may be difficult for director Lisa Cholodenko to remain immune to repeating the transnational erasure of what Bradshaw calls ‘the tonally ambiguous and elusive part of the film’ (Bradshaw 2017) for the Hollywood remake of Toni Erdmann. As Ade considers her films have ‘so much to do with me as a person and with the language I speak,’ it is inevitable that Cholodenko will have to promote another linguistic vector. Perhaps the famously inarticulate Californian studio speak would serve as an appropriate adaptation. Though Toni Erdmann may move from the international to the transnational, however, Ade has confirmed she will remain in Germany, untempted by the possibility of living as a Hollywood Gastarbeiter. ‘It’s where I feel most comfortable and where I want to stay’ Ade adds (Roxborough 2017b).

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Blythe S. Worthy is a sessional academic in the English Department at the University of Sydney. Her doctoral thesis explored critiques of transnational feminisms in Jane Campion’s television work. Worthy has been published in Afterimage and Philament and she regularly publishes on the Sydney Literature and Cinema Network blog. She is the film, documentary and television editor at The Australian Journal of American Studies.