BBD Comments:
‘Wings of Desire’ is a magnificent film. There was a time I called it my favorite. There is such serenity in this film, and it makes our world seem filled with mystery and miracles.
The sheer longing that Bruno Ganz’s angel has for our mundane reality elevates our own existence. In the lonely Berlin library Wender’s introduces us to ourselves over and over again. The script is remarkable in its detail and seemingly endless empathy for the human condition.
I had the opportunity to play a fallen angel in ‘The Master and Margarita’ so perhaps I was more attuned to the parallel between a trapeze artist’s fear of falling and an angel’s desperate desire to at this viewing. When I was fifteen, I missed that point which upon this viewing seems so obvious. This film is perhaps singular in its ability to make longing palpable.
There has been some debate calling this film a love story, and Rip Van Coolbaugh has labeled it a “chick flick.” Really it is neither. The film is most assuredly about love, but its action pivots on eponymous desire rather than achievement. Though we have never carefully defined the controversial “chick flick” label, I believe at their core “chick flicks” run through well-trod and hackneyed formulas to deliver melodrama that tries to make us cry on cue. ‘Wings of Desire’ is all but devoid of any formula. It unfolds languidly and lushly and we know less about each character’s future at the end than we did at the beginning. I have never seen the American remake of this film, but I imagine it is a chick flick. The majesty and mystery of Wender’s epic reduced and confined to angel meets girl, angel loses wings, angel gets girl. There is so much more at play in ‘Wings of Desire’ than that, and it truly is a remarkable artistic achievement.
One cannot talk about the film without recognizing the amazing photography. Henri Alekan manages to transform human flesh in to porcelain, and his painterly imagery is critical to this film’s success. Not since ‘The Wizard of Oz’ has the introduction of color to a narrative been so shocking. I am not referring to the film’s first use of color, but rather the moment we first see Bruno Ganz in color. It is a powerful moment and it is to Wender’s and Alekan’s credit that it provides such impact.
Despite my love and admiration for this film, I am going on record calling this the Worst Pick Ever. The main reason for this harsh label is the fact that the two audience members who had never seen the film both slept through it. Selecting picks for the Back Yard is no small task. We have wide and varied tastes and it is a challenge satiating them all at the same time. But if you’re the SELECTOR, that’s the job. Peter has only had two chances on the Stucco, so he hasn’t felt the sting of a poorly received Selection before. Lucky for me I got my licks right out of the gate with ‘The Big Lebowski.’ But I have learned that the films closest to your heart are the biggest risks in the Back Yard as you never know what people will make of it. The only time a pick has been skipped in our history was Nubby’s aborted attempt to present ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.’ Undeniably a wonderful film, but totally unsuited for the Movienight environment. It may be that we don’t have room on the Stucco for slow-moving, introspective cinema, and I am totally at peace with that. Just because it doesn’t work at Movienight doesn’t mean it’s bad, and just because it works doesn’t mean it’s good.
Peter has gotten some grief for this pick, and as Movienight’s Official Northern Associate, it’s appropriate he feels the heat that we all face stepping up to the plate. I hope he hasn’t soured on our group in the wake of the Crew’s reaction. Peter has been alongside us for some time now, and his energy and enthusiasm for Movienight has been a tonic. I am looking forward to his next trip to the Selector box, I am very curious to see what he’ll select.
Netti Comments:
On fewer and fewer occasions do I feel any sort of communion with my fellow humans. If a feeling arises that is near to this, like the requisite moment of sentimental nationalist fervor before a football game, or an attendant reverence for a performer or speaker of menial skill, I am no longer able to give myself over to it. Sometimes I think it’s because I reached adolescence during the early nineties when sarcastic disinterest was expected and cultivated (it seems now that earnestness and full participation is in vogue). Perhaps its the actualization of a mind that supposes that, in order to stay a step ahead of the zeitgeist one can not fully participate in it. Megalomania might be the cheapest, surest answer. Well I never liked cheap and easy answers.
Whether to be involved or evolved? A formative question for me. I am deeply suspicious of participation. I tend toward remaining outside of something before I participate (except for those occasional moments where rabidity and absurdity become the value). In a way, I have never fully participated in anything. Literally all of my experiences are yoked by the hegemonic removed observer. Even sex, which is probably the most materially involved experience one can have, is still on a tether. Save a choice few performances on stage, playing music, or moments of inspired writing, I have never slipped the 'removed observer' component of my mind, a mickey. The problem is if I fully immerse in a moment; I don't remember it. I guess that's why I keep chasing those moments. However, I dislike those (myself, as well) who value intellectual distance. Jump in! Debase! I tell myself. Stomp your foot on the ground and announce your presence in the material world. Is it obvious yet that I was raised Catholic and attended Jesuit schools? Sometimes I can't believe I am still titillated by these questions. It has become an obsession in automatic pilot, really. It's my go to dilemma, so to speak.
Which brings me to Cassiel. So badly did Cassiel want to materialize and participate. To experience mortality and time. It was to him the ultimate expression of creation to have become part of the living history rather than an observer of it. A beautiful sentiment that hits me in my kitchen; the part of me that is never quite fully here. Looking at the dynamic of Peter and the larger group of Movienight I don't think there could ever be a more appropriate pick (except for maybe ‘The Last Temptation of Christ’). An intellectual from above (San Francisco) wants to be a part of a group of decidedly earthly Angelenos and in doing so is basically crucified for his attempt at sharing.
I'm not going to comment further as to the appropriateness of the pick as I think that territory will be covered with the zeal and preciousness of doting 7 year old girls at the American Girl Store.
SELECTOR Comments:
Great art is often polarizing, so it doesn't surprise me that Wenders' poetic masterpiece triggered mixed reactions. On the one had, I'm vilified for bringing the "worst pick ever" to the Stucco (which, pace Tooda, is a dubious distinction more appropriate for something like ‘Audition.’ ‘Hostel’ - yes, yes, I know it wasn't an official pick, but someone picked it nonetheless- or ‘The Frisco Kid’), while on the other hand, I'm martyred and almost beatified by Netti, who perceives in the dynamics of the selection an apt allegory to my MONAdic existence within Movienight.
I'll take the good with the bad. I realize there's a certain je ne sais quois to a classic Movienight pick which this film lacked. As a topical pick linked to November 9th and the mythology of the reunification of soul and nation, however, I thought it had (and has) a lot going for it.
In 1987, for a young wanna-be intellectual raised on post-punk sensibilities and starting to really appreciate German poetry, ‘Wings of Desire’ was really manna from heaven. I can remember wandering out of Seattle's Neptune theater is a vaguely anesthetised daze, and immediately going to Tower Records to pick up some old Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds records. Something about the film, and the timeless, mythical Berlin that it portrayed, sang to me like a Siren. I later moved to Berlin and lived there for nearly 19 months looking for the magic of this film. I wasn't disappointed.
What connected me with the film then, as now, is its overwhelming humanity and life-affirming quality. Cassiel and Damiel are invisible, silent witness to the fractured soul of a City. The script, which sounds on first viewing to be a pastiche poetry of the quotidian, reveals itself on subsequent viewings to be a committed investigation of some very Big Themes indeed: what is the relationship between the spiritual and the mundane, what is it to experience something corporeally, what does it mean to be German, what is the story behind the alienated experiences of people as monads? This is a full plate: Wenders is sprawlingly ambitious here, shooting for the moon, and he nails it.
The film is beautiful in a way that few films are, both in its lyrical structure, the incorporation of poetic text and image, and Jean Cocteau-cinematographer Henri Alekan's framing of desire itself. The shift from sepia- and indigo-tinged black and white to full dazzling color is way more effective than any ‘Schindler's List’ parlor trick.
Anyhow, I regret that the pick wasn't better received, but I'll chalk it up as a learning experience, a way for MONA to better glean the group's sensibilities. The spirited debate surrounding the pick has been preserved for posterity elsewhere. My next pick will have narrative and a backbeat. Sorry for the diversion.
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