52 Films by Women Vol 4. 16. DREISSIG (Director: Simona Kostova)
Some people set goals over which they have no control: to
lose their virginity by the age of twenty-one, to acquire a mortgage by
twenty-five, marry by twenty-nine and have children by – what do you mean
you’re pregnant? Such deadlines are arbitrary and for the most part
meaningless. In my country, we don’t know what is happening on March 30th,
thanks to the political class who can neither agree a destination, a route nor
even a mode of transport - just how many meaningful votes are actually
meaningful?
Personally, I missed most of these deadlines: experiencing
affection-based sexual intimacy at age 24, signing the mortgage papers aged 33,
marrying aged 29 (yay, met that one) and fathering a child – what do you mean
you’re pregnant? For some, thirty is an important birthday: by then, you should
be well on your way. For me, I was sixteen years away from a cardiac arrest, fortunately
surviving to count my missing teeth. I hadn’t yet written my novel or the great
British screenplay. (Is there a great British screenplay? If so, I would
probably nominate Four Weddings and a
Funeral or God’s Own Country.)
But there is still time. As no one in my family has said, where there’s a tax
return, there’s hope.
Bulgarian-born but German-based writer-director Simona
Kostova has taken this significant age as the title of her highly accomplished,
scream from the rooftops it is so good, debut feature film, Dreissig.
Ostensibly, it follows twenty four hours in the lives of six Berliners, five
friends and a hanger on. Structurally, it is a bit like a ghost story. Each
character faces something which makes them scream, cry or leave the room – much
like the goals I mentioned above. It ends with them having breakfast together,
chattering blandly. We hear the sound of cutlery against plate as food is cut,
scooped or scraped. It is a haunting image. It haunts me still.
A word of caution: Dreissig takes its time, but then getting
to thirty isn’t a sprint. It begins with the camera focussed on the sleeping
face of Ovünç (Ovünç Güvenişik). We don’t immediately see him wake up. His
slumber is sound. The camera takes the position of a lover who has got up to
fetch a glass of water in the middle of the night and stares down at the man to
whom they have pledged their future. Is he the one? Will he ever shave? At
least he doesn’t snore or take all the bedclothes in the way that men do only
when someone else shares their bed.
The sound of a vibrating mobile phone breaks the monotony.
Ovünç wakes up, gets up slowly and searches for the source of his sleep
disturbance. We note that he is partially dressed and literally sleeps on
pillars of books that support his bed frame. It takes a while for him to find
the phone. It rings three times. When he answers it, he discovers it is not an
emergency. His best friend Pascal (Pascal Houdus) wants to confirm the
arrangements for the evening. He – Pascal – asks if Raha (Raha Emami Khansari) will
be there. Ovünç has invited Kara (Kara Schröder) so Raha will also come. Ovünç
mentions that he must do some writing. The call ends. Ovünç lights a cigarette
and smokes it. He opens the window but closes it in response to the noise
outside. He then practices catching another cigarette in his mouth. Once
successful – and it takes him several tries – he lights it. Then, knowing he
will be entertaining later, he starts vacuuming.
How do you justify scenes that show activity but don’t drive
the story forward? First, you establish pace and mood to convey the emptiness
of a life. You also make the audience feel they are watching real life in real
time and that they are outside the action. Dreissig doesn’t have what
screenwriting tutors call a ‘principal viewpoint character’. It does however
have a principal viewpoint: the fear of loneliness.
The second scene – also an unbroken single take, with the
camera slowly revealing more of the location – is set in Raha’s apartment. It
was Raha and Pascal’s apartment but Pascal is moving out. Kostova’s framing tells
us a lot: Raha has the window open and is smoking a cigarette. Pascal is inside
on the sofa. He talks a lot. Raha says very little. The point at which one person’s
conversation would ignite the other has gone. Pascal contemplates the newly
Scandinavian nature of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment, bereft of his possessions
save for a shelf, which Raha, wearing a ‘Refugees Welcome’ t-shirt, invites him
to take. He describes two rats with whom he has become acquainted in his new
apartment – not metaphorical ones, actual rodents. He wonders about Raha’s
ability to pay the rent – we learn later that she is an actress, though not one
that we imagine has firm prospects. Raha explains that Kara will be moving in. ‘But how will that work out?’ Pascal asks, adding ‘Kara
writes through the night,’ as if this detail may contribute to a change of
mind. This isn’t an issue. Pascal asks if he can get ready for work at the
apartment and Raha moves from the window to the hall, looking at herself in the
mirror as he changes his clothes. She doesn’t want to look at him. Managing to
make a shirt and tie seem scruffy, Pascal walks over to Raha and begs her to
take him back. The room could be split in two. She could have half a shelf.
Raha reminds Pascal that he dumped her. He considers this. For the final time,
perhaps, they hug. We see a curl of Raha’s hair loop under her eye, suggesting
a monocle – it’s a beautiful image. Then Pascal leaves.
There is a heck of a lot going on below the surface, some of
which is hinted at in dialogue. Pascal is clearly animated and keen to be
perceived as moving in some direction, or at least moving, just as Ovünç states
his intention to write. What they have in common is that they are not going
anywhere. Moreover, they haven’t faced up to their inertia.
If you expect this is to be a film about people waking up to
their own shortcomings, you’ll be disappointed. There is no ‘learning’ - an
American phrase, but we Brits like it too, sort of. In real life, how many
people come to a realization that they ought to stop what they’re doing? At any
rate, Pascal lives in the moment, as we see in his next scene, when he peddles
furiously down a Berlin street. He stops as if having arrived somewhere – his
place of work – but then encounters someone from his past, an old school friend,
a young man with glasses, who is with a girl. He is in Berlin too – what are
the odds? The old school friend does what we all would do – phone his mother.
Really, he calls her and hands the phone to Pascal who puts on his most
enthusiastic, charming to see you, ‘tschuss, tschuss’ voice. The old friend can
barely keep his jealousy of Pascal, ‘a young CEO’, out of his voice: ‘How much
do you earn? 4,000, 5,000 per month?’ However, Pascal upends the conversation,
extolling the virtues of Google Maps. (Come on!) He describes the whooshing
round the world that Google simulates – from Berlin to Tokyo – as something he
wants to do. Indeed, he’s going to Tokyo. The friend, by now an acquaintance,
no, wait, I never really knew him, suggests they should meet for a drink some
time. ‘Why don’t we go for one now?’ counters Pascal. However, his full-on
bonhomie only repels the young man – perhaps Pascal’s intention all along. They
part and Pascal sits on some stairs.
We are introduced to Kara in Raha’s kitchen. Raha is
breaking eggs into a bowl. We later understand that it is for Ovünç’s birthday
cake which – spoiler alert – doesn’t get eaten. Kara tells the story of a young
female artist, 1 metre 60 tall, who finds herself surrounded by tall men
listening to her plans for her next show. As she describes her theme –
masculinity and cannibalism – the men disengage. Kara starts to like her. She
is saying the right things, making the case – in other words, she is an authentic
feminist. Kara is about to reveal something when Raha turns on the blender.
Kara stops speaking, but then switches on a fan which blows her long blonde
hair. The contrast between fan and blender is inexplicably funny and beautiful
at the same time.
At a bar, we meet Henner (Henner Borchers), a tall lightly
bearded man. On the arrival of Ovünç he breaks into ‘happy birthday’. After
getting the crowd to join in, he shows Ovünç to a table and offers him a partly
consumed glass of beer, joined by a young woman, Anja (Anja Langer) – the
‘hanger on’ of the sextet. He then in theatrical style opens his brown coat,
out of which he pulls a bottle of spirits. ‘You’re not allowed to do that in
here,’ he is told by a member of staff. Ovünç invites Anja to the party later
just as Pascal arrives at the bar. ‘We’re going to Henner’s,’ he explains.
Pascal is disappointed. He is not in the mood for Henner. As they leave the
bar, Henner jumps out as if to surprise Pascal. We understand Pascal’s
apprehension completely.
After a brief scene in which Raha and Kara get ready – they
contemplate their future double chins – there is a jump cut to darkness and the
presentation of the birthday cake. The rest of the film is set during the long night.
The arrival of Anja, the orchestration of two taxis to a bar, Twin Pigs, that
Ovünç enters then leaves, a dash through road works and the other happening
places that the group visits.
There are explosions: Kara, who has fallen for Ovünç, curses
Anja and her [hair] bun, then hugs her. Henner faces an old man in a club and
breaks down. Ovünç explains that he is not ready for another relationship.
Pascal and Raha flare up.
The big finale is at a small gig, as the band Black Bear
Basement play the soft jazz tune, ‘Kryptic’. We are as hypnotised as Raha is,
watching them. You want to purchase a download afterwards – though people my
age still say ‘buy the album’. What can I say - I do still purchase CDs.
When we consider a life change, be it aged thirty or at any
age, we review the small moments that we identify retrospectively as way
stations. We reflect before moving forward. Kostova’s film invites reflection.
It is also exhilarating and honest without trying to round events off neatly.
Although the characters are named after the actors playing
them, Kostova did not encourage the cast to play themselves. It was more a
point of convenience. The cast was also a mixture of professionals and
non-professionals. For example, Kostova had known Güvenişik for years. Whilst
portraying the yearning for connection, Kostova doesn’t come to any conclusions
why this group doesn’t connect. In a goal-orientated world, are we supposed to
have time for friends? Are we preoccupied with the notion that the company we
keep says something about us – ‘x’ is an alcoholic, so I must be an alcoholic
too? Films at the very least should start discussions rather than present a
pre-packaged view of reality. Dreissig does this in abundance.
Reviewed at the
International Film Festival [of] Rotterdam, Cinerama, Sunday 27 January 2019,
11:00am screening
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