52 Films by Women Vol 10. 5. MY WIFE CRIES (Meine Frau Weint) (Director: Angela Schanelec)
Drama depends upon perceived
difference, either by ambition, moral philosophy or social codes. Schanelec is
not interested in artificially designated classifications of race, class or
gender, for the understandable reason that in her country an inflated sense of
national identity fed an entirely destructive Nazi ideology. Her films don’t
debate ‘bad’ ideas; they circumvent them. Her starting point is a shared
understanding of what is good, the three ‘c’s of culture, construction and
coffee. Characters aspire to be climate-neutral - the fourth ‘c’, perhaps. This
explains the use of bicycles. Because they have arrived at a shared acceptance
of what constitutes civilized or enlightened behaviour, Schanelec’s characters
find themselves concerned with other disturbances to their daily existence,
deviations to routine. This is the subject of her cinema as it has manifested
itself in 2026.
When an audience
gathers to watch Meine Frau
weint (My Wife Cries), they congratulate themselves for having
rejected intolerance. To walk out of a Schanelec film is to show moral
weakness. In any case, Schanelec helpfully defines the duration of her work.
‘Do you mind if I sit here for two hours?’ crane operator Thomas (Vladimir Vulević)
asks after entering an office. He is offered coffee by an off-screen voice. One
should be fortified to best experience Schanelec’s work. In the event, her film
runs to 93 minutes. At the Berlinale screening I attended, some viewers
expressed their lack of interest by departing early, but they were a minority.
Thomas has missed a
call from his wife, Carla (Agathe Bonitzer). He is unable to call her back.
Later, he is told that she was involved in a motor accident – naturally not
staged by Schanelec. Carla is physically unharmed, but she tells Thomas that the
driver died.
Thomas is not the
first character we meet. In the very opening, a woman puts up an A4-sized
poster showing four red towels on a washing line. We sense that the office is
new, requiring decoration. Thomas shows a picture on his phone to the two
office workers and they enter the frame. Schanelec does not show us the photo.
More than most directors, Schanelec makes us aware of her selectivity, what she
includes and excludes. She does not make us share the viewpoint of any given
character. Information is revealed; Schanelec does not shape our
interpretation. We are told, for example, that Carla works at a kindergarten,
having recently changed jobs. Why the change?
When reunited with
her husband, Carla explains the accident. She used to like dancing with Thomas.
Then he stopped. Carla met another man, David. David liked dancing. Carla
danced with him. David stopped seeing Carla. Then he called her to invite her
to come with him to look at a house. It was while David was driving to the
house (with Carla in the car) that the accident occurred, caused by a truck
swerving in front of them.
Pictured: Carla (Agathe Bonitzer) in the forest. A moment in German writer-director Angela Schanelec's film, 'My Wife Cries' (Meine Frau weint). Still courtesy of Berlinale.
Does Thomas experience jealousy? Is Carla traumatised? These
are questions that do immediately interest Schanelec. There is a man who
arrives at the kindergarten where Carla works who has come to collect his son.
He is somewhat early – it is 14:00. The boy, along with all of the children, is
having a nap. However, the child, as if his sensitive to his father’s voice,
suddenly appears. He is helped into his shoes. We learn that the man is a
writer ‘who almost won the Nobel Prize’. Later, whilst in a bookshop, Carla and
a colleague find one of his texts, a book of poems. They elect not to purchase
it. ‘It will still be there.’ In a ‘conventional’ film, a character interested
in the writer would immediately acquire the book and scour its pages. Schanelec
takes her time. This is a film that lowers the threshold of drama, for example,
Thomas informing the women in the office that he left his water bottle in his
crane.
A word on the dialogue. It is louder than normal speech,
though we notice the volume more because of the absence of extra-diegetic
music. In this film, characters don’t smoke in a contemplative manner. Rather
they consume fruit and vegetables. This is by way of demonstrating their
enlightenment, a commitment to health and wellbeing. Schanelec does not show
sex, though in one scene, while Thomas is sleeping on the sofa, Carla strips
naked, lifts a sheet and puts her finger close to his penis. Thomas does not
respond. This is a movie in which a woman discusses dating a handball player,
attracted by his height. Handball skills are subsequently demonstrated on a
beach in a scene staged in long shot.
Pictured: Carla (Agathe Bonitzer) and her friends play handball in a scene from German writer-director Angela Schanelec's film, 'My Wife Cries' (Meine Frau weint). Still courtesy of Berlinale.
In a Schanelec film, background action may take over the
scene. Characters pass a bandstand. A music performance is in progress, filmed
by Schanelec from a distance. Then it begins to rain. The crowd disperses as
the music first falters, then ceases. The orchestra too seek shelter. If the
scene has a meaning, it is that in certain circumstances, one should prepare
for disruption. But in Carla and Thomas’ case, how do you prepare yourself for
an accident?
In another scene, at Thomas’ workplace, a birthday party is
held. The celebration is a formality, the birthday is noted by way of a
gathering, then the colleagues return to work. Care is performative.
In a conventional drama, a character would make a discovery
and speak about it. Or else, others would discuss it. In a Schanelec film, a woman –
Carla – goes to a café and eats chicken. There is a man at the café with a
birthmark on his face also eating chicken. There is the potential for
connection. One imagines her remarking, ‘once Thomas liked chicken. Then he
stopped eating it. Then I found someone who liked eating chicken. I ate chicken
with them.’ Like any artist with a distinctive style, Schanelec lends herself
to parody.
Towards the end of the film, there is a dance sequence set
to Leonard Cohen’s ‘Lover Lover Lover’, in which one of the participants move
their palms up and down as if feeling the surface of a glass enclosure that
separates them from everyone else. By conventional standards, the sequence is
goofy, an intended interlude of levity. The
dancers do not exhibit joyful release. In conventional films, dance sequences
signal the relationship between characters. Here, the characters seem
disconnected.
Schanelec does not withhold emotion to finally offer
cathartic release, as in the ‘transcendental’ style of filmmaking. Instead, she
leaves you with aforementioned static caption board, filled with the slowly
written out names of her collaborators. You do the heavy lifting.
Reviewed at Berlinale 2026, Urania, Berlin, Germany, Sunday 22 February 2026, 17:45 screening
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