MAX OPHULS
ROYAL FILM ARCHIVE OF BELGIUM, 09.10.11/2024
What is more surprising is the way in which tragic deaths are shown at the end of the stories. The dead do not always appear on screen. What the audience witnesses is life stirring through the movements of those who remain. These movements are visual, but above all they are sonic. There are numerous examples of this. One need only think of poor Kohana who, in order to save Lieutenant Serge Polenoff (who is an absolute moron by the way, and for whom one would have wished an early and painful end), is forbidden to say the slightest word to him during an exchange that only she knows is ultimate. However, she manages to get the Japanese authorities to allow her to say ‘I love you’ to him. Later, as she is lined up against a wall waiting to be shot, Isamo - her rickshaw driver and disappointed suitor - shouts an ‘I love you’ at her, doomed never to be reciprocated. Since he is partly responsible for Kohana's tragic end, his declaration of love goes down badly. The sound of bullets shortens the suffering of the spectators and Kohana.
What we might venture to call the gesticulations of the survivors actually resemble a kind of commentary. Not in the way of a universally addressed moral, but as the subjective and instantaneous reaction of a person who does not know they are being observed. Werther's horse is perhaps the best example of this. Precisely because it is not a person. Ophüls, who's usually not keen on close-ups, frames the horse's head very tightly here. Then the shot rings out. The horse bolts. Clearly, it is not Werther's death that frightens the horse but the sound of the suicide pistol, making it fear for its own safety. The messenger announcing Werther's death, who is also a poet and skilled in words, will not be an autographed letter, as is customary when addressing the living, but a riderless horse. A formula of elementary subtraction for those who count. But Werther also leaves behind a cruel legacy of sound:
- The poem Charlotte learnt by heart.
- The melody of the carillon that he had changed for Charlotte and that tells her how time passes, or does not pass.
Two ritornellos that, by definition, cannot be forgotten. The string may be a little thick, but here goes: what is spinning in Max Ophüls' films are not just virtuoso camera movements, carriage wheels and fairground attractions. It’s also the sounds and voices whose echoes return in waves once the film is over.
In an interview given to Cahiers du Cinéma in 1956 (collected by Jacques Rivette and François Truffaut) Max Ophüls confessed to a ‘secret penchant: radio’. This penchant led to early productions of which nothing remains. However, the one produced in 1940 by ORTF for propaganda purposes (in German, for German ears) remains in the form of a text. The ritornello is once again present, as is death.
‘We know you suffer from insomnia, Mr Chancellor. It's very distressing. Surely you must know that one of the best and most tried and tested methods in this case is to count. Would you like to try this system with us? One, two, three countries murdered... four, five, six seven, go on, Mr Chancellor... Count your victims in Austria, 100, 200... those in Spain and Germany, 100,000, 200,000... Can't you sleep? Let's continue: your victims in Czechoslovakia, those in Poland... 1, 2, 3, 4 million victims, Mr Chancellor. You've certainly earned the right to rest after that! You can rest easy, Guten Abend, sleep well and sweet dreams. Good night, Adolf Hitler!’