The Times BFI 50th
London Film Festival

Ion Martea
posted 25 October 2006

'No. You are in no man's land. Which never moves, which never changes, which never grows older, but which remains forever, icy and silent.'
(Harold Pinter, No Man's Land)

The Theatre of the Absurd, through its most obvious precursor Dada Theatre, was originally developed by two Romanians working in Paris, and brought to utter perfection by Beckett and Pinter. Cinema, despite its avant-gardistic period in the 1960s America, has never truly got to grips with the creation of artistic empathy through the Absurd. A Dane, two Norwegians and a Swede show at the 50th Times BFI London Film Festival that Cinema of the Absurd is not only possible, but has proved capable of producing some of the strongest, most thought-provoking works at the festival.

Kierkegaard's definition of the term is that, 'to act by virtue of the absurd, is to act upon faith' (Søren Kierkegaard, Journals, 1849). In creating a narrative, the Absurdist artist then is not only constructing characters that do not act rationally (though they do not have to be irrational), but has to impose an overarching vision of the piece driven by instinct, rather than rationality.

Lars von Trier's The Boss of It All is a work that heralds the movement in its seemingly rational construction. Ravn (Peter Gantzler) is the owner of an IT company, but not wanting to be held fully responsible, pretends to his employees that he is merely a co-owner of the business, not the sole proprietor of the company's assets. Consequently, when Ravn decides to make an important transaction affecting the company's future, an Icelandic businessman who is interested in the deal (Friðrik Þór Friðriksson), insists on talking to the company's president, and not merely the executive. At this point enters Kristoffer (Jens Albinus), an actor who assumes the role with such seriousness that he calls into question the sheer morality of his character's action.

A situation comedy opens up, guaranteeing laughs for even the iciest of spectators. Yet, by the final frame, von Trier has played the cards so well that the twist, though it is void of rationality or human empathy, turns out to be the only available action for all involved. Kristoffer's Gambini-esque final performance is astonishing to us and the characters in the film - who are caught up in a well-structured existentialist comedy without ever realising it.

One might fault The Boss of It All for failing to achieve the spontaneity impregnated with meaning that comes from the visibly disjointed narrative that is so dear to Absurd Art. Arguably, the Danish director relies too much on Automavision shooting (which effectively makes the cinematographer redundant) to make visible any unexpected moments that come about during the performance. Yet this criticism misses the point. Absurd narrative is a painstaking technique because it is trying to establish a lack of rationality through an instinctual, rigidly structured text, out of a desire to extinguish the possibility of logical consciousness.

The Norwegian film The Bothersome Man is clearer about the thought process at work in the construction of an Absurd film. Jens Lien introduces Andreas (a tour de force from Trond Fausa Aurvaag) as a man with no past, present or future. The disjointed narrative, moving senselessly through time, shows Andreas meeting a person he does not know, who gives him a job he doesn't know how perform (though he seems to be dealing well with what looks like accountancy), easily meeting a woman he moves in and out with, and a lover who loves everyone. If it sounds like Kafka, that's not far off, though one needs to add an abundance of Grieg's lyricism. Nevertheless, Lien is not so much interested in the absurdity of the social organism, so much as questioning the need for emotional sensations in a world that is perfect in its very outset.

The concern for the metaphysical emerges as an unexpected tragedy in the rigidity of a world with all the perfect lines one could wants to hear. Therefore in the mere recreation of a rational world, Lien's instinctual search for humanity remains as a poignant afterthought, highlighting the tragedy of not being able to cry at laughter, or laugh at sobs.

A similar comedy with a bitter after-taste is Joachim Trier's debut feature Reprise, though this one is less obviously an Absurdist work. The story of two writers in their early twenties aiming for literary recognition (played outstandingly by Anders Danielsen Lie and Espen Klouman-Høiner) looks by the end like a coming of age parable, richly portraying youth, but also the passions of artists. The central dichotomy is between Philip (Lie) - who becomes successful from the word go only to end up suffering from psychosis, yet happy with a loving girlfriend by his side - and Erik (Klouman-Høiner) - who slowly secures his position as one of Norway's leading writers through remaining friendless and alienated. Trier seems to suggest that through rationality, each writer achieves less than they wanted, yet the passionate drive for artistic endeavour brings in itself the only available outcome - even in contradiction to the agent's conscious vision.

In all three of these features, the echo of Pinter's No Man's Land rings with a deafening intensity. In all of them, the agent remains with the chimera of rational thought, yet one is always deciding for the Absurd. The auteurist vision thus captures the true disjunction between form and meaning: the former is shaped by the illusion of logic and the latter is defined through instinctual action. The mere pinpointing of the decisional act of faith means all three films burst into a heavily structured web of absurdity.

Lukas Moodysson, in an exclusive interview for Culture Wars, claims that a work like Container, despite its extreme disjunction of thought, image and sound, has a strict mathematical algorithm dictating the structure. This may seem an odd comment after listening for 74 minutes to an uninterrupted whispering monologue by Jena Malone, that sounds like a mixture of monotonic Dada poetry and an extended version of Beckett's Not I, superimposed on a juxtaposition of black-and-white images centred around an autistic woman trapped in a man's body (Peter Lorentzon) and his carer/friend/stranger man trapped in a woman's body (Mariha Åberg). Or are they trapped in each other? Or maybe their perception is at fault? Or maybe our perception is at fault? Moodysson's ideal spectator would leave the cinema perplexed after a first viewing. The director admits that in subsequent viewings even he is utterly mesmerised by the density of thought, and the congestion of ideas in it.

Certain critics have labelled Container pretentious. This says less about Moodysson than the critics themselves, who are clearly not confident that they understand the work. Such labelling shows an intellectual and emotional laziness (not understanding or not liking the film are a different matter). And no, Mr Moodysson, these were not Americans, but rather British journalists, who 'damage their intelligence by being so very happy with how intelligent they are' (Lukas Moodysson, Sacramento - Czernowitz, 17 January 2006).

It is true, Container is a painstaking chore to go through, yet the abundance of ideas on sexuality, gender politics, body politics, war, religion, poetry, text, celebrity culture, and much more, plays like a ballet of afterthoughts, beautiful, pure, and rewarding. In the disjunction of form, Moodysson is technically celebrating cinema as the most accomplished medium for the birth of the Absurd in its chaste form. The search for truth never ceases to be the driving force of the narrative, such as it is. The disavowal of continuity, verbal and visual, despite doing away with our received perception of language and vision, is ultimately the background for a metaphysical search for the essence of things.

'When something really works, it works on many different levels,' considers Moodysson. Lukas, Lars, Jens, Joachim - all have achieved individually a multi-layered canvas that is provocative in its refusal to accept the rational consciousness. It may not be quite the same as the Theatre of the Absurd, but these Scandinavians are building the foundations for a novel cinematic movement. As with any movement, they do not need to sit around tables and debate with each other whether they are creating something that might be recognised academically at a later stage. The aim is to make the best films they can, and to pursue their faith in their own potential. Maybe not all is icy and silent in 'no man's land'.