*In 2012, Sight & Sound published its decennial list of the greatest films of all time, from critics and directors. "Sight & Sound Sunday" is a biweekly weekly feature that investigates the top 50 films from this list, exploring how they came to be regarded as classics.*
2012 poll rank: #35 (tied with
Metropolis,
Psycho, and
Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce 1080 Bruxelles)
When the Berlin Wall began being torn down on November 4, 1989, it signaled the end of an era for central and eastern Europe. Since the end of World War II in 1945, almost the entirety of the central and eastern parts of the continent had come under Communist rule, mostly thanks to the influence of the Soviet Union. However, the western part of the continent - allies of the United States - opposed the spread of Communism. As the United States and Soviet Union embarked in a "cold war" that would carry on for nearly 50 years, Europe found itself divided by the "Iron Curtain," a name given to the arbitrary border that divided Communist Europe from "democratic" Europe ("democratic" because many nations are constitutional monarchies rather than republics). This curtain ran directly through a divided Germany - West Germany was a democratic ally of the United States, while East Germany came under Communist rule and aligned with the Soviet Union. The Berlin Wall - dividing the United States-backed western side of the city from its Soviet-backed eastern side - became the physical symbol of that divide. On one side (the west), the city was rebuilding; if not exactly a utopia, it was at least developing along with Western Europe into a more prosperous world. On the other side (the east) was a world made stagnant by failed planned economics and oppressive authoritarian rule. The contrast could not have been more stark.
The fall of the Berlin Wall, then, was the most potent image of the fall of Communism in Europe in 1989. Because the wall was a tangible object, it could best be used as a symbol to be celebrated, the moment when re-unification became a reality for a deeply fractured nation whose wounds could never properly heal divided. But it was hardly the only major moment during that year. Revolutions in Czechoslovakia, Poland, Bulgaria, Romania, and Hungary all saw Communist rule come to an end in those countries, and Albania, Yugoslavia, and finally the Soviet Union would end their Communist regimes within the next three years, with the latter two nations dissolving to eventually create 21 new nations over the next two decades. And the trend kicked off events around the world, with Cambodia, Ethiopia, Mongolia, and South Yemen abandoning Communist rule as well (the 1989 Tiananmen Square revolution in China failed to spark change; China, Cuba, Laos, Vietnam, and North Korea remain the only nations under Communist rule today).
The fall of these Communist regimes sparked intense artistic reactions within those countries. This isn't surprising; in most countries, artistic expression - especially anything that could be considered critical of the regime - was severely limited. The fall of Communism, then, was met with a number of works across all mediums that examined the period that had just past, the future that lay ahead, and the damage that would need to be repaired (if such a thing were even possible). In most cases, these works were critical of the regime and lamented the shattered history that it resulted in. To say the least, the art of post-Communist Europe was pretty dark.
This is true of
Satantango, Hungarian filmmaker Bela Tarr's magnum opus. Based on a novel of the same name by Laszlo Krasznahorkai, the film is set in a small communal farming village in an unspecified setting. Mr. Schmidt (Laszlo Lugossy), whose wife (Eva Almassy Derzsi) is having an affair with neighbor Futaki (Mikos Szekely B.), is conspiring to steal money from the rest of the village after the farm collapses. His plans are put on hold, however, when rumors spread that Irimias (Mihaly Vig) - long thought to be dead - is soon returning. Irimias indeed does return, but he bears a sinister agenda: he's worked out a deal with Hungarian military officers to manipulate the villagers into giving him all of their money, then destroy the village and everyone in it. Only Schmidt, Futaki, and a local drunk nicknamed the Doctor (Peter Berling) are resistant to the charming man's plan, but how can they hope to stop him when everyone else follows blindly?
At 432 minutes (about 7 hours 12 minutes), Tarr makes the film feel even longer thanks to his extensive use of long takes. However, it serves to create a potent allegory for life in Hungary under an authoritarian regime, utilizing the film's running time, symbolic imagery, and desperate narrative to produce a portrait that's remarkably bleak.
More after the jump.