It might not be wise to bracket together the two films, Afire and Anatomy of a Fall, since they belong to different genres, are set in different contexts, and focus on relationships that are perhaps difficult to compare. That said, we think that a subtheme traverses both films: women who stand firm and protect their boundaries in the face of fragile but (and?) toxic men, women who do not comprise their integrity, who do not mince words, and who maintain compassion and solidarity in their relationships.
In the opening scene of Christian Petzold’s Afire, the winner of Silver Bear Grand Jury Prize at the Berlin International Film Festival, we see two friends in a car passing through a forest. Felix (Langston Uibel) drives the car while Leon (Thomas Schubert), sitting on the passenger seat, daydreams to the music. The two are on their way to a country house belonging to Felix’s father in a seaside town. During their stay, Leon plans to work on his second book, “Club Sandwich”, and Felix wants to prepare his photography portfolio for his art school application. A surprise awaits them upon their arrival. Unwashed plates, leftovers of a dinner from the previous evening, a record collection, an unmade bed, and a woman named Nadja (Paula Beer). The trio is soon joined by Nadja’s friend Devid (Enno Trebs), a lifeguard. Although busy doing their own thing, they soon get caught up in a web of solidarity, desire, humility, love, anger, jealousy, and competition. In the background, a forest fire ravaging the region is fast approaching.
Justine Triet’s Anatomy of a Fall, the winner of Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, also opens with a soundtrack. This time, however, what’s playing is a galling, blaring song, the kind you wish would stop… The song on replay is an instrumental rearrangement of 50 Cent’s P.I.M.P, but it’s just as irritating as the original. Triet’s film opens with a scene where two women sip wine in a cozy setting, talking about literature, playfully asking vague questions, and giving evasive answers in a game of figuring each other. Despite the warmth of the scene, one cannot help but feel the tension; something ominous is about to happen. Indeed, the two women’s almost flirtatious conversation is interrupted by the P.I.M.P song played so loudly by the husband upstairs. Soon after one of the women leaves the house, we learn that Samuel (Samuel Theis), the husband who imposed himself on the conversation between the two women, has died after falling from the window upstairs. The cause of his death remains a mystery. In what will later be a court drama, the most likely suspect is the man’s wife, the writer Sandra (Sandra Hüller).
It might not be wise to bracket together the two films, Afire and Anatomy of a Fall, since they belong to different genres, are set in different contexts, and focus on relationships that are perhaps difficult to compare. That said, we think that a subtheme traverses both films: women who stand firm and protect their boundaries in the face of fragile but (and?) toxic men, women who do not comprise their honesty, who do not mince words, and who maintain compassion and solidarity in their relationships. Recent years have witnessed an upsurge in studies focusing on representations of masculinity in cinema. However, here, we will not focus on men, but on the two women—albeit with different characters—who protect their boundaries in their relationship with men. Both films were released in 2023, and they are full of scenes centered around a female gaze; an intimate gaze that shares with the audience the way men look in the eyes of women. In other words, in these films, we are not watching the existential oscillations governing men’s inner worlds and female figures who fleetingly appear and disappear in these worlds; rather we see how complicated women with different characters and skills see the men and relate to them in their relationships.
In an interview, Justine Triet was asked about the fight scene in the film: “So, I think that Sandra is someone who has deep integrity in two respects. There’s the fact that she tells the truth, and the fact that she won’t renounce her ambition.” In the fight scene, which is in many ways the climax of the film, Samuel complains about how he cannot spare any time for what he really wants to do because he devotes most of his time to childcare. He puts the blame of having to speak in English with Sandra— whose mother tongue is German and who is not fluent in French—on her and links this to her selfishness. And he even says that Sandra has stolen the main idea of his book, which he gave up on. In the face of all these accusatory remarks, Sandra refuses to feel guilty or apologize for what she has done and achieved; she refuses to let Samuel define her relationship with her child, with her husband, with her home, with literature and with everything else she does. Sandra is not only on the defense, of course. Her honesty, care, compassion, and demand for equality are also present even during the fight: Sandra repeatedly reminds Samuel that she is not responsible for the book he couldn’t write, for the guilt he couldn’t shake off, and for all those things he wished he could do. She firmly stands against Samuel’s attempts to play the victim in any of his relationships—including the one he has with himself. Yet, she does not take on the responsibility of taking Samuel out of the position of a victim that he adamantly holds on to…
Following Samuel’s death, similar charges will be brought against Sandra by the justice system. This time Sandra has to maintain her boundaries in the face of the system. She will not allow the system to define her relationship with Samuel, with her work, with literature, with her son Daniel (Milo Machado Graner), with other women and men. This time, Sandra will keep in line the system and the men, both of which are experts in assigning positions, making assumptions, finding ulterior motives, and when all these are resisted, crossing boundaries.
Nadja in Afire is a woman who has her share of the assumptions and comparisons of careless and incurious men who do not ask questions but hold strong opinions. Nadja never negotiates her borders with Leon, who upon hearing Nadja’s name insults her because he thinks she is Russian, who assumes that she does not understand literature because of her job (she is a seasonal tourism worker), and who assumes that he can hold Nadja accountable for not telling him that she is a PhD student in literature. How is it possible to be willing to have a relationship with Leon, a man who hides behind the identity of a writer and can hardly see anything—including himself—and quickly becomes reactive, almost aggressive, when confronted. Nadja, who experiences life, friendship, relationships, and sexuality openly, lightly, but authentically and who doesn’t give much heed to how men see her, is willing to make as much room for Leon in her life as she does for others. However, when she realizes that Leon will not change despite what has happened to him, she quickly distances herself from Leon. She does not take on the responsibility of changing, transforming, or raising Leon.
After watching these two films one after the other, we wondered whether this subtheme (women protecting their boundaries in the face of fragile men) was a coincidence. As audiences we hope to watch more films of this kind in the future; films that make us question our boundaries.
* From the wonderful soundtrack of Afire, In My Mind, Wallners. If you wish to listen to the song, click here.
For the original in Turkish / Yazının Türkçesi için
Translator: İpek Tabur
