WERCKMEISTER HARMONIES (2000)

No one captures the profundity of man’s ignorance and avarice or the absurd—whether in a broad philosophical or specific historic context—like the Hungarian filmmaker Béla Tarr. His legacy began during the final chapter of Communism’s grasp over Hungary; exposure to such stifling conditions must have been an influence. Tarr’s films are bleak, evocative of an apocalyptic age consisting of worlds devoid of any fruitfulness and brimming with melancholy.

Though he’d been making films since 1974, Tarr’s defining cinematic signature wouldn’t come to full maturation until the release of his fifth feature film, Damnation (1988)—a philosophical neo-noir that acted as Tarr’s cinematic manifesto concerning the focus and presentation of his work from that point on.

While a highly crafted masterpiece in its own right, Damnation is a bit rough around the edges in its cinematography. For those unfamiliar, Tarr’s work employs long, meditative cuts that rove ceaselessly across its environments, framing its characters within their naturality. This approach to cinematography fosters a deeper connection for audiences with the moment currently in focus. Additionally, the use of stark monochrome amplifies the emotional and psychological depth of the film’s narrative and themes, while also complementing the slow, meditative style of cinematography and calculative editing. The floaty, almost apparition-like camerawork is where its blemishes lie—a gigantic element of its design. Gábor Medvigy’s skills as a cinematographer became more refined throughout his career. This refinement is most evident in Tarr’s most celebrated film, Sátántangó (1994).

This reasonably faithful screen adaptation of László Krasznahorkai’s novel of the same name perfectly encapsulates the human condition and morality in a world of cold indifference. Preserving its temporal and perspective shifts, whose sequence mimics the movement of the tango, Tarr created a 432-minute (7.5-hour) cinematic piece, told in twelve chapters, that focuses on a small group of farmers living in a former state-owned farming commune in Hungary, following the collapse of communism and their country’s reclaiming of governmental power.

The newly reformed Hungarian government’s aim was to restore stability in the country, yet it had other priorities and abandoned these farming communes, which left the residents impoverished and malnourished. As a result, the residents fell into hopelessness, resorting to any action one can think of brought about by prolonged exposure to the horrors of the absurd—the frequent indulgence of poison to numb the body and mind, adultery, theft, and neglect. Yet one day, familiarity returns with fleeting glimpses of gilded prosperity, prompting the residents to cling to infinite hope.

Sátántangó would go on to be widely celebrated as one of the greatest achievements within the medium of film and a seminal work of absurdist cinema, yet Tarr would continue to impress audiences, whether veteran fans or newly born cinephiles, with his future work, which brings us to Werckmeister Harmonies / Werckmeister harmóniák—an absurdist drama, co-directed by Ágnes Hranitzky (Tarr’s spouse), released amidst millenarian dread that would reach the same echelon of notoriety as Sátántangó.

It’s been said that Werckmeister Harmonies is a looser yet pruned screen adaptation of Krasznahorkai’s 1989 novel, The Melancholy of Resistance, and continues down the same philosophical and political trajectory found in Damnation and Sátántangó; however, it goes about presenting them more allegorically rather than directly.

Tarr and Hranitzky exhibit the film’s ominous opposition, challenged not by an individual citizen nor a small commune of farmers and their families; rather, the opposition is challenged by important political figures and their delegates. Yet the efforts of the cast are met with contention from some of the village’s inhabitants, as well as outsiders who appear shortly after the opposition’s arrival and have seemingly lost their autonomy, more than likely due to the invading force’s presence. This threat only becomes apparent to the audience with the arrival of these outsiders, at which point controversy and heated verbiage permeate the village’s ether, in turn fostering uncertainty that hangs like a veil over both the village and its inhabitants.

Its ambience is weighted by immense melancholy and dread, like a thick fog that stretches across the fields into a small village, serpentining between homes until it ends up on the other side, swallowing it entirely. This ambient mass feeds into the dramatics of the film, which then feeds back into its ambience, thereby creating a cycle of emotional and psychological strain that weaves its way throughout the film’s cinematic elements.

Werckmeister Harmonies concerns itself with the end of days; the calm before the storm brought on by an ideological extinction entity heralded by a travelling circus and their seditious guest performer, The Prince (Sandor Bese). The opening sequence sets the precedent of the entire film: an establishment that provides poison to its weary patrons warmly welcomes János Valuska (Lars Rudolph)—a beloved member of the village and the film’s protagonist—to whom he proceeds to give a lecture concerning Andreas Werckmeister’s principles about the mathematical harmony of the universe that is visualised by the physicality of drunken men.

János’ lecture is rather insightful, concerning itself with the divorce between man’s need for meaning and the cold silence of the universe (the absurd), and how this darkness—presented as a solar eclipse—is fleeting. It also exhibits the wealth of János’ character. His level of intellect supersedes that of what seem to be members of the village—a gaggle of drunken men who voluntarily indulge in vices to endure the absurd rather than learning of the human condition.

In addition, it’s bestowed upon audiences, subsequently after the introductory scene, that János is a newspaper deliveryman—a fitting job for him given his insightful teachings. Working primarily under the pale moonlight, János delivers to various businesses throughout the village, and these interactions show his level of rapport with the village’s inhabitants.

With affiliation comes understanding, as these people also know of János’ intellect, which in turn lands him an opportunity within a certain political and judicial circle to become their liaison, establishing his placement on the village’s dominance hierarchy. Though he is beloved by many due to his friendly demeanour and intellect, he’s used as a puppet by those who operate the village’s strings.

János is a rather timid person. Even with his position in the village’s echelon, he is submissive to the will of those above him. He is indicative of humanity, as his passive nature causes him to take a path that most would follow, one of subserviency and safety. His timorousness contributes to the film’s thematic identity, spawned by the presence of the Prince—an emissary of darkness and a harbinger of doom.

Under a certain light, Werckmeister Harmonies is a dark, apocalyptic fairy tale due to its premise of a circus displaying an entity that causes the very plight of this small village—a taxidermied whale carcass. Word of the whale spreads quickly, attracting the attention of many curious individuals within the village and those who have travelled from areas afar to continue to view this creature.

The practice of presenting a whale carcass as a form of entertainment isn’t custom to this film’s narrative. In fact, it was a form of entertainment from the midpoint of the 20th-century. Originally used during the decline of the whaling industry post-World War II, the carcasses of three dead whales toured all over Europe for three decades, stopping at town after town to showcase something seldom seen for capital. Whales are the largest creatures on Earth, yet they’re seldom seen. Documentation of whales is rare, so an attraction like this is the only chance most people would ever have to witness such a majestic creature in its entire monumental presence.

Despite these entertainers’ intentions, taxidermy is an art form—one of preservation that takes the cadavers of animals and puts them on display for study or plain satiation of curiosity, making it an impressive feat of human ingenuity. Art at that scale is alluring and intriguing; it titillates the mind despite the attraction’s unorthodox concept, yet this whale isn’t in the pristine condition that taxidermy often presents itself as.

The whale’s skin is visibly chipping and peeling away; decay has slowly started to set in, possibly due to a poorly done taxidermic job. However, despite its deterioration, the whale is marvelled over by the village, its outside visitors, and János himself. Taking into account the aforesaid socially constructed value of the whale, its presence in Werckmeister Harmonies is allegorical for something that juxtaposes its physicality but parallels it in scale.

“A giant whale has arrived. This mysterious creature from the sea has come from the far-off oceans. Just see what a gigantic animal the Lord can create! How mysterious is the Lord that he amuses Himself with such strange creatures.”—János Valuska.

The whale has been used symbolically in the arts for years, most famously in Herman Melville’s novel Moby Dick, and the titular whale has been interpreted in a multitude of ways since the book’s release.

It’s been viewed as a symbol of divinity, creation, and mystery due to its massive size in contrast to all that resides on Earth. It has been interpreted as a symbol of principles contrasting ones widely accepted within public consciousness, and the character Ahab sets out to eradicate it out of fear of the unknown. There are many more interpretations of the titular leviathan, but the latter is within the ballpark of the whale’s representation in Werckmeister Harmonies.

How I see it, the whale is an entity indicative of ideological quintessence. It technically isn’t indicative of anything in particular, as it’s designed to house any sort of ideology that isn’t intrinsically evil but becomes evil because of man’s unconscious fervour; however, based on Tarr’s influences and the focus of his previous work, I see the whale as a symbol of communist ideology.

The writings of Karl Marx have been studied since the mid-19th-century, when Friedrich Engels and he developed their fundamental critique of capitalism. It offers ideas on how the working class (proletariat) can claim and control the means of production, yet the application of their writings throughout history has been pretty horrid.

Despite his completed contributions, Marx continued to refine his ideas to allow this system to evolve but unfortunately passed away before Communism came to full fruition. Many have tried to improvise during their country’s transition from their current economic system to communism, but once immense power fell into the hands of the common man, it mutated into authoritarian regimes with centralised control, not the envisioned stateless utopia that Marx intended.

Unfortunately, this exact political mutation occurred in Hungary post-WWII. To briefly put it: The Hungarian Communist Party, known earlier as the Party of Communists in Hungary, had regrown and regained power from the shell it became after they were overthrown by the Romanian Army on 1 August 1919. To seize power, party leader Mátyás Rákosi strategically pressured the non-Communist parties to gradually push out their more courageous and politically faithful elements by labelling them as “fascists” or fascist sympathisers.

By 1948, every party but the Social Democrats had either “vanished” or been taken over by fellow travellers—an ideological sympathiser of a political organisation who, without being a formal member, cooperates in the organisation’s politics—willing to do the Communist party’s bidding, while the Social Democrats underwent a forced merger with the Communists, forming the Hungarian Working People’s Party. On 15 May 1949, new parliamentary elections were held in which the Communists won 402 out of 402 parliamentary seats, as all other political opposition had been wiped out.

As stated before, most ideologies aren’t inherently evil but eventually become evil because of a singular or multiple hierophants championing their cause for their gain. The whale itself isn’t evil; it’s not espousing the skewed teachings of a dead activist, conditioning its listeners to become fellow travellers, like the outsiders who came into the village shortly after the whale’s arrival. In fact, there isn’t anyone advocating anything; the whale is lying inside the chassis of the truck for followers to see, which some do, yet the rest enquire where the Prince is.

It seems the Prince is the paladin of communism, or at least that’s how he sees himself. The Prince is a guest after all, and judging by the enquiries made about his presence throughout the front half of the film, there may be some ideological contention between him and the circus owner—a divergence in the same belief, perhaps.

There’s a lack of ideological gospel suffusing into the ether of the village square, and yet the whale’s presence begins to frighten most of the village. Those in power ask János to assemble allies and gather their signatures, as well as do some reconnaissance work in the town square where the whale is currently located; he’s to aid in the village’s defence against an ideology that has been perverted, one that would place them into a period of darkness, like the solar eclipse mentioned in the film’s introductory scene.

Despite his confidence and solemnity in his insightful lecture, János is deeply afraid. He knows what ails the village’s inhabitants mentally and sees how the perversion of thought can negatively affect the common man, and this dread lingers throughout the film, evoked through Tarr’s signature cinematography.

There is the scene that captures János during his nightly deliveries as he pauses to watch the circus slowly making its way into town. The chassis of the truck dominates the entire screen, leaving no space above for the nocturne to thrive, looming before János like a monolith and highlighted by a stark contrast reminiscent of a Baroque painting.

Then there are the moments where János nervously passes through the town square in an attempt to gather intel as to what has appeared in town and what is occurring. The camera centres on János, tracking his movements as he traverses the newly ominous village square, whose perimeters are filled with the presence of many people—a number that continues to grow each time he visits.

These scenes are framed rather closely to János’ face so as to capture the trepidation written all over it. His state of panic increases as he is glared at and castigated by the fellow travellers, whose presence is accented by large piles of what was once of practical use now burning slowly to ash—a visual indication of things to come.

Werckmeister Harmonies doesn’t portray suffering in the same manner as Damnation or Sátántangó; it isn’t direct, showing the end results of change. Rather, it depicts the build-up to a profound change, one that introduces uncertainty, provoking feelings of fear, dread, and vacuity—ushering in an apocalyptic age. The villagers see darkness approaching; they fret, panic, and begin to concoct ways to reverse this blanket of twilight, but all they can do is endure it until the end. János may be knowledgeable about philosophies, principles of mathematical harmonies, and, despite its inevitability, the fleeting nature of darkness (absurdity); however, he isn’t aware that the light, too, is fleeting and that there is no telling what changes could occur in the dark and solidify before the light returns. Life is absurd.

HUNGARY • ITALY • GERMANY • FRANCE | 2000 | 145 MINUTES | 1.66:1 | BLACK & WHITE | HUNGARIAN • SLOVAK

Cast & Crew

directors: Béla Tarr & Ágnes Hranitzky.
writers: László Krasznahorkai & Béla Tarr (based on ‘The Melancholy of Resistance’
by László Krasznahorkai).
starring: Lars Rudolph, Peter Fitz, Hanna Schygulla, János Derzsi, Đoko Rosić, Tamás Wichmann, Ferenc Kállai & Péter Dobai.