Woman in Gold

I seem to write my observations on almost all films that I see.  After having my travel advisor period I moved to a movie critic role. I wonder what next.

                                                  

Last week I saw Woman in Gold and my thoughts were  “I skip this one, this is  nothing special”. However after a couple of days some reflections and memories that linked with the film came to me in droves. The film is about many things and one of them is Vienna, town that has been close to my heart for many years. The old memories woke up and they were very beautiful moments I experienced in this elegant town. The film is responsible for  a Viennese revival in my  heart. For me it is good enough reason to write about Woman in Gold. To write about the film, the painting and also Mozart, Vienna and some of my story.

 

The film tells a real story, the story of Maria Altman reclaiming the family possessions taken by Nazis during the war and then appropriated by the Austrian government as national treasures. The biggest treasure of all is The Woman in Gold, a Klimt portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer an aunt of Maria Altman. It is a good story with a some sort of happy ending, the painting returns to its owner – Maria. As Maria Altman lived in California the painting landed up in the US in Neue Galerie in Manhattan and it is permanently on display there. Actually the story from the financial point of view is a really great success. The total realised value added up to over 300 million dollars.

Being born Polish and spending my early years in Poland I have seen many films based on the Second World War and human tragedies experienced during that time. By comparison Woman in Gold is a very mild version but moving nevertheless. The film intermixes contemporary times, dramatic scenes from Nazi’s Anschluss of Austria in 1938 with happy moments of the  Bloch-Bauer family.

My favourite scene is a very theatrical wedding of Maria when her future husband Fritz Altman,  an opera singer, sings a Mozart aria luring her into saying yes. How could she refuse? The music was great and the intentions of the young man so romantic. She says YES and the scenes of the wedding reception follow. The family dances a happy, energetic Jewish dance. The dancing scene is repeated few times through the film but each time comes across to the viewers in a different emotional intensity and content. From happy and joyous to bringing premonition of tragic, cruel times ahead.  Music greatly helps to passing the messages.

Vienna was my first Western city to visit and it was on a business trip. How glamorous! Putting the business aspect of the trip aside, there is a lot to remember from more personal perspective. 

Going to the Vienna Opera so see Don Giovanni was like being a part of a fairy tale.  The grand theatre with all its sparkle, glass of champagne in my hand, elegant ladies in ball gowns around me. It was quite an experience for a young inexperienced woman from the Eastern Block.

I was also invited to the Sacher Hotel Caffee for a Vienna coffee and Sachertorte. Apparently when in Vienna one is supposed to do that.

                                                 

While chocolate cakes were not my favourite at that time, it was a beautiful experience to be remembered mainly due to the  special company was keeping.

                                          

Walking through elegant streets of Vienna like Mariahilfer Strasse was also quite an experience. Passersby were absolutely elegant. Ladies  exquisitely groomed in their wide brim hats, wearing gloves at any weather. I wonder if this is still the way these days? Helen Mirren playing older Maria portraits one of such elegant ladies from Vienna. Nothing much Californian about her. Her posture, her simple and elegant outfits, her dignity mixed with chutzpah are fabulous. To me it is a quintessential Viennese  elegance. Or at least this is how I imagine it should be.

                                                       

One of the major characters of the film is  Randol Schoenberg, played by Ryan Reynolds, a young lawyer who helps Maria Altman to reclaim the family possessions. Randol Schoenberg  is also a blogger and he writes about the film and about the real events related to the film events  in his blog  http://schoenblog.com/?p=581. I found it very interesting. This is not particularly relevant to the story but he is a grandson of Arnold Schoenberg composer and painter contemporary to Herman Hesse.

More on disciplinarian fathers

While I was writing my previous post about disciplinary fathers, I realised duality of my memories. There was a father who I felt threatened by and who dampened my mood when he was home and there was another father who taught me to ride a motorbike. Teaching me such a boyish skill did not seem to be connected to tenderness and perhaps it was not. But there was definitely love there. And lots of it. I may have not realised it then but I so clearly see it now. This is why I want to continue reflecting on the subject of a very complex relationship with disciplinarian fathers. In the generation of my father there were so many of them, later on it was almost expected from men to be softer with their children. Slowly, in many countries leading by Scandinavia, fathers were expected to play active and important role in taking care of children. My father, though, was brought up differently. He was most of all a man, his father role was not that pronounced and did not include understanding, caressing, playing with his children. He was supposed to be a man who had to provide for his family and be respected by children. There was no place for warm and fuzzy. His catholic upbringing also had something to do with his understanding of his responsibilities towards the family. 

During my childhood I observed events and I gave them meaning. The only meaning I was able to give with my very limited experience and lack of understanding of life. I saw my father as a hard man, short tempered, rash, dangerous and cold. This is the impression he made on me. Now, that I think about it, I realise that his self-image required certain behaviours, that seemed hard to me.  That self-image was a product of his upbringing. I was not able to see through the barriers he was surrounded by. I believe that deep down there was a softy somewhere but he was not able and not allowed to show it. It must have been hard on him.

I cannot be sure but I believe that relationships father-son are much more complex that it was in my case. I observed some man competing with their fathers. They had to prove that they were better, stronger, more or at least equally successful. I observed a son wrestling with his much older father who had a small chance to win. The son was a really nice and sensitive person but in this situation there was no mercy for his father’s ego. He had too much to prove to himself to notice that the conquest was uneven.

I was tempted to write more on the subject father-son relationships and about impact successful fathers have on life of their sons. I gave up on that though. It is too complex a subject and requires more though. Maybe some other time? I am tempted...

In any case it was cathartic for me to think and write about my feeling towards my father. I am so grateful for what he gave me, even if he hurt me as well.

Disciplinarian fathers

I just finished  the first book of Knausgaard life story – The Struggle. It was about his father. The book  is  brilliantly and painfully honestly written.  At least that is how the first book – Death in the Family - came across to me. Reading it I could find my own, old feelings about my father. About his heavy steps on the staircase, that immediately changed my mood from playful and light-hearted to watchful, scared and almost resentful. My father was a good hard working man who was a great role model for me and I am still thankful for some of my characteristics that I gained by osmosis observing him and his approach to life. So, why such a negative reaction when he  appeared in my peaceful and happy place. He loved me but I did not see it and did not understand that his love was not about kisses, hugs, smiles, softness or encouragement. He was responsible for the family and he took it very seriously. It seemed that it he never felt that he had done enough for us to relax and rest on his laurels.  He was straight to the point, a no nonsense person. A self made man, a bit rough at the edges but deep down sensitive. As a child I did not see the sensitive, loving side of his, I only saw that when he patted me on the shoulder I almost sat down on the floor, his caressing touch was so heavy. It almost hurt. I was afraid of him and tuned in to the sounds of home and its surrounding to recognise when he will be coming and I will have to change and present a protective and at the same time good girl demeanour.

When I think back to the times, I wish I could have a second round of my childhood. I would see my father in a different light and I would spend more time with him. Even if I remember him as a disciplinarian father, he never punished me. But I was still afraid of him and avoided his company. Sad and silly, really. So many missed opportunities for both of us.

Reading The Death in the Family I understood feelings of young Karl Ove. They were similar to my old feelings. The whole book is about the father and different chapters of his life. Many complexities and contradictions of the person are masterfully described. Still reading some reviews of the book there is typically a reference to a cruel and distant father. I read more into the father character. I saw a sensitive person as well as disciplinarian and indifferent father. There were times when he wanted to get close to his young son, share experiences with him. It did not work out. My father also wanted to spend time with me and we did have good times together. Like when he first taught me to ride a bicycle and some years later to ride his Russian huge and heavy motorbike IŻ. 

The motorbike looked something like this one. I get all mushy looking at it now and reminiscing my past a bike rider.

My father was  a very ingenious and dedicated teacher setting up motorbike on bricks in such a way that I could learn changing gears and operate most of the buttons with wheels spinning harmlessly in the air. In  the second stage of my “driving course”,  the motorbike was taken off the bricks. Father found a save place for me to practice and he let me loose. But he also held the motor bike to stop it with his force if I did something really silly.  It must have been physically demanding to run behind the motorbike holding it  in with me making all typical mistakes of uncontrollably speeding up or braking. Why didn’t I see that it was love he was giving me? On the strength of this education I got my driving licence at the age of 16 which was very unusual at the time in Poland. Thank you father.

My musing about disciplinarian fathers brought me to the point  that it is sometimes difficult to see beyond their harshness. Not a revelation? To me it is in a way.

There is going to be a sequel to this post. Or two. I want to explore my thought and feeling more.

Clouds of Sils Maria

Yesterday I saw Clouds of Sils Maria. Interesting and confusing experience. It was my selection of the movie, I suggested it to a friend believing that the film will tell us a conventional  story about actresses. There was nothing conventional about the film, it was not even American which, for some reason, I had expected. Instead it was French-German-Swiss co-production directed by Olivier Assayas, a French director  unknown to me until yesterday. There are definitely too few French films shown in Sydney or I have missed too many of good films in recent years.

During the film I felt very uncomfortable for a couple of reasons. There was so much I found confusing, the story seemed disjointed, events did not follow logical sequence and some mysteries were left without any explanation. I simply did not understand what it was all about. The second reason was that I felt responsible for suggesting such a weird film. And strangely, I was fascinated by the rapid changes of languages spoken, jumps of the action from one stream of thought to another, captivating, wonderful performances of Juliette Binoche and Kristen  Stewart. The third  actress Chloe Grace Moretz did not make much of an impression on me.

                         

The story is about Maria Enders, an acclaimed actress at the peak of her career played by Juliette Binoche. She is offered a role in a play that propelled her career twenty years earlier. Only this time she is to play an older woman. Her old role will be played by a very young actress. To rehearse the role Maria goes to the Alps with her personal assistant Valentine. The interplay between the two actresses is unbelievable and whimsical, the reality is mixed with scenes from the play in such a way that it is not clear what we are watching. This ambiguity has been intended. The personas of the two women intermingle at times. No wonder that at first I was unsettled and no wonder that I was fascinated without being prepared to watch this type of the film. It reminded me of Ingmar Bergman’s films and some scenes between Maria and Valentine of his Persona. Not a light stuff I had expected.

Sils Maria lies in Switzerland, it is absolutely beautiful and I would love to be able to go there one day and see the snake formed by clouds moving between high mountains. I found out that  my recent object of fascination, Herman Hesse, used to spend some of his time there. I did know that he lived in Switzerland for most of his life and that he loved mountain hikes. The film shows the Alps so beautifully and many times that now, I know what he saw during his mountain walks. Apparently Carl Jung and Einstein visited the place as well.

                                   

While, originally, I wanted to see the film as I love Juliette Binoche as an actress, Kristen Stewart was the main attraction for me. When she first appeared in the film, I thought that she is very much like my niece Martyna. The same mannerisms, similar tone of voice, speed of talking and age. That make me perhaps less objective, but I am not sure about it. She got a Cesar for this role and this is France’s highest ac    

This my niece

        

and this is Kristen Stewart, I see similarities. Am I biased?

I was puzzled by the film,  taken somewhere where I did not expect to be and I am so glad that I saw the film. Shall I go and see it again, fully knowing what kind of a film I will be watching?

 I agree with Vanity Fair  that this is “A thoughtful and intelligent meditation on acting, fame and age” .

A sad, sad post

After my previous frivolous post there is time for serious reflections. I have been recently reading serious books, thinking serious thoughts, saying internally good bye to somebody departed who had been important in my life. Consequently, my reflections and thoughts have been a bit morose. Then, I saw a post  with a cheerful title Are Europeans sadder? I decided that this is something very appropriate for my current mood.  With each year passing, I feel more and more European, the post content caught my attention and interest. What do I think about it? What is my experience? Maybe Europeans are sadder, but in relation to whom? My observations tell me that the south Europeans are a cheerful lot but Scandinavians and Germans not so much. Poles are somewhere in-between, perhaps. I would place French and Spanish, on my personal happiness scale between Poland and Southern Europe. It makes me think that maybe weather and sunshine have some influence here. In addition to reasons given in the mentioned post, I wonder what influence European literature has on emotional predispositions of people. I have just finished biography of Herman Hesse and I would not call it a happy story. Deep and meaningful but not happy. Hesse was a strange, complicated man and a brilliant writer who influenced thinking of many generations of Germans in particular. Sure, his books are read in all countries of the world but I would risk an assumption that Europeans are in majority of his followers. His books do not cheer the readers up.

When I was at school, I had a great teacher of literature. At some stage of my education the time has come to read and study one of famous Polish writers of an unpronounceable name, Żeromski. He was called a conscience of Polish literature and his books were a mandatory reading at high schools. They cover serious, difficult subjects and I can not remember any funny parts in his novels. My teacher used to say : Be careful reading Żeromski. One novel – will not do you any damage, but if you read two in a row depression will follow, three books in a row may lead to a suicide. Perhaps the jurors of Nobel price committee in 1924 were aware of the danger and selected another Polish writer who was also on a short list this year – Reymont.

Żeromski - Looking at the man one can see that he wrote about serious matters

                                                

One of my Polish friends who is a literature teacher recently suggested that I read a new international bestseller – The Struggle by Karl Ove Knaussgaard. The first one of the six parts of The Struggle is called – A Death in the Family. This is the book that I just finished. Great book, full of meaningful reflections. The story is also very good and based on the life of the author. Being under influence of the dark wisdom of the book I feel sad. I am waiting for the next two parts to arrive by post. Was is a wise move to order more? Perhaps not, my literature teacher would most likely object and worry about my well-being.

The picture on the cover is of the author

Since I decided to unburden myself by damping all my current sadness in this post, I have to mention my recent visit to the local nursing home. Nursing homes are generally sad places, but I decided to volunteer my time to spend it with people who live there. I know that they have caring families but maybe sometimes the families are too busy to visit and I could make a positive difference, however small.

I must confess I expected a warm welcome but instead I was coldly and briefly informed that my enthusiasm to help can not be used in this establishment and that I should turn to the local council. When I wanted to find out if the council could potentially direct me to the nursing home I was told that they are very busy, too busy to chat with me and that they have paid qualified staff and families to support the patients. Wow, that made me sad! Sad for failing to help, but most of all sad for the patients who may be deprived of company they might want to have.

I did go to the local council to offer my help and this was a very happy story with a promising outcome and as such does not belong to my sad, very sad post.

French are amazing!

This s my long promised and long postponed an almost X-rated post. I am not a frivolous person, some would call me even prude, but my sense of humour does not allow me to keep such am amazing story untold. You may find the story unbelievable and even I have difficulties to believe myself and my memory. All of it is true though and my memory serves me right. I have even a witness of the events. So here it goes…

One Sunday afternoon, my partner and I were coming home after a golf game and to our surprise there was a police van parked in front of this respectable building we thought we lived in. There must have been about ten policemen in front of the gate to Rue Tronchet 27. Some were walking around the van, some were sitting inside. I felt really worried and scared.. The building did not seem to be safe to enter. However the policemen looked happy and even amused. Maybe the danger was not that great after all so we decided to try to sneak into safety of our apartment. As we entered the gate, we met a very angry man shouting and gesturing angrily. Alas, in French! Walking along the man there was a policeman, judging from his very elegant uniform, of a high rank who tried to settle the man down. It did not seem to help and the man was still shouting while leaving the parameters of the building. Things were really not to his liking.

It is difficult to blame us for being curious what the story was all about. Through the windows we could observe the policemen. They seemed really amused. There was a lot of laughter and shrugging shoulders French way. The high ranked policeman went back through the gate and walked into one of the courtyard staircases. In the past it must have been a kitchen staircase of the house. Our kitchen door opened to this staircase but at the time of the events, I was not aware of who might have lived there and why our apartment had a second staircase at all.

The police van was still in the street and the men seemed to have a really good time. After some time the commandant appeared in the street again in the company of a young woman I often thought in the courtyard before. She looked like a schoolgirl. White, starched blouse, black pants and a pony tail of long black hair. Very neat. 

She looked a little like this. You must agree that it was something schoolgirlish about her.

Now everybody was smiling and looked friendly. The girl gave the whole squad a friendly wave and walked away down the street. All policemen got into the van and the street looked normal again. Hardly anybody there, till Monday morning.

We were very puzzled by the whole event and could not even start guessing what it was all about.

Next morning I met in the courtyard our concierge who was Polish and we had a common language. I was still curious about what the Sunday afternoon story was all about. I asked her. She looked a bit embarrassed, waved her hand dismissively saying “Ah… it was nothing. The girl apparently promised the client deux fois pour 200 Franks and did not quite delivered as per agreement”.

Modesty does not allow me to translate it to English. I thought that it was a strange and rather minor offence. If it was an offence at all. That the client called the police is difficult to comprehend, at least to me, I am not French after all. What he really expected? 100 Franks back? Or delivering the service as promised?

Another point is that my observation made me believe that Parisian police typically ignores calls. Opposite our building was a Cacharel shop with either many bakes in or a faulty alarm system. We were woken up many times in the middle of the night with a very loud alarm system that was set off. I never saw any police coming to check up what was the matter.

Isn’t France wonderful? Aren’t values a bit different to the rest of the world?

 I am not sure what the readers may be reading into the story but just for the less experienced in life, the shy school girl was actually a person working in the oldest profession.