Mephisto

Mephisto (1981) marks the first in Istvan Szabo's remarkable German trilogy, followed by Colonel Redl (1985) and Hanussen (1988). It won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film and made an international star of Klaus Maria Brandauer, the brooding Austrian actor famous for Never Say Never Again and Out of Africa. Working off Klaus Mann's novel, Szabo blends familiar themes into a powerful experience.

Hendrick Hoefgen (Klaus Maria Brandauer) is an acclaimed actor/theater producer in Weimar Germany. When the Nazis come to power, Hoefgen initially flees to Budapest, but the new government entices him back to Berlin with promised roles. His portrayal of Mephistopheles in Faust earns the attention of Prussia's Prime Minister (Rolf Hoppe), who names him head of Germany's National Theater. Hoefgen relishes his newfound power, but finds his shows restricted by Government censorship, his friends and lovers exiled or killed. Like Faust, Hoefgen finds himself manipulated by a Devil far craftier than he.

Mephisto stands among a plethora of European films addressing life under Fascism. Hollywood flicks from Valkyrie to Captain Correlli's Mandolin imagine that inside every denizen of Nazi Germany or Mussolini's Italy lurked a democrat busting to get out. In contrast, Euro dramas focus on the everyday dilemma of living under an all-consuming ideology. Some subsume themselves to the regime, in hopes of retaining normalcy: see The Conformist. Others, like The Damned's grotesque steel barons, make compromises that backfire horrifically. Their Marx-inflected lesson proves grim: against the tide of history, individuals haven't a chance.

Hungary's experience with Fascism was ephemeral. Admiral Horthy's regime was undoubtedly oppressive, but more reactionary than fascist. Hungary's tense relationship with Germany amounted to opportunistic land-grabbing in Eastern Europe rather than ideological solidarity; indeed, Budapest proved a key venue for Jews fleeing SS death squads. In 1944 Hitler used the homegrown Arrow Cross Party to oust Horthy, installing a brutal puppet state. Szabo more likely drew on experiences under postwar Communism than Ferenc Szalasi's short-lived government.

Mephisto strongly resembles Colonel Redl, showing a man inexorably forced into collaboration. Hoefgen begins as a flamboyant womanizer living with African mistress Juliette (Karin Boyd), even after marrying a respectable society girl (Christine Harbort). He flirts with "Revolutionary Theater" like a wannabe Brecht, proclaiming drama a vehicle for social change. More tellingly, one montage shows Hoefgen assaying various roles: historical, modern-dress, Shakespearean, comedic. This thespian pluralism offsets against SA goons beating Jewish stagehands or Hitler Youth drilling outside the theater. Fascism subsumes theater to the state; the individual vanishes.

What Mephisto achieves isn't pathos but sour irony. Hoefgen's no tragic hero, but a craven, delusional egomaniac. His hammy press conferences and bedroom antics are funny within the context of freewheeling '20s Germany. Under the Nazis however, he becomes a slick toady performing only state-approved roles. He doesn't blink as Juliette and his wife flee abroad, or when authorities execute a rival. He laughably protests that he's "just an actor" disinterested in politics, ignoring that one can't be disinterested under Nazism.

Klaus Maria Brandauer does fantastic work. This extraordinary actor relishes the chance to chew scenery, making a loud, boisterous impression early on. Yet he smoothly transitions into conflicted brooder, pompous puppet and finally, whipped cur. It's a performance of remarkable subtlety, Brandauer navigating a complicated arc without losing track of the character's core. He transforms Hoefgen from maverick to monster before our eyes.

Szabo provides striking direction. Lajos Koltai's rich pallette of vivid primary colors from the gloomy theater to drab Party functions. Szabo employs seamless jump cutting between performances, rehearsals and real life, keeping our sense of reality on edge. His striking images point up persistent story themes: a bizarre sequence with dancers all wearing white Mephisto makeup, echoes the Minister's observation that Faust is a metaphor for Germany. This amounts to a nightmarish feeling, emphasizing the interplay between Faust and Hoefgen.

The baroque stylings don't hide Mephisto's personal underpinnings. Novelist Klaus Mann based Hoefgen on Gustaf Grundjens, a real impresario-turned-Nazi mouthpiece. But in 2006, a newspaper revealed that Szabo himself worked as an informant for Hungary's Communist regime. Was Svabo, like Hoefgen, an artist confusing fantasy with reality? Certainly he was uniquely well-placed to analyze a man absorbed by forces bigger than himself.

The Red and the White

It's often said (most famously by Francois Truffaut) that there's no such thing as an antiwar film. The idea being that by depicting combat in an entertaining fashion, antiwar movies negate their message. This is true enough with commercial cinema, which disingenuously grafts noble-sounding speeches on top of exciting action (Platoon anyone?). On the other hand, it's hard to imagine All Quiet on the Western Front, Come and See or Gallipoli inspiring anyone to enlist.

Miklos Jancso's The Red and the White (1967) is a remarkable subversion. Commissioned to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Russian Revolution, Hungarian director Jancso instead crafted an avant garde journey through hell. It's a formless but hypnotic experience, showing Russia's Civil War as a barbaric descent into madness.

Russia's Civil War between the Communist Reds and reactionary Whites (aided by foreign invaders) comes to a small village on the Volga River. Patrols from both sides arrive, surprising and overwhelming each other in a random series of encounters, with civilians caught in the middle. Eventually the battle lines harden: a small patrol of Reds survives an air raid and captures White headquarters at an abandoned monastery. But White reinforcements, including Hungarian troops, soon bear down on the Bolsheviks.

By any standard, except those of the Classic Hollywood Narrative, The Red and the White is an incredible work. The picturesque Volga becomes a monstrous No Man's Land where no one's safe from the depredations of either army. The war's ideological origins provide an excuse for wanton killing. Besides the Russians, Hungarians serve on both sides of the conflict; that country went through its own abortive revolution in 1918, when Admiral Horthy's reactionaries crushed Bela Kun's Bolsheviks. The only clear distinction is the uniforms: shabby gray for the Reds, striking black for the Whites.

In presentation, Red functions as a rebuke to Soviet realism. Jancso follows Eisenstein et al in his focus on masses over individuals, but substitutes extreme long takes in medium shot for close-ups and kinetic edits. Photographer Tamlas Samlo achieves depth of field that Gregg Toland and Freddie Young could only dream about: as White troops assemble nurses for execution, scouts ride in front of the camera while mounted men assemble across the river. That's not to mention the finale, where extreme long shots reveal a huge White army massing in the distance. Only Spartacus compares in its presentation.

Jancso infuriated his producers: instead of rousing Communist agitprop, they received a nihilistic condemnation of conflict. The violence gradually escalates in scale: POWs are massacred, women raped, property destroyed. The battles are confused melees: one set piece sees a Red patrol decimated by swooping airplanes, leaving only their riderless horses. Things end on a tragic note, when surviving Bolsheviks confront the entire White Army. Hopelessly outnumbered, they cheerily sing La Marseillaise before being slain in one massed volley. It's the perfect coda to a remarkably bleak, affecting film.

Colonel Redl

"Gentlemen, is this a great moment or a small one? I can't tell."

The strange case of Alfred Redl remains legendary in Central Europe. A Galician Jew, his intelligence, dedication and innovative methods (introducing electronic surveillance to espionage) nonetheless earned him appointment to Austria's general staff while pursuing various homosexual affairs. The latter left him open to blackmail, with Russian intelligence operatives forcing Redl to provide them military secrets. Besides the case's tabloid aspects, many believe Redl's transgressions (selling fortification plans and troop deployments to Russia) directly cost thousands of Austrian lives in World War I.

Redl's best-known in the Anglosphere through John Osborne's scandalous play A Patriot for Me (1966), whose outre decadence (namely a lengthy drag ball in Act II) demolished the Lord Chamberlain's censorship power in England. Hungarian director Istvan Szabo's Colonel Redl (1985) is more subdued, mixing character study with rich historical panorama. Szabo shows prewar Europe as a tinderbox of ethnic tensions and imperial power plays.

Alfred Redl (Klaus Maria Brandauer) rises through the turn-of-the-century Austrian army. He pursues a discreet private life, marrying a noblewoman (Gudrun Landgrebe) while seeing a succession of male lovers. Redl's talents impress Archduke Franz Ferdinand (Armin Mueller-Stahl), who enlists him as chief of intelligence, ferreting out Russian spies and removing political undesirables. After a botched cleanup operation Redl begins losing faith in his mission. Redl learns that Ferdinand is planning a coup d'etat against the ailing Emperor Franz Josef, leading him to betray military to secrets to Russia.

Elegantly directed with rich period trappings, Colonel Redl functions primarily as a personal tragedy. Redl reminds us of Bertolucci's The Conformist, a deviant outsider obsessed with being "normal." In his polyglot country with dozens of nationalities (Austrians, Magyars, Poles, Galicians, Ukranians, Czechs) identity becomes a key marker of success. Forced to suppress both his sexuality and Jewish origins, Redl becomes a violent chauvinist, physically assaulting those who insult the Emperor. He keeps an unloved wife for appearance's sake, distancing himself from lifelong friend/lover Kubinyi (Jan Niklas). Redl's pose unnerves his peers but pleases Austrian officials, who peg him as an unthinking hatchet man.

Unfortunately, Szabo ascribes Redl's betrayal to conscience and principle. This wasn't a single act in a weak moment, but years of sustained espionage extorted by Russian spymasters. Svabo himself served as a police informant, and the movie may have been a covert act of self-justification. Regardless, Colonel Redl could have shown its protagonist in a more accurate and complex light, instead of an honorable man pushed too far. Nonetheless, Redl's central dilemma - of creating a false image, of "becoming" the ideal Austrian, at the loss of genuine identity - retains dramatic power.

Szabo additionally draws a vivid portrait of prewar Europe. Dominating the film's second half is Archduke Franz Ferdinand, a ferocious schemer eager to preserve the Dual Monarchy at all costs. The Austro-Hungarian Empire teeters on the verge of collapse, its minorities clamoring for independence; neighboring Russia, Italy and Serbia nibble at its borders. Reviewing one of Redl's operations, Ferdinand runs down a list of ethnicities to blame before finding an "acceptable" scapegoat. Later he chillingly predicts the need for a "local war," initiated by an assassination, to reinvigorate Austria. When Redl's superiors learn of his homosexuality he too becomes an expendable pawn.

Klaus Maria Brandauer gives a commendably sensitive turn. Wisely, Brandauer doesn't make Redl likeable, instead playing him as a single-minded careerist mixing jingoism with self-loathing. The actor gradually allows Redl sympathy, his ultimate realization and downfall registering powerfully. Brandauer briefly became an international star, appearing in Never Say Never Again and Out of Africa before returning to European cinema.

Armin Mueller-Stahl (The X-Files) underplays his villainous Archduke, soft-spoken but effortlessly menacing. Hans Christian Blech (Decision Before Dawn) features as Redl's mentor. Jan Niklas and Andras Balint play two of Redl's colleagues and lovers. Gudrun Langrebe handles a thankless role well, showing tragic awareness of her superfluity in Redl's life.

Colonel Redl is an enjoyable period piece. For viewers put off by the artsiness of Miklos Jancso and Bela Tarr, it's a good intro to Hungarian cinema.