Edgar Reitz; 'You can see HEIMAT in two days in the cinema, and DIE ZWEITE HEIMAT in three. One week, and you can see it all'
Until 1984 there were four worldfamous German film directors: Fassbinder, Herzog, Schlondorff and Wenders. Then suddenly there was a fifth: Edgar Reitz, maker of Heimat. The others (apart from Fassbinder, always uncategorisable) secured their international reputations by making international films, often with international stars, and increasingly abroad. Reitz has stayed in Germany; Heimat stayed in the small provincial corner of it where he was born, and used unknown actors, amateurs and local people. It didn't so much take a few Germans out into the world as bringing the whole world into Germany -which is precisely what it showed the twentieth century history of its fictional village to be.
Here was a prodigy -a single film bringing its maker lasting international renown. But of course Heimat wasn't even a single film, it was more like eleven. It was the prodigy, without ancestors in the history or film, without peers in the present. It had begun as a long novel and only later turned into a screenplay. It covered 64 years of German history. It took 13 months and 2,000 pages to write, 282 days to film and 18 months to edit; it used 32 main actors, 15 secondary ones, 3,683 extras and 52 crew. In its original form it was a single continuous film of 18 hours. It was mostly financed by German television, but shot in 35 millimetre. In the end it was cut to just under 15 1/2 hours and divided into 11 episodes. Still it was like no television series ever seen, for it fitted no formula, and had the scope and sweep or cinema. But it was like no film ever seen either, longer even than an Abel Gance or a Hans Jürgen Syberberg, and with the narrative and thematic complexity of a great novel. The nearest answer we have to its demands so far is the video recorder -and that fails utterly in terms of quality. But film is young, Reitz says; it is moving towards an audio-visual art, the forms of which we can't yet imagine. He makes the films he wants to make, and leaves the problem of their perfect presentation to the future.
Heimat was extraordinary not only technically, but as a work of history and of art. No one had yet dared to deal with the forbidden moment of German history, the Nazizeit, in quite this way patiently, in detail, never forgetting the inhumanity, but focusing on the ordinary human life that went on beside it, and trying to understand the combination. No one, that is, but Reitz himself, in two earlier films. Die Reise Nach Wien (1973) and Stunde Null (1976). Then people hadn't been ready to see in Germany from 1933 to 1945 anything but a terrible lesson to the rest of us. But in 1984, and even more today - after Vietnam and East European communism, after Cambodia and the intifada- there is no rest of us. The lesson of Heimat is that surviving and not speaking out is not monstrous but ordinary in monstruous times. Our first duty is to stop such times from ever beginning: once they are there only the great will be able to do what is right, but even the weakest can do it now.
Restoring their humanity to Germans did not make them less guilty, it
merely made their guilt more human. That makes good history, and good
art. Judging people is necessary for action, and for the angry art that
calls to action.
But for understanding, and for art which is imaginative understanding,
it is necessary to see everyone's point of view. That is Reitz's art in
Heimat -for which, thereíbre, he was attacked as a revisionist and
leaetionary. For tnele are no monsters in Hei)nut. We do not
go to Ausehwitz; and we meet no Nazi leaders, but stay in Lucie's
kitchen as 'der Rosenberg, der Friek und der 1,ey' meet brieHy and
invisibly in her parlour. But this is Reitz's point: to show us the little
people, who suffered the Nazzizeit, not those who made it. This is not
to deny that it was evil, that its leaders were evil, and that those who
sustained it participated in the evil. But it is to explore it: to see how
evil uses ordinary badness zlike Lucie's), and how ordinary goodness
can live alongside both. Even in decent societies we must forget other
people's troubles much of the time in order to cope with our own lives.
"rhere is a eertain anarchic element in man and in soeiety,' Reitz says,
'a principle of living-in-spite-of-everything . . . That is what I Wanted
to study 'I`ha OnlS Nazis in /Zb'itin!t, tfla'lt`fin't',
ale little Na7.is Wilfiied aInd his filtnel Wiegand. They are worse than
Lucie, I)ut not very much. They are weak nnd se~nish, Valin inld
cowinafly: thilt is, like her they are human, not inhuman. We see
Wilflied first as a f;-ightened little that that is what he remains. We
must judge him, we may hate hirn, but we undeìstand him. Reitz didn't
even hate hinl: aIIld tls Wnilt rnalkes him a1 ¡"leilt, artist. 'I cannot
write out of hate,' he says. 'Fol me hate is connected to fear, and when I
rear people they rernili symbols, they don't come alive.' | diaìIl t halte
ol fei" the WieganldS, inld hO tney Cinnl' alive.
The r eaction to neitna/ was as extralordinary as the film itself. It allowed, it loreeds thousanlds 01 aìelmans to rememb)er their waltime lives in detail, beyond the broad calegoly of llaltiOniil evil which had Inalde their guilt uìtimatelv imDersonal. And it allowed and
forced the rest of us to do the same: to give up the broad eategory, and distinguish individuals, degrees of blame. Since 1984, Reitz has reeeived more than 10,000 letters, retrieving memories, thanking him for unlocking them. His iravourite is from the daught.er or an arlti-Nazi exile, who carried on her father's resistance by refusing ever ta use German or set foot in Germany. until Heitnat restored to her her griei and her language.
I first saw Heimat in 1984, in the cinema. That is the way to see it, if yot can. Then I saw it on television in 1985 and again in ]98fi. I'd felt it was a grea work of art on my lil`St daly ill t
cinenla; now I knew it. And I had tz know more. Where dld this fil" most of tilat time it wetn V
J seemed the last thing to come ou Or l.is a; el. ioOl "~ft a is alhotlt tory and human connection; and up t then his work had annlOF,t aii hee made frorrl al and about newness ancl di conneetiOn ITe belonged to the a;rF postwar generation in l.ermany. to th 'fatherless generation', w ho added t tne general need to leave one's paolent aI pitlticular need to repudiate then n'C£1USa.' tElT elT tninta'l Nil7.iil11. 'I`ogethel w itn olflel .lItiStS z his aIga`. therelble, he ht'ginl aIS li iiWaIV aIS he could get Irdm I ne sirer IhlIiCII ilanl sedueed their falthtls--tit
In his ealliest filrms thele are w human beings at afl. 'l'he firsL, made i
1953, was about an empty huilding, the ruins of' the Munich Opera. For
tne next thirteen yewns he nìade scientific fihlls, hadustl iaì iinlls,
advertising lihns, documentaries: all expel imental, all higmy
teehnieall. In the eally 60s he rn.lde two oW' the hest experimlentall
iillns in postwar (Sertnany: Koolmllnikatioll ( 1961 ) and Gesehlois
,rkeit (Speed, 1962-3). In (i)nonl/ni(atio)/, telephones, switchboards,
mail-sorting machines whirr and hum their messages, which
technicians send but no one seems to receive. In .Spee(t, the camera
itself r ushes through the wor Id, showing that the new possil)ility of
rapid movement aff'eels 1 not so muell objects as ourselves
The pe.lìi of this first, teehnical phase of his eal(el came in 1964-5, with Val ialVision: aIn aInihitiotis attenlpt to shif'l the IllO\'(?mellt ftOIll screell to viewer. In aI iRlg(' nll G loops of' film were
shllultameously plojected un to 12() moveall)le screells; through this
l`orest of film people walked at their own speed, construeting theil o\\
n films.
ge/7erfrtion, the 'fathers' generation' of fihll-makels, and the eseapist
kitsch they made. The l)belhausell ManiSesto called for a new, relevant
derman cinema, for gratlts fbr new film-makers, and for a film ~cìlooì
Wllell llOllt` of' these demands w as answel ed, Reitz and Kluge founded
their own school; it dismissed conventional narrative cinema, and
based its teachings on the crit.ic
theories of Adorno and Marc~ e.
Finallv, in l.'l(ifi~ with one of the grant.> hl¡'d fought for, Reitz made
his first featule film, illalzlzeitell IMea/ti~zlesì. It was the story of
an idealistic young medical student who, trapl)ed into marliage and
fatherhood, ends by killing himself. The cameral dwells on the young
wife, Elizaheth, with f'ascination and feal; the fear wins, not only in
the story but in the way it's told-wiLh saldonic subtitles, and a
(,711it.'t,, CUttillg comlnentaly spokt n by rtt it,. himseH: Some Cl
itiC~ saw in the lilm simple nnisogyny; some saw Eli%abeth as a
sylm)ol of the nez matel ialist Germany. Bvlt if she stallds f`or
anytllillg, I think, it is ralthel the old dermasnv and whst
EV()IIII'I1 aIl\N'alyS sto()~l lol M `: A
Kta he, Kirche-childrell, the kitcìlen and the church, the traditional
ideal of the home.
htnhlzeatell was a success, Wilmillj,~ the First Film prize at the Venice festivál in 1967. But Reitz's success was sholt-lived. Ilis next film, Cardilla(, made hl 1 96S, was caught up in tllt' student revolution of that year. The crew argued about making a collective work of art, and finally turned it into one, with the arguments as par t of' the film. No one would distribute this ( lodal diall ralgl~alg; Reit.z WaIS reduce~d to hiring halls and shoxving the fiìm himself.
For the next ten years he was out in the eold. He continued to malke shol t films, and to lead t.he fight for state subsidies for the New (Germall Cinema. But his next two projects were, in his own words, anti-Kino7 anti-cinema: 'I did all I could', he says, 'to make films that couldn7t be shown in the cinema.' Gesehichten tXom Kiibelkind t les of the Tra.sh-Cal1 Kid, 1969-70) consisted of 25 episodes varying from a minute to halfan-hour; the audience chose from aI 'melltl' of' episodes, and at Lhe end Wele ilivited to suggesL ideas for new Olles. Das Goklelle Ding (The GOIble)l 7'hing, 197] 1 hegaln aIS a normal screenplay on the legend ot' the (Solden Fleece: llut Reitz tutned it into anti-Killo too, by filming it entirely with young children.
When his father died in 1970, Reitz went home for the funeral. There he found a postcard from his mother, sent from an hotel in Vienna in 1943 and in 1973 he made Die Reise naf h Wien, The 7'rl/) to Vielmd. It was his first return to conventional film form, and his first I'etUI'II to nists)ly, his own and C;ermany's. It was a cautious r eturn: between himFielf aIlid the Hunsruck he put thlee St.llS eElke Somnlel~ ¡Llanllelole Elsner and Mario Adorf) who had, as he says, nothing to do with it at all. But Die Reise nalh Wierl eontains the first hint.s of Fleinztzt: in its humorous and homely detail, in its strong, resourceful wome e\en in theil names-Mall'gal
Kl'01)el' a111(1 TOni Sinloll.
If' I)ie /tSsise ~(o( 1, Wit'll haid been aI suteess pelhaps Reitz might have goné oll in this dileetioll. But it flopped, and he \V.IS chbaned out. For the next four years he lived on short-film commissions; he worked as Kluge's cameramall on a documentaly; he made an episode in the colleetive film Germttny in Anx 7". 13ut as a feature film-maker he was finib l d. 'Between 1974 and 1978 no one would work with me,' he says. 'I wrote one seript after anothel. I think T wrote ten screenplays, and not one was made .
The only film he made in those years was fiom someone else's story. A
new writer, Peter Steinbacih, had written a fresh and gritty script
about a small village at the end of the war. Reitz rewrote it with him,
and made Stunde Null (Zero Houri. It too has clear affinities to lleilnat
in subject and style; and it was made with many of the people who
would work with Reitz on Heirnat- Steinbach on the script, Nicos
Mamangakis on the music, Clernot Roll as cameraman, Robert Busch as
his assistant. But again he could find no distributor. He sold the film to
television, where it had a well-deserved success. F
The critics agreed, and Schrreider was savaged. After a week the film
was
haltl beell very expensive; lleitz hal S only lost all his own money
again, but was more than £60tO00 in debt. He'd worked for twenty-five
years to get to this point; he'd hane to work for twentyfive more to pay
back what he owed. His flying machine had crashed as disastrously, as
ignominiously as the tailor's.
He felt he had failed both as an artist a111(1 S aIS al 1(`
mounting horlolr Ilere was the history (.ermally shoufd he r emelm)el
ing-hut not like this. TlliS WaIS Sentimelltall melodramatic; all the
re;lì living detaiìs had t)eell smoothed out of it. Reitz set himself to
remembel mdl-e. He wellt home and listened to his mother's Illem01
ies, to other penple`s. He saw how lifl(u-tsllt it a11l WaIS llOW, IIOW
IlmC}l dit'Stl'llCtilm a111(1 deheclation` t,il('l'(` tl
been. He fbund anothel postcard~ of` a1 family in a neighbouring viìlage
Sittillg round a r adio; and he remembered a story he'd written in the
fiOs, about a man who tells his wite he is going fbr a dlink, but who
goes on waìking anci disappears. Ile rented a1 hut in a l:armyard, asked
Peter Steinbach to work with him, and began on the 2,0()0 pagevs.
+ ffi l ll;lt l/Cirrr(rt ('a1111(` out of. there| |l / fbre, was a new vision:
a t U traumatic realisation thatt 1F w something of value was gone, and
that while it was there it hadn't been recogllised l'C)Illy now that
Malial is dead do we know how good it w a15 wflen she WttS there,'
says llermanm. It iS ai fììl lalde by someolle wllo llaltl bl'diit?ll with
evelyilling it is about; who had seen only the dark side-the nar
ro~Nzness and int,oleralnce-Or clos(?-knit commullitiesn and v ho hael
uorshipped modernity and f'leedom. Ile still sees the dangers of
community in Hei/lrut, and still feels the pull of fieedom. But now he
also sees the opposite-the pull of communit.y aIlld tne dangels of'
freedom. He explores tncm S fìeshly, losses .
the WllOIe WOl'id 11£1(1 aIgl'(`ed. SOme 0i'
hun;iìity; and pelìlalps it took the shock of f:aiìillg after twenty-five
years to impress it so deeply on his style.
'The hardest thing of all is simplicity,' he says. 'I didn't know this at alf
in my fìrst fìf`teen yéars. 1 alwalyi-i sought the ull(ommoln the out of`
tile Waly, |
thougllt I had t,o show Illy (O`igillaliity. IJut with Oic Rt`iSf a( 11
Wiezls and then with Stunde Null, I began to grasp the importance of a
simple language. And now I think you have lo try to convey even the
most difficult themes, aIlld the most complex destiniess in a Simpl(.'
language, in simple pictules. You doll't often succeed, but xvnell vou do
it's the best thing of'all.' | ut of coUI se Heis didn't just
X experilrlelltatioll ()n tf)e (ontliiry, it W£iS the eulnlillatioll of a
lifetime of ('Xp(`l'imt`lltaltioll. ()IllV SOmeXlne ~ 1~) (I expel hllellteel
with c;lmel a techllidues as Reitz ha(f dOIlt` in KSpe(c with
llaU'I`aItive form as he'd done in V£1riatViSiOIl and Kiibelkillcl, with
financing and diætribution methods as he'd done all his life-only such a
natulasl and practised ilmOValtOI could have InaldC a 1 Steilou cinema
film suggesting that many
In He /na~ Reitz celebrated a way of lifi which is nOt his. He loves, and
in writing can become, a stayer like Maria, Eduard or Anton; but he
himself was and is a lea er, like Paul, El nst and Hermann. In Heinzat he
saluted the stayers, his parents' generation, who enose slal ility and
sacrifieed freedom. His new {ilm is a11 O~lt the same struggle 13 1t it
is, he says, the gegetlsti((i., the Opp()Sillg piece. In it he returns to his
own generation: the leavers, who chose freedom and sacrificed
stability.
i t'il/ldt IS ShOWIl aIt t(' lice ill hlte
the title Mat l(ell, r /1 (zIaxl . Wolnelr. But soon he realised that he had
returned to his own memories:
1*(10111 Uritil al llebW ti I(' )il II' /1( ", .,(, 'I'll, ( ,, ""
I)ie %;weitt Hei/)t(tt hegins witn I ler
lilil stili .It scil() llis atfttlil witll
ìle hl li L hem aI ì l '
it «rlyes out ß i"l h llt itz illwalys a,ueS out 11( nt hill seli-to his
wnoìe world. And this wolld is Reitz's set on(i one: the world of
WaluleelteolldsIhdl1etlt oi' chosen rather ti all t i en reì;ltiollships.
The connectillg prillcil)ìe ()f
II, inldf was tne S0 id. falililial one of
D;X Zw(it t i/ t is more complex and colltingent, like its charactels'
lives: the r elation of l`i ien ship. It tells the stories ljl I lermalm's f`i
iends: twenty or so young people, eonneeted by theilwork-they are
artists, musicians and film-makers; by their rejeetion of the past and
hope for the future; and by their love and competition with one
In otllel \VOl't?aS, /)ie Zaeeita> Heitllat is t!-pia.tl R(ilz.: allel the
greiitest expelimellt alld l isk of his life, he's making a gl eater one. It
is lo lt,telalld more exp( nsiv(; il t(\ok two yeills illSt('ild Ol'OIIa' to
write, al d it w 11 talkt thlee ( aI 1(1 half instead of one to fìlm. It
uses Imii l(tWIl :1(' (11 S PIgGlill; aI 1(; it is Cl 111 'I t1 '1'1l, ('I ill
tllt' fit)s a111(1 SllOt
So we will begin with llt'lIl alm, setting out to make his second lifee
his second home, in Munich. Episode 2 is the story of Juan, a Chileall
student whose break with his past and fieedom to choose his future are
ifflreater than Her mann's, and leave him with a ,,ieater dilemma.
Episode 3 is the story of Evelyne, who comes to Munfeh to she died.
Episode 4 is the story of'Ansgar, Eve yne'b lover, a poet who dies at the
aige of 25. F.pisode ,r) is the y of iHt lgal, w lo is a writel and
extremist; she and Hermann enaet an 'e otic comedy' about the
relationship between politics and love. Episdde 6 is the sldly of Alex, a
philosophy student: we li) low a day in his lile 219 November 196:3.
¡Episode 8 is the story of'Schnilssehen, a girl fi om the Hunsrück whom
tler
mamll 111.1 'I'il'S; lì)eil stu(ierlt weddaillg ìs the centre point of the
film. Episode 9 is the story of Frau Cer hill, a rich middle-alged woman
whose house is the fi iends' Hmaìl lleimilt, alld wl dSt' history corn
lines the best and worst of Germany's Episodes 10, 11 and 12 are the
stories of three young film-makers, Reinhard, Rob and Stefan, and of a
young half-Jewish photograpller, Esther. These episodes explore
German history again-the war and prewar ears in Esther's story, and
1968, the year Or student revolution, in Stefan's- but also the main
underlying theme of the film, the theme of film-making itself. Episode
13 returns, finally, to Hermann: to his career, his love for Clarissa, and
his relationship to his first Heimat in the Hunsrück.
Reitz began filming nie Zweite Heimat in January 1988. He is shooting
Episode 11 now; he'll shoot Number 12 in the spring and Number 13 in
the summer. The film will take a year to cut and eomplete; and will ple
Iniere at Veniee in 1t92. Iilst-and I have seen one whole episode and
parts of others, and read them all Lhat llie Zu!eite Heirr7at is going to
he as gl'eili, aI iìmI ¡IS lireinnrt: as r ich and reflective, as detailed, as
d;ll ing. It is going to have a similar seriousness, and a similar humour:
a serious humour, which comes not from wit or mockery, but from
catching the small absurdities of lile. II is going to have similal Iv
wolldts ImSil', aIgGlitl t)y M;lill;lilgalkis: indeed, by making Hermann,
('iarissa and many of the others musicians, Reitz has put music as much
at the heal t of l)ie Zweite Heinrat aIS film, perhaps more. Through it
he explores the disciplines and demands of aìt in general, and of the
avant-garde music of the 60s in particular. This was his own filst
musical passion. so that orlce again his portlilit of aI period is based
on his own menlol ies, and full of love. 13ut again not only love; love
colTll)illed with time, homage combined with humour. Tile 60s
experiments were otten very Funny. he says and many of the film's
To me three things are especially important about Reitz's art. Two I've
already made elear: his steady gaze at (^.erman history: and despite it
his II(f lox Ge fdl h i s C ( t(tl s lli.'i Ol)timiMim, Iìl' sIt le st ( jtlst
wIs lGll(} i a modern al tist! his lack of despair.
The third is a matter of method: he is still e.rperin7elttillg. Iaihlre
didn't stop him hefole Heilr70t. and success hasn't stopped him al-tel.
He is still experimenting with narrative: what to tell alld how to tell
it. It. is both his greatest stlellgtll alld his greiltest ltot 11 thalt evel
v(me s story seems lo him ortil telling. So alongside Mnm eiter,
fi,tinstatlee, he made Fussns)terl, F'ootrrotes, in which he stored the
secondary stories that flowed in and out of the main stream. To this his
making a 16-hour and now a 26-hour main slream was the logical
conclusion. And within these streams some of his best work goes into
the minor characters-into one-eyed Hans, or Lotti and her husband Sepp
in Heirz I; into Frau (Serphal s housekeeper, nostalgic for her days of
glory, or the lovelorn registrar at Hermann's
the new film how to tell the story is once again the question. Reitz
wants to tell this story, or parts of it, in the past tense: as memory. He
wants to make the opposite of a suspense film, or a new kind of
suspense film, in which the tension comes not from not knowing what
will happen, but from knowing. This is explored, for instance, in Alex's
story, which we know but the characters do not-takes place on the day
of Kennedy's assassination; and in Ansgar's, which is accompanied by
Hermann's voice-over: Arl.sgar was the friend who was to die young . . .
When you thitzk of that it is as though erverything was preparing for
that early end.
But Reitz's experimentation is not just a technical matter. It is the
heart of his film-making. He makes enormous fimtls, which require
minute planning: yet at evely point in the process he I'C`mahlS ol)t n,
ready to change. This goes for everything, from writing to directing,
from plan to detail. He didn't know the ending Of heim(rt until he wrote
it, and he doesn't know the ending of Die Zweite Heimat now. The whole
idea of nie ZLI1('ite Heiznat changed radically: it was to go, like
Heirnat, right up to the present-until Reitz noticed that his draft was
'alleady :3() houl s If mg, at I'd only r cl 1971)9. When he comes to
write a scene it has been carefully planned, and he knows exactly what
the characters will do and say; but then he waits until the knowledge
113des, nnd he can write out of impulse. 'I don't want to be like a
charwoman,' he says, 'who always puts things back in the same place. I
want to be like a thief, who when he goes out to steal nevel knows
whilt he'll find.'
As a director hc s the same, despite all the problems of people and
money. 'You never know when you arrive in the meining ex.actly what
you'll be doing,' says Gerard Vandenberg, Die e!eife heiowat s first
cam(raman. Ile will never film in a studio, but only on location, I where
the door is open to reality. In our world, pictures are dominated by the
intellect. On the TV news, for example, over the images there's always
a voice, a commentary that directs us and tells us what to think. As I
see it, film is the liberation of images from the voice-or that's what I
would like my films to be. I would like to free the pictures.
But then there's the other side. Recently my friend Wim Wenders said in
an interview that pictures are truth, die Bilder sind die Wahrheit. But
that's not right either. When you try to tell the truth through pictures
beauty always enters in, and when beauty enters in, truth vanishes.
Sometimes, too, truth is what you cannot see. So, for instance, in
Episode 11 my cameraman, Rob, is blinded: and when he's blind he sees
things he previously couldn't see. In fact, pictures are just as
treacherous as words, and truth resides in neither. Truth is constantly
in the making before us; and the moment it's seized it
!._ _. _ _.1. . t!___ _ _ ___ f
Above all he keeps the door open to his cast. If an actor or actress
inspires him, his or her character will leap to life and grow
iconversely, if one bores him the character will dwindle away and
disappear). This happened in Heimat several times-with Eva-Maria
Schneider, with Kurt Wagner, with Karin Rasenack: each time, what had
started as a small part was lit up and infused for Reitz with the
personality and insights of the actor, until Marie Goot, Glasisch and
Lucie grew into three of the film's richest and most living charaeters.
And it is happening again now-with hiannelole If oger who plays Frau
Cerphal, for instance, and with Susanne Lothar who plays Esther, so
that their stories have grown to be two of the most important of Die
Zweite 71( irmnl. This spontaneity is Reitz's greatest gift of all; and I
am certai
that two of the hest episodes will be Frau Cerphal's Number 9 and
Esther's Number ] 1.
It's so much Reitz's gift that at times he has been tempted to pure
improvisation. But he has held back: for only in a written script can he
achieve what he also wants, developed ideas in their best expression.
So the truth is more complicated. Reitz's greatest gift is not fo
spontaneity alone, but fbr a special combination of spontaneity and
planning--a special combination of freedom and stability, which is
what Hermarln and the others seek for their lives. The best account of
this special combination is Reitz's own, about hiE actors. Ilis lines
have a special combination, of naive meaning on the sur face and deep
meaning below: and tc pl.ly them weH actots must he alte t( play them
on both levels at the samt time. Of aH the actors of Heirnat thc best at
this was Lucie, Karin Rasenack 'She understood al the levels, down t the
deepest,' Reitz says 'But then wher she came to do it she understooc
nothing any more. She just workec instinctively, not knowing what sh
would say. Imagine,' he sas, in plea sure and wonder, 'dozens of
rehearsals and she still doesn't know what she't going to say !'
This is Reitz's ideal, and he achieves it. If e answers my questions
slowly ane searchingly, with the greatest cart; his replies are profound
and often moving Then suddenly he shakes his head and says he s no
theor ist. re.my ht. onl does things in his fìlms because he feelz like
doing them. I write this down. 1:3u then I rernember Kaìin Rasenack; ant
when I look up from my notebook he':
'I've always liked the idea of quoting in my films from my own earlier
films. So for instance in Heimat there are echoes of Die Reise nach
Wien; and in Die Zweite Heimat echoes of Heimat, of Stunde Null, of
Mahizeiten. In this way all my films are gradually growing into one
film. And that's also what I want. I want to go on making films until I
die: but to me now "film" just means Heimat", so f want to go on making
Heimat until f die. I'd like to be able to say I've only made one film in
my life. That would be more or less ideal. It would stop one's self
competition too, the business of people saying they like this film but
not that one. They're all your life, and you can't bear it. And this way I
could say: What do you mean? It's the same film.'
I ilt` S ntllt`l thillg that li(`i/7117t came ol' W£1S failure. No
generastioll can have been more aiged to al l ogallce than Reitz's
generation in (.ermany: all children tllink they can do hettel thalrl tm'il
parellts, i;)llt witìl tnese S CililLIII 11
Reitzs ('aI ()1 1; lVitS 111a11 licll witl
tilalt aII I ~)arall~ " S colltelm)l
for l~lizalì)l tn. Ior example. ¡But ailmost
t.he strollgest emotioll one f'eels hehind
ß il/11rt i'; ImmiliIV: ImmilitV tllWaII'(I.~
tnese litt,le peol)ft~; evel) th( ì)a(ì X Ss
humility in the camera`s attention to (`VCl'y SmatlI detail. This is
Reitz`s
w spring fiXom nozvhere, and it wasn't| jilSt a1 I'eaCtiOIl fi'OIll a1
fit('lim(' of
'Art ìs connected to death. Aff storytefìing is working against death,
defeating death, because it snatches bits of life out of the jaws of
death and makes them eternal. That's why it's so important to telf
certain stories, for instance the stories of people who suffered under
Hitler: reality kifled them, but their stories can live forever. This feels
fike a moral duty-to help those people to live forever. But also to make
little, petty happinesses and unhappinesses live forever. That's why art
is also connected to love, to love of life. Because you only snatch
something from the jaws of death if you love it: and for me that's the
only reason to make a film. I woufd never want to make a film about
ìhings I hate.' .ermams ale nes worse than human. The autole/~tilol
using the film-maker's own history in order to speak directly to the
audience's-had been at the heart of his fi In prineiples lantl practiee, in
Mahkeite/l > from the beginning. r,~ t`ll ! l's d(-(-p fin) t' ('e al 0~11
l"odernity and tecimoìogical progless I ad been tnele fiom tne
begilmillg: 11 aIt iS part of' the 1111'a1 )illgr of I 1( eerie a111 en~e
of human heings from tSpeed and (w¢~awa1loliaataotla except as
servants of' tlle machines.
s 1984; in early 1985 Reitz slarted
aj work on a new project. He began to
| write aI xelies nf love stOlies mldel
cìloice ( ()ne daly these two insignts
came to,at ('l`, aI 111 he reallised that in films came togetnel too. tle
stuck a piece of' paper on the wall of' his work
Klail(ìl(>ll [lltltall 1 (I ìle IllaliXes thlea NwOWai to ìeave his xilìage
ai ld never r eturn; to have no more to do (, '('; a111d to dttlicilte Ilis
liSt to In( sic C)n his firSt day ill N1ullicìl he breaks his second vow;
and 'the story ol the hlnl' says Reitz witb a g) in. 'is lloss
Not qllitt the whoìe stoly. '1 te lil "Ilìs llS 1a( 1t1 ('11 Isl itil l .1
tlle ialmily Tile COllneeting principle of
Hei nat's Simons, Sehirmers, Kröbers and Wit' ands also came to a core
of
twenty-odd central charactels. So will Die Zweite Heimat be as big, as
risktakingly long, as Heirrlat? Even now I aiidn t guess the allswel: it
will be lollgel a It hols 1.; pal ts to Htt s1t S l l ánd their averáge
length is longer; its
Reitz looks you in the eye wnen he tells you that. 'You ean see Heznlat
in two days in the cin ma,' he says, 'ánd Die ; ei/t II i" l" in thlee. One
week, aIlid ydil Ca 11 see it a111 1 (' St; I't'S aIt you sternly; and then
he laughs.
in coloul, so tililt it In tst do without t "t st 1."Rsl " " "x (I ist;l llt, I)
tt Alld il iS 111 )I tt ( I a11 IOW]y ItlCUSed not on oltdillaly people of
all ages, but on a group of young intelleetuals. Cer IllalilS t 'a1 1 l il
illtlBIleCttilallS, Reitz
SalyS: \ ()U W()ll t lo (t rile aIlly 111()1'at 1 i mother said when he
went to university, and he thinks she spoke filr In toy people. So of
eourse he is afraid for his new film. This is making him, he ad nits, incr
e singly perfectionist; but thankfully it is not stopping him. 'I have to
make this film,' he says. 'I have no ch ice. This is my life, my subject,
and if my life has meaning the fìlrn will have one too.'
Thoug}l the sul)ject and setting of ni. Zllxeite Heiolblt will be so
dif'ferellt 1l' )111 Httiat0t, the nariative strtletule will be the same.
In each epi ode one eharacter or story will rn(:lve int,o the Goreglnilntl,
while the others continue to unf'old behind it; from episode to episode
the foregrounA and background stories will interweave. Likè motifs in
m sic: or, says Reitz, like streams, springing to the sulface, returning
alnderglollnd, then springing up onee more.
building where they're filming he meets an old man with a flat full of
old sporting trophies-and instantly he has another tiny, rich and quirky
character. In a shop one day he sees a table with expanding leaves-and
instantly (or after a lot of work by his carpenter, Franz Bauerl he has a
comic masterpiece: Frau Cerphal's elegant dining table, which becomes
a monster of ostentation by the addition of thirteen leaves.