Synopsis
After a 13-year-old student disappears without a trace for a week and suddenly reappears, his mother and teachers are confronted with existential questions that change their whole view of life.
I Was at Home, But...
2019 ‘Ich war zuhause, aber’ Directed by Angela Schanelec
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Alternative Titles
Eu Estava em Casa, Mas…, I Was at Home, But, Ich war zuhause, aber …, J’étais à la maison, mais…, 我曾在家，但…, Я був удома, але, Я была дома, но…, Era a casa, però…, من خانه بودم, اما, Ήμουν και δεν Ήμουν στο Σπίτι
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AFI 2019: film #5
“i’m scared of vanishing”
wished i was doing anything else but sitting in that theater. sorry to this film
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Think about one of those Ingmar Bergman's hysterical female characters as if caught in an Ozu-ian family comedy-drama, directed by Straub and Huillet occasionally paying an homage to Bresson! Then, you may get a quick glimpse of what Schanelec is doing with I Was at Home, But... in her very own non-conformist refined style.
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Adore the bookends with the animals: The donkey obviously recalls Bresson, and the opening exploits the way cinema can turn animals into ‘characters’ without resorting to explicit anthropomorphism. The story that develops afterwards seems to encourage a metaphoric reading (the dead rabbit, the dog coming home, the mule staring out of the window), but it’s fairly easy to accept this early on. Having it recur at the end might seem too neat, but the boldness of the choice short-circuits any schematism—though I don’t think it would work if Schanelec didn’t again (as in The Dreamed Path) present two stories that intersect, and tease some connection, but never quite come together. (The B-story, if I understand it correctly, involves a couple…
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There is something to be said about the negative side of the legacy left by canonical directors like Bresson or Antonioni in the current panorama of european art house cinema. An empty and innocuous formalism that is often found in film festivals. Despite the inseparability between form and content, many of these directors/films use this formal approach in a cynical and cold way, hoping that the thematic depth will arise from a certain framing or camera movement. At first I Was at Home, But... looks like one of those films, but Schanelec manipulates the viewer's expectations, subverting them with each new scene.
The german director's latest is always uncomfortable to watch, you never really know why that scene is there…
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40/100
Second viewing (last seen at TIFF '19), no change. Tried again because it's beloved by many folks whose taste I respect, but Schanelec's approach to filmmaking just offers me no purchase whatsoever. Even after reading said folks' lengthy exegeses, I was unable to perceive anything coherent regarding grief and authenticity; we see a weirdly stilted version of the former and hear an endless rant about the latter, but how they ostensibly fit together eludes me. (If you can explain the function of Franz Rogowski's character vis-à-vis anything else, I'm all ears.) Would be less of an issue were I captivated by the filmmaking moment to moment, but apart from occasional (random-ass) flourishes like timing Astrid ringing someone's bell to the distorted reflection of a passing train in the building's windows, there's little that excites me either formally or "dramatically." A film that demands placing scare quotes around that word ain't for me.
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On filling and unfilling the frame. The title suggests Ozu and in some ways the family drama feels like a radical rereading of him. It starts and ends with animals and nature and the contrast with the urban material (as the contrast between the opaque family scenes and the Shakespeare rehearsals) drives a lot of meaning. Schanelec can be a very controled filmmaker, but she can also find some incredible moments.
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This is a brutally alluring film. Every shot is so beautifully composed, it's reminiscent of Haneke or Bresson, but sometimes manages to take it a step further. It reminded me heavily of Columbus. There are shots that literally look like baroque paintings. This film is an absolute visual powerhouse, and honestly, the current poster doesn't do it justice. But as the visuals are stunning, I'm not sure what to make of the story. I'll admit, as others have said, on my first watch I don't think I really got it. But that's a common experience with these type of stripped-down slow cinema films. It's so introspective and innate that it's hard to put into words or necessarily understand what is…
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unquestionably elusive yet still coherent and controlled; a film of withholdings. a grief with{out} death, a performance without an audience, familial bonds reduced to play-acting.
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AFI Fest 2019: Movie #5
“It only exists because you did it.”
The most difficult film I’ve seen in some time. It is not a casual viewing experience, but rather one of actively working to put the pieces together. Rather than immersing you like a body of water, it’s a thick, viscous thing that you need to find your own way into. Once you’re in, you’re stuck in it.
There’s just enough of a plot to get it by. There are threads to follow, and I was fascinated by how they were woven together. The opening sequence frames the film perfectly, establishing a basis of comparison of these characters to animals. They have these heady discussions of art and arguments…
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Berlinale 2019 #27: I hate this film with every ounce of my being. At first you wonder why everone is acting like their reading their lines from teleprompter, adding unnecessary longe dramatic pauses between every sentence. People standing around motionless like props, the camera also not moving, many scenes are like still pictures, plot merely sketchy at best. In the middle of the film there‘s a long monologue about acting never being truth, never being able to be a representation of life, so I guess that was the point to be made here.
Well, write a fucking essay, give a lecture, lets make it a discussion panel but don‘t make me sit through unbearable 105 minutes of this pretentious bullshit. -
Every encounter changes us. One hand on top of another, a play escaping into reality, Shakespeare’s poetry and dirt. Astrid in the palm of a stone, in a river. Phillip and Flo trying to hold Astrid in the kitchen. Phillip’s hands untying his muddy shoes; Astrid laying at the grave under a star that flickers every colour. “My life is in his hands.” And every encounter is inflected by our life, so here, for Astrid, it is grief. Like illness, that loss returns us to our bodies. This film is so generous.
“Will I see you tonight?”
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
