Satantango

Misery. Misery perpetuated by misery. Misery perpetuated by misery in a never-ending cycle of pain and filth and greed and lust and treachery and sorrow and death. Misery perpetuated by misery in a never-ending cycle of pain and filth and greed and lust and treachery and sorrow and death fuelled by bitterness and dipsomaniacal ignorance. Stagnation. Stagnation, for we are fickle and petty. Stagnation, because we are too cowardly to tug at the shackles of indecisiveness, but too proud to revert into the filth over which we reside. The circle leads from Point A to Point A; from the bog, being poured down upon with a heavenly wrath and fury, where cow rots and pig shits, back to the bog, being poured down upon with a heavenly wrath and fury, where cow rots and pig shits. Misery. Pain. Filth. Greed. Lust. Treachery. Sorrow. Death. Bitterness. Drunkenness. Ignorance. Stagnation. Fickleness. Pettiness. Cowardice. Indecisiveness. Pride. Shit. Mud. Rain. Decay. Beauty. Sátántangó opens with a seven minute shot of a herd of cows leaving a farm and roaming the empty streets. Every now and then, one of the beasts lets out a primal noise. Every now and then, one climbs on and tries to hump another. They are led out by nobody, follow nobody, and seek nothing. They are purely animal, mooing and fucking with no other purpose. That is Sátántangó. There are four means by which I’m going to discuss the significance of Sátántangó. Four points of reference, as it were: the spider, the circle, the presence of animals, and perception. Each of them hold a fundamental importance to the film, and each of them act both as good narrative and thematic indicators. The spider is something often alluded to throughout the film. Two of the twelve parts are called ‘The Job of the Spider’, and Irimiás offers an extended monologue on interconnectivity, with reference to spiders’ webs. What I think best describes the significance of the spider, however, is a monologue which occurs after the bar section. The bar section in question, a forty-five minute series of scenes depicting the main cast of drunken characters dancing and rambling to one another, acts as a sort of ironic change in tone. They’re completely drunk and dance around the bar for what feels like an eternity in a singular wide shot, which comes across more as pitiful than anything else. All of the sludge and monotony is pathetically whitewashed by a weak coat of liquor, and whilst the fact that a young girl is about to die, and that this dangerous enigma Irimiás has returned looms over their withered beings, they dance. This is cruelly cut off by a juxtaposing silence, and the following lines: ‘Drawn out by the sweet sound of the accordion, the spiders in the bar launched their frenzied attack. They sewed loose webs on top of the glasses, the cups, and the ashtrays. They wove the table and chair legs into a cocoon. Everything was connected, bound together with secret threads, so that in their hidden corners, the spiders would be notified of every slight tremor, and every microscopic shift, and would be so long as this almost invisible network remained intact. They sewed a web over the faces, hands, and feet of the sleepers too. Then, quickly hurried back to their hiding places, so that given one barely perceptible vibration, they would be ready to start again.’ After this monologue, the film cuts to said young girl’s funeral. This quote relates directly to another, spoken when the young mentally ill girl, Estike, has poisoned herself, and is making her final contemplations before death: ‘’Yes’, she said to herself softly. The angels see this and understand it. She felt at peace inside, and around her the trees, the road, the rain, and even the night all radiated tranquility. ‘Whatever happens is good’, she thought. Everything was simple, at last, forever. She recalled the events of the day, and smiled, as she understood how everything was connected. She felt that these events were not connected by chance, or accident, but by an indescribably beautiful logic bridging them together. And she knew she wasn’t alone, since everything and everyone, her father up above, her mother, her siblings, the doctor, the cat, these acacias, this muddy road, the sky, and the night below it, all depended on her, just as she depended on everything else. She had no reason to worry. She knew well that her guardian angels were already on the way.’ There are a few things to take from this, but perhaps the most important is the idea of inevitability. There certainly exists some kind of force which persists throughout the film and dictates it, probably in the form of Irimiás; and the spider’s web, silent and omniscient, omnipotent even, is indicative of this. It’s a godless world in the conventional sense, but Tarr manages to find a quiet beauty and lyricism in how the narrative is manipulated in such a way so as to come across as somewhat imbued with fate. There are things here that are on the surface circumstantial, and spontaneous, but there is by all means an inter-connective web which dictates all. Everything acts almost as a chain of events, and there are certain things, especially concerning Irimiás, which might indicate something spiritual - whether that be benevolent or not. Foretelling and symbolism, and impossibilities all create a sort of unearthly feasibility in this horridly earthly film. And the reoccurring narrative devices - the bells which begin and end the film, similar dialogue being used at the beginning and end by the narrator and Doctor, and the same men walking in the same sea of litter at the beginning and end the film - all suggest something preordained. These reoccurring narrative devices lead on well to my second point of analysis, the circle. Everything ends where it starts. The villagers, those roaming cows with too much pride and too little courage, and without direction, have not found their leader. They have merely been exploited and abandoned. The villagers’ ignorance and indifference to everything has left them in a fundamentally identical position, lured by the silky rhetoric of their pied piper. One of the pieces in the film’s score is called Circle Dance, and it plays only once in the film, when the characters arrive at the manor where they have been lured to by Irimiás in the promise of a commune. The manor is decrepit. It’s massive, but baron. A child has just died due to their collective negligence. The film has been five painful hours of cyclical, unrelenting misery and nihilism, and they have just completed a filthy odyssey to get there. It’s underwhelming beyond expression, and it becomes immediately apparent that they have achieved nothing and will not achieve anything. And suddenly, this score blares out of nowhere. It scans their faces, and captures their expressions and subtle glances. During this montage, the camera revolves around Mrs. Schmidt, an object of wasted aspirations, of corrupted womanhood, and of life-long disappointment, all captured on this beautiful, distant face that knows it has been let down again. At the end of this montage, the camera tracks into this wide shot of Mr. Schmidt pissing against a wall, which is made almost to look like a painting in its irony. This is their hopes come full circle, from point A to point A. When I first watched that scene, it brought me to tears. I immediately rewatched that scene, and I was brought to tears again. Almost as soon as the film had finished, I rewatched that scene and wept again. This time, its power once again overwhelmed me and I shed tears for the fourth time. It is the most beautiful thing I think I have ever seen in a film, and I imagine it will never fail to move me to tears. The bell sounds - something. And it plays at the beginning and at the end. Is it the presence of Irimiás? Does it blare the Revelation-prophesied apocalypse? Or is it simply just representative of the monotony of existence? The fact that the man banging on the bell is shouting ‘the Turks are coming’ gives an historical perspective to this, as if to imply that the presence of the Turks, whom Hungary have a violent and bloody history with is representative of continued hardship. It’s a truly haunting scene. Perhaps it’s all of these, perhaps it’s none of them, but it evokes such intense and moving impressions that it’s intricacies matter not in the face of its immediate existence, and is by all means cyclical, beginning and ending on the same note.  The whole idea surrounding circles is of course related to the spider’s web and fate. But on a perhaps more important level, it’s also very much symbolic of these people’s inability to break their literal and mental conditions. Monotony leads to monotony, converging in on itself, such is the form of a circle. Sátántangó quite literally means Satan’s Tango, with the twelve chapters being representative of the twelve steps taken in a tango - six forward and six back. There is something so inherently sinister in this. They end up in exactly the same position as before. Their tango leads them nowhere. The final part of the film is literally called The Circle Closes. Nothing has changed. The Doctor chooses to remain in the village, and from what is implied, possibly starve. The others have followed Irimiás and have been exploited so as to be ultimately just as fruitless as before. In the end, they are both the same. On the point of animals, I think they are a suitable means by which one may observe the presence of authority in Sátántangó. In their godforsaken town, authority is lacking. They are aimless and indifferent because they have no leader. They are sheep without a shepherd, akin to the roaming cattle from the opening. In fact, on multiple occasions, parallels are drawn between characters and animals. Futaki vomits beside a pig, and when they enter the city, Irimiás and Petrina encounter horses that have escaped from a slaughterhouse. But what perhaps best defines authority in this film by means of animals, is that infamous encounter between Estike and her cat. She is beaten, abused, and neglected by her mother and her brother, and in this cat, almost imitates their cruelty. She quite disturbingly throws the cat for what at least seems like ten minutes, and eventually forces it to consume rat poison and die. Estike and this cat are alike, and it becomes clear when Estike subjects herself to the same poisoned fate, that they are both products of this drunken, neglectful society in which they exist. Irimiás himself is another way in which the film explores themes surrounding authority. I’ve mentioned before how he is a seemingly omniscient figure, knowing and sensing things he could not possibly know or sense. And he is, by extension, a divine figure in many respects. Perhaps even satanic. But he is himself subject to authority, despite the fact he seems above it. Towards the end of the film, Irimiás’ report on the villagers which is sent to the police is mercilessly euphemised and condensed. His eloquent speech on eternity is cast aside when it is proof read, proving that he too is ultimately powerless.  Authority exists in many forms here, and it is the necessity for authority, the subtle suggestion that there is indeed universal authority, no matter how good or evil, and the relationship one has with authority which is analysed here. Perception is an interesting topic here, and it relates mainly to the film’s narrative structure, but the entire crux of the plot is centred on perception. Motives and events are only made clear through the repeated showing of scenes, and their true emotional significance is shown, and made all the more potent through this method. It is when scenes or events are shown from multiple characters’ perspectives that Tarr really allows the viewer to gain meaningful insight into their actual nature. Of course, the bar dance scene comes to mind, but so too does the scene where Futaki hides from Schmidt, or the Doctor’s interaction with Estike. It is a film shaped by others’ prejudices, because to be quite frank, everyone in this film is rotten. Everyone mistrusts and betrays everyone, the true extent of which is demonstrated in the scene where the narrator describes their dreams, and the actual unadulterated nature of their characters is shown. There are so many narrative intricacies - little things - that shape the film, but I cannot mention. This is a film of small moments, of grunts and glances. I do believe this is in serious contest for the best story ever put to film. The slow, brooding pacing, the silent poetry, the perfectly established tone and rhythm, even the small moments of humour; it’s a narratively godly film. The symbolism is rich but never obtuse, and the emotional impressions created are so intensely human and strong, that despite the sludge and filth, I would be very surprised should someone’s eyes stay dry for the entirety of the runtime. When it comes to Sátántangó on a stylistic level, it is perfect. The craft is flawless. In fact, this is one of the only, if not the only, films where I cannot put my finger on a single craft-related flaw - in seven and a half hours. It’s incredible. The camera is in its own right a sort of omniscient figure, moving of its own freewill, and outside of the constraints of filmic logic. And every single shot is simply incredible. In the inherent slowness, Tarr is able to fully concentrate the underlying metric intensity created by such pacing into creating one-hundred and fifty perfect shots. The absolute grimy majesty is astounding. It’s visual poetry doused in filth. The framing, the lighting, the movements, it’s all perfect.  The camera movement is of great importance in particular. It occurs of its own accord, often being seemingly illogical, but never unmotivated. People might associate this film with realism, but it is inherently poetic. It will track inwards, not to reveal new information, so much as to give an artistic significance to old information. See how the camera moves in on the curtains without any incentive, or how it enters the manor long before the characters do, or how it moves ahead of Irimiás, Petrina and Sanyi when they are walking. The camera is a godly sort of figure, and the subtle lyricism evoked in its movement is a massive factor in the transcendence Sátántangó manages to find. There are also often lateral movements which explore in minute and concentrated detail, the intricacies of a composition. It often tracks the withered faces of a series of characters, analysing their activities with a morbid intimacy. And of course, camera movement is very present during scenes of characters walking. Tarr refuses to compromise during these scenes, capturing the cyclical monotony of both their existence and of the environment’s unrelenting despondency. The most significant moments of this film tend to occur during scenes of characters walking. Tarr generally frames his characters in such a manner so as to give off an impression of vulnerability and lack of control. Distanced shots and frames within frames are very common, but so are close-ups. In fact the camera is often uncomfortably close, exploring all of the vices of life and circumstance with a cruel yet intimate indifference. Observation is the key to the filmmaking here. It comes across as even being slightly playful, always maintaining a certain distance, no matter how close the camera is. Either the characters are shown to be isolated and helplessly trapped within the frame, or they are observed with great proximity, but also indifference, heightening the sense of helpless distance. It might seem redundant to some to talk about Tarr’s editing on account of the fact that it practically doesn’t exist, but editing, in many ways is more about what you hang onto over what you change. The true transcendental nature of this film lies in the editing. It is slow to the point of even irritation - and I say this in the best possible way - but it never treats it’s pace vainly or with any remote pretentiousness. In the relation between the image and the manipulation of time, Tarr creates something indescribably separate from film as a concept, something other-worldly that my words cannot do justice. The individual cuts as well, when applied, are applied with genuine expertise. I’ve always admired Tarr’s editing for the intensity he places on the cut. It’s always very much relative to the sound, and it’s always done with a great degree of confidence. He’ll create these wonderful contrasts by shying away from editing and then putting a sudden emphasis on the cut. In Sátántangó, I would cite the cut from the man banging the bell to the Doctor walking home as one of the best individual cuts of all time, whatever an accolade like that is actually worth. Something I’ve failed to mention yet is the sound. And I’ve mentioned it relative to the editing, and there isn’t a great deal to say except that it too is perfect, but it is the score I’m most keen on mentioning here. I’ve always been of the firm conviction that Mihály Víg (who by the way has a cinema defining performance as Irimiás) is the greatest composer in the history of cinema, even over Morricone. It’s really incredible that he created what I might well call the best score in cinema history, with his primary instrument as an accordion. It’s a godly score, no more need be said. Beyond the despair and the shit and the rain, Sátántangó is one of the most beautiful works of art that has ever been created. And watching it in one sitting is an experience beyond experience. I don’t believe I will ever see a film that feels this sublime again - and by sublime I mean the classical Burke definition. It is visual, narrative, temporal, and aural mastery which I’m not sure will ever be surpassed in my lifetime. I was apprehensive about going all in on this whim when I first watched it, but I can’t avoid it any longer. Sátántangó is the greatest film ever made. I think to end this in the most fitting way possible, I’d like to just list some of my favourite moments from the film. Not necessarily anything massive, but particular intricacies that moved me: - The truck journey, where the camera tracks over the people in the trailer. It reaches Halics at the very back, who is directly facing the rain which lashes down on his face with ungodly ferocity. Halics does not move, or flinch, or squint as his glasses are stained and his face is beaten with rain. - During the dance sequence, every now and then, Mr. Schmidt walks across the shot, balancing a loaf of bread on his forehead. - During the Circle Dance montage, Halics and the Headmaster share a small glance, when the Schoolmaster in the foreground turns and looks at Halics in the background. The Schoolmaster quickly turns away, but Halics maintains his gaze. - When Irimiás tries to talk to Futaki about what job he will do, Futaki remains adamant that he will be a watchmaker, and refuses to talk to Irimiás, only shaking his head, as if he were a child having a tantrum. - During the tango sequence, the camera moves over to show Halics and Mrs. Kráner both chewing on opposite ends of a loaf of bread. Neither of them actually move closer to the other, and they remain forever chewing on their one respective piece, never actually swallowing. - When he returns from the hospital, the Doctor returns home and when he sits back in his chair with his fruit brandy, makes a series of groans and lets out three reserved belches. - When the camera tracks over the characters’ faces during the Circle Dance montage, the first face we see is Mr. Kráner’s. One of his eyes is squinted and the other is wide open, with his mouth ajar. - When Irimiás and Petrina return, and are met by Sanyi, Sanyi explains to them how nothing has changed, and what the state of affairs is like in the village. As he speaks, he is slowly drowned out by the score, as it plays over the scanning of the vast depressing swathes of land. - Futaki, having just been beaten up by Schmidt and Kráner for challenging them when they begin to criticise Irimiás behind his back, has the camera moved from Irimiás who is scolding them for their lack of perseverance, to him, with tears welling in his eyes.  - When the Doctor goes to inspect the man banging the church bell, he holds it for him to make it easier to hit. - During the bell hitting scene, non-diegetic bells begin to ominously mix with it, creating a sort of composition out of the combined sounds. When the camera suddenly cuts to the Doctor walking away, the monotonous noise of the banging bells persists, only ‘the Turks are coming’ can no longer be heard.