The Fifth Seal (1976)

Ever heard one of those 'X walks into a bar' jokes? Hungarian filmmaker Zoltán Fábri's "The Fifth Seal" (1976) certainly reminded of one, for it begins with such a premise. However, the film and the subject it tackles are hardly a laughing matter, despite an occasional garnishing of some wry humour, sometimes extending to full blown hilarity. Fábri's film exposes an inherently disturbing truth about all of us by throwing a variant of a "What would you do?" type of question, one that will have you struggling for an answer, much like the baffled characters in this powerful film.

It is a war-torn environment in 1940s Hungary and an unnamed fascist regime is gradually taking control of the country. Five men of different occupations sit across a table in a local bar, drinking and conversing about several things. Despite the violent atmosphere outside, the men try to make merry and have a good time but a lot of their conversation, not surprisingly, revolves around the tense state of affairs and the shape of things to come. Amid fears of air-raid warnings, the men engage in interesting discussions that focus on the very foundations of war and dictatorship, stemming from differing ideologies and from an individual point of view.

In such a scenario, one of the men, Gyuricza Miklós (Lajos Öze), (curiously referred to as Mr. Auricular in the English translated subtitles) asks a hypothetical question, strictly from an individual perspective, that shatters everyone's composure, rattles their ethical beliefs, and puts them in a tough spot. The answer is seemingly simple, but they slowly realize, that like life itself, there are no easy answers to everything.

"The Fifth Seal" plays out like a claustrophobic chamber piece, with the action mostly confined to the dimly lit bar, barring a couple of very important sequences during which it shifts elsewhere. With the way the men assertively engage in argumentative dialog, one is instantly reminded of Sidney Lumet's 1957 masterpiece, "12 Angry Men". The prevailing atmosphere of violence and dread is never shown on screen and merely suggested most effectively by way of sounds of carnage outside, leaving the visuals to our imagination, a device often used by Hitchcock.

The exchange between the characters is extremely thought-provoking, compelling the viewer to look at life from diverse lenses, making their reactions wholly relatable. The conversations and subsequent situations may seem slightly contrived to push the narrative arc forward or make specific points, but they accurately reflect the helplessness and the real struggles faced by the common man in the face of an oppressive regime with their very humanity put to the test.

Pertinent questions regarding morality and conscience are raised and weighed against pragmatism and the need to survive, maybe not for the self, but for some others who they may be responsible for. The discussion points put forth are essentially from the perspective of both, the ruler and the ruled, the oppressor and the oppressed, their respective roles as members of a society, contrasted against their roles as altruistic human beings looking for salvation.

Fábri's film is a complex one, however, and doesn't keep things limited to this debate. It covers other ground related to the thematic core, and explores down to the specifics, given these characters' family backgrounds and individualities. With unanticipated twists and turns in the narrative, viewer expectation and the ability to judge is constantly toyed with, and the distinction between right and wrong is further blurred, almost obliterating the absolute nature of it, and providing a very convincing angle of subjective morality.

We are given a brief look at the individual lives of these characters, thereby making us think again and at times take back our initial opinions about some of them. Most noteworthy are the stories of Mr. Kovacs (Sándor Horváth) and Gyuricza himself. The part in which Kovacs loses sleep over the seed planted by Gyuricza's query and keeps harping about it, plays out to hilarious effect, reminding of Ruben Östlund's excellent "Force Majeure" (2014). However, his final decision, while it seems to belie expectations on the surface, doesn't seem all that far-fetched. The most intriguing story is that of Gyuricza, however. A close look at his life makes us exonerate him, despite his most cynical attitude, and seemingly unsavoury decisions in some trying moments further in the film.

Simple examples are provided to explain in a very cogent manner, as to how wars really start, and at some point the ability to reason is lost and proving oneself right becomes the sole purpose of any conflict. One of the highlights in "The Fifth Seal" is the shocking but very enlightening conversation between one of the Fascist officers and a mysterious individual (Zoltán Latinovits), dressed in civilian attire, who appears to be his leader and mentor. His chilling words dwell on the very backbone of autocracy, and a key to mass psychological manipulation that helps a fascist regime thrive and flourish. Crushing a man's spirit and taking away his self respect is enough to crush a whole society.

"The Fifth Seal" is a well-acted, expertly directed masterpiece of Hungarian cinema, a fascinating film that hits hard and leaves us with plenty to think about.

Score: 10/10

Mephisto (1981)

Life imitates art with a cruelly ironic twist of fate for a small-time German theater actor during the rise of the Nazi party in pre-WWII Germany. 

István Szabó's Oscar winning "Mephisto" (1981), adapted from the Klaus Mann novel is a delicious twist on the Deal with the Devil motif. Born to play the character of Mephisto in a stage adaptation of the legend of Faust, Hendrik Hoefgen (Klaus Maria Brandauer) is an immensely talented and ambitious Hamburg actor. As pure evil (in the form of Nazi dictatorship) spreads its dark wings and descends upon them, Hoefgen finds out the hard way, that his performance of a lifetime would end up being that of a weak, Faust-like puppet in the hands of a higher Mephisto, the ruling Nazi General (Rolf Hoppe). As the General dictates Hoefgen's every move, he tempts him into giving up his very conscience in return for a respectable position and unprecedented success. Individual freedom, thought and morality be damned, as long as stardom and social standing is guaranteed.

But in hindsight, what Hoefgen does is very human. As his wife leaves him to flee the country, and some friends and colleagues join the resistance, fearing for the future of theater and arts, Hoefgen sticks to his guns, more out of fear and a strictly apolitical stance. He always maintains that it's none of his business who comes into power, as long as he gets to pursue his first love, that is acting. It dawns upon him rather late, but he anticipates it anyway, that he may find himself at the juncture where he may have to choose between success and freedom. In the Nazi rule, an end to freedom means an end to everything. When one loses their right to speak out against what seems morally wrong to the sane mind, when one has to forego their conscience and be a mute spectator as their friends are taken away to be bumped off for only raising a finger in protest, isn't it indeed, but an act of selling one's soul?

By his own admittance, Hoefgen is weak, as also pointed out by the General during their first meet. "It seems the secret of acting is to portray strength, yet one is weak", he remarks and laughs cheekily while commenting on Hoefgen's rather limp handshake and an undeniable kindness in the eyes of the man wearing the mask of Mephisto. Despite this, he makes his best efforts to save his friends of leftist tendencies and others, including the half German - half African girlfriend from being targeted for being racially impure. 

Acting is a central motif of "Mephisto" and its context and significance observes a shift through the film and through Hoefgen's gradual descent into hell. On a literal level, Hoefgen is this passionate actor, who regards his talent and art above everything else. It is interesting how his own viewpoint about his profession sees a marked change, from the beginning of the film, when at one point he asks "Do you know what it means to be an actor?" to a quote later (mentioned at the end of the review) in which it seems that he deems it a mere trifle in a drastic change of context.

"An actor is a mask", Hoefgen says. Sure enough, acting entails masking one's real self. In Szabó's film, acting also becomes a metaphor for conforming. With the Nazi party and its oppressive regime coming into power, individual thought and freedom is suppressed. Becoming a party to and complying with their authoritarian ways becomes the new role taken on by an individual, although not by their own accord. And this is where Hoefgen occupies the very center of the conflict between an individual and his/her actor counterpart, for Hoefgen is that passion-driven man who favours the actor in him more than anything else.

Acting is in his blood, and so when it comes to compliance, in return for success, it's merely a way of life for him; a transition, yes, but to a higher stature in the same profession, although it comes as a product of some degree of fear and the inability to uproot himself from his motherland. Aside from being a symbolic core of the story, Hoefgen is literally put in the center of two circles in two haunting scenes, one being a sort of Devils's dance, with a few guys wearing the masks of Mephisto encircling and dancing around him; and the other visually brilliant sequence, in which he is almost blinded by spotlights flashed from all sides, manoeuvring him like giant puppet strings.

Szabó balances the heavy thematic content of the film with an immaculately constructed screenplay that is quite detailed, but never skips a beat. A sense of foreboding and impending terror gradually makes its presence felt as the carefree mood of the beginning starts to dissolve into an air of fear and doom, and hints are sprinkled that the Nazis may come to power, threatening to change things for the worse. There are awfully bad things happening, but they are merely suggested and any instances of war-related or political atrocities are mostly kept off screen and out of the scope of the film, and yet the impact is never diluted. There is no room for any exaggerated melodrama and not a single wrong or awkward note is ever struck.

The theatrics are reserved only for the great Klaus Maria Brandauer, who delivers a heartfelt, electric performance to trump all performances. He showcases an amazing range, from going way over the top in his theater histrionics to shedding that silent, contemplative tear once in a while for a friend who may have lost his life for standing up against an autocratic system. Klaus takes on dual roles of Mephisto and Faust at the same time, an all-powerful actor, admired and sought after in the social circles for his titular role and also the meek pawn that is Faust, exalted or derided at the whim of his employer. And what a devilish employer too, with that cherubic face and yet an unmistakable malice evident from behind that sweet smile, a part played to perfection by Rolf Hoppe.

With immaculate casting and flawless writing and direction, this "Mephisto" (1981) casts a captivating spell 'til the credits start rolling. It has that rare ability to make us root for a very flawed hero, without itself taking any sides. And hence, we find ourselves simply nodding in agreement when Hoefgen breaks the fourth wall and exclaims, "What do they want of me? After all, I am only an actor!"

Score: 10/10

Bizalom (Confidence) (1980)

War is capable of bringing out the worst in man. The sheer unpredictability and instability of the life of any human being affected by a war environment leads to a situation where decisions are strictly a product of the need for self preservation. There are times when selfishness overrides altruism, and while it is natural instinct to save one's own skin in a harrowing scenario in which a sense of security is the thing of the past and one has to always look over their shoulder, there is no escaping the fact that man will still need man. Companionship, love, bonding, trust, security, are things that every living person will always strive for, regardless of circumstance.

Hungarian filmmaker István Szabó's "Bizalom" (AKA Confidence) (1980) is a shining example that depicts a few days in the life of Kata (Ildikó Bánsági), the wife of a member of the resistance during WWII in Nazi-occupied Budapest. Kata is caught unawares, as she finds her life suddenly in turmoil when her husband is forced to go underground, and she is impelled to go into hiding herself, by having to pose as the wife of another resistance member on the run, who goes by the alias of János (Péter Andorai).

In such a scenario, both are expected to cohabit as a wedded pair in an apartment belonging to an older couple who also cannot know their true identities. The faux young couple are supposed to have a daughter who is somewhere safe! They cannot talk to anyone unless necessary, nor can they give out more information than is needed. Even fabrication is not allowed. It is imperative to keep any communication minimal and just stick to maintaining their fake identities. Any memorabilia of the past including photographs and letters should be burned and flushed down the toilet, for no risk of any kind is to be taken. Anything connecting them to their true pasts could be used against them by the Gestapo and hence is a strict no-no.

János seems to have mastered the art of such an existence and he is reduced to a non-human with some very human feelings of fear, mistrust and cynicism! He cannot trust Kata, who is quite the opposite, very fragile and completely new to this kind of chaos and finds it difficult to come to terms with the fact that she may not even hear from her husband or know the whereabouts of her real daughter at all in the unstable environment that is the result of war. She quickly gets very frustrated with the kind of calculated existence János orders her to lead in order to ensure their safety, but he makes it very clear that if she poses any kind of threat to his security then he would have to kill her and hence it is essential that she follows protocol!

Of course, how long can one lead a robotic and measured existence, especially when they are two lost souls desperately in need of human warmth? Not surprisingly, whilst living together, a bonding occurs between the two, love makes its presence felt and trumps the initial apprehensions. It wouldn't be wrong to say that this love stems from the fact that both are sailing in the same ship which could very well be sinking. At one point, when the Gestapo raid the neighbourhood looking for someone, both are traumatized; admitting to each other that it is only natural to be afraid, but at least they have each other to be keep company in this fearsome moment. It is a poignant and crucial scene that stresses upon the inherent need of man to have a hand to hold on to in times of distress.

But paranoia and doubt keep raising their ugly heads along with moral fits of guilt, even after tender lovemaking. It is here that Szabó's film asks a pertinent question. Is it morally wrong to be attracted to and find love with another person who may be the only one you can trust, the only one around as your support system, when your future is uncertain and you may never see your family again? After all, your existence as you know it may have to meet its sad end and you may never live to see the end of the war. The guilt is accompanied by János's constant suspicion and disbelief that it all seems too good to be true and Kata could very well be mixed up with the Gestapo.

Both, Kata and János are forced to come face to face with their beliefs and prejudices as they stand at the crossroad at which their loyalties will be put to the test. Both are experiencing what they call is true love, perhaps greater than they ever experienced with their spouses. Could it be that a dire situation makes one recognize true love? More so in case of Kata, whose husband withholds a lot of information from her, including his whereabouts, whereas János seems to be showing growing concern about her safety and well-being. A deluge of conflicting feelings is accurately portrayed by Szabó in intermittent soliloquies of the two central characters who can't seem to achieve any mental peace regarding which direction their thoughts would eventually lean towards.

This is especially true of János, who is wary of trusting even a passerby who he may have bumped into more than once! The tumultuous state of mind of Kata on the other hand is reflected through some bizarre nightmares that end with her waking up screaming and sweating all over. To add to her troubles is the added guilt of not being in a position to help an old school mate of hers who seeks her help but who Kata pretends to not recognize, owing to instructions from János! It is one powerful scene that shows the helpless Ildikó Kishonti sobbing as she accuses Kata of being a coward who won't help others, curses her and walks out.

The terrifying times of hand to mouth existence are depicted via disturbing scenes of people lining up for meager rations and water. The whole environment looks dreary, and the bleak, faded cinematography accentuates such a mood. The proceedings are tense, and never let up, despite a minimalistic setting. This includes, especially, the scenes in the dimly lit room occupied by the couple.

The uncomfortable, suffocating closeups render a claustrophobic air that is apt in a story that focuses on individuals cowering in fear and hiding away. The extraordinarily realistic performances of the two leads Ildikó Bánsági and Péter Andorai makes the predicament of the central characters all the more believable and their warm moment together amid the sounds of explosions outside, sends shivers down the spine along with invoking a feeling of immense sadness.

As the war threatens to come to an end and the feeling sets in that one of the outcomes of this could be a resumption of their old lives, the viewer empathizes with Kata as she painfully declares that she is awfully sad about the possibility of parting ways with János and although they were actually hiding out in there, she feels like a pleasant holiday is nearing its end. Sure enough, us audiences who by now feel at one with the lead pair are left with a bittersweet feeling at the prospect of a happy ending that technically would be them reuniting with their respective families!


Score: 10/10 


EDIT:

My personal, renewed take on the ending of "Bizalom" after a recent rewatch:


**** SPOILERS FOLLOW****

In the final few minutes of the film, we see Katalin being interviewed by some government officials. It seems that in the wake of the end of the Nazi occupation, with her old papers destroyed, Katalin is looking at securing or reclaiming her original identity, free from the baggage of her underground life.

The officials ask if they want her to make new papers for "both", which makes it ambiguous as to who they are referring to. It is safe to assume they mean her real husband because her confession starts with the sad story of what happened to her and her husband. She, however, simply replies: "Just for myself", indicating that she isn't concerned with getting papers for anyone else, neither Janos, nor her husband.

She no longer loves her husband and hence doesn't care about him or about making his papers. Also, he had disappointed her by not making her aware of his role as a resistance member. As for Janos, he suddenly announces, "They have come for me", and leaves her without any real confirmation as to when they would see each other again. "I can't come back. You will hear from me in a few days", he says. This departure, clubbed with a feeling that, Janos' love for her was never his priority, she has perhaps given up any real hopes of seeing him soon.

Despite Katalin's disregard for both men whilst making these papers, somewhere within, it is Janos she yearns for, and wishes to see him again. And so when her husband comes back for her in the end, there's a tearful expression of great disappointment and sadness instead of profound happiness. Now that the worst was over, there was no way her husband would go underground again. But Katalin's underground situation has changed her forever.

Katalin's tragedy is that despite wanting to make a fresh start, she has no evidence to reclaim her own identity, and no desire to reclaim her old life with her husband. What’s worse is, she had even refused to recognize that old classmate in an earlier scene, who she almost bumps into in the end, but is probably too ashamed to reach out to now. That, or perhaps, also an apprehension that this friend might take her revenge this time by NOT recognizing her, and further weakening her case! The husband's return perhaps means that she may be able to secure her original ID after all, at the cost of having to resume her life with him, something she no longer looks forward to.

And yet it is all very open ended, for Janos indeed does come back for Katalin, calling out her name. The placement of this scene makes it seem like this scene plays out in Katalin's head. We are given a glimpse of what she is imagining whilst tearfully hugging her husband. The hug happens, the tears roll down, and then Katalin's visage slightly changes in a way that expresses a sudden dreadful realization. Then we cut to the scene in which Janos is calling out, "Mrs. Janos Biro..where are you?"! Since her heart lies with Janos, the reunion with her husband that has marred any prospect of her getting back with Janos, makes her mind drift and anxiously think, "What if Janos is out there now, looking for me?"

Or he may indeed have returned, although it would be much of a coincidence that the husband and Janos both return at the same time, and it looks like these events don't seem to be temporally far apart. In case he has returned for real, then perhaps, he will visit the old couples' house again and find out that Katalin has reunited with her husband, and walk away. Or perhaps, he would only find the old woman there, who would tell him that she left with her "brother", in which case, he would continue to seek her out.