In this day and age when the morality of guilt and atonement is popping up allover the place in many guises, I want to talk about good taste for a change.Actually, I never knew what good taste is. It is often said that good taste isnothing more than the opinion of the prevailing fashion, but that answer isnot entirely satisfactory. Bad taste is apparently easier to interpret. Badtaste is close to kitsch and always carries an element of sentimentality.Especially towards Christmas, sentimentality is given free rein in stories andfilms that unexpectedly bring tears to our eyes. Recently I saw a documentaryabout the violinist Yehudi Menuhin (1916-1999) on Netflix. In it he notes that’sentimental songs are often more moving than the suffering of unhappypeople’.
I bring it up because I recently saw two critically acclaimed films that Ifound to be rather tacky and banal. The first movie was Rimini by directorUlrich Seidl. The film is about a run-down schlager singer, who performs inthe Italian seaside resort of Rimini for tourists, most of whom are overagedAustrian women, looking for a break. The story takes place in winter whenalmost all hotels are closed – an intense sadness splashes from it.
To boost his meager fee, the singer also rents out his body for sexual hand-and-hand services, which is not always easy for him, because he has erectionproblems. Quite logically, the women who allow themselves to be satisfied byhim – or what passes for them – are certainly not mother’s prettiest. I thinkit’s a sign of courage that these older actresses – they must have beenamateurs – let themselves be fucked on camera by a fat man who must smell likealcohol.
Ordinary daily life is often ugly and tasteless. Rimini is such a hyper-realistic film, in which everything is deliberately made distasteful. Thatalso happened without a shred of irony, but with a seriousness that you onlyencounter in German-language films. At another dismal lovemaking I tended towalk away, which may be because I’m a bit older myself and I’m no longerdriven by the urge to twirl naked in front of the mirror.
When I finally stood outside, I realized that this really was a film for IschaMeijer (1943-1995). He was very fond of German schlagers, not least because hehad survived the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. Later, as an adult, he onlyreally got going when he could indulge in German singing. Long ago I saw himperform with Olga Zuiderhoek in an adaptation of Jan de Hartog’s play TheCanopy Bed. A half-naked Ischa, which prompted Theo van Gogh, who was sittingin the room, to remark: ‘People sometimes say that the body is the temple ofthe spirit, but with Ischa it’s more of a squat.’
I was not surprised when I read a jubilant article in this newspaper the dayafter my visit to the cinema Rimini by Arnon Grunberg. What you abhor, ofcourse, you find beautiful.
Another movie that turned out to be a disappointment for me was Triangle ofSadness by Swedish director Ruben Östlund. It does indeed start beautifullywith the casting of models and the subsequent argument between a male and afemale model over who will foot the bill for a dinner party. Social equalitydoes not exist, you get it.
But then follows a lesson in social studies that takes place almost atkindergarten level. The drama takes place on a yacht where the super richenjoy themselves. Their lives are empty, because there is not much left toconsume and spend. Almost everything we see is a cliché: the spoiledpassengers, the drunken captain, the hottie dinner as the storm rolls in, thepuking, vomiting, and shitting of seasickness – Monty Python and Wim T.Schippers did better – the shipwreck, the washing up on a desert island andthe reversal of the balance of power there. Soon I was successfully predictingevery subsequent scene. That existence is a war of all against all, as ThomasHobbes said, was drilled into us once again, while quotes about communism andcapitalism flew around our ears.
That the life of the rich is a cliché, which you should therefore represent assuch, does not seem to me a convincing argument. I don’t see Bill Gates onboard there and even a wealthy hobo like Harry Mens must be capable of morethan complaining about the taste of the champagne and the color of the sails.Triangle of Sadness is three times an empty movie.