caché (w&d haneke)

Watching Caché on the big screen reminded me of how important his film was in the development of our film, Censor. No-one really believes us when we reference Haneke, or they think we’re being pretentious, because UK films aren’t supposed to do that kind of thing, but the director’s use of video has echoes in ours, the rewinding of tape, the whirr of the video machine, the hidden messages that may or may not lurk. This is not to compare the films, just to note its influence. After watching Caché, C & I met up with Santiago and Flamia in the Imperial, and Flamia noted that in the first interview I gave him, a decade ago, I referenced the Austrian. I am not sure if that strand has sustained itself in my personal creative process, which seems disappointingly slight when measured against the achievements of Haneke and his ilk. How, one wonders, watching Caché for the umpteenth time, did he get to make this film? Although the answer is that once you have succeeded in convincing the right people of your genius, you can start to control your destiny, (only don’t tell Orson), and make the films you want to make. Caché is remarkable in so many ways. On the one hand, it is a taught psychological thriller. The film sets up a mystery with its opening shot, one that the viewer and the characters will seek to resolve as the film goes on. It’s reminiscent, in this sense, of Bolaño’s love of cheap detective thrillers. Secondly, it is a coruscating slap across the cheeks of the bourgeois literati. Auteuil’s character, Georges, hosts a literature program where guests slag of Rimbaud’s girlfriend. In a lovely little scene, Binoche’s Anne speaks on the phone at a literary soiree whilst a figure who never reappears just barks names in the background: “Baudrillard, Wittgenstein…” The couple’s lives collapse under the stress of an unknown truth. Thirdly, Haneke’s use of the camera is forensic. Just like the camera of whoever is making the videos which upset Auteuil and Binoche’s apple cart, it is an inert, threatening presence, allowing the viewer to analyse the image for clues. The very opening shot, for example, of their home, shows a pretty little house, screened by an unlikely hedge, set against a backdrop of highrises which rear up behind. The house wants to cut itself off from the outside world, turn its back on the poor dwellings that are a stone’s throw away, but the camera doesn’t permit the viewer to forget. Perhaps I am over-reading the image, but the director’s use of the camera invites this kind of engagement from its viewer, compels one to be active, rather than passive. You could easily write a thesis on the detail which is disclosed in each and every shot, so much so that I found myself wondering about the art direction and how much Haneke himself would have participated in this. Lastly, for now, as I could evidently spend hours writing about Caché, but have work to do, the script itself, in spite of what might otherwise have been a languid pacing, is brilliantly constructed, fuelled by the dramatic tension of the mystery. The film contains key narrative beats: the appearance of the tapes themselves, the tape in the door, the disappearance of the son, and of course, its one moment of shocking violence. (The effectiveness of this was apparent in the cinema, as one or two who had clearly never seen the film before cried out in dismay when it occurred.) In this sense, it feels as though Haneke is engaging with a classical script diagnostic, as determined by the gurus and the quacks. His mastery of the rhythm of filmmaking ensures that the viewer remains constantly hooked (to use a word), whilst never permitting him or her to become passive. 

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I note that this is the first film that has been written about twice on this blog. Normally if I see a film for a second time, a rare event, I don’t get round to writing anything, but in this instance, the urge would have appeared to have overtaken me.