“You don’t know me. But I know you. Many people love you for who you are.”
[Editor’s Note: As is always the case, I recommend you view a film before you read its Pitch. I mention that here because—in case you haven’t seen The Lives of Others—I should warn you that suicide features prominently in several plot points. Having said that, I do not focus on those plot points in the post below.]
I first saw The Lives of Others at my friend Matt’s house in Santa Barbara. We started the movie at around 10:00 p.m. By the middle of the second act, I realized I was the only one still awake. Hypnotized, I finished the movie on my own, and then, when Matt and his friends woke up the next day and wanted to finish the movie, I watched it again. I knew right away that it was excellent.
I put The Lives of Others into my Film Lit class as soon as I could. Initially, I paired it with Unforgiven in a unit based on invisible, unbeatable enemies. (As you’ll learn when I pitch Unforgiven, the enemy in that film is one’s past.) It left the course as part of The Great Film Lit Reset; but it is back now, paired with Sound of Metal in a unit based on a theme of fish out of water. (Last semester, I had enough time and ambition to show it as part of a war movie unit, with 1917 and Dr. Strangelove.) (And, yes, I will also pitch 1917 soon.)
“If you think our humane system is capable of something like that, that would be a reason enough to arrest you.”
We should start with our known knowns about Wiesler. We know that he is very good at and very committed to his job. The definitive opening scene establishes that he is a skilled interrogator and a teacher who does not tolerate insubordination. And the bugging of Dreyman’s apartment reveals that he and his crew are ruthlessly efficient, finishing their work on time to the second. And the interaction with Mrs. Meineke tells us that he has done his homework (a lot of it), and knows that threatening to remove her daughter from university is a reliably effective means of coercion.
Even better: he is careful to say as he walks away but within earshot of Mrs. Meineke that he wants to arrange a gift to thank her “for her cooperation.” This tactic—uttering statements of benevolence that hide malevolence—is one we see twice later. The search party that ransacks Dreyman’s apartment offers an opportunity to claim compensation in the “unlikely” event there’s been any damage. More despicably, Hempf tells Christa-Maria in the car that all she has to do to stop him from assaulting her is to say she doesn’t need it. In all cases, the Stasi provide unconvincing cover for their abhorrent acts. But they do manage to convince themselves that they aren’t the bad guys.
And that’s the thing: we also know that Wiesler believes that he’s one of the good guys. He believes in and is committed to achieving socialism’s goals. How committed is he? Well, he’ll stand outside Dreyman’s apartment all day. He’ll sit with the Stasi rank and file because, as he puts it, “Socialism must start somewhere.” He’ll assign himself a job that requires him to stay overnight in a freezing and barren attic. He has given up everything for this job. We get uncomfortable proof of his sacrifice in his pathetic interaction with the prostitute: that he seeks affection and companionship from her tells us that he—by his own choices to commit to his job—is friendless and lonely.
“What is the name of your . . . ball?”
This backdrop makes Wiesler’s enigmatic arc a Film Lit discussion gold mine. He has spent a career developing and perfecting his poker face. We thus are left with loads of known and unknown unknowns about what he is actually thinking and feeling in a given moment. Ulrich Mühe plays Wiesler brilliantly; his countenance and body language betray nearly none of the existential journey Wiesler goes through.
Think about how devastating the lunchroom scene must be for Wiesler. Ever competent and diligent, he has come across and written reports about corruption from high-level Stasi officials. So Wiesler now knows that his good-faith mission got approval only because his target was a key player in a love triangle. It seems clear that he wants, at the very least, some punishment for Hempf. And what does Grubitz tell him to do? Keep it quiet: we might be able to use this situation to our advantage. Wiesler’s question is so sincere: “Is that why we joined?”
And that’s what makes his expressions throughout the rest of the scene so fascinating. He plays it so cool while Grubitz terrifies poor Axel Stigler. It’s a fun exercise to ask the following: “What is going through Wiesler’s head in that scene?” Seriously: does he want Stigler punished for his light—and, if I may, well-constructed—joke?
The next scene I discuss with students is his reaction to the news of Jerska’s suicide. As Dreyman plays “Sonata for a Good Man,” the camera pans; and, though Wiesler’s expression does not give away much, we see a classic single tear run down his right cheek. Wiesler signed up to defend socialism from its enemies; he did not want to be a part of a regime that led someone to suicide. He now knows: I work for the bad guys.
[Editor’s note: in class, I mention that it’s a situation reminiscent of the one Sully finds himself in near the end of Monsters, Inc. Mr. Waternoose has cornered Sully into showing the trainees what real scaring looks like. And Sully delivers—all too well. He scares the hell out of Boo, and then, as he’s trying to calm her down, he sees himself in the video screen, and, perhaps for the first time, considers the full scope and consequences of what he does for a living. And he doesn’t like it. He has spent his life believing that he was doing good work; and now there’s no avoiding the fact that he traumatizes children. It’s really a wonderful scene.]
That realization is one of two that makes Weisler’s elevator interaction so poignant. Before he can stop himself, Weisler begins interrogating the naive boy about his father. Almost immediately, he understands how unethical and unhelpful this line of inquiry is. (Seriously, Wiesler must be thinking, am I going to put a man in prison simply because he told his son that the Stasi are bad men who put people in prison? Wouldn’t that make me a bad man who puts people in prison?) But then Wiesler realizes that he cannot help pursuing a lead if he gets it; his loyalty to the party is so inherent to who he is that he cannot be trusted with the father’s name. And so he awkwardly changes the subject.
[Editor’s note: In discussing Weisler’s dilemma in this scene, I tell the class the fable of the snake at the riverbank. In this version of a classic fable arc, a snake asks a boy for help crossing the river. The boy is initially reluctant, reasoning that the snake will bite him; but the snake assures the boy that no harm will come to him. The boy agrees, and takes the snake across the river, at which point, the snake bites the boy. Aghast (and fatally wounded), the boy asks the snake why it bit him. Well, the snake argued, I’m just a snake, and snakes bite people. And you knew I was a snake when you picked me up.]
Wiesler’s struggles as a self-aware and well-meaning snake drive most of Act II. Think about his interaction with Christa-Maria in the bar. In his effort to keep her from seeing Hempf, he really does mean well. And he is careful to avoid lying to her. But there’s still something a little sticky about what he does, isn’t there? I mean, wouldn’t the truly noble thing be to tell her the full truth, instead of speaking in carefully chosen half-truths? In addition, he knows the dangers of crossing high-ranking Stasi officials as well as anyone; he certainly hasn’t done it yet. So, isn’t it at least a little problematic that he’s asking her to put herself in harm’s way?
The point here is not to fault Wiesler for his effort. It’s to say that this is likely his first effort at doing anything not in full compliance with the party’s wishes. And he’s not quite that good at doing good yet. And breaking free of the Stasi influence isn’t simple or easy—for anyone.
The reverse-sting sequence puts Wiesler’s struggles into clear relief. As he allows—or thinks he allows—Paul to cross the border, he utters, “Just this once, my friend.” I believe he means that. And I believe that Wiesler also means it when, reacting to Dreyman’s response to the supposed Stasi intelligence failure—unknowingly shouting in Wiesler’s ears that he thinks Wiesler and his team are “incompetent,” and “idiots”—he says, “Just you wait.” That night’s written report is fiction, but part of Wiesler is still intent on sending Dreyman and his friends to jail.
And then there’s poor Sergeant Leye, the diligent bumbler who inadvertently steps very close to Wiesler’s hornet’s nest. When Wiesler takes the headphones from Leye, he makes a mistake: he says, “That’s Hauser.” His surprise that Hauser is not in the West, of course, leads to the obvious conclusion that Wiesler knows more than what is in his written report. It is not clear that Leye draws that conclusion, but Wiesler doesn’t take chances. After a stumbling recovery, Wiesler gathers himself and tricks Leye into admitting that he does a lot of thinking. Wiesler then implies that if Leye continues to ask questions about Wiesler’s work, Wiesler can arrange to have Leye imprisoned—that’s the vague implication of Wiesler semi-accusing Leye of being an “intellectual.” This message is one Leye receives, and he walks out, no more questions asked.
And yet Wiesler is still willing to end his protection of Dreyman. In this instance, all it takes is the champagne cork hitting the microphone and causing feedback to reverberate in Wiesler’s ears. He types furiously, storms into Grubitz’ office, and is dead-set on submitting a final report that will condemn—at the very least—Dreyman to prison.
And then we have another classic Film Lit discussion moment. As Grubitz explains the thesis of his students’ dissertation to Wiesler, Wiesler rolls up the report, and decides that he will protect Dreyman to the end. What I love about the scene is that it’s not clear what exactly changes his mind.
“Don’t forget your audience.”
Weisler’s subtly portrayed existential crisis sets up one of my favorite scenes ever, Christa-Maria’s interrogation.
It opens with the film’s best shot. Grubitz semi-sarcastically asks Wiesler, “Are you sure you’re still on the right side?” The camera then pans from Grubitz to Wiesler. Importantly, Grubitz and Wiesler are never in the frame at the same time. That Grubitz appears twice during the pan—once when it begins, and again when we see his reflection in the mirror—highlights this dynamic. As I tell Film Lit students early and over and over in the semester, one of the most valuable cinematography principles to learn is “same shot, same team.” In this case, there is a clear effort to keep Wiesler and Grubitz out of the same shot—to let us know definitively that they are not on the same team.
Wiesler responds directly and truthfully to Grubitz’ question: “Yes.” Of course, it matters that he and Grubitz now have different definitions of what being on the “ride side” means. But once again, Wiesler—hyper-aware of his listener’s expectations—chooses a response that allows him to say two things at once. (My favorite example of this pattern, of course, is the film’s walk-off line.)
Wiesler is trying to thread some very fine needles in this interrogation. He must convince Grubitz and anyone in the Stasi that he is the objective and cold-blooded interrogator they all know. But he must also convince Christa-Maria that he is on her side.
Thus, he turns around slowly, as if to give Christa-Maria a chance to discern his identity slowly, as if that will increase her chances of reacting calmly. And then, he says it: “Don’t forget your audience.”
Think of all the subtext there! To Grubitz, Wiesler is referring only to the theater audience, the people who want to see Christa-Maria back on stage. But Wiesler is also saying, “Hey, Christa-Maria. Don’t forget that we have to play it cool, here. Other people are watching and listening, and if this goes south, we both lose—big.” (I’m paraphrasing.) And he is also saying, “Yes. I am your audience. You remember me. And you remember when I said I was your audience before, in the bar. And so you also know that I know a lot about you. And if I wanted to truly hurt you, I could. But I’m on your side. Please, please trust me.” (Again, I’m paraphrasing.)
Wiesler’s little nod there at the end betrays how desperate he is for her to know that he will do everything he can to help and protect her. Tragically, of course, despite his best efforts in exceedingly difficult conditions, he is unable to convey all of his messages effectively to Christa-Maria.
“No. It’s for me.”
Seriously, that’s one of the best last lines ever.
(Get it? Because he means he’s buying it for himself. AND he means, but is not understood to mean, that the book was written for him. AND it ends the film with another example of him saying two things at once.)
See you on October 25th, when we discuss The Social Network (2010).