North American New Right 2

by Greg Johnson

  In the role of Äls, Söderbaum is pleasingly plump and exudes joie de vivre. We soon discover, however, that all is not as it seems. In a meeting with her physician, Dr. Terboven (referred to throughout the film by the now antiquated title Sanitätsrat) we discover that Äls is slowly dying from some unnamed, tropical blood disease. This “mysterious illness” is a common feature of older films, later dubbed by critic Roger Ebert “Ali MacGraw’s Disease” (referring to her role in Love Story). Ebert defined it as “Movie illness in which the only symptom is that the sufferer grows more beautiful as death approaches” (which is certainly true of Söderbaum’s character).

  Terboven advises Äls against any sort of strenuous physical activity at all, including riding. She responds with a remarkable speech, delivered by Söderbaum with great emotion:

  I want to live. I don’t want to linger. I don’t want to think all the time whether I may do this or that. I’d rather live a shorter time. What does it matter if one dies at 25 or 26? I want to get something out of those 25 years! I’ve seen it for years in my mother. Taking one medicine after another, always sparing herself. Leaving one sanatorium for the next, artificially prolonging her life. And all she got out of it was prolonged suffering.

  She tells Terboven how she herself shot her favorite dog when he became too old and infirm to enjoy his life, because the gardener couldn’t summon the nerve to do the deed himself.

  It appears that aside from her dogs, Äls is all alone in the world. But that is only because she has contrived things so as to give that impression. In fact, Äls has a baby daughter named Susanne, who lives in another part of Hamburg with Äls’s elderly nurse, Gitta. (The nurse, incidentally, is played by Frida Richard, who portrayed “the maid of the runes” in Lang’s Siegfried, and the Friend’s mother in Fanck’s Holy Mountain.) It is implied that the child is illegitimate. No one in Äls’s neighborhood is aware of her existence, certainly not the Frobens.

  In a series of sequences, we see Albrecht and Äls riding together, as the bond between them grows stronger. In one especially effective scene (and one which, reportedly, particularly moved Goebbels), Albrecht and Äls rest for a time near a lighthouse, waiting out a spring shower. A rainbow appears in the sky.

  “Do you see the rainbow?” Äls asks him. “The bridge which swings over [the sky]. Who knows who’ll have to cross it soon?” She tells him how the birds fly into the lighthouse thinking it’s the sun. Sometimes whole flocks are killed. “One is always close to death, and it’s a good thing if you smile at him from time to time,” she says. “And if you tell him, please, my friend, you’ll come when I can’t go on any further.” The entire scene (the entire film, in fact) simply reeks of death—but approached with a kind of wise and bittersweet quality.

  In what is probably the most extraordinary sequence in the film, we now see Äls transformed into a Valkyrie. First, we see her in her back garden, wearing a long, bright-red gown and expertly firing arrows at a target. Albrecht and Octavia applaud her from the house next door. But that’s nothing, she tells them: archery is much more difficult when practiced from horseback. And then we see her in a skimpier costume, riding her horse down the beach and firing arrows into the bull’s eye of a target planted in the sand. This time only Albrecht watches her. “Bravo!” he cries.

  But when Äls leads her horse out into the rough water Albrecht grows concerned. “It gets very deep all of a sudden!” he calls out. “Do you believe that my horse cannot swim?” Äls cries over the sound of the waves. And then, remarkably, the horse does begin to swim, carrying the plump Söderbaum on its back. It swims around and then back to the shore, trotting up onto the beach.

  Composer Borgmann’s musical accompaniment for this scene is as strange and moving as the scene itself. A chorus wails a variation on the film’s dignified and funereal main theme. Hans Otto Borgmann composed a number of scores for Third Reich films, perhaps the most notorious being the 1934 propaganda film Hitlerjunge Quex. Borgmann wrote the music for the famous Hitler Youth song that begins “Uns’re Fahne flattert uns voran . . .” (Actually, Borgmann had composed the melody several years earlier, for another project. The lyrics to the song were provided by Baldur von Schirach himself.)

  It is difficult for me to know how to begin to describe Borgmann’s music for Opfergang. It is an extremely effective score, which creates an unusual and rather disturbing mood. It perfectly expresses, in musical terms, the film’s heroic celebration of death and sacrifice. The best comment on the music I have encountered comes from an anonymous reviewer of the film on the Internet Movie Database. Unlike the other reviewers who, surprisingly, rhapsodize about the film (despite its origins), this one was deeply disturbed by it, and he comments “The music wants to pull you over to the other side.” This is quite an accurate description.

  To return to our story, Äls eventually confesses her love for Albrecht—to her horse (while again wearing top hat and tails). Meanwhile, cousin Matthias confronts Albrecht with his suspicions. Matthias’s love for Octavia is rather obvious, and, predictably, he objects to Albrecht’s friendship with Äls on the grounds that Octavia might be hurt. Earlier in the film, Albrecht had presented Matthias with a present from his travels: an eleven-faced Kwannon, the Buddhist goddess of mercy, “a princess who knew how to defend her virtue against all attacks.” Albrecht had packed the Kwannon in a suitcase along with a kimono, which he intended to present to some future conquest. The Kwannon represents the virtuous Octavia, and the kimono represents the rather-more-earthy Äls. Matthias now tells Albrecht, sensibly: “One can pack both a Kwannon and a kimono in a suitcase, but not into a life.”

  Albrecht is somewhat disingenuous about his feelings for Äls, though he honestly protests that their relationship is not a physical one (at this point they have not even kissed). It is apparent that while Albrecht loves Octavia, he does not desire her like he does Äls. Octavia leaves him cold, something which Matthias finds completely inexplicable. Exasperated, Albrecht exclaims wearily “Octavia is heavenly, and Äls . . .”

  “. . . is earthly,” Matthias volunteers.

  “Yes. But you don’t have to give up heaven just because you love the earth,” Albrecht pleads.

  Matthias is not convinced by this, however, and having failed to make any headway with Albrecht, he calls on Äls to warn her about the relationship. It seems an awfully inappropriate thing to do, and at this point the audience’s feelings about Matthias begin to shift. In the scene in which he confronts Äls he is stiff and moralistic. When Äls declines to give Albrecht up, Matthias jumps to his feet (almost clicking his heels on the way) and says, “So it’s war.”

  It is apparent that he is motivated by more than just concern for Octavia. He has suffered for a long time from unrequited love and is now alone at middle age. His indignation at Albrecht’s love affair is clearly born of envy, and resentment. In understanding Matthias we would do well to return to Nietzsche, who, as we have seen, figures in a significant way in one of the film’s early, pivotal scenes. Matthias has come to represent the ressentiment of slave morality. (Indeed, we will see that Nietzsche continues to figure as the inspiration for much in this film.)

  Albrecht has gotten himself into an awful bind. He loves both women, though clearly he is more drawn to Äls. However, he cannot even conceive of giving up the beautiful and virtuous Octavia. Albrecht has no idea what to do, so he does exactly what many other men would: he runs. He quickly marries Octavia and moves with her to Düsseldorf. There follows a splendid sequence in a Fasching ball, the German Mardi Gras. Everyone is masked, and they take turns zooming down a slide that emerges from the mouth of a giant, ghastly clown. Octavia’s mask is gold, simple and featureless. Wearing it, she looks like a goddess. Octavia and Albrecht seem like quite the happy couple now. But then two masked women appear, wearing riding costumes similar to Äls’s. Albrecht is immediately drawn to them, thinking that one of them might be her, but it soon becomes obvious that he is mistaken. As this sequence plays o
ut, Harlan simultaneously shows us Äls writing to Albrecht, giving him up to Octavia.

  It is at this point in the film, in fact, that Octavia becomes a much more interesting character. She is a deeply serious young woman: introspective, dignified, and reserved. It is apparent that she is well-aware of Albrecht’s feelings for Äls, but that this does not diminish her love for him. Indeed, she shows no sign of jealousy at all. At one point, she learns to her horror that she has won a prize for the “best mask” of the ball. Octavia is carried off by the jubilant crowd, but she is deeply embarrassed by this unwanted attention. Her only reaction is to scream and protest. Later, back at home with Albrecht, she regrets her inability to relax and enjoy the moment. In fact, she seems puzzled by her inability to do so, and worries that she has somehow failed him.

  After this event, Albrecht and Octavia decide to move back to the house in Hamburg, which Octavia’s father has offered them for the spring. When they arrive, Albrecht discovers that Äls is still living next door. He tells Octavia he had thought she had moved away (recall that she was described earlier as a “migrating bird”). We are not sure, of course, whether he is being sincere. Indeed, it seems fairly certain that he had at least hoped that he would find Äls again. Thoughtful as ever, Octavia sends her some orchids.

  Albrecht’s platonic “affair” with Äls soon starts anew. Watching from her bedroom window, Äls sees Albrecht on horseback, trotting up to her gate and saluting with his riding crop. Later, he almost kisses her in the stable—but Äls stops him. Finally, she chooses to give voice to what had hitherto been entirely unspoken. “We love each other, my friend,” she says, “and it will be terrible.” In a later scene, they finally do kiss, and Äls says, “To die like this. That would be the happiest death. When I’m dead, I want my ashes scattered in the sea.” Opfergang is a film that manages to make death beautiful and romantic.

  Realizing that he cannot confide in Matthias, Albrecht turns, surprisingly, to Octavia. His love for Äls is now openly acknowledged between them, as is his guilt over loving another woman. But Octavia will have none of this. Smiling benevolently, she embraces him and says “It cannot be all bad. Because it gives you a strength [Kraft] and a joy [Freude] which I have never seen in you before. Am I supposed to love you less because of that?”

  Albrecht is overcome by emotion on hearing her say this. He kisses her hands, and utters the film’s most remarkable line: “Octavia, das ist so . . . so übermenschlich” (“Octavia that’s so . . . so superhuman”).

  So here we have Albrecht, ironically, using the language of Nietzsche—whom he had angrily rejected at the beginning of the film. He has found a perfect word to describe Octavia. But the trouble is that he does not really want an übermenschlich woman, at least not yet. No sooner has he said this than Äls appears next door, in the yard with her dogs. Albrecht stares at her, transfixed. And now Octavia becomes indignant. For all her extraordinary nobility she is still, in fact, human, all too human.

  Äls exits through her front gate and onto the street, walking someplace with a determined stride. Unknown to Äls, Octavia follows her, always remaining at a discrete distance. Block after block, she follows Äls—becoming, it seems, more and more distraught. It is a strange, atmospheric sequence. Matthias suddenly appears in his convertible and immediately realizes that something is wrong. “I had a feeling you might need me. That’s why I came,” he says, evidently hoping to swoop in and claim Octavia from the faithless Albrecht.

  Together they follow Äls. At a certain point, Äls passes some men who turn around to gaze at her admiringly. “Look at this,” Octavia says, “the way men look after her. Nobody ever looks after me on the street. Even though everyone tells me I’m beautiful. . . . What’s the secret? She’s like a magnet.”

  “Octavia, you should be glad that nobody looks after you on the street,” says the bloodless Matthias. “You’re such a pure person.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Octavia replies without looking at him. “She’s one too. She’s just more powerful than I am.”

  They follow Äls to the Dovenfleet area of Hamburg. As she approaches a house, Susanne, the child seen earlier, rushes out to meet Äls, and they embrace. Octavia and Matthias are stunned.

  It turns out, however, that Susanne is not as safe as she seems. Äls learns some days later that an epidemic of typhus has broken out in the harbor area of town. The newspaper mentions Dovenfleet. Äls, however, has grown much worse and is now too weak to get out of bed. She writes to Albrecht and asks him to go and rescue the child. “I’ll wait for you by the window at 6 o’clock, till you come. And when you ride by I’ll know she has been saved.”

  Albrecht dutifully rescues little Susanne. He cuddles and kisses her in the cab as if she were his own daughter (while the little actress screams and cries). There follows a scene in which the child undergoes a medical exam, which is unusual by American standards in that the child is completely naked. (Films from the Hitler period feature a surprising amount of nudity: in Harlan’s very effective 1938 mystery Verwehte Spuren, some bare breasts are prominently on display in one parade scene.) The determination is that the child is perfectly healthy and that there is no danger of typhus. Albrecht dons his raincoat and hat and ventures out into the pouring rain, riding by Äls’s gate and saluting her with his riding crop, as promised. This time, however, Octavia witnesses the entire ritual from the window next door.

  When Albrecht returns to the stable, a servant notices that he seems weary. He soon collapses and is rushed to the hospital. The verdict: typhus! Albrecht is placed in isolation, and Octavia is not allowed near him. They are forced to communicate through a small glass observation window. “In this rain I have greeted Äls for the last time,” he tells her. “And now she’ll be waiting, and . . . die.” He tells Octavia that when they were in Düsseldorf Äls said that without him riding up to her gate every day there was “no one to call me back to life.” Octavia is greatly moved by this.

  Meanwhile, Äls has deteriorated considerably. Her servants have moved her bed closer to the window so that she can watch for Albrecht. “If he doesn’t come,” she says, “I’ll not survive the day.” She is completely unaware of what has befallen him.

  Albrecht lies in his hospital bed, tormented by the thought that Äls will almost certainly die alone. He confides in Dr. Terboven: “For Octavia, our marriage has been a way of sacrifice [Opfergang].”

  “Yes, there are natures such as hers, Herr Froben,” says the old doctor. “And that’s why Äls doesn’t have to wait in vain for you and your greeting. There stands a rider at the gate. At Äls’s garden gate. Offering her the lover’s salute she waits for daily.” On hearing this, Albrecht breaks down. And now, in the film’s climactic scene, we see Octavia dressed in Albrecht’s hat and coat riding up to Äls’s gate in the pouring rain, saluting her repeatedly. Very weakly, Äls waves at her. After a while, Octavia rides away.

  A very strange and moving sequence follows, in which Albrecht and Äls, in their respective beds, seem to achieve a kind of telepathic connection. The image becomes blurry, rippling as if the shapes and colors on screen have been reduced to a liquid state. Äls is slipping away and hears Albrecht calling to her: “I am not at the gate, Äls. It is Octavia who greets you.”

  “It isn’t you?”

  “Before Octavia’s love, everything else must be extinguished and pass away. Do you see this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me, Äls, that I am so cruel. But I must tell you. I love Octavia.”

  “I know it. I know it,” Äls says. “Farewell and be happy. Don’t call me any longer.” Äls is now dying. The images on screen become even murkier. “So far away am I. Far away. The sea is far away. Are you gone or is it I? Who is going away? We cannot know.”

  The sea now magically appears beyond Äls’s garden gate. The gate opens . . . and the sea takes the soul of Älskling Flodéen.

  Time passes. It is a beautiful day, and Albrecht and Octavia are riding
their horses along the beach. “It had been her last wish to have her ashes scattered in the sea,” Albrecht says.

  “She has returned,” Octavia responds. “The wind and the waves had been her elements. Now she is wind and waves.” With this, Octavia takes the rose from her lapel and tosses it into the surf. Albrecht and Octavia clasp hands and ride away. The music swells and the camera pans across the water. The final shot of the film is of Octavia’s rose lying in the sand, gently touched by the waves.

  3. THE MEANING OF OPFERGANG

  Apparently, Goebbels and I are not the only ones who have been greatly moved by this film. I alluded earlier to the extraordinary reviews it has received on the Internet Movie Database. But it is not a film for all tastes. I have also heard it described as a “soap opera” and as “Nazi kitsch.” What is certain is that it is not a film for cynics. Like most of Harlan’s other films (and eventually I hope to write an article devoted to his entire oeuvre) it is unapologetically concerned with beauty, with love, and with heartfelt emotion.

  Of course, Opfergang is also concerned—obsessed, even—with death. Although, as I said earlier, this is a film that transcends its time, we should begin to understand it by considering the circumstances under which it was made. As many others have noted, the film almost seems designed to prepare the German people for their coming defeat. How does it do so? By teaching them to face death bravely, even to welcome it as a friend. Again, in the beautiful and disturbing rainbow sequence, Äls tells us “One is always close to death, and it’s a good thing if you smile at him from time to time. And if you tell him, please, my friend, you’ll come when I can’t go on any further.” In a later scene (not described above) she refers again to death as “the friend.”