«I can hear your voice, Vincent.» – On Marianne de ma jeunesse

I refer here to the french ver­si­on of Mari­an­ne de ma jeu­nesse by Juli­en Duvi­vier, star­ring Pierre Vanick as „Vin­cent Lor­in­ger“. At the same time a ger­man ver­si­on was shot with Horst Buch­holz in that role and an other­wi­se iden­ti­cal cast. Accor­ding to its glo­rious launch events in Paris (March, 18th 1955) and Colo­gne (April, 8th 1955) unfort­u­na­te­ly then the film was not a gre­at com­mer­cial suc­cess. The film was too stub­born and for­mal­ly ahead of its time, just like Max Ophuls› Lola Mon­tez (1955). Ophul’s son, Mar­cel ser­ved as assistant direc­tor for the ger­man actress Mari­an­ne Hold.

나의-청춘-마리안느_Marianne-of-My-Youth_ST1

The aut­hor Peter de Men­dels­sohn (1908−1982), today pri­ma­ri­ly known as a gre­at news­pa­per man after the Second World War and as Tho­mas Mann’s bio­grapher, thus pro­vi­ded at the end of the Wei­mar Repu­blic, the inven­ti­on of a gene­ra­ti­on in con­stant moti­on, which does not come easi­ly to its­elf. His fic­tion­al cha­rac­ters hace dif­fi­cul­ties get­ting rest. The­se urba­ni­tes are con­stant­ly on the go, go again and against their homes. They dri­ve cars or use trains, buses or air­craft to com­mu­ni­ca­te day and night over power lines. Wit­hout tele­pho­ne, notes the nar­ra­tor, «the best fri­end in Ber­lin was soon dis­ap­peared from your view, and you’­ve for­got­ten him or her pro­per­ly and downright».

«I can hear your voice, Vincent.»

In the cen­ter of his novel Pain­ful Arca­dia we have Oswald Laeng­feldt. The eigh­te­en-year-old has just finis­hed high school, when he comes into this world of fluc­tua­ti­on and insub­stan­tia­li­ty. Oswald gets a job in the feuil­le­ton of a «major news­pa­per» in Ber­lin and the com­pe­ti­ti­on in the­re, the inces­sant pres­su­re to per­form, the per­so­nal cir­cum­s­tances of uncer­tain and a crea­ti­ve desi­re, which is cover­ed only par­ti­al­ly. Oswald runs lite­ral­ly from one cri­sis to the next. Ber­lin ser­ves as a sym­bol of «intellec­tu­al cor­rup­ti­on» par excel­lence, espe­ci­al­ly for a young scribb­ler, the ever lack of money. In the «rudest city that you can ima­gi­ne», inclu­ding finan­cial pro­blems and wri­ting are inse­pa­ra­ble. The mere appearance of mass still remains impres­si­ve: In addi­ti­on to well over 100 poli­ti­cal news­pa­pers, the­re are around 1930 still 45 mor­ning news­pa­pers, 14 news­pa­pers and two evening news­pa­pers. Neither of the­se cir­cum­s­tances, descri­bed by Men­dels­sohn much later in his gre­at histo­ry of jour­na­lism Zei­tungs­stadt Ber­lin (1959) nor by the poli­ti­cal turm­oil of the rea­der tea­ches any­thing. It is essen­ti­al­ly about the dis-char­ge amount of artic­les, hard­ly ever to their con­tent. Mendelssohn’s novel reflects the „zeit­läuf­te“ only taught in the bul­ly­ing of care­erists or capa­ble of free­lan­cers who, day after day besie­ge the edi­tors to accom­mo­da­te an article.

Oswald’s move­ments of thought are ali­ke in this envi­ron­ment gra­du­al­ly the mecha­nics of com­po­sing machi­nes: «I hate the unna­tu­ral pace,» he com­plains, «the­se super­fluous rat race that allows any man of sen­se to think a thought to an end becau­se the begin­ning as ear­ly as the Lino­ty­pe has. «Men­dels­sohn knows whe­reof he speaks. With incre­di­ble speed he throws at the start of his care­er, one book after the other on the mar­ket, and with some suc­cess. On the debut in 1930 fol­lo­wed the second novel Paris Over Me and in 1932, the third, Pain­ful Arca­dia.

«So you’­re the one who had to come for me.»

Full-time Men­dels­sohn works then as edi­tor of the Ber­li­ner Tage­blatt befo­re he fled from the Nazis to Eng­land in 1933. His pro­se is quite novel traces of that «Ger­man news­pa­per» of the Wei­mar Repu­blic, «with all its slop­pi­ness, all that dilet­tan­tism and stran­ge coin­ci­dence» that one cri­tic com­plai­ned of in 1926. You can see that on the very first sen­tence of the novel: «It is an attempt to descri­be the over­co­ming of a youth.» („Es ist dies ein Ver­such die Schwie­rig­kei­ten der Jugend zu über­win­den.“) That stil­ted ger­man for­mu­la­ti­on mark­ed abo­ve cle­ar­ly the desi­re for a cer­tain artis­tic design and owns a pas­si­ve but respon­si­ble qua­li­ty. The nar­ra­tor brings here to vali­di­ty and at the same time, just behind an imper­so­nal «it» he ducks away, such about a youth in «feuil­le­to­ni­stic age» that demands per­so­nal com­mit­ment, but has no chan­ce of suc­cess for this: «This life that is lived in the lite­ral and figu­ra­ti­ve sen­se on cre­dit, so Men­dels­sohn play­ed by dif­fe­rent sce­na­ri­os: First, the­re is Man­fred Vel­lin, a talen­ted and com­pli­ca­ted per­so­na­li­ty who pur­sues Oswald in a kind of inti­ma­te love-hate rela­ti­onship. Then Man­fred turn con­nects an unfort­u­na­te pas­si­on with Fran­zis­ka von Bur­kom, a suc­cessful actress. With her, Oswald has to start an affair and rea­li­zing all the pro­blems men and women pos­si­bly have when domi­nan­ce is no lon­ger first men’s duty, but still not quite work out with empa­thy. After Fran­zis­ka Oswald joi­n­ed Ellen Duver­non and Ruth Fried­land. Ellen repres­ents the new type of suc­cessful woman, who over­whel­med the men of the twen­ties hopelessly.

This time, Oswald does not fail from sel­fi­sh impa­ti­ence, but capi­tu­la­tes to the ambi­ti­on and ener­gy of the work of her part­ner. Ruth, howe­ver, is in need of help and is so far to increase the male self-esteem. But that goes well only in rare moments, becau­se it repres­ents the rui­ned edu­ca­ted midd­le class. The various women do not prepa­re Oswald as indi­vi­du­al per­so­na­li­ties pro­blems. Rather, it seems to him just to «any woman». «Of cour­se it is non­sen­se to belie­ve that any man belong tog­e­ther,» says one of his fri­ends, «every five minu­tes, bang, bang, and grou­ped around anything.»

So we have, for exam­p­le, the mee­ting of the eigh­te­en-year old Peter von Men­dels­sohn, who was born in Munich and grew up in Hel­ler­au, a sub­urb of the city of Dres­den, with that Ber­lin banker’s daugh­ter and dra­ma stu­dent who has beco­me the arche­ty­pe of the «Mari­an­ne de ma jeu­nesse». Sin­ce the three-hundredth anni­ver­sa­ry of the town of Bran­den­burg had to come, the fes­ti­val of local patri­ots and an equal­ly hos­pi­ta­ble as bohe­mi­an way of living fami­ly from Swa­bia, in the park, the samples were held. But then from 1927 on had shown their impos­si­bi­li­ty in the social whirl of Ber­lin, so that the Straus­ber­ger­platz sum­mer idyll in the wistful recoll­ec­tion of a «pain­ful Arca­dia» was the bright­ly bur­ning, very youthful love of the «Arca­di­ans».

«I will hurt you deep­ly, Argentin!»

Then, when the plan of this book in the very first stage alo­ne was born of its title fur­ther was deve­lo­ped by the impul­si­ve Reclam (the famous Ger­man publisher) lec­tu­rer Ernst San­der (1898−1976) into a veri­ta­ble job to the nine­teen-year-olds. And so it goes on, to ran­dom chan­ce. San­der requi­res chan­ges, Men­dels­sohn then in 1932 wro­te a second ver­si­on. The acqui­red not only by the «naval offi­cer publisher» Wolf­gang Krü­ger, but also sold by him at once to Paris, and emi­gra­ted as Men­dels­sohn at the dawn of the Third Reich, Krü­ger left him both hal­ves of the fee for the French translation.

But then, pre­cis­e­ly the French trans­la­ti­on of 1933, drew atten­ti­on to the man who was Duvivier’s artis­tic assistant in tho­se days: André Daven (1899−1981), pro­po­sed the book to Duvi­vier in 1954, when his plan to bring Alain-Fournier’s Le Grand Meaul­nes on the big screen fai­led becau­se of the oppo­si­ti­on of Alain-Fournier’s sis­ter. So the famous tele­pho­ne call for Men­dels­sohn from Paris comes about, and in a few months, the Fran­co-Ger­man co-pro­duc­tion Mari­an­ne de ma Jeu­nesse – and then final­ly the re-encoun­ter with the arche­ty­pe of „Mari­an­ne“, came to a pain­ful Arca­di­an end.

This inter­na­tio­nal bust­le is no acci­dent. The Ger­man heath and nati­ve soil, some of the movie peo­p­le of the cali­ber like Ber­o­li­na pro­duc­tion chief Kurt Ulrich from Ber­lin quick­ly hel­ped tout. With new claims and the cos­ts of dream fac­to­ries grew. The actors were asking stee­p­ly hono­ra­ria. Simi­lar phe­no­me­na had also begun in France, Ita­ly and Eng­land – even if the cau­ses were dif­fe­rent. Ever­y­whe­re money was lost in the natio­nal film indus­try. First, they hel­ped with pure pro­tec­tion mea­su­res. About the Ame­ri­can offer was rest­ric­ted by quo­tas and pro­duc­tion free­ly fought through coer­ci­on rates in the cine­mas of «living space».

So let us turn to the movie again for a few seconds: Vin­cent tells Man­fred what hap­pen­ed into the Man­or. He met a young beau­tiful lady cal­led Mari­an­ne who seems to be a kind of pri­soner of a man she cal­led The Knight. She says she was expec­ting Vin­cent for a long time. «So you’­re the one who had to come for me» … At a moment she sud­den­ly lea­ves Vin­cent becau­se she can hear The Knight cal­ling for her with his wal­king stick. When she’s back she finds Vin­cent asleep and she explains she was forced to stay next The Knight until he felt asleep becau­se he was con­stant­ly grab­bing her hand. A storm comes up, bet­ted in the ama­zin­gly bru­tal but ten­der score by Bel­gi­an com­po­ser Jac­ques Ibe­rt (1890−1962). Mari­an­ne asks the but­ler for the boat and they dri­ve him back. Later The Knight will explain to Vin­cent that Mari­an­ne is suf­fe­ring from a men­tal dise­a­se that began after she was aban­do­ned two years ago by her lover, on the same day they were sup­po­sed to get mar­ried. And so-cal­led forth­co­ming mar­ria­ge cerem­o­ny is, in fact, a the­ra­py shock that might cure her: «May­be one day, when she heals, she’ll meet you again.»

«In a house which shadow extends across three frontiers.»

A film like a poem – com­mit­ted to all that youthful pathos and sym­bo­lism, but also repea­ted­ly pene­tra­ted by a hint of deli­ca­te iro­ny, inclu­ding a breath­ta­king cine­ma­to­gra­phy by Leon­ce Hen­ri Burel, Eugen Schüftan and Geor­ge Krau­se. Howe­ver, with the pro­tec­ti­ve quo­tas alo­ne, it was not done in France, Ita­ly and Eng­land. In this dilem­ma the magic word was born: «co-pro­duc­tion». It aro­se from the simp­le con­side­ra­ti­on, that if a purely French film in France and a purely Ita­li­an film in Ita­ly bring back only 60 per­cent of their cos­ts on avera­ge, then you could bring about a French-Ita­li­an film tog­e­ther 20 per­cent gain in both count­ries. The per­fec­tion of the modern dub­bing sys­tems and the gene­ral habit of the audi­ence to dub­bed films let the lan­guage bar­ri­er quick­ly fade into the back­ground. In tho­se years, some 100 Ita­li­an-French movies were pro­du­ced, inclu­ding major hits such as Don Camil­lo (1952, by Juli­en Duvi­vier) and Lucre­zia Bor­gia (1953, by Chris­ti­an-Jaque). The cel­lu­loid con­nec­tion of the two count­ries, howe­ver, was faci­li­ta­ted by their almost simi­lar „public“ mentality.