Michael Haneke's "Amour" and the music of time

A thought-provoking portrayal of the realities of nursing a partner in deteriorating health.

Amour (12A)
Michael Haneke

Anyone purchasing the soundtrack to Michael Haneke’s Amour before seeing the film would get a comically misleading impression of the director’s use of music. It isn’t that the album’s track listing is incorrect. There is indeed Schubert and a selection of Beethoven’s Bagatelles. But every piece included in Amour is curtailed after only a few seconds by an abrupt cut, or by someone saying: “Switch it off.” (An early title for the picture was The Music Stops.) The sense of pleasure thwarted is overwhelming and appropriate for a film in which a woman’s means of communication are stemmed, her life foreshortened, after she suffers a stroke.

Anne (Emmanuelle Riva), who is in her eighties, is sitting at the kitchen table when she experiences a break in perception. One moment she and her husband, Georges (Jean- Louis Trintignant), are talking, the next she is gazing at him uncomprehendingly; it’s as though she too has been switched off. Following surgery, she is left paralysed in one side of her body. “It will go steadily downhill for a while,” Georges tells their adult daughter, Eva (Isabelle Huppert). “And then it will be over.”

Like Georges, Haneke is not someone to whom you’d turn if you wanted the truth broken gently. He lacks, shall we say, a certain bedside manner. The cruelty of the world he depicts is not tempered by reassurances; his is a form of tough love. The White Ribbon (village plagued by unattributable acts of violence), The Piano Teacher (woman terrorised by her mother performs degrading, self-harming acts), Benny’s Video (parents cover up a murder committed by their desensitised son) – each of these films would lose their air of appalled horror if Haneke didn’t mourn implicitly the sufferings and shortcomings on show.

Amour is different. Haneke is no less stringent now as a film-maker – a quick browse through a photograph album is the nearest Georges and Anne get to a soft-focus montage of marriage highlights. But his emphasis in Amour is on love and loyalty as positive counterpoints to mortal tortures. Even when the couple bristle at one another, or Georges loses his temper, the tension illuminates the capacious dimensions of their life together – the depth and breadth of their marriage. Partly this is the result of putting performers as profound as Riva and Trintignant in front of the camera. To whom can you look for actorly eloquence if not the woman who shouldered much of the emotional weight of Alain Resnais’s Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959), and the man who embodied refrigerated rage in Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Conformist (1970)? We believe in their long marriage not only because they are superb actors working from a note-perfect screenplay; there is also a lifetime’s tenacity shining through Trintignant’s husk-like face, a well of memories in Riva’s eyes. In a film frugal with music, everything still depends on this duet.

Music has always been central to Haneke, whether he has used it to terrorise (the screeching death-metal audible to us, but not to the sweetly smiling family on screen, at the start of Funny Games) or hasn’t used it at all (Hidden, his most admired film, is so unsettling partly because it includes no music whatsoever). It is in every way pivotal to Amour. Georges and Anne are retired music teachers who share an elegantly sombre Parisian apartment, shot with respectful warmth by the cinematographer Darius Khondji. The piano in their study is played only twice (once in a hallucination or memory). In its big close-up, there is noise rather than music emanating from its vicinity: the piano simply stands there while the cleaner vacuums around its legs. It is no more able to participate in the action of the scene than the paralysed Anne can object to having her hair brushed roughly by an unfeeling nurse. What a waste. The woman and the piano, that is.

Though music is rarely heard in Amour, it is often discussed. One of Anne’s former students (played by the pianist Alexandre Tharaud) visits to tell her about his recording work but neglects to bring his latest CD – another instance of music placed beyond Anne’s reach or denied outright. After Anne’s operation, Georges attends a funeral where, he later recounts, someone plays a tape-recording of the Beatles song “Yesterday”. The story rightly invites our disdain: this is not, after all, a nostalgic film. There’s no suggestion that, yesterday, all Georges and Anne’s troubles seemed so far away, only that they possessed the strength to cope with them back then (which admittedly doesn’t scan nearly as well).

The reality of nursing a partner in deteriorating health must be cushioned by the couple’s rarefied climate. Georges can produce €800 to pay a carer’s bill without noticeable pause, while Eva issues investment advice to her mother. But fortification in Amour is ultimately emotional rather than financial. The apartment, from which the film never strays after the first five minutes, becomes a symbol of that security. The picture begins with the front door being broken down but the onset of illness is more insidious.

Prior to Anne’s stroke, the couple find that the lock on their door has been tampered with inexpertly by a would-be burglar. Anne’s friend was the victim of a more successful violation: intruders gained access to the apartment building via the attic. You might say Anne is brought low in much the same way. In Amour, the home is no less pregnable than it was in Funny Games or Hidden, but now Haneke has moved out of the inhibiting genre of thriller and into a higher metaphorical register. The threat posed in Amour is not to family or morality but to life itself. Love, rather than any sophisticated security system, stands Anne and Georges in good stead against death, the ultimate housebreaker.


Jean-Louis Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva in Michael Haneke's "Amour".

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 19 November 2012 issue of the New Statesman, The plot against the BBC

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The filmmaker forcing the British Board of Film Classification to watch Paint Drying for hours on end

The film does what it says on the tin.

Would you watch paint dry for several hours? If you work for the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC), you might not have much choice in the matter. As a protest against problems he sees within the organisation, British filmmaker and journalist Charlie Lyne has launched a Kickstarter to send the BBFC a film he’s made called Paint Drying. It does what it says on the tin: the film is a single, unbroken shot lasting several hours (its length is determined by the amount of money raised) of white paint slowly drying on a brick wall. Once Lyne has paid the fee, the board are obliged to watch it.

“I’ve been fascinated by the BBFC – and censorship in general – for ages, but it was only when I went to a BBFC open day earlier this year that I felt properly frustrated by the whole thing,” Lyne told me. “There was a lot of discussion that day about individual decisions the board had made, and whether they were correct, but no discussions whatsoever about whether the BBFC should have the kind of power it has in the first place.”

The 2003 Licencing Act imposes the following rules on cinemas in the UK: cinemas need licenses to screen films, which are granted by local authorities to the cinemas in their area. These licences include a condition requiring the admission of children to any film to normally be restricted in accordance with BBFC age ratings. This means that in order to be shown easily in cinemas across the country, films need an age rating certificate from the BBFC. This is where, for Lyne, problems begin: a certificate costs around £1,000 for a feature film of average length, which, he says, “can prove prohibitively expensive” for many independent filmmakers.

It’s a tricky point, because even Lyne acknowledges on his blog that “this is actually a very reasonable fee for the services rendered”. The BBFC pointed out to me that its income is “derived solely from the fees it charges for its services”. So is the main issue the cost, or the role he feels the BBFC play in censorship? The Kickstarter page points out that the BBFC's origins are hardly liberal on that front:

The British Board of Film Classification (previously known as the British Board of Film Censors) was established in 1912 to ensure films remained free of 'indecorous dancing', 'references to controversial politics' and 'men and women in bed together', amongst other perceived indiscretions. 

Today, it continues to censor and in some cases ban films, while UK law ensures that, in effect, a film cannot be released in British cinemas without a BBFC certificate.

It might be true “in effect”, but this is not a legal fact. The 2003 Licensing Act states, “in particular circumstances, the local authority can place their own restrictions on a film. Film distributors can always ask a local authority for a certificate for a film banned by the BBFC, or a local category for a film that the BBFC has not classified.” The BBFC point out that “film makers wishing to show their films at cinemas in the UK without a BBFC certificate may do so with permission from the local authority for the area in which the cinema is located.” There you have it – the BBFC does not have the absolute final word on what can be shown at your local Odeon.

While the BBFC cannot officially stop cinemas from showing films, they can refuse to categorise them in any category: something Lyne says mostly happens with “quite extreme horror films and pornography, especially feminist pornography made by people like Petra Joy and Pandora Blake, but it could just as easily be your favourite movie, or mine.” This makes large-scale release particularly difficult, as each individiual local authority would have to take the time and resources to overrule the decision. This means that, to get screened easily in cinemas, a film essentially needs a BBFC-approved rating. Lyne adds, “I think films should also be allowed to be released unrated, as they are in the US, so that independent filmmakers with no money and producers of niche, extreme content aren’t at the mercy of such an expensive, censorial system.”

Does he think Paint Drying can make that a possibility? “I realise this one small project isn’t going to completely revolutionise British film censorship or anything, but I hope it at least gets people debating the issue. The BBFC has been going for a hundred years, so it’s got tradition on its side, but I think it's important to remember how outraged we’d all be if an organisation came along tomorrow and wanted to censor literature, or music. There's no reason film should be any different.”

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.