Reviews

Before Downfall, there was Das Experiment, Oliver Hirschbiegel's 2001 study of claustrophobia and the misuse of the power.

Based on a true story, the notorious Standford Prison Experiment in 1971, the film tells the story of 20 men who volunteer to be placed into a makeshift prison for 12 days. Once inside, some are chosen to be guards whilst the others will act the role of prisoners, a process that involves abandoning their names, their clothing and their civil rights for the duration of the experiment.

The job of the guards is simple, maintain peace and order at all times without using physical violence.

At the heart of the film is Tarek, prisoner 77, an undercover journalist who is secretly filming from inside the prison, hoping to sell his exclusive once it's over. Tarek underestimates his own role in the experiment, though. He starts in irreverent mood, thinking it's just a game until he sparks a conflict with one of the guards, Berus. The two adversaries drive each other on relentlessly forcing the experiment to become darker, more grotesque, as each man fights for their own idea of power and identity.

Das Experiment asks what happens when good people are put in an evil place. Does humanity win over evil, or does evil triumph ? Also, it examines the role of memory when faced with extreme stress and deprivation. Whilst the film is based on a true story, it's cinematic influences can be traced back to Samuel Fuller's masterpiece "Shock Corridor" and, to a lesser extent, Chris Marker's "La Jetee". The comparisons to "Shock Corridor" are there for all to see but it's also worth noting that in all three films, the protagonists are obsessed with the memory of a girl, often using that memory as an anchor to cling on to a more idealised past, a potential escape route from the situation they find themselves in. For Tarek, as the situation becomes more extreme, the memories become stronger and stronger as he attempts to block out the present and focus on the past and a possible future with the girl.

Das Experiment is more than simple homage and pop psychology, though, largely due to it's director. In his first film, Hirschbiegel manages to create an entirely dark world, both inside and outside of the prison. Only in the final frames of the film do we see any natural daylight at all which offers stark contrast to everything we've seen before. The sense of claustrophobia, the complete lack of space, carefully manipulates the viewer throughout the film and, at times, it's genuinely unnerving. Consequently, it's difficult to find any real distance between yourself and the film as you become more and more absorbed. Like the characters within the prison there appears to be escape route for the viewer. A sparse script and real sensitivity from the actors, none of them overplaying their role, only adds further to the film's power. Moritz Bleibtreu (Run Lola Run) is particularly strong as Tarek whilst Justus Von Dohnanyi is positively menacing in the role of the sadistic guard Berus.

Hirschbiegel would, of course, develop these themes further in Downfall a few years later and in many senses, Das Experiment can be seen as a companion piece to the latter. As a debut work it's nothing short of astonishing, a director completely in control of the film and the viewer. Cinema not for the faint hearted, where you have to go the dark places first before you can see the light.

Is there a director in the history of cinema with a more distinct style than Yasujiro Ozu? 1958's Equinox Flower was Ozu's first colour film and concerns itself with one of his favourite themes – the family and it's discontents. The film is set during a time when arranged marriages were being challenged in Japan and it pits the emerging youth of the country, full of post war freedom and optimism, against their traditional parents who are finding it difficult to let go of their customs and ultimately their children.

A Tokyo businessman, Waturu Hirayama, is continually approached by friends for advice, friends who have become powerless as parents and are struggling to impose their will on their daughters. Hirayama's apparent disappointment and resignation regarding his own arranged marriage informs his advice throughout. Consequently he is often conciliatory and impartial, trying his best to get both sides to see each other's point of view. Neither traditional nor modern in his outlook, instead he takes a humanist approach and strives for harmony amongst the protagonists.

However, when a young man he has never met before enters his office and asks him for his own daughter's hand in marriage he finds it difficult to adopt this approach for himself and his family. On the one hand, he is initially hurt by the apparent lack of respect and involvement that he feels he should have been afforded by the young couple. He questions his role as a father and feels castrated by this power being taken out of hands. On the other hand, though, he suffers a sense of loss. He has nothing personal against the young man, and after making enquiries, is assured of his good nature. Nevertheless, rather than gaining a son, he's acutely aware that he is losing a daughter and, with that, some of his own identity. Not only losing her in marriage but also to a new way of life, a new culture where Hirayama is unsure of his role.

In a broader sense, Equinox Flower, also offers an insight into the fast socio-cultural changes in post-war Japan as it becomes more influenced by capitalism and Western culture. Throughout the film, Hirayama alludes to the fact that his business and his workload are becoming increasingly busier. Scenes are often interspersed with images of industrial development and progress mixed with more traditional scenes of mountain ranges, the countryside and churches. It's also worth noting that, throughout the film, it is largely the women that are seen as the advocates of change, trying to find greater equality in a patriarchal society. The men, in comparison, are seen as passive and confused. Japan itself, like Hirayama, is going through a struggle, a process of change that tries to balance the traditional against the modern.

Stylistically, Ozu's cinema is remarkable for those willing to give it a chance. All his trademarks are here – zero camera movement, single character shots and evocative editing techniques. His unwillingness to ever let the camera move allows him to frame scenes as if they were photographs or paintings where the characters then suddenly come to life. His use of colour, here for the first time, is accomplished to say the least. Combine that with some wonderful sets and scenery and at times you could be forgiven for thinking you're watching an old MGM musical. Most remarkable of all, though, are Ozu's trademark tatami-level shots. Using a special camera dolly to simulate the three foot height of the average person kneeling or sitting on a tatami pad, Ozu creates a way of seeing the world that is specifically Japanese, specifically Ozu.

The style is so unique and effective that it's difficult to imagine films being directed any other way. Buy the box sets, ration yourself to one film a year and you're in for a rare treat.