The Passion of Fassbinder’s Berlin Alexanderplatz

Now that the holy grail of modern film is on DVD, finally and firmly in hand, we can take a close look at that thing called “Berlin Alexanderplatz.” The famous Fassbinder shot is used throughout—actors revealed in hot lights through darkened doorways; as well as the ever present vertical lines slicing the screen like prison bars. Much of the film is shot with internal framing techniques, and when not, there is the broad expanse of Franz Biberkopf’s apartment—a loft-like, two-level stage where threatening lights are constantly pulsating. Berlin Alexanderplatz may be a 15½ hour film, but it is played out theatre-style in Fassbinder’s mental proscenium. In the heart of Berlin we wander with Franz, cages within cages, where realpolitik takes a back seat to survival. A crass, capitalistic jungle where more than 600,000 people have been thrown out of work in a matter of months (1928), is home to whores, pimps and thieves who have plenty to eat and drink. Our hero, Franz Biberkopf, fondly reminisces about Rosa Luxemburg. But this Berlin is not the workers’ paradise that the great social revolutionary dreamed of and was then executed for. Is that perhaps her secret, broken down printing press in the middle of Franz’s apartment, never touched or even casually mentioned? Fassbinder and Franz seem to reject all politics, left or right, and abandon themselves instead to the Weimar melodrama of instant gratification and the much replayed nightmare of a horrific crime. After our hero careens out of prison, where he has spent four years paying for the murder of his hooker-girlfriend Ida, he stays as drunk as possible, and despite his vow to live a good and upstanding life, draws into his orbit a string of women who love him obsessively and whore for him happily. His life force is irresistible, but he’d rather make his own, if clumsy, way. Franz soon finds himself in the ridiculous position of hawking a Nazi pamphlet he does not care about, the “Beobachter,” while his socialist friends watch on in horror. That is, his socialist friends who are well connected to the local crime lord, Herr Pums, and are eager to have Franz join in on their sub-capitalist, black market enterprises. And then, as destined, Franz meets his soul-mate and nemesis, Reinhold. The ensemble acting of Berlin Alexanderplatz is miraculous, as is the iron grip Fassbinder had on his material. Günter Lamprecht as Franz truly does inhabit one of the screens all time great characters. The canvas is gigantic and his plodding, bearish performance with roller-coaster peaks and valleys often turns on the dime. Likewise, Gottfried Johns’ Reinhold is Franz’s seductive, sexy, utterly nefarious foil. All the women are memorable, especially Barbara Sukowa, Hanna Schygulla and Elisabeth Trissennaar. Don’t miss the outrageously costumed Frau Pums (Lilo Pempeit), who also happens to be Fassbinder’s real-life mother. We’ve waited 25 years to revisit Fassbinder’s great Passion Play, Berlin Alexanderplatz. Definitely not for the squeamish, but rejoice and spread the word. P.S. The epilogue, which bothered me in 1983, has fully redeemed itself. It’s not just a director indulging in every fantasy of his alter ego, but an earnest, if unfettered, look at Biberkopf’s mind flying apart. Fassbinder ties the huge story up neatly and gives Hanna Schygulla’s Eva some fantastic scenes in the process.

The LuPone Gypsy: Patti grabs her “La”

As in “La LuPone.” Because there is, was, and will be, only one. The original. An American Master. Can we all just face the music and say: “That was the best sung Gypsy in the history of the show”? Because it was — by miles. And acting? Oh, my yes. LuPone always thrives in a strong ensemble, and this was it — again, by miles. As volcanic as LuPone’s Rose is, Boyd Gaines’ Herbie and Laura Benanti’s Louise never shy away from combat. When Herbie abandons them, he doesn’t just crawl out of the theatre, he roars out in disgust — at Rose’s failure to do the one thing in her life that might be good for them all — to marry him and get the hell out of show business. When Benanti’s grown up Gypsy orders Rose to “clear out,” and Mama proceeds to trash the dressing room, you know you’re seeing something special — the demons behind an otherwise tired old Broadway chestnut have come to passionate and chaotic life. And what a total revelation, finally, to see a shy, gawky Louise turning into, and looking just like, the gorgeous, vulgar Amazon that was Gypsy Rose Lee. Leigh Ann Larkin’s Dainty June also amazes with her hostile, baritone-voiced contempt for an ersatz family; she makes it clear that abandoning them is a matter of survival, not caprice.

But LuPone’s Rose, a potent mix of Euripides' Medea and the cheap theatrics of a Barnum and Bailey sideshow, is the great, if breathlessly expected, news. The voice is huge, completely in control, and always, always, at the center of the story. Gypsy’s songs are famously integrated to the dialogue, and LuPone gives the illusion of doing the entire show in one breath. At the end, you get the impression she could stay and run it again from the top with no loss of energy. And if Patti seems to have three distinct voices, or registers, it’s because she does. Review your Callas collection and remind yourself how valuable and unique a voice like that can be, especially when the singer is a great story-telling actress.

And controversial. I’ve been watching Patti for 3 decades. My first time with her (yes, I’ll put it that way) was Jack O’Brien’s 1975 Acting Company production of William Saroyan’s “The Time of Your Life.” Skinny, girlish, impossibly sexy, Lupone’s Kitty Duval grasped and demanded big shoulders to cry on. Her audiences complied. I thought I was in the presence of a hypnotist. She wrapped her high-heels in the wooden legs of a barstool, sobbed uncontrollably about the mess she’d made of her young life, and in that moment seemed to effortlessly accomplish what every actor ardently desires: to imprint the audience, make them never forget, make them want more. It also became apparent that Patti’s brand of emotional transparency — nakedness even — was not everyone’s cup of tea. The actress’s imagination, that uncanny attention to purpose and detail, is her most important asset. You’re either going on Patti’s journey or you’re not. And for many, it’s “not.” But what real artist isn’t controversial? Or at least an acquired taste for a specialized audience? At any rate, this Gypsy does look like LuPone’s supernova. Let’s hope the City Center version, really a pumped up showcase, turns into the long-running Broadway blockbuster it deserves to be.

Apart from the near-unanimous, garment-rending roar of approval, there is also a spurious, if official, dissenting opinion making the rounds (see NY Times, etc.): “Patti LuPone plays Patti LuPone playing Mama Rose.” Two teensy weensy things come to mind. First, who in their right mind would say that any of Patti’s forbears — Merman, Russell, Lansbury, Tyne, Bette or Bernadette — played anything but themselves playing Mama Rose? Second, who in their right mind would want to see anything resembling the real Rose Hovick on stage? That kind of toxic energy would require flamethrowers, straight jackets, and probably a supporting cast from “Marat Sade.” No. Patti delivers the perfect mix of borderline dangerous delusion with seductive charm and real persuasive ability. She also delivers the best vocal performance in the history of the show.

Oh, really? Yes. Really. A quick survey of the CD collection, better yet, some trolling around in YouTube brings all the Mama Roses in for their line-up. Merman: the recorded voice is, of course, amazing, thrilling even, yet there is no modulation or color whatsoever; it’s one, big show-sound, and the story gets told in spite of her. Russel: an intense, desperate, funny performance, but the vocals are just not there; the film belongs (improperly) to Natalie Wood. Lansbury: the recording is wonderful, the voice is big and beautiful; but the anger is too lady-ish, and for me, the American inflection doesn’t convince. Tyne: wow; earthquake anger, strident singing, anti-charm; the truck-driver Rose; I’ve only heard the recording, but I have friends who glaze over when they mention Tyne’s Gypsy. Bette: unfortunate; the voice is there, so is the interpretation, but the director abandoned her, the Herbie is way too weak and the Louise is a flat-out disaster. Bernadette: graceful, plangent, not very dangerous; but you were happy to follow her into battle; the voice was thrilling and full of color, but powerful? No. Special Note: don’t miss Liza Minelli’s YouTube clip of a 1981 concert version of Rose’s Turn; it’s crazy, percussive, and a bit jaw-dropping; the Fosse version, I suppose…

But back to La LuPone — oh, hell, if you saw it, you know just what I mean. If it comes back, go and see it.