Michael Bürgermeister

Alexander Horwath of the Austrian Film Museum has developed a knack for throwing together disparate films to great effect – such as Le Pére de mes enfants (The Father of My Children) by Mia Hansen-Løve and Woyzeck by Werner Herzog; or Cries and Whispers by Bergman and The Red Shoes by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. The pairing works because one is pleasantly surprised at how films with different styles and contents complement one another. They are much like two different courses in a meal.

When “Mitch” tears off a Chinese lantern and exposes the face of “Blanche DuBois” to the glare of a light bulb, he is not merely exposing her personal lies and hypocrisy but those of society as a whole. Both director Elia Kazan and playwright Tennessee Williams were perfectly clear in their aim in A Streetcar Named Desire: to put truth on the screen.

A covey of town dignitaries in frock coats and top hats flock around a statue hidden under a tarp before the eager eyes of the gathered crowd. The men turn, with great pomp and circumstance, lift the cloth to unveil the city’s newest monument. What they find instead is a monument of a different sort: The Tramp, in ill-fitting jacket and undersized derby, is sitting there huddled at its base – an icon of 20th century cinema.

A man stands alongside his co-conspirators against the wall of an army headquarters in Berlin. He is considered to be the most brilliant officer in the German Army, is a decorated war hero, is loved and admired by all who know him, and is worshipped by his young wife and their five children.

A glittering career is prophesied him and he is expected to be, one day, the next chief of staff. He has just one problem: He cannot reconcile serving the Nazi regime with his Catholic conscience. Thus as has now become familiar to a new generation through the recent film Valkyrie, Claus Schenk Graf von Stauffenber chose death before dishonor.

An Indian woman, her head tilted back, draws open a curtain to reveal her smiling son, Russian corpses are photographed in a Moscow morgue and dressed up in power clothes, a huge wire head is presented by a Spaniard, a Polish girl estimates how many bars of soap she can get.

Nobody can accuse the Viennese gallery scene of being either provincial or of avoiding tough topics. Of course Vienna has its fair share of galleries which play safe and present either local matadors or simply boring art, but there is currently a hint of risk in the air, despite the heavy indent of the crisis, which bodes well for the future.

The imposing, red-brick and sandstone face of the Vienna Musikverein stands just across the outer Ring from the Karlskirche, a Greek Revival temple to music whose legendary aura fascinates all who see it. Rightly regarded as one of the best concert halls in the world, the Musikverein’s suspended wooden floor resonates like a drum, so that sound springs to life with a vibrancy rarely found anywhere. It is this, as much as the reverence for Vienna’s musical tradition that lures the lmasters to its stage each season.

To the eerie sound of electronic screeching, clinking and crockery being thrown, a figure, lit by a luminous green glow presses herself slowly and carefully against the floor, as if she were listening for the tread of a wild beast, her arms reaching, her fingers feeling the dark surface. She spreads her arms out, slowly begins to roll over, draws her knees up and kicks her legs out when they touch the stage. She twists her torso, and gradually draws herself up with her arms.

This piece, called Porcelain, is by the Chennai based Indian dancer and choreographer Preethi Athreya. Athreya describes getting to know one’s own body through movement as a “meditative act.” Her work is an example of the poetic power dance can achieve.