This is Ula Stöckl, a German filmmaker you probably have never heard of (link). Until recently, her films were not available in the U.S. Yesterday, I went to a screening of her film "The Cat Has Nine Lives," made in 1968. It was, as she said later, "a time capsule" capturing the zeitgeist of the period. And so it seemed to me.
Just a few facts. She was the first woman admitted to film school in Germany after WWII. She was the only female filmmaker in Germany at the time. Her films focus on women, their dilemmas and desires. As she says, at that time, if women didn't know what was possible or if they could not imagine what they wanted, they knew, at least, what they didn't want which was to be stuck into the gender expectations of the time. Through her work, she was cast as a feminist filmmaker, but, she says, that was not her goal. She simply wanted to make films about women. She wanted to give voice to their inner lives. That wasn't happening elsewhere in Germany. And so. . . she became an icon of the feminist movement.
After the film, there was a Q&A. I hate Q&As. They are awkward and painful and, by and large, dull. But people line up to get the microphone, make a statement about what they loved and what they thought, and then put a question mark on the end.
"Ula. . . I just want to say I am so pleased to finally get to view this film. It was wonderful. I noticed during the film that. . . . What was your thinking at the time?"
Oh, fucking stick a fork in my eye and rub salt in it. The more stupid questions that are asked, the more emboldened people become, and so it goes on and on and on. But I couldn't leave the theater. I was in Ola's eye line. And so.
After the Q&A, there was to be a reception at the bar outside. Out of the theater, I took the first available table. I sat and watched the people leaving the theater. Then there was Ula, and when she saw me, she smiled and came over to sit.
"Oh, my," she said clutching my arm.
"How are you, dear?"
"I'm shaking."
The crowd of admirers arrived. They crowded around each wanting to touch the garment. It was a real freak show, and I sat for it all. Because I was sitting with Ula, people were curious about who I was. There were filmmakers and university professors and bohemian socialites crowding around, staring. The mystery was driving some crazy. Eyes met mine. I held a Cheshire grin and nodded.
"Are you a filmmaker?"
"Were you in the documentary?"
I shook my head and said no. When I said I was retired from the factory, the light would go out of their eyes, especially for the university professors. I got locked into a conversation with a heavyset woman with a tank top and many, many tattoos. She taught diversity courses at the university. She'd been there for eight years, she said. She sported a comb over low fade hair cut. The identity politics people crowded around. Lots and lots and lots of tats. There was a lot of talk of power structures and parameters and negotiations and struggles. I have been out of that scene for awhile, but the language was drawing me back. It had changed, of course, and I would need an immersion course to catch up. It was post-postmodern, full of righteous outrage and moral assumptions which always makes me giggle. I'm a nihilist, they say. But not yesterday. I didn't say anything at all. It wasn't my party. I simply drank champagne and waited.
"I think you are right, Ula," I said. "People don't know what they want, they just know what they don't want. From where were you taking the idea?"
"Nietzsche, I think. I'm not sure. Probably."
"I always quote that idea from Faulkner, but I have been certain it had older origins. Nietzsche was like Freud, I think. You didn't have to know him intimately. His ideas just filled the air."
After awhile, when Ula was ready to go, I walked her to her car, her holding my arm for support.
"That was a long day," I opined. "You will have a lot to think about tonight."
"We will have dinner soon," she said.
"Yes."
I stopped and got a bottle of champagne on my way home. I popped the cork and poured some into a coupe glass, lit a cheroot, and went to the deck to call my mother. I told her about the day and said I was beat. I wouldn't be visiting her if that was o.k. I drank the cold champagne and watched the storm clouds form. Ula's film had been good, I thought, but very avant-guard and not for mass audiences. There was little narrative. The editing was frenetic. It reminded me, for some reason, of the early John Cassavetes films. "Faces" was made the same year as "The Cat." There were similarities in style. I would watch that film again and see.
The cat didn't come. I had only eaten a plate of supreme nachos all day, but I wasn't hungry. I went inside and made a big salad, poured more champagne. I had been sitting for two days. It was six. Then it was seven. I turned on the television. Several people have touted the series "Shogun" to me. I thought I'd give it a go. Four episodes, four hours later, I thought I should go to bed. I'd spent two full days looking at screens. I wasn't tired. I felt I could stay up for days. I would need help sleeping.
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