It takes some trepidation to revisit old favorites; they might be
unmasked as youthful indiscretion. _Homo Faber_ (released as _Voyager_
in the U.S.) was probably the first film I tried to write about. I
loved it back then. Watching it after 26 years, the first half comes
off as cinematically uneven, but it serves as a terrific setup for the
powerful conclusion. Then I remember that the film excels not in its
individual scenes, but in the accumulated energy cascading through the
story.

Walter Faber (Sam Shepard) is a globe-trotting American engineer who builds dams and shuns dreams. (In the original Max Frisch novel he is Swiss,
but otherwise the film bottles the essence of the first two-third of
the book.) He is quintessential modern man of the 1950s: maker of his
fate, successful, unattached. The examined life is not for him; he
glides on the surface, bounces off one-night-stands, escapes dinner
companions with ready bon mots, walks out of plane crashes, untouchable
as teflon.

But a series of coincidences start to suck him back into the past, the primordial and the mythical. After the plane crash in Mexico he comes
across his old friend Hencke in Guatemala who has just hanged himself.
Running from his clingy mistress Ivy in New York, Faber takes a cruise
ship to France, only to encounter Hencke's daughter Sabeth (Julie Delpy).
They fall in love despite the age difference, drive from Paris to Rome
to Athens as though backtracking through collective human history,
finally meeting her archeologist mother Hannah (Barbara Sukowa), who
is also his ex-fiance.

To reveal that Elisabeth is Faber's biological daughter hardly
qualifies a spoiler. The frequent sepia-toned flashback scenes with
Hannah, juxtaposed with 16mm home movies made of Sabeth by Faber,
give that away early. Art student Sabeth hides among marble statues
of dead nymphs at the Lourve; the repeated references to a Roman
sleeping girl stone-carve further foreshadow her demise. Walter's
failing eyesight echos _Oedipus Rex_, although it is his offspring,
not progenitor, he sleeps with. (The plot element yields one of the
most romantic scenes, with Sabeth serving as his eyes while he drives
through the South of France.) Any one of these would have been
heavy-handed symbolism. Together, they break through to the other
side of kitsch and emerge as an overpowering Greek chorus that
foretell the tragic conclusion.

And what a dazzling and emotionally draining conclusion it is.
The thrust-and-parry scenes between Shepard and Sukowa are
sharp as samurai swords, with neither yielding or answering a
single question. Sukowa (_Hannah Arendt_) once again proves
herself an incomparable, indomitable actress. When she is angry
fire shoots out of her eyes. She should be James Bond's boss; Dame
Judi Dench is barely in her league. The interior camera work at
the end is particularly memorable. It may not be Piotr Sobocinski
inside Joseph Kern's mansion in _Three Colors: Red_, but the economic
choices of shots, elisions, and cuts -- Faber hears Sukowa crying
next door, turns the handle of the door, it doesn't unlock,
sobbing stops -- add to a stage-play-like intimacy. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The DVD bonus is a treasure trove of insights by the literate
and articulate Julie Delpy, director Volker Schlondorff, and writer
Rudy Wurlitzer. These interviews paint a priceless portrait
of the late Sam Shepard, who is said to be uncomfortable with
the role and material. Delpy diplomatically describes him
as immersed in his mind, suffering. She also finds him moody,
sensitive (sometimes in a good way!), insecure, and child-like
on set. Delpy has incredibly nice things to say about the
generosity of Sukowa, and the intellect and empathy of
Schlondorff. (This isn't one of those stock interviews where
the director is praised for being a "genius who knows what he
wants," which I always take to mean that "he is a megajerk who
thinks too highly of himself.")

Wurlitzer, who cowrote _Two Lane Black Top_ and worked with
Bertolucci, flat out calls the performances of Shepard and
Delpy here the best of their careers. He describes his friend
Shepard's instinctive, non-actorly approach as "confused innocence"
that serves the film superbly. Schondorff has the most interesting
stories to tell. He reveals that _Homo Faber_ is his most personal
film, coming at a time when he thought he was on top of the world
(after his Oscar for _Tin Drum_), in control of his fate, only to
have everything, including his marriage to von Trotta, collapse
around him. He also says that Shepard broke up with Jessica
Lange around the time, and the sense of immense loss Shepard felt
enriched his characterization of Faber. Just as importantly,
Shepard helped rewrite the scenes, especially the dialogue,
reducing his own lines to the minimum. The razor-sharp exchanges
between Shepard and Sukowa at the end must have been the beneficiary.

Schondorff deeply admires Max Frisch and constantly consulted the
novelist about adaptation and casting choices. Frisch apparently
approved the casting of Shepard after he read the American's
plays -- many of which are centered around dysfunctional families.
The dying Frisch outlasted the production schedule and loved
Julie Delpy's "tragic aura," which reminded him of Verdi. As
with the greatest of Greek tragedies, rewatching _Homo Faber_ --
and the DVD extras -- proves a cathartic, edifying experience.
It is so satisfying to see the group of supremely talented if
difficult people (on screen and off), who deeply respected one
another, collaborate to create such a timeless, humanistic work.
26 years later, Schlondorff is revisiting Frisch by way of a
sequel to _Montauk_. The film stars Nina Hoss and is part of
the Berlinale. Too bad Sam Shepard did not star in it; he would
have been perfect as an aging, fictionalized Max Frisch.

(for A, and for Jim)

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