How an arthouse film is made: a lesson from Oscar-winning director Pawlikowski

It is a work of fiction, but one that draws on many real-life events relating to Mann and the writer’s own works. For example, in the film, Mann does not attend the funeral of his son Klaus (August Diehl), who took his own life – an event that actually happened. Thomas and his wife Katia Mann were in Sweden and decided neither to cut short their trip nor to travel to Cannes for the funeral service. The writer nevertheless wished to give the lecture on Gertrude in Stockholm. So the story is true, but we decided to set it at a different time and to include Erika’s presence.

Then there is a man who turns up at Mann’s hotel room in Weimar (in East Germany) and begs him to publicly denounce, during the official speech he was due to give shortly afterwards, the fact that the Soviet authorities had reopened the former Nazi concentration camp at Buchenwald (located a few kilometres from Weimar) for political prisoners. In reality, I made this character up, but there was a man – whose name, if I remember correctly, was Corgan – who had written to Thomas Mann in a letter begging him to denounce the repressive behaviour of the Soviets. As is well known, he said nothing, because he was trying to reunite the two Germanys and compromises had to be made. But this device is the sort of thing that works in a film: an anecdote that gives your protagonist a nightmare, which reveals the character’s political contradiction.

Did you draw inspiration for the screenplay from some of Thomas Mann’s novels as well? 

As I was getting ready to write, I realised I had only read some of Thomas Mann’s works, such as Joseph and His Brothers. Quidi, therefore, inspired me above all with the desire to tell a story that does not immediately reveal its dramatic arc, told with delicacy, even whilst retaining certain tragic undertones, and centred on this man who controls everything through language and through his elegant way of thinking.

What’s more, there was plenty of psychoanalytical material to draw on within her family. For example, Erika and Klaus were siblings but were called ‘the twins’ because they did everything together. He was heavyset and gay; she was bisexual. Erika married Klaus’s lover, in an almost incestuous relationship. Klaus was an alcoholic and a drug addict; he felt like a nobody because his writings were not well received and Mephisto had not yet been published; he did not know in which language to write, who his audience was, or whether he even had an audience of his own. He was oppressed by the figure of his father.

It can sometimes be difficult to maintain silence in a scene: how long should it last?

Here, too, there is no ready-made solution. The characters simply go about their business or smoke. We manage to achieve this partly thanks to brilliant actors performing in rather complex situations, without resorting to the sort of dynamic camerawork usually employed to help viewers perceive that what they’re seeing is real.

This is a film about the Cold War, as were the previous ones. Which project came first?

When you delve into a period like the Cold War, it’s like striking gold. You sense an interesting historical situation that coincides with a personal story, and then the two feed off one another. I came across a biography of Thomas Mann and found it intriguing that, upon his return to Europe, the writer refused to take sides, believing himself to be above the crude narratives of the Eastern and Western blocs. Klaus’s tragedy took place before his trip to Germany, and I had to take the plunge and make a somewhat irresponsible decision: to manipulate time and move people between places.

How much does your filming style change depending on the films you make?

It depends very much on the film. In Ida, the cinematography is very static, like a collection of period photographs, and there is camera movement only at the end. Cold War, on the other hand, was much more dynamic, thanks in part to the music. The lead character was quite lively, so we incorporated camera movements much more frequently. In Fatherland, the camera movements mainly follow Erika. It isn’t a conscious choice; in truth, we move the camera when necessary. These movements are driven by the situation rather than by some sort of abstract artistic choice; it’s a question of what feels right for the scene. But the basic unit is a sort of key image around which we work, to which we give as much depth as possible and upon which we build the mise-en-scène.

It’s not exactly a question of freedom, but when I watch colour films set in that period, they strike me as a bit haphazard and rough around the edges, and black and white frees me from that feeling – perhaps partly because we remember that world that way, as that’s how the photographs from that time looked.

How important is music to you?

Music is part of my screenwriting process, so I like it when I imagine a scene where there’s an excuse to include music – not as a soundtrack, but as music within the scene itself.

She makes films that are an hour and a half long, something nobody does anymore...

It’s not so much a decision as a tendency to condense; it comes naturally to me, and I try to avoid scenes that are either unpleasant or merely functional, focusing instead on powerful scenes that leave a lasting impression, simply hoping that, when put together, the film will be long enough. I’m a bit old-fashioned in a film industry where films are getting longer and longer. I take a sort of perverse pleasure in keeping things simple. I find an excess of noise – whether in colour or movement – tiring. I feel a sense of aesthetic and ethical modesty in keeping it simple, though not modest; there’s an enormous amount of effort behind it, from many people. I love making up scenes as I go along and things like that, but the preparatory work was very meticulous.