Few cinematic oeuvres are more beguiling and affecting than that of Christian Petzold, the acclaimed German director whose collaborations with Nina Hoss (Jerichow, Barbara, Phoenix) and Paula Beer (Transit, Undine) stand as some of the past decades’ finest. As befitting an auteur whose films are habitually grounded in issues of personal and political transition and stasis, Petzold never covers the same narrative terrain twice and yet always returns to his foundational preoccupations.
Thus, it’s not surprising that Afire—which won the Silver Bear Grand Jury Prize at this year’s Berlin International Film Festival and premieres in U.S. theaters on July 14—is another masterwork about characters who are trapped by internal and external circumstances which they find intensely difficult to escape.
“Something’s not right,” says Felix (Langston Uibel) to his friend Leon (Thomas Schubert) as they drive along a remote forested road on their way to a secluded Baltic Sea holiday home owned by Felix’s family. Felix is referring to their car, whose strange noises portend imminent trouble, but the fact that Leon doesn’t immediately hear the comment is an early indication about his detachment from his mate, the world, and the impending dangers around him.
Forced to trek through the woods to the house, Leon is annoyed and slightly shaken by not-so-distant sounds of squealing wild hogs. When they arrive at their destination, he’s frustrated to discover that they’re not alone—a fact confirmed by Felix’s phone call to his mother, who informs him that she’s accidentally agreed to let someone else stay there at the same time.
That person is Nadja (Beer), whom Leon and Felix first encounter via the noise of her bedroom lovemaking. While Felix is undisturbed by this state of affairs, Leon’s superficially placid countenance can’t mask his aggravation, since he had planned to use this getaway to finish his sophomore novel, and expected Felix to do likewise with his art-school portfolio.
Leon’s first glimpse of the whistling Nadja is through the kitchen window that gazes onto the backyard and pergola that he’ll soon make his de facto office and refuge, even sleeping there amidst the buzzing gnats when Nadja’s sexual escapades become too boisterous to bear. Afire repeatedly revisits that architectural opening, using it to highlight Leon’s separation from those around him, his clandestine longing to bridge those gaps, and his irritation at not being able to do so because of his self-sabotaging hang-ups.
Afire drifts along at a laconic pace, its drama marked by small incidents that nonetheless reverberate with loud underlying meaning. Due to a growing leak in the ceiling, Felix wants to repair the roof, but Leon balks at the job in favor of his writing. Leon doesn’t (care to) see encroaching hazards, and for a time, that extends to the wildfires that are slowly engulfing the area. One night at the pergola, Leon spies Nadja’s lover and, at the ocean with Felix the following day, identifies him as the locale’s resident “rescue swimmer.”
Fed up with Leon’s intractable, closed-off surliness (highlighted by his inapt beach attire of a dark jacket and jeans), Felix learns that the man’s name is Devid (Enno Trebs). During a subsequent dinner shared by the foursome at the house, Leon’s pent-up anger and jealousy emerge, resulting in a bit of nastiness that additionally isolates him from his comrades.
The second part of a planned (loose) trilogy about the elements that started with the watery Undine, Afire confines its characters via the burgeoning conflagration, depicting it initially as a beautiful red-yellow glow in the distance and finally as a raging destroyer that demands action and reaction. Unfortunately for Leon, doing anything is a yeoman’s task, so content is he to stew in his resentments, fears and insecurities—the last of which revolve around his new novel, Club Sandwich.
Still quietly seething over his mother’s cleaning lady calling the tome “a bit schmaltzy,” Leon is protective of his work and—as evidenced by his habit of falling asleep rather than completing it—also scared that this caustic critique is accurate. When he lets Nadja read it and her assessment is, “You know it’s crap,” he’s thrust further into bitterness that’s then compounded by Felix striking up a romance with Devid, thereby setting Leon totally apart.
A visit from Leon’s less-than-enthusiastic publisher and the wildfire’s spread are Afire’s twin closing calamities. The material, however, is truly animated by Leon and Nadja’s highly charged rapport, with her piercing looks and blunt talk—which extends to her invitations to Leon to join this social circle and its activities, as well as to be with her—contrasting with his literal and emotional reclusiveness. Exuding an enchanting mixture of delicacy and toughness, Beer is as magnetic as ever.
Later revelations about Nadja’s interests (highlighted by her reciting Heinrich Heine’s 19th-century poem “The Asra,” which encapsulates the film’s bittersweet longing) cast her as a woman whose confidence hasn’t been shaken by setbacks. She’s open to, and engaged with, the world, and yet Petzold doesn’t employ her as merely an easy foil for the withdrawn Leon; on the contrary, she’s a uniquely mysterious individual, as unpredictable and mesmerizing as the flames lapping at these shores.
With a lyrical gaze that’s echoed by Felix’s photographs of men and women staring at the vast, unknowable ocean, Petzold dramatizes the proceedings with subtle sharpness. The director’s gentle jump cuts pointedly evoke Leon’s disconnection, as does his compositional framing through doorways, in hallways, and via that oft-employed kitchen window.
Ultimately, the film rests on the shoulders of Schubert, who with minimal looks and gestures conveys Leon’s creative doubt, concurrent desire to prove himself (and outshine his compatriots), and attempt to exploit real-world tragedies for art. He’s a man who’s turning to ash on the inside as everything around him burns, and Afire empathetically considers his plight while simultaneously mining it for caustic humor and smoldering romantic tension.
There’s all manner of twisting, tumbling, volatile emotions coursing through Petzold’s spellbinding latest, and by the time it reaches its tentatively hopeful (or is it?) conclusion—another example of the director’s preternatural gift for final shots—it’s thrillingly expressed the notion that Nadja believes is at the heart of Heine’s poem: “the quake of representation.”
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