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Scalambrino, F. (July, 2013). “Filming the impossible: Orpheus and the sense of community in Amour”. Unpublished paper presented at Film-Philosophy Conference: Beyond Film, University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands.

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Film-Philosophy Conference 2013: Beyond Film

Frank Scalambrino, (2013). p. 1 of 15

Filming the impossible: Orpheus and the sense of community in Amour

Frank Scalambrino, Ph.D.1

Abstract

In this paper I consider Michael Haneke‟s film Amour in regard to Jean-Luc Nancy‟s notions of “sense,” “community,” and “impossibility of love.” I invoke Wilhelm Wurzer‟s notion of “filming” to locate Nancy‟s sense in Amour. “Filming the impossible,” then, as it relates to Amour invokes a non-classical understanding of catharsis regarding the film‟s themes of love and death. To formulate it as a question: Can we understand the film qua film Amour as “a movement of images whose power of discourse exceeds the representation of those particulars shown” (Wurzer, 1990, p. 107), and as such functions as the condition for the possibility of impossibility, i.e. a discourse for presencing the community of love?

The non-classical understanding of catharsis at work here invokes the plight of Orpheus. Here, Orpheus speaks to the anarchy of a cathartic dismemberment that remembers an inoperative unavowable community. The filming of love and death in Haneke‟s Amour is not understood as the representation of an identity analogous to the plight of Orpheus. Rather, the filming of love and death, i.e. the film qua film Amour, is understood to cathartically presence abandonment, and “it is by the possibility of abandonment that one knows the possibility, inverted or lost, of love. And it is also in this way that one knows the justice beyond justice of love” (Nancy, 1994, p. 41). Indeed, “The trembling of the soul is … the difference of love” (Nancy, 1994, p. 30).

Orpheus juxtaposed here with filming, then, illuminates “somewhere beyond any „point of view‟ … with a lens that would aim for life from the vantage of the secret of death” (Nancy, 1997, p. 52). Hence, the cathartic power of the discourse of Amour, filming the “intensity of death,” brings to presence a community of love.

“Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic orders?

And even if one of them suddenly pressed me against his heart, I should fade in the strength of his stronger existence.

For Beauty‟s nothing but beginning of Terror we‟re still just able to endure,

and why we adore it so is because it serenely disdains to destroy us.”2

~Rainer Maria Rilke “First Elegy” Introduction The following six (6) brief sections beyond this Introduction provide a reading of Michael

Haneke‟s film Amour (2013). Whereas some of these sections are primarily intended to provide

support for my reading the presence of Orpheus in Amour, others speak to the “cathartic power”

of Haneke‟s film to invoke a different sense of community, i.e. to bring the audience to presence

1 Affiliate Assistant Professor of Philosophy, University of Dallas, Texas. 2 Rilke, Rainer Maria. (1942). Duino Elegies. J.B. Leishman & S. Spender, (Trans.). New York: W.W.Norton, p. 21.



a community of love. I will refer to scene changes and chapter groupings as indicated in the

screenplay for Amour. Lastly, for the sake of brevity I will explicate such philosophical

terminology as Wilhelm Wurzer‟s notion of “filming,” Jean-Luc Nancy‟s notion of

“community,” and my notion of “catharsis” in the sections where they appear.

I. … poetic dwelling … Filming ’s archetypal communication

In an interview regarding Amour Haneke had the following to say about catharsis:

I think catharsis is an overly ambitious term. If a film manages to make spectators as viewers reflective for a few hours, if it manages to make them for a short time nicer to each other, more humane, then you‟ve achieved a great deal. Catharsis is too ambitious. I don‟t think, in today‟s society, you can achieve catharsis with a book – uh, film (O‟Hehir, 2013).

Now, according to Aristotle in his Poetics, “A tragedy, then, is the imitation of an action that is

serious … with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such

emotions (Aristotle, 1984, p. 2320, 1449b24-28). Hence, I intend “catharsis” here as “non-

classical” insofar as it does not refer to the purgation of pity and fear as much as it describes a

purification of the spectator‟s meaning-making process. In other words, the process through

which an agent interprets experience – and thereby their agency in experience – may undergo a

kind of catharsis, i.e. a process of purging the impediments to a less narrow sense and more

poetic dwelling (cf. Hölderlin, 1980; cf. Heidegger, 2001). This catharsis belongs primarily to

the agent‟s relation to logos not pathos, though pathos clearly plays a role here too; as such, like

a cleansing that begins with one‟s sight, this catharsis pertains to the agent‟s capacity to gain an

archetypal awareness of the presence of – what the ancient Greeks may have considered –

divinity.

Peculiar to the topics of love, death, and memory, catharsis here invokes the figure of

Orpheus. For, according to an early twentieth-century French commentator, to the ancients,

“Orpheus was … the theologian par excellence, founder of those mysteries which ensured the



salvation of mankind, and no less essential to it as the interpreter of the gods” (Reinach, 1909, p.

v). Recalling, then, the Eleusinian mysteries and initiation rites, this cathartic purification refers,

respectively, to a deepening of the meaning of experience and a sense of oneself as member of an

extra-ordinary community. In his article “Plato and Orpheus” Francis Cornford points to this

notion of catharsis in the Phaedrus where Plato associates “the ideas of madness, enthusiasm,

ecstasy, [and] inspiration, with the idea of purification”; as such, “By enthusiasm the soul is

lifted out of itself; [and] the loss of self-possession is the condition which must precede

possession by the divine” (Cornford, 1903, p. 438; cf. Plato, 2007c).

Now, the operative understanding here of entheogenic (ἔνθεος), i.e. of possession by the

divine, may encompass the bodily and spiritual interpretations associated with the Eleusinian

mysteries (cf. Kerényi, 1967; cf. Wasson, 2008). On the one hand, both Aristophanes and Plato

associate Socrates with these mysteries (cf. Aristophanes, 1906; cf. Plato, 2007a-e; cf. Ruck,

1981; cf. Ruck 1986; cf. Ruck 2006; cf. Cornford, 1903). On the other hand, initiation to these

mysteries is said to have a soteriological aspect, i.e. notions of grace and salvation are operative

here regarding “possession by the divine” (cf. Guthrie, 1952, pp. 148-158; cf. Mylonas, 1974; cf.

Reinach, 1909). Hence, archetypically these mysteries are variously associated with figures such

as Orpheus, Dionysus, and Jesus.

How, then, is such a non-classical catharsis achieved through film? The notion of “film ”

at work here comes from Wurzer‟s seminal text Filming and Judgment. There Wurzer discusses

filming as “a movement of images whose power of discourse exceeds the representation of those

particulars shown” (Wurzer, 1990, p. 107; cf. Wurzer, 2005). Hence, in this way, the scenes of

Haneke‟s film Amour may be read as providing the audience access to the Orpheus archetype.

Where Wurzer speaks of a “discourse” “exceeding” representation of particulars, I speak of an

“archetypal communication” and “a deepening of the meaning of experience.” Lastly, allow me



to note that the question of the extent of overlap between my use of the term “archetype” and

Carl Jung‟s use is outside the scope of the current discussion (cf. Jung, 1968; cf. Jung, 1990).

II. The Mystery of the End in the Beginning: “What’s gotten into you?”

Haneke begins Amour with its ending scene. We immediately learn of the character

Anne‟s death prior to seeing her animated. The characters of the first scene subtly announce the

mystery of the window open in Anne‟s room, despite previously revealing the doors to her room

as sealed shut. Upon entering the room, the lead police officer asks those who gained entrance to

the room if they opened the window, and the answer he receives is “No.” Following the

screenplay in counting the title screen as scene two, a related mystery appears when the

characters become individuated from the crowd and first begin to speak in scene six, and though

one pertains to the end of the film and the other to its beginning, the juxtaposition of these two

mysteries through a montage made available by filming illuminates the “mystery of the end in

the beginning.”

The first time we see Anne animated she is among a group of spectators in an audience,

and whatever other effects this scene may have it also strengthens the association of Amour‟s

audience with Amour‟s characters. Universally we ask: Does the human characterization of the

coupling of love and death constellate a divine form? When a character becomes aware of their

experiences as fulfilling the structure of an otherwise superhuman constellation, this character

has gained an archetypal awareness of their situation. As a kind of “second sight” that suggests

the primacy of what is only subsequently revealed (cf. Aristotle‟s discussion of priority in his

Metaphysics), archetypal awareness is a gradual process. Such that awakening to the

superhuman forms structuring the meaning of the scenes of life is tantamount to entering into

communication with the divine. And, the result of this communion is a more poetic dwelling in

the everyday.



At the opening, then, of scene of five we see, for first time, the lovers arrive home to their

everyday dwelling and the setting for the remainder of the film. We view this scene through the

hallway, and it is dominated by the theme that someone has broken into their dwelling place.

The mystery of this scene: we gain evidence that some other being has already been where these

lovers now are. Experiencing this mystery Anne imagines, i.e. envisions, dying during the night.

Hence, the mystery of the end in the beginning of Amour focuses our attention to an archetypal

communication. What is communicated through filming pathways into their dwelling which

they did not open? Portentously Anne asks, “What‟s gotten into you?” Are we witnessing a

kind of communion with the presence of Orpheus? It is as if Orpheus has entered through the

front door and exited out the bedroom window.

III. Nothing, Viola! “I call to you…”

Of course, as foreshadowed in scene six, Chapter 2 of the film opens (scene seven)

finding Anne awake in the middle of the night. Thus begins a series of expressions by Anne of

“nothing.” In scene seven Anne notes nothing is wrong. In scene eight she embodies the

emptiness of lost time as she cannot remember what just took place in the kitchen. As Chapter 2

ends Anne speaks of the protagonist‟s concern to cease the change she is suffering as though it is

“torturing” her. She requests to be “left in peace.” We learn later she has had a stroke, and

during her request to not be taken back to the hospital Chapter 3 ends with Anne noting there is

“nothing” to say, “Nothing, viola!” Similarly, Chapter 4 begins with her suggestion “You don‟t

need to hold my hand all the time.” Hence, Amour reveals the plight of a character struggling

between living and dying, and the strife between the desires of the living and those of the dead.

Whereas Ovid and Rilke portray the infamous backward glance of Orpheus and the

subsequent death of Eurydice as nearly instantaneous, for Haneke it is as if the temporality of the

backward glance maps onto the temporality of the film. In this way, Anne‟s last words fall



through the film as Eurydice fell away from Orpheus. Recall that in looking back Orpheus

succeeds in seeing Eurydice once more, though at the cost of losing her again. Taking Anne‟s

“return” to their dwelling as the beginning of the backward glance, Chapters 3 through 6

constitutes the celebratory phase of the backward glance, i.e. Orpheus beholds Eurydice once

more. Chapter 4 ends, then, by foreshadowing the end of the backward glance. The protagonist

asks, “what is my image?” Anne responds, “Sometimes you‟re a monster… But you‟re nice.”

Chapter 5 begins with Anne reading her horoscope, and it is heard as if from “the god of

distant messages” (Rilke, 2009, p. 201) insofar as it foreshadows the steps leading to the

culmination of the backward glance. Chapter 5 ends with Anne voicing, what amounts to,

suicidal ideation representing an inversion of love and suicide as earlier juxtaposed by her

daughter, i.e. a shift from Eros to Orpheus. Chapter 6 portrays the backward movement of the

steps announced in her horoscope, i.e. from “high class conversation” and “pizzazz” to not

“proceeding with [enough] care.” Just prior, then, to Anne‟s fall from bed the protagonist plays

a J.S. Bach prelude (#639 in the catalog of Bach‟s works), a musical choice Haneke highlights

in an interview (cf. O‟ Hehir, 2013; cf. Mellers, 1987). The title of the Bach work invokes the

prayer “I call to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” and this distressful beseeching signifies an ominous

awareness. Hence, the celebratory phase of the backward glance draws to a close, initiating the

closing, i.e. dismembering, phase and foreshadowing the film‟s conclusion.

IV. Perchance to Dream: “ma / mal”

Chapter 7 strikingly begins with the protagonist‟s dream. The dream shows him

wandering in the outer hallway; the exit blocked; anxiously questioning into empty darkness, “Is

there anyone there?” Is he alone? Startled to find he must traverse a water-filled hallway, he

marvels across this “blind lake” at the exit beyond. Suddenly, as if from out of another



dimension, a hand covers his mouth, and vanishing, he wakes beside Anne. Has this dream

foreshadowed his Orphic fate beyond that shown in the film?

Now, just as the middle of Plato‟s dialogs hold a prized position, at the precise middle of

this film Haneke has Anne examine a photo album and declare “life is beautiful” and life is

“long.” As Chapter 7 closes we see, what we will later learn is, Anne‟s second stroke. In

Chapter 8 Anne has withdrawn to such an extent that she is no longer capable of coherent

speech. Her daughter sobbingly declares, “She only talks gibberish.” And, “She‟s

unrecognizable.” Confined now to her bed, it is as if “her steps [are] constrained by long

winding-sheets” (Rilke, 2009, p. 201). Recall Rilke‟s description: “She was deep within herself

… Like a fruit suffused with its own mystery and sweetness, she was filled with her vast death,

which was so new, she could not understand that it had happened” (Rilke, 1989, p. 51). Further,

Anne‟s state speaks to what Ovid described as a “huge chaos” of “vast silent realms” (Ovid,

1986, p. 225).

The transition of Chapter 8 to 9 shows the protagonist daydreaming of Anne playing at

the piano. This shade-version of Anne appears to be dressed as she will be at the end of the film.

In an interview Haneke suggested both this and the prior dream sequence function to prepare the

audience to “understand the ending” (O‟ Hehir, 2013). Chapter 9, then, emphasizes both Anne‟s

continual descent and the protagonist‟s increasing attempts to retain her presence, e.g. in the

form of hiring a second nurse and enlisting the help of neighbors. For example, Anne‟s cries

become polyphonic, as if between two worlds. This works well for Haneke in French, since

given her diminished capacity to speak the characters and audience are forced to decide the

meaning of Anne‟s cries; is she struggling to say “ma” or “mal,” i.e. it is unclear whether

confused and bemused she calls for her mother or trapped and suffering she cries out in pain or

of evil? Without registering his translation of the cries, yet invoking Rilke‟s view that “her



hands had been so weaned from marriage, even the light god‟s infinitely soft, guiding touch hurt

her” (Rilke, 2009, p. 203), the protagonist begins a practice in Chapter 9 of caressing Anne‟s

hand to quiet her cries.

V. Closing of the Backward Glance: “It… was… nice…” Chapter 10 begins a series of releases. A bird wanders into their dwelling and the

protagonist sets it free; this is the first time, and the second will occur in Chapter 13. Also, the

second nurse is released from her duties after she holds a mirror in front of Anne‟s face, and

given Anne‟s attempt to avert her gaze the “nurse‟s” action seems monstrous. Moreover,

Chapter 10 contains scene fifty. In this scene Anne is refusing to take food or water, and the

protagonist eventually slaps her face. Recalling Chapter 4 this seems like one of those times in

which she might perceive him as a monster. The slap is followed by shots of landscape paintings

in their apartment, which Haneke in the screenplay describes as “views on various realities”

(Conrad, 2012, p. 55). Lastly, the transition into and all the way through Chapter 11 functions as

the protagonist releasing the character of the daughter from the agony of the situation.

At the close, then, of his discussion with the daughter in Chapter 12 the film transitions to

what will constitute the closing of the backward glance. Though Anne has neither portrayed a

playful affect nor spoken coherently since her second stroke, the protagonist has some success

enlivening Anne by singing to and with her. This calls to mind not only Orpheus, famous as a

poet musician, but also the manner in which Orpheus was able to convince the King and Queen

of the Underworld both to let him enter and to attempt to retrieve Eurydice to the world of the

living. Anne moves from singing the words “very serious” in their song into what then reveals

itself as their final conversation. Admitting his relation to have been serious and sincere to

Anne, she, in a final gesture communicating both love and forgiveness, caresses his hand and,

not without struggle, whispers a “faint farewell” (Ovid, 1986, p. 226), “It... was… nice.”



In terms of the Orpheus myth, this scene, of course, mimics the closing of the backward

glance and Eurydice‟s return to the Underworld. Such a harmony between the two stories

conditions the interpretation that Anne‟s forgiveness extends beyond forgiving monstrosity, as if

Haneke‟s Eurydice communicates to Orpheus that despite the pain she also forgives him for

failing to retrieve her and for even attempting. Hence, for Haneke a euthanized Eurydice and a

self-dismembered Orpheus appear as shades together once again at the film‟s end.

VI. New Philadelphia: the Elusive community So, stated directly: Affirming Wurzer‟s notion of filming, I am taking Kant‟s notion of

the “free play of imagination” (Kant, 2006, pp. 102-103) as a point of departure (cf. Wurzer,

1990, p.51; cf. Nancy, 2005, p. 80; cf. Nancy, 2001, p. 83). The idea here is that film qua film

can engage a spectator‟s judgment through the free play of imagination such that judgment‟s

“determining ground,” beyond a “concept of an object,” reaches an “archetypal dimension”

(Kant, 2006, p. 116; Wurzer, 1990, p. 71). This links with Nancy in that “we” spectators, as

such, “are no longer able to understand ourselves as a determined step within a determined

process” (Nancy, 1994, p. 166). Hence, the archetypal communication “figures and feels itself

as the very poiesis of sense” (Nancy, 1997, p. 162).

In this way, Amour through free play of the imagination allows one “to sense oneself as

the engenderment of sense” (Nancy, 1997, p. 162). This is a sense of community, of course, in

that it refers one to “the transcendental or existential condition comprised by the taking-place-

there of all things” (Nancy, 1997, p. 157). Nancy reminds us that, “We share what divides us”

(Nancy, 1993, p. 95). And, in this sense Nancy locates the divinity indicated by archetypal

communication: “the love and glory of God are deposited right at the level of what is created;

that is, creatures are the very brilliance of God‟s coming to presence” (Nancy, 2000, p. 17).

Another way to describe the different time register of the archetype, i.e. the relation between the



presence of Orpheus and the characters of Amour, is to say: an archeology of the trajectory of

archetypal discourse points to a “tracing of a limit that spaces time … that opens up a time within

time [and each] time, what is opened up is a world (Nancy, 1994, p. 163). Hence, archetypal

communication directly points to Nancy‟s notion that a “world is neither space nor time; it is the

way we exist together” (Nancy, 1994, p. 163; cf. Nancy, 2001b, p. 103; cf. Wurzer, 1997, p. 91).

Amour signifies a filming of the impossible, then, in that it cathartically presences a

community of love. Amour brings the spectators of the film into an archetypal communication,

like an initiation through the “dismal visions of death” witnessed in the ancient Eleusinian

mysteries (Reinach, 1909, p.88). The purging and purifying into the freedom of imagination‟s

play reveals a sense of community, as the sense that opens the world in which we dwell (cf.

Blanchot, 1988, pp. 47-56). In fact, according to Nancy, “the Being of the Dasein is nothing

other than the Being of this sharing (Nancy, 2001a, p. 103). Put another way, Haneke‟s film

cathartically presences abandonment, and according to Nancy, “it is by the possibility of

abandonment that one knows the possibility, inverted or lost, of love” (Nancy, 1994, p. 41).

Indeed, “The trembling of the soul is … the difference of love” (Nancy, 1994, p. 30). Juxtaposed

here with filming, the Orpheus archetype illuminates “somewhere beyond any „point of view‟ …

with a lens that would aim for life from the vantage of the secret of death” (Nancy, 1997, p. 52;

cf. Blanchot, 1981, p. 104). We may refer to this community of love as a “New Philadelphia”

(cf. Nancy, 2001a, p. 99; cf. Nancy, 2001b).

Discussion Audience Member 1: I like your use of Orpheus. I like the idea of Orpheus with this film, and I wonder: Where is the underworld? Is it the apartment? Is it the film itself? Are they stuck in the underworld the entire time until the backward glance was finished? Frank Scalambrino: Thank you. That‟s an excellent question. There‟s definitely room for play here. In particular where I was interested in going with this was toward the relation between a film and its audience. So, the question is something like: Is there a sense in which film can be thought of as therapeutic, or is there a way in which the film can induce a sense of poetic



dwelling in its audience? So, again, I‟m not trying to suggest this is the one and only reading of the film, rather I was exploring the way the film presents a “discourse that exceeds.” Regarding the Underworld, then, we might say it is not there. It is not there, and yet, at the same time, the film brings to presence that which is not there. And, in talking about this “bringing to presence that which is not there” we begin to notice that it [the Underworld] has a different time register. So, by recognizing this different time register, I am suggesting there is a way to read the excessive discourse of the film. Josef Früchtl, Panel Chair: Early in the paper you mention a quote suggesting that film could have the power of a discourse exceeding the usual discourse focused on representation. What makes Haneke‟s Amour a discourse that exceeds our usual way of discourse? For example, the discourse we are having right now. What makes this film a discourse? Scalambrino: Thank you. That‟s an excellent question. I would say it is both/and, rather than either/or. Just like the Eleusinian mysteries, the witnessing of suffering and death, especially because what we see here is – and this, of course, seemed to invoke Orpheus – the attempt to keep that suffering and death from happening. That‟s, of course, Orpheus‟ love for Eurydice. So, I would say: on the one hand, we could say, perhaps on an ontic level, what an audience is doing is witnessing images of suffering and death. Yet, in particular it is suffering and death associated with love. On the other hand, regarding the both/and piece, at the same time it is a presencing, and I tried to speak to this even in the section titles such as the presencing of “The Mystery of the End in the Beginning.” The existential piece here being, you see, all lovers must die. Audience Member 2: I wonder what you would do with the following. In some sense, in the Orpheus myth he definitely wants to keep her alive but fails because of his own issues. In Haneke‟s film because he [the protagonist] loves her he must kill her. That‟s even difficult for me to say. That‟s what I took from that film. So, what do you do with the end when she leads him to death herself? The way I read the end of the film is that she is taking him with her because he has followed her. That doesn‟t seem like Orpheus to me. Scalambrino: This is also something I meditated on quite a bit, and I think you touch on a fascinating aspect of the relation between the film and the myth. The Orpheus myth is told as if it is the story of Eurydice who has died and of course she has, but we are following Orpheus into the Underworld; and, there is a sense in which he never truly escapes the Underworld. So, you can ask the question of who is leading who? When Eurydice re-turns and heads deeper into the Underworld, Orpheus is shortly thereafter to follow. Audience Member 2: To follow up, what about this other piece? Orpheus wants to save Eurydice. Yet, the protagonist in the film has to kill her. It kills him to do it, but he has to do it because he loves her. How do you see the relation between the film and the myth there? Scalambrino: You see this in the being “a monster” and yet being “nice” piece. When I read this, the closing of the backward glance occurs when she is actually able to communicate coherently to him. So, there is a sense in which he is euthanizing her, and there is a sense in which she is already gone.



Audience Member 2: In Rilke‟s poem she says “Who?” She is like, why am I leaving? She has no recollection of Orpheus, it‟s about her. Scalambrino: Right. And, I‟m reading her incoherency as this already being gone. Audience Member 3: Thank you. I really truly enjoyed listening to your paper. I particularly enjoyed the way in which you elaborated on the possibility of archetypal time within time revealing itself in the world. My thoughts sort of scattered in a very useful way at that point, and I started thinking about the final coda. And, I am reading it as a coda perhaps because of Haneke‟s very deep engagement with music, for example. It also made me think about a kind of eternal return in thinking about the possibility of an archetypal time within time. That implies a kind of circularity to structure of the film and to the archetypal structure in time, and possibly being that you were talking about. To me, that offers a possible structure for thinking about the film which allowed me to recuperate within my understanding of what a Haneke film is in that I initially found Amour too redemptive and too difficult to reconcile personally in terms of its cathartic possibilities with his other films. So, that made me think about this idea – and, I‟m sorry to be appropriating this language – of an eternal return in the sense of time returning in on itself, so actually this following of Orpheus by Eurydice folds back-in on itself, perhaps like a Möbius strip, so that then Orpheus follows Eurydice. I wonder whether this has some potential in terms of thinking, what I think you are gesturing toward, about a cyclical structure within the archetype. Scalambrino: Thank you. That‟s an excellent question. How I would enter into that is by asking the question: To what extent does it [a cyclical structure to the archetype] illuminate – for each individual – us as beings subjected to that which we would understand as an eternal return, and subjected to the presence of the divine, in a sense? So, yes; regarding this a-lethic, cathartic kind of coming to awareness of the presence of this higher structure that is eternally returning, the extent to which one can translate this into one‟s everyday dwelling, there is a sense in which we can interpret – and we can interpret a film this way – being in the presence of this other time register. At least, that is one quick way to reference it.



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