Giacomo Manzoni: Omaggio a Josquin ('Malina', Werther Schroeter, 1991)

M A L I N A / A N I M A L / M É L A N I E / A N I M U S / A N I M A / I V A N / N A Ï F

'Malina' (Werner Schroeter, 1991) is an adaptation of Ingeborg Bachmann's 1971 novel of the same name. The film starred Isabelle Huppert (as the unnamed subject), Matthieu Carrière (as 'Malina') and János Can Togay (as 'Ivan'). The soundtrack is 'Omaggio a Josquin', composed in 1985 by Giacomo Manzoni and sung by Diane Rama.

Bachmann's brilliant outburst of a book is, to me anyway, a psychological thriller: a masterly, vulnerable telling of trauma and its manifestation in the relating function. The subject's relationship with her Animus is laden with conflict and violence but, at times, a guarded tenderness and attunement. Malina is cold, cruel, even vicious; he also was her protector and parent. Schroeter's imaginative and faithful adaptation manages to capture the novel's disjointed, disintegrated narrative without being a bore to watch.

I will write some more personal thoughts on it here since I guess few people read this and maybe it will be interesting to look back on this in some time when, I hope, I am feeling a little better about myself. I always regretted not writing little personal notes on other uploads to let future-me know where the video came from. Like its film adaptation, the novel itself profoundly disturbs and disorientates. Since the winter of 2020, it has felt often as though I were drowning in my own disorientation and disintegration. As spring approached in this new year, by some synchronicity the Suhrkamp Taschenbuch found its way into my hands. Bachmann's writing became a fixation: to be read frantically, painstakingly, backwards, forwards. Reading it felt like holding a candle, like the flickering company of a little light in such lonely and frightening gloom. Simply, sitting by myself in the empty apartment with only Malina for company, I felt understood. The book came as momentary relief from the perennial accusations with which I injure myself and which, just a year ago, in my arrogance, I had thought I had left behind. I came to see myself as wholly and fatally cowardly, inept, selfish, oversensitive, childish. In part thanks to Malina, I feel that I start to understand, empathize with and accept that vicious and violent voice. I went into my own crack in the wall.

I like the quotes that I put into this video, and also the following longer extract which would be a funny e-mail auto-response.

𝑆𝑒ℎ𝑟 𝑔𝑒𝑒ℎ𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑟 𝑆𝑐ℎ𝑜̈𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑙,
𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛, 𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑤𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑛, 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑒 𝑧𝑢 𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑛, 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑛, 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑏𝑡 𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡. 𝐼𝑐ℎ 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑛, 𝑜𝑏𝑤𝑜ℎ𝑙 𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑠 𝑈ℎ𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑍𝑒𝑖𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡𝑖𝑔𝑒 𝑧𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑢̈𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝐸𝑟𝑘𝑙𝑎̈𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑔, 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝐼ℎ𝑛𝑒𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑜 𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛 𝑀𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑔 𝑏𝑖𝑛, 𝑜𝑏𝑤𝑜ℎ𝑙 𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑠 𝑈ℎ𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑙𝑎̈𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑙𝑎𝑓𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑢̈𝛽𝑡𝑒, 𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑖𝑏𝑡 𝑠𝑜 𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑛𝑖𝑒 𝑚𝑒ℎ𝑟 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑙𝑎𝑓𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑎̈𝛽𝑡. 𝑆𝑖𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑗𝑎 𝑛𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡 𝑧𝑢 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑚 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑚 𝑀𝑎̈𝑢𝑠𝑒𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑛, 𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑉𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑛, 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝐹𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒, 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑒𝑤𝑖𝛽 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑔𝑘𝑒𝑖𝑡. 𝑆𝑖𝑒 𝑠𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑛, 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑢𝑠, 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑆𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑣𝑜𝑛 𝐼ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑟 𝑆𝑒𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑠 𝑧𝑢 𝑠𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑛. 𝐼𝑐ℎ 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝛽, 𝑤𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑛 𝑇𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑔𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑡, 𝑖𝑐ℎ ℎ𝑎̈𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑒 𝑧𝑢𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑟𝑢𝑓𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛, 𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑧𝑢 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑛, 𝑑𝑎𝑧𝑢 𝑓𝑒ℎ𝑙𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑒, 𝑎𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑔𝑒𝑏𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑡 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝐴𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑠 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑡, 𝑢̈𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑒𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒 𝐷𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑧𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑛. 𝐷𝑖𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑒, 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑒 𝑠𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑛, 𝑎𝑢𝑓 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑧𝑢𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒, ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑧𝑢 𝑡𝑢𝑛. 𝐷𝑎𝛽 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑙𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑡𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑒, 𝑆𝑖𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑎𝑢𝑠 𝑈𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑧𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑛ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒, 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑏𝑒𝑛, 𝑑𝑎 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑧𝑖𝑔𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑔𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝑢𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑎̈𝑡𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑗𝑎 𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑆𝑐ℎ𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑛 ›𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛‹ 𝑎𝑢𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝐿𝑒ℎ𝑟𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛 𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑧𝑡, 𝑠𝑜 𝑤𝑎̈𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑔𝑒𝑤𝑖𝛽 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝐹𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑔𝑒𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑛, 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑎𝑚 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑧𝑢𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑚 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑏𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑎̈𝑡𝑡𝑒. 𝑆𝑒ℎ𝑟 𝑔𝑒𝑒ℎ𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑟 𝑆𝑐ℎ𝑜̈𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑙, 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑏𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑖𝑡 𝐽𝑎ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑛 𝑛𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡 𝑚𝑒ℎ𝑟 𝑓𝑎̈ℎ𝑖𝑔, 𝑜𝑓𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔, 𝑏𝑖𝑠 𝑧𝑢 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑟 𝑊𝑜ℎ𝑛𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡𝑢̈𝑟 𝑧𝑢 𝑔𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑇𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑏𝑧𝑢𝑛𝑒ℎ𝑚𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑗𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑧𝑢𝑟𝑢𝑓𝑒𝑛, 𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑛𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡 𝑚𝑜̈𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑐ℎ, 𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝛽 𝑛𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡, 𝑤𝑖𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑧𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑓𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝑤𝑎ℎ𝑟𝑠𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑛𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡 𝑚𝑒ℎ𝑟 𝑧𝑢 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑓𝑒𝑛. 𝐼𝑐ℎ 𝑏𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑔𝑎𝑛𝑧 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑎̈ℎ𝑖𝑔, 𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝐷𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑧𝑢 𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑘𝑒𝑛, 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑧𝑢𝑚 𝐷𝑒𝑛𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑡, 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑛 𝑇𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑛, 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝐴𝑟𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑡, 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑉𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑢𝑛𝑔, 𝑛𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑢𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑢𝑚 𝑠𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑠 𝑈ℎ𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑠, 𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑑𝑖𝑒 𝑈𝑛𝑔𝑒ℎ𝑒𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑘𝑒𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑈𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑢̈𝑐𝑘𝑠, 𝑑𝑎 𝑒𝑖𝑛 𝑛𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑆𝑐ℎ𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑧 𝑚𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑣𝑜̈𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑔 𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑚𝑎̈𝛽𝑖𝑔 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑓𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑗𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑚 𝑁𝑒𝑟𝑣, 𝑧𝑢 𝑗𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑍𝑒𝑖𝑡. 𝐼𝑐ℎ 𝑏𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑒ℎ𝑟 𝑚𝑢̈𝑑𝑒, 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑓 𝐼ℎ𝑛𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑛, 𝑤𝑖𝑒 𝑚𝑢̈𝑑𝑒 𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑏𝑖𝑛... (Suhrkamp Taschenbuch 641, pp. 71f.)

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