A Report from the Sickbed: IWD, Dresden, and A Rewatch of The Brutalist

Greetings Readers.

I write to you from my sickbed, as I’m currently getting over a cold that has taken nearly a week to get rid of itself. I’m currently dealing with the massive destruction this mild viral infection has wrought: a voice fit for a bass player and a throat just sore enough to make drinking my iced lattes a less than pleasurable experience. I just hope I’ll be well enough for classes on Monday. 

I thought this third post would be a less artistically focused one. Below you’ll find a guide to International Women’s day, some thoughts on my most recent trip to Dresden, as well as my opinion on rewatching The Brutalist for the second time. 

International Women’s Day: Some Frequently Asked Questions I Thought You Might Have

The concept of an International Women’s Day (IWD), I have decided, is not an American one. 

When I was in high school, we had an informal observation of the day, mostly due to the rallying of my teachers, most of whom had a European background. I confess I have not thought much about the holiday since. However, since we are in Germany and therefore a good distance from American cultural hegemony in this respect, I have decided to focus the next installment of my blog on such interpretative freedom as the theme of womanhood may allow. In this case, I have decided to answer some commonly asked questions that Americans may have on encountering this holiday.

Is This Actually A Holiday? 

It depends on your location and mood. IWD is a public holiday in Berlin and a few other administrative states within Germany, but not nationwide (Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know). Therefore, if you’re feeling particularly annoyed at women on this day, it may make sense to take a train ride to the countryside and watch with smug satisfaction as women go about their daily lives instead of participating in a twenty four hour economic downturn.

Do Men Also Get This Day Off?

Yes. If you feel this is unfair, remind yourself that the President still has to work on President’s Day, and you do not.

Why Doesn’t The United States Have This Holiday?

To encourage off-season tourism to Europe.

How Can I Celebrate?

For the convenience of my readers, I’ve included a list of suggestions based upon careful observation of the central neighborhood of Mitte and its environs: notable examples of festivities include but are not limited to:

• Buying slightly wilted pink tulips at an outrageous price; bonus if buyer complains vociferously about inflation.
• Vaguely protesting the role of milk in society: participants will require no clothes, but cardboard signs and a megaphone so old the words spoken into it are rendered meaningless is preferred.

A Trip to Dresden (Featuring My Least Favorite Kind of Weather)

Our IES Abroad trip to Dresden, the jewel of Saxony, was something I was particularly looking forward to, but fate decided to gift me with the most cursed weather imaginable: blindingly sunny and blistering cold. Shaken but determined, I boarded the train from Berlin, settling in for what I had foolishly thought might be a scenic and stimulating journey. Instead, one might be generous to qualify my ensuing sleeping position as “eccentric.” The rhythmic clatter of the tracks, the gentle sway of the carriage, and my complete lack of proper rest the night before meant I drifted in and out of consciousness, periodically waking just long enough to realize how foolishly I was sleeping (with my mouth slightly ajar, I might add).

Once in Dresden, I was met with its grand Baroque beauty and the chilling (literally) prospect of a two-hour walking tour. I have nothing against a well-structured tour, but standing still while admiring the two buildings the GDR could afford to build in forty years? Not my idea of fun. I spent most of it shifting from foot to foot. A brief foray into the chocolate museum provided some sense of warm (and heavenly smelling) reprieve.

The highlight, without question, was the Green Vault. A glittering, ostentatious display of wealth and craftsmanship, it was the kind of excess I could respect. The vault was chock full of egg-sized sapphires, emeralds and rubies. No photos could be taken and a hush had fallen over the visitors, previously so boisterous. Dare I say this almost felt sacred? I was pleasantly surprised by the feeling of shared awe I experienced with my compatriots that afternoon. It made up for the horrendous weather.

On Rewatching The Brutalist

There is a certain kind of person who rewatches films. I am not, generally speaking, that person. I have long maintained that if you remember a film well enough to convince an unsuspecting film student of your admiration, there is no need to subject yourself to further torture by rewatching, say, Solaris. If anything, you should be punished for already having seen it once, much less returning for more. But on rare occasions, I find myself subjected to the intellectual obligation of a second viewing—usually because someone insists the film is a masterpiece, and I am the only person in the room with the dignity to disagree.  

Thus, I found myself rewatching The Brutalist, a film I had already seen and, more importantly, already formed an opinion on. The first time, I had sat through its austere cinematography and postwar melancholy with the grim determination of someone who had committed to finishing a book just to prove that they could. My father and I had crammed ourselves into a tiny San Francisco theater to watch it before the wide release, and both of us left significantly more gaunt than when we had arrived.

In my personal experience, there are many ways to suffer through a film. One is to watch something bad, which is annoying but at least conclusive (and in the cases of most rom-coms, they tend to last less than ninety minutes). Another is to watch something you suspect is great, only to realize you still don’t like it. The Brutalist falls into the latter category. It is cold, brooding, and insists upon itself with the kind of severity usually reserved for architecture that no one actually wants to live in. It is a film of long pauses, meaningful silences, and a color palette that suggests someone has drained all the joy from life and replaced it with gray felt. This, I might add, is despite the VistaVision. 

To be fair, the acting is impressive. The performances are tortured in a way that suggests these people understand suffering more profoundly than I ever will, mostly because they have to endure a character named after two unremarkable presidents. The cinematography is “stunning,” if your definition of stunning includes a lot of concrete and bleak winter landscapes. The themes—war, displacement, artistic integrity—are undeniably important, in the way that vitamins are important but also deeply unpleasant to consume.  

On a second watch, I noticed more: the meticulous production design, the historical weight in every frame, the careful restraint in the performances. I also noticed that my legs were falling asleep from sitting still for so long, and that I had, at some point, begun wondering how long it would take before it was socially acceptable for me to heave another sigh. This is the paradox of certain kinds of Serious Cinema—it is both impressive and, occasionally, intolerable.   

Would I watch The Brutalist a third time? Not likely unless money is involved. But I will spend the rest of my life insisting that I have, in fact, watched it twice. Because at the end of the day, if you can’t impress people with your taste, you might as well impress them with your endurance.