| A savagely comic portrait of the dehumanizing effects of late capitalism, Songs from the Second Floor (Sweden, 2000) is a pre-apocalyptic vision of a world governed by self-interest and greed. Sound familiar? It should. It’s a representation, however exaggerated, of the world in which we live.
In a city somewhere in Northern Europe, society is on the brink of social and economic collapse. Companies are laying off devoted employees without notice. The owner of a furniture store torches the place for the insurance money. His son sits in a café as an endless stream of traffic passes slowly by, headed we know not where. His other son has been committed to a mental institution, apparently because he "went nuts" writing poetry. It’s probably just as well – poetry is of little utility in such a viciously profiteering world.
If this all sounds a bit bleak, that’s because it is. But the film’s hopelessness is undercut slightly by its absurd deadpan comedy. Writer-director Roy Andersson has created a series of brilliantly surreal tableaux, which he lingers upon unsettlingly. When I first saw the film at the 2001 Calgary International Film Festival, the audience’s laughter seemed to be primarily of the stress-relieving variety – as though people were trying to alleviate the gut-wrenching horror of the everyday that Andersson invites us to contemplate so intently.
Songs from the Second Floor is a 94-minute film consisting of only 46 shots (most films today contain hundreds, if not thousands) and no camera movement at all – thankfully, each shot is composed with a painter’s sensibility that both commands and rewards our undivided attention. With little to distract from his powerful images, Andersson forces us to contemplate the resemblances between his characters and ourselves. Who are these ghostly apparitions in white makeup, clad in drab outfits and shuffling through this unforgiving world? Are they, metaphorically speaking, the dead? Are we?
The film is a critique of materialism in its many forms, but interestingly, it proposes humanist, not divine, solutions. Bitterly cynical about Christianity, the film even includes one scene in which a crucifix salesman discards his wares on a trash heap, casting them aside for their lack of commercial potential. "How can you make money on a crucified loser?" he asks.
As Andersson has noted in interviews, Jesus Christ has become a product, a mere icon that offers little in the way of consolation for our societal malaise. If his film is any indication, Andersson believes there’s little use in worshipping the image of an antiquated martyr when we are readily willing to submit to and participate in a litany of horrors, all in the name of the almighty dollar.
So if our gods are out of date and our world is about to crumble around us, how do we prevent ourselves from being pitched into existential crisis? Well, we could beat ourselves up – much like the seemingly endless parade of briefcase-carrying flagellants seen at various junctures in the film – or we can try to pause the pace of our lives and envision a way out of this mess.
The film’s epigraph, from Peruvian poet César Vallejo, is "Blessed be the one who sits down," suggesting that disassociation from this world is the first step towards creating a better one. Or perhaps it’s directed at those who are seated, watching the film, engaging with its ideas and hopefully being inspired to act against the degrading forces at work in the world today. Something has to precipitate mass change, and if art can’t do it, then what can?
As a poetic meditation on the desolate values of our times, Songs from the Second Floor is unparalleled by anything I’ve seen in contemporary cinema. While the DVD format can’t possibly replicate the experience of watching the film communally in a theatre, let alone do justice to its impressive visual achievements, it nevertheless remains a rare and affecting masterpiece. |
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