BERLIN: PHIL COLLINS AT THE TEMPORÄRE KUNSTHALLE
Some say to have fallen in love with the Berlin at the first sight.
Personally, the grey sky, the hard icy snow pushed to the side of the broad
streets and dotted with dog’s dung, and the strong sense of the actual passage
of a devastating war, did make an impression, but it wasn’t love. I might call
it sympathy.
It takes two strong legs and a good sense of distance to walk from
popular Friederichstraße, passing Check Point Charlie, to the boulevard called
Unter den Linden, that links the Brandebourg Gate with Alexander Platz. From
the middle of this road, both huge monuments lay small and indistinct at each
end. You feel very small in Berlin: it takes a long time to take in the
buildings, the geography of the city, to recognize its distinctive European
flavour, but to fail in trying to classify it in comparison with the other
capitals.
The Temporäre Kunsthalle is in Schlossplatz, close to the so called
Museum’s Island: it’s a small, square building that seems to be built out of
dark mirrors. It stands on its own, not surrounded by anything else, giving,
exactly, this sense of temporariness. When I stepped in I found a library, and
two people taking bookings: there was a film program called Auto Kino!, devised
by the British artist Phil Collins, and it seemed to be very successful because
there were just a few places left. I am told that I had car number five, and at
first I thought I misunderstood the language; but no, when I walked in the
other room I realized that the huge inside was transformed in an old Drive-In,
with second hand cars lined randomly in a semicircle. There was even a
Volksvagen van equipped with a pop-corn machine, and I happened to be in it.
The number was clearly written on the plate, 005. The comfort of the seat and
familiarity of the inside of a vehicle made me temporarily forget why I was
there and, with the screen still blank, I almost dozed off when someone else
stepped in, on the passenger seat. The situation changed: there was an urge to
say something, at least to introduce myself, just to be able to mentally
justify being inside a van with a total stranger. But then, the projection
begun and I occupied myself with eating caramel popcorn, because, I thought, it
was part of the performance.
Drive-Ins were very popular in America during the 50s: a place to run
away with your sweetheart and forget about morality for at least a couple of
hours. Having one in Berlin, where the weather never did allow that kind of
outdoor cinema to spread, was a sort of unique experience. The program run from
5th February to 14th March 2010, and on the 24th of February I could
see Ich Deutsche
Behorde (22 mins, 1981), by Ezra Gerhardt and Alf
Bohmert, and Die Bewerbung (60 mins,
1997), by Berlin-based filmmaker Harun Farocki. The screening was focused on
immigration and job interviews issues: the first movie, a documentary, was
about the slight racism underlining the first immigration wave in Germany
during the eighties. Foreigners were admitted in an office one by one, their
footprints and picture taken, like they were mere criminals. They would leave
without any certainty of a Visa. Farocki’s movie twisted the argument and
unveiled a behind-the-scene workshop about how to be successful at a job
interview. I learned that putting the hands on the interviewer’s desk is
invading his space, that fidgeting gives a very bad impression, not to mention
staying still. My car companion got bored and left before the end; I took the
chance to make myself more comfortable, aware of the fact that Farocki’s movies
make you unable to leave just until the end. I also couldn’t help but do some
other car-spotting: people were enjoying themselves. As a temporary experience
in a Drive-In cinema that never existed, they, like me, were having an
afternoon out of the ordinary.
