O Medo do Goleiro Diante do Pênalti

Based on the novel "Die Angst des Tormannes beim Elfmeter" by Austrian existentialist writer, Peter Handke, The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick is a powerful and unnerving film by the great German director Wim Wenders (Wings of Desire, Paris, Texas). As the film opens, the goalie, Joseph Bloch, (Arthur Brauss) is suspended from a soccer game in Vienna for missing a penalty kick. Seemingly not upset, he goes into town, then commits an unplanned and seemingly unmotivated murder of a cinema cashier.

Presenting us with a world that does not fit our picture of what constitutes rational behavior, Wenders refuses to explain the goalie's senseless action. Bloch simply continues his life in a matter-of-fact way, although a great deal of emotion seems to be churning under the surface. He retreats to a country inn to find his old girl friend. Nothing much happens. He goes to the movies, converses with the local residents, drinks a lot, gets into a fight, and ostensibly waits for the police to close in. His expression remains the same no matter what he is doing. As stated by Adam Groves in his review in The Cutting Edge, "He may be a homicidal sociopath, but Joseph seems to fit in quite well with the world around him, which seems to be the whole point"

Bloch talks about his life as a goalie throughout the film. At the end, he wanders into to a local soccer game and explains to a visiting salesman the thoughts that go through a goalie's mind during a penalty kick, for example, how the goalie must outguess the shooter. Perhaps dramatizing the dehumanizing effects of modern society, Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick is a strange, intriguing, and complex film that definitely deserves repeated viewing to unlock the puzzle. A possible hint involves a repetitive theme of a lost boy who drowned because he couldn't communicate.

Spoiler alert, this is not a film about soccer at all, and there is no drama surrounding a penalty kick. Wim Wender's first film is a rather ponderous foray into the randomness of violence and suffering in the world. The anxiety here, the terror, is in just how senseless it is, as senseless as that goal scored while the goalie is barely paying attention in the opening scene. The anxiety is also in knowing that ordinary people wandering around have that in them, or could have committed such an act in the spur of the moment, and then gone on with their lives.

In addition to a critical point of violence that the film rests upon, we see smaller references, such as the goalie getting beaten up in the street a couple times, a reference to the murder of Sharon Tate, and a story in the papers is that a young boy has gone missing, presumably harmed. We see it in the goalie's case as being completely unplanned, which is shocking in itself, but it's also disconcerting when what follows is not a traditional crime drama, with a detective then trying to track him down. Life simply goes on.

In a minor key, I felt the usual kinds of questions, e.g. Will he do it again, and will he be caught, but those were not the main things causing tension. It was more like, why did he end up doing that to the young woman and not one of the other women he meets while traveling around? Does the world even care, listening to the buoyant music from the 50's and 60's? Is the veneer of civilization so thin that there are other sociopaths we see (in the film or in real life), who have done such things? These are haunting, existential questions. We wish for life to make sense and be fair, but oftentimes it is neither. Those big moments in soccer, or our favorite sports, as much as we get wrapped up in them - they seem trivial by comparison - but even there, we see randomness, the goalie guessing to dive left or right at the penalty kick.

I liked the concept for the film and how it managed such brutal statements about the world in such a low-key way, but I have to say, watching it was not terribly interesting. The dispassionate feeling of the killer and the disconnected events which follow don't make for a compelling story, and the film moves along very slowly. It doesn't escalate and there is little to no transformation, so what we're left with is this dark commentary, which felt as flat as it was depressing. It's worth seeing if you're a Wenders fan, but it's tough to recommend without reservations.

It is difficult to comment on such a brilliant movie without having read the book first, or even better, being familiar with Peter Handke's narrative works. While it may seem evident (to us, accustomed to Hollywood's conventional plots) that the main character of The Goalie... is a madman, it is not evident at all. Handke's approach to narrative is to reflect exterior signs, rather than enter the character's inner thoughts. See The Lefthanded Woman for example: while it may seem, on the surface, that the woman does not have a reason for divorce, in fact she might have a lot, only she does not reveal what is on her mind. Same applies to the goalie: he would not speak his mind, therefore we, and even Handke himself (or Wenders) can not enter his own intimate realm. Whatever his reasons are for what he does (and murder is only one of his unexplained acts) we can not know them. The film is about communication between people more than murder. It is funny that most of us would assume he is mad just because we can not find an account of his acts: if you think about it, in the real world outside the movie realm, most people -and even our closest friends- would not tell us why they do what they do. And it does not necessarily mean they are mad.

Wim Wenders was always the most cerebral, the most cinematic of the three Giants of New German cinema (albeit Giants enough to bear favourable comparison even to cinematic Giants-For All-Ages such as Fritz Lang, and FW Murnau). In his hands, even a work so clearly of its maker as Ripley's Game became a perhaps even greater work, even more clearly of its maker such as The American Friend was, or as the Sam Shephard-scripted Paris, Texas was. And perhaps, too, this adaptation of a German bestseller likely is. This film, despite the directors acknowledgements of the influence of Alfred Hitchcock - evident throughout - is A Masterpiece of control and content - admirable in a mature work by an established director, astonishing as a feature debut.

The title is relevant only in a later, casual, conversation the eponymous character has with a provincial policeman, where the policeman innocently spills out his m.o. when confronted by a criminal, but such is the nature of this study that we can't immediately be sure the psychopath is taking everything in. The murder itself isn't even shown in its grisly intensity, merely its foreplay and aftermath. And there's nothing to forewarn us of the killer's intentions: no taunting, no leering looks, no stalkings. (I saw parallels in the murder scene with a similar scene in Hitchcock's underrated 'Frenzy', but only in the way it was shot, and the aforementioned foreplay).

His scanning of every subsequent news report might suggest he's worried, that the noose is tightening around him. But his immediately subsequent actions suggest otherwise. Like the prototype psychopath, compassion is conspicuous by its absence from his every thought and action. But yet, in best cinematic tradition, what 'he' doesn't know is that we can see his every action, can scrutinise his every thought. Can condemn him for his indifference.

Only by giving every frame of this masterly film your full attention will you get to truly 'enjoy' its final frame.

Huh that Wenders guy really knows how to make a good movie. Who would've thought...