I begin with the straight razor, the razor blade, the keen metal stud, the hacksaw–all the tools that have sliced into human flesh in Michael Haneke’s films, advancing his plots while they mirror his style. His images are cold, gleaming and precise; his view of characters, dispassionately cutting. Think of Haneke as a clinician, dedicated to treating society’s ills, and his movies will seem like scalpels. Think of him as a less benevolent type, and the films become Austrian chain saws.
It seems that most viewers have seen the scalpel in his widely admired new picture, which for the American market has been helpfully subtitled right in its name, as Caché (Hidden). Like virtually all of Haneke’s films, this one scrapes away at the surface of polite European affluence to lay bare the moral rot beneath. Daniel Auteuil stars as Georges, the host of a popular French television show about recently published books; Juliette Binoche plays Anne, his appropriately elegant wife; Lester Makedonsky is their teenage son, Pierrot, whose ways are (of course) impenetrable; and Maurice Bénichou appears in the crucial role of Majid, the figure from a dark past.
The slightly melodramatic note in my summary is intended, as it is in Caché itself. Beginning with the first image–a stationary long shot of a residential street in Paris, held and held until the ordinary, day-lit scene fills with dread–Haneke practices his version of Hitchcockian suspense, and even offers the ploy of a thriller plot. As you soon learn, that opening view of the street is part of a surveillance video of Georges and Anne’s home. What snoop made the cassette and then dropped it at their door? Why are they being watched? As the couple, already bickering in their first scene, start to imagine threats and cast about for clues, you are drawn into their sleuthing, even as you realize you’re somehow searching for yourself. Georges and Anne are unnerved because they’ve been seen–and there you sit, hypocrite voyeur, observing them and wondering who has exposed their discord.
A sophisticated gambit, expertly played. Even if you dislike Caché–and I do–it’s impossible to deny the formidable intelligence at work in the film. There’s a reason Haneke was named best director at Cannes, why Caché got a prominent slot in the most recent New York Film Festival, why at the end of 2005 various critics’ groups and the European Film Awards cited Caché as the year’s best picture. There’s also a reason to resist Caché–but to propose it, I’ll need to conduct a quick review of Haneke’s career.
He began his work in feature films in 1989 with Der Siebente Kontinent (The Seventh Continent), an exquisitely, immaculately depressing examination of a middle-class Austrian family that no longer found life worth living. Was the movie a case study, an allegory, a diatribe, a warning? The power of The Seventh Continent lay in its being all of these and none–an effect that Haneke achieved by avoiding any explanations, whether psychological or sociological. He just (just!) showed the surface of things.