The crowning jewel in Fassbinder’s illustrious filmography just so happens to occur at precisely the midpoint of all his films, his 19th. Ali Fear Eats the Soul (1974, Rainer Werner Fassbinder) has always been my favorite. Its opening credits contain a warning: Happiness Isn’t Always Fun. This film speaks to a certain temperament. Gloomy, lonely, introspective, tender souls who are sensitive and capable of great affection yet ultimately wary of admitting to themselves that they need anybody other than themselves to find happiness. Ali Fear Eats the Soul for me says if you are lonely and want someone to be in love with it may happen. And then all of a sudden you’re empty again. And alone again. And it hurts as bad as ever. Is this type of loneliness a greater symptom of some pre-existing condition? Is it harmful? Or is it merely a convenient deflection to avoid other more important emotional puzzles?
Still whittling away tinkering with my conception of Fassbinder’s style, Ali Fear Eats the Soul is upper echelon what I wanna call his own: marriage never works melodrama. The most effective aspect of the film however is how its act structure deceives us, leading us to think the impending conflict will be society’s cold prejudice, but foments a second half where that entire obstacle diminishes before our eyes, brilliantly poising us to ask ourselves now what conflict will arise in its place? This is big. I’m obsessed with this. This notion that what seem to be your biggest problems in life really aren’t. I know Emmi says time heals all wounds. But it’s more than that.
Ali Fear Eats the Soul made me cry so much the first time I saw 20 years ago. And I still do. It’s that rarest of cinema tearjerkers though because have you ever asked yourselves of all the times you’ve cried in a movie how many times is it because of something tragic? It’s hardly ever because of something sweet, but it happens—as Sirk has taught us. Ali Fear Eats the Soul is eloquently framed. Each setup is precise, nothing is wasted. And images are paintings. The beginning is something else. (That’s where all the scenes that make me cry occur.) When Emmi walks into the bar and sits down it breaks me down because she’s old. These kind of romantic fantasies in Hollywood movies aren’t for us. Because they’re not for us in real life either. (I only saw this once I got old of course.) Old age withers our looks and looks are the currency of attraction. But our feelings are still fresh and strong as ever. When Emmi orders a Coke it cleanses our cynicism awash with suggestions of youth, innocence (who walks into a bar and doesn’t order alcohol? people too cool to drink yes but what I meant is teens), and nostalgia.
The reveal of the narrative’s ulterior moral in the second half consists of two phases. First, even though Ali Fear Eats the Soul seems like it’s about society’s hatred of Arabic immigrants, and their close-minded disapproval of this age-gap relationship, it’s not really. The masterful subtle shift whereby that conflict resolves on its own—as Emmi even says let’s go on a trip and when we come back everything will be different. Why? How? The narrative is winking at us. This is a movie it doesn’t matter how. But it really wants us to know it’s actually the same in our own lives.
And the second reveal is people aren’t evil, they’re just bored. When the new cleaning lady Yolanda suffers the social exile in place of Emmi at work, thus allowing her to return to the fold, we see that it’s in their nature to shit talk. People don’t hate other people because they’re bad, they project their aggression onto other targets because they’re ugly and lack something better to give them a sense of purpose. But this type of ugly is relative. Subjective. Part of what it means to be human. Pushing Ali away sends him on a self destructive plummet to seek rock bottom.
Why does Ali fuck the barmaid? Because he’s desperate for something he can’t quite understand. It’s his emptiness. Depression. He leaves home and goes to her place because she’s easy. And once she lets him in he sleeps all day and into the night because that’s depression sleep. When she gets off her night shift and wants sex, he undresses and then just wants to embrace. He’s not lonely like he thinks he is. He’s not looking for someone or warmth or affection. He’s lonely because life has let him down. He perpetuates a cycle of his own design as a way of inferiority confirmation. Why does he ridicule Emmi along with the others calling her his Moroccan grandma? Because he’s sick of his life. Everything. The scene where at the bar Ali goes into the bathroom and keeps hitting himself in the face as he looks in the mirror at his own reflection says it all. It sounds weird when you put it into words. But seeing it is to witness the sublime. It conveys emotions that aren’t meant for words.
What sticks with me is the way the slight disharmony between the married couple has such drastic consequences. The stuff of life. And the way they are revealed to be on their own inevitable paths. The final scene stripping away everything but the very essence of each of them. Ali’s illness. Emmi’s longsuffering attentive care. That is there entire identity defined in the simplest way possible.The beauty of their kindness and intimacy. Yet still having found each other. I can’t help but see this as a sweet romance, thinking back on them. After their marriage going to that place that Hitler used to eat and ordering off a fancy menu for the first time is adorable. Power of the melodrama. The waiter doesn’t judge them. Nor do we. And this is all that heaven allows.
Ali Fear Eats the Soul made me cry so much the first time I saw 20 years ago. And I still do. It’s that rarest of cinema tearjerkers though because have you ever asked yourselves of all the times you’ve cried in a movie how many times is it because of something tragic? It’s hardly ever because of something sweet, but it happens—as Sirk has taught us. Ali Fear Eats the Soul is eloquently framed. Each setup is precise, nothing is wasted. And images are paintings. The beginning is something else. (That’s where all the scenes that make me cry occur.) When Emmi walks into the bar and sits down it breaks me down because she’s old. These kind of romantic fantasies in Hollywood movies aren’t for us. Because they’re not for us in real life either. (I only saw this once I got old of course.) Old age withers our looks and looks are the currency of attraction. But our feelings are still fresh and strong as ever. When Emmi orders a Coke it cleanses our cynicism awash with suggestions of youth, innocence (who walks into a bar and doesn’t order alcohol? people too cool to drink yes but what I meant is teens), and nostalgia.
The reveal of the narrative’s ulterior moral in the second half consists of two phases. First, even though Ali Fear Eats the Soul seems like it’s about society’s hatred of Arabic immigrants, and their close-minded disapproval of this age-gap relationship, it’s not really. The masterful subtle shift whereby that conflict resolves on its own—as Emmi even says let’s go on a trip and when we come back everything will be different. Why? How? The narrative is winking at us. This is a movie it doesn’t matter how. But it really wants us to know it’s actually the same in our own lives.
And the second reveal is people aren’t evil, they’re just bored. When the new cleaning lady Yolanda suffers the social exile in place of Emmi at work, thus allowing her to return to the fold, we see that it’s in their nature to shit talk. People don’t hate other people because they’re bad, they project their aggression onto other targets because they’re ugly and lack something better to give them a sense of purpose. But this type of ugly is relative. Subjective. Part of what it means to be human. Pushing Ali away sends him on a self destructive plummet to seek rock bottom.
Why does Ali fuck the barmaid? Because he’s desperate for something he can’t quite understand. It’s his emptiness. Depression. He leaves home and goes to her place because she’s easy. And once she lets him in he sleeps all day and into the night because that’s depression sleep. When she gets off her night shift and wants sex, he undresses and then just wants to embrace. He’s not lonely like he thinks he is. He’s not looking for someone or warmth or affection. He’s lonely because life has let him down. He perpetuates a cycle of his own design as a way of inferiority confirmation. Why does he ridicule Emmi along with the others calling her his Moroccan grandma? Because he’s sick of his life. Everything. The scene where at the bar Ali goes into the bathroom and keeps hitting himself in the face as he looks in the mirror at his own reflection says it all. It sounds weird when you put it into words. But seeing it is to witness the sublime. It conveys emotions that aren’t meant for words.
What sticks with me is the way the slight disharmony between the married couple has such drastic consequences. The stuff of life. And the way they are revealed to be on their own inevitable paths. The final scene stripping away everything but the very essence of each of them. Ali’s illness. Emmi’s longsuffering attentive care. That is there entire identity defined in the simplest way possible.The beauty of their kindness and intimacy. Yet still having found each other. I can’t help but see this as a sweet romance, thinking back on them. After their marriage going to that place that Hitler used to eat and ordering off a fancy menu for the first time is adorable. Power of the melodrama. The waiter doesn’t judge them. Nor do we. And this is all that heaven allows.
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