The White Ribbon

Wintry, even by standards of its famously austere director, White Ribbon’s pristine appearance masks its dark intentions. Set in a small Northern German village of the eve of the First World War, this is costume drama Michael Haneke style; disturbing, twisted and cerebral. The collective noun at the centre of this eerie, dispassionate period piece are members of a children’s choir. Their severe Protestant upbringings are not easy; one is strapped to the bed as a combative against impure adolescent thoughts, another is sexually abused by her horrendous father. It gets worse; strange occurrences in the village coalesce into what may be ritual punishments of the old-time religion variety. As the veneer of respectability falls away, a very different village starts to emerge. Like Hidden, nothing here is as it seems; it’s always much, much worse than you can imagine. (And as with that earlier film, the solution to the mystery is here, but don’t expect Colombo to march in and talk you through it.) Played out with Spartan imagery and Golden Era Bergman exchanges, The White Ribbon could be Freud’s The Uncanny in a series of chilly tableaux. Don’t be fooled, it’s another of the director’s neat rug-pulling tricks. Beneath the stately pace and beautiful contrivances there lurks a badass, brutal thriller, a film that will not remove its teeth from your jugular for days and days after viewing. Herr Haneke allows for an occasional glimpse of humanity; one particular innocent act of kindness outdoes anything the magnificent Up has to offer. But if Haneke’s gloomy view of the species makes Philip Larkin seem like Eric Morecambe, he has a greater purpose. This is a warning from history about intolerance and religious belief. If it gives you the heebie jeebies while it coldly jabs at the audience’s failings, then so much the better. It is not for Man to judge; that’s Michael Haneke’s job, and, really, who among you would have things any other way?