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7.2/10
Archivist John
Senior Editor
A definitive 7.2/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Walking from Munich to Berlin remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Is "Walking from Munich to Berlin" worth watching today? Short answer: absolutely, but with significant caveats. This is not a film for casual viewing; it demands patience and a particular mindset, offering a profound, almost hypnotic experience for those willing to surrender to its deliberate pace, yet proving a test of endurance for others.
It's a film for cinephiles interested in experimental cinema, observational documentaries, and the philosophical implications of a journey. Conversely, it is decidedly NOT for viewers seeking conventional plot, dramatic tension, or rapid-fire entertainment. If your cinematic diet consists primarily of blockbusters or tightly plotted dramas, prepare for a stark departure.
In an era saturated with hyper-edited, special-effect-laden spectacles, a film like "Walking from Munich to Berlin" feels almost anachronistic. It’s a work that boldly, perhaps even defiantly, strips away the layers of conventional storytelling to present something raw, elemental, and deeply human. Starring the enigmatic Oskar Fischinger, this film is precisely what its title promises: a chronicle of a man walking from one major German city to another.
There are no grand pronouncements, no dramatic confrontations, and certainly no intricate subplots. What remains is the singular act of putting one foot in front of the other, meticulously documented, and presented with an almost hypnotic focus. It’s a daring proposition, one that challenges our preconceived notions of what cinema should be and, in doing so, carves out its own unique, contemplative space.
This film works because of its unflinching commitment to its premise. It understands the power of repetition and observation, transforming a simple act into a meditative, almost spiritual, experience.
This film fails because its deliberate pacing and lack of traditional narrative will alienate a significant portion of its potential audience, demanding a level of engagement that many may find excessive or even boring.
You should watch it if you are seeking a unique, reflective cinematic journey that prioritizes atmosphere and the raw human experience over conventional storytelling, or if you appreciate films that push the boundaries of the medium.
Oskar Fischinger, as the film's sole subject, isn't performing in the traditional sense. His 'performance' is one of pure, unadulterated presence. He is a vessel through which the audience experiences the journey. His face, often obscured by the effort of the walk, or framed against the vastness of the landscape, becomes a canvas for the elements – sweat, sun, wind, rain.
There's a stoicism to his undertaking, a quiet resolve that speaks volumes without a single line of dialogue. We observe the subtle changes in his gait as fatigue sets in, the way he adjusts his pack, the brief moments he pauses to take in a vista. These are not dramatic beats, but rather intimate glimpses into the human condition under duress and in contemplation. It's a testament to Fischinger's understated power that he can hold the screen for such an extended period, simply by existing within the frame.
Consider a particular scene around the film's midpoint, where Fischinger stops by a small stream. He doesn't speak, he doesn't emote dramatically. Instead, the camera lingers on his hands as he splashes water on his face, a simple act of refreshment that conveys more about his physical state and the quiet dignity of his struggle than any monologue could. It’s a brutally simple sentence: He walks. He endures.
The directorial choices here are critical, as they dictate how this seemingly mundane act is elevated to something cinematic. The director (presumably Fischinger himself, given his experimental background) eschews flashy techniques, opting instead for a grounded, almost vérité style. The camera often maintains a respectful distance, allowing the landscape to envelop Fischinger, emphasizing his smallness within the grandeur of his task. Yet, there are also moments of startling intimacy, where the lens focuses on the rhythmic crunch of boots on gravel, or the intricate patterns of a worn map.
The decision to largely avoid voice-over narration is a bold one. It forces the audience to engage with the visual and auditory information directly, to draw their own conclusions about Fischinger's motivations or internal state. This creates a deeply personal viewing experience, as each spectator projects their own thoughts and feelings onto the silent figure. It's a move that could easily backfire, leading to disengagement, but here, it fosters a unique sense of shared journey.
The film's structure, while seemingly linear, employs a subtle artistry in its segmenting of the journey. We see not just the walking, but the brief respites, the solitary meals, the setting up of camp under starry skies. These moments, while brief, offer crucial punctuation to the relentless forward motion, allowing for reflection not just for Fischinger, but for the viewer as well. It reminds me, in a strange way, of the structural purity found in early cinematic experiments like Number 17, albeit with a completely different aesthetic goal.
The cinematography in "Walking from Munich to Berlin" is arguably the film's strongest asset. It transforms the German countryside from a mere backdrop into a living, breathing character. The camera captures the shifting light across rolling hills, the dense shadows of ancient forests, and the stark geometry of rural towns.
There's a particular beauty in the way the film captures the mundane: a rusted signpost, a distant church spire, the intricate texture of asphalt. These details, often overlooked in our hurried lives, are given ample screen time, inviting viewers to slow down and truly see. The use of natural light is paramount, lending an authenticity to every frame. Sunrises paint the landscape in soft pastels, while overcast days cast a melancholic, almost painterly, gray over the proceedings.
The visual language is unpretentious but deeply effective. Consider the sustained wide shots that emphasize Fischinger’s isolation against a vast, indifferent horizon. Then, juxtapose these with the intimate close-ups of his blistered feet or the determined set of his jaw. This interplay between the epic and the personal is what gives the film much of its visual power. It’s a masterclass in making the ordinary extraordinary, a skill reminiscent of the understated beauty in The Last Egyptian, though in a vastly different context.
The pacing of "Walking from Munich to Berlin" is deliberately slow, mirroring the very act it portrays. This is not a film that rushes. It breathes. It lingers. For some, this will be an exercise in patience, bordering on tedium. For others, it will be a deeply immersive, almost meditative experience, allowing for a profound connection to the rhythm of the journey.
The film establishes an almost hypnotic rhythm through the repetition of footsteps, the passing landscapes, and the measured progress of Fischinger. This deliberate slowness is not a flaw but a fundamental aspect of its artistic intent. It forces the viewer to recalibrate their expectations, to shed the need for constant stimulation, and instead, to simply *be* with the journey.
The tone is predominantly contemplative and reflective, with undertones of quiet determination and occasional moments of serene beauty. There's a subtle melancholy that pervades the film, perhaps inherent in the solitary nature of such an undertaking, but it's tempered by the sheer resilience on display. It's a tonal tightrope walk that, for the most part, succeeds in maintaining a consistent and engaging atmosphere without resorting to overt emotional manipulation.
Yes, "Walking from Munich to Berlin" is undeniably worth watching today, especially if you seek a cinematic experience outside the mainstream. It offers a rare opportunity for introspection and a quiet appreciation for the simple act of existence. However, be prepared for its unconventional structure and deliberate pace. It is a film that rewards patience with profound moments of visual poetry and a deep sense of shared human endeavor.
"Walking from Munich to Berlin" is a film that will undoubtedly divide audiences, and that's precisely part of its charm and its critical importance. It’s not a film to be consumed idly; it demands engagement, patience, and a willingness to redefine your expectations of cinema. For those who embrace its unique rhythm, it offers a deeply rewarding experience – a profound meditation on endurance, observation, and the simple, yet powerful, act of moving through the world.
It may not be a cinematic journey for everyone, but for the adventurous viewer, it presents an opportunity for introspection rarely found in modern filmmaking. It works. But it’s flawed. Its flaws, however, are inherent to its ambition. It's a testament to the power of minimalist filmmaking and a reminder that sometimes, the most compelling stories are found in the quietest moments. While it certainly doesn't fit neatly into any genre box, its artistic integrity is undeniable. Don't go in expecting a thrill ride, but rather, a long, contemplative stroll through the soul of a journey.
IMDb 4.9
1921
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