Mauerpark (dir. Dennis Karsten, 2011)
Mauerpark is shot in Berlin’s Prenzlauer Berg, in the summer of 2009, portraying diverse artists, musicians, activists, performers, visitors, and seekers of alternative life-styles who frequent the park and participate in its array of activities (mass-karaoke, flee market, basketball, BBQs, street and performance art, etc.). The structure of the film is developed around a collection of interviews and images of the park and the different leisurely activities that take place there on the weekends. The opening scene is a view of the park from the top (from above the adjacent stadium). We can make out the TV Tower in the background, but it is blurry – only the centre of the image is in focus. The first shot shows us the front entrance of the park along Bernauer Strasse, the second shot shows the middle stretch of the park, and the third shot shows the back end of the park (each shot is only in focus in the centre of the frame). Right away, we get visually drawn into the microcosm of the park – the urban landscape around it is not the focus of the narrative, but it does linger and even encroach on the park. Next the camera begins to zoom-in on the people walking through the park, we watch the park gradually fill with people, who gather in the middle of the park, in the amphitheatre where the mass-karaoke takes place. This is a story about Berliners who inhabit a newly-gentrified neighbourhood.
The first protagonist, Frank, is introduced – a retired Berliner, sun-tanning with his shirt off and exposing his big round belly, he tells us about the viewing platform that used to stand on the West side of the Wall where people could get up and look over into the East. Right away, we get a historical dimension of the space – its narrative is tied to the Cold War, to division, reunification, and gentrification. The second protagonist, Michael, continues to tell us about the border area and the Wall, and dismantling the Wall and the watchtowers after reunification and throwing the debris into the park (itself a no-man’s-land during the Wall-years). The third protagonist, Horst, tells us about a person jumping from the roof of his building into the West; he was supposed to jump into a safety net, but missed it. Through the editing pace, the narrative alternates between the three speakers, connecting their stories into a coherent narrative of the park’s not so distant history.
Next we are introduced to the Russian-born writer Wladimir Kaminer, who came to Berlin right after the Wall fell and settled in Prenzlauer Berg’s Schönhauser Allee and has been writing about it since. He sarcastically comments on Berlin’s relationship (or lack there of) to history:
"This town makes nothing of its own history. The Vietnamese for example rebuilt and enlarged their war tunnels. Lots of Americans are interested in the details of the Vietnam War. They fly to Vietnam as tourists and want to see the tunnels, which the soldiers from North Vietnam had dug. But the American tourists don’t fit into the tunnels because they were dug for Vietnamese soldiers. So the Vietnamese enlarged and extended them. Added snack bars and amusements that the Americans are familiar with, so they wouldn’t feel strange underground. And it works! That’s the right way to handle the history of one’s country. What do the Germans do? They dismantle everything. Throw the stones away, and pretend nothing happened."
"This town makes nothing of its own history. The Vietnamese for example rebuilt and enlarged their war tunnels. Lots of Americans are interested in the details of the Vietnam War. They fly to Vietnam as tourists and want to see the tunnels, which the soldiers from North Vietnam had dug. But the American tourists don’t fit into the tunnels because they were dug for Vietnamese soldiers. So the Vietnamese enlarged and extended them. Added snack bars and amusements that the Americans are familiar with, so they wouldn’t feel strange underground. And it works! That’s the right way to handle the history of one’s country. What do the Germans do? They dismantle everything. Throw the stones away, and pretend nothing happened."
Next we meet a painter, male and female basketball players, and DJ Tanith, who gives us a history of the Tresor Club, which like the Fall of the Wall has celebrated its twentieth anniversary because it was created in the no-man’s-lands of the Wall-torn Mitte in 1991, and who reminds us that “since the Wall came down, Berlin became a techno city. And I was there since the beginning.” Another techno legend, DJ Motto, tells us: “We were lucky that we got a second city after the Wall fell. That’s why there were so many free spaces, and that’s how the techno scene developed. It was parallel development, the free spaces, and the newly-emerging music.” DJ Motto’s turn-table set up in the park has a sign on it that reads: “Mauerpark is our park.”
The stories the protagonists tell all go back to the years following the Fall of the Wall (to Berlin Babylon) and to the beginnings of the New Berlin, and its many subcultures. Wladimir Kaminer adds: “What I found here was a kind of anarchy, where the state was stepping back, and people were either doing nothing or building a new, alternative blueprint for their life. Huge empty spaces developed out of the collapse of the system and the fall of the Wall. That’s Mauerpark.” Another protagonist, Sylvio, tells us: “In the late 1990s Mauerpark was a notorious place, always in the newspapers, and the police was always here, to bring order. Walpurgis night riots were also notorious, which now quieted down. Before it was survival of the fittest. No one really wanted to come here any- more. Especially not the people who newly moved here, and there were conflicts of interests. Now it has all blended in.” We see evening shots of jugglers in the park, followed by the sunrise (shot in time-lapse photography).
The stories the protagonists tell all go back to the years following the Fall of the Wall (to Berlin Babylon) and to the beginnings of the New Berlin, and its many subcultures. Wladimir Kaminer adds: “What I found here was a kind of anarchy, where the state was stepping back, and people were either doing nothing or building a new, alternative blueprint for their life. Huge empty spaces developed out of the collapse of the system and the fall of the Wall. That’s Mauerpark.” Another protagonist, Sylvio, tells us: “In the late 1990s Mauerpark was a notorious place, always in the newspapers, and the police was always here, to bring order. Walpurgis night riots were also notorious, which now quieted down. Before it was survival of the fittest. No one really wanted to come here any- more. Especially not the people who newly moved here, and there were conflicts of interests. Now it has all blended in.” We see evening shots of jugglers in the park, followed by the sunrise (shot in time-lapse photography).
The first act ends with a visual interlude of the park by night. The second act begins with the sunrise. Thematically and conceptually we move from the history of the park to the issues of gentrification and the current development in and around the park. The flee market vendors arrive and set up their stands. Olli, one of the jugglers tells us: “I’m usually the first one here! ...I came to Berlin in 1980. I’m an original punk. I came for squatting and the music. Now I hold workshops for kids and youth, teach them juggling and a summer school program.” We also are introduced to Gabriel, a musician from Tel-Aviv; Joe, the Mauerpark Karaoke organizer and a former currier biker; Fabian, a graffiti artist. Garbage collectors come and pick up the overflowing garbage. A young woman, named Joyce tells us “Prenzlauer Berg ist mir tot-saniert, und ich mag grade, dass es hier einbisschen drecking ist.” (Prenzlauer Berg has been gentrified to death, and I like that at least here it’s a bit dirty.) Another woman, Nada tells us: “What I like about Berlin is that it is not as polished as Munich or other cities. I find that totally boring. That’s why people come here because Berlin isn’t boring.” Another protagonist, Bernd, tells us that “the ‘Lange’ plan for the park was drawn up in 1993. Half of it has been completed. The fence marks the center line. That’s where the Wall was, that’s the border of the borough. That’s where the park ends now. On the other side the planning continues, and should have been completed by now, it’s the same size again as the Mauerpark now. Another 6 hectares.”
Dj Motto explains Berlin’s current economic and real-estate development system:
"This “free culture” that developed here, bars, cafes, market, and free space, is about to be built over, and it’s typical of a time when Berlin was still uniting, they also looked for ways to minimize costs. Public spaces cost the city money. So they don’t let alternative culture remain, and instead sell the land to investors. Multinationals like finance companies or property funds. And all they care about is shareholder’s dividends. They want to make profit and have the shares rise. They search the world for places with low property prices, invest in them, and after 10 years sell them for profit."
Cut to Nada: “All around where the Wall used to be wonderful open places developed, where it’s relaxed, because it was green space of the no-man’s-land. All that is being greedily chewed up, I find that bullshit.”
At this point in the film, we have another brief visual and musical interlude in the cutting between the protagonists, but it is not to signify the beginning of the third act, or to signify a thematic switch in the narrative. It is a deliberate slowing down and pausing in the narrative to allow the audience to digest what the protagonists are agonizing about. Robert Lee Fardoe’s song “Moan” plays over images of the park: a fence, bikes in the grass, butterfly on a flower, bees, etc. Structurally, this interlude breaks the two-act structure, it pauses in the middle of the second act for no structural reason, but merely to allow for an emotional and contemplative pause.
While the tone of the film appears to be objective and observational, the visual and musical interlude that breaks the second act in half can only be described as nostalgic. The camera sweeps over the park, after several of the interviewed protagonists express their worry that the property adjacent to Mauerpark has been sold to condo developers, and as the gentrification process unfolds, they fear that the park’s “free culture” is in danger of disappearance (as it has in the rest of now fully gentrified Prenzlauer Berg). The music is fitting, and deliberately evokes an emotional response, a certain longing, a consciousness of time, and perhaps even a feeling of sadness at the passage of time, or a longing for the ability to make time stand still and prevent immanent changes. The viewer is invited to feel a type of nostalgia.
The narrative resumes with Joyce telling us more about the new life in Prenzlauer Berg: “I find there are not enough spaces in Prenzlauer Berg for colourful people like me. I often feel swamped by children.” DJ Tanith tells us: “It was clear that things would change in the East. But that it would hit Prenzlauer Berg of all places, in this Disneyfied way, it didn’t have to be like this, but the SO36 club in Kreuzberg is also on the verge of being shut down.”
Nada explains: “ Hackescher Markt has become so boring and stupid now.” Sylvio provides a counter-argument: “Now I like Berlin again, there were a few years where I wasn’t sure, but in the last 5-6 years, but since Berlin became an open, worldly city, with a metropolitan character, and now I find it more pleasant again. Multilingual, multi-layered, a nice meeting point. Berlin is inexpensive, is fun, has free spaces, and this is such a place within the city.”
The closing sequence of the film shows us people hanging out in the park, making music, lounging, standing, dancing, walking, hugging, singing. The evening falls, the night comes. Concerts are still going on in the park into the wee hours of the morning.
The closing sequence of the film shows us people hanging out in the park, making music, lounging, standing, dancing, walking, hugging, singing. The evening falls, the night comes. Concerts are still going on in the park into the wee hours of the morning.
Janet Ward applied Henri Lefebvre’s definitions of enclosed scenes to Berlin’s Mauerpark:
"Today the Mauerpark’s reputation as a Subkultur-outlet for Berlin youth is enhanced by its very own graffiti wall (remnant of the former Hinterlandmauer, or inner Wall). At night it hosts unofficial parties, bonfires, grills, beer-drinking and drug trades, activities that the police have had trouble controlling. Its very imperfections and ugliness, according to the tidy standards of what constitutes appropriate urban public space for the boosterist New Berlin, contribute to its alternative value. The original intention of the park’s design by architect Gustav Lange has been already realized – even as the park is still awaiting completion, since remaining sections of land intended for the park are owned by Vivico (for the federal railway). Precisely because the Wall Park is a landscape “extension of the no-man’s-land character of the death strip” it has installed a sense of the uncomfortable past in the present that has so often been lacking in the city’s other new projects. The mutable border, then, can make instability and ugliness into something positive" (Ward 128).
Ward’s understanding of the park is heavily rooted in its anarchist, alternative, drug-dealing, garbage-filled and unsafe past. In its half-gentrified state it has undergone the Tacheles-phenomenon, becoming a commercial parody of itself, simultaneously attracting the anarchists, artists, yuppies, and tourists, and becoming the place to be every Sunday, when the Karaoke and the flea market crowds fill up the whole park. To invert or perhaps update Lefebvre’s conception of the scene, Mauerpark (like Tacheles before it) went from the obscene war-torn ruin to a no-man’s-land of the Cold War, to an anarchist and unsafe place of criminality and homelessness (similar to Bahnhof Zoo in the 1980s), to a semi-gentrified scene of music, art, and leisure that now contains all Berlin scenesters who want to see and be seen. Karsten’s film does not make use of any archival footage, but it tells the process of this transformation through the narratives of its protagonists.
What we see in Mauerpark is a new type of nostalgia: not Ostalgie, and not even nostalgia for the old West-Berlin, but nostalgia generated by two decades of change and transformations, a fear and mistrust of over-gentrified, controlled spaces. It is a nostalgia for Berlin in the years just following reunification, the vacuum, the unclaimed space of freedom and creativity, the unaccounted space, as yet undesirable and unsold. In short, what we find in Berlin today is nostalgia for Berlin Babylon. And Mauerpark articulates this nostalgic moment on the big screen. The viewer is left to contemplate the ephemerality of Berlin’s open spaces and change sweeping over the city, which produces a type of nostalgia in the present that is no longer a type of mourning for a long-gone past, but rather for a looming uncertainty in the future.
Mauerpark presents nostalgia as a lens, focusing in on a position in space and time, with a relationship or connection both towards both the past, and the future, which in turn enhances our understanding of the present. And the present, according to many different Berliners looks something like this: the left-over punk-generation of anarchists and artists publically express their discontent with the rich, corporate, condo-buying yuppies (in writing on buildings in Prenzlauer Berg, at protests against the selling and immanent closure of Tacheles, and even in Karsten’s documentary), while being increasingly pushed out of Prenzlauer Berg to Kreuzberg or Friedrichshain. They are replaced by expatriates (British, French, Russian, American, West-German) who set up shop in the trendy neighbourhoods, snatch up all the apartments, and don’t quite comprehend why the locals are complaining. After all, they had been summoned (by messages like “be open, be free, be Berlin”).
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