https://www.sabzian.be/text/28-june-2024

28 June, 2024

Spoorloos (George Sluizers, 1988)

VERTAALD DOOR TRANSLATED BY TRADUIT PAR Trevor Perri

Spoorloos haunts me, and it might for the rest of my life. I can’t write about this film without giving away the ending, so be aware of what you’re getting into if you keep reading. In George Sluizer’s 1988 film, a Dutch-Flemish couple go on vacation to France. They stop at a gas station, where Saskia heads to the toilet before they drive on to their vacation house. Rex waits for her in the parking lot. He watches the temporary stops of families and lone travellers walking their dogs, throwing a ball, stealing a kiss, smoking a cigarette, or having a picnic. But his own travelling companion is slow in coming. People get into their cars, drive off, and leave Rex behind. He looks everywhere for Saskia, but she’s nowhere to be found. The sun is setting, the parking lot is now deserted, and Rex doesn’t know what to do. Between hope and fear, he hangs motionless in time. The fleeting waystation has now become his limbo.

The way Sluizer portrays this place inspired me during a period when I was researching spaces created to accommodate cars. The parking lot next to the highway is uniform, the same everywhere, devoid of history or specific characteristics. A place where the postmodern driver can relax in an in-between zone, like a time capsule between two destinations, between “not here” and “not there”, a liminal space where, apparently, nothing happens. Saskia’s disappearance corrupts the characteristics of the rest stop, as it transforms from a non-place into a meaningful place.1

Just before Saskia disappeared, they were resting on the grass by the parking lot. Saskia buried two coins at the foot of a tree and made Rex promise he would never abandon her again, just like in Tim Krabbé’s Het gouden ei, the book on which the film is based. As well as being a writer, Krabbé is also a master chess player. Just as the game of chess is governed by symbolic pieces, so too is this story marked by symbols. Saskia dreams that she is floating through space inside a golden egg, and the two buried coins act as chess pieces that mercilessly predict the outcome of the game. Every scene is a masterstroke that increasingly restricts the freedom of movement of the king, Rex.

Without Saskia, he heads back home. Obsessed with her fate, Rex’s life seems to have come to a standstill, until a French teacher contacts him and claims to know what happened to her. By then, we’ve already known for a long time that he’s her killer. The two drive together to the same gas station where she disappeared. The man makes Rex an offer: he’ll only know exactly what happened to Saskia if he drinks coffee laced with a sedative. Rex refuses at first, but then he digs up the two coins and starts running around the grass like a man possessed. As if driven by an unbearable thirst, he then throws himself at the coffee. Driven by curiosity, the two men become kindred spirits. Rex gets into the car and the screen goes black.

It’s now completely silent in the movie theatre. Then we hear a lighter. The dim light shines on Rex, who’s lying in a wooden coffin. He curls up until his head touches the wood and sees his big toe sticking out through a hole in his sock. At that moment, the man next to me stands up and leaves the theatre. Rex laughs hysterically. He bangs his bare toe against the wood and some sand trickles into the coffin.

The rectangular surface of the cinema screen has taken on many forms: a window, a Japanese folding screen, a curtain, or the wall of a living room. Because this flat surface is chameleon-like, the character of the movie theatre is also constantly changing.

The man who ran away had not yet seen the worst of it. The very last image is a close-up of the lighter slowly burning through its fuel. At first, the edges of the image are faintly illuminated by the flickering light falling on the wooden planks. The sharp edge of the light marks the boundary of the fictional space, a separation between the screen and the theatre surrounding it. But then the little flame loses its strength and can no longer illuminate the edges of the screen. The fictional space fades away, after which darkness closes in around my body. As the little flame dies out, the theatre shrinks to a coffin.

I don’t think an audience has ever left a movie theatre so quietly. Since that day, I haven’t been able to sleep in a completely dark room, because I’ll be overwhelmed by dreams in which I’m buried alive. After all these years of adulthood, I’ve been gripped once more by a childhood fear. I’m now sharing this experience with my fellow viewers of Spoorloos. From now on, darkness will transport us to the inside of a coffin.

  • 1

    Marc Augé, Non-lieux. Introduction à une anthropologie de la surmodernité (Parijs: Seuil, 1992).

Image from Spoorloos (George Sluizer, 1988)

ONE DAY, A FILM
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In Passage, Sabzian invites film critics, authors, filmmakers and spectators to send a text or fragment on cinema that left a lasting impression.
Pour Passage, Sabzian demande à des critiques de cinéma, auteurs, cinéastes et spectateurs un texte ou un fragment qui les a marqués.
In Passage vraagt Sabzian filmcritici, auteurs, filmmakers en toeschouwers naar een tekst of een fragment dat ooit een blijvende indruk op hen achterliet.
The Prisma section is a series of short reflections on cinema. A Prisma always has the same length – exactly 2000 characters – and is accompanied by one image. It is a short-distance exercise, a miniature text in which one detail or element is refracted into the spectrum of a larger idea or observation.
La rubrique Prisma est une série de courtes réflexions sur le cinéma. Tous les Prisma ont la même longueur – exactement 2000 caractères – et sont accompagnés d'une seule image. Exercices à courte distance, les Prisma consistent en un texte miniature dans lequel un détail ou élément se détache du spectre d'une penséée ou observation plus large.
De Prisma-rubriek is een reeks korte reflecties over cinema. Een Prisma heeft altijd dezelfde lengte – precies 2000 tekens – en wordt begeleid door één beeld. Een Prisma is een oefening op de korte afstand, een miniatuurtekst waarin één detail of element in het spectrum van een grotere gedachte of observatie breekt.
Jacques Tati once said, “I want the film to start the moment you leave the cinema.” A film fixes itself in your movements and your way of looking at things. After a Chaplin film, you catch yourself doing clumsy jumps, after a Rohmer it’s always summer, and the ghost of Akerman undeniably haunts the kitchen. In this feature, a Sabzian editor takes a film outside and discovers cross-connections between cinema and life.
Jacques Tati once said, “I want the film to start the moment you leave the cinema.” A film fixes itself in your movements and your way of looking at things. After a Chaplin film, you catch yourself doing clumsy jumps, after a Rohmer it’s always summer, and the ghost of Akerman undeniably haunts the kitchen. In this feature, a Sabzian editor takes a film outside and discovers cross-connections between cinema and life.
Jacques Tati zei ooit: “Ik wil dat de film begint op het moment dat je de cinemazaal verlaat.” Een film zet zich vast in je bewegingen en je manier van kijken. Na een film van Chaplin betrap je jezelf op klungelige sprongen, na een Rohmer is het altijd zomer en de geest van Chantal Akerman waart onomstotelijk rond in de keuken. In deze rubriek neemt een Sabzian-redactielid een film mee naar buiten en ontwaart kruisverbindingen tussen cinema en leven.

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