Mascha Schilinski’s second feature, Sound of Falling, which premiered at Cannes earlier this year, where it won the Jury Prize, is one of those films, the charm of which is very hard to articulate clearly to an unsuspecting potential viewer without sounding like a pretentious jerk.
Two and a half hours of fragmented narrative, which takes place on the same farm in Germany but spans throughout decades and is reminiscent of something akin to Marcel Proust’s or James Joyce’s stream of consciousness, might not seem particularly invigorating. At the risk of actually sounding like a pretentious jerk – in reality, this is one of the most fascinating and powerful cinematic experiences of the year.
Four girls of different ages, who live on a farm before WWI and WWII, in the late 1970s, and sometime around the current day, and whose fates are slightly, tangentially intersected, become reflections of each other as well as of something bigger and more universal – what we usually think of as the female experience. Despite the theme, there isn’t a hint of accusation or assigning blame towards patriarchy, the ruthless grinder of history, or the general unfairness of the world, even at times when there probably should be. Instead, this is a film that exists on another plane, somewhere on the tips of our fingers.
Both cinematography and sound design are incredible in here, but having firmly gotten inside the inner reality of the film, you rarely pay attention to its technical achievements. Sound of Falling is also one of those rare pieces, akin to Alain Resnais’s heartbreaking classic Hiroshima mon amour, that dives into the idea of time being non-linear, with several timelines seemingly existing all at once, without any pseudo-philosophical fanfare.
The four girls float around that old farm as if they were ghosts in each other’s stories, and in a way, they are. All we are allowed are the briefest glimpses of their stories. The discolored pictures and Polaroids. The song played on repeat that ricochets throughout time and space. The inherent wish to feel warmth, even when it's found in the most unexpected places. The time that keeps slipping through the fingers, and the hushed voices sharing secrets in the dark of night and asking painful questions about life, death, and themselves.
When Schilinski’s film gets some kind of theatrical release, it is bound to be a divisive one, with some viewers likely to quickly lose interest amidst its delicate way of weaving the story, while others (like the author of this text) might wish that it lasted just a little bit longer. Amidst all the tragedies and injustices, all seen through a child's perspective, giving the film a surprisingly lightweight, even ironic feel, there is a strange comfort to be found here.
It's in the idea that the sound of all our falls is an echo of someone else’s experience, and one day, ours will become a reverberation, too, and will finally be heard.