SILVER SCREEN

LOST IN TRANSLATION: FASSBINDER IN AMERICA

VERA ENGLER

February 28, 2025

Do we truly grasp the intricacies of artists from other cultures, or are we merely chasing trends without delving into the genuine depths of their work? Here, we explore the films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder and his reception in the United States.

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As a German, it has always puzzled me why Americans are so fascinated with the films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder. His work, rich with the peculiarities of German culture, history, and temperament, feels so deeply rooted in the soil of his homeland that it is difficult to imagine its subtleties resonating with those unfamiliar with these nuances. Fassbinder himself never visited the United States, a detail that only heightens the irony of his cult following there. His films were never intended for an international audience, let alone an American one, and yet they have been lauded and dissected across the Atlantic—albeit in ways that often feel disconnected from their cultural and historical context.

Fassbinder 1977

Fassbinder once said, “Every decent director has only one subject, and mine is the exploitability of feelings.” This singular focus is evident throughout his oeuvre, from the alienation of Maria Braun in The Marriage of Maria Braun (1979) to the claustrophobic domestic entanglements of Martha (1974). But the specific historical and social frameworks that inform these narratives are distinctly German. For instance, The Marriage of Maria Braun is inseparable from the post–World War II milieu in which it is set. Maria’s rise and fall mirror the so-called Wirtschaftswunder, or economic miracle, that defined West Germany’s recovery in the 1950s. Her relentless pragmatism and moral compromises are emblematic of a nation struggling to rebuild itself while grappling with the unspoken guilt of its past. Without an understanding of this historical context, much of the film’s power is lost.

Love after Fascism: The Marriage of Maria Braun

Moreover, Fassbinder’s characters are steeped in the peculiarities of German life—its formality, suppressed emotions, and contradictions. Take Petra von Kant in The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972), a melodrama that unfolds entirely within the confines of the protagonist’s opulent apartment. The film is a study of power dynamics in relationships, but it is also a biting critique of bourgeois decadence and the rigid hierarchies that persist even within ostensibly intimate spaces. Petra’s cold, imperious demeanor and ultimate unraveling resonate deeply within the postwar German context of materialism and lingering patriarchal structures. To an American viewer, Petra might simply seem like a caricature of vanity and cruelty, but to a German audience, she is an archetype with roots in the cultural and historical psyche.

The Merchant of Four Seasons, 1972

One of the most German elements of Fassbinder’s work is his engagement with guilt and responsibility, themes that loom large in the national consciousness. In Berlin Alexanderplatz (1980), his monumental adaptation of Alfred Döblin’s novel, the protagonist, Franz Biberkopf, embodies the fractured, morally ambiguous identity of Germany itself. His oscillation between redemption and degradation parallels the country’s tumultuous journey through the Weimar Republic, then the Nazi era and its aftermath. For German viewers, the series is a haunting reflection of a national identity fraught with contradictions. For Americans, it might appear as an extended character study, compelling but stripped of its deeper resonance.

In the dark room of history. Biberkopf, “Drei Bier bitte.”

It is worth noting that Fassbinder’s own life was inextricably tied to the cultural and political landscape of postwar Germany. Born in 1945, just weeks after the fall of the Third Reich, he grew up in a country marked by destruction, division, and a pervasive sense of collective shame. His films are suffused with this atmosphere, often addressing the ways in which ordinary people are complicit in oppressive systems. In Effi Briest (1974), based on Theodor Fontane’s 1895 novel, the titular character’s tragic fate is a result of societal norms and expectations that crush individual desire. The film’s deliberate pacing and stark black-and-white cinematography mirror the rigidity of the Prussian society it critiques. For Germans, the story is a reminder of the suffocating traditions that shaped our past; for Americans, it registers as a period drama with aesthetic flourishes.

Faustrecht der Freiheit: Nitten in der Jeansjacke und Langnese

Then there is Fassbinder’s use of language, another element that underscores the distinctly German nature of his work. His scripts are dense with idiomatic expressions, regional dialects, and linguistic rhythms that are nearly impossible to translate. The characters in Fox and His Friends (1975) navigate their relationships through a minefield of insinuations and half-truths, their conversations loaded with subtext that only a native speaker could fully appreciate. In translation, the acerbic wit and biting irony of Fassbinder’s dialogue often lose their sharp edges, rendering his characters flatter and less complex.

Despite these barriers, Fassbinder’s work has found a devoted following in the United States, where critics and cinephiles celebrate his audacity and prolific output. Part of this fascination might stem from the allure of the exotic, the sense that Fassbinder’s Germany is a world apart from the American experience. His films offer a window into a society grappling with the weight of its history, a perspective that might feel novel or even voyeuristic to viewers from a country with its own unresolved issues of identity and accountability. But this fascination often comes at the cost of oversimplification. American critics tend to universalize Fassbinder’s themes, framing his work as a commentary on human nature rather than a reflection of specific cultural and historical conditions. While it is true that his films explore universal emotions—love, jealousy, ambition, despair—these are always filtered through a uniquely German lens. To strip them of this context is to dilute their meaning, reducing intricate tapestries to mere sketches.

Ali, ”Angst nicht gut. Angst essen Seele auf.”

Consider Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974), one of Fassbinder’s most internationally acclaimed films. The story of a romance between an older German woman and a younger Moroccan immigrant is often interpreted as a timeless tale of love and prejudice. Yet the film’s power lies in its specificity, the way it captures the casual racism and social ostracism that were rampant in 1970s Germany. Emmi and Ali’s relationship is not just an anomaly; it is a challenge to the rigid social codes of a country still coming to terms with its multicultural reality. For German viewers, the film is a mirror held up to our own biases and hypocrisies. For Americans, it might be seen as a generic parable about tolerance.

Perhaps the most striking example of Fassbinder’s German-ness is his embrace of melodrama, a genre often dismissed in American cinema as sentimental or exaggerated. Fassbinder’s melodramas, however, are anything but simplistic. They are deeply political, using heightened emotions and dramatic situations to critique societal norms and expose underlying power structures. In Lola (1981), the titular character’s rise within a corrupt postwar town is both a personal triumph and a damning indictment of a society willing to sacrifice integrity for prosperity. The garish colors and theatrical performances amplify the film’s critique, creating a style that is unmistakably Fassbinder’s and unmistakably German.

Lola, a German woman

Fassbinder’s disinterest in appealing to international audiences is evident in his refusal to compromise his vision. He once remarked, “I do not want to be a director for Europe or the world. I want to be a German director for Germany.” This declaration underscores the incongruity of his American fandom. His films are made for a German audience, steeped in the concerns and contradictions of his own culture. To watch Fassbinder as an outsider is to experience only a fraction of what his work has to offer.

But in the end, perhaps this very inaccessibility is what draws Americans to Fassbinder. There is a certain mystique in art that resists easy interpretation, a sense of discovery in peeling back its layers. Yet as a German, I cannot help but feel that something essential is lost in translation. Fassbinder’s films are not puzzles to be solved or relics to be admired from afar; they are living, breathing artifacts of a specific time and place. To truly understand them requires more than an appreciation for their artistry; one needs an immersion in the culture and history that shaped them. Without this, the fascination with Fassbinder becomes a hollow gesture, an act of admiration that misses the mark.

It is not that Americans cannot enjoy Fassbinder’s films; art, after all, transcends borders. But to truly grasp their depth and significance is another matter entirely. As a German, I see Fassbinder as a chronicler of the national psyche, a filmmaker whose work speaks to the complexities of our history and identity. For Americans, he might be an exotic curiosity, a master of melodrama, or a pioneer of queer cinema. But he will never be fully theirs, just as his Germany will never be fully theirs. And perhaps that is how it should be.

Vera Engler (b. 1953, Peine, Germany) is an actress and occasional writer who spent her childhood playing solemn roles in films by Werner Herzog, Volker Schlöndorff, and Werner Schroeter, an experience she refers to as her “early induction into existential dread.” She splits her time between stages in Ingolstadt and Kiel.

Cover image: Man in blazer