Posts Tagged ‘Germany’

Grand Tour #8 – Germany. The Flying Classroom / Erich Kästner

April 19, 2017

I’ve got past form with Erich Kästner. I was so engrossed in Emil and the Detectives one evening in 2006 that I left my phone on a train and never saw it again. It would be on a train, I suppose. Anyway, with all of German literature to choose from I could have opted for one of the acknowledged classics – Werther, say, though that’s hardly original – but in the end I decided to return to dear Erich.

The Flying Classroom (Das fliegende Klassenzimmer) is a book ripe for rediscovery, published in a new translation by the legendary Anthea Bell just a few years ago with the original Walter Trier illustrations preserved. It’s a pleasure just to hold the handsome Pushkin Press edition in your hand. The translation was funded in part by the Goethe-Institut, which I remember being a useful source of Thomas Mann stuff during my A levels. Long may it prosper.

The book opens with adult Erich being nagged by his mother to write the Christmas story he’s been banging on about, only it’s the height of summer and he can’t get in the right mood, so he goes to the Zugspitze, the only place in Europe with snow. Part of his motivation for writing this story is that he has just read a book in which the children were constantly happy. Childhood is not like that, he writes, and part of the process of growing up is learning to weather the punches that life throws at you, even as a child, so that you grow emotionally as well as physically. From one of the introductory chapters:

Only when the brave have become intelligent and the intelligent have become brave will we really be sure of something that we often, but mistakenly, feel is an established fact: the progress of mankind.

The Flying Classroom was published in 1933, the same year Hitler was elected Chancellor, and Kästner saw the way the wind was blowing. The knowledge of what came shortly after its publication, the burning of Kästner’s own books by the Nazis, makes reading this one a particularly poignant experience, though the story itself is poignant enough.

I get the impression there isn’t much of a tradition of the school story in German literature. The only one that comes instantly to mind is Robert Musil’s nasty novel of sadistic bullying The Confusions of Young Törless. How I love that book; but it’s not what Kästner seems to be going for here (except in the scene where two boys from a rival school abduct Rudy Kreuzkamm and tie him to a chair in the cellar with a washing line). The school story is a predominantly British genre, and whatever Kästner’s model may have been (Kipling? Wodehouse?), he outdoes the established masters here.

The action takes place on the last few schooldays before Christmas, and centres ostensibly around preparations for a school play, The Flying Classroom, written by Johnny and performed by him and four friends. You’re bombarded by names at the start of the book, but it’s worth slowing down and getting to know each of the boys individually: there’s Johnny, the creative one; righteous Martin, the leader; smart Sebastian, the joker; diminutive and weedy Uli; and hulking Matthias, Uli’s protector, who dreams of being a boxer and is rarely seen without a piece of cake in his hand.

At the start it appears that Johnny will be the central character, but every boy has his own story, the most engaging being those of Uli, who puts himself at risk in an effort to prove his bravery, and Martin, who is devastated at receiving a letter from his mother telling him she cannot afford the train fare of 8 marks for his journey home, and so he must stay at school for Christmas in the company of a small number of other boarders. The resolution of this plotline brought tears to my eyes, which is an effect books almost never have on me.

One of the hardest things for boys to learn is that a teacher is human. One of the hardest things for a teacher to learn is not to try and tell them.

Mrs Lintott, of course, in The History Boys. I always knew that teachers were human, because I’d been brought up by two of them. If you’re a child with a parent teaching at your school, the assumption is that you live in perpetual fear of their embarrassing you in front of your peers. With me it was different, my father a universally popular man, me wanting occasionally to shout at children expressing admiration for him, ‘He’s not nice and funny at home, he’s a tyrant! A TYRANT!’ (The reality was probably somewhere between the two.) Let’s return to Mrs Lintott. When I quote Alan Bennett it’s usually to make a point, and the point here is that in Kästner’s world the lesson that one’s teacher is a human, when learned, deepens rather than undermines the relationship.

The boys’ teacher Dr Bökh (nicknamed Justus for his decency – ‘I’d go to the gallows for that man if I had to!’ swears Matthias), instead of disciplining them for delinquency, tells a candid story of his own childhood, and a friendship that he regrets having lost. This brings about a revolution in the attitude of the prefect Theodor, who treats the other boys more kindly. In another episode, the children deride their headmaster for his one repeated joke, but view him newly with sympathy and pity when, embarrassed, he attempts to tell a new one. Dr Bökh’s lost friend, it turns out, is an acquaintance of the boys, Dr Uthofft (known to them as No-Smoking because he lives in a no-smoking carriage from a decommissioned train), and the boys are able to effect a moving reunion, having intuited the importance of this friendship to the two men. There’s something of Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Selfish Giant’ in this demonstration of the potential of children to redeem adult suffering, and it is one of a number of moments that lift the book from mere greatness to magicality.

No-Smoking linked arms with Justus … ‘I’ll ask you at this moment, which I hope is a memorable one, not to forget your own youth! That may sound an unnecessary reminder now, while you are still children. But it isn’t unnecessary, believe us! We have grown older and yet we have stayed young. We two know what it’s all about!’

Dr Bökh and Dr Uthofft looked at one another.

And the boys privately decided, in their hearts, never to forget that exchange of glances.

I fear that out of context this reads as sentimental. Kästner is not a sentimentalist. He writes early on of communing by the slopes of the Zugspitze with a butterfly called Gottfried and a calf called Eduard. So far, so whimsical, you might think, but at the end he relates that Gottfried has died and Eduard has most likely been made into schnitzel. Everything has a season. The Flying Classroom isn’t sentimental, though it’s often gemütlich, in the best way. Reading it ought to be a Christmas tradition, like watching Fanny and Alexander or having a fistfight with your aunt.

It’s not sentimental, and it’s not soft. It’s robust and riotous and archly, absurdly funny. Sebastian scoffs at the sixth-formers taking dancing classes with girls. ‘They ought to read what Arthur Schopenhauer has to say about women,’ he rails. Professor Kreuzkamm, on learning of his son Rudy’s kidnapping, openly reprimands Rudy’s parents before the class. There are typographic jokes and puns, and always those warm, endearing illustrations. It’s a sad and joyous book, and I loved it.


Timm Thaler

July 20, 2011

Well, I stop posting for a bit and the blog’s hit rate increases dramatically. Perhaps you prefer it when I’m not here. I think it’s actually because Benjamin Grosvenor has been in the news. There’s a super interview with him here in case any pianophiles are interested. I think the thing I like most about Grosvenor’s approach to performance is his great appetite for learning from the pianists of the past. I would feel the same way if only I could play the piano well enough for it to matter. Anyway, on with the show.

One of the good things about going abroad is that it always prompts me to do things that I feel I ought to do regularly but normally fail to, namely watching films and reading books in foreign languages. I’m off to spend a week in Cologne very soon, and have been dipping into a book of Ostfriesenwitze (East Frisian jokes) in preparation. The East Frisians are the Irish of German culture, a perennial butt of jokes. They are big drinkers of tea, which perhaps marks them out as odd. Sample Witz, with my translation:

F. Warum haben die Ostfriesen einen Knoten im Penis?
A. Damit sie das Pissen nicht vergessen.

Q. Why did the East Frisian man tie a knot in his penis?
A. So he wouldn’t forget to piss!

I will also be taking some Böll and Mann in translation on holiday with me. I know how to have a good time. As far as watching films is concerned, I’ve seen a couple of desperately depressing Fassbinders recently, and also revisited Charlie Brown und seine Freunde, which is a tremendous film in any language; but most of my revision has consisted of watching the 1979 ZDF TV series Timm Thaler, based on the 1962 novel of the same name by James Krüss. The series was broadcast in a dubbed version on CBBC in the late 1980s, renamed The Legend of Tim Tyler, which is where I first encountered it.

Timm Thaler, die Hauptperson unserer Geschichte, hat sein Lachen an den mächtigsten Mann der Welt verkauft, den Baron. Zugegeben, für einen fantastischen Preis. Timm Thaler gewinnt jede Wette, und sei sie noch so ausgefallen. Doch, dann merkte er, daß sein Lachen sein kostbarster Besitz war. Er will es wiederhaben.

These are the words that open nearly every episode. For the benefit of those who do not speak German, permit me to explain. 13-year-old Timm is approached by a mysterious stranger, the Baron. The Baron is the most powerful man in the world, but his business interests are suffering because his inability to laugh inhibits him from forming alliances with other powerful businessmen. He proposes to buy Timm’s laugh, in exchange for which he will provide Timm with the ability to win any bet. Timm is in a pickle. His father has just died, and his mother has been saddled with an expensive mortgage to pay off. Timm consents to the Baron’s offer, and proceeds to amass a pile of money, but he comes to realise that a life bereft of smiling and laughter is no life at all, and sets out to find the Baron and get his laugh back.

The Baron (Horst Frank) and Timm (Tommi Ohrner)

It’s a fun enough premise, but when it was on TV in my childhood I didn’t manage to stay with it past a couple of episodes, despite my good intentions. Hardly surprising. The first episode is superb, and ends with a chilling and brilliantly realised scene that on rewatching made me shiver. It writes a cheque that the remaining twelve episodes cannot cash. Thirteen episodes! It should have been four, maximum. Timm takes forever to work out the obvious solution – that he must make a bet that he can win his smile back. There is a scathing assessment of the UK version here. It’s hard to argue with many of its criticisms, and there’s no doubt that the dubbing dulled the programme’s impact. It is more fondly remembered in Germany.

You can’t get hold of the programme in English now, so I was compelled to try out the German release. It’s undeniably overlong and rambling, and I lost interest as I waded through episode after episode devoid of plot development, but it benefits from not being dubbed, and there are at least a handful of excellent things about it. Firstly, Tommi Ohrner, who plays Timm, is greatly charismatic. He must have been the pin-up of every German tweenage girl in 1979, and might have been chosen to play Timm on the basis of his smile alone. Of course, he has to spend almost all of the series frowning, which must have been tricky. I imagine take after take having to be discarded because of accidental smiling.

Die Hauptperson unserer Geschichte, up to mischief

Even better is the late, lamented Horst Frank as the glassy-eyed Baron. Baron de Lefuet (try spelling it backwards, speakers of German) is basically a Bond villain, if a somewhat lacklustre one (think Drax rather than Blofeld). He has a futuristic lair, Lunopolis, built on the exotic volcanic island of Aravanadi, from which he is able to survey the movements of apparently everyone via his special video screen. He may not be the most malicious man in the world, but he’s certainly the most voyeuristic. The Baron is both stylish and irresistibly magnetic. One almost welcomes his purchase of Timm’s smile. It is marvellous to watch this heretofore humourless man practising his smile, and eventually mastering his own demonic brand of laughter.

The Baron, flanked by his bungling assistant Anatol (Richard Lauffen)

Everything comes back to music with me, doesn’t it? I’d forgotten it, but presumably what made me love this series in the first place (apart from an infantile crush on Tommi Ohrner) was Christian Bruhn’s score. The regular theme tune plays not at the start but at the end, and it is fabulous. The greatest TV theme tune ever? I tentatively suggest. For me it’s right up there with this and this and this. And this. Bruhn is presumably better known in Germany than elsewhere. His synthy score is mesmerising throughout, by turns atmospheric and knockabout. In some respects it’s not unlike the music that the immortal Roger Limb was writing for BBC children’s programmes around the same time. Take the incongruous but delectable tierce de Picardie at the end of the theme tune – it might have come straight out of Look and Read.

Anyway, all of this means that when I finally get to Germany I will know what to do if I am propositioned by an evil genius. If you fancy seeing what all the fuss is about, the first episode (auf Deutsch) can be watched here.