Page 53 - AIT0524_E-Paper

Jeden Monat nähern sich unsere Kolumnisten, die Berliner Filmemacher Dominik und Benjamin Reding, dem jeweiligen Heftthema
auf ihre ganz eigene Art und Weise. Geboren wurden die Zwillinge am 3. Ja nuar 1969 in Dortmund. Während Dominik Architektur
in Aachen und Film in Hamburg studierte, absolvierte Benjamin ein Schauspielstudium in Stuttgart. 1997 begann die Arbeit an ihrem
ersten gemeinsamen Kinofilm „Oi! Warning“. Seitdem arbeiten sie für Fernseh- und Kinofilmprojekte zusammen.

Each month our columnists, Berlin-based filmmakers Dominik and Benjamin Reding, approach the respective issue-specific theme
in their very personal way. The twins were born on January 3, 1969 in Dortmund. Whilst Dominik studied architecture in Aachen
and film in Hamburg, Benjamin graduated in acting studies in Stuttgart. They started working on their first joint motion picture “Oi!
Warning“ in 1997. Since then they have tightly collaborated for TV and cinema film projects.

I wanted to write an essay about the Rütli School. Rütli revisited. To record what has had me? She showed me her room, isn’t it good, Norwegian wood.” In a friendly, mat-
happened since my column had been published about the infamous school in Berlin-
ter-of-fact manner, as a good, proper teacher should do, he explained the content, the
Neukölln (AIT 5.2019), the Campus Rütli, as the school grounds are now called in a somewhat more remote vocabulary “biding my time”, “crawled off” and said that the
contemporary chic way. I wanted to show that the “campus” is still unfinished today ending was a bit hard, you don’t have to set fire to your flat if you fail. The next Beatles
and that the intellectually austere architecture of the new school building already bears song, the one after that. Now the songs became longer, the lyrics more complex: What
all the signs of vandalism that have long been typical of certain school buildings in is an “eggman”? Who is “Eleanor Rigby”? What does “darning” mean? What does “A
certain “problem districts”, from the graffiti hastily sprayed on all the accessible parts of penguin singing Hare Krishna” mean? We listened, nodded, asked our questions, our
the façade to the carelessly emptied schoolyard rubbish bins and the smashed eyes firmly fixed on the oral-performance report mark. Then we had gone through the
classroom windows. I wanted to show that it is not without consequences if a new songs on the text sheet and completed the task, even a little quicker than expected. We
school building from 2021 turns out to be like a new school building dating from 1975, were already thinking about the morning, the fruit flies from the biology exam, the
for example my own former school, from the floor plan to the details. From the rectan- sports exam on the parallel bars, the missing A-level points. A short break arose, an
gular, antiseptic white-painted classrooms lit by steel-framed ribbon windows, to the unplanned vacuum in the continuous flow of school lessons. “Maybe we could listen to
waist-high concrete stringers of the stairwells, from the corridors lit in the centre by neon all the songs until the end of the complete LP?” A clever pupil recognized the vacuum
boxes (now LED) all the way to the classroom doors, then with a laminate coating in and unerringly took the initiative. “Oh, yes, certainly...” our teacher sounded relieved,
fire-alarm red, now in ultramarine blue at the Rütli School. And that it is perhaps no even a little absent-minded. He pushed the tone arm over the last third of the disc by
coincidence that only one feeling is visible in the way the pupils deal with their new hand, pressed the start button and told us to pay particular attention to the last note of
school buildings in the “style” of DIN- and EU standard-compliant objectivity: That of the song. The needle moved down, gently touching the vinyl: “I read the news today, oh
violence. The essay was brisk but shrill. Like the speech text of a hysterical missionary, boy, about a lucky man, who made the grade...” We listened, we heard about the traf-
a pretentious, populist provincial politician or, even worse, a frustrated, embittered fic lights at the crossroads, the accident, the 4,000 holes in Blackburn Lancashire, we
head teacher. I discarded. “Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes, there beneath the listened to the last note, that one piano key stroke, endlessly long, we heard “In Penny
blue suburban skies...” It was a school day like any other, until then. The sky was grey, Lane there is a barber showing photographs...” We heard about the fireman who is
the schoolyard wet with rain, the neon light overly bright. The afraid of the rain, about the nurse selling flowers on a roundabout
lessons dribbled by, listless and rehearsed, like the incessant repe- and everything spread – the music, often floating, often melancho-
tition of a play that was unloved by both the audience and the ly, the pictures, strange and oversized – like a warm stream of air
actors, but demanded by higher authorities. After a double lesson into our eternally identical, ribbon-windowed, rectangular, mat-
of Latin and a double lesson of maths, the last lesson was a doub- ter-of-fact northern lights classroom. We listened and then
le lesson of supplementary English. We, the students, waited, sat something came over us that until then had actually been a
dutifully on our Flötotto school chairs, rocked back and forth foreign word in our classroom rectangle: longing, pain, love – in a
against the bentwood backrests (but no longer so that they broke word: feeling. And we saw our English teacher suddenly walk to
on purpose, as in the more youthful school years before), talked the window, turn away from the class and look out onto the “sub-
quietly, endeavoured to be casual, the A levels were approaching, Foto: Benjamin Reding urban skies”. And the more observant among us saw that our
we acted grown-up. We listened to the cadence of the break-time jacket-and-jumper teacher changed, that a smile, an unfathomab-
gong, dug out our notebooks, routinely switched our facial expres- le smile rose up in him. “Let me take you down, ‘cos I’m going to
sions to diligence, interest, attention. The English teacher arrived, late. He was carrying strawberry fields. Nothing is real...”. The last song. “Living is easy with eyes closed,
something strange under his arm, a black leatherette-covered box. He said: “Today we misunderstanding all you see... strawberry fields for ever...” The carpet of sound at the
will listen to some songs...” He opened the box and carefully pulled something square end spread behind the blackboard, door and teacher’s desk, under the felt carpet and
and colourfully printed out of his briefcase: a record sleeve. “... Beatles songs!” We over the neon boxes, in our notebooks and in front of the steel-frame window.
could only stifle a groan with difficulty. Beatles? We listened to Madonna, Prince, the “Strawberry fields forever...” Then silence. Not even a clearing of the throat, a cough, a
Beastie Boys, the more avant-garde disciples to Public Enemy, Red Hot Chili Peppers, rustle. Great, all-encompassing silence. The teacher went back to the desk in silence. He
New Order. Beatles, that was so out, it couldn’t be more out. We hardly knew the songs, closed the school record player and carefully slid the LP back into its sleeve. We wat-
if at all, it was something for the parents, more likely the grandparents. “We will listen ched him. His smile was still there, seemed distant, far away, in other places, in other
to one track each and will discuss it afterwards.” Our English teacher handed out the times, in other lives, long before classrooms, lessons and us. The silence was oppressi-
photocopied lyrics. We didn’t give him much thought. A man in his fifties in a jacket and ve, embarrassing. Again, a clever schoolgirl sensed that it was time to act. “And what’s
jumper, always freshly washed, well combed and neatly coiffed. He was “harmless”, i.e. the homework?” She said casually into the strange silence, in which the heavy breathing
objective and fair in his assessment. We didn’t know anything private about him. He of her classmates was so clearly audible. The teacher looked up briefly, not really
carefully pulled the disc out of the sleeve, placed it on the school mono record player, looking at anyone in particular, just into space. “No, no homework today.” He said it
which seemed slightly ridiculous to us, and dramatically pressed a button on the box – kindly, more to himself, in a way. And then, while he was carefully tucking the record
he was certainly proud to use more “modern” teaching methods here. “Click,” the tone- player under his arm, still smiling thoughtfully, he suddenly said to us: “There are other
arm slid ghostly onto the disc, then a “paff!” and the needle sank into the first vinyl things... besides homework.” He left the classroom in silence. Another five perplexed
groove. We listened: a crackle, a hiss, then – surprisingly loud – the warm sounds of an minutes passed, then the school chime, that familiar sound, sent us back to the real
acoustic guitar, then a sitar, then singing: “I once had a girl, or should I say, she once world, the familiar one that contained ribbon windows and red doors.

AIT 5.2024 • 053