Film Intro: “Benny’s Video” [MAC Birmingham 30/08/2025]

Benny's Video (1992) | The Criterion Collection

In an interview for the Criterion Channel, Michael Haneke described what sparked the idea for Benny’s Video. His candid explanation was, “I wanted to know what it was like”.

“It’s a sentence I read once in a magazine,” he said, “that told the story of a crime committed by a boy  — it was a boy who killed another child or something like that. When the police interrogated him, that was his answer. And I was shocked by that.” Haneke spoke of collecting articles of this kind for the few years that followed, and the repetition of that sentence: I wanted to know what it was like.

“For me,” continued Haneke, “those are the words of a person out of touch with reality. When you learn life and reality only through the media, you have the sense that you’re missing something. If I see only a film, only images, even images of reality, a documentary, I’m always outside.” He wanted to be “inside”.

Riffing on the video game and handheld camera culture that came of age during the 1980s and continued into the 1990s, Benny’s Video (1992) – the second of Haneke’s first three feature films and the centre of his “Glaciation Trilogy” – succeeded The Seventh Continent (1989) and preceded 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance (1994). The trio of film were described by Criterion as “exploring the relationship among consumerism, violence, mass media, and contemporary alienation,” to “open up profound questions about the world in which we live while refusing the false comfort of easy answers.”

Benny’s Video stars Arno Frisch as Benny, a teenager with a predisposition towards violent images and obsessed with recording equipment, who documents practically everything via visual and audio means. Benny’s parents encourage their son’s “hobby” by way of affection, overcompensating for their lack of tenderness at home by buying all his equipment, oblivious to their son’s voyeuristic fascination with violence and how they are fuelling his habit. This fascination leads to a violent incident, with Benny intentionally recording the encounter – and its aftermath – the entire time.

In her book, Michael Haneke’s Cinema: The Ethic of the Image, film scholar Catherine Wheatley wrote that Benny’s Video prominently features “metatextual troubling of levels of reality” by incorporating Benny’s handheld camcorder footage, sound, and static cameras into the film, the result of which creates an “extremely distanced, ‘objective’ relationship to the narrative.”

As Haneke explained, “with an image, you cut the imagination short. With an image you see what you see, and it’s “reality.” With sound, just like with words, you incite the imagination, and that’s why, for me, it’s always more efficient”. “The image is the distancing and the sound is the manipulation,” he continues. “Using these two means, it gives an impression that’s complex enough to destabilise the viewer.”

Premiering at the 1992 Cannes Film Festival and opening the following Autumn at the 1993 New York Film Festival, Stephen Holden of The New York Times praised Frisch’s performance, writing, “what gives the film a chilly authenticity is the creepy performance of Arno Frisch in the title role. Cool and unsmiling, with a dark inscrutable gaze, his Benny is the apotheosis of what the author George W. S. Trow has called “the cold child,” or an unfeeling young person whose detachment and short attention span have been molded [sic] by television.” The controversial yet acclaimed film went on to win the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI) Award at the European Film Awards. 

Frisch continues this sadistic streak when he reteamed with Haneke for 1997’s Funny Games, which is interestingly the only one of Haneke’s films the director himself describes as lacking a semblance of guilt, something his other films all contain.  

Haneke always likes to leave open the answer to “why did someone do something?” as open as possible. “In this case,” he stresses, “the answer is only there to reassure and to calm the viewer,” because, he continues, “I think the reason for a crime or an accident is always much more complex than what you can describe and see on screen in 70 minutes.”

Benny’s Video remains unsettling, perhaps even more so in this age of mass surveillance, social media, the internet, and image manipulation. So many people live on their phones or through screens, and A.I. is making it more challenging to determine the authenticity of a still or moving image. We have a tendency to document everything we see rather than experiencing life in real time. Interestingly, Haneke never takes photographs or videos on his phone or otherwise when he’s on holiday. His reason? “I think it is completely perverse!”

Film Intro: “The Piano Teacher” [MAC Birmingham 20/07/2025]

Based on Elfriede Jelinek’s 1983 novel of the same name, Michael Haneke’s The Piano Teacher (2001) stars French force Isabelle Huppert as Erika Kohut. An unmarried thirty-something who teaches piano at the Vienna Music Conservatory, Erika lives with her domineering mother (Annie Girardot), with whom she shares a bed and a codependent relationship. 

Erika’s cool professional façade masks a woman besieged by loneliness and repressed sexual desire who satisfies her proclivities in private until she meets Walter (Benoît Magimel), a young engineer she reluctantly takes on as a student. Together, they embark on a relationship built on obsession and destructive infatuation, outlined by a set of rules imposed by Erika. The outcome is an affair that tows the line between freedom and control, desire and assault, power and submission. Hermione Hoby, in a 2010 article for The Observer, describes how this relationship “refracts and reiterates the parallels between the relationships of mother/daughter, teacher/pupil, captor/captive and abaser/abased.” 

The Piano Teacher, replete with its themes of masochism, rape, incest, sexual repression, and sexual violence, premiered at the 2001 Cannes Film Festival and immediately received rapturous acclaim, winning the festival’s Grand Prize as well as Best Actor for Benoît Magimel and Best Actress for Isabelle Huppert. 

The project arrived at the right time for Haneke, who had yet to receive a breakthrough after moving away from television, despite his Academy Award-nominated feature film debut, The Seventh Continent (1989). He followed this with other critically acclaimed films, including Benny’s Video (1992), Funny Games (1997), and Code Unknown (2000).

The Piano Teacher’s path was somewhat rocky; after numerous failed attempts, including Haneke’s involvement as a screenwriter but not as director, he was eventually asked to direct and agreed to do so on the condition that Huppert would star. Haneke had first wanted Huppert for Funny Games, and after informing her he would not direct The Piano Teacher without her, she read the screenplay and noted the film’s potential. Coincidentally, Huppert had studied piano as a child and quit at the age of fifteen, but resumed playing for the film. 

The beauty – if we can call it that – of The Piano Teacher is its stillness and unromanticism; its ability to unsettle and generate tension while showing so little. It’s a tantalising and thought-provoking film. As David Denby of The New Yorker wrote, “Haneke avoids the sensationalism of movie shockers, even high-class shockers like Hitchcock’s “Psycho” and Polanski’s “Repulsion”. There are no expressionist moments in The Piano Teacher—no scenes of longing, no soft-focus dreams or cinematic dreck”. 

Hoby, in her article, notes how book is even more unsettling, noting that “Erika and Walter’s relationship – and its catastrophic denouement – is even more powerful and disturbing than in Haneke’s telling.”

In his Criterion essay for the film titled “Breaking the Ice: The Beginning of Desire in The Piano Teacher”, Garth Greenwell writes that “Part of Haneke’s greatness lies in the way his static shots invite contemplation of compositions that have the density of great paintings. The more you look, the more you find to see. Here the composition is starkly geometrical, a lattice of vertical and horizontal lines. The image is inelegantly, even brutally cropped, the screen divided into four unequal vertical panels, two of them opaque: dull metal that occupies a quarter of the screen, more or less, and obscures our view of the scene beyond.”

Haneke is a master of off-screen tension (Caché, 2005, being another fine example), setting a scene coolly and letting us take our minds to those off-camera places, or the edge of the screen spaces. Even if we don’t want to go there, we find ourselves enraptured, unable to look away. One reason – the main reason – we cannot look away from The Piano Teacher is due to the extraordinary Huppert, who straddles the line between victim and perpetrator, portraying Erika as both repressed and seething, her ice queen exterior masking a torrent of stormy emotion, and described by Mick LaSalle of the San Francisco Chronicle as “a rich incarnation of a woman we might see on the street and never guess that she contains fires, earthquakes and infernos.” Both tightly wound and unleashed as Erika, if you’ve seen Huppert in Paul Verhoeven’s 2016 film Elle, you’ll see how this was very much a precursor to that performance and character. 

Peter Bradshaw of The Guardian writes that “this [The Piano Teacher] is the performance that Huppert hints at in the Chabrol movie Merci Pour le Chocolat: cold, malign and profoundly disturbed. Her face, innocent of make-up and adorned only by freckles, often looks like that of a strange 12-year-old living in her own private world. Close-ups look like the very last frame in Polanski’s Repulsion: a freaky vision of a mad, murderous little girl. Huppert rarely allows expression other than, say, a wince of fastidious disgust at some error of musical interpretation or keyboard address. In fact the only real expression comes at the very end: an extraordinary grimace of wrenching pain and self-loathing.”

Denby concludes that The Piano Teacher “is a seriously scandalous work, beautifully made, and it deserves a sizable audience that might argue over it, appreciate it—even hate it.”

Whether you love it or hate it, you certainly won’t forget it.