[yasr_overall_rating]
The early years of Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and Jenny Marx, between Paris, Brussels, and London.
Raoul Peck is a political filmmaker. His films all have a uniting theme, one of social injustices, which he explores from all angles, from the eyes of Independent Congo’s leader Patrice Lumumba in the confusingly-titled “Lumumba” to the recent, Oscar-nominated documentary “I Am Not Your Negro,” which again, as the title suggests, deals with the history of race in America. Now Peck depicts the events leading up to the writing of “The Communist Manifesto” and consequently “Das Kapital.” Quite the subject to tackle then, but the filmmaker goes about it in the most painstakingly detailed and impassive way as is cinematically possible. Were it not for splendid production design and costumes – those top hats! – one could mistake this for a documentary reenactment, told in a theatrical, pedagogical manner.
Welcome to the mid-19th Century. Karl Marx (August Diehl), the “son of a converted Jew,” proudly refuses to surrender after authorities bash in the front door of his little publishing house. He writes scathing anti-authoritarian articles (“the people see the punishment and not the crime”); shackled for expressing his beliefs, Marx makes the decision to move to Paris.
Accompanied by “the prettiest aristocrat in Trier,” his wife Jenny von Westphalen-Marx (Vicky Krieps), Marx smokes cheap cigars at a Parisian republican convention, publicly calling out the famous anarchist and founder of mutualist theology Pierre-Joseph Proudhon (the Dardenne Brothers’ mainstay, Olivier Gourmet). Marx claims that the man’s speechifying amounts to nothing but mere abstractions. Introduced to him by another revolutionary anarchist, Mikhail Bakunin (Ivan Franek), Jenny proceeds to define Proudhon’s statements as “an image chasing its own tail.”
In the meantime, Mary Burns (Hannah Steele), an outspoken, self-described “slave worker” and leader of sorts at a spinning mill in Manchester, causes a stir of her own with the authorities. The son of the evil factory owner happens to be the compassionate Friedrich Engels (Stefan Konarske), who “despises gentlemen,” referring to the upper-class leeches feeding off the laborers. After an unsuccessful attempt to “enlist” said laborers in helping him write a book about the conditions of the working class in Manchester – which results in a bloody nose – Friedrich seeks out liberalist Arnold Ruge (Hans-Uwe Bauer), wherein the Great Meeting of the Minds happens: Marx meets Engels.
Both broke, they start writing an essay, fueled by Proudhon’s speech and Jenny, their muse. They morph Proudhon’s abstract notions into an “appalling reality.” Marx speaks fervidly to factory workers of equality, spouting hatred about the bourgeoisie. He soon gets expelled from France and joins Friedrich, along with Mary Burns, in London’s League of the Just. Together, along with their growing crew of revolutionaries, they have heated debates over smoky cigars until the Communist League is formed, to much fanfare and swelling music.
Prone to heated outbursts and offending peace resistant leaders, Diehl is a marvelous Marx stuck in a dry film. He and Konarske do their best to ignite the screen yet, given the over-written dialogue and snail-like pacing, there’s little they can do. Their characters spout their rhetoric but what truly drives them, scenes of tenderness and humanity, are curiously missing. Vicky Krieps, so mysterious and alluring in P.T. Anderson’s recent “Phantom Thread,” comes off a bit bland here, her character, apart from a few moments of slight empowerment, delegated to the “supporting wife” role. (I feel like I’ve written this sentence about women playing the trite “helpful wife” role in my reviews more than once – feels strange to write it in one of a film made by such a socially-conscious director.)
Scenes feel artificial and staged, but worst of all, didactic. The film is so boring, it made me want to bang my forehead with “The Communist Manifesto.” Scratch that, it made me want to READ “The Communist Manifesto,” so long as it would detract from watching another uneventful, talky scene unfold. The script – by three people! – lacks a forward momentum, an exhilarating highlight, at least a trace or two of wit. It’s just one long, monotonous slog through this particular, important tough not quite cinematic moment in history. The few brief moments of spontaneous inspiration – the violent, slow-motion opening, repeated in Marx’s dreams; Marx and Engels running away from authorities down narrow paved streets – are dulled by the rest of this film, akin to a few drops of spice making next-to-difference in a watery soup.
I guess Peck’s film serves as a decent introduction to Karl Marx and a half-decent juxtaposition of the tumultuous, politically and socially charged climate in which he lived against our own. That said, “The Young Karl Marx” feels like it should be taught in history classes instead of shown in theaters.
Opens in theaters Friday, February 23rd in New York and Los Angeles, with a national rollout to follow
