Berlin is a difficult place to hold a major international film festival. Perhaps, as the events of the last two weeks have shown, an impossible one. The main cause of this difficulty is that Berlin, unlike all of its major competitors, is a national capital. Cannes, Venice, Toronto and Sundance are all hosted in locations far removed from political centres of gravity. In Berlin, world events are for ever on the cinema doorstep and keep on spilling inside.
The event has long embraced its geographic fate: unlike Cannes and Venice, it is not simply an industry-facing launching pad for new films but also a public-facing festival selling tickets to new films to ordinary Berliners, and the world’s largest of its kind. But that openness also has downsides: the corridors of the Berlinale Palast are teeming with locally based film critics who are quick to perceive a drop in quality on screen or glamour on the red carpet as a reflection of their own diminished standing. The press conferences are rammed with political journalists who struggle with film-makers that find it tough to give unequivocal answers compared with lawmakers in the Bundestag down the road. (The video journalist who pressed jury president Wim Wenders on the festival’s stance on Gaza usually grills spokespeople at government press conferences.) And the closing gala is attended by politicians who constantly feel they must position themselves for or against whatever is happening on the stage. To make all this worse, the Berlinale takes place in what are usually the last weeks of the city’s interminably grey winter, when everyone is in a bad mood and impatient for the first blossoms of the spring.
