Miroirs No. 3

Paula Beer

Christian Petzold's Miroirs No. 3 is another rewarding and disquieting expansion of the German writer/ director's oeuvre. At 86 minutes, it is a terse yarn with crisp and telling editing by Bettina Böhler. The film centers on Laura (Paula Beer), a depressed music student who we learn is studying in Berlin. Traveling through the countryside, displayed in the film in all its autumn finery, Laura and her boyfriend experience a horrible auto accident and the boyfriend is killed. Dazed after the crash, Laura is taken in by a seemingly kind older woman named Betty (Barbara Auer). However, it soon seems that Betty is the one in need of support.

I must warn the reader that I will now spoil the plot. Petzold does so himself, following Hitchcock's dictum that the audience will experience the thrill of anticipation if the audience knows a ticking time bomb is about to explode rather than just detonating a bomb without warning. At one point early in the proceedings, Betty calls Laura "Yelena", a slip of the tongue that told me and I'm sure many other viewers that Betty is using Laura as a daughter substitute. We soon meet Betty's husband and son who seem partially estranged from her. They both operate a slightly shady garage. Not much really happens except for unhealthy family dynamics until the son blurts out the truth about Yelena. There is a twisted sense of healing achieved for all concerned. Laura starts out being treated like a child by Betty who tucks Laura in like a toddler. When she ultimately learns the truth about Yelena, she acts outs like a teen. She ditches Yelena's wardrobe which Betty had given her and dons again the psycho grungy duck sweater she wore at the film's beginning. She leaves her temporary nest, as all children must do.  

I feel Miroirs No. 3 is an autumnal and ironic comedy, like Hitchcock's The Trouble with Harry. This explains Beer's Mona Lisa smile in the final shot. In this bourgeois satire, the characters are too terse to communicate. The males tinker with their gadgets while the females have at least the balm of culture in the form of painting and music. There is no score per se, but this heightens our awareness of the film's use of songs. They range from Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons to Ravel, part of whose piano suite gives the film its title. The music expresses what the characters feel more that the feeble words they provide for one another. In some respects, this mirrors the formal intent of Petzold. This film is not one of his magnum opus masterpieces (which include Barbara, Phoenix, and Undine), but it is a first class étude. All the actors are superb and Hans Fromm's cinematography is as striking and unsettling as a Courbet.