In Search of Dutch Cinema

Another week, another art exhibition prompting reflections on cinema. There was nothing in particular about the display of the Queen's Collection of Dutch Landscapes at Holyroodhouse, Edinburgh, that stimulated a movie-related chain of thought other than to set me thinking about the small impact Dutch films have had on the world stage. The paintings in the exhibition testify to a growing confidence and grandeur within the culture of the Netherlands in the moment of its independence which helped define its burgeoning national identity (expertly evoked in Simon Schama's early book, The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age). One is hard pressed to pinpoint an equivalent distinctive impression within the country's cinematic heritage, beyond the exuberant fledging films of Paul Verhoeven (a glance at the few Dutch DVDs on my shelves reveals little else). I'm vaguely aware of a documentary tradition, too, but a fleeting acquaintance with Joris Ivens' work is the start and finish of my knowledge in this regard.

One of the points I make to my A level students about the intellectual attractiveness of film studies is that the history of the medium is short, therefore it's possible to grasp much of that history in detail, appreciating an evolving artform in its remarkably varied manifestations. However, even the most seasoned of cineastes must admit to lacunae, and Dutch cinema, whether through its own shortfalls or the neglect of the English-speaking West, is one of mine and, I suspect, a few others. Ironically, a film I have often used to bridge Anglophone, mainstream cinema and international arthouse fare is a Dutch film, namely George Sluizer's enthralling The Vanishing (Spoorloos), a thriller about a woman's abduction that draws her boyfriend into a long-running investigation into her disappearance. Reminscent at times of the elaborate puzzles of David Fincher, the film revels in its slow-burning disclosure: we know soon enough in the narrative what has happened and who is responsible, but the suspense lies in the mechanics of the crime. Sluizer painstakingly and with a rich vein of black comedy reveals the method of his madman: a static overhead shot captures his forensic precision in rehearsing the moment of capture, as he guides his imaginary victim into position, circles his car and prepares an anasthetic, all the while accompanied by a disconcertingly jolly score. The film also develops a rich connection between protagonist and antagonist, both men being obsessives whose complusions entwine them together; this is nicely echoed in the recurring Tour de France radio commentary focused on the cat-and-mouse rivalry of the lead cyclists. Yet, in the radio transmissions we hear the film's dominant culture: we begin with a Dutch couple holidaying in southern France, practising the language. A feel for location is fundamental is fundamental, both in the sense of authentic tourist trail territory - service stations, market squares, country retreats - and the symbolic landscape of desertion and reunion (tunnels at the start and ending), surveillence and loss (the service station) and death and reconciliation (the earth itself, the ground which Rex sits upon, beats and eventually find himself buried under). In any event, the setting is signally French, just as Sluizer's knowing but silly Hollywood remake is recast as an American nightmare. To find the Dutch through their own highways and byways, further cinematic investigation is required.