Interview | Angela Summereder: "It's always a dialogue"

The Vienna Film Festival Viennale dedicated a solo exhibition to you this year. Your work became known to a wider audience in 1981 with "Zechmeister." How do you look back on your debut?

The subject matter remains deeply close to me to this day – simply because Maria Zechmeister's story took place in the place where I grew up. It's a small town in Upper Austria, population about 1,000. Even as a child, I sensed a silence hanging over the subject: whenever the name Zechmeister was mentioned, everyone fell silent. There was something everyone knew about, but no one wanted to talk about. At my mother's suggestion, I began researching and realized the extent to which repressed issues had grown – from men's justice to conflicts between war-traumatized returnees and the women who had to cope alone during the war. In the Zechmeister case, the court didn't consider an individual's fate; it was a chauvinistic and sexist verdict against women who, during the men's absence, had begun to move around more freely.

In 1949, Maria Zechmeister was sentenced to life imprisonment for allegedly poisoning her husband. She was already considered guilty at the local pub. Her film features female protagonists who counteract this gossip.

Everything spoken in the film is based on sources, interrogation transcripts, and court records. The short dialogues between the investigating officer and his wife are the only ones that are completely fictional—a note from the author, one could say. This woman's voice reflects my own position. Alongside the doctor who examined Alois Zechmeister, she questions whether what is being said is even true.

" Zechmeister" oscillates between documentary accuracy and fictional elements. Why this oscillation?

In "Zechmeister," I didn't want a traditional distinction between documentary and fiction. I was still inexperienced at the time and knew above all what I didn't want: no feature film and no purely documentary approach. I was interested in a higher level that transcends the individual case. Therefore, I connected real places with symbolic spaces: the Zechmeister's house, the doctor's office—she plays herself and is another counter-voice—as well as surreal and archaic-seeming places like the tree, a linden tree, under which the court is held.

Your later films are less experimental and more documentary. How did that come about?

There's a long break between "Zechmeister" and my second film – and I wouldn't have missed that time. I did other things that opened my eyes to other realities of life. This is reflected in the subsequent films. Unlike "Zechmeister," "Vermischte Nachrichten" from 2006 wasn't intended as a major production. It's about two penniless people taking to the streets and collecting stories, a bit in the style of cinéma vérité . This was possible because I was working with my film colleague Michael Pilz, who has a lot of experience with this style of filming and did excellent camera work.

Capitalist-driven film productions end when the money runs out. They say they make films when they have time. Why?

I have two children and, as a single parent, was always looking for work opportunities that were compatible with my life situation. I wanted to do something meaningful – and that doesn't necessarily mean well-paid jobs. My younger child had health problems, and it was a matter of survival – film was no longer an option. I should have told my children: no trips on the weekend, no playing in the evenings – I have to think, which makes me grumpy and hardly approachable. On top of that, there was the constant worry: How are we going to pay the next rent? When will this all end? I didn't want to subject my children – or myself – to that kind of life. So I said: The world of film is over for now.

Filmmakers rarely address precarious living situations and class structures. Does it take time for a conversation about them to become established?

I think this idea of ​​a one-size-fits-all career is a male thing. I find biographies more interesting when people have experienced and proven themselves in different realities. And I find it greatly enriching because it provides completely different insights.

" Jobcenter" from 2009 is the second part of your film trilogy set in the Innviertel region of Upper Austria. How did this film come about?

In "Jobcenter," much of my own existential anxiety resonates—from experiences I had during that time and from the stories of the people I met there. I worked as a trainer at that facility myself for a while, and some of what I experienced there found its way into the film. Originally, I wanted to make a sober observation of the institution, in the style of direct cinema . But it quickly became clear that it was about more: about the question of what work actually is—and what it means not to have so-called work in an economically "prosperous" area. "Jobcenter" attempts to make these contradictions visible: the social judgments, the mechanisms of exclusion, and the insecurity and shame that accompany many people in such situations.

You're not just interested in communication, but in the lives of your protagonists. What made working with them special?

I was able to connect with the protagonists because I worked with them for a longer period, beyond the time of filming. This created a relationship of trust that was crucial for the shoot. The conversations continued before and after filming; everything was embedded in a longer, collaborative process. The participants had a say. I asked them what was important to them outside of the job center, what gave them joy. I was interested in what gave them strength. And the question: What is there beyond (paid) work?

If one thinks about current labor market measures, the way people were treated in “job centers” was apparently different, more humane.

This was in Ried im Innkreis in Upper Austria – and even then, it was a unique situation. The facility's owner emerged from the works council of a company that had laid off many employees and therefore claimed to treat those affected differently and communicate more openly. Whether this has actually remained the case, I can't say.

Many directors have a fixed framing in mind when they begin shooting. For you, filming means opening up a space to be surprised. What does that mean for your working method?

This openness requires the ability to work long-term. You can't just start shooting and expect everything to fall into place. My films always involve a long preparation period, during which we explore the subject matter and the shooting situations together. I observe who these people are, what they bring to the table—and try to do justice to that cinematically. It's always a dialogue: I work to portray each person in a way that reflects who they are.

" B is for Bartleby" celebrated its Austrian premiere at this year's Viennale – an essay film that uncovers the layers of the sentence "I would prefer not to." Where does this polyphony come from?

The idea arose from a debate between Benedikt Zulauf and me: Is it even possible to make a Bartleby film that does justice to the text? What would it have to look like? One of the greatest challenges was to convey Herman Melville's short story in a way that would remain understandable even without prior knowledge. At the same time, we wanted to show how the text is received in different social realities – what people make of it, whether they can connect it with their lives. None of these readings is right or wrong. The film itself is the answer: a space in which many interpretations exist side by side – those of rappers in a Viennese youth center, those of kids with and without a migrant background, or those of homeless men living in the "Vinzi Rast" social project.

What does “ I would prefer not to” mean to you?

I consciously work without big names and elaborate shoots, with concepts that remain open and are allowed to develop. This often makes funding difficult, because everything is supposed to be predetermined. A colleague once said: "You need big names, stars, and big companies to get into big festivals." My reaction to this is: "I would prefer not to." I prefer to agree with Finnish director Aki Kaurismäki, who dedicates his films to: "To all admirers of modest cinema."