Great Freedom review: A timeless masterpiece about vulnerable men and oppressive laws

Sebastian Meise’s Great Freedom, a sensual period prison drama that seamlessly marries the personal and the political, begins and ends with the same set of arresting images. Set in West Germany, the film opens in 1968. A grainy mid-credits montage captures gay men meeting in a public toilet, cottaging while constantly looking over their shoulders. Bodies writhe against each other in erotic fashion and even as the faces change, one remains constant: a 30-something Hans Hoffman (Franz Rogowski).

The footage, as we realize, is from a police surveillance camera documenting the clandestine encounters to use as evidence against Hans in a trial. When the film begins, he is sentenced to 24 months for “deviant practices” under Paragraph 175 of the German penal code that made homosexuality punishable by imprisonment for up to 10 years. On his part, Hans remains unfazed by the sentencing and displays familiarity with the prison processes — an indication that he has been convicted for the same offense before.

These two scenes convey Meise and co-writer Thomas Reider’s central thesis: even as the Allies promised freedom from fascism post-World War II, it didn’t end up in liberation for everyone. Homophobic laws that jailed gay men stayed on the books for years after the war, being entirely abolished only in the ’90s. It meant that West Germany continued to remain as punishing for gay men whose attempts to assert their desires often ended in nightmarish criminal persecution.

Chronicling this shameful chapter of queer history, the Austrian film which won the Jury Prize at the Un Certain underlines the cost that this systemic dehumanization exacted on generations of gay men in Germany with remarkable compassion and skill. The plot spans decades, stretching from the end of the second world war in 1945 until 1969 when the West German authorities repealed Paragraph 175.

Set entirely inside prison, Great Freedom moves in nonlinear fashion, burrowing in and out of timelines to convey the cruelty of time passing by in the blink of an eye and stalling stubbornly at the same time. For Hans, it must certainly feel that way. Thrust into prison straight from the brutality of the concentration camp in 1945 as a 20-something, he continued to endure repeated spells of life behind bars until he was a middle-aged man. But even as the government kept incarcerating Hans for being himself, they could barely cage his heart.

It helps that instead of turning the material into tense, historical drama, Great Freedom curiously remains interested in the unexpected tenderness that finds its way amid the denial of humanity. So much of the film — minimal on dialogue or exposition — happens in what is being done instead of what is being said. The plot is essentially a two-header, observing the ebbs and flows of the relationship that develops between Hans and his burly cellmate Viktor (George Friedrich) who is in for the long haul.

When the duo first meet each other in 1945 — Hans first spell in prison — Victor, who identifies as straight, is initially hostile toward him as if mimicking the collective opinion of a country so hesitant toward embracing the power of both, freedom and choice. As the film criss-crosses timelines, Crystal Fournier’s attentive lensing traverses a lifetime between two souls, shadowing exactly how Hans gently breaks down Viktor’s internalized homophobia over the years. The almost platonic companionship that develops between them, built on a campaign of connection and vulnerability, becomes a biting assertion of freedom. Put simply, the scenes between both the actors make the film. It helps that Meise is in no hurry to underline transformations, instead letting viewers join dots by offering vignettes of moments across shifting timelines that accumulate meaning with every scene.

Much of the reason is the film’s elegant structure. Meise collapses time in the film’s narrative structure, using its passing as a way to observe the shackles that remain the same and the liberties that are stolen in between. In a cleverly immersive touch, the filmmaker uses solitary confinement as a psychological portal into the effects of incarceration — in particular, how it shapes Hans’ sense of identity and belonging. In a way, these scenes also act as intermission points: when Hans is thrown into solitary confinement for getting into a fight in 1968, the door opens in 1945 and a younger, scrawnier and sicklier Hans emerges disoriented. We’re transported to 1945 watching Hans coming out of a concentration camp. The next time there’s an interlude, we’re in 1957, the period that marks the defining shift between Hans and Viktor.

The storytelling is both lyrical and layered. Even though the carefully constructed script makes no mention of the life Hans has outside — at once making prison condense a lifetime and be at a far remove from life itself — it tells volumes about Hans. One of the film’s unexpectedly romantic scenes features Hans sneaking a date with the handsome schoolteacher who was caught in the same public bathroom as him. Another scene, weighed down by crushing loss, captures the bittersweet memory of Hans before his spirit was bruised by arrest. Scene after scene presents a collage of his resilience in spite of acute humiliation — after a point, the film seems intent on admiring the extent of his adaptability until it transforms into an eulogy.

Fournier’s camera cuts as deep. There is something unsettling about the striking composition of the prison scenes, one that illuminates hidden desires and silent needs while maintaining a distance from them. It’s best evidenced in the contrast that the camera manages in capturing Hans and his lover Oskar together. Outside they are inseparable as lovers ought to be but once they’re thrown in prison, the distance between them rankles. The affecting sound and production design, which work in tandem to hint at the emptiness right outside the frame, effectively convey the transactional life behind bars.

Still, if Great Freedom succeeds in balancing all fronts — being gentle yet brutal examination of loss, playing out like a coming-of-age tale as well as a hostage thriller, underlining the power of human connection while contrasting it with the depths of inhumanity known to mankind — it’s mainly due to the ferocity of its lead performances. Rogowski is unsparing as Hans, his haunted gaze revealing the two-decade worth of toll that accompanies constant threat of violence. It’s no mean feat for an actor to do justice to the varying inner lives of a character across timelines but then again, Rogowski is not just any actor.

There is not one emotion that doesn’t make its presence felt on the actor’s face; his eyes on the other hand tell a whole story onto itself. Hans starts out as a softer man, one who hardens against his will and Rogowski’s contained turn assembles a moving, intense portrait of a man who forgets that lives are not meant to be lived under a microscope. In part, Rogoswki’s turn is elevated by the steely reserve of Friedrich who refuses to play Viktor straight, locating a deep sadness inside what any other film might have classified as a bully.

I am certain it will take me time before I manage to get the bittersweet closing sequence out of my head. Like the opening scene, the film, a modern day masterpiece, ends with a montage of men cottaging underneath a gay jazz club. Except there’s a crucial difference: it’s 1969 and the West German government has decriminalized gay sex. Hans is finally out of jail — and at last legal. We see the labyrinthine sex chambers through Hans’ eyes. He takes in the sight, a smile soon shapes his face. And then, he decides to go back to the only life he has ever known. After all, it’s the only language of freedom that Hans understands — a love that makes its presence felt in confinement against all rules.

Great Freedom is streaming on MUBI

Poulomi Das is a film and culture writer, critic, and programmer. Follow more of her writing on Twitter.

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