Satantango by László Krasznahorkai
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Lunatics in Charge of the Asylum

Satantango is an allegory of the decline of the Communist state into a sort of primitive capitalism. The mouldering, almost derelict estate with its confused and despairing residents, looking toward a de-industrialized East, all hoping to move West as soon as they scrape the funds together. The remnants of a police state that is no longer subject to the authority of the police but to its former informers. The drunken villagers who desperately desire a messiah in whom they can believe.

The new regime is established by “The law of relative power” This literal pecking order is now “The law of the land. The people’s law.” “You are to adapt yourselves to the new situation! Is that clear?!,” commands the Orban-like (or Putin-like) figure of the secret policeman. The populace are helpless: “They are slaves who have lost their master but can’t live without what they call pride, honor and courage.” So “They are waiting. They’re waiting patiently, like the long-suffering lot they are, in the firm conviction that someone has conned them.” But they ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

The Laurel and Hardy duo of Irimias and Petrina are the new entrepreneurial hucksters, the corporate pioneers, fledgling merchant bankers facilitating the transition to ‘freedom.’ They don’t know much about anything but they know the right people. The Captain of the Secret Police gives them their special mandate: “You’ve been summoned because you have endangered the project by your absence. No doubt you have noticed I’ve not given precise details. The nature of the project has nothing to do with you.” Their job is to execute, not to plan; but their discretionary power is effectively unlimited. The ‘project’ itself remains mysterious, just another long con perhaps.

Irimias and Petrina are the influence-peddlers who threaten to blow everything up piece by piece if their influence is ignored. They are irrational, hair-trigger bullies. Yet they are idolized by the country-folk who are willing to sacrifice their meager (mostly ill-gotten) gains to these characters who appear resurrected from the long dead. They may be anachronistic jokes, but they’re all that’s available. In the land of the blind... etc. This new regime is one of numbers rather than ideology, or is it an ideology of numbers? In any case, the landlord of the bar knows the score: “The greater the significance of the numbers the greater my own significance.”

And so the satanic dance begins in all its gauche splendor within the village bar. Meanwhile, outside in reality, it continues to rain and the world turns to yellow mud. But that doesn’t compare with “the rain of death in the heart.” Consequently everyone stays drunk as long as possible. It’s a strategy which makes a great deal of sense in the circumstances. It helps to mitigate the pervasive stench.

If you think you’d like a spicy allegorical goulash of Samuel Beckett and Tennessee Williams with a soupçon of Kafka, this might be your cup of tea... or bowl of paprika as the case may be.

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