I Was at Home, But… (2019) A Reserved, Existentialist Euro-Drama (Review)

Ewan Gleadow

Existentialism is often considered a crisis. When an individual thinks about their life and it’s meaning, impossible questions are posed. It is a common recurrence for those, like me, who have no idea what they are doing with themselves, their lives or their emotions. I Was at Home, But… the award-winning film from director Angela Schanelec muses on this philosophy and its impact. To compact such sweeping ideas is to place your trust, faith and own interpretation of broad topics that some may clash on. The key, then, for I Was at Home, But… is to have a compelling narrative surrounding this thickly-layered philosophy. 

Her opening shots are quiet, calm studies of nature in an unnatural environment. A fox and donkey co-habiting, surviving, but in the ruins of a house and not the shelter of a forest or field. These calm shots should burst into energy later on, but Schanelec’s utilisation of the camera is dictated by where her characters go and what they do. They walk down clean hallways, and the slow and steady style of the film is painful at times. Is it meant to show agony? The creeping existentialism does not, in fact, creep in. It skitters around the edges, waiting for a moment to break cover and dive into the minds of these characters, but it is simply not to be.  

It is poetry without rhythm, music without a beat. There is the detail to be found within I Was at Home, But… yet nothing of deeper meaning or clarity. At times, it is frustrating, because it is clear what tone and style Schanelec is attempting, but does not quite grasp. Some beautiful tracking shots show Astrid (Maren Eggert) travelling on her newly purchased bicycle, and the emotion is visible, but not impressionable. A character is sobbing, and that is all we are given to ponder. “Why?” is the important question to ask in this instance, but it never comes into focus, nor is an answer ever offered for the erratic decisions certain characters make. Abandoning the bicycle, but what for? Is it broken, of course. But to realise this we must first enter a minuscule three-act structure. The bicycle is shown to be working, a problem arises, the problem is either resolved or, in this case, is not.  

Schanelec is distant and cautious with her camerawork, eliciting slight feelings of Yorgos Lanthimos’ later works, but never quite understanding that behind those icy scenes was a biting commentary on culture or character.

I WAS AT HOME, BUT…

With these recurring avenues of particularities, it is hard to get a sense of what I Was at Home, But is trying to do. It is a cold film, elongating the moments of no real interest and skimming over the detail of strong performances. Schanelec is distant and cautious with her camerawork, eliciting slight feelings of Yorgos Lanthimos’ later works, but never quite understanding that behind those icy scenes was a biting commentary on culture or character. I Was at Home, But has neither, but makes do with a good screen presence from Eggert.  

A stalwart aspect of Second Run is quality in their touch-ups and bonus features. I Was at Home, But is no exception. A director-approved transfer of the piece, alongside an undeniably interesting interview with Schanelec is merely the tip of the iceberg. Included also are three short films, Lovely Yellow ColourFar Away, and Prague, March ‘92. Each are of a quality similar to that of the feature, and if it is your cup of tea then there is much rewarding content to be found within these three, rare short pieces.  

I Was at Home, But… is quiet and sombre, but it doesn’t have a seemingly effective reason for being so. Lingering cameras on the hands of individuals, sleeping animals and the anxieties of waiting for the next piece of life to come into focus is fleeting, but interesting too. The balance isn’t quite there. It is a film that will either tap into the emotions of its audience or alienate them. I struggle to see an in-between and do commend Schanelec for trying, but it is a film more focused on its artistry and merit than on its core ideals. It looks good, but the style outweighs the substance, a dangerous choice to make when wishing to tackle such heavy prose and deep conversation. It is slow and methodical, but it should not be. It should throw caution to the wind as its characters seemingly should, to explore existentialism is to leave the comfort zone, but I Was at Home, But… feels right at home, showing no signs of peeking out the window and into the real world.  

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