Trains opens with a quote by Franz Kafka: “There is plenty of hope, an infinite amount of hope…but not for us.” Those are characteristically bitter words from the Jewish Czech writer, attributed to a conversation between Kafka and his writer friend Max Bond when the latter asked the former his thoughts on hope outside the realm of human experience, whose work is so often punctuated by surreal dread that his very name has been coined as a blanket term for disorientation, existentialism, and vague menace. That is not, however, what you’d expect to find as the scene setter for Polish director Maciej J. Drygas’ film, an archival documentary composed entirely of footage of trains from the first half of the 20th century, culled from 46 archives from around the world. There’s no external narration, no discernible dialogue in the audio; just that Kafka quote, which— paired with the film’s somber score that groans like a rusty wheel— casts an ominous pall over the proceedings, which start with scenes of laborers working on the railroad, preparing train cars for their various journeys.
As Trains chugs along, however, it becomes increasingly apparent that it is a film about humanity, not mechanics; it’s not a film about trains themselves, or the inanimate goods they carry, but about their role as a vessel for humanity. We witness the repetitive, mesmerizing motions of labor, joyous reunions, and somber departures. We see how a train platform or the interior of a car acts as a liminal space where so many lives that wouldn’t typically intersect collide and then separate. Even as the various film clips move across time and space, there’s a sameness to them that indicates the cyclical nature of humanity, especially as it applies to the world’s greatest tragedies. War is a common thread here, its devastation effectively communicated in how editor Rafał Listopad intentionally cuts from one clip to the next. Scenes of eager, fresh-faced soldiers in uniform embarking on a train to be deployed are followed by snapshots of soldiers returning home from war, the horror of what they experienced in the interim evident in their scarred and weary faces, their limps and missing limbs. Some viewers may yearn for more context, and while it would be neat to be able to more specifically pinpoint the time and place of certain scenes, it isn’t really needed when the images themselves speak so loudly and clearly, and are assembled in such a way so as to guide audience from one point to the next. Take, for instance, this sequence of events: we see Charlie Chaplin in character as his famous Little Tramp, waddling on a platform next to a train car, cane in hand. We next see Chaplin again, but this time, he isn’t in costume, and he isn’t playing a part. He’s just himself, a celebrity so massive that he’s greeted by seemingly hundreds of cheering fans as he disembarks from a train. The film next cuts to another crowd applauding their idol, but this turns out to be a very different sort of fandom; Adolf Hitler’s face gazing out at his supporters from a train car window is unmistakable. The following sequences clearly juxtapose the privilege exercised by that Aryan group with the violence they inflicted on those races deemed less superior; Jewish people are rounded up and forced onto trains driving toward their death, and later, a camera lingers on a car carrying piles of emaciated bodies.
That image alone, bleak and reeking of inhumanity, justifies the employment of that Kafka quote at the top. But Drygas leaves us with scenes of joy: family and friends and couples embracing and kissing and dancing as they reunite on the platform, the train that likely pulled them apart bringing them back together again. The power of the footage is at times undercut by Saulius Urbanavicius’ rich but overbearing sound design— the screech of metal and the tooting of train whistles and the indistinct chatter of passengers are played so intensely that their manufactured nature feels at odds with the film’s realism— but its repetitive structure works in its favor, creating a hypnotic and introspective viewing experience. After all, if there is anything that the film’s finale— intertwining train tracks stretching into the distance, leading anywhere, or nowhere— imparts, it’s that there is some hope for the future ahead of us.
Trains is now playing in select theaters nationwide. Runtime: 80 minutes.
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