Verlängerung!: Football Culture at the 2006 World Cup
Lumière scribe JOE SHEPPARD was thinking only of his poor readers as he went on holiday to Germany during the World Cup, and found that he could slake both of his thirsts – football and culture – at once.
NO, THAT wasn’t an oxymoron. The only culture associated with football is not the one that grows on your boots in the off-season. There really are people out there who love a well-balanced Riesling during a tight penalty shootout, or who turn to Schopenhauer for consolation after a particularly crushing FA Cup loss. Thankfully I met none of them in stinking-hot Berlin, where all the gloomy predictions of terrorism or hooliganism, poor weather and crap attendance, had long been forgotten as the entire country called in sick to party for the 2006 Weltmeisterschaft (the Football World Cup Finals).
Safe as houses and ruthlessly organised, Berlin was always going to be the perfect host to eighteen zillion football addicts. But what was the discerning fan to do in between cathartic afternoons spent overdosing on the beautiful game? Fortunately, along with the usual suspects of magnificent museums and markets, grandiloquent galleries and gardens, a world-class series of events had been organised, as competitive and thrilling as the struggle for international supremacy on the pitch. So thick and penetrating was the spectacular climate of football in late July that it was difficult to do anything without absorbing the game by osmosis, even if you didn’t watch a single match on the telly.
The ‘Walk of Ideas’ was the most visible and public manifestation. Six sculptures, all closely placed at key central points of the city, showcased German innovation in science and technology, culture, and industry. Constructed from a cutting-edge synthetic material called Neopor®, all were seductively finished with a smooth, silver lacquer. A colossal sedan and a cluster of crotchets and quavers represented the contributions German musical composers and automotive engineers made to their fields. Einstein’s theory of relativity was writ large outside the Berliner Dom, and a giant version of Felix Hoffman’s aspirin sat beside the Spree, near the Reichstag. The placement of each work so effectively engaged with the surrounding architecture that it was obvious that the idea was designed with Berlin especially in mind. A tower of synthetic books stacked outside Bebelplatz may have commemorated Gutenberg’s press, the names on the spines recalling Goethe, Schiller, Heine, et al., but in dialogue with this was the permanent installation only metres away, which reminded passers-by that this was also the site of the infamous 1933 book-burning. Similarly, the four-metre tall football boots took on a new significance when you considered that they were modelled on the break-through pair that Adi Dassler had designed for the 1954 German team, conquerors of the Hungarians and of the hearts of German football fans ever since. Would the result be repeated in 2006? Every fan would have certainly hoped so come match day – the boots would be impossible to miss for the patriotic procession crossing the bridge from the new main train station, on the way to watch the game at the massive forest party in the Tiergarten park: the Fan Mile.
The Straße des 17. Juni from Brandenburger Tor to the Siegessäule, a major traffic artery linking east to west, had been closed for the tournament just so that all the people who went absolutely mad at the slightest mention of football could carouse and explode in a contained environment. And on July 8, over a million of them watched Germany play Portugal here on giant screens (up to 65 square metres, apparently). The size of the screens and the park was the most efficient way of communicating such powerful information to so many emotionally invested people, and with bratwursts half a metre long, beers in hands, stalls hawking off shirts, and so many frantic, cathartic fans everywhere, it was about as close to being at a classic football match as you could get, without shelling out all those euros on the black market.
But it was more than merely a simulated stadium or second-hand experience – it was a spectacle in its own right, with makeshift pubs, a few beach volleyball courts, a Ferris wheel, and even a portrait of German coach Jürgen Klinsmann sculpted out of sand. The sheer numbers of people and dollars in the Fan Mile dwarfed most of the cities I’ve lived in, so it didn’t even come as that much of a surprise to see a Fanbotschaft (fan embassy) there in this micro-state, offering information or help with translation for all those weary travellers desperately needing to find their next Berliner Pils.
The only other experience remotely resembling the Fan Mile in scale would be the most epic music festival – but the Fan Mile was only a stone’s throw away from Berlin’s bustling, majestic centre. I watched a lot of the football in bars or at parties, and while these environments presented their own charms and pleasures, there was simply nothing like the roar of a million adrenal glands when Schweinsteiger buried his second goal against the Portuguese. Thus, without kicking a single football or getting tickets to any game, I realised that it was possible to experience the World Cup and the beautiful game virtually: certainly through the obvious medium of television, but no less through unique institutions like the Fan Mile and the giant football boots, the clusters of fans, and a host of excellent exhibitions around the city.
AT THE knockout stage, the streets would ring into the morning with the sound of blaring car horns and ecstatic revellers. The match was over, and regardless of the winner, there were always plenty of very happy people spread throughout Berlin. The only exception to this rule was after the German semi-final loss to Italy, when the immediate hushing of an entire city was profoundly spooky. Capturing the after-match was the focus of Swiss photographers Mathias Braschler and Monika Fischer in the exhibition ‘Abpfiff! Faces of Football’, a series of close-up photographs of football stars’ faces taken right after the final whistle (Abpfiff) had been blown. Thirty of the world’s best footballers were there, each head one and a half metres high and realised in incredible detail, staring unflinchingly right back at the camera. Some were staunch, others smiled slyly. One was visibly panting, another went for the reposed look, but all glowed with the energy of ninety minutes spent struggling, and spoke silent volumes. The use of minimal contouring, neutral backgrounds, large-scale camera, and a black-and-white format, lent the photos a realism and candour rarely seen in the airbrushed world of sponsorship and marketing. Nothing could be hidden at this range: Ronaldo was sweating enough for three men (and could really use some tweezers for those eyebrows), while Rooney looked more like a little boy daydreaming than a merciless, predatory scoring machine.
Around each corner a fresh set of intense eyes would confront you at head height, and there were some great moments achieved by simple juxtapositions. 2002 World Cup rivals David Beckham and Ronaldinho faced off against each other on opposite walls of a tiny antechamber, and Zinedine Zidane’s photo was visible from every room, mounted at the end of the long corridor that ran the length of the exhibition, as if he were supervising the collection and the viewers. (Nowadays most people would probably want a close-up of Zidane’s forehead for reasons other than to ponder the mindset and emotions of a gifted footballer after a day’s work.) For thirty-five euros you can buy the book, see the photos, read the intro by Bobby Charlton, and check out the quotes – ranging from the rambling and philosophical to the laconic and semi-literate – about what football means to each player. But you could certainly make a good case if you argued that each photograph already provided the answer to that question.
Photography was also the medium of choice at the Deutsches Historisches Museum (the Museum of German History). Relying mostly on press archives, ‘Das Spiel’ documented the history of the World Cup, and highlighted both the memorable moments as well as the changes – especially in rules and playing style – over the 76 years it has been contested. Decked out with a faux-football pitch carpet, with listening posts playing famous commentaries (in German or English), and lots of information about past winners, golden boots etc., the exhibition made it easy for young fans and novitiates alike to enjoy, learn about and interact with the history of the game.
The relatively small amount of material presented was wisely considered and selected. Given the location, there was obviously a lot of focus on German teams, but this was hardly boring for the Anglophone. For instance, there was a photo of the East German team shaking hands with their Western counterparts in their one and only World Cup match. A quick listen of the different styles of commentary from each side of the border, especially in the way that each German team was distinguished, proved to be a valuable social history lesson. And Germany’s losses weren’t glossed over either: the infamous 1978 defeat at the feet of the Austrians was recalled (the Austrians still refer to the match as das Wunder von Cordoba), but there were also video replays of the controversial “Wembley-Tor” goal that Englishman Geoff Hurst scored against the Germans in the 1966 final. It’s still a bloody difficult call to make even when viewed both from in front of and behind the net. (England went on to win 4-2 after extra time.) All football-playing continents and countries were represented somewhere in Das Spiel, as were every four years, bar the break for the war of course, and every possible moment before, during, or after a game.
Thankfully, many photos were included for their aesthetic as well as historical value, and the exhibition traced the development of photography and photojournalism as much as anything else. A cracker of a video accompanied the photos, showing the French dressing room at half time during the 1998 final, when they were two goals up over a heavily favoured, star-powered Brazilian team. None of the French dreamed they would have such a lead at the break, and between massages and drinks the coach is doing his best to remind the troops that there’s still a second half to come. (Brazil would never recover, and lost 3-0.)
The role of television cameras in the life of football was explored by Das Filmhaus in the Sony Center on Potsdamer Platz in the exhibition ‘Tor! Fussball und Fernsehen’ (Goal! Football and Television). As its pièce de résistance the exhibition poster advertised Hellmuth Costard’s Football As Never Before, last seen in Wellington at the Paramount’s Anpfiff! Football Film Festival in May, but for my money there were more entertaining films to see and more fun activities to enjoy. At one screen, for instance, you could sit down and record a commentary for the rollercoaster dying minutes of the 1999 Champions League Final (FC Bayern München v. Manchester United), a list of the players’ names handy on the adjacent desk. Play it back, and watch your friends laugh at your lazy tongue and slow wits. At another post you could hear the 1954 radio commentaries of Herbert Zimmerman against the visuals of the match. Zimmerman’s emotional peaks and vivid descriptions contrast starkly with the pared-back commentary of the television era, and especially the modern tendency for the star power of half-witted ex-players.
A stack of TVs, one of which replayed over and over again Ewald Lienen’s horrific gash sustained in the 1981 Bundesliga, demonstrated how features like slow motion replay had transformed the game. Similar milestones in television history were charted throughout, and Das Spiel was probably the most densely educational of all the exhibitions in Berlin. The director’s diagram of the camera plan – all twenty-two of them! – for the 2002 Final represented the culmination in technology. It was always going to be difficult separating the audiovisual side of the game from its commercial aspects, and Tor! also offered the first sponsored shirt in the Bundesliga, as well as a bizarre 60s ad with Franz Beckenbauer endorsing some fairly unappealing stuff that could well be food.
Picking up on the relationship between football and filthy lucre was the Fanshop of Globalisation (Das Fanshop der Globalisierung), which was in a shipping container outside the Volksbühne on Rosa-Luxemburg Platz. It had spent the previous months touring the major cities of Germany. Whereas Das Spiel had only hinted at the money behind football and its television coverage, the Fanshop’s goal was nothing less than an explanation of international economics through the medium of football jerseys. An abundance of ideas and insights belied the modest size and location of the Fanshop, and it was refreshing to see the fingers so casually tossed at the real wankers of the football world.
Five designers created their own unique clothes from pre-existing uniforms, based around one of five themes: intertwinement, added value, migration, cultural identity, and social divide. The result was a delightfully subversive and curious collection of original clothes that provided an ethical message along with its creativity. Each rack functioned as both fashion design and a case study on the financial and social consequences of the game. Side by side you could enjoy one fantasy shirt celebrating the formation of the independent FC United of Manchester by disgruntled fans, furious at Malcolm Glazer’s takeover of Manchester United, before counting exactly how many different supporters’ scarves had been sewn together to make the skirt on that surprisingly functional gown over there.
Round the corner from Tor!, buried in a converted former subway platform, was a collection of almost everything in the world remotely related to the great Pele. Sadly, it was to be the only dud I found. Round beanbags painted to resemble footballs were dotted around the long, concrete hall, so punters could have a seat as they watched fancy screens showing Pele’s thousandth goal, or a montage of Pele’s favourite goals, etc. But the exhibition didn’t really shed much light on or get close enough to the football legend that Andy Warhol proclaimed would enjoy 15 centuries of fame. All of the famous artefacts from famous events may have been faithfully gathered and recorded, but I didn’t find out that much about the man or his life off the field, apart from his children’s charity. There was a strange attempt to recreate the spirit of the football terraces by projecting a panorama image of a crowd against a long wall, playing boorish chants through speakers, and building a few shallow concrete steps, but it didn’t even get close to the real thing, and lacked purpose.
After a week spent swimming in football, the perfect break came in the form of the Blue Man Group, who had been playing the Theater am Potsdamer Platz (which is actually on Marlene-Dietrich-Platz) since last year! Essentially, the wildly successful show consists of four bald, blue and slightly creepy looking men, who perform a series of otherworldly sketches involving spray-painting, musical pipes, wacky inventions, practical jokes, and anything else you would never really expect, all while a metal band of fluorescent skeletons crunches out heavy riffs on raised platforms in the background. Even the most mundane props, such as breakfast cereal or sheets of paper, could be innovatively transformed into sublime symphonies or philosophical satire. Behind the high-tech, costly staging and the alien antics of – let’s face it – a bunch of pervy-looking guys sweating away in blue paint and latex, a wealth of music and comedy was never far away. Everybody in the audience – young and old, English- or German-speaking, even the ones splattered with gunk – took a smile home that night.
To be sure, it was a shame that the only good match after the quarterfinals was the playoff for third place. But the World Cup that many will probably remember for its controversial finish resonated on many more levels for a German people that were no longer embarrassed to wave national flags everywhere they could. The summer was a hot one in the northern hemisphere, and so was the culture. The World Cup captivated and tormented the national psyche so much that it was only natural that this would spill over into the cultural scene, and the city as a whole. The Adidas boots on the Walk of Ideas must look even bigger to the South Africans, who will have trouble filling them in 2010 now that German giants have finished kicking around in them.
NO, THAT wasn’t an oxymoron. The only culture associated with football is not the one that grows on your boots in the off-season. There really are people out there who love a well-balanced Riesling during a tight penalty shootout, or who turn to Schopenhauer for consolation after a particularly crushing FA Cup loss. Thankfully I met none of them in stinking-hot Berlin, where all the gloomy predictions of terrorism or hooliganism, poor weather and crap attendance, had long been forgotten as the entire country called in sick to party for the 2006 Weltmeisterschaft (the Football World Cup Finals).
Safe as houses and ruthlessly organised, Berlin was always going to be the perfect host to eighteen zillion football addicts. But what was the discerning fan to do in between cathartic afternoons spent overdosing on the beautiful game? Fortunately, along with the usual suspects of magnificent museums and markets, grandiloquent galleries and gardens, a world-class series of events had been organised, as competitive and thrilling as the struggle for international supremacy on the pitch. So thick and penetrating was the spectacular climate of football in late July that it was difficult to do anything without absorbing the game by osmosis, even if you didn’t watch a single match on the telly.
The ‘Walk of Ideas’ was the most visible and public manifestation. Six sculptures, all closely placed at key central points of the city, showcased German innovation in science and technology, culture, and industry. Constructed from a cutting-edge synthetic material called Neopor®, all were seductively finished with a smooth, silver lacquer. A colossal sedan and a cluster of crotchets and quavers represented the contributions German musical composers and automotive engineers made to their fields. Einstein’s theory of relativity was writ large outside the Berliner Dom, and a giant version of Felix Hoffman’s aspirin sat beside the Spree, near the Reichstag. The placement of each work so effectively engaged with the surrounding architecture that it was obvious that the idea was designed with Berlin especially in mind. A tower of synthetic books stacked outside Bebelplatz may have commemorated Gutenberg’s press, the names on the spines recalling Goethe, Schiller, Heine, et al., but in dialogue with this was the permanent installation only metres away, which reminded passers-by that this was also the site of the infamous 1933 book-burning. Similarly, the four-metre tall football boots took on a new significance when you considered that they were modelled on the break-through pair that Adi Dassler had designed for the 1954 German team, conquerors of the Hungarians and of the hearts of German football fans ever since. Would the result be repeated in 2006? Every fan would have certainly hoped so come match day – the boots would be impossible to miss for the patriotic procession crossing the bridge from the new main train station, on the way to watch the game at the massive forest party in the Tiergarten park: the Fan Mile.
The Straße des 17. Juni from Brandenburger Tor to the Siegessäule, a major traffic artery linking east to west, had been closed for the tournament just so that all the people who went absolutely mad at the slightest mention of football could carouse and explode in a contained environment. And on July 8, over a million of them watched Germany play Portugal here on giant screens (up to 65 square metres, apparently). The size of the screens and the park was the most efficient way of communicating such powerful information to so many emotionally invested people, and with bratwursts half a metre long, beers in hands, stalls hawking off shirts, and so many frantic, cathartic fans everywhere, it was about as close to being at a classic football match as you could get, without shelling out all those euros on the black market.
But it was more than merely a simulated stadium or second-hand experience – it was a spectacle in its own right, with makeshift pubs, a few beach volleyball courts, a Ferris wheel, and even a portrait of German coach Jürgen Klinsmann sculpted out of sand. The sheer numbers of people and dollars in the Fan Mile dwarfed most of the cities I’ve lived in, so it didn’t even come as that much of a surprise to see a Fanbotschaft (fan embassy) there in this micro-state, offering information or help with translation for all those weary travellers desperately needing to find their next Berliner Pils.
The only other experience remotely resembling the Fan Mile in scale would be the most epic music festival – but the Fan Mile was only a stone’s throw away from Berlin’s bustling, majestic centre. I watched a lot of the football in bars or at parties, and while these environments presented their own charms and pleasures, there was simply nothing like the roar of a million adrenal glands when Schweinsteiger buried his second goal against the Portuguese. Thus, without kicking a single football or getting tickets to any game, I realised that it was possible to experience the World Cup and the beautiful game virtually: certainly through the obvious medium of television, but no less through unique institutions like the Fan Mile and the giant football boots, the clusters of fans, and a host of excellent exhibitions around the city.
* * *
AT THE knockout stage, the streets would ring into the morning with the sound of blaring car horns and ecstatic revellers. The match was over, and regardless of the winner, there were always plenty of very happy people spread throughout Berlin. The only exception to this rule was after the German semi-final loss to Italy, when the immediate hushing of an entire city was profoundly spooky. Capturing the after-match was the focus of Swiss photographers Mathias Braschler and Monika Fischer in the exhibition ‘Abpfiff! Faces of Football’, a series of close-up photographs of football stars’ faces taken right after the final whistle (Abpfiff) had been blown. Thirty of the world’s best footballers were there, each head one and a half metres high and realised in incredible detail, staring unflinchingly right back at the camera. Some were staunch, others smiled slyly. One was visibly panting, another went for the reposed look, but all glowed with the energy of ninety minutes spent struggling, and spoke silent volumes. The use of minimal contouring, neutral backgrounds, large-scale camera, and a black-and-white format, lent the photos a realism and candour rarely seen in the airbrushed world of sponsorship and marketing. Nothing could be hidden at this range: Ronaldo was sweating enough for three men (and could really use some tweezers for those eyebrows), while Rooney looked more like a little boy daydreaming than a merciless, predatory scoring machine.
Around each corner a fresh set of intense eyes would confront you at head height, and there were some great moments achieved by simple juxtapositions. 2002 World Cup rivals David Beckham and Ronaldinho faced off against each other on opposite walls of a tiny antechamber, and Zinedine Zidane’s photo was visible from every room, mounted at the end of the long corridor that ran the length of the exhibition, as if he were supervising the collection and the viewers. (Nowadays most people would probably want a close-up of Zidane’s forehead for reasons other than to ponder the mindset and emotions of a gifted footballer after a day’s work.) For thirty-five euros you can buy the book, see the photos, read the intro by Bobby Charlton, and check out the quotes – ranging from the rambling and philosophical to the laconic and semi-literate – about what football means to each player. But you could certainly make a good case if you argued that each photograph already provided the answer to that question.
Photography was also the medium of choice at the Deutsches Historisches Museum (the Museum of German History). Relying mostly on press archives, ‘Das Spiel’ documented the history of the World Cup, and highlighted both the memorable moments as well as the changes – especially in rules and playing style – over the 76 years it has been contested. Decked out with a faux-football pitch carpet, with listening posts playing famous commentaries (in German or English), and lots of information about past winners, golden boots etc., the exhibition made it easy for young fans and novitiates alike to enjoy, learn about and interact with the history of the game.
The relatively small amount of material presented was wisely considered and selected. Given the location, there was obviously a lot of focus on German teams, but this was hardly boring for the Anglophone. For instance, there was a photo of the East German team shaking hands with their Western counterparts in their one and only World Cup match. A quick listen of the different styles of commentary from each side of the border, especially in the way that each German team was distinguished, proved to be a valuable social history lesson. And Germany’s losses weren’t glossed over either: the infamous 1978 defeat at the feet of the Austrians was recalled (the Austrians still refer to the match as das Wunder von Cordoba), but there were also video replays of the controversial “Wembley-Tor” goal that Englishman Geoff Hurst scored against the Germans in the 1966 final. It’s still a bloody difficult call to make even when viewed both from in front of and behind the net. (England went on to win 4-2 after extra time.) All football-playing continents and countries were represented somewhere in Das Spiel, as were every four years, bar the break for the war of course, and every possible moment before, during, or after a game.
Thankfully, many photos were included for their aesthetic as well as historical value, and the exhibition traced the development of photography and photojournalism as much as anything else. A cracker of a video accompanied the photos, showing the French dressing room at half time during the 1998 final, when they were two goals up over a heavily favoured, star-powered Brazilian team. None of the French dreamed they would have such a lead at the break, and between massages and drinks the coach is doing his best to remind the troops that there’s still a second half to come. (Brazil would never recover, and lost 3-0.)
The role of television cameras in the life of football was explored by Das Filmhaus in the Sony Center on Potsdamer Platz in the exhibition ‘Tor! Fussball und Fernsehen’ (Goal! Football and Television). As its pièce de résistance the exhibition poster advertised Hellmuth Costard’s Football As Never Before, last seen in Wellington at the Paramount’s Anpfiff! Football Film Festival in May, but for my money there were more entertaining films to see and more fun activities to enjoy. At one screen, for instance, you could sit down and record a commentary for the rollercoaster dying minutes of the 1999 Champions League Final (FC Bayern München v. Manchester United), a list of the players’ names handy on the adjacent desk. Play it back, and watch your friends laugh at your lazy tongue and slow wits. At another post you could hear the 1954 radio commentaries of Herbert Zimmerman against the visuals of the match. Zimmerman’s emotional peaks and vivid descriptions contrast starkly with the pared-back commentary of the television era, and especially the modern tendency for the star power of half-witted ex-players.
A stack of TVs, one of which replayed over and over again Ewald Lienen’s horrific gash sustained in the 1981 Bundesliga, demonstrated how features like slow motion replay had transformed the game. Similar milestones in television history were charted throughout, and Das Spiel was probably the most densely educational of all the exhibitions in Berlin. The director’s diagram of the camera plan – all twenty-two of them! – for the 2002 Final represented the culmination in technology. It was always going to be difficult separating the audiovisual side of the game from its commercial aspects, and Tor! also offered the first sponsored shirt in the Bundesliga, as well as a bizarre 60s ad with Franz Beckenbauer endorsing some fairly unappealing stuff that could well be food.
Picking up on the relationship between football and filthy lucre was the Fanshop of Globalisation (Das Fanshop der Globalisierung), which was in a shipping container outside the Volksbühne on Rosa-Luxemburg Platz. It had spent the previous months touring the major cities of Germany. Whereas Das Spiel had only hinted at the money behind football and its television coverage, the Fanshop’s goal was nothing less than an explanation of international economics through the medium of football jerseys. An abundance of ideas and insights belied the modest size and location of the Fanshop, and it was refreshing to see the fingers so casually tossed at the real wankers of the football world.
Five designers created their own unique clothes from pre-existing uniforms, based around one of five themes: intertwinement, added value, migration, cultural identity, and social divide. The result was a delightfully subversive and curious collection of original clothes that provided an ethical message along with its creativity. Each rack functioned as both fashion design and a case study on the financial and social consequences of the game. Side by side you could enjoy one fantasy shirt celebrating the formation of the independent FC United of Manchester by disgruntled fans, furious at Malcolm Glazer’s takeover of Manchester United, before counting exactly how many different supporters’ scarves had been sewn together to make the skirt on that surprisingly functional gown over there.
Round the corner from Tor!, buried in a converted former subway platform, was a collection of almost everything in the world remotely related to the great Pele. Sadly, it was to be the only dud I found. Round beanbags painted to resemble footballs were dotted around the long, concrete hall, so punters could have a seat as they watched fancy screens showing Pele’s thousandth goal, or a montage of Pele’s favourite goals, etc. But the exhibition didn’t really shed much light on or get close enough to the football legend that Andy Warhol proclaimed would enjoy 15 centuries of fame. All of the famous artefacts from famous events may have been faithfully gathered and recorded, but I didn’t find out that much about the man or his life off the field, apart from his children’s charity. There was a strange attempt to recreate the spirit of the football terraces by projecting a panorama image of a crowd against a long wall, playing boorish chants through speakers, and building a few shallow concrete steps, but it didn’t even get close to the real thing, and lacked purpose.
After a week spent swimming in football, the perfect break came in the form of the Blue Man Group, who had been playing the Theater am Potsdamer Platz (which is actually on Marlene-Dietrich-Platz) since last year! Essentially, the wildly successful show consists of four bald, blue and slightly creepy looking men, who perform a series of otherworldly sketches involving spray-painting, musical pipes, wacky inventions, practical jokes, and anything else you would never really expect, all while a metal band of fluorescent skeletons crunches out heavy riffs on raised platforms in the background. Even the most mundane props, such as breakfast cereal or sheets of paper, could be innovatively transformed into sublime symphonies or philosophical satire. Behind the high-tech, costly staging and the alien antics of – let’s face it – a bunch of pervy-looking guys sweating away in blue paint and latex, a wealth of music and comedy was never far away. Everybody in the audience – young and old, English- or German-speaking, even the ones splattered with gunk – took a smile home that night.
To be sure, it was a shame that the only good match after the quarterfinals was the playoff for third place. But the World Cup that many will probably remember for its controversial finish resonated on many more levels for a German people that were no longer embarrassed to wave national flags everywhere they could. The summer was a hot one in the northern hemisphere, and so was the culture. The World Cup captivated and tormented the national psyche so much that it was only natural that this would spill over into the cultural scene, and the city as a whole. The Adidas boots on the Walk of Ideas must look even bigger to the South Africans, who will have trouble filling them in 2010 now that German giants have finished kicking around in them.
