Brief Encounter

London, Chelsea district, a Thursday, mid-August 1981. We have just come from the National Film Theatre. We saw The Third Man once again in an afternoon performance. In a pub on the Kings Road, we have a glass of beer. It’s pretty crowded inside. It is early evening. We sit down at a small table, next to us – also with his back to the wall – sits an older gentleman in front of a glass of orange juice. He catches our eye because he is wearing sunglasses in the dark pub. He’s wearing a light-colored fibrous sweater that doesn’t really contrast with his flea-white hair. A symphony in pale, I think. We talk in German.

Q: “You know, everything is really brilliantly done in this film: the music, the actors, the direction, the location in Vienna, these sewers, everything great. But for me the third man is the cinematographer Robert Krasker. Without those shadows and that darkness, the impact of the film wouldn’t be half as strong.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see our counterpart smile.

P: “I wonder if it was all his ideas. A cameraman like that is only part of the team. We know far too little about what cameramen do.”

The gentleman across from us looks up and watches us with cautious interest.

P: “How pissed off the others must have been at The Third Man when only the cinematographer got an Oscar.”

I notice that our counterpart is playing restlessly with his glass. Should we speak more quietly? Does he understand German?

P: “That name doesn’t sound English at all. Krasker – where does it come from?”

Q: “As far as I know, it comes from Australia. But that an Australian can find his way into Viennese like that is amazing.”

At that moment, the gentleman across from us rises, pushes his table forward somewhat ungently, and tries to squeeze through between the tables, but is not standing securely enough, sways, and almost falls into our beer glasses. I jump up and support him. He says in German, “That’s nice of you.”

Then he sits back down in his seat. “I don’t feel well sometimes”. He sips his juice. “It’s alright”.

Q: “Did our conversation disturb you?”

With a slightly English-tinged speech melody, he replies, “Oh, no. Not at all. I just thought: why shouldn’t an Australian have a feel for Viennese? I’m an Australian, too. Not all Australians were born there. Most of them came from Europe. I’m happy to speak German. My mother spoke German.”

P: “You were listening to our conversation. Do you have anything to do with film?”

The gentleman: “Not anymore. But I have to go now. Will you let me through?”

We push the table aside, he stands up, this time much more confidently. He leaves, but doesn’t say a word. I’m struck by how alert he became at the name Krasker. I ask in the blue. “Do you happen to know Robert Krasker?”

The lean, gaunt man pauses in his movement. He hesitates. Then very quietly, “I’m Robert Krasker.” We blurt out, “What an incredible coincidence!” Then, “Couldn’t we have a few words with you about your films?”

He considers. “I’d love to, but I’m not feeling well today. Maybe next Thursday – same time, same place?”

Then he disappears into the bustle of the pub. We watch through the window as he unchains his bike from the lamppost outside and rides with some momentum onto Kings Road.

The next Thursday, we sit in the pub at the same hour, full of expectation. But Robert Krasker does not appear. We ask the landlord. He doesn’t know anyone by that name. We look in the phone book – he lives in Sloane Square, just a few hundred yards away. The number is 750 2854. Should we call? We don’t dare. The next day, The Times reports: Robert Krasker died on Thursday.

Links