The Nora Tschirner Problem

Three things I want to accomplish before I die: fly to Tokyo and press my face to the ground; buy a dishwasher, one that washes the dishes for me without any further involvement on my part; and spend more than three consecutive sentences in conversation with Nora Tschirner.

Tschirner—born in Berlin, probably best known outside Germany for her comedic lead in Keinohrhasen, though anyone watching the crime drama Tatort knows her as a sharp and unpredictable presence—has this quality that’s difficult to name precisely. She reads as genuinely intelligent and slightly chaotic, the kind of person who would say something that derails the whole interview and be completely unapologetic about it. That’s exactly who I want to be stuck in a room with.

The occasion was the German release of Marmaduke—the Hollywood talking-dog comedy—which Tschirner and Christian Ulmen had dubbed into German. Ulmen is Germany’s finest self-deprecating comedian and actor, the kind of performer who turns awkwardness into a formal discipline, and the two of them together sounded like a conversation worth having. I had the opportunity. I didn’t go. Time, allegedly. A version of myself who was busy doing nothing in particular.

Tokyo isn’t going anywhere. The dishwasher I can order today. But that window—Nora Tschirner, relaxed, talking about a dog movie that gave her cover to be funny and loose—closed quietly while I wasn’t paying attention, and I still find that mildly unforgivable.