"Maybe I should get raped for real now." That's one of the lines Mifti belts out in Axolotl Overkill, the film adaptation of Helene Hegemann's novel. It's a line that doesn't work, in criminal, ethical, feminist terms. That's exactly why she's belting it out. She's sixteen, has lost her mother, and is surrounded by cultural activists, and so one could justify the sentence as an expression of existential despair. But no, it is pure provocation.
Mifti is a creature of the noughties. Mifti is not Helene, of course, but the essence of a five-year sojourn in the bubble of Berlin's creative chic. You don't go to school, you go to the party. You don't consult a psychiatrist, you consult a dealer. You don't look for the ideal partner for the first time, but take what's there for the twentieth.
These are incompatible milieus: the left-resigned one, which despairs of the incompatibility of its progressive ideals with cruel reality - and the precarious one, the lost one, which sees its only chance of reconnection in allegiance to a leader.
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