"Siegfried" - Fritz Lang (1924)

“Fritz Lang’s cinema is the cinema of the nightmare, the fable, and the philosophical dissertation. His films take place in a closed world, but their formal brilliance and intellectual conception are incontestable.”

– Andrew Sarris, The American Cinema

Siegfried (Die Nibelungen: Siegfried, 1922-24) is the first part of Lang’s titanic Niebelungen (part two was The Vengeance of Kriemhild, 1924). Thea von Harbou’s script was not taken from Wagner’s Lay of the Nibelung, but from the original ancient myths and so differs vastly from the opera. Often compared to Destiny (1921), Siegfried’s stylized ritual was designed to stress, in the words of Thea von Harbou, “the inexorability with which the first guilt entails the last atonement.” The film was said to be the ultimate expression of the German national character, and, for this reason, its stunning effects were blatantly copied in Nazi propaganda films, vide Triumph of the Will (1935). Paul Rotha, citing Destiny and Siegfried as the supreme examples of the German art film, noted in particular that the “sheer pictorial beauty of structural architectured [of] Siegfried has seldom been equaled.”

The following comments on the film are those of Siegfried Kracauer (From Caligari to Hitler):

This Fate-conditioned story materializes through scenes which seem to be staged after decorative paintings of a bygone period. Lang new why, instead of resorting to Wagner’s picturesque opera style or to some kind of psychological pantomime, he relied upon the spell of such decorative compositions’ they symbolize Fate. The compulsion Fate exerts is aesthetically mirrored by the rigorous incorporation of all structural elements into a framework of lucid forms. To heighten the impression of pictorial unity, extensive use is made of simple, large and solemn architectural structures dominating the scene. As if the inherent ornamental characters of these compositions were not sufficient, primitive ornaments cover the walls, curtains, ceiling, and costumes. Frequently the players themselves form ornamental figures.

[Siegfried] unfolds in lingering scenes that have all the qualities of stills. Their slow procession, which characterizes the mythic realm as a static one, is calculated to draw attention to the action proper. This intrinsic action does not coincide with the succession of treacheries and murders, but is to be found in the development of smoldering instincts and imperceptibly growing passions. It is an all but vegetative process through which Fate realizes itself.

★★★

"Metropolis" - Fritz Lang (1927)

After the success of his “Niebelungen” films (1922-24), director Fritz Lang was given virtual freedom to make Metropolis (1927). The film was completed after eighteen months and the participation of 36,000 people – at unprecedented expense. Advertised as the “costliest and most ambitious picture ever screened” in Europe, it opened in Berlin on January 10, 1927 as a major social event, attracting cabinet members, diplomats, and literary and social figures alike. Despite the intense interest it stirred, it failed to recoup its investment. From the beginning reviews were mixed, but reactions were invariably strong, whether favourable or not. It has been criticized for its insufficient development of characters, naive attempt at social comment, and simplistic melodramatic movement of plot. True, there are moments when one is reminded of Flash Gordon, but as a testament to one of the most fertile imaginations nurtured during a time of rarely paralleled creative outpouring, it is an important, if flawed, example. Its unmistakable virtue lies in its visual presentation, especially its grandiosely conceived sets – certainly a landmark in German studio production.

Fritz Lang originally studied civil engineering at the Technical University of Vienna before switching to art and architecture. Shortly thereafter he studied painting in Paris. Given free rein, Lang unleashed the full force of his visual predilections in Metropolis. Paul M. Jensen, in The Cinema of Fritz Lang had these further observations on this score:

The settings, particularly the workers’ homes, are stylised into mere forms with black rectangles for windows. A number of these were models, which were combined with live actors through the Schufftan process. Invented by photographer Eugene Schufftan, it used a camera with two lenses which focused two separate images onto a single strip of film; this allowed actors and models to be recorded together without resorting to double exposure or laboratory work. The designs are Expressionistic, but the architect in Lang rebelled against the surface distortion and linear anarchy of Caligari’s use of the style. Instead, his settings are solid and substantial, extending in more than two dimensions. Their design is regular, controlled and organised, dwelling on simplicity rather than clutter.

A painter’s eye for composition and staging is again revealed in Lang’s direction. Any selection of the best examples tends to be determined by memory and subjective inclination, but particularly effective are the bearing of injured workers in silhouette past Frederson, the shots of children running along the street with the water’s edge flowing a few seconds behind them, and the tent of electricity surrounding the robot during the creation scene. Only in Die Niebelungen, and to a lesser extend in Der Müde Tod, did Lang allow his painter’s eye and architect’s pen to create as much excitement.

★★★½ 

"The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari" - Robert Wiene (1920)

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari, 1920) was produced during the cultural flowering of the German Weimar Republic after World War I and was one of the great early German Expressionist films. The producers had originally chosen Fritz Lang to be the director, but he had other obligations, and so Dr. Robert Wiene was tapped to direct the film. The story concerns a psychotic killer, Dr. Caligari, who hypnotises a somnambulist (a person who is perpetually asleep but who can be awakened briefly) to perform grisly murders at his choosing. Two friends, Alan and Francis, see Caligari at a village fair exhibiting for a concession his somnambulist patient. After Alan is later murdered (by the somnambulist), Francis suspects that the real culprit is Caligari, and both he and the father of his girlfriend, Jane, set out to expose Caligari as the evil mastermind. They eventually succeed at this, but not before the somnambulst abducts Jane and nearly kills her. When Caligari is finally confronted by the authorities with the evidence, he becomes violent and has to be secured in a straitjacket. This entire story is told by means of a narrative framing device such that Francis is initially shown at the start of the film to be relating the tale to a companion on a park bench. At the end of the film, we go back to Francis, and now it is revealed that it he who is an insane inmate of the asylum and that the whole story was a deranged fantasy on his part.

What makes the film unique and enduring is that the entire world depicted is skewed and distorted in a nightmarish fashion. This is Expressionism in its pure form: the external world is twisted to reflect the emotional state of the storyteller. There are almost no right angles anywhere. All the buildings, windows, and doors are slanted and deformed. Inexplicable lines and dark shadows mark the walls of buildings. The chairs of city officials are absurdly elevated to reflect the dominating and unapproachable status of their officious occupants.

The original script of the screenwriters, Hans Janowitz and Carl Mayer, only had the enframed narrative, the tale of Francis. Their intention was to cast the horror tale as a critical commentary on German society that had sent millions of young men to their deaths in the World War. Caligari was to be symbolic of a deranged ruler who had sent so many soldiers off like sleepwalkers to commit uncountable murders on the battlefield. But the producers of the film decided, apparently for commercial considerations, to include the framing device. By doing this, Francis’s own tale of Caligari is reduced in credibility to be the deluded ravings of a madman and so the impact of any political implications is diminished. Nevertheless, the film as it stands today is perhaps even more cosmically disturbing than if the framing device had not been employed, because it now calls into question our own basic reference system. In the backs of our minds, we may even harbor an unconscious suspicion that perhaps Francis is somehow right after all and that he is being held prisoner by a diabolically insane asylum director.

One of the interesting expressive visual techniques in the film is the heavy use of iris shots, which localize the view to a small circular vignette in one part of the screen, with the rest of the shot darkened. These are often use to "fade" into or out of a scene by localizing attention to one area of interest, and this was a popular technique during the silent film era. In this film, where we are constantly striving to find our way in a distorted reality, the technique fits in very and is particularly effective.

Despite its undeniable popularity, even with today’s audiences, the film has been criticised, unjustly in my opinion, by a number of influential critics, including Siegfried Kracauer (From Caligari to Hitler) and Lotte Eisner (The Haunted Screen). These arguments fall along four lines:

1. Some criticise the film on the basis of their own allegiances to formal theories of art. Some “realists”, for example, dismiss Expressionism as merely decorative and meaningless. Others, Expressionist adherents, criticise the film for occasionally straying slightly from the demands of aesthetic consistency. I think it is best to take the film as it is and to forget the dogmas of artistic movements.
2. Other critics complained that the sets were too “flat” and lack depth. It is true that there is a foreshortened look to the various settings, which gives the film something of a theatrical appearance. However, I feel that the frame still has “depth” to it, even if foreshortened, and the foreshortening actually has an “interiorising”, claustrophobic effect that has its own alarming power of suggestion.
3. Leftist critics, such as Kracauer, complain that the original politically-oriented script of Mayer and Janowitz was defanged by the framing narrative. But to me, the framing mechanism has its own positive features, and one should examine the film as it stands, as opposed to what it might have been.
4. And, finally, some critics dismiss the film, because Robert Wiene does not stand among the major film “auteurs”. That is so, but filmmaking is ultimately a collaborative art, and on many occasions a fine film can be made as the happy result of a collection of contributors.

Forget those critics; this is a classic and should not be missed by any serious filmgoer.
★★★★

"Half Moon" - Bahman Ghobadi (2006)

Kurdish Iranian filmmaker Bahman Ghobadi’s fourth feature film, Half Moon (Niwemang, 2006) picks up the themes and the essential narrative elements from his earlier Marooned in Iraq (2002). Again there is the story of a legendary Kurdish musician living in Iran who wishes to make the journey over the mountains into Iraq in order to perform at a concert. Again, the story of this journey is a curious mixture of local Kurdish color, broad comedy, and final tragedy. But this time Ghobadi has ventured further along his own road of personal film expression. In particular, he has moved more firmly into the realm of magical realism, similar to that popularised by Latin American writers (and occasionally used by some other Iranian filmmakers).

Ghobadi has generally explored three basic themes or messages in his films:

1. Kurdish culture, particularly its music
2. The cruelty of political borders that artificially separate people of a common culture
3. The barbarous and unjust way women are oppressed by the laws of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

In this film, he emphasizes these three themes with more vehemence and with more artistic liberties than he has done in the past.

The story begins with a vivid portrayal of a cockfight in a local Kurdish village, which is interrupted when the cockfight’s ringmaster, Kako, receives a cell phone call from his father, Mamo. Mamo, we soon learn, is an aging, but still revered, Kurdish singer who wishes to travel back to Iraq in order to perform there at a concert. This will be the first opportunity in over 35 years for Kurdish musicians to perform publicly in Iraq, and Mamo has been preparing for this occasion for seven months. So he commands his offspring (there appear to be at least ten sons and a daughter) to accompany him, since they will be needed as instrumental backup musicians. Taking with them their traditional stringed and percussive instruments, they all pile onto an old school bus that they have borrowed and drive away, with Kako at the wheel.

Against the warnings and concerns of his assembled sons, Mamo also wishes to bring along a woman singer, Hesho, who he says has a “celestial voice”. He manages to find Hesho in a village where she is one of 1334 women singers who have been confined there apparently because of their past singing in public. Once he gets Hesho on board, there is another problem: how can he conceal her from the Iranian authorities at the border. It is forbidden in Iran from a woman to travel on the roads with men who are not her relations. Their bus is stopped at the border, where the corrupt and thuggish border patrol soldiers search the bus for contraband and for any women (they have a dog that is specially trained to sniff for women). After a lengthy shakedown during which the soldiers trash their instruments, the musicians come to the realization that the Iranian authorities have no intention of ever letting them travel into Iraq. Nevertheless, obeying the commands of the determined Mamo, they press on and decide to taken an alternative route by travelling along the border awhile and then entering Turkey first before going into Iraq. Mamo is happy about this new route, because it will give him an opportunity to hook up with another famous old Kurdish musician and comrade, Kak Khalil. However, when they get to Khailil’s village, they learn that he has just died, and so they attend his funeral burial.

When Khalil’s body is placed into the open grave, Mamo sees the dead body quiver, apparently in response to the voice of a woman singer that Mamo has heard during the burial. He insists that Khalil must still be alive, but he is assured by the village doctor that Khalil is indeed dead. Mamo is so disheartened by the death of his friend, that he appears to lose his will to continue. But while travelling on in their bus, the troupe encounters a mysterious, beautiful woman who announces that she will assist them in their quest to get to Iraq. It is clear that this woman, whose name is “Niwemang” (“Half Moon”) is not a being of this world and must be an angel or a Sufic spirit. Her ensuing efforts to help Mamo and his sons avoid further thuggery at the hands of the Turkish police and to get to their concert do indeed possibly achieve their goal in some higher realm – but not in this here-and-now world.

Half Moon is a very uneven film, with significant weaknesses and strengths. In general, although this film when compared to Marooned in Iraq is more philosophically ambitious, it is Marooned in Iraq that was the more successful narrative telling. We have to allow Ghobadi some latitude, though, because he makes films in the most difficult conditions and circumstances. He has said that, for visual background purposes, he likes to film the Kurdish mountain scenes in the winter, but this undoubtedly makes the filming conditions more difficult. And once again, according to my understanding, he has run into problems with the Iranian authorities, and Half Moon has been banned from distribution in Iran. In the past he has been forced to spend his own money to make a film and then attempt to recoup the expenses afterwards, mostly from overseas distribution.

The absolute authority and dominance of the father characters in both Marooned in Iraq and Half Moon is emphasized, often to comedic effect. Both Mirza in Marooned in Iraq and Mamo in Half Moon respect women, but both of them seem to have had many wives (in Mamo’s case I make that guess simply on the basis of his many children). Mamo’s sons, many appearing to be at least in the late 40s, are quite subservient to their father’s wishes, and on those occasions when complete obedience is not forthcoming, Mamo is quite willing to shoot his own sons with a gun.

The mystical aspects of this film sit rather uncomfortably along side the brutally real conditions faced by the Kurdish travellers (and thus by the Kurdish people, in general). Throughout the film, Mamo has premonitions of his own death. For example, he is told that a local wise man has foretold his imminent death on this journey, and he has visions of his own coffin being dragged by a woman (this will turn out to be Niwemang). But these visions are rather mysterious, and they don’t contribute to an effective narrative buildup. Numbers are use in the film with probably deeper meanings, but I am not sure about their precise symbolic significance, such as , for example, the seven months that Mamo has be been preparing for the concert. I don’t know what the number 1334 might mean, but I note that a Turkish human rights commission released a report awhile ago saying that 1334 Kurdish villages have been forcibly evacuated or destroyed by ethnic cleansing operations in that country. The number 14 is discussed several times concerning whether it is lucky or unlucky. It must refer to the 14th day of the lunar month, which would be halfway through the month and therefore mark a Half Moon. Certainly the Kurdish people have yet to enjoy the radiance and splendour of a full moon shining on their fortunes, so “half moon” may be a reflection on this compromised condition.

Ghobadi works very carefully with his non-professional actors, and he always gets good performances. On this occasion, the acting was even better. Unlike his previous films, which were entirely staffed by non-professional actors, he did have two top professional actresses for this film. Hedye Tehrani, a leading Iranian actress, played Hesho and also helped produce the film. Golshifteh Farahani, who has also appeared in  Boutique (2003), Bab'Aziz (2005), and Ali Santouri (2007), played Niwemang. Both of these women have the ability to convey great sensitivity and passion merely through their eyes and facial expressions. The magnificent Allah-Morad Rashtian, who plays Kako, is apparently a musician in real life, not a professional actor, but he had starred previously in Marooned in Iraq. This marvellous performer is a unique cinematic personality – there is something brilliant about him – and his presence leaves a lasting impression. I look forward to his appearance in future Ghobadi productions.

Overall, the Kurdish music is the strongest and most moving aspect of the film, and I would have preferred to have more of it. A particularly strong example and the most stunning moment in the film is when Mamo retrieves Hesho from the village of 1334 women. This symbolic scene is a visual and musical master stroke – very contrived, but also stirring. It is also an exquisite needle with which to prick the Iranian social restrictions on women. According to Iranian rules, a woman may not sing in public, but a group of women, i.e. a women’s chorus, may perform in public. When Mamo goes to this penal colony, he is told that the women there are so skilled with their singing that they collectively sound like the voice of a single woman. And, yes, on the soundtrack for this scene, as they all sing together, we hear the voice of a single woman.
★★★

"Warning Shadows" - Arthur Robison (1923)

The artistic success of Dr. Arthur Robison’s Warning Shadows (Schatten – eine Nächtliche Halluzination, literally, “Shadows – a Nocturnal Hallucination”, 1923) is as much attributable to artistic designer Albin Grau and cameraman Fritz Arno Wagner as it is to the director. Paul Rotha, the eminent British film historian, had these words to say about it:

At the time of production in 1922, Warning Shadows was a remarkable achievement. Its purely psychological direction opened new attributes of the cinema. It was a rare instance of complete filmic unity, with the possible exception of the unnecessary roof-garden scene. The continuity of theme, the smooth development from one sequence into another, the gradual communication of the thoughts of the characters, were flawlessly presented. It carried an air of romance, of fantasy, of tragedy. Every filmic property for the expression of mood, for the creation of atmosphere, that was known at the time was used with imagination and intelligence. Its supreme value as an example of unity of purpose, of time, of place, of theme, cannot be over-estimated.

Robison, an American brought up in Germany, shot the film entirely without subtitles, a startling new technique. The titles seen in today’s prints were added by a zealous distributor. The ambiguity of the shadows in the film has a Freudian inspiration. The little illusionist steals shadows and opens the flood gates of the repressed unconscious desires of the other characters in the film, who suddenly start acting out their secret fantasies. In a phantasmagoria shadows temporarily replace living beings, who become for a time passive spectators. The pace of the film increases as it goes, and the slow rhythm of the opening is left far behind.

The Germanic fascination with shadows and mirror images, of which tradition Peter Schlemihl is an excellent example, is related to the horror of non-existence – a state of mind that seems to flourish during and after wars with massive deaths on the battlefield.

Lotte Eisner (The Haunted Screen) remarks:

Thanks to an exceptional vigour of inspiration, the characters in this film free themselves from the abstract uniformity imposed by Expressionism. They act with an almost animal intensity.

★★★