The Hands of Orlac (1924)

This is, surprisingly given my somewhat limited experience of silent cinema, the third time I've blogged a film by Robert Wiene. Although, strictly speaking, an Austrian film, with  Wiene and a starring performance from Conrad Veidt this is a somewhat well-known example of German Expressionist cinema, and would go on to inspire a dizzying number of remakes.

The Expressionist sets are less overt than in The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, but the film is drenched throughout in deep emotional passion- much of which is erotic- which is subtly inferred by sets, lighting and cinematograpy and not-so-subtly conveyed through the far from naturalistic style of acting.

The film is over-long and drags in places, but it is difficult to pass judgement on this; the version we see today, in the reverse of the usual situation with silent cinema, is an extended version. Certainly, though, the central decision to replace concert pianist's hands, following his train accident, with those of a supposed murderer feels rushed to the point of elision. Why those hands in particular? Furthermore, even in an age before a basic heath service, surely Paul Orlac could claim some sort of insurance or similar to avoid penury? Either way, this part of the plot feels unconvincing. But on the other, er, hand we have a very clever ending and a touching (and sexualised) relationship between the protagonist couple. It's also refreshing, and effective, that the obvious option of having the hands make Orlac become a murderer is avoided, despite some misdirection, and the film is essentially psychological- and all the better for it.

There's a lot to like about this film and it's main fault, that it is over-long, is a result of modern re-editing. Alas, Wiene died in 1938, so a Director's Cut will not be forthcoming, but the film is nevertheless in the public domain and easy to find online.

Casablanca (1942)

"Here's looking at you, kid."

Casablanca is, of course, a bit like Citizen Kane in that its reputation should be a yoke around its neck. How can any film be as good as Casablanca is said to be? The film's enormous reputation means it can, surely, only disappoint.

Well, actually, no. I don't care if I recognise the famous lines from seeing them spoofed on, of all things, Red Dwarf- this film really is superlative. It is, I suppose, a romance and it is, I suppose, centred around a love triangle. Yet the characters, in a wonderful marriage of script and performers (Bogart and Bergman are extraordinary, but so is the entire cast), have all the emotional realism and complexity of characters in a literary novel. There's no melodrama here, only nuance- I love how Victor is well aware of what happened in Paris, but is not so crass as to confront Ilsa, or to doubt her love for him. And Ilsa is torn between love for two human but genuinely good men, both of whom, in their way, face a harsh and brutal world with integrity.

Like today, this is an era- the opening narration calls it the Second World War, already, in 1942- where the jackboots of far right extremism, with its contempt for humanity, for checks and balances, for integrity. All three of the characters in the triangle have had their lives deeply damaged by said jackboots, and all three perceive the world with a certain weary cynicism. Yet all three of them, ultimately, believe in something better and make sacrifices in that noble aim. One can live in a cruel world, blighted by tyranny, and be a flawed human being within that world, with conflicting feelings and loyalties- and still behave with integrity. Rick sacrifices not just his happiness but, it seems, his ife.

Yet just as fascinating are Yvonne, who sleeps with the jackbooted enemy only to be dumped, and realise where her loyalties truly lie during the extraordinary Marseillaise scene, which made this Englishman shed tears for la Republique, and of course Louis- the cynical, corrupt police chief who seems to flirt with collaboration throughout but redeems himself at the end.

This is a great, great film, but it's no forbidding and formidable edifice; it's grippingly watchable simply because of its characters, with the subtext very much arising from them. Let's not call it the greatest film ever made; it's far too good for such shallow concepts.

The Man Who Laughs (1928)

"A queen made me a lord, but God made me a man!"

Gosh, what a fittingly republican sentiment that is for this of all weekends. Personally, I'm actually a bit of a moderate royalist these days but I don't really go in for the whole personality cult thing. Is it just me who finds the jubilee a bit scarily conformist, even threatening? This weekend you'll mostly find me battening down the hatches and playing the Sex Pistols very loudly. Anyway…

I first became aware of this film as an influence on Bob Kane when he came up with the character of the Joker back in 1940. Whatever book I was reading (something to do with the fiftieth anniversary of Batman back in 1989, I think) featured a photograph of Conrad Veidt in this film, looking uncannily like the character. And now I've finally seen it. It's tragic melodrama about a man deformed with a permanent grim, with a lot of pathos and a lot of meditating on how, like, all clowns are sad. There's one scene in particular, with Gwynplaine (the eponymous character) on stage in make-up, where it suddenly becomes obvious that this is exactly where the image of the Joker sprang from. In fact, not only does he look exactly like the Joker, he looks exactly like Heath Ledger as the Joker. It's quite uncanny.

This is based on a novel by Victor Hugo, albeit one so obscure that I suspect few people reading this will ever have clapped eyes on a copy, let alone read it. It's exactly what you probably expect, though; a melodrama with tragedy, romance, swordfights and an absurdly virtuous heroine, who in this case is blind. It's an entertaining enough romp, in a melodramatic kind of way, although the depiction of gypsies raises eyebrows, and so does the fact that the only two women in the film are the blind, virtuous Dea and the flighty, flirty Duchess who, in spite of the period clothing, is quite the flapper. Er, virgin / whore dichotomy, anyone? Also, there's a scene where the camera peers through a keyhole at the semi-naked Duchess. It's not so much the male gaze as What the Butler Saw.

It's ostensibly set in England during the reign of Queen Anne, with a flashback to the reign of James II… and these two monarchs are literally the only characters with names which sound remotely English. The setting doesn't remotely convince, costumes aside, as seventeenth and early eighteenth century England, and I suspect a lot of this would be due to the original novel, and Victor Hugo failing to realise that Stuart Britain was not like Louis XIV's France. We have scenes of Queen Anne ordering people to be tortured for information, and aristocrats being forced to live at court and marry at the whim of their monarch. All this is contrasted against a rather cruel world of clowns and freak shows which, while very, very creepy, is much more interesting.

It's also rather odd, even jarring, that this film is in the style of contemporary German Expressionism. It often looks great- there's a particularly eerie scene of hanged bodies swaying on the ropes- but it doesn't really evoke the setting. Still, it's worth watching for Conrad Veidt alone. It's also fascinating in that it isn't quite a silent film but it isn't quite a talkie either: there's no dialogue but there's the odd incongruous sound effect, of bells, wind and the like. We even get crowds shouting.

Das Cabinet Des Dr. Caligari (1920)

“…”

Well, that was interesting. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this, and not the only silent film I’ve ever seen. But I haven’t seen all that many, and it’s many years since I last saw this. I found it very, er, visual (duh!) and hard to follow the plot at times; all these young grey besuited men look the same!

Still, I love the overall look. The tint is very noticeable, and so is the over-the-top acting style, much as this seems effective and even necessary, given the lack of dialogue and the practical restrictions on how many captions you can have. And aren’t the captions on screen for just aaages? Some of us can read perfectly well, you know.

It’s fascinating to think this was made in 1919 and 1920, in the early days of the Weimar Republic and just after Germany (and indeed all of Europe and much of the world) had experienced a rather traumatic four years. It’s tempting, but possibly unwise, to read all sorts of things into the style and themes of the film because of this. I shall tread carefully, as I’ve deliberately not researched much about the film’s background so as to come to it fresh.

We start with a framing sequence as our narrator, Francis (why not Franz?) relates the bulk of the film to us. I know I’m always banging on about unrealistic narrators, but the expressionist style of the film is in hindsight a bit of a clue that all may not be as it seems. I like the spotlight technique that often opens and closes scenes, drawing our eye to things that the director wishes to highlight. And the expressionist style is fantastic. All of the buildings in the film are grotesquely distorted, and remind me very much of the sort of paintings Picasso was doing at the time. This is nicely alienating, and gives us what turns out to be a highly appropriate dreamlike quality. There are lots of nice stylistic touches; it’s noticeable that the town clerk, the police, and officialdom generally, are seated on massive tables that completely dwarf the mere mortals who are our protagonists.

More interestingly, though, this is a total rejection of realism. I know this is another thing I keep banging on about, but in the best possible way everything looks more like a theatre set than reality, and the effect of this is heightened by the fact that the camera never, ever pans; the effect really is that of looking at a dressed theatre stage. And, interestingly, to compensate for the lack of any movement by the camera, we get a great sense of depth on screen, with corridors, roads and crowds stretching in front of us.

The whole set-up with Caligari and Cesare is an historical curiosity these days- this sort of travelling freak show is very much a thing of the past, and it’s strange to imagine people queuing up for something as random as a somnambulist! Unfortunately, the plot is agonisingly slow, slower than I remember from other silent films I’ve seen- is this because it’s an early film? Does the storytelling get pacier throughout the ‘20s? It’ll be interesting to find out.

I was particularly struck by the scene where Cesare fails to stab Jane; he looks so Goth it’s unbelievable. It’s like a member of the Misfits nearly sixty years early. In fact, is it just me who’s reminded of a particular chap in the background to the video for Marilyn Manson’s version of Tainted Love? Jane is unbelievably sexy, by the way. Then again, all women in silent films are unbelievably desirable.

The bit where Caligari is “revealed” to be the director of the madhouse is agonisingly slow; exposition scenes are not pleasant to sit through when it means reading a series of captions which are on screen for what seems like minutes! I love the twist ending, though; it rather cleverly puts the dreamlike quality of the film in quite a different light.