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Main article: Lang

Atentát (1965) Vs. Hangmen (1943) Vs. Operation Daybreak (1975)--The Mirror of Murder Has Three Faces

On the advice of my dear friend and cinematic colleague Serdar202, I've taken in the--now-- third film that I've seen dealing with the subject of Reinhard Heydrich, Obergruppenfuhrer SS/SD and Reichsprotektor of Bohemia/Moravia (Czechoslovakia) .  .  .  the film called Atentat (1965) was made by a Czech named Jiri Sequens. This, combined with of course the Lang film and also the very well made and reasonably faithful Operation Daybreak by Lewis Gilbert (1975) make three.

I must say that in terms of telling the tale of the historical event of the assassination and its aftermath in simple human terms of death, fear, porting into the viewer the dark and dismal days of World War Two yesteryear, Operation Daybreak with its simple, straightforward assembly of character with very light and subtle aesthetic cinematographic touches affects me the most profoundly of the three.

Unfortunately, Hangmen Also Die is nothing but pure speculation and thus fiction, despite its constituting my favorite American Lang--this admiration rests on the fabulously paranoid assembly of the cramped and claustrophobic world of blackhearted underground agents and police cracking wise with one another. Hangmen runs on the bleak fuel of the end-of-the-world humor and camaraderie that props up men existing in a world where nothing is out of bounds, nothing is sacred, and anything, no matter how abysmally wrong, is permitted .  .  .  a world shrugging at common murder tossed off like gum spit from a kids mouth. "Your mother's life is over George I'm sorry--what's next on the agenda for today?"

The film is thick with double cross colliding with false realities laying one on top of the other like toppings on a sub sandwich, punctuated with strangely surreal shadows slanting in from unexpected corners--the chiaroscuro of a nation afflicted with incipient political dementia.

Atentat by Sequens is another film altogether, benefiting from what Fritz Lang never had--hindsight knowledge of the true event. By this time the war was over--it was made twenty years after the fall of Nazi Germany and the occupation of his country--and the filmmakers knew relatively fully what happened .  .  .  who carried out the assassination, where the assassins came from, who trained them, and who preceded and followed them.

As has already been mentioned in an earlier blog entry on the Lang film, Operation Anthropoid was carried out by the Free Czech forces living in England with Benes in exile--trained in the UK with English special forces elements, Anthropoid was a paratroop insertion of assassins flown in by English planes, whose ultimate goal was the liquidation of Heydrich. The tale is incredibly nerve wracking as one has the historical vantage point of placing one's self speculatively in the paratroop agents' shoes .  .  .  flying in with such a fatal assignment, passing over the deadly anti-aircraft barriers in the air over Germany, and ultimately parachuting with a limited number of supplies to land with false papers and pure wits--hoping to successfully contact the Czech Resistance, assimilate into the population, slither into Prague, observe Heydrich, and successfully carry out the assassination in a city locked down by the German Sicherheitsdienst / Gestapo.

Jozef Gabčík and Jan Kubiš were the two officers that made up the Anthropoid team. They were flown in in December of 1941 with another set of soldiers inserted into Czech territory under the codes Silver A and Silver B (the Silver operations were not charged with carrying out the assassination). The initial plan was for the two boys to be dropped into Pilsen where friendly elements were waiting for them to make contact--the RAF pilots however missed their waypoints and the two agents wound up dropped to the east and into the zone of Nehvizdy. Eventually both men finally slithered into Pilsen to make contact with their hosts, and then forward on to Prague. 

Atentát by Jiri Sequens is an ambitious, often powerful film that however allows its ambition to run away with itself--and thus its ultimate mission. Its tones are suitably grey and cloudy--it seems as if Sequens never shot on a day when the sun was out; it's a tone which suits the bleak events of the film.

A temporary aside which I'll shortly explain:

I'll never forget a book of poetry I read by a police officer in NYC called Catching Bodies by Philip Mahony--I remember in a little bookstore on Mercer Street in the early Nineties the little paperback had a photo of little kids from a Bronx ghetto standing on a chessboard in a vacant lot, and I opened it--then bought the book after scanning a few lines. In it there is a poem entitled "Complaint #13485, 77 Pct., 10/23/81" where he recounts a murder of an old man walking home in Brooklyn in the late night hours, shot at close range with the killer going through his pockets and running. BOOM, "Whah??" and you fall, you lay there dying and gasping, with some creep going through your pockets for a couple of bucks.

The officer recounts his coming to the scene and reliving this horrible scene leading up to his arrival, and writes something along the lines of (paraphrasing, the book is buried in my apt and I haven't looked at it for years) "Imagine! You are walking home one night; from your miserable job; suddenly; someone walks behind you; shoots you; Brooklyn late at night; as you lay there dying, coughing on your own blood; somebody goes through your pockets; taking your small amount of cash? THE WHOLE WORLD SHOULD SCREAM ABOUT THIS! People should throw up their windows and bang pots and pans because of this!" And goes on to underline the ordinary world and the silence.

This is the way I feel about Jozef Gabčík and Jan Kubiš, men who at their age should have been raising their children, dancing, working hard, fucking, kissing, loving their wives, and dreaming of their future with an extended family. Instead they are forced by the horror of the age into a nervewracking camaraderie with death, violent premature death, perhaps by torture, death who sleeps with them in their beds and whispering into their dreams, walks with them down every street, whispers into their ear from the moment of their assignment to the moment of their being sold out and their death by suicide and gunfire in the end. 

Atentat suffers a bit from its ambition, attempting to render the horror and claustrophobia of being boxed in by stress and death, trying to build character, render a sense of anticipation and manly adventure .  .  . while at the same time hyperextending its cast of characters and rendering a hypothetical thesis of critical suggestion: the film opens with the operational and competitive tensions between Reinhard Heydrich who created and headed the SD/RSHA and Admiral Wilhelm Canaris who headed the Abwehr. The difference between these two spy organizations is technical, but philosophically broad: Heydrich's SD was the intelligence gathering arm of the SS/internal police, which spread its hooks across the continent and out into the rest of the world as the war demanded. The Abwehr was the military's classical intelligence organization, initially having a gigantic head start on the far newer SD and thus with agents planted across the globe at least wherever a German embassy or diplomatic office existed, and almost certainly beyond.

However, the differences were far more severe: the SD was headed by the maniacally ambitious Heydrich, who spied obsessively on the Abwehr. It's methods were cunning and often, as resolution approached, often brutal. The Abwehr was more of a gentlemanly, military minded group, with the officer's code underwriting much of the operation's ethics. It was somewhat the equivalent of our DIA combined with a bit of the CIA. But Admiral Canaris was ultimately a decent man of the old school, with none of the ambitious, wretched and cunning bile of Heydrich--or Hitler .  .  .  who he ultimately turned on in the end, when it was revealed that he was party to and underwrote the assassination attempt on Hitler's life.

Sequens' film posits a theory that Canaris underwrote the assassination of Heydrich, which is a very long shot indeed. Heydrich and Canaris had a long history together in the Navy, and their families were intertwined through music and military service, and there is not a shred of evidence to back up the thesis that Canaris provided any support or looked the other way--stepping back and allowing the plot to happen. The film suggests this by the inclusion of the power play between the two, beginning the narrative with Heydrich arresting an Abwehr agent of Canaris', and with our beholding of unspecified machinations on Canaris' part, filled with schadenfreude and withering sarcasm when Heydrich is at last assassinated.

By wheedling down these needless roads the film misses out on the tighter human drama of the simple tale of Jozef Gabčík and Jan Kubiš. We never get to know the two men--we never learn anything about them as individuals .  .  .  they're rendered as simple, steely-eyed masculine ciphers of Czech determination which completely misses the point of Czech heroism. Bravery is nonexistent if fear is not resident.

Although Atentat is a well made film with a certain authenticity to it--with lovely examples of here graceful and there manic camera movement, action set pieces, widescreen framing, dark and grey atmosphere, and with one of the best casting decisions I've ever seen to render the person of Heydrich--I nonetheless felt that the larger tale of two human beings with nervous systems forced into a grisly waltz with the phantom of death by the misery of the age .  .  .  this was missed.

Operation Daybreak by Lewis Gilbert, on the other hand, benefits from the hindsight of the errors of both films. Like Atentat, Daybreak was shot almost entirely on location in Prague. Unlike the Sequens film however, Daybreak tells the simple story of two simple men forced into extraordinary circumstance. There is no question that these two films were shot on many of the same locations/recreations rendered with precise exactitude; events play out with the only possible functional shooting angles in certain locations/studio recreations; the cramped environs simply allowed no other choice. Some scenes are almost point to point exact.

Starring Timothy Bottoms (who would shoot Apocalypse Now with Coppola almost simultaneously, playing Lance the surfer) and Martin Shaw (a well known English actor currently famous for playing Inspector George Gently), this film scrapes away all extraneous material and distills the events down with little--though there are moments of occasional divergence from actual history--distraction. There is no larger political frame story or hypothesizing; for this the film benefits enormously. The film rides high the restrained style of color film-making prevalent in the 1970's: careful yet easy, brilliantly acted yet completely unobtrusive and absolutely lifelike, utterly unpretentious of style yet rampantly affecting.

Lewis Gilbert, whose biggest claim to fame among the general public was the direction of a few James Bond films which were so popular running up to that point, handles the material (along with legendary European cinematographer Henri Dacae) with a sensitivity and an intuition that never loses sight of the driving goal of the material .  .   . he steps back and simply allows the circumstances of plot and performance--and nonfictional backdrop--to work its magic.

Of the three films, in terms of the bar of history, Operation Daybreak by Lewis Gilbert must rise highest here. However, that's merely my opinion--and these are three fabulous films that all deserve to be seen.

Clive/Schreck

3/23/2015*** 


Preston Clive mar 23 15, 23:12
0 3

Nosferatu &. Destiny/Der Mude Tod (Murnau/Lang, 1921): Lest We Forget . . . .

The whole idea of a Silent Film Smackdown or kickboxing match to pronounce a "winner" in the end is an act bordering on a level of absurdity so profound its virtually without equal.

At the same time the idea of bunching these two supernatural films together just set upon me five minutes ago (approximately 12:45pm EST in NYC, 3/30/2015... we still have a little bit of time left before the planet blows up in a great fiery orgy of apocalypse because when a supermoon gets funky with a solar eclipse on the vernal equinox and god knows what-all else, being toasted down to a shivering microscopic cinder is the only possible outcome .  .  .  if you don't believe me then listen to Mystic Momma: she knows everything). I found the idea of a comparative appreciation unbearably alluring so I'm diving in without prep to close out this second calendar week of my resurrected blog.

Two foundational films from two foundational directors in Germany: Nosferatu by Murnau, and Der Mude Tod (aka Destiny) by Lang. Both made in 1921. Both the first undisputed masterpieces by either director. Both gloomy and dreary and filled with the inky charcoal of chiaroscuro. Both soaked with a cold damp wind of grey death. Both tone-setters for the way that Weimar Cinema would be perceived up to this very day. 

Both films are underpinned by awesome performances by singularly grim looking male actors portraying incarnations of death personified in worn, almost shabby costumes that have a perfectly weathered appearance, matching their heavily weathered faces.

Both films imbue the viewer with a hope that--as the narratives wend their ponderously gloomy way toward resolution--the forces of darkness can be defeated with a cipher of human innocence and genuine selflessness. And both crush that hope in conclusion with a rare power of precious, dismal poetry.

Both films harness the power of shadow in one of the earliest examples of sets bathed in shadow, soaked in broad swathes of inky darkness--aside from Evgeni Bauer, these are some of the first films to concretize the yet unspoken maxim of the great cameraman John Alton: it's not what you light, it's what you don't light.

Both films obsess over the rarest esoterica of the supernatural, a subject that was extremely rare in the cinema and would remain so for at least another ten years until the advent of the sound era in Universal Studios and the youthful risk-taking of Carl Laemmle Jr. From the birth of the full length five reeler in the teens and forward, most tales of the supernatural turned out to have rational explanations in the end: scheming relatives trying to scare an inheritor away from a fortune, a cop dressing up as a supernatural creature to scare the competition away, and on and on.

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Not only did the two of these films concern themselves with the supernatural, they obsessed for obscurest esoterica of the supernatural. .  .  secret ciphers and glyphs of forgotten hidden societies, mysterious roots and bulbs that were believed to give off healing powers under the glow of a seasonal moon. .  .   the whirling of Muslim dervishes to celebrate the Sufist concept of God (in the much larger Earth of the early 20th Century, how many Europeans knew much about Islam beyond the Arabian Nights?), Paracelsian esoterica, the vampiric myths of eastern Europe and the legends about the foggy, hard-to-reach crumbling castles high on little-traveled passes .  .  .  ideas that in their actual form are as obscure today as they were back then almost a hundred years ago.

Through books like The Demoniac/Haunted Screen by Lotte Eisner, or From Caligari To Hitler by Siggy Kracauer, it's easy to fall into the ridiculous trap of thinking that the German screen of post-war Weimer was filled with little else but doom, gloom, death and the supernatural--but it's not true.

Like the films of Douglas Fairbanks or Llloyd or Chaplin here in the USA from the same period, these are simply the films that, because of their budget, skilled craftsmen, unusual quality and thus broad exhibition, gained great popularity with the public and thus were 1) duped and exhibited voluminously whereby 2) copies wound up surviving here and there and thus made it to the modern era in a far greater percentile versus the ordinary Westerns, adventure films, romances, serials, comedies by transitory flavor-of-the-moment actors and actresses, and newsreels that came out with far far far greater frequency. Eighty percent of the films from the silent era at very least have been lost. The number is probably greater.

Even the studio planet of UFA, known for its Pommerian universe of artifice and grand scale, was a factory grinding out typical studio fare. UFA was no more the studio of super-expensive giant sized productions any more than Universal in the 1920's was a studio that put out nothing but Stroheim and Lon Chaney million dollar super jewels. Universal Hollywood in those days was essentially a B studio--cranking out low budget westerns, serials, comedies, romances, and all the other drek that comes in between. They put out a super jewel feature complete with glossy printed magazine size programs, sheet music sold to the public, etc once a year. Phantom of the Opera, Hunchback, The Man Who Laughs, the Stroeheims, you'll notice that you will almost never find a year where a Universal film with towering, mindbendingly expensive sets is released alongside another of equal budget but of completely different pedigree and subject and art direction. The studio finances just couldn't handle it.

As far as UFA was concerned, it was the stretch from 24-27 where they attempted to ratchet up the studio superproductions to simultaneity (Faust/Nibelungen/Metropolis) that saw the studio stumble right into financial trouble and right into Alfred Hugenberg's mitts.

The point is this: even in the hallowed halls of the old UFA in the first half of the twenties, just pre and post acquisition of Decla Bioskop, the vast majority of cinematic fare in Germany was the same boring fluff made for as little as possible that plagues any era of film. At least when it comes to the connoisseur, with a taste for something different and somewhat more substantial.

How miraculous are both of these films--how so are both of these men. What different temperaments, yet how similar are both of these breakthroughs for both of them. Nosferatu's influence over the years has been endless, although upon its initial release its success was staggered by the Stoker family suit. Der Mude Tod--we know it floored Luis Bunuel; we know it bowled Hitchcock over and remained his favorite film. We know--speaking of the American swashbuckler-- Douglas Fairbanks freaked for the Lang film and bought its rights so he could cruelly shove it in a closet and first copy, then release a flying carpet sequence lifted straight out of the Oriental sequence first, before the appearance of Der Mude Tod in the states. Uncool.

It's very easy in this age of all manner of films everywhere, our senses dulled by porn and CGI and terrorism and apps and all manner of strange information available at the click of a mouse, to miss the impact of Nosferatu and Der Mude Tod

In a field of endless homogeneity and unspectacular, average, mindless prattle as far as the eyes can see--an occasional decent mind here and there, okay, it's true--suddenly two men walk in out of nowhere with completely overwhelming talent and brains, and demonstrate at the same time the strangest taste and aesthetic inclinations. People stop, stunned, staring at the screen, jaws agape. 

How is it that this happens? Just a few times every century? Men arrive almost as if they landed from Saturn, with minds concerned with subject matter that baffle ordinary folks .  .  .  strange men who scare people .  .  .and nonetheless awe the chilled common man to the marrow with the hitherto unseen level of talent that hurls all that originality flowing naturally through their veins direct into the beholding viewer as if by injection?

Almost above all other films from the era--there are others of course--savor these films. Never allow yourself to become numb to their meaning and what they say about the young, barely experienced men who made them and dazzled the planet .  .  .  still to this day. Generation after generation.

Schreck/Clive

3/20/2015***

    

 

 


Preston Clive mar 20 15, 23:09
+1 1

Nosferatu; General Blogging Update 3/19/2015

I've made a general decision to migrate the sum total of all my blogging, audio commentary included, over to this Olanola platform for the time being--it's essentially the same blogging framework as Wordpress, and as I have access to marketing and promotion tools here via the management and inner connections to our network of sites, there's no reason not to simplify and streamline.

As one of my favorite commentators David Kalat released a commentary on Nosferatu just as I was in preparation of my own back in 2013, I simply backed off and allowed his to shine; I don't want to be compared to David ;@}

Now that a year plus has gone by since the release of the German BD (and the Kino disc; I've acquired the MoC) and I've refired the ol' synapses, I'm going to resurrect the audio commentary component of my blog, but at a slower pace than I did previously .  .  .  they are a lot of work. I write them, time them, record and engineer them, compress them to mp3, get them hosted with a share link, and create a blog post to link them. It's a lot of work that makes my long blog entries of the current day look like a Sunday nap in late May.

I love doing them, and nothing would be more retarded than complaining about something I took upon myself--but if there's anything that makes me cringe, it's announcing something as forthcoming, and then not following through.

But since I've already begun the planning stage of organization and note taking, I should have the Nosferatu commentary up within the next (approximately) ten to fourteen days. I'll attach the commentary audio mp3 link right here to the announce when ready.

I'm actually flirting with a massive undertaking, doing a full commentary for Die Nibelungen; if I relent I'll likely do Destiny/Der Mude Tod instead.

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In our expansion of the blogging platform, I'm getting them to dump some irrelevant content and bring in some new stuff including some flagship bloggers with an existing audience.

This aside, we're looking to open the rolls to two or three new voices--new bloggers that we'll actively promote. It can be on cinema of any stripe, it could be on engineering, it could be on anything--as long as you have a quality about you. If you've flirted with launching something, and you think you can carry it at least weekly and hold an audience, hit me up anywhere you'd like.

I'm working directly with a web magnate estimated by Fortune to have $650 mil, and we'll promote those couple of voices that rise to the challenge to grow a following for them.

As for the traffic from you guys it's been beyond expectations, so thank you all--especially since I had disappeared for so long, nearly two years. I'm such a retard at times it amazes me an audience sticks with me. Thanks all.

Preston Clive AKA HerrSchreck

3/19/2015***

 


Preston Clive mar 19 15, 22:19
+1 1

Paul Leni: Loss of a Jolly Master

When we think of great directors from the German Silent Era who died far too young, I think of three gentlemen: one is quite obvious, two are far less well known. 

The first would of course be F.W Murnau, who famously died in March 1931 via a Pacific Coast Highway auto crash just before his film Tabu was set to appear in California (an interesting piece of strange synchronicity: I unknowingly put up my appreciation of Murnau on the anniversary of his death, March 11th). 

The second, far less well known director who died under far more obscure circumstances in the haze of the early 1930's in Weimar Germany--on March 7th 1931, incidentally, four days before Murnau--was Lupu Pick, a pioneer German filmmaker to whom F. W. Murnau owed a great debt for the heavy prep work that his partner Carl Mayer cultivated working with Pick, essentially taking the more obvious, strange heaviness of atmosphere effected by unusual costumes and sets in the late teens and very early twenties, and injecting it more subtly into the very air of the film itself via light and shadow, camera movement, and an ethereal sum aura viz the proceedings via skillful mise en scene. Lupu Pick and his wife Edith Posca's death by suicide are not only extremely tragic and ignominious, but incredibly eerie, as it is foreshadowed by what was perhaps Pick's greatest accomplishment--the film Sylvester, aka New Year's Eve from 1924 .  .  .  a film that without doubt was contemporaneously celebrated more than any other title of Pick's (and more than most other directors, at the time).

The third, somewhat less well known (than Murnau--but better known than Lupu Pick) director from the German silent era whose death was an incredibly great loss to the cinema was Paul Leni .  .  . a director whose departure from earth was tremendous because of his great uniqueness of character, skill and hugely original style.

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Paul Josef Levi was born in the summer of 1885 (just in time to be conscious of the world when Jack the Ripper struck across the northern seas in England three years later... Jack would find his way into a Leni film much later) to a Jewish family in Stuttgart. If I had the budget I would fly around Europe and excavate a lineage back to Leni's family in attempt to locate some surviving members that might have outlasted the extremely perilous WW2 years and fill in the blanks of this extremely important director's childhood. 

What I like so much about Leni is how much of the anti-Murnau he was. Whereas F. W. Murnau (and to a slightly lesser degree, Fritz Lang) was an extremely sophisticated art historian who never tired of quoting great paintings in his work, setting other historians off on detective work to pick out quote after quote, Leni seems entirely opposite. His images crackle with entirely original life--bursting with a unique mind, filled to the brim with its own emergency procession of self-generated images that he had to get out on the screen, Leni had no interest in arranging his actors and his set dressings in direct quotations of pre-existing vintage oil paintings. He was too busy painting his own new ones.

What marks Leni versus his contemporaries is his unique emotional temperament: equally preoccupied with the freight of death and gloom, Leni was the only of the grand trilogy of himself, Lang and Murnau who consistently injected the absurd into the mix .  .  .  thus coming up with completely unique combinations of the absurd, the ridiculous, the hideously exaggerated, the outrageously funny, with the dismal, the shadowy, the Grand Guignol, the genuinely frightening.

Leni, from what little we know about him, developed an early interest in art and by his mid teens was a devotee and practitioner of the avant garde. His sensibility was of a purely visual nature--he eventually studied at Berlin's Academy of Fine Arts, and worked his way through various assignments as an illustrator and painter for various journals, poster art publications and so on. Of this period, the New York State Writers Institute states,

"Leni began his career associated with the influential 1910's German avant-garde journal Der Sturm. A writer and illustrator .  .  .  "

Clearly, if the generally accepted chronology is to be trusted, by 1911 Leni somehow wound up nailing a job with Max Reinhardt's Deutsches Theater as a set designer. Dates for Leni are unclear, but we know beyond doubt that, for example, during this prewar period in Berlin Reinhardt's theater also played host to the talents of Alexander Granach, F. W. Murnau, Conrad Veidt, and many many more. Unlike, for example, Murnau, Leni rode out the war years in Berlin, not serving in the military--probably as a result of his advanced age by the time the war broke out (he was thirty).

Is this escape from the mechanized death and destruction of the Great War the reason that Leni remained a jolly cinematic prankster, whereas Lang and Murnau were more preoccupied with sturm and drang? Who knows?

We know due to surviving film records that Leni got his start in the Berlin film industry by as early as 1913--a very early start in the business versus that of many of his contemporaries. Murnau, returning to Berlin after the close of the war in 1918, didn't begin shooting his first film The Blue Boy until 1919; ditto Fritz Lang for Halblut the same year.  

Thus, by the time that Lang and Murnau were just getting their start in the business, Paul Leni was a fully established veteran, having already directed The Diary of Dr. HartDornroschen, The Mystery of Bangalore (with Conrad Veidt, with whom Leni would frequently work) among others .  .  .  not to mention a large handful on which he worked as art director.

Playing a very large part in the man's distinctive and thoroughly modern--and hugely innovative--style was the fact that the vast bulk of the films that Leni directed, he also served as designer .  .  . if not designing the film sets himself, then having a large hand in the overall look and feel of the film by working very closely with his art director. Interestingly this worked in the opposite direction as well--the man's facility with the medium of film was so profound that those films that he worked on as art director, he also had a hand in as director: a perfect example of this is the positively stunning Hintertreppe/Backstairs.

During this period of the teens Leni bounced from company to company--Gloria Film GMbH, May Film, Union Film, PAGU and others, a journeyman director working with the cream of the crop of writers, directors, actors and producers. Examples of his stature include his ongoing work with Conrade Veidt, his working with venerable stage director Leopold Jessner, and grand national frau Henny Porten, Harry Leidtke, among others.

Sadly, a great amount of his directorial work running up to the early 1920's is lost, save for Dr. Hart, Dornroschen, and Backstairs. A recovery of Bangalore and Prinz Kuckuck - Die Höllenfahrt eines Wollüstlings (1919) would be key discoveries allowing us to peek into the development of a critical artist at the cusp of development into what would constitute an earth shattering style which would leave its imprint on the medium forever.

We do see in Backstairs the clear evidence of a man coming into his own in terms of direction, in terms of visualizing a psychological canvass upon which to move his characters. Here we see in action the following quote by Leni put into action:

"If the designer merely imitated photography to construct his sets, the film would remain faceless and impersonal. There has to be the possibility of bringing out an objects essential attributes so as to give the image style and colour... This is particulary necessary for films set wholly in a world of unreality. For my film DAS WACHSFIGURENKABINETT. I have tried to create sets so stylised that they evince no idea of reality. My fairground is sketched in with an utter renunciation of detail. All it seeks to engender is an indescribable fluidity of light, moving shapes, shadows, lines and curves. It is not extreme reality that the camera percieves, but the reality of the inner event, which is more profound, effective and moving that what we see through everyday eyes, and I equally believe that the cinema can reproduce this truth, heightened effectively.I may perhaps cite the example of CALIGARI... and DER GOLEM, in which Hans Poelzig created a town's image. I cannot stress too strongly how important it is for a designer to shun the world seen everyday and to attain its true sinews... It will be seen that a designer must not construct 'fine' sets. He must penetrate the surface of things and reach their heart. He must create mood, even though he has to safeguard his independence with regard to the object seen merely through everydays eyes. It is this which makes him an artist. Otherwise I can see no reason why he should not be replaced by an adroit apprentice carpenter..."

This deep warping of the set with dreamscape touches finds itself in evidence in greater and lesser degrees throughout his work in the 1920's for Richard Oswald, Karl Grune, Ernst Lubitsch, E. A. DuPont and others. But without question the most famous example of Leni's use of Expressionist dreamscapes (literally, as the film I'm about to mention contains a tour de force final scene that is the dream landscape of a dozing Wilhelm Deiterle, playing a carnival writer) as filmic canvass is Das Wachsfigurenkabinett.

Written by legendary German writer of fantasic and eerie titles, Henrik Galeen (who also penned The Golem as well as Nosferatu and the 1920's Student of Prague), Waxworks--as the film is known in the English speaking world (and the way I'll refer to it since it's less of a mouthful)--is undoubtedly the film that broke Paul Leni as a global figure in the cinema. 

Original as original is likely to get, Waxworks is as strange today as it was the day it was released. Here we see Paul Leni completely unleashed, unchained by constriction and free to indulge both his appetite for the bizarre as well as the humorous. If ever there was a Jolly Gargoyle of the world of the cinema, surely that creature was the entirely harmless person of Paul Leni.

There are those who come to Waxworks expecting a horror film, and walk away disappointed as they are not "frightened." This is not a film for this kind of a viewer: this is a film for the lover of dreams, for those who download binaural beat apps for lucid dreaming, who take various supplements and eat loads of turkey to bug out on the excess L-Tryptophan. It's a film for lovers of envelopment in the unfamiliar, who treasure the reactions within the human system triggered by elements of the obscure, the ethereal, crooked leaning streets in ancient cities at night, strange texts and chants from bizarre societies from long long ago. These things do not "scare" one, but they cover one in a unique atmosphere of the unreal .  .  .  like laying in the dark and rubbing one's eyes and enjoying the phosphene burst in kaleidoscopic waves. Just like the director's peculiar returning to this kind of strange terrain of injecting the effect that the mind has on reimagined architecture, faces of long dead relatives a long time ago, childhood nightmares in the dark of the half-forgotten infantile crib, so will those viewers who truly connect with this material have a joy of sifting through this odd currency of the mind made plastic for all to view.

Take something extremely simple at the very beginning of Waxworks: at the start of the Baghdad episode, cop a gander at the window through which Dieterle views his beloved while he bakes out in the front of the dream world rock and mud contraption that constitutes their apartment/hut/house/something. She stands in a misshapen, lopsided window with a strange set of cross-hatched cutouts that look as though they were drawn by a child without the slightest sense of geometry or perspective, and then constructed by an architect. What exactly this arrangement is, what it does, why it's there--there isn't a soul on the earth that can answer this question. This piece of architecture is not there to serve that side of the mind... it is speaking entirely to another side of the brain, which fully understands .  .  .  .   

Clearly what we have here is the massive afterburn of Caligari, the last gasp of capital E Expressionism and--for my scorecard--perhaps its most tour de force incarnation. The impact of this film, via its use of a dreamlike conceit that was virtually dead by this time via the turning by Carl Mayer away from these drastic examples of viewer impact towards the more subtle tonalities of the Kammerspielfilm with Lupu Pick and finally F.W. Murnau, the impact is essentially impossible to overstate. Whereas Caligari was a global shocker, a first cracking open of the door so wide that it stunned and shocked, Waxworks blew the industry away as well as the public. There would be no Waxworks Foxtrot won by Leni in the New York and Paris dance halls, but he did win an invitation to America by Carl Laemmle for a very fruitful contract with Universal.

The big difference between the work accomplished by Leni in Germany and that in the Hollywood is, to these aging eyes, the following: the culmination of the work that Leni had been doing in his home country was the Jack The Ripper sequence in Waxworks, which Signfried Kracauer said famously was “a very short sequence which must be counted among the greatest achievements of film art.”

A statement with which--rare for much of Kracauer's psychobabbling--I wholeheartedly agree with. 

Let me go on with my difference between German and Hollywood work. With the Jack the Ripper sequence, Leni essentially took the cinema to such a high artistic, wordless, elegant, crystalline level of visual perfection there was basically nowhere to go with it (a criticism that is often, incidentally, levelled at Expressionism in general because of its high volume lack of opportunities for modulation).

The culmination of Leni's work in Hollywood is the sum of all of the parts, all through the pictorialism of The Cat & The Canary, The Last Warning, and the sublime Man Who Laughs are of the loftiest, most unique heights of the filmic art--and these films have been mined endlessly by the greatest directors and the greatest films in the world, particularly those that work in the world of the fantastic film .  .  . James Whale, Georges Franju, any suspense, arthouse or horror film that combines a high pictorial art of the greatest greats with the strangest of the strange.

There is a place to go from his Hollywood work--other directors can take this material and move profitably sideways. With the Ripper episode in Waxworks, there is no place to go but down

 

Those who mix the finest cinematography possible with the most imaginative use of the moving camera, played out against a backdrop of Gothic strangeness and absurdity (sound era Eisenstein, Terry Gilliam, Roman Polanski) are honoring the strange foundational example of Paul Leni in Hollywood.

It is very rare--and thus hugely refreshing--when we have in our midst or our past a man bursting with such rare genius who is at the same time completely unpretentious and takes the piss out of his work at every turn. Without the ridiciculous milk truck driver,  psychiatrist in Cat & The Canary, peeping-tom messenger or guitar-breaking cheek puffing Dirry Moir in Man Who Laughs, or Spiderwebbed female stooge or bouncy Bert Roach in The Last Warning, we'd likely have no Doctor Praetorious, Horace Femm, or--strictly in terms of art direction-- DNA for the Universal Horror Film (and thus the horror film) in general. 

Paul Leni's death, whether we realize it or not, was one of the profoundest to strike cinema; in my view, via his ability to work so well with actors and consistently get that special brand of absurdity into his narratives (he obviously created a jovial atmosphere on his sets), and combine these fruits so seamlessly into flawless and inventive pictorialism, he was well primed to pivot beautifully into the sound film.

He was obviously set to become the premiere sound era director for the Laemmles .  .  .  he died just as the sonorized silents he was making were beginning to give way to sound films at Universal. Who can fail but wonder what Frankenstein, or Dracula, Murders In The Rue Morgue, or so many other films (The Raven!) would have turned into under his expert hand. Who knows where he would have moved afterwards? Leni in Technicolor!

His death by blood poisoning as a result--of all things--a tooth infection is for me among the top two or three losses the cinema has known. He had so much to give, great movies to make, and recognition to earn among a more modern audience. It's a great shame.

Preston Clive/H. Schreck

3/16/2015*** 

 


Preston Clive mar 16 15, 23:12
0 1

HANGMEN ALSO DIE (FRITZ LANG, 1943), PART THE SECOND

Reinhard Heydrich--the man whose name sounds suitably like a Germanic adjective for Hydra-like, inasmuch as the man's specialty in his creation of the German Sicherheitsdeinst, or Security Service, the dreaded SD within the SS that made Canaris' Abwehr look positively warm and kissy--might be one of the most emblematic Germans when it comes to, in retrospect, personifying all that constituted the worst excesses of the Nazi period in Germany. He made Heinrich Himmler look like a fresh daisy by comparison. He made Hitler on one hand smile, squirm, fidget and go boyishly shy and blushy when in his leather trenched presence--and he also made Hitler get all pumped, throw on his own leather trench without a belt, and stalk and strut like the cock of the walk, Heydrich trailing consciously behind.

Hitler loved loyal but hard and vicious, creatively heartless tough guys like Otto "Sepp" Deitrich, Otto Skorzeny, and of course Heydrich. 

Only with Heydrich, there was very little of the two sided coin that Hitler proposed to maintain, at least at first: love-of-Germany and its people/menace of all who threatened Germany. Beyond the bounds of his wife and blindingly blonde kids, Heydrich never seemed to like people very much. Even those who worked closely with him and maintained daily contact and thus were a part of Heydrich's regular life, dreaded the episodes of drunken cavorting with the man. These interludes were full of menace, shcadenfreude, bizarre behavior, rampant philandering that all were terrified to not participate in, and thus made everyone uncomfortable.

Heydrich's life was full of strangeness--a violin player booted from the navy for disgracing himself with a woman, a surface egoist who maintained a private hatred of his own strange, hyper-vertical, large-schnozzed face (he, supposedly, was famously so suspicious of his odd face that he was apparently observed spitting at a mirror after staring at himself disgustedly and hissing "Fucking jew,"); loved to visit whorehouses with his SS comrades, yet presented a crackling hearth of a wholesome Teutonic family man sprung from the blonde sprouting earth, posing for incredibly incongruous and kitschy photos with his family .  .  . laying on the grass, leapfrogging, picnicing with breeches and lederhosen, playing football with weinerschnitzel smeared with wurstfabrik and the like (just kidding on the last one).

Czechoslovokia--or "The Protectorate"--Prague more than any other--came close to spiritually keeling over and croaking under the boot of Heydrich's leadership. Unlike the men who succeeded him after his assassination--the miserable hawknosed ape Hans Frank in Czechoslovakia, and to some degree in the latter years, scarfaced Ernst Kaltenbrunner .  .  .  latterly head of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (Heydrich's old slot, where the conglomerate of security and various police apparatus were bundled up for an oversight entity) and a man who was known to tie Heinrich Himmler's stomach in gassy knots--Heydrich did indeed have a subtle side beyond a love of murder as incentivization. For all of his legendary brutality and appearance of tossing off scorched earth with a yawn as a hobby on a lazy spring afternoon, Heydrich didn't ascend to his lofty mantle of RHSA/SD head and Reichsprotektor in Czechoslovakia purely through that Special Menacing Something; the man could be clever, super-subtle, excelled at deception, and knew how to reward people who gave him what he wanted and needed to achieve his goals. Like Fritz Lang's film, Heydrich knew how to layer false realities on top of and to the side of one another in space and in time; he knew how to create the impression of randomness in the carefully engineered; and he was outrageously attentive and invisibly but effectively probing even outside of his professional mandate. His safe, it is said, held the secrets not only of his enemies but all of his allies and closest associates. He was a man who was ready for a confrontation at any time with anybody. He seemed to have seen the world (and particularly the world of appearances in the military and politics) as a nasty chessboard, which he lost at early on too many times, and decided he would never allow such humiliation into his life ever again if he could help it, and actively armed himself against those possibilities through active pre-emption. Those around him knew and felt that they had passed too often under his keen observational apparatus, and trembled thenceforth, knowing that their sins had been carefully recorded with loving care by this thin, oddly feminine-hipped, strange man moving purposely through the lives of all those around him, sniffing out foibles. 

Again--he knew the power of reward. It kept your adversaries close to you and easy to watch. It's for these reasons he succeeded both in the RHSA and as Protektor:human assets require taking care of in espionage. Workers require winning over during an occupation. Heydrich made the exile government and the Allies very nervous during his years sitting in his Prague castle dishing out orders to maximize productivity, owing to the introduction--after brutally weeding out the saboteurs who were disturbing the war production tempo under von Neurath's leadership--of a reward system of increased wages, days off, unemployment insurance and other methods often referred to as "carrot and stick" measures.

Of course, Heydrich, despite his use of generous rewards (in the relative terms of a hard occupation, anyhow) had no love for the Czech people, who he called "scum," and his roundups, executions, use of torture and more earned him the nickname "butcher of Prague." He was despised at atomic levels, and feared equally. And this goes for Germans as well as enemies of the Reich. Like Hitler, he seemed a solitary figure; failed artist, surrounded by yes-men terrified to disagree with him; moody, with virtually no close friends to speak of.

 

Fritz Lang began production on Hangmen Also Die in the latter part of 1942 when the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich in Prague was still fresh news, but the truth about the killing was still not known.

Knowing nothing about Operation Anthropoid and the parachutists being dropped in waves by the exile government in London working directly with the military of the Allies who wanted Heydrich removed as a matter of emergency, the film wove an entirely fictional tale.

The film was extrapolated from a story written by Bertholt Brecht--his sole Hollywood contribution--and Fritz Lang, and turned into a script by Lang and a writer called John Wexley (a writer with not a lot of credits but the credits are quite interesting. Check this out.. source TCM):

1. The Long Night (1947) as Screenwriter.

2. Cornered (1945) as Story and adpt.

3. Hangmen Also Die! (1943) as Screenwriter.

4. Footsteps in the Dark (1941) as Screenwriter.

5 City for Conquest (1940) as Screenwriter.7.

6. Confessions of a Nazi Spy (1939) as Screenwriter.

7. The Roaring Twenties (1939) as Contr to trmt.

8. The Amazing Doctor Clitterhouse (1938) as Screenwriter.

9. Angels with Dirty Faces (1938) as Screenwriter.

10. Eight Bells (1935) as Contr to trmt.

Brecht and Land begin their tale with an opening scene with Reinhard Heydrich--played by Hans Heinz von Twardowski (who played Alan, murdered by Cesare in his room after getting his fortune told in Caligari's circus tent,  24 years before this film)--holding court in Hradceny Castle and ordering executions to scare more productivity out of the Skoda defense contractor factories, who have slowed down their work tempo at the behest of the resistance.

The prologue out of the way, the narrative begins in earnest--the tale of a single assassin who wounds Reinhard Heydrich offscreen in the urban center of a well-rendered studio reimagining of the city of Prague. Donlevy, playing the assassin, a doctor by the name of Svoboda, enters into an en media res shot of the city going about its business under the boot of Nazi occupation. Before meeting him however, we get an immediate sense of tension, of something simmering tensely beneath the surface... police arrest a cab driver for idling in one spot for wasting gas illegally. A man looks at his watch, carefully taking note of the police taking the cabbie away, and subtly rounds the corner and shoes away a hansom carriage driver, telling him "GO! Vanya's arrested."

Clearly, we see, something is going on under the boot of these occupying Germans and their steel helmets, and it concerns the civilian public. Our answer is quickly answered as into the film walks lead Anna Lee, then known for her work with John Ford. Her character, Masha Nowotny, approaches her local fruit and vegetable hawker, looking for some basics despite the wartime scarcity. As she discovers to her disappointment that there are no potatos (or POTATEOZ as the handwritten vendor's sign says) Brian Donlevy suddenly comes jogging out of the shadows and into the film, the second principal character. 

Not finding what he is looking for, he asks Masha if she has seen a cabbie sitting there on the street; having witnessed with the fruit vendor the troubles the cabbie had with the police, the young girl relates his arrest to the nameless stranger. He tips his hat and hurriedly jogs offscreen.

In his wake, upon his disappearance, comes the sound of stomping boots, and a crowd of blackshirt SS men, clearly chasing somebody. Coming to the crossroads of the little platz where the vendor and Anna Lee's Masha have resumed their commerce, ("The cabbage is nice") a German extra playing their group leader asks if they have seen a man running from the direction they came. Cut to Donlevy's character hiding in a dark arched atrium down the block and a bit around a corner, but still within the line of sight of the nearby interlude between the ladies and the SS men.

"Yes," says Masha.

He removes a pistol from his breast jacket pocket, now expecting to be given up and fully ready to fight to the death.

"Which way did he run?"

Carefully weighing her answer against her conscience, her hatred of the Occupation, and her fear of getting into trouble with the Germans, the film now takes its first step towards its narrative identity.

"That way," says Masha, pointing away from where she knows Brian Donlevy's still nameless character just fled. And with that, the crowd of SS/SD security police disappear in the wrong direction, chasing a phantasm.

*        *        *

Soon it becomes clear, as we further follow the meanderings of Donlevy's character--who we clearly see is completely stranded in the city collapsing into a tighter and tighter police grip of emergency decree with nowhere to go--that he has caused this upheaval: he has assassinated Reinhard Heydrich. He dips into a movie theater; a restaurant, tries to go to a prearranged safe house and has a door slammed in his face by the spooked (she has heard of his driver--the cabbie's--arrest while being ordered to close the house down as a refuge to protect the underground, until, the Prague State of Emergency is complete and he has no place to go: time to scramble.

Coincidence: after a time of stressed wanderings, he catches the reflection of Anna Lee's Masha, and marks her home and apartment by tailing her.

The film runs on the tension of complexity and the novelty of weaving such an intriguing tale, sandwiching the viewer between the machinations of the underground and those of the Gestapo-SD in their hunt for the assassin. Donlevy's character, Dr. Franticek Svoboda shows up at the door of Anna Lee's Masha's apartment with a bunch of flowers in his hand, importuning her to save his life and allow him to crash with them during curfew under the lie of his posing as an admirer from a night at the opera.

Masha, the daughter of an old revolutionary clearly has honorable blood running through her veins--she cannot help but acquiesce. The next morning, after an evening of SD/gestapo strategizing to flush out the assassin by taking masses of Czech citizens hostage, the blackshirts knock on her apartment door--the assassin right under their noses. Reason? Masha's father, in the midst that morning of teaching an American history class in his dwelling, is on the hostage list and is to be taken right away to a camp.

Played by the venerable but here-slightly-incongruous Walter Brennan, Mr. Nowotny wishes the assassin (he has figured out overnight through sixth sense who he is without being told) luck before being hauled off, choosing not to give him up to the police and damn his whole family.

 

It's this tension--the agonized dilemma of the family's inability to give the doctor up (an announcement has come on the radio proclaiming that any family known to harbor the assassin will be immediately shot) to gain their father's release-- that drives the film, along with its tremendously expressive style. If they don't turn in the assassin, only her father will be shot. If they do turn in the assassin, the whole family be shot. Vilified by Masha for getting her and her family into this horrible position for doing nothing but helping him, Svoboda and the resistance ponder this conundrum, trying to concoct a way of getting her and her father off of the hook while at the same time not revealing Svoboda's guilt.

It's here that an incredible series of false plants, woven tapestries of deception and fraud, labyrinthine half-truths, incredibly sly, black humor (much of which flows from the mouth of Getsapo Inspector Gruber played by the unbelievably charismatic and hilariously loose Alexander Granach, as wild here as he is as Knock in Nosferatu and as the Shadowmaster in Schatten), ominous menace and danger and outrageous cinematographic-editorial skill.

The film was photographed by the then already legendary cameraman James Wong Howe who is here laying down the closest cinematographic correspondence to the conceit of the Expressionism of the early twenties in Germany. Howe and Lang, during moments of extreme danger and tension, ratchet of the contrast and stretch the angles of the shots to some of the most dramatic black and white images you'll ever see. These interludes come and go as danger closes in on the characters: when an execution is imminent, when an interrogation at the Gestapo approaches a deadly climax, when we descend down to the legendary torture vaults down in the police HQ, during the meetings of the resistance.

The tale is a hyper-complex web of intrigue, incredibly grim and complex for the time it was released--grim and complex even today, especially in its original cut with the original ending, which I won't give away. I saw this film when I was in my twenties and first digesting all of the cornerstones of film history; the first thing I said to my female companion watching it with me was "Citizen Kane is considered better than this??"

I find this film to be the height of Lang's narrative sophistication, and yet the film still unfolds with that easy, flowing quality that makes Lang so easy and pleasurable to watch. Even his lesser films like While The City Sleeps and House By The River unfold with such an ease and pleasure, they're almost addicting. I can watch House By The River 4 times a month for the rest of my live and probably not get bored with it. Ditto so many of the other "mediocre" Langs. One of my cinematic compadres, David Hare, I know feels the same vibe from Lang.

Hangmen is an incredible accomplishment--to me easily his best Hollywood films: most narratively skilled example of total command during his US phase. The dense script, the deft implementation, the extremely "cool" narrative sensibility (Like Sternberg, Lang had a consistent element of "cool" to his films), the menace and the humor bouncing back and forth like a tennis ball--see the ever moving wart on the Gestapo officer's face.

To those who haven't seen it, I would suggest something unusual--skip the weak BD, and try your best to hunt down the PAL edition DVD of the e-m-s version. It restores the "downer" ending, and looks much more filmic and less flat.

Preston Clive/HSchreck

3/13/2015***

 


Preston Clive mar 13 15, 23:44
0 4

Hangmen Also Die (Fritz Lang, 1943), Part the First

How talented was the person of Fritz Lang, what an artist! Every bit the cinematic compatriot of F.W. Muranu, subject of yesterday's rhapsody, the two men yet could not be more different in terms of sensibility and personality.

Far more concerned with the concrete aspects of the darker side of humanity, Lang rejected the ethereal side of darkness and somber dreams, a la Murnau; he was far more interested in the nightmare going on right outside his front door on the dingy, dirty streets of first Europe and later America. The criminals, the beggars, the obsessive manipulators, the cranks and the crooks, the ways government traps a man in his own mind, with his own fears, and manipulates his world like a hidden puppeteer. These are the areas that Lang's mind regularly gravitated towards.

This is not to say the two men were complete opposites-- both (especially during their German phases in the first half of the 1920's .  .  . for Lang in the pre Gerda Maurus days, for Murnau the pre-Fox days) were strict perfectionists, working within the totalitarian state of the UFA studios of producer extraordinaire Erich Pommer's golden years to labor endlessly over images until a product of extreme lustre and burnishment was at last achieved. It is known that Lang admired Murnau on the record (after seeing Der Letzte Mann)--I'm not clear of Murnau's feelings for Lang's work. I have not encountered--or if I did I just don't recall it at the moment--an on the record statement by Murnau in which he is responding to a film of Lang's.

The man's biography is so studded with hyperbole and buildup, hype and flat out taletelling that I'm not going to get into a detailed chronology of his life leading up to his golden Weimar years of Destiny, the two Mabuses--Testament and the preceding Der Spieler--Nibelungen, and of course Metropolis, or relate his tale about how he "invented" the frame story of Caligari, or alternately suggested the Expressionist design of the film, nor relate to his self-promoting "Good anti-Hitler German"tale, since proven by the stamps on his passport to be false, of his fleeing Germany the moment Josef Goebbels sat him down and asked him to be a minister in the propaganda department oversseing the medium of the German cinema.

Probably my two favorite films from Lang's German period are Der Mude Tod, aka Destiny, and the subsequent Die Nibelungen epic. For a moment there in Germany, while making the sprawling epics of Mabuse's two-parter, the Nibelungen two parter, as well as the now recovered original epic cut of Metropolis, Fritz Lang had become everything that Erich von Stroheim was already attempting to accomplish in America--with equal measures of talent and perhaps even more innovation than Lang--but was continuously getting butchered by his studios with every attempt in the manner that Lang suffered but once, with Metropolis. This was Pommer's genius where Louis B. Mayer and the Laemmle's failed the annals of history. Lang commanded outrageous budgets, monumental effects, armies of extras and craftsman on sprawling sets and locations; he geometrically moved his elements like Rommel on the battlefield: exuding power, velocity, innovation, special tactics, inspiring future maniacal behavior from William Friedkin by firing Walther pistols on set to command his actors and craftsmen attention.

*         *         *

For reasons that we assume were indeed political and decent--but not of the heroic slap in the face of blatant desertion viz Joe Goebbels--Fritz Lang did indeed flee to the United States via an intial interlude (Liliom) in France to make a new start in Hollywood, while leaving his wife and constant screenwriting partner Thea von Harbou, regular actor collaborators like Georg John, Paul Richter, the cuckolded then rewarded-with-starring-roles Rudolf Klein-Rogge (husband of von Harbou who Lang snatched from Rogge's arms), Gerda Maurus, Willy Fritsch, and of course Otto Wernicke as the venerable, gutbagged Inspector Lohmann.

Lang flourished (at least to the degree that he consistently made films.. Langian films) in America in spite of himself--he survived entirely owing to his 1) filmmaking power, and 2) legend in Germany, which saw him always generating interest in the mind of ambitious independent producers like Walter Wanger, small studios like Republic, and any number of others.

 

Despite the journeyman quality of his life running from the Thirties to the postwar years in the USA, Lang's sound era Hollywood films are a startling mishmash of titles and genres. Beginning with the stunningly raging Fury with Spencer Tracy (where it is rumored that there was a legitimate murder plot afoot onset among the carpenters and other crew--apparently some ceiling rigging was set to "fail" right above Lang during shooting, sending heavy equipment and set material right down onto Lang's exposed kopf and coiffure.

Thankfully this attempt was nullified by cooler heads--were it not we'd have been deprived of blazing subsequent titles full of ripsnorting Langian paranoia and angst like You Only Live Once (with the delicous Bronx girl Sylvia Sidney starring with young Henry Fonda), The Woman In The Window and Scarlet Street with Eddie G Robinson, all of these acidic titles foundational entries in the then embryonically darkening genre of fatalist, white knuckle, high contrast crime drama that eventually wound up taking the tag of Film Noir.

But between these first couple of American titles with Tracy and Fonda (Fury and You Only Live Once) and the Robinson duo in 1944, just after a couple of first dips of the toe into the genre of the western, we come at last to the title that I wish to speak about. The title is my favorite of all of Lang's American films; it's a film rich with literary quality, glorious acting, silly humor, profound and legitimately gutsy war statements while WW2 was raging in Lang's home country. It's a film as complex as scripts are likely to come--they don't come out of Hollywood this supremely complicated very often. The film has its own circulatory system as complex as that in the human body. The film is full of off-ramps, reroutes back in, false trails, layered realities piling one on the other according to false information and covert action, and a Brechtian (hmmm... I wonder why....) self-reflexivity that calls attention to the tempo of its unfoldment.

Hangmen Also Die is the film of course. Distributed by UA in the year 1943, and produced by a Pressberger (not the guy you're thinking of), it's a film I can literally watch over and over again, year after year. The film is a miracle, even if its home video releases have been a bit shabby.

More--Part Two-- tomorrow, to close out the week. 

P. Clive/Schreck

3/12/2015***


Preston Clive mar 12 15, 23:51
0 1
All topics: 6

Last comments

Owen Stone
I'm sad to see you go, because I enjoyed the art and having those really classic movies that you su…
Owen Stone NOTICE: THIS PAGE IS PARKED FOR THE DURATION
serdar202
I recently rewatched the Schmidlin restoration of Touch of Evil, Mr. Clive knows why, then I listen…
serdar202 The Conversation (Coppola, 1974); A Nasty One From the Heart
Owen Stone
I always like to check out the artworks for these classic movies.
Owen Stone The Conversation (Coppola, 1974); A Nasty One From the Heart
Owen Stone
Do you find these movies in public domain or how do you get access to these old classics?
Owen Stone Coming Soon (FOR REAL): Nosferatu, (Murnau, 1921)
Owen Stone
I still come back to read these blogs daily, just to get a glimpse of these awesome artworks.
Owen Stone The Shabby, Greasy Joys of the Ralph M. Like Production
Owen Stone
This is a cool looking movie.
Owen Stone T-Men & Raw Deal (Mann/Alton, 1947): A Cry Into The Void
Owen Stone
Preston Clive
serdar202
I guess I must watch Operation Daybreak now ;)
serdar202 Atentát (1965) Vs. Hangmen (1943) Vs. Operation Daybreak (1975)--The Mirror of Murder Has Three Faces
Owen Stone
The artwork in these pieces are really amazing. The cover photo just reeks of communism tension, it…
Owen Stone Nosferatu &. Destiny/Der Mude Tod (Murnau/Lang, 1921): Lest We Forget . . . .
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