William Fox had seen Faust, Nosferatu, and The Last Laugh,
and on the basis of these German masterworks, he brought their creator,
F.W. Murnau, to Hollywood. What he got was a truly distinct cinematic
vision, which was what he had in mind: something to set a few Fox
features apart from the other studios’ output. What he probably didn’t
expect was just how much of that “artsy” European touch he was going to
get with Murnau on contract. Were American audiences going to go for
this type of movie, with its symbolism, melodious structure, and overtly
self-conscious style? At any rate, Murnau’s first picture at Fox was
one to remember. Sunrise, from 1927, is one of the greatest of
all films. It is a touching, beautiful, and artistically accomplished
movie, one of the best ever made, and unlike anything to come out of the
studio system. And now, available on a new Blu-ray/DVD combo, the film
looks great and can be viewed alongside bonus features including a
commentary, outtakes, and restoration notes.
Born
Friedrich Wilhelm Plumpe in 1888, Murnau, “the greatest film director
the Germans have ever known,” according to Lotte Eisner, changed his
last name to the town near where he met the Blue Rider group, an
assemblage of avant-garde artists. Following World War I, and with a
theatrical background that included work with the legendary Max
Reinhardt, Murnau set his sights on the movies. Expressionistic visuals
and fantastical stories of magic, mystery, and the macabre haunted
German screens during the late 1910s and into the ’20s, and Murnau was
in on this early with films like The Blue Boy, The Head of Janus, or The Two-Faced Man – a classic example of the doppelganger (a common thematic device of the period) – and The Haunted Castle.
Then came an astonishing string of films, all bearing the director’s
noteworthy knack for cinematic flair. Murnau’s visual tricks and rich mise-en-scene engrossed the spectator with scene after scene of filmic inventiveness. Following the influential Nosferatu in 1922, other stellar films of awe-inspiring visual ingenuity and imagination surged forth. There was Phantom, also in 1922, and The Last Laugh in 1924 – one of his most remarkable achievements — and Tartuffe (1925) and Faust
(1927), the latter considered the pinnacle of German silent production
at Ufa studios. In these, there is a full range of technical virtuosity,
from special effects to elaborate camera maneuvers to massive sets.
Frustrated at Ufa, Murnau was lured to Hollywood where he went to work at Fox, directing three films: Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans, 4 Devils (1928), and City Girl (1930). Murnau’s artistic ambitions had to be held in check with these latter titles, but with Sunrise, he was able to pull out all the stops.
The story is simple, as are its characterizations. Sunrise
is largely dependent on a sense of the film being relevant to anyone,
applicable the world over. An early intertitle indicates as such: “This
song … is of no place and every place. You might hear it anywhere, at
any time.” The song is “sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet.” In other
words, not unlike King Vidor’s The Crowd a year later, this story and these people were designed to have a sense of universal commonality.
Anonymity
informs the three primary characters. The Man (George O’Brien) is
tempted by the devious Woman from the City (Margaret Livingston) to not
just leave but kill his wife (Janet Gaynor). Life is better in the (also
anonymous) city, declares Livingston’s character: it’s exciting, fun,
and not nearly as drab as The Man’s current rural existence (the country
town is also never identified). Indeed, The Man and The Wife have
landed on hard times. Their farm is falling apart, their animals have
been sold, and they have little money. The set design bares this out;
stark, unadorned interiors give the impression of poverty and a dire
lack of means.
Gaynor’s
character is plain and unglamorous (much has been made of her poor wig,
fitting more like a shower cap, which holds back her flowing head of
hair). By contrast, The Woman from the City, first scantily clad, then
shown wearing all black, is a classic temptress in her appearance and
demeanor. The Man is weak-willed and impressionable as The Woman from
the City makes a strong case; an early special-effects sequence
highlights the city’s razzle-dazzle. But could he actually kill his
wife? The Woman from the City suggests drowning. The Man’s conflict and
inner turmoil weigh him down (literally, as Murnau apparently had
O’Brien wear weights in his shoes to give him a lumbering, menacing
gait). It’s no spoiler to say that he doesn’t end up murdering his wife,
as a majority of the picture concerns their path to marital recovery.
An ironic twist brings the couple to the very city of enticement, where
visual signifiers of urban stimulation and terror bombard them: lights,
movement, traffic, people. This stylized yet critical look at an urban
milieu was clearly a carry-over from Murnau’s homeland, German cinema
during the 1920s doing much to delve into the construction and
composition of increasingly modern city life.
This
wasn’t the only remnant of Murnau’s former filmmaking territory.
Berliner Rochus Gliese did the extraordinary art direction and Carl
Mayer (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The Last Laugh, Tartuffe,
and many others) wrote the scenario, which is available to view here,
along with Murnau’s notes. And while cinematographers Charles Rosher and
Karl Struss were London- and New York-born, respectively, there’s more
than a little expressionistic influence in Sunrise; their work
on the film would win an Oscar at the Academy’s first ceremony in 1929.
An impressively mobile camera (something Murnau was no stranger to
utilizing) flows and drifts with airy smoothness; elaborate crane and
tracking shots convey a surprising range of mobility. One night sequence
in a fog-shrouded field has the camera first following O’Brien from
behind. It then moves to his side, then to his front as he continues
walking. He exits the frame to the left as the camera pushes forward,
stops at The Woman from the City, holds, and he enters screen left. This
type of cinematic choreography is stunning. Similarly, the optical
effects in Sunrise, all done in-camera, coupled with the
set-design, blend lyrical naturalism with a heightened filmic
expressiveness. Forced perspective, multiple exposures, and the use of
miniatures: Sunrise is a virtual textbook of visual
manipulation. Cinematographer John Bailey provides the audio commentary
to the disc, and he speaks informatively about the technical side of the
film, discussing how shots were, or might have been, achieved.
Two cameras were used in making Sunrise,
and subsequently, two versions of the film exist. The American release
was an early Fox feature boasting new sound technology, the Fox
Movietone sound-on-film system, so it needed room for a soundtrack. The
export release was silent. The two extant versions not only contained
occasionally different compositions and editing choices (the European
version is somewhat shorter), they were released with different aspect
ratios. For those interested in noting the differences, each version is
available on this Blu-ray/DVD release. In both cases, there was still no
dialogue, just a recorded score and a few sound effects in the domestic
print. Murnau, however, was never a fan of intertitles (his The Last Laugh was famous for not having a single one, save for an insert of a note the main character reads). By the end of Sunrise,
titles are sparse and essentially irrelevant, so much simply — though
by no means effortlessly — expressed via the staging, the lighting, the
camera, and the performances; Gaynor would win the first ever best
actress Oscar, for this film as well as two Frank Borzage features from
the same year, 7th Heaven and Street Angel.
Sunrise
itself would win one of two best picture Academy Awards given at that
premiere ceremony — for “Unique Artistic Contribution,” a category never
again acknowledged. This is just as well. With Sunrise as the first recipient, it would have been all downhill from there anyway.
The
three titles rounding out The Criterion Collection set showcasing six
films preserved and newly remastered through Martin Scorsese’s World
Cinema Project are markedly different, not only from each other, but
from the three features covered last week in this column. Dry Summer, Trances, and The Housemaid
maintain a strong sense of cultural identification and examination, but
opposed to the previous three films, which exist somewhere between
“docu-fiction” and a slightly indefinite art house categorization, these
movies fall more in line with standard generic conventions. That is not
to say, however, that they are in any way conventional. Within the
recognizable forms of, roughly, the melodrama, the musical documentary,
and the thriller, these titles peer into their respective cultures via a
comparably subtle observation that is in some ways cloaked by a
familiar surface style and structure.
Take Dry Summer
to start. This Turkish film from 1964 initially pits farming brothers
Osman (Erol Taş) and Hasan (Ulvi Doğan, who personally financed the
film) against their neighbors, decent farmers themselves, but ones who
are reliant on the brothers’ water. Water is scarce and immensely
valuable in this rural community, so Osman decides to construct a dam
cutting off the flow down to the neighboring fields. In the meantime,
Hasan marries Bahar (Hülya Koçyiğit), a beautiful girl from the village
who quickly arouses the attention of Osman. While things are relatively
stable for a time, Hasan, the more decent of the brothers, sees only
trouble arising from the provocative dam. Sure enough, fights ensue
between the siblings and the neighbors and during one such melee, Osman
shoots and kills a man. Reasoning that Hasan is younger and would serve
less time, he convinces his brother to take the blame, which he does.
With Hasan locked up, tensions rise between the aggressive Osman and the
neighbors, and even more destructively, Osman’s unwanted advances
toward Bahar become increasingly frequent and forceful. Osman goes on to
cut off communication with his jailed brother, who is now in the dark
about his wife and the farming dispute. Director Metin Erksan, with a
constantly darting camera and kinetic editing, keeps the film
continuously alive with motion and fraught with tension. The selfish,
barbarous Osman seems capable of anything — violence against his
neighbors, or sexual deviance toward his sister-in-law.
As
a bonus feature, filmmaker Fatih Akin helpfully explains the movie’s
societal implications; for example, the combative issue of the
privatization of property. Erksan, also in a new interview on the disc,
sums up his film as “a movie about water ownership.” Dry Summer
was also, as Bilge Ebiri points out in the accompanying essay, the
second in what became an “unofficial trilogy” for Erksan: the earlier Revenge of the Snakes focused on land as property and, later, The Well
was about “the treatment of women as property.” Albeit emotionally
heightened, in this middle feature, we do get a rather realistic
portrayal of a Turkish farming lifestyle, where the demanding toil
involved is notable, the importance of maintaining good land quite
evident, but the cultural examination becomes partly concealed by the
personal drama between the three characters. With this passionate and
volatile love triangle as the main narrative focus, the depiction of the
farmers, the splendor of the environment, and the representation of
gender and familial roles are rather subdued by comparison.
Nevertheless, Dry Summer, winner of the Golden Bear for best
film at the 1964 Berlin International Film Festival, fits in nicely with
the aims of the World Cinema Project. This is a fascinating film, one
rife with localized complexities and dilemmas, but with individual
concerns that span any cultural divide. The cinematic skill with which
this is all executed also gives the film a remarkable visual appeal.
The first film restored by the World Cinema Foundation (personally suggested by Scorsese) was Trances,
the next inclusion in this set. Ahmed El Maânouni’s documentary about
acoustic Moroccan band Nass El Ghiwane, the “singing soul of their
country,” according to Scorsese, similarly takes a roundabout approach
to its sociocultural exploration and presentation. Through music, a key
feature of nearly every culture’s identity, this film shows the creative
process of this hugely popular group, and presents their motivations,
which are largely derived from regional traditions and ideology. In her
essay on the film, Sally Shafto provides illuminating information about
the political and national context for the lyrical content.
Simultaneously poets, troubadours, and storytellers, these musicians
connect with the Moroccan people through performances charged with
social, economic, political, and religious significance. The music is
the message, and it’s the message that informs the music.
Trances
is an apt title for this documentary. As per what is a common Moroccan
musical form, the songs here are hypnotic in their repetitive rhythms.
Concert footage shows people in the throngs of zealous revelry as the
band plays. And while the film does hone in on the cultural meanings and
influences of the compositions, Trances is as much about a pop
band as it is about their heritage. It’s lighthearted at times, the
four members sitting around smoking, surrounded by speakers and
recording equipment, ruminating about their chosen art form. There’s
goofiness as they joke and touch on issues still common in today’s
Western music business. (On piracy, one performer remarks, “I’m just an
artist. Do I have to be a lawyer as well?”) Despite the seriousness of
their lyrics, make no mistake, these guys are rock stars. Scorsese
points to the “electricity” and “power” of their concerts, where crowds
get unruly and have to be contained. It’s not quite the Stones at
Altamont, but the popularity of Nass El Ghiwane and what their music
does to their audience is revealing. Their mass appeal is an interesting
comparison to America’s 1981 music scene, for instance. One wonders to
what extent musical groups are admired for the cultural substance of
their songs in this country, then or now. The sole pure documentary in
this set, Trances is an intriguing look at the music that defines and affects a people and what it takes to create such poignant art.
(Interesting
for Scorsese fans, in discussing his love for the film, he acknowledges
Nass El Ghiwane’s influence on the soundtrack design for The Last Temptation of Christ.)
Returning to narrative cinema, The Housemaid
is a stunningly sensational film; sensational as in quality and sheer
audacity. Scorsese declares the film “unlike anything else I’ve ever
seen in movies, and a world away from the rest of Korean cinema.” Among
its features, the “perversity and everyday madness,” he says, is
“unnerving.” Quite true. This South Korean feature directed by Kim
Ki-young is a claustrophobic thriller that, particularly in the latter
sections, resembles a Polanski-like tale of paranoia, anxiety, and
manipulation. Bong Joon-ho, who discusses the film on the disc, and
knows a thing or two about unnerving films, compares the picture to
those by Imamura or Bunuel. Marked by high-contrast lighting and charged
with an occasionally shocking sense of terrifying possibility, this
1960 film is remarkable. A music teacher (Kim Jin-kyu) and his wife (Ju
Jeung-nyeo) decide that with work and two children to take care of, they
cannot keep up with maintaining their home. A piano student recommends a
housemaid (Lee Eun-shim). It doesn’t take long before this maid proves
to be more than this stuffy and complacent family can handle. The
father, who is something of a ladies’ man with his students, falls
victims to her mysterious ways and everyone in the home is at risk of
succumbing to the maid’s occasionally inexplicable evil wiles.
Particularly toward the father (one of several helplessly weak males in
Kim Ki-young’s work, according to Bong), she is “the most sexually
driven female character in the history of Korean cinema.”
Against this taut set-up, where the unsound and dubious motivations of nearly every character are potentially explosive, The Housemaid
keenly comments on the make-up of a seemingly secure middle-class
house. Morality is questioned and normative domestic and social behavior
is subverted as the characters struggle with this volatile, yet
strangely alluring, intruder. She essentially holds them, as well as
their way of life, hostage, exposing their dormant brutality,
dishonesty, and malevolence. Kim obviously found further areas to
explore within this basic framework; Kyung Hyun Kim points out in his
supplementary essay that the director would remake the picture twice,
with Fire Woman in 1971 and Fire Woman ’82 from 1982.
Like all six films in this set, the audio/visual quality for The Housemaid
is exceptional. There are times, however, when the images falter more
than in the other five, with evident scratches, pixelization, and skips.
Strangely enough, it also seems like this is an intentional stylistic
device. While the original source print may have been that poor to begin
with (two reels were originally thought to be lost), at times, it comes
across like the film simply can’t contain the manic behavior of the
characters and their extremely unpredictable actions.
This
Criterion set, hopefully the first in a continuing series of films
attained in conjunction with the World Cinema Project, in some ways
takes on more significance than an ordinary home video collection. The
films might not be as “great” as the customary classics Criterion and
other companies regularly release, but their fairly unique status and
their relative scarcity place them as emblematic of why motion pictures
need to be saved and treasured. Aside from the artistic merits these
films possess – and with each there are many – they are cultural
artifacts and historical markers that deserve attention. Save for the
efforts of preservationist organizations throughout the world, these are
works that might have disappeared into extinction. But now, thankfully,
they are available for all to see, and they are all well worth a look.
REVIEW from SOUND ON SIGHT
