Modernist Concerns in German Expressionist Cinema
Hadiqa Ali (English Literature, Third Year)
By applying Siddiq's definition of modernist literature to the films of Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920), F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922), and Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927), this essay explores the modernist themes of disillusionment and the ways in which modernist works functioned as social commentary on the historical events of their time. Siddiq notes that modernist literature was used to ‘comment on and critique the societies’ (Siddiq, 2023, p.103) within which they were created and to capture the disillusionment that accompanied historic events such as World War I (Siddiq, 2023). These modernist concerns will be exposed through an examination of how these films used German expressionist aesthetics, such as exaggerated acting techniques, mise en scene, and cinematography (Hake, 2005; Saul & Ells, 2019), to portray these subjects. Both visually and narratively, German expressionism aimed to convey sentiments of disillusionment and discontent with German governance. Gruber argues that German expressionists also resorted to ‘apocalyptic maledictions against their society.’ (Gruber, 1967, p. 201) through the narrative of their works, rather than simply providing a critique of the historic events they were responding to. While this may be true of Lang’s Metropolis, which I argue projects the disillusionment of industrialisation during the Weimar period onto a catastrophic future, I will challenge Guber’s assertion through my exploration of Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Murnau’s Nosferatu. I depict how these films respond to the cultural contexts they were situated in, such as the aftermath of the Treaty of Versailles and the end of World War I, to communicate the pervasive disillusionment of this period in accordance with the modernist themes outlined by Siddiq.
Figure 1: The set in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
Note. From Ohad, (2018)
In The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Wiene reflects the political and social instability of Germany in the aftermath of World War I through the set design, which captures the disillusionment that accompanied this period of social upheaval. Where critics such as Reimer & Zachau see the misshapen streets and buildings as projections of Caligari’s own universe (Reimer & Zachau, 2017), I depart from this idea and posit that the defamiliarisation of these components gestures towards a crisis in reality for the German masses who experienced a series of attempted Communist and nationalist revolutions (Reimer & Zachau, 2017) after the acceptance of the armistice. This armistice was met with hatred and indignity to terms such as the ‘War Guilt Clause,’ which saw Germany accept full responsibility for starting the war (Pelz, 2016); in turn, the distortion of these elements gestures towards the disturbed and unsettled feelings of the German populace towards this socio-political ruination and regression, in which an unfamiliarity with their country was bred by its changed circumstances.
The sprawling and labyrinthian nature of the streets also assists in communicating the unpredictability and instability of the political climate and conveys the Weimar Government’s lack of direction in navigating a vision for the future. It also highlights the sense of unease and uncertainty of the German populace towards envisioning this future due to a lack of faith in governmental authority. By considering Pelz’s assertion that the war guilt clause ‘finalized the “enslavement of the German people”’' (Pelz, 2016, p. 876), the oblique, angular lines used in the set design contribute to the idea of the psychological imprisonment and entrapment of the German populace, paralysed by the international humiliation imposed upon them through such terms of the Treaty of Versailles. The composition of these lines lacks order and symmetry and in turn reflects the lack of control and helpless nature of the German populace in alleviating and rehabilitating this burdensome reputation. The defamiliarisation of the set design also extends to the prop design of the streetlamps and posters, which are also de-realised to contribute to the disruption of normalcy. They convey the difficulty of navigating the quotidian with these new psycho-political burdens and repercussions of the war, such as mass unemployment, hyperinflation, widespread poverty and disorientation (Hake, 2005).
Figure 2: Cesare and Jane
Note. From Morley, (2016)
This idea is furthered by the hyper-expressive performances of the actors, which ‘reflect the angst or terror that Norwegian artist Edvard Munch had captured in his painting The Scream (1893).’ (Reimer & Zachau, 2017, p.4). In the scene when Cesare kidnaps Jane, her palpable terror and angst correspond with the ‘abject misery’ (Pelz, 2016, p. 876) Pelz argued was shared by the German populace in the aftermath of the war. Alongside this, Jane’s helplessness and terror convey a heightened sense of vulnerability reflective of the German masses who were internationally ostracised and defensively depleted after suffering major losses in World War I and through the Weimar Government’s acceptance of the military restrictions imposed upon them in the conditions of the Treaty of Versailles.
Narratively, the characterisation of Caligari as a duplicitous figure of authority expresses the traitorous nature of German politicians, or ‘November criminals,’ as those who signed the Treaty of Versailles were termed and regarded by the German populace. I align myself with Reimer and Zachau, who note that Wiene’s film is ‘an indictment of the authorities that had led the country into war and that had caused the suffering and malaise that viewers saw daily in the outside world.’ (Reimer & Zachau, 2017, p.4). Through their argument, they recognise the political disillusion and distrust Wiene captures when Caligari’s villainy is exposed, extending towards the regard of German politicians. Caligari, though appearing as an authoritative and trustworthy individual, uses this veneer of respectability to shield him from the responsibility of the murders he orchestrates. It is through his character then that a suspicion and distrust towards authority is encouraged. This may be reflective of the distrust Germans had towards their own politicians after signing the Treaty of Versailles. An unexpected and unpopular decision, the signing of the treaty was seen as a betrayal to the German public, causing them to term it the ‘stab-in-the-back’ doctrine. (Pelz, 2016). The deceit with which the German public regarded this action is then embodied through the deceitful behaviour of Caligari, who, like the German government, is seen to abuse his position of authority to carry out his experiments, with a disregard of how his actions affect others.
In contrast, Kracauer contends that instead of condemning the misuse of power, as I assert Wiene does through his portrayal of Caligari, he believes Weine venerates it through the film's conclusion. He argues, ‘While the original story exposed the madness inherent in authority, Wiene's Caligari glorified authority and convicted its antagonist of madness.’ (Kracauer, 1966, pp. 66-67). Though it must be acknowledged that Kracauer recognises the reestablishment of Caligari’s authority in the altered ending of Wiene’s film, he interprets it as a defence of authority. Alternatively, the ending can be representative of the bleak reality of those who try to oppose the hegemony of authority. Rather than discourage it as Kracauer suggests, Caligari’s reestablishment of authority augments the impossibility of the prospect of social change in Weimar Germany and in turn depicts resistance towards authority as futile. This change then does not detract from Wiene’s criticism towards German authority during this period but rather validates the endemic pessimism and disillusionment with which Germans regarded the state of their country in the aftermath of World War I, in line with Pelz’s observation.
Figure 3: Albrecht Durer’s
Clemenceau the Vampire (1919)
Note. From Eaker, (2020)
Similarly in Nosferatu , Murnau, like Wiene, uses his characterisation of Count Orlok to express discontent towards the German government’s acquiescence and surrender to French politicians in their acceptance of the Treaty of Versailles. Reimer & Zachau note how Murnau’s film communicates the ‘pessimism of postwar Germany’ (Reimer & Zachau, 2017, p. 20) through the figure of the vampire, which is associated with death and disease, reflective of the conditions of postwar Germany. While the figure of the vampire is associated with these ideas, I further this assertion by considering vampirism as a metaphor for the draining and destabilising of the German economy by design of the Treaty of Versailles. This idea was espoused by considering the artwork of Albrecht Durer, published in a German newspaper in July 1919. The cartoon named ‘Clemenceau the Vampire’ illustrates the instrumental role of the French politicians, especially French Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau, in crippling the German economy with the heavy reparations outlined in the Treaty of Versailles. To ease the financial struggles caused by the reparations, the German government suffered a severe inflation crisis by way of printing too much money. Albrecht Dürer’s artwork featured on the Reichsbank note distributed in Germany from January 1922, the year of Nosferatu ’s release, was termed the ‘Vampire note’ (United States Holocaust Memorial Museum Archives, n.d.) due to an unknown engraver’s alteration of the original artwork revealing a face of a vampire. . The figure of Nosferatu can then be interpreted as reflective of the villainy the German populace charged French politicians with and a reminder of the subjugation of their own weak and vulnerable German government and economy through Orlok’s victims.
Figure 4: Nosferatu’s shadow
Note. From Oursler, (2013)
Murnau also utilises Expressionist tenets such as chiaroscuro to forebode Orlok’s vampirism. By considering the proposed metaphorical implications of this act, the chiaroscuro then acts as a way to capture the threatening and imposing nature of the Treaty of Versailles. Chiaroscuro lighting is described as the ‘dramatic interplay of light and darkness’ which Hake notes ‘is often used to establish conceptual pairs such as conscious vs. unconscious, spiritual vs. physical, and, rather predictably, good vs. evil.’ (Hake, 2005, p.335)’. By considering Hake’s argument, particularly the dichotomy between good and evil that is put forward, the pronounced disconnect between light and darkness carried throughout the film relays the evil nature of Orlok in opposition to the innocence of his victims. It augments the chasm between Orlok’s inhumanity and power and the helplessness of his victims. Considering the metaphorical implications of Orlok, the chiaroscuro lighting provides a visual reminder of the intimidating and merciless orchestration of the Treaty of Versailles by the French. Franklin notes that the deep shadows created from chiaroscuro lighting can be viewed as a metaphor for perception where they become ‘less a deception than… a potential intimation of otherwise unperceived reality.’ (Franklin, 1980, p.177)’. Considering Franklin’s argument, the shadows that follow Nosferatu in Murnau’s film, for example, as he climbs the stairs to Ellen’s room, can be interpreted as ominous preludes for his vampirism. The shadows are used to forewarn this danger, simultaneously highlighting the ignorance of Ellen, who will suffer the consequences of his actions. The size of the shadow also dwarfs his victim, highlighting his dominance over her and, in turn, her powerlessness. The shadows then serve to communicate the power asymmetry between the German populace and French politicians who were seen to disrupt and exercise control over their economic and social realities, over which the German people had no control.
Figure 5: Point-of-view shot
Note. From Worrow, (2013)
This is reiterated through the point-of-view shot used by Murnau, which highlights Ellen's helplessness—and, by extension, the German people's forced submission to the terms of the Treaty of Versailles. The subjectivity of perspective was something expressionists explored in their art to reflect ‘anger, bitterness or pleasure from a subjective perspective, managing to express feelings that strongly impact the viewer.’ (Ortiz-de-Urbina, 2022, p. 13). As Ortiz-de-Urbina outlines, this focus on subjectivity allows audience members to share in the feelings of hopelessness that Ellen feels to a greater degree as they are encouraged to inhabit her perspective and watch the coffins of Nosferatu’s victims through her eyes. The window creates a separation between her and the outside, which aids in disseminating this powerlessness as she observes the death that surrounds her as a passive spectator. The audience also becomes witnesses to the devastation wrought by Nosferatu and the disturbance to the peace of the town, which then allows them to understand why Ellen eventually sacrifices her life in a bid to restore the peace. The bar obscuring her view suggests a physical and psychological entrapment as a result of the continuous disorder and disruption to her life and those around her. Like the German populace, Ellen is in turn characterised as a victim whose life is tainted by the social ills that are out of her control. This reflects the disenfranchised and overpowered German populace, who, like Ellen, saw themselves as victims of an economic vampirism and exploitation that eroded their accepted normality. Through this shot type, Murnau equates Ellen with the German audience, who, like her, suffer at the hands of Nosferatu. The sequence of her death is eerily like that of Dürer’s cartoon, with the mise-en-scene capturing the bedroom setting and dress of the woman in the 1919 cartoon. Through this consideration, Ellen’s death and suffering are reflective of the suffering of the German populace and their economy at the hands of the French-ordained Treaty of Versailles. More than depicting the pessimism of postwar Germany, the ending serves to depict the depleted German populace weakened by the economic ills dictated to them by French politicians and enabled by their own government.
Lang’s Metropolis also communicates the modernist theme of disillusionment; however, this disillusionment is towards industrialisation during this postwar period. As well as responding to this social change, Lang goes further in projecting this disillusionment onto an apocalyptic future unlike Wiene and Murnau, who do not make ‘apocalyptic maledictions against their society.’ (Gruber, 1967, p. 201), as Gruber asserts, but used Expressionism to respond to the social circumstances they were writing against. Metropolis, on the other hand, acts as an example of how Expressionist filmmakers speculated about Germany’s future (Reimer & Zachau, 2017), with this being evident through Lang’s use of set design.
Figure 6: Metropolis
cityscape
Note. From Jeffries, (2020)
Lang’s film is set in the year 2026 in the fictional city of Metropolis, engulfed by skyscrapers. The design of these structures is reminiscent of cities such as New York, which Lang took inspiration from in envisioning the future of all growing urban cities across Europe, particularly Berlin. Concurrently, the scale of the buildings also aids in assisting the idea of the urban apartheid. The grandeur of these structures exaggerates the disparity between the opulent Upper City and the workers who live in an industrial Workers' City underground. In doing so, the design then externalises the power imbalance between the working and upper classes in German society during this period and engineers the idea that industrialisation, though considered impressive, is in fact oppressive. Germani notes how ‘modernity brought in its train unanticipated changes that were a source of anxiety. Berlin’s expansion was accompanied by the creation of a vast, impoverished working class, many of them living in frightful conditions in infamous rental barracks, others in cardboard shelters that proliferated around the city gates and which the authorities periodically razed.’ (Germani, 2019, p.17). The purposeful design of the Upper City as being one of grandeur is then realised as enabled by a subjugated working class who, rather than experiencing modernity, are enslaved by it.
Figure 7: Freder struggles against the clock
Note. From Belcher, (2022)
This idea is reiterated through the scene of Freder against the ten-hour working clock, which captures the difficulties of this social stratum and the fruitless nature of their labour in being unbeneficial for themselves but in servitude for those of the upper class. Freder’s actions are jerky and mechanical as he attempts to manipulate time, indicating that he cannot work anymore and has become exhausted. His actions are also depersonalising in that they depict him becoming part of the machine, thus reducing him to an instrument of labour. Considering Vermeire’s argument, which outlines how ‘homogeneous time...enables the oppressor to define how the oppressed is situated in time. Additionally, the oppressor can control the manner in which the oppressed spends his/her time.’ (Vermeire, 2015, p.32), the clock then becomes a horological symbol of the oppressive and exploitative upper class who, through time's tyranny, expose their own. Freder’s inability to manipulate time as he struggles to control the hand then does more than demonstrate his being absorbed by the labour he is forced to do. Rather, it demonstrates his powerlessness in the struggle against the oppressive forces that have imposed this labour upon him. His inability to do this demonstrates an acceptance towards the bleak realities that mar the social landscapes of Weimar Germany, like both Murneau and Wiene in their respective films, whilst also highlighting a pessimism towards the idea of social change. This idea is strengthened through the sound effects mimicking the chimes of a clock as the numbers appear behind Freder. The music is staccato and tense and mimics the difficulty of Freder’s psychological plight as he attempts to control time rather than be controlled by it. It also reflects the urgency of his actions and his desperation to break from this enslavement of the laborious workday and his enslavement to the upper class. Furthermore, the chimes of the clock act as a reminder of the impending future and the bleak prediction in Freder’s defeat against time, that this oppression will continue and worsen.
This is reemphasised by his position kneeling under the clock, suggesting a subjugation to time and the social strata it represents when considering Vermeire’s argument. Freder’s actions of his arms outstretched on the arms of the clock, when considering biblical connotations, resemble that of Jesus being crucified on the cross. This is strengthened through the words that appear on screen reading, ‘Father, father! I have never known ten hours could be so long!’ alluding to Jesus’ own words asking why God had forsaken him on the cross (English Standard Version Bible, 2001, Matthew 27:46). Through this parallel we are encouraged to observe Freder’s actions as a sacrifice like that of Jesus. Vermeire also notes how during this period of German history, 'there was a general feeling of losing touch with the body’s natural rhythms, and people felt that the natural rhythms were replaced by the mechanical rhythms of the workplace.'(Vermeire, 2015, p.33). By considering this idea, Freder’s sacrifice against the clock becomes representative of the working class’s sacrifice of time in the advancement of modernity. Furthermore, it suggests the violent removal of a holistic approach to time in favour of one that serves to oppress and control. Unlike Jesus on the cross, Freder does not devote himself to the suffering of the working class, which he observes and experiences. This predicts that there will be no salvation for the working class, but a greater subjugation and disharmony, even in the promise of Freder becoming the mediator between the upper and lower classes. This foreboding towards this catastrophic future is reiterated through the identical costuming of the False Maria and the Whore of Babylon as well as the allusion towards the Tower of Babel in the design of Frederson's tower. Müller notes how ‘These apocalyptic-biblical allusions together permit a view of Metropolis as a decadent den of iniquity doomed to fall.’ (Müller, 2015, p. 218). Thus, by considering these biblical allusions, Lang draws attention to the city as a site of sin and corruption (Scheil, 2016), condemning its structure as one that is fated to fall. He projects the demise of the urban cities by referencing Babylon visually and uses it to forewarn of the catastrophic effects of a future where class inequality is not addressed and industrialisation is encouraged.
To conclude, I have outlined how German expressionism was used in Weimar cinema to address the social conditions of the time and draw attention to the disenchantment brought on by these shifts. By doing this, I have shed light on the ways in which these modernist themes have been expressed both narratively and visually through Wiene and Murnau's films, which reveal the ineptitude of German authority during this time as a leading factor in forming the dejected manner in which their narratives forfeit hope for social change. This despondency was also communicated through their use of mise en scene, acting style, and cinematography. Furthermore, Lang’s Metropolis also communicated this disillusion in responding to industrialisation during this period and instead envisages a disastrous future to forewarn audiences of a catastrophic time ahead, in their continuance to accept the conditions wrought by this social change. By drawing these conclusions, I have also suggested that modernist concepts can be effectively communicated through the German expressionist style.
Filmography
Lang, F. (Director). (1927). Metropolis . Paramount Pictures.
Murnau, F. W. (Director). (1922). Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror . Film Arts Guild.
Wiene, R. (Director). (1920). The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari . Goldwyn Pictures.
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