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Tuesday, October 30, 2012

F. W. Murnau | Nosferatu


soil of the damned
by Douglas Messerli
 
Henrik Galeen (screenplay, based on Bram Stoker’s Dracula), F. W. Murnau (director) Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror) / 1922, USA 1929, the showing I saw was at the Egyptian Theater in Hollywood on October 28, 2012

Although the recent showing I saw of Murnau’s great film, Nosferatu, was clearly timed for the Halloween season, I was struck in watching it the other afternoon that, in many senses Nosferatu—despite its awe-full and horrifying images—is not really a horror film in the way the genre has come to be defined. Yes, there a monster of sorts who destroys a large number of people; there are isolated landscapes, as in the later Dracula and Frankenstein, that gives one goose-bumps. There is even, as in Lang’s M, a terrifying chase scene that reveals the evils not only of the figure being chased (in this case the mad real-estate broker, Knock) but the blood-thirsty crowd behind him. Yet, not for one moment was I really terrified.

      That is not to say that Murnau’s startling images were not effective, but their intent lies more in the psychological world than in the supernatural or metaphysical realm. As several critics have pointed out, this film’s monster, Count Orlok (Max Schreck) is such a misshapen figure—with his bulbous nose and outsized ears, the sad indentations of his eyes, the one or two remaining fangs he has left, and those dangling tentacles of fingers bound to his body-hugging thin arms cramped, clearly, by too many millenniums spent lying in the coffin—that we feel more sympathy and sorrow for him than detestation or fear. His mad disciple, Knock (Alexander Granach) is far more horrific.

   
   This monster also seems far more symbolic, in some senses, than real (a necessity for true horror). And Orlok’s demands and actions bring with them more questions than simple evil intent. For example, one must immediately ask, why has Orlok suddenly decided to leave his Transylvanian retreat for a decrepit warehouse in Wisborg, Germany? One presumes that in his current situation, with the fearful peasants wised-up to his dangers, that he simply cannot get enough blood were he currently lives. Hutter’s (Gustav von Wangenheim) accidental cutting of his finger at Orlok’s dinner table creates in this poor beast almost a fury of lust as Orlok almost swoons in his descent to suck it up. Murnau turns this act—in response to which Hutter backs away in almost moral disgust—into one of the most homoerotic scenes in all of silent film-making. And while we are on that subject, why does Hutter, when no one else does, survive Orlok’s bites? One has to suppose that Orlok, despite his appetite for the handsome Hutter, has determined to let him live.

      Certainly, it would have been far easier, given—as we are later told—the vampire’s requirements of traveling not only with his own coffin but several others containing the damned soil of his homeland in which was buried, along with, inexplicably, several coffins filled with rats.  The rats are, quite obviously, one of Murnau’s symbolic images, representing as they do the contagion and plague that follows Orlok’s immigration.  

     Orlok’s travel may have been determined by Stoker’s fiction, but it fits the pattern of Murnau’s films. Upon regaining his youth, Faust migrates across Europe in a series of sexual orgies before returning to his homeland, where he brings his contagion with him, dooming the innocent Gretchen. Similarly, in Sunrise the county bumpkin, tempted by the woman from the city, dares a voyage to a new territory where he is not meant to be before returning to the peace of country life. In Tabu it is the white intruders who destroy the island serenity. Just as Murnau, in his films, often moves out of the studio into a real world that expands the German Expressionist staples of dark shadows and exaggerated angles into the landscape shared by the audience itself, so do different cultures in his movies effect each other, bringing about, sometimes, calamitous events.

     Throughout the early scenes of Nosferatu Hutter and others describe Translyvania as a world of “thieves and ghosts,” a world of dangerously unscientific thinking—particularly compared with the professorial demonstrations of Sievers (Gustav Botz) within the German university. Even a book from that soiled world is a dangerous commodity, against which Hutter warns his wife and, in the end, is Ellen’s (Greta Schröder) undoing, as she convinces herself, after reading it, that she must sacrifice her life to destroy Orlok. Orlok may describe Ellen’s neck as being beautiful, but, at least to my taste, the actress Schröder is no great beauty; at moments she looks almost as if she were a male in drag. And Orlok seems to have as much taste for sailors and the Hutter’s neighbors as he does for Ellen herself.

      Nosferatu, accordingly, is as much about supernatural evil as it is about social and intellectual contagion, symbolized by the plague Orlok brings with him.. The small town of Wisborg and Germany in general are infected with the outsider’s ways more than by Orlok’s acts. They become like the superstitious “thieves and ghosts” of Transylvania racing through their streets, Murnau’s fluid camera transcending to the skies, as the villagers chase after Knock.

      Ultimately, it is not Orlok himself who is so dangerous—he, after all, unlike Stoker’s Dracula, can be destroyed by a single ray of sunlight—but that which he represents or signifies. As Murnau shows us, Orlok’s shadow—most vampires do not present themselves as shadows, are not visible in mirrors, whereas in the last scenes Orlok is seen in both shadow and mirror— is more horrific, I would argue, than his bite.

     The horror of this tale, accordingly, is more about an infection of inferior thinking than it is about the fangs of a vampire or an infestation of rats. Given those very attitudes of the German people just a few years later, with their belief in the "pure" German and their perception of Jews, gays (Murnau suffering restrictions of homosexuals far ahead of this period) and Gypsies as "dangerous" outsiders, we comprehend the true horror of this wonderful work of cinema-making.

Los Angeles, October 30, 2012

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