To top off my horror leftovers for this year, I'm doing a retrospective going back further than any I've done--a full century, to the dawning era of cinema itself. When you're discussing the roots of old-school horror, you can't get much more old-school than this. And even though we've had incalculable advances in filmmaking and changes in audience sensibilities...there's still enough macabre madness on offer here to make The Cabinet of Caligari one worth stepping into in the 21st century.
The silent movie era is still a fascinating one to me--it was the wild west for movies, where every title could potentially invent whole new techniques, in realms of story, technique, and everything in between. Even the actors, who back then would've been trained exclusively for theater, had to adapt as quickly as everyone else (though stage sensibilities translated decently to soundless production, with slightly exaggerated expressions still proving useful). Everything these days is pretty codified--but back then, you could do pretty much anything and claim, not unjustifiably, it was breaking new ground.
Enter Robert Wiene, Hans Janowitz, and Carl Mayer--most of whom had witnessed the all too recent horrors of World War One, and the hypocrisies that accompanied them. Young men forced not entirely of their own will to commit acts of violence, combined with the still somewhat unknowable arts of hypnosis--and even stories and rumor of murder that Janowitz, for instance, had been witness to, all combining into a deliciously dark story they chose to concoct. The best kind of horror often comes from somewhere personal--and in the somewhat uncertain times of early 20s Europe, ironically perhaps just as turbulent as our current year, there was much to draw from.
The storyline is told via framing device--again, it's not inconceivable this could've been one of the first to do this in cinema--as a young man recollects an ordeal in his hometown to a shaken elder. In his hometown, it seems a town fair has the privilege of being graced by a Dr. Caligari, with his spectacle of a somnambulist to apparently top all the attractions. Of course, it also appears that anyone who crosses the good doctor, be it the town clerk or even those that indulge the sleepwalker's apparent powers of prophecy, end up meeting a grisly end. It's up to our hero, played by Werner Krauss, to uncover the truth behind all this.
One thing that'll immediately strike you is the production design--sometimes imitated, but never fully replicated as it was done here. To match the dreamlike atmosphere, the town is rendered as askew walls and paper backdrops--shadows are painted on, backdrops are bizarre twisting renditions on canvas, and even grass is all done as dark jagged props on the set. Even the title cards are done in a stylish, irregular font that was a departure for the era. It's this German expressionism that still carved out its influence over the years--Tim Burton, for instance, was influenced heavily by it, as you'll note just from Beetlejuice alone. The short-term impact was even greater, as it extended its psychological reach onto many an arthouse film in the silent era, and eventually the noir titles of the thirties and forties, all taking on its dark, shadow-drenched tone.
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| "You take one wrong turn and you end up in Salvador Dali's psychosis. That's the last time I ask for directions." |
Is the actual film still enjoyable, though? If you're in the right mood, certainly. Some of it might seem a bit weird and hokey, but it's still that unique level of macabre that makes it fun--and at only seventy-odd minutes, it's briskly paced. For the time, a lot of the scenes must've been pretty shocking, and even now, a strangling murder rendered as a shadow on the wall is still just a little disturbing. Caligari himself is a memorable murderous villain, decades before the likes of Michael Myers or Leatherface graced the screen--with his stylin' top hat, glasses, and dishevelled face. His poor somnambulist peon likewise is pretty memorable--to add to the look, a lot of the actors almost seem to have goth makeup put on. Can't deny above all, it's got a hell of a presentation.
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| That face when you realize you've gone to a job interview forgetting to get the weekend facepaint off. |
And, of course, there's a twist ending--supposedly not one the filmmakers wanted, but one that caps off the dark and foreboding tone. The version you'll probably watch is the 1996 restoration--the colors change across frames, but with something this old, transferred so many times, that sort of unevenness is to be expected (and in this case only adds to the surrealism arguably). Given how many films from this era have been lost, with reels burning up or disintegrating, we're lucky it managed to survive so intact at all. Real archaeology is needed to uncover titles from this time when even copying to tape wasn't even possible.
There's still much to engage with when it comes to the true silent classics--which even now can be enhanced with changes of score, the originals of which are also often lost. I was lucky enough to watch a cinema screening of Nosferatu with a live synth soundtrack, for example, which is one way to put a new spin on the old. The likes of that and Caligari obviously aren't going to appeal to all audiences a century later, but for those like myself, that want to dig deep into movie history and sample things that even now are fairly unique, it's definitely worth a look. It definitely struck a chord at the time, and its influence and widespread release are probably one reason it preserved while other films were lost either to time, or the wars that subsequently ravaged Europe. Either way, why not have a session with the good doctor, and see where many an influence began...
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